I'm not sure I like sleeping in my house again. Peeta is here, so it's tolerable, but it reminds me of a happier past that feels just out of reach. Peeta's is more private, too. My house is situated immediately next to Haymitch's. Effie has returned to the Capitol to "attend to business." Haymitch won't say so, but they had a fight. He slams around his house, cursing and crashing into things. He's not even drunk, he's just miserable. It's a new, foreign noise that shoots Peeta and me up from sleep.
"What was that?" he asks in a comical mix of alert but drowsily confused.
"I have no idea," I answer. We hear the noise again and I know exactly what it is. "He didn't…" I mutter, throwing on clothes and slipping out of the room. I head down the stairs and straight to the front door. Outside, it's unmistakable.
It's a honk.
"Get away from me, you nasty critter!" I hear Haymitch bellow as he stomps around his yard. A flock of tiny white goslings follow him around.
"Haymitch, you didn't!" I call out.
"They won't leave me alone. They only hatched a couple hours ago and they've been like this ever since. They follow me everywhere!" he roars.
"Where's the mom?" I ask, assessing the situation.
"There is no mom! Thom just gave me a bunch of eggs!" Haymitch shouts over the din of baby honks.
"And you saw them hatch? The first thing they saw was you?" I ask.
"Well yeah!" he responds, not following. I can't help it now, a laugh escapes my mouth. "What's so funny?" He scowls at me.
"They think you're their mom," I smirk.
"Do I look like a goose to you, sweetheart? They aren't that stupid!" he says back.
I'm laughing so hard my sides start to hurt. I can barely breathe. "That's how birds work, Haymitch. They imprint on the first thing they see."
"Well un-print them!" he roars.
"You can't. Once it's done, it's done. They're your babies now, Haymitch," I tell him, snickering through it all. "Congratulations."
"That's not what I signed up for! I wanted big, mean geese to eat for dinner and defend my property and…" his voice trails as one of the tiny goslings trips and lets out a honk that's sounds like 'help!' to a doting parent. Haymitch scoops him up right away, snuggling the baby close before placing it back on its bright orange feet. He realizes what he just did and his face drops. "Shit."
"Good luck!" I call out before turning back to the house.
"Wait! Don't leave me like this! Come on, sweetheart!" The words are buried by the door.
"What was that?" Peeta asks, his eyes blurry as he brews a pot of coffee on the counter.
"Haymitch got geese," I reply. Peeta rushes to the window and starts laughing as he watches the tiny babies follow Haymitch into the house.
"No! Not in the house!" I hear him bellow from outside.
Peeta slides a cup of coffee across the counter at me. I miss the tea at Peeta's. The quiet. The smell of bread and the heaviness of the quilt on his bed. I miss him, even though he's right in front of me. I miss our house.
"I'm hunting with Rory today," I announce. Peeta nods. Things are falling back into place.
"I'm going to work at the construction site. They're talking about rebuilding the bakery," he adds quickly. "After they finish the last of the homes, of course."
"Oh," I say. We haven't really talked about it. I mean, of course they'd rebuild the bakery. Any of the food producing businesses take priority, but I don't know what this means. "That's good," I add, forcing a smile as Peeta studies my face. I try to remain calm. "Are you going to live there?" I ask as casually as I can. Peeta pricks an eyebrow.
"I don't know. I mean…. It would certainly be easier to run the bakery and live above it, but… I don't know. What do you want?" he asks.
"I don't know," I answer honestly. I never saw myself living in town. I never saw myself working in the bakery, but that seems inevitable if I live there. Peeta bakes a few loaves of bread every day in his kitchen, but with the tools of the bakery he could feed the whole district. He also misses his father, and that hurt aches less when he's kneading and rolling and doing things that make his dad feel close. I understand why Peeta needs to do this, but I've never wanted to be that domestic. I don't want to wear an apron and greet customers with a fake smile. I'm not like Delly – bright and cheerful. I scowl and curse and sulk. I was never meant to woo patrons. We all know I'm useless in the kitchen. I'm not sure how I fit in to that version of his life. "I'm going hunting," I state, taking a large swig of the hot coffee before abandoning it on the counter and heading out the door.
Buried in the woods, I relish the escape. The trees are a reverie. I know who I am out here. Rory and I walk for hours, exploring and searching for berries before we end up at our trap line. We strip down our catch and reset the line. I teach Rory a new snare.
