No.
It's all I can think; the only word running through my mind. No. No. No.
It must be some mistake, I think pitifully, but Peeta's face remains emblazoned on the television and I know it's not. The screen switches from his face, alone next to a bunch of statistics I no longer care about, to the faces of all the Victors who were Reaped.
Twelve faces. Twelve faces who have lived through the horror of these Games. Who have already been manipulated and destroyed beyond words.
But I only see one.
No sponsors.
No Mentors.
No volunteers.
I don't comprehend the severity of the situation. Not yet. I can't think properly, my mind a jumble of words and pictures; my shock outweighing anything else. I vaguely register that Snow is talking again on screen but I can't hear a thing, the beating in my ears drowning out any and all noise, and before I know it, the television screen is black again.
I feel someone pulling at my hands and turn to see Peeta, face ashen, trying to loosen my grip on his fingers. I'm lagging in my reactions because before I know it, he's standing up, already having pried himself loose of me. I shoot up off the couch after him, hands shaking terribly, grasping at his shirt. I think I'm shaking my head but I can't be sure because the world seems to be on a tilt. I lock my eyes on his, my grip on his shirt so tight that I can feel my fingernails digging into my palms through the fabric. His expression is unreadable.
I mean to say something but my mouth only hangs open. Peeta glances down at our hands and it's like things are moving in slow motion. He folds his hands over mine and tries to loosen my grip but I won't let him. I can't, because I'm starting to understand: they're going to take him away from me.
Peeta gives up, brings one of his hands up to my cheek, and it relaxes me, but only enough for me to slightly loosen my grip on his shirt, only enough for Peeta to pull away.
He doesn't look at anyone as he leaves the house.
I move blindly after him but feel someone grab my wrist. Drawn momentarily out of my stupor, I look to see that Haymitch is the one who has stopped me. He looks sad. So impossibly sad and it's a strange expression to see out of him.
I turn back to the couch because I had forgotten other people were here. Other people were watching the television; other people saw the announcement.
Maybe I was imaging things. Maybe I hallucinated the whole thing. Maybe it's just a terrible nightmare and I'll wake up in Peeta's arms in a few short moments.
Gale is bent over, elbows on knees, head in hands. He doesn't look up at me. Mother is behind him, pale and expressionless. It's Prim who makes me realize that this is real, oh so real. She's sitting on the couch, silently weeping, tears trailing down her pretty little face. When our eyes meet she lets out a long wail.
Real.
I rip my eyes from Prim's shaking form and move towards the door again but Haymitch is still holding my wrist. I look at him, not sure what expression my face holds. Shock? Confusion? Heartbreak?
"Sweetheart."
Haymitch's voice is soft, nothing like the deep raspy one he usually shouts my way. I've heard him utter this word—some weird pet name he's given me—thousands of times, but never the way he's said it now.
"Please," I ask him, my voice cracking with the weight of the word. But what am I asking? To help Peeta? To save him? To make this go away? To save me?
Haymitch lets go of my wrist and I'm out the door, down the steps and into the cold. I feel my scarf flying out behind me as I run and don't even care when I feel it fall off. I run up Peeta's steps and fling open his front door without knocking. I scan his kitchen, which is still in the pristine condition he left it in earlier today. As I'm walking into his living room I hear a loud thump, rattling the light fixtures attached to the ceilings.
I take the stairs two at a time and run into his bedroom. Empty.
I start opening doors at random now and on my third try I see him.
He's in some sort of converted painting studio, the walls of which are covered in different paintings and drawings. I don't look to see what they are because Peeta is throwing a can of paint across the room at an easel. I'm sure there was a beautiful picture, a scene, on the canvas before but right now it's covered in paint splotches. Blue, black, purple and red. So much red.
The can hits the canvas and more red paint splatters across the room. Finally Peeta turns around and I see that he's covered in paint as well. Red paint. So much red and the sight of him reminds me so much of The Hunger Games, him covered in blood, that I let out a shriek.
Peeta turns around at the sound of my voice. He doesn't move, only breathing heavily and glances at me with those blue, blue, eyes, so blue against the red. I don't see softness in them anymore. I see anger, absolute fury. But once they lock on mine I see them turn to sorrow.
I walk swiftly across the room and, hands still shaking, try to rub the red paint away from his face but I only end up spreading it.
Images of Cato's bloody face fill my mind. Rue's dead body. Peeta's infected leg. Peeta's scratched and bloodied face, flushed with fever. Peeta shivering in the dark cave. The images and memories twist and turn and suddenly I can't get the image of Peeta, lifeless and cold, from my mind.
