Katniss is panting in my ear. When we're not arguing, she can't possibly get enough; her hormones have finally begun to run wild after so long of being teased for being a prude. She's like a kid in a candy store. I back her against the wall, pin her hands over her head, which makes her groan. As one hand holds them firm, I spread her thighs to allow me better access, I reach the other down, down…rubbing against the rough fabric of her pants, but not underneath. She's straining against my fingers as my mouth lowers to her neck and I bite, hard. I'm beginning to learn her buttons, where to press and what to do to get the elaborate reactions I want. I get immense amounts of personal pleasure and satisfaction as I watch all her walls come crashing down during our sex. Drowning in sensations, she can't pretend to be apathetic, can't manage abrasiveness, never turns me away. It's the one time she lets herself go. I feel privileged to witness it.
But first, I have to back up a little while.
The night we resolve our differences, the night I find Katniss spent on the floor of her room with the dog, reaching up to me with beseeching hands because she doesn't know what else to do anymore, the day I discover the shards on the floor, the day all the hurt runs out of me as I realize I'm witnessing her desperate attempt to escape her pain, since I would not let her derive relief from me, we show Johanna our scrapbook. She's uncharacteristically quiet turning the pages. When she reaches her own page, her description, written by Katniss, surrounds a heart-shaped face with spiky hair and wide-set, fiery brown eyes. Eyes that dare you. Katniss has written this: Johanna Mason, District 7. Tribute, Victor, captive, fighter, survivor. Johanna is fierce, strong, smart, sarcastic, determined and tenacious. Her will to survive in the face of almost impossible odds has carried her through much pain, torture and violence to herself and those she cares about. Johanna is not to be trifled with, handy with an axe, yet once her respect is earned, she is fiercely loyal. Johanna survived the war and lives in her own housing in district 7 with a big yellow dog. She is an inspiration and a friend. Rarely, again, I see tears sparkling in those big eyes. "You should add his name," she whispers.
"What?" I ask.
"Mutt," she whispers, her eyes still sparkling. It's then I realize just how much therapy the dog has provided for her. I've been surprised by Katniss' reaction to him, too. The only animals I've ever seen her positively interact with have been Mockingjays, as she has no use for cats except as mousers, and kills anything she thinks she can eat. But with the dog, she's been different, gaining comfort and stability when I wasn't there. Maybe I should get her one, I think.
"Okay," says Katniss to her request.
"You draw so well, Peeta," Johanna whispers. "Thanks for including me."
"We could never forget you," Katniss says adamantly, and then she, too, surprises me, and in a gesture of tenderness so fierce and motherly that I haven't seen it since Prim, since Rue, she moves to Johanna and wraps her in a strong hug. "We're your family, okay?" she murmurs in Johanna's ear. "You have a family. You have a family." Johanna hangs on to her. I blink back the salt in my own eyes, too, but Katniss' are clear. She garners her strength, her sense of purpose, from those that need her, ever since her father died. I know that part of the reason she struggles so now is that she isn't well enough to care for others. She was never good at the medical end of it like her mother and Prim, but she was still wonderful, I remember wistfully, thinking of the cave, thinking of little Rue, thinking of the way Prim would sit with her by the fire, her head resting on Katniss' knees as she brushed Prim's hair. "Little duck," she called her.
Johanna flips the rest of the pages in silence. She bites her lip when she sees Finnick. She can't linger on him for too long. I notice she passes Mags quickly too. But she agrees that it was a good idea, this book of ours. Katniss told me that Johanna is adamant about not forgetting, however many pills they feed her. "Those who don't learn from their mistakes fucking repeat them," is how she put it in one of her letters. When she reaches the end, she closes it reverently and hands it back.
"Is there anyone you'd like us to add?" I ask gently. She swallows hard.
"Yes," she says, "But I don't think I can do it yet."
"When you're ready," I tell her, "You let us know. We have plenty of room." This is true. The book is enormous. Even with the first half devoted to plants and the second devoted to the memories, there are still tens of pages empty. We must have added at least thirty people to the memories part already. I insisted on including the Tributes we knew personally from the Games, even the ones that weren't kind to us. "They were people, too," I tell Katniss, when she objected. "They were nothing but pawns of the Capitol like us. They could have lived normal lives if they hadn't been forced into that arena with us. They died horrible deaths for a television show. The least we can do is honor them."
