**I know I've been posting Chapters alternating Peeta and Katniss' POV, but because of the story arc I'm working on, occasionally it's going to repeat back-to-back POV. This is one of those times!
I'm so glad I've gotten so much attention for my first ever fanfic! If you like it, please review. Thanks!
Friday is the day Johanna comes. Katniss is enthralled about the impending visit; she's been coordinating with Johanna by mail—sometimes phone—for months now. Travel between districts is not an easy thing, even these days. There were no systems in place to support regular mass transit of citizens between districts, since there was never a reason for us to visit one another. Even now, visiting across district limits is strictly monitored: some of the rail has been obliterated, and the hovercrafts and other flying machines are considered now to be too rare and important for such pedestrian matters. All of this makes the cost exorbitant, and makes it necessary for each person to file detailed papers about why they're going and for how long. Johanna is lucky she's a Victor in this way, I think, because it is still true that Victors get an extraordinary amount of liberty. Much more than the average person. Katniss and I have been asked by the interim President, Paylor, to consult for the Capitol in the process of rebuilding, even offered esteemed seats in government if we want them. I think Beetee took them up on the offer; but Katniss and I have politely declined for now, citing our own shock and turmoil. Johanna, being Johanna, laughed in their faces. Paylor is compassionate about this; we would offer unbounded resources and ideas for the restructuring of government based on our experience living in an outlying district, but she knows that it was pieces of us that were sent back to 12, not whole human beings. The offers are standing offers if and when we decide we want them.
There are relatively few of us now, and all of us who fought in the war are household names, or so I'm told. Public, televised ceremonies were held shortly after the surrender for those on our elite team who lost their lives infiltrating the Capitol. What I remember most about it was Katniss hiding in a supply closet that she'd somehow managed to rig so that it was barricaded from the inside. I frown upon this idea that through avoidance, she can get beyond these horrors, but the results of my kicking down a door to drag out an unwilling Katniss Everdeen would have overshadowed the ceremony itself. The only other thing that's clear to me, from a time when I was still lost in a haze of uncertainty, hallucinations coming on full-bore every few hours, was Annie, barefoot, long dark hair streaming, pregnant belly just beginning to grow round and full, and looking uncommonly serene given the circumstances, placing white daisies on Finnick's casket…a casket that was, of course, empty. His body could never be recovered. Just thinking about it, I feel a surge of loss that makes me miserable and angry. I've never yet met Annie's son, since she left for home, for 4, soon after that, though of course, we sent our congratulations. It's another thing Katniss and I are hoping to do together once the dust begins to settle, visit her. The serenity I saw, I know, was her comfort about having, with nothing else, Finnick's child to love and care for, that piece of him that hopefully, can never be taken away from her. People hold Annie Cresta in high esteem now, with Paylor, Plutarch (whose grandstanding behavior is both completely expected and a total atrocity), Katniss and I, Beetee, Johanna, Gale, and of course, Haymitch too. Any simple requests we make tend to be honored; and we all have enough coin stored away to last a lifetime. So it isn't as hard for Johanna to get back to us as with most people. But it's good that she can; because I suspect Katniss needs a friend. It's not healthy for her to be constantly on her own, except for me, and sometimes Haymitch. More people are slowly trickling into 12; those who lingered in 13, afraid to return. More bodies help us rebuild more quickly, and new buildings will be going up this week. When asked if I wanted to help build a new bakery, and then take over running it, I hesitated only briefly before giving my consent. It's part of a process of moving on; and I need to make decisions about what to do now. I can't spend all my days roaming around aimlessly, painting and daydreaming and trying to shake off the hallucinations and the anxiety that still strike. Or I could, but I don't want to. I need a direction, a goal. But it can wait until after the visit; since Johanna will only be here a few short days. That's all even she can wrangle.