The fear comes back now. Fear coupled with shock and panic. I see Peeta close his eyes slowly and let out a long, slow breathe.
"Look at me," I tell him, trying as hard as I can to keep my voice steady. "Look at me," I repeat, hands on either side of his face. When he obliges I almost wish he didn't because the hopelessness that stares back at me makes my blood turn cold. I've never seen him this way, not even when he was inches from death during our Games, not even when I told him I didn't love him afterwards. At those times there was always a sliver of light underneath the dark. Not now.
Not until now did I truly grasp the implications of tonight's announcement. The complete hopelessness of the situation. No mentors, no volunteers, no sponsors. He's completely alone. They're taking him from me.
"You are going to make it back, do you understand?" The strong façade I put up earlier shakes when my voice cracks on the last word. My hands are still shaking and in an effort to make it seem less obvious I sweep them over his face. Peeta looks at me, unresponsive.
"Do you?" I ask, voice watery. I'm searching his eyes, urging him to answer, to agree with me. Instead, he slumps, head hitting the wall with a soft thump, and he closes his eyes.
"I love you," he responds faintly and it's not the answer I was looking for. I feel my stomach turn sour and I can't formulate words. I start to panic and I feel my face screw up as I try to hold back my tears. The way he said it, those words, it was a 'goodbye'.
But it can't be. I won't allow it. I've tried so hard to keep him alive and I am not going to give up now. He can't give up now.
I'm still trying desperately to rub the paint from his face and Peeta just stares back at me, eyes glassy and sad. I feel a sob bubble up in my throat and I try to swallow it back unsuccessfully.
"Peeta." His name escapes my mouth in a pathetic little cry.
The sound must get his attention because it's then that he throws his arms around me and crushes me to him. All I can do is hang on.
He rests his head in the crook of my neck and I press my face into his paint covered t-shirt, shutting my eyes while tears silently leak out of them despite my best efforts to hold them in.
I've felt this way before, I realize. I felt this way when Prim's name was drawn.
Panic. Fear. Shock.
This time, though, it's worse. Whatever I thought Snow had in mind for his year's Quarter Quell I had no idea it would be this cruel.
I can't take Peeta's place, like I did for Prim. I can't sacrifice myself. I can't fix it.
Panic. Fear. Shock. Frustration. Sorrow. Hopelessness.
I don't know how long we stand there, but eventually we slide to the floor in a mess of arms and legs, still holding tightly to each other.
I did this to him, didn't I? I did this to him. Sure, I protected him from Finnick Odair's prostitution fate but I didn't protect him fully. I failed him.
I lift my head from his chest and look into his eyes, which, unlike mine, are dry. How can he keep it together? I wonder what he's thinking right now but he answer's my question before I can ask it.
"I'm just so happy it wasn't you," he whispers. "I thought it was going to be you. I really did. But I'm so happy it's not."
The tears come steady and fast now, trailing down my face.
"I'm sorry," I tell him, barely getting the words out. I'm sorry because I did this to you, I think. Because I would do anything to change this. I run my fingers along his jaw and take deep, heavy breathes while I try to collect myself. Peeta shifts me so he's cradling fully me in his lap. How odd, it is. He's the one sentenced to die and yet he's comforting me.
"You'll come back," I verify against his chest, my voice fragile. I lift my head and look up at him, his paint covered face inches from mine. "Promise me you'll come back."
Peeta stares at me for a second, the hopelessness still tattooed across his features.
"I'll try," he says. I don't have time to argue with him because he's kissing me, hard and soft at the same time. Our mouths move together perfectly, like they did not hours ago in his bed. Like they did on his porch and on the train and on the beach and in the cave.
But this kiss is not like the others.
This one is terribly, terribly sad.
At some point I fall asleep, cradled in Peeta's arms with the moon light shining in through the window. I don't know how or when, but I fell asleep. I wake up to Peeta's steady heartbeat and for a moment I forget where I am. Until, of course, I smell the paint and notice the cold hardness of the wood floor. Then I remember.
I look up at Peeta and see that his eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. Tears have made small tracks down his cheeks in the dried red pain and it breaks my heart that he waited until I fell asleep to cry while I did it so openly in front of him.
I bring up my hands, arms stiff from my sleeping position, and glide my fingers underneath his eyes. The area is still wet.
"Good morning," he whispers hoarsely. I don't answer. It's not a good morning.
