Once our final class of the day is over Peeta and I meet up and go to the assembly room to finish the last part of project work for this week. It's another day of bad weather, the temperature somewhere around fifteen degrees below with hard winds that drop it even further. In my book just the right kind of afternoon to stay late so I'm actually a bit pleased. Not much point in trying to hunt with a bow and arrow when the winds will make it impossible to aim it right. Knowing this, and looking back on the day before, I feel invigorated and ready to get to work. Peeta chuckles briefly and comments on my good mood as he sits down with me at our table but he doesn't seem as invigorated himself. In fact he seems a bit tired this afternoon and it reminds me of Gales' fatigue when we last saw each other. Thinking of Gale makes me wonder if he will come by to see me tonight or if he'll be at home on the couch, barely having enough energy to help Posy with her homework. If so, will he be expecting me to come over and see him? It's only been two days since we last saw each other but he's gotten weird about these things since we started dating. Before he seemed elated to see me every Sunday but now he's displeased if more than a few days go by without us seeing each other.
"Did you ask your mother?" asks Peeta, bringing me back to the present moment. He's referring to our agreement to ask people we know who have children what preparations you need to make before a child is born into the family.
"I did," I answer, opening up my notebook. I turn the pages until I come to the last one I've written on. My mother turned out to have a lot of things to say on the subject so I wrote it all down to ensure I wouldn't forget most of it. "What about you, did you ask around?"
"Yeah," he nods. "I was at a friend's last night and got her parents to talk about it at length. Granted, most of it was actually about the stage when the child starts to crawl and you have to try and remove anything it can hurt itself on, but some of it was useful for the specifics of the assignment." He shrugs. "And anyway, sooner or later kids will start crawling, right?"
"My mother spoke a lot about the bassinette, and getting it just right. And she spoke even more about what you need to do to hopefully prevent the baby dying in its infancy."
"Well that's certainly useful information," says Peeta, looking a bit rattled by the thought of sudden infant death. "They'll probably fail us if we kill our fiction baby. Can you give me an example?"
"For instance, the baby should always be placed on its back – never on its stomach."
"Okay," nods Peeta, writing it down on a bullet point list he's gotten started on in his own notepad. "But why?"
"It keeps the upper respiratory tract clear to a much larger degree," I say, practically hearing my mother's voice in my head as I say the words 'upper respiratory tract'. "Plus, I assume, the kid can press its face to the pillow or mattress or whatever it's lying on if it's on its stomach, and suffocate."
"What about letting it sleep on its side?" asks Peeta with a scowl, writing down my explanations at a surprising speed. "If it's on its back doesn't it risk inhaling its own vomit and… drowning in it? Or getting pneumonia or something? Babies vomit all the time, from my experience."
"They projectile vomit," I answer. I asked my mother that same question and now I'm parroting her answer back to Peeta. "If the baby is on its side it might roll over on its stomach."
"Man," says Peeta as he writes, "human babies are ridiculously fragile. Like they weren't even built to survive. Makes you boggle at humanity's ability to subsist."
"Tell me about it," I snort. "Furthermore, Mother says it's important to keep the baby's face clear of blankets or clothing or anything like that. Basically avoid anything that might impede breathing. She says it's important that the baby can move freely and that it's not too warm. Seriously, she talked for like thirty minutes about how to arrange the bassinette and-" I lose my train of thought when Peeta leans closer to me, his face stopping merely a couple of decimetres from my own. His hand reaches out, the tips of his fingers gently stroking a spot below my right eye.
"Eyelash," he explains before slowly leaning back to his previous position.
"Thanks," I mumble, willing my cheeks not to flush crimson. I feel the same tingling sensation where his fingertips brushed me as I did when he kissed my cheek yesterday – in fact I sometimes feel traces of that sensation still.
"Sorry – you were saying?"
"Uhm… Well, I… Actually I think I was about done. Talking about arranging the cradle. And it's apparently quite important that you have a cradle. Or crib or bassinette."
"Meaning the baby should sleep alone and not with us in our bed?" he asks, glancing up at me while he writes. It seems to fall so easily from his lips, with us in our bed, words painting a picture of the two of us sharing a life and a home together. Sharing a family together. It's all make believe but he has a way of painting a picture that I can almost see. What stops it from frightening me is how far away it is from reality.
"Exactly," I answer him with a nod, wondering why I don't feel wholly uncomfortable hearing him speak of our baby sleeping in our bed with us? There should be nothing about that scenario that appeals to me.
"Aside from the risk of the baby getting too warm," continues Peeta, "or one of us accidentally pulling something over its face while we sleep, does it ever happen that parents roll over their infants in their sleep? And is that why it's important to have a bassinette, or a crib, or cradle?"
"Why are you asking me that?" Now I feel unsettled, but it's mostly the horrifying scenario – rolling over your own infant in your sleep and thereby killing it! It makes me shiver. "Why would I know?"
"Your mother didn't say anything about it?"
"No, not that I can recall."
"Okay," he nods. "Still, it seems plausible to me. Is it alright by you if we mention it? As something we are concerned might happen, if nothing else?"
