Peeta's jacket is cold under my hands from being outside, but I can't stop touching him. It's so good to have him back that I almost don't believe it's happening. I feel more emotional than I've allowed myself to feel for a while when I ask, with tears in my eyes, "Are you real?"
"Katniss," he says, smiling while gently cupping my jaw. "Of course I am."
That earns him another kiss. More than one, actually - quite a few. I press my lips to his again and again until we're both breathless and my heart is hammering throughout my entire body. I feel that stirring that only he can give me and I want to do something about it - what exactly, I'm not quite sure - but I should let him get settled before I start rushing him around.
"You probably want to unpack," I say, standing up from the couch.
"I don't, but…" he says, then wraps me up in a hug. He kisses the side of my head and holds the back of it with one sturdy hand, and I melt into him. No one else's arms have ever made me feel this safe - that hasn't changed since our first Games.
"You should," I say, skimming my hands up his chest to rest on either side of his cool neck. "And get warmed up, too."
"If you say so," he murmurs with a smile, then drops a quick kiss to my mouth. "Come upstairs with me?"
We head up so he can unpack, and I don't let go of his hand until I absolutely have to. And even then, I sit on the bed directly next to his bag and keep an eye on him while he takes out various articles of clothing and toiletries.
"How was it?" I ask. "Going back."
He presses his lips together and thinks for a moment while removing the orange hat from his bag. He turns it over in his hands, then with a sly grin plops it on top of my head. I chuckle under my breath and pull it off, tossing it so it hits his chest before falling to land on the bed.
"It was fine," he finally answers. "It's a lot different there now."
I'm not sure I want to know the ways in which the Capitol is different, and he must understand that because he doesn't elaborate. Maybe someday, but not today. Not anytime soon.
"Your mother says hello," he tells me. "She stayed with me the entire time."
A rush of slow gratitude blooms in my chest like an unsure flower. I let it stay, understanding what she was able to do for the both of us, and nod my head. "That's good," I say.
"She helped me talk to the doctors and all that."
"Good," I say again.
As he takes everything else out of his bag - tossing some things into the laundry hamper and tucking others into dresser drawers - I keep my eyes on his hands. It's been three weeks without seeing him and now I can't get enough. I watch the careful movement of his fingers as he unfolds and refolds a few clean t-shirts, and I watch the nonchalant way he brushes the curls out of his eyes. He needs a haircut. I'll offer one soon, but selfishly, I can't help but enjoy his hair this long. It's like corn silk, so pretty and soft to the touch.
I must be staring hard because he catches me before long. "What?" he says, smirking.
I jolt out of my reverie, shaking my head as my cheeks bloom with heat. "Nothing," I say.
"Do I have something on my face?" he asks, teasing me.
"No," I say. "Just looking."
"Hmm," he says, eyes glinting as he zips up his bag. "I suppose I'll allow it."
After Peeta tosses the bag into the closet where it belongs, Buttercup trots into the room and weaves figure eights between his favorite person's ankles, purring as loud as possible while he's at it. I scoff and roll my eyes at him when he meows pleasantly, craning his neck to look at Peeta, who obliges and picks the cat up to hold him close to his chest.
"Hey there, you," he says, stroking Buttercup's head. "It's nice to see you."
"He waited by the door for you every night in the beginning," I say, flopping onto my back and throwing my arms over my head. "He finally got it through his head that it would be a while before you came back."
"Did you keep her warm?" Peeta asks the cat. "Huh? Did you keep Katniss warm at night while I couldn't?"
I roll my eyes lightheartedly and tip my head to look at him where he still stands. "At least he doesn't snore," I chide.
Peeta looks over with a smile on his lips and lets the cat down gently. Buttercup, who apparently has better things to do, exits the room with haste and leaves me and Peeta to it.
"You don't mind my snoring," he says, kicking off his shoes. After they're off, I see he's wearing the socks I made him - and the one on his titanium foot already has a hole in the big toe. I silently remind myself to make him a few more pairs.
