Chapter 6

~Katniss~

Peeta's eyes went black. He squeezed his eyelids shut and shook his head, as though to fling away the invading hallucination. "Katniss..." he breathed.

"Going." I touched his face briefly, then sprang from the chair, stepping over him, and sprinted out the front door, not bothering to close it behind me. I banged on Haymitch's front door, he opened it in seconds.

"Again?" he asked, not really interested in the answer. He headed off to my house, I stood on his porch and waited.

And thought. And tried not to think. And resisted. But the images and faces came anyway. It was like the weeks after it happened. Ordering a new bow from the catalog after my father's had irreparably broken. The stocky, strong-jowled street dog in Two, staring us down from behind a rusted chain link fence. Parachute bombs on the evening news, drifting peacefully downward, then detonating behind the grainy texture of the glass screen. No matter how much time passed, some small thing, some little detail would bring me back to that moment again. And everything I'd felt was dredged up, fractured and rotten, to parade before me.

"Katniss?"

I wasn't sure how much time had passed, but I was suddenly aware that my fingers were screaming from gripping the wooden porch railing. I released my hold, only to feel the goose that was nibbling at the seam of my pants leg. Peeta's hand was at my back.

I nodded, exhaling. His face was worried. "All better?" I asked him.

"I'm all right now. You?"

I resisted my first answer. We did have an agreement after all. "Not really." I sank into a wicker chair. "Just dragged up all the old stuff. Made it fresh again." My hand was being sandwiched between both of Peeta's, and he'd taken the chair next to mine. Haymitch disappeared inside for a moment and returned, pressing a glass of something into my free hand. He watched the news as we did, so he didn't require any explanation. It was one of those bitter moments when we each knew exactly what was on the others' minds, that there was nothing we could do, but were content to share the stale, ambient misery.

I cleared my throat. It didn't do anything to help my voice, but it relieved the itching in my throat that I couldn't scratch. I was stalling; I didn't really want to know what his hallucination had been, considering the trigger was something he hadn't encountered yet, to the best of my knowledge. I sucked it up. "So... what was yours?"

Peeta shook his head. "I'm not sure you want to know."

The pain that had dug into my soul just minutes before was now rather dull, I was strangely numb. The amber liquid I'd been sipping could take credit for that. "Try me."

He took a long, stabilizing breath. "Well, I started to remember where I was before the bombs went off the last time." he explained. "It was fuzzy until now... I think because I kept getting stuck between hijack mode and trying to stay out of hijack mode." He was quiet for a minute. "I think... I think I saw her. Right before..." His eyes were on me. "I think I tried to get to her."

I was glad whatever was in my glass was alcoholic. I chugged it quickly, let my head swim. Haymitch raised his glass in our direction and took a swig himself. It dawned on me that we were all in the exact same place just over a month ago, in a very different set of circumstances. No, I should be thinking about the fact that Peeta just mentioned that he'd seen my sister before she died. But I was there too, and I hadn't seen him. The smoke had been awfully thick though... and the scene far too tragic to see everything clearly. I guess he could have been there, somewhere on the other side of the child barricade. But I was supposed to be mourning my sister all over again right now. The mention of her should make me cry. Sob. Scream and throw things in the agony that I'm here and she isn't. Why wasn't I doing these things?

"Haymitch, I need another one." He poured, I drank. The late evening darkness was a surreal blur. Peeta and Haymitch talked, I swam in the bourbon ocean. I think I understood why Haymitch drank as much as he did. It felt... not bad. I wouldn't be as bad as he was, I thought. I was only semi-aware when Peeta lifted and carried me home.

He carefully dumped me on what I assumed was my side of the bed, the coolness of the pillow against my cheek rousing me slightly. Eyes closed, I fussed over the buttons of my shirt until more nimble fingers than mine interrupted to take over. I ran my hands up his arms, the sudden urge to touch him creeping in to replace the sleepiness. He held me upright to slide the shirt off, then went to the button at my waist, lifting me to slide the pants off my hips. My heart rushed in my ears, and I lunged at him, lips crushing against his, fingers tangling in his hair. The taste of the sweet bread from supper mingled with the sips of bourbon that had crossed his lips was madness. His hands came up to rest on my back for a moment, allowing me this break from character, then brought them to my waist and slowly pushed me back.

The corners of his mouth twitched upward. "You're making it hard to get you ready for bed, you know."

I swallowed, immediately feeling guilty. Not quite rebuffed, but definitely deflected. I dropped my hands and stepped back. My head swam again, and he was there to catch me before I fell, pushing me back onto the bed. He retrieved a clean shirt from the dresser and pulled it over my head, fingering the clips out of my hair and setting them on the nightstand. He pressed a kiss to my forehead, and I knew that was the end of that.

"I'll be right back," he promised.

I brought my feet up to sit cross-legged, wondering if I'd crossed a line, not quite sure where that line was, and if this desire to cross it was more me or the alcohol talking, or some combination of both. And then he was back, a plate of rolls in one hand, a glass of milk in the other.

"Eat some, it'll help absorb part of what you drank," he guided.

I nibbled on a roll, taking sips of the milk when he offered.

"I'm sorry," I whispered abruptly.

He chuckled. "What for?"

