this is my NaNoWriMo story for 2021! i havent participated since 2018 so i am very excited to be back in the scene. expect frequent updates - i'm definitely going to hit the goal of 50k words by the end of this month! thank you to everyone who reads, and i will love you forever if you leave me a review.
...
For what feels like the hundredth night in a row, I wake with a jolt. My heart is pounding, there's sweat on my temples and tear stains on my cheeks. A nightmare, which is nothing new. But the content of it was different this time.
Mutts chasing me, mutts like the dogs from the first Games. But they talked to me like the lizard creatures - not whispering my name, but begging Help me, help me! in Prim's voice. Screaming for me, clawing at me, grabbing any part of me that they could, and it was all I could do to get away from the monsters that sounded just like her.
I sit up in bed, my back against the headboard, and stare at the comforter with achy eyes. Nightmares are the only place I hear her voice anymore, which makes my chest feel like it's cracking right down the middle.
I throw the down comforter off of my legs and wrap my arms tight around myself, the chill of the house getting to me as I haven't had the motivation to make a fire in quite some time. It's getting close to winter - I'll need to improve on that habit - but for now, I'm glad for the cold because it wakes me up.
The floor is shockingly frigid under my bare feet as I walk down the hall, and it creaks with every step. The creaking is the only sound in the house; it feels like I'm the last person left in the world. Sometimes, even in the daytime, it feels like that.
I tell myself to avoid the second room on the right, but my head turns without my permission so I can look inside. Prim's old room. Well, not really. It was her room in name only. She had been so excited over the thought of having her own bed, but when it came time to separate and sleep alone on that first night, she couldn't do it.
In all honesty, I couldn't either. I was relieved when I heard her push my door open and pad over to my bed, slipping under the covers behind me in the way we'd been sleeping for her entire life.
I still had nightmares back then, even when she was beside me, but it helped to wake up and have her there. Waking up alone is like a continuation of the nightmare, and it's hard to differentiate what's real from what just happened in my head. Having someone else there, someone warm, someone breathing, was enough to bring me back to earth. I wonder if having someone in bed with me now would stave off the post-nightmare confusion that I find myself plagued with nearly every night.
The only nights I don't have nightmares are the ones where I don't sleep at all. The days following those nights I typically find myself dozing off on the couch, or at the table, or somewhere else besides my bed. My bed, taken up by only me, doesn't feel safe in the way that it should.
I slept well with Peeta once when I needed comfort. Those nights on the train, my cheek on his chest, right over his heartbeat. He gave me solace then when we both needed it. But to ask for it now doesn't seem fair or right. Plus I'm not sure how I would go about doing that. We speak to one another, but sometimes it's still stilted and awkward.
I want to say more than I know how to put into words.
The stairs groan as I make my way down to the kitchen, and I trail my fingers along the wall to find my way to the sink. I grab a glass and my eyes catch on a burst of yellow as I lift my head. Peeta's kitchen window is illuminated, positioned across from mine.
I let the water run until it's sufficiently cold and keep an eye out for him. I'm not sure what time it is, but there's no trace of dawn around the horizon, so it has to be late. Or incredibly early. Either way, his kitchen is lit up and he's nowhere to be found. He probably went to bed and forgot to turn the light off.
I wonder how he sleeps at night. That's not something we've talked about.
I sip my water slowly and rest my eyes on the glow across from my house, searching for movement of any kind - but there's none. I give up my hunt for Peeta eventually and set the half-empty glass in the sink, then turn around to put my back to the window. I don't want to go back upstairs, but sleeping on the couch won't do me any favors. Opening the front door to stand on the porch and reorient myself with the world will only let cold air in that I don't need more of. So, my only choice is to head back upstairs.
I climb the stairs as slowly as I descended them and pass Prim's old room without looking in this time. I keep my head ducked, my chin pressed to my chest, and only look up once I've reached my bed.
When I lift my eyes, I see the same yellow from before. But this time it's not just coming from Peeta's kitchen, it's coming from his bedroom too. His bedroom that's right across from mine, as our houses are mirror images of each other. And this time, I can see him.
He's sitting on the edge of his bed, one foot on the floor, the titanium portion of his leg resting beside him. I can see him as clear as day, since the room is so bright, and he has a book open on his lap as he leans forward onto his elbows. His eyebrows are low, eyes concentrated, as he studies the page with heavy focus.