"Maybe I do," I say, grinning as Peeta boldly gets on the bed and hovers over my body. We've never been this close, not like this, not while we're awake, and I don't dislike it. Actually, dislike is the furthest thing from how I feel right now. If anything, I want more of him. And I think that's something I can get.
"You missed it," he says. "You missed me."
I can't tease him anymore. There's a warm, buzzing feeling working its way through my body, and I feel free to say whatever I want. "I did," I say.
Our noses are centimeters apart, so I bring my hands up to hold his face. I stroke his skin with the backs of my knuckles and he leans into my touch for a moment before closing his eyes and kissing me.
This kiss isn't quick or chaste. It's slow, languid, and full of feeling. It's all I can do not to pull when I bury my fingers in Peeta's hair, and when his tongue traces the seam of my lips I open my mouth readily and let him inside.
"I missed you, too," he whispers between kisses. "More than I can say."
I nod hungrily, scratching his scalp with my fingernails, and he presses a soft kiss to my cheek before moving to the corner of my jaw. I gasp when his mouth touches me there, then melt further into the mattress as he drops open-mouthed kisses to my neck and collarbone, slowly lowering his weight on top of me. He's heavy, but it feels good. It feels right to have him so close. There's no way we could be any closer.
Well, there is one way. As soon as it crosses my mind, my stomach jumps with excitement - but not in a negative way. In a nervous, jittery, anticipatory way that tells me that I want it to happen.
And I think he does, too.
I run my hands up and down his back, then slip them under his shirt so I can drag my nails over the skin of his back. I move slowly, giving him goosebumps, and the sound that he makes in the back of his throat as I touch him is enough to stir me even further.
His lips move lower and he draws a line of kisses from my sternum to the middle of my chest, covered only by a ribbed tank top. I'm not wearing a bra - I had been asleep, after all - so when he touches me there, my nipples harden instantly and we both notice.
He lifts his eyes to meet mine and I can tell he's smoldering in the same way I am by his expression alone. I let out a slow, shaky breath before reaching for his hand that's tucked under my back, then plant it securely on my right breast.
"Oh," he moans, dropping his head to my ribcage before swiftly picking it up to kiss me on the mouth. He squeezes my breast, swiping his thumb over the puckered nipple, and I clench his hips between my thighs. Suddenly, the need for friction there is overpowering and it's all I can do not to act on it.
I do the next best thing I can think of and wriggle up to a sitting position, which takes him by surprise at first. But he surprises me right back when he sees my hands on the bottom hem of my tank top and stops me from going any further.
"Wait," he says. I eye him with a frown, confused that he's turning this down. I thought it was something we both wanted. His body was telling me as much.
"What?" I snap, instantly defensive.
"Nothing, I…" His eyes travel from my lips to my chest and back again. "Just… Can I?"
"Oh," I say, realizing what he's asking. He doesn't want me to stop and I'm relieved, because that's the last thing I want to do. But he wants to take my shirt off - he wants to be the one to undress me. For some reason, that feels so much more vulnerable than doing it myself, but I trust Peeta more than I trust anyone.
I have scars; he does, too. There's nothing wrong with him seeing mine, with him seeing me in whole.
I meet his eyes with a meaningful expression and raise my arms over my head. His Adam's apple bobs after he takes a deep breath, then he lifts my shirt off, ruffling my loose and tangled hair in the process. Once my shirt is gone, the air on my bare skin makes my nipples harden further, and the only sound in the room is that of the fire crackling.
"Well, say something," I whisper, crossing my arms under my breasts.
He blinks hard, coming back to himself. Then, a slow smile creeps onto his face as he leans in for a kiss that I readily give him. "You're so beautiful," he murmurs against my lips.
He lays me down again and uses his fingers to trace the burn scars that he's already familiar with. But now, it seems he's seeing them in a different light. Before, he touched my skin to apply burn cream and patch it up when I needed him to. This kind of touching is something entirely new to us both.