Friday she comes. Today is Thursday. Yesterday was Wednesday, the day Katniss triumphantly brought home a load of fish that we breaded together. It was delicious, Haymitch came over, and we made a good meal of it, almost like a family. We cooked; Haymitch drank. And later, sang, ha. But last night, she didn't stay over, citing a need to do a mysterious "something else." After dinner, she peeled off back home. Without her, idling at only 8 PM, my thoughts began to wander. Not to good places. Lying on the couch by the fire, watching the flickering lightning from a storm that night, when my eyes closed, a parade of blurry figures marched across my eyelids—faces that I didn't know, or maybe I knew them and just didn't remember. Low-pitched laughter. Agonizing pain, until they finally gagged me to make me stop screaming. And then the whispers, flickering images to watch with my eyes held open by some kind of device that made them ache, made them dry and painful. Katniss hunting, skinning, her hands covered in blood, shooting another tribute in the chest. Katniss superimposed upon flames, Katniss leaving me to die. And the constant disorientation, only seeing colors, dizziness, nausea, a cold steel backboard against my back, one dim bulb on the ceiling, never enough food. And the periodic injections that made me tremble and twitch and clench my jaw. My breathing is heavy and before the night is out, I'm crouched on the bathroom floor, my head in my hands, mumbling to myself, "Not real, not real." In a sick sort of way, it feels good to get it out. When Katniss is around I try constantly to fight it off, but as soon as she's gone, it comes in waves. I punch the doors when I have to. My knuckles are bloody today. In the lightning, no one heard me. But I got through it, and I find myself in one more new day.
And Tuesday…my thoughts flash back as I lie in my warm bath. I rose early this morning after my bad night, and I'm tired, but all I could think of was soaking in the hot, deep water that can fill my enormous bathtub. Tricking my body and my senses into feeling okay again, into leveling out. My knuckles sting when I lower them in, but my eyes close, and I listen to nothing but my own breathing in the dim room as the sun rises. Today I will see Katniss, find out what that secret was all about…get my kisses…
Tuesday. These thoughts are entirely different, light up centers of my brain that are in completely different places. I'm all alone, so I let my mind wander, let myself remember. Tuesday morning Katniss is washing clothes when I find her, out in the yard, banging them over a washboard in a bucket, which is still the most efficient method we have. Katniss owns all of three sets of clothing and she's not picky about how many times they get worn, so usually this is not a problem for her. She's kneeling in the dirt, smudges on her nose and cheek, humming something. When I get closer, I realize it's "The Hanging Tree." I wrap my arms around her from behind and she nuzzles into my shoulder kiss. "Hey, Peeta," she says. "Do you want a shower in a minute? I'm almost done. I got sap on everything yesterday trying to see if I could tap for syrup." She wrinkles her nose. "It sticks." In a little while, she's lathering my hair while she talks excitedly about Johanna, about gaining more information as to what's going on in the world, finding out how her friend is coping, meeting Johanna's giant dog that she's supposedly wrangling to bring. I'm closing my eyes and trying to keep track of what she's saying as she stretches up on tiptoes to work those delicate fingers into my thick hair. She's made good on her word; every day now she makes a point of asking how I'm coping, if she can do anything. She's freer with her kisses and touches, going so far as to take my hand while we're out in the market together or over dinner. When we wander out into my room afterwards to dress…again, I suppose Katniss will be wearing those pants of mine, since her own clothes are hanging to dry…I lean against the bed and reach for my pile of clothes as Katniss drops her shirt and reaches down to get it again. Suddenly, I find myself, half-preoccupied in getting dressed, glancing down to where she sits on her haunches, those devilish eyes gleaming up at me. She's still nude, sitting straight as a goddess.
"Oy," I say, smiling. That look always means something interesting is about to happen. "What?"
"You wouldn't let me kneel for you. Why not?"
I did think this conversation would come up eventually, but I'm not prepared for this. "What?"
"When I was sucking on you, you said no. Why?"
I begin to feel the first tingles of blood rushing downwards, which makes me bite the inside of my cheek. She's kneeling right beneath me. I need to keep my cool or else I'll find myself with an erection that aims right at her. I tentatively begin pulling my shirt over my head. "Because, Katniss, what you were doing…it was going to make me come…really fast, anyways. I didn't want it to happen any faster. In fact, I'd like to learn to make it last longer."
