"You look exhausted," Madge said to Peeta as we sat down for lunch.
"Added a third c-class today," he said, rubbing his hand over his face. I scooted my chair a bit closer and took his other hand under the table. "It's—exhausting."
"Well, I bet Merx is behaving himself now, at least," Madge smirked, glancing back over her shoulder toward the merchant kids' table. His nose was still swollen and crooked, twin yellowing bruises circling under each eye.
"He's kept his mouth shut," I said, smirking and glancing at Peeta. I couldn't help but feel a little proud of myself.
"I heard somebody ask Lee Whitaker how it felt to be too much of a pussy to stand up to a girl," Delly said, biting back a smile. The four of us dissolved into half-smothered laughter for a moment. Delly and Madge settled into their own conversation, leaving Peeta and I to our own devices.
"You, um—might w-want to reconsider coming over t-today," Peeta said, letting go of my hand long enough to open his lunch bag and split the food between us. "Dad has a p-project for you."
"A project?" I raised an eyebrow. "He knows it's my day off, right?"
"Well, you d-don't have to," he shrugged, smirking down at the table. "But, um, once t-that office is cleaned out—Rye's moving int-to it."
"So he wants me to help clean out the office?" I asked. Peeta nodded. "So that you can have your own room?" He nodded again. "Can I start right now?" He laughed, bumping his shoulder against mine. "How bad is it in there?" Not once in the time I'd spent at the Mellarks had I seen that office door open. I'd certainly never seen any of them go in there. That had been Mrs. Mellark's domain.
"I d-don't think anything has b-been taken out—since I was b-born," he said, smirking before turning his attention back to his lunch.
"Hey, how's that kitten?" Madge asked. "Did you name him?"
"He's, um—good," Peeta smiled, scratching his fingers under the edge of his hat before smoothing it back down. "Haven't, um, figured out a n-name yet though."
"Oh my god," Delly slapped both hands against the table, a wide smile breaking out over her face. "Rye whined about it all day yesterday. I need to come visit; I want to see. He sounds so cute." The words poured out of her all at once. Peeta snorted, nodded, and started to laugh, leaning his elbows against the table and covering his face with one hand. Delly just looked confused. "What's so funny?"
"S-sorry," Peeta said, rubbing his hand over his eyes as he sat back. "I j-just forget how—excitable you are s-sometimes."
"I am not!" Delly straightened up indignantly. Madge turned toward her, cocking an eyebrow. Delly's shoulders sagged. "Okay, maybe a little."
Class slipped by without incident after lunch. Merx was nowhere to be found. Either his absence or my performance last week kept Verne quiet. I stole glances over my shoulder toward Peeta, smiling to myself when I caught him watching me. After school let out I walked with Delly toward town, barely listening to the steady stream of chatter coming out of her. Peeta had left before our last class of the day, leaving me without either him or Rye as a buffer. I couldn't find anything to say to her. She didn't seem to mind, or even really notice. We parted ways at the square. Peeta was sound asleep when I arrived at the bakery. After a few pleasantries and and a cupcake that I knew was meant to soften the proposition of this project, Twain led me upstairs.
"Okay," he stopped in front of the door to the office and dropped his hand onto the doorknob. "The only things we actually need to keep are the ledgers, and only going back five years. Got it?"
"Got it," I said. Five years? I thought Peeta had been exaggerating.
"Oh, and the invoices from last year," he added. "Any other bakery paperwork needs to go. As for the rest... I'll trust your judgment."
"What else is there?" I asked, raising my eyebrows.
"To be honest? I'm not sure." Twain pushed the door open, giving me space to step inside. The room was small and stuffy; the walls were lined with shelves and a wide, heavy desk against the wall under the window. The chair tucked beneath it was made of the same worn, dark wood. Every surface was covered in paper and notebooks, the shelves lined with books and boxes. There were a few bare spaces among the clutter, as if Mrs. Mellark had just cut out whatever she felt was hers and taken it when she left. Between that and the dust it was painfully obvious no one had spent any time in the room since she left. "There's still a few more weeks of cold left, so a lot of this we'll just use for fuel. There's some empty file boxes behind the desk, there. Use those for whatever we need to keep. There's a couple of empty boxes in the living room to fill with anything that can be burned. Once those are full the rest will just be garbage."
"Okay," I said, trying not to betray the vague horror I felt at just how big this task actually was. I didn't really anticipate this much work when Peeta mentioned it at school that afternoon.
"Sorry," Twain said sheepishly. He clapped me on the shoulder. "Thank you for doing this."
"It's fine," I said with a shrug. He nodded before turning to leave the room, and I sighed. Where the hell would I even start? I walked over toward the desk, pulling out the chair to sit down before looking over the papers sitting on top of it. "Okay," I muttered to myself, leaning forward to start sifting through everything in front of me.
Most of it was easy enough. Invoices from the bakery. Copies of their supply order forms. Invoices for customers. It honestly surprised me how many special orders they actually handled. Though I'd certainly seen them coming in and going out on a regular basis, much of that work was still Twain's doing and was handled before I even walked through the door. The amount of money that changed hands looked more staggering on paper than it felt while I stood behind the register.
They brought in a great deal of money, and the amount of it that went into paying for supply orders was lower than I expected it to be, even with the enormous tax that the Capitol levied on everything. From what I'd observed, though, the Mellarks were not nearly as well off as many of the other merchant families. Out of curiosity, I got up from the chair and crossed the room to a shelf lined with ledgers marked by year. I pulled one out and thumbed through it, and the reason quickly became clear.
