Soft, yet pliable. Some tension, but still a bit of give. That's what it feels like to bite into a hand. Katniss is amazed at the ease in which her teeth break through the skin. Her tongue feels the roughness of his exposed skin. She spits out the chunk of skin she's bitten off, and feels rage tinged with guilt. Why won't he leave her? Why won't he let her go? She had it all planned out, and he's ruined it.

Sharp, painful, but soon the pain goes away. He looks and sees a chunk of his hand is missing, but yet he feels nothing. That's not true. He feels so much, too much. But it's all in his heart. He feels so much for her. Hatred, anger, love, helplessness. He can't let her go. Not one part of him can.

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Feral. Wild. Inhuman. Those are the words she thinks she hears Sae call her, when she's speaking to someone on the phone. Her mother? Plutarch? Peeta? Dr. Aurelius? She doesn't know and she doesn't care. She's a wild animal in a cage. No one can touch her, no one can get close to her. She would be better off let loose in the forest with the wild dogs. She's no better than they are, really. But she's still, with all of this, still Katniss. Sae can still see that fierce girl underneath. The eyes may appear dead, but she's still alive.

Skittish, claustrophobic, nervous. No one can get near him, let alone near enough to touch him. He jumps at the quietest sound, snarls at the softest voice. And in the evening, when he's supposed to be asleep, he's been known to call out for his mother. Dr. Aurelius works hard to figure out the best form of treatment. Not only was he hijacked, but he still suffers from PTSD from two Hunger Games and being a prisoner of war. He also suffers from a childhood in District 12: a mother who may not have been the most positive influence and a father who just stood by. But there is something else there, something undefinable that shines through. And it's enough to give him hope.

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She's been alone for so long. First in her room in the training center, where they held her in solitary confinement through all of those weeks of the trial, then in 12 where she's been banished. There are bursts of people, but they just bring noise and food. She hasn't been touched in so long, she's not sure if she even remembers what it feels like.

He wishes they'd stop touching him. Poking and prodding, taking blood. Taking everything but never giving. He's tired of people touching him, but wishes to be held. What is wrong with him?

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The chair she sits in is made of wood. If it were made of cloth, surely it would have formed a cocoon around her by this point. But because it is wood, it is hard and unforgiving. She might have a splinter in her hand, she doesn't know and she doesn't care. She just sits there, in the hard wooden chair, the heat from the fire dying out and leaving her cold. A feeling she's quite used to.

The seats on the train are made of velvet. So smooth to the touch. The handles on the chairs are made of wood, most of them are polished to a high shine, but he finds the one part that isn't, and his finger aches with the splinter that's embedded itself. He doesn't mind though. It keeps him just enough on edge, just enough awake. He's afraid what might happen if he falls asleep. The ride to 12 takes the same amount of time it did the first time he made this journey forever and a lifetime ago- when he was reaped. He stares out the window, rubbing the spot on his hand. He will be home soon. Whatever that means.

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Moving from the chair to the sofa was remarkably easy in some ways, remarkably difficult in others. She likes that chair though, it doesn't remember her. There is no evidence, in the solid wood, that she sat there. She thinks about that. If she were to disappear, where would the evidence of her existence be? In the air? In the ground? Anywhere? Oh yes, it would be in the voices and experiences of those she's left in her destructive wake. She moves her hand along the fabric of this couch. It's bumpy. Rough, but not hard. It's forgiving. Forgiving. Interesting thought. She's not too sure how she feels about that. She drifts off into that neverland of sleep.

The shovel feels heavy in his hand, the metal handle is cold to his touch, but the wooden shaft is smooth and warm. He puts his foot on the blade and shoves it into the dirt. The clay under his feet is hard, but smooth. He thought there might be more rocks, more resistance, but he's pleasantly surprised at the ease the shovel has breaking the earth. It doesn't take much time before the wheelbarrow is filled with the plants he was determined to find.

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The door opens rather easily, she decides. Must be a sign that she, too, is a ghost. Just like those in her dream, shovelling ashes on her grave. Perhaps she's gone through the door instead of opening it? She feels nothing but the gush of air as she runs after the sound that haunts her waking dream. She stops abruptly though. If that's a ghost in front of her, it's a very solid one.

The earth is cool and damp to the touch. The clay dirt is still wet from melting snow and from rain. Spring is in the air though, he can feel it. He plants the primroses one by one, revelling in the feel of dirt under his nails. His mother would be appalled. No baker should have dirty nails. Sends a wrong message to the public. He looks up, noticing a disturbance in the ions surrounding him. She's as quiet as ever. And underneath her despair that shows from her every pour, she's still as fierce and beautiful.

