I have to offer apologies for this chapter. Truthfully, it doesn't do much to advance the plot or the characters. Originally there was just one brief scene where I added an element that was only meant to give it a flavour of "everyday life realism", but I ended up liking the element enough that I expanded upon it. Then it ended up filling an entire chapter. So while I think you might still enjoy it, I fully admit that it kind of grinds things to a halt for a moment.
The following week starts off different than usual. Peeta's come down with something, and judging by his glossy eyes, flushed cheeks and red nose, actually has a fever. It seems he would be best off tucked into bed, not busying his head with yet another hour of schoolwork before he can go home, but he seems determined to dismiss his current condition as much as possible. But there's no denying that by the time project hour comes around he's been struggling to stay alert all day and seems visibly exhausted, and I contemplate offering to bring him back home with me so he can lie down and have my mother check up on him. We can work from my living room, him resting on the couch and me on the floor, just as well as we can work in the assembly room.
We've gotten a new assignment from Mr. Stoker and I flip the envelope back and forth between my hands while we head for our favourite table, trying to figure out how to present my suggestion of bringing him to my home without it sounding too strange. Once we reach the table and he pulls out a chair I decide that we'll give this a try first, but if he begins to look even more exhausted than he already does then I'm going to drag him home with me, whether he approves of the idea or not.
"You shouldn't sit so close to me," he says, his voice hoarse and affected by his stuffy nose. "You don't need to catch my cold."
With a nod I take a seat opposite him, which is as far apart as we can get at our usual table. I'm not overly concerned about him getting me sick; I figure that an extra foot or two of space between us won't make a bit of difference, and he had a runny nose back on Friday when I met up with him to hand him my part for the presentation, so I've already been in contact with the bug he has. It impresses me that he completed our presentation, and did a wonderful job on it, despite being in this condition over the weekend. He draws a sniffling breath through his nose as he opens his backpack to start rummaging for everything he needs for our work session and when we swallows I can tell it hurts. What he calls a cold seems more like a case of the flu and I hope he will bounce back fast – school has never been as intense as it is now, with a mere three months to go before it all ends, and none of us can afford to not be at the top of our game for very long. I don't even want to think about the things that can develop from the flu – things that can turn out to be deadly, even at our age. I push the thought as far away from my mind as possible.
As I open my own backpack it occurs to me that in trying to put some distance between us, we are now sitting the way we sat when we first started this project together. Over the course of these five months we have come to move closer to one another as our feeling of comfort around one another has increased. It feels odd going back to this old seating arrangement. I appreciate the practicality of trying not to keep some space between us so that I might not fall ill as well but it is so much easier to work together when we're right next to each other.
"So I guess I should read our next assignment," I say, and he nods and shrugs a shoulder. I grab the envelope from the table and open it up, pulling out a single sheet of paper, which surprises me a little. I let the envelope drop back on the table while I begin to read. "Alright… Let's see here…" Briefly I pause from reading and look up at Peeta. "Turns out your make-believe genes can beat the crap out of mine, because those twins have now been born, and both are boys."
"Cute," says Peeta with a sniffle. "Do we have to go to the Justice Building and grab more forms to fill out?"
"No… No, it doesn't seem we have to do all that stuff again, probably because we've either learned what we needed to learn by now, or we're a hopeless case." I scoff as I continue to read. "But lo and behold, in addition to naming the babies, which I cannot for the life of me see the purpose of, we have to draw up a…" I take a pause to let my fingers drum against the table, and Peeta finishes the sentence for me.
"A budget?"
"A budget, Mr. Mellark!" I confirm with feigned enthusiastic surprise. "What were the odds?" I read the rest of the text before summarizing it for him. "The rest is surprisingly tame. Some stuff about figuring out who will look after the kiddies once I'm back to work, which I assure you will be as soon as humanly possible, and we have to write up something about how we plan on dealing with the logistics of having two infants, along with a toddler. That's it."
"How much time do we have with this?" asks Peeta, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
"Just a week. But I doubt it will take us that long." I put the paper aside and cross my arms on the table, leaning forward a bit. "Where do you want to start?"
"Let's get the damn budget out of the way," he sighs. "Then we'll name the twins – something I never thought I would actually say – and then write something brief about who will look after the kids later, and the complicated intricacies of having only two people to change the nappies of two babies."
I smirk at his sarcasm and put him on calculating what our income ought to be at this point, while I work on a list of expenses. His part doesn't really require all that much work, but he could use a break today, and he doesn't protest.
With his eyes glued to the notes about our finances from the last budget we made, Peeta reaches inside his backpack and produces a red metal thermos that looks surprisingly shiny, no doubt having been well taken care of since it can hardly be new. I furrow my brow, trying to recall where I've seen it before. Peeta unscrews the lid and uses it as a mug, pouring steaming hot tea into it. He reaches inside his bag again and begins to rummage once more, this time needing to take his eyes off the work and look inside the bag in order to find what he's looking for. Finally he takes out a small plastic container, opens it up and pours a little bit of honey into the tea. Carefully he runs his hand along its rim to gather up any stray drops, puts the lid back on the container without spilling any of the precious honey and then puts it back in his bag. He gives me a quick look and a half-hearted smile.
"I would offer you some tea but I don't have a mug and I wouldn't do you any favours letting you share mine today."
"That's fine," I assure him.
"It's rude, really. But it can't be helped."
"It's fine."
"My mother insists on sending willow bark tea with me whenever I've got a cold." He blows on the hot beverage before carefully taking a sip, testing its temperature.
"Really?" I say, trying to mask my surprise.
He nods and coughs into the bend of his arm. He makes a face, the coughing probably hurting his throat. He blows on the tea again, from the looks of it deeming the beverage still too hot to drink just yet. He sets the makeshift mug down on the table, at a safe enough distance from the books and notebooks and loose pieces of papers lying around.
"She insists on the honey, too, even though it makes the tea far too sweet. She would actually prefer it if I were tucked into bed at home," he says, his hoarse voice breaking slightly. He's probably going to lose his voice completely in a few days' time and spend the rest of the week practically silent. "My father insist that we go to school unless we have a high fever. He reasons that we can always cut the day short and go back home if we get worse."