Most of the families in town had run their businesses for generations, and the Mellarks were no exception. What I didn't realize, though, was that they didn't actually own the bakery. I only had a vague idea of how things were run in town, but I had always been under the impression that nearly everyone had managed to buy their homes and businesses from the Capitol. Some of these businesses were established before the Dark Days, and the bakery was among the older establishments still running. They still paid a mortgage to the Capitol that ate a huge portion of their profits every month, though. What was left after all of the expenses were accounted for seemed pitiful.
I closed the ledger and slid it back onto the shelf, chewing my lip for a moment before returning to the desk. As I worked, I turned all of this over in my head, wondering what had prevented them from being able to buy the place outright. It made me even more grateful that Dad had somehow managed to pay off our own house before he died.
Most of what I came across went into the boxes to be burned, though every once in a while I'd find a stack of neatly organized invoices to be filed away. There were a few personal odds and ends here and there; handwritten notes that had been mixed up with the order forms.
The Spencers need that order a day sooner than planned – canceled delivery. Will pick up.
Need more brown sugar next month, already out.
Phyl stopped in – bringing Darla for dinner Sunday.
Twain's handwriting was a stark contrast to how neatly scripted he piped lettering onto the cakes he decorated; sloppy and uneven. Mrs. Mellark wrote in a severe, angular cursive, though the only place I saw her writing was the order forms and invoices. I sorted through the drawers, the endless pages of print blending together. At the bottom of the second drawer I found a worn, yellowed piece of paper. It was folded into thirds, the creases frayed and the corners feathered. It was old and had obviously been held and reread countless times. I carefully unfolded it, recognizing Twain's writing immediately.
Lily,
I know this isn't what you wanted. It's okay. This certainly isn't what I wanted for you. We're too young and this is too fast. I should have been more careful. I'm sorry. I understand why you don't want to see me. I just hope I can persuade you to at least sit down and talk about this.
I'm sorry about what happened with your parents. They don't care for me and I know that plays a part in why you started seeing me to begin with – that's okay, too. Whatever they think of me isn't going to change what's happening or how I feel. When it comes down to it, Lily, this isn't about them. It's about you and I and that baby. If they want to be a part of that, they need to realize that they are not going about it the right way.
Come and see me. Please, Lil. I've already talked to my parents. You are more than welcome here. You can just show up when you're ready and you will never have to leave. My father thinks we should get married. I can't make that decision for us, and I certainly can't ask with the way things are. Come see me. We can talk things through. We can decide on these things together.
I might not be able to give you everything you wanted, but I at least want the chance to try. I can take care of you, Lily. You and our baby. If I do nothing else with the rest of my life I swear to you I'll do that much. And I will do everything I can to make you happy. I always will.
This can't be a tragedy forever, right?
I love you.
Twain
I stared down at the letter in my hand; my heart in my throat, trying to fit all this together. I had wondered, more than once, how on earth Twain found himself married to that shrew, but I never really gave it more than a passing thought. That letter made me wonder what she had been like. How did she respond? What happened with her parents? She clearly accepted his proposal. And from the state of the letter, she'd read this many, many times over the years. What went through her mind when she did? Did she mean to leave it behind? I pulled my feet up onto the edge of the chair, resting my chin on my knees, and read it again.
"How's this bullshit going, Catpiss?" Rye said. I jumped a solid six inches off of the chair; I hadn't even heard him on the stairs. I folded the letter and buried it in the middle of a stack of papers to be filed away.
"You scared the shit out of me," I muttered, shooting him a brief glare as he crossed the room and hoisted himself up to sit on the desk.
"I'm sorry, did I interrupt you?" he asked, laying the sarcasm on and cocking his head to one side. "Wading through a couple decades worth of compulsive hoarding up here?" I rolled my eyes, turning away from him and back to the open drawer I'd been sifting through. He lifted the edge of the stack of papers on the desk, fanning through them idly with his thumb. "Dad told me to come help."
"Are you going to help or are you going to sit there?" I asked, lifting a folder out of the drawer and setting it down on the desk.
"Okay, slave driver," Rye scoffed, getting down from the desk and turning toward one of the bookshelves. "You touched any of this yet?"
"No, just the desk," I glanced over my shoulder to see Rye pulling down one of the ledgers, wrinkling his nose at the dust thrown into the air. "Did he tell you what to save?"
"Um, probably not the shit that's older than I am," he held the book open toward me so I could see the dates. I chuckled and turned back to my own stack of papers. We worked in silence for a while, punctuated by the harsh slap of Rye tossing old ledgers and books into the box by the door. I winced every time he did it, thinking of Peeta trying to sleep down the hall, but Rye ignored my scolding.
"How long has all of this been in here?" I asked. The box of papers I'd pulled down from one of the shelves was nearly six years old.
"I'm pretty sure this has never not been an office," Rye said, frowning at the pile of papers on the floor in front of him. "I have also never actually seen anything get thrown out of this room. None of us were really allowed in here, anyway."
"Why not?" I shifted the box to one side and pulled down another.
