the leaves have changed a time or two
since the last time the train came through
I got my ticket and I'm going to go
home
Katniss watches.
The phone vibrates when it rings. Sometimes she can hear it ring, too, but she mostly just watches the dust filter through the air when it buzzes.
She rarely picks it up. Even when she does, she is afraid to press the receiver to her ear. What terrible news will come out of that piece of plastic next? Which person will it be that has been murdered because of her? What new face will be in her nightmares when she finally succumbs to the exhaustion?
One morning, she has enough strength to make it to the kitchen table. She sits in a chair and stares at her hands. The scars are fading. She flexes her fingers, examining them slowly, dully fascinated by the way the shiny, burned patches seem like her own skin again.
The phone rings and she jumps.
Her heart beats wildly as the sound of it fills her, leaving no room to block it out. It rings and rings and rings and even though she's hoping it will just stop and leave her alone, she pushes up from the table and answers.
"Miss Everdeen?"
Katniss makes some kind of noise in the back of her throat, which the caller takes as a confirmation.
"It is such a privilege to speak with you, Miss Everdeen. How are you doing on this fine day?"
Katniss recognizes the lilt of the Capitol. She twists the cord around her wrist and swallows before she answers.
"I'm…who is this?"
"So sorry," purrs the voice, "I should have introduced myself. My name is Francesca Larkin, and I'm a columnist with the Panem Flyer. Of course, you must know that already."
Through the window, Katniss can see Peeta looking at her curiously. She shakes her head at him and turns away, but not before she sees him make for his front door.
"Uh…no, I don't read. I mean, I don't read…newspapers," Katniss finishes, sitting down in the chair just as Peeta enters the room.
"Oh," says Francesca, clearly put off. "Well, I write an entertainment column for the Flyer. Mostly weddings, but also major festivals and holidays."
Katniss closes her eyes because the voice on the phone combined with the expression of concern in Peeta's face is getting to her. "Oh, yes," she lies faintly, "yes, I've seen a few articles."
"Wonderful!" the columnist purrs. "Well, then you must know why I thought you would be the perfect person to speak to regarding the exciting wedding this weekend. The Flyer is the only publication with permission to report on it," she says proudly.
Katniss wraps the cord around her wrist once more. She feels Peeta's hand at her elbow, a gentle way of telling her that he is there, as if she were a skittish animal. His hand slides down her forearm and stops at her bound wrist, loosening the cord. Francesca is waiting for her to say something, but Katniss is too distracted by the sensation of Peeta's fingers brushing against her pulse point.
"Gale Hawthorne's wedding, of course," she prattles on. "To Catharina Keynes. Tyrol Keynes' daughter."
A heavy layer of guilt and loneliness settles over her heart.
"Gale Hawthorne's wedding," she says softly. Peeta pauses.
"Yes, yes, of course," says Francesca, clearly nettled now. "Gale Hawthorne, your cousin, your hunting partner, your comrade who ended the war with his ingenious bomb design. Aren't you attending? Do you have any comment..."
Katniss' surroundings become a blur. Her ears fill with white noise and the phone slips from her limp hand and lands with a crack on the table. She sits, chest heaving in panic and pain, not seeing Peeta as he carefully puts the phone back in its cradle.
Time passes. She isn't sure how much. When she finally finds a way out of the fog, she isn't in the house she sleeps in (she refuses to call it home. How could a home be so full of ghosts?). She is lying on a bed, covered with a thick, home made quilt. The only light in the room is a small fire in the hearth. The sky outside is full of stars.
Katniss stands slowly, keeping the quilt around her shoulders. She follows the scent of baking bread into the kitchen, where she finds Peeta sitting at the table, staring at his hands. Something about it jogs her memory, and she realizes that she was doing the very same thing earlier that day.
The phone. The news. Tears well in the corners of her eyes, but they aren't the overwhelming kind. Not yet.
"Gale left. Real or not real?" she asks. Peeta snaps out of his reverie.
"Real," he answers softly.
Katniss takes a deep breath, trying to control herself. The next question spills out before she can stop it.
"Gale…killed Prim. Real or n-" Her voice breaks and Peeta catches her before she hits the ground. She collapses into his lap and he holds her the way she used to hold Prim.
"I don't know, Katniss," he whispers, stroking her dark hair as the now-overwhelming tears soak his shirt. "But I know he never would. He never would."
They sit like this for a very long time: Katniss sobs, Peeta cradles, and the darkness outside fades to gray. Once Katniss is able to draw a complete breath again, she slides off of Peeta's lap and sits beside him, their backs against the flour-dusted cabinets. Peeta is still for the smallest of moments before he stands up and starts rummaging around.
A cheese bun and a mug of hot broth are set down in front of her. She doesn't move to eat it, so Peeta tears off a piece of the bread and dips it in the broth before eating it himself. This, coupled with the instinct to put the food in her stomach before it is gone – one she is sure will never completely leave her – causes her to start eating. Satisfied, Peeta sits back and watches to make sure she puts away the whole thing.
"The train came through today," Peeta tells her. "First one of the spring. Brought in some new cheese. I thought you might like it."
Katniss frowns at the bun and notices that the cheese is, indeed, different.
"It's good," she decides. She turns to look at him and realizes anew how bright and blue his eyes are, even when ringed by sleep shadows.
"Good," he replies. He is silent until she swallows the last bite.
"Katniss, why did you pick up the phone today?"
She doesn't say anything.
"You never pick up the phone."
She takes a long drink from the mug.
"Katniss."
Peeta's tone is gentle but demanding. Katniss tries to turn away, but he takes the edges of the quilt draped on her shoulders and pulls them toward himself, so that she has no choice but to acknowledge him.
"I heard it ring," she admits to the wooden floor.
"You heard it ring," he repeats.
"Yeah, I…I don't hear things. Most days."
He nods.
"I don't see things. Most days."
Katniss looks at him curiously.
"How can you not see?"
"I guess I can see," he muses. "I mean, I can't see things the way they really are. My memories are mostly back to normal, but life is still…shiny. Everything is still shiny."
"Everything?"
"Mostly," he says, and Katniss can't help the way her muscles tense slightly, suddenly aware of how close they are; how easy it would be for Peeta to slip into a fit right there and kill her. Stupid, careless, idiot Katniss she thinks as the terrifying memory of Peeta's eyes, mad and rolling, swims to the forefront of her mind. Peeta notices and looks disgusted with himself.
"Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. It's okay; I'm okay," he quickly says as he very, very gently puts a hand to her wasted cheek. She flinches, but only a little. "See? We're okay right now."
"I'm not," she whispers.
"Yeah…" he agrees. "Maybe not. But you're here, and I'm here, and we're alive."
When Peeta's thumb begins to trace the skin between her eye and her cheekbone, Katniss can't help but close her eyes and lean into the warmth of his solid, calloused hand.
"We're alive."
