Peeta comes home reeking of white grain alcohol and rosemary, a combination that is just odd enough to keep from being completely nauseating.
He also brings a handful of roses, and a letter that has been read so many times it's worn through in spots and half of the words have degenerated into smudges of soot; brings bags beneath his eyes and dirt on his shoes and in his hair the smell of rain.
"I read your mail," he gives me his confession even as he gives me the flowers. I take them automatically and put them in the sink, turning to face him with arms crossed, lips pursed, heart going triple beat.
"It was from Gale," he continues. "I shouldn't have, I know. I just wanted to know what he – I don't – Katniss, I know, I know that it doesn't mean anything, but he hurts you, he- he breaks you, and I couldn't let him do that anymore."
I hold out a hand without speaking, and he passes over the letter that smells of Haymitch, the aged spots jumping out in juxtaposition with the creamy stationary.
Wanted you to know-
…not sure what they're planning, but I know people are going to die-
-not safe, Catnip.
Not you, and probably not him. But her-
Get her somewhere safe.
Only his name at the bottom is as dark as it was on the day he wrote it; that, and right above it:
I tried, Katniss. I still think about the day you asked me to run. We should have gone. Just you and me. The way it was always supposed to be.
I trace the G of his name, then look up at Peeta, whose face suddenly dawns with horrified understanding; whose skin whitewashes as he reaches out for me with trembling hands.
"Katniss – no – Willow." He fumbles for his words, and then takes a deep breath to start over.
Before he can, the world goes white like the brightest part of the sunrise, like the tip of the flame; the part where it's the hottest, the part that will burn you alive.
"Peeta," I say in a completely reasonable voice. "I think I'd like some toast."
And everything goes black.