In January, it's the start of a new year and Peeta and I have been living together for about a month. For the first few days, it was hard not to call it 'his house,' and he'd correct me every time he heard me say it. But now, it's more natural than anything to call it 'our house,' because that's what it feels like.
Our things are commingled here. My knitting supplies are in a basket next to the couch. In the large closet in the bedroom that we share, his clothes hang on one side and mine hang on the other. In the storage cubbies that line the bottom, Peeta has folded our pants and shirts and placed them amongst each other. Now, my clothes always smell like him. I catch myself with my nose pressed to the shoulder of my shirt more often than I care to admit.
In the bathroom upstairs, our toothbrushes are positioned beside each other in the porcelain holster. I told Peeta that one day, I'll learn how to whittle - as soon as I master knitting - and make a holster that suits us better. Porcelain is neither of our styles, but it gets the job done for now.
We use the same shampoo, the same soaps. We eat the same food. We sleep under the same blankets, in the same bed, every night.
I fall asleep to his heartbeat and wake up to the weight of his arm thrown across my middle. Or his fingers in my hair, his breath on my neck, or my hand sandwiched under his back. I have the softness of his curls memorized. He knows the way I take my tea and that I'll always accept a spoonful of brown sugar in my oatmeal. I crack the window at night before he asks and set his pills out for him at the end of hard days.
Although we get more used to each other as each day passes, I can count on one hand the amount of times we've kissed since the night of his episode. Really kissed, I mean. On the lips. Casual kisses pressed to foreheads, hands, and cheeks don't count. At least, not in this instance.
One part of me is glad for the slow - really, glacial - pace that we're taking. Moving forward in minute increments gives me plenty of time to think and turn over the way he makes me feel inside my head. Emotions have a way of overwhelming me - they used to put me in a state even before my life changed, and that's only been exacerbated in the past few years. So, in some respects, slow is good.
But, in other respects, I've never been a patient person.
It felt good, kissing him in front of the fire. After he came back to himself and started kissing me back, it reminded me of the beach. It reminded me how it feels to be alive, to have my body full of something so pure and unadulterated; so full of want.
And that's what it is - want. I want to kiss him, I want to be kissed by him. But I'm hopeless with words. I could never ask. Putting it out there is awkward and it would make me feel stupid. What if he's not ready? I would never push him. I know I'm selfish, but I'm trying to get better.
Peeta always thinks of my needs before his. I've been working on doing the same.
Now, as we prepare to have Haymitch over for dinner, we're cooking alongside each other in comfortable silence. Buttercup sits on a stool across from the counter, tail twitching, watching us working and judging harshly, I'm sure. As soon as Haymitch comes through the door, he'll make himself scarce. Depending on Haymitch's mood, I might end up wishing to do the same.
Peeta was the one who suggested we invite Haymitch over on a regular basis. He reminded me how isolating it was before the two of us found each other, and how nice it is now to have someone with you, even to do the most mundane things. Neither of us are willing to be Haymitch's life partner, but Peeta says the least we can do is cook for him once a week.
I know he's right. But sometimes, Haymitch reminds me of the most unrefined parts of myself. And I don't always like seeing that up close and personal.
Tonight, though, he might just be placated. We splurged and bought chicken from the square - I traded a fox pelt for it - and Peeta is making the pasta he taught me how to roll all those weeks ago. Adding my own personal touch, I slipped a spider-shaped noodle into the boiling pot and it earned me quite the smile from him.
We hear heavy boots on the front porch at the same time. Before Haymitch can open the door (he's never bothered with knocking), Peeta says, "Remember-"
"Yes, I know," I snap.
He laughs a little, just a small puff of air from his nose. Apparently we're both still smiling when Haymitch makes his way in, because he asks, "What's so funny?"
On cue, Buttercup leaps down from the stool and skulks off, not to be seen until the general stench of liquor fades from the downstairs living area. I watch him turn the corner, then direct my eyes back to Haymitch. "Just excited about your arrival, I guess," I say.
"As you very well should be," he slurs, plopping down hard in a wooden chair. "What're we having?"
"Peeta's making soup," I say. "Chicken noodle."
