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 FOUR:

Later, I wonder if it's too soon to share my bed with Peeta again.

Sure, there's always the probability that some fit of madness will riddle his mind and lead him to throttle me to death in the middle of the night. But that's not necessarily what concerns me.

This emotional tug-of-war inside me seems to have no end. How much of my offer comes from actually wanting to help him? How much of it comes from the more selfish desire to have him near me again? Suddenly, I'm reminded of the mission I shared with Haymitch during the Quarter Quell: keep Peeta alive. And even now, when much has been said and done, the mission doesn't seem to have changed. But have I clouded it with my own motives, borne of loneliness?

I can't deny that I miss his presence and protection; that's a given. But I worry that the invitation to my bed will only confuse us more, especially now when the most important task is restoring Peeta to his normal self.

At any rate, it's too late to do anything now. He'll be here later tonight. I sigh and I continue my art.

Peeta's absence has afforded me one luxury: the ability to attempt illustration without his watchful eye.

When I thought that he wasn't coming back, I figured I would have to perfect my drawing abilities for the book's sake. So far, I've only tried my hand at simple things: the leafy treetops from the first arena, an arrow in its quiver, and a silver parachute gliding downward from the sky. When I come back inside, I start working on an outline of the Capitol. At first, it's difficult to pull my mental imagery of it to the forefront of my mind. But soon, I hit a rhythm that lasts me into late afternoon as it transitions into early evening.

It has hardly occurred to me to turn on a light – electricity has been surprisingly consistent lately – when I hear the knock on my door.

I sit straight up and wonder who it could be. Peeta said he would come by late at night, when he had finished cleaning up at his house. But from the dusky light outside, it must only be seven or eight. I set my illustration and the book back down on the table and go to open the door.

"Sorry I'm early," Peeta says when he sees the look of confusion on my face. He's holding a pot. "But Greasy Sae told me to bring you this broth tonight."

Peeta Mellark. Always with the food.

I tell him it's okay and I let him into the house. He goes to the couch where he immediately looks at my drawing. For half a second, I think to throw my body across the table so he can't see it. But it's too late now.

He looks up with a wry grin.

"I told you," he says. "You are good at this."

I'm too weary to argue, so I collapse on the couch next to him and roll my eyes.

"If you say so. Now, what's this I hear about broth?"

Peeta is all too eager to hand me the pot along with a spoon. I take off the lid and instantly, I'm greeted with the aroma of fresh broth. I haven't even realized how hungry I am until I take my first spoonful.

"You've eaten?"

He nods and lifts the book from the table and carefully examines the progress I've made so far. His face flashes with approval when he reaches my newest illustrations, and something inside me suggests that maybe his encouragement might actually be genuine.

It's a nice thought to hold onto as I finish the last of the broth. Usually, this is hardly enough to fill me up. But right now, I'm pleasantly full. If there's one thing that can be said for the time since returning to District 12, it's that days with nourishment are happily more common than days without.

Maybe things are improving after all.

I set the pot down and watch as Peeta pulls folded sheets of paper from his pocket. He considers putting them on the table but ultimately hands them over to me. I eye him carefully, but there's a calm expression on his face that asks me to look at them first.

I unfold the first sheet and find a carefully painted illustration of a wedding cake – the one he frosted for Finnick and Annie's wedding. This painting barely holds a candle to the real thing, which with its intricate ocean-themed design and detail was one of the most dazzling things I'd ever seen. But the blues and greens and sea-foamed tips here remind me strongly of that day, and the brief reprieve we all had to join in their happiness.

Finnick. His handsome face fills my mind and I have to shut my eyes to force it out. It's all I can do to keep from tossing the rest of Peeta's drawings aside.

"Katniss?" His voice is soft and concerned. "Are you okay?"

I open my eyes, nodding. I don't want to show weakness in front of Peeta when I'm supposed to be helping him. But I can't help it. Surely he understands.

"This is really beautiful," I tell him, and I set it down on the table.

The others are just as effortlessly drawn – some from recent memories and others from ones that he needed help remembering. One of my favorites is a sunset, a spectacular display of orange and yellow. Another one is a window to the night sky, which reminds me to open the windows in the bedroom before we sleep tonight. The one after is the interior of his father's bakery, reconstructed from memory after its destruction in our district's bombing.

