The next day, I'm up before the sun. Not because unpleasant dreams wake me, but because I can't fall back to sleep. All I can think about is what lies ahead; the morning that should come over the horizon any minute now, and what it entails.
I lie in bed for a while and stare at the ceiling while listening to Buttercup purr beside me. He's pleased with himself, so satisfied that I've given up the habit of pushing him off the bed before he can get comfortable. I can't deny that he keeps me warm, and his presence makes me feel a bit less alone in this bed that's much too big. He insists on curling up as close as possible to me, which I don't mind until I wake up with orange fur stuck to my lips.
I glance out the window and see Peeta's light on, just as it was in the middle of the night. Even though I didn't get much sleep, I feel invigorated and ready for the day, alight with excitement and nerves simultaneously. From what I can tell, though, he's still asleep. That's a good thing. He's lying still, facing away from the window, his shoulders rounded into themselves. I hope he's having nice dreams.
After the nightmare that woke me, I dreamed about the woods. Not necessarily bad things, but not good either. Foreboding might be the right word. I'm not sure what to expect from them anymore. Not because I think they've changed, but because I have. I don't know if I'll feel the same cocooned in the thick of the trees as I once did, if it will bring me the same peace. I'm not sure what I'll do if it doesn't.
I don't know how to prepare for what I'm sure will be an onslaught of feelings, so I choose to ignore them and take the day minute by minute. As my room gets lighter in increments, Buttercup stands and stretches, which cues me to do the same.
I feed him before he can beg, which surprises him I'm sure, and braid my hair back tightly. I dig through the dresser in search of clothes fit for hunting and find pieces from what I used to wear, and they still fit. My boots, as worn-in as ever, feel like a second skin when I slip them on. My bow, the last part to join me on my way out the door, is a pleasant weight on my shoulder. So far, so good. I feel like myself. In a positive way.
It might still be early, but I can't wait in the house any longer and watch the hands on the clock. So, I head out the front door - but not quick enough. Buttercup is on my heels, following close behind, trotting happily like this is something we do every morning.
"Would you get?" I scold, scooting him away with my foot. I could be gentler, I admit. But the force of my boot doesn't deter him. He keeps walking as if I hadn't just blocked his path, even hurrying a bit to keep up with me as I continue on the path to Peeta's.
Peeta must be just as anxious to start the day because he's waiting for me on the porch, sitting on the front steps. He's wearing the hat I made him yesterday - the orange will make us stick out, but I don't say anything about that. I'm happy that he wore it. It will keep his head warm, and as someone who's not used to the chill of the woods, he needs that.
"Good morning," he says, flashing me a smile and a friendly wave. "And good morning to you, too, Buttercup."
He reaches forward and scratches Buttercup's head, under his chin and behind his ears, just the way the cat likes. I eye them both, scrutinizing with a pinched expression, and shake my head. "He followed me," I say.
"Is he coming with us?" Peeta asks, still petting the creature.
"No," I say. "He'll scare everything away."
"And that's my job," he says.
"He," I say, cutting my sentence in half by bending to pick up the cat. He tenses for a moment, but it doesn't last long. He soon settles into my arms and I realize he's heavier than I thought he was. It feels like he's been eating better than I have. Maybe he would be an asset to us in the woods. "Is going back inside."
Peeta chuckles and waits while I drop Buttercup back at home. When I return, I brush the fur off of my jacket and say, "Let's go."
It's a bit of a hike from Victors' Village to the woods, but I'm used to it. I'm not so sure about Peeta, though, especially with his titanium leg, so I reduce my speed by a few degrees so he won't have to worry about keeping up. I don't want to tire him out before we even get to where we're going.
I feel him glancing at me on the way there as I adjust my speed time and time again. I don't want him to know that I'm slowing down for his sake, so I'm toeing the line between seeming obvious and pulling ahead.
We make it to the woods in double the time that it would take me if I were alone, but I don't really mind. I won't admit it out loud, but Sae has been right with her advice. It does feel good to be outside, breathing the fresh, clean air. Looking at something other than the four walls of my bedroom or the underused fireplace in the den. I used to see these woods every single day, and being out here is like taking a step back in time. But this time, instead of Gale's silent footsteps beside me, there are Peeta's heavy footfalls that make leaves crunch and twigs crack with every move.
