He loves me.
I suddenly forget how to breathe and have to manually remind my body to inhale and exhale. All I can do is stare at the three words written on my cast, the eight letters that take up so little space but mean so, so much.
I don't know what to do or what to think. Do I love him? Does he expect me to say it back? Do I want to say it back? I don't know. I don't have the answers to any of the thousand questions running through my head and I have no idea if I ever will.
What made him write this last night? How long has he been thinking about it? And what does he mean, he loves me? Like a family member or close friend? Or something more?
His hand placement when I woke up tells me that I shouldn't be asking such stupid questions. We kiss each other goodnight every night and I can't fall asleep without his arms around me, or mine around him. I must be as dense as Haymitch says.
While tracing the dried ink with my pointer finger, I look at Peeta's sleeping face. The watery sunlight coming in from the window plays over his skin, casting a shadow from his eyelashes onto his cheeks. I stare at him for a long time as he lies there, chest rising and falling. I stare while thinking a million things - that is, until his demeanor changes from peaceful into something different that I recognize all too well.
His breath quickens and his eyes dart and roll under his eyelids. His hands twitch where they lie, one above his head on the pillow and the other splayed towards my side of the bed, as it had been tucked under my back before I sat up. His lips part slightly and he makes a small sound of distress - a small sound that turns much louder in the blink of an eye.
"No, no!" he shouts, so suddenly that it makes me jump in surprise. His face is beet red and there's sweat dotting his upper lip and the chest of his gray sleep shirt. "No! Get… no, no, please, no!"
Nervous energy roils in my gut as I brace my hands on his shoulder and shake gently. The last thing I want to do is to wake him up by scaring him, but there doesn't seem to be another way to get him out of the nightmare.
"Peeta," I say, trying to keep my voice even and calm. "Peeta, wake up. It's not real. It's a nightmare, wake up. Wake up, Peeta, please."
I shake him a bit harder and his eyes fly open and stare directly into mine. His expression doesn't read correctly; it's like looking into a pair of eyes that don't belong to Peeta at all. After so many months of those familiar blues - catching a sly glance at the dinner table, a meaningful look before bed, a sleepy greeting in the morning - I would know them anywhere. And whatever is inside his mind right now is definitely not Peeta.
That scares me. My palms start to sweat and I rack my brain for the right thing to say, but I don't come up with much.
"Peeta," I say, reaching for his face with my good hand while hoping that a gentle touch will bring him back to me.
When he recoils, it hurts more than I ever thought possible. And then, if I thought avoiding my hand was bad, he takes it one step further and smacks it away.
"Don't touch me," he says through gritted teeth. "A mutt. You're a mutt!"
"No," I say, on the verge of tears. My voice is wet and waterlogged. "It's me. Katniss. Just me. Remember?" I inhale shakily and crawl towards him, no matter how stupid that may be. "You remember," I say.
He backs up, crab-walking in the opposite direction until his back slams into the headboard. "Liar," he says.
"No," I say, feeling the first few tears drip down my cheeks. "It's me. And you're you. Okay? Your shoelaces… you-you like to double-knot them. You like the windows open at night, when it's not freezing outside. Remember, Peeta?" I'm grasping for straws now. "Remember?"
He looks at me with such distrust that I can't bear it. I open my mouth to say something else - what, I'm not sure - when Buttercup jumps onto the bed and greets us with a raspy meow.
"Your favorite color," I say, grabbing the cat. He seems confused, but he goes along with it. It's still early, and his mood hasn't yet had the chance to turn sour. "It's orange. Like him. Like Buttercup. Orange, like Buttercup, Peeta. Remember?"
Now, Peeta's eyes dart between me and the mangy cat who's busy licking my hand, maybe where some stray tears have fallen. Slowly, the muscles of his face soften and he looks unsure over anything, and very afraid.