"Slip that end through here," I point, watching Rory's fingers carefully as he sets the last step of the trap.
"Did you learn that from Gale?" he grins, satisfied with his work.
"No, Finnick, actually," I answer. "Well, the trap itself is Gale's. The slip knot here," I point. "That is Finnick's."
"Gale didn't like Finnick," Rory says as he stands, wiping the dirt from his knees. "He didn't think Finnick was a serious person." I laugh.
"I think Gale liked him in the end. It just took some warming up," I answer. "You'd like Finnick. He'd like you too."
"Doubt it," Rory grumbles.
"He would. Finnick likes everyone," I tease, but Rory is serious. "Why wouldn't Finnick like you, Rory?" I ask. His face is slack, his eyes distant.
"What's to like? I'm a mediocre hunter at best. My traps suck. You have to redo most of them. I'm not funny or nice or particularly good-looking. The only thing I had going for me was Prim and she…" his words trail off.
I'm not sure where this is coming from, but I've learned grief is unpredictable. When everything hurts it's hard to see the good in yourself. "I like you plenty," I respond, keeping my eyes focused on the game we've started skinning. "You're smart. You care about your family. You're generous. You don't talk too much," I say nonchalantly, as if it's not a big deal to praise him. I feel Rory's eyes on me but I don't acknowledge it. This would be easier with Prim. I'd tickle her until she smiled, whisper sweet compliments in her ear. Tease her, love her, mean every word of it. "Gale couldn't shoot to save his life when we first came out here," I add.
"Really?" Rory asks, his eyes bright.
"Really. He wasn't patient. He didn't breathe," I answer. I remember Gale's arrows hitting the ground, bouncing and skidding imperfectly. "You are a much better shot than he was at this point," I say. I can see him beaming from the corner of my eye.
We have a generous haul home. Summer has been fruitful. It's lucky, too, because Rory and I have taken to giving most of our game to Greasy Sae. He's had more than enough to bring home, and the workers in town really need it. We have shipments of supplies from 13 and the Capitol, but things are slow and often delayed. Much of the railway was bombed or destroyed in the War. Most of the other districts are focusing on rebuilding that first.
We stop to rest by a stream, filling our water jugs and sipping the cold water.
"We can't stay long, we're out here too late," I say, the dusk already settling in the trees around us. It will be almost night by the time we're home. I usually know better, but we hiked further than I expected and our haul is slowing us down.
"Katniss, do you think when we get back we could –" I throw my hand up and slam it into Rory's chest.
"Don't… move…" I whisper, my eyes fixed on a large, lumbering bear with two cubs directly in our path. They aren't newborns. They are a couple months old. Toddling. Curious. "Walk backwards slowly," I say in a congenial voice. "Don't look at the bear directly. Do not make any sudden movements. Just keep this pace and walk backwards," I say. "Talk to the bear. Keep your voice calm. Firm."
"We're going to die," Rory says pleasantly to the bear.
"Maybe," I say back. "You could politely ask it not to kill you."
"Funny," he answers, fear seeping into his voice. Every muscle in my body is on alert. "Do you like squirrel?" he asks as he drops one of our catches on the ground, continuing his pace evenly away from the beasts.
One of the cubs walks up curiously to the game, batting it with his paw before gobbling it down. For a moment I'm relieved, but this only piques the cub's curiosity and he picks up his pace to draw closer to the funny creatures with the free meat. His ears point forward and he plods his way down the path toward us. Rory's fingers tickle his bow.
"No," I order, my eyes on the mother. Her coat is deep black and her belly is still fat from nurturing its womb. She's probably three hundred pounds. Her movement is slow but her eyes stay fixed on me. Her saunter stops and one of the cubs sits next to her, digging at the ground with its paw. The inquisitive one keeps following us. It's when mama stands on her hind legs and towers over us that fear begins to take over. I can't see straight. I grab the sides of my jacket and try to make myself look big, but the tiny bear keeps pace like a loyal dog. Finally the female bear barks out and the cub breaks contact with us and turns back to her. She starts a journey off the path and into the woods, the two rascals following sloppily behind her. I watch them until they've disappeared into the trees. I wait until I can't hear the rustling of dead leaves under paw.
