Disclaimer: Still not my world, still not my characters. Still sad.
Watching.
III.
He has such strong hands. Capable. Hands that make me feel safe. Hands that make me feel loved.
In so many ways he reminds me of my father. The quiet assurance, the kindness, the joy in life...even when life is bleak. He has the same ability to make me feel safe. He's the only other person who could ever do that.
I like to watch his hands, with wide palms and deft fingers. Whether they are dusty with flour or precise as he draws and paints, they endlessly intrigue me. His hands create, instead of destroy. They summon life, not death.
I've always been good at killing things; I had to be or my family would have starved. And while I'm not ashamed of that...(we all have to eat, right?)...it's not the same as what Peeta does. I destroy and he renews.
He doesn't see it like that, of course. He tells me I provide, I protect, that I'm strong, that I'm fearless. Tell that to the nightmares where I scream because I can't save him. Tell that to the demons that show me how I couldn't protect Prim. Tell that to the shadows that cause me to fall to my knees in the woods and shake because there are dead children all around.
And when I'm done shaking, I come home to him. He opens his arms without a word and envelops me, shelters me. Kisses my forehead and whispers into my hair...telling me how he loves me, he's always loved me, and how he'll always be there. And those hands, those beautiful hands, run along my back, again and again, until my heart has stopped racing and the world has slowed down.
I don't know what I ever did to deserve him, but I am so thankful for him. I'm not good at telling him enough, but he seems to know. I wish I were better with words, like him, so I could tell him everything he is to me.
It's almost winter now, and he's lit a fire. We sit here most nights, wrapped in each other. I listen, my head against his chest, for the steady, strong heartbeat. Steady. Strong. My Peeta.
Officially mine now, and me, his. I came home from the woods a month ago, after spending the afternoon at the lake talking to the memories of my father, and of Prim, and I told my boy with the bread I couldn't do just this anymore.
"Just what?" he asked, fearfully. And my heart thudded and was pierced. I meant to word this better, not to scare him, not to wound him...ever again.
I remember shaking my head, "No, no, Peeta, nothing's wrong. This is coming out all wrong."
And the frustration must have shown in my voice, because he relaxed, his eyes softened, and he came to me. To grab me with his warm hands and to smile that little, inquisitive smile..."Then just tell me, love."
I had gulped, suddenly wanting to chicken out, and kicking myself for it. But we promised to live well, to make these days and years count, to be as fully alive as we can be, for those whose memories we carry around with us. "I love you, Peeta," I started, and he smiled and nodded, encouraging me, as ever. What did I do to deserve him? "And...I have been thinking, for a while about this. I know you said you'd be with me forever, just as we are..."
"And I will be. Always," he promises, again. The promise of always, what he has given me our whole relationship. Through arenas and tours, through war and healing, through days of laughter and nights of passion. Always.
"But I know you'd like more, " I hurry now through the words, unsure of myself. "Something more permanent, more official...and I'd like us to get toasted." all in a rush.
And I remember I could barely meet his eyes but I saw enough to see the delight flow into them before his arms crushed me to him and his mouth descended upon mine. He had kissed me, endlessly, in between words of love murmured against my skin, as he carried me off to bed.
My reverie breaks as the fire pops, startling me. I tense, but his arms tighten around me and he kisses the top of my head, calming, assuring me. The firelight glints off of the two toasting rods we hung above the framed certificate. Peeta surprised me by having them made, our initials intertwined in the iron handles.
His fingers, slow and soft, trace my arms; this is one of the best times of the day. All work is done, nothing left to do but be with each other. Sometimes he tells me stories, sometimes he coaxes a song out of me, but often we just sit here, melting into one another. And his hands, his beautiful hands, which I love to watch, make me feel safe. Make me feel wanted. Make me feel loved.