"Okay," Rye stepped into the kitchen, spinning the keys to the front around his finger. I sat at the worktable, hunched over a textbook and pretending to read. I was mostly just watching Katniss as she worked. "All locked up. You got it from here?"
"If I say no, is that going to stop you from ditching us?" Katniss asked, giving him a look as she covered the last of the dry mixes for tomorrow's bread.
"Nope," he tossed her the keys. She rolled her eyes and snatched them out of midair before tossing them to the table. "Dell's waiting for me."
"Isn't D-Dad over there?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"That would be why she's sneaking out," he said, giving me a look before ducking into the mudroom for his coat.
"Yeah, g-good luck getting p-past them," I scoffed quietly.
"That's her problem, not mine," Rye called back. I chuckled and shook my head. "Goodnight, kiddos." The back door slammed a moment later.
"I still don't get that," Katniss pointed in the direction Rye had left.
"Get—what?" I smirked.
"Delly. And your brother," she said, moving the containers she'd mixed from the worktable to the counter behind her. "You said it would make sense, if I knew them. And I know them, and it still doesn't." I just laughed.
"Maybe you need t-to see them t-together," I chuckled.
"Whatever," she rolled her eyes; it just made me laugh a little harder. Her lips curled into a small smile. "Don't laugh at me."
"I'm n-not," I said, though it just made me laugh a bit harder. I forced myself to stop, pressing my lips together to keep from smiling any wider. "I'm not."
"How's the reading going?" she asked, nodding toward the textbook on the table in front of me. I had spent most of my afternoon catching up on the readings I had missed for our English class.
"P-painfully boring," I said. She laughed.
"Sounds about right," she said. "Hang on, I have to count out the till. We both know Rye didn't bother." I nodded, watching her disappear into the storefront. It felt strange to see her so at home in the bakery. She had come a long way from struggling to frost cupcakes in just a few months. She knew the routines, the recipes, and a hell of a lot more about bookkeeping than me or either of my brothers ever did. Dad had been teaching her more about the inventory, too. I wouldn't be surprised if he had her taking over our supply orders before long.
I listened to the noises from the storefront. I rarely counted down the cash drawer at the end of the night, but I still knew the process. As she worked I listened to her, following her progress in my mind. Emptying the till, printing the daily totals, counting out the petty cash, replacing the drawer. There was a thump, and she swore quietly. I smiled to myself. She'd dropped the ledger. It was a little too tall for the shelf Dad wedged it into and tended to stick. It took a hard pull to dislodge it, and that hard pull usually dumped it onto the floor. A moment later she reappeared, a bag with the day's profits tucked under her arm, the ledger in her hand, and a pencil between her teeth.
She sat down at the table across from me, flipping the ledger open and copying the totals from the slip she'd printed. I watched her as she worked; the stray wisps of hair that had fallen from her braid as the day went on, the way her fingers curled around her pencil, the way she sucked her lower lip between her teeth as she counted out the money she'd pulled from the till. She flicked her eyes up to me.
"What?" she asked.
"What?" I raised my eyebrows, cracking a smile as she looked up at me.
"Why are you watching me?" she smiled self-consciously. I shrugged. She let out a quiet laugh and looked down at the ledger again. I got up off of my stool and circled around the table to her, sliding my hand across the small of her back as I moved to stand behind her. She turned her head for a moment, glancing at me over her shoulder before looking back down at her work. I leaned against her back, pushing her hair off of her neck and kissing her there. "What are you doing?"
"N-nothing," I smiled, turning my face to her hair and inhaling.
"That tickles," she hunched up her shoulders, turning her head. I pulled back and waited for her to drop her shoulders, sliding my hands around her waist. Once she relaxed I leaned forward to kiss the side of her neck. "I'm working, you know."
"Mhm," I smiled against her skin, flattening my hand against her stomach before working up the hem of her shirt with my fingertips. She sighed, tilting her head as I continued kissing her neck.
"You're distracting me," she said.
"S-sorry," I said, smiling against her skin, though I didn't stop. I traced my fingertips over her skin, gently folding her shirt up to her ribs. My kisses shifted to her jaw as my hands moved to cup her breasts. I stopped a few inches short, pressing my hands against the soft, smooth skin just below her bra.
"Peeta," she said, a light nervous chuckle in her voice. "We're in the kitchen."
"And w-we're alone," I pointed out, nuzzling the hollow beneath her jaw.
"What's gotten into you?" Katniss straightened up, leaning back against me.
"N-nothing," I lifted my hands to her breasts, squeezing gently.
"What if we get caught?" she turned to look at me. Her cheeks were flushed. I watched her tongue dart out over her lips.
"B-by who?" I asked, curling my fingers into the top of her bra.
"Your dad could come home," she glanced down at her chest, taking a slow breath.
"Should I st-stop?" I asked, hoping I knew the answer.
"No," she said, a little too quickly. I chuckled to myself as she turned to face me. My hands slid to her back and I shifted to stand between her legs. Katniss pressed her lips to mine, draping her arms around my neck.