She cocks her head. "Why would it have gone faster if I changed positions?"
"Because there are certain connotations to that position."
"What if I just wanted to see how the angle was?" Innocence is not something that has ever, so far as I can tell, existed in Katniss' eyes, not in at least ten years, anyways, so every time I see it glint there I smell a feint. My cock grows imperceptibly just having this damn conversation.
"It has connotations of service, Katniss," I plow through, "Sacrifice. Control. Power. I would think you of all people would be careful not to find yourself on the bottom end of a power imbalance after all that. I say "all that" in such a way that it suggests her entire life, and she chuckles. I know, watching her, that she knows these things. That these things, in fact, might be FUELING what she desires. My cock is twitching, now, and I'm biting my lip, because my cock wants to think more about all those things I just said, even if my brain doesn't. She still perches there, but her eyes drift to my half-erect penis and then back again.
"What if I want that?" she says quietly. "I trust you. I do." She tilts in and kisses that sensitive spot just below my hip, on my bad side. I'm still futilely reaching for my pants behind my back, except I don't want them. I want to see what she's doing. I watch those eyes for clues.
"Wasn't this in your long list of masturbatory fantasies?" she teases.
"No," I answer honestly. It was all I could do to dream that I would ever have her do what she's done, in any capacity, much less that she would physically take a posture that makes her vulnerable in order to do it.
"You should have," she says. "Let's try."
I hold her back by the shoulders and look suspicious. "This isn't like you. You're always the more powerful, Katniss. It's who you are. I don't understand." I'm frustrated that the gravity of my words seems belayed by the fact that my aching cock is at full attention now. She moves forward, raises up on her knees until her face is level, slides her hands around my bare thighs and up over my ass, cupping my hipbones. I shiver.
"You want to know something I've learned, Peeta?" she asks, just before all conversation ends, "I can't be in control of everything, all the time. Sometimes I'll just have to trust you to do it."
Her mouth descends, and there I am, in the middle of a sun-filled bedroom, staring down at my lover as she pulls me in, so gently. Resigned, I reach down and cup her breast, tweak the nipple gently. She gives those first soft flickering laps at the head of my cock with that achingly soft flat of her tongue, and in her throat, I hear a sound… "Mmmm." It occurs to me that Katniss actually enjoys this act herself, apart from enjoying it because it gives me pleasure. I wonder why I would assume that she's been humoring me on anything, as though it wasn't in her to be aroused be giving me pleasure, but here she is. Little moans and whimpers and sighs and hums come from deep in her throat as she flexes those strong thighs to raise herself and take me deeper, using her hands to guide me and pull me in. I give just the tiniest little thrust into that hot, open mouth, because my hands are lost in her hair and I can't bear it if I don't, and she opens up to take it, welcoming it from me. Her hair tickles my thighs. She kisses along my shaft and bends lower, her probing lips and tongue reaching for my balls. She licks along them and then, as my back arches, pushing me ever deeper, and I cry out, she suckles one into her mouth, ever so gently, as one warm hand rolls the other. She strokes the sensitive patch beyond them. Her searching eyes find mine even as I watch her take me, inch by inch, tonguing the underside of my crown teasingly as she does. I hold her gaze, and it sounds positively perverse, but she looks beautiful as always, that lithe nude body sparkling with leftover shower water, long dark hair in a corona, that sense of mischief and worship as she sighs her pleasure into her throat. I can tell she's still nervous about taking all of me in…I can't imagine how her little mouth even manages now…but her slippery hands wrap around the base and twist with her mouth, and when I close my eyes, I can't tell the difference. She's right, it does make me feel different, just the shift in position. Lasers of sensation shoot through my physically, but there's also an immense sense of possession that seizes me psychologically. I wonder if it's similar for her.
"Yes, don't stop," I whisper as she takes me deeper, sucking on my length in earnest now, alternating between gentle attention to my head, to the leaking slit at the top. I watch her lap the start of my juices from it. That leaden sensation gathers in my balls, and I tense. She pulls my hips in to steady me and keeps her rhythm. This time, I don't try to sweep her away when I come, because I know it's not what she wants. I take that control she offers me, with an immense sense of reverence, and I hold her head close to me. I'm trembling all over, my knees weak.
