A Simple Dance

(Peeta)

Working with Haymitch is fully as wretched an experience as Katniss had predicted it would be. The man has no patience for my broken speech, gestures, or drawings. However, Prim comes to my rescue, recruiting several children with enough imagination to understand me. Haymitch then gives the final approval for increasing the capacity of the granary and stables.

We get to work.

It's been years since I've cut timber, but I eagerly join the group of men and horses heading out to the forest. My tree is the first to fall and I get several appraising looks as I proceed to hack the branches off of the fallen oak.

It takes a bit more of an effort to explain the necessity of seasoning the wood before the granary can be constructed but, again with Prim's assistance, they are convinced to turn their attention to building pens for the village's animals. I feel as if they are humoring me, but I cannot fault them for it. Katniss had told me of their skills in riverworks and amber mining here. My people have worked with wood for centuries and mastered it. When I have the words to explain, I should take on an apprentice or two. For now, I am merely an eccentric foreigner.

"You did much today," Katniss congratulates me at the night-meal. She'd washed up quickly upon her return, but I can see two small twigs stuck in her braid and I can still smell the dusty perfume of the forest mixed in with the faint musk of her sweat. Her scent, her bright eyes, her soft lips… I am overwhelmed.

I have to consciously grip my knife and spoon and then draw in a steadying breath to calm my racing heart. "Your sister came to my aid," I softly deflect. "She found some very kind helpers for me."

"Ah," Katniss sighs, smiling. "Prim is very good – repairing trouble between people."

She speaks as if she has no such talent herself. "You underestimate the effect you have on others," I argue. Before she can do more than roll her eyes, I ask, "But why was she working in the kitchen out-of-doors today?"

"Um." Interestingly, this question makes Katniss' dusky skin pinken. Her teeth scrape over her bottom lip, trapping it. I wonder what would happen if she were to give it free rein. "It is the bell berry wine. For the wedding feast."

Those final two words hit me in the gut with such force that, for a long moment, I cannot breathe. Katniss and I will have a wedding feast. In the midst of all this uncertainty and obligation, I had somehow forgotten the approach of the event itself. It had not seemed real. Now it does.

"When—?" I ask roughly. I try to force more words out, but my anticipation strangles them into nothing but a shallow breath.

"A fortnight," she answers. My entire body flushes with heat as her gaze slides in my direction. Nearly concealed beneath her lowered lashes, a heat I have tasted – a taste that has seared me down to my spirit – glitters briefly. She rolls her lower lip inward to receive brief attention from her agile tongue.

My breath catches up to me in a rush.

She clears her throat and glances away. "Prim will make your tunic."

"My tunic?"

"Wedding tunic," she elaborates and then teaches me the words for that so I will understand her sister's request when she makes it. "I'm sorry. I am not good at clothing making."

I know. "What can I do in return? Is there some small gift your sister will accept?"

The smile Katniss gives me is beatific. "Make something of wood?"

"Carve something?"

She nods. "But not a cup. Not a spoon."

"Why not either of those?"

"A cup is from a man to his woman. A spoon is from mother to daughter."

Intrigued, I lean closer. I forget about the rest of the people in the dining hall and press, "What are their meanings?"

Interestingly, Katniss responds to my request almost shyly. "Ah… the cup carries good things between the man and woman. Um. Wine – hope. Ale – happiness. Herbs – protection. Water – life. Um, we – you and I – will drink these. It is the wedding custom here."

My hands twitch. This is the first I have heard anything of how marriages are done in Katniss' land. With a start, I realize that I need to make her this cup. I will ask Prim using my scribbles. She will help me decide the size and ornamentation. "And the spoon? Given to a daughter by her mother?"

"Yes. Um… it gives food to children. Many children. And the spoon is a… a wish. There will always be food for children. Strong children."

Oh, gods. Children. My – our – children from Katniss' exceptionally beautiful form. Her figure enhanced by our child within her belly. I take care to set my knife and spoon down gently before clasping my knees beneath the surface of the table. I cannot get enough breath in my lungs.

