Clang.

Clatter.

Splash.

I dunk another plate into the soapy water and listen to the cacophony of sounds as it bumps against the dishes hiding below the bubbles. If Peeta was inside he would be looking on in disapproval, throwing his small frown in my direction; his disappointment evident in the purse of his lips, the crease on his forehead, the irritation darkening his eyes.

There aren't too many things that bother Peeta, but the sound of dishes hitting against each other, swishing soapy water onto the floor and banging against the steel sides of the sink, really annoys him. And as I think about it I wash the plate even harder, making sure to scatter the pile of cutlery across the bottom of the sink, and hit the side of the dish drainer before I slam it down as hard as I dare, leaving the other dishes rattling alongside it.

I hear a soft splash and look down, rolling my eyes at the small puddle of water at my feet. In my haste and annoyance, a large swell of water has overflowed from the sink.

Great. I let out a sigh and reach into the cupboard below the sink, grabbing an old tea towel to soak it up. Holding the short edge over the puddle, I watch the water creep slowly up the fabric, before growing impatient, wiping up the rest and balling up the damp fabric.

Thud!

I can't help but give a small smile as I look at the slight mark the sodden cloth has left on the door. Good. Right on the knothole, what I was aiming for.

At least that is one thing that's going right for me. My aim.

Straightening up I turn my attention back to the sink and quickly pull each piece of silverware from the water, wiping each one with the sponge before clunking them into the drainer. There's something therapeutic about the noise; it is sharp, metallic, harsh.

And it's an act of defiance, regardless of how small it is.

As I let the water out of the sink I gaze out the window at the yard, feeling the tranquillity of the space calm me down. The late afternoon sun allows for long shadows to fall across the grass, and the few remaining leaves on the tall tree in the corner are aglow above it.

A movement to my right catches my eye, and there is Peeta, carrying a load of laundry out to the thin rope that we rigged up in the yard.

The dark weave of the basket perched on his hip contrasts to his simple white t-shirt, and his biceps bulge beneath the hem. I remember back to that summer, to that first time I took him to the lake, when those muscles glistened with droplets of water and he loomed above me on the bank. It was such a calm and relaxing afternoon, filled with tenderness, laughter and heat. Normally just thinking about it would bring a smile.

Today, however, I can't help but roll my eyes at the memory. It feels like a lifetime ago, not just a few short years.

It hasn't been like that in a while, us just enjoying each other's company. Lately it feels like everything is a problem.

It's nothing major, but just this unspoken irritation that is quietly eating away at our relationship and occasionally jumping to the forefront when minor issues catch us off guard.

I don't know how to fix it when everything is bothering me. Even now, when he is simply hanging clothes on the line, I can't help but notice how he doesn't shake them out to avoid wrinkles, and how he didn't brush off the sock he dropped on the grass.

But no, it's his sock, and his problem. I simply screw up my nose in response and shift my gaze to the flower bed.

Tomorrow I will have to get into the garden, I realise irritably, and pull up some weeds. And the lawn is a little bit overgrown. At least that will keep me busy while Peeta is at the bakery in the evening. He already told me that he will need to spend long hours in there tomorrow, so that should keep me busy when I get home from the site. At least something will.

What I need right now is the crackle of flames licking through a pile of logs; the comforting aroma of wood smoke drifting lazily towards me. During the spring, once it started to get too warm for a fire inside, Peeta made me an outdoor fire pit in the yard. Tonight, now that the days are shortening and the evenings getting cooler, it is perfect fire weather.

Suddenly desperate to get the fire started, I let out a huff of breath that I didn't realise I was holding and stomp my socked feet over to the doorway. Grabbing my boots from the basket beside the door I drag over a chair and bend to tie the laces. My movements are haphazard – so much so that it takes me two attempts to tie my bootlaces – and my body feels stiff with tension. I just need to get outside.

To be honest, I don't even know why I am annoyed. Why I keep feeling the cold clutch of irritation when I simply think about Peeta, and how busy he is. When he comes into the house late and presses a soft kiss against my cheek. When he turns to me in concern, his forehead creasing slightly as he asks his usual, "Okay?"

