"Not working today?" Madge asked as she joined Prim and I, along with Gale and his brothers, for our walk back to the seam. I shook my head, taking Prim's hand in mine. "How's that going?"
"It's good," I shrugged. "I mean. I'm enjoying it, I guess, even though I'm a terrible baker. And horrible with customers, apparently." Madge laughed.
"Rye makes her clean everything," Gale said.
"I'm really good at that," I said, pointing at Gale. "I'm there to get Peeta to leave his room as much as actually help them out."
"You know, when I said that you denied it," Gale pointed right back at me. I turned my hand and flipped him off.
"How is he doing?" Madge asked as Prim pulled away from me, clearly bored with our conversation, and ran a few steps to catch up with Rory and Vick.
"Okay, I guess," I shrugged. "I don't really have anything to compare it to. He's not okay, but he has good days and bad ones. He's had a few good days lately."
"I saw his parents leaving the Justice Hall the other day," Madge said as she made a face. "They were walking with about 20 feet of space between them, didn't even look at each other. I think the divorce is over. And good fucking riddance."
"Remember that time she caught us trading with him and threw an entire tray of muffins at us?" Gale smirked at me. I laughed. That was my first encounter with Mrs. Mellark. She had thundered down the stairs at the sound of our voices and grabbed the first thing she could get her hands on to heave at not just Gale and I, but Twain as well.
"And then chased us out with the tray still in her hands," I added, still laughing.
"That woman is a witch," Madge frowned. "Maybe now that it's official people will stop talking shit about Twain and your mom."
"Why are they doing that?" I raised an eyebrow. "And what are they saying? And who's saying it, for that matter?"
"Katniss, the two of them were, like, a thing," Madge said, as if this were something I should have known. How could I have known? Mom barely even talked about Dad, let alone about anything that came before him in her life. "Before she ran off with your dad. She left him for your dad. Everyone in town knows about that. It was kind of a huge deal."
"Even I knew about that," Gale chimed in, draping his arm around Madge's shoulders.
"Well, why the hell wouldn't you tell me?" I snapped.
"I thought you knew," he said, shooting me a defensive look.
"If your mom isn't hitting that yet, she should," Madge said. "Twain's a catch."
"Ew," I narrowed my eyes at her. Gale leaned away from Madge, cutting his eyes toward her.
"Oh, come on," Madge looked up at him, her shoulders slumping. "Are you jealous? Give me a break, he's old."
"Whatever," Gale muttered. I tuned out of the rest of their conversation, fitting this new piece of my mother's history into my image of her. Were they serious? What made her leave? Did she love him? Did she still have feelings for him? I found myself thinking of the way Twain looked at her. I thought it had been gratitude, but the more I thought about it the more it seemed like love.
I went with them to Gale's, briefly saying hello to Hazelle before the three of us retreated to the loft over the living room that Gale had claimed as his bedroom. Hazelle shared with Posy while Vick and Rory shared the other bedroom. I perched on the arm of the couch he slept on, my feet on the cushions, facing Gale and Madge where they sat cuddled up at the opposite end.
"You got awfully quiet, Catnip," Gale smirked at me, absently winding his fingers in Madge's hair.
"Mellarks on your mind?" Madge cocked an eyebrow, her smile entirely too knowing.
"What?" I made a face at the two of them, and Madge just laughed.
"He told me how smiley you are around him," she said, pressing her lips together in a tight little smile. "How you followed him inside after walking him home."
"We're friends," I said, giving them both a pointed look. Madge returned it. "He's really sweet, and I'm the only one who can get him to come out of his shell at all, apparently."
"How long did you spend over there with him after I left the other night?" Gale asked.
"I don't know," I shrugged. "A couple hours?"
"That's a pretty serious time investment for just walking him home," Madge pointed out, failing miserably at hiding a smile. I raised an eyebrow.
"We went upstairs to talk," I said, and the two of them looked at each other. I sighed, my shoulders dropping. They were obviously trying to make something of this, and I was not amused in the least. "He gets really stressed and self conscious and has a hard time talking when he's around other people. It's easier for him when it's just the two of us. We went up to his room and sat down to talk for a while."
"On his bed?" Madge smirked. Gale snorted quietly.
