Oh, but you're good to me - oh, but you're good to me, baby
It began almost a week after the first time we had dinner together. Since then, we have had supper at her house. Sometimes it's just the two of us, but other times Haymitch honors us with his presence.
When I bring it up during one of my calls, Dr. Aurelius recommends that we make it a routine. And that it could be good for us, help us form a friendship again.
We usually spend an hour or two sitting in her living room after supper doing little things on opposite ends of the couch. I'll sketch her while she isn't looking, she'll lose herself to her knitting. But my favorite nights are when we read to each other. I'm careful to never let myself fall asleep at her house, but the timbre of her voice often tries to lull me under.
Her voice truly is beautiful. It is her turn to read tonight, but I try to contain my enthusiasm. She may be confused about where we stand, but wearing my heart on my sleeve has only seemed to have gotten me hurt. We are in the middle of Pride and Prejudice when she breaks our routine.
"Thank you, Peeta." She whispers it, but I still catch it. She refuses to look at me, though I cannot possibly imagine what she is afraid of. Or grateful for. I often wonder if I am using her by stealing every moment of her night that I can. I'm not sure she notices it, but we finish just a little bit later every night. It makes me feel like we are stealing time away together again. That every second of her company is a battle to acquire. But somehow she gives it to me willingly.
"For what?" I match her volume, but not her tone. She is hesitant where I am sure. And I know that there is nothing I have given her that she must thank me for.
"You're so good to me. Even when I," she chokes up, "even when I don't deserve it."
"You deserve the world, Katniss. Never anything less." She surprises me then. Color floods her cheeks, and she flushes more the longer I look at her. When she is silent for too long, I reach across the sofa. My index finger finds her chin and hooks it, and I gently move her to face me. Her eyes are pooled with unshed tears.
"There you are." I whisper the words so softly that I don't think she hears them. I drop my hand, forcing myself to not push it too far. But her fingers chase after it, until her palm rests on mine. We stare back at each other as she squeezes my hand and begins rubbing little circles with her thumb. The feeling mimics the way she holds my face during my episodes, and there is a tenderness in her eyes to match.
Eventually, she uses her unoccupied hand to place the book in her lap. With a much quieter voice than before, she resumes reading where we left off. The feeling of her hand in mine is all-consuming, and soon I am measuring time with each swipe of her thumb and soft breath she releases.
For all I know, an eternity has passed. Eventually, I brush a stray hair from her face and tuck it behind her ear. But I linger there and she leans into my touch with a sigh. She closes her eyes and brings her hand to my own cheek. I let my eyes fall closed too, reveling in our closeness.
When I open them, there is a very soft smile gracing her face. The flames from the fireplace reflect on her skin, morphing olive into orange. And I feel something shift inside of me. This golden colour she is painted in has become my favorite hue of orange. It is saturated, contrasting starkly with my memory of her pale skin from her time locked far beneath the surface of 13.
I leave much later than planned, an endearment dying on my lips just before it can escape and ruin everything I know.
"Goodnight, love."
With the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet
Months slowly crawl by and winter seems fast approaching. And though we have plenty of food from the Capitol trains, Katniss begins storing her catches anyway. The more she preserves, the more it feels like she is hoarding instead of preparing. I think it is hard for her to accept that she doesn't have a family relying on her alone to feed them once the ground is bare and frozen under layers of snow. Just like when I returned, she has struggled with feeding herself.
We spend a good chunk of our day together, usually both breakfast and dinner. We build up a sense of familiarity much stronger than we ever had before. It reminds me of the long days I spent with her after she broke her heel. She feels close, rather than infinitely distant. Suddenly, our bond is domestic and I bask in how normal it all feels. Though we carefully monitor our touches unless I am having an episode.
It almost makes me thankful when they happen. Because she will touch me, sing to me. During particularly bad ones, she even holds me.
I long for her kiss, her lips breathing sanity into my own.
Slowly, I begin finding small ways to touch her. I relish the feeling of our skin brushing together. It begins with me coming to deliver the bread in-person in the mornings. Our fingers touch during the exchange. Sometimes I find the courage to hold her hand while we're reading, but other times it is her who initiates it.
This routine too is broken when one morning I am greeted by her at the door. Usually, she stays in her pajamas until after breakfast. Today she is already dressed and has a bag over her shoulder. The bags under her eyes are much smaller than normal, and her smile is radiant. Before I can say anything, she throws herself at me. I return her embrace once her intentions register.
She is not hurt, nor does she need comfort. This is not an episode. She is choosing to hug me. She breaks away abruptly, and smiles with an embarrassed look in her eyes.
I find that I quite like the flush on her cheeks.