I let Buttercup free and Peeta takes him. Gentle, not brusque and threatening like he'd been just moments ago. He holds Buttercup like an infant, on his back in the crook of an elbow, just like Prim used to do - and the cat lets him. I think if I tried that, I'd lose an eye.
"Right," Peeta whispers. He looks down at Buttercup's face and then back up at mine. "Right."
I nod, which is all I can manage at the moment. I wrap my arms around myself and sniffle, wondering if it's really over or if this is a fake reprieve.
"I'm sorry," he says, and he tries to say something else before his jaw locks up and he goes silent. With the strange set of his arms, Buttercup gets spooked and leaps away, off the bed entirely to flee the room. I don't have the same option of escape, though it's in my nature. I don't know what's happening, but it's not right.
"Peeta?" I say, alarm rising in my voice.
His body leans dramatically, seemingly out of his control, and he comes to rest stiffly on one side. With shaky hands, I card my fingers through his hair as his body keeps its rigidity and his eyes roll back in his head as his lids close.
"Peeta?!" I say, cupping his jaw in both hands. "Peeta, stay with me. Stay with me. What's going on?" I say the last part desperately - like a lost child. That's exactly what I feel like right now. I don't know what to do and I don't know what's happening to him. But it's awful, so awful, and I just want it to stop.
His entire body trembles violently between bouts of extreme stiffness, and it's all I can do to hold onto him as it passes. I let myself cry and my tears drip onto his face, into his hair, and when he finally goes still, I'm so relieved that I let out a long, loud sob and fall forward with my face pressed to his neck.
I help him sit up and throw my arms around his sturdy shoulders, pulling away only to look him in the eyes. "Are you okay?" I ask, swiping at the apples of his cheeks with my thumbs.
He's pale and his skin is hot, so I kick the blanket away and crack the window before hurrying back to his side.
"Peeta, talk to me," I plead, pushing his curls out of his eyes.
"I'm here," he says - but his voice is flat and monotone. It doesn't even sound like him.
"I'm going to get you a glass of water, okay?" I say. He nods - just barely. I hurry out of bed and into the bathroom, then come back with a tall, clear glass. I hand it to him, but he doesn't try to grab it; he's busy fiddling with the hem of his shirt. So, I sit close again and tip the glass against his lips and force him to drink. Luckily, he obliges and takes a few sips before turning his head in the opposite direction.
Then, all he does is stare. He doesn't speak, he doesn't cry, he doesn't even look at me. It's like he's not even here with me; his body is a shell.
I don't think I can handle this on my own, whatever just happened to him. I don't know what to do, or how to bring him back. I only know one person who might have the right advice.
"Peeta," I say softly, running my fingers over his shoulders, his chest, the slope of his jaw. Anything to get him to come back, to get him to feel. But nothing makes him respond. "I'm going to go downstairs and call my mother."
With his eyes still cemented in front of him, he nods. Shakily, I stand up and give him a soft kiss on the lips, but he doesn't return it in the slightest. I have to bite the inside of my cheek on the way down the stairs so I don't start to cry all over again.
I don't use the phone much, so it feels strange and foreign when I dial my mother's number that's taped to the wall. I hold the phone in both hands and wait for her to answer.
"Hello?"
"Mom," I say. If I sounded like a child before, I sound even younger talking to her.
"Katniss?" she says. Surely, she'd been expecting to hear Peeta's voice. "Is everything okay?"
I swallow hard and hold the phone even closer, pressing it tight against my ear. "It's Peeta," I say.
I tell her what happened - every last detail. And she says it sounds like he not only had a flashback episode, but a seizure too. When I hear her say that word, my mind automatically flies to the worst case scenario. What does that mean for his overall health? Will he ever go back to the Peeta I know - my Peeta?
As if she knows what I'm thinking, my mother says, "He'll need time to recover. And he most likely needs his medications looked at."
She tells me she'll call Dr. Aurelius and phone me back with answers. Unable to do anything else, I wait by the phone and pace back and forth until I hear it ring about a half hour later.