"You helped," Peeta says off-handedly, reaching behind me to grab the wooden spoon where it rests on the other side of the stove. As he leans, he rests a hand on the swell of my opposite hip and Haymitch's eyes gravitate there like a moth to a flame. As long as Peeta's hand stays put, Haymitch watches us.
Peeta, none the wiser, lifts his hand to turn the dial on the stove down and I shift uncomfortably where I stand.
"Where the hell'd you get chicken?" Haymitch asks.
"I traded for it," I answer quickly, happy to talk about anything but the physical affection he just witnessed. "A fox."
"A fox," he echoes, eyebrows raised. "Look at you. Hunting again, then."
"Sometimes."
Nearly every day, really. But for some reason I'm feeling argumentative and I can't let Haymitch be right. It's immature - stupid, really. But old habits die hard.
The soup is just about finished simmering, so I work on setting the table. I get out an extra bowl and pour three glasses of ice water, hoping to encourage Haymitch to drink something other than whatever is in his flask. I doubt he'll touch the water, but it's worth a try.
After the first spoonful of soup passes my lips, I lose the poor attitude that had been lingering over my head like a dark cloud. It tastes so perfect - just the right amount of salt with thick noodles and juicy chicken - that it would be a crime to eat it while in a bad mood.
I look at Peeta and let him know as much. "This might be the best thing I've ever tasted," I tell him.
Peeta smiles at me, then lifts my braid over my shoulder to smooth it down my back. He's saving the tail from being dipped in the broth, but the gesture is much softer and more intimate than that. And it's not only he and I that see it - Haymitch notices, too.
When I feel his eyes, I look away from Peeta and find him staring - practically gawking. "Don't let me stop you," he says, palms raised in some sort of surrender. "I'm just happy someone's getting a little action around here." He squints. "If you can call that action."
I bristle and sit up straight in my chair, gripping my spoon tight in a closed fist. "You really are insufferable, you know," I say, my voice coming out pinched and louder than I intended.
"Oh, sweetheart, come on," Haymitch says with an eye-roll. "Take a pill and quit being so defensive. It's nice to see you two enjoying some domesticity for a change."
…
That night at bedtime, Peeta is especially quiet. Usually he can be counted on to chat about mundane things he saw throughout the day, something he overheard in the square if that's where he's been, or what Buttercup got up to. But tonight, he keeps to himself as he putters through his nighttime routine. When I ask if he needs help putting on his burn cream, he shakes his head instead of answering with words, and I frown at the back of his head where he can't see.
He wasn't all that talkative through dinner with Haymitch, but he kept up the conversation enough so that I wouldn't have to. It was only after our old mentor left that he became withdrawn and sunken into himself, and I've been trying to figure out how to ask what's wrong.
I've never been that good at tact and Peeta knows that, but he's always so sensitive towards me. So, I try to be gentle when I ask: "Is something bothering you?"
He glances over his shoulder from where he sits on the edge of the bed. I'm standing on what's become my side, hovering really, not able to relax until I know what's going on in his head. The room is plenty warm, and his muscles are relaxed. I don't think I need to be worried about an episode; that's not what this is.
Peeta shakes his head and doubles over to take his titanium leg off, placing it in the spot by the nightstand where it stays during the night. "I'm fine," he says, lying down and switching off the bedside lamp in the process.
Now that the room is cloaked in darkness, I have no choice but to lie down too. I'm tired, I want to sleep, and I want to sleep beside him - but I'm not stupid. I'm very aware that there's something he's not saying. He's got something on his mind, and I'm determined to get it out of him before we fall asleep.
I allow the silence to stay for a few minutes before starting in on him again. "Peeta," I finally say, turning onto my side so I can see his face. His profile is outlined in the moonlight as he lies on his back with his eyes on the ceiling. "What is it?"
He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. I watch his chest expand and deflate as the air cycles through, and wait for him to speak. "Are you ashamed of me?" he asks after some time.
The question catches me totally off-guard. Instantly, my eyebrows come together and a scowl forms on my face. "Of course not," I say, sounding angry without meaning to. How could he think that?
He keeps his eyes on the ceiling, making it hard for me to read what's going through his mind. I rest a flat hand on the mattress in front of me, getting as close as I dare, and wait for him to continue.
