A/N: Let me apologize for the delay in publishing, dear readers, but life has kept me busy and this chapter had to incubate for a while. I think it turned out well, though (although please feel free to tell me what you think). Please note the rating change, but don't worry-I did my best to keep it classy.
Please enjoy!
Love, LilD
Songs: "Blackbird" by the Beatles
"Everlong" by the Foo Fighters (acoustic version)
"Undisclosed Desires" by Muse
Chapter 7 – Real (P)
All at once, spring has arrived. And early. I am on my morning delivery route, which is once again a solo endeavor. Marko, who says he finds the change of pace invigorating, has been working with the construction teams, leaving Dad and I to do the baking, an easy enough task for the two of us. And while Dad sometimes walks with me to deliver, he often says he is too tired, as he did today.
Katniss has been out of bed and hunting at dawn every day this week. I had been so concerned when she had reverted to languishing in bed. All that day, I was plagued by a waking nightmare in which I envisioned her sliding back into the depths of her mind, to a place where the distance between us has no relation to physical proximity. It would be as if living in a world both with and without Katniss, a fate seemingly worse than losing her entirely.
When I spoke to Dr. Aceso that afternoon, she didn't directly say it, but I had the feeling she thought the reemergence of my family may be a factor in Katniss' relapse, a suspicion that Katniss confirmed when I went to her that evening. I was so relieved to have found her that night, that whatever I said or did pulled her back from the hollow place she was going. Now, with Marko working in town and Dad not minding more time alone, Katniss and I have afternoons to ourselves again. We still have our nights, too, and when she's lain in my arms this past week, Katniss somehow feels more real to me than she ever has.
As I venture out into the bright blue morning, I see her as I leave my house, a speck in the distance against the fence, on the far side of a Meadow suddenly carpeted green with clover and grass. At nearly every stop on my route, people comment on the fair weather and hastening of the construction it will afford, if it continues. On the other end of town, the land around the filled-in mine shafts that became last year's experimental farms are once again being tilled for new crops. When I find Marko, we both stop for a break to share rolls and a flask of tea I brought from home.
"Construction's going great, faster than planned," he says as we eat.
"That's what everyone's been saying," I reply. "I hope no one tells Plutarch, or he'll be out here early."
"Plutarch Heavensbee? I didn't know he was coming."
"I guess I never told you. He'll be filming for TV here, when ground breaks on the factory."
"That's only four weeks away," says Marko.
"We'll have our birthday before then," I realize. About two weeks from now, actually, on March 14th.
"We'll be old men," he jokes.
"Dad's an old man these days," I say. "He's slower than he used to be. It seems like this has all been so tough on him, the war and his illness."
Marko agrees, and we sit in silence for another minute.
"I should get back to the site," he says, dusting crumbs from his front. "See you for lunch."
That afternoon, Marko returns to work and Dad retires to his room after we eat, leaving Katniss and me alone in the kitchen.
"Will you take a walk with me?" she offers.
"Sure," I reply. The breeze has picked up and is sweeping over the Meadow as we cross it, and the sun shines bravely in the open space, contrasted by the cool shade under the trees. Katniss has taken to inviting me on these walks, on her good days. Sometimes I'll lead her through town, but she prefers the woods. Today, I follow her along the banks of the stream that runs down the hillside, a path we've taken many times before.
"Can we stop for a minute?" I ask after a bit. Walking as fast as we are, and with her ahead of me, it's impossible to talk.
"Tired?" she says, teasingly.
"Nah. Well, maybe a little," I reply with a smile as we sit, hip to hip, on a flat rock overlooking the rushing creak. "You know," I continue, approaching the topic with some sensitivity, "last week, when I told you I'm still here because you're real? I meant that."
"I know," she says plainly.
"But it's more than that. It's bigger. It's that you make me real. I know that I'm here, that I'm okay, because you are. Does that make any sense?"
"Not really," Katniss says. "But I think I understand it somehow." I think I understand, too. That just as her presence steadies me, the absence of her sister burdens her. "Peeta? I'm sorry, for all the awful things I've caused-"
"No, Katniss." I stop her before she can go off on another tirade of guilt. "Everything that happened to me was for you, not because of you. After having my name pulled out at that reaping, it's all been for you. And I was honored to do it." The last part is maybe more than I wanted to say, but I couldn't stop myself.
She leans in to kiss me, the novelty of which is not lost on me. After sitting in silence for some time, we fall into small talk that spans the weather, the spring, the construction, and Plutarch's impending visit.
"I was thinking," she says hesitantly at the mention of the latter point, "that maybe I'd consent to an interview. If the terms are right."
"You mean if the terms are yours?"
"Something like that. Just something small, so he can get his sound bite and get off our cases."