I never imagined getting so comfortable with her. It was a far cry from the first awkward kisses we'd shared. I'd learned how to move against her mouth, what cues she'd give to deepen the kiss, and she seemed to know the same things from me. She curled her hands around my neck briefly before sliding them down my chest.
"How late do you think your Dad will be out?" Katniss asked, kissing me gently and working her fingers under the front of my shirt.
"Wh-what?" I looked down as she ran her fingertips under the waistband of my pants. "I d-don't know. Why?"
"Just wondering," she said, unbuttoning my pants as she kissed me again. I set my hands on her arms, kissing her slowly. She unzipped my pants, slipping her hand inside.
"Wait," I slid my hands to her forearms, sucking in a breath as her fingers brushed over me through my boxers.
"Should I stop?" she smirked and kissed my jaw.
"N-no," I chuckled. "Smartass. I j-just—don't want to g-get caught."
"We'll hear him, right?" she asked. "If he comes through the door?" I nodded, swallowing hard when she run her fingers over me again, my eyes fluttering closed for a moment. Her fingers hovered at the fly, toying with the fabric. "So, can I?"
"Yes," I tangled my fingers in her hair, pulling her in to kiss me as her fingers slipped into the fly of my boxers, curling around my cock and pulling it out of them. I took a slow, shaky breath as she began to stroke me, bracing one hand on the table behind her. She kept her fingers tight the way I'd showed her I like, picking up speed as my breath quickened.
I'd only needed to guide Katniss once. In the couple of times since she had seemed to pick up on exactly what I liked. I pressed my face against her neck as she pumped her hand over me, kissing her skin between quiet moans. Pressure began to build across my stomach, the muscle tensing and fluttering as I got closer. It wasn't as strong as usual or building as high; I was nervous. The act wasn't new but the location was. We were exposed, and it made me nervous. Nerves never did me any favors. Someone could walk in, and even if we did hear them it could be too late; they'd know what was going on even if they didn't see everything. Was it even worth the trouble I would get myself into? I sucked in a breath, that feeling starting to build. My balls tightened and—it was over.
"Fuck," I pulled back, looking down between us at the pathetic little dribble on Katniss' hand.
"Peeta? Did, um, did I do something wrong?" Katniss asked, glancing down at her hand before looking up at me with concern on her face.
"Wh-what? N-no," I shook my head, snatching a towel from the table behind her and hurriedly cleaning her hand. She took the towel from me and I quickly tucked myself away. "No."
"That just didn't, um, you know," she frowned. I did my best to avoid eye contact, too utterly mortified to look her in the eye. "It didn't seem like I did a very good job."
"No! N-no," I shook my head again, taking the towel from her hands and balling it up. "You didn't—it's n-not-" I took a breath and pressed my eyes closed. My vision felt off; I was having a hard time focusing.
"-did something wrong I want to know," Katniss said. I looked up at her, wondering how I'd missed the first part of whatever she had to say. "I want to know what you like."
"It—I—you d-did what I l-like," I stammered, rubbing my hand over my eyes and blinking them back into focus. My face was burning. The kitchen felt too hot. "That j-just—it happens s-sometimes. I'm s-sorry."
"Hey," Katniss set her hand on my cheek. Her palm felt cool to the touch. "Are you okay?" I closed my eyes and nodded, leaning into her hand. I felt her lips on mine and opened my mouth to meet her tongue with my own. She shifted to the edge of her stool, pressing her body closer to mine. My arms slipped around her waist easily.
"K-Kat," I said quietly, barely pausing between kisses. "C-can I—for you?"
"Yes," she breathed against my lips with a smile. She tilted her hips toward me as I unbuttoned her pants, brushing my knuckles down the soft curve of her belly before turning my hand and sliding it into her panties. I loved how she felt; how impossibly soft and warm her flesh was under my fingers, her hair softer than my own. Knowing how turned on she was and knowing my touch was what did it for her felt so good. I loved being able to pull those noises out of her with my fingers, even though she still needed to guide me at times.
I pulled back to watch her face as I rubbed my fingers over her, searching for that little nub of flesh that I knew would make her moan. She kept her eyes pressed closed, her brow knit together, breathing heavily through her parted lips. They were wet and full and I couldn't hold myself back from kissing her. Katniss gasped against my mouth as I found that spot she loved and focused on it.
"You're so b-beautiful," I murmured, nuzzling against her jaw. Katniss whimpered quietly. "N-next time I want t-to see you. All of you."
"Peeta," she moaned, rocking her hips against my hand.
"I w-want to und-dress you," I pressed a kiss to the corner of her jaw. She wrapped her arms around me, tilting her head as my lips brushed her ear. She moaned again and it made my head swim. I pressed my fingers against her harder, rubbing tight, quick circles. I didn't know where any of this was coming from, but she was clearly enjoying it. Katniss tensed against me, bearing down on my hand. "You're s-so—sexy."
