Chapter thirty-eight: Sorry
"It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone." ― Rose Kennedy
Silence echoes throughout the apartment once Haymitch is gone, but not because there isn't anything to say. Rather, there's so much left to discuss that we're all a bit speechless.
Mr. Mellark takes a seat at the table and rubs his eyes with his lower palms, giving a small shake of his head as he does so. He looks beyond tired, which is unsurprising due to it almost being eleven at night. Still, I know a lot of his current fatigue is also due to the awful situation he's so suddenly—and unwillingly—been thrown into.
As the knot of guilt tightens inside my chest, I quickly avert my eyes towards Peeta, who is leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed. I hold his gaze momentarily until the corner of his mouth tugs up into a half-smile that causes my stomach to flutter and my cheeks to burn. There's nothing at all suggestive about his expression though, in fact his eyes are questioning and full of concern, but the embarrassment of what happened between us in the bathroom still lingers despite everything, and I find myself biting my lip and staring down at the table in order to avoid his eyes.
With the enormity of everything else going on right now, I can't help finding it all a bit silly though. Here we are, our lives in danger, caught in the middle of some big conspiracy in which a private investigator and the FBI is involved, yet despite everything, I still feel like a sexually ignorant little girl who has a boyfriend and has no idea exactly what he wants, or better yet, what he thinks I want, especially since I have no clue what I'm even supposed to want.
"Well, as eventful as this night has been, it's pretty late and we should all get some rest," Mr. Mellark finally breaks the silence, his voice thin and hoarse. "We can start tackling everything tomorrow, or at least you all can get started while I'm at work."
"I actually want to start tonight, if that's okay. I just want to be done with it all, or at least get most of it written down," I say quietly without looking up. "I won't really be able to sleep otherwise."
"Me too," Prim adds. "I promise we'll be really quiet and won't wake you up."
Silence fills the room once more, and I glance up to find Mr. Mellark looking rather dubiously at me. He then rubs the corners of his eyes and softly replies, "It's fine with me if you stay up, and I'm not worried about you waking me. I just… don't want you two pushing yourselves too much too soon, okay? It'll be really tough remembering all those things and writing them down, so don't feel pressured to get it all done in one night. You've been through enough hell already, and no one's expecting…" He trails off with a sudden yawn before shaking his head and pushing his chair back. "Anyway, I'm pretty exhausted so I think I'll go say goodnight to Iris and set my mattress up in the study. We'll talk more about all of this tomorrow."
"So you're still going to work in the morning?" Peeta asks as his dad stands up. "I'm sure people will understand closing for the weekend, in light of what they think happened to one of your employees."
"I have to get a couple of cakes done—both of them for weddings, already paid for, so I can't really put them off," Mr. Mellark answers. "I'm aiming to leave as early as possible, though. Sundays usually aren't very busy, so I should be out a little after noon if all goes as planned. I'm sure you'll get along just fine without me for a bit anyway. You seem to have a knack for it lately."
Peeta looks as if he's about to reply indignantly, but then he closes his mouth and nods, averting his eyes to the floor.
"Do you want to take my bed?" he offers. "I can sleep on the air mattress."
"I'll be fine, Peet, but thanks. If the air mattress gets too uncomfortable I'll just go sleep next to Iris. She could probably use the company right now anyway," Mr. Mellark replies, giving Peeta's shoulder a pat as he makes his way to the kitchen doorway. "All of you be sure to get some sleep soon. You're going to need it."
I thought this would be easy, that it'd merely consist of writing words on paper; I never imagined the weight of them, though.
For so long, they've only been thoughts and feelings, kept silent and hidden from everyone. I tried my hardest to forget since dwelling on the pain only brings more, and the memories can hurt worse than anything physical. Each bullet point I make to describe some newly remembered detail of the past feels like pulling a scab off of a festered wound, and every word that follows is like mixing salt with glass and rubbing it in.
I stop writing for a moment to dry my cheeks with the back of my hand, even though the effort is mostly in vain. The more words that flow from my pencil, the more tears my body seems to purge.
As it is, I've written four very detailed notebook pages, front and back, and I haven't even made it past the first year. Then again, it was a year of nothing but change for me, and none of it was for the better. I was a bright and happy young girl with a multitude of close friends and a loving family—I was trusting, outgoing, and comfortable in my own skin—and then seemingly overnight I lost my father, my friends, my favorite pet, my mother's sanity, the house I grew up in, and all my treasured possessions. In the blink of an eye, I lost all the stability and comfort that I'd once taken for granted. For a while it was as if I lost my life, but not my body; the only way I knew I was still alive was from the pain and starvation I endured— but I endured. I endured because I knew I was needed, because I knew Prim would die without me.