"Yes," I deadpanned. The two of them looked at each other again, this time sharing a barely hidden smile. "What?"
"Nothing," they said in near-unison. I just rolled my eyes.
I went home shortly before dinner, trying to figure out what the hell those two were implying. I could easily figure out Madge's perspective. Even though she'd long given up on the very idea of me dating anyone, her crusade to at least get me to admit to finding someone attractive had not ended. If she was trying to plant ideas in my head about Peeta I wasn't going to let it work. We were friends. Nothing more.
"Mom?" I turned to her as we were washing up after dinner, leaning against the counter by the sink. She raised her eyebrows, glancing over at me. "Is there anything more that I could be doing?"
"You could wash out that pot on the stove," she said, nodding towards it and smirking down at the washing she was working on in the sink.
"I meant for Peeta." I shook my head, moving to pick up the empty pot anyway, setting it down on the counter next to the sink. "To help him."
"You want to do more?" Mom smiled at me. I nodded. She turned back to the washing, the smile never quite leaving her face. "I could find a way to get you more involved. If you really want to be."
"I do," I said. Mom nudged me with her elbow, picking up the pot I'd carried over to wash it.
"You can start by just getting him out of the house more," she said. "He needs to get out of his comfort zone. Start learning to be adaptive. Go for walks with him."
"I don't think he'd particularly enjoy that." I raised an eyebrow, thinking about the look that crossed his face every time he saw me moving that wheelchair for him.
"That's kind of the point, Katniss." Mom gave me a look, raising an eyebrow. "And he'd enjoy spending the time with you. He's certainly not going to let anyone else put him through any of that."
"I really don't have that much influence on him. I don't know where you and Twain are getting this from," I said as I lifted myself up to sit on the counter. "I get that he's comfortable with me, but obviously he is, we're the same age. I'm not his father or his doctor. He doesn't have to be all tense and nervous around me."
"Still selling yourself short," Mom smiled, setting aside the pot to dry and wiping her hands on the towel draped over her shoulder. She turned toward me, running the towel through her hands. "When I'll really need your help is when he starts getting back to school."
"School?" I raised an eyebrow, trying to imagine that happening any time in the near future. Unless he started getting a hell of a lot better a hell of a lot faster, I didn't see it coming. He was still struggling with just walking around, talking, and concentrating. Rye had made some offhand comments about how much Peeta slept. Sitting in classrooms for seven hours, trying to focus on lessons, tests, and homework seemed far beyond what he could handle; not to mention Merx Miller one seat behind him in every class they shared. Former friends or not, I couldn't imagine Merx keeping his mouth shut about Peeta's trouble talking or the prominent twitch in his jaw. Even the more subtle flutter of the muscle around his eye. "Do you seriously think he's ready for that?"
"Absolutely not," Mom tossed the towel onto the kitchen counter, folding her arms across her chest. "This year will be something of a wash, but the sooner he's eased back into the environment the better. After winter break is what Twain and I discussed. Peeta would start with just a couple of classes a couple of days a week. We have to speak with the school, obviously. He may not advance with the rest of your class into next year, though."
"Because he's not going to stand out enough already," I rolled my eyes, shaking my head and looking away.
"I'm hoping we can work something out for him so that won't happen," Mom said. I looked back at her. "Would you be okay with adding tutoring him to your list of duties once we get to that point?"
"Sure," I shrugged.
"And keep him talking, it helps him more than you realize," Mom said as I slid off of the counter to join Prim by the fire.
It only took about two weeks of spending more time with Rye to stop taking anything he had to say about me or what I was doing seriously. He seemed to be mastering the art of finding ways under my skin, and I wasn't finding any ways to give him that treatment right back. I settled on purposefully making more work for him when Peeta was around to see it, including intentionally screwing things up that didn't really matter but would annoy the hell out of him. It never failed to earn a quiet laugh out of Peeta.
More often than not, when the prep work was finished I ended up flipping through the recipe books with Peeta and trying to familiarize myself with the ones they prepared on a regular basis. It amazed me how much both of them seemed to know by heart. All it took was listing a few ingredients, or the first few steps in some cases, and Rye would rattle off the rest, including the preparation, the cost, and who bought it the most often. Peeta managed to do the same with one or two, though it took him far longer to dredge up the memory than it did Rye. It made me wonder how much he knew before.
