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Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games or any characters or storylines within them. These belong to Suzanne Collins.
Two months later.
Peeta has officially moved into my house. He was here all the time before but then I could send him home when I felt like his hovering was getting annoying. He hovers. It's excessive. I can't tell him to leave now because we're married. This is our house. So I just try to move faster than him. I get a door locked behind me before he can turn the knob. I sneak out to the garden when he's in the shower. Sometimes I get so desperate I go to Haymitches' house and sit in one of the empty rooms upstairs. I love Peeta but people need space. Greasy Sae laughs at this and says, "Welcome to the married life!"
That's not to say I don't enjoy being married to him. He looks at me differently. The errant look of fury toward me happens less and less now which makes me think that maybe one day his desire to kill me will vanish completely.
It happened again the other night. My screams woke me up in the middle of the night; my arms thrashed in the darkness looking for him next to me but came up empty. The absence of him in the dark always makes me panic. I flashback to the days when I thought I had lost him forever. And then I feel miserable because when I wake and he is not there that is exactly what has happened. I lose him all over again. I went to the window and looked across the lawn to the Victor house next to mine, Peeta's. The porch light was on. This is our signal. When he wakes with a start and a strong desire to snap my sleeping neck he finds it within himself to get away from me immediately. He'll go to his old house, turn the porch light on, and wait until the frenzy is completely gone. I don't know how he still has the strength to do this.
He only slipped once. We were in front of the fireplace, a night like any other. One minute we were talking about nothing in particular, the next he had knocked me over and his hands were bashing my head into the floorboards. I grasped at his face, desperate to bring him back to me but his eyes, wide with fury, were a world away. If it wasn't for Haymitch hearing the commotion I have no doubt he would have killed me. Afterwards, he said he thought if just kept taking through it, just kept ignoring it, and stayed close to me it would pass. He was wrong. He hasn't made that mistake again. So now he goes back to the old house. I don't like it when he leaves in the night but seeing the porch light brings me enough peace to at least stop the screams. The sleep, on the other hand, is a lost cause.
Now he keeps complaining about the condoms. I don't blame him. I hate them too but we don't have any other choice in the matter. He hasn't asked me if I've thought about the baby situation but I know he's waiting for it to happen. He's watching for the switch to be flipped in my mind so he can pounce. This, of course, makes me in charge of stopping and getting the condom out and in place before we make love. Which immediately ruins the mood. I think back to the first time we had sex and wish it could be that carefree again. Now I feel like all I can focus on is the barrier between the two of us. Connected but never really touching. No, I do not blame him. I hate the condoms too.
He breaks my train of thought as he emerges from the kitchen with fresh bread and jam. "Mrs. Mellark," he says, handing me his homemade snack. We sit in front of the fire place and watch the fire dance behind the mesh in meaningless motions. This has become our evening ritual. After art therapy, and the exhausting production of art therapy clean up, we move in front of the fire for snacks and what we lovingly refer to as "vent."
"Ready?" he asks, sitting as far away from me as possible on the sofa.
"I honestly don't feel like it tonight, Peeta," I say, as I nibble on my warm bread.
"I know. I never feel like it. But if we don't talk to each other then we have to talk Dr. Aurelius." We promised the doctor that we would continue our nightly talks with each other – so long as we never had to talk to him again. He was reluctant but Haymitch vouched for our progress. "Do you want me to go first?" he asks.
"No," I tell him firmly. I hated when he went first. By the time it was my turn to go all I could do was think of the horrific images he had painted for me and how I was responsible for most of his nightmarish thoughts. "I'll go," I give in, reluctantly.
I see him brace himself for whatever horrors I have to reveal.