"Fuck!" Her legs snapped shut around my wrist. She buried her face against my neck, muffling her high, strangled whimpering as she rocked her hips against my fingers. After a few moments she relaxed, pressing a soft kiss against my skin. "Oh my god."
"G-good?" I smiled to myself.
"Yes," Katniss gasped. Her enthusiasm made us both laugh. "I, um, I'll be right back." She kissed me, gently taking hold of my wrist and pulling my hand from her pants.
"Okay," I smiled to myself, watching her dart to the stairs and disappear to the second floor. I picked up the towel from the table and walked over to the sink, washing both it and my hands before wringing it out and hanging it between the two sinks. A headache was beginning, working its way up from the base of my neck. I splashed some water on my face and leaned forward over the sink, forcing myself to breathe slowly and deeply.
"Dammit, Dad, cut the shit. I'm home now, okay? I'm not fucking going anywhere," Rye threw the back door open so hard it hit the wall. I jumped; I hadn't even heard them on the back stairs.
"Just get in the fucking house, Rye," Dad snapped.
"Language," Rye tsked. He stumbled a step into the kitchen as Dad shoved between his shoulders. The two of them stopped short when they saw me.
"Where's Katniss?" Dad frowned, looking at the open ledger on the table and the deposit bag next to it.
"She's—um, upstairs," I looked between the two of them. In any other circumstances I'd be more than amused to watch Rye get caught, but not when it was so close a call. If they had come home just a few minutes earlier, they'd have found me wrist-deep in Katniss' underwear. Dad looked me over, his frown deepening briefly.
"Did we interrupt something?" he glanced toward the ledger again, and then the stairs before turning back to me.
"No," I said, and it wasn't a lie. I hoped the blush I could feel in my face didn't make him think it was.
"I think you two have some things to discuss, so I'll just go upstairs," Rye said. Dad grabbed him by the back of the shirt before he could make it out of arm's reach. Katniss came down a moment later, hesitating on the bottom step and looking at me with wide eyes before she turned toward my dad.
"Should, um," she gestured toward the ledger on the table. "Should I finish? Or just, um-" She gestured toward the back door.
"Go. It's late and you should have already been home," Dad cut his eyes toward me and I dropped my gaze to the floor, looking up at Katniss nervously.
"Okay, um—goodnight then," she hurried past my father and Rye into the mudroom, returning to the doorway as she pulled on her coat. "See you tomorrow, Peeta."
"Bye," I said, doing my best to ignore the grin on Rye's face. All three of us stood in tense silence until the back door closed. As soon as we heard Katniss' footsteps on the back steps Dad let go of Rye's shirt and turned toward him. He was angry, though after Mom it was hard to take his temper too seriously.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Dad snapped in Rye's face. "Did you even finish your work, or did you just take off the minute I was out the door?"
"I stayed until close!" Rye held up his hands before gesturing to me. "Ask Peet! He was down here the whole time. I locked up, and then I went out."
"Made Katniss do the prep alone? Classy," Dad pointed toward the ledger on the table. "You obviously didn't count out the fucking till, either." Rye rolled his eyes and looked away, folding his arms across his chest. "You dropped out of school to work in this bakery, so guess what I fucking expect you to do. Not to mention, dammit, Rye, you're getting her in trouble, too." Dad pointed out toward the storefront, in the general direction the shoe shop stood across the square. "Delly has a curfew. How the hell was she supposed to be home in fifteen minutes with the two of you halfway to that fucking meadow?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. I'm Going to the Cartwright's," Rye lowered his voice in a goofy imitation of Dad's. "Where the hell were you that you even found us out there?"
"Shut your mouth," Dad pointed in Rye's face. "I'm the parent. You're the little shit who was breaking Delilah's curfew. And your own, for that matter."
"I don't have one," Rye said, raising his eyebrows. Dad took a breath and paused, blinking at Rye in stunned silence.
"You don't?" he asked. Rye snorted, holding back laughter, and shook his head. Dad looked over at me. "Do you?"
"Nope," I smirked, looking toward Rye and twisting my mouth to one side to hold back my own laughter. I couldn't even keep eye contact with him, and the two of us looked down at the floor.
"Well, shit," Dad muttered, running his hand through his hair. "Fine, then. You do now. Seven-thirty." He pointed at Rye.
"What?" Rye snapped. "I am eighteen fucking years old. And we don't even close until eight."
"Sucks to be you, doesn't it?" Dad said. "Maybe you should have used some common fucking sense before ruining this for yourself."
"What about him?" Rye pointed toward me.
"Peet couldn't fucking sneak anywhere if he wanted to," Dad rolled his eyes, dropping his hands to his side. I let out a quiet, pained chuckle. "Hey." I looked up. "Your curfew's ten."
"Okay," I said. Rye's jaw hit the floor and he stared at Dad in silent disbelief for a moment.
"This is bullshit," he snapped.
"Seven," Dad turned back to him, raising an eyebrow. "Push it a little harder, Rye. See if you like where this ends up for you."