"Always so honorable and kind," she tells me, but she doesn't say it like it's a bad thing. We balance each other out; my cool to her flames. So in the book are Prim, Rue, my family, Finnick, Boggs, Cinna, Portia, my prep team, Madge, and so on, but also Thresh, Foxface, Glimmer, even Clove and Cato. The only ones that Katniss will not allow are President Coin, Snow, and Marvel. She cannot look at the faces of those who killed her sister and her Rue, and let me know in no uncertain terms that she would not be opening the book if they were going to stare back at her. So we compromised. If she's ever ready, we can add them. But even Cato, when I think of his suffering at the end, deserved more of a life than that. I wouldn't wish what he went through on someone for anything. I knew that he had to die for us to live, but the memory of that long, cold night filled with his agonized whimpers still shows up in my dreams, and I left a piece of myself behind in the Cornucopia forever, listening. I am not a killer, not a hunter. It is not in me. Even when I returned to kill the girl the Careers left for dead in the first Games, it was an act of mercy—she would not have lived after the first round with them. Her eyes asked for death, and I delivered it swiftly and I hope, painlessly. But I never wanted to, and I wonder sometimes if there is a hell, if we will be there for the murder of other innocent human beings. Katniss doesn't seem to struggle with this particular part of it; there was always a grim, life-or-death set to her will.
We eat together that night, and Haymitch returns, wearing, of all things, a bow tie. He and Katniss are more civil to each other now, probably because of Johanna. They want, like I want, the four of us to be together, to be happy together for that fleeting time. I feel guilty that Katniss and I were fighting while she was here…she deserves better. I make a promise to myself not to turn down sex from Katniss again the night before a visitor comes to stay. Heh. Johanna will only be with us part of tomorrow, before the evening train comes to collect her away. I'm saddened by the thought of her leaving again, but not as much as Katniss, whose eyes betray her sense of loss even as she chatters on about hunting and how they'll go out in the morning and bring in the motherlode.
I wish I could be a hunting partner for her the way Gale was, but everyone knows I'm about as useful in the woods as Johanna's dog would be. It's a private world to Katniss that she only invites few into. I know that she misses Gale, despite all that's happened…they have a history together, and he'd helped save her family as much, or more than, he was implicated in her sister's death. I know Gale would never have willingly chosen that end for Prim, whom he loved, but I never shared his views about war. Gale is ruthless, and I don't have it in me. Katniss talked about visiting him once or twice, but she's still not ready. I feel possessive when I think about that, even though I know I don't have anything to worry about. Not anymore. I'm torn over whether I'd want to go with her if she asked, or whether that would just make things more awkward for her. I don't want to fall prey to some kind of ridiculous masculine posturing.
I make a cake for us, since it's our last night together. Johanna's birthday might pass before we see her again; the transportation is still far too unstable to guarantee any kind of scheduling. She'll be 24 in the spring. I ice it with a scene of trees that afternoon while Johanna is working on a painting of her dog. It didn't come out too bad, actually, although Johanna's more interpretive than realistic. She gets paint everywhere, like a little kid, which I find funny. The trees are pines, a tribute to 7, but also to Katniss' woods. On the bottom, I frost a crossed hatchet and bow. They both smile when I bring it out, chocolate with white frosting. Katniss must still be hungry from her binge drinking and subsequent upchucking, because she and Johanna tear into it until we've annihilated most of it and all of us are stuffed, our bellies distended. It's a new feeling, after living in 12 for so long. Katniss and I were luckier than most; most of the time we weren't starving like so many others, but we never ate like this, never were able to. After dinner, the four of us gather around the TV for the news. No longer are the broadcasts Capitol propaganda or footage of the old Games…they've dispensed with that, thank goodness. Now, the updates frequently show the rebuilding of the districts and broadcast lists of known survivors. Sometimes there are pleas for aid in different parts of the country, such as bringing in more trained healers, of which there are a shortage. Many of those whose homes were completely destroyed, and who have been accounted for as survivors, officially, were invited to fill the empty Capitol homes, though few accepted the offer. Most of us still associate the Capitol with the negative, don't even want to visit it.