"Mom pretty much just locked herself away in here when she didn't want to deal with us," he said, the tone of his voice shifting to something I didn't recognize. "Which was. Y'know. Most of the time." I frowned, unsure of what to say, watching him as he cast a cursory glance over the first few pages of the pile in front of him before hefting the entire thing into the box to be burned. "She wasn't always awful. Peet doesn't really remember. Shit, I barely do. But she was okay when we were little. It got worse as we got older." I thought of that letter and glanced toward the file box on top of the desk where it had ended up, still sandwiched between order forms from last June. Rye scratched his hand through his hair and sighed. "I mean. She smacked us sometimes but never anything serious. Then I was, I don't know, seven, I think. Peet had just learned to write. She had this fucking rocking chair in the living room, and I carved his name into the seat. I don't even know why. Just to be a dick. I made sure it was sloppy, so it looked like it was him. I think I just wanted to see what happened." He paused and rubbed his hand over his face before frowning down at his hands. "She beat the shit out of him. Gave her five year old son a black eye and a split lip. And it was my fucking fault. Just kept getting worse after that, and she always went after him. After that, I-"
Rye cut himself off and shook his head, looking over at me as if he'd forgotten I was even sitting there. He took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders to rid himself of the tension that had settled there. I was afraid to even open my mouth, so I just watched in silence as he pushed up to his feet.
"We should just get rid of fucking everything in this room," he muttered, grabbing one of the full filing boxes of documents Twain wanted saved and carrying it from the room. I listened to him walk down the hall, the thud of the box dropping against the floor, and a door closing. His voice was a low murmur through the walls, Peeta's answers even quieter, and I couldn't make out what they were saying. I had already learned far more about the Mellarks than I ever thought possible in a single afternoon. I continued to work until I heard the bedroom door open, and Rye passed by the office door to go downstairs.
I picked myself up out of the mess I'd made on the floor, brushing the dust out of my clothes. Most of what was left would end up as trash, I was sure. I'd found several personal odds and ends mixed in with things, though, and I didn't want to just throw it all away. Tossing out family history alongside bakery paperwork didn't sit right with me. I'd started a separate box that was nearly full of letters, recipes, and even drawings. After organizing it as quickly as I could, I left the room, closed the door behind me, and went down the darkened hall to Peeta's room.
"Peet?" I nudged the door open gently. It was too dark to even really see into the room, but I heard him shift in bed and murmur quietly. I stepped in and closed the door behind me, shuffling my feet to keep from tripping over the clothes strewn across the floor that I couldn't see. My eyes adjusted to the dark, and I could make out his shape as he shifted to sit up against the wall.
"Hey," he said.
"Hi," I climbed up onto the bed to sit beside him, leaning in close.
"How's um—it g-going in there?" he asked, taking my hand and weaving our fingers together.
"It's okay." I laid my head on his shoulder. "There's a lot of shit in there."
"Yeah," Peeta half chuckled, slipping into silence.
"You okay?" I asked, lifting my head to look at him. He didn't answer, just looked down at our hands and chewed his lip. I shifted, angling myself toward him. "Hey."
"I just—wish he hadn't t-told you that," he said softly, the corners of his mouth twisting down for the briefest moment.
"It's okay," I said as I squeezed his hand. I tried to find something to say and drew a complete blank, so I slipped my arms around his waist and laid my head down on his shoulder. After a moment he put his arm around me and I felt his lips against my hair. A soft meow broke the silence, and Peeta chuckled quietly as I straightened up. "Where is he?"
"He um—he sleeps und-derneath the bed a lot," Peeta pushed away from the wall, resting one hand on my leg as he leaned over the edge of the bed and scooped the kitten up off the floor. He nuzzled against the top of its head. "Don't you, Buddy?"
"Buddy?" I smirked. Peeta settled back against the wall and chuckled, setting the kitten down in my lap.
"It was, um—a joke at first," he shrugged. "But it stuck." The kitten sniffed at the hem of my shirt before jerking back and unleashing a series of sneezes, shaking his head as he did.
"I'm sorry, Buddy, it's dusty in there," I said, scratching along his back. The kitten turned away from me and made his way into Peeta's lap. He immediately curled up and settled into a contented purr. "I don't think he likes me."
"He's a little c-clingy," Peeta said. I laid my head on his shoulder, watching the cat blink itself to sleep. Peeta let out a soft, deep sigh.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"I g-guess," he said. I straightened up and turned to look at him. He wasn't. Any answer but 'yes' was as good as a 'no'. He glanced at me before looking down at the kitten, taking a breath as he sorted out what he had to say. "It's just—strange, I guess. No one ever t-talks about her. And she's j-just—gone. Your mom t-tries to help but—she's not—she wasn't—fuck." He paused, rubbing his hand over his eyes and back through his hair. His hand lingered at the scar, and the look on his face grew distant and sad. "The last t-time I saw my m-mom was when she was—raising that rolling p-pin."
"Peeta," I said softly. He bit down hard on his lip. My heart tightened.
"I j-just don't—know how to deal with that," he said, his voice quiet and shaky. I took a breath, hoping something to say would come to me and drawing an utter blank. What could I say? How could any input I had help him with this? He clearly needed to talk, but I was not at all capable of doing anything more than sitting and listening. Was that even good enough? I felt tears welling as his face twisted and moved myself closer, laying my knees against his lap and taking his hand in both of mine. "Right b-before it, um, happened, we had a t-test. In history. I g-got an A. My f-first one. Ever." He paused, a smile flitting across his features. "She was p-proud. Even b-bragged about it to a few c-customers. Made my favorite d-dinner. It was nice. And th-then two weeks later she—almost k-killed me. I don't—I j-just don't understand."
"I'm sorry," I said quietly, unsure of what else I could possibly say. He just shrugged, pressing his eyes closed as he started to cry. I swore quietly under my breath and put my arms around him, pulling him against me. Peeta looped his arms around me and buried his face against my shoulder, a few quiet sobs leaking out of him. I rubbed his back, laying my cheek against his hair and doing my best not to cry with him. After a few minutes he pulled away, wiping his face and mumbling a red-faced apology.