I'm not bothered, though. Not in the slightest.
Almost as if he's reading my mind, Peeta calls attention to his noisiness. "Sorry," he says. "It's my leg. I can't control the weight of it very well."
I glance over my shoulder at him with a smile in my eyes. "You weren't much quieter when you had two good feet, you know," I tell him.
He smirks and darts his eyes away from mine to look at the ground. I hope he knows I'm joking and not being cruel. Suddenly, I worry that I've hurt his feelings or that he thinks I don't want him out here with me. Because I do want him out here. I don't want to be alone anymore.
"Let's just stay in one place," I say, touching his arm gently before pulling my hand away. "If we're still, the game will come to us."
He nods affirmatively and we find a decently comfortable log to sit on. We rest on it shoulder-to-shoulder, and for a long time just stay in silence, saying nothing and seeing nothing. The only sounds to be heard are birdsong in the trees, the whisper of wind through the leaves, and the creak of the heavy branches as they move and sway. I missed these sounds. They used to act as the soundtrack of my life.
After a while, I allow myself to relax. Almost as soon as I do, though, I see movement through the brush up ahead, and it only takes my eyes a few moments to adjust and realize that what I'm seeing is a pair of deer. And they don't even react to us.
It reminds me of the game that Gale and I came across when we were allowed to hunt in District 13. These two deer undoubtedly smell us, but they aren't afraid. I really have been out of the woods for much too long if the game has all but forgotten about what sort of threat I pose.
But maybe I'm not such a threat anymore. Is that a bad thing? I'm not sure.
My muscles stay relaxed and my hands don't itch to move towards my bow. In fact, I don't move at all. The only thing I do is watch them, and that's all I want to do. Shooting them would be pointless for more than one reason - for one, even with two people, they're much too heavy to carry. And two, they would provide plenty of meat to save, but neither Peeta nor I are wanting for food anymore. It would be wasteful.
And the third reason, the one that flickered to my mind first and rooted itself in place is this: I could benefit from shooting one of them. Peeta and I could carry a single deer back to the Village together. But where would that leave her partner?
Maybe these two deer are all each other have. As soon as I think that, I know it's silly and that there's probably a herd somewhere close by. But I still can't get the thought out of my head. I don't know what I would do if something took Peeta from me, and so senselessly at that.
I won't split the deer up. I won't shoot either of them. We don't need them.
I share a look with Peeta and something in his eyes tells me he's thinking the exact same thing. We don't need to say it out loud. It's already agreed upon. We both look forward again and watch them as they meander through the clearing, nibbling at moss, gracefully toeing their way through the leaves. Once they're gone and the whites of their tails fade from view, I realize how much that thought - that the deer should be allowed to stay alive and be together - is something that my sister would stand by.
Now, I don't mind so much that it came into my head as intrusively as it did.
Peeta and I stay on our log for at least another hour as the sun rises higher in the sky. Most of the morning is spent observing, and I think it calms him. I know it makes me feel centered, and when I shoot the squirrels that we'll bring home, I get them both right in the eye. Not bad for months without practice. Not bad at all.
I feel accomplished in a way I haven't in a long time as we head back. I let Peeta be as loud as he wants since we're on our way out, and think to myself that I should have gotten more squirrels so Sae could have some, too. But I'm still not ready to head into the square to trade. There's only so much I can handle in one day, and the woods are enough.
Once we're out of the woods and on the path back to the Village, Peeta speaks. "That was nice," he says. "Thanks for letting me come."
I nod once, then look at him. "You're welcome," I say.
"You look different out there," he says. "In the woods."
His tone of voice reminds me of the boy he used to be. Before all of this death. I want to smile but my lips forget how. Instead, I feel like crying and I have no idea why. To combat both feelings, my face stays as still as stone.
"We can eat these tonight," I say, gesturing to the squirrels by raising them both by their tails.
