Author's Note; I wasn't going to continue this story. It was only supposed to be a one-shot. But the overwhelming response made me merge another story with this. I hope you like.
Crossing the Meadow swiftly, bow in hand, arrows on my back, I jog past the place where the electric fence used to stand, charged and deadly, before immersing myself in the trees. I pull my father's hunting jacket closer to my body as the cold breeze chills me to small shivers. Crouching low in a familiar stance, I stalk deeper into the forest. My ears are alert. My eyes are wide.
Silently I pull an arrow from my sheath and fix it to my bow in a matter of seconds. I continue to wander through the trees until I spot a wild turkey, ducking leisurely around a nearby tree. It hasn't noticed me yet and I don't intend it too. Bringing the bow to my eye line, I listen for the wind, accustom my aim to it and send an arrow hurtling towards the turkey's neck.
I miss. My arrow buries itself in the trunk of the closest tree. Before I can register my miss; before I can pull another arrow and load it, the turkey waddles into the vast trees and I lose it. Why did I miss? I'd never miss something so simple and easy.
Looking at my bow for answers, I see nothing wrong with it. It's as perfect as it was the first day my father made it. I push through the bushes, hooking my bow on my shoulder, and head for the arrow protruding the tree trunk. I'm careful not to break the shaft as I tug it away from the bark, ignoring the small stream of sap leaking down the tree. It's perfectly balanced. No faults as far as I can tell. So why did I miss?
Reloading my bow once again, I trek deeper into the forest, stopping whenever I spot adequate game. As usual, I crouch low, not allowing myself to be spotted, shoot my arrow, aiming for a clear kill. But every time I miss. My arrows are repeatedly sent flying into tree trunks, diving into bushes or just digging themselves into the soft ground. And every miss frustrates me further. I don't know what's wrong for me.
I decide there's no use hanging around when I seem incapable to catch any game. Therefore I retrieve my last arrow that missed the most spectacularly, flying higher than intended into a low branch. I stomp angrily through the forest, retracing my path easily and soon enough, I've crossed the Meadow and am making my way towards town.
District 12 has changed since the revolution. The square that would usually teem with children once a year for reaping, is now home to a giant granite memorial tribute, a gift from District 2, that hosts the names of all those lost from District 12 during the war. My sister's name is featured there. Along with Peeta's family. On approach I rearrange the flowers I left beside her name this morning. The breeze has knocked them ever so slightly.
Looking to the sky, I guess that it's close to lunchtime so I head to the bakery, finding Peeta in deep concentration over the frosting of a cake. On my arrival, he looks up from his work, smiling brightly and leaning over the counter to kiss me. I walk around the side, dumping my bow, arrows and empty game bag into the corner and perch on my usual stool.
Apparently my lack of game isn't unnoticed. "Decide not to go hunting in the end?" Peeta asks with one raised eyebrow as he continues decorating the cake. His precision and technique always inspires me. He's never at more peace than when he is frosting.
"I tried. All my arrows missed!" I watch as his hand slips and a mistake is created on his perfect cake. He looks at me in disbelief. I'm astounded still. I've practically never missed. I never leave the forest without game. Although it's not needed - I don't hunt for survival anymore - I could never give it up. It's my talent like painting is Peeta's.
Realising his mistake, Peeta quickly sets about correcting and within seconds, the cake looks like perfection. Only then does he put down his tools to face me straight on. "Do you feel alright?" he teases but I don't laugh. I'm too angry at myself. And concerned.
"I'll just take my bow home," I say, standing up abruptly and grabbing my things from the corner. When I turn around, Peeta is standing inches from me, his face serious and sober and his blue eyes swimming with concern. He holds me in his arms and immediately I relax as his warmth soothes me. I tuck myself under his chin and play with part of his apron.
"Go home," he instructs, not like a command but loving advice instead. I don't want to leave his arms but I can't think straight. "Have a bath and pack a bag. The train leaves at 3pm." I simply nod. He tilts my chin up and kisses me softly. The taste of his lips melts into my own and I feel my head swirl with a million thoughts: all about him.