"Did you sleep at all?" I ask instead. He shakes his head 'no' and swallows.
"You should take a shower. I'll cook you breakfast and then you can sleep," I tell him softly, brushing away the hair that the paint has plastered to his face. I don't remember the last time we haven't been able to sleep at night together. The fact that I couldn't help him last night is just another thing that's become deeply upsetting in the past 12 hours.
Peeta shakes his head and my fingers fall from his cheek to his neck.
"No, it's okay. I need to go see my family... You should go to Prim, she's probably worried," he explains and I frown. The fact that he has to seek out his family at a time like this, that they didn't come and find him themselves, sickens me.
"Do you want me to go with you?" I ask him and it's the first time I see him smile since before the announcement, even if it's only slightly.
"No, that's alright. It will probably be a bit…overwhelming for everyone there. You don't need to deal with that."
I don't tell him that maybe I want to go there. Maybe I want to 'deal with that.' To be there for him. But it's obvious he needs to be alone, if only for a short while. It's what I would want, so I don't argue.
"Oh. Okay. Well I'll be waiting for you when you come back. I'll be here."
Peeta closes his eyes for a moment and sighs sadly.
"Thank you," he whispers. "Thank you."
I can feel my eyes brimming again but desperately push back the tears. I've cried too much. Instead I get up off the floor and hold out my hands to help Peeta up. He struggles a bit on his bad leg and a wave of pain passes through me. It's another obstacle he will face in the arena; an obstacle that was gifted to him less than four months ago by the same terrible people.
"I'll walk you out," he says but I brush it off, knowing that any moment I'll start to cry again and it's better he doesn't see.
"It's okay. Go get cleaned up. I'll see you soon," I say. I turn around to leave his studio but think better of it. Instead, I grab his face in my hands and kiss him hard on the mouth.
"I'll be back," I tell him vehemently after I pull away. I leave the room, walk down the stairs, out the front door and across the street, all the while breathing steadily. I walk up the steps to my front porch and into the house, quietly climb the stairs, and walk silently into my bedroom, concentrating hard on not breaking down. I don't bother closing the door and move straight to the bathroom.
As calmly as I can, I turn on the shower and climb in, fully clothed, and collapse on the floor of the tub. It takes me a full 15 seconds before I'm sobbing uncontrollably, my tears mixing with the red paint that's washing off my body, creating a grotesque design on the tub floor.
The full weight of what's happening hits me again and all I can think is that they're taking him from me. Once I've known what it's like to have him, to feel the way I do about him, they're taking him away. And I've done it to him. I've created this monster, somehow. In some way, I didn't live up to Snow's expectations. Or maybe he didn't expect anything of me at all. Maybe it was all part of his plan—to make me fall for this boy only to rip him away. Just a part of his evil game.
I turn my head at the sound of the bathroom door opening slightly.
"Katniss?"
Prim's voice is tentative and concerned. I wonder if she heard me come in. Unlikely, considering my careful, quiet tread. It was probably the irrepressible crying that got her attention and that idea just makes me bawl even harder.
Prim must hear this because she rushes into the bathroom and stops dead in her tracks at the sight of me. I probably look ridiculously pathetic. Scrawny in my dark wet clothes, hair pinned to my cheeks, face red and blotchy from the weeping. I'm just glad the red paint has washed away.
I look up at her from the bottom of the shower and we lock eyes for a second. She moves her mouth to say something but closes it at the last minute. She climbs into the shower with me instead and holds my head in her lap, silently allowing me to cry until I have no more tears left to produce, until the shower runs cold and we both start to shiver.
Prim turns the water off and we sit there, wet and cold for a long time. She strokes my hair, humming a song I used to sing for her when she would have nightmares when she was little.
"I love him," I whimper.
She doesn't say anything because she doesn't have to. She's known all along.
Two weeks have passed since the announcement. Two weeks exactly because I've been unconsciously counting the days, cherishing the ones we have left before he's sent off. Unfortunately you wouldn't think it because of the way that I'm acting.
Once I collected myself off the shower floor that first morning I vowed to pull myself together for Peeta. After all, how can I protect him if I'm a sniveling mess? What kind of confidence would that instill in him if I spend my days crying? So I've relented to hiding my emotions. Hiding them the same way I did on the Tour. I've put the wall up again and I'm hiding behind it because it's the only way I know how to deal with myself.
I drive all of my energy into Peeta's training, an idea that came to me a few days after the announcement. I decided that I would Mentor him, train him like a Career, because the stronger he is, the better equipped he will be in the arena.