"What was the first thing you learned how to make?" I asked Peeta, flipping the book in front of me closed and sliding it toward him to stack with the others at the end of the table. He pushed it out of the way, picking up another and flipping through it for a moment before settling on a page and sliding it in front of me. He hadn't said much at all today and what he had was halting and disjointed. It was a bad speaking day, though he seemed okay otherwise. I slid my stool closer, looking down at the book. "What the fuck is a snickerdoodle?"
"A c-cookie," he smirked, tapping the page. "Read."
"Aw, little Peet's suck up cookies," Rye turned around, smirking at Peeta and wiping his hands on the towel over his shoulder. I glanced at him before looking down at the recipe. Flour, butter, sugar, eggs, and not much else, rolled in cinnamon before baking. Far simpler than most of the recipes I'd been looking at recently. "Gramma's favorite. He used to make those for her whenever he wanted something, and it always fucking worked." Peeta laughed softly, nodding.
"Will you make some for me?" I asked, flipping through the pages of the book. He looked nervous and hesitant about giving an answer. "I didn't mean right now. Just... at some point?"
"O-okay," he nodded, looking down and flushing a little, trying to hide it by scratching his fingers up under the edge of his hat before smoothing it back down. I smiled at him for a moment, watching him carefully avoid my eyes, then backhanded his leg lightly before turning back to the book in front of me. I could see him smiling faintly out of the corner of my eye.
"Or you could show me how," I tried, looking over at him. He glanced at me before ducking his chin, a little half smile forming on his lips. I looked up to find Rye staring me down and frowning. "Since your asshole brother doesn't let me near anything more complicated than white bread."
"Try not sucking at the job and maybe you'll get to do more," Rye cocked an eyebrow. I rolled my eyes, opening my mouth to speak, but Peeta cut me off.
"You know—uh, c-considering how long you've b-been doing this, Rye," Peeta said. Both Rye and I turned our complete attention toward him, a little shocked at him speaking up. "You k-kind of—suck at the job, too." I laughed, setting my hand on Peeta's arm. Rye just frowned at us.
"Are you a shitty baker?" I asked him.
"He c-can't do the—fancy stuff," Peeta said before dropping his eyes back down to where my hand still rested on his arm. I tried to read his expression before pulling my hand back, wondering whether he enjoyed the touch or not. He was carefully blank. When I looked up at Rye he was chewing the inside of his lip, clearly holding back plenty he wanted to say. He turned back to his work without a word.
I stayed to help clean up after the bakery was closed, which was far later than I usually stayed. Peeta had finally started talking, and it made me a little reluctant to leave. I could see him getting tired though, and I called to Rye from the storefront that I'd be leaving once the cases were cleaned, hoping that would enable Peeta to get upstairs and get some rest instead of pushing himself. He leaned into the storefront a few minutes later, waving to me briefly.
"Goodnight, Peeta." I smiled at him, and he returned it before making his way upstairs. Rye hovered in the doorway for a moment, scowling at me as I finished wiping down the glass. I raised an eyebrow at him, and he just disappeared back into the kitchen. I stood, stretching my legs out and following him, crossing the room to the sink to rinse out the towel I'd used on the cases. I could feel him staring me down and turned around to look at him after draping the towel between the two sinks to dry. "What?"
"The hell are you doing?" he snapped.
"Are you kidding? What did I do wrong this time?" I dropped my arms to my sides, looking up at the ceiling before looking back to him. That phrase usually preceded a five minute rant about how terrible I was at my job.
"I meant-" he cut himself off, looking over to the staircase for a moment. Rye crossed the room to me, lowering his voice. "I meant with Peeta. What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm trying to help him," I cock an eyebrow.
"By fucking with his head?" he snapped.
"I'm not—fucking with his head." I looked over to the staircase, lowering my voice. I couldn't remember if I'd heard the bedroom door close or the creak of the floorboards overhead. This wasn't the sort of thing he'd appreciate overhearing.
"Are you kidding? This weird fake flirting?" Rye put on a high, obnoxious falsetto, flipping his hand over his shoulder. "Ooh, Peeta, make me cookies, but not like, right now or anything, just, y'know, whenever."
