The next morning, Peeta and Haymitch join me for breakfast again. This time, Peeta comes bearing a braided loaf of sweet-tasting bread with golden raisins in it. It is absolutely delicious. The three of us eat, and while we are still mostly quiet, more conversation starts to make its way in. Peeta and Haymitch argue playfully about who is the better chess strategist, I comment snidely on Haymitch's lack of personal hygiene, things almost feel...normal. This pattern becomes routine for us over the next week or so; we meet at my home for breakfast, go our separate ways during the day, and sometimes reunite at either my place or Peeta's for dinner. The routine is good for us, I think. Peeta likes being able to get up early and have someone to bake for. It reminds him of his life at the bakery before all of this, and it helps ground him. Haymitch can't get quite so drunk at night if he has somewhere to be in the morning - though it doesn't stop him from trying - and I need as much motivation as I can get to get up out of bed in the morning.
One day, Peeta and Haymitch end up staying at my house later than usual because of Peeta's suggestion that it would be a good laugh to all watch the premiere of Plutarch's new singing show together. He is absolutely right. Plutarch had mentioned to me that he was planning this show, but no part of me could have predicted the level of sheer ridiculousness it could possibly rise to. The costumes, the sets, the histrionics of those who get eliminated - it is all just utterly absurd. I guess the people of the Capitol still need entertainment - and there's no question I'd rather them be watching this than the Games - but I truly do not see the appeal of programming like this at all. Peeta and Haymitch agree with me, though, so it is actually fun to watch with them and insult it all. Peeta is still deeply good at heart, and he's undone so much of the damage the hijacking did to this goodness, but his humor has hardened a little bit, and he can appreciate teasing in good fun in a way I'm not sure he would have before. I like it. It helps me relate to him more. He and I trade snide remarks back and forth, especially about the judges, who are the most extreme example of Capitolite extravagance imaginable.
"Oh, now that makes Effie look tame," he comments, pointing out what may just be the tallest wig I have ever seen. I laugh slightly, and he turns and smiles at me. We haven't made a lot of direct eye contact recently. Usually I turn away; for some reason, I've associated even the most basic of connection with being too intimate. But looking at him now, I'm comforted by the familiar blue of his eyes. We just look at each other for a minute, him with a slight smile on his face, until the door opens. Haymitch walks back into the house, and I hadn't even realized that he'd left.
"What?" he asks, noticing the shocked look on both of our faces.
"You left?" Peeta asks, looking a strange mix of surprised and hurt. "Where did you go?"
"I just went back home for a bottle," Haymitch says, holding up the half-empty bottle of white liquor in his hand. "I couldn't handle any more of this garbage sober, and I thought maybe the two of you might even partake with me. I was only gone five minutes." Peeta pulls further away from me on the sofa.
"I'm sorry," he says, turning to me. "I should have noticed he went, and I should have gone with."
"Peeta, you didn't do anything -" I start, but he cuts me off.
"No, no it isn't safe for me to be alone with you. I could hurt you. I should have noticed and been more careful, I'm sorry."
"Kid," Haymitch starts, sighing a bit and walking over to put his hand on Peeta's shoulder. "You've got to stop punishing yourself before you even do anything wrong."
"No!" Peeta says, turning to Haymitch and raising his voice slightly. "I'm the one here who could hurt her, hurt you even, and so it should be my responsibility to make sure I don't! I shouldn't have let this happen." Haymitch and I just look back and forth between each other with shock in our eyes. The only time I can remember pre-hijacking Peeta raising his voice at us was when we were in 11 on the Victory Tour, and he realized that he had endangered people without knowing it because we had lied to him. He gets mad when he thinks he's hurting people. Peeta gets up off the couch and walks towards the door. He opens it, and then turns to me before walking out.
"I'm sorry," he finally says, and then turns and leaves. I look at Haymitch imploringly, and he sighs and sits down next to me. I didn't really think Peeta was still so worried about hurting me. He's seemed so normal when we've eaten together this past week. But I realize now that we've not talked about anything substantive. We've chatted, joked, watched TV, but we haven't actually talked on any meaningful level about how either of us are doing. It's pretty obvious with me that I'm still affected; my hair is in knots, I don't change my clothes as often as I should, I don't tend to cook for myself. But he's always been better at putting on a show than I am. I should have realized that just because he was looking well doesn't necessarily mean he feels that way. He and Haymitch have seen each other more, though, and I think he must have a deeper understanding about how Peeta is feeling than I do. We lock eyes and I know he sees the question in mine. We never really needed words.