"Sure," I mutter, squirming a little. I don't like the thought of having something like that in our project but I don't want to reject the things he suggests unless they're factually incorrect, and it doesn't seem to be impossible for something like that to happen.
"Okay, good." He scratches his cheek and it sounds like he's got a bit of stubble. "So we've prepared our cradle, or whatever the kid will be sleeping in. What do we do next?"
It takes us forty minutes to finish compiling everything we've found out and turn it from a bullet-point list into a flowing text. Up until now Peeta has been the one holding the pencil whenever it has been time to write something down that isn't a list or a budget but today I volunteer to do the honours.
"Sure," says Peeta, making a valiant attempt at hiding his surprise.
"Here's a tidbit about me you may not have known before," I say in an upbeat tone of voice as I sharpen my pencil the same way Peeta near-obsessively does before starting to write something new. "I have hardly any respect for those who lie to me."
"Seems like a reasonable trait," he answers with an expression as if he's weighing the information.
"Do you want to read through it before we hand it in? Check the language and all?" I take care to make the question sound as innocent as possible, avoiding eye contact with him for fear that I might not be able to keep the indifferent act up otherwise.
"Here's a tidbit about me you may not have known before," he answers in a warm chuckle. "I'm a bit compulsive when it comes to the language and all – for school stuff. One of my worst traits, in fact. And as such, yes, I would quite enjoy getting to read through it and possibly make a few adjustments." He makes a face that is somehow both a cringe and a smile at once. "I hope you don't mind. I promise you that it's nothing personal. I've always been this way."
"How perfect are you if that is one of your worst traits?" I say in a flummoxed voice, shaking my head slightly at the idea. Peeta suddenly blushes, leans back and averts his eyes. Only then do I realize that those words did not come out sounding as teasing, as joking as I intended for them to. Struggling not to panic and to think of a way of getting this back on the proper track I turn my eyes from him as well, staring instead at the blank page of my notebook open in front of me. "Methinks you are exaggerating the severity of…" I almost curse at myself, knowing I should have known better than to go for the big words when saying things generally isn't my strong suit. "You seem to have a flawed understanding of how bad each flaw is."
"Yeah that could be it," he says, but I can clearly hear that he's not genuinely jesting. His tone is forced, not at all natural.
"And I don't mind," I say, looking at him again. My tone has shifted now to soft sincerity. "That you want to look it over before we hand it in."
"You don't have to tell me that to be polite," he says, his cheeks still a bit crimson. I don't understand why he won't meet my eyes. I was the one who embarrassed myself, not him. "All jokes aside, it is a rather obnoxious thing for me to ask."
"Only if you had lied about it. And you didn't ask me – I asked you."
"I think obnoxiousness is obnoxiousness across the board," he argues, scratching his chin again. "Adding dishonesty makes it more obnoxious, to be sure, but it's perfectly reasonable to feel insulted by it." His eyes dart to me quickly, then turn away just as fast. "Not that I meant it as an insult. Like I said, I'm just a bit of a control freak about it."
"Are you sure you don't want to write it?" I ask, taking care to make my words sound like an offering and not like I'm rolling my eyes on the inside.
"Positive."
"Okay." How did the mood between us change so fast? What even happened to set it off? After all, what I said was a compliment. "For future reference, by the way, I don't allow people to call my fictional husband obnoxious, even if it is him doing it."
He doesn't laugh at my attempt at a joke, nor even smile. In fact he doesn't react at all, as if he didn't hear me. He's rolled up the sleeves of his thin, brown sweater and is leaning over the table again, eyes focused on the bullet-point list we made earlier. It occurs to me that he never mentioned having gotten any information from his parents. It was all from the parents of that friend he was with last night. Did the baker and his wife really have nothing to contribute to this part of the project? They've successfully raised three children so they must know something about keeping them alive past infancy, though I'm not sure if Peeta has any siblings that died during babyhood. I suppose it's entirely possible. Child mortality rates in District 12 are not as bad as they were a thousand years or so ago but they're still a lot higher than in the Capitol, even before children reach reaping age. But I don't like to think about dying babies right now, and I can't very well ask him about it, so my mind goes back to the question of why Peeta didn't ask his parents for help with this. Or did he, and got little to no response? I recall all those times over the years when I've seen him come to school with bruises and black eyes, sometimes shielding a part of his body as if though it hurts. It can't be the mild-mannered, friendly baker who did those things to him. His own mother did those things to him and as my mind lingers on that thought for a moment I think with bewilderment how she doesn't seem to show much appreciation for a son most parents would be very proud of. A diligent student who also finds the time to help out in their family business, a witty and compassionate person who is well-liked among his peers and doesn't start trouble. A teenaged boy who is both smart and humble and mature beyond his years.
Two things hit me in short succession. It is not beyond the realm of probability that she would fail to see all the positive traits in him or at the very least neglect to show that she appreciates him for them. And Peeta might have thought I was mocking him and putting him down just now. That would explain why he seems to have retreated behind his walls all of a sudden. I want to tell him that I in no way meant to be belittling but I'm afraid to do so. If I'm wrong about my assumption then saying something might in fact have the opposite effect and instead ensure that he does think I was insulting him. And I can't very well tell him that I was far more sincere when I said what I said.