"Good idea," he says. "We can cook at my house, if you want. I have a pot we can use to make stew."
I nod and we pass my porch and head straight for his house instead. When we walk through the front door, a burst of warmth hits me and I'm comforted right away; this place feels like home, whereas mine feels like a husk or a shell. I like being here. But I'm not sure if it's the house that I like so much or rather who I'm spending time with inside it.
I make my way to the kitchen and set the squirrels on the wooden countertop, catching Peeta's attention as he rifles through his cabinets for the stew pot. "Let me show you how to skin them," I say, feeling my oats now that I've fallen back into an old habit. This is what I'm good at. This is what I know how to do.
"Skin them?" he repeats, eyebrows lifted.
"You might need to know how," I say.
He finds the pot and sets it on the stove, then walks over tentatively. "I'll always have you here, won't I?" he asks. "I don't think I'll need to know how."
What he says isn't lost on me, but I don't know how to acknowledge it. I don't know how to properly express the blooming feeling that it ignites inside my chest. So, all I say is: "You might."
He gives in and leans forward onto the countertop, placing his weight on his elbows as I slit the squirrel down the middle and pull from either side. My hands move without my brain telling them what to do, so I only think to look at his reaction when it comes time to pull the innards out.
Peeta's face is tinged green and I've never seen him look so disgusted. Beyond my control, I start to smile and a laugh sneaks out, which makes his eyes dart up to my face from where they'd been cemented on the squirrel, splayed open in front of me.
"Your face," I say, stopping my laughter by pressing my lips together.
"You're pulling so hard," he says, clearly still shocked.
"It's skin," I say, continuing my work. "It doesn't come off easily."
I pull the intestines out, along with the rest of the guts and place them off to the side. "Do we eat those parts?" he asks.
"Not anymore," I say. There was a time when my mother, Prim, and I had to. It wasn't gourmet but it wasn't like we cared. It was something in our bellies and that was what mattered. But Peeta and I don't need to scrape the bottom of the barrel, there's no reason for us to eat scraps when we've got plenty of other good-tasting things to choose from.
Once I've done most of the work, Peeta grabs the clean skin and positions it above his head - not touching his hair, but close. "Maybe Haymitch would like to use this as a hat," he says with a grin.
"If he ever left his house," I say, and we both chuckle.
This is the most I've laughed in months, if you can even count it as laughing. I guess I do. It's better than frowning, scowling, and crying all day in my bed. Buttercup was probably tired of hearing my sniffles. It's no wonder he's been so happy lately. He's gotten a break from my moaning and groaning.
We get so lost in our cooking endeavors that we let the fire die in the living room. Peeta makes the broth for the stew and I add the squirrel meat after sufficiently cleaning it, and the smell that fills the house is one that I had no idea how much I missed. The scent wraps itself around me and makes my stomach growl, suddenly I'm as hungry as I've ever been and nothing sounds better than the squirrels I shot today that Peeta is stewing.
We make good partners. I hunt, he cooks, we both eat.
And tonight, we feast. He gets out an especially large loaf of bread and spreads a thick layer of butter on it, and I go all out and dip the heel of mine in the stew. I can't remember anything having tasted this good in years. I want to eat slowly, to savor it, but it's so difficult not to scarf it all down.
I'm already thinking of what I'll shoot tomorrow morning and what Peeta will be able to make with it. If I time it right, I might be able to rustle up a couple rabbits, or maybe even a pheasant if I'm especially lucky.
With all these thoughts running through my head, my first instinct is to open my mouth and say them aloud to Peeta and hope he shares my same enthusiasm. Even if he doesn't, I'm sure he'll fake it for my sake, but when I turn to look at him, there's something closed-off and distant about his expression.
"Peeta?" I say, pushing thoughts of the woods out of my mind for the time being. I can come back to them later.
His eyes flick to me but don't stay for long. I tip my head to one side, curious over where he's gone, and the tightness of his grip on the back of the chair in front of him catches my attention. It makes the muscles of his arms stand out - from the tendons in his wrists all the way to his shoulders - and his breathing is deep and rattled.
