Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games.
I'm a bit surprised when Haymitch comes over the next afternoon. I expected him to put it off longer, but I suppose he doesn't have much else to do. Peeta gets out the box and sits on the floor, like we usually do when we work on the book. He gestures for Haymitch to have a seat across from him. "I don't know if I'll be able to get up," Haymitch says.
Peeta smiles. "I'll help you."
Haymitch seems to hesitate a bit more, then sits down on the floor. I can't help rolling my eyes and thinking he's exaggerating, and claiming to be in worse shape than he really is. He's only around my mother's age. Though I suppose she's taken better care of herself over the years than Haymitch has.
I listen as Haymitch describes one of the more recent tributes for Peeta to draw. We've decided to devote a few pages to the tributes collectively. Smaller pictures, less details. Because Peeta either hasn't seen or doesn't remember most of them, his drawings can't be too elaborate, and Haymitch is not very likely to recall many facts about those who died long ago.
I go into the kitchen and get some bread and butter to eat while we work. After he's drawn several little pictures, Peeta takes a break from drawing to eat, and I sit down at the table, pen in hand, while Haymitch tells me what to write about the tributes. There are a lot of pauses, while he rubs his forehead and tries to remember which tribute had a big family, and which one had a skill, which ultimately proved insignificant. I'm sure it will get more difficult, the farther back we go. Perhaps for some tributes, all we'll have is a name on the page. But that's something, at least.
Once I've written some details about everyone who Peeta has drawn so far, Haymitch announces that it's break time. He leans forward, rubbing his hands over his eyes and then reaches out blindly, running his hand over the empty plate of breadcrumbs.
"Sorry," Peeta says with a grin, when Haymitch looks up at him. "I'll get some more." He stands up, taking the plate with him into the kitchen.
"I need a drink," Haymitch says, rubbing his forehead again.
"You didn't have one before you came over?" I ask.
"No," he snaps. "I'm out. Waiting on the next train."
I nod in acknowledgement of his explanation, then look down at the page of tributes and can't help thinking that I could have so easily been just like them. Gone and forgotten, just a face and name. Preserved on the tapes of the Games, and in the memories of those who knew me, but that would be all.
But I had help. My father taught me to shoot, which lead to my high score with the Gamemakers, and sponsors. He also taught me, with the plant book, how to survive on my own. Cinna's synthetic fire made a lot of people notice me, and Peeta made me memorable too, in his interview. He also teamed up with the Careers and fought Cato, all for me.
And Haymitch helped. At first, it was terrifying to think of how much I would need his help while in the arena. But he didn't let me down, me or Peeta.
"Is he lost?" Haymitch asks, looking up at me again.
Oh no. He's right, Peeta's been gone too long. I stand up, without a word, and rush into the kitchen. Peeta's there, clutching the back of a chair, with his head bowed. For a moment, I wonder if there's something about my kitchen that brings this out in him, but quickly discount the possibility. I've seen him have two more flashbacks since that first one. One of them was in his living room, the other was while we were out on the roof. That was scary. He didn't have anything to hold on to, so he just knotted his hands in his hair and curled up into a ball. All I could do at the time was scoot over between him and the edge, with the hope that I would be able to prevent him from falling if he started to thrash around or anything. Luckily, he didn't.
It's so hard watching this happen to him, but I know I can't do anything yet. I just have to wait it out. I can see when his breathing returns to normal, and then his face tilts up and toward me. I take a few quick steps, to reach his side, and extend my arms. Almost instantly, he's holding me tightly and leaning into me enough to rest his head on my shoulder while I rub his back in what I hope is a consoling way. I'm surprised when Peeta pulls away slightly, after only a few seconds of hugging. He slowly starts to lean his face toward mine and whispers, "Can I?"
I nod my head and then he's firmly pressing his mouth into mine. I run my fingers through his hair and clutch at the back of his shirt with my other hand, returning his kiss with equal ardor. I think of how much he helps me at night when I wake up screaming. I want to do everything I can for him, and apparently this is when he needs me the most. It seems like he's not being as careful with me as he usually is and I'm surprised by how good it feels. I almost feel like…
The sound of footfalls nearby causes us to pull away. We both look over at him, leaning his hand against the doorframe. Haymitch's eyes are wide with surprise. "Oh, sorry," he says with a chuckle, before he turns and walks away.
I feel myself blushing as I try to catch my breath. I don't know why I'm embarrassed. The whole country has seen us kiss plenty of times, but I suppose it feels different when the kiss is real and not meant to be seen. I glance over at Peeta and see that he seems to find this as amusing as Haymitch did. I'm glad he's recovered from the flashback, but something else is bothering me. "You don't ever have to ask permission to…" kiss me.
Peeta smiles and wraps his arms around me. "I just didn't want to scare you," he says.