"I'll do it with you, if you want," I offer. Not that I'm dying to be interviewed by Plutarch, but I think doing so could be good for Katniss, and if I can help her, all the better.
She smiles. Then, "We better start heading back; it's going to start getting dark soon."
We walk home as the sun sets over the Meadow that clings auspiciously to the tepid warmth of the day. Passing around the back of her house, Katniss stops abruptly in front of the row of primrose bushes I had planted there nearly a year ago. The air is redolent with their scent, and Katniss closes her eyes and inhales. As the shimmer of a tear appears in the corner of her eye, I put an arm around her shoulders to brace her, sure that some fit of anxiety or depression is coming to take her from me.
But she leans her head onto my shoulder and smiles softly. "Are you okay?" I ask, almost as alarmed at this apparent display of calm as I would have been if she had reacted how I had expected.
"She would have liked these," Katniss says in the quiet voice reserved for memories of Prim. "But not for the same reason I do."
Our serenity is broken by a sharp hiss.
"Oh quiet, you," Katniss says contemptuously. Buttercup, after realizing Prim wouldn't return, had reverted to a near feral state, often skulking around these bushes. Not that Katniss would ever confess to wanting the beast around.
Katniss goes into her house to wash up before dinner. In my kitchen, where Dad and Greasy Sae are cooking our meal, a large carton sits on the table.
"What's this?" I ask.
"It came for you this afternoon," replies my father.
I recognize the handwriting and sender's address to be Dr. Aceso's.
"From my doctor," I say as I open it. Inside, atop a stack of books, is a letter. "They're books," I explain as I read the Dr. Aceso's note. "Apparently, President Snow had banned a great many books, and locked away the ones that weren't burned. And now they've found them, and Paylor wants people to have them. She says there's a great amount of knowledge that's been lost, that we need to read these and share them, and she'll send others when she can get them. Hmm," I continue, looking up from the letter and picking up a book. "I wonder what kind of knowledge."
I am soon answered as I look over the volumes. Histories, it seems. Accounts of the people and places of the world before our time. Well before, judging by some of them. In a lesser amount, the doctor has also sent some novels, works of fiction, an art form she said had been all but lost in recent times. She thought Katniss might particularly enjoy these.
And enjoy them she does, not just the novels, but the others as well. We all picked up a book after dinner that night, but Katniss was the first to put hers down, only to pick up another and leaf through it before discarding it and repeating the process. While she hadn't read much more than a dozen pages in one, Katniss manages to read some part of most of those books that night.
The following days find Katniss perpetually tethered to one book or another, and despite the capriciousness of her selections, she soon lands upon several favorites: a novel and a history of Panem. The former she carries in her game bag, although I rarely see her reading it and she doesn't discuss it. In the afternoons, while I paint, Katniss often reads passages from the history. The book itself is well over a hundred years old (although in remarkable condition; Snow had inadvertently preserved the books by sealing them in a vault), and it chronicles hundreds of years of information. She reads of the formation of a representative government formed in the wake of a revolution.
"It lasted a few centuries, that democracy," Katniss says as her fingertip traces a timeline in the book.
"What happened to it?" I ask.
"I haven't gotten there yet," she replies, and although her tone is good-humored, a grim expression flashes over her features.
A gust of cold wind, which had been picking up throughout the day, prompts us to seek refuge in my house, where Katniss continues to read. So it goes for the next few days as the wind, frigid and unrelenting, blasts outside. While Katniss is yet to talk much about what she is reading, I can nonetheless feel in her a change of energy, subtle at first, then more drastic after a few days, a week. And although nearly always either physically or mentally wrapped up in her books, in the times when we are together, she seems more present, more alive than I've ever seen her.
I feel it most strongly in the night. Her nightmares still won't leave her, and they often wake me. But they rarely wake her; instead, when I pull her close to me, she relents and relaxes into my arms and a more soothing sleep. In these moments, I come to realize that I love her now more than ever, that this new life within her is the Katniss I had always been in love with, the girl I knew had been there from the beginning. And yet, I'm still not certain she loves me.
I have half a mind just to ask her, and I'm contemplating doing so as we ready ourselves for bed one evening. And yet, in spite of how well she's been lately, fear of her rejection, that old inner monster that separated me from Katniss more than anything ever had, once again holds me mute. Because what would I do, if she says that she doesn't love me, or that she can't?
But as we get into bed, the ease with which she slides into my embrace quells my anxieties. Despite her pajamas and the thick blankets, Katniss is still shivering against the icy wind that howls outside. "I can sleep with the window closed tonight, if it's too cold for you," I say, shutting the window and quickly returning to her side to offer my warmth.