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The lock is smooth and cool, and latches with a loud click. Does it keep the ghosts out or in? Probably in. She rushes up the stairs, stubbing her toe on the top. The pain is the most real thing she's felt in months. Suddenly it all becomes clear- the evil is inside, in her room. She picks up the vase, firm in her hand, runs down the stairs, and destroys Snow once and for all.

He continues to plant the flowers, notices the weight of the now empty wheelbarrow, and goes home.

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She didn't realize how dirty she was, until she was clean.

Methodically he cleans the dirt from his hands, from under his nails.

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The first time she held her bow in her hands it almost feels like a foreign object. After using the one Beetee designed these are so simple. Rudimentary. She's going back to the basics. Back to herself. She wonders if she'll like who she sees inside.

The flour on his hands is dry. Adding water gives it the sticky texture he remembers in the back creases of his mind. Flour. Yeast. Water. He's remembering himself. With every turn of the dough, he remembers.

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She made it to the woods on her own. It was hard to avoid the dead bodies, to avoid the destruction, but as she sits on the rock, solid under her, she has time to think. She wonders what Gale would think of her now, and what she thinks of Gale. Sae says he's in 2. She digs around inside her to see what she feels about that. She decides she's glad, because the Gale of today isn't the Gale she needs to know. She doesn't need his fire, it burns too hotly. She's not sure what she needs, but she has her whole life to figure it out. So she sits and rests and listens and feels.

He picks up the paintbrush that seems to have been quickly discarded. Why didn't he clean it before he left? He throws it in the garbage, it's mottled mess good for nothing now. He looks at his skin in the mirror, another mottled mess. Is he good for anything now? He'll have to think about that. He remembers Delly coming to visit him before he left the Capitol. Her firm grip on his neck as she hugged him, letting him know he was there, she was there. They were all they had left from their childhood, and she was going to make sure he didn't forget. "Don't be a stranger Peeta," she says into his ear. "We didn't come this far to forget. I'll be in 12 soon enough. Be there, and make sure Katniss is too," she declares, then leaves. He feels the tears streak down his cheek, just as they did that day Delly sent him off. She wants him to remember, he wants to forget. Somehow he knows Delly will win this game, just like she always won when they were little. He leaves the painting and goes back to baking. Much safer today.

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She feels sick, dizzy, by the time she makes it back to the fence surrounding the District. She forgot how much effort it takes to walk, let alone walk through the woods. Thom, Gale's former crewmate, finds her there and gives her a ride home. He doesn't say much, which she's grateful for. She doesn't think she can muster up the energy to talk, even if it is just pleasantries. Thom is Seam though. Thom understands.

He loses himself in his baking. Before he knows it, he has a kitchen full of bread and pastries. He can almost feel his mother's grudging approval, "Now you're a baker, boy. Clean it up." He imagines his father off to the side, his brothers laughing into their sleeves. They all leave him alone, mother, father, brothers. Just as in life, they leave him on his own. In their death, he's alone again.

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The pillow she throws at Buttercup is soft, and it's amazing how hard she can throw it. So she throws another pillow, and still another. The damn cat won't leave her alone. She has so many feelings, she can't name any of them. So she cries and feels the insides of her body constrict. She physically mourns her sister, from the inside out.

He picks her up and realizes she feels like next to nothing. He couldn't believe the sounds coming out of her house, but as he ran over, he realized something impossible had happened. Buttercup has returned. He could hear the squeals of the cat, the pounding of objects being thrown. When he enters her living room, he sees her there on the floor. She's curled around herself, exhaustion has taken over. She barely moves as he lifts her and puts her in her bed. Interestingly, he remembers exactly where her room is. That part hasn't been stolen from him. He sets her on the bed, Buttercup following him the whole way, like a partial observer, making sure no harm comes to Katniss. As he turns to close the door, he notices Buttercup at the head of the bed. On guard. Protecting the only thing left of Prim.

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Buttercup is rough and matted, much like Katniss was just yesterday. She cleans him up, and they make a pact. They vow to keep each other alive. For Prim. By the time she is finished, he is soft, and his cuts are treated. She nods at him, "Good enough. Go play." He slowly leaves the room, looking back as if to say, "Thank you."

She opens the letter, cool to the touch. She picks up the phone, it fits perfectly in her hand. Dialing the number, she says one word when the phone is answered, "Mom?" And so it begins, the healing of years.

