Chapter 10

"I'm tired," Peeta says.

That episode must have exhausted his mind. I reckon he needs rest, but I don't feel like leaving him alone. The idea that the days we spend apart recently involved Peeta suffering through flashbacks all by himself makes me anguished.

"Maybe you could have a shower and take a little nap while I work on the herb garden?" I suggest. I noticed he didn't work on it at all during his bad days and it's in need of a little attention. The basil will go to waste if it is not picked and frozen soon.

"Okay," he says while unlocking his front door. I follow after him, though I decide to do dishes when he goes upstairs without saying another word. His voice was getting weary again and I could tell the minutes of clarity were over. The venom had broken through the barriers set up by the brief understanding of what was real and what wasn't right after today's episode. Now Peeta was back to normal. Normal. This is what it was for him now and accepting it will help me learn how to help him. This thought is funny to me, since my days are filled with as much helplessness as his. Even so, my gut feeling tells me I have to find ways to get through to him if I am to make progress as well. No matter what happens to us, we protect each other. Now, just as much as before.

I clean up the rest of his kitchen and I feel a bit better. Keeping myself busy was always my answer for dealing with worries and trouble and, under my circumstances, a little work routine should do wonders. I make a mental note to repeat this to myself tomorrow morning, just in case tonight's nightmares attempt to persuade me to waste another day in bed, lingering on my fears and insecurities. When Peeta walks down the stairs, I realize there is only one fear and only one insecurity in my head at the moment, and they amount to the same thing. The fear of watching him slip away from me again, and the uncertainty that he'll never make it back to me. These thoughts make me feel silly and almost childish. Sometimes the memories of the war and the games pound at me, making the feelings I see bubbling back to the surface look small and insignificant next to death, pain, and loss. Almost as if falling in love is an unworthy feeling right now. Bigger things to worry about. Except that I know it's the uncertainty speaking again. The doubt that permeates through me because I fear so much. Why can't I let go of it? Why was I so sure and determined about some things, yet I could never figure out the matters of the heart? The matters of my heart?

"I don't feel like sleeping," Peeta interrupts my thoughts. "Maybe I could work on the garden with you? It's hot and four hands would do the job much faster and get us out from under the sun a lot sooner."

"Sounds good," I tell him.

"And Katniss, could we go back to working on the book?" He asks me.

The book. We only worked on it one day so far and then misery stroke us. Pain forced us away from one thing that could be our salvation. Maybe not so much, but something inside tells me the book will give us some closure. We could heal some wounds. Stitch some scars back up, even if others will look more tender than ever.

"We should do that. You could come over later." I reply.

He nods and grins at me. The unsaid conversation between his smile and his blue eyes as they're staring at me convey so much it almost breaks me. Pain, exhaustion, struggle, confusion, loss, wonder, and comfort. I decide to take comfort as the best I could hope for him on this day. I hope I get there too.

He waves me over before he picks up the bag on the corner of his kitchen filled with gardening tools. It was nice of Haymitch to give his to us, though I have no idea why he had them in the first place. There's so much about him I'd like to know, and so much I'm afraid to uncover.

I trim the bad greens and collect the good ones while Peeta sows the earth and works on the seeds we received from the Capitol. Although he's focused on the task at hand, I am not. I'm more preoccupied with watching him and trying to read his thoughts. Since I can't figure out what's on his mind, I'm satisfied with just watching. His hands look even stronger full of dirt, though the marks left by his own nails are apparent. I like to think Peeta is still as strong as he was before, even if he's not lifting bags of flour everyday anymore, and even if his body was exposed to so much venom and morphling. In fact, I'd think everything he survived only made him stronger than I could ever imagine.