I stand at my window and watch him in silence for a moment. Seeing him like that, peaceful, relaxed, brings the same feelings washing over me. It allows me to sit down on my bed and eventually lie flat, and when I close my eyes, I fall back to sleep soundly until morning.
…
When I wake up the next day, I feel more rested than I have in weeks. My eyes aren't sore and my muscles don't protest when I stretch, and I don't even have the urge to kick Buttercup away from where he's nestled in the bend of my knees.
The clouds are low outside, and a deep gray color that threatens much more than the drizzle coming down right now. There's no hope of getting outside today, so I let myself stay in bed. It's a temptation I'd like to give into every day, but on sunny days Sae and her granddaughter typically force me out to at least breathe some fresh air from the porch.
Not today, though. Today, I sit up and glance around the room, unbothered by the chill of the rainy morning. It only makes the place under my covers more snug, and I don't plan on moving for the entire day - that is, until I realize that I don't have much to do just sitting here.
A couple weeks ago, my mother sent me a pair of fine knitting needles and a wide array of colorful yarn. She taught me to knit when I was small and it's a skill I never lost, but back then I never had the patience for it like Prim did. The two of th would sit in front of the fire for hours, expertly crafting anything they put their mind to. I think I finished only one project, and it was a pair of mittens that crunched even my sister's tiny fingers.
But now, I have no other option but patience. Nothing else calls me. The woods don't beckon and they haven't for months. I haven't worked up the gumption to head out there since returning to 12, no matter how strongly Sae encourages me to go. I won't show my face in the square. The furthest I've been is Haymitch's house on the other side of Peeta's, but he typically doesn't wake up until dinnertime. The yarn is my best bet today.
I reach for it and Buttercup opens his eyes to slits, tail twitching. "Don't even think about it," I say, gathering the orange yarn that had been balled up by the needles. He's not young, but he still has a penchant for playthings. If he tries to make a toy out of my project, though, he'll get booted off the bed and he knows that. He closes his eyes and deems napping a better choice.
It takes me a moment to find a rhythm, but eventually I do. The clicking of the needles paired with the patter of the rain on the windows lulls me into a hypnotic state, a muted, sleepy concentration that I haven't felt for years. It's nice to be doing something with my hands, creating something that I can see and feel.
I still don't know how to measure, but it still feels good to watch what I'm making come to life.
I'm not sure how long I sit there in bed, clicking away, before I finish. The final product is some sort of hat, one fit for cold weather, and it's a brash, somewhat offensive, bright orange. I give it a once-over, trading it between my hands, before placing it on my own head. It slips down to cover my eyes and I sigh; I try to push it up to rest somewhere near my eyebrows, but it won't stay and continues to impede my vision.
It's not going to work for me, but I don't want it to go to waste. With the weather getting colder, someone should make use of it. Peeta, maybe, could make use of it. He likes the color orange.
I wonder to myself if that was the reason I chose this yarn specifically out of the myriad of colors my mother sent, but I'm not sure either way.
I change into a pair of soft pants and a loose sweater, keeping the hat close to my chest as I slip my boots on and head towards the front door. Something jumps in my stomach, then my chest - I'm not sure what it is - but I'm wondering what Peeta will think about my gift. I'm in such a hurry to leave my house that I forego my typical braid before walking out the door and leave my hair down.
The rain has slowed to less than a sprinkle, and I can see Peeta sitting on his porch from my own steps. The soft earth doesn't make a sound as I traipse across his yard, and as I get a bit closer I see that he's asleep with his head slumped forward, arms crossed over his chest.
I stand at the bottom of his front steps for a long beat, hoping my presence alone will wake him. It doesn't. No matter how hard I stare, the only movement coming from him is that of his shoulders rising and falling as he breathes.
I don't want to scare him by tapping him awake, and something prohibits me from using my voice. So, instead, I act rashly and hurry up the stairs, simply slipping the hat onto Peeta's sleeping head in one swift motion before taking a big step backwards.
He wakes up startled anyway, but doesn't react outwardly. I see it mostly in his eyes and the way that he flinches, surprised by the feeling of something foreign on his head.
"Katniss," he says, blinking hard. His voice is hoarse with sleep and I wonder how long he's been dozing out here in the chilly rain.
"It was too big for me," I say, spitting out the words with no context. Peeta reaches up and feels the garment on his head, running his fingers over the lumpy yarn patterns. I need practice. "And you like orange."
