Chapter 14

I go to bed early, leaving Peeta to take care of Haymitch. He was still passed out on the sofa when I left and the thought of dealing with a hungover Haymitch sent me home. I meant to stay longer, the whimsical look on Peeta's face pushing me in, making me eager to dive into his mind. His eyes look more like the eyes that ran away from mine at school when we were kids. So cryptic, I used to rely on Peeta's shameless ability to tell me what he was thinking, especially when I was at the centre of his thoughts. Not now, though. He either forgot I'm not as much of a mind reader as he is, or he's doing it on purpose. I couldn't possibly make this comparison without guilt, never having experienced it like he did, but deep down what he's doing to me feels dangerously close to torture.

I blame it on our last trip to the woods before the rain. Our clothes wet with sweat and I was so thirsty. My plan was to collect some berries first, and then sit under a tall tree. Peeta had something else entirely in mind, as he only waited for me to drop my bow and arrows to lift me up in the air, bringing us both into the water. We splashed in with full force, and he couldn't stop laughing. He mastered swimming during the previous days and he wasn't about to let anything get in the way of his enjoyment. That's when it hit me, and I found myself at the beach from the Quarter Quell again, holding on to each other as if it was our last day. My scars reminded me that I was not in the arena. I was just rediscovering a lost feeling, one I buried so deep the first time he looked at me and I found fear, not love, in his eyes. He held me tight in the lake water for a split-second, and I thought he was going to kiss me, his lips so close to mine.

"I got you! And you said you wouldn't swim today, just hunt..." He whispered instead, carrying a wide smile across his face, and dove to his left. I found relief and longing battling for control inside of me. We were so close and I flushed, suddenly aware that there were only two layers between us. Why did he have to let go?

Now, lying quietly in my bed, I replay the conversation Gale and Peeta had at the end of the mission, as I eavesdropped on them. It seems like a lifetime has passed between that night in a basement and this hot one with only the cool breeze from the window as my company. You'd think they were friends if it wasn't for me, if the pressing topic of conversation wasn't how I'd choose between them. If I hadn't kissed one only to later kiss the other. No wonder Peeta couldn't figure me out while he recovered in District 13. I couldn't figure me out either - I still can't. To deny I miss Gale would be a poor lie, though I accept our fate. We'd probably be married, if it weren't for the reaping. Such a thought is ludicrous today. I changed, he changed, we both lost too much. Still, Peeta, whose brain was Snow's playground, appears to be more and more the same with each rising sun. Except, I'm not entirely sure about his feelings. Have they made a comeback? If only his eyes spoke to me the same way his voice echoes in my head. It's pointless to search myself for clues. He's the one holding them from me. So I lie in bed and close my eyes, wondering what nightmares patiently wait for me. I know he does the same, a few yards away, in his own bed. It feels so wrong.

I wake up with the sun to hunt, glad the rain is gone, and the heat is slightly milder today. I notice the lights are on at Peeta's. I hope they're not left over from a tough night of flashbacks, but because he just woke up, hoping to get his baking out of the way. He trades his bread with the few people who have returned, though most of the time he gives them away to feed the construction crew. The district is still silent when I cross the fence, and I wonder if they'll ever take it down. It's falling apart on one side I presume Gale or others destroyed when they tried to escape the bombing. From the fence, to the snares I decided to put to good use again, Gale is everywhere in the woods today. He could even be following me and I wouldn't know. The steps of a hunter are so quiet, so in tune with the environment that surrounds us. As I collect a rabbit from one of his old traps, I search for my feelings. Nostalgia will always remain, and I register nothing but it. Even after catching a glimpse of his eyes, when a news team asked him about new hovercraft technology as Sae's granddaughter changed through television channels days ago. I knew remembrance was all we'd have left. My decision to keep his memories locked away vindicated when I heard Peeta call me from the door, reminding me we were late for another picnic, drowning out the television sound.

After two squirrels and a rabbit, I decide to return to town. The train from the Capitol must have arrived already, and I'm waiting for a letter. Our memory book is not quite done yet and I know how hard it is for Peeta to scrabble through his head trying to remember facial characteristics of people he didn't know very well. I told my mother we needed photos and she promised to send me whatever she could find on the next train.

I make it to the station right after it departs again, taking a few members of the construction crew with it, and leaving new ones. Two young women wave at me, and I wave back, though I don't recognize them. It does not matter, because my face is the easiest to place in all of Panem. The face of the rebellion, a Hunger Games victor, everyone knows who I am. A burden I fear I'll always carry, even as I fight to fall back into anonymity. My efforts will be ruined if Plutarch gets his way and ships a television crew to our district. Would they expect me to be a fallen, crazy girl? My trial was televised and, to my luck, Dr. Aurelius painted a picture of a distraught lunatic. Or maybe they'd expect to see me rebuild from ashes, like the District itself. I go over an infinite set of possibilities for what Panem wants from me, and then I realize I'm not the only want they want. Peeta. We're married after all, another one of his lies to protect me that was never unmasked. Just like the baby we never had.

My thoughts escape when I spot Haymitch walking out of the station. He struggles to carry a box, apparently too heavy for one person. I find the envelope I was looking for in the delivery section and rush after him.