If he gets worse? Hasn't he hit that point by now? I avert my eyes, focusing on my notebook instead, feeling a little awkward because I can't tell if he's joking or not about his parents. Logic seems to dictate that he is, but he sounds completely serious. I can't very well ask him either. I know I'm not always the most sociable person but telling him to his face that his mother doesn't strike me as the nurturing type is too rude for my comfort. Though no matter how hard I try I cannot imagine Mrs. Mellark wanting to tuck Peeta in and sending him willow bark tea to school while Mr. Mellark insists that he not stay home. I can only picture it being the other way around, with Peeta's father sneaking the thermos into his son's backpack.
Peeta picks up his mug and takes another sip and it occurs to me where I've seen the thermos before. It's one out of three which they use to serve coffee and tea at the bakery. I've seen them through the window when Prim and I have stopped to look at the cakes. Maybe they have no other thermoses than those three but it bewilders me that the witch who struck her twelve-year-old hard enough to leave a black eye simply for burning bread would send something that no doubt has a high value to school with her son when he is sick.
Suddenly I notice Peeta eyeing me suspiciously. Uh-oh. My bafflement must have been written all over my face. He doesn't seem particularly pleased and I wonder if he suspects what I'm thinking. I hark my throat and nod to the tea.
"I didn't know your mother knew how to make willow bark tea," I say, hoping that it will be sufficient to put him at ease. He seems to be even more puzzled now, his eyes going from me to the tea and back again.
"She may not be a healer but almost everyone knows how to make willow bark tea," he says.
"Right," I mumble. "Yeah." So I come off looking like an idiot but at least not a particularly offensive idiot.
"Though really, any tea would do as far as I'm concerned," sighs Peeta, apparently willing to buy my cover-question and let the whole thing go. He takes a careful sip, wincing as he swallows. "I drink it mainly because the temperature soothes my throat. I tell you, I hate having a sore throat. I can take all the other parts of having a cold. Headaches, fever, muscle aches, coughs, runny nose, you name it. I can handle all of that but I just hate it when my throat aches. As a kid I used to get tonsillitis. I must have had it four or five times, which may not sound a lot but trust me, it was a pain." He scowls as he thinks back on those less than pleasant memories. "All my mother could do for me when I had it was to try and ease the pain with the willow bark, and other hot beverages. I remember one time, when I was eight, she bartered with one of the peacekeepers and got me ice-cream. It did the trick for my throat but of course it was so expensive, we could only afford a little. Still, it felt like a huge treat, and my brother Ryean got jealous over it." His eyes get a distant look to them as he continues on, taking small sips of his tea between sentences. "She tried having me gargle salty warm water, too, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I hate the taste and it felt like it hurt as much to gargle it as the sore throat did on its own. I guess that's one thing they forget to prepare us for with this scenario. How you handle your kids being sick."
He finishes talking and I realize I've been sitting here listening intently as if he was telling me a story, not recalling old memories of childhood illnesses. But it almost seems like a fairy-tale of some sort hearing of wicked old Mrs. Mellark bartering with peacekeepers to procure ice-cream for Peeta just to cure a sore throat. No matter how hard I try I can't even imagine her doing things like that. I'm not even entirely sure that Peeta is telling me the truth right now. I get the feeling he knows I don't hold his mother in high regard and wants me to feel otherwise about her, though I'm not about to change my mind. It's not as if it matters anyway. I doubt I'm ever going to speak more than two words to her save for the times she answers my knock at the bakery's back door.
The next ten minutes we both do our work sans conversation, at least on my part intentionally, to go easy on his voice and sore throat. There are a few things that I otherwise would have asked his opinion of, but it's not that important. The biggest element of disruption is having to listen to his frequent sniffles, coughs and yawns. I try not to give him concerned looks every other minute but it's hard to just ignore his condition right now. Every time he swallows I can practically hear how painful it is. When I realize I haven't heard him write anything for several minutes I do look up and I find him looking at his notebook without appearing to be aware of what he's looking at, swaying just the slightest bit from side to side, mouth a bit open while his eyes are half-closed, and all in all looking like he's about to either pass out or fall asleep on the spot.
"Peeta," I say, finding my voice sounding surprisingly similar to my mother's when she's caring for a patient, a calmness and compassion that doesn't otherwise come natural to me. "Are you sure you shouldn't go home? Let your mother tuck you into bed, or something?"
"And leave you high and dry?"
"It's not bailing on me if you're this sick."
"It sounds and looks far worse than it is," he claims. "Katniss, I'm fine. We've only got today to get all of this done; I'd rather we finish on the allocated school hours than pick it up on our off-hours later this week."
"I can finish it," I say. "It's not a lot of work. You should be in bed, recuperating."
"What?" He gives me a look of complete disbelief, mixed with a dose of irritation. "Not a chance. I won't allow you to do all the work! And don't even try to argue that point, because we both know you would never allow me to do it if the roles were reversed."
"Except I kind of did already. You did the lions' share of the grid presentation. It's only fair for me to make up for it now."
"Yeah, nice try," he scoffs, taking a couple of deep sips from his mug. When he sets it down it sounds like it's empty. "I'm not unloading all of this onto you."
I bite my lower lip, struggling with myself on the issue of whether or not to bring him to my home, and to my mother. It feels like the right thing to do, but it also feels… I don't know, I can't put precise words to it, but I suppose I feel nervous to suggest it to him. Most people would probably find it very odd for their project partner to bring them home during school hours, but most people don't have healers for mothers. I go back and forth over it for several minutes, eyeing Peeta on the sly. He keeps snivelling, keeps cringing slightly every time he swallows, keeps looking like he has trouble focusing and would like nothing more than to nap for the next several hours. I make up my mind. We're hardly getting any work done at all right now, and we will no doubt be more efficient with him resting on the couch while my mother gets him some medication. But I'm too bashful to say it outright, so I find another way.
"Peeta… I just got an idea. Something that would work really well with this week's assignment."
"Okay?" he says, looking at me through heavy, weary eyes.
"We'll have to go on another field trip." I begin collecting my things in a rapid pace, as if the quicker we get this underway the better my resolve will hold out.
Peeta seems to mull this over and contemplate whether or not he has the energy for it, but then he sighs and begins packing up his things as well.
"Alright, then. Where are we going?"