Even so, after Snow took me to the cliff when I was twelve, I'd sometimes go back and stand on the edge, peering down at the piercing rocks below, daring myself to jump. I'd always end up reasoning with myself that Prim and Mom needed me, and that if my life had any purpose it was in keeping them alive. Each time, I always seemed to walk away with a little more determination to live.
However, there was one extremely painful day when I came very close to going through with it.
I'd lost a best friend I'd had since the second grade. She'd been new to the school and was very shy, and I was the first person to talk to her. I sat next to her at lunch and we'd had an animated conversation about TV shows we both enjoyed. We were seemingly inseparable for years afterwards, often even spending the night over at each other's houses on the weekends.
We were close, so close I never imagined our friendship ever coming to an end.
When things started getting really bad with Snow, however, and I began showing up to school dirty, smelly, bruised, and starving, she'd handed me a note one morning. In it, she'd explained that she didn't want to lose her other friends by hanging out with me anymore.
These other friends of hers were people who had started to make fun of me every chance they could get. They'd do things such as daring others to smell my hair, arguing over who had to be the one to stand behind me in line, and placing their shirts over their noses when they had to pass by or stand near me.
It hurt like hell to lose her friendship, especially when she was the last friend I had. I could understand her frustration with how distant and depressed I'd become, though, and even the fact that she didn't want to be made fun of on my account. It didn't make it any less painful, though. While I might've been upset with her, I didn't really blame her—I blamed myself.
It felt as if my heart had been crushed into a million pieces. Even to this day, I can say that pain probably hurt worse than anything physical. Feeling hopeless, I walked to the edge of the cliff. I closed my eyes, held my breath, and took one step forward until I felt only air beneath my foot—something pushed me back, though.
Maybe it was my father's spirit, a higher power, or perhaps merely a strong gust of wind, but I heeded it and never went back to the cliff after that.
Not until Snow brought me there again last night.
I remember pleading with air after that, hoping my father would somehow avenge us from the grave, or at least relay the message that we needed help. I prayed constantly, even wrote messages on old school pages, on trees, and in the dirt in hopes that something, somewhere might read them and be strong enough to stop the hell I was going through. It only got worse, though, and I learnt quickly that no one was going to save us—or, rather, keep us alive—no one but me.
Gale helped, of course, as much as he possibly could, but he also had his own family to care about. I hold nothing against him for not "rescuing" me from the situation because there was no way he could. Instead, he helped me in practical ways, with old clothes, soap, a bit of fresh game from a hunt every now and then, and other little things that people usually take for granted as being simple and plentiful.
They meant the world to me and Prim, though, and he'll always have my gratitude for that.
I shake my head and try not to think about how Gale and his family might be at the moment—whether he believes we're dead or if Coin and Snow have involved him in all this. I wouldn't put it past them, if only so they can use it against me and find out where I am.
After all, Snow knows that Gale and I are close, and that Gale's aware of what's been happening for years. I wouldn't doubt at all that they might think he had something to do with our disappearance, that maybe he's hiding us.
Dwelling on Gale's involvement adds a whole new weight on my shoulders, but I know there's nothing I can do from where I'm at—at least without putting everyone in danger. Hopefully I'm wrong and they're all perfectly fine.
That's what I need to make myself believe, otherwise the guilt might consume me.
As I breathe in the lingering scent of Peeta's pumpkin spice cookies, I'm suddenly overwhelmed by a deep sense of depersonalization upon reflection of how surreal my life has become. For years, there's been nothing but pain and struggle. I saw no way out and I never thought it could get any better. After a point, I never allowed myself to even hope for it. I was resigned to a life of misery, of living merely to survive to take care of Prim and Mom. My idea of a happy ending was a quick and painless death. It still is, but for everyone that I love. As for me, I won't go down without a fight—not when I've only begun to live and there's so much worth living for.
I narrow my eyes at the clock on the wall, and upon seeing that it's already a little after two in the morning, I close my notebook and decide it's probably best to put the demons to bed for a little while and wake them early tomorrow.
Before lying down I glance at the end of the fold-out bed where Prim is lying flat on her stomach, having fallen asleep a couple hours ago. She must have done so in the middle of writing because her cheek is planted right in the middle of her open notebook, and she still has a pencil clasped in her right hand. As quietly and gently as I can without waking her, I remove the pencil and lift her head to retrieve the notebook.