I looked at him sideways. He knew what for. Was he teasing me now? Or was I being too sensitive? My voice was still raspy, but sounded more like me than it had yet. "I think I see now why Haymitch drinks," I shook my head. "It feels good for a while, but it makes me do things I wouldn't normally do." My speech was a tiny bit slurred, but Peeta made no mention of it. "I'm sorry I presumed... that... was something you wanted from me."

Now it was Peeta's turn to shake his head. "Katniss... I do want that," he told me. "But... it's not something I want from you, it's something I want for both of us. To share withyou. But only when you're ready, and not while you're impaired. I couldn't look at myself in the mirror again knowing I'd taken advantage of you."

He was better than I thought. He always was. There wasn't a manipulative bone left in his body, and I chided myself for thinking there was now.

"Maybe I want you to take advantage," I muttered. "You're always so damn honorable. Maybe I want you but I don't know how to tell you..." I clapped my hand over my mouth. Where had that come from?

"Katniss," his hands were on my face, sweeping my hand away from my mouth. "Thank you, for finally being honest with me." And then his lips were pressed on mine, sweetly, not hungrily as mine had been earlier. When he broke away, I felt the separation, but not the rejection that came with it last time. He brought his arms around me, holding me against his chest, stroking my hair softly. "You know, I think I like your hair like this," he whispered, his lips by my ear.

"Hmm?" I was confused, and he sensed it. He brought me to lay down next to him, facing me.

"It hasn't affected me, since it... set me off," he looked away briefly, shame flickering across his face. He shook it off, knowing I hated it when he beat himself up over that. "Doc thinks the stress of what I thought I'd done kind of... undid its effect as a trigger." He sighed. "I still see the vision the way I arranged it, but it's like... not putting yeast in the dough, the result is flat. There's no reaction. And now... I can really see you this way, and you look... nice."

I scoffed. It didn't hit me until later that it was like I was brushing off his epiphanic admission. "Nice?"

He smiled. "Fishing for compliments? Maybe I do like you better this way." He captured one of my hands and pressed his lips to my knuckles. "Beautiful."

I blushed, the corners of my mouth turning up. I wondered how long it would have taken us to reach this moment without alcohol, for the walls to come down. Well, there was one wall between us, more of a buffer really, the intoxication's dulling effect. I wanted to keep this going as long as I could.

"Can I tell you something?" he tested, suddenly serious. "I'm not sure how you'll feel, but I need to tell you."

I nodded.

He took a deep breath, the way he always did before telling me something he felt might change how I feel about him. "The vision I had tonight..."

My breath hitched in my throat suddenly, when I realized where this was going.

"Katniss, please listen, I need you to know," he pleaded, his hand touching my cheek.

I shuddered a sigh, then nodded for him to continue.

He swallowed. "I didn't remember that day until now... but I've always known the feelings behind it. I know you hate it when I bring up things that we can't change. I've watched you struggle with this since we've been back here, and as much as I want to do something, anything to help you, I know I never can, when it comes to her." He sniffed, his eyes were ringed with red. "I can't change what happened. But if there had been more time, if I could have gotten to her faster..." A single tear rolled sideways across his face. "I remembered... that I was prepared to get her out of the way, and... to take her place."

He was in my arms before any more tears could fall.

"Why are you telling me this?" I wondered.

"Because..." he choked between sniffles, "I needed you to know... I loved you that much... even when I thought I didn't."

Another urge prodded me, this time in my heart. I knew it wasn't the alcohol talking, not this time. "I... need to tell you something too," I said, releasing him.

Peeta's face was inches from mine. He swiped his hands across his cheeks, wiping away the moisture that clung there. He looked worried, then realization hit him. "You love me. Real or not real?"

My hand found his and I brought it to rest over my pounding heart, sighing. "Real."

Once upon a time, a five-year-old boy met the girl of his dreams. He watched her in school, noticed when she came and went on the street by his parents' store, and more often, sat and dreamed of what might be. And fifteen years later, she would tell him that she loved him. A normal boy would have rejoiced. But Peeta hadn't been normal for quite some time.

"Say something," I nudged.

His eyes flickered, betraying his confusion. He blinked a few times, then opened his mouth. "You don't mean that," he whispered.

Something dissolved inside me then, and another thing awoke. It wasn't simply anger, or hurt, or any emotion I could name. Mechanically, I pulled away from him, rose from the bed, and walked out of the room. I went downstairs, hearing him call after me, but the thudding in my ears drowned him out and my legs kept on moving. I went through the cellar door and locked it behind me.

Peeta was already knocking desperately on the door. "Katniss! Katniss please, I have no idea why I said that, I didn't mean it! I believe you! Katniss, I love you so much, please believe me. I'm so sorry. Katniss..."

I could hear the words, feel his anguish. I knew he didn't mean it. But it was the excuse I'd been looking for. It was cheap and underhanded, and something the old me totally would have done. It was even something the old Peeta might have done, but his intentions were always rooted in my survival, where mine were based upon keeping him as far away from this as possible. In a twisted way, I was looking out for him too. I had my way out. I was going to see Hazelle.

The sacks of flour weren't comfortable, but they were a better alternative than the concrete floor. I pulled an old quilt out of one of the never-unpacked boxes and covered myself, bringing my hands to rest over my ears. I thanked the alcohol that remained in my system, that would give me some peace tonight. The numbness would be long gone by morning.

There are a few ways the story can go. I'd love to hear your ideas. Please review!