He takes his shirt off to join me in the same state of undress, and I take my turn ogling him. His chest - maybe not quite as broad as it had once been, but on its way there - his sturdy biceps, the tufts of blonde hair sprouting on his chest. The soft skin of his stomach that hides firm muscles underneath, the scars twining his sides that lead around to his back where I can't see. I want to touch those scars, I want to touch his skin, I want to touch all of him.
But he gets to me first. He bends at the waist and presses a tentative kiss to my stomach, on the smooth dip between my belly button and ribs. He rests there for a moment and my hands find their way back to his hair, and that seems to spur him on because he crawls over my body again and kisses his way upwards until he reaches my breasts.
We make steady eye contact and I rest one hand on the back of his neck, pushing him onward with the slightest pressure. He understands, and drops a kiss to the slope of my jaw before closing his lips around my nipple and covering it with his tongue.
The sparks that light up behind my eyelids are unlike any sparks I've felt before. An electric current zips from the throbbing place between my legs all the way up to Peeta's mouth and back again a thousand times, and my entire body is pulsing. It has to be, with everything I'm feeling.
I have no control of the small sound that escapes me, but Peeta seems to like it because it makes his tongue move more fervently against me. With one hand, he covers the breast that his mouth isn't on and gives it a slow, firm squeeze, and I have to press my thighs together because what's happening down there is getting something close to unbearable.
"Peeta," I whisper hoarsely, arching my back. He lifts his head to look me in the eyes and his pupils are fat with arousal - I'm sure mine look the same. I haven't experienced a feeling like this in my entire life. "I need you."
I pull him down for a kiss - and not a delicate one, either. I wrap my arms around his neck and press my naked chest to his, drinking in the feeling of his wholeness, of both of our vulnerability, of the fact that I want this with him and only him, always him.
"I need you," I say again, hoping he understands. Knowing he does.
"Okay," he says, and only then do his hands begin to fumble. He undoes the button of his pants and slips out of them, leaving only his boxers - and I can remember folding that exact pair to pack in his bag. I follow suit and take my sleep shorts off, too.
He takes a deep breath and I allow my eyes to roam his body before landing on his titanium leg. For some reason, I don't want it to be a part of this - I want him with all of his scars, no Capitol perfection, nothing like that. With two broken bodies, we make something that's recognizable only to us. And that's the way I want it; that's the way it should be.
I run my hands down his leg until I reach the seam, and we lock eyes. "Can I?" I ask, mirroring his question from before.
He nods, and I work carefully to remove the leg as gently as I can. Once it's off, I set it on the floor in its usual spot and smile - he does, too.
There's only one layer left to take off and I make quick work of mine. There's no use dragging it out, because it's going to happen anyway. As soon as he sees me slip off my underwear, he does the same and I have to fight not to stare at what's between his legs.
I've never had sex before, but I used to hear girls talk about it at school. That the first time hurts, that you bleed. But I'm not afraid. Because it's Peeta.
I let him know as much by pulling him close and holding his face in my hands, just looking at him for a long moment before pressing my lips to his. He kisses me back, opening his mouth on mine, and keeps a firm hand on the dip of my waist. With our bodies pressed together, I can feel how fast his heart is beating and I'm at ease knowing that I'm not the only one who's worked into such a state.
"Katniss," he says, pulling away. A sheen of saliva - mine or his, I can't be sure - coats his lips and makes them shiny. "I've never…"
"Me, neither," I say quickly. A part of me is relieved that he hasn't - I guessed, but I wasn't sure. And now he's mine, just mine, forever. If he wasn't already before.
"But I don't…" he trails off, then sighs. "So stupid. I don't have a condom, and…"
"Oh," I say.
I don't have any idea how to go about this. Sex never crossed my mind before Peeta came into the picture, and then it was only in fleeting moments. I've been a little preoccupied with staying alive. Logistics have never worried me until now.
