I wake up to Peeta sitting on the edge of the bed, a mug of tea in his hands.
"Morning," he says as he slides to cup onto the nightstand.
"Morning," I grumble, turning away from him and burying my head under a pillow. Last night was the first time I've slept in ages. Normally night is a string of waking and fitful terrors. I don't want this peace to end but my stomach growls in protest. I try to ignore it, but after a minute I sit up and grab the mug. A small burst of laughter shoots from Peeta's mouth and he claps his hand over his lips in a futile attempt to stop it.
"Sorry," he mumbles through his fingers, but I can still see the grin in the wrinkles of his eyes. "It's just… is this what my hair looks like in the morning? You've never had short hair before so… it's totally plastered to your head on one side. It looks like you've been out in a wind storm or something."
I glare at him and the smile drops from his lips.
"I'm sorry, Katniss. I didn't mean to laugh at –"
Before he can finish the words I smash him in the face with his pillow. The word you is muffled with a feathery thud.
"Oh, this is war," Peeta says before grabbing a pillow in each hand and swinging them at me. I seize the last pillow and use it as a shield while batting at him with the other. He jumps onto the bed and tries to use his size to his advantage, but I wriggle away from him and slam him in the ribs. It's not long before the two of us are panting, limbs tangled. We give the pillows one final, powerful swing and they explode sending hundreds of feathers floating through the air. I drop down, chest heaving, face red from exertion. Peeta collapses on top of me, his head on my chest.
"It's snowing," he whispers, watching the white feathers drift aimlessly toward the wooden floor.
"I'm not cleaning any of this up," I answer. I feel him grin against me.
"I wouldn't expect you to," he replies. Peeta lifts his head up to mine, propping his body up with an elbow on either side of me. We are close. We are so unbearable close, yet not close enough. I study his face; run my eyes over his jaw, his lips, his nose. "What are you looking for?" he whispers.
"I don't know," I answer honestly. Peeta hoists himself out of bed and heads toward the door.
"I'll clean this up after breakfast. Come eat," he says almost nonchalantly before he disappears into the hall. I take the mug of tea and drink it slowly, contemplating the feathery floor. I don't go down until the cup is empty. Peeta pretends not to notice and smiles as I pull a stool up to the counter. He drops a couple pieces of golden bread on my plate.
"What is this?" I ask, poking it with my fork.
"It's called french toast. We used to make it at home because it's one of the only good uses for stale bread. I also have this!" Peeta makes a production of pulling out a glass bottle from behind his back. Its amber contents glimmer as it catches the sun, and for a moment I'm sent tumbling back in time.
My father. The forest. A spile of dripping, sticky sap. The jungle. The heat. Dry tongues. A spile of warm water. Death. Death. I lose my balance a little bit on my chair.
"Or no syrup," Peeta answers, clearly gauging my reaction. "We were never allowed to have any at the bakery anyway. We just ate it dry," he says lightly, turning to put the jar back in the cupboard.
"No, I want it," I say, and he turns back and sets the glass bottle in front of me. I pour it over the toast and watch the bread drink up the sugary gift. "Where'd you get this?"
"Thom tapped a tree behind his house," Peeta explains. Thom. I haven't thought about Thom in what feels like ages. I didn't even know he survived. I don't remember seeing him in 13, but I was sort of preoccupied. Guilt flushes over me and I bury it in my stomach.
"How many people are back?" I ask, cutting the toast with my fork. The sweet, sticky bread melts on my tongue. I taste butter and I have to stifle a moan. Peeta grins as I greedily cut off another piece.
"A couple hundred. They set up a little village just outside of town. There's a market and some people are running shops out of their houses. Mostly, though, we're trying to clean up. Rebuild. The Capitol has been sending us rations of food since we can't produce enough on our own right now. But we'll turn it around," Peeta explains, watching me swirl the soggy bread through a puddle of syrup. "You want more?" he asks. I nod, although my stomach already feel swollen to its limits. "There are a bunch of people from Thirteen, too," he says as he slides another piece onto my plate. "Here to help with the clean-up. They're staying in the village in these temporary bunks."
Peeta says more but I've stopped listening. It's when I try to swallow that I feel everything start to lurch up. I drop my fork on my plate and bolt for the bathroom, but I know I won't make it. Instead I drop to my knees and vomit in a paper bag propped next to the waste bin. I heave two more times before I lie on the floor and press my sweat-sheened face on its cool, wooden planks.
"I'm sorry. I should have known better," Peeta says, taking the soggy paper bag and dropping it in the trash. He sits on the floor facing me. "That was so stupid of me. I'm sorry." I sit up and drop my forehead onto his shoulder, my chest resting against his, our legs jetting out in opposite directions. Before either of us know what's happening, he slips his hand up the back of my shirt and gently runs his rough hands over the skin of my back. I draw my head up and meet his eyes, my heart panicking behind my ribs. His hand stops, realizing what he's done. His eyes are wide as he meets my stare. "I'm sorry, I –"
I lean forward and kiss him softly. Slowly. I'm sure I taste like syrup and vomit. We stay still, our lips pressed together. We break apart unhurriedly and I can feel his breath hot on my mouth. His free hand slides up my neck, along my cheek, and knots itself in my hair, drawing my lips back toward his. We kiss again, our mouths moving together this time. His tongue slips along my bottom lip and I open my mouth slightly. His fingers tug my hair faintly as I let him in. My tongue tentatively meets his, stroking and tasting him. Heat billows over my body, pools in my stomach. He starts moving the hand on my back, his thumb caressing my skin delicately. There is a hunger shooting through my limbs, scorching every inch of my body. I crawl into his lap and tug at his shirt with my hands.