"I really don't mind that you want to look the language over," I say instead. "You are far better at it than I am."
"At the language?" he says, looking up at me with a genuinely puzzled expression. "You do speak it fluently, same as me."
"We both know my point still stands," I say. "It always seems to come so easily to you; you're always finding the right words to say and the right time to say them."
"Oh if only that were true," he says, following up his words with a short laughter. He pauses for a moment and then looks up at me, now smiling softly. I don't return his smile but I feel pleased nonetheless. Whatever glum mood came over us it seems to be gone now, or at least on its way.
"Well," I say, "you haven't seen the disasters that were my end-of-term tests on synonyms, much less the 'describe such-and-such in your own words' questions that keep popping up on our exams."
Now he chuckles softly, giving me a lopsided smile.
"I think you're better at it than you think you are."
"Which you're saying before having read what I'm about to put together."
He gives me a look that in a pleasant way reminds me of yesterday.
"Well why don't we try to piece this thing together… together?"
Really, that's what we've been doing for the most part every other week, composing the contents of our texts together with Peeta doing the actual writing it down on paper. He's formulated many of the sentences and spiced it up with long words here and there – or as I've now learned that they are called, polysyllabic. I have no idea where he picks up words like that but for whatever reason he seems to find it fascinating. I find it rather meaningless, to be perfectly honest. I mean, how many ways to say a word do you need? Peeta is adamant about not repeating words too often and too close together, opting for synonyms instead, and I let him have his way even though I fail to see the point. But I've been comfortable with him at the helm, knowing he has a keen understanding of what he's doing and selfishly realizing that his skills in this department are benefiting me and my grade. But I want to do my fair share and not just wonder if I've been riding on his coattails. I don't think Peeta would accuse me of anything like that, he knows how much work I put into this, but I'm afraid our teachers might start to wonder. If everything we hand in that's not a budget or an individual assignment or a list of some sort is written down in Peeta's neat and tidy handwriting and in his distinctive style our teachers might start to wonder.
"I say we start with the stuff that's directly linked to the kid's survival," I suggest. "Those are most important, obviously, so they should come first."
"Isn't it all about making sure the kid survives?" retorts Peeta.
"No, not directly. Making sure the baby lies on its back is to ensure it won't drown in its own vomit or get pneumonia. Finding a good space for a changing table is not a matter of life or death."
"Point taken," nods Peeta. "Why don't you get started writing about the whole baby-on-its-back thing?"
I nod and get to work. When I've finished I ask him to read me the next survival-related entry on our list and he does, letting me formulate it however I want to. He keeps reading the items on the list to me and only jumps in with direct suggestions for exactly how to write it a handful of times. I ask for his input a few times as well, but for the most part it's up to me to write it all down into a cohesive text. It doesn't take all that long, the finished write-up just about a page in length, and I hand it over to Peeta for proof-reading. It feels a bit awkward, in all honesty. Like he's my teacher and he's grading my work. He lifts his eyes from the text and searches his pencil case for something, and for an odd moment I get the feeling he's looking for a red pen to mark things he feels should be changed. Instead it's an eraser he finds and without looking up at me he explains to me what he's changing and why.
"Here you accidentally misspelled 'responsibly' with an A instead of an I," he says, and I choose not to tell him it wasn't an accident but how I thought the word was spelled. He reads another line or two and erases something else. "Hope you don't mind, but here I think it would flow better if we use-"
"You don't need to tell me everything you're changing. It's fine."
"You sure?" he asks, looking up at me.
"Oh, pretty sure."
He smiles cutely at me and goes back to work. After maybe five minutes or so he hands it back to me, as if I had any reason to read it all over again. He seems eager for me to do so, though, so I go along with it and eye the text as if I would have any reason to change any of his edits. As I eye through it I note that all of a sudden there are semicolons in the text, a punctuation mark I can honestly say I've never used. Whenever I come across a word or a sentence Peeta has written the change in handwriting stands out to me. I don't mind it per se but I wonder if our teachers are going to pick up on it.
"What do you say?" asks Peeta. "Is it okay?"
"Yeah," I say, pushing it back towards him, deciding I don't need to read it through to the end. I rise and begin to gather my things, leaving it to him to put the paper into our folder. Peeta remains seated for a while, meticulously gathering his books, notepads and pencils. At first I think he's just being his typical self but then I notice he is looking out the window with a scowl on his face.
"What?" I ask.
"Hmm?" Slowly he turns his face back towards me.
"What is so interesting outside the window?"
"Nothing," he sighs. "Just another ice cold winter's day with heavy winds to boot."
"And you think that by staring at it you're going to make it go away?" I ask with a gentle smile, putting the last of my things in my backpack.
"Oh if only, Katniss."