When I told him this one morning as I was watching him bake he shrugged at the idea. Non-committal. But then he saw the look in my eyes and decided it was better to acquiesce than to argue.
That's all he's been doing. Shrugging and relenting and turning in on himself. He's quieter but not obviously so. He's perfectly chatty with Mother and Prim at meals, complimenting the food and asking about Prim's day. You wouldn't think he had just been sentenced to death but I can see the subtleties. The way his shoulders slump slightly. The way his smile is harder to come by. The way his laugh is almost forced. The way he stiffens at any mention of the future, even if it's discussing what may or may not be happening in an hour.
I'm not helpful in these situations. I stare glumly at my food and eat without tasting it. I hold Peeta's hand under the table and concentrate on not throwing my glass of water at the wall; on not screaming and breaking things because I'm angry. I'm absolutely furious. My initial despair has turned into a red-hot rage. I'm angry with Snow for creating this. I'm angry with myself for letting it happen. I'm angry with myself for falling so easily for Snow's plan, for getting caught in too deep with this beautiful boy. And I'm angry with Peeta for making me feel the way I do about him because I never wanted this. I tried my hardest to never get caught up in my feelings. I've prided myself in my ability to lock others out and the one time I foolishly let my heart lead me, it brings me this.
It makes me quiet. I act the same way around him, only quieter. Peeta notices but doesn't say anything even though I know he would if we weren't in this situation. The announcement has changed both of us and the realization brings forth emotions I promptly lock away. We tiptoe around the subject. Our interactions focus mostly on his training—exercising, strength training, agility, and survival skills.
I push Peeta as best I can—force him to run faster, harder. Push-ups, crunches, anything that could help. It's difficult and I have to use my imagination because I'm not used to the exercise, it's not something I know about. Luckily Peeta is naturally athletic and he uses techniques he's learned during wrestling training. I want to ask Peeta why his brothers don't help him because they'd be better than I am in this situation, but I don't. Because I'm a coward and I'm hiding.
Mother and Prim help too. They cook us healthy meals that I force down Peeta's throat. Mother teaches Peeta healing techniques: the correct plants to use for cuts, burns, fever. Sometimes it's too much for her, though. She'll be in the middle of a plant description and she won't finish her sentence. She'll stare at Peeta for a long while, then switch her gaze to me and completely disappear. That's when I lead her to bed and Prim continues where Mother left off.
I haven't seen Gale or Haymitch. I haven't heard about the brewing rebellion. And I don't care. I don't care because I only have one purpose: to make Peeta come back. And that can only happen if his training goes well. At least that's what I say to myself.
I still sleep in his bed, because no matter my rage, I need him. Peeta still insists on baking in the morning, extremely early, because no matter what he still feels the need to provide 12 with bread. I help him carry what he bakes to the Hob but I only look at the ground. On the way back I clutch his hand and let him lead me. We're both so exhausted at night that we typically fall asleep above the covers before we can even brush our teeth.
Peeta's nightmares grow in number and intensity. Sometimes neither of us sleeps and I spend the majority of the early morning hours calming him. These are the times my anger turns to sadness. When Mother has to leave the room. When the hopelessness won't leave Peeta's eyes. When we're both vulnerable and exhausted—just two scared teenagers who can't fall asleep at night.
The last time we kissed, really kissed, was the night before the Quarter Quell announcement. We share innocent kisses goodnight, and I think we both have the desire to do more but fall asleep before we can really even entertain the thought.
Despite my anger, despite my grief, my feelings for him haven't changed. They're still there, just clouded over with a thick layer of hate and sadness. Peeta usually tries to talk to me before we sleep. He's tired and his words slur slightly with the effort but it's the only time of the day he actively tries to communicate. So I'm not surprised when he addresses me tonight.
"Katniss?" he asks.
I'm brushing out my hair and he's sitting on his bed, shoulders slumped and head down, a posture I've grown used to seeing him in. I pretend it doesn't break my heart.
"Peeta?" I respond. It's my attempt at being playful. To try and coax him out of his shell, which I realize is useless if I'm in one as well.
"Can I ask you a question?" he asks. I know why he's doing it this way. He started off asking blunt questions, questions I didn't want to address so I ignored them, changing the subject every time because I'm a coward.
"You just did," I respond with the tiniest hint of trepidation to my voice. The bags under his eyes are enormous and I know he needs to sleep more but it's impossible. I can't seem to help him and the emotions I've hidden away rattle in their locked compartment.
