GROWING TOGETHER
Post-Mockingjay; Katniss and Peeta back in District 12, as they piece together their lives.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this.
CHAPTER TWO:
It's another beautiful day outside and against my better instincts, I decide to go for a morning hunt.
I walk past Peeta's house where the surrounding air smells so tangibly of bread, I have to force myself to keep moving forward. As I walk along, I wonder what our meeting today will hold. The muted look of disappointment on his face last night as I willed him away haunted my nightmares last night, the same expression he wore as he joined the others in dumping ashes over my body.
Barely two months have passed since our return and already, District 12 shows the promise of new life. Walking into the square, people go about their daily business like nothing had happened, like we were here all along.
But we've all suffered the same: refugees who have come home simply because there's nowhere else to go. Even I – Mockingjay and Girl on Fire all at once – have returned hoping for some newfound purpose to lead me through the looming ambiguity. We're all going through the motions and waiting for meaning, and I wonder what would happen if more doctors like Aurelius could treat my people.
A woman with a wrinkled face smiles at me and I suppose I offer a twitch of my lips. Otherwise, genuine smiles are hard to come by. I've never been one for children, but I wonder how much brighter our district would be if there were sounds of children playing once more. For now, it's only us – the bruised and the broken – who comprise this ashen place. The promise of a future with youthfulness and playfulness tempts my mind, but it's so far ahead of the horizon that I can't fixate on it.
I spend a couple minutes wondering how to cross the Meadow. The pit, once so deep and so terrifying, has been filled in with earth and sprouts of new life threaten to push through. But I am intrigued yet fearful of the place all at once. Do I walk around the mass grave, or do I walk through it forgetfully like everyone else has?
I skirt the area, not ready to play pretend just yet. I enter the woods where I normally do, where an overwhelming sense of calm falls on me and I realize I won't be hunting today, after all. I'll live off Peeta's bread and Greasy Mae's offerings until I have no choice but to hunt again. Instead, I find a place to set my quiver and bows aside and I sit down.
The forest is full of sounds and I wonder how life can continue in a place like this. Although I've come back here a couple times since I've returned, I have difficulty grasping the fact that none of this will ever be the same again. There are moments when I delude myself into believing that Gale will be waiting for me. But reality sets back in, and I realize I can breathe easier when I realize he is far away from me.
Moments like this remind me that I'm not the Katniss that I used to be.
Time passes in the forest – maybe minutes, maybe an hour or two – before I remember my meeting with Peeta.
Peeta.
And I realize that as long as he's around, there are parts of me that will never leave, parts that will never change.
I gather my belongings and wander slowly out of the forest, absorbing as much of my verdant and vibrant surroundings as I can.
"Did you go hunting this morning?" he asks, sitting a measured distance from me on the couch. The sunlight catches parts of his blond hair so that the tips look translucent.
I give him a look, brow furrowed.
"I saw you leave," he clarifies. "Through the window."
"Oh," I say. I never considered that he might be keeping a watchful eye on me, much like I've been doing with him. "Not really. There was nothing to catch."
"I've got more bread if you need more food," he says, even though he brought several loaves over with him.
Peeta. Always the provider, always the boy with the bread.
"I'm good for now, thank you." Everything feels foreign and a little forced. With the exception of last night, this is our first real conversation alone.
He nods and I notice his hands held together, his fingers intertwined and clutching onto each other as if he's steadying himself. He doesn't look like he's being tortured by flashbacks, so what could he be steadying himself against? Me?
My mind is racing faster than it has in a long while. Part of me wishes that I hadn't answered the door earlier, that I had let him take the hint and let him walk away. But the other, louder part of me longs to be with Peeta for the sense of familiarity he brings with him. Nothing feels like desire yet – not the same kind of hunger I felt on the beach that one day – but I worry that I might feel it again.
Would it be so bad?
