The first time I catch the smell of them on the air, I'm passing by an open window on an early summer afternoon. At first the scent means nothing to me, and I wonder if Peeta has brought in fresh flowers to put in a vase on the table.
He does things like that; small gestures of normality. Neither of us have the desire to pretend that life is normal, or even that we ourselves are normal. What would be the point? But his gestures are a gentle yet adamant reminder that our lives must go on. Whatever they consist of while we try to survive the fallout of the past couple of years, our lives are now our own. I try not to think about the children I grew up with who never got to experience this ownership, whose brief lives were held in the manipulative hands of the Capitol from the day they were born until the day the Capitol's firebombs turned them to ash.
So when I catch the scent, I search the room for a vase of fresh flowers, but finding nothing I follow the fragrance, ending up at the open window. As I stare down at the little yellow flowers and realise they are the source of the perfume, I feel a familiar, deep tug inside my chest. Prim. Before grief can overcome me, I shut the window, pull on my boots and head across the lawn to his back steps. I need to clear my nostrils of the perfume, to push it out of my mind and focus on anything else; his house always smells like a combination of bread still baking, and the comforting smell of simply him that I am met with every time I wake from a nightmare.
I stand at his door, not wanting to knock because I have no idea what to say when he opens it. It is just after 5pm, and I won't be seeing that flickering bulb for at least another 4 hours. This isn't part of the deal that we somehow agreed upon without ever discussing it. He will be able to tell that something is wrong – he always could read me so well – and I don't want to talk about her. I don't want to be lost inside the dark tidal wave that grows more and more exhausting every time it threatens to swallow me up. Don't want to force him to regain that careful control so that he feels safe to be around me. But I know he won't turn me away, and my desire to escape and be with him is stronger than the voice in my head telling me that I'm selfish to ask it of him.
It seems pointless, really, to knock. There are so few of us who have returned to District 12, and even fewer who live in this part of town, that the chances of it being anyone apart from Haymitch or me are relatively slim. And Haymitch doesn't often leave his house except to pick up more of the potent, clear liquor that Sae supplies him with. Usually, I never knock. But this deviation from our arrangement makes me feel that I should. I summon my courage and rap my knuckles against the wood.
I hear his feet on the smooth floorboards as he approaches the door, and I take a breath as the doorknob turns.
"Oh, hey Katniss." He smiles, but I can tell he is a little surprised – from seeing me there at all or simply because I knocked, I don't know.
"Hey." My voice comes out tighter than I expected or wanted. I search my brain for something to say but find nothing, and all I can get out is "…I'm sorry…", before he opens the door wide for me to enter.
"Is everything alright?" he asks gently, as we both take a seat on the plump grey sofa that sits facing his lounge window.
I consider making up a bullshit excuse about why I am here, even though I know he will see through it. I consider allowing myself to tell him about the flowers, and how I need to push her out of my mind. I even consider allowing myself to fall apart in front of him if I let her fill my mind, and indulge in the feeling of his arms around me during daylight hours. As my eyes fall upon his, concern evident on his face, I know I can't lie to him, yet I can't burden him with anything more than he is already struggling with. So I choose the best compromise I can find.
"I just need some company today. Is that… okay?" I ask, tentatively. I tell myself that I don't need him to comfort me, or even to know what's going on in my head, as long as he's just there. It will be enough, if he just lets me be here.
After a brief pause he smiles, and answers "Of course. Wanna help me prepare dinner?"
"Sure," I smile, relief flooding through my chest.
"I'm not sure what to make, though. Any ideas?" His voice is casual, and I know he is trying hard to make the atmosphere light.
"Sae taught me how to make stew. We could do that?" I had already planned on making it, and I realise that the ingredients are already sitting out on the bench back in my own kitchen.
"Great, stew it is," he responds, getting up from the couch and moving into the kitchen to look in his cupboards and fridge. "Hmm… I don't have any meat, though," he mumbles.