"Th-thank you," he said. "For staying."
"Of course I stayed," I said, leaning forward and kissing him softly. "I wish I didn't have to go. Are you going to be okay?"
"Yeah," Peeta took my hand, weaving our fingers together and squeezing it gently before lifting my knuckles to his lips.
"Are you sure?"
"I'll b-be okay," he said, flashing me a brief, but genuine, smile. I kissed him again for good measure, drawing a chuckle out of him that vibrated against my lips. I left the bakery with a smile on my face, but it faded quickly. I hated to see him cry. Hated that I couldn't do anything to change what he was feeling, or to make any of this better for him. The more I learned about his mother the less prepared I felt to help him with any of it. I could listen. I could hold him when he cried. But what on earth could I say? It ran too deep for him, for all of them, deeper than I even realized, and the only thing I wanted to do was track down Lilith Mellark and find some way to hurt her as badly as she'd hurt her family. I lost myself so deep in thought I didn't realize I had made it home until my feet hit the front steps.
"We had dinner without you," Prim said as soon as I walked through the door, raising her chin as she carried her plate from the table to the sink. "You're late."
"Sorry," I said, hanging my coat on the wall. "I was with Peeta."
"You're always with Peeta," she rolled her eyes. "Mom even made me leave dessert for you. I didn't think you should get any for making us wait, and you spent your whole afternoon in the bakery, anyway." She dropped her dishes into the sink before spinning around on her heel and stalking into our bedroom. I didn't even have time to get out a response. Mom sighed, glancing over her shoulder at Prim before opening one of the cabinets.
"Someone's a little jealous," she said, stepping back in front of the stove with a bowl in her hand to fill with stew. She nodded toward the table. "Sit."
"I really didn't mean to be so late," I said, pulling out my chair and dropping down into it. Mom set the bowl down in front of me, passed me a spoon, and took her own seat.
"That's okay," she said. "That's not what I wanted to talk to you about." I just raised my eyebrows, taking a cautious bite of dinner. "When were you planning on telling me what actually happened to your hand?"
"I told you, I hurt it at the bakery," I dropped my eyes to the table, hoping she wouldn't see through the lie.
"Katniss."
"What?"
"You broke Merx Miller's nose," she said; her voice flat, her expression tight. I just looked at her for a moment before continuing to eat. "You have nothing to say for yourself?"
"What do you want me to say?" I dropped my spoon into the bowl. "That I'm sorry? I'm not sorry."
"You know better than to behave like that. You're lucky the school isn't taking disciplinary action," she raised an eyebrow. I just rolled my eyes.
"All of the shit Merx and his asshole friends have been doing to Peeta and they didn't even blink," I picked my spoon up again and resumed eating. I only managed a few bites before the thought caught up with me and I lost my appetite. I dropped my spoon again, letting it clatter against the bowl. "It'd be pretty fucked up if they tried saying anything to me about sticking up for him."
"Katniss," Mom snapped. "Language. Honestly, what's gotten into you? Are you picking up any more of Rye's bad habits that I need to know about?"
"Are you actually mad at me for standing up for him?" I leaned back in my chair, folding my arms across my chest.
"No, I'm not," Mom's expression softened. "I only wish you could have found a more appropriate way to do so. And you lied to me about it. Did you really think I wouldn't find out that you didn't get hurt at the bakery?"
"So you're mad at me for lying?"
"Yes."
"Shouldn't you be happy that I lied?" I tried, hoping it would just fluster her. "I mean, since it shows I knew that what I did was wrong, proves I have a conscience, and that I was worried about what you'd think?"
"Kat," Mom sighed, smoothing her hair away from her face. "I think it's wonderful that you care about Peeta so much. I do, however, think you can find more appropriate ways to defend him when the need arises."
"Yes, mother," I rolled my eyes; a gesture she ignored as I leaned forward and picked at the rest of my dinner.
"Was everything okay over there?" Mom asked, shifting in her chair and plucking at her sweater.
"I guess. Kind of an emotional day," I glanced up at her. She nodded.
"Twain mentioned he would need someone to deal with that room," she said, twisting her mouth to one side for a moment. "How are things with Peeta?"
"Fine," I set my spoon down. I didn't trust her with the subject, and hadn't since that humiliating speech she'd held both Peeta and I captive for. The thought of that stupid sex talk still twisted my gut into a knot.
"I hope you're being careful with him."
"Mom," I groaned, dropping my head back. "Could you please just... not?"
"I didn't mean that," she chuckled. "Though since you brought it up; you're still too young but if anything goes on, you better have been paying attention to what I told the two of you."
"Mom," I pressed my hands over my face, trying to will that event out of existence.
"What I really meant was that he has a long way to go," Mom shifted forward, leaning against the edge of the table. "He's made incredible progress, and no matter what you might think you really have helped him with that, but his mind just isn't what it was."
"Do you—Mom! Do you think I'm taking advantage of him?" I folded my arms across my chest, my lip curling at the idea.
"Katniss, you have," she paused, taking a breath and looking off to one side before turning back to me. "A very strong personality. And he does get overwhelmed easily."
"Oh my god," I said quietly, closing my eyes. What the hell was she thinking? A moment of silence passed before I opened my eyes. She was just sitting there smiling at me. "What?"
"It's good to see you caring about someone like this," she said, her voice soft and warm. I just raised an eyebrow. "Even though it's brought a whole new set of worries that I thought I'd be spared until Prim gets to be your age."
"You didn't think I'd date either," I deadpanned. A faint smirk twitched across Mom's mouth and that was all the confirmation I needed. "Do you all think there's something wrong with me? It was bad enough when it was just Prim's little comment and Gale's stupid confession in the woods, but now you, too? What the hell, Mom?"