Although I've got all my of things ready I stay and wait for him as he, at a glacial pace it seems, collects his things. He would no doubt move a lot faster if he wasn't staring out the window the whole time but I don't comment. Finally he finishes and we rise together, putting our backpacks on in almost perfect synchronisation. Looking around the assembly room I get an odd feeling, no doubt because I'm not used to staying here after hours. It's strange to see the room that bustles with life all day long being almost empty. Only five other tables have kids sitting at them and everyone is focused on completing their homework under the electric lights shining down brightly from the ceiling, making me wonder if the electricity stays on in this building long after its gone out in the Seam. Though the superior lighting is not the only reason, or even the largest one, why students choose to do their homework here. It's so much quieter here now than during the day, with far fewer voices speaking in lower tones. There is also access to library books and you can do as much homework as you have time, energy or desire to do since you have all your textbooks nearby. When you're tired, freezing and starving carrying six or seven different textbooks home with you feels like carrying six or seven bricks. Better then to stay here and get whatever book you need at the moment, and carry few or none of them home with you. I suppose I should be surprised that only a handful of kids stayed late today but possibly the poor weather made people want to get home while there was still a bit of daylight. Peeta and I haven't been working all that long and already the sky has darkened and hearing the wind whistling out there makes the assembly room seem unusually warm, bright and inviting.
"You ready?" asks Peeta and I jolt, realizing that my mind has been wandering. I smile sheepishly and nod.
"Ready as ever."
"Okay good."
We fall in side by side, walking past the mostly empty tables. Neither of us speaks until we've left the room and reached the hallways, so empty at this hour that each and every step we take seems to cause an echo that bounces from wall to wall until you'd think there were five of us walking here. I'm surprised to hear it, since I usually don't make this much noise when I walk, even on the hard stone floors of the school building's corridors. I stop under the pretence of needing to tie my shoelace and Peeta catches on and stops as well to wait for me. The few seconds between my stopping and him doing the same was all I needed to confirm my suspicion. While I'm not as quiet here as I am in the woods I have nothing on Peeta. When we start to walk again the loud noise of his footsteps begins to irritate me so I start to talk just to drown the racket with my own voice.
"It's so strange being here at this hour. The place is so deserted."
"Deserted?" Peeta looks genuinely surprised at my choice of words. "There's people everywhere."
"Yeah, we can't make it two meters in this hallway without bumping into people," I reply dryly.
"No, you're right. We must be the only two people alive within a kilometre's radius," he answers back with sarcasm matching my own. "Really, it's time we band together to ensure any hope of survival."
"You're such a loon," I sigh theatrically, giving him a friendly bump with my shoulder. He tries to hide a chuckle and I smile but choose not to comment. We walk in silence, his thunderous steps notwithstanding, until we've rounded a few more corners and reach the hallway where our lockers are. We're the only ones here and it seems like every sound we make is amplified, giving me the odd feeling of being here when we shouldn't be and each sound acting to betray us. "It is deserted," I mumble to Peeta as I open my locker with what feels like a loud bang. "I don't think I like this place with no people around."
"You mean you've never been here before this long after class?" The look he gives me is genuinely surprised. He opens his backpack with a zipping sound so loud it almost makes me jump. "Not ever?"
"I have better things to do with my time," I answer, keeping my voice low even though nobody is here to overhear us. "Going out into the woods to try and secure dinner usually comes before doing my homework."
"I admire you so, Katniss," says Peeta so softly and warmly that I pause and almost don't dare to look at him for fear of what it might feel like to see his face just then. From the corner of my eye I see him turning his face back to his locker and his head disappears behind its open door, escaping my view. "I know you're not at the bottom of our class, in fact I suspect you're quite high up there, and yet you have all these other responsibilities and things you accomplish before you focus on homework. I seriously don't know how you do it. If I didn't do my homework right away I would never find the time."
"I don't think that's true," I reply. For some reason my hands seem to be shaking a bit as I put my books on their shelf and reach for my scarf. "You do better than I do with school and you have your wrestling practice and you help out at the bakery."
"None of those things can compare to what you do for your family," he insists, wrapping his scarf around his neck. He puts his jacket on and struggles for a moment to get the scarf in the right place to allow him to button up. "I've never known anyone who looks after their loved ones the way you do." He gives me a crooked smile which I can only see for half a second before his head disappears behind the locker door again as he searches for his gloves. "Gale truly is a lucky guy. I hope he knows how lucky."
I feel myself blush all the way up to my hairline and I'm glad there's a locker door between him and me just then. I wonder if Peeta would still think Gale is all that lucky if he knew I haven't been by to see him at all this week. I decide right on the spot that I will go over to the Hawthorne home after dinner tonight and see how he is doing.
"I'm ready to go," I say, hoping my voice sounds casual and indifferent. I slam my locker shut in a way that would have sounded loud even if the hallway had been full of people and noise. Peeta closes his locker in a much gentler way, snapping the lock shut before turning to me with a smile that doesn't fully reach his eyes.
"So let's get moving," he says and begins to walk towards the exit. He pulls his knitted gloves on his hands and sighs. "I can't wait for winter to be over. How many hours until spring?"
"You want an exact answer to that?"
"Almost do," he says in another sigh, adjusting the straps on his backpack. "I love winter from an artistic standpoint. The glistening snow, the way the night sky seems orange-pinkish when it's snowing. I tell you, when we read about the aurora borealis three years ago I wanted nothing more than to get to see them in real life, and the chance to try and paint them."
"Why? What's the big deal about green lights in the sky?"
"Because it's a whole world of colour floating across the sky!" he exclaims. "To get the chance to see something that beautiful…."