"For how long?" he folded his arms over his chest.
"For as long as I want," Dad said. "Now get the fuck upstairs and stay there."
"Fine," Rye snapped, whirling on his heel and stomping up the stairs. Dad watched the stairs until his door slammed, then let out a sigh, his shoulders sagging. He turned toward me.
"Did Katniss get things finished?" he asked. I nodded. He mirrored the gesture and blew out a breath, looking over the kitchen. "Behave yourself, Peeta. Don't turn into that." He pointed toward the second floor. "God knows I can barely handle one." I bit back a laugh, looking down at the floor before glancing up at him. If he knew what had gone on, I was apparently off the hook for it. He nodded toward the stairs. "Go on."
"G-goodnight, Dad," I said, crossing the room to go upstairs for the night.
"'Night, Peet," he gave me a tired smile, waiting until I reached the stairs before sitting down in front of the paperwork Katniss had left on the table.
School was impossible to focus on. As soon as I got out I had an appointment with Dr. Lawrence, and my nerves were running so high I felt ready to vomit. I'd always hated the appointments, but now I had bigger problems to contend with. Rye had sat me down the night before and tried to talk me into telling the doctor about the blackouts I'd been having. I didn't want to. I wanted to wait for them to go away on their own, though even I was starting to question that being a possibility. Just before leaving my last class, I somehow managed to space out through a good chunk of the lecture. Or I'd blacked out again. Saying any of it out loud, to anyone but Rye, just confirmed what was happening. Then there would be no going back on it. Even if they did stop.
Katniss walked me to the office to get my wheelchair. She stopped me outside the door, pulling me into a hug and kissing me softly. Throughout the day she'd been trying to find ways to encourage me; squeezing my hand in hers as we walked through the hall, a note slipped into my pocket before we sat down to our last class. She echoed some of the things she'd written before kissing me again and turning to go back to class.
"You're going to tell him today, right?" Rye asked as he pushed me home. I didn't answer, just stared at the ground ahead of us. "Please, Peet. I know it sucks to talk to that guy, but try for me? Shit, tell his hot little assistant. She gets all touchy feely when she's worried."
"No, she d-doesn't. You t-trick her into it," I chuckled, trying to remember all the times we'd been in there for something else and Rye had faked one ailment or another just to get close to her.
"Whatever, just tell someone, please," he said, wiping the smile off my face. I resumed staring at the ground, doing my best to calm myself down as we got home. Dad only gave me a few minutes to collect myself before ushering me to the appointment.
Dr. Lawrence's office smelled like antiseptic. It was overpowering even in the waiting room, and carried too many bad memories with it. The first time I sat in that room my feet didn't even reach the floor. I had a towel wrapped around my arm, soaked in blood, my mother panicky and shaking beside me. I'd interrupted her, she'd turned around too fast, the knife in her hand flinging out and slicing across my forearm. It was an accident, she'd sobbed, squeezing my hand too tightly as Dr. Lawrence stitched the cut back together. I looked down at the scar—twisting and white and far smaller than I remembered the cut being—and ran my finger over it as I remembered the other times that I had sat there. The times that weren't accidents. How many dislocated arms had he reset between me and Rye? How many times had he bitten his tongue while she hovered nearby, or my father stared sadly at the floor?
"Peeta?" Mrs. Lawrence called from her desk, smiling when my father and I looked up. "Abbie will get you started. On the right." She nodded toward the hall. I glanced toward Dad before standing up and leading the way toward the exam room. Abbie stood by the door, a hint of pity in her eyes as she gestured for us to go in ahead of her. The door across the hall was closed, though I could hear the murmur of Dr. Lawrence's voice from behind it.
I lifted myself up to sit on the edge of the cold, metal examination table, waiting patiently as Abbie checked my vitals. The light she shined in my eyes left me seeing spots. I tried to rub them away as she folded up the back of my shirt to listen to my breathing, rubbing her stethoscope between her palms to warm it.
"How is the training going, Abbie?" Dad asked. She flinched, jerking the stethoscope away from my back. She had graduated with Phyl and started working with the doctor almost immediately afterward. I had thought she would be used to Dad by now, with all of the time we spent in there, but she was still just as jumpy as she was when she was just a customer at the bakery. I'd never been able to quite figure out why she was so jumpy around him, considering he was one of the most easygoing people in the district.
"It's, um—going well," she said, dropping her eyes to the clipboard in her hand, her cheeks flushing as she scribbled on the page. "I put in my apprenticeship application last week. So. Fingers crossed." She glanced up at Dad, flashing him a brief smile before looking back down at the page.
"Good for you," Dad said, making her smile widen for a moment. "I'm sure you'll have no problem with that being accepted."
"Thank you," she laughed softly, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. "Um, Dr. Lawrence will be over in a minute or two." She gestured over her shoulder toward the door, dropping her clipboard in the process. Dad chuckled quietly as she swore under her breath and crouched to pick it up.
