The next morning, Peeta and I return to the book almost immediately. It's a rainy day in early Spring, so we make cups of tea and settle at the coffee table in front of the lit fire, and just work for hours. Since we finished the 74th Games last night, we decide to work today on the tributes from the Quarter Quell. We honor Mags, Wiress, Seeder, Chaff, and everyone else that we can. Haymitch comes over after a couple of hours. He's initially confused at the scene in front of him; Peeta's living room is covered in papers, pencils, and paintbrushes. When we explain what we're doing, though, his expression softens immensely.
"Can I add in some stuff about Chaff?" he asks, a bit tentatively. "And maybe add some of the tributes from my Quell, like Maysilee?"
"Of course," Peeta says to him, smiling up at our mentor. The three of us work for an hour or two, capturing everything we can about the tributes from both the 50th and 75th Quarter Quells. We continue like this for a few days. The rain stops eventually, and the earth in 12 just looks different, healthier. No longer polluted with coal dust and nourished by rain, it's starting to heal. Just like us. I think in a few weeks there will be a lot of new plant life, and I'm excited to go out into the woods and see what I can find.
One night, Peeta and I are working on the book at the kitchen table in my house. It's relatively late, but neither of us are particularly tired. Peeta looks a little uncomfortable, apprehensive maybe, and I'm not sure why.
"Are you ok?" I ask, turning to him.
"I think..." he says, slowly. "I think it's time. I need to make pages for my family." We sit in silence for a minute. We've both been avoiding our family members in making the book so far, knowing that sitting down to memorialize them would be incredibly painful. I want to include Prim and my father in the book, I don't want to ever forget a single thing about them, but doing so just makes it all feel so final. I know Peeta felt the same way about his parents and brothers. We've been scared. But now he's choosing to be brave, and I need to be there for him.
"Ok," I say. "I'll do it too." He smiles at me slightly.
We start with Peeta's brothers, Bannock and Rye. I didn't know either of them particularly well, as I didn't know Peeta before the Games and his family didn't move into Victor's Village with him after. Bannock was the oldest. Peeta says he was shy and reserved, but very sweet. He was the only member of his family who genuinely enjoyed bookkeeping for the bakery, so he'd usually be the one keeping track of all the finances and spendings. This meant he spent a lot of time with their mother. Peeta posits sadly that this is where some of Bannock's quiet demeanor came from; he learned that if he kept his mouth shut and his head down, he was less likely to be hurt. Because he was docile, Peeta says that Bannock was the closest thing his mother could have ever had to a favorite son.
Rye, the middle brother, was funny, and a trouble maker. He was outgoing, though in a slightly different way than Peeta is. He liked to make jokes, play pranks, and goof around in school whenever the teachers weren't looking. Between that and being the wrestling champion, he was very popular with the kids from town. Peeta says he was a pretty lousy baker, but was great working in the front of the shop, interacting with customers. He says that since everyone knew Rye, recognized him, his mother was careful not to ever leave any marks on him that couldn't be played off as wrestling injuries. Still, that didn't prevent her from taking her anger out on him if he messed anything up for her in an effort to be funny.
Peeta doesn't come out and say it, and I don't think he ever will, but it's clear from his stories that, though no Mellark boy was left untouched, he was the primary target of his mother's violence. I can't help but feel at least partially responsible for this.
We finish with Bannock and Rye, and I can tell it's hard for Peeta. His eyes are glassy, though I can see every muscle in his face working to keep any tears contained.
"It's ok," I say gently, rubbing his shoulder. "We can stop, if you want." He shakes his head.
"No," he says, clearing his throat. "No, I want to do this. But you can make a page now, if you want." Usually, Peeta and I would work simultaneously, with me writing and him illustrating, but tonight we want to devote our entire attention to each other's losses.
"Ok," I say, a little nervous.
I take a page and start on my dad. I don't know where to start, so I just write about the first thing that comes to mind when I think of him: the sound of his voice.
Once I start writing, I can't seem to stop. I write and narrate to Peeta stories of my father singing to me, spinning me around in the meadow, showing me how to identify plants in the woods, making me my first bow and teaching me to shoot, cracking jokes that made my mother come alive, coming home from work exhausted and covered in coal dust but still making the time to take care of his wife and children. Everything I can remember about that wonderful man I include, and I share it with Peeta as I write it all down. The process is more cathartic than I could have imagined it being. Peeta just looks at me the whole time, with a slight smile on his lips and a look in his eyes I can't quite identify.