But the one that catches my attention is the last one. It's the figure of a child – undeniably feminine – cowering beneath a tree, sheets of rain falling around her. I can't see her face but I know how she feels. It's so vivid that I can almost feel the iciness of the rain as it drums against my skin. I know it all.

Because this is a drawing of me.

I stare at the painting for a long while, transfixed for some undefined reason. The pain I expect to come keeps its distance, and instead I feel something I can't quite explain. There's a sense of sympathy for this child, kin and alien all at once. But there's also mild fear. Like I would rather push her away than help her now.

"Real or not real?"

Peeta's voice comes like a knife slicing through the silence. I don't know how long he has been watching me, but it's long enough that his question shocks me back to reality. I place the painting so that it joins the others.

"It appears in my dreams now and then," he says. "I can't tell."

"It's real," I answer.

He looks relieved as he sinks into the couch. He was probably waiting until I got to that picture, and I'm glad that there are still ways I can help him.

"It's never a nightmare," he says, closing his eyes. "I don't think I can explain it properly. But something about it helps me focus myself. Almost like…I have purpose again."

"What purpose?" I ask.

"To protect you."

Had I been the old Katniss, the one before or even during the first Hunger Games that could have killed Peeta without second thought, I would have hated that comment. I would have despised it. I've been self-sufficient ever since my mother took it upon herself to stare into space rather than raise her daughters. Which was why I resented Peeta and his burned bread for the longest time. I hate the feeling of being in someone's debt, or someone's ward.

But now, I don't seem to mind it much. I should be concerned – is he in any right state of mind to take on the task of protecting me? – but I'm not too bothered. It almost makes sense in the aftermath of everything that's happened. When the isolation has settled in, what other roles can we take on?

"I hope that doesn't upset you," he says when I fail to respond. "I know how you like your independence."

I shake my head. "It doesn't upset me."


I open the window because Peeta won't sleep otherwise.

"Thanks," he says when I return to the bed.

"Are you comfortable?" I ask him. He's already lying down and under the blanket. Suddenly, I just want everything to be perfect.

He must sense my anxiety because he actually laughs. It's strange to hear, but it soothes my nerves at least. But I remain sitting on the edge of the bed.

He offers the kindest smile he can muster. "Why are you so worried? You said yourself we've done this before. This time shouldn't be any different."

His words ring true, and yet I don't believe him right away.

"I don't know why I'm so jumpy all of a sudden," I admit.

"Then why don't you come here and join me? Maybe that'll help things."

What a line. But it's a line that works.

I turn off the light and slip into bed with him. At first, I keep my distance and occasionally look over at him. His features are muted by the moonlight glow, but his lack of heavy breathing tells me he's not asleep just yet. I don't know why, but I feel the need to wait for him to fall asleep before I can follow suit. However, five minutes haven't even passed when I realize he's onto me.

"This doesn't work if you're not sleeping," says Peeta.

"I could say the same for you," I respond. "Just go to bed already."

"I can't sleep if you're watching me," he replies just staring at the ceiling above us.

We're so close to each other, yet extremely careful to ensure that we don't touch. And maybe that's the problem.

Without saying anything, I move closer to Peeta. Almost instantly, he repositions his arm so that it reaches above me, inviting me to move even closer to him. I think about this for a moment, but I move into the space between us anyway.

Warmth. That's what awaits me when I make contact with his body for the first time. The nights have been so cold lately that this sensation is peculiar but welcome all at once. He wraps his arm around me and my mind is flooded with memories of nights spent sleeping together in the Capitol. How long ago that all seems.

Pressed against him and positioned comfortably in the crook of his arm, I don't even remember falling asleep. It's not until the next morning when light peers into the room that I process what has happened. I'm even more surprised to find that his face is dangerously close to mine.

In the faint sunlight, I can see all of his features. His blond eyelashes. His smooth jaw. The curvature of his lips. And in the next few moments when he wakes up, his blue eyes.

"You fell asleep," he grunts.

"We fell asleep," I correct him.

"Did you have any nightmares?" he asks.

"No," I reply. "You?"

Something like relief washes across his face when he says, "No."

I don't mind when he pulls me closer to him so that we are touching again. After a peaceful night's sleep like that, we bask in the afterglow, entwined in each other's bodies and delaying the inevitable moment when we must get out of bed.


AN: Hope you guys liked it! As always, feedback is greatly appreciated!