"I like the sky to behave the way it's supposed to," I shrug. Northern lights never held any appeal to me. When it comes to nature I prefer things to be the way I'm accustomed to them being.
"Yeah, well…" sighs Peeta wistfully. "If I could get to see them, just once, I would die a happy man."
"You might as well wish for the ability to time travel," I point out.
"Well what's the point of dreaming of something that's easily obtained?" he retorts. "Anyway, the beauty of winter aside, this is not a very nice season if you ask me. Plus it's flanked by autumn and spring, two other seasons that are absolutely gorgeous, so it's not like winter has an edge."
"Except for the aurora borealis," I smile. We're almost at the doors and I reach inside my pocket for my gloves. In the corner of my eye I catch Peeta cringing.
"Ugh," he says, rubbing his hands together before we've even exited the building. "I hate being cold. Hate it. It's the worst."
"Really?" I can easily think of at least a dozen things I dislike more than being cold. Spending early mornings out in the forest with the temperature far below zero is perhaps not my most favourite thing in the world but it's more of an inconvenience than anything else. Peeta, however, has a look about him like he's bracing himself for a torturous walk back to the bakery.
"Yeah," he confirms with a bit of a scoff. "I mean it. I would rather be too hot, or overly tired, or in pain, or nauseous, or hungry even… Anything but cold."
"I hope for your sake then that whoever you end up marrying will be talented at knitting," I say, biting back a smile as he stops right in front of the doors and takes a deep breath, clearly stalling.
"Oh excuse me, what's to say I can't knit like a boss?" he says, and I honestly don't know what amuses me more. The mental image of Peeta Mellark knitting by the fireplace or the archaic phrase he just used.
"I hope you can, for your project-self's sake, because I sure can't."
"I'll keep that in mind," he says, giving me a sly smile. He then pushes the door open and waits for me to walk outside before following, groaning loudly at the ice cold winds that hit us the second we set foot outside.
"So can you actually knit?" I ask, trying valiantly not smile at his discomfort which is so obvious it borders on comical.
"I can learn," he offers after a moment's pause, and at that I do let out a short laugh. "Don't laugh at me," he says, wrapping his arms around himself for more warmth. "I bet if I put my mind to it I could knit with the best of them in just a few short weeks."
"If you say so."
"And if you're nice I'll even knit something for you, dear project-wife. Little hats for your arrowheads or something."
I give in fully to laughter, picturing what he is describing, and my laughing seems to infect him too to a degree. He starts rattling off more things he would knit for me in the make believe world of our project marriage, each thing more sillier than the other, and somewhere around at tube-shaped hat for my braid to tuck into and knitted snares we reach the fork in the road where he goes in one direction and I in the other. We stop for a moment, my laughter fading after a second or two, and we stand there facing each other. The ice cold wind hits us in gushes, some bringing whiffs of snow from the piles that line the streets, and the curls on Peeta's head seem to be dancing around with the wind. It's dark out, an overcast sky above us keeping any stars from shining, not to mention keeping the moonlight away. The streetlamps here in town still have electricity but they won't for more than maybe half an hour more. The cold, and especially the wind, is keeping anyone inside who doesn't need to be out and about at this hour. I imagine most families here in town are getting ready to sit down at the dinner table and a pang of envy hits me. Unlike Gale I don't begrudge merchant people the meals they enjoy, seeing no point in wishing they should go hungry as well, but I do envy them. Peeta likely has a hot meal waiting for him back at the bakery. I think of the smell of freshly baked bread which will greet him the moment he sets foot inside his house. Right here, right now I can think of nothing more desirable than living in a bakery, and I think to myself that whoever Peeta marries is going to be a very lucky woman indeed.
Peeta is visibly shivering, shifting his weight from foot to foot at a brisk pace and slamming his feet down hard on the ground as he does in an effort to try and keep warmth in them. Even though he's wearing gloves he's stuck his hands in his armpits and every ten or twenty seconds he shimmies. We're close enough to the streetlight that I can see that his cheeks are bright red, as are his ears. I should let him get moving, let him get back to that warm and delicious-smelling place that is his home.
"Well, good work today," I say.
"Yeah, thanks, you too," he smiles, his bottom lip trembling as is he's trying to keep his teeth from chattering. "You did most of the work." We linger for another half a minute or so, smiling softly at one another. "Thanks for today, Katniss. Looking forward to next week when we find out if Cookie Crisp is a boy or a girl."
"Get home before your brain freezes over," I say, rolling my eyes at his persistence with that name.
"See you tomorrow," he chuckles, raising one hand in a wave of sorts, and then he's on his way, loudly shivering as he goes.
I draw in a deep breath through my nose and let it out through my mouth, just barely making out the small cloud the air forms. I have to admit to myself that while cold generally doesn't bother me I'm not much for cold winds blowing. I quicken my pace by taking longer strides but something makes me stop for a second and look over my shoulder at Peeta's retreating figure, visible for only a second before he turns a corner. I realize that I was wrong a few minutes ago. Peeta's future wife won't get to live at the bakery. Only Scotti's wife will have that privilege. Peeta will sooner or later have to make a new home for himself, someplace which doesn't smell of bread fresh from the oven or any of the many delicacies I've smelled when stopping by to trade. Apple pies, chocolate cakes, oatmeal cookies… I don't know why exactly but it makes me melancholy to think of Peeta working at the bakery every day and then having to leave those wonderful smells behind and head out into the cold winter night.