"I'm just saying," she smiled. "You've never had any interest in boys at all, aside from hunting with Gale."
"I have never been interested in Gale," I frowned at the idea.
"My point exactly," she said. I nudged my bowl to the side.
"Can I ask you something?" I chewed my lip, hesitating to even continue.
"Of course."
"Did you know Peeta's mom? When you were younger, I mean," I said.
"Lilith? Not particularly well. She was in the class below mine. We rarely crossed paths," Mom studied me thoughtfully for a moment. "Why do you ask?"
"Just wondering, I guess," I shrugged, leaning forward and crossing my arms against the edge of the table. "Was she always, um-"
"The way she turned out?" Mom cut me off, raising an eyebrow. "No. She was very quiet when we were in school. Kept to herself, for the most part. She always seemed sad. I don't think she had a particularly good home life." I nodded, keeping my eyes on the table and fitting that in with what I'd learned about her. "Is there anything in particular that brought that on? Has Peeta been talking to you about her?"
"A little," I admitted.
"I know it's a lot to handle," she said, ducking her chin to catch my eye. "If you need to talk about any of it, you know you can come to me, right?" I nodded, though I doubted I'd actually take her up on the offer. "Would you like dessert? There's still a bit of pie left, in spite of Prim's wishes."
"No thanks," I chuckled. "I still have some homework to do. Put it in with her lunch tomorrow." Mom smiled as I stood up from the table, stopping to pick up my books on the way to the bedroom.
Working through the office took days before it even looked like I'd made a significant dent in the mess. The further back I got the more personal things I found mixed in with the business paperwork, and I couldn't bring myself to throw any of that away. We had next to nothing of family history. Mom had nothing to bring with her from town, and Dad had been too practical to save much in the way of mementos. All I had left of him were his jacket, his bows, and the skills he taught me. His parents passed before I was old enough to truly know them, and they had nothing. The Mellarks had history tucked away in the pages of ledgers and stacks of invoices. They had roots in this bakery and a solid sense of where they came from. I couldn't help but feel a little jealous of that.
"Hey, Katniss," Darla poked her head into the room halfway through my third day. As I looked up from the pile that had built up around me she stepped into the room, her eyebrows creeping up to her hairline. "Wow."
"Hi," I said, tossing another fistful of papers into the trash box. "Is that a good wow or a bad wow?"
"A good one," she laughed softly. "And god love you for taking this on. Though I think I have a pretty good idea why," she smirked and winked at me.
"Shut up," I mumbled, smiling as I did. I could feel myself blushing and ducked my chin to hide it.
"Trust me, I'm well aware of how hard privacy is to come by around here," Darla chuckled, turning toward a nearly empty set of shelves and wiping her fingers across the wood. She frowned down at them, rubbing them against her thumb. "How about I help you out for a bit once I get the laundry going?"
"That would be great," I said. The help was more than welcome. Rye hadn't set foot back in the room since that first day, and I didn't expect him to until it was empty. Though Twain checked in from time to time, his days were too busy to pitch in. More often than not he came up to ask me to help out downstairs.
Darla returned a short while later and immediately set to work wiping down every surface in the room with a damp cloth. She held it up to me as she finished; it had gone from white to a dingy black as she cleaned, and she skipped one wall of the room altogether. One I hadn't even started on. She parked herself on the floor across from me and pulled a stack of papers closer to her to start going through them.
"Oh my god," she paused, staring down at the pile she'd managed to work about a quarter of the way through. "Wow. Look at this." She picked up a small piece of thick paper and leaned forward to pass it to me. A photograph. I'd hardly ever seen any. Cameras were rare, and the process to actually turn the film inside into something like this was expensive and difficult. Madge had a camera, but even she avoided using it for the most part. I took it from her, staring at it for a moment.
"Oh my god, is that Twain?" I glanced at Darla as she nodded and grinned at me. He was young, not much older than Peeta and myself. He was dressed in a suit, his arm around a petite young woman in a white dress. Proof Lilith Mellark had not only been beautiful once, but also had the ability to smile. Twain looked exactly like Peeta. A little taller, not quite as broad in the shoulders, but otherwise identical, right down to the crooked half smile on his face. Their toasting. That had to have been when the picture was taken. I thought back to the letter I'd found as I studied the photograph and noticed the faint bump in the front of Lilith's dress. She'd been pregnant. I passed the photograph back to Darla.
"I ought to take this home and frame it," she said, looking down at it. "Hang it somewhere Lilith can see just to make her feel like garbage about her life the next time she stops by."
"You still see her?" I asked, my tone far more abrasive than I meant it to be. "Why?"
"It's hardly something either of us enjoy," Darla said, blowing out a puff of air. "She was a good mother once. Peeta and Rye didn't get much of that from her, but Phyl did. For a while, at least. She gave him all of the good she had left, I think. That ran out long ago, obviously." She paused, looking down at the picture thoughtfully. "He wants to believe the best of her. I think he needs to, in a way. Needs to find whatever is left of who she used to be. Who she was here." Darla holds up the picture briefly before setting it aside on a shelf.
"What about your son?" I thought back to what Phyl had said when Peeta and I had dinner with them; the look on his face when he got up and left the table with Little Twain in his arms.
"That never leaves my mind," Darla said sadly. "Phyl would never allow anything more to happen to his family, though. He'd drop her without a second thought if she even tried." A faint smile crossed Darla's face for a moment. "The last time we saw her he demanded an explanation. She had made some comment about Twain, and Phyl just lost it. He does have a bit of her temper at times. He called her a monster. She was in tears before he even finished his tirade. God, that was weeks ago. I haven't even seen her out in town since."