He takes it off, but only for a short moment so he can get a good look at it. After turning it over in his hands, he puts it back on his head and gives me a small smile, saying, "Thanks."
I nod and say, "You shouldn't sleep outside."
"This will keep me warm," he says, touching the hat again. Another smile, too, and it comes so easily. Even after all he's been through, his smiles still come easily. I wonder how it's possible that he's still so good.
"You still shouldn't," I say softly, crossing my arms and turning around to head back down the steps.
When I get back to my own house, everything is as quiet as I left it. Buttercup has made his way downstairs and is monitoring the weather from his favorite armchair. I don't have it in me to keep knitting today, and there's nothing more to do. The house suddenly feels cavernous, ten times its actual size, and I am so alone.
I realize that I was lighter in the three minutes that I was standing across from Peeta than I have been in days. The weight that rests perpetually on my shoulders wasn't quite as noticeable and I got to think about something other than my misery for a little while.
I glance out my kitchen window and see that he's still on his porch. Awake now, but in the same chair, the hat still on his head. It doesn't fit him all that great, either. Whereas it was too big for me, it comes close to being too small for him. But he lets it stay.
We've been here as neighbors, tentative friends - if you could call our relationship that - for a few months. I'm not quite sure how many. When he planted the primroses, it was late summer and now it's getting to be early winter. We speak once every few days, I'm comfortable in his presence - comfortable enough that I wonder why I'm alone right now. Why am I not with him?
There's nothing stopping me. There are no cameras, there aren't even any other people around to see or judge. It's just me and him, which is exactly what I used to want. And now that I have it, I'm not sure what to do - we're entirely different people, in more ways than just one.
I stand by the front door and rest my hand on the doorknob, inhaling deeply before turning it and walking outside again. I keep my head down as I walk the familiar path to his house, the path I walked just moments before, and clear my throat once I reach his steps for the second time today.
"Are you eating?" I ask, meeting his eyes.
I remember the way he used to look before the Games. The image of him at 16 is still so clear in my mind. I suppose it wasn't that long ago - a handful of years, two or three, but a lifetime has passed since. His shoulders were bulky, his biceps so large I would never be able to wrap a hand around them. Not that I would have tried. Not that I thought about it. Much.
Now, he's slight. He doesn't look as gaunt as he did when he first came back from the Capitol, thankfully, but he's nowhere near the filled-out boy that worked in the bakery alongside his family. His angles are sharper, his cheekbones defined, and his chest not quite as sturdy. He still has plenty on me in terms of size, but I'm still allowed to wonder if he's eating.
"Yes," he says.
"What sorts of things?"
"Bread," he says with a grin.
"Just bread?" I ask, my voice tinged with worry.
"No, not just bread," he says. "Other things. Odds and ends."
"You should eat more. Better. You should have meat."
He shrugs lightly and says, "Not much of that around here."
For the first time since I've been back, I have the undeniable urge to provide. To hunt. To bring back something that will nourish us both. "I can get some," I say.
I haven't used my bow in a long time. I'm sure it will take no practice at all, it's an extension of me at this point. But being rusty isn't what I'm afraid of. The memories are more daunting than any lost skill I might suffer.
"You need it," I tell him.
"You, too," he says.
I shrug one shoulder, conceding. I know I need it, too. But when it comes to supplying food, the instinct to do so for someone else is much stronger than doing it for myself.
"I'll go tomorrow," I say.
"I'll come with you," he says.
I shoot him a look. "You will?" I ask.
"Do you not want me to?" he asks. "I'll be loud, I know. Maybe I should stay back."
"No," I say quickly. "Come. You can come."
He nods and I continue to linger - for reasons unknown even to myself. But I don't want to go back home, to the place where I'm welcomed only by Buttercup. Not if Peeta doesn't come with me, that is. But maybe he'd like to stay here. And if he'd like that, I would too.
Letting myself think like this is intimidating and overwhelming, but keeping the thoughts at bay is almost worse. There's no reason to isolate myself when the only person who understands what I've been through lives right next to me. He's my life raft and I'm his. Why haven't I been holding onto him?
"Katniss," Peeta says, jolting me from my thoughts. "Do you want to come inside and eat with me?"
Only then do I notice my growling stomach and realize how hungry I am. He's looking at me with such hopefulness and purity in his eyes, and I don't have any inclination to turn him down. So, I nod. And we head inside his house together.