"Peeta? You are all right?"

I nod, grit my teeth, and work on sucking air into my lungs. "I've never wanted to marry you so badly," I confide in a quick, quiet tone.

She looks away, staring blankly at her plate. She swallows although she has not taken a bite. I reach for her hand and gently slide mine beneath it. Katniss claims she is not good at saying something, but her grip upon my hand is answer enough.

I expect that lying beside her will make slumber impossible tonight, but I'm already falling asleep as I press a kiss to her forehead and her hand closes around mine.

Our days fall into a pattern: unending toil and dedication to our tasks. I only see her in the very early morning, turning my back as she dresses in her tunic, leather vest, leg wrappings, and boots, and then once again for the night-meal. She takes her day-meal on-site with Gale and the others who are working to construct the watchtowers… or dugouts. I still know nothing of their construction.

Although I don't see Katniss often, I think of her every time I glance in the direction of the outdoor kitchen. They have finished brewing the wine and now I count several barrels set in a shadowy section of the timber wall of the fortress.

I count each day as it passes.

One evening, Primrose takes Katniss and me to her father's meeting room where I meet Gale's younger brother, Rory. He blushes as Katniss explains that he and Prim will show us the dance we will perform at our wedding.

My gaze drops to my left leg and my hand twitches. I resist the urge to massage the mangled muscles and tangle of scars. "I hope it is slow." The words slip out before I can think to stop them.

When I look up, Katniss' eyes are there, watching me. I think she remembers that moment during last year's harvest: I'd told her I couldn't dance.

She says, "Slow is good. Slow… fast… it is our choice."

I don't think she is speaking only of dancing. My pulse flutters in my wrists and fingertips. My heartbeat pounds in my chest and throat. In eight days, Katniss and I will be married.

The dance is simple, which I like, and it requires that I stay in constant contact with Katniss, which I like even more. I press my lifted palm to Katniss' and place my other hand on her waist. It's clear that I'm supposed to be guiding her through the steps, but I mostly follow Katniss' cues. She's a natural leader.

"What?" she demands when I can't contain my snicker of amusement.

"Oh. I was just thinking how good you are at leading."

Her chin drops. "No, I'm not."

"Hey," I whisper, interrupting our choreographed movements to tuck a knuckle under her chin and lift her gaze back up to mine. "You are. You were born to do this."

Her lips quirk. "Lead… you? In a dance?"

I laugh. "Yes. That's what I meant. Of course."

We smile stupidly at each other. I like the idea too much to bury it beneath my initial thought: she is an amazing leader of her country. She won't believe me and I have no desire to remind her of the burden she must shoulder every day. A burden I need to learn how to halve for her.

Our dance instructor clears her throat.

Katniss rolls her eyes. I bite back an even wider smile.

Prim battles her own indulgent grin as she leads us through the next series of steps. I can only imagine how ridiculous Katniss and I look, constantly getting distracted by something as simple as eye contact. But, as the lesson goes on and on, poor Rory looks like he's about to burst from a peculiar blend of enthusiasm and mortification. I struggle not chuckle at his bright red face. His discomfort distracts me from my own tension whenever Katniss unintentionally brushes against me or I catch the scent of her hair on a puff of breeze, and for that small service I'm thankful.

I sometimes have to lean on Katniss to keep myself balanced, like when I must spin around before circling behind her. Katniss holds me steady as she steps to the side, tucks herself under my arm, and turns in my grasp. Then it is Katniss prowling around me, keeping our palms – my right and her left – in contact all the while.

As we learn the dance, our hands part for only brief moments before coming together again, open and flush. Intimate and equal.

When Prim finally releases us for the night with a nod of approval, I have to force myself to drop my arm from Katniss' waist and slide my palm free of hers. I laugh when Katniss darts forward and pokes Rory teasingly on his still-warm cheek. I thank a giggling Prim for her instruction.

Katniss does not object to the distance I keep between us as we return to her bed chamber and prepare to sleep. Despite keeping my back to her, she feels so close, too close – Am I truly sensing her measured breaths from across the room? – and I'm certain that with one look I will fall into her.