"I'll show you," I reply, trying to avoid a direct answer to the question. He needs to be in his outerwear and out the door before he finds out and can muster the energy to object. Especially if he begins to object because he's worried he'll be a bother.
He sighs, hides a yawn behind his closed fist, but dutifully packs his things, even allowing me to help him, which is fortunate, as otherwise it might have taken all hour with him in his current condition. I smile encouragingly at him while I help him out, but he doesn't seem to notice. When he rises from his chair his movements are much slower than normal and I momentarily question my decision, wondering if I might just be depleting his energy resources further by this idea.
It's not until we've reached the part of the district where the town gives way to the Seam that Peeta reacts, or even notices the general direction we're going in. He's spent the entire walk up to that point in silence, staring unseeingly at the ground a meter or two ahead of him, his cheeks flush with both cold and fever, if such a thing is possible, and his hands tightly crossed over his chest in an attempt to generate some measure of warmth. It's not actually all that cold outside, not compared to how winter has been so far, but ten degrees below freezing is still cold enough when your body is busy trying to elevate its core temperature to kill whatever affliction is disturbing it. I've stayed silence as well, unbothered by the quiet between us, and figuring he probably doesn't feel like making small-talk right now.
I've been figuring that he might not be completely happy about me dragging him back to my house like this, but I'm unprepared for the look of near horror on his face as he realizes where we're going and stops dead in his tracks, fervently shaking his head.
"No… No, no, no. Katniss you're not taking me where I think you're taking me?"
I have absolutely zero intention of playing ignorant, or of arguing with him on this subject. He needs proper rest and whatever medicine my mother can give him if we are to be able to complete our coursework for this week. He looked like he was about ready to pass out in his chair back in the assembly room and that would do neither one of us any favours.
"Since you didn't want to go home, you're coming to my home," I tell him simply. "You need to be lying on a couch under a heap of blankets."
"Katniss I'm really not comfortable with this," he says, still shaking his head, but his eyes now pleading a bit.
"There's nothing to feel uncomfortable about. Have you forgotten that my mother is a healer? And before you even get started down that path, this is as much for my benefit as it is for yours. If you won't let me do the brunt of the work then the next best thing is to have you as comfortable as possible, allowing you to be as efficient as possible." He scowls deeply. I tilt my head a bit and try a different approach, softening my voice as much as I dare to. "Do you want to turn back? We'll lose an awful lot of time."
He looks over his shoulder, taking a minute to think it over. When he turns his head back to look at me he looks exhausted and defeated, sighing heavily. We're much closer to my house than we are to school, and he knows it. He begins to walk, the first few steps reluctant but then he picks up his pace as if wanting to get indoors as soon as possible.
"I really don't like you right now," he sighs as he passes me.
"Is that any way to talk to a person doing you a favour?" I ask, partially teasing him.
He mutters something under his breath that I can't make out, but if his tone is anything to go by it certainly isn't flattering. I choose not to comment. He mutters something else a moment later, the only word I'm able to make out being 'humiliated', but I decide to let that one slide as well. I'm discouraged at the thought that humiliation might be what he feels over this, but if our roles were reversed I know there's nothing he would be able to say that would make me feel any differently about it. It honestly never crossed my mind that that might be his reaction. I'm doing this to help him, to help us both, really. There's nothing shameful about being sick, nor about seeking help from a healer. The fact that the healer in question is my mother and that I am the one making the decision for him to come see her shouldn't be that horrible.
We fall into silence once more, reaching my house within minutes. I climb the porch steps and put my hand on the doorknob, turning my head to find that Peeta has stopped at the foot of the steps. He looks around uncomfortably, visibly shaking by now, his teeth clattering and his hands rubbing his upper arms. Our eyes meet and his hesitation is plainly visible.
"You know, maybe…" he begins tentatively, his voice trembling from his body's attempts at keeping warm.
"Peeta, you're freezing," I softly point out. "Wouldn't you rather come inside with me, and get warm? You came all the way here with me, after all."
He sighs heavily but begins to walk up the porch steps. I open the front door, allowing him to walk inside the instant he reaches the porch, and I quickly follow him inside and close the door firmly to avoid too much of the outdoor cold to get inside. The house isn't terribly warm, but it's above twenty degrees at least, and far more comfortable. Peeta lets his backpack drop to the ground with a loud thud, just as my mother's voice comes to us from the kitchen.
"Katniss? Is that you? Home from school already?" She appears in the doorway, confusion and a touch of worry written on her face, and when she sees us she looks even more confused at the company I brought, yet I also see her healer persona surface the instant she lays eyes on Peeta, the shape he's in telling her enough, even if not all.
"He's got the flu," I say anyway.
"It's just a cold," replies Peeta in his hoarse, stuffy voice, supporting himself by pressing one hand against the wall while he uses the other to remove his shoes. "I'm fine, Mrs. Everdeen. Your daughter kind-of kidnapped me because she – for some reason – thought I would have keeled over dead if I had to sit in a chair for a full hour."
By the time he's finished speaking she's already walked up to us, her analytical mind picking up on every piece of information his appearance can give her. The back of her hand comes to rest against his forehead, and her own brow furrows. Her hands then move to his cheeks and further down to his throat, Peeta's chin automatically tilting upward as she begins to examine his glands. The side-eye he gives me would be quite comical under different circumstances.
"He needs to be lying down, preferably drinking whatever you've got to bring down a fever and soothe a sore throat." One corner of my mouth turns upward and I half-smirk at Peeta while removing my own outerwear. "Except sleep syrup. I need him awake and preferably lucid."
"Your throat is sore, too?" she asks him.
"Yeah," he croaks.
"For how many days now?"
"This is the third. And I've already had willow bark tea for the fever. It's not that bad."
"Okay. Why don't you go with Katniss to the living room? She'll get you settled in and I'll get you something more for that fever and for your throat. Any other symptoms? Ear aches?"
"No," he claims.
"Okay," she murmurs under her breath. "Katniss?"
I nod at her unspoken command, pressing the palm of my hand to Peeta's back to herd him towards the sitting room. He knows the way already and defiantly picks up his pace enough so that he's walking ahead of me without the two of us touching. But when he reaches the couch he stops, a look of uncertainty on his face.
