Once again I want to thank everyone for sticking with me! This chapter includes the song "Dogwood Blossom" by Fionn Regan, please youtube it if you don't know it, the lyrics don't mean half as much without the context of the music! Also I just want to let you know the next chapter will have some smut because I know that's what a lot of you want :P

As I race out my front door I almost stumble over my nightgown again so I stop and rip one side up to my knee giving me more freedom to run. Snow is falling and my bare feet are numb by the time I reach Peeta's door.

As I stand in the darkened door way it dawns on me that I have no concept of the time, I cannot tell if the starless sky is that of the dead of night or just before dawn. I also have no idea what day it is, Haymitch mentioned that his bender with Peeta had lasted three days, but surely I was asleep for only one? My head spins as I try to get my bearings and I begin to feel quite dizzy. I lean my hand against the door for support and find that it is ajar.

Tentatively I step inside. The warm house that greeted me a few days earlier is bathed in shadows. The floor is sticky beneath my feet and the smell of booze and vomit catches in my throat. "Peeta" I whisper his name pleadingly into the darkness.

Silence.

I follow a trail of broken glass that leads from the hallway to the sitting room. Here I find Peeta splayed out across his couch. He is dishevelled; his clothes are dirty and his hair is damp and matted against his forehead. His head is lolling uncomfortably off the armrest as he groans and fidgets in a restless slumber. As I move closer to him I notice his right hand is wrapped in a dirty and bloodied bandage. My heart aches at the sight of him like this.

I kneel beside him and gently push his matted hair from his ruddy face. He murmurs in his sleep but does not wake. "Peeta" I say a little more firmly and finally he stirs. As soon as he opens his eyes I know that he is in no state to talk, they are bloodshot and unfocused. "Come on" I say while lifting his head so that he is in a sitting position, "let's get you cleaned up and into bed", he grunts in response but I am pretty sure he isn't comprehending a word I say. I manage to manoeuvre him off the couch and up the stairs. Once we reach the bathroom at the top of the stairs I place him on the toilet seat and catch my breath. The second I sit him down he falls asleep again, his head banging back against the wall behind him.

I sigh and try and gather my thoughts. My immediate concern is his dirty bandage as I know how dangerous an infected wound can be. I look around the bathroom for a medicine cabinet but cannot find one so I resort to using my rudimentary first aid skills. I fill the sink with hot water and rip the arms from my nightgown tearing them into four long strips. I place two in the water and leave the other two hanging on the empty towel rail.

I kneel down in front of Peeta and gingerly remove the dirty bandage from his hand. His knuckles are red raw and still bleeding underneath and I wince at the sight of the fresh blood. I take one of the wet fabric strips from the sink and carefully clean his wound. I can see tiny shard of glass lodged in his open wounds and I begin to work on removing them. The process takes about a half an hour before I am happy that the wound is clean and free of debris.

Once finished I wrap his hand up with a clean fabric strip and get to work on cleaning the rest of him. I use the other wet strip to clean the dirt from his face and neck before beginning to remove his clothes. His t-shirt is damp with sweat and alcohol and it sticks to his skin as I gently pull it over his head. I cannot help but admire the strength of his arms and the tautness of his chest as I wipe the dirt away from his torso and I find myself involuntarily blushing as my hand lingers on his abdomen.

I contemplate removing his trousers before putting him to bed but decide that it would be far too awkward a task to accomplish with Peeta in such a state. With some verbal and physical persuasion I lead Peeta to his bed and he slides beneath his sheets. Once he is lying down I slide his trousers off leaving him just in his under shorts.

I climb unto the bed beside him and wrap my body around his from behind. His body is shaking now and his mumbles become pained and erratic. I slowly stroke his hair and shush him soothingly. As his body calms under the touch of mine I am reminded of a song.

When Haymitch was going through the worst of his temporary detox in 13 he was racked with uncontrollable fits that no injection or pill could help subside, when Haymitch was fitting my mother used to sit by his bedside and hold his hand tight in hers in a wordless gesture of support. Once while passing the infirmary I heard mother sing a soothing song quietly into Haymitch's ear during one such vigil. My mother never had a strong singing voice but the sweetness of the melody and the power of the lyrics made up for her lack of talent.

I know that Peeta is not detoxing but rather the poisonous qualities of the alcohol in his system are enhancing the torment of his usually anguished slumber but as I begin to sing my mother's impromptu song Peeta's shakes begin to lessen and his breathing begins to regulate.

"You keep climbing into my head without knockin'
and you fix yourself there like a map pin
on this ghost of this street where i'm livin'
i'm in a chrysalis and i'm snowed in

darling, darling that dam's gonna give
it's inevitable the way that you live
bottles in brown paper and a mouth that slurs
all the shit that it stirs
let that dogwood blossom

there'll be hell to pay in heaven
for you take every street home

what happens when you're into deep to break
loneliness keeps you constantly awake
what happens when the passage of time appears
you see yourself as a child and it brings you to tears

you say that you're troubled and you always have been
uncomfortable in your own skin
so you contemplate the riverbed
turn off the dark thoughts in your head

darling, darling that dam's gonna give
it's inevitable the way that you live
bottles in brown paper and a mouth that slurs
all the shit that it stirs
let that dogwood blossom

there'll be hell to pay in heaven
for you take every street home"

My eyes flutter shut as the last note escapes my mouth and I embrace the numbness of sleep.