I want that. Very much.

Eight more days…

I clear my throat as I contemplate the swaying flame of the oil lamp while she undresses. "Do you remember the first time our hands touched, palm to palm?"

She is quiet for a long moment as she thinks back. "At your brother's hearth? You said – we are friends."

I smile. Yes, that had been the first. I'd offered her my hand before that, of course. The first time at Trelleborg, she hadn't taken it; she'd bound me with rope instead. The second time – the very next morning – she'd pierced my skin with her nails as the collar had been locked around her neck. The third time, we had shared a friendly clasp outside of my brother's house. Our palms had not touched then.

They touch now. Every time we reach out, our hands are open. We are open to each other.

I like that best of all.

"Peeta…?" she whispers as I move to pinch the flame on the lamp wick.

"Hm?"

"I enjoyed our dance."

I give in: I turn and drink in the sight of her. "As did I." It had been our first dance, the first of many, I hope.

I extinguish the light, ending the day with our shared smiles. Perhaps they will last until morning and be the first thing we both see when we open our eyes.

Unlike previous mornings when Katniss pets my beard until I wake and then I release her from my arms, the dawn of this new day is different. I am different. I hold her closer and nuzzle her throat until she groans softly. My hands drop to cradle either side of her strong hips, and I squirm under her until our bodies fit together with stunning warmth.

"Peeta," she murmurs, but it is not a request for me to let her go.

I kiss her ear. I nibble her jaw. My lips tingle in anticipation of hers.

Her hands pet my chest.

"Seven more days," I observe, brushing the words against her warm lips.

"Hm…"

Her throaty agreement stirs me. My arms flex as I shift her a bit more until we are pressed together – chest, belly, and lower.

Katniss presses her forehead against my shoulder. "Um. Peeta," she says again, and this time it sounds like a warning.

I drop my hands back to the bedding but she doesn't pull away. When she burrows into me, pressing her nose to the side of my neck, I wrap my arms around her shoulders and trace her messy braid with my fingertips. Strands of her dark hair catch on my calluses. I focus on that in an effort to allow myself to calm down; Katniss can feel me pressed mindlessly against the cradle of her hips. I relax in increments with each passing moment that she does not appear to mind.

"Yes, Katniss?"

"Um. We cannot. Um." She blows out a frustrated breath. "Words. I do not know the words." She sits up and I suck in a breath as she irreverently straddles my lap. Her shift creeps up past her knees. Gods.

She draws my gaze up to hers with a touch upon my chin. "This," she says in a breathless voice, glancing down at my tautly-pulled trouser front. "We cannot. Children will… um. I will be ill and slow and I cannot. Not now. Now I must be strong."

I reach for her hands and massage her fingers. "I understand." There are still too many uncertainties to risk that. "We should wait until it is safe. However long that takes." I would never forgive myself if I were to endanger Katniss or our child. "We will plan carefully. Ah, do you want many children?"

"I do not know. I must protect my father and Prim and… I do not know."

Pulling myself up, I press my forehead against hers. I wrap my arms around her waist and hold her close. "You have so many duties. I understand, Katniss. Children will be your choice."

"But… what do you want?"

"You. Just you. Safe. Happy."

She closes her eyes and I drop my gaze to her smile.

She confides, "I am safe and happy. You are here."

I cannot reconcile this warm, loving creature with the woman who snipes and snarls at Gale and Haymitch, who attacks her enemies with a fierce scowl and merciless brutality, but I have seen this Katniss before. She is gentle with her father and sister… and me.

I brush the escaped strands of hair away from her brow and temples. "I am here. We are family." I don't mean for it to be a question, but somehow it is.

Katniss answers. "We are family."

Her arms loop around my shoulders and I sigh into the glow of morning seeping in through the cracks of the shutter. Her closeness does nothing to slow my racing heart or relax my hardened flesh, but she soothes my spirit and strengthens my resolve.

We are family.

Still planning on switching this story over to M for violence, gore, and sexytiems stuff from Chapter 40 onward.