I know there's a type of medicine available that will keep me from getting pregnant; my stylists used to talk about it. I had no use for it back then, but the tides are slowly turning on that front. I'm probably going to have to make a very awkward call to my mother sometime in the near future to ask her to send me the pills.
Because babies aren't something I can consider. Not yet, if ever. I don't know how much I'll enjoy this knowing that there's a risk of falling pregnant. I started menstruating again just last month; it could happen, if we make a mistake. So, we can't make a mistake.
"I'll buy some tomorrow," he says. "In the square, Sae sells them."
I close my eyes and let a long sigh from my nose. I can only imagine what the look on Sae's face will be when she sells Peeta condoms. It'll be obvious who he's using them with. I might not go out much, but no one left in 12 lives under a rock.
Peeta misinterprets my sigh, though, because he says, "I'd go now, but I think she's closed for the night, and-"
"I know," I say, covering his mouth gently with my fingertips. "Tomorrow is fine."
He furrows his eyebrows. "So, should we wait, or…?"
I shake my head. "No," I answer quickly. So quickly that we both laugh. "No," I say again with a smile. "Maybe you could just… I don't know… use a washcloth, or something?"
"I'll use this," he says, reaching for the shirt that he'd discarded. "Good idea. I'll pull out right before, and… yeah. Yeah. That should work."
He continues babbling for a few more moments until I cup his face in my hands and bring him back to me. "Peeta," I say, "can we?"
His expression warms and he kisses me, soft and sweet. "Yeah," he says, tracing one of my eyebrows with his thumb. "You're ready?"
I nod and ask, "Are you?"
"Yes," he says, and I widen my knees to welcome him closer, as close as any two people can get. He pushes inside me and I feel every inch of him - it's not comfortable in the slightest, but as I adjust my body to accommodate his, it gets a little better. His eyelashes flutter and he asks, "Are you okay?"
"I'm okay," I say, trailing my fingers over his shoulders. I rest my hands at the small of his back and let my jaw fall open once he's all the way inside, and he drops his forehead to my sternum and rests it there for a long moment.
I take a few deep breaths and start to get used to how this feels, how he feels, and I find that it gets more pleasant every time he moves his hips. It starts becoming less foreign and more satisfying, the feeling of him filling me is one I never could have imagined. Even if I would've spent time thinking about this, I would have gotten it wrong. My mind could never have conjured this up.
Before long, his swift movements become erratic and jerky. His breath comes with more difficulty and I'm afraid that something is going wrong in his mind until I realize that he's about to come.
He presses his lips together and I thread my fingers through his hair, unwinding my ankles from the backs of his thighs so he has plenty of room to pull out. And he does pull out, thankfully, but he doesn't reach the shirt in time and ends up climaxing all over my stomach with a low, sated groan.
After it happens, neither of us move. My eyes are cemented on the substance coating my skin, and his head hangs with the aftereffects of all that he's feeling. When his shoulders stop heaving and his breath comes normally, he lifts his eyes with a certain degree of shame and covers his face with one hand. "I'm so sorry, Katniss," he says. "Let me get a washcloth. Don't move. I'll clean you up."
When he comes back, I'm trying to hold back my laughter. He carefully swabs my stomach and tosses the rag into the hamper once I'm clean, but he still can't look me in the eyes.
"Talk about an awful first time," he mutters, massaging his temples.
"It wasn't awful," I say.
"It was," he says, sitting on the bed again. Then, he sits up straight and looks over his shoulder at me. "And you didn't even come!"
"It's okay," I say, "you did."
"That's not okay at all," he says, slipping beside me again. He winds an arm around my waist and pulls me to lie on my side so we're nose-to-nose. "I can make it happen, if you want me to." I glance between his eyes and his lips, unsure where I want to look more. "Do you?"
I've never had an orgasm before. It's something I've only heard about, and never in detail. I'm not even sure what to expect. Am I really missing out on that much? Maybe it was enough just to kiss him and be kissed.