"What did he say?" I ask her, skipping past the greeting.
"He wants to see Peeta," my mother says. I can hear the worry in her voice. "He says the seizures can be fixed with the right medication, but he should come right away. Left untreated, they can be dangerous."
My eyes flit all over the room and I'm too nervous to allow them to land anywhere. I wrap the cord of the phone around my wrist and untangle it twice over before I respond to her.
"Peeta has to go to the Capitol?" I ask, my voice wavering.
"Yes," my mother says. "There should be a train today, in about two hours. Dr. Aurelius would like him on it."
"Today?" I say, taken aback.
"It's urgent, Katniss," she says. "He could get worse."
With furrowed eyebrows, I say, "I want to go with him."
It's a silly thing to say, and immature too. It feels like I'm stamping my foot down and making demands that I know are outlandish. I'm not permitted to leave 12, and everyone in Panem knows this. I don't know when I'll be allowed out, if I ever will. But the image of Peeta alone on the train, headed to the place where he was hurt so badly, is one I can barely stand to picture.
"I know," my mother says quietly. She knows it's impossible and so do I. But that doesn't mean I can't wish it wasn't, that things were different.
We're silent on the phone for a while. I don't know why I don't just hang up; maybe because it feels nice to be with someone - in a certain sense - who knows what they're doing. Because, right now, I surely don't.
"He'll be taken care of," she promises me. "Things are different now, Katniss. The doctors will look after him."
I don't trust the Capitol - not at all, not one bit. But the people there are the only ones with the tools and the technology that it takes to heal Peeta, to make him something close to whole again. And I need him whole.
"I can be there to meet him," she offers after a while, maybe sensing that I'm not settled. "I can get on the next train and make sure that he sees a familiar face. That he has someone there. Do you want me to do that for him?"
She may have said 'for him,' but what I hear - for the first time in many years - is: Do you want me to do that for you?" Because, by extension, taking care of Peeta is taking care of me.
So, for the first time in many years, I accept her help and say, "Yes. That would be good."
…
After the phone call with my mother, I go back upstairs and explain to Peeta what's going to happen. He seems to understand and he accepts it, nodding along as I pack a bag for him. I put in his socks, the orange hat, and his sketchpad along with a few of his favorite shirts, night clothes, and sweaters. I want him to be comfortable there. I don't want him to be cold or afraid. I want him to have things that remind him of home, of me.
As we walk to the train, I keep one arm wrapped around his lower back - it's there to ground me just as much as it's grounding him. "Promise you'll call every day," I say once we get there. The train is idling, waiting for its one passenger. I can't help but wonder if they sent it to 12 just for him, if we still have that sort of influence. If it will ever go away.
"You hate the phone," he says with a small grin.
That forces a smile out of me. "I'll answer," I say. "Promise me."
"I will," he says, holding my gaze.
"And when you get there, too. I don't care how late it is, or how early."
He nods and says again, "I will."
The train's whistle blows and my throat clogs with tears, but I won't let them fall this time. I don't want him to be upset when he goes. I want him to know that I'll be okay here - even though I'm not sure how true that is.
I know he's not himself because he's not fretting over me. If he were in his right mind, he would be telling me what to eat, when to sleep, and to remember to feed the cat. But instead of those things, all he does is look at me with a slightly vacant expression.
"Come back soon," I say, trying not to sound as desperate as I feel.
He nods, and I loop my arms around his neck and give him a firm, steady kiss. He returns it, his lips aren't slack like they were after his seizure, but this kiss is nothing like the ones we normally share. There's barely any life behind it, and that scares me. What if he never comes back to himself?
"I think you have to go now," I say after making eye contact with the conductor. "Don't forget to call."
"I won't," he says, and waves before turning to board the train.
I stay until it pulls away, wringing my hands and biting my cheek so hard that I taste blood. He knows to expect my mother at the station, that he won't be alone, but I still don't like the idea of him going back to the place that harmed him. I can only hope that the trip is a quick one.