"I have everything we need. Back at my place." I realise in this moment that I'm going to have to face that fragrance again when I go to collect the ingredients.
"Oh, we can just make it there if you want-"
"-no!" I yelp, a little louder and more abruptly than I had anticipated. At Peeta's concerned look, I correct myself. "I mean, no, it's okay. I'll bring the stuff here. They installed a better kitchen in your house than mine," I add, knowing that I am fooling nobody, but doing my best to maintain the lighter atmosphere he's trying to create.
"Okay, if that's what you want." He knows I'm not okay, but he doesn't push, so I guess we're both okay with just company and stew tonight.
"I'll go get them," I mumble, heading towards the door and out onto the lawn before I can even hear his response. I want this over with quickly.
I hold my breath as I cross the lawn, hoping to avoid the scent of them, and attempt to focus my mind on the recipe Sae taught me, running through each step and the ingredients I will need. I gather the vegetables, salt, and a few dried herbs off the bench, and open the fridge to grab the wild goose meat that I kept back from the haul I gave Sae yesterday.
It takes me barely 20 seconds to gather what I need, but I take a little extra time before I leave to run through the list again and make sure I have everything; I don't want to come back here again tonight. As I leave, my arms are full and as I'm halfway across the lawn I almost drop the sack of potatoes balanced precariously in the crook of my right elbow. Peeta's back door is now propped open for me, so I stumble through and manage to dump everything on the bench noisily before anything falls to the ground.
Looking at the huge pile of food I have just deposited, he grins and asks "Hungry?"
I laugh a little. "I usually take a big pot over to Haymitch once a week." I don't know why this admission makes me embarrassed; why it seems like it was hard to admit.
"Yeah, I take him a loaf or two every couple of days," he confirms. I suspected he did; he bakes far more bread than either of us can eat, so I figured it had to be going somewhere.
"I don't know if he even eats the stew," I say, softly, "but I figure it's the least I can do."
"Yeah… at least it's something to soak up the alcohol," he shrugs. Although it feels like he intends it as a joke, Peeta just sounds sad.
I wonder if our relationship with Haymitch will ever get less complicated. At this point it seems unlikely. When it comes to Haymitch I seem to be caught in a constant cycle of anger, guilt, and pity. Through both games and the rebellion I have lost count of the number of times I felt disappointed by him; angry and let-down by his inability to get it together. To somehow pull himself out of his own fog and be better when we both needed him. It's an ongoing process to try to let go of the anger I feel about all the times he lied to me, kept information from me; especially when it comes to his failure to keep Peeta safe. But Haymitch never disappeared, and he also never let me forget that I was hardly infallible through that time, and I'll never forgive myself for allowing Peeta and I to be separated during the Quarter Quell.
We all have our shame, and honestly it's too exhausting to hate Haymitch. This strange relationship Peeta and I share currently may not feel normal, but it's all we have. He anchors me, and in a way I think I anchor him too. We're both undoubtedly broken, but we resolutely refuse to let each other drift away into that fog of feeling nothing and doing nothing. Peeta and I do what we can for Haymitch, but even together we're not a heavy enough anchor to ground him. It makes me think about Finnick's confessional propo about all the demands Snow made of the victors – and the consequences of not complying. Haymitch used to have people to love, but none that I'm old enough to remember. He's a living cautionary tale of what happens when everyone you love is taken away and there's nobody left to make sure you eat, and bring fresh flowers into the house, and make you talk to someone everyday - even if the conversation is about nothing. Drowning in the fresh grief of his own loss, Haymitch never had a Peeta, and I can't allow myself to blame him for who he is now because of that fact. Not when I came so close to not having a Peeta – my Peeta.