"He still blames himself," Haymitch starts. "The kid feels so much guilt for what Snow made him do. He can't seem to disconnect some of what he did with how much Snow fucked with his head."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"You don't blame him for choking you that first night, do you?" I shake my head, and I mean it. I was surprised and hurt at the time, sure, but that's just because I didn't understand. None of that was Peeta, that was the Mutt that Snow created. It wasn't his fault at all. I know that.
"Right," Haymitch says, nodding. "You don't blame him. But he does. He thinks that he should have been able to stop it, somehow. I think he knows, somewhere, that it's absurd. He was so broken when we got him back. It took so long for him to remember who he was, and no one could have done it any better after what they put him through. But he still beats himself up over it all. Especially over killing Mitchell. He hasn't gotten over any part of that. I know it haunts him. And he's scared that something will set him off, and he'll hurt you again. He doesn't trust himself."
It makes me sad, hearing all of this. I know what that guilt feels like; I feel it for Cinna, for Boggs, the Leegs, Jackson, Finnick, Prim, all the people who died, directly or indirectly, because they believed in me. He shouldn't feel that way about me, not at all. I don't think I could stop him feeling that way about Mitchell, even if it isn't really fair on him, but I don't want any of his guilt to come from me.
"But they wouldn't have sent him home without a guardian if they thought he was going to kill me," I say, trying to defend Peeta against the attack that is only coming from within himself. "I mean, what was all that time in Capitol therapy for, if they couldn't help him get more comfortable?"
"He is doing better," Haymitch says. "He still flashes sometimes, they don't know if that'll ever go away, but he keeps control of himself a lot better. He doesn't get lost the way he used to. The head doctors think that, even in the worst possible flash, he might be in total mental anguish, but he wouldn't hurt you, or anyone. That he would remember who he is."
"Well good!" I say, slightly angry for no discernable reason. "Then he shouldn't beat himself up about it!" Haymitch just shakes his head.
"You don't have to tell me that, sweetheart. I agree. You have to get that through his head." We sit side by side in silence for a minute, before Haymitch gets up to go.
Later that night, I lie in bed thinking about Peeta. I don't know how I can help him get through this, but I want to. I've done too much damage to too many people already, I don't want to hurt him more because he's afraid to hurt me. That doesn't do anyone any good. I drift off into an unsettled sleep, thinking about pain, guilt, and loss.
I find myself on the streets of the Capitol. Everything is happening at once. I see Boggs, legs blown off, bleeding out. I see Finnick being ripped apart by Mutts. I see Mitchell trapped in the net, covered in oil. I see Prim, burning, burning, burning. I try to run, to help them, any of them, but I'm frozen in place. Then the scenes get worse. Their loved ones are there. Bogg's daughter is standing next to him, tears spilling from her eyes, trying to cling to her father. Annie hovers over Finnick, hysterical with sobs. He's trying to comfort her, but he's fading fast. Mitchell's wife reaches out for him, but is pushed further away the more she tries. My mother watches Prim from afar, the life draining from her eyes. I see her growing despondent on the spot, she's losing her daughter and herself at the same time. I thrash desperately, trying to break free of whatever invisible thing is holding me in place. I want to run to her, but I can't. There is nothing I can do but watch the horrible scenes playing out before my eyes.
I wake up, thrashing and screaming and tangled in my sheets. It takes me a few minutes before I realize where I am, that I am not in the Capitol, and that those people are gone. I take shallow breaths, and try to steady my breathing. I get up and fill the glass by my bedside with water from the sink in the bathroom before settling in on my window seat. I stare out at Peeta's house. His lights are off. I hope he's getting some sleep, although it doesn't seem all that likely.
The realization hits me, relatively suddenly, that what I want more than anything right now is to crawl into his bed, and have him calm me in his arms like he used to. It's not romantic, it never was. He's just able to comfort me in ways no one else can. I want to walk one house over and find him in the dark. I want him to wrap his arms around me and tell me it will be ok. But I can't. He doesn't want that. He doesn't want to hurt me, so he doesn't want to be alone with me. The irony is not lost on me that the only way he is hurting me is by not being alone with me, but I know I can't push him on this. It would be selfish, and not fair to him at all. Besides, I don't even know if he remembers comforting me all those nights on the train. All we ever did was hold each other and sleep, but the things he said in 13 made it seem like the Capitol reworked his memories so he thought other things had happened. I don't know if all of those memories are still too shiny for him to have worked out or not. So I won't go to him. Instead I just stare out the window, thinking about all the walls, physical and mental, that separate me and the boy with the bread.