…
My anger has had time to build up over the course of the walk home, so by the time I make it through the front door, I've worked myself into a rage.
Peeta had a seizure because of the tracker jacker venom he was injected with. He had an episode because of the venom, too. He thinks, during those bouts of fury-laced confusion, that I'm determined to kill him. I can't imagine how confusing, disorienting, and terrifying that must be. To wake up next to someone who you're sure wants your blood. He can't understand that all I want is to help him, not in those moments. He's still programmed, to a degree, to think the exact opposite.
And who's to blame for all of this? The Capitol, Snow, the gamemakers, everyone who threw us in that very first arena. They put us through hell, and look at what we have to show for it. Ravaged minds and bodies with our families torn apart. It's not fair. None of this is fair.
I pick up the first thing I can get my hands on, which happens to be a decorative vase sitting on a table in the entryway. With animosity for the entire situation boiling inside me, I wind up my good arm and throw the vase as hard as I can. It hits the wall and bursts into a thousand tiny pieces, and I'm breathing raggedly after it shatters.
I'm riding high with how it felt to destroy something, so I do what feels natural and pick up a mug that I left out last night and chuck it haphazardly in the same direction. It suffers the same fate, but there was still a bit of tea left inside it - cool now, of course - so it dampens the hardwood floor and reminds me of the puddles that I track in after being in the woods when it snows.
Peeta always reminds me to wipe my feet and knock my boots outside on the porch, or else I'll get water everywhere. He likes to keep our house clean and orderly, and now look at what I've done. Not only have I needlessly broken two of our things, but I've made a mess of it too.
He would hate it. He would be disappointed. He would probably start cleaning it all up right away, so that's what I do. I keep my shoes on so my feet won't get cut and pick up the biggest shards with care, then sweep up the rest with a broom we keep in the hall closet. Once all of the glass is gone, I mop the tea stain and stand in the aftermath of it all, wondering if there's anything left to do.
There's not, but it's too early for bed. Peeta left not even an hour ago, so I shouldn't expect his call for quite a while. I can't knit, I'm not hungry, and there's no one to talk to. The best I can do is sit on the couch and wait for the phone to ring as time crawls by.
I sit and stare at the fire until I can justify going to bed. The phone ringing will wake me - I'm not a sound sleeper anyway, and I especially won't be without Peeta here - and the rest will probably be good for my racing thoughts.
I head upstairs to clean my teeth only to grow frustrated when I realize I'm still in the braid that Peeta fashioned last night - it's gone loose and frayed now. If I undo it, I won't be able to weave it back again, so I'm forced to leave it. Better a poor braid than no braid at all, I suppose.
Instead of my usual pajamas, I find a shirt of Peeta's - a chestnut brown one that's been worn so much that the fabric is baby-soft - and slip it on over my head. I press my nose to the shoulder and breathe him in, closing my eyes as I do, then head to my side of the bed.
Sitting up, I glance at the empty spot that Peeta usually fills. I smooth one hand over the cover and sigh to myself, missing him badly. I don't like being here alone. I've gotten so used to having him near that now I don't know how to do it without him. I realize, with a longing pang, that he's become my partner. And what good are two partners when they're apart?
I lie on the side I usually rest on because it allows me to wrap an arm around him, but it feels wrong tonight so I turn over. That position allows me to look out the window, but there's nothing much to see and the bed is too big, too cold. I toss and turn for at least another hour before I realize that Buttercup, the thorn in my side, is nowhere to be found. At this point during the night, he can usually be counted on to be taking up residence at the foot of the bed, but it's only me here.
With a start, I realize where he must be. I throw the blanket off and walk downstairs only to be proven right - he's sitting, expectant, by the front door. Waiting for Peeta.
When he hears my footsteps, he looks over his shoulder but turns back quickly once he sees that it's only me. As I get closer, he glances back again and then meows at the door, pawing it as if I need more clarification as to what he's doing.