"Hi, sweetheart. Give me a hand, will you?" he says, pushing one side of the box onto me. It doesn't weigh as much as I initially thought and I prepare a snarky remark when I notice Haymitch wasn't having as much trouble with the box as he's having walking. Somehow I know I'm helping him carry bottles of liquor. He's flailing back to his old self, and his breath reassures me of it. Before it's too late, I persuade him to make a stop at Peeta's first. "Warm bread and pies, Haymitch. I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

I knock at Peeta's door, just to let him know we're coming in, and drop the box in the hallway. Haymitch turns to the kitchen, dragging his feet and taking a sip from his flask. It was a long shot, but I was right. Warm bread, fruit pies, and even something I hadn't seen since I was in the Capitol: cinnamon rolls. I let Haymitch dig in, obviously famished, and look for Peeta. The first floor is silent, so I assume he's upstairs. Without thinking, I open the door to his bedroom, only to immediately shut it again. Knocking didn't even grace my mind, our houses are so similar it felt like walking into my own bedroom. The two seconds of an open door revealed a boy fresh out of a shower, towel wrapped around his waist, wet hair dripping down his spine, a crooked smile in his blue eyes. Torture, I think, as I stand outside his bedroom, paralysed, the connection between my brain and my legs seemingly severed.

He opens the door, now wearing pants, though a shirt is nowhere to be found. His scars exposed, almost as if it to teach me a lesson about the contrast between shame and pride. I look at my pink skin as damaged goods; he displays his as war scars, symbols of survival. "When did you get here?" he asks, supposedly unaware of what just happened. The redness in my cheeks tells him there's no use ignoring it. "I don't care if you see me, remember?" he says, reassuring. I do remember. The fact that he remembers, on the other hand, is news to me.

"Just arrived here now. Haymitch is downstairs. He's drinking again, Peeta. He just picked up a whole box of liquor and we know that if he drinks one bottle, the others won't last long. We have to do something." I worry about Haymitch. I thought he was doing well as a sober man and I can't tell what's driving him to drink again. The games are over, no more mentoring the Capitol's prey.

"I know, we have to talk to him. Though I get it, Katniss," he sighs.

I'm confused and I ask him, "What do you get?"

"The pain. Some things are too hard to deal with them on your own. Drinking is to him what morphling was to the addicted victors from District 6. Without a few things in my life, I'm sure I'd go the same way." His revelation makes my head tick, reminding me of my promise to keep him alive, to protect him.

"No, you wouldn't. I wouldn't let you." I reply confidently, partly because I couldn't bear to see Peeta transformed into an alcoholic, and partly because, having drunk with Haymitch before, I know the feeling is less anaesthetic than it seems.

"Exactly," he says and walks past me, down the stairs. Peeta has become a master of last words, always leaving me stranded, trying to figure out the meaning behind his every sentence. Leaving me clues.

He makes sure Haymitch eats and cuts a deal with him. Peeta will keep the bottles and hand them back one by one. Rationing isn't exactly what Haymitch had in mind, but Peeta's voice is dry and firm. There's no arguing this out. I know Haymitch was our mentor and he's years older than us, old enough to be a father to Peeta or me. It's probably how most people see him, though the truth is that most of the time Peeta is the one acting like a parent and Haymitch behaves more like the stubborn older brother I never had. It's a weird dynamic, but it works for us. Watching them bicker at each other in the kitchen reminds me of how far we've come. Without them I'd be alone in my home district. And for all intents and purposes, it wouldn't even feel like home.

I take the time to open the thick envelope my mother's sent me. There's a picture of Annie and Finnick in their wedding day, a small one of Prim and me on her first birthday, and random ones she was able to collect through the other victors. Wiress, shortly after her games. Johanna and a young boy, unidentified, though I have a feeling it's better to keep him that way. And one from a blonde girl that looks strangely familiar. I've seen her face, and before I even struggle to remember where, Haymitch snatches the photo from my hands.

"Where did you get this?" He's looking at it dumbfounded, a mix of pain and surprise in his eyes.

"My mother sent it. We know her, right? I can't remember her name though."

"Maysilee Donner," Haymitch whispers.

Something strikes in Peeta's brain, like a whole new memory coming back to life. "That's right, she was in the second Quell with you. The birds..." he quiets down, suddenly regretting his ability to remember at all. Haymitch is pale, as if all the blood just rushed out of his body. His empty eyes look up to Peeta, and as a result of an unspoken request, Peeta opens a bottle and pours it into a glass. Haymitch swallows it all at once.

"Do you want to keep the photo, Haymitch?" I ask him, knowing her death did a number on him. It takes me back to a conversation we had one afternoon in his kitchen, my confused feelings silenced by his reminder to myself that Peeta and I are both alive, and that should count for something.

"No, you keep it, sweetheart." The alcohol does its job and he's breathing normally again. "It's for that book you've been working on, right?"

"We could use your help, Haymitch," Peeta says. We do need Haymitch's help, but most of all, we need to keep him occupied. The tears Peeta and I shed together as we worked on the most recent pages of the book have shown us it's time to work on recovery, not self-destruction.

Haymitch finally joins us, contributing twenty-three years of tributes he was forced to mentor. It takes longer than it should; sometimes we break for days, hoping he'll find it in himself to continue to remember. As much as it hurts him, it's one way of making it count.

A/N: To those who sent me messages wishing I didn't end the fanfiction after 20 chapters and wrote longer, possible after I tell him, "Real.": I am going away for a month at the end of June and I'd like to have this piece finished to you before I leave. That said, this won't be last you'll see of me. If you care to continue to read my writing, I hope to write two more everlark fanfictions pre-epilogue and one epilogue based. Thanks for reviewing, you're the best!