Paylor is speaking about the shortages that we can expect for awhile still, and they cover a depressing number of districts, which is to be expected, but given how little we had before, it affects us much less than the citizens who lived in the Capitol. We're used to getting by with little. She reads a list of new national laws. They include the rights of districts to democratically elect Peacekeepers and interim mayors, the right of every citizen to be assigned a dwelling that is functional enough to provide heat and has easy access to clean water—fireplaces count, I guess—the right of citizens to marry and engage in romantic relationships freely and without coercion (I think back to the now well-known and often enforced prostitution that ran rampant in Snow's reign), freedom of speech and expression (this one is so foreign that it might take us the rest of our lives to accept it), and the rights of citizens to travel throughout the country, pending safer travel between districts and the Capitol. She lists the members of the leadership team that's now beginning to reform the governmental offices…some names I don't know, but obviously herself, Plutarch—I bet he's puffed up like a baboon over that—Beetee, and, surprisingly, Gale. For someone so young he's been given a lot of power. She doesn't state that he's part of the offices of warfare and weapons development, an unwanted but perhaps necessary bureau—I have my own opinions about that—but we all know it. When she says his name, I watch Katniss' face, but she's keeping it carefully impassive, aware of the three sets of eyes that are on her. She doesn't talk about him much, not even to Johanna and I. Paylor further states that the Mockingjay, at this time, is experiencing a period of readjustment in her home district and aiding in rebuilding there, but that she has been welcomed into the fledgling government at such a point in time as she is ready and willing. She leaves the rest of us out. Good.
It occurs to me that sooner or later, Katniss' fame might catch up to her. There must be immense curiosity over her low profile, since she was, of course, not that long ago the face of the rebellion, known and seen everywhere. It wouldn't surprise me if eventually they send a team out to get some footage, just to assure that we're alive and at least able to feign wellness. She has a lot of well-wishers and gratitude, even though she's been avoiding the spotlight like the plague, and trying as hard as she can just to get things back to something resembling normal. I wonder if she realizes that sooner or later, this is a likely possibility. Certainly her mental state was unstable even for much of the time we were fighting and being filmed, so that's never stopped them, unless she was totally incapacitated.
We watch for awhile, and then Haymitch says gruffly, "Shut that off." He can only handle so much of the Capitol's broadcasts. Capitol broadcasts, to some degree, will always be Capitol broadcasts to him, whether they're mandatory or not, whoever's giving them. I think he might always hold his breath and assume for sanity's sake that sooner or later, the tide will turn back. Haymitch is prepared for everything. We turn it off, even though the rest of us are still curious, since we haven't watched in it awhile. Johanna scoots over to play chess with me in front of the fire, Haymitch drinks—handling it much better than Katniss, but he's had about twenty years more practice—and Katniss curls up like a cat on the floor, her head on Johanna's dog, his muzzle between his front paws. The firelight flickers off her gleaming hair, and I find myself looking forward to holding her again tonight, inhaling that sweet scented hair.
Johanna beats me handily in chess. She's full of surprises, I think, amused. She produces a pack of cards from somewhere and we play Go Fish. She beats me in that, too. I'd be feeling emasculated by now if I didn't already know that in terms of attitude and toughness, I'm totally drowned in the presence of these two women. It doesn't bother me. I grew up with my mother, who was definitely also the one in charge, and ruled with an iron hand over four grown men. The Mellark men are not the posturing type. Lord knows I have to ask Katniss six times every time I want to touch her anywhere, something I'm just starting to get over lately because she's gotten annoyed at having to give consent over and over. I get the impression from my interactions with other guys before the Games that this kind of patience and care is kind of a rarity among young men.
When we finish the cards, having offered them to Haymitch and Katniss, who both decline, we simply sit together, drinking tea and for Haymitch, booze, until it gets late. Katniss asks Johanna if she's okay taking her room, which has been cleaned up, but Johanna simply grabs a blanket off the couch and settles in there.
"I'll be fine with the dog. The fire will keep me calmer anyways," she says. "Sometimes it helps with the nightmares." It's odd that she shares this trait with us, even though our ways of coping are all so different. But I stack it with wood again for her before Katniss and Haymitch and I shrug into our coats. Mutt has joined Johanna on the couch, at her feet. Luckily she's little because he's not. Katniss refills Johanna's tea when I'm not looking and sets it by her head. Johanna smiles and my eyes go soft looking at her. "If you need us, come over, okay?" she asks. Johanna nods.
"I'll come find you to hunt tomorrow morning," Katniss tells her. Johanna's big eyes turn to the flickering flames, and she does indeed look exhausted in the moment. I hope that she can get some sleep. I remember that she hasn't slept in awhile, since she and Katniss had a party last night. I turn off the kitchen light and close the door quietly behind me. Haymitch peels off towards his house, stumbling by now. Well, I think, at least he was mostly sober for Johanna's visit. As though she didn't know he was a drunk.