"I know," I say, arms crossed as I watch him where he sits.
Maybe me and this mangy cat aren't that different, after all.
With a sigh, I bend my knees and scoop him up. "Come on, you," I say, handling him with more care than I've ever done before. I walk us both back upstairs and set Buttercup down in Peeta's spot, allowing him this treat. "Just this once," I say. "While he's gone. Don't get used to it."
Eventually, the sound of his purring lulls me to sleep.
…
Just as I knew it would, the sound of the phone ringing jolts me out of a light slumber. I fly out of bed so quickly that Buttercup startles awake, but I don't cast him a second glance as I hurry down the stairs to reach the phone in time.
"Hello?" I say, breathlessly.
"Hi," Peeta says, and it's such a relief to hear his voice. "I made it. Your mother is here."
I can't help but smile. He's barely said five words but I'm just so happy to have him close in some small way. "Good," I say.
"Did I wake you?"
The fact that he's asking such a question tells me he's feeling a bit more like himself, which gives me hope. "Yes, but I'm glad you did," I say. "How was the train?"
"Good," he says. "But long."
"Did you sleep?"
"Some. I've talked to the doctor already. They wanted to get me started on a new prescription right away, before I even had a chance to call you. I asked, but…"
"That's okay," I say. I just want him to get better, whatever it takes. "Have they said what their plan is?"
"Um…" he trails off. Maybe his mind is still a bit foggy. "Brain scans. I've had them done before. The machine is big, but it doesn't hurt. A sleep study. Changes to my medication."
"Okay," I say. "How long will all of that take?" It sounds like a long time. I don't know how long I can last here with just Buttercup for companionship. Well, and Haymitch I guess.
"I'm not sure," he says. "A couple weeks, maybe three."
Three weeks? My heart sinks but I try not to let it come through in my voice. "Oh," I say. In three weeks, it will be nearing April. Spring, his favorite.
"I'll call every day," he says, which comforts me some because he sounds more like himself with every passing moment. "I won't let you forget about me."
"Peeta," I say, shaking my head while looking down at the floor. "I could never."
…
The days pass and I have no idea how to fill them. By the time a week is up, I've committed to learning how to knit with one hand so I can finish Peeta's sweater, and I find that while it's much harder than doing it with two, at least it gives my brain something to work at.
Buttercup and I make a routine out of sitting on the couch each night after dinner - what I cook for myself doesn't come close to what Peeta cooks, but my stomach insists on being fed - so he can bat around a piece of paper I crumpled for him and I can knit. In three days, I've finished the back panel and the collar and all I have to do is clean up the seams. It came together quite nicely, and I can't wait to see how it will look on Peeta once he gets home to try it on. Given that the winter still hasn't given up its plight, I get the feeling that he'll still get a few good weeks' wear out of it this season. And beyond that, it should last for years - I took my time on it to ensure just that.
Tonight, as I'm tidying up the look of the sweater and making sure everything is in place, Haymitch stomps through the front door in his typical loud fashion. Buttercup skitters off of the cushion beside me and disappears up the stairs, and Haymitch watches him go before taking his place on the couch.
"That thing hates me," he grumbles, holding his hands up to the fire for warmth.
"Join the club," I reply, keeping my eyes on the seams.
He snorts. "You think it hates you? It's obsessed with you! It doesn't let you out of its sight."
I roll my eyes lightly and shake my head. "If you think that's something, you should see him with Peeta."
"Must be a trend in this house," Haymitch mutters, and I pretend not to hear. A few minutes pass and he isn't comfortable with silence in the way Peeta and I are (Buttercup, too, really), so he has to break it with conversation. He gestures to the sweater with a tip of his head and says, "That for the boy?"
"Yes," I say.
"You could've made about ten sweaters by now if you knew what you were doing, sweetheart."
I look up and narrow my eyes at him. "Would you like to try?" I snap.
"Probably could do a better job than you, One-Hand Sally." He laughs, then points to the cast. "Isn't it about time that thing came off, anyway?"