When I finish his page, I walk to the sideboard where the photo of my father and mother at their toasting currently sits. I take the photo and put it in the book. I notice that Peeta has also drawn a sketch that is absolutely glorious. Since we have photos of my father, he didn't do a portrait like he's been doing for most others. Instead, he's drawn a small scene, in which my father - somehow perfectly captured, down to his expression, even though Peeta had barely interacted with him - is twirling around a small girl in a plaid dress with two braids down her back. Me. We both have expressions of joy and laughter on our face, as Peeta depicts us swirling around through the dandelion-strewn meadow. A tear slips down my cheek and falls on the page.
"It's perfect," I say to him. "Just...perfect." We sit in a pleasant quiet for a moment, before Peeta takes a deep breath.
"I think...I want to make a page for my mom. Even though there was so much about her I resented, and so much pain that she caused, I still loved her. She still deserves to be remembered." Peeta's capacity to forgive is beyond anything that I can begin to fathom. If it were up to me, I would have probably killed the witch long before she was taken in the firebombing. I think of how much resentment I possessed, and still do possess, towards my own mother, and that is just because of what she didn't do. As much hardship as she put us through, it wasn't out of malice. I'm more like her than I'd care to admit, I realize that now after having lost Prim. I shut myself down too. Peeta's mother intended to hurt her children, and yet he still forgives her. He is deeply good, on such a genuine level it is almost incomprehensible.
I just sit and listen as he describes his few fond memories of her, tries to explain her behavior based on her issues with drinking, admires her better qualities while acknowledging her worst.
"I think," he says, finally. "I think the world is a lot less black and white than we often make it seem. I sort of realized that while I was recovering from the hijacking. A lot of it was when I was trying to figure you out, actually. They had planted this idea in my mind that you were a Mutt, the epitome of evil by any definition. When Prim and the doctors started showing me real clips and giving me morphling, I was so confused. I couldn't reconcile the images the Capitol had planted in my head with the videos of me confessing my love to you, you saving my life. They were such polar opposites, and I felt so...stuck. It felt like such a long journey to travel, I didn't even know how to begin. Watching it from the outside, it felt like in both versions you weren't human. You were either entirely evil or entirely perfect. It wasn't until I finally started to remember real, small, concrete things about you that I realized you could exist somewhere in between, and that would be ok. Almost everyone exists somewhere in between. Acknowledging the greyness of the in between was really important for me to start putting things together. I had to realize that people can do things to love you, and do things to hurt you, and that those feelings can coexist. I think my mom lived in that greyness her whole life."
Peeta hasn't really shared much with me about the way he was thinking during his recovery before. I am touched by his trust and vulnerability, and stunned as always by his mastery of words and his ability to describe so perfectly the intricacies and complexities of life.
Finally, we turn to the two most painful losses for each of us: Peeta's father for him, and Prim for me. Peeta writes his father's name at the top of a page, his hand shaking intensely. I take his free hand in my own and don't let go.
"Tell me about him," I say gently, taking a pencil in the hand that isn't holding Peeta's. I can write it for him, he just needs to be the one telling the stories.
"He was kind," are the first words out of Peeta's mouth. "Unbelievably kind. He was always so supportive of all of his sons, whatever we liked or were good at, he supported. He helped me learn to bake and decorate all the desserts from a young age, he'd come and watch me and Rye wrestle whenever he could get away, he'd joke about how Bannock was so much smarter than him without having any resentment. I think everything good about myself, any good qualities that I've been able to preserve even through the hijacking, are all owed to him. He taught me how to be kind, loyal, and generous. When my mom wasn't looking, he'd sneak a cookie to a little girl or boy from the Seam who couldn't afford it. He just really wanted to do right by the world."
"He brought me cookies before the Games," I say, nodding. "And I know he made sure to keep Prim and my mother stocked with bread and sweets while we were away, even though he probably couldn't afford to."
"Exactly," Peeta says, a tear finally falling. "He wanted to take care of everyone, but especially your family. He loved your mother, and I think he knew I loved you even before I announced it to the world. And who couldn't love Prim? That would be impossible." He laughs slightly before continuing. "He just wanted to help the people he cared about. He was abused as a boy too, he told me that once. I think that's why he tolerated my mother. That was the only type of love he'd ever known. I know you might blame him for letting her do those things to us, but I don't. He didn't know that he could deserve better. He was the shoulder I could cry on whenever she got to be too much. Any problem I had, with her or in school or with anything else, he was the person I knew would never judge me. He would always understand."