"Sit down," I urge. "I'll go get our backpacks." He makes a move to go past the couch and I add a warning to my tone. "And not on the floor. The couch won't bite, although your pig-headedness seems to have grown some teeth." He makes a face at me and even sticks out his tongue in a mock-taunting move – at least I think it's mock – and at the last second I resist the impulse to blow him an equally taunting air kiss in response. He sits, and I give him a prompting look, my eyebrows raised. "Now lie down."
"I'm starting to feel like a dog you're training," he says drolly. "Sit. Lie down. Speak."
"Don't speak. No more than necessary. Your voice will have given out entirely by the end of the day if you're not careful."
"Here's hoping the same fate will befall my brother," he sighs, not specifying which brother. "A few days of peace and quiet at home would do me good."
"Seriously, less with the talking and more with the lying down. You have three seconds, or I'll lift your legs up myself."
"You're out of your mind," he sighs, glaring at me while slowly lifting his feet up on the couch. He curls his legs, making sure to take up as little space on the couch as possible.
"Good boy," I say, mimicking the tone peacekeepers use to praise their canines.
"Bad girl," he throws back, breaking into a coughing fit.
I go back to the hall and find our backpacks where we left them, right by the front door. I bend down and grab Peeta's, but I'm not prepared for the sheer weight of it when I try lifting it. A grunt escapes me and I nearly fall forward thanks to the surprise. It must weigh well over ten kilos! And he carted that thing all the way over here in his current condition? Wrestlers must be half-insane, I decide, making a face as I grab hold of it again and lift it, putting it on to make it easier to carry. Something that feels like the back of a book cuts into my back, making me cringe. Carrying my own, considerably lighter, pack in one hand I hurry back to the sitting room, eager to take the damn heavy thing off.
"What do you even have in this thing?" I complain as I walk into the room. "One of your brothers?"
I notice Prim has found her way into the room, no doubt made curious by me being home early and speaking to someone whose voice I doubt she'd be immediately able to place. Peeta has a look of utterly exasperated resignation on his face as she drapes a worn blanket over him, the one usually lying on the back of the couch. Just like Mother, she's got her nursing look about her, though shyness prevents her from doing what our mother did and actually touching him to get a better understanding of the nature of his illness.
I shimmy out of Peeta's backpack, letting it drop with a thud much like he did a few minutes ago, and he twists around to start unpacking it.
"This would be much easier if I wasn't lying down," he croaks at me, giving me a pointed look. It does look a bit uncomfortable, but I ignore him nonetheless and instead talk to my sister.
"That blanket is too thin and worn-out to be of much use to anyone. Go get my comforter, would you?"
She snaps her fingers, getting and idea.
"The blanket on Mother's bed!" she exclaims.
"I had completely forgotten about that," I admit.
"I'll be right back!"
"So this is what it feels like to have the entire trio of Everdeen healers descend upon you at once," says Peeta, finding a handkerchief in his backpack and blowing his nose on it. "It's strangely overwhelming."
"I'm not a healer," I object, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. I sit cross-legged, the rug making it at least a little more comfortable than sitting directly on the floor. I unzip my backpack and begin to unpack it.
"Could have fooled me," he says.
I blush, but I'm saved from commenting by my mother entering, carrying a tray with a mug full of steaming hot tea, a much smaller mug containing one of her ill-tasting remedies, and a spoon of what looks like some form of lotion. There's also a tall glass of water, which doesn't surprise me since she always insists we stay hydrated when we're feverish. She sets it all down in front of Peeta, who has – out of sheer politeness, no doubt – shoved his books aside to make room for it.
"The tea is for your fever," she instructs. "The brew in the other mug is for your throat. The ointment is to rub under your nose, so it doesn't get soars when you have to blow your nose a lot." She places the back of her hand against his brow again for a split second, as if expecting his fever to have begun to go down just from looking at the tea. "And be sure to drink lots of water. You'll be sweating a lot once that fever starts to go down."
"That all paints me as quite the attractive guy," jokes Peeta half-heartedly. He manages a genuine smile at her, though. "Thank you, Mrs. Everdeen. I appreciate it."
"Think nothing of it." She looks up when she hears my sister walking in. "Oh good, Prim is here with another blanket."
"All of this really isn't necessary," protests Peeta, to no avail whatsoever.
"It's just a blanket," says Prim innocently, draping it over him.
"Use your voice sparingly, if you can," instructs Mother on her way back towards the kitchen. I give Peeta an amused, slightly triumphant look while I try to hide a chuckle. "I'll be back to check on you both in a bit."
"Really, none of you should be going to this much trouble," Peeta tries again.
"So what are you guys working on right now?" asks Prim, ignoring his comment entirely. Her hands rest on the back of the couch and she's slightly leaned forward, trying to get some clues from Peeta's text- and notebooks.
"Oh, this week we're naming our new-born twins!" I say in the tone of one reading a fairy-tale aloud to a group of children. "We also get to make our one-billionth budget and saddle you as our baby-sitter for the next ten-or-so years."
"Great!" grins Prim, sounding actually excited about the prospect.
"I'm holding you to that!" says Peeta, his left index finger raised. He grabs the glass of water and pours as much into the tea as will go in before it runs over. "Katniss, write it down, would you?"
"You can thank me by naming one of the twins after me," Prim coyly suggests.
"I would be glad to, little duck, but they're both boys," I answer. I actually do put her down as our future baby-sitter, saving us the time of coming up with a different answer. Maybe we can invent a job for her in our made-up future, in which she takes care of other people's children when they are at work. That's the sort of thing our teachers seem to like – our creativity.
"Well if you ever do have a girl during your little project, I demand to have her named for me," she says. Peeta meanwhile picks up the mug with Mother's concoction and swallows it in one large gulp, frowning slightly but otherwise not betraying how fowl it actually tastes. Prim, as familiar with its taste as I am, raises an eyebrow at me and gives me a look that tells me she's impressed. "Anyway, I have my own homework to do. I'll see you both later."
"Bye, sis," I say, and Peeta waves a hand at her. Once she's gone I decide it's time to get down to business for real. "Okay, where are you on your end of the budget?"
"Uhm… give me a few minutes."
"Okay," I nod. "I'm all done on my part, so I'll just move on to writing something short but succinct about how Primrose Everdeen is our full-time baby-sitter."