It is. In fact, it's two or three days past due. But still, I say, "I don't know."
"You sit tight. I'll go home and grab my saw. We'll get it right off you."
"Absolutely not," I say.
I'd be an idiot to let Haymitch come close to my arm with a saw, but that's not the only reason I've chosen to keep the cast on. Every night, I stare at Peeta's three words until I fall asleep, and they also happen to be the first things I see when I wake up. It's a nice reminder, and it keeps him with me. While he's not here, those three words act as my anchor.
I lay the sweater flat and work on folding it while Haymitch watches. It takes me a moment to realize that he's not watching me fold, though - no, his eyes are on the cast, in the same place where mine rest every night until they physically can no longer stay open. And right as I realize what he's seen, his face lights up with recognition and I know I'm in for an earful.
"Oh, sweetheart," he groans, shaking his head. "Are you really that clueless?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, pulling my casted arm close to my body.
Haymitch pulls it back, though, putting Peeta's phrase on full display. "Of course he loves you," he says, like it's the dumbest thing on earth to think otherwise. "You don't need to keep the damn cast on to remember that." He squeezes my hand, an unexpectedly warm gesture. "And you don't need to keep it on to remember that you love him, either. Everyone and their goddamn mother can see it."
…
After Haymitch leaves, I don't wait for Peeta to call me. I need to talk to him and I'm afraid that if I don't initiate the conversation, I'll lose my nerve. And I really don't want that to happen. So, I pick up the phone and call the number he gave me.
Luckily, he answers on the first ring. "Katniss?" he says.
"I love you, too," I say, the words practically tumbling from my lips.
I hear the grin in his voice when he says, "Wait. What?"
I giggle like an idiot when I speak again. I know he heard me but I decide to indulge him - this once. So, I say it again. "I love you, too."
I wish I could see him. I wish he were here, though I'm not sure I would have been this brave if we were face-to-face. "Okay," he says, the smile still so present in his voice.
"I'm sorry it took me so long," I say.
"No," he says. And his voice is warm, smooth, and just right. He sounds exactly like himself. "No, you were perfect."
"Okay," I say, echoing his response from a moment ago. "Peeta," I continue. "How much longer?"
"That's actually what I was going to tell you," he says. "I just got word at dinner. I'll be home tomorrow."
…
The next morning, I get to work on making sure the house is ready for Peeta's arrival. I scrub everything down - from the walls to the baseboards - and practically skip my way through the day. Buttercup seems to pick up on my mood as well because he makes a game of bringing me his paper ball so I'll throw it, then bounding after it like a kitten.
I've worked myself into such an excited frenzy that by the time evening hits, I've run out of energy. I only managed to drink a bit of broth for dinner since my stomach is full of jitters, and Buttercup has been posted at the front door since the sun went down. Both of us are eagerly anticipating Peeta's homecoming.
I sit in my usual spot in the warm and comfortable living room, but I can't keep my eyes open. I tell myself that I'll only rest them for a few minutes, that I'll wake up rejuvenated, but as soon as I lay my head on the arm of the couch, I'm down for the count.
The next thing I know, Peeta is kissing me awake. When I open my eyes, he's kneeling next to me with a smile on his face, brushing my hair off of my forehead.
"Hi," he says, and kisses me again.
And we're kissing, then kissing some more - we cannot stop kissing. I missed him so much.
Gratitude, joy, and giddiness flood through me as I throw my arms around his shoulders and hold him, really hold him, for the first time in weeks. He's here, he's with me, and he's himself again. "You're home," I say, my voice muffled with my face pressed against his neck.
"I'm home," he says, rubbing my back in firm, slow circles.
I don't lift my head; I stay as close to him as I can and press a kiss to his warm skin. It ached to miss him so badly, and to have him back is relief in its purest form. But it's more than that. I realize there's not just gratitude, joy, and giddiness flooding through my system - there's something else, too.
Love.