For a brief moment I debate reading what she's written down, just to see what she remembers and how she remembers it, but I end up closing it quickly without even peeking at a word. After all, I don't want her to catch me snooping and feel betrayed by the invasion of privacy.
These things are personal, painful, and it's like baring one's soul when writing these things out. There's a very fine line when it comes to which details you're willing to share with others—especially with those closest to you. Sometimes it's easier telling them to a complete stranger.
Besides, reading details of the abuse from Prim's perspective would probably be ten times as painful than reading any of my own, especially in knowing there's no way to erase the horror from her memory.
I lean down and plant a small kiss to her forehead, smoothing a few tendrils of hair out of her face.
One of her eyes abruptly opens at this and she mumbles groggily, "What're you doin' Katniss?"
"Nothing," I whisper. "Go back to sleep."
Without a word in reply, she nods and crawls to the head of the bed, where she buries herself beneath the covers. After placing our notebooks on the side-table, I do the same.
As I cocoon myself within the clean blankets, fully appreciating the fluffy new pillow and the comfortable mattress beneath me, I can't help thinking of how strange all of this is. Never in a million years could I have imagined I'd end up in a place like this, or that people would willingly risk their own lives to keep me safe.
In all the warmth that surrounds me, however, I can't help feeling a little cold without Peeta.
He went to bed not even a half hour after Mr. Mellark did, although he'd asked me if I needed him for moral support beforehand. I told him it'd be best if I did it on my own—I didn't want him to see me cry or read any of the gritty details; some things I'm just not compelled to share with him yet. He looked a bit put out by my dismissal, but still kissed me on the cheek and whispered in my ear that I'm welcome in his bed if I change my mind.
I told him I wouldn't, but thanks anyway. After he left the room, Prim made a point to tell me he'd been really quiet and looked sad all evening when I was napping in Mom's room, and although guilt hit me like a punch to the gut, I merely replied that I'd talk to him in the morning and that she needed to keep writing.
Before falling asleep, however, I think about going to his room, just briefly, to tell him goodnight—to let him know how grateful I am to have him in my life, how much I care for him, how sorry I am for lashing out, and how I'd still kiss him even if he licked an actual toilet—but I reason to myself that he's probably fast asleep. I'd hate to wake him just to say things I'm sure he probably already knows.
I'll talk to him tomorrow.
I wake with tears streaming down my face, my body trembling, my heart pounding, and only one word running through my head: Peeta.
I'd had a nightmare much like the one I had when we'd broken up. While some of the details are blurry in my mind, I vividly remember an invisible knife slashing at Peeta's skin with every kind word he'd say to me. I'd yell at him and sneer, and every time I did, another cut would flay him and he'd scream in agony.
And there was blood—so much blood. I wanted to stop myself from causing him more pain, but dream-me kept on being cruel, even laughing about the pain I was inflicting on him. He'd just smile between the slashings, remarking on how much he loved me and that it wasn't my fault. In the end, I looked into a mirror and saw that all the cuts I'd inflicted on Peeta were on my skin as well, and then I watched in horror as my face transformed into Snow's.
Thankfully, that's when I woke up.
Without thinking twice, I quickly climb out of bed and make my way down the hall to Peeta's bedroom. I notice that his light is still on by the crack beneath his door, but figure that he'd perhaps fallen asleep with it on. For a moment I stand there, wondering whether or not to knock, before finally deciding to just turn the knob and walk inside.
I'm taken aback to see him still awake, standing behind an easel and canvas, wearing only his pajama shorts and prosthetic leg. He raises his eyebrows upon seeing me, seemingly surprised and concerned by my sudden entrance.
"Hey. You okay?" he asks as I close the door behind me.
I turn back to him with a half-hearted shrug, and in an instant he puts his paintbrush down and walks towards me with open arms. Still disoriented by the dream, I find myself unable to speak without the urge to cry, so I quickly close the distance between us and take refuge in his embrace, hugging him tightly as I press my lips to his bare chest.
"You're shaking all over," Peeta murmurs as he caresses my back and rests his cheek upon my head. "Maybe you should give it a couple days before writing again. It's too much all at once. I can talk to Haymitch—"
"No, it's fine. I'll be okay," I reply, my voice wavering. "I just want all of this to be over with, and the sooner we get through it, the better. I didn't come in here because of all that anyway. I just… I wanted to say sorry."