"Wait, Kat," Peeta whispers into my mouth. "We should wait."
"I don't want to wait," I reply through feverish kisses on his mouth, his jaw. He groans and I soak up the sound. I pull his shirt over his head and toss it to the ground. He pants and I can't be this far apart from him anymore. I grab his neck and drop until my back hits the floor, pulling him on top of me.
"I want you," Peeta breathes as he pulls at the collar of my tee shirt, exposing my throat and pressing his mouth to the place where my pulse hammers a feverish and uncontrolled rhythm. I gasp and arch my back slightly and his whole body trembles in response.
A knock on the door sends us flying apart. Peeta's false leg slams the trash bin and it knocks over, sending rubbish all over the kitchen floor. I stare at him, panting, lips swollen, eyes wide.
"Um, I'll get this. You get the door," he responds, righting the waste basket before he grabs the broom from the closet. He finds his shirt on the floor and tugs it over his head. With every step away from him I feel more and more angry with myself. I'm not in control. I'm not thinking. I'm not –
I lose all train of thought with the visitor at the door. I stare at him and all the breath leaves my body. The olive skin. His dark hair, gray eyes. Wide shoulders. It's like I'm staring at a ghost. My hand slips from the door knob and the door slowly creeps forward until it hits the wall.
"I heard you were back. I just had to see for myself," he says. There's something bitter in his voice. Something boiling below the surface. Gone is the shy smile he saved for my sister. Rory Hawthorne is practically vibrating on Peeta's porch.
"Rory," I say, the blush evaporating from my cheek.
"Are you having a service for Prim?" he asks curtly.
"What?" I ask.
"You haven't even thought about it. Unbelievable," Rory responds. He kindles his brother's fire, his brother's fury.
"I –"
"We had a ceremony for Gale. Posy didn't understand, so we had to explain it all to her. There was nothing left to bury, so Posy drew him a picture and we buried it next to Dad. You obviously weren't around," Rory spits out.
"I'm sorry, Rory," I whisper.
"You should be," he says, turning on his heel and stomping down the front steps. He pauses when his feet hit the grass. He turns back.
"If you have a service, I want to be there," Rory says firmly.
"Okay," I reply.
"I loved her, you know," he says, his voice low.
"Me too, Rory," I offer, but he's already gone. I stand staring at the grass, his familiar figure getting smaller with the distance. It's like I'm watching Gale walk away from me, like he did so many times.
"Hey, who was that?" Peeta asks as he approaches me, wiping his damp hands on his pant legs. He reaches for my arm but I pull back.
"I'm tired," I say, spinning on my heels and stomping up the stairs. I reach Peeta's room but hesitate. I need space. I open the door to the study. I stare at the desk, the books. Everything is pristine. Peeta doesn't even let the dust settle.
It's all I want. Everything is so raw and I just want the dust to settle. I feel like maybe, in this moment, I should be covered in dust.
I open the door to the study closet. Stacked high on a shelf are boxes of paper. Office supplies. Spare scissors. I drop to the floor, bury my head in my knees, and let the time slip away.
"Katniss?" I hear a soft knock on the door. I just ignore it until the sun disappears and moonlight sneaks under the crack of the door. I feel my body shivering as the night air chills, but I ignore it. I see a shadow interrupt the moonbeam. Peeta settles on the other side of the door.
"Do you want a blanket?" he asks. I don't answer. "Can I come in with you?" I don't answer that either. He stands and opens the closet door. He steps inside, closes us in again, and sits on the other side so our feet meet in the middle. I stare at the floor. "When I was here alone, I was having a really hard time," Peeta says. I don't acknowledge him, but I focus my eyes instead of letting everything blur. I trace his shoe laces. "I miss my family. I miss my dad. But up here, in the Village, I miss Prim. She was the one that made me feel welcome here. For so long she was my only friend. I opened my recipe book the other day and I found a paper she scribbled all over tucked between the pages. I used it to bookmark the sugar cookies recipe, or she did... I don't remember things before the hijacking very clearly and I lost so much of her when they erased you. But I remember her sitting on my kitchen stool, swinging her legs and doing math. I remember drawing monsters in the margins of her homework. Mostly I just remember not feeling so alone. And now, every time I'm by myself in this house, I feel like there is this giant gaping hole in my life. I try to figure out how such a little girl left such a big hole, but she did."
I realize I'm not breathing, but neither is Peeta. When I look up his eyes are glistening with tears that he refuses to let fall. He wipes his face with his hands and pushes himself up. He drops a blanket over my legs and leaves the closet, closing the door quietly in his wake. His feet pad down the hallway toward his room.
My little sister weaseled her way into his heart. I'm not the only one grieving her.
I wrap the crocheted blanket around my shoulders, slipping my fingers through the loose weave and forcing myself to my feet. Peeta's bedroom is black save for the beam of light escaping from the cracked bathroom door. I walk over and the door protests with a loud creak as I push it open. He's sitting on the edge of his bathtub, a toothbrush in his hand, paste dry and untouched.
"She left a giant, gaping hole," I repeat. Peeta looks at me and nods.
"I'm sorry. I was supposed to put you back together but… I might need you to put me back together, too," Peeta says, staring at his hands.
"Then get over here," I reply, opening my arms. He sweeps his around my waist, pulling me in tight. I close myself around him, wrapping us both in the blanket. We eventually make our way to the bed and fall asleep, tangled in yarn, our bodies indistinguishable from one another.
Dawn comes in quietly, sneaking up on us, until the sun is bright and impossible to ignore. But we stay knotted together in the blanket. Sometimes it's okay to lose time, if you do it with a friend. If you aren't alone.