"Fuck you, I do not sound like that," I folded my arms across my chest, frowning at him. "And I'm not flirting."
"Yes, you are, you're just fucking terrible at it," he said, looking me over with a sneer on his face. "And it's driving me nuts. Decide whether or not you're doing this and fucking get your shit together."
"Doing what?" I snapped, not quite understanding what he was trying to say and getting too annoyed with that fact to do anything but take it out on him.
"Hitting on him," Rye said, taking a step closer to me. "Don't do it if you don't mean it. You have no fucking idea what you mean to him, and if you break his heart I swear I'll murder you."
"I'm not-" I started, cutting myself off when I saw the look I was getting from Rye. Sighing, I looked over at the staircase again. I really wasn't hitting on him. I wasn't flirting. Not on purpose, anyway. I didn't think of Peeta in that way, no matter how hard Madge kept hinting at it. "I'm not going to break his heart."
"You can't joke about this shit, either. He doesn't-" Rye cut himself off and sighed, glancing toward the stairs before taking a step closer to me. He turned to me with an expression so serious I barely recognized him. "Look. He takes everything anyone does or says at face value now, period. If you're just dicking around you will."
"I'm not," I said, holding my hands up in front of me. His expression didn't change in the slightest. "Rye. I'm not." He rolled his jaw, staring me down for a minute as if he was trying to figure out whether or not I was lying. He stepped back, nodding and turning back to his work.
"Go the fuck home. You're just in the way," he said. I rolled my eyes and went out to the mudroom to snatch my coat from one of the hooks along the wall. As I crossed the yard I glanced up toward what I knew was Peeta's window, tugging my coat on. Whether I expected to actually see him there, maybe watching me leave, I don't know. All I could make out was the faint ring of light leaking out around the drawn shade.
I walked back to the Seam slowly with Rye's words echoing in my head. He hardly knew me, who was he to judge how I was acting? I certainly wasn't hitting on Peeta. We were friends, and I wanted to help him. If I was in a position to do that, I'd do it. And to hell with what anyone had to say about it.
Gale was not out in the woods. I was a little surprised. He'd told me he was still out hunting every afternoon, and it wasn't as if the weather had gotten too poor. The first snow had yet to fall, unseasonably late, and it wasn't even as cold as late November should have been. The leaves crunched underfoot as I hiked through the woods, and I knew I was likely scaring off any potential game. Not that it was really needed any more. We no longer needed to rely so heavily on what I brought home, and the unseasonably mild weather had made the past couple of mornings especially productive. Gale was probably taking advantage of that and spending his time with Madge.
Peeta was back at the house with Mom. I'd said hello before I left, earning a smile and a wave in return. His smiles were coming easier lately, it seemed, and I hoped I had something to do with it. I had promised to be back in time to get him home, but decided to head back early. He hadn't spent much time downstairs yesterday while I was at the bakery, and I wanted to see him.
I picked my way back to the fence, carefully stashing my bow and quiver before breaking from the treeline and slipping through a hole in the fence. As I walk I realize the closer I get to home the happier I feel about the fact that Peeta will be there. I'd never looked forward to seeing Madge or Gale quite like this. It didn't lend any meaning to anything they had been implying though. Or to any of the things Rye had said to me before I left the bakery the other night. Did it?
I lost myself so deep in thought I didn't realize how close to home I was until Buttercup darted across my path. How the hell had that stupid cat gotten outside? The last time he had gotten out he went missing for nearly a week, and Prim was out of her mind with worry. I crouched down, trying to coax him to me, clicking my tongue against my teeth and holding out my fingers. He just sat down, looking me over for a moment before getting up and trotting away. I followed after him, chasing him around the side of the house and finally getting a hold on the scruff of his neck before he made it past the goat pen.
"You're a pain in the ass, cat." I held him up, frowning at him before wrapping both of my arms around him and getting as firm of a grip as I could. If I dropped him he'd just take off and I had no patience to chase after him. I climbed the back steps, pausing when I realized the window by the door was cracked open. That's how he got out, though how he managed to squeeze his mangy, fat ass through that tiny space I can't even imagine.
"So nothing else has changed there?" Mom asked, a few beats of silence passing. I leaned against the porch railing, waiting to hear where these questions would lead. What she'd bring up when I wasn't around. "And what about your sexual activity?" I nearly dropped Buttercup then and there.