"You don't. I mean, I would never be afraid you," I tell him, reaching up to rest my hand on his cheek and run my thumb over it. He looks so relieved that I feel bad for not bringing this up sooner. Did he think I was still afraid of him on some level? Have my actions given him a reason to? "Does that help with the flashbacks? If we kiss?"
Peeta's smile grows a little and he leans forward to rest his forehead against mine. "Being close to you always makes me feel better," he says.
I'm glad, and I resolve to let him kiss me all he wants. It's the least I can do, after I failed him in the Quell. Everything that happened is my fault…and I like kissing him, anyway.
After a few moments of silence he says, "I'm all right," and we release each other.
I return to the living room and sit down on the couch. By the time Peeta arrives with more bread, and Haymitch raises his head from his hands again, I've mostly convinced myself that there's no reason to feel embarrassed. Why should I?
Haymitch leaves after one more page, citing a headache and the need to lie down in a dark room. I put the papers away, catching sight of the one we've fastened the photo of Finnick and Annie's son onto. I remember Annie's letter, and how she thanked Peeta and me for being Finnick's allies. It bothers me to think of how many times I considered killing him during the Quell. When we first arrived at the Cornucopia, when we were talking about the bloodbath, when I thought he was trying to make sure Peeta was dead, but was actually trying to resuscitate him. It's now that I begin to feel a need to revisit those events. "I'm ready to watch the Quell footage, if you want to," I say to Peeta once the papers are put away.
"You're sure?" he asks, when I sit down beside him.
"Yes, I want to see it again."
He smiles and takes my hand, then leads the way to his house and into his living room. I take a pillow off the couch and put it in front of the television, so that I can lean my arms on it and lie on the floor. After he's put the tape in, Peeta turns toward me and chuckles. "You know there's a couch," he says, glancing at it.
I shrug. "Me and Prim used to like lying on the floor when we watched the Games at our old house." Because it was easy to put our faces down into the pillows in front of us and hide from the worst of it.
Peeta gets a pillow for himself and then stretches out beside me. We see my interview and watch as I twirl and my dress changes. Of course I think of Cinna. How he turned me into a mockingjay and paid for it.
Then comes Peeta's interview. I can well remember his interview before the 74th Hunger Games, and notice that there's some minute difference in him. I think maybe it's because he lost his leg and is still traumatized from the Games, but then recall that he seemed happier in the post-Games interview than he does here. I mean, he's still himself, still confident and kind and smiling. If I didn't know him so well, I probably wouldn't think he was different at all.
A sinking feeling materializes as the realization of what changed in him dawns on me. It must have been me. Of course he's a little different here. This was after that conversation we had on the way back to Twelve, post-Games. This was after I broke his heart.
I feel like I could cry. What's happened to me? I never used to think about his feelings that much, but lately…I don't know. The thought of him being sad or hurt over anything is painful. It reminds me of how I felt when I was watching Prim starve. My distress over Peeta being unhappy is nowhere near as extreme as that was, but it's a similar kind of feeling. The same concept, I suppose. When you care about someone, it's awful to see them hurt in any way.
"…if it weren't for the baby," Peeta, on the television, says.
I look over at him and he looks back with a smile. "Sorry about that," he says.
"Everyone who mattered knew it wasn't true," I say with a little shrug. Peeta's smile starts to fade and I worry that he thinks I mean Gale. That I didn't want Gale thinking I was pregnant with Peeta's child, and there's no way that he would have, because of what was between us. "My mother and Prim, I mean," I say quickly.
He nods and then looks back at the television.
"Peeta?"
"Yeah?" He turns to face me again.
It's hard, talking like this, but I feel compelled. I remind myself that it makes him happy when I tell him things like this, and I want him to be happy, so I force the words out. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come back here." You've changed everything, made it better.
Peeta reaches out and takes my hand. "You know I feel the same way," he says, smiling just a little. When I turn onto my side and hold my arm out toward him, he quickly takes the hint. Still smiling, Peeta leans in and we shift so that I'm on my back and he's leaning over me. I feel his lips on my neck and his hand squeezing my waist.
How could I have gone so long without this? I know I always had more important things going on, but now I can't believe how long I spent pushing him away. It made sense at the time. At the time, it felt like I had no choice.
He moves his lips to mine and we miss the beginning of the Quell. I'm only vaguely aware of Finnick's and our voices in the background. I hear myself sobbing when Peeta hits the forcefield and am glad I don't have to see it, too. It would be too painful to have to see Peeta lifeless again.
I feel both of his hands slide up, so that they're cradling my head gently while his warm, soft lips move with mine. I start to flex against him a little, the middle part of my back leaving the floor in an attempt to get closer. But my mouth is starting to get tired, and his must be too, because he pulls back to look at me with wide eyes. I smile a little, because he looks happy now. He leans toward me again, this time just for a tight hug. "I had to come back," he says softly, "you're my whole life."