"You got defensive at dinner," he says. "Even Haymitch said so. It was like you didn't want him to see us together. Like that."
As the words come from his mouth, I realize how it must have seemed. What I've been comfortable with while we're alone, I suddenly spurned while we had company. My face blooms red as guilt courses through me; I'm not ashamed, that's not it. Not at all.
"I'm confused, that's all," he says, blinking hard. He still won't look at me, and I wish that he would. "It's hard enough to know what's real and what's not. And-"
"No," I cut in, because I can't handle hearing any more. "It's real. What I feel… it's real. I promise you, it's real."
It's the first time I've been able to turn those thoughts into words, and it feels good to put them in the open. I hadn't expected that it would. I thought I would feel bare and exposed, but I feel settled having shared them with him. I trust him - and to me, that means more than almost anything else.
"Then why try to hide it from Haymitch?" Peeta asks. "Why get upset when he sees?"
Now, it's my turn to sigh. "I don't know," I say, sitting up and keeping my eyes on my lap. "I think… maybe, that some part of me is still trying to protect you. To keep what we have, whatever it is, to keep it sacred." I fiddle with a loose string on my pajama pants and feel him watching me. "That doesn't mean I'm ashamed, or that I don't want people to know. It just means… well…" I exhale loudly. "I don't know. I don't know what it means."
I look up and meet his eyes. They're grounding, as they've always been.
"I can't just stop protecting us," I whisper. "I can't just stop."
We watch each other for a long time before Peeta asks, "So, you're not ashamed?"
"No," I answer firmly. "And it's not fake. I couldn't fake this, any of it. I'm not doing it for anyone but me, and for you."
"And Buttercup."
"No," I reply quickly, but my mouth twists into a smile as I do. I crawl towards him and fold myself into his arms, and he wraps me up and presses a soft kiss to my head. "I'm sorry," I murmur.
"You don't have to say sorry," he returns.
I lift my face and I'm so full of relief over the fact that we're one step closer to understanding our mess of feelings that I don't even try to resist what comes next. Because I want it; I want it so badly.
I touch the side of his neck, feeling the jagged line of a scar, and press my lips to his. It takes him a moment to reciprocate, to relax into the feeling, but eventually he does and we find a steady groove.
The hand that began on his neck winds its way around his waist to rest on the small of his back. Up until this point, we've never been this close while kissing - and I like it. It's making me feel more than I know what to do with, but I like it.
Peeta winds his fingers through my hair, unraveling the already-loose braid. He cups the back of my skull and keeps me close, and makes a small sound against my lips when I slip my hand beneath his shirt and flatten it over the warm skin of his back.
I allow my hand to creep upwards, my fingers crawling all the way to the middle of his shoulder blades. Now, with the way his shirt has ridden up, his bare stomach touches a sliver of mine and lights me up from the inside out.
When his tongue touches mine, my eyes fly open and we pull apart from one another - both in varying states of disarray and breathlessness. My heart is hammering and my pulse pounds in my ears - too loud for me to put together any coherent thoughts.
Peeta's lips are swollen and I can't take my eyes off of them as he extends an arm and welcomes me to his side - the place I always find my way to at night. "We should sleep," he says quietly, and I agree. Going any further might overdo it for both of us.
Even though it was smart to stop, when I close my eyes, I still feel his mouth on mine.
…
As of late, Peeta has been baking more bread than ever. And, much to my dismay, it's not all for us. Sae has been putting in her fair share of orders and paying him for what he brings her; he turns down her money every time, but she won't hear it. He tells me that she'll get it back somehow, anyway, when he buys things that we need from her stand.
He makes sourdough, cornbread, and soft rolls - things that I'm used to. But he goes beyond the basics, too. He tries his hand at challah, focaccia, and brioche - words I'd never heard until he said them. One day, he even makes banana bread, making sure to mix extra batter so we can have some, too. It's easily one of the best things I've ever tasted.
This morning, he's busy making a multigrain loaf for Sae, which is something I'm very familiar with. He's too busy to join me in the woods, though, and I hide my disappointment with a quick kiss to his face. He leans into it, tipping his head to present me with more of his cheek, and I drop another one there for luck.
"What are you looking for today?" he asks.