Because lately I don't know what to say. I don't know how to answer. I don't know how to turn the tempest that is raging in the pit of my stomach into carefully formulated words of explanation.

All I know is that, right now, I don't want to be near him. And that, right now, I need to stare wordlessly into the flames. And that once I have them, I'll feel better.

The dull thud of the final log landing on the pile is comforting as I step back, clapping my hands to rid them of dust and splinters of wood. I pull the matchbox from my pocket and throw it onto the seat alongside the pile, and the flames spit and pop through the kindling in the pit behind me.

The town is peaceful tonight; I can't hear anything but the fire, and I shut my eyes as I take in a deep lungful of air.

"Hey Katniss, you want something to eat?"

I scowl as my mere moment of peace is broken. Hastily I turn towards him, and walk quickly over to the steps. "I'm just going to have some bread. I don't need much tonight," I retort coldly.

Peeta doesn't seem shocked by my tone or, if he is, he doesn't show it. He simply sighs softly before responding, "Okay. I will heat up some leftover soup I think, and then I'll join you."

"Don't rush," I mutter under my breath before deliberately stomping past him into the house, not bothering to take off my boots. He'll hate that.

Oh well.

I grab a fresh bread roll from the bag on the counter and break off a chunk of cheese. I hastily throw it all on a plate before turning to return the block of cheese to the refrigerator when I realise that Peeta is blocking my path.

"Did you want a drink?" he asks, his voice muffled as his face is buried in the fridge's contents.

"I'm fine. I've got water here," I respond quickly. I just want to get back outside. To the fire. To the tree. To the stars.

"Don't forget that I'll be home late tomorrow." His voice is soft but tinged with sadness, and I feel myself bristle at his statement.

"The wedding cake. I know," I say simply, my voice flat. "I haven't forgotten."

"Have you made any plans?"

"No. I'll just be in the garden. It needs work." I bump his arm with the cheese and make sure that he has grasped it before grabbing my plate and hurrying from the kitchen. I don't want to talk, surely he can sense that. And as I rush onto the deck the screen door slams shut behind me, but not before I hear Peeta's muttered curse as he watches my figure retreat from him once more.

As I stare into the flames, watching the small sparks of blue leap through the field of amber, I can feel the tension slowly drain from my body. It always has this effect, fire; I find it both rejuvenating and relaxing. My body moulds to the form of the garden chair as I relax, and in that moment I can't think of anything but the spits and pops of the flames. I don't know how long I sit there, staring into the depths of the fire, cancelling out the world and all the irritation of the day.

That is, until I hear him make his way across the wooden boards that make up the deck.

I didn't hear the door shut behind him, but as hard as I try I can't cancel out the sound of him stomping across the floorboards and down the stairs. He doesn't mean to tread so heavily, and usually I barely notice it, but with every stamp of his feet I feel my muscles tense up again until I need to shift in my seat, my discomfort evident.

He drags another chair over to sit a few feet from me and flops into it carelessly. I can feel his eyes on me but I steadfastly avoid his gaze as he speaks.

"Nice night." He starts with the basics. He knows something's up.

"Yeah," I respond simply.

"Nice and clear. It's starting to get cool but it's nice by the fire. Good idea."

"Yeah."

Out of the corner of my eye I see him shift forward in his seat, his feet planted firmly on the ground, before he has one more try.

"Do you want a blanket or anything? It might get cold if you're out here for too long."

"No," I respond coolly, before feeling a sharp stab of guilt at my one-word answers. "Thanks. I'm fine."

I ignore the sigh he huffs out as he stands and shuffles across to the wood heap. He extracts a long stick from the pile and comes back to the fire, poking and prodding at the flames.

I take a deep breath, my fingers beating incessantly on the arm of my chair. Leave it alone, Katniss, I think to myself. At least he's stopped with the twenty questions.

Suddenly a log slips to the right, shooting a spray of embers into the air, and I roll my eyes in irritation. I watch him try to fix it, wedging the stick beneath it and pushing the log back towards the middle. My nostrils flare with each exhale as he continues to fiddle with the logs, even once they are back how they were.