"I don't know how she even shows her face anywhere," I frowned, looking back down at the pile in front of me. For a moment I considered telling her about the letter and asking for the full story. The sound of Twain's voice downstairs pushed the thought from my mind. It wasn't my place to ask, and I can't imagine how he'd feel if he knew I'd found that letter. Or how he'd react if he even knew it still existed. The dryer buzzed down the hall. Darla excused herself, brushing the dust off her knees as she left the room.
The quiet murmur of voices down the hall distracted me from the mix of letters and old tax forms I was attempting to sort through. I arched my back, rubbing my hands over my face and taking a moment to stretch. With a perky little mewl Buddy bounded into the room, pulling up short at the sight of the boxes around me.
"Buddy, get back here," Peeta said, turning into the doorway. He stopped and leaned against the frame with one hand. The cat ignored him and sniffed curiously at the boxes, the little stub of his tail twitching back and forth. Peeta stared into the room, his eyes lingering on the now-empty desk by the window. "Um. D-Darla kicked us out to wash t-the sheets."
"That's okay," I smiled at him, pushing to my feet and brushing the dust off my hands. I scooped the kitten up off of the floor as I crossed the room to him. "I could use a break."
Peeta nodded vaguely in response. His eyes were out of focus, trained on some invisible point in the room, his hands trembling slightly. I reached out and touched his forearm. He startled, jerking out of his daze and looking at me.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, um." Peeta bit down on his lip and brushed his hand through his hair. His fingers paused on the scar at the back of his head. "It's just... d-different."
"Good different or bad different?" I asked, searching his face. I honestly couldn't imagine that getting rid of the clutter that so clearly reminded all of them so much of the former Mrs. Mellark would be anything but good. After hearing Darla explain the complexities of Phyl's relationship with his mother, though, I had no idea what to make of how Peeta felt about this.
"I'm—um—I d-don't know," Peeta said quietly. I watched him for a moment, trying to read his expression. He pressed his eyes closed, turning his head to disguise the twitch in the side of his face and took a deep breath. The picture Darla had found was sitting on top of the shelves closest to Peeta. He took a cautious step into the room and reached for it, frowning as he picked it up. "I've n-never seen this. I didn't—even know there were any p-pictures of them."
I studied Peeta as he studied the picture. His jaw tensed; his mouth drawing into a tight line. I hooked my arm through his, wanting to ask what he thought of it but unsure how he would react. I moved closer to him, looking down over his shoulder at the picture in his hand. Twain really did look exactly like Peeta in it; he had the same easy, unguarded smile I sometimes saw on Peeta. I imagined that was far more common before he was injured. I thought back to the night we had dinner with Phyl and Darla, to what he'd said on the walk home. That he'd wanted to be like his father. I wondered how alike they truly were before their lives had been changed so drastically. Peeta moved to set the photograph back down, and I pressed a kiss to the corner of his jaw.
"Let's sit," I suggested, nodding toward the couch. Peeta just chewed on his lip, but followed me into the living room all the same. I wanted to ask him what he was thinking. Maybe even get him to talk about his mother again. As soon as we sat down the kitten scrambled out of my arms and into Peeta's lap. He smiled, though looked completely worn out. "Still exhausted?"
"Yeah," he slouched down, running his knuckles over the kitten's throat. Its purring filled the room; it was entirely too loud for such a tiny little animal. "I g-got a little sleep—not enough."
"Well, tell Darla to hurry up so you can get back in bed," I smirked, shifting a little closer to him and combing my fingers through his tousled hair.
"Hey!" Darla called from down the hall. "I do this out of the kindness of my heart, you know. The three of you can wallow in your own filth if you don't like my pace." Peeta smiled, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. I could feel myself blushing and dropped my forehead against his shoulder. Darla rounded the corner into the living room a moment later with a basket of laundry balanced against her hip. She set it down on the coffee table with a wink. "Feel free to help."
"You d-don't want me folding—laundry," Peeta said, glancing up at her with a smirk.
"Then you just sit there and keep that cutie pie from shedding all over your clean clothes," she nodded toward the cat as she began to fold. Peeta chuckled to himself as I shifted forward to help. "I will say though, someone's been taking better care of things lately."
"D-Darla—don't," he said, his cheeks reddening.
"Hey, credit where credit's due," she said before looking over at me. "Most of that mess was Rye's. Enjoy it while he still thinks he needs to impress you. Once that goes out the window there's no getting it back."
"Stop," Peeta laughed, rubbing his hand over his face. He was blushing furiously. I smiled, bumping my knee against his to get him to look up at me. He just shook his head, laughing to himself before turning his attention back to the kitten.
Once she was through with the laundry, Darla turned her whirlwind toward the office. With her help we got the last of it sorted and cleared out long before I even thought possible. She swept out the room as Rye and I brought the last of the boxes to be thrown out to the back porch. When we returned we found Twain leaning in the doorway of the cleared out room, talking with Darla. He grinned at me, hooking his arm around my shoulders and pulling me to his side.
"Thank you, Katniss," he said, pecking a kiss against my hair. "I know this wasn't easy."
"It was fine," I shrugged as he squeezed my shoulder before letting go. I left shortly after dinner with a promise to return in the morning. Rye rolled his eyes when Twain pointed out I didn't work on Sundays. Whether or not I worked, I wanted to see Peeta.
