Chapter 8

I hadn't run in so long that my muscles raged against me. Each filament protesting and burning. I enjoyed the feel of their torment. I welcomed the pain.

I locked my front door behind me, hungry for air, lungs fluttering full and empty like a great accordion. He didn't follow me, but, I keep my door locked as I snuggled into my cushions.

Sometime in the night I heard the pounding. I hadn't been asleep anyway; I had been thinking about him, thinking about District 12, about hunting, about my family, about everything and nothing. One thought seemed to lead to the next with out rhyme or reason and only broke apart at the banging. I was almost grateful for the recess.

The front door held firm, but the beating it was given clapped loudly through my empty home. I huddled against the cushions of the couch and listened wide eyed. The rhythm was urgent and angry.

After a few minutes came the yelling. The door was thick, but I could make out the most of it:

"…What the fuck did you do? You…"

"… me! You stole all of it!..."

"…How dare you! You…"

"…I can't believe you! You're horrible, you're…"

A part of me wanted to unlock the door and let him do to me whatever he had had in mind when he found the shattered bottles.

But a sliver of self-preservation kept me where I was.

He left after a while.

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The morning brought dark clouds and rain. Heavy wet drops that pounded and seemed to come from every direction.

I grabbed my hunting gear and jacket and headed off into the weather. I walked behind the houses, trying to stay out of sight, sloshing from puddle to puddle. I was armed, but unprepared for the emotional roll-a-coaster of running into Peeta.

I wanted to ask him about the paintings. I wanted to talk to him about his drinking. I wanted to comfort him. I wanted to reassure him. I wanted to reassure me. But, I really didn't want to fight with him, and so I avoided him.

I was more successful today. I shot a fawn and then spent the remainder of the morning hacking and portioning the beast to pack it home.

I left an armful behind Haymitch's and Peeta's homes, still afraid to leave them up front.

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I bickered with myself for hours after my shower. Should I go over? Should I apologize? Should I check in? Should I make him dinner?

I paced the downstairs and role-played both myself and Peeta. Each conversation ended worse than the one before and I was stuck.

In the end the decision was made for me with a swift but subtle knock at the door.

I took a steadying breath and opened the door.

Peeta stood in front of me, head bowed, shoulders slumped.

"I'm sorry." He said flatly.

His hands were deep in his pockets, but even from the door I could see they were shaking.

Not knowing how to respond, I said nothing, but looked on at his trembling hands.

He looked up, attempting to assure himself that I was still there, that I had heard him.

"I shouldn't have come over here last night," he paused. "I don't want you to be afraid of me," his eyes bored into me. " But, perhaps it would be better if you stayed away." He said the words with such finality, with such conviction.

I nodded my head slowly, but wasn't sure I agreed.

"I'm not afraid of you." I countered finally as he turned his body to leave.

He looked back and smiled. "You really should be. I am," he added sadly.

I stepped onto the small porch and reached for his hand and pulled it from his pant pocket. It quivered in mine, cold and sweaty. He stared down at our connected skin and looked up shaking his head.

"Sometimes things work far better than you might have hoped," he mumbled. "Please, Katniss, don't," he finished, removing my hand from his with great care and effort.

"But, Peeta…" I stuttered, unsure how to proceed.

"Really Katniss, please. Don't. Go live your life; you look like your doing well. Just don't. I just can't." He said wearily.

"No. Peeta. Peeta, I need you to. What would I do?" I floundered around, not sure what I meant, or where this conversation was headed.

I was stifling tears, hating the disparity in his voice and mine.

"Let me help you. Peeta. Peeta, I want to help you."

"It's okay. I'm okay knowing that you'll be okay," he sighed. He looked up at me once more and smiled that Peeta smile I had loved once. It stayed only a moment, and he soon turned his back and began walking back toward his own home.

I shook my head angrily. He was doing it again, I realized as I watched him drogue back through the rain. He was playing the game. He was making sure I was the surviving tribute.

I closed the door and rested against the solid wood. I let my forehead press against the cold hardness and breathed deeply.

Two could play this game. And, had, if I recalled correctly.

END CHAPTER