From where I'm sitting, gathering the herbs, I see Haymitch taking care of his geese. I count them silently and see none have died. I don't know why I thought he couldn't manage to keep them alive, especially if he did so well when it came to ensuring Peeta and I would survive. I still don't quite understand why Haymitch chose geese. It's definitely not for the money; we still receive our victor's pay. It's the least they could do, though I feel I could get by without it, even if that meant going back to full-time hunting. Peeta could do well with baking too. I've seen him barter bread for other things around town and I really hope his plans for opening his own bakery work out. Even though I worry the memories of his family's own bakery could be too much for him, I know there are two things that make Peeta look and feel more like himself, baking and painting.

Painting. That reminds me, we should wrap this up soon so we can work on the book. It's been neglected for the past few days and it leads me to think I'm failing at my mission of making their deaths count, of doing their lives some justice. I get up and wipe my dirty hands on my pants, telling myself I should do laundry soon. I can't have Greasy Sae always handling those things for me, I feel like I owe her too much already. Peeta notices me but doesn't stand up. Instead, he sits cross-legged and looks up at my face, sporting a mischievous smile. I feel uncomfortable, as if there are cameras and spotlights at me, though I know it's only his eyes. His deep blue eyes.

"We should go wash the greens," I tell him, hoping to deflect his attention from me.

"The look you have now... it's so familiar," he says while he completely ignores what I just said. I don't know what he's referring to. I'm wearing dirty clothes that don't look like they fit me and my hair is falling over my eyes. I left in such a hurry this morning I forgot to place it in a braid. Before I try to get his attention back to my suggestion about the herbs, he continues.

"Your face is dirty, there's sweat over your brow. Your hands look rough, though I know they feel soft to the touch. And your eyes are reflecting the light and the heat of a sunny day," he tells me, following it with a deep breath.

"And how is that familiar?" I'm curious.

"The times you sold squirrels to my father. You were always dirty, sweaty, and tired," he points out. I give him a disappointed look. Being called dirty, sweaty, and tired aren't exactly flattering things. He picks up on this, because he shakes his head before qualifying his thoughts. "It's okay though. I liked that look because it confirmed what I already knew: you were different, you were a fighter. I always believed in you, Katniss. You can do anything you set out to do."

Normally, I would object to anyone saying that. I'd reply saying I'm no good. But this is Peeta, and although I didn't realize this for a long a time, he knows me well, maybe better than anybody else in my life. By having watched me from a distance, Peeta can offer me a perspective I could never get by myself. And the fact he believes in me reminds me not everything is lost. Just like the way he pushed me to survive in the arena, he seems to be pushing me to move on now. Maybe I really can do this. The fact he's still smiling tells me that maybe I can do this with him. And just like that, I'm back to the world inside my mind where Peeta can love me again, holding the key for things to get better. The push I need to survive again. I can't believe this boy, who just this morning was struggling with his own issues, still has the strength to transform my days. When he finally stands up and takes my hand, I follow him, holding his hand as tight as I can. Almost afraid losing their grip would mean losing my grip on reality as well.

We clean up the greens and head to my house. Neither of us has been productive, so there isn't much food in the fridge and the sound our stomachs make reminds me we haven't eaten all day. I'm relieved when I find a box with butter cookies from the Capitol. I forgot Cressida had sent these for my birthday. They taste delicious with Effie's jams and we drink some milk with it on my kitchen floor. Somehow, today's events make us connect as if we were back in the arena, fighting for each other's safety and supporting one another to move forward. So sitting at a table just wouldn't make sense. We're satisfied with our impromptu picnic on the cold tiles.

Later, I wash my hands and retrieve the book. I realize I didn't write anything on the pages corresponding to the drawings Peeta made the last time. There's Prim, shining and beautiful, perfectly portrayed by Peeta. The blank page next to it just looks so wrong. I know what to do and take a sharp pencil. Then, in my most careful handwriting, come all the details it would be a crime to forget.

A/N: I apologize one thousand times for the delay. First I was caught up with my thesis, now I'm out of town. But I hope you liked this chapter and review it anyway. Thanks for the support.