I barely notice the walk to Victor's Village. One minute I'm waving goodbye to Peeta and the next I'm unlocking my front door. I'm sure people stared at my dazed and vacant expression but District 12 never pries.
Resting my bow and arrow in a small cupboard and hanging up my father's hunting jacket, I climb the stairs, my footsteps echoing through the empty house, and run myself a warm bath with extra bubbles. I strip, tossing my clothes in the corner of the room, and slide into the tub. At first, my skin struggles to adjust. The water burns my scars; they aren't fresh but that doesn't stop them tingling with discomfort.
After a while, the bubbles begin to soothe the burns and I finally enjoy my soak. Using the expensive products, I wash my long black hair, running my fingers through it to untangle any knots. I scrub my body, treading carefully where my skin is marked with the scars. Peeta says that it's a psychological problem, that I'm imagining the pain. But I know the difference between reality and imagination.
Feeling my fingers shrivel up with water absorption, I decide I best get out and dry myself. I reach behind me, to where my towel should be hanging, but there's nothing. I must have forgotten to take one out of the cupboard. With either hand on the sides of the bath, I steadily get to my feet and hop out. The air above the water is much colder and I sprint to the far wooden cupboard, stark naked with water dripping onto the floor.
At that precise moment, the door flings itself open and in walks Peeta. We spot each other at the same time and I cry, "Peeta!"
"I'm sorry!" he says, blinding his eyes with his hands and walking back a few steps. Quickly, I grab a towel, wrapping it around me tightly. I walk to Peeta, tapping his arms so he knows it's safe to look. "If I'm honest, it's not like I haven't seen any of it before." He smirks cheekily and in response, I slap him playfully, kissing his cheek briefly before dancing down the hall and into our bedroom. I hear Peeta follow.
"Can you pack if I throw you what I need?"
"What's in it for me?" he says, cocking an eyebrow and smirking ever so slightly.
Gracefully, I walk towards him, tightening the knot of my towel and then moving my hands to my hips. I stop within arm's reach of him. He's sitting on the bed, hands twisting awkwardly in his lap with a smile brighter than the sun plastered on his face.
Softly I cradle his face in my hands. Leaning closer, my lips touch his and I let them linger. With a small bite on his bottom lip, I pull away, swivelling on the spot back to the wardrobe. But then warm hands twist my arm back and I fall into Peeta who falls onto the bed. He rolls me over and kisses me forcefully, stroking my face in the complete opposite way. I can feel the heat tickle me with warmth and I can't help but smile, breaking the kiss. He pulls back slightly to look at me.
"I need to pack," I say without much coercion.
"You are beautiful," he murmurs. Not the exact reply I was expecting. He pushes a strand of wet hair that became stuck to my face, out of the way and then with much annoyance, he stands up, pulling me with him. "I'll pack, you throw," he says, kissing my cheek before sitting back on the bed, patiently waiting.
In the end, I throw him four outfits for the daytime and one dress, designed by Cinna, along with comfortable and impractical shoes. Peeta neatly tidies them into a small holdall and then leaves to fetch a wash bag for me. I get dressed, deciding on a pair of blue canvas pants and an oversized plain t-shirt - it belongs to Peeta - in a matching colour. Peeta comes back into the room whilst I'm brushing my hair on the bed.
"We should be leaving soon," he says, packing the last of my belongings and zipping the bag up. He takes the brush from my hand and sits behind me, tugging the knots out gently, allowing me to close my eyes.
"Is the cake finished?"
"Yes, he'll love it!" I can hear the excitement ring through his words and I can't help but smile. Only Peeta can get so enthusiastic over a cake but to him, it's a masterpiece.
The feeling of him pulling the brush through my long hair is oddly relaxing. I make a small note to ask for this again. "He loves everything you make him. He always has."
"And it better be special to top my gift," I add.
"I've seen your gift," he says, stopping the hairbrush mid-way through my hair. "Mine's better," he whispers directly into my ear, making me jump a little as I feel the hot breath tickle.
Turning around quickly, I stare at him questioningly. I think my gift is amazing. Practical and fun. How can a cake top it? "We best go find out. It's time to leave."
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