"What's going to happen?" he asks, pressing on, ignoring my attempts at diversion. I freeze and stare down at him. "What are you going to do when I leave?" he asks quietly.
I don't like how this is turning out so I kneel down and start to undo his prosthetic. I've never done it before and know that if I start, Peeta will stop me and the question will be successfully avoided. Luckily, my predictions are correct.
"I'll do that, don't worry," he says hastily. For some reason he still thinks I'll be disgusted by his leg. It's absolutely ridiculous.
"I thought we were past this," I admonish, which is ironic because we are technically past me avoiding his questions as well. I pull the prosthetic away and look up at him.
"It's gruesome," he answers, so I purposefully plant a kiss on the puckered flesh and give him my best attempt at a smile.
"So is my hair in the morning but you don't seem to mind it. Now lie back," I order. Peeta gives me a confused look but he does as he's told, lying down slowly on his bed. I sit next to him and take his bad leg, place it on my lap, and start to massage the muscles. I've seen him do this, secretly of course, when he thinks I can't see him. It's always after a rough workout but he doesn't want to seem weak. Doesn't want to seem like a bad sport. Peeta sighs and closes his eyes.
"That feels good," he says softly and my heart swells and breaks at the same time.
"Good," I answer. "That's the point."
We sit there for a while, Peeta quiet, while I rub his aching leg. I can feel them, the emotions, but I push them up and over the wall I hide behind.
"You didn't answer my question."
I pause my ministrations on his leg and look at him. His eyes are big and questioning and I know I can't deny him an answer.
"I don't know," I whisper. "I don't know what I'm going to do." It's all I can give him now and I hope that my uncertainty is enough at this point.
Peeta inches closer to me and his hands find mine.
"I don't know what I'm going to do either," he whispers. His body language tells me he's happy we're discussing this but I don't like the way this conversation is headed.
"You fight," I answer, before he can go on. I won't look him in the eyes, though. I know if I do, the emotions will come flooding forth. "You fight and you come back." I want to hide in the bathroom and not have this conversation. I'm about to get up and pretend to get water downstairs when I feel Peeta's hand on my arm.
"Where did you go?" he asks me quietly. I want to yell at him that I'm right here but I know exactly what he's talking about. I went and hid. I've been hiding behind my wall. Instead of explaining, I ask him a question in return.
"Where did you go?" I can see him looking for an answers because this Peeta, the one before me, isn't the one I know. He's hiding too. Peeta's response surprises me.
"I'm not going to make it out, Katniss," he says so softly I almost don't hear him. But I do. I do hear him. I turn to look at him so quickly my neck cracks.
"Don't." I warn him. "Don't say that."
"We shouldn't lie to each other anymore," he retorts.
"I'm not lying. I'm not lying because you're coming back. You're going to make it."
This conversation is long overdue. We need this. We need to discuss the future but I've always diverted. Peeta's tried before. He's alluded to the fact that he won't make it out a variety of times. The way he trains, only enough to make me happy. The way he's quiet; the way he shuts himself away sometimes throughout the day.
"It's not worth it, Katniss," I remember him saying one morning. I thought he was referring to an extra piece of bacon I forced him to eat but now I know what he was really talking about.
I've ignored these attempts before but I can't now. Especially when he yells the next few words.
"I'm going to die, Katniss!"
For a moment I just stare at him, shocked, and Peeta takes the opportunity to elaborate.
"The odds clearly aren't in my favor. The other Victor's are much better than I am. Older. They've mentored before. They've lived these Games longer than I have. I think you need to come to terms with the fact that I might not—"
He doesn't finish his sentence because I slap him so hard my hand stings.
"Don't. Don't you dare."
It's all I can think of to say. Peeta looks up at me with those huge blue eyes and I have to look away from him for fear that the emotions might come again and I won't be able to keep them locked away.
"I'm sorry," he says. I'd almost him rather have continued his little speech because the look in his eyes when he says it speaks millions. He's sorry he's going to die.
"I'm going for a walk," I tell him while getting off the bed and heading towards the door. I see the panic cross his face. Has he finally realized his mistake? The affect his words have on me? He moves to get his prosthetic but I glare at him so fiercely he shrinks back into the pillows.
"Don't follow me," I hiss and I slam his bedroom door behind me.
Once outside I collapse in the snow and stare at the moon. I can't keep the emotions contained anymore and they bubble over and spill out. I feel like I might hyperventilate and breathing is so impossibly difficult without him holding me when I feel like this. Weak, I think to myself. So weak.