I wrap my arms around myself and take a step closer to him, but he turns away without warning and heads out of the kitchen. I watch his back and feel the floorboards react to his sturdy footsteps, and I follow him from a good distance away to watch what he's doing.
The living room has grown dark since the sun set so early, so Peeta rekindles the fire in low light. He doesn't speak while he does it, he just acts and moves with robotic precision, using the fire poker to provoke the embers and create a flame. It takes some time, but eventually it works - yet he stays in his kneeling position on the hearth, still tense and tight.
"Peeta?" I say again, more cautiously this time as I approach him from behind. The last thing I want to do is startle him.
He nods - it's an almost imperceptible move of the head - but he does nod. So, I know he heard me and he's at least somewhat okay. I stay a few feet away from him, my hands clenched into fists at my sides and my nails digging into my palms - I can't relax until he does.
I'm not sure how long we stay like that, but when the moment breaks it breaks hard. His muscles lose their rigidity and he clambers to the floor in an ungraceful, disjointed motion until he's sitting with his knees bent in front of him and his fingers pressed to his temples.
"I'm okay," he finally says, and a sigh of relief so powerful escapes me that I'm surprised I was holding it.
I hurry over and get on the floor beside him without asking questions. I search his face, my eyes darting all over, and see only pain. And that's not something I'm used to seeing from Peeta.
"When I get cold…" he begins, then clears his throat. "When I get cold, the flashbacks come. They used to freeze the room I was in." He closes his eyes tightly and shakes his head hard. "So, I don't like to feel cold. It makes me remember. And forget. And go to… I don't know where. But I go away, and it's hard to come back."
I take one of his hands in both of mine and find it still cool to the touch. Even though I'm trembling myself, I pull it closer and breathe warm air on it, rubbing his palm and his fingers between my own in order to get his blood flowing again.
If it was up to me, which I guess it is now, he'd never be cold again. He never will be, if I have anything to say about it.
"I'm so sorry, Peeta," I whisper, and he turns to face the fire again to soak up its heat.
I do what I can to help the process along. I pull him close to share the warmth of my body with him, rubbing his arms with both of my hands and making sure his bare skin is covered. I press my warm hands to his neck and throw a blanket over his shoulders, protecting him against the cold all the way down to his feet - and when I get there, I realize the non-metal one is bare.
"No wonder you're cold," I say, taking one of my own thick socks off and pulling it onto his foot the best I can. It stretches to its limit and barely fits, but at least it's something. "Did you have socks on outside today?"
He shakes his head. "I don't have winter socks," he says. "I always forget about them, because of…" He looks at the titanium portion of his bad leg.
"No more of that," I say quietly, but firmly.
I promise myself right then that when I get home, the first thing I'll do is make him a sock. A thick one that he can wear all the time. Maybe a handful of them in a few different colors. He'll like that.
"Are you warm yet?" I ask, fretting over him now. I can't seem to stop. He's typically the stable one between us, and I've gotten good at filling the position of loose cannon. I'm not sure how we'll manage if both of us are off our rockers.
He nods, but it's half-hearted and not exactly reassuring. So, I follow through with what my gut has been telling me will work best. I lift his arm, blanket included, and tuck myself close to his side. Nothing warms the body like another body.
It would go faster if neither of us had clothes, that's the first thing I learned about survival, but there is absolutely no reason for my mind to go that far. None at all. This will work, especially in front of the fire.
I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my cheek against his chest, getting as close as humanly possible. Slowly, the air under the blanket warms and his core temperature begins to rise, and I sense him coming back to himself. As he does, my own nerves ebb and the air in the room is more normal, closer to something I'm used to, which allows me to feel self-conscious about how close we are.
I pull away as it all becomes a little too real, and he meets my eyes with a sleepy gaze. "You should get to bed," I say, trying my best not to sound motherly. Instead, it comes out stiff and like I'm barking orders, which is no better. I'm hopeless at this.
"You're right," he says, standing. He helps me up once he gets to his feet and I dust myself off while heading to the door. "Goodnight, Katniss."
"Night," I say, shoving my feet into my boots and shrugging my coat on.