"Peeta, leave it. It's fine."

"No, I know," he responds simply, using a stick to slightly dislodge the pile of wood. "I just want to get that log across the coals more securely."

"But I said it was fine. I put it there because I know it will catch."

He sighs and turns to sit, but not before giving the logs a final prod.

A burst of rage leaps through me and I whip around to face him. "What, can't you trust me to take care of a fire now? Is that it? My positioning of the logs isn't good enough for you now?"

He is clearly taken aback by my tone and turns to me in surprise. "No, Katniss, I- "

"Well then why can't you just let me do it?" I cut in. "I put the logs there for a reason and I know what to do! I was doing just fine with fires for my whole life when I managed them on my own. And then you came along and started stoking the fire yourself, and even helping other people light their fires, and now my fire isn't good enough for you anymore?"

A small frown washes his forehead as he pulls his head back, the corners of his lips turning down slightly in bewilderment. "Katniss, why-?"

"Don't worry," I finish as I hastily sit back in my chair, realising my anger has gotten the better of me. "It doesn't matter."

He leans forward towards me, his concern wiping the confusion from his features. His blue eyes look dark in the glow of the fire, and he clasps his hands together between his knees. "Obviously it does matter," he says softly. "What's this really about?"

I feel my heart constrict in my chest as I swallow a gulp and thoughts whirl around in my brain. I don't even really know what the problem is. How can I tell him that everything that he does irritates me at the moment? That just listening to him bugs me? That his stomping footsteps make me mad and that I should be allowed to bang down the dishes if I want to and that my fires used to be good enough for him but now they aren't and that makes me angry?

"Katniss?"

And that, despite all of these things I don't want him working late tomorrow night putting wonderfully rounded rosebuds on a perfectly pink wedding cake. Wedding cakes are a stupid Capitol construct and I have never wanted one, ever. They always seemed like an unnecessary expense, but he was so dedicated to making them perfect. I just never understood. If the people actually loved each other and wanted to be together and always said that they wanted to be married why did they need a cake to prove it? Why can't one person ask and the other say yes and they can have what they always wanted? All it means for me is that Peeta has to spend extra time at the bakery making them for someone else, and I'm stuck here, twiddling my thumbs.

Without me realizing it Peeta has reached forward and grabbed my hand in his. "Tell me what's going through that head," he says with a gentle laugh that doesn't quite hide his concern.

I hastily pull my hand from his as the skin of my forehead furrows into an even deeper frown. I cross my arms tightly across my chest, tucking my hands safely away. "No. Nothing. Nothing's wrong."

"We've been through this before, Katniss," he sighs. "I can't help you if you won't let me. Just tell me what's wrong and save us both some time."

"Oh wow, I'm so sorry I am wasting your time!" I snap, standing up immediately and ignoring how my chair falls down in the wake of my haste. "All I was doing was sitting out here, minding my own business, and you had to waltz along and try to fix everything."

"Fix everything?" he repeats. "What am I trying to fix?"

"The fire, the wedding cake. Me! I used to be good enough for you but now you have to sit here and question me and 'fix' me because I'm just not good enough anymore!"

We're both standing now, and he reaches towards me again. "Where is this coming from, Katniss? You're more than good enough! You're everything." His blue eyes plead with me in the dark, but I roll my eyes and pull away. I don't need to hear another word.

"Just leave it, Peeta. I don't want to talk about it." I say sullenly, turning my back on him.

"No, I won't leave it," he retorts. "What's going on? Why are you so angry at me? What have I done?"

And that's enough for me to snap. "You haven't 'done' anything," I yell, mocking his term by quoting the air with my fingers. "That's the problem! It's been years and nothing has changed. You haven't 'done' anything; we haven't 'done' anything. We are the same as we were years ago! So what is it? What has changed? Why am I not good enough anymore?" I practically spit the words at him. "Why do you have to spend all of your time there making cakes for them when you don't even want that for yourself?"