I wait in the snow, hoping the cold will numb me but it doesn't do anything for my mind.
I don't know what time it is when I go back into the house. Peeta is either asleep or pretending to. I crawl under the covers of his bed, as far away from him as I can, and silently start to cry into the pillow. I feel the bed shift and suddenly Peeta's arms are around me, his chest pressing against my back. This is the time I want him to speak again. I want his comforting words, but none are forthcoming.
I turn around in his arms and press myself as close as I can to him, tucking my head under his chin, inhaling his scent greedily, and hope he can get some sleep tonight.
I wake up early the next morning, still pressed closely to Peeta. I'm not surprised he's already awake. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't sleep at all. When he feels me stir he pulls back to look me in the eyes.
"I'm sorry for last night," he says, his tired eyes imploring mine. He doesn't like fighting. He never has and that's an obvious problem; something he will have to come to terms with before he goes into the arena. I just shake my head at him.
"Come with me, I want to teach you something," I tell him, grabbing his hand and getting out of bed.
"What?" he asks, curious. This is breaking our routine. Usually he bakes, then exercises, then eats, then exercises, then eats again and then we sleep. This is different.
"It's a surprise," I say, knowing I won't be able to tell him until we're in a bathroom. Once we dress, I lead him out of the house, across the street and silently into my bedroom, careful not to wake up mother and Prim. Once inside, I lock the bedroom door behind me and motion for Peeta to turn on the faucets in the bathroom.
Wordlessly I crawl under my bed and untie the bow and arrows that Gale hid. I undo the knots and I can't really believe it took me this long to think of teaching him the basics of archery. If he can learn this skill, keep it a secret all through training, and then get his hands on a bow and arrow in the arena it, would be an obvious and crucial advantage.
Once I've freed the weapon, I slowly crawl out from under the bed and see Peeta in the bathroom doorway staring at me in shock. I simply shrug and disentangle myself and the bow before heading into the bathroom. I place the bow and arrows on the floor and get a few pillows from my bed to use as targets. It's a good thing the bathroom is enormous, I think as I close the bathroom door behind me.
"I'm going to teach you how to shoot today," I tell Peeta quietly and assess his reaction.
Defeat.
He was hoping our conversation last night would change my mind about trying so hard to train him but it only motivated me even more. He thought this diversion from our routine was me relenting, letting him have his way. Giving up. He's wrong.
"Watch me," I instruct and Peeta only nods. I guess I should feel guilty about pressuring Peeta into this training but my desire to keep him alive outweighs anything at this point so I shrug off the way he's staring at me now.
I pick up the bow and weigh it in my hands, missing the feel of it. The last time I held it was before the Victory Tour. If I close my eyes I almost feel like myself before the Games. Before all of this happened. My anger disappears. My sadness disappears. There's nothing to distract me.
Eyes still closed, I pull back the string, testing the resistance. I'm myself again and I smile slightly. I pick up an arrow and nock it, not having to see what I'm doing, remembering out of habit.
I'm completely at home, my old self, and maybe that's what gives me the strength to tell him.
I pull back to string and open my eyes, aiming at a bottle of shampoo on the shelf.
"I'm in love with you, Peeta," I say and I let the arrow fly. It pierces the bottle, sticking it to the wall behind it, shampoo leaking through the hole. I'm not even sure why it took me so long to say it. I've felt it for a while and actually acknowledged my feelings weeks ago. But for some reason, telling him seemed difficult.
I string another arrow and pull back.
"That's why you need to come back. To me," I inform him, and I let the arrow fly again, this time hitting a bar of soap in the shower. I lower the bow and turn to look at him. Peeta's eyes are wide and his mouth hangs open slightly. For a second I wonder if he heard me.
"Peeta, I love you," I tell him more confidently, and we stare each other down. It takes a few seconds, but eventually Peeta moves towards me and touches my face. The gesture is simple but profound and I close my eyes briefly.
"You love me?" he asks, incredulously. I want to laugh. Isn't it obvious? His eyes, blue and wide, seem to open up the vault I've been hiding my emotions in. I feel the tears brim behind my eyes. I cannot lose him.
"Yes," I affirm. "And that's…you can't say those things. About you not making it because…I can't imagine…I'm sorry it took so long to say…I was scared and angry and…" My voice had started firm but it's turned into something of a rickety mess and I can't even finish my sentences. Peeta seems to understand though and he kisses me once on the lips.
