Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games.
"Don't leave," I say, reaching out for him. He's already at the front door, his hand on the knob, poised to turn it. But he's never resisted when I want to hug him, not since we got back to District Twelve, anyway. Peeta smiles and takes a few steps toward me, then his arms are around me. I'm not sure if he'll ever get used to this, if he hasn't yet. Sometimes he seems casual about us, and the way we are with each other now. But other times, it's obvious that he can hardly believe I want him as much as I do.
I hate it when I take his hand or wrap my arms around him and I can feel that he's surprised. I thought we were past that point. I thought he knew how much I love him and need him. I try to remind him as often as I can, but I suppose only time will convince him that we're going to stay together. He'll have to believe it when he sees it.
He softly kisses my cheek and then my neck, then I feel his lips near my ear and he whispers, "I'll be back soon, I just have to get some clothes."
"Well, can't you do laundry here?" I ask.
Peeta pulls back, taking my hands in his and still smiling. "I'll be back in ten minutes," he says.
I realize how silly I'm being, trying to insist he stay. It's not as if we're never apart, we both spend plenty of time alone, when I'm hunting or he's baking. But somehow, I just don't like it when he goes back to his house. It reminds me of the time between when we moved to the Victor's Village and the Quarter Quell. I was here, with my mother and Prim, still spending time with Gale and even kissing him. While Peeta was over in his house, alone, wanting nothing more than to be with me. I don't like thinking of those days, after I admitted I was partly pretending during the Games, because I know how hard they were for him. I love him too much to think of him like that.
I know, of course, that being separated from me during that time is nothing compared to the torture and hijacking. It's nothing compared to when he had that horrible infection before I found him during the Games, or compared to when he lost his leg. And while I feel varying levels of responsibility for all of those events which caused him harm, it's somehow worse to think of the general time when I didn't know how much I needed him. Because I know I am completely responsible for his being hurt in that way, by being deprived of me. Because I was too set in my ways and too unwilling to change.
"Why don't you just keep all your things here?" I blurt out, without really even thinking.
Peeta looks surprised and I try to reassure him by tightly wrapping my arms around his waist and resting my head against his chest. I feel his hands tentatively come to rest on my back. "You mean," he says, "everything?"
I don't know why I never asked him to move in before, maybe I was still subconsciously dragging my feet. Just being me…the me who hurt him before in a thousand ways. "Yes," I say, "you might as well." I realize those might not be the right words, so I add, "I want you here, with me, always."
It turns out that Peeta doesn't have very many possessions. I don't know what I expected, but when we go over to his house together to begin packing, I'm surprised by how barren it seems. It makes sense, though. His family may have been more well off than anyone in the Seam, but they still weren't wealthy, so he didn't bring much when he moved to the Victor's Village. Nor did he have much interest in acquiring many things afterward.
"This is it?" I say, looking around at the minimally furnished living room.
"You've been here before," Peeta says, "don't you remember?"
It's true, of course, but I've probably only been to his house a couple of times since we came back to Twelve, not recently, and I guess I wasn't paying much attention. The same goes for when I came over here before the Quell, I suppose.
"I guess not," I say. "Well…if I'd realized this was all you had, I would have asked you to move in sooner."
I'm glad when Peeta laughs a little at my pathetic attempt at levity. I'm glad he's able to find humor in the fact that I've taken an inexcusably long time to invite him to move in with me. It makes me sad being here and I want to hurry up and pack his things so we can leave, but Peeta doesn't seem to be in much of a hurry. In fact, I think he's having fun as he assembles some boxes and begins taking them up to his room. I follow him and together we empty out his closet and dresser, placing everything in the boxes.
I'm just finishing up with the top drawer of his dresser when I see something small and dark pushed toward the back. I reach in and pull it out, instantly knowing what it is and where it must have come from, but hardly able to believe it. I hold the small black point in my hand and turn toward Peeta.
"What's this?" I say, smiling a little.
Peeta lowers his eyes and smiles sheepishly, then chuckles. "Oh," he says, "I forgot that was in there." He comes toward me and takes it out of my hand, turning it over in his and examining it. "I got it out of one of the squirrels you brought to trade with my father."
I don't remember ever leaving an arrowhead in a squirrel, but why would I remember something like that? It must have been an accident, a weak arrow that broke when I tried to take it out of the squirrel. "When?" I ask, watching Peeta as he fidgets with the arrowhead.