As the dawn breaks over those smoky mountains, he pulls the loaf of bread out of the oven. It's warm, and solid and tender. It's perfect. He wraps it up in a towel, and heads out the door. Time for breakfast. Time to get on with living.

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"It'll be like my plant book, remember that?" She asks him, and holds the old, worn journal out to him. "We can write down our memories. Dr. Aurlelius thinks it's a good idea, he sent me pages from the Capitol."

"Sure Katniss," he says with a small smile. "I think it'll be great. But you'll have to help me remember." He's still so shy about his memories, about what they did to him.

"I know," she tells him eagerly. "That's one reason I want to do this. I want to do this for you now, but also for us as we get older. We can't forget. Promise me we can't forget!"

So they begin to write a book of memories, and in the process they discover each other once again.

When they get to Gale's page, Peeta holds off, unsure. He stands up as if to leave, but Katniss reaches over and grabs his hand. Her touch is soft, yet determined. "Don't go Peeta. Don't leave me." She can barely look at him for fear he will remember, and leave her. He shakes his head at her, "No Katniss. I'll never leave you again."

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It's the first time she's been to the lake since she's been back. She has been inching her way further and further into the forest each day, so she knew with confidence she could make it here. Spring has been in full bloom for a few weeks, and the weather gives her the confidence she needs to hike deep into the woods. In the boggy areas surrounding the lake she sees them. The arrowhead leaves give them away. Katniss plants. She feels, rather than hears her father, "As long as you can find yourself, you'll never starve Katniss." She takes this in. She's found herself here, at the lake. She feels her father's smile. She is on her way.

He's never really been in the woods before. He doesn't go in too far, and stays close to the path she's trodden. It's an adventure for his senses, but it's his sense of touch that takes over. He feels the bark of the tree, the rough rocks that overlook the valley, the cool dirt and air. He sits on a rock and allows himself to feel the world come to life around him. Later, he's not sure how much because he's obviously fallen asleep, he feels her touch on his arm. "Hey sleepyhead! What are you doing here?" She softly asks.

"Just...feeling the place out," he replies. He moves over so she can sit next to him. They both feel how right it is.

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She feels him solid and strong. His muscles as hard as a wooden post. But something feels wrong here. Where he should be soft, he's rigid. It's been awhile since he's had a flashback, but it seems as if they still catch him at unaware. "Stay with me!"

The chair is solid under his hands. If he holds on tight enough he'll stay tethered to reality. Because that's all he has right now, holding him here. This chair. But soon he feels another, softer touch pulling him back. Soft hands running up and down his arm. It's not much, but it's enough to remind him of a promise he made. "Always."

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it's rough, but it's also soft. It has give, but not too much give. The sand on this beach is different than the sand on the beach in the quarter quell. That sand was fine, stuck to everything, including them. This sand is grittier. Much like the district it's on the outskirts of. It's more a crumble of granite than sand, but he has no other word for it.

The beach in 4 was even more different. That sand was not as fine as in the Quell, but not as gritty as here at the lake. The sand in 4 is more a product of centuries of surf pounding the sandstone. This must be more a product of the limestone and granite that surround the lake. Funny how one thing, one word, sand, can mean something different depending on where you are.

This sand, this beach, is really just a little outcrop. Mostly the lake has dirt and mud. But in this one spot, there is a sandy entrance. It feels hot on his feet, or rather his foot. He quickly moves over it to get into the water, afraid to add more burns to the scars he already has.

He finds it fascinating, even now. How he can feel with one foot, but not the other. He doesn't need to let the burning of the sand get to him, all he needs to do is pick up his good foot. He remembers that quick trip to the beach in 4 when they were on their victory tour. The sounds of the ocean crashing down in front of them. It was too big, too wild, much like the crowds at that stop. Fury barely controlled. Even now, thinking about it, he feels the anxiety he did then. His heart beats wildly in his chest. He takes a few deep breaths to steady himself. He bends over to run his hand through the gritty sand and begins to calm down . Portia once gave him a small sandbox a million years ago, to try to help him focus. She said something about it being "Zen". He didn't know what that meant then, and still doesn't. It had rocks and a tiny rake with it too. He remembers laughing at it at the time, now he wonders if it's still in his closet. He remembers how the simple movement of the small rake in his hand, so smooth to the touch, helped him find peace in the middle of the storm of that Victory Tour and beyond. Might not hurt to give it a go on those nights when sleep is elusive…

She loves the sand at the lake. It's unlike any other sand she's felt. It's grainy, and it makes her think that it's an extension of the rocks, of the mountains that she is such a part of. She watches Peeta as he maneuvers over the sand, amazed at his resilience. He's been through so very much, yet he remains the most positive person she has ever known. She watches as he moves his good foot through the sand, she can tell the contrast between his feeling foot and his artificial one amazes him. It's the look in his eye, the same one she's caught on him when he stares at her, when he thinks shes not looking.