"Thanks," she replies. "I'll add it to my list." Katniss turns to face me, and in the light of the full moon that streams through the window I can see her smiling. I lean in to kiss her, and I instantly know that this much more than our usual kiss goodnight. Tonight, Katniss kisses me back with a passion, a hunger I've never felt before. I'm caught off guard, lost in the electric pleasure of returning the intensity of Katniss' energy, the force of her mouth on mine. My mind pulls back to those few kisses in the arenas that stand out so vividly, and know I know exactly why: This is what kissing Katniss is supposed to feel like.
Except this time, something about it feels completely different. Tonight, alone in Katniss' bedroom bathed in silvery moon glow, is just she and I. No arena, no tributes, no cameras broadcasting this to every television in the nation. This, I know, is absolutely real. And private. Perhaps Katniss is answering the question I couldn't bring myself to ask.
Just as I'm able to register a thought as to where this might be going, Katniss' hands are running across my back, along my sides, and over my hips is a way that can only cause me to think about where this might be going. Where it is going. I regain my senses long enough to ask Katniss if we're overstepping our bounds, but before the words finish leaving my lips, hers have found them again. "It's okay," she breathes. "Don't stop." I don't hesitate to acquiesce.
Having imagined this scenario from the time I was old enough to know of its theoretical possibility has not quite prepared me for the reality of it. I had long ago promised myself that if this moment ever came, I would do everything I can to please Katniss. Because I know it will be impossible for me to not love everything that is about to happen.
At her precipitous encouragement and my awestruck delight, we both begin to shed clothing, as we are kept warm by fevered kisses and the friction between us.
I'm aware that she received next to no medical treatment in the time she was held during her trial last year, but I am still not fully aware of the extent of her burn scars until I see them. Regrown skin stretches taut and pink over much of her torso and parts of her legs, seams of hardened scar tissue running between the colored patches. Nevertheless, as I explore and discover the exquisite forms and features of Katniss' body with my hands and mouth, I find that her scars, which make visible her courage and strength, only make her that much more perfect to me.
"You're so beautiful, Katniss," I take my lips from her just long enough to whisper in her ear.
"I want you so badly, Peeta," she replies, tugging at the waistband of my underpants, the only clothing either of us is still wearing. I resist giving into her long enough to remind her that she might get pregnant. Although I I'd be happy enough making a houseful of beautiful babies with Katniss. But she shakes her head. "I can't for now, I'll explain later."
And with that taken care of, nothing stands between me and the only thing I have ever truly desired. I take great care to start slowly, mostly so I can make sure Katniss is comfortable. I've heard a woman's first time can be painful, not that I have experience in the matter myself. What knowledge I do have comes from my brothers and the only other relationship I had beyond kissing Delly when we were twelve.
It was a while ago, three winters back. Sera Hofstetter and I were walking home from school together, which we did fairly often. We never planned to, but her parents' furniture shop was right next to the bakery, so it was common to run into her. Sera was a several months older than I and a year ahead in school, and I had long thought her pretty; I hadn't been lying when Katniss had asked me if I had ever noticed any other girls. That afternoon, a sudden onslaught of hail forced us to take refuge in the storage room of the furniture shop, where she kissed me and confessed to having a crush on me. All that winter I dated Sera, cold winter afternoons spent on an old sofa tucked into a back corner of the storage room basement, evenings on which we chatted and cuddled, kissed and caressed.
And while I found Sera to be kind and lovely, I also soon became aware that she couldn't attenuate the ever-enduring draw I had always felt toward the woman with whom I now lie. So it was with a bit of a guilty heart that I broke off our relationship. Even though I couldn't fully tell her why, she took it well enough, and we even became friends again after a time. She and Delly were the only people outside my family who came to say goodbye at the reaping that summer. Although I never regretted my relationship with Sera, I find myself in the present moment grateful that we had never let things progress nearly this far, that this moment has been saved for now. For Katniss.
I return to kissing her, giving her all I can of the tender affection she evokes in me. Before long I feel her body become accustomed to mine, and Katniss gives every indication that she's also enjoying herself, so I follow her lead. I am making love to Katniss Everdeen, I have to tell myself in order to believe that any of this is real. And yet somehow, I know it is. It has to be.
Before I'd really like to be, I find myself holding Katniss tightly against my spent body, kissing her face and neck, asking her how she feels as we regain our breath. All the while, I'm replaying every second of the experience in my mind, knowing what I felt from Katniss, what she has given me on this night. But I have to ask. I have to hear her say it.
"You love me. Real or not real?"
"Real," Katniss says. And at long last, I am satiated.
"I love you so much, Katniss."
A/N: Thank you all so much for reading! I especially appreciate those who have added my story to your alerts/favorites, and a huge thank-you to all the reviewers. I sincerely appreciate the positive feedback - you all have helped give me the confidence and courage I needed to start my own original novel, which I'm super excited about. Love to all.
LilD