"Thank you," Dad nodded. Abbie straightened up and bit her lip, nodding in return before ducking out of the room. I sighed, looking up at the water stain in the corner of the ceiling. The first thing I remembered seeing after I woke up. The antiseptic smell had been tinged coppery then, the room had been spinning around me, and I had forced myself to focus on that one spot as long as I could. It didn't help. I only threw up and blacked out again. Something new came back to me, surfacing out of the blur of memories from that day with too much clarity; the low murmur of Dr. Lawrence's voice as he sat in the corner of the room. My father sitting beside him, hunched forward, head in his hands. A series of broken, quiet noises lurching out of him as his shoulders shook. Dad reached over from where he sat and covered my hand with his. "Hey. You okay?"
"Yeah," I nodded, dropping my gaze to the floor.
Dr. Lawrence let himself in a moment later, a thick file under his arm and a clipboard in his hand. He greeted my father and I without truly looking up from the clipboard.
"Well," he pulled the empty chair by the wall closer to the table and sat down, setting the clipboard on his lap and slapping the folder on top of it. "Seems we have quite a bit to discuss. You've had a lot of changes since we last met, according to what Lavender had to say." I nodded, chewing hard on my lip. His questions made my heart race before he even asked them. "She said your headaches are worsening, is that true?" I nodded. "Can you tell me how they differ from the ones you've had?"
"They're, um—more sudden," I frowned, keeping my eyes on the ground.
"Any change in origin? She said that you seem to be rubbing your brow quite a bit," Dr. Lawrence looked down at the notes and then back up at me.
"S-sometimes," I said. "Th-they usually start the same—but g-get worse here." I touched the right side of my forehead.
"And by the same you still mean your neck? The base of your skull?" he asked as he began to write. I nodded. "Does the morphling alleviate any of that pain?" I took a breath to answer and thought better of lying. I hadn't taken it much, only when the pain I felt got to the point that I struggled to breathe did I even bother. "Peeta." I looked up at him. "Are you not taking your medications?"
"I d-do," I said.
"All of them?" he took off his glasses and laid them down on the open folder in his lap. I nodded again. "Every time you're supposed to take them?" I looked down at the floor. No, I wasn't. He would see through anything I had to say; I wasn't able to keep up with the song and dance of questions and lies the way I could before the injury.
"Peeta," Dad said quietly. I frowned. Dr. Lawrence held up his hand, silencing anything else my father may have had to say.
"Which ones aren't you taking and why?" Dr. Lawrence asked.
"The—um, m-morphling," I looked at the floor by his feet. "It—it slows me d-down. I c-can't think. And the d-diazep-pam, too. They m-make me feel sick."
"If you eat a half an hour before taking them, you can stop the nausea before it even hits," Dr. Lawrence said.
"Th-they still just-" I shook my head, reaching up and tugging at the edge of my hat nervously. "Remind me I'm not—okay. And as long as I have t-to take them—I n-never will be." Dr. Lawrence raised his chin, watching me, waiting for me to continue. "And I know they're—ad-addictive. I d-don't want that. And they're t-too expensive."
"You will feel better if you take them," Dr. Lawrence said, his voice impossibly patient. "You are experiencing more pain than the strongest men in this District could bear without help. Don't make yourself suffer any more than you already do. If you take what you need, and nothing more, you won't develop any addictions."
"And it's my job to worry about the cost," Dad chimed in. "If you need it, you get it. No worrying about how."
"Your wrist is getting worse," Dr. Lawrence said. I nodded. "Is the pain flaring up now?" I looked up at him, puzzled. How did he know? "You've been tugging at your fingers for the past few minutes. May I take a look?"
"Yeah," I nodded, holding out my arm as Dr. Lawrence stood and gingerly took my hand. He examined it carefully, testing my grip and asking me to move my fingers. He felt my forearm up toward my elbow, asking me to point out where the pain stopped. Truthfully, it went all the way into my elbow, and the mild surprise in his face when I told him to stop just past the joint made my stomach flip.
"How often does it bother you like this?" he asked, frowning as he tested the reflexes in my hand and forearm.
"Um—every d-day," I said quietly. My heart lodged itself in my throat and I looked away, dropping my hand into my lap when he finished. I couldn't even look at Dad. It felt like a betrayal. Even out of the corner of my eye I could see the shift in his posture. I could easily imagine the guilt in his face.
"Okay," he dropped back down into his chair and picked up his notes again, pushing his glasses up his nose. "When was your last panic attack?"
"Um-" I looked over at Dad. He was chewing on his lip, watching me intently. He offered an encouraging nod and a weak smile. I turned back to Dr. Lawrence. "A f-few days ago."
"Do you remember what brought it on?" he asked. I dropped my eyes again, trying to think of any way to rephrase the truth. After years of explaining away injuries and shrugging off fears with that man leveling that same look at me it should have been easy. I couldn't tell him about the blackouts and the lost time; not yet. Not until I knew they wouldn't stop. Maybe they would. "Peeta?"