We settle in to a comfortable silence as we get back to the school work. I know this foray to the Seam has cost us about twenty minutes, but I'm confident we will make that time back now that my partner is tucked in and as comfortable as possible, and hopefully with a lower body temperature in a little while. Besides, we can continue to work here until we're finished with this week's assignment. No need to make further study plans when we're already in one of our respective homes.
After about fifteen minutes or so Peeta hands me his part of the budget. I nod and start to quickly compile it with mine to make a completed version, which he lets me do without protest. It takes me a couple of minutes and when I look up at him he has taken a pause, rather than start working on something else. His eyes slowly flutter close, and stay closed for a few seconds. He opens them while drawing a deep breath and then he notices me watching him and he cringes. I can't tell if he's blushing or if it's just his temperature making his cheeks have that red hue but the smile on his face is a touch awkward and a lot rueful as he scratches the back of his head and tries to apologise to me.
"I'm sorry Katniss, I wasn't about to fall asleep or anything, I swear. I was just…"
"Tired, because you're sick? I believe we've already established those things." I shift my weight a little, rocking from one side to the other. "You don't have to apologise for feeling tired. It's no wonder."
"Doesn't mean it isn't rude." His eyes go to the old grandfather clock on the wall between my bedroom and Mother's. "Honestly I feel like such an uncouth sad-sack. You bring me to your home, your mother tries to help me feel better, even your sister pampers me." He takes his eyes off the clock and grabs the mug, taking a long sip. "You've all treated me like I'm a close friend of the family, and I'm practically a stranger to your mother and Prim. And here I am, yawning and closing my eyes like I'm considering taking a nap."
"We don't think you're rude, uncouth, pathetic or anything other remotely related to those words," I insist. "I'm glad you came with me, even though you wanted to go back to school."
"Why are you being so nice to me?" he asks, holding the mug with both hands and looking at me with a touch of bewilderment. As if he can't comprehend that someone would want to make sure he was doing as well as possible under the circumstances.
"Because you're my project partner," is my first answer, the spontaneous yet carefully considered answer. When I say the words, though, I can hear how stupid it really sounds, and how ingenuine. It's not par the course of social interaction to bring a classmate – especially one of the opposite sex – to your home to take care of him when they're sick. I can tell from Peeta's sceptic look that he doesn't truly believe it either, but he seems resigned to the answer, or rather to not getting a better, more truthful one. "Because I care about you."
He draws another deep breath through his mouth, almost like a gasp, yet it isn't one. His eyes widen just a bit before turning downward. I feel myself blushing, bashful over what I just admitted to him, yet at the same time his reaction touches something inside me. Has he never had someone in his life, a friend, who would look out for him when he feels under the weather? Is that that big of a deal for him? If it is it makes me sad, because he should have a whole group of friends who would look after him when he needed it. He has a whole group of friends, but do they truly not care that much about him?
Or is his reaction a sign that I spoke inappropriately? Maybe a girl who has a boyfriend shouldn't say such a thing to a boy who practically has a girlfriend? My blush deepens and I bite my bottom lip, wondering if I should backtrack or if I should own what I just said, make it feel like the most natural thing in the world for somebody to say?
However, Peeta speaks before I do.
"Thanks," he simply says.
"There's no need," I insist softly. I lean forward a bit and look deeply into his eyes, having decided that option number two was the better one. Own it. "You and I have been working closely for four, nearly five, months. We've started to get to know each other." I turn my eyes downward, to my feet, battling with myself over whether or not I should say this. I wasn't planning to, ever… But maybe now is the time to bring up the time he gave me those loaves of bread and saved my life? I think about it for what feels like far too long, finally landing on the conclusion that no, I shouldn't bring it up. He probably doesn't remember. And I don't want him to think I'm only being nice to him because I feel beholden. I look back up at him again, and I find that he's sat himself up a touch, propped up on his left arm, mug in the right hand. He no longer seems like he could use a nap right this moment, instead he looks focused, interested. "I guess you can say we are friends, you and me. And that means that we look after one another. Right? Like friends are supposed to do."
I don't put the rest of that thought to words, because the truth is that it scares me. We look after one another because we both understand that without people helping out other people we can never stand a chance. Whether that other person is a complete stranger or an acquaintance or a friend or part of your family. Somewhere there exists a fine line between charity and necessity, of helping somebody because it's the right thing to do and helping somebody out of pity. And I think that thought scares me because I have a gnarling suspicion that this is something Peeta understands as well as I do, but Gale might not. Even though Peeta is merchant and Gale and I are both Seam.
"I suppose I owe you one, then," he says after a moment's pause.
"What?" I blush again, once more wondering if I should mention the reason why he'll never owe me anything, ever. But I can't bring myself to do it. "That isn't necessary."
"Bringing me to your home and giving me the full Everdeen cold treatment goes beyond what friends are expected to do," he says, dead serious. He pauses to cough and I think to myself that him being here on my couch under a couple of blankets is merely a fraction of the kindness he showed me that day. "You're a really great person, Katniss. Anyone you love, consider a friend or feel you want to help is a very, very lucky person. You really have a good heart."
"As do you."
Neither one of us seems to know what to say after that. Peeta cringes and rubs the back of his neck, glancing over at the clock again briefly.
"You're not going to get into trouble with Gale over this, I hope?" he says, the last word hardly audible. He clears his throat to get rid of the phlegm on his vocal cords. "He won't get the wrong idea, I mean?"
"Gale will be fine." It feels odd hearing Gale's name mentioned all of a sudden, but I appreciate his concern nonetheless. I should probably show him the same courtesy. "And you… Will you get into trouble with…?"
"No," he says simply. He lies back down, bending his knees, and grabs his notepad, propping it up against his thighs. "So… Any ideas for baby names?"
"You're thinking of baby names?" says my mother, walking in with the kettle. She seems rather perturbed and I roll my eyes. Now the moment is definitely over.
"Yes, Mother. In the world of our project our firstborn son has just been granted the gift of twin baby brothers. And they expect us to name the things."
"That seems odd," says Mother mildly as she pours more tea into Peeta's mug. "What educational purpose does that serve?"
"Who knows at this point?" I sigh. I shift so that I'm sitting on my knees, making it easier for me to reach the coffee table to write. "In all honesty, I was hoping for one boy and one girl. Then we could have picked a unisex name and used it for them both. That would have been such a hoot!"