When I returned the next day I found him sitting in the kitchen with Delly, picking at a tray of cinnamon rolls on the table between them. She beamed at me as I paused in the mudroom to hang up my coat, greeting me entirely too enthusiastically as I sat down.
"Hey," I kissed Peeta's cheek as I pulled out the stool beside him.
"Hi," he smiled at me, sliding me a napkin with a cinnamon roll sitting on top of it. Delly hunched up her shoulders as she watched us, grinning from ear to ear. Peeta gave her a look, opening his mouth to say something that was cut off by a scrape, a bang, and a muffled string of curses from the second floor.
"Did they already start moving everything?" I asked.
"Twain made Rye get up early and clean out the ovens so you wouldn't try to," Delly smirked, glancing over her shoulder toward the stairs. "And Peeta is refusing to let me meet his new friend."
"I'm n-not bringing him d-down here," Peeta said, rolling his eyes.
"It's Sunday!" Delly argued. "You're closed. There's no baking going on in here. What's the big deal?"
"He's not—allowed," Peeta said.
"Well, I'm not allowed up there," Delly frowned. "So go get him."
"Even with Twain up there?" I raised an eyebrow. Delly clamped her mouth closed, her cheeks flushing red. Peeta snorted, pressing his knuckles against his mouth to muffle his laughter.
"Shut up," Delly folded her arms over her chest, trying—and failing—to stop herself from smiling. "I'll tell Twain what the two of you get up to in that room."
"What have you told her?" I turned to Peeta, and his eyes went wide. His jaw worked uselessly for a moment before he gave up and shrugged. "Peeta." He took a breath, looking from me to Delly and back again before sliding off of his stool. He muttered something about the kitten before heading for the stairs.
"Don't be mad," Delly said as Peeta disappeared to the second floor. "I sort of made him tell me. And he didn't tell me much. It's just really sweet. The two of you, I mean. He's loved you forever."
"Loved?" I echoed.
"Don't tell him I said that," she leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. "He has, though. And now you're here and it's so obvious you care about him so much and it's just so sweet." She sighed, cocking her head to one side.
"Okay," I said, letting out a self conscious laugh. Peeta returned a moment later with the kitten draped over the crook of his arm. Delly turned around, pressing her hands over her mouth before holding out both arms and making grabbing motions with her hands.
"Ohmygod he's so cute," Delly all but squealed as Peeta let her take the kitten from his arms. "Buddy, right?"
"Yeah," Peeta sat back down beside me and looped his arm around my waist. "Just d-don't put him down."
"You were serious about that? " I looked over at Peeta. "The name?" He chuckled, snagging his lip between his teeth.
"I t-told you," he said. "It stuck." I laughed, leaning against him and pulling apart the roll he set in front of me. Delly was entirely too preoccupied with the kitten to have any part in the conversation, leaving Peeta and I to our own devices. We talked idly for a while, occasionally listening to the commotion upstairs. Eventually Delly reluctantly returned the kitten to Peeta's arms, babbling something about going to see Madge and hugging us both before fluttering out the back door.
"I kind of want to see how things are going up there," I said, glancing toward the stairs. The racket had died down, and I assumed that meant they were nearly finished.
"Let's go see," Peeta said, shifting Buddy to one hand and taking mine with the other. He let go when we reached the stairs, pulling himself up by the banister. His balance had gotten much better, and he moved more quickly up the stairs than I was used to from him. We found Twain standing in the hall with a mug in his hands and a smirk on his face.
"You know this fucking room is smaller, right?" Rye snapped, still out of sight in what was now his bedroom. "How the hell is that fair?"
"Watch your language," Twain responded, sighing and shaking his head. "And you know what's not fair? Spending my one day off hauling furniture around for my kid without so much as a thank you, you ingrate."
"Oh, thank you," Rye spat sarcastically.
"Get out here and thank Katniss for clearing the room out, too," Twain winked at me.
"Hey, I helped," Rye appeared in the doorway, glancing over at me and folding his arms across his chest.
"You carried one box out," I corrected.
"And l-left it in the hall for—three days," Peeta added.
"Whatever," Rye rolled his eyes before turning to me. "Thanks."
"Yeah, you're welcome," I deadpanned. Peeta chuckled quietly.
"Well," Twain sighed. "I'm going over to the Cartwright's. Stay out of trouble."
"I will," Rye said. "I don't know about these two." Twain just shook his head, draining his mug as he disappeared into the kitchen. Peeta led the way down the hall to his bedroom.
"Wow," I said, standing in the center of the room and looking around. "It looks... so much bigger than I thought it was."
"It's so—empty," Peeta sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the space where Rye's had been. The kitten climbed out of his arms, jumped to the floor, and cautiously approached the newly emptied side of the room. Peeta retained the dresser, though the brief glance I'd given Rye's new bedroom as I passed it in the hall told me they'd scrounged up another from somewhere for him. How they managed to successfully divide any clothing I will never know. I had seen the same clothes on both of them. The last time I had taken Peeta's shirt off, the one that he had snatched off of the floor and pulled back on afterward was one that I'd seen Rye wearing the previous day.
"Aren't they going to get your desk out of the basement?" I closed the door before crossing the room to drop down onto the bed beside him. He nodded as I leaned against him. "That will take up some space."
"I g-guess," he said, chewing on his lip.
"You don't like the change," I said. He shook his head. "I bet I could make you feel better about it."