"Why?" Peeta leans back with a quizzical look. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"I was kind of a jerk to you earlier today," I shrug. The all-too-forgiving expression on his face somehow makes me feel even guiltier than I do already, so I cast my gaze down to my feet before continuing. "You've been nothing but good to me, Peeta—far better than I probably deserve. I just want you to know that I appreciate everything you're doing for us—for me—and I'm really sorry if it seemed like I didn't."
"You've been really stressed," he dismisses, running his fingers down the length of my sleep-tousled braid. "I understand, Katniss, it's really no big deal."
"It's a big deal to me." I gently retrieve his hand from my hair and bring it to my lips to kiss his knuckles. "Being stressed doesn't give me the right to take it out on you. You always do everything you can to make me feel better, no matter how worried or tired you are. As horrible as things are right now, they'd be way worse without you… I'd be way worse without you."
He leans down to kiss my forehead, and then rests his head against mine as he whispers, "With all that's happened I'd be worried if you weren't a little on edge. Besides, I made my mistakes too. Don't blame yourself so much, okay?"
"Oh yeah, Peeta, definitely. You make tons of mistakes. If being too nice is a fault, you're the guiltiest person ever," I reply, rolling my eyes.
He chuckles softly and shrugs, "Seriously, though. When it comes to you, sometimes I can get a bit carried away. Like earlier today. I shouldn't have just sprung that on you out of nowhere." He looks down and chews on his bottom lip, rubbing his thumb against the top of my hand. "I didn't mean to freak you out by it… I just wanted to make you feel good, to distract you from worrying so much. It really wasn't the right time or place for it, though, and I probably should've asked you first before doing something new like that."
"Well, yeah, it was obviously very unexpected, and it did shock me a little—"
"A little?"
"Okay, a lot," I correct, my cheeks burning. "But I'm sorry for reacting the way I did. I wasn't really mad… I was mostly just embarrassed. It felt good and everything, and I know that was the purpose of it, I just don't understand why you'd want to do that, or why anyone would. I mean, I'm sure it didn't taste very good."
"Well, I can't speak for everyone else, but to me, you taste like…" He glances up at the ceiling, tilting his head and squinting his eyes, considering. I feel like disappearing on the spot, knowing he's in such deep contemplation about my personal flavor. A smile comes to his face as he concludes with, "You taste to me like blackberry crème tastes to you."
"Yeah right, Peeta," I snort and roll my eyes at his unlikely comparison. "I very highly doubt it tastes like—"
"Well, obviously you don't actually taste like blackberry crème, but you're on the same level," Peeta explains and then shakes his head. "Actually, no, scratch that. If given a choice between the two, I'd choose you every time."
"I'd like to challenge that."
"Yeah, I'm sure you would. You just want my blackberry crème all to yourself," he states with a knowing smirk.
"You've got me," I reply dryly.
"Well, if we both get our favorite flavors it seems like a perfectly fair trade. I'll stock the fridge with blackberries as soon as possible."
I arch an eyebrow at him, unsure of whether or not he's being serious.
He releases my hand and encircles my waist, stepping closer until his stomach is flat against my own. I close my eyes as he rests his chin lightly upon my shoulder, leaving a lingering kiss right below my ear before murmuring against my neck, "You said it felt good to you. So I wasn't imagining you fully enjoying it then?"
The burning in my cheeks spreads like wildfire throughout my body, and the deep vibrato of his voice tickles my skin, causing a pleasant wave of shivers to travel all the way down to the tips of my toes and a flood of warmth to pool at my core.
"That's not the point—" I begin, but it comes out hoarse and uncertain.
"That's the entire point," he counters, his hands moving from my lower back to beneath the sides of my long night-shirt, where he begins to draw circles along the edges of my upper thighs.
I clear my throat and try to keep my voice steady as I continue.
"No, the point is, I don't want you getting sick… or, I don't know, I don't want you to feel like you have to do that if you don't like it," I shrug, finishing in a small voice, "I… I don't want you to be disgusted by me. I'm sure there's plenty else you can do."
"Like I told you before, there's like zero chance of me getting sick," he replies in a very matter-of-fact way. I feel slightly disappointed when his head leaves my shoulder, but then I feel his lips against my forehead a moment later. "Katniss, believe me, I could never be disgusted by you, and I'd never feel like I had to do it—I want to do it. I liked doing it, and I hope you'll change your mind and let me do it again."