I walk home with my shoulders hunched by my ears, guarding myself against the cold. When I get inside my house, Buttercup is waiting for me - hungry as always. I fill his bowl and hurry upstairs, hoping to get away from the toil of confusing feelings inside my head, my heart, and my entire body, but I don't have much hope of running away from myself.
I turn the light on in my room and allow my eyes to catch on Peeta's window across the way. He's standing there and I know he's been watching for me, because he raises his hand in a gentle wave once we lock eyes.
I wave back then shut my light off. I can't handle any more of him and all that he makes me feel tonight.
…
After yet another fitful night, the first thing I do the next morning is work on Peeta's socks. The rain is coming down in sheets, meaning there's no chance of hunting today, so I get comfortable on the couch with Buttercup perched over my shoulder - inspecting my work, I'm sure - and start.
The sock goes faster than the hat did. The shape is easier, and it's smaller. Plus I've gotten the hang of knitting again; I'm at least a little more proficient than I was a couple of days ago. After a few hours, I have one orange sock, one green, and one gray lying across my lap. They're different sizes and the stitches aren't even, but they'll do a fine job at keeping Peeta's foot warm.
I glance out the window to find the rain just as bad as it had been when I woke up, so I reach for the phone, if only to let Peeta know that I didn't forget. I insinuated that I would do something about his cold feet and I followed through. He should know that much.
His phone only rings once before he picks up. I'm still not used to talking on this thing, it's strange that I can hear him so clearly and not see him. But still, I open my mouth and speak.
"I finished your socks," I say without precursor.
"Already?" he asks.
"It's raining," I say, stating the obvious. "What else is there to do? Plus, you need them."
"What colors did you make?"
"Orange," I say. "Green, and gray."
"So I have choices."
"Sure," I say, wondering why he's dragging out this conversation over the phone. "When it stops raining, I'll bring them to you."
We hang up soon enough and I lie down on the stiff couch. As soon as I do, Buttercup takes up residence on my chest, but for me that's a bit too close for comfort. I nudge him away and he makes a home instead between my knees, which I permit.
It's hard not to fall asleep with how badly I slept last night and the sound of the rain outside, so I let myself go. My eyes close and I drift off quickly, the cat's purring vibrating the entire couch.
…
When I wake up, the room is warmer than what I'm used to and the house smells comforting and delicious. I open my eyes slowly, sure that I must be dreaming, and see Peeta at the end of the couch where Buttercup had been when I fell asleep.
My feet are on his lap and his are stretched out to rest on the coffee table. His titanium foot is covered with the green sock and his good foot is wearing the orange one. There are lumps and bumps where I made mistakes, but at least his skin is covered. That's the first coherent thought I have after coming out of the deep sleep of my afternoon nap.
"I said I would come to you," I say, trying not to sound as groggy as I am. I don't think it works, because Peeta's lips pull upwards in a small smile.
"I wanted to see you," he says, and my face must give my mess of emotions away because he adds: "And my socks. My foot… It was cold."
Speaking of cold, the room is anything but. And this room is not known for its comfort. I realize the reason behind the coziness is the fire that Peeta started in the fireplace, the first one since I've been living here alone. And that homey smell that woke me up is the stew from last night that must be heating up in the kitchen. He did all of this for me, for us, while I slept. And it's nice, it's comfortable, it reminds me of my family. Of home.
"No nightmares?" he asks, breaking up my thoughts.
Nothing comes immediately to mind - and nightmares aren't something I typically forget. So, he must be right.
"No," I say. "How'd you know?"
He smiles and says, "You weren't scowling."
My eyebrows drop and my eyes narrow, which makes him laugh.
"Well, now you are," he says. "Are you hungry? Should we eat?"
I watch him stand up from the couch after gently lifting my feet from his lap, and keep my eyes on him as he heads into the kitchen. He scratches Buttercup behind the ears, hangs up my coat that I'd thrown haphazardly on the ground next to the stairs, and turns down the dial on the oven. He's comfortable here, and I'm comfortable with him. It feels like home with both of us in one place.
And I'm not sure what to make of that.