The Hunger Games belong to Suzanne Collins, not to me, though I do enjoy playing with her characters.
Katniss will choose whoever she thinks she can't survive without.
The words are swilling again, going round and round in her head. The more they whirl around and around the more they make her see how cold she is, how heartless. And not just now, after Games and wars and fires, when she maybe she has a right to be heartless. She was always heartless. She had used him, to ward off nightmares, to protect her from Snow, to keep appearances up. She had used him because without him, her trick with the berries would've been self-destructive, would've been as rebellious as the Capitol thought it was.
She wonders if she loves him now, if she's ever loved him. She remembers how it felt when he was taken, when he belonged to the Capitol. She remembers him trying to choke her; she can't escape those memories if she lets herself sleep. She knows she can survive without love; that her survival doesn't depend on loving him, so she lets herself wonder. She lies in bed alone, cold, craving something warm, something more, and she lets herself wonder if she ever loved him, if he was always just a piece in her Games.
She remembers him calling her a piece of work, when Haymitch's voice was constantly in her ear, when she had a firmer grip on reality, when Prim was still alive. But she doesn't remember if it was good or bad. She is a piece of work. She has been from the moment he tossed her the bread. And so why was that bad? Why was it so bad for him to see her clearly, to see that she isn't very big or very pretty? She's not. She's none of the things he thought she was when he fell in love with her, so why does it matter that he sees that?
He's loud and it makes her house seem less haunted, or maybe just haunted by something different. She welcomes it, because sometimes she likes change. Sometimes change means two victors, not just one. She embraces the noises he brings to her house: paintbrushes knocking against jars, against easels; pans banging together as he bakes, his laugh, which only happens when she's with him. The house reverberates when he walks because he's just so damn big and she welcomes the change from her quiet, hunter's footsteps. She even welcomes his screams, during the night, to an extent, because at least she's not the only one screaming. At least she's not alone.
Haymitch, whose visits were always unpredictable, barges into her house one day yelling. He can't find Peeta, searched the entire house, hasn't seen a light on in there for days...
"Where is he?" demands Haymitch, grabbing her by the shoulders, shaking her. She can't tell how drunk he is because he always smells like liquor.
"You have to protect him," Haymitch tells her, "You have to look out for him, please tell me you've been looking out for him. Where is he?"
Peeta comes out of his studio, holding a jar of water that's turning blue with his paintbrush. His eyebrows are raised and she can see he's struggling not to smile.
"Didn't know you cared so much, old man," he teases Haymitch, and Haymitch stares at him, then Katniss, then him again.
"What the hell's going on here?" he demands, but Katniss suddenly smells burning and remembers she's cooking a rabbit. She runs into the kitchen, saves it just in time, and heads back out to the entryway, where Peeta is grinning and Haymitch still looks confused.
"You moved in together?" he demands, because it doesn't surprise him that Peeta would want in her house, it surprises him that Katniss would let him in, let him stay. Another reminder of her heartlessness, that she will choose who she thinks she thinks she needs, not who she thinks she loves.
"It's not as quiet when he's around," she tells him, simply. Peeta gives her a surprised look. She's not sure what he was hoping for, but that wasn't it. Haymitch is looking at her like she's an idiot.
"Come eat," she tells them, both of them, glaring at Haymitch so he'll know he's included. They make their way to the kitchen, where she's mashed potatoes and put some of Peeta's rolls on the table along with the rabbit. She pours them water, and they dig in enthusiastically.
"When was the last time you ate?" she asks Haymitch. She's blunt, doesn't have enough energy to be tactful.
"I dunno," he mutters, glaring daggers at her as he scoops himself more potatoes. "Why do you care?"
"Because if you starve to death, we won't have a mentor," explains Peeta quietly. He always follows her thoughts so precisely, and she has never been able to decide whether she likes it or not. Haymitch snorts.
"I haven't been your mentor for awhile," he tells them, scraping his plate clean. They both roll their eyes. He stands to leave, and Katniss, in a wave of fondness she didn't know was still in her, walks him to the door.
"You're still our mentor," she tells him quietly, hoping Peeta won't hear. "We may not be in the arena, but we're just as close to death." He looks at her then, sees how sunken her face is, how tired she looks. He sighs, knowing this look himself, but not knowing how to help her.
"Take care of him," Haymitch tells her, quietly, so Peeta won't hear. Why are they always hiding from each other? "He needs you."
She rolls her eyes, opens the door so he'll leave, leave and never say that again. He kisses her forehead, making her think of her father, but her father made her feel safe, whereas Haymitch is just drunk.
"Come back when you get hungry," she yells at his retreating figure. He waves, though she's not sure what that means.
When she makes her way back to the kitchen, she sees Peeta is already doing the dishes. He doesn't need her. He can't need her. She can't need him. They can't need things anymore.