She is bouncing with excitement."Madge survived. Her train is due at the station in 25 minutes. Do you want to come with me?"
Though her visit is relatively short, Katniss blossoms with the return of Madge. It is strange seeing them talking without fear and hunger hanging over their heads. Only a week passes before Madge has to return to the Capitol, though she promises us she'll come back. After her train vanishes into the horizon, Katniss holds my hand. Her smile doesn't fade, even when we pass the meadow. Her thumb traces circles on the back of my hand, not dropping it until Buttercup meows at her feet.
It takes me by surprise when she carries him in her arms and begins walking into her kitchen. When she realizes that I am not following her, she stops in the doorway and gives me a curious look.
When I enter the kitchen, I am surprised to see the counter covered with a rainbow of fruits, nuts, and seasonings. A couple bushels of thyme, a mix of blueberries and blackberries, some jams in jars, raspberries, plums, peaches, even homemade cans of spiced apples. It is overwhelming. Huckleberries, mulberry, wild grape, and little containers of dried out rosemary. There is a crate from the Capitol full of cans of exotic herbs, fruits, and even vegetables.
At first, I am confused by the vast array of foods. But when I look at Katniss, I see a nervous smile on her face and a recipe book has replaced Buttercup in her arms. That's when it clicks. This is a gift. She has foraged for them, has probably been harvesting for weeks. I can only imagine how long this took her. All for the intention of giving me things to bake, recipes that will not leave me grieving at the memory of my father writing them.
I don't realize that I am crying until her fingers gently caress my face and brush away my tears. I lean into her hand and try to smile, but my lips quiver. Her eyes begin to water too, and her gaze traces over my face slowly.
"Do you… do you like it?" Her words are quiet, her voice gravelly. She seems uneasy of my reaction, but there is a spark of hope in her eyes. I gently wrap her in my arms, nuzzling my face into her neck. She returns the embrace and waits patiently for my response.
She smells like pine. It reminds me of all of my daydreams of us walking in the woods together. I take my time answering, knowing that she will wait for me. "Thank you."
And she does it again. She begins gently rubbing small circles on my back. It is soothing, and I find myself leaning into her much more than before. I think that this is the best gift that I have ever received in my entire life. Not that I've been given many.
When she speaks, her breath is warm on my neck. She continues to whisper, as if this will all disappear if she speaks too loudly. As if this isn't real; as if this is some spell that can be broken. "I was thinking… maybe we could bake some of the recipes together?"
Like the ashes of ash I saw rise in the heat
Baking with Katniss is much different from what I imagined it would be, and yet it is perfect. She warned me that the fruit would not keep long enough for us to bake everything when it was fresh. So, instead we choose to keep the blueberries out and preserve the rest. She makes me sit and watch as she jars, cans, and vacuum seals them. It takes us a whole day to get them all put away for later.
The first thing we make is a blueberry cobbler. This dish, at least, is familiar to Katniss. She helps me prepare it with ease, and I am surprised by how naturally we work together. We brush past each other, sometimes intentionally, sometimes not. Though we started in her kitchen, she insists that we bake it in my wood fire oven. She claims that the smoke will give it a different taste. She makes me wait while she collects some hickory and mesquite branches as fuel.
While I manually work the oven, she sits on my counter and watches my every movement in silence. We started midafternoon when we had finished our late lunch. Though we snuck some blueberries while we thought the other wasn't looking. As I pull the cast iron pan out and place it on a towel, a smile quickly develops on her face.
"What are we baking tomorrow?"
We forego dinner and share the cobbler instead, devious grins on our faces as we clink spoons and steal bites from the other. When I leave that night, I find myself wondering if this is what true peace feels like. I fall asleep yearning for tomorrow to come.
The leaves are a rainbow of colour, from cheery yellow, vibrant orange, to deep burgundy. We begin spending most days together from sunrise to starlight. We are almost half way through the recipe book, and we have started adding anecdotes to the recipes. Little things like how long it takes with which wood and ideas for things it pairs well with. It turns out that what I had seen was only a small portion of the harvest that Katniss collected. Soon, things like pomegranates, lemons, and oranges appear in the array of options.
The distance between us is slowly bridged, and I no longer avoid touching her. When we read, she begins sitting close to me, and some nights we find ourselves leaning on the other's shoulder and sharing a blanket. She begins falling asleep before I leave, and I carry her up to her bed when she does.
Eventually, once our touching in private is a status quo, she holds my hand during our time in town. It is not forced, nor is it out of desperation. It is because she wants to. Sometimes she sings to me in the dark. My episodes decrease and I'm able to stop them sooner.
I begin to feel like myself again.