"I—k-keep telling you I'm n-not," Peeta stuttered, obviously flustered, and obviously implying this isn't a new conversation. Why the hell was she asking about that?
"And I keep telling you I don't mean with other people," Mom retorted. Buttercup dug his claws into my shoulder in protest of my tightening grip on him.
"It's f-f-ine," he said, sighing. A full minute of silence passed. "I d-don't get why—there's no one—no need-"
"Peeta," Mom said, and I heard the slap of her notebook hitting the table. "This might not be a priority for you now, but it will be. Your body forms habits and your brain forms habits. We need to work on everything that you had before and build it back up little by little all together. I seriously doubt you want to let that particular issue go until you do find someone."
"I w-won't," he muttered. I frowned, resting my lips against the top of Buttercup's head. His tone of voice made my chest tighten.
"Peeta," Mom said, her voice soft. "You will. And whoever you do will be lucky to have you." He didn't respond, and I looked down at the cat, scratching the back of his neck and trying to figure out how long I should tastefully wait before going in. "Are you ready to get back to those questions?"
"D-don't have much of—a choice, do I?" he said, and I heard a humorless chuckle from my mother.
"Thank you," she said. I shifted, looking toward the window, grateful I was concealed. I wondered just how much I'd get away with listening to before I was either found out or found an appropriate moment to make an appearance. "Are you having any trouble getting erections?" There's a pause, and my eyes go wide. Why am I disappointed he didn't give a verbal answer? "And what about maintaining them?" Another pause. "Peeta, you don't have anything to be ashamed of, here. The medicines you're on can affect this, and your depression can as well, not to mention the injury itself. There's nothing wrong with you."
"No, I j-just don't—work," he snapped. Mom sighed.
"Are you still able to achieve orgasm?" mom asked. Peeta let out a pained little groan. "And is it still..."
"Disappointing?" he supplied. "Y-yes."
"Now, one more of your favorite subjects," Mom continued, and I knew that sarcastic tone meant more was about to come out of her that I did not want to hear. I yanked the door open, muttering to Buttercup before dumping him onto the floor, and making a show of sounding out of breath. Peeta stared at me with wide eyes. My mother looked up from the notebook in her lap, raising her eyebrows.
"You let the damn cat out," I snapped, pointing toward the window. "I just had to chase him halfway to the Harpers to get him back."
"I didn't think that was wide enough," she frowned, getting up to push it closed. The look on Peeta's face still hadn't changed, though he'd dropped his gaze to the floor. He must be afraid I overheard. I wonder how he'd feel if he knew I did. "It was getting too hot with that fire." She sighed, picking up a workbook from the table and passing it to Peeta. "I think that's enough questions for today. Why don't the two of you work on a few pages in this?"
I flashed a brief smile and draped my coat over the edge of the couch before sitting down beside him. He and I had steadily worked our way through a few pages of the book every week. Some of the exercises were painfully easy; drawings of objects or activities to be identified. The page he flipped to had alternating lists of numbers and words that I read aloud for him to repeat back from memory. It gave me a reason to keep some space between us and keep my eyes on the pages. Every time I looked up at him I felt my face get hot.
I focused on the book, on helping him, pushing everything I'd just heard out of my mind. By the time we started on the second exercise Peeta was struggling to concentrate, and he kept putting down the pencil to rub his hand and wrist. His fingers were trembling. After nearly twenty minutes of working through a simple page of matching similar words I couldn't take watching him anymore. He needed a break. I picked up the pencil, pulling the workbook into my lap and writing in the margin before passing it back to him.
Just fake it for a little longer, then I'll take you home.
A small smile spread across his face when he finished reading it, and he nodded. His posture relaxed a bit with the pressure of actually having to do something gone, and I glanced over at Mom. She was sitting at the end of the kitchen table, hunched over a book with her glasses perched at the end of her nose. I wondered how much longer we would have to wait before we could leave without drawing any annoyance from her. Buttercup leapt over the back of the couch, planting himself in between us, immediately bringing back everything I'd overheard and been forcing myself not to think about while sitting so close to Peeta. I got up from the couch, walking over to Mom and leaning against the kitchen table.