"Katniss, Katniss, please…" I whimper to her, and then I'm sliding and the edge is looming. I let myself go as my hips begin to twitch upwards, but she rides the twitches, rides with her mouth my pushing deeper as I come. I can see her throat move as she swallows my juices, her eyes closed, looking utterly at peace, and this makes me howl, my final contribution. Katniss delicately begins to clean me, which almost makes me ask her to wait around another twenty minutes or so and do it again. With careful flickers of her tongue, she swipes the remains of my come off me, licking her lips, and then sits back on her haunches again, only this time, she presses her face into my thigh. I cup her head in one hand, and we both breathe heavily for a minute.
"Wasn't that worth it?" she finally gets out. I nod fervently. When she rises, I reach reflexively between her bare knees and can see that she's positively dripping with need for me.
This girl will kill me. If the Games gave me all this, I cannot ever argue that they took everything away. We, among 75 years of Victors, are the ones who can say we gained something unimaginably wonderful from it all.
I close my hand over her wetness and lean in, and we kiss, openmouthed and full of desire. "Thank you," I whisper into her mouth, hot breath together. "Do you want me now? I'll hand back all the control…" But she shakes her head, to my disappointment.
"I want to want you, all day long, whatever I'm doing," she says, reaching for the clean underwear she's finally given in and placed in the drawer I offered her months ago, for convenience. "I want to feel the want, the reality of it; every time I think of you, I want to suffer." This last bit she purrs, stepping in again to kiss my neck. The thought of her going about all day in this condition, remembering all the past events and potential future occurrences, keeps my knees weak. It's like a secret no one knows but us.
As the sun begins to fully rise and I drift free of my daydream, I realize that I have come, all on my own, while thinking about it. I don't even remember touching myself. This effectively signals that my bath is over. I drain it and climb out. It's true, Katniss must be enjoying the suffering, because we haven't touched each other since then. I wonder if she's done it to herself. I couldn't possibly go without masturbating, especially since all this began. I'd think about sex every single minute of the day without. Even with, I manage about 16 out of every 24 hours. I dress and grab some bread to throw in a sack for Haymitch. I try to look around and see if we have anything else fit for him to eat, but honestly, it's hard enough to get him to eat anything at all. I jog across the green to his house and pound on the door.
"Haymitch! Are you up?" This is moot. He's always up all night, so he shouldn't even yet be settling in until about now. He doesn't like to sleep in the dark ever since the Games. I marvel for a moment that, almost 30 years later, it never quite left him. I take that to mean I should never really expect it to. I hear a guttural sort of groan from inside and take that to mean yes. As I push the door, it hardly moves until I put my shoulder into it. As soon as I enter, I see why. Piles of trash and booze bottles, discarded paper, shredded apple peelings cover everything. Ever since Hazelle and the little ones went with Gale to his new post, Haymitch can fall easily back into his squalor. I make a mental note to ask around and see if anyone wants to take over on this front. The stale scent of vomit pervades the air. When I push my way in, I see one of the more obvious issues: for some reason known only to him, Haymitch has been watching a tape of the Quarter Quell, the last one. I don't even know where he got it from. This was never required viewing with the new government, though they provided copies of the footage to those of us who were involved if we wanted them. I have one myself, not to watch it, but just to have it, as proof, maybe. As a reality. I didn't know Haymitch had one, too, though. He's passed out on the living room floor with it still playing. I wince as I look up and see another tribute, one I don't know, trekking through a silent forest. Then it cuts to Johanna, looking clearly exasperated as she yells at Beetee and Wiress—obviously before she got around to finding us…as ominous looking clouds gather above. She seems to be trying to move them towards the beach, and she's having a time of it. The blood rain, I think. I cross to the television with long strides and turn it off.
"Haymitch!" I yell, prodding him with my boot. "Why the hell are you watching this nonsense? It's no wonder this place is a mess, and so are you." This is familiar and accepted territory, but of course it makes me frustrated nonetheless. An empty bottle of white liquor is beside his head, another is shattered against the wall….no, two. If he'd had a gun, this entire place would be buried in shards.