I think of the words he said to me before we started kissing, when I told him I was glad he was here, and decide that they're the right ones for me now. I swallow hard and when I whisper, I'm barely audible, but that's the only way I can get this out. "I feel the same way." It's true. If I didn't have him, I would have nothing. No one.
He kisses me again, briefly, and then we both turn back toward the television to watch some more. After a while, we see him give me the locket. "No one really needs me," he says, on the television.
"I do," I tell him, "I need you." And then we kiss on the screen and I can't help thinking of that feeling he gave me. We've kissed about a thousand times, but the feeling was only there twice. In the cave and on the beach. Is it only when we're in a dangerous situation that I'm able, or forced, to let go enough to feel that way? Is that why it hasn't happened since then?
No…I remember when we kissed after his flashback today. I was just starting to think the feeling had returned when we were interrupted. I suppose it will return at some point, but when? I give my head a little shake, in hopes of clearing it. Why am I even thinking about this so much?
Peeta, who's still lying beside me, turns to face me again and he's smiling. "It looked like you meant that."
"I did," I assure him. That was the moment when I admitted to myself that I would be damaged beyond repair if Peeta died in the Quell. Just like in the Games, I couldn't bear the thought of going home without him. "I do," I add. What's the point in denying it?
We turn back toward the television and I begin to feel surprised at how long we've been kissing on the screen; it looks as if I managed to completely disregard where we were and the fact that we were being filmed. Seeing it again makes me remember details I'd forgotten…Peeta lifting me into his lap, the way I was pulling, almost clawing at his back with one hand while the other knotted in his hair.
Later on, when we see me tell him that I think it's time to break the alliance and Peeta says we should wait, he looks over at me again. "I'm sorry," he says, and I wonder if he's going to cry. "You were right."
"No, Peeta," I say, reaching over to touch his face. "I mean, it was a mistake for us to be separated, but we had to stay with Beetee. Otherwise I wouldn't have been around to shoot the arrow. We wouldn't have escaped."
I try not to think about how that would have been better for so many people. My shooting that arrow lead to the destruction of Twelve. But things are better now. It's unspeakably tragic, but so were the Games, and those are gone. We had to go along with Beetee's plan.
Peeta looks somewhat consoled, and turns back to watch some more. It's frustrating to see Johanna and I go off with the wire. I realize I'm gritting my teeth and have to tell myself to stop. Peeta's okay, I remind myself, he's fine now. He's safe.
I watch as I shoot my arrow into the force field, destroying the arena, and then fall the ground. The hovercrafts arrive, and then the picture cuts out and is replaced by a white snow storm of static. Peeta stands up and takes the tape out, then turns off the television. When he asks, "Are you okay?" I realize that I'm still staring blankly at the dark screen
My eyes dart over to meet Peeta's and he smiles tentatively. I take a deep breath then say, "I'm fine." And I think I mean it. I'm glad we watched the tapes. Just like when we watched the Games footage weeks ago, I feel like it helped me get used to the memories and maybe it will be easier to accept them now. Now that I've relived those events, with the knowledge that we've both survived, relatively intact.
I sit up, glance out the window and see that the sun is low in the sky.
"We might as well go home," Peeta says, following my gaze. Then his eyes flicker over to me and he corrects himself. "I mean, back to your house -"
He looks a little nervous, and I wonder if he thinks I'm going to get upset over his accidental implication that he lives at my house with me. It was strange to hear him say it, but I'm not mad. I quickly interrupt him by saying, "Sure," in what I hope is a reassuring tone of voice.
"I'll just grab some clothes," Peeta says, turning and heading for the stairs. I stand up and put the pillows back on the couch, then sit down. I can't help thinking about his slip of the tongue. Maybe he should just move in. He stays every night, anyway. He still bakes here and has shown me some paintings he's done during the mornings when I'm out hunting, but beyond that he spends almost all of his time at my house.
For some reason, I feel a little afraid at the prospect of living together officially. I'm not sure why, but I don't feel ready. The two of us sharing a bed feels normal by now, but something about sharing a house…it means a lot more. It's almost like…being married, or something. Still, I can't help thinking that he probably will move in with me eventually. In fact, all sorts of things I never planned on will probably happen between us eventually.
I try not to overreact to these realizations. It's only Peeta, I remind myself, he'll let me decide what happens between us, and when it happens.
It feels strange to think like this. I never used to have the time or inclination, but now I can't believe how certain I feel that I want something more than friendship from him. We're already more than friends. Friends don't kiss the way we do.
