A/N: It's been a while. Sorry for the long wait, kind of got stuck and was also busy. Here you go though. Not my best chapter.
Right now Peeta's asleep, his head on my lap, the both of us enjoying the little time we have left to be with each other. Or at least I am. It's been a tiring day for the both of us. This afternoon I spotted a brood of turkeys on the way to strawberry patch I found which is nearer to the fence compared to the one near the lake. I manage to take down three turkeys and to fill my bag with at least two dozen strawberries. If not for Peeta and his influence, I would never have stepped within a 50-mile radius of a strawberry ever again because they remind me of the only other friend I had in my life. She didn't make it, but at least I haven't forgotten her. I have enough to remind me of the people I love.
The bricks for the ovens in the bakery have also arrived earlier this day and so Peeta and Thom's crew had to wheel them from the train station to the bakery in town. When I got back from my hunt, Peeta was dripping in sweat and had refused to let me get close to him, said he smelled of sweat and ash and dust. I tried to convince him I don't give a damn about how he smelled but my efforts were in vain. We walked back home together, dropped off some game to Sae, and with me trying to get the closest I could to him.
The day started a bit different than the usual though. We played Real or Not Real again after so many months, all because he wasn't sure last night, or everything that happened after him getting off of the train really, was real. When I glanced up at him this morning, I knew something was bothering him, so I asked.
"You alright?"
He does that thing with his jaw, "Did we—did you… Um…" He looks away, as if embarrassed.
"What is it?" I say, half amused, half confused.
He thinks, piecing up his question. I have now noticed that his fingers are caressing the tiny bit of exposed skin on my waist. This makes me want to, believe it or not, giggle.
"Was yesterday… real?" he asks vaguely. I'm a bit offended at how careful he is when it comes to me. I want him to be open, to not be afraid of telling me things. I want him to feel like he can tell me anything. It's not like a word could send me into a fit of hysterics.
Oh, but remember when you hid in your closet when you heard a mockingjay sing a couple of notes? Or how you sat on the bed all day because the news anchor in the television mentioned something about little ducks?
Okay, maybe I am sensitive.
But still, this is him. It's different when it comes to him. It always has been, although I didn't want it to be.
Because seriously, who would have thought Katniss Everdeen is still capable of this kind of affection? That she could find someone who's willing to spend the rest of his life with her?
Definitely not me.
"You mean, did we kiss yesterday?" I rephrase his question.
"Um, yeah," he's intent on not meeting my gaze. "Did we?"
"Yes," I make him face me. "We did."
He seems convinced, with his smirk and everything. Carefully, he kisses the top of my forehead, then my nose, for a second I think he's going to kiss me on the lips, I wish he does, but he doesn't. I raise my eyebrows in question.
"We haven't brushed our teeth yet," he explains.
I'm up and heading for the bathroom faster than you could say 'I'm excited.'
He's laughing, following me into the bathroom. I grab my toothbrush and hand him his, a pea-sized droplet of toothpaste already on the bristles. "You're not excited, are you?"
I shake my head at his reflection in the mirror, not being able to mutter a reply because my mouth's already half-filled with bubbles. He smiles.
You could guess what happened after we finished brushing our teeth.
And it—all of this, actually—weirds me out because it's so new, and so exciting. Not that I didn't love him before, I unconsciously did but this time around, I'm not restraining myself. I love him and he knows it. Though I've never said the words out loud yet, I don't know why, but I just can't. I like to believe it has nothing to do with how much I love Peeta, just solely about my inability to ever say those three words because I never thought I would find someone worthy enough to hear those coming from me in a romantic way.
On the couch in our living room, minutes before he fell asleep, I brought up writing a letter to Annie to invite her over sometime so we can take care of her, the same way I know Finnick's taking care of Prim, too. He agreed to it and told me it's a great idea, and I'm rewarded with a kiss. Well, it was more like a ransom type of thing. I threatened to hide all of his painting supplies in the woods if he didn't kiss me.
We decided to write Annie a letter next Wednesday afternoon, and I promised to drop it off the following day. He took my hands that were lost in his hair and kissed the tip of my fingers so gently. When he finished, I bent down and returned his kisses.
So that's how we ended up here, my fingers playing with the blond curls covering his head that is on my lap. I'm feeling sleepy, too, so I wake him up. He opens his eyes slowly, "Hm?"
"Let's go upstairs," I tell him, my voice coming out more softly than I intended to. Peeta sits up sleepily and takes my hand, leading me to our bedroom. When we get inside, he flops face down on the bed, pulling me with him. I smile at the sight of him half lying, half hanging on our bed. I take his prosthetic off and make him lie properly. He does, and I settle beside him. After planting a kiss between his collar bones, I switch the bedside lamp off and fall asleep.
Though Sundays are working days for us both, it's kind of like a lazy day. I mean, we still get up early and do our things but we go home earlier, too. Usually after four arrows I head back home, and for Peeta I think it's two loaves or three batches of cookies or something. I don't really get why Peeta still goes to work. He has Josiah, a boy just a couple years younger than us from Thirteen who decided to move in to Twelve, to take care of his bakery. But I guess it's his bakery, so he can do whatever he wants. And plus, I get to spend my day out in the woods so I'm not really complaining.
Well, maybe I am, but just a bit. I still get to come home to him, don't I?