"I'm not sure exactly," he says, "a couple of years ago." He looks lost in thought as he tries to remember, then he speaks again. "I think we were fourteen."
"And you kept it all this time?"
Peeta smiles at me and shrugs, then tosses the arrowhead back into the now empty dresser drawer. "I guess I don't need it anymore," he says, closing the drawer.
I'm reminded of the pearl he gave me during the Quell. I remember treasuring it when I was in Thirteen, and Peeta was in the Capitol. I even brushed it across my lips a couple of times, in an attempt to feel closer to Peeta while he was out of my reach. I wonder just how important this arrowhead was to him. I wonder if he ever carried it around. I doubt he ever touched it to his lips, but who knows?
I still have the pearl. I keep it in a box on my dresser, and sometimes I look at it or touch it. After it became so important to me, it was hard to stop liking it and associating it with Peeta. I can't help thinking that he might feel the same way about this arrowhead and just not want to admit it.
I open the dresser drawer again and take the arrowhead back out, holding it in my hand. It feels hard and severe and it used to be dangerous; it's so different from the pearl, which is soft and smooth and light. "We should keep it," I say. I don't want him to feel embarrassed for having it, and as if he has to hide it in this dresser, which we've decided to leave here in the soon-to-be empty house.
"I have you now," Peeta says, leaning down to kiss me.
It's strange to think that he was keeping this little token of me for years. He had it for a long time before I knew how he felt about me, and for a long time before I loved him back. I gently pull away from him and walk over to a full box. I place the arrowhead inside and then tuck the edges together.
"I know the perfect place we can keep it," I tell Peeta, walking back over to the dresser where he still stands. "You know my inlaid box that my mother sent me?"
Peeta nods, and I reach out, winding my arms around the back of his neck. His hands find their way to my waist and I look up into his eyes.
"We can keep it there. It's where I keep the pearl you gave me."
Peeta smiles. "I didn't know you still had that," he says.
"I carried it with me when we were apart," I tell him, sliding a hand forward and stroking his cheek with my thumb. "I kept it because I love you." He kisses my forehead. "I'm sorry you had to wait longer for me."
Peeta smiles. "You don't have to be sorry, I told you it doesn't matter anymore. Nothing matters but now." And with that, we resume packing.
When Peeta's placed the last of his clothes into my spare dresser, I let myself fall back onto the bed. Moving his things was by no means strenuous, but I feel exhausted for some reason. Maybe because it's getting late and, as always, I was up early this morning. I roll onto my side and prop my head up on my hand. Peeta turns to face me.
"Happy?" I ask.
"Yes," he says, smiling again, "you?"
"Yes," I tell him, "more than I thought I could be."
He comes over to the bed and sits near the top of it. I scoot up and rest my head on his lap and he runs his hand over my hair, then down my braid, picking it up and brushing his thumb across the loose hairs at the end of it. I reach out and take his hand, holding it in both of mine. I love it. I love all of him so much.
"You know," I say tentatively, "there's only one thing left to do, now."
"What's that?" he asks.
I'm surprised he doesn't know what I mean. I assume he's thought about it before, but maybe not. Maybe he didn't think it would happen for a long time. Maybe he thought I wasn't ready and he was willing to wait, and didn't dare to hope.
I sit up and slide my legs off the edge of the bed, so we're sitting side by side, both of our feet on the floor. "Well…we are still engaged, aren't we?" I hope I haven't done the wrong thing, mentioning our forced engagement.
I see comprehension dawning on Peeta's face and for a second he looks surprised, but then he quickly smiles. "Yes. If you want to be."
"I do," I tell him, and even I am surprised by the certainty in my voice.
"Now?" he asks, referring to the toasting.
"If you want," I say, "or tomorrow or the next day. But soon."
"I'm kind of tired right now," he says.
But I know what he really means. The toasting shouldn't be something that we just do on impulse, which is what it would be at the moment. We've been engaged long enough, sure, but it needs to be more special that it would be right now. We need to be prepared and alert (so that we'll be able to remember it perfectly), neither of which we are at this time.
Peeta leans over and kisses me softly, his lips gently moving with mine in a way that makes me feel even sleepier. He pulls back to look into my eyes. "Soon," he says.