But I don't really believe that. The tightening in my lower belly couldn't have been meaningless; I have a feeling it would lead to something if it was pushed a little further. And Peeta wants to do it, so why shouldn't I let him?
So I say, "Yes."
He coaxes me onto my back and slips one hand between my legs, which makes me flinch with the close contact. It only takes me a moment to relax, though, with his lips on my shoulder and soft breath in my ear. And soon after I relax, Peeta takes it one step further and turns me to absolute mush with his fingers.
I never knew it was possible for my body to feel like this. I'm not exactly sure what he's touching, but it's lighting me up from the inside out. Every nerve ending is firing in the best way, and he's barely moving his fingers at all - just small, swirling motions in exactly the right spot. I can't help the way my back arches from the bed or how desperately I call out his name, but when it all breaks loose I come close to forgetting who I am. I can't believe I thought an orgasm was something I could pass up.
It takes me a few minutes to catch my breath once it's over, but when I do Peeta and I can't stop staring at each other. Every few minutes we break into stupid smiles and laugh like we have a secret between us - which, I guess, now we do.
I slip into his arms and kiss him - I never want to stop kissing him and I have a feeling he'd be just fine with that. The only thing that pulls us apart is the fact that the fire has died and I don't want our perfect night to be marred with an episode, so I allow Peeta to slide out of bed to prod it back to life.
As I lie there, I suddenly remember the sweater downstairs. I sit up quickly and throw on my underwear and a clean shirt of Peeta's, then hurry to get it. I'm back upstairs before he can even wonder where I've gone.
"Look," I say, sitting beside him where he kneels in front of the fire. "I finished."
He turns to look and his eyes light up immediately. "You finished!" he echoes. "How?"
"I taught myself one-handed," I say, then give it to him. "Try it on for me?"
With a grin, he carefully puts it on and I pluck at the fabric to make sure it's settled correctly on him. In just the sweater and his boxers, he stands up and turns around to give me a full view. "Nice and warm," he says, then comes back to give me a kiss. "Thank you. I love you."
My heart thumps hearing those words spoken aloud - to me, from him. So casually, yet so meaningful. He does it so perfectly. "I love you," I say back, much quieter. But he knows that I mean it because I make sure he does with a slow kiss on the lips.
"That reminds me," he says, reaching for a bag that he'd been carrying separately from his luggage. "I brought you something."
"Peeta, you didn't have to do that."
"I didn't," he says, handing me a small bundle. "It's from your mother."
Confused, I take the gift from him and unwrap the brown paper to see a pair of shiny knitting needles inside, tied together with a dark green ribbon. A note falls out and lands on my lap, and when I pick it up I can see that it reads:
I noticed your projects when I visited and thought you'd like to have these. They served me well making clothes for you, Primrose, and your father.
I reread the note, then hand it to Peeta so he can do the same. After, he gives it back and presses it into my palm; he must know how much this means to me. I can't put it into words, not yet at least, but this gift from my mother says more than I thought she'd ever say.
Gently, I set the needles amongst my supplies and lean against Peeta while we sit in front of the fire. "She was hoping you'd like them," he says after a while.
"I do," I say. "Very much."
"I liked having her there at the hospital," he says. "Thank you."
"She offered," I say, winding one arm around his middle and resting my hand on his stomach underneath the thick sweater.
"Oh," he says. "Well, it was nice to have someone that I knew."
I sift through my thoughts for a moment and wonder if I should ask the question that's on the tip of my tongue. Then, I decide there's no better time than right now. "Do you miss your family?" I ask.
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he pulls me even closer and kisses the top of my head, resting his lips there for a long moment after. "You're my family now," he says.
And he's right; I have him, he has me. That's what family is.
…
The next day, Peeta is filling the house with the warm and sweet smells that I missed so badly when Haymitch stops by - unannounced, as usual.