"Okay," he responds, pulling away from me but I grab this face and kiss him again because I desperately miss his kisses.
"I love you, too," he murmurs, pushing the words into my mouth and we don't break apart. I've missed kissing him, really kissing him. Kissing him until I feel my heartbeat in my ears and I can't breathe. Kissing him until I completely forget where I am and my knees go weak.
He pushes me into the tiled wall of the bathroom, my bow completely forgotten on the floor somewhere behind us. Peeta breaks away, breathing heavily, planting light kisses all over my face, his hands trail down my sides and grip my hips.
"Do you understand now?" I ask breathlessly, my hands landing on his cheeks, moving over his forehead and down to his lips. "You can't give up."
He searches my eyes for a moment, rooting me to the spot.
"I won't," he affirms and he brings his lips to mine again. The kiss starts out slow, like all of Peeta's kisses when he means something. But soon it turns into a frenzied rush, the kind that makes my insides burn. Our hips are pressed tightly together and I feel him pressed against my stomach. I honestly can't remember the last time I felt his arousal. Maybe I was too preoccupied over the last two weeks to even care but he has my full attention now. I grab his hips and pull him even closer to me and he groans into my mouth.
Peeta surprises me by grabbing the backs of my knees and hitching them around his hips, never breaking the kiss. It's a welcome change, and I'm not sure what's come over me, maybe it's the adrenaline, but I rock my hips forward, arching my back off the bathroom wall, until I feel his erection just where I want it. The affect it has is extremely satisfying but Peeta's knees almost buckle on the spot and he has to brace himself against the wall.
Keeping one arm around my waist, he somehow he manages to open the bathroom door and we make our way over to my bed. Together we collapse against the mattress and the sudden contact and the way it pushes us together makes me sigh and him grunt.
I sit up, pull away slightly, and look at him: his face is flushed, lips wet and parted, gaze hazy and dark. Peeta's so far gone he doesn't notice I've pulled his shirt over his head until it's flying across the room. I push on his chest and he falls down onto the pillows, looking up at me in awe, almost like he's drunk, like he can't really imagine how we got ourselves into this situation.
I climb on top of him and trail my fingers down his chest, his stomach, staring at his body. The one I will do whatever it takes to protect. I remember the last time I saw him with his shirt off in this kind of situation. He was sunburned. The burn has faded now and left small freckles all over his torso. I studiously connect them with my fingers. He's still wearing his pajama pants. Curious, I ghost my fingers ghost over the bulge in his pants and Peeta lets out a deep breathe.
"You," he grunts. "Are you...we should-"
I cut off his sentence with my mouth and he seems to get the point. When I start to trail kisses down his jaw he speaks.
"Your turn," he orders, voice deep and husky, and he rolls me over so our positions are switched.
He kisses my neck, my throat, the exposed parts of my collarbone, all the while slipping his fingers under my shirt and running them over my stomach agonizingly slow, stopping just below my breasts, never touching them.
"Take it off," I breathe, referring to my shirt, and Peeta happily obliges.
But once my shirt is off and thrown haphazardly across the room I suddenly lose my confidence. Peeta is staring, slack jawed, at my chest, and I move to cover it but Peeta pushes me back down on the pillows, pinning my arms to the bed. His eyes move up to mine and they're that impossible shade of blue. The same color as the sea glass hidden away in the top drawer of my dresser.
"No," he half pants, half murmurs. "Please, let me look at you." All I can do is nod as Peeta lets go of my arms, tentatively moving his hands to my chest, tracing the outline of my right breast with his thumb. I let out a rattling breath. Peeta swallows and gently squeezes, eyes never leaving his hands. It reminds me of the way a painter sizes up a model.
"You better not paint this," I caution. I mean for it to be a warning but it comes out as more of a breathy sigh. Peeta's eyes move to mine and he laughs.
"I wouldn't dream of it," he says lowly and I can't tell if he's joking or not but it doesn't matter.
I close my eyes and concentrate on the way his fingers are moving, squeezing, and suddenly both of his hands are on me. I'm not sure if he has any idea what he's doing but when he pulls on one of my nipples and my eyes roll back in my head I change my mind. He's good at this.
The warmth is pooling in my belly at a rapid rate and I need his lips on mine again, so I yank his face up to mine and ungracefully shove my tongue in his mouth.
I'm completely lost, can't even form words, and the only thing that I can process is the feel of Peeta's hands on me, the way his mouth moves with mine. And that's all that matters right now, isn't it? I know there will be emotional consequences tomorrow or whenever we stop what we're doing but I can't worry about that now. I've pushed him away for too damn long.