"D-do you?" he said, looking over at me, a faint smile spreading across his face. I returned it before leaning in to kiss him, opening my mouth against his as he leaned back, hooking an arm around me to pull me down with him. I settled myself on top of him, combing my fingers through his hair and kissing him lazily. I took my time deepening it, running my tongue along his lip and sucking at it for a moment. Peeta tightened his arms around me, hugging my body tight against his. I smiled into the kiss, running my knuckles along his jaw. The taste of cinnamon and icing still clung to his tongue, and I savored it as he kissed me, his fingers working into my hair.
Peeta took a shuddering breath, slipping his hand beneath my shirt and smoothing his palm across my back. I could feel him stiffening between us, sending that wave of dizziness over me that I'd tried so hard to recreate on my own. I was flushed and hot in an instant, and I wanted more. I shifted, planting my knees on either side of his hips to get enough purchase to lift myself up and pull off his shirt. Peeta slid his hands over my thighs, whimpering quietly when I leaned back down to kiss him again. He lifted his hips, pressing himself between my thighs, and I echoed his noise. His hands found their way under my shirt as I shifted my kisses to his neck, only pulling back long enough for him to pull it off over my head. The heat of his skin against mine made my heart pound. His hands smoothed over my back and he bent his knees, the tops of his thighs lifting up against my ass. I arched my back, the movement rolling my hips against his.
"Katniss," he gasped, both his hands shifting up my back. I murmured against his neck in response, still kissing and sucking the cord that stood out when he turned his head. His fingers slid under the band of my bra. His voice was a hoarse whisper when he spoke. "C-can you—take th-this off?" I pulled back to look at him, my full weight coming to rest on his hips as I sat up. His eyelids fluttered briefly and I chewed on my lip, considering his request for only a moment before nodding. I took a deep breath, wondering just how flushed I really was, and reached behind me to unhook my bra. Peeta sucked in a breath, reaching for the straps to slide them down my arms.
He pressed his tongue between his lips as he looked at me, his hands hovering at my hips. His face was splotchy and red; his lips full and wet as he blew out a slow breath. I took one of his hands and lifted it to my breast, covering it with my own and squeezing lightly. He swore quietly, swallowing hard as I set my hands on his chest. He cupped my breast in his hand, shifting it to pinch my nipple lightly between his fingers. The gentle tug he gave sent a jolt through me. It was all I could do just to keep my eyes open. I didn't want to look away from his face.
Peeta looked up at me, his breathing carefully even, and wrapped his arms around me again, pulling me down against his chest. He kissed me slowly, his tongue sweeping through my mouth, and turned to one side. I shifted off of him, settling myself onto the mattress beside him and letting my hand come to rest on his waist. He left me gasping for air when he pulled away, trailing his lips along my jaw and resting his forehead on my shoulder, looking down between us. He palmed my breasts gently; first one, then the other. He rubbed his fingers over my nipples, drawing a sharp gasp from me. I had no idea this could feel so good. After a few minutes he draped his arm around me, pulling me to him until my chest was flush with his before kissing me. He was careful to keep his hips away from mine, and I wanted that back. I wanted to feel him against me; wanted to figure out what on earth it was about him that made that pressure feel so good when I fell so short of it on my own. I reached between us, sliding my fingers over his belly lightly and covering the front of his pants with my hand. He was hot and hard, and he pulled away from the kiss as I curled my fingers around him, feeling him through the fabric.
"Wh-what—ar-are you d-d-doing?" he stuttered, his voice shaky. His tone was not at all what I expected; it was too nervous and soft. I jerked my hand away, looking up at him with wide eyes.
"Oh my god—I'm, um, I'm sorry," I stammered, drawing my hands against my chest and pulling back. I went too far. My mother was right; I was taking advantage of him. "I didn't—I was just. Fuck, I'm sorry."
"N-n-no," he pressed his eyes closed and swallowed. "It's um—I—um. D-don't, um, stop. I j-just wasn't, um, ex-exp—expecting th-that."
"You, um, you want me to do that again?" I asked, biting down on my lip. He nodded, drawing a deep breath before opening his eyes again. I licked my lips nervously, my heart hammering against my ribs, and shifted toward him. I reached between us, nervous this time, and hesitated for a moment before sliding my hand over him again. He felt so hard and thick, and my face burned as I imagined what he looked like. Peeta moaned quietly as I stroked my hand over him, my fingers curling as much as I could through the fabric of his pants. His hips rocked forward, and I rested my forehead on his shoulder as he had on mine, staring down between us. The fluttering of the muscles in his stomach was mesmerizing; his chest heaved as I moved my hand over him. He let out a shaky, stuttering moan, his hips tilting toward me. I heard him breathe my name, burying the sound against my hair as he wrapped both arms around me, scooping me off the bed and against his body, my hand pinned between us. His hips bucked against me and he squeezed me against his chest, moaning into my hair. I couldn't even breathe as he slowly relaxed; I had a pretty good idea of what had just happened, but I had no idea that was where things were headed. Peeta swore softly, taking my face in his hands and pressing his lips to mine, murmuring an apology against my mouth as he kissed me. I couldn't help but smile at that.
"M-maybe, um," he swallowed, resting his forehead against mine. "We c-could talk about n-new things b-before we tr-try them?"
"I think that's a good idea," I said, biting down on my lip and letting out an embarrassed burst of laughter. "I'm sorry, Peeta."
"It's okay—um, I n-need t-to—um," he closed his eyes, still cradling my face between his palms, his lip trembling. After a moment he drew a sharp breath and looked at me. "I'll, um—be right b-back."
"Okay," I said, smiling briefly as he turned away and got to his feet. As soon as he closed the door on his way out of the room I rolled onto my back and pressed my hands over my face. I'd just given Peeta Mellark an orgasm. And I wanted one too.
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