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It took me awhile to edit this one, even though it's shorter—sorry!
I do not own the Hunger Games.
They eat cupcakes for dinner, sneaking into their own kitchen like naughty children about to get caught (by whom, she wonders, their parents' ghosts?). They giggle and fight over cupcakes, smearing frosting on each other's faces. And finally, they talk, really talk, about the good times growing up and even in the Games.
"So, I have to ask: what actually went through your head when I told all of Panem you were pregnant?"
His eyes are alight; he's still delighted about this piece of mischief. She wonders if he wishes it were true. She hasn't had a period in at least a year, maybe two. At first she thought her body was reacting to starvation, then to stress, but with it still gone, she wonders if whoever's in charge simply doesn't want to make any more of her.
He's still looking at her, waiting for her answer.
"Hmm…I believe my exact thought process went: 'What the hell is he talking about? What baby?…Oh. Oh, I get it, I'm pregnant. Well, that's awkward. Is my mother watching this?'"
He's laughing, still has a smear of blue frosting on his cheek from their frosting fight, and she thinks of how incredibly wonderful he is. She's not sure how she ever doubted that he was attractive.
"I was pretty proud of myself for thinking that up with no help from Haymitch," he smirks. He is proud of himself for causing so much trouble. In some ways, he's such a child, still has so many fragments of a little boy in him. Sometimes she still sees her boy with the bread: willing to risk a beating for the girl he had a crush on.
"Yeah, I was so shocked, since we both know Haymitch was responsible for all the trouble you caused during interviews the year before," she tells him sarcastically, rolling her eyes. He chuckles. God, she loves his laugh.
"He helped," Peeta admits, licking the icing from around a yellow cupcake. It's frosted like a sunflower, but she decides it looks more like a dandelion in his hands.
"I mean, he helped with the presentation. You have to admit: we did good."
She rolls her eyes again, wondering why it's so damn hard for her to give him a solid compliment. They had done better than "good" and she should be acknowledging this. All she can remember is her blush, how angry she'd been that he'd made her look weak.
"I was pissed," she confesses. He snorts with laughter.
"Yeah, I kind of noticed when you almost broke my hand." She hears herself laugh. Her laugh is so rare now, and he's made it happen twice in one night.
How did she ever think she could survive without him?
She catches herself straight in her tracks, halting her train of thought immediately. She can survive without him. She can survive without anyone. She does not need him, his kisses or his laughter or how much safer she feels with him here. She might like it, but she does not need it.
He notices the change in her demeanor.
"Hey," he whispers, reaching for her hand across the table. She yanks hers away, wary of him now. How the hell did he trick her into thinking she needed him?
"I wasn't mad," he tells her softly, thinking she's still worried about his hand in that first Games. She doesn't have the heart to tell him that this Game is much more serious, feels more fatal.
"I know you weren't," she says, getting up from the table, leaving her cupcake unfinished. Why the hell are they even eating cupcakes? They aren't children, despite their age. They stopped being children a long time ago. Why are they acting like they might find happiness here? They're always going to be haunted, always going to be chased by their nightmares.
"I'm going to sleep," she says, and starts to leave, but his voice stops her.
"Katniss," he says, and his voice isn't soft anymore. "What happened? What—did I do something wrong or say something…?" He's so confused, and there's a part of her that wants to sit on his lap, lick the icing of his cheek, let him make her feel happy again, like she might have a future with some hope in it. But she brushes that away: she does not need him. She can't.
"Nothing happened," she tells him dismissively, a bit caustically. "Cupcakes just make me tired."
It's such a stupid lie that she hopes he calls her on it, tells her she's a bad liar, makes a joke. But he closes off too, nods his head, and lets her go.
She feels like smiling as she walks up the stairs, pulls off her clothes and gets into bed, with no intention of sleeping.
"See?" she wants to tell that small girl inside of her who still wants him, who likes the way he makes her laugh. "He let you go. He doesn't need you either."
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