It's almost February and the woods are still frozen solid, but the usual game can be found as easily as it can in the summer. "Remember those weasel tracks the other day?" I say, tightening the laces on my boots. "I was going to keep an eye out for them. And maybe a beaver."
"Oh, not a beaver," Peeta says, looking at me with a cloying expression. "They're so cute."
I roll my eyes and snort. "Sap," I say.
"Speaking of sap," he says.
"Yes, I'll try again," I say.
The last time we were out together, Peeta brought a spile not unlike the one we were gifted in the second arena to tap the nearby maples for sap that he claimed he could turn into syrup. It was a little too early in the season, though, so we came up dry. Ever since then, he hasn't been able to get it out of his mind.
"I won't be too late," I call as I head towards the door.
I look over my shoulder and make sure to meet his eyes, and he gives me a look. "You don't have to worry about that," he says. "I'll be fine."
"Well," I say, not knowing how to tell him that I don't want to be late because I want to come back and be with him. "I just won't."
"Okay," he says with a smile. "See you soon, then."
The sky is pure white today but the snow that lines the path is tinged gray. We've entered the ugly stage of winter, the few months where you just want it to end - but every passing day stretches into forever and the nights do, too.
Once I make it to the woods, I take a cleansing breath and pull my bow out from its usual hollow log. Even though there's no law against me storing my weapon in our house, I still can't drop the habit of keeping it out here in the way my father did. I guess I don't really want to. It works for me, so there's no reason to change.
The woods are still today, silent and cool - but not cold. The sun isn't shining, but it's a pleasant day. It's different from the last few times I've been out here where I've had to cut the day short because of biting wind.
I end up finding the weasel tracks and following them to a well-hidden burrow. It feels wrong to shoot something where it lies, especially when we don't need it - Peeta has been eyeing the chicken breasts in the square again, and we can afford those - so I leave them be. Even though I shake my head at my softness and think of how much like Prim I'm becoming, I walk away and leave the weasels to it, whatever they might be up to inside their warm little den.
When I get close to the river where the beavers nest, I have to get one step ahead of them. If they sense me anywhere near, there's no way they'll come out of hiding, so I sling my bow onto my back and work my way up the nearest tree.
It's been a while since I've climbed, and the skill doesn't come back as easily as I hoped it would. I struggle a bit as I ascend, my muscles protesting along the way, and it takes a while to make it to a branch that I would've reached in no time at all just a few years ago. I scold myself for being out of shape, but I don't have long to linger on the thought before I lose my balance and go plummeting to the ground.
Luckily, my fall is cushioned by a considerable amount of pine needles, but they do nothing to stop the way that my fingers get crushed between my body and the ground. Reflexively, I roll onto my back as fast as I can to get the weight off my hand, but it's too late. The damage has been done.
As my right hand shakes, I lift it up to inspect the damage - but there's nothing much to be seen yet. What I'm sure will turn into swelling and bruising is right now, just inflamed. The pain is unpleasant but manageable - that is, until I try to move my fingers. Only my thumb cooperates, the rest of the four don't budge. My nerves scream and I grit my teeth to counter the feeling.
If we were starving, I wouldn't let injured fingers keep me from bringing food home - at the very least, something small. But knowing that we have plenty of reserves and other sources of sustenance allows me to clamber to my feet and hobble home with my arm held close to my chest.
By the time I reach our front door, my hand is screaming and it has almost doubled in size. The last thing I want is to do something stupid like cry, so I'm doing my best to hold it together as I kick my boots off and hang my bag up in the entryway.
"Any luck with the sap?" Peeta asks from the kitchen.
"No," I call back, taking my coat off as best I can with one working hand. I hang it next to my game bag and make my way to where Peeta's still baking diligently - he's moved onto something else now, but I can't tell what it is. I'm too distracted to concentrate on it for long.
"Too bad," he says, keeping his eyes on whatever he's kneading. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about pancakes." He looks up and sees my state of being and his face falls instantly. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"
My first instinct is to hide it from him, shield my pain like a wounded animal. But I remind myself that I'm not an animal and I'm not struggling to survive anymore. I don't have to maintain my dignity or save face. And once I push through the wall of my old reservations, my dam of emotions breaks as I hold my hand out and show him what happened.