"Katniss, I do hope you take your school work more seriously," my mother chastises me. I scowl, not liking being reprimanded in front of my project partner.
"It was just a joke," I say sourly.
"Is that so?" says Mother dryly, giving me a look.
Peeta doesn't participate in the conversation. He's eyeing the grandfather clock with a furrowed brow, his fingers combing through his beard absentmindedly. My scowl deepens – what is his thing with the clock? It's old and worn and not at all pretty, in fact I find it rather gaudy, but so what? Just because the wood has scrapes and missing chips and the glass covering the face is half transparent, half a hue Prim refers to as 'bile green', with spots and discolouring from coal dust that we've never managed to clean off of it, that doesn't mean it's bad enough to deserve that much scrutiny. I'm sure he's far too polite to comment on it but there's no denying that I am inferior to him when it comes to the state of my home and its furniture. It's a big, red, flashing sign that screams that we have less money than he does, in effect our poverty surrounding us wherever you look. And it's a reminder that in real life somebody like Peeta and somebody like I never could end up marrying one another. Who in their right mind would like to give up the comparatively safe and cushioned milieu of a home in town in order to live in a house like this? When my parents got married my mother had never seen the inside of a Seam house before. I've wondered what kind of a shock she got when she first set foot inside her new home. If Peeta can't even come to terms with a grandfather clock, my mother must have been horrified.
"The clock isn't that ugly," I comment, trying my best to make it sound like I'm teasing – mostly so that my mother won't chastise me again. She doesn't react to my comment, preoccupied with cleaning up various dishes from the coffee table.
"… What?" he says after a second, casting me a very quick look. He sits up and leans a little bit forward. "No, the clock is lovely, it's just… I'm trying to see what time it is." He leans a bit further forward and squints, snivelling as he does. "We ought to get a move on with this, or we won't be finished in time. It's cutting it uncomfortably close as it is. I'm trying to… I can't really…" He tilts his head as he studies the clock. "I need to figure out when I have to leave in order to make it back in time for practice."
"I can help you out with that," I offer, my eyes turning back to my notebook.
"Yeah?" he says hopefully, finally ceasing to look at the clock and instead turning his eyes to me and leaning back down on the couch.
"Uh-huh. You'd need to leave in roughly seven days and seventeen minutes." He grunts in protest and I look up at him through my bangs, my eyes dead serious. "I mean it, Peeta. You can't go to practice today."
"Katniss-"
"I mean it, Peeta." I turn to my mother. "Back me up, here, Mother."
"Katniss, sweetheart, it's not for us to decide whether he-"
"He's talking about wrestling practice. In less than an hour."
That got her attention. She immediately looks at Peeta with a stern, yet motherly look, and her voice is equally a combination of sternness and motherliness.
"Katniss is right, Peeta. Under no circumstances can you go to wrestling practice in your current condition. I'm sorry, dear, but it's out of the question." She walks up to him, balancing the trey with dishes on one hand. She again places the back of her other hand against his forehead and her brow furrows with mild concern. "You're still running a fever, even if I'd reckon your temperature has gone down. Stay here and finish your school work with Katniss, then go straight home. Your parents wouldn't want you to go to practice when you're sick."
With that final, rather unhelpful line she walks back into the kitchen, clearly considering the matter settled. Peeta looks exhausted and quite a bit irritated with me again. He pulls up the blankets all the way to his chin and turns to his side, pulling his knees up to his chest as far as is possible on the narrow couch. It's an oxymoronic display, in part stern resolution and irritation with us for trying to dictate what he can and cannot do, in part a display of illness that speaks for itself. The red, runny nose, the glossy eyes, the sheen of sweat along his hairline and his cheeks, still flushed with fever. It's hard not to admire the determination but that doesn't mean he's not being foolhardy.
"Look, I appreciate the concern," he says, though his tone suggests he's not being the least bit truthful. "But I have to go to practice."
"Except you don't," I reply, eyeing the budget one last time to make sure it holds up.
"I really do," he argues. "The big match is in seven weeks, my last match, possibly forever, and I need every minute of practice that I can get."
"Except you don't."
"Are you listening to me?" he says sternly, though his words are made significantly less impactful because of how his stuffy nose is making him sound congested. "You're not being cute. I have to be at practice, and that's just that!"
"Except you don't!"
"Katniss!" he almost barks, his voice deepening in a way I haven't heard before.
"You couldn't even walk over here without stopping to cough," I point out with a frustrated sigh, setting my pencil down and giving him a look. "Your nose is running every two and a half minutes. Your throat is sore, you've had a fever all day and you nearly fell asleep on my couch not five minutes ago!" I soften my tone. "Peeta… It's really not good for you to strain yourself like that when you're not well. What if you bring about a pneumonia? How long before you'll be able to bring your A-game to practice, then?" I choose not to mention the fact that pneumonia can be deadly in a district like ours, with no access to things like advanced antibiotics.
"I'll take my chances," he insists, speaking calmly and slowly but very firmly. "I cannot miss practice even this once. I can't even risk being five minutes late!"
"Well we're not letting you out of the house until after practice is over, so deal with it," I say, picking the pencil back up and eyeing the list of assignments for this week. I intend to start working on the next part, but not until Peeta has accepted that he won't get his will on this matter. "Do you need me to bring Prim out here so that she too can tell you why it's a terrible idea for you to go?"
"It's not up to anybody named Everdeen to decide," he points out. He's got a point, and yet he says it with enough gentleness that it doesn't come off as a harsh accusation. "Listen, winning that competition… it's a big deal for me. Ryean always beat me before, I didn't get to win until last year. This year is my last time, in effect the end of my wrestling days, and I've been working so hard for this that second place would be a bitter pill to swallow. If I should lose on my own merit, or because somebody else is better than I am then that is something I can accept. But if I fail because I didn't show up for practice… If I fail because I didn't do the work…"
"First of all, Peeta, you are without a doubt the finest wrestler in the entire school," I say softly, once more putting aside my pencil and looking at him. For all I know that's a lie; the things I know about wrestling can be compared to the things a peacekeeper knows about working in the mines. My feet are beginning to fall asleep so I make the decision to get up from my spot on the floor and walk over to the couch, sitting down on the other end. "Second… I don't think you'll improve your chances of winning by making yourself even sicker, ending up with several weeks of recuperation. And third… Well, I told you just now. I care about you. Did you really think I'd bring you all the way here and then just not care if you decided to do something as foolhardy as go to wrestling practice?" For maybe half a minute there's silence between us. Peeta looks like he's admitting defeat, but not liking it very much. "And fourth, by the way, you're exhausted to the point of almost falling asleep on my couch. Prim could win over you in a wrestling match in the condition you're in."