"Mom, he's exhausted. I'm going to take him home," I said. Mom glanced up at me, looking behind me for a moment before nodding.
"Okay," she said, turning her attention back to her book. "Should I expect you for dinner or is this going to be another long outing?" She smirked, and I rolled my eyes. I looked back at Peeta. He had Buttercup stretching out on his back on the couch, scratching the damn cat's belly and eliciting a purr so loud I could hear it from where I stood. He smiled before looking up at me, and I nodded to the door.
There was nothing to distract me during the walk home. The silence between the two of us that had grown comfortable in its rarity was suddenly horrendously awkward. The idea of sex was far from foreign to me. I'd heard more than I ever really wanted to from Madge about her and Gale, and even Rye kept making offhanded comments about him and Delly. The practicalities, though, were not anything that held my interest. With others or alone. I didn't even really see the appeal, which was something that had shocked Madge into speechlessness when she asked if I'd ever touched myself and all I had to say was that I didn't particularly care to. I was apparently alone in that, though. I was also trying very hard to keep the mental images of Peeta at bay, and it was only barely working.
"How are you feeling?" I tried, grimacing immediately at how it sounded. How was he feeling? I knew how he was feeling. And the soft, humorless bark of laughter I got in response told me he was thinking the exact same thing. If I could just get him talking I might be able to rid myself of this image of him in bed, on his back – "Mom said they want to get you back to school after winter break. Did they say anything to you about that?"
"Y-yeah," he said, looking down. "D-don't really—want to."
"Don't really blame you." I chewed my lip, looking at the ends of his blonde hair curling out from under the hat at the back of his neck. "Might not be a bad idea, though. I mean-" I cut myself off before I nearly repeated my mom's statement about forming habits and getting back to normal. Peeta just shook his head, slouching down in the chair a bit and looking off to the side. The rest of the walk passed in silence, and Peeta hesitated nervously in the mudroom when I folded up his wheelchair against the wall. The past few times I walked him home I stayed, but today he looked like he was fighting with the idea of it. And I definitely couldn't handle being alone with him upstairs after everything I'd listened to. He looked relieved when I said goodbye and that I'd see him tomorrow. I ducked out the back, blowing out a slow breath as I crossed the yard toward the alley to head home.
At school I found myself suddenly aware of just how many couples were around me. How many pairs there were walking down the hall holding hands and kissing in the hall between classes. When Madge and I sat down to lunch I found myself staring across the cafeteria at Thill Maynard and Meadow Poole, who were leaning close and talking quietly to each other. He whispered in her ear and she flushed, slapping his arm and laughing. She looked like an idiot.
"How the hell do people do this?" I snapped, gesturing toward them. Madge raised an eyebrow, turning to look over her shoulder and see what I was gesturing toward. Those stupid smiles hadn't left either Thill or Meadow's faces.
"Do what?" Madge turned back to me, an amused little smile creeping across her face. "Flirt?"
"I don't know, I guess," I frowned, watching them. Thill wrapped his arm around Meadow's shoulder, his smile shifting to something a little more self satisfied. "Yeah. Is that really what that is?"
"Is this seriously the first time you're paying attention?" Madge asked, glancing at the couple again. I shrugged. "If you're looking for an example those two are probably the shittiest one you could find in this cafeteria, he's been trying to get in her pants for almost a year. Kind of ironic she's been so uptight about it after that whole thing with the peacekeeper last year." Madge cast another glance over her shoulder.
"What thing with what peacekeeper?" I frowned.
"See? This is what I've been telling you. Forever. There is a whole world out there of stories and gossip and interpersonal relationships that you are missing out on because you're too cool to pay attention to your vagina," Madge said, raising her eyebrows. I just stared at her, my jaw slack, completely at a loss of what to say. "So is that changing?"
"Shut up," I snapped, rolling my eyes and looking away.
"Wonder why," she said, smiling to herself and looking down at her lunch. I huffed, cutting my eyes at her. Peeta had nothing to do with this, but I wasn't going to even bother trying to point that out to her.
"Were you that awful and stupid with Gale and I just never noticed?" I asked. Thill and Meadow caught my eye again. Her giggle was obnoxious.