I frown and glance skeptically up at him through my lashes, "Why?"
Peeta heaves a sigh and leans back with a pointed look, as if it the answer is extremely obvious. He then gives me such a ravishing, longing, genuine smile that it causes butterflies to swarm in my stomach.
"If you could only see yourself through my eyes, Katniss, then you'd understand just how breathtaking it is when you let your walls down, when you allow yourself to feel good without overthinking. It makes me feel like the luckiest guy alive to witness your face light up as pleasure overtakes you, or the beautiful way your body reacts to the simplest touch. The honor isn't lost on me that I'm the only one you allow to see it, either, that I'm the only one you allow to make these things happen. I just want to make you happy in every way possible."
He rests his head on my shoulder and I close my eyes again, tilting my head and trying my best to keep my breath steady as he begins planting sweet, lingering kisses along my neck. Goosebumps follow his fingertips as he trails them up to dance along the surface of my lower stomach, and I'm unable to find my voice or even form a coherent thought as his intimate words and gentle touch quench my aching body like rain on a hot summer day.
"I wish you could see just how beautiful you are to me, how incredibly sexy it is when you're all assertive about what you want." His fingertips move up to my ribcage, stopping right below the swell of my breast, and his breath tickles my skin as he whispers near my ear, "When you asked me to touch you earlier, you have no idea how incredibly close I came to needing a change of pants right then and there."
I snort, shaking my head at how sweet and charming he can be one moment, yet so crude the next. "I really don't need to know about your worm almost throwing up on himself, Peeta."
Though I try to fight it, I can't help the smile that takes over my face, nor can I snuff the exhilaration I feel at knowing I have such an effect on him. I move my palms from his back to his torso, laying them flat above the waistband of his pajama bottoms, and I'm not oblivious to the way his body tenses or the way he seems to be holding his breath. I find myself curious as to what he'd do if I slipped my hand just a bit further down, if I touched him as I had in the car, but then I remind myself that it's after three in the morning, and that Prim and his dad are only feet away on the other side of the door.
"My worm?" Peeta leans back and arches an eyebrow at me, "You're really going to stick with that nickname?"
"Yeah, I guess," I answer, shrugging. "That's what it looks like to me."
"I'm not sure whether to be offended or amused, but I'm really hoping that's not a scale comparison," he remarks dryly. "Unless, of course, you've come across some anaconda or mutant worms. I mean, to be compared to Earthworm Jim would be a huge compliment—"
A small snort of laughter escapes me as I lean up and cut his sentence short with a kiss, which he returns without a second of hesitation. In fact, he takes the cue to finally move his palm up from my ribcage to cup my breast, causing me to sigh against his lips as he caresses his thumb over my nipple. I run one hand up his chest, hooking it around his neck to play with the curls at his nape, and the other drops a couple inches, my fingertips slipping slightly beneath the elastic waistband of his pajama bottoms and hesitating to go any further.
I remind myself of how late it is, of Prim and his father, but the images of the dream still linger in my mind of how I'd caused him so much pain, and I find myself wanting to make up for it, even if it was just a guilty manifestation of my subconscious.
Peeta does everything he can to make me feel good, any chance he can get, and it's about time I returned the favor. I need to show him I care about this relationship as much as he does. Besides, Prim and his dad are both fast asleep, and who knows how many opportunities we'll get like this. After all, we have no way of knowing if we'll even still be alive by tomorrow night.
Determined, I gather my bravery, my fingers trembling and mouth slowing against his as I move my hand down until I feel him, hot and hard, against my palm. Emitting a muffled groan of approval against my mouth, he juts his hips forward, pressing himself against my hand, encouraging me to take things further. Neither of us can concentrate on kissing as we're too focused on each other's hands, so he leans his forehead onto mine, his body tensing and his breathing ragged as I wrap my fingers around him and slowly begin to stroke.
"I assure you, Peeta, Earthworm Jim has nothing on you," I murmur, feeling a bit more confident as I gaze up at him through my lashes. His eyes are closed tightly, though, and if I didn't already know this was giving him pleasure, I'd think he was in pain from the expression on his face. He suddenly smiles at my comment, though, his eyelids fluttering open as he leans his head back from mine, looking dazed and euphoric.
"I don't know about that," Peeta replies, lightly thrusting to meet the increasing rhythm of my hand. He bites his lip to suppress a low groan, his hand stilling on my breast. "Jim has a Super Suit, a Pocket Rocket, a Plasma Blaster..." He shrugs and sucks in a shuddering breath. "And the only thing my worm does is Hulk out and throw up when he gets too excited."