And then I wonder if he wants me at all to begin with. I don't know if I'll ever fully comprehend the extent to which the Capitol infiltrated his mind and took away everything that made him undeniably Peeta. They took away what he felt for me – did they take away my feelings as well?
Realizing that my internal war might never be put to rest, I sigh.
"I'm not so sure how I want to go about doing all of this," I say tentatively, ignoring how he must be looking at me. Instead, I look at the table before us, arranged with old photos and objects strewn around a tattered but blank book that Sae left for me before. "I just want to remember."
Looking up, I watch as Peeta carefully observes everything before him. There's a quizzical but focused expression on his face, and I'm sure it's the first time in a long while that he's been this determined about something. And I think I feel the same way. Here is a solid, definable task at hand. We're not moving aimlessly; we're moving to a goal.
He carefully lifts a page torn from a book where I once drew the small pond in the woods where my father taught me to swim. The graphite has smudged a bit, but otherwise it's in good shape.
"Did you draw this?" he asks, his eyes still on the drawing.
"Yes," I reply. And I'm surprised by how he smiles. It's a smile that brings an unexpected flush of warmth inside of me, extending upwards until I reciprocate the motion before I even realize it. It feels strange on my face, but it's familiar enough that I'm sure I could do it again.
He looks at me. "It's very good."
I remember Peeta's paintings and I'm tempted to tell him that his are better. But I take the compliment and store it somewhere deep inside me, somewhere I can visit it again if I ever need to.
He sets it in between the pages of Sae's book and takes a moment to analyze what he's done. But when he grins, I'm sure he's pleased.
"I think…I think we should make it a picture book," he says. "That'll be the best way. We'll include what pictures we have and we'll draw everything else we can remember. Every little thing so that we don't forget any of it."
I shake my head. "You'll do the drawing. I'd rather write something at the bottom."
He raises a brow and answers, "You're not bad yourself."
"It was a fluke," I say, but I'm careful not to get combative.
He shrugs. "Maybe. But I'll do the illustrations if that's what you want. You're better at remembering anyway."
The words weren't meant to hurt, but they hit me like a ton of bricks anyway. And then it occurs to me that Peeta might need this book even more than I do. My reasons are selfish; I want to keep Prim and Rue and Cinna and others with me for as long as I can. But for Peeta? He just wants to be himself again.
We get started, and I fear that I might be giving myself away with how enthusiastic I am. I want to help Peeta, and if this book can help him remember, then I want to make sure we do it right.
Our pages today are beautiful. Peeta has done a wonderful job of drawing what I could only see in my mind: Prim's braids, Rue's small frame, Annie's sad but beautiful smile. And he comes up with the idea to seal everything with salt water. The entire process makes me wonder how I would get by these days without Peeta's influence, even when he's not there.
Every now and then, I watch him as he illustrates. He's so wrapped up in his work that he doesn't notice my stare. I can tell that he's giving so much of himself to this project, trading what he can for fragments of days and memories from so long ago. I wait to see if recognition will flash across his face, but all I see is his concentration. For him, that might be enough for now.
But not for me.
I clear my throat. "We should play a couple rounds of that game. Real or not real."
He looks up from the book, where he's in the process of drawing Finnick's trident. "What?" he asks.
"You said there were still gaps. Maybe some of what we've done today has helped."
He remains still for a moment before setting the book down and placing his hands in his lap. He's watching me carefully, like he's waiting for me to change my mind. Well, I'm not going to.
Finally, he says, "You don't want me here. Real or not real?"
I'm surprised by how quickly I answer.
"Not real," I respond. "I want to help you. And it's no good if you're gone for two months at a time again."
He smiles, and there's that warmth again.
"Okay," he whispers. "You have nightmares, too. Real or not real?"
"Real," I answer. "Ever since my dad died. And even worse since we got out of the arena the first time. You're not alone."
"I'm not alone," he repeats, getting a taste for the words in his mouth. I wait for another smile, but his expression disappears when he's deep in thought. I can tell he's carefully considering his next question, wanting to make it count. And I don't blame him. I understand how withdrawn I can be; I'm rarely ever this giving.