"Today I was in the woods," I start. "I knew I wouldn't get much since it's been so cold the last few days but I thought I'd give it a try anyway. I wish I hadn't," my voice begins to waver and I take a minute to compose myself. Peeta waits patiently. "I slipped on a rock and fell onto my knees in the mud, my hands slipped into the soil. When I pulled them out there was a dead primrose stuck to my palm… It was yellow." My body hurled over and choked on the nausea that never produced relief. The pain shuddered through me and I didn't realize I was screaming until I couldn't catch my breath. I started taking huge chunks of mud from the ground and threw them as far as I could hoping to get any other signs of the dead plant as far away from me as possible. When it started to rain again I finally left the woods and wandered around the Seam since I knew I couldn't go home in this state. Not while my chest was still torn completely open and my heart still ached uncontrollably for my little sister. My dead little sister. I feel the warm tears streaming down my face and realize I haven't said anything for a few minutes. Again, Peeta waits patiently. "I miss her," I finally tell him, my mouth barely breathing the words aloud. If I say them any louder then it will be too real. More tears break through my eyes until my vision is completely blurred with sorrow and longing.
"I miss her too," Peeta whispers, "I miss her too, Katniss." We have a rule that when we start the vent we sit on opposite sides of the sofa. That way if Peeta gets triggered by a thought I'm not within reach of any rage that may come. But he scoots over to me and takes me in his arms. I allow myself to cry all over him. I don't usually like to indulge in the pain but having someone to cry with really does make it better. After I get all the tears out Peeta returns to his side of the couch. I bring my knees to my chest and clutch onto them tightly preparing myself for his demons.
"You go," I tell him.
He takes a deep breath, clasping his hands together in his lap. "Today we were working on the schoolhouse." A handful of District 12 residents are rebuilding the school in town. Peeta has worked on nearly every new structure that has gone up. Between painting, baking and building he gets out most of his aggression before we get to the vent. "Thom was working on one of the walls and his hammer slipped. He got his thumb…" he slows down now and avoids eye contact. I can see his knuckles going white with the force he uses to clench them together. "He screamed." And he doesn't have to say anything else. All the screams we've heard over the last few years echo in our minds constantly. My screams. His screams. The children in the Capital as the parachutes exploded, taking body parts with them but keeping them alive enough to suffer the torture of a slow death. Children so young that they barely reached the knees of my little sister before she was blown to bits. Prims' dying screams. Peeta clenches his eyes shut and I can see his body shuddering as he tries to control whatever flashback he is having. I want to reach out to him as he did to me but I know that won't help. I have to let him work it out in his head. After a while his body begins to relax. His fingers unclench first; he places his hands palm down on his thighs. Then he slowly opens his eyes and takes a few deep breaths before he looks at me again. I have no words for him so I just nod in understanding. He nods back.
The vent. What a nightmare. But I have to admit I feel a little looser, a little more relaxed afterwards. Peeta starts to make his way over to me slowly - inch by inch, breath by breath, until we sit shoulder to shoulder in front of the fire. We put our feet up on the table in front of us and try to release the trauma of our admissions.
"I don't know why you bother with the schoolhouse," I tell him after a long while of silence.
"What do you mean?" he asks.
"We never learned anything in school besides what the Capital taught us. Who is in charge of education in Panem now?"
"I'm not sure," he answers.
"The person who controls the education is the person that controls the people," I tell him. I remember learning about the coal mines and about how awful the rebellion was. How great the Capital was. And the fear they tried to instill in us with the Games. What will they teach now?
"Maybe you should do it," Peeta suggests.
"Do what?"
"Education. Maybe you should be a part of the department of education for Panem. Nobody knows all sides of the story like you do. Someone is going to have to teach history the right way. You should do it." I laugh at this. Like I am stable enough to control something that important for the entire country. Like they would even want me. "I know what you're thinking, Katniss. You're thinking you're not good enough. But you are. And they'd be lucky to have you."
"I'm not ready for something like that, Peeta."
"Fine. Not the whole country. But at least our district. You could work on the education for our district. You've lived here your whole life and you know enough to teach what is important. People trust your perspective. People would trust you with their children."
He always sees the good in me. I can't help myself but to lean my body into his, placing kisses on any exposed skin my lips can find. "You're too good to me," I tell him honestly. He gives me a disagreeable smile before pulling me against his chest.