I glower at him, the heat rising from the fire nothing compared to the flames shooting from my glare. I watch as his face falls into a heap of confusion and despair as he struggles to decode my words, and then he stops, straightens and steps towards me.

"Wait. Are saying- Do you want to get...?"

My eyes widen at his question and suddenly months of angst flood into me, and I can clearly see the problem. Why I'm irritated at everything he does. Why I keep pushing him away.

And, as I always do in these moments, I turn on my heel and I run.

For a long time, I simply walk.

After storming through the town centre, kicking a random stone along in front of me, I make my way out through the Victor's Village and past the Seam. My mind is in a whirl of emotions that I can't seem to sort out in my mind. It started with my irritation at him; I kept hearing his stomping footsteps and his incessant questions, seeing his jeans and t-shirt lying in a heap in front of the hamper, tasting the perfect sweetness of the frosted flowers he would bring home that were leftover from other people's wedding cakes.

Never ours. Not that I even want a stupid cake. It isn't that. I never wanted one.

It's that he doesn't want one anymore.

But the further I walk, the more composed I feel. Once again walking has calmed me down and now I keep getting flashes of images, of memories where Peeta has been kind to me, of him doing things without me having to ask him or tell him what I need.

And, really, that is what matters. Not the piece of paper. Not the toasted bread. Certainly not a stupid cake.

I pace back and forth around the Seam, wondering how I got to be in this place where I no longer notice the good things that he does, and instead I focus on the fact that he hasn't given me what I want. I don't even know when I started to want it. Or do I just want to get married because, suddenly, it seems like he doesn't?

No. It's more than that. It is what marriage means, what it stands for. It is solidifying the commitment that we have been living for years. The commitment that we made, really, when we each entered the second arena willing to sacrifice ourselves for the other.

And if I'm honest with myself, I'm shocked that it is something that I want. I never imagined that I would. For most of my life I've felt like marriage is unnecessary, that having a piece of paper doesn't prove anything. I think that's why I feel so shocked right now.

I never realised that, deep down, I actually want it.

The stars are out in force tonight. Diamonds sparkle brightly across the navy arc, and as I slow my pace I crane my head back as far as I can to take them all in.

My father used to tell me that stars were the spirits of the people from the past who loved us; that they come out at night to watch over us and brighten our darkest hours. He would take me out to the Meadow and we would lie there in the darkness together, gazing at the stars for hours to give my mother some precious alone time at home while Prim slept.

I used to think about who would be looking out at me; my great-grandparents and their parents. Generations of family members watching us struggle through life in the Seam as they did. I found it comforting to think that they understood, and that they didn't want to see us blanketed in total darkness.

You would think that there would be more stars up there now that we have lost so many people that we love. But where we live now, so close to the town and with electricity connected all the time, the stars are somewhat dimmed. There are so many things in life to distract from their beauty, and I'm ashamed when I realise that lately I have let them.

But now, here, they are beautiful. And I can't help but think of the faces of those that they symbolise. Rue. Boggs. Mr Mellark. Thresh. Finnick. Prim, with her golden braids crowning her beauty. My father, who wanted to teach me to survive so that I could really live.

I miss them so badly it hurts.

What would they want for me right now?

And as I come to a stop in front of the empty, dilapidated remains of the house that used to be ours, one more picture floats to the forefront of my mind. The one image from my childhood that years of hunger, fear and grief couldn't erase.

It was a warm evening and I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned, my sheets screwed up in a ball at the foot of my bed, and all I could think about was how things were going to change. And I didn't want them to change.

I decided to get a drink, and I swung my feet around before stretching to find the hard floor. After standing up on my toes to fill my cup with water I realised that the house was completely silent, yet my parents' bed was still empty. I followed the glow of the fire through the open doorway and stopped short at what I saw.

I can remember every detail. The soft kiss he pressed to her temple. The way his hands lay protectively on her swollen stomach, tenderly caressing the second daughter that he was yet to meet. How she reached down and ran her fingertips across the top of his hands before reaching down and taking a slice of bread from the loaf beside her. She placed it between the ends of an old blackened pair of tongs, and he looked up, his eyes meeting hers. He wrapped his large, rough hands over her small healing ones and pressed a kiss to her lips before they reached forward to place the bread over the flames. They whispered to each other, their heads bent in close together, but I couldn't make out the words.