"Hey, sweetheart," he says, coming through the front door. I'm standing next to Peeta at the kitchen island, one arm slung around his back as I watch him sift a batch of flour. When I hear Haymitch's voice, I turn to look but I don't move away from Peeta in the slightest. "The offer still stands. That cast has gotta come off or your arm's gonna start growing around it like a tree."
I squint at him and say, "I don't think that's what happens."
"Well, either way, it's gotta come off. And it'll only take a second. It's not like I'm gonna slice you."
Peeta brushes a tendril of hair out of my face, braided back anew just this morning - by him, of course. "What's he mean?" he asks.
"He wants to use his saw to get my cast off," I tell him.
Peeta looks at Haymitch for a moment, taking him in. "Are you sober?" he asks.
"Goddamn it, I'm fine."
"Walk a straight line from here to the cupboard and we'll see."
Haymitch does as Peeta asks, keeping his feet aligned the whole way, then looks at him with a fed up expression. "Happy now, boy?"
Peeta shrugs one shoulder then kisses the corner of my jaw near my ear. Instead of shying away like I might have done not all that long ago, I lean into him and let myself smile.
"Well, would you look at that," Haymitch says slowly. He's leaning on the table with his eyes on me and Peeta, taking in the entire situation. "So, you two. Sealed the deal, huh? Made the beast with two backs? Had to happen sometime." We both must shoot him the same look because he raises his hands in surrender and takes a few steps back. "Hey. I'm not judging. But if you need a how-to, don't call me. For the love of god, do not call me."
He comes back a little while later with his saw and removes my cast while Peeta holds my good hand. When my arm is free, my skin is dry, the hair seems darker, and the whole thing looks smaller in general and it's almost strange to see it out of the plaster. But I can move again, I have all ten fingers free, and I stretch them out with relief as soon as it's gone.
I don't let Haymitch throw the cast away afterwards, though. I tell him that I'll take care of it, and by the way he meets my eyes I think he knows that it's not going in the trash.
After he leaves, his crass words linger in my mind and I know it's time to call my mother. Peeta has already gone to see Sae today and came back with a box of condoms - I'd never seen one in person before, and they're a lot weirder than I pictured - his face beet red from the interaction. But he was embarrassed in a proud, bashful, even endearing way. I'm not sure I'll be able to say the same after I get off the phone.
"I'm going to call my mother," I say, turning away from the kitchen sink where I'd been scrubbing my arm. He meets my eyes, questioning, and I practice saying the words aloud for when I'll have to say them to her. "I'm going to ask her about those pregnancy prevention pills. That way, we can…" I trail off. It's much harder talking about the intimacy between us when the sun is up and we're clothed in the kitchen, rather than naked in our bed. "If I take them, and we use the… the condoms, we won't have to worry."
"That makes sense," Peeta says.
I head to the phone and lean on the wall while it rings. When she answers, I decide to ease into the conversation with something easier and say, "Thank you for the knitting needles."
"Oh," she says. "You're welcome. I thought you could use them."
"I can," I say. "I finished Peeta's sweater while he was gone, but I want to work on making trivets with the blue yarn that I've been saving."
I appreciate the gesture of those needles more than I know how to put into words, so I hope she can sense that. Plus my thoughts are too focused on the other matter at hand to put across my thanks correctly.
After a bit more light conversation, I break my way into the topic if only to get it over with. "I'm also calling because I need some pills," I say. "A prescription."
"For your scarring?" she asks. "Are you in pain?"
"No," I say. "It's not so bad with the lotion and the salve. They're fine. I need pills… for um, well…" I take another deep breath. "The pills you take to keep from getting pregnant when you…" I close my eyes and shake my head. "You know."
"Oh," she says, putting her doctor voice on. This stuff doesn't bother her and it never has. But I can't say the same. "Well, of course, Katniss. I should've thought ahead and sent them back with Peeta."
Her assumption would have been more mortifying than even this, but I don't say so.