"Alright, alright," he says, holding up his hands in surrender. "I yield. But only on the condition that we both stop talking about everything else under the sun, and actually focus on the job at hand! If I'm staying here instead of going to practice, I want our work handed in tomorrow."
"The budget is completed. Prim is officially our nanny, and thanks to the magic of my pencil she is also the nanny of about six other families nearby. All that's left is to write something brief about how we plan to make the logistics of our new family situation work, and of course naming the little annoyances." I get on my feet and move back to where I was sitting before, turning a page in my notebook. "I'll get started on the logistics thing and you, since you were the one who named the first kid, can start mulling over baby names."
"I thought I gave you that task last week."
"Oh, but you are so much better at it than me," I say in a mock-emphatic tone. "Now, start thinking." I grab my pencil sharpener, giving him a teasing smirk. "I bet you anything that I will have written an entire page before you've come up with those names."
"And I thought I was the competitive one," he smirks. "Didn't you just say, like five seconds ago, that I was better at baby-naming than you?"
"As long as you take less than a week, that will still be true." I finish sharpening my pencil and am just about to start writing when I look up at him once more. "Oh! And make them match. Or rhyme. Something obnoxiously twin-appropriate."
"Oh, Katniss, I hope you never have twins," he sighs, grabbing his handkerchief to wipe his nose.
"Thank you," I say sweetly and genuinely.
He ignores the comment and shifts to lie on his back, bending his knees and propping his notebook against his thighs. Neither of us speaks for a good while, even though I wish I could ask for his help about three dozen times. I can think of things to write easily enough but as always I know he would be a lot more eloquent in putting it in writing. But I'm determined not to bother him, so I soldier on and little by little piece together an account of how we would go by our daily lives with a toddler and two infants. I try to think back to how things were when Prim was a baby, but naturally I can't remember anything about how my parents went about it, so instead I try to remember what I can about Hazelle Hawthorne and how she took care of Posy when she was a baby. Hazelle at that point had a baby, two children under the age of ten and a teenager, as well as a dead husband. If she could manage, Peeta and I certainly would be able to, or we'd have to feel really ashamed of ourselves.
When I'm done I pull the page from my notebook and put it in the envelope together with everything else. I look at Peeta, my mouth half-open to ask him what our twins' names are, only to realize he's fallen asleep. Silently I rise to my feet and walk over to him, gently lifting the notebook from his lap. I'm not surprised to find that even though this part of the assignment doesn't actually matter and we could just pick the first two male names that come to mind, he has treated the task with the kind of diligence he applies to most things. There's a whole list of name suggestions, all pertaining to wildlife or hunting, either to go with Hunter or just because he thought I would appreciate it.
Smiling softly I leave him where he is and walk to my bedroom, where Prim is sprawled on the bed, her nose in a chemistry textbook. She looks up when I enter and move to the side so that I can sit down beside her, my back leaned against the headboard.
"Did Peeta go home?" she asks.
"No. Fell asleep."
She smiles, her expression suggesting she finds this endearing.
"That's nice. I'm glad he feels comfortable enough here to do that."
"I'm not so sure it's about feeling comfortable, as much as it is the flu," I argue.
"Yeah, but he could have gone home when he started feeling sleepy."
"Or not. I think whatever bug he has is eating his brain. Idiot was all set to go to wrestling practice."
"What have you got there?" she asks, nodding to the notebook.
"I put him in charge of picking baby names. He made a list… ignoring my request to have the names rhyme or otherwise go ridiculously well together. A wise decision, no doubt. In real life, I imagine Peeta will be far more apt at picking baby names than I could ever be."
"Can I see?"
She scoots up and then twists around on her back. She sits up and comes to sit right beside me, leaning in to read the names jotted down in his nice handwriting.
"He was the one who named the first kid they gave us," I explain to her. "He chose the name Hunter. I guess he thought these names would go well with that…"
"Yeah…" she says, eyeing the list. "Deke, Drake, Covert, Jay, Wren…" she reads aloud. She points to a name somewhere in the middle of the list. "Brace. That one actually works for a twin."
"Too bad that only covers one of the babies, though."
"I like Fox," she adds, pointing to another name. "That's cute."
I chuckle softly.
"I suppose it is."
"He really didn't come up with any suggestions that would go with his family traditions?" she questions. "They would be Mellarks, after all."
"No. If he picked a twin theme, it was clearly wild-life and hunting."
"Then let's think of some baking names, then," she suggests, sounding excited at the prospect. "That would be nice, wouldn't it?"
"I can't think of a single baking-related name," I scowl. I have by now read the list to its end and come to the conclusion that while the first two thirds were serious suggestions he clearly got either bored or frustrated towards the end. There's no way Mallard Mellark would be a serious suggestion. If it is, that flu is hitting him worse than I thought.
"Come on, it will be fun!" smiles Prim, nudging me with her shoulder. "For starters, do you know his brothers' names?"
"I honestly don't know how attached he is to his brothers," I say, still scowling. "He might not want to name even fictional babies after them."
"No, Katniss, I meant so that we don't pick those names," she says, rolling her eyes.
"Oh. Well the eldest is Scotti and the younger is Ryean."
"Okay. Now let me think… and you have to be thinking, too."
"Alright, alright," I say, almost smiling at her excitement over this.
"Yay!" she grins, clapping her hands with enthusiasm, possibly stemming from being able to use this as an excuse not to study chemistry for a little while.
We spend a good thirty minutes trying to think of names that a member of the Mellark family might give their sons in real life, though unsurprisingly the vast majority of suggestions come from Prim. In the end we've settled on two names – Bran and Barley – and I steal a blank sheet from Peeta's notebook and write the names down, all in all about three paragraphs about those being the names we chose and why. The last part naturally leaves my sister out and gives credit to Peeta, which I know Prim doesn't mind. When I'm finished a memory springs to mind, making me smile.