"I assume this doesn't really help him then?" I muse, stopping my hand long enough to run my thumb over the tip of him. He shakes his head, his eyes closing again as he brings his hand down from my breast to help guide my actions.
"N-not with the whole excitement issue, no, but it's definitely boosting his morale."
I can tell by the increase in pressure he has on my hand, the intensity and speed of our strokes, his loud, ragged breathing, and the guttural moans coming from him that he's close to exploding. As his mouth gruffly finds mine once again, and his free hand settles on the back of my head to bring me even closer, I pull back ever slightly, whispering against his lips, "Peeta, can I—I want to—" I stop, uncertain of how to word what I'm trying to say.
"You can do whatever you want," Peeta reassures between kisses, "anything at all."
"Move your hand," I demand quickly before I have a chance to lose my nerve, "I… I want to make you—I want to do it on my own this time."
He nods and the grip on my hand releases. In turn, I bring my free hand down to help the other, all the while increasing the speed of my actions. Not even a minute later Peeta groans loudly against my mouth, and with a powerful thrust, my hands are coated with his warm, sticky wetness.
"God, Katniss," he says breathlessly as he pulls away. His face is deep red, and he looks completely astonished by what just happened. "That was completely amazing and unexpected and… and thank you."
"It's cool." I shrug and hold out my hands, nodding pointedly towards them as I ask, "Can I use your bathroom, though?"
"Sorry for the mess," he grimaces, gesturing towards the bathroom door, "I need to change my shorts real quick, too."
"Don't be sorry," I reply dismissively. "Trust me, I've had a lot worse on my hands."
I lean up and kiss him on the cheek before making my way to his bathroom.
As I clean my hands, I take notice of my unsteady breathing, how my heart is thumping wildly against my chest, and how tingly and wet I am between my legs. I can't believe how exhilarated and alive I feel. It's empowering to know I'd just brought pleasure to Peeta the way he had with me, to know that despite everything bad going on right now, no one can take these amazing moments away from us, that if we die tomorrow, at least we got to live a little today. Feeling good can't hurt us, after all, and it's nice to live in the moment instead of worrying about what the future might bring.
When I walk out, I find Peeta sitting on the end of his bed, taking his prosthetic off. He immediately looks up at me, his eyes tired and glassy as he gives me a half-smile that's both sexy and sweet.
"Going to bed?"
"Only if you're coming with me," he replies, holding out his arms for me to walk into. The earnest, hopeful look on his face draws me to him like a moth to a light bulb, and once I'm near enough, he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me down to straddle his lap.
"I don't know if—"
His lips cut me off, and when we part, he raises his eyebrows, his bright blue eyes pleading, and pouts his bottom lip. "Please?"
"Fine," I relent, rolling my eyes at my own weakness, "but if your dad catches me in here, you're going to be the one to explain everything."
"I promise I'll take full blame," he reassures. "He usually wakes at six to get ready for work. If you're really that worried about it, I'll wake you up before then so you can sneak back to the living room."
I nod and move a wavy tuft of hair from blocking his eye, "We should really get some sleep. It'd be great to get an hour or two before your dad wakes."
Peeta nods in agreement, and with one final kiss to his lips, I promptly remove myself from his lap and crawl to the head of his bed.
"I hear you," he says, scooting up beside me and slipping beneath the blankets. "You just drained what little energy I had."
"Drain is a good word for it," I remark as he reaches over to click his lamp off. "Why aren't you asleep yet anyway?"
"I tried, but I couldn't get my mind to shut up, so I figured I'd paint to wind down a little. I guess I kind of lost track of time." He brings me into his arms and I lay my head upon his chest, closing my heavy-lidded eyes as I drape my arm over him. "You looked like you slept a little before you came in here. I take it you were either tossing and turning or bad dreams brought you."
"Bad dream," I whisper. "Horrific dream. About you."
"About me?"
"Yes, and I really don't want to talk about it."
"Well, in any case, now you can dream of good things," he says, kissing the top of my head. "Like what you're going to buy with all that money you're going to have soon."
"Yeah, I'll believe that when I see it. It just seems a bit too good to be true."
"It's real, Katniss, and you deserve every last penny of it." He then adds as an afterthought, his fingertips ghosting over the curve of my shoulder, "And I'll give you even more."
"I don't need anything else," I say, kissing his chest. "You are my more."