"Peeta, keep it down, my head hurts," he slurs, barely stirring. I grab his arm and haul him up to the couch. I hand him a loaf of bread. "Here, eat this. Soak up some of that booze in your stomach."
"What if I want it there?" he grumbles, but takes a bite. He makes a face, and it's not because of my cooking. I doubt he can even think at the moment. I was going to tell him about Katniss coming around, but I'd rather do it when he's going to remember.
"Eat it anyways," I say evenly. "Are you coming with us tomorrow morning to meet Johanna at the station?"
He squints. "Johanna?"
"Johanna Mason? From district 7? Remember? She's coming tomorrow?" I'm losing patience. I wish he'd do something—anything—with himself besides this. I wonder if he misses real life or even remembers what it's like.
"Tomorrow's far away," he mutters. "I have today first. Where's Katniss?"
"Dunno," I say. "She said she had something to do last night and disappeared."
"Probably shooting something. Or skinning it. Or cutting its head off. Or another of those fun extracur…extracurriculars she has." He hiccups. "All your dreams coming true, yet, Loverboy? I heard you might actually have a job soon besides trying to win her affections by any means necessary."
"Yeah," I say shortly, "They need a baker, and well, who better."
"See if she wants in on that," he tells me. I laugh. Katniss, a baker?
"Haymitch, give me a break. She hunts all day."
"She hunts for three hours, Peeta." He says this slowly, like I'm an idiot. Immediately, I feel like one. Did I really think she was out there all day hunting?
"The rest of the time she lies around and thinks too much," he mumbles, chewing. "Let her try if she wants to, anyways. She likes to learn. Some things, anyways." I can tell he's considering the cooking aspect of this particular means of employment. "If she hates it, let her be. It'd be good for you two to work together on a task."
"What about you?" I ask. "What will get you back to normal?" He rises unsteadily, opens a cupboard, and slams another bottle down on the side table.
"I am back to normal," he says, in a tone that is dreary, sad, dangerous and clearly signals the end of the discussion. "Is she?"
"Getting there. I hope. Seems like it." That's all I give, for now. I throw the sack of rolls on the table. "Expect to see you there tomorrow, Haymitch," I say on the way out.
By now the sun's fully up, and I actually do have plans today. I head into town and meet up with the building crew. The site upon which they're choosing to build the new bakery is not the same as the site of our old one, which is good for me. The men on the crew know me and like me. They clap me jovially on the shoulder as I come in. Some of them are men I recognize from 13, who have probably volunteered to come help us in the districts. I'm thankful for their kindness. We spend the day hauling loads, carrying stones for the fireplaces, stacking and mortaring the bricks to make a foundation. The work is hard and I'm sweating by noon, but it's good. It makes me feel stronger and more whole. It makes the hours pass faster and the demons feel further away. Haymitch is right. Katniss needs something to focus more hours on—maybe not baking, that remains to be seen, but something.
It's late afternoon when I see her in the distance, striding across the Meadow. She's confident when she walks, her posture as straight as a ruler. Slung across her back I notice her game bag is bulging. I shield my eyes from the sun and follow her with them until she crests the hill, begins down it, ducks through the fence, and disappears from view. I'd guess she's trading. It's about time for me to wrap up, anyways.
"You're good," says my foreman, a man named Luceid, when he sees me watching her. I apologize, but he waves me away. "Go home, Peeta. Come by tomorrow if you feel up to it. Thanks for the help."
"Thank you," I tell him, and strip my helmet and gloves off before I walk over towards where I saw Katniss head, down the road a bit. I'm sweaty and covered with grime, but I go anyways. When I find the Hob and pull the down open, sure enough, she's talking amiably to Sae, who is holding a handful of squirrels and an opossum by the tail. Katniss has rabbits stuffed into her belt, too. Sae picks what she wants and Katniss slurps soup out of a gourd as they talk. I sneak up behind her, and wrap my arms around her, "Boo."