I take Katniss' hand and we move quietly over to my house. It's dark. I haven't spent that much time there in the past few days, camping out mostly with Haymitch, despite the smell. I can't bear bouncing around in there alone after having gotten used to the sounds of Katniss and Buttercup moving around. It's too quiet and the silence presses in on me until it feels too loud. Katniss is quiet heading over, and I know that she, too, must be tired after the past few days. I remember the look on her face when I brought her food earlier on…a look of pure hopelessness, like a trapped animal, void of willpower, like a child. It actually frightened me out of being upset with her. Until that moment, I was for the most part thinking about my own frustration at always trying so hard to do the right thing, trying to take care of her even as she balked and put up roadblocks at every turn, rebuffing all my efforts. The word selfish had come to mind. All I could think about was how, if our positions had been reversed, if she'd said no, I'd have been a monster to do anything besides acquiesce, hell, and comfort her besides. I respect her comfort level, and I know in my heart that if either of us doesn't feel ready to go further, it's wrong to do so. I was even ready to give up for awhile, let her just work out her own problems until she could work with me like an adult. This would take a lot, because I know she's still suffering, like me, and it's affecting her judgment, her personality, everything.
Yet when I came up, just as a friend, to check on her and try to get her to eat, that suffering was etched into every line of her face. She was clinging to the dog for dear life, the bedcovers were tangled in a pile on the floor, her eyes were scarlet and I spotted the remnants of her sickness beside her. I don't know what factors came together to cause that kind of suffering in her, but it made me afraid for her. It made me tired, too. The Capitol has caused no end of damage great and small to so many people. Every day is a battle just to be a normal person. I wonder if Johanna had confided parts of her own story, like I suspect she might have. When Katniss put her panicked arms around me, hanging on like a drowning person, I could sense the pain and fear radiating out from her. Haymitch had suggested to me that Katniss, having opened up so much to me, having trusted me deeply enough to take that last step—I didn't tell him the specifics, but he's savvy enough to fill in blanks—was actually humiliated rather than pissed off. This, at least, I could understand. But she can't possibly plumb the depths of my brain when it comes to this.
Katniss Everdeen wanted to make love to me. This mythology is something else entirely that I've been struggling to deal with. How can my mind even cope with that? I was so afraid that it was too fast, still. But her waiting heat lurked just below me, those heavy-lidded eyes and that half smile, silky hair spread in a corona around her head. Katniss wanting me to be her first. I never in my wildest dreams would imagine that this would come to pass, and with all my wanting, I had never planned for what I might actually do, should she want that. It was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do—and I've been through two Games, a war, and being tortured—to turn her back when we were so close to experiencing what I've wanted my entire life. I could never explain the depth of that want, that need, to her. But I had to trust that if it was meant to be, this wouldn't be the last time it came to that. If she's really ready, she'll be ready again, and if not, she needs the time to consider. I think we both need time to consider. The action, though one people take every day, of having sex for the first time is not one that can be taken back. I want to live up to it for her. But I shiver thinking about the opportunities that unfold in her apology, in her returning to me. That's the thing about Katniss…whenever she wanders off, gets angry, gets frustrated, breaks down, changes her mind…she always comes back to me. And I've always come back to her, from the brink of death, from the depths of torture. This is not romantic fantasy; it's just how it is. Bonded through pain.
I let us in and she's already heading for the stairs by the time I stop to get a glass of water. When I join her in my room, she's sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for me. Her eyes are vulnerable, all her guard down for now. They seem bottomless. I cross and take her face in my palms and she closes her eyes.
"We're going to get through it," I say to her, insistently. "We've come too far. We're too strong. We're going to get through it, even if you can't see it yet. As a family, just like you told Johanna." She sighs and squeezes her eyes shut even further. Her brow furrows like she's trying desperately to absorb the thought. I reach back and undo her hair, combing the strands through my fingers.
"Lay with me?" she whispers.
"Of course," I say. I almost add, my love, for some strange reason, and barely choke it back. I wish I didn't have to be so conscious of my every move. Katniss is not an ordinary mooning girl. Delly, I think wryly, would eat this stuff up. She's definitely more the girly type. The girl I couldn't help loving is a difficult one. But I'm willing to wait, to keep trusting. One of the ways I fight back against what they've done is by holding on to who I am, as I've always said. I will not let them take away my love, my faith. It's not theirs to have.