Peeta suggests we write the letter to Annie today instead, so we can get her response some time next week. I had everything we needed—a pen, some paper, couple of envelopes, stamps—but not the words. I don't think I've ever written a single formal letter in my 18 years of existence. Peeta seems to have though, and he tells me that letter writing was part of his therapy back in the Capitol. In fact, he wrote letters addressed to me. I make him promise to show me those letters when he's ready. He does.
He also tells me about an upcoming experimental festival the whole country is going to celebrate. It's to be called Harvest Festival and is set to happen after the snow melts. He says that it's because the people want the cornucopia to symbolize something positive, something people can look forward to. This comes out randomly so I ask him why he brought it up. He tells me everyone who is capable is invited to set up booths and stalls during the festival and he's planning to set one up for the bakery. I tell him I'd be happy to help him.
We spend the last few hours before sunset brainstorming ideas for new recipes, things like raspberry and nut filled croissants, rolls with strawberries in them, cookies with pieces of chocolate on top with a hint of mint and a lot more. My favorite is the cheese loaf, it's like a cheese bun, but bigger. Peeta laughed at first when I suggested it and told me that he could just have made me bigger cheese buns instead of making a whole loaf but he said he would try. For me.
The next few days pass by in a blur, we've gotten a letter from Annie telling us that she is, in fact, most of the time free, and is very excited to visit us. She asked if the end of the month would be okay for her visit, and we write her another letter to confirm things.
Today's Tuesday and after another long day of sweat and exhaustion, we're on our bed again, reaching the end of our daily routine. "Katniss?"
I turn my head towards him, "Yeah?"
"Ever been on a date?"
I look at him uncertainly, then say, "No. I didn't do relationships until you."
A smile crawls its way onto his lips, "But you do know what dates are, right?"
"People in relationships go on dates to know each other more, usually over a plate of food or something."
"I'm glad you know, and I want to ask you out on a date."
What?
"It's been my dream for years, one of the things that confused me when I was hijacked actually, to take you, Katniss Everdeen, out on a date. I just realized I have fulfilled almost every other dream except that and a couple of other things. But if you don't want to, it's okay."
I seem to have said 'what' out loud, hence, the explanation. I didn't mean to sound very shocked and appalled by the idea, but I think I did. "No, no, I mean, yeah. That's fine with me." I say, though I'm not sure that's how you properly accept invitations.
"Really? How about tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow? Like, tomorrow as in the day that comes when we wake up from tonight's sleep? Don't you have to prepare?" Because I do.
"I've been planning this for weeks but you've used up almost every day off for the past month."
The thought of Peeta planning this brings a smile to my lips. "Okay, tomorrow then. What time?"
"Um, 7 sounds good?" he asks.
"Sure, then 7 it is."
The next morning Peeta has left me a note on our bedside table saying he's up earlier so he can make the arrangements. I didn't plan on prepping up for this but now, after he's told me that he has something in mind, I feel the need to prepare. To disappoint Peeta… that's something I'd never ever risk.
I head to the bathroom where all of our supplies are and decide on leaving my face plain as possible when I make myself up later in the afternoon. I pick the things I'll probably be using later and set them on one side of the counter. Cinna has left me tons of clothes, from undergarments to earmuffs, so I'd never have to shop again. His masterpieces do not often find themselves worn, not just because I'm not comfortable, but because they're from Cinna. He died because of me. And I still think I'm unworthy, I'm not someone people should have died for.
But still, he would want me to wear the beautiful clothes he made. I will myself to enter the small walk-in closet, taking small steps at a time. My tears almost start dripping like tap water the moment I lay my eyes upon the bright yellow dress I wore on that interview after the Games. Skimming through the rest of his creations, I settle on the dark green dress with an orange lace-like sleeve that hangs just above my knees. Avoiding all of the other dresses Cinna made, I quickly make my way back to our room.
For the whole day, I worry about what's going to happen later, at 7 o' clock. The number of times I've gone to check if everything's prepared would surely outnumber the times I spent trying to get Buttercup away from the primroses at our front porch. I can't blame him though, I want to be near the flowers my sister was named after as much as possible, too. At around 4 in the afternoon, I start preparing. Putting on the dress, which luckily still fits me. Or I am luckily still almost the same size I was before. A small amount of lipstick and blush on should do it. Frankly, I have no idea what I'm doing but I've been made up by my prep team for a lot of times before so practically almost know what to do. It's not as heavy as it is when my prep team does it but it should pass. A special blazer of some sort completes my get up. I leave my hair down to shield me further from the cold.
When I've finished, it's just ten minutes before 7. I can't stop bouncing on my ankles so I take a seat on the couch and wait for Peeta instead. This is something I've never done before and it's weird to think that because I have murdered people but I've never been on a date. I guess normal doesn't really describe me.
A knock on the door startles me and when I rush to open it, I'm greeted by the winter breeze and… someone who isn't Peeta.
The man's dressed in black from head to toe in and if ever he hid in a corner he would blend in perfectly if not for his light blond hair. 'Soldier R. Hawke' is embroidered in yellow thread on his left chest pocket. "Ms. Everdeen?"
"Um, that's me." I say. Confusion still fills my head. Peeta wouldn't have asked the military to escort me to him, so who exactly is this man?
"I have orders to give this letter to you," he says, handing me a medium-sized brown envelope.
"Oh, who's this from?" I ask, taking the envelope from him. He answers, uttering a name I never wished to hear again.
"From General Gale Hawthorne."