Chapter 4: Growing Closer

I frown at the mangy, beige lump of dough as though it has offended me. Though it can't really be called a lump if there's hardly any lump left to it. Most of the substance used to make our daily bread has ended up on my apron, the skirts of my blue Reaping dress, in my hair.

Worse still, I don't even know what I'm doing wrong – only that's it something. When Peeta had offered to teach me how to bake and handle dough, I had hesitantly accepted if for no other reason than to see if I could in some other way prove my worth around here.

My face creases even more petulantly when, next to me, I can hear, practically feel, Peeta trying to hold in a laugh. My braid whipping behind me, I turn sharply to flash him a prissy glare.

"Well…. you could be a better teacher!" I blast out, the insult entirely unoriginal and even sounding petty, even to my own ears. Peeta chuckles and shakes his head, taking one step into me.

"Fair enough. Perhaps I could. After all, dough doesn't knead itself. And it's not as naturally malleable as you might think."

I huff a strand of my chestnut hair out of my face, my fuming ebbing, but only just. "Clearly."

"Here:….." I freeze when I suddenly feel Peeta inlay his hands over mine, as he takes a kind of lunge to one side so he is lined up directly behind me. I can feel acutely the tautness of his chest now pressed up against my back. The tableau of an embrace in which we now find ourselves is far too…. intimate for my liking, yet I can think of no reasonable excuse to move away from him without appearing scared or rude. I do want him to teach me the lesson at hand. I don't know why I seem to think these thoughts whenever he is near, yet I remain fixated on his position, practically leaning against me, and all the access it allows him. All he'd have to do to ravage me, have his way with me is to brace my body against this counter, drop his pants, lift the back of my skirts and viciously take me from behind. He could even clap a hand over my mouth so I couldn't scream.

The imagination of his rutting against me like a beast fades as a wave of remorse crashes over me. Why should I think the worst of this boy who has been nothing but kind to me, in spite of how I tend to eschew most kindness? Being shown a kindness has always led me to follow my Seam instincts and consider myself indebted to the giver. Seamers are a proud people, who take the concept of owing someone very seriously, and we pay back what we are owed.

I keep impossibly still as I watch almost fascinatedly Peeta guide my hands, through and over the dough. For the barest instant, I madly imagine that my hands are raking over his expansive chest instead, and I blush unconsciously. I bow my head, trying to keep these impure thoughts from invading my psyche.

"Th…thank you." The platitude of gratitude feels foreign on my tongue, from disuse and infrequency, but Peeta just twitters it off.

"You're welcome." Lifting my head, I turn back to take him in, and even though our hands continue to move in tandem, in perfect time, everything else about our bodies seems to freeze as we gaze into each other's eyes. Peeta is the first one to break the spell, gentlemanly clearing his throat. I immediately avert my gaze, embarrassed. He must think I was staring at him on account of his…..

"An oven exploded. It was a new model and make, fresh from the Capitol; we'd scrimped and saved months to purchase it, special-ordered. First batch of hot-cross buns we try in it, and the damn thing breaks. No – spray apart would be more like it."

I gulp, my throat suddenly far too dry. "What happened?" I whisper. I resist looking at him again even though from just the change in the air current, I can tell he has gestured to his own face ruefully.

"Have a guess." The bitterness in his voice somehow makes my chest constrict. "I was the one who loaded the batch in, so I was directly in front of the oven door. Flames came shooting out as the whole thing just….. broke apart, so I took the full blast of it. When I woke up, the whole place was in flames – must have gone up like a Roman candle. Rye at least made him useful by moving quickly to get me out when he realized I hadn't followed out the back, so the burns to the rest of my body weren't too bad, but my face…. it was too late."

I will myself to be brave, and I boldly look up into his face – his whole face, his real face, warts and burns and all. "I'm sorry," I whisper quietly.

There's that smile again, the one that the pink and mottled skin from the burns so cruelly distorts. "It's not your fault, Katty."

I blink at him dumbly, in shock. "What…. what did you just call me?"

I clearly witness how he blushes, suddenly bashful. "That's your nickname, isn't it? I heard your sister call you that when we picked you up at the Community Home. But if it's a personal matter between sisters, I can…"

"It's fine," I brush away, even as a strange gooeyness floods my belly. "You can call me whatever you like."

From the way his lips quirk, I think he beams. "Good. So if you can stop staring at me like I'm wounded, then I can quit acting like it. And maybe…. we have a shot at being friends."

I feel my cheeks burn, and I cast my eyes downward. "I've never been very good at making friends," I mumble.

"Well…." Peeta runs his tongue out of his bottom lip, and an actual whimper lodges somewhere in my throat. "It does help when you know the person. I hardly know anything about you except you'd kill for your sister, you're stubborn and good with a bow."

I allow the ghost of a smile. "That about sums me up," I quip, dryly.

"Nah, there's more than that; you just don't want to tell me."

I gawp at him, somehow close to practically panicking. "What?"

"See, Katniss, the way the whole friendship thing works is you have to tell each other…. the deep stuff." I don't deserve the patience he's showing me. It almost amuses me, causing me to let out a strained chuckle.

"The deep stuff? Uh oh…. like what?"

"Like….. what's your favorite color?"

I turn away from him prissily, yet there is almost an undercurrent of…. flirtation to it, not helped by the fact that I'm still practically at rest in his arms. "Well, now you've stepped over the line," I deadpan, pretending to be affronted.

Peeta's laugh is almost musical, and I could bathe in it. "No, seriously though, what is it?"

I turn back to him slowly, beholding him as I murmur shyly, "Green. What's yours?"

"Orange," he grins, and I half-laugh, half-scoff.

"Like Effie Trinket's hair?" Our district's escort for the Hunger Games is known for her…. bold fashion choices.

"No, not that kind of orange. More like…. more like a sunset kind of orange."

I try to picture it, and have to immediately conclude that it is nothing short of perfect. Almost without realizing it, my hand has drifted up to softly cup his face, palm resting along the charred and ruined skin of his right cheek. Whatever Peeta was about to say, it stutters to a dazed stop as I more or less caress him, peering at him curiously and shyly. The electricity between us is far too charged, and I internally shy away like a skittish horse. I drop my hand abruptly, yet Peeta keeps his face quite close. His head dips lower, and just when I think with fearful confusion that he might actually…. Kiss me…. he sighs and releases me, moving deliberately away from where, up until now, he had still been pressed against me. I curl my body inward and drop my attention back down to where the lump of dough is still mocking me.