When I was eight, I was bitten by a dog at the edge of the Seam - a bite bad enough to draw blood and put Prim beside herself. But I didn't shed a tear. I got us both home to my mother who stitched me up and comforted my sister. When I was ten, the year before our father died, I cut myself so badly with a hunting knife that the sight of all that blood alarmed even him. But even then, I didn't bat an eye. I stayed stone-faced and tough.
But I'm not like that now. My lower lip trembles and my chin wobbles as I share my injury with Peeta because the softness in his eyes allows me to be vulnerable in a way I've never been with anyone else. I don't sob, but a few tears drip slowly down my cheeks as he examines my fingers and turns my hand over in his. He's so gentle that I don't protest when he touches me; I let him give me a once-over and readily give him the story of how it happened.
"I fell out of a tree," I say. "I landed on it." I sniffle and he turns around to rummage through the freezer, coming back with a bag of ice. "I lost my balance."
I'm sure he can tell that I'm self-conscious about my lacking abilities, because he says, "Well, you're not a squirrel."
I chuckle softly and the sound comes out wet and garbled. He removes the ice from my hand to take another look at it, and bites his lip as he does. It's not good. My fingers are ballooning and they're slowly darkening with bruises. Anyone could see that they're probably broken, and the fact that I can't move them only makes things worse.
"I'll call the doctor," Peeta says.
My gut floods with fear at the thought alone. In no time at all, my mind conjures up sterile hospital rooms, syringes and needles, and people poking and prodding me. Prying eyes wondering what Peeta and I are up to these days, asking questions and expecting answers. No, I won't have any of that.
I grab Peeta's wrist as he reaches for the phone. "No," I say quickly, shaking my head. "No, please."
"Katniss…" he trails off, his eyes moving between my face and my mangled hand.
"My mother was a healer, you know that," I say, coming up with an excuse on the spot. "If it gets really bad, we can call her." I set my mouth in a firm, straight line and meet his gaze. "I don't want doctors," I say quietly, after a few moments pass.
Even though I'm sure he understands, it takes a bit until he acquiesces. "Okay," he finally says. "But the minute it gets bad…"
"We'll call her. Yes," I say.
We keep my hand on ice for the rest of the night, and he insists that it should stay elevated above my heart. I'm not exactly sure why, but I do my best to keep it up there to make him happy. If not happy, at least placated - for now.
After dinner, my eyes are closing while we're still at the table so Peeta ushers me to bed. I manage to brush my hair out, but no matter how many times I push it behind my ears, it won't stay out of my face.
Sensing my annoyance, Peeta walks over with Buttercup tucked under one arm and says, "Teach me how, and I'll braid it back for you."
He knows that I like to sleep in a braid - I like to do most everything in a braid. I'm not sure how to handle my hair without one. The only two people who have braided my hair at home, in a comfortable setting like this, are my mother and Prim. In the morning or at night, our fingers were so good at it that it didn't involve any active thought. There were so many types of braids that my mother knew how to do, styles she promised to teach to Prim and I someday. She never did, though. After my father died, that promise was forgotten about.
I'm happy to share the act of braiding with Peeta. If his hair was long enough, I'm sure I would have tried to braid it by now - I get so caught up in the way it feels to run his curls through my fingers that having a real excuse to touch them would only encourage me further.
"Okay," I say, pulling myself out of my thoughts.
He sits behind me and gathers my hair in his wide hands. As his fingertips brush my neck, I forget about the throbbing pain in my hand and concentrate only on the chills that radiate throughout my entire body.
"Separate the hair into three pieces," I say, doing my best to concentrate on giving instructions and not the way my skin is tingling. Having my mother or Prim fix my hair was something banal and routine. Having Peeta's hands in my hair feels much, much different.
"Okay."
"Take the one furthest to the right, then cross it over the one in the middle - making it the new middle piece. Then, take the piece furthest to the left and cross it over that new middle piece, and keep going with the pattern. It's easy, really."
He moves slowly, but judging by his silence I get the feeling that he understands my instructions. By the time he finishes, the braid is skewed to the left and there are some pieces that he missed, but I don't mind. I'm happy that my hair is out of my face and even happier that he's the one who made it happen.
So happy that I almost forget about the pain radiating from my hand. Almost.