The rain starts up again and I can hear the water tapping against the infinite amount of windows on the house. Nature's soothing lullaby tempts my exhaustion. Peeta puts the fire out and leads me upstairs to bed. His body is warm compared to the coolness of the taut sheets. I pull him close to me and force his arms to encircle my shivering body. The window is slightly ajar to let a little of the night air in. To this day we still relish the freedom of fresh air. Just as I'm starting to doze off, he wakes me.
"Katniss, are you awake?"
"I am now," I tell him harshly, my fatigue making me callous.
"I think you should do it," he says.
"Do what?"
"The school. Take charge of the education here. I think it'd be good for you. You'd be a part of the solution, you know?"
The idea was intriguing. I could use something to focus my days on while Peeta was off doing his own part in rebuilding our world. "I'll think about it. Okay?"
"Okay," he accepts. I feel his lips in my hair, kissing quietly. His hands move over my tired body, gently at first then more focused on specific areas.
"I'm tired," I tell him, wiggling away from his advances.
"You don't have to do anything," he tells me, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "I'll do the all the work," he says as he kisses my neck. I hear myself giggle at this and the feeling of joy at my husband's lust for me is overwhelming. I turn my body so I am facing him.
"I love you, Peeta."
"I know," he returns before his lips meet mine.
The heat coming off of our bodies quickly warms the bed and soon I can feel beads of sweat forming at his hairline. As clothing is removed and his body is positioned above mine the need for him inside me is nearly unbearable. I tangle my fingers in his hair and guide his lips as they move over my neck, my collarbone, my chest and my breasts. He goes further down my torso kissing my hips, moving his fingertips along the inside of my thighs. Soon I am so consumed with the feeling of his attention to my body that the day's sorrows and worries slip away. The horrors from the vent and the sadness of flashbacks fade and in their place is the crushing feeling of love. Want. My body moves without instruction as I wrap myself around him in ways that only I can.
Shoving him over I take my turn to kiss him. I start just under his ear where I whisper my love for him and move down to his strong shoulders. I run my fingers along the muscles in his arms and take his hand in mine. I move lower, feeling my lips over his chest and the muscles in his stomach. I kiss every inch of his exposed body still holding tightly to his hand. His muscles clench when my lips graze his skin and my mouth takes in his flesh with desire. Soon we have moved to a sitting position and I straddle myself around his legs, I move my body suggestively up and down, his face sinking into the space between my breasts. He grasps onto my hips, no longer able to contain what our bodies both hunger for and pushes himself into me. The feeling of him inside me forces a glottal moan of pleasure from the depths of my soul. I want more. My mind searches for when he felt this good. It wonders vacantly why we don't do this more often. What is different now from how this was last night?
No sooner does my subconscious ask the question when my mind screams for me to stop. I pull myself off of him, fighting his hands from pulling me back down. It takes all the strength I have to resist the feeling of him inside me again. I take his face in my hands. "Peeta, wait," I tell him sternly. "Wait." I move off of him and clumsily search in the bedside table for a condom.
"Oh," he lets out, disappointed. "I forgot." Of course he did. He always forgets because when we make love all he cares about is expressing his love for me, no matter the consequences.
"I'm sorry," I tell him as I put the condom on him. And I am sorry. I hate these condoms just as much as he does but there is no other choice. I regret when I meet his eyes because they plead for me to let go with him. They plead for me to love without consequence. But I can't. And I never will.
Afterwards, I lean onto his back, placing my head in between his shoulder blades. I feel terrible. Every time we have to stop I feel guilty and can never really enjoy it. I know he senses it. "I'm sorry," I tell him again for more than he can understand.
"Don't be sorry," he says, taking my hand in his. I know he means to comfort but this has the opposite effect. So to make myself feel better I grasp at what I can to please him knowing we'll never have the baby he so desperately wants.
"I'll do it," I tell him. "I'll get a job at the school."
He sighs deeply like his body has finally relaxed after our lovemaking. "You're going to be great," he says and I can hear him smiling. With that I find myself wishing he'd flashback and see me as the monster I really am.