"No, but we're a little weird," Madge shrugged. "Or a lot weird, I guess." On one of the rare days Gale turned up without me at the Undersee's back door with strawberries to sell Madge had invited him in, kissed him, and told him to stop dating Ada Brattice and start dating her instead. He did, less than a week later. "Normal people do that whole smiling and laughing and touching routine you've been giving the stink eye over there." She waved over her shoulder toward the couple behind her.
I frowned at them, trying to imagine myself doing any of the silly bullshit I saw Meadow doing. The way she kept nervously pushing her fingers into her hair at the side of her neck, the blush on her face, and the smile that wouldn't leave. Thill pecked a kiss against her cheek and she giggled furiously, shoving him away from her. There was no way I'd ever act that ridiculous.
After school I headed to the bakery, saying goodbye to Madge as she stopped to wait for Gale while I continued on toward town. Peeta was, fortunately, shut up in his room when I arrived. I wasn't quite prepared to see him again after yesterday. I worked with Twain, learning a new recipe in the lull between customers. Rye was nowhere to be found, and the break from his harassment was more than welcome.
"Katniss?" Twain said quietly, leaning against the door frame with his hands shoved into his pockets. I looked up form my work, raising my eyebrows. "Did something happen?"
"What do you mean?" I asked, my heart dropping. Was my eavesdropping somehow discovered?
"He just usually comes down to see you by now," he sighed, looking up the stairs. There'd been absolutely no sign of life from the second floor all afternoon. "I thought maybe something had happened yesterday to put him in even more of a funk than usual today."
"I don't think so," I said, shrugging and trying to keep my voice light. I could feel Twain's eyes on me, and I let out a tiny sigh of relief when the bell at the front door rang.
"Once Rye gets home, why don't you go check in on him," Twain said before disappearing into the storefront to help the customer that had walked in. I chewed the inside of my lip, looking toward the stairs, and wondered how the hell I was going to face him. And if it was going to be as weird as that walk home had been.
I had the prep work nearly finished and was in the middle of washing down the dishes from the afternoon when Rye finally turned up. He had a shit eating grin on his face, his hair even more of a mess than usual, and stood in the doorway by the mudroom, shucking his coat.
"Sorry I'm late," he called out to Twain.
"No you're not," came the response.
"I'm really not," Rye grinned at me, ducking back into the mudroom to hang up his coat. I just rolled my eyes. He was back in the kitchen a moment later, looking things over and watching me at the sink as he tied an apron around his waist. "So where are we at?"
"Just this and the last of the prep," I said, nodding toward the sink. "I think I heard your dad taking a cake order a few minutes ago, though."
"Whatever, I'm not doing that," Rye shook his head, nudging me away from the sink and taking over. I caught sight of an obviously fresh hickey on the side of his neck and stared at it for a minute, raising my eyebrows. "Jealous, are you, Catpiss? Just go upstairs and get your own."
"Fuck you, Rye." I took off my apron and whipped it at him before crossing the kitchen.
"And where are you going?" he smirked at me.
"Upstairs," I snapped, and climbed the stairs to the sound of his cackling. The second floor was dark, just a single light on in the living room. I moved carefully down the hall toward Peeta's bedroom. I listened for a moment and was met with nothing but silence. "Peeta?" I knocked on the door softly. A soft, indistinct answer drifted through the door back to me. "Can I come in?" Another soft murmur. It didn't exactly sound negative, though. I opened the door carefully, poking my head in. Peeta was lifting himself to sit against the headboard, his blankets bunched up around his waist.
"Hi," he said, rubbing his hand over his face as I stepped in and sat at the foot of his bed. The room was freezing. I rubbed my hands over my arms, and he murmured an apology before leaning over and pushing his window closed.
"Everything okay?" I asked. He shrugged, shifting a little and blowing out a breath. "Your dad's worried, and I got a little lonely down there today."
"I'm f-fine," he said quietly. "Haven't r-really—slept." With my eyes adjusted to the darkness of his room I could see the rings under his eyes and the exhaustion on his face. He was struggling with something more to say; I could see it in his expression. I waited, pushing my shoes off and tucking my feet up onto the bed, turning to face him. "Did um." He pressed his eyes closed. "Did you hear anyth-anything yesterday?"
"What do you mean?" I asked, though I knew exactly what he meant. And I most certainly did. I wasn't about to tell him that.