"And you're my everything," he replies.
It feels as if I'd only just fallen asleep when he shakes my shoulder to wake me.
I'm so unbelievably comfortable, wrapped up in blankets and Peeta's arms, that I don't want to move an inch from where I am. I mumble incoherently about not wanting to leave as I hug him tighter and bury my face into his chest.
"Katniss, it's 5:50. Dad'll be up any minute now," he whispers croakily, pressing his lips to the top of my head. "I don't want you to go, either. Maybe you can come back after he leaves?"
For a moment, I don't care about the consequences—let him catch us!—but as consciousness comes back to me, I know I'll regret this sleep inspired bravery, so with a groan, I grudgingly sit up. My eyes feel puffy, and my body is immediately freezing cold without his warmth enveloping me.
Yawning, I look back at Peeta and state, "I'll be back as soon as he's gone."
He rubs my lower back and nods, his eyes already closing as he drifts back to sleep.
I stand up from the bed and stretch my arms, feeling nearly drunk with sleep deprivation as I make my way to his bedroom door. When I reach it, I look back once, a slight smile coming to my face at seeing him sleeping so peacefully. Before I lose all the willpower I have to leave, I turn around and make my way down the hall. Just as I pass the bathroom the door, however, it opens and startles me, causing me to yelp and jump back a couple feet.
"Good morning, Katniss," Mr. Mellark greets, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
"G-good morning," I stammer, crossing my arms over my chest and looking down at the floor. If he's already been awake for a while, surely he knows I wasn't sleeping in the living room—he'd have passed right by the sofa.
"Sorry to give you a fright."
"I'm fine. I just—I didn't expect you is all," I reply, shrugging.
We stand in silence for a moment, neither of us moving an inch. I stare at his shoes, feeling his eyes staring a hole through me.
"I know you're still tired, but can you spare a few minutes?" he asks, his tone suddenly serious. I chew nervously on my lip as I look up at him again, and my throat goes dry when I notice his gaze is now fixed on Peeta's door a few feet behind me. I glance over my shoulder, wishing Peeta would sense my distress and suddenly open his door to come to my rescue.
The urge rushes over me to apologize and explain myself, but the only thing that manages to pass by my lips is a quiet, "Um, sure, I guess…." And without a word, he walks to the kitchen and gestures for me to follow him.
"Coffee?" he asks, grabbing a mug and turning towards me as I sit down at the table. "It's freshly brewed."
"No, thank you," I mumble. "I plan on going back to sleep. Maybe later, though."
Mr. Mellark nods as he pours himself a cupful, but he doesn't say anything else. I watch him with bated breath, my cheeks burning and my hands shaking as I wait for him to begin a conversation I'm very certain I don't want to have. All I want to do at the moment is hide under a blanket.
He finally takes a seat across from me and squints down at his steaming mug with a frown curving his lips, seemingly mulling over what he's about to say.
My heart beats out of my chest as I anticipate what it might be, and although it's only been a few minutes of silence, it seems like an eternity. I just want to get this over with as quickly as possible and go back to sleep. I take a deep breath and prepare myself to explain, but before any words can come out, Mr. Mellark finally begins talking.
"First off," he pauses and fixes his eyes intently on mine, "I owe you a big thank you and an even bigger apology."
"What—why?" I narrow my eyes in confusion, completely taken aback, but he only shrugs and rubs the bridge between his eyes.
"Katniss, I'm so sorry—beyond sorry—for going to your house and stirring things up. I had no idea… if I'd known things were…" He trails off and swallows before continuing, "I wasn't thinking, I guess. I was just worried about you and your sister—and confused. I couldn't understand how Iris would let you two be hurt like that. She was always such a doting mother, truly loved you guys with all her heart. At least, when I knew her…."
He shakes his head and stares down at his mug, absentmindedly tracing the ridge of it with the tip of his index finger.
"I mean, I had my suspicions every time you'd show up to sell something that things weren't quite right," he shrugs, going silent for a moment, "I always wanted to ask, I wanted to speak to your mother, but… but things were complicated between us, she had a husband I didn't know—didn't even introduce me to. I didn't even know she'd gotten remarried until months after the fact, and I found that out through a stranger."
He picks up his mug and closes his eyes as he takes a long, slow sip. When he places it back down on the table, he sighs and shrugs a shoulder, "Despite everything, I figured she'd always know she could come to me for help if she needed it. I would've been there. I would've helped in a heartbeat." He gives a short, cynical laugh, "I should've been. Too little, too late, though."