"I'll put three months' worth in the mail for you," she says. "And if you have any questions-"
I can't handle one more person talking to me about sex questions. "No," I say quickly - while trying not to sound brash. "That's okay. But thank you. Um, for the pills."
I hang up quickly and turn around to find Peeta rolling out dough, suppressing a smile.
…
It's nearing the end of April when I come home from the woods to find Peeta in the side yard, digging. He doesn't see me, which gives me the space that I need to watch him work. His muscles move fluidly under his white t-shirt as he breaks up the ground, making space for the garden he's been talking about planting. As soon as it's warm enough, he plans on buying seeds for cantaloupe to cucumbers and everything in between. I like listening to him talk about it and it's good to see him working outside. The fresh air is good for us both.
He tells me the primroses will bloom again soon, and we've been watching for them.
I hear his voice, which is strange because he's not addressing me. He still doesn't see me. He seems to be talking to a cardboard box that's opened by his feet, and I start to wonder if he's gone off the deep end as I walk closer and listen to what he's saying.
"I just think he gets lonely over there. He'd never say it, but I can tell. And I think you guys will give him something to do, something to look after. You know? Oh, you're asleep."
"Peeta?" I say his name, still so confused.
He turns with a start and smiles when he sees me. "You're home," he says.
"Who are you talking to?"
"Oh," he says, wiping his soil-covered hands on the front of his pants. "Orion was selling these two in the square today, and I couldn't resist. I thought Haymitch would like to raise them."
I peer inside the box and see two small, fuzzy birds. Baby geese, by the looks of it, with their heads turned together and their eyes closed. Peeta is right, they are cute, but that cuteness won't last long.
"Geese can get mean," I say.
"So can Haymitch," he says, and I have no argument there.
"I don't know what he'll say."
At that, we hear Haymitch's front door creak open and the sound of him muttering and swearing from his porch. "Let's find out," Peeta says, grinning.
We cross the path to Haymitch's house and meet him in the yard, where he regards us with a surly glance. "What do you two want?" he asks. It's not yet noon, which means that he's especially sour.
"We brought you something," Peeta says, holding out the box.
Haymitch peeks inside with one eyebrow raised, then looks at us like we're insane. "Ducks?" he says, puzzled and annoyed.
"Geese," Peeta says, handing him the box. Haymitch has no choice but to take it, Peeta practically thrusts it into his hands. "Just babies. All they need is that pond you've got and an enclosure, like the empty shed."
Haymitch isn't sold. "Who said I wanted any goddamn geese?!" he says, but he hasn't let go of the box.
"They're great pets," Peeta says cheerily. "That's what Orion said."
"I don't need a damn pet," Haymitch says. "What are you trying to mother me for, boy?"
"They'll keep your grass short," I cut in. "And once they're grown up, they'll guard your house like a dog would."
That seems to catch his attention. He looks at the sleeping geese with suspicion, then says, "Well, they sure aren't much right now."
"Well, no," I say. "Not yet."
"They might just keep you two from bangin' my door down whenever you feel like it," he says, as if we've ever done that. If anything, we need the geese to protect our front porch from him. But I don't say that.
"They might," Peeta says, understanding just as I am that Haymitch is slowly warming to the idea.
After a few more minutes of disgruntled muttering, Haymitch decides to keep the geese for the night. He claims, if they're alive in the morning, he'll cross that bridge when he gets to it.
…
That night, the sun doesn't set until almost 8pm, and Peeta and I celebrate the lengthening day in our bed with the windows half-open.
After, with the sweet spring breeze curling around us, I tuck my body close to his. He strokes my hair soft and slow, running it through his fingers as we both listen to the rise and fall of Haymitch's voice from his backyard. Judging by his tone and what he's saying, he's talking to the geese that he claimed to dislike so much.
"We're gonna have to get used to that racket, I guess," he grumbles. "Those damn horny kids need to learn how to close their windows."