Then something clicks into place and he knows what to ask. For whatever reason, my insides seize up and I find myself dreading his question.
He gives me a hardened stare and somehow, I know what's going to come out of his mouth before it happens.
"You love me. Real or not real?"
But it still knocks the wind out of me. My limbs feel numb, like lukewarm noodles dangling awkwardly at my sides. I think of all the places I could look at, but my eyes keep going back to Peeta's face, which falls more into sadness the longer I wait to answer. There's some kind of reply waiting for me at the back of my throat, but it doesn't come out. He scrunches his brow and I know I've disappointed him.
"It's – I can't –" I stammer. I'm trying to get more out, but he shakes his head.
"No, it's okay," he says evenly. "I shouldn't have asked the question. I just…I can't get past that nagging feeling."
I frown. This was the opposite of what I wanted to do. I wanted to fill in those gaps, but my lameness has only made them wider.
"But I guess it's no different from the other things I can't be sure of," he sighs. "Maybe one day, you'll be able to give me a definite answer."
My heart sinks. I know that one day I'll be able to give him a definite answer when I've given it thought. I just don't know if it'll be the answer he wants to hear.
We sit in silence for longer than I can comprehend. We've done as much with the book as we can today, and yet neither of us makes the motion to finish up until next time. He sits there with his interlocked fingers, and I wait stupidly for some sign to lift me from this trap. Maybe the door will burst open and a drunken Haymitch will end this awkwardness. But that's wishful thinking on my part.
Finally, he whispers my name so quietly I almost miss it altogether.
"Katniss?"
"Yeah?"
"Could I kiss you?"
I'm like a fish out of water again. If there was ever a record for the most questions that could make me as lame as a duck, this is it.
This time, I have to stare at him in astonishment. Was he actually asking this question? Of all the things I could have expected to follow the awkwardness of his last question, asking to kiss me might as well be at the very bottom of the list.
But Peeta holds his ground and just looks at me patiently. He'll wait for me to sort out a response all day if he has to.
"Peeta," I say, fighting for something more. "I don't know if that's a good idea."
And this is when he chooses to smile. There's no warmth this time, only discomfort.
"It might be," he says with unexpected coolness. "Maybe it'll give us an answer to my last question."
He's got me there. Maybe something physical will jump-start any residual affection I have for him. As for him? It'll either do the same, or it'll compel him to choke me instead. Regardless, neither of those outcomes bode well if I find I don't love him after all.
I don't say anything in response. Instead, I shift closer to him on the couch, awkwardly dragging myself to where he is sitting. I expect him to change his mind, but he sits there resolutely.
He lets me take control of the situation, which infuriates me. But I maintain my composure and lean forward, waiting for everything to end. He finally leans in with me, and I feel the heat of his breath on my cheek. And much like fire thawing a block of ice, I crack.
"I can't," I say, pulling back and jolting both of us back to reality. He sits there, stunned, and I find it's difficult to breathe. "It's not right."
He stands up so quickly and I get scared for a moment. But he swiftly moves past me toward the front door. He turns the doorknob and pushes, letting the twilight fill the room. But before leaving, he turns around, avoiding my glance altogether.
"I'll see you again," he says sternly. Then he walks out and slams the door behind him.
It's only five minutes later when my cheeks are damp with moisture that I realize I've been crying. I wipe the tears away, furious with myself for crying at all, and march upstairs into my bed where more nightmares certainly await.
AN: Thanks so much for the positive feedback right off the bat! Please please please let me know what you guys think, because one of the most saddening things is when a really good fic starts veering in a bad direction, and I don't want to do that with this! So I'd definitely love to get some kind of response from you guys. Also, I'm concentrating this story on Peeta and Katniss's relationship for the first couple chapters or so. Other characters, like Haymitch, will show up soon, but not just yet. I'm enjoying writing about Peeta and Katniss way too much!