If anyone should be amazed though, it's her. Amazed that this boy, man, came back to 12. For her. He can say it's home, and it partly is, she'll agree. But she knows he could go anywhere in Panem, anywhere, and be welcomed. He would have more opportunities as both a baker and an artist, too. So why would he stay in 12? For her? She's amazed by that thought. Who ever, in her life, has done this? Sacrificed so much for her? The thought stops her. She feels it deep inside her gut. Peeta has given her everything.

She gets up, strips down to her shift and panties under her clothes, and goes in the water before her face betrays any of her thoughts.

He feels the cool touch of the water on his leg as he eases into the lake. Each step brings him deeper. The salt lake? Ocean? of the second arena was warm, like tepid bathwater. This is cool. Not cold, but enough to take his breath away as his body acclimates to its temperature. He likes it. It refreshes. He feels clean in a way. It's hard for him to explain this feeling to Katniss. He, who has words for everything, has none to explain how swimming in this lake seems to purify him, make him new. It sounds right in his head, but he knows as soon as those words would leave his mouth, it would seem ridiculous. So he keeps quiet and allows this feeling of being reborn to wash over him.

She rises from the water, aware he's looking at her. She can almost feel the intensity of his stare, and that's how she realizes she's certain. Their touches at night have become more intense of late. The feel of his lips on her has become harder, more desperate, and she returns those kisses with just as much desperation. She is ready, she's sure he is. And she walks away, wet clothes clinging to her cool body, sending a signal to him that her feelings are definitely mutual.

He feels his erection starting as soon as she rises out of the water. The way her clothes cling to her soft curves, the way her hips sway as she walks. He's fairly sure she wants him, he knows he's always wanted her. He wonders what it would feel like to to be that wet shift, clinging to her every curve.

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Later that evening, in bed she leans up on her elbow, facing him. Her hand reaches out to touch his face. His smooth forehead gives way to the rough beard. He'll shave in the morning, but the stubble under her fingers reminds her of that time in the cave. "Before our first games, did you have to shave?"

"Well," he tells her shyly. "I did, but it was more like that fuzz you get on peaches. I didn't have to shave every day, if that's what you're asking."

"No. Just curious. I was remembering how they waxed and plucked me like a chicken ready for the pot," she laughs. "I hated that. I loved the feel of my hair on my legs. They took that away. I was wondering about you boys."

"They put some concoction on me," he remembers. "Hurt like hell. I'd rather shave every day, thank you."

She doesn't know why, but she has a sudden urge to lean over and kiss him. She doesn't resist, and neither does he. His lips feel soft, pliable, yet firm. She can tell he's letting her control the pace right now. She wants it slow and soft yet fast and hard. She wants to feel what it's like to be inside of him, to be a part of him. Soon she's on top, straddling him. Her whole body tingles with anticipation. Kissing is not enough to feed this hunger. She needs more. She wants more. She knows that this is it, she can never go back. She can never not be with Peeta. To give in to this hunger means giving into a world where she is no longer alone. Giving in to a world where she will always be with him. It's the only thing she wants. "I want to feel you. Run my fingers down your body. Memorize you with my touch," she tells him in the dark.

He's almost afraid at the intensity of her kisses, until he remembers, this is Katniss. There really isn't much subtle about her. When she is in, she is all in. When she commits to something or someone, there is no going back. He's overwhelmed with this. He feels it wash over him, this desire she has for him. It's as if every dream he's ever had is coming true all at once. And he is ready. He feels her hand on his chest, the nails scratching down his torso. For something that should cause pain, something that should make him afraid, he's amazed at how it actually excites him even more. Soon, she's pushed him onto his back. He can feel the coolness of the sheets pull him out of the moment, but Katniss's kisses demand that he refocus on her.

As he slides into her soft folds, her warmth surrounds him. He needs to pause, knowing the next few moves are crucial, and he struggles to hang on.

"It's ok Peeta. Let go," he feels her voice tickle his ear. He shatters inside of her, into a million pieces.

She feels him shake and fall apart, but she holds him tight, not letting him go. She's watched him pick up the pieces of his life, he's watched, cajoled, and helped her pick up her own pieces. They've gotten so far, she will never let go.

And after, when he whispers, "You love me. Real or not real?" I tell him real.