But that isn't accurate either. He won't be working in the bakery. And yet no amount of logic can make me feel anything than that it is wrong to take the boy with the bread away from where the bread is being baked.
"Katniss!" The pleased expression on Hazelle's face as she opens the door brings a comforting feeling. It's not often that I come to the Hawthorne home nowadays – mostly it's Gale who seeks me out – but his mother doesn't show any signs of reproach. "How nice to see you," she says, laying an arm around my shoulders and leading me inside. "Come in, avoid that dreadful cold."
"Thank you," I say in earnest. I forgot to take my scarf and the wind felt as if it were targeting me because of this. Stepping inside the Hawthorne home, always much warmer and homelier than my own, feels really nice. I set my bag down on a chair in the entrance hall and begin to remove my outerwear.
"You just missed dinner," says Hazelle, taking my jacket to hang it up. "I can warm some up for you."
"No, thank you," I say, unable not to smile warmly. Gale's mother is such a kind soul and I know that her offer is genuine on all levels, but I would never accept it. Whatever food they have left needs to go to their own mouths, either as school meals for Rory, Vick or Posy or as lunch for Gale to bring to the mines tomorrow. "The offer sounds lovely, but I already ate with Mother and Prim."
"Well if you change your mind, you just say the word."
"Thank you," I say again, giving her a smile and hoping she knows how much I appreciate these gestures.
"Mother who's at the door?"
I smile slightly at Rory's voice breaking as he calls out to his mother. It's strange that he is growing up and becoming a man, almost as strange as Prim maturing into a young woman. Hearing Rory's voice break while shouting like that reminds me of Gale's voice doing the same when his voice was changing and he needed to call out warnings or instructions when we were in the woods. I remember that part of me wanted to tease him about it, but we didn't have that kind of relationship yet at that point. We had only known each other for six months or so.
"It's not for you, Rory!" Hazelle calls back. "Go back to your homework!" She lowers her voice to me. "Same thing almost every evening. He keeps hoping one of his friends will stop by and get him out of having to study."
I smile but I don't find it very amusing. Rory doesn't like studying because he feels it's a giant waste of time. He knows where he will end up working and even at age fifteen he feels like he can see his whole life ahead of him already, and that dampens his spirits. I'm thankful my sister doesn't view the future that way. I couldn't bear feeling her disillusionment before even having come of age.
"So where is Gale?" I ask, picking my game bag up again. "Is he helping the boys and Posy with homework?"
"No," sighs Hazelle, a weary expression coming over her features. "He hardly ever helps them with school anymore. He wants to, of course, but he's exhausted when he gets home from the mines." Her expression changes into one of concern, which in turn makes me feel worried. "Most nights I have a feeling he's just counting the hours until he can go to bed. Too exhausted to do much more than sit on the couch, and maybe read Posy a story or two." Then she smiles again but it seems forced. "Which is why I am so glad to see you here! I think seeing you will be just the cheering up he needs." She nods in the direction of their sitting room. "He's in there, on the couch. I will try and keep the others in the kitchen for now so you two can have some privacy."
I wonder what it is she imagines I came here to do or talk about, but since it's not really important I shrug it off and walk quietly to the archway that leads from the hall to the sitting room. I stop there for a moment, one hand on the doorpost and supporting my weight against it. Gale is on the couch, just as his mother predicted. He looks completely spent. As if washing up and eating dinner was all he had energy enough left to do and now his reserves have been emptied. He sits slumped, his rear close to the edge of the seat and his back resting more against the bottom cushion than the back one. His legs are wide apart, his arms spread out as well, and his head leaned back. I can tell from his breathing that he isn't asleep but his eyes are closed and if I were to walk off to the kitchen instead he probably will drift off any second now. That's not good. He shouldn't nap now – if he does he will have trouble falling asleep once he's in bed, and that will only create a bad pattern.
"Cougar!" I cry. Gale startles, flies to his feet even, and momentarily looks around as if he expects to find a wild cat pouncing at him in his own home. It only takes him a second to get his bearings and when he sees my laughing face he scowls.
"That wasn't anywhere near funny, Katniss," he says, slumping back down on the couch.
"What is going on?" asks Hazelle, coming out from the kitchen with a wet glass and a towel in her hand.
"Nothing," I assure her. "I apologise. I was just getting your son more alert."
Hazelle smirks at me and returns to the kitchen. I've stopped laughing but I'm still chuckling a little as I walk up to the couch and take a seat beside Gale.
"I mean it, Katniss," he says, giving me a displeased look. "Not even almost funny."
"I'm sorry," I lie, giving him the kind of sweet smile I never give anyone except as a joke. "I come bearing gifts. Am I forgiven?"
"You're forgiven if you come bringing kisses," he says in a lower voice, leaning in to capture my lips with his own.