I reach to lift my shirt over my head, but her hands come up and ease it off for me. She unbuttons my pants and lets them fall, and her hands caress my hips as she slides her fingers into the elastic at my waist and tugs down my shorts, too.
"Now me," I say, lowering myself down next to her. I'm no longer self-conscious about being naked around her. Her touches are gentle but no longer hesitant. She lets me unbutton her shirt in the front and slide it off. I unbutton it slowly, savoring the process of taking her out of all this fabric that is keeping us from being close the way we need to be. She unhooks her bra for me and shakes it off, and I lean forward and scatter kisses across her breasts, small and round like apples. My hands cup them at the sides, my thumbs running over her nipples as they grow taut. I want to make her feel good, feel safe. I want her to know I love her and want her.
As though she's reading my thoughts, she asks, eyes still closed, in a tremulous voice, "Do you really want me, Peeta? Like you said?" She sounds so uncertain. Katniss still, after all this time, feels broken, I know. I still catch her touching her scar tissue when she's nervous, thinking I don't notice. She never saw herself as someone desirable. But then, she never had the time to.
"More than you could even fathom," I murmur to her, as I kiss down her stomach to her waist, breathing her in. Her skin gives off warmth that I bathe my face in. She still has her pants on. "Let me prove it," I whisper, as my mouth moves to catch hers. She leans in, her arms immediately reaching for me, encircling my neck. The kiss is tender, sweet and hot all at once. I part her lips with my tongue and she meets mine with her own, slowly at first, but then more deeply. I kiss the trails of salt off her cheeks. Then I scoop her up easily and carry her over next to the bed, as her big eyes look questioningly up at me. When I let her stand, I immediately press her back against the wall behind her. It was not only her need that got snuffed out two nights ago, it was my own. Need that waited for her to come back again. This is when I raise her arms and, as her fingers curl around mine, pin them over her head. I see her biting her lip and shifting her thighs together, and it almost makes me laugh. Katniss is working herself…or trying to…as she waits for me.
"None of that," I whisper in her ear, and slide my hand down that long thigh, still encased within her pants, to part them for her. I want to feel the soft skin under that rough corduroy, but I also want to tease her. Her breath is coming faster and her hands hold onto mine tight. My one hand rubs between her thighs roughly, sliding the fabric back and forth over her sensitive places, and I lean in and bite her neck, just hard enough to make her moan. "Payback for all those marks," I tell her, but her eyes roll back and I'm not sure she even hears me. Her body is pliant, willing, moves where I move it, which turns me on more. I rub the tip of my erection against that soft stomach. Drips already gather at the tip, but I wait.
My lips move to her ear, and I tug with my teeth at her earlobe, suckle on it as I keep her pinned, keep moving that fabric in circles against her, pressing down. She's squirming, her hands twisting involuntarily. "Behave," I say teasingly, "Or I won't give you what you want. I'll make you beg like a good girl." I enjoy the power games she encourages in me sometimes. It's a whole different feeling to be put in charge by Katniss. It's not generally my style, but I love watching the change it raises in her. My own speculation is that, in this space, she's allowed to let go for once, surrender her iron grip on the world and herself.
"I will if you want," she breathes, her tongue touching her bottom lip, "I missed your hands…"
"I missed all of you," I say. "Now stay still." I see her struggle, but I know something else, too, which is that this is giving her mind something to do. It's preoccupying her, giving her a task, and working to arouse her. She stills, with effort, and I lower my mouth back to her ear.
"When we're ready, I'm going to make love to you," I whisper, "Do you want to feel me inside you?" She groans aloud but doesn't answer. "Do you want to know what it feels like for me to push this…" here I rub my slick head against her belly again "…inside your body? Do you think about it when you touch yourself? Does it make you wet?" I stop rubbing her for a moment, and her hips strain back towards my fingers, which amuses me. I'm turning myself on, too. "Answer me."
"Yes," she moans.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, everything."
"Tell me." She blushes. "Or else I'll stop." I'm smiling. I can't help it.
"I want to feel you inside me," she answers obediently, barely able to catch her breath. "I think about you when I touch myself and it makes me…it makes me wet."
"Oooo, baby," I say as I kiss down her neck. "Good girl." This is my punishment for her brattiness, and I draw it out. I make some of this up as I go along, but I heard my brothers and the guys in my grade gossip enough to get ideas. Johanna gives tips out, too, rather to embarrass me or to offer genuine aid, or both, I can't tell. I won't tell Katniss this, either, since it gives me an advantage.