The next time our mouths part, he trails his lips down my neck and goes straight for my breasts, littering hot, wet, kisses all over my chest. When I feel his tongue hit my nipple I let out an embarrassingly loud moan.
In the back of my mind, I realize that somehow during our escapades I've locked my legs around his waist. My hands are tangled in his hair and I'm acting on instinct alone. I have no idea what I'm doing but when I grind my hips into his, but Peeta's face falls to the hollow of my throat and he's the one who moans.
I'm not sure how we got here, but all that matters is that we're here now and the throbbing between my legs is growing unbearable, so my grinding becomes deeper and deeper. I can feel Peeta's breathe on my neck, and I'm clutching at his bare back.
"Katniss." My name leaves his mouth like a prayer and all I can do is whimper in response. "I…I don't want to stop…whatever this is—but…let me know…" He's about as articulate as I am and I don't want to actually have this discussion but he's beginning to ramble.
"If—oh god—you're…not…please…" He's not making much sense and the way he's breathing the words into my neck doesn't help to clear my head but I make him look at me anyway.
"Hey," I whisper until he's looking at me. "I want this. From you. Only you."
That seems to answer any questions he might have had because he responds with a searing kiss and we're back to wandering fingers and heavy pants.
All to suddenly Peeta pulls away, leaning on an elbow. He's trailing feather light kisses down my jaw and he stops once he reaches my heart. His hand is splayed across my lower abdomen, like he's thinking about something really important. His pause is making me impatient and the ache between my legs is uncomfortable.
"Please," is all I can get out as I pull his hips down to mine again. Peeta doesn't ask when he pulls my pants down and off. The abrupt action surprises me and suddenly I stiffen. It's when I realize how vulnerable I am. This is what it's all been leading up to, isn't it? Sex. And I'm not ready for it. Not yet.
Peeta must see the conflict in my eyes so he stops what he's doing, hands halting at the waistband of my underwear.
"We won't...I won't..." he whispers and then stops, collects his thoughts for a moment and then speaks again. "Do you trust me?" he whispers. He's still wearing pants, I rationalize. He wouldn't hurt me. Would never do anything to pressure me. He loves me.
My answer is simple.
"Yes," I breathe against his lips and he hesitates only a second before he pushes my underwear down my legs. His eyes never leave mine and I'm positive he can hear my heart rattling in my chest.
Slowly he slips a finger between my legs and his eyes turn molten. The feeling is nothing short of incredible and my head falls to the side. When he slips a finger inside me I whimper and Peeta's head falls to my neck again.
"Ah…shit," he groans. I must be soaking but and the only thing I can do is moan as his fingers move in and out of me. I completely lose track of time, and my hips buck off the bed when Peeta's thumb hits the bundle of nerves I've heard women in the Hob talk about.
I try kissing him again but we're both too distracted so we more or less end up breathing into each other's mouths, which is fine by me as long as Peeta's thumb keeps circling the place I had no idea existed before he came along. And that's the way it is, isn't it? I never knew any of this existed before him. The physical but mostly the emotional. I never believed it could.
"Peeta." It's a strangled sound as it leaves my lips and my body contracts in the most deliciously painful way around his fingers.
As I come down, he breathes heavily into my neck and his hands move to my face.
"I love you," he tells me. The look in his eyes is so dark, so intense. I want to respond with the same words but I can't move any part of my body. I'm spent, so when Peeta moves off of me, I whine in protest.
"I just…give me a minute," he whispers into my ear and it's then that I realize the bulge in his pants, rock solid and pressing against my side, is still there.
"But I wanted to do that for you," I blurt out. I have no idea where that came from because even if Peeta gave me the opportunity to finish him off I would have no idea how to. My lack of sleep and the exertions from today's activities, not to mention the overall stress of the past few weeks, have left me feeling like a bag of jelly. Peeta chuckles and kisses me deeply.
"Don't worry," he whispers and I watch him go into the bathroom, which, I realized, still have all the faucets running. I'm drifting on the edge of sleep now, and I hear Peeta turn the faucets off. When I feel him lie down next to me I open my eyes.
"I meant what I said before," I whisper, bringing my hand up to his face, thinking about those three words. "And you'll come back to me."
Peeta strokes my cheek and kisses my temple.
"Okay," he whispers.
"Promise me," I tell him.
He kisses me instead.
Because we promised months ago we wouldn't lie to each other anymore.
I'm too tired to cry.