When Peeta returns, bag of clothes in hand, I find it hard to look into his eyes. Fortunately, he doesn't seem to notice. He just heads straight for the door and opens it. I walk out onto the porch first and see a large box leaning against the side of the house. It's tall and fairly wide from side to side, but shallow in depth. I think it's the right size and shape for a large picture or something like that. I remember seeing a big, oversized sketchbook at Peeta's house one time, and wonder if this is a new one that he's ordered. He pulls the door shut behind him and then sees the box for himself.
"Is it a sketchbook or something?" I ask.
Peeta's eyes widen a little and I see him swallow, before he seems to forcibly compose himself and give me a slight smile. He steps toward the box and glances at label. I read it too, and see that the box is from District One. I assume if it were a sketchbook, it would come from Seven, or maybe from Dr. Aurelius in the Capitol, like the papers for the memory book came for me.
"What is it?" I ask.
Peeta glances at me and says, "I wasn't sure when I was going to give it to you." He smiles a little awkwardly. "But now that you've seen it…"
"You bought something for me?"
"Sort of," he says. "Um, let's take it back to your house and open it."
I nod my head, a little confused by his vagueness. I take the bag of clothes from Peeta so that he can more easily carry the box. When we reach my house, I'm the one to open the door and then close it behind Peeta, who heads straight up the stairs. I follow and am confused when I reach my bedroom and he's not there. Where did he go?
I set down the bag of his clothes and walk down the hall, then see him in one of the spare bedrooms, the one that used to belong to Prim. He's tearing open the box quickly but carefully and eventually a frame is exposed. Peeta stares down at it and then his eyes raise to mine and he says, "I hope you'll like it." He walks the frame to the nearby wall and props it up, then quickly steps to my side and slides his hand against mine.
Tears instantly fill my eyes and I quickly sit down on the floor, unintentionally yanking my hand away from Peeta's in order to bring it to my face, which I cover, so that only my eyes are exposed, while I stare at the picture of Prim. The tears are making it hard to see and I can feel my body being wracked by sobs, but I try to take in the sight in front of me. Peeta has painted Prim, on a canvas so large that she's nearly life-sized. She's wearing a blue dress that he must have made up, which brings out the lovely color of her eyes. The top part of her blond hair is pulled back off her face, but some of it hangs free in front of her shoulders. She's smiling in a way that I'm not sure I ever saw her smile. It's not a laughing smile, nor a sweet one, exactly. Something about it makes her look older, more mature than I remember her being. She looks content, maybe even consoling.
I tip my head down, completely concealing my face now and drenching my hands with tears. My stomach clenches with cries over and over. I feel Peeta's arms around me and am only vaguely aware as he apologizes profusely. "I'm so sorry, Katniss, I wasn't sure if you were ready. I can take it back to my house for now if you want or I can even get rid of it if you don't like it at all. I'm so, so sorry. I will. I'll take it away." His voice sounds increasingly desperate as my cries continue.
When I feel him pull away from me, I make sense of what he's just said. "No!" I cry, grabbing onto his forearms and yanking him back down to the floor. I look into his eyes and see more alarm in them than I have in a long time. They're wide and sad and his lips are pressed together in a way that makes me think he's on the verge of tears himself.
"I'm so sorry," he repeats as I pull him closer, burying my wet face against his chest and locking my hands together behind his back. His arms are tight around me too, as he apologizes again.
"No," I manage to choke out. I try to take deep breaths and compose myself enough to form words that will explain it to him. "No, Peeta," I say with a shaky voice. But at least I've stopped sobbing. I force myself to breathe and try to continue. There's only one thing I can say that will quickly make him understand. "I love it," I whisper.
Peeta lets out a little scoff that I presume is of disbelief and shock.
"I mean it," I say, pulling back to look at him and wipe my hands over my face and puffy eyes. "It's beautiful." I don't trust myself enough to glance at the picture again yet, so I keep my eyes locked on Peeta's. "It's just…it's like seeing her again."
Peeta nods slowly, seeming to calm down.
"But I love it. I want to see her again, I just wasn't prepared -"
"I'm sorry, I should have told you -" he blurts out.
"No," I shake my head. "You couldn't have known. But I promise I love it, I just need to get used to it. It's really beautiful."
He's still pouting and his eyes are sad, but he reaches up to tuck my hair behind my ears and wipe some more tears off of my face. "You're sure?"
"Yes," I say, "I want to keep it in here, so I can visit it."
His lips curve up into a little smile and he blinks a couple of times, seemingly trying to accept the discrepancy between my words and all that crying. But I meant what I said. It was almost like seeing her again and it was a shock. But the picture is beautiful and I love it. I want to get used to it, because on some level, it was comforting. It's not as if I'm ever going to forget her anyway, so why not have a lovely, vivid painting to look at?
I lean toward Peeta, wrapping my arms around his neck. "Thank you," I whisper.