"Go," I order. "Go go go go go!" We take of running toward town. Rory drops a bird he had proudly deplumed not an hour ago. "Leave it!" I yell as we sprint through the forest. We run until our muscles plead with us to stop. Until we've sweat all the water from our bodies. Until our feet feel like stones that we are dragging along with us. We finally start to make out town through the treeline. At the edge of the Meadow we finally stop, collapsing in the high grass of the field.
"You said not to walk in the grass because of ticks," Rory pants.
"Shut up," I answer, my chest heaving up and down as my lungs burn. We lie there for at least ten minutes we're able to force ourselves to our feet again. We head up to the house. I drop our bags on the table and we each take a stool, gulping down water gluttonously before dropping our heads to the counter.
"What happened?" Peeta asks, coming into the kitchen to find us a mess of sweat and wear. "You're late."
"Bear," I breathe.
"What?" he asks.
"Bear. In the woods. Bear," I reply, too exhausted to form complete sentences.
"Three bears," says Rory, not lifting his head.
"Are you serious? Have you ever seen a bear before?" Peeta presses, worry evident on his face.
"No," I say, my cheek cherishing the cold slab of the countertop. "Gale told me he did once, but I thought he was bragging."
"Did it attack you?" he asks. I let out a fatigued laugh and he stares at me indignantly.
"Peeta, if a bear attacked us we wouldn't be at the counter right now. We'd be dead. It's a bear," I exclaim wearily. Rory, who up until this point has been stoic in his lingering fear, starts snickering into the counter. "Stop it," I jab his side, but I can't bury a smile.
The front door opens and Haymitch comes stomping into the house, followed in short order by a line of honking, pooping, waddling goslings. He has one tucked in his breast pocket.
"Nope! Nope. I can't. I'm done with animals for today. I hate all of them," I announce before stomping up the stairs to my room. I pass my mother on the stairs and walk past her with a shrug. I need a hot shower and tea and to sleep until I'm fifty. Downstairs I hear honking and commotion. I shut the door and wish the world away.
In the bathroom I run the water until the whole room fills with steam. I peel off my sweaty clothes and leave them unceremoniously piled on the floor. I reach my hand under the stream of water. It's hot. It's too hot, which to me seems perfect right now. I climb in and my skin protests but my muscles sing out in relief.
I hear the bathroom door creak open and Peeta steps into the room.
"Hey," he says through the steam. I feel guilty about earlier. I was rude.
"Hey," I respond back, I'm sorry stuck in my throat.
"I'm glad you weren't eaten by a bear," Peeta offers and I laugh. I hear him hum in approval.
"What?" I say, pulling back the curtain and sticking my head out so I can see him. I was mean and he's not even mad. He's happy even. "What?" I say again, irritation growing in my tone, a scowl crossing my face. I feel like the butt of a joke I don't know.
"Nothing, you just… You laughed a lot today. You laughed all morning at the ducks, and you laughed with Rory about the bears. I just… I love when you laugh," he answers.
"They're geese," I correct him as I pull myself back to the scalding water. He's right though. I felt happy today, and now I feel guilty. It percolates under my skin and makes me feel uneasy. I feel guilty for I shouldn't be happy when others can't be. When others aren't here anymore.
"I like you happy," Peeta says. "It makes me happy."
He should be happy. He deserves it.
I deserve to be happy.
I pull back the curtain again.
"Are you coming?"
Peeta's face shoots up in surprise. There's a house full of people downstairs.
"Are you coming?" I repeat.
Peeta doesn't even bother undressing, he just steps in with his shirt and shorts still on. His mouth eagerly seeks mine out as I pull the clinging shirt from his body and drop it with a soaked thud on the floor. Kissing is different in the shower, when everything is already wet and hot and swollen. His lips search for something – the taste, the feel of me. Everything is harder and rougher when your skin is already sheened with water. I nip his neck and Peeta's eyes flash as his knees buckle in response. He slides hand to my face with intention, kissing me like he doesn't know how to do anything else.
We spend too long in the shower, shoving our hands over one another's mouths as we try to keep quiet until we eventually wind up a pile of knotted limbs at the bottom of the tub. We let the water pour over us until every bit of skin is pruned and pink. We collapse into bed with wet hair and tired bodies.
We dream with weaved fingers and kissing palms.