"How about you get both?" I offer, placing my bag on the coffee table and lifting up my thermos from it. "Mother sends some special tea she made just for you. It's supposed to be energizing."
"Oh I could definitely use that," he remarks, shifting to sit more properly. He takes the thermos, gives me a small smile and a thanks, and pours the beverage into the empty mug that was already on the table. "Just a minute, I'm going to go get sugar."
"There's honey in it already."
"My girlfriend thinks of everything." I accept his kiss, not bothering to correct him. It was my mother who thought of adding the honey but I don't think it matters. He lets out something that seems to be a cross between a yawn, a sigh and a groan, stretching his arms as far as they can stretch. "Seriously, though. I feel much more energized already." As his arms come back down he wraps one around me and uses the other to grab the tea mug, "Just you coming over is like getting an injection of adrenaline or something." He sips from the tea and hisses as he burns his tongue.
"Careful," I caution. "Hot tea tends to be hot."
"No kidding." He blows on the beverage, smirking at me from the corner of his eye. "But what is a burnt tongue in the grand scheme of things? It will be back to normal in a day or so." Setting the mug down on the table he shifts so we're facing one another more. He smiles at me tenderly. "It means the world to me that you came by to cheer me up – and that you brought your mother's special tea with you."
"Anytime," I assure him.
"You're the best girlfriend ever."
I can't feign accepting the compliment as having any measure of truth at all to it, but I don't think Gale notices. He's too busy pressing his lips to mine, his tongue prodding at the seam of my lips, asking permission to enter.
"Gale, your family is in the next room," I point out, pulling away slightly. I make sure my tone is soft and sweet, not wanting his fatigue to prompt another argument.
"They know about us," he spells out to me in an amused voice. "None of them, save my little sister, probably believes I've never kissed before."
"Yeah, well even so. I wouldn't feel comfortable if Vick or Rory or, heaven forbid, Posy were to walk in and see us." My hand finds the nape of his neck and begins to massage the tenseness there. Gale cranes his neck in the other direction to give me more access, groaning softly as he does. "We can behave when we are around other people, can't we?" I say sweetly. "There are other things we can do except kiss."
"There are a number of a lot more fun things we can do," he answers, giving me a suggestive look. "Although none of them would be suitable around other people either." I giggle at his joke and a new look comes over his face. A look that's mostly surprise but also approval and interest. "You seem to be in high spirits today."
"Yeah," I smile. "I suppose I am."
"Any reason in particular?"
"No," I shrug, kicking off my shoes so I can pull my feet up on the couch. "I've been in a good mood all week. That's all."
Gale smiles at me like I just told him food would start raining from the sky. His index finger traces a line across my cheek and down to my mouth but then leaves my face.
"I'm glad you're much happier these days."
Am I? I hadn't given any thought to it. I suppose I am, at least compared to my normal gloomy mood during mid-winter. I can't answer as to the reason why and Gale doesn't ask, so I leave the matter be.
"So how has life in the mines been treating you so far this week?" I ask instead.
"There's a topic I do not want to discuss," he answers, giving me a pointed look. He takes a long sip from his mug, smacking his lips afterward. A drop of tea runs down the mug and drops onto the old, worn coffee table. "Suffice to say, my spirits have not been as high as yours." He gives me a smile anyway. "I don't want to talk about work. I'd much rather talk about you. And about your family. How is Prim doing?"
This gets me talking. It's been a while since we've had any longer conversations regarding my sister, and considering what stage in her life she's in right now I feel I have more fodder for discussion now than I've ever had before. Gale knows and understands what it's like for me. He's got not one, but three younger siblings. Vick and Rory are strange enough for him to see mature into young men but I can only imagine how hard it will be for him when little Posy gets to that age. I can't even imagine it myself. I've known her since her infancy and she will always be the baby of the Hawthorne family in my eyes. Seeing as how she's the only girl I strongly suspect her older brothers will view her as such, too.
While we talk Gale finishes his tea and begins to seem more awake. But I can tell how weary he is. Despite his earlier insistence, and his genuine appreciation of the tea, I wonder if it was such a good idea for me to stop by after all. But when I voice that thought he quickly shuts me down.
"Katniss you coming to visit me gives me more energy than anything else has since the new year!"
"Then you must really have been a wreck these past three weeks."
"You could say that," he chuckles. We're sitting close on the couch, warm and relatively comfortable for once, so unlike our cold mornings out in the glade. His eyes stare into mine with so much heat and affection. They remind me a little bit of Peeta's eyes, though Gale's have the same ordinary grey colour as my own. Perhaps it's the colour difference but they don't seem quite as vibrant and intense as Peeta's. "Now that you're here though… Everything is all better."
"I haven't done anything," I point out. "Except bring the tea. Which my mother made, not me. And you still seem exhausted."
He gives me another kiss, this time without trying to bring his tongue into it. His lips linger against mine for several seconds, though.
"Don't you know that you don't have to do anything?" he asks in a low voice. "Just you being here is more than enough." His smile widens and he pulls back a bit to set his now empty mug down on the coffee table, still keeping his eyes on me. "To be honest, Catnip, I've been hoping every night that you would stop by for a visit."
