Despite Peeta's anger at himself, he still shows up at my house for breakfast the next morning, bread in hand. He's cheerful and acts like nothing's happened, but I see him tapping his false leg anxiously on the floor until Haymitch shows up a few minutes later. We manage to fall back into our old routine though, and things start to feel normal again. I pay a little more attention now to Peeta's behavior, trying to gauge how he's feeling at any given moment. I come to appreciate just how much he must be masking himself, because if I didn't know better I would think he was fine. He jokes with Haymitch, he laughs at the TV, he brings me different baked goods each day and starts to re-learn what I like best. He's as considerate as ever, and the only noticeable difference an acquaintance might see between the old Peeta and the one that sits on my couch today is that the new Peeta is a little more reserved; he seems slightly more nervous around strangers than he used to be, and he favors quiet spaces more than he once did, but he can get over both of those issues quickly when he needs to.
A couple weeks pass, and I don't find myself alone with Peeta at any point. To me it seems to be happening naturally, but I'm sure to him it's quite intentional, and that even in the most relaxing of circumstances he feels he has to be on alert to prevent us from finding ourselves in that situation. I honestly don't know what I want to happen. During the day, I don't feel bad about only being with him when Haymitch or someone else is around. I've spent time with him and Delly once or twice, and it was far more tolerable than I would have expected. Sometimes he'll cook with Sae and I'll watch, and it's nice. I don't really crave that much more, and it all feels natural. But far too often at night I wake up screaming and just want him. I can't honestly say that I know what to make of it. All I know is that the feeling, whatever it is, is there.
Tonight Haymitch and I are going over to Peeta's for dinner. He said he's cooking some kind of old family recipe that his dad had taught him. I'm not sure what it is, but I can only imagine it will be wonderful. Haymitch knocks on my door and I greet him. He had asked me to walk over with him, which I can only imagine was done on Peeta's behest. Still, I can't complain. It's raining hard tonight; the weather has grown continuously wetter as winter thaws into spring. Haymitch and I make our way through the rain and mud to Peeta's door.
"Hi," Peeta says, opening the door with a happy expression on his face. He's wearing an apron around his waist and has an oven mitt on one of his hands. I can't help but smile when I see him. He just looks so in his element. "Come on in." He beckons us into the doorway, and Haymitch and I each deposit our muddy boots on his step. I walk into Peeta's house, which looks exactly like mine, like Haymitch's, and like every other home in Victor's Village, except that right now his kitchen is filled to the brim with pots and pans. He has two different ones simmering away on the stove, as well as some sort of dish that he keeps checking in the oven, and a bowl of greens on the counter. He's objectively cooked way too much for the three of us, but I know it makes him happy.
"How many people were you expecting, boy?" Haymitch comments jokingly, clearly thinking along the same lines as I am.
"I know, I know," Peeta says, rolling his eyes as he walks hurriedly between the sink and the stove. "I know it's too much, but I just couldn't help it. I'm used to cooking this meal for a family of five." I don't think Peeta even notices - he's too focussed on his cooking - but the mood in the room shifts immensely at that. I look to Haymitch and can tell he's thinking the same thing I am. Peeta would cook this for a family of five. Four of those people, every one of them except him, are now dead. I think that this is going to hit Peeta at some point, and it's going to hurt him. In an effort to try and prolong that reality, I start making conversation.
"So," I say, walking over to the stove to stand next to Peeta. "What exactly are you making for this feast?" He chuckles a bit while cracking some pepper into the pot.
"It's a chicken stew, primarily," he says, and I realize now that I can identify chicken in the wonderful aroma coming out of the pot. "It's got onions, potatoes, and carrots too. We could hardly ever afford to make this, only for really special occasions or when things at the bakery had been going particularly well, like maybe after the Harvest Festival. I'm also baking some garlic dinner rolls, they go really well with it. And then the salad was just, I don't know, because I could, I guess. There were some really nice greens coming in off the train today, so I just figured that I might as well." Whatever his reasoning might have been, everything looks absolutely amazing. Haymitch and I settle in at the table while Peeta finishes up the cooking. When he's done, Haymitch and I pop up to help him carry over the many dishes and tareens he has prepared, but he waves us away, indicating we should stay seated. I vaguely remember him telling me one night on the train that setting up the table was always his job back home. I don't know if he even remembers that or if it just feels natural from somewhere within him. Soon all the dishes are on the table and Peeta sits down.
"Go ahead and serve yourselves," Peeta says, a slight look of apprehension on his face as he waits for us to try his cooking. "It's all family style." Haymitch serves himself first and I follow, and eventually Peeta has a full plate as well. I taste the stew first, and it is utterly, unfairly delicious. I think I let out a small moan, and Peeta laughs, a look of triumph and satisfaction on his face.
"Good?" he asks.
"Unbelievably," I say through a mouthful of stew. Haymitch nods his head vigorously in agreement, not wanting to slow down long enough to say anything. We eat everything, until we're scraping the last bits of the sauce off our plates with the rolls. I think briefly that Effie would be upset at our lack of manors, but no part of me cares. We finish up and lean back in our chairs, lounging with full bellies.
"I'm glad you both liked it," Peeta says. "It made me happy to cook it."
"We can tell," Haymitch says, and I nod. Peeta smiles.
"It makes me think of my dad, but not in the sad way that I usually do. When I cook or bake something that he taught me, it feels like he's beside me again. Usually when I think about him I just get so upset about losing him. It's nice to feel him in something joyful for a change. He was a joyful man, he deserves to be remembered in that way. I don't know if that makes sense." I look him in the eyes for the first time since that day we were alone together.