She whirls and I could tell if I weren't pinning her bow, she'd have strung it by now. I forgot for a moment how jumpy we've gotten when surprised. Her face relaxes, though, and it's a mark of her growth when she merely wrinkles her nose at me and says, "You stink," rather than ripping me a new asshole. I reach over her head and cup it in my armpit.
"Eww!" She squeals, just like a girl for a minute, and swats me away. Sae is laughing. I kiss her cheek. She resumes trading, getting some good cloth and thread, candles, soap, dry goods, tea. She keeps a rabbit for us, though. Once it gets warmer, she'll have even more. When she's done, we walk home together, talking about our days. Katniss ducks into her own house to retrieve something, though, as I walk upstairs to shower off all the grime. I'm toweling my hair when she calls from downstairs.
"Peeta, I'm going to screw this up without you!"
I throw on some pants and head down. She's got a rabbit stew going, and is attempting to toast my bread, since we have actual butter this week, but she can't do both at once without burning it. I notice she's already managed to figure this out. I try not to smile and obediently take over on the bread. The crusty chunks will be perfect for dipping into the gravy. I wish we had lemons for the tea, but I don't even remember the last time I saw one.
"I made something last night," she says around a mouthful of food. I hand her more bread and she swallows, "Want to see when we're done?" She sounds almost shy.
"Yes," I confirm, "If you want to show me. Are you excited about Johanna?"
She lights up, "Yes! She'll be in around 9. I can't wait to hear about what's going on by her and tell her everything that's been happening here."
"Everything?" I raise my eyebrow.
"Especially those parts," she says, "In very great detail."
I don't know for sure that she isn't kidding, but I laugh anyways. I can't help it. I sincerely hope I don't have to be razed by Johanna Mason for the next forty years of my life, but maybe I'm underestimating her. Johanna is not new to the subject. I wish I had someone I go talk to in that department, actually. I can't talk to Delly explicitly about sex…or any girl, I don't think. I wish I had some male friends. It'll get easier once more people begin coming, I think resignedly. In the meantime, I guess I'm just accumulating stories, which hasn't turned out to be that bad.
We finish up and I do dishes, since Katniss mostly cooked. She disappears for a few minutes into the living room. When I'm done, I go looking for her. She's holding our sketchbook, her former family plant book, in both hands. She looks awkward, apprehensive.
"You don't have to show me," I say as I sit beside her. But I'm curious.
In answer, she opens the book towards the back and flips to a page that has no picture draw on it. Instead, there are words, lining up in neat paragraphs along the side. Space has clearly been left for a picture to be added.
"I'm not good with words, or pictures, like you," she says apologetically. When I put one arm around her and squeeze, I murmur, "You're good at other things." She quiets and I begin to read. To my surprise, it's me she's written about.
Peeta Mellark, says the heading, with my year and date of birth, and the names of my family members, the place I lived.
Peeta Mellark is a Victor, it says, underneath. The best of the Victors, and the one who always followed his own heart and his own values. Peeta Mellark is full of love. He always double knots his shoelaces and likes to sleep with the windows open. His favorite color is orange. Peeta is a baker, and a painter. He is honest, open, gentle, patient and kind. Peeta is a loyal friend and a loyal love. He never gives up. His favorite season is fall, his favorite pants are the plaid ones with the drawstrings, and he can't travel through a forest without waking up everything living in it….here I smile…but he can travel long hours with little complaint, even on a false leg. Peeta Mellark is my best friend. At this last, my eyes widen a little, and I look over to Katniss.
"Why did you write this?" I ask.
"Because I thought that you should be in there too, and you're not. You were one of the rest of us. Probably I should be, too. This is the story, after all, isn't it? This and your paintings?" She looks a little uncertain, as though I'm accusing her of doing something wrong. I place the book gently on the floor and ask the real question.
"Is that true?"
"About the shoelaces?"
"You know about what."
"Yes," she says. "I realized it that day I came home in the rain and there you were, with that plate set out in front of the fire and a robe for me. You sat and held me for an hour in the quiet after, and I realized that I couldn't do that with anyone else." I remember that night. She'd been chilled to the bone. The look of gladness that passed over her face at that hot fire and that warm meal had made me feel more sure, too.