Peeta's crying now. I've only ever seen him cry a few times. He tries so hard, all the time, to be steady and strong so he can be there for me. I want to be there for him. I wrap him in my arms and he returns my embrace, sobbing into my shoulder. We just hold each other for a couple minutes as his breathing steadies.
"Thank you for sharing him with me," I say, showing him that I took everything down on the paper. He smiles and wipes his eyes.
"Thank you for letting me," he says. I sigh, and feel anxiety growing in my chest as I know who comes next.
Prim.
"I can write stuff down," Peeta offers, reciprocating what I just did for him. I nod and take a deep breath before beginning.
"Prim was...the best thing in my life, the only good thing in my life. For so many years. She had this outlook on life that I simply don't understand. For so long all she knew was pain, hunger, and neglect, and yet it didn't turn her bitter like it did me. She was so kind, and she always wanted to brighten my day, take care of our mother even when she wouldn't take care of us. She was such a caring person. I mean, quite literally to her dying day. She was so good at healing, and it brought her so much joy. She would have made the best doctor. She deserved to live that dream. That's what we fought for."
I'm crying again, and Peeta rubs my back while I keep talking.
"She is what I fought for. Over and over again. I don't think I would have had the strength to survive either Games, or the war if it wasn't for her. Just thinking of her face...that got me through. I could have no will to live, but then I'd remember her face when she got Lady, or how attentive she was when helping my mother heal, or how kind she was to every living thing she came across, even stupid Buttercup. She is why I'm alive. I'm sure of it."
Peeta continues rubbing my shoulders, and then starts to speak. I realize that he's crying with me.
"It's not the same loss for me as it is for you, but I miss her a lot too. So much. After the Games, I was really lonely. I felt angry at you, and then angry at myself for being angry at you. My family didn't come to the Village, my mom didn't want to let me work in the bakery anymore. Prim was such a bright spot for me. She'd come say hi almost every day, and she was always so kind. I'd paint her little scenes or bake her things, and she'd give me the best hugs."
"I didn't know that," I say, smiling and sniffling.
"Yeah," he says with a little laugh. "She didn't tell you because she knew you'd be sensitive about it. She was really good at reading people. And then in 13...she saved my life, more than any of the doctors. It was her idea to use the morphling. I don't think I would know who I am today if it wasn't for that. And it's more than that. The doctors in 13 were great, but they were formal and cold. She was always so kind, no matter how awful I was or what I said about you. She helped remind me of things from home. She's the reason I was able to find myself again."
For the second time in short succession, I throw my arms around him. I don't know why, but even though it's incredibly painful to think about having lost her, knowing Peeta is here with me and feels it too makes me feel at least somewhat less alone.
"Thank you," I say, my voice muffled in the fabric of his shirt. He runs his hands through my hair and I rub mine against his back. We stay like this for several minutes before we eventually break apart. I wipe my eyes with my sleeve while he clears his throat and downs a glass of water.
"Well, I'm exhausted now," he says, and I laugh and nod. We both head up to my room to get ready for bed. Peeta and I each have a drawer of some basics at each other's houses, since we spend most nights together. When we crawl into bed, I lie on my side and Peeta embraces me so that his chest is to my back, with one of his arms slung over my waist. He's asleep within minutes, I can tell by his breathing. This was emotionally exhausting for him. Buttercup is asleep on the window seat. The boys are calm, but my brain is moving at a quick pace, chasing something I still can't quite place.
I don't like talking about things that hurt. I know that people say it can help, be cathartic or validating or whatever. I know I'm supposed to be doing it in therapy with Aurelius every week, but the reason I've been avoiding that is because of how much I don't like it. I deflect, I distract, I don't talk about my feelings, especially when they are such bad ones. But I find myself talking to Peeta so much, being so vulnerable with him in a way I am with no one else. Why am I doing this? Why does it feel comfortable?
I'm confused, lost in these questions, when Peeta shifts slightly in his sleep and his hand travels across my stomach. Suddenly, I feel my stomach flutter and flip in a way I barely ever have before. I realize what that means, and why I'm letting him in so much.
No.
No, no, no, no, no. I can't have feelings for Peeta. We're friends, and we've gone through such a long journey to just be allowed to be friends. I should be grateful for that. If I have feelings for him, I could love him, and if I love him, I could lose him. I can't lose someone else I love. No.
I want to bolt, I want to get out of bed and run as far away from here as I can, but I'm wrapped in his arms. If I move I'll wake him, and then I'll have to explain where I'm going. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, for hours, hating myself for having done what I told myself I should never, ever do.