I found out later that it was the anniversary of their first toasting, and I knew from that moment that all I ever wanted was someone to love me as much as my father loved my mother. And to feel the safety and comfort and warmth of loving them back.

I can so clearly picture their joy. And I so clearly remember my mother's face, alight with love, as she brought the toasted bread to her mouth.

It is a stark contrast to the blank and unreachable face that sat by as her children starved, and the determined face that she adopts now as she pours her grief and anguish into her work.

It is that change in her that has always convinced me that I don't want that for myself, that I can't do this. That committing myself to Peeta in that way will only make it hurt more when it inevitably ends.

Except that it won't hurt more. It couldn't possibly hurt more, because we are already there. Already life without him is unthinkable. He is the one that I can't survive without, toasting or not.

As long as he still wants me.

I move off again, passing the last few gates before reaching the scruffy fields of the Meadow. The fence, a little way in the distance, still stands despite the electricity being turned off for the last time many years ago. I take tall steps over the overgrown tufts of grass and focus on the stars, wondering what they want for me. What Prim, my father and Peeta's family all want for us. He hasn't brought up marriage in so long, in years, and that has to mean something.

Maybe...maybe he got tired of waiting for me to catch up.

My heart gives a painful lurch at the thought.

I keep walking forward, bringing my gaze back to earth as I step over a fallen log and then, suddenly, there is Peeta. Sitting a few yards from our tree and looking up at the sky. Waiting.

And all of a sudden I can't remember all of the things that were bothering me. All I see is the boy in the cave, comforting me with his words and with his lips.

As he sees me approach he stands silently and brushes dirt from the seat of his faded jeans. He looks beautiful in the moonlight, as it glints off his golden hair and catches the bright white of his t-shirt. For what feels like the thousandth time in my life, I can't believe I ran away from him.

He reaches out a hand to me. "Walk with me?" he asks softly, and I simply nod, twining my fingers with his as we head back towards town.

We walk quietly for a long time, and after about 20 minutes our peaceful silence is broken when he gently states, "Almost there." Then we turn a corner, cut across a field and he stops. I come to a halt as well, and look around, my eyes now well adjusted to the dim light. The bright white of the moon shows me a dilapidated wooden shack a few hundred yards away, and a gentle slope that leads down to a stream. Off to our left lies a scrub, filled with fallen logs and overgrown bracken, and about thirty yards in front of us stands a solitary tree.

"Where...?" I let my question trail off as I continue to look around, searching for any familiar landmark or idea why he might have brought me here. I haven't spent much time on the south side of town.

"This is where my Grandad used to live when I was growing up," Peeta says softly. My eyes widen, remembering Peeta's stories of his grandfather, and the special bond they shared before he died. Looking around, I can almost hear the fondness in Peeta's voice all those years ago, as he regaled me with tales of fairies and mushrooms that his grandfather used to tell. "I've never brought anyone here before," he continues. "In fact, I have only been here once since we came back from the Capitol. I had to come here and tell him; let him know that I survived even if no one else did."

Hearing the slight waver in his voice I squeeze his hand and pull him closer, still unable to bear his pain. I forget, sometimes, just how much he has lost.

And how little he gains in return. With me.

He pulls me up against him, breathing in deeply and inhaling the scent of my hair before pressing his lips firmly against my temple. "I brought you here for a reason."

He takes a few steps back from me, still clinging tightly to my hand, and leads me to the tree ahead of us. Once we stop again I look up at him, quizzically.

"Look closely," he encourages, releasing my hand and gesturing towards the tree's trunk.

I lean closer, running my palms against the smooth surface of the bark; eyes searching for whatever he is leading me to.