"I, um—I th-think I was j-just overwhelmed," I frowned, scratching up under the edge of my hat and smoothing it back down. "T-tired, maybe. And I w-was out—at the f-florist with Rye. It m-made it worse."
"Made you feel vulnerable?" Dr. Lawrence offered. I nodded, letting out a sigh. That was exactly what it was, though what caused that vulnerability wasn't something I wanted to share. He made a few notes before continuing. "Have the severity of your attacks changed? Any worse? Any easier on you?" I shook my head to all three questions. "Have you had any suicidal thoughts?"
"N-no," I frowned. I may have wanted to disappear at times, but I had never wanted to kill myself. I didn't want to die.
"What about any impulses to harm yourself?" he asked, turning a page in his notes. I shook my head. "And what about the people around you? Any impulse towards hurting them?"
"No," I frowned, looking up at him and then over to Dad. I'd been told more than once that those sorts of thoughts were common after a head injury, but I couldn't even fathom the idea. Dad offered a brief smile.
"Can you tell me a bit about how your classes are going?" Dr. Lawrence shifted in his chair, crossing his legs and looking up at me. "Mrs. Everdeen mentioned that you were planning to attempt navigating your day without the wheelchair, how has that been going?"
"Classes are, um, fine," I frowned. "It's getting a little easier to—k-keep up, I think. Even though the d-days are longer. I've b-been using a c-cane once I get to the school—it's t-tiring, but b-better, I think."
"Good," he nodded. "And you're stuttering less. Your speech has certainly come a long way." He flipped through a few pages. "We're going to have to adjust a few of your medications, I think. Though we need to discuss the side effects before I can decide exactly how much." He trailed off, reading through a page of notes before looking up at me. "How have you been sleeping?"
"Um—too much or, um, n-not at all," I frowned. Dr. Lawrence watched me, waiting for me to continue. "I f-feel like I'm either j-just sleeping through everything or c-can't get any rest. I wake up—all the t-time."
"Does anything in particular wake you?" Dr. Lawrence asked.
"A lot," I shrugged. "S-sometimes I g-get too hot. Or I g-get nauseous." I purposefully left out the nightmares. That would be an entire tangent I didn't want to discuss.
"What about your appetite? Have you been eating?" Dr. Lawrence asked. I nodded. "More than you used to?"
"Yes," I said. "I, um—I feel hungry m-more often now. I n-never really did b-before."
"That's excellent," he nodded, looking down at his notes again. "Are you still having difficulty with bowel movements?" I closed my eyes and sighed.
"Yeah."
"Have you been using the bisacodyl suppository I prescribed?"
"Yes," I rubbed my hand over my eyes.
"Still having difficulty..." he trailed off, his eyes scanning the page in front of him. "We'll try something different there." He lowered the folder and looked up at me. "Your body does adjust to many of these things. Now in some cases that works in your favor, the way it did with your appetite improving. In others it works against you, as it seems to with the bisacodyl. The sluggishness you described from your morphling and diazepam will subside as your body adjusts to taking the drug. You need to give it a chance, though, and that means suffering through it for a while."
"Okay," I said quietly, watching the doctor scan through a few more pages.
"Now, this is the only area where Mrs. Everdeen's notes fall short," Dr. Lawrence smirked, glancing over toward my father. "And believe me, I understand not wanting to discuss this with your girlfriend's mother." Dad chuckled quietly.
"Oh god," I muttered under my breath.
"Just answer truthfully and quickly, and we'll get it over with, okay?" Dr. Lawrence said. "Your father and I were your age, and we're not so old we've forgotten it." Dad chuckled and I covered my eyes, trying not to think too hard about that. "How frequently do you masturbate?"
"I-," I cut myself off, shifting uncomfortably and sighing. Every day? Sometimes twice? There was no way I'd say that out loud. "A c-couple t-times a week."
"Are your orgasms consistent?"
"Yes," I squeezed out, fully aware that it was a lie. Any other answer would only draw more humiliating questioning than I was already in for. At least last time he asked Dad to leave the room.
"Are you producing more or less semen?" he asked, glancing up from his notes briefly.
"Oh-my g-god, I- I d-don't know," I stammered. Even after suffering through the same questions at previous appointments they still felt utterly humiliating.
"Do you find yourself having intense sexual thoughts or urges at inappropriate times?" Dr. Lawrence asked. I just gaped at him for a moment. That one was new. Dad chuckled.
"Trent, he's fifteen," Dad chuckled. "When do you think he stops having intense sexual thoughts? Maybe you should rephrase that one."
"Fair enough," Dr. Lawrence smirked. I dropped my head back and stared at the ceiling, willing a hole to open up in the floor beneath me so I could disappear. "Do you feel that any of the sexual thoughts or urges you have might be considered 'abnormal' or 'deviant'. Do any of them feel wrong to you?"