I lean down, she lies back against the soft cushions on the couch, and I kiss her. She responds immediately, first with relief. I kiss her nose. "Thank you," I whisper, and she whispers it back to me. As our embrace grows more heated, she slips my shirt over my head and kisses my bare chest, stroking its contours, shaping them with her palms and fingertips. She's so beautiful, I'm awed. I'm so lucky, I think. It's an odd thought to have, after everything, but as those hands slide up my back, her fingernails raking up through the soft fuzz on the back of my neck and into my hair, as her mouth tips up to mine and her tongue slips inside to greet mine, I'm loss in a sense of need and bliss so deep it's bottomless. I hope against hope, one more hope after all these, that she'll be mine and stay with me forever, that I'll never be without her. I'm overcome with the thought, the emotion of it. I strip her of her clothes and our legs twine together as I kiss her breasts, gently, to watch the goosebumps rise, to warm them with my big hands, to listen to the soft sighs that emanate above me. We're both warm and drowsy and needy, I know. She's the needier of the two of us, the one who's more pent-up. Her hands quickly begin to stray, to lift the heaviness of my erection free. As I settle down over her, resting on my elbows, I'm acutely aware of how close I am to entering her. The length of me lies just along her slit. With one foot propping up her knee, I can feel the wetness waiting below as that light hand strokes me. She dips her fingertips into the moisture and draws it along my shaft and I realize I'm shaking. Her eyes are heavy-lidded.
Tugging me down, she whispers into my mouth, "I love you."
"I love you," I whisper back into hers. And then.
"Make love to me," she whispers, "I'm ready." I have to do a double-take at her first, but I do not have to ask again. It's written all over her. Her body pulls towards me, yearns upwards. I'm still shaking as I nod. Oh, God, my brain tries to process at warp speed, this is so fast. Will it be okay? Am I ready? I've come prepared; I threw a condom into the pockets of the few pairs of pants I had, just in case, never expecting….well, not for a long, long time…that it would come to this. Is it such a surprise? We've been leading up to it…but I was sure she wasn't ready. What if it changes everything? What if I get her pregnant by accident? What if all this is still part of the reaction of her getting over this? It hasn't been that long. Haymitch never got over his own issues with the Games after 30 years. She asked me to take more control; was this what she meant? Do I need to decide when to make this move? I'm terrified as I reach for the condom. She smiles when she sees it, and I can see how open she is, waiting for me. I tear it open and she helps slide it over me with sure fingers. I settle over her. I gaze into those eyes, which are now silvery in their expectation, stroke her soft dark hair with my fingers. She trusts me this much. I want to live up to it. I love her more than life. She's still growing back into herself. Faster, surer now than when we first came back, but neither of us is at 100%, not even 80%. Maybe not even 60. On bad days…
She's ready for me to close the gap between us, and her eyes close in anticipation. And I want it more than anything. One push, and there is nothing in the world separating me and the girl I love, who loves me. But I stop. And I don't. I can't entirely explain why, not even to myself. Come on, I think, are you sick in the head? Are you crazy? Move! But I don't. I lean down as her eyes open questioningly and kiss her forehead, cup her face in one hand. My face must look heartbroken.
"I love you so much, Katniss. I'm so sorry, I just…can't. I'm not ready. It doesn't change anything…" But by the middle of my sentence, her face is clouding up, closing down, and I see all the love there whiffed out, only hurt and confusion.
"Wait!" I begin, "Don't…" Oh my god, what did you DO?
"It's fine, Peeta. You're right, it's too soon. Thanks for pointing that out." She grabs for her clothes and in the time it takes me to even begin to understand the monumental mistake I've made, letting it get that far only to shut her down, she's dressed. "Katniss, let me explain!" I call.
All I hear is the sound of the door, slamming shut. I lean down and put my face in my hands, and my elbows on my knees. One more night of nightmares, alone, faces me, and these will be worse than ever, because I won't be imagining them.