"It absolutely does," I say, not breaking our gaze. "I feel that way when I'm in the woods, especially at the lake. Being out there with my bow, I feel my dad in that. It's the place where I remember him best." Peeta smiles at me and nods.
"I'm glad you have that," I say to him. "It doesn't get rid of the hurt, not by any stretch. But it helps."
"Yeah," Peeta says, squeezing my hand quickly. I think it's the first time we've shared any real physical contact since we hugged the first day he returned. I like it. The moment is quick, though, and the two of us get up to do the dishes. I wash and Peeta dries. Even Haymitch chips in and helps clear the table, clearly mollified by the wonderful meal.
I sit on Peeta's couch and turn on the TV. The news broadcast is still on, and I tune out the words. Haymitch sits down next to me as Peeta puts the last of the dishes back in the cupboard. The reporters on screen are new tonight, I think, or at least I don't recognize them. It's two blonde women, both dressed like Capitolites but without too much alteration besides makeup and clothing. They're practically identical, they must be sisters at least, if not twins. I feel a pang in my chest, as they remind me starkly of the Leegs. That's when I hear a plate clash and clatter on the floor, and I know Peeta has had the same thought that I did. I turn around and see him, standing by the broken plate on the floor, all the muscles in his body tensed. His eyes are locked on the screen, but when I look at them I see that the pupils are expanding and contracting at a rapid and unnatural raate.
"Peeta," I say, getting up and making my way towards him slowly. "Peeta, it's ok."
"Katniss," Haymitch says warningly. He gets up too and tries to grab my sleeve, but I avoid him easily. I walk slowly to Peeta, trying not to startle him. He starts muttering to himself. I'm not sure what he's saying. He could be repeating phrases he knows to keep himself here, like I did when I was despondent in 13, or he could be reciting whatever rhetoric Snow planted into his brain. He grabs the top of the stool that sits at the kitchen counter and grips it as if it were the only thing tethering him to life. His knuckles turn white, and I can see the muscles straining in his arms. Frankly, I'm surprised the chair holds. He's incredibly strong, and he's using all his power on it.
"Peeta look at me," I say, my voice calm. He doesn't comply, though. I'm not even sure if he hears me.
"You're alright, boy," Haymitch says. "You're at home. Whatever you're seeing, none of it is real."
"Peeta," I repeat. I'm now right beside him. He's still muttering, and I realize that his body is shaking with effort and exertion. Without thinking, I grab his head in my hands and turn it so his eyes meet mine. I hear Haymitch make a noise of objection, but I ignore him.
"Peeta," I say, looking directly into his eyes, which are almost black right now with the size of his pupils. "Not real. Not real. I don't know where you're living right now in your mind, but I know the hell that you've been through and I know you could be in a really dark place. I haven't even been hijacked, and I wake up screaming every night because of the visions in my head. They can be everything we've experienced, but worse, altered somehow to be even more devastating. I can't even begin to imagine what it must be like for you right now. I'm sure you're seeing something about the Leegs, but even more horrible than what really happened to them, which was pretty horrible to begin with. Maybe their deaths are on repeat and over again. Maybe you think you killed them. Maybe you think I killed them. But whatever horrible thing you're seeing, that isn't real, Peeta. Not real. You're in District 12. You're with me and Haymitch. You just cooked one of the best meals I've ever had in my life, and you thought of your father while doing it. You loved him. You love people so well. That's what's real Peeta. That's what's real."
I watch his eyes as his pupils contract, more slowly this time. They shrink to a size far too small, and then grow again and rebalance at normal. A look of recognition flashes onto Peeta's eyes, and he collapses onto the floor.
"I'm so sorry," he says, his arms wrapped around his legs and his head buried in his knees. I can see he's still shaking. "I'm so, so sorry." I drop down beside him and wrap him into my arms. I don't know if that's what he wants, but frankly I don't care. I think it's what he needs.
"You don't have to apologize for anything," I say, trying to stop him from trembling.
"No no no no," he mutters, his voice shaky and still slightly disjointed. "I could have hurt you. And you shouldn't have had to see that. You shouldn't have to take care of me, you need to take care of yourself. You shouldn't-" I cut him off by shushing him in the most soothing way I can. Haymitch drops down next to us and pats Peeta on his knee.
"The girl's right," he says, in one of the most gentle voices I've ever heard from him. "You don't need to apologize for this. We've all got our shit. We're not healthy, not one of us. We've just gotta be there for each other however we can. You don't need to be ashamed." The three of us just sit in silence for a long while, and I hold Peeta until his trembling starts to die down. Finally his breathing steadies, and I feel the muscles in his body start to relax.
"You're ok," I say to him. It's not a question, it's a statement. "You're ok." Peeta looks up at me, and the expression in his eyes is utterly heartbreaking. There's sadness, terror, regret, sorrow, pain, guilt, and so many more layers. I want to fix him, so badly, and I have no idea how.
"I'm going to go to sleep," Peeta says. I can tell his body is exhausted from the way he carries himself as he gets up off the ground. I think the flashing takes a lot out of him. When I saw him flash during the war, when he killed Mitchell, he passed out afterward.
"Good idea, kid," Haymitch says. "You need me, you come get me. No excuses." Peeta smiles sadly and nods at Haymitch before heading upstairs. I clean up the pieces of the broken plate wordlessly, and then the two of us leave Peeta's house together.
"I..." I try to start as we stand outside together. The rain has stopped now, but our feet still stick in the muddy ground. "I hadn't seen...I didn't..." I can't get the words out.
"I know," Haymitch says. "He didn't want you to."
"Is he going to be ok?" I finally get out.
"Yeah, sweetheart. I think he'll be fine." Haymitch pats my shoulder, and we both return to our separate homes, the brokenness of our lives feeling more apparent than ever.