"No," I rubbed my hand over my eyes again, willing this to just end. I couldn't remember if there were any more of those questions, and I hoped it was over. Dr. Lawrence was quiet for a few minutes, alternately writing in the folder on his lap and flipping through the pages.
"Okay," he sighed. "I want to try changing out the diazepam. We'll try lorazepam instead; it may help with your sleeping issues. And I'm going to give you a higher dose of morphling. It may help your arm, it may not-it's iffy with nerve damage-but it's worth a try." He made a few more notes before shifting in his chair and looking up at me.
"Now, Peeta," Dr. Lawrence set his notes aside and took off his glasses, tucking them into the pocket of his coat. "Is there anything that we haven't covered that you'd like to discuss?"
Yes. My blackouts. The headaches and spots in my vision that came with them. How sensitive I was to light afterward. That smell of smoke that always came before a bad one. I clenched my jaw, turning the wording over in my head and trying to find a way to push it out of me and into the open. All I did was shake my head.
"Maybe something that we've touched on, but not quite discussed in-depth the way we need to?" he tried. I shook my head again. "Are you sure, Peeta? Our next appointment won't be for another five weeks. Even if you don't think it's a big deal, I'd rather you tell me and let me make that determination for you. I can't help you if I don't know."
"N-nothing," I said, swallowing back my panic. Are you sure there's nothing else you want to tell me, Peeta? Are you sure you tripped and fell? Even if you think it won't make a difference, I'd rather you tell me. I can't help you if I don't know. His gaze didn't falter. "Nothing."
"Okay," he stood, letting out a familiar, disappointed sigh and turning to my father and handing him a few sheets of paper. "It's going to take a few days for the approval to come through on his medication change, but I'll get the paperwork filed before the Hall of Justice closes today."
"Thank you, Trent," Dad took the paperwork from him, looking it over for a moment.
"Take your time, you can work out the arrangements for the meds with Nita before you go." Dr. Lawrence shook my father's hand, keeping hold of it for a moment. "And if anything urgent comes up, you know you don't need to worry about an appointment. Just come by."
"Thank you," Dad nodded. Dr. Lawrence clapped his hand against my shoulder before leaving the room. I took a slow, deep breath, clenching my hands into fists to try to stop their shaking. Dad set his hand on my shoulder, and I flinched at the contact. "You ready to go?"
"P-please," I said, glancing at his hand before sliding off of the table. Dad gestured for the door and I led the way out, dropping into a chair in the waiting room while he stopped to speak with Mrs. Lawrence. The antiseptic smell hit me hard again, laced with smoke, and I pressed my hand over my eyes, trying to force out the memories it brought with it.
"Hey," Dad stood in front of me, though I could have sworn he had just been standing with Mrs. Lawrence. I looked up at him and he pushed back the edge of my hat, laying his knuckles across my forehead. "You okay?"
"Yeah," I nodded, getting to my feet as he dropped his hand to his side. "C-can we p-please—go?"
"Come on," he set his hand on my back, steering me toward the door.
I felt the same tightness in my chest that I used to feel after leaving the doctor's office. Did I say the right thing? Did anything I say upset Dad? What would Mom do if she found out? I took a deep breath, pushing that last thought from my head. She didn't matter anymore. But that didn't take away what she did. Or what it caused. The new symptoms weren't going away; they were getting worse. I couldn't keep hiding them, and even if I could, what if I was just hiding something that would kill me? What if those people Mrs. Everdeen talked about who seemed fine before they dropped dead really weren't? What if they were just trying to hide, too. I wouldn't be any different, it just would have taken longer to get to me. And how could I burden anyone with that when it would only get worse? Why would I put myself through people treating me even more differently during whatever was left of my life?
By the time we got back to the bakery I was fighting off tears. I didn't even pause on my way through the back door; I headed straight for the stairs, pulling myself up by the banister. I was near the top before I even heard Dad make it into the kitchen. Buddy greeted me, twining through my feet as I made my way to my bedroom. I reached down to scoop him up, mostly to keep myself from tripping over him. I pushed my bedroom door closed, set Buddy down on the foot of the bed, and dropped down onto my back. It was a struggle just to keep my breathing under control and stop myself from breaking down. I pushed the heels of my palms into my eyes as I heard Dad on the stairs.
"Peeta?" he knocked on the door, waiting a moment before opening it. "What's going on?"
"N-nothing," I croaked out.
"Peet." The floorboards creaked as Dad stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. Buddy mewled quietly as Dad sat on the edge of the bed. "What is it?" I shook my head, tensing even further. He set his hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. "Look at me, Peet." I lowered my hands, sitting up and looking over at him. The look on his face was all it took for me to lose my fight against the tears. I dropped my forehead against my knees and sobbed. Dad swore quietly and hooked his arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer to him. He rubbed my back, waiting for me to calm down. When he spoke again his voice was quiet and gentle. "Where is this coming from, Peeta?"
"I'm sc—scared," I managed, sucking in a shaking breath.