I find myself curious how such a huge rift could come between two supposed best friends, causing them not to talk or see each other in years—especially when they were only a few miles apart—but I don't ask. Mr. Mellark seems troubled enough as it is, and I don't want to make him feel any worse by being nosy about things I can't change anyway. Besides, I have the nagging feeling there's much more to the story than he's telling, and I'm probably better off not knowing.
"Anyway, to get back to the point, I know it's mostly my fault you're in this mess, and I'm just really grateful that you're all here and not—" He stops abruptly, shaking his head as if it pains him to even think of the words. He then fixes his tired eyes unblinkingly on mine. "Katniss, dear, I am truly sorry for being so reckless. I had no idea how awful and dangerous things were for you guys."
"No need to apologize," I state, my voice graveled with exhaustion. "It would've happened sooner or later anyway. At least we're safe for now."
"Rest assured I will do everything I can to keep you and your sister safe from now on, to get these men put behind bars, and I'll do everything in my power to help with your mother. I know it was only because of you that she's even still alive. For that I owe you a big thank you—"
"You don't have to thank me for that," I dismiss. "She's my mom. Of course I wouldn't let her die willingly." I shrug, adding, "I just hope she can get better… for Prim's sake. She really has her heart set on it."
"I hope so, too, for the sake of both you girls," he says. "I'll be calling my niece this morning once I get to the bakery. Like Peeta said, she graduated with a degree in nursing, so at the very least she can offer a bit of knowledge on your mother's health and how to get her strength back."
I don't really know what to say so I simply nod.
The thought of a complete stranger coming in and taking care of my mom after I've been doing it all by myself for so long makes me feel both relieved and a little wary. I recall the beautiful blond girl who had hugged Peeta in the bakery when we were broken up, and it makes me feel nauseous. Not because I'm jealous of her or anything, I know it's his cousin and all, but because I'm not good at making friends, or even talking to people, especially when it comes to girls. My mother needs professional care, though, and this is the closest she can get to it at the moment. Whatever reservations I have will just have to be ignored.
"Well," Mr. Mellark says with an air of finality, "I've kept you awake long enough. Again, don't push yourself too hard when it comes to writing about what you've gone through, okay? If it has to wait a couple days, so be it."
"I've actually got most of it done already," I lie, standing up to go the living room. "I'll step away for a bit if it gets to be too much, and so will Prim. We'll be okay."
He nods in reply, his eyes distant, and I begin to walk away. Once I reach the doorway, however, Mr. Mellark suddenly says, "About Peeta—"
I turn back around, my heart pounding. I should've known I wouldn't be able to escape without discussing our sleeping arrangements….
"He adores you, you know."
"The feeling is mutual," I mumble.
"I just wanted to thank you, for telling me about his mother," he says quickly, his jaw clenching as he stares unblinkingly down at his coffee. "I'm sure he told you what happened."
I nod, replying quietly, "Yeah, I heard. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It should've happened a long time ago," he replies, shrugging. "Some people get so used to misery that they forget it shouldn't be normal, they learn to either distract themselves from it or it becomes them. Either way, so many regrets pile up that you eventually look back and that's all you see—a mountain of things you should've said, things you should've done differently—"
"Yeah, but once you cross the desert and climb over the mountain, it's usually a lot greener on the other side," Peeta says from behind me, taking me by surprise. I turn around with wide eyes and he gives me a drowsy smile. "Good morning. Sleep well?"
"For a little while, yeah," I reply, my face on fire. "And yourself?"
"Like a baby on a cloud."
Mr. Mellark clears his throat, and we both turn to see him staring at us with his eyebrows raised and a small knowing smile tugging at the sides of his mouth.
"You two make me wish I would've taken Peeta's bed when he'd offered it. Sounds very comfortable." As speechless silence sweeps over us, he stands and empties his remaining coffee into the sink. "Well, I guess I should be heading to work now, let you two get back to sleep. Keep your phone on; I'll text as soon as I get there, and I'm also going to call Madge and see if she can come by later today to check on Iris. I'll let you know how that goes."
He passes between Peeta and me, putting on his jacket and picking up his keys as he heads towards the door. "I'll be home as soon as possible."
"Be safe," Peeta says, his voice full of concern. "Let me know if anything happens."
"You, too," Mr. Mellark replies.
When he leaves, I can't help but wonder if Peeta feels the same sick sense of foreboding that I do.