…
I haven't cooked with someone since the last time Prim and I did so in my mother's kitchen, and going through the motions with Peeta brings me the same homey feeling - although I haven't improved at all over the years. He's been trying his hand at making his own pasta, which is a multi-step process that I have no idea how he thought of, and he's proud to show me.
"You can roll them into any shape you want," he says, leaning forward and forming a strand of dough into something that resembles a long worm. "I haven't gotten very creative yet."
I continue to watch him. I keep my eyes trained on the muscles of his forearms; I can see, as he manipulates the dough, that they're still powerful. But while it's clear he still has the brute force I once knew him for, his fingers are deft and precise as well. His duality impresses me.
"You try," he says, and I think he caught me staring because there's a glint in his eyes that wasn't there before.
My cheeks heat up and I try not to draw attention to my blush as he hands me a lump of dough. It's not soft but it's not hard, either, and I don't feel self-conscious as I wonder what to do with it as Peeta is busy with his own long strands of pasta.
With my lithe fingers, I pick apart the dough and form something much smaller than what he's done. When he looks over, I hold it in the palm of my hand and say, "A spider."
He laughs. I can't remember the last time I heard him laugh and it makes me smile. A real smile, so rare that it feels foreign on my face.
"I like that," he says softly, and I set it next to his finished products.
I make a few other kinds of bugs because I found that I can form small details in a way that he can't. I create a beetle, a caterpillar, a pillbug, and an ant. Peeta is more prolific than I am, but once again I'm just happy to be doing something with my hands. It gives my brain a break from going over the negative thoughts that it loves to dwell on.
Peeta cooks the pasta, promising me that he'll teach me how to do that on a night I feel up to it, and I clean up our work area as the water boils. When we sit down, I eat until I can't eat anymore and my stomach feels full for the first time in ages. My head is clear, I'm pleasantly tired, and nothing on the forefront of my mind pains me. It's a wonder what good food will do. I always forget that.
When Peeta starts to yawn, the good feeling that I held after dinner starts to fade as I realize that he'll need to sleep soon and so will I. I would have no idea how to go about asking him to stay here, to do as little as sleep on the couch, so there's no other option than to return back to my cold, empty house with only the cat for company.
I tell myself that I'll come back tomorrow and morning will be here soon. But the irrational part of my brain tells me that it's not soon enough, and I don't want to leave him.
I have to, though, and I know that. We spent most of the day together today. I can't be irrational and greedy. I've handled plenty of nights on my own before this, albeit poorly, and there's no reason I can't do it now.
"I should go," I say to Peeta's back as he kneels and stokes the fire in the living room.
He looks over his shoulder, and for a moment he seems surprised. But as quickly as the expression rose on his face, it disappears into something more accepting. "Okay," he says.
"I'll be… I can come back tomorrow," I say, wringing my hands.
"Of course you will," he says, his expression softening into a smile. "We're going hunting. Remember?"
I nod once, firmly, and say, "Right."
"Sleep well, Katniss," he says.
I take one step towards the door, still stalling - embarrassingly so. "I'll try. I saw your light last night. It helped me."
He turns from the fire again and gives me a quizzical look. "You must have been up late," he says.
"A nightmare," I say quietly, almost not wanting to allow the word to pass my lips. "But I saw you reading, and it helped."
"Oh," he says. "Well, I'm glad."
I nod again, just as firm, then say, "Okay. Goodnight, Peeta."
…
There's no getting away from the nightmares, even after such a good day. I wake up violently, in the way I always do, my spine ramrod straight as I struggle to catch my breath. I press one hand to my forehead, willing my pulse to slow, but it refuses as I wonder if I'm awake or still in the nightmare that's quickly slipping from memory.
I shake my head to clear it and rub my eyes until a sunburst of color catches my attention from outside the window. The night is still pitch black, but once again Peeta's window glows yellow.
I look closer to try and see him, to find out if he's up reading or struggling with nightmares like I am, but he's doing neither of those things. He's lying flat, turned on his side, facing the window. From where I sit, I can clearly see that he's sleeping - soundly, too, at that. His eyes are closed and his body is relaxed, and he's completely at ease. It's comforting to see him like that, given the fact that he obviously didn't sleep last night.
But he kept his light on. Even though he's sound asleep, his light is on.
It's not the time, so I don't question it. Instead, I let it do what it's there to do - which is bring me down from the panic I'd worked myself into. I lie down on my side, just like Peeta, and keep my eyes on his light until I can't hold them open anymore.