"While we were working on the part of the project that was all about us having our first baby, Peeta had a… project name, if you will, for the kid." I laugh fondly at the memory. "He named the baby Cookie Crisp… and at one point claimed it was a boy's name."
"Sounds to me like you guys have a good time working together," observes Prim softly.
"We do…" I admit. "To an extent." I clear my throat and get up off the bed, reaching over to grab the chemistry book and drop it on her lap. "Thank you for your help, little duck! But it's time for you to study chemistry, and for me to go wake Bran and Barley's father and send him home. If he stays much longer he'll probably be late for supper."
"Don't talk about supper," groans Prim. "I'm hungry!"
Walking quietly back out into the sitting room I find Peeta still asleep, and I almost feel bad waking him up. But what I told Prim was true – if he stays much longer he might be late for supper, and I don't want him getting into any trouble with his mother. He would have to explain where he's been and who knows if she might take offense to another woman looking after her son while he's sick. She doesn't know my mother, but she might be angry nonetheless.
Quietly I put the last paper in the envelope. I then kneel and begin to slowly and carefully pack up Peeta's things, hoping not to wake him until I'm done, thereby giving him at least a few more minutes of sleep. It still doesn't take long, and I rise to my feet and walk around the couch, leaning against its back and watching him where he lies. His cheeks look less rosy but he's sweating more, several curls of hair plastered against his brow. Surprisingly he doesn't snore, even though his nose is so congested, though that could be because his mouth is open and he's mainly breathing that way. I study him for several minutes, feeling oddly nurturing towards him right now. No doubt because this is one medical condition that doesn't frighten me so much, and he has been quite the sad sight to see today, even though he's valiantly struggled to seem unaffected. I hope Mr. Mellark will allow him to stay home from school tomorrow. He could use a couple of days' rest.
I look over at the grandfather clock. I can't really delay any longer. He can go back to sleep in his own bed once he's had some supper. I reach out my hand and gently brush his sweaty brow, making him stir a little but he doesn't wake up. So I move my hand to his shoulder instead, giving him a mild shrug.
"Peeta," I say gently. "Wake up, Peeta."
He opens his eyes and squints up at me, for a moment looking entirely bewildered as to where he is and what is going on. Then realization dawns on him and he sits up straight, almost knocking my hand in the process. He looks at the clock but can't see what it says, turning to me with embarrassment and worry.
"Oh goodness! Did I fall asleep? I'm so sorry, Katniss. How long was I out? Oh my God, this is embarrassing."
"Never mind," I assure him calmly. "Knowing my mother it was something in her brew that made you sleepy." That's a lie, but it seems to make him feel a little bit better. "You've been asleep for a little bit, but you probably ought to get going now, or your parents will wonder where you are."
"I've been napping for that long?"
"I took the liberty of packing your things," I say, deciding to play it as casual as possible to hopefully make him feel less embarrassed. I walk back around the couch and give the far too heavy backpack a shove with my foot. "I hope you don't mind. I wanted to let you sleep for as long as possible."
"God, I'm never going to be able to show my face to you, or anyone else in your family, ever again," he complains, sitting up but looking really groggy as he does, as if he sat too fast and his blood pressure dropped.
"Don't be silly," I say in what I hope is a reassuring voice. I throw in another lie to hopefully make him feel more at ease "Mother and Prim don't know you slept for a bit. Only I do. But I assure you, neither one of us would judge you for it."
"The Everdeen healers, huh?" he says, giving me an almost shy smile, so full of bashful charm that I feel momentarily stunned. He stands up, his fingers absentmindedly pulling on his beard as he looks around to get his bearings and figure out where his backpack is. When he sees it he bends down and picks it up with ease, carrying it over one shoulder as if it hardly weighed a thing.
"At least we got everything done today," I say encouragingly, picking up the envelope and waving it a little. "I'll hand it in tomorrow morning. And no, I won't let you do it, because I'll be really angry if I see you at school tomorrow. I'll grab you by your beard and drag you to the bakery at first recess and tell your mother you passed out or something."
"Okay, okay," he says, chuckling lightly and raising both hands. "You win, healer Everdeen." Then he frowns. "But we're not finished, though. I didn't actually pick any names."
"I did," I inform him. "Which means I definitely won the bet."
He chuckles again and starts heading for the door. While he's putting his outerwear on my mother hears us and comes up to check on him. I hold my breath, waiting to see if she's going to say anything about him napping on our couch. She might not even have seen him, and I know she would approve of him getting that rest, but it would catch me in a lie and I would be more than a little bit embarrassed. But she says nothing about it, merely checking his temperature again and being satisfied with the results of her concoctions. He thanks her and they exchange some polite phrases I'm not really familiar with, but I conclude are things merchants say to one another. Sometimes I forget my mother's heritage, having never seen her in her original environment, but whenever Peeta is around she seems to remember it very well herself.
Peeta leaves and once I've closed the door I feel my mother's soft hand land on my shoulder, just by my neck, and massage it gently.
"You were right to bring him here," she tells me. "If he's stubborn enough to go to school again tomorrow, bring him back."
"I will," I nod, though not at all convinced that I would. He would certainly not agree to being here without me, while I went back to school.
I give my mother an insincere smile and walk to the kitchen to see what we can make for supper.
I went back and forth on Peeta's condition for a moment, regarding how serious it would be. Katniss diagnoses it as the flu, but it's actually "just" a bad cold. My guess is that the flu would probably be far more dangerous than his condition is treated as, given the limited means of medical intervention in a district like 12. No doubt people would be dying of the flu, pneumonia and diseases like that. Possibly of tonsillitis, too, at least in childhood or old age, although I've been unfortunate enough to suffer through that particular ailment myself a few times during childhood with no antibiotics, so Peeta should have been able to survive that, too. Speaking of antibiotics, Katniss at one point makes a reference to "advanced" antibioics - a nod on my part to the rather frightening fact that in the rate we're going with overperscribing that particular medication, scientists predict that in about a hundred years our current antibiotics will be ineffective due to the development of multi-resistant bacteria. Whatever year this story takes place in according to our reckoning, they will no doubt have problems along those lines.
Anyway, let me know what you thought of the chapter! I promise to try and have a new, far more plot-advancing chapter, up before November comes around.