My hands find it first. A very subtle, but very deliberate, indentation in the bark. Leaning in closely, I can just make out the letters K + P, encircled by a heart. As I trace the circle with the tips of my fingers I feel a pair of strong arms encircle me from behind. I lean back into him, feeling the familiar sensation of safety and of homecoming that I haven't allowed myself to enjoy for some months, and listen to his words.

"See?" he begins softly, gently. "I meant it when I said that it was always you. I really did mean always."

"So when did you write this?" I interject quietly.

He loosens his hold on me then gently turns me to face him before answering. "Right at the start. You sang the valley song in music assembly on our first day of school and I spent that weekend with Grandad and told him all about you." Peeta smiles a sad smile, a hint of moisture glistening in his eye, before pulling me close to his chest. "Grandad had faith in me and believed everything I said. He didn't laugh, he just helped me get a knife and showed me how to scratch our initials, telling me that it was polite to put the lady's initial first." Our smiling eyes meet at this, in silent laughter at the notion of me being a 'lady'.

"I vividly remember finishing the tip of the heart, and running my palm across the bark. It seemed so real, like there was no other option but for it to happen. And Grandad lifted me onto his shoulders and told me that doing this had sent our destiny out to the stars, and that somehow we would find each other in the end."

I smile briefly up at him before my eyes find the ground. I still find it difficult to hear Peeta's eloquent speeches. Even after all these years, I can't believe that he would feel that way about someone like me. He is so worthy, so wonderful, so deserving of everything.

And I'm still a mess. I proved that tonight. I've been proving it for months.

Once again Haymitch's words resound in my brain: I could live a thousand lifetimes and never deserve him.

But he's not finished. And this time he gently lifts my chin until my sad grey eyes meet his sparkling blue ones,

"So you can say that I don't care anymore. You can speak in tongues and tell me that you think I don't need you to start the fires anymore. But I do. I need you. And I want you." He pauses, swallowing hard, and clears his throat. "Just because I haven't asked you to light a fire lately, doesn't mean that I have ever not wanted one lit."

I feel myself tense in his arms. There's no point in continuing the charade, and my eyes drop again as I ask simply, "So why didn't you?"

His blue eyes widen at the question, like he can't quite believe that I think I'd need to ask it. "I was scared, Katniss!" he blurts out. "On our first night in the new house you had a panic attack at the mere mention of marriage. And then whenever I brought it up again you said it was too soon. So I stopped asking until I was sure you were ready.

"But I do want it. Of course I want it. I want you, forever. I want to do the toasting with you and then I want to celebrate our love with our friends. I want the piece of paper that states that we are officially a family. I want the world to know that you chose me and that this time it is real.

"But I need to know," he pauses, looking me right in the eye, "is it? Is that what you want too?"

My breath catches in my throat at his words, my heart racing as an image of Peeta and I toasting our own bread leaps to the forefront of my mind, before a rasp falls from my lips. "It was always real."

And he leans forward to kiss me, gently, on my lips. My eyes close at the contact, at the way his smooth, supple lips glide effortlessly over mine. He tastes of cinnamon and sugar, mixed with an overwhelming sense of love and relief. He lets out a soft moan before deepening the kiss and lifting me smoothly back until I am pressed against the tree trunk. His lips are wet and I am desperate, my hands everywhere, needing to feel him, to know that he is there with me and always will be.

We continue there, bodies writhing with need until, with a groan of effort, Peeta wrenches himself away. I open my eyes just enough to look at him, but his remain closed, his forehead pressed firmly against mine.

"And now that I know that you want it too," he says gently, smiling into my lips, "you will just have to wait for me to ask.

"But you won't be waiting long."

A/N:

Thank you so much for reading this oneshot - it's been a long time coming! I am so appreciative of everyone that reads my writing - it means the world to me.

I have loved delving back in to Katniss and Peeta's world, and looking at a new side to Katniss. I am so nervous about this chapter because their toasting is something that so many readers have thought about, and that I have seen created in so many wonderful stories and beautiful pieces of visual art.

I wanted to do something a bit different. Show another alternative to things that I have enjoyed when other people have done them.

I would LOVE to know what you think about this idea. Thank you so much for reading. xo