I draw her pants down and she sighs with relief. I touch her, just lightly, through her underwear, and she might be more turned on than I've ever felt. My cock throbs eagerly at the feeling. I pull those down, too, and, unable to help myself, I suck on two fingers for a second and, with her eyes still closed, push them inside her. She keens like an animal in heat and I know she's ready. I use my body to back her up against the bed and then tumble her onto it. Our bodies press together.
"Don't stop," she begs as I withdraw my fingers. I put them up to her lips and she hesitates just a moment and then obediently sucks them clean. I feel like I might explode just witnessing this, and let out a groan I can't keep back. She's getting to me, and she knows it, so I'd better get her where I want her before I lose it.
I roll off her and she makes an immediate sound of negation. But I have my own designs. I stroke her flat belly with my fingertips, the undercurves of those beautiful breasts, where I know it's sensitive.
"I want you to touch yourself," I say as I nuzzle her neck. "I want you to think about what it's going to be like when we make love the first time, and I'm going to watch as you do it." She makes another noise of dissent, but I can't tell if it's because she'd rather have me do it or because she's uncomfortable. She turns her head to me and I kiss the corners of her eyes, feel her eyelashes against my lips. I don't want her to be uncomfortable, so I add softly, "I'll even say please." I can see her melt a little at this, and her hands move to do as I ask. I scoot down and rest my head on her belly so I can watch. She spreads herself gently with her fingers and I watch as she begins to work herself with skilled fingers. You've been busy since we got back, I think. I wouldn't have guessed. I know she won't last long, so my own hand strays to my prick and I gasp as I close around it and begin to stroke. I push up into my own grip. I can tell Katniss sees me, and it must encourage her, because I feel her stomach tense and release under my head over and over.
"You don't know what effect you have on people," I whisper so quietly I don't know if she even hears it. Her thighs are slick. I reach over and rub my palm against the moisture, which makes her cry out, and then back to myself. The wetness speeds me up even more, but I try desperately to hold off. I want to feel her go first. Before too long, she cries my name into the air and I feel her shudder, watch her fingers slow. As the waves begin to dissipate, I can't hang on any longer, and when I come, it shoots almost as high as my chest. Katniss is positively purring by the time I grab a tissue from the nightstand to clean up and move back up to hold her.
She turns to look at me and starts giggling. I'm so relieved to see her calmer, to see her come back to herself, that it reflexively causes a smile. "That was hot," she says, before I can ask my customary, "Okay?"
I kiss her hair, snuggling her into my chest. "Good," I say. I can't help getting one more dig in. "You look like you have a lot of practice. Can't help but think about me in compromising positions?" She shoves me, but not seriously.
"Think you can sleep now?" I ask. She nods. I pull the covers up and tuck them around her, and before I can tell her I love her, she's asleep, her hair tickling my face. But I wouldn't move her for the world.
I know tomorrow Johanna is leaving us again, and the pit of my stomach aches a little, because it's felt so good to have her…and her buddy…around. Whatever horrors the Games inspired, they also created stronger connections between us and those around us than would have been created in a normal situation. The bond that was forged between Katniss and I through pain was also forged with Johanna, with Haymitch, with Finnick. It'll feel too quiet for awhile, without her around cracking sarcastic remarks and giving older-sister advice. Maybe next time, we'll go to her, I think. I've never been to 7. Even as I mourn our relative solitude, though, I know it can only last for so long. The country is moving forward, and we're moving with it, whether we want to or not. The population will begin to grow, Katniss and I will have to establish actual jobs, and the thought of the Capitol dropping in looms. We haven't heard from Katniss' mother or Gale in awhile, either, which means we're overdue for that. They haven't tended to warn us in the past before a random phone call or letter appeared. It might be better, even, to just head it off. As painful a part of her life they represent, and she maybe represents to them, they are all bound together with the rest of us, probably forever.
These are the thoughts I have as I begin to drift. I welcome the sleep, which I hope will be sound, tonight. One last thought flits across my consciousness before I go, and it is this: would Katniss ever move in with me? This has never occurred to me before to ask so I jolt for a minute. It would make sense. Our houses are both too quiet with just us in them, and we spend our nights together anyways. We'd still both have a place to go in case we needed to be alone. It's worth consideration. It's a happy thought, and I'm glad to have it as I go, carry it into the dark with me like a light.