"Oh." I smile without mirth, feeling guilt-ridden at hearing his words. Every night for how long? I almost never come by for a spontaneous visit. Is it so wrong to assume that unless we've already made plans to meet up, or he comes by to see me, he wants some time alone to rest?
"You are always welcome here, babe," he says, moving to sit further back on the couch, leaning back against the cushions. "Never forget that. My girlfriend can come spend time with me whenever she wants to, no matter what." He cocks his head and gives me a teasing look. "It's part of being in a relationship – seeing and supporting each other at our worst. One of the best parts, in fact."
I try not to scowl, feeling not at all appreciative of receiving instructions on the pros and cons of being in a relationship. At the tip of my tongue I have a teasing reply ready about how I should take that pearl of wisdom and incorporate it into my school project but I think the better of it. Not that Gale and I never tease each other, but it doesn't seem to come as naturally now as it did a few months ago.
Instead I try to make my smile seem as genuine as possible as I recall something I was intending on relaying to him.
"By the way, Gale, you will never guess what they brought up during project hour on Monday."
"No, what?"
"All of a sudden, thirteen weeks in, they give Peeta a hard time finding a new job because he's project-married to someone from the Seam."
"You're kidding!" He seems both amused and pleased to hear this and my smile reaches my eyes again. Hearing this seems to have given him an injection of energy surpassing that of my presence or the tea and he immediately asks me to elaborate.
"Well, our project baby is due on Monday and they gave Peeta the boot from his project job," I begin to explain.
As I tell him about this new development I lean back too, feeling his arm comfortably wrapping around me. I tell him everything that happened, at least concerning our job hunt, but there are many things I omit. Things that have absolutely nothing to do with the subject of merchant prejudice against the Seam and things that might get him riled up – such as anything that focuses on Peeta. My reaction to the idea of him working in the mines, in particular. I have nothing to hide from my boyfriend but I don't want to ruin the good mood he's in by giving him details he doesn't need to have.
"It's about damn time," says Gale finally, when I'm finished talking. "The one thing that's been sorely missing from your project of preparations for handling life is realism."
"Gale you only know a few scant details about the project," I point out with a smile and one eyebrow raised.
"Yeah, but what I do know is that it hasn't been realistic," he insists. "And I think it's good that these things are finally brought up."
"You may think it's good but it made things quite inconvenient for us," I remark. "And Peeta got pretty irritated."
"Yeah I bet," scoffs Gale.
"He thinks it's lunacy that something like that should have an impact on what jobs he gets," I continue, ignoring Gale's comment and its implications.
"Katniss he's merchant. He's not used to things not going his way, and when they do he feels like it's all so unfair and gets upset."
"Gale!" I complain, sitting up straight on the couch. "Please, could we have a conversation about this without you going there? I like working with Peeta, he's efficient and he's got lots of good ideas."
"Uh-huh. Such as telling you exactly what he thinks you want to hear on matters like this. Oh come on, Katniss, don't leave!"
"I didn't bring this up so that you could start insulting him, or Madge by extension for that matter," I say, and I'm just about to get up from the couch when Gale's hand grabs my arm, firmly but carefully.
"I'm sorry," he says. "Okay? I'm sorry." I look at him for a moment, debating with myself whether or not to leave, but he does look genuinely remorseful. "It's no excuse but I've been so tired lately, and even though I know you would never be unfaithful to me it still sucks to think about the guy who gets to spend all that time with you. I miss being able to spend time with you."
Hearing this I soften and sit back down, feeling a little bad for snapping at him when he's so clearly exhausted. The least I could do is not get angry with him over things that shouldn't matter all that much. I pull my feet back up on the couch and lean back, feeling Gale relax as he leans back with me and wraps his arm back around my shoulders. I rest my head on his shoulder and draw a deep breath, breathing in the familiar scent of smoke and apples. His hand draws circles on my upper arm and it feels rather nice.
"I'm sorry I got mad," I say.
"I'm sorry I gave you reason to."
"The project more than halfway through. Ten more weeks and then we're done. Peeta and I probably won't see each other again after that."
"You sure about that?"
I think about the question, wondering why he's asking it. Do I really believe Peeta and I will go back to not speaking to one another, perhaps just nodding at each other in greeting when we pass one another in the hallway? Is that what I want? Does it even matter? School ends this summer and after that we won't see each other anymore, except for every now and then when Gale and I are trading at the bakery.
Taking Gale's hand in my own I intertwine our fingers and try to give the impression that my focus is on him, though my mind stays on the question he asked, which I have yet to give an answer to. The truth is I will miss spending time with Peeta. I don't have many friends and under other circumstances perhaps he and I could have developed a real friendship. I think about our interactions this week and the way it felt looking into his eyes. Logic dictates that I should want to distance myself from this once I can, because playing with fire never brings anything good. But the truth is I dread having to let go of the way it feels being in his company – the easy companionship, the laughter and yes, those looks.
But I can't tell Gale that. So instead I do something I never thought I would do, especially now that he is my boyfriend. I look him in the eye and I lie.
"As soon as the project is over Peeta will go back to playing with his friends and I will go back to playing with mine. And that's just fine with me."
Tune in next time, when tempers will be flaring and, of course, they get the scenario with all things baby.