"What's scaring you?" he asked. I didn't know where to start. I shook, pressed my eyes closed, clenched my fists, and fought to get my thoughts in order. "Is there something you needed to tell Dr. Lawrence?"
"Wh—why did she d-do it, Dad?" I asked. He took a breath, lifting his hand from my shoulders for a moment. "Wh-what did I d—do?"
"Oh god, Peet," Dad said quietly, shifting to sit beside me on the bed and wrap his arms around me.
"D-didn't she e—ever love me?" I curled in tighter on myself as he pulled me to lean against him.
"I wish I knew what to say to that," he said quietly, pulling my hat from my head and smoothing his hand over my hair. "It kills me that I don't." He cradled the back of my head in his hand, his palm covering my scar. "You have never not been loved in this house."
"I—I alm-most d-died," I said, my breath hitching in my throat. I swallowed hard. "Everyone s-said—b-but I didn't really—know. It—I r-remember parts now—that I d-didn't before."
"Is that what's scaring you?" Dad asked, pulling back and setting his hands on either side of my head, guiding me to look at him. "What could have happened?" I just bit down on my lip. "You almost died. You could have, for a while there. But you didn't. You're still here, thank god. I don't know what went on in your mother's head that brought it to this but you're safe. You're stable now."
"N-no," I turned my face away from him and out of his hands.
"What do you mean?" he frowned, trying to catch my eye. "What's going on, Biscuit?" The last time he'd called me that I'd been barely conscious, my head bandaged, with a red stain of blood on the pillow under my head. I broke, sobbing into my hands and shying away from him. How could I say any of this to him? How could I put any more guilt on him than I already had? How could he bear it? He swore softly, rubbing his hand over my back and kissing my hair. "It's okay. Whatever it is. It's okay."
"I—I've been having b-blackouts—I think," I pressed my hand to my forehead, shielding my face from him. The words felt heavy and slow and I struggled to get them out. "It—it's like I j-just—lose a f-few seconds. M-maybe minutes, I d-don't know. I b-blink and I'll m-miss th-things. Like, um, at the f-florist –Rye w-was across the room one m-minute and then h-had his hands on m-my shoulders and I d-don't know how he g—got there."
"Rye saw this happen?" Dad rolled his jaw, looking toward the door.
"I m-made him—promise not t-to tell," I said, lifting my head to look at him. "D-don't get mad at him."
"Why, Peet?" he turned back to me. "Why wouldn't you tell me?"
"Wh-what if it's b-bad? Wh-what if this k-k—kills me?" My voice caught in my throat and I dropped my head back down. I couldn't look at him, not with all of this pouring out of me. "I d-don't want to d-die, Dad. P-please-" My throat closed and I struggled to take a breath. "I c-can't-"
"Peeta, baby, breathe," Dad leaned down, resting his chin on my shoulder and putting his arms around me. "I'm not going to let you die. I'm not. This isn't going to take you from me, okay? You're not going anywhere."
"You d-don't—know th-that," I tensed up, trying to make myself smaller. Trying to disappear. "I c-can't—it's r-real if I s-say it. I c-can't-"
"Deep breath, Peet," Dad said quietly. "It's okay." I closed my eyes, forcing myself to take a slow, deep breath.
"If I s-say it out loud—if he knows, and I t-tell him th-then I c-cant—get away from it," I said. As soon as the words left my mouth I couldn't hold myself back any longer. I collapsed into tears again, turning toward Dad and reaching out toward him, curling my fingers into the soft cotton of his shirt. He held me as sobs wracked my body, rocking me gently and enveloping me in the warm, comforting smell of the kitchen. Even the harsh antiseptic smell of the doctor's office couldn't change that. He laid his cheek against my hair, his chest heaving for a moment I curled up tighter, turning myself toward him.
"It's happening no matter what we do," he said softly. "But the longer you put it off the more it's going to affect you. You know that. I know you do. We'll get you whatever help you need, Peeta. I promise. But you have to give us the chance to. Can you do that for me?"
"Y-yeah," I nodded, taking a slow, shaky breath. He pulled back, using his thumb to carefully wipe the tears from under my eyes.
"Okay. You have to discuss this with Dr. Lawrence," he said, rubbing his hand over my shoulders. "And with Lavender. When I pick up your new medications I'll set up a time to go in together, okay?"
"Wh-what if it's b-bad?" I sucked in a breath, trying to quell the panic I felt rising.
"That's even more of a reason to talk about it, don't you think?" he asked. I nodded. "Whatever it is, we'll deal with it. Okay?"
"Okay," I said softly, dropping my forehead to my knees again. Dad pulled me against him again and kissed my hair.
"I love you, Biscuit," he said.
"Don't call me that," I chuckled, wiping under my eyes with the back of my hand.
Thank you everyone, for all your follows and favorites and reviews. This chapter got into some heavy and technical information, and if you have any questions on any of it, feel free to ask either myself or my husband. You can find us on tumblr, he's yourpeetaisshowing, and I'm alonglineofbread.