"Before you um—got home," he said, shifting uncomfortably and running his hand through the rumpled mess of his hair. "You didn't o-overhear anything?"
"No," I frowned, shaking my head and hoping that he'd buy it. "Was there something I was supposed to hear?" I raised an eyebrow.
"No," he said a little too forcefully. I bit my lip, mostly to hide the smile I could feel rising. He didn't seem to notice.
"That's not what was keeping you awake, was it?" I asked. Peeta hesitated for a moment before shaking his head and dropping his eyes to the floor. I wondered if he was lying and if it meant something more than just general embarrassment. He pressed his mouth into a hard line, still staring down. "Do you just want me to let you get some sleep?" He looked up at me, searching my face as if I'd give him his answer.
"I guess," he said softly.
"Are you going to come down tomorrow and see me?" I asked, and he frowned, confusion crossing his face for a moment.
"You—want me to?" he asked.
"Yes," I frowned a little, hating how genuinely mystified he sounded by the idea. "So say you will or tell me what's really keeping you awake."
"I-" he cut himself off, looking down at his hands, a small smile twitching briefly across his face. "I will."
"Okay," I slapped his leg lightly, pushing myself up from the bed.
"Kat?" he said, stopping me. I turned, looking down at him and raising my eyebrows. "Th-thanks. For coming up."
"You're my friend, of course I'm going to come check on you," I said. He smiled, looking down again. "See you tomorrow, Peet."
"Bye," he said quietly. I closed the door softly behind me, going back downstairs, flipping Rye off, and ducking into the storefront before he could get out any comments.
"How is he?" Twain asked, concern etched on his face.
"He's okay. Very, very tired," I said, looking out toward the front windows. A light snow had begun falling. "I think he just needs to sleep. I made him promise to come down tomorrow."
"Good," he nodded, sighing. "You ought to get going before that gets any worse. And take that bag on the worktable home to your mother."
"See you tomorrow," I said. Twain smiled at me, patting me on the shoulder as I turned to leave. I went into the mudroom, lifting my coat off one of the hooks and pulling it on.
"You made up your mind yet?" Rye asked as I moved back into the kitchen for the bag.
"About what?" I picked up the bag, frowning at him.
"You know what I mean," he cocked an eyebrow, looking me over. About Peeta. I just sneered at him, refusing to dignify that with an answer, and left through the back.
Peeta kept to his word. Shortly after I arrived he came down into the kitchen and sat at the worktable, offering a brief smile before turning his attention to Twain. Rye was forced to the front counter while Twain worked on the cake order that had been placed last night. A birthday cake. He kept insisting it wasn't anything terribly ornate, but seeing what he was doing made me wonder what would qualify as 'ornate' in this bakery. As much as I watched Twain, I watched Peeta. That job had been his, and something he was exceptionally good at, from everything both Rye and Twain had told me. He was frowning at the cake, the pastry bags, the bowls of frosting, and his father's hands as he worked. Was he thinking about the last time? His mother? What happened to him? Peeta looked over at me as I watched him, glancing down at my hands and raising his eyebrows. I'd completely forgotten about the dough I'd been kneading against the table, and I had to peel it away from my fingers.
"You should help me finish the prep work tonight," I said, leaning against the counter and watching Peeta examine the cake. Twain had gone to bed not too long ago, leaving Rye and I to close up on our own. Rye had taken advantage of the lack of supervision and stuck to the front, doing absolutely nothing to help clean the kitchen for the night. Peeta looked up at me, his expression almost startled. "I'll measure everything out, you put it together. It'll go faster that way."
"I- I guess," he said softly, nudging the cake stand a little further back on the counter top. I tugged the stool under the worktable out for him to sit, then ducking into the storeroom to retrieve the containers and ingredients we would need.
Rye hovered in the doorway as we worked, ignoring every glare I shot his way. Peeta never fully turned around to look back at him, but every so often he'd shift just enough to catch a glance at the doorway to the storefront out of the corner of his eye. He tensed more each time he saw Rye there, until I finally turned around, intent on chasing that little shithead off if I had to. It only took one step toward the doorway for him to back out of sight, hands raised. With the distraction gone I was able to shift my focus back to Peeta.
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