This is one thing that I seem to understand as easily as Peeta does. Maybe it's why Peeta so readily agrees to make the effort to be around me even though it's so hard for him, and why I make the effort to talk to him over lunch, even on days when I feel like locking myself in a dark closet and floating away into the fog. We're anchored together, and if one of us drifts away, we both do. There are many days when the effort I make to stay grounded myself is an act of anchoring for Peeta rather than for my own benefit. Haymitch is already too far gone – he's barely visible on the horizon, and we're powerless to do anything about that. But while we might not be able to anchor him, we can provide a kind of distant mooring. We can bring him bread and stew, and remind him that there are people in his life who care if he starves to death, and hope that maybe one day he'll tug on the mooring rope and ask to be pulled back to safety.
"He knows we're here, Peeta," I say, giving him a reassuring smile. It's the first time since we arrived back in the district that we've talked about something so real, and it feels simultaneously familiar and safe to be talking to him like this, as well as a little uncertain and strange in the context of our current relationship.
"Yeah, I guess," he smiles back, sadly.
"But you know what that means? Time to start peeling some potatoes, Mellark!" I joke, feeling that it's my turn to take responsibility for keeping the conversation away from dark territory. Somehow it's easier to keep myself held together in one piece when I'm doing it for his benefit. He laughs, a genuine laugh, and I feel lighter.
For the rest of the afternoon we chop, peel, and season together, making a few different batches since Peeta doesn't have a pot big enough to cook the whole thing in one go. It feels almost like how things used to be between us, and the familiar safety of his company allows me to relax more than I have for the entire month I've been back. The hope that one day it won't be a struggle for Peeta to be around me, and that one day I'll be strong enough to be what he needs in return, is enough to relieve some of the tension I seem to permanently carry in my shoulders.
Our last batch is a much smaller pot, which contains the stew that will be our dinner. I notice Peeta adding a few extra herbs to this batch, testing the taste after each addition and taking care to adjust the amount of salt and pepper he sprinkles in methodically. I'm suddenly so grateful that he's here, and that there's someone in my life who takes so much care in simply making sure the stew tastes good. The relief this afternoon has given me makes me bold, and in a split second I approach him from behind, thread my arms between his and wrap them around his chest, squeezing lightly. At first I feel him freeze and tense up, but as we stand in this position he gradually relaxes.
"Thank you," I murmur, taking the risk to rest my head against his back. "I know it's not easy… being around me." I try to keep my voice steady as I get the words out, because this statement is something I've felt about myself long before they hijacked Peeta's brain.
He continues stirring the stew, but brings his left hand down and links his fingers with mine, still resting on his chest. "That's not what is difficult, Katniss. It's just… the tracker jacker venom…" he struggles.
"I know, it's okay. You don't have to explain. I'm sorry I asked this of you today, I don't want to make life harder for you." I wrap my arms around him a little tighter. "I just didn't know where else to go," I lie. There are other places I could have gone, but the truth is that this is only place I wanted to be.
He unlinks his fingers from mine, and for a moment I think I've said the wrong thing. But he moves the pot off of the heat, and then turns around to take me in an enormous hug, his arms enveloping me and bringing me in close to him. I embrace him back, tightly. There is no hesitation or doubt underlying this gesture, and it reminds me so much of how things used to be between us that I find myself fighting back the hot tears that sting at my eyes.
"Katniss, I want you to be very clear about something. If I could, I would be with you all day. I want to be. But I couldn't live with myself if I hurt you, so I have to force myself to give you some space. But I just… I don't want you to feel that you can't come to me," he says, shaking his head a little, frustrated by his own contradiction.
"But why should you have to deal with that? Peeta, I see how difficult it is for you when I'm around. You try so hard for me, and I'm so grateful you do, but I don't want to be so selfish to expect that of you. I'll just try to be stronger, I can deal with it." I'm barely managing to stop my voice from cracking.
"No, don't say that!" It's the loudest he's spoken to me since we got back. "Thinking of you struggling alone, I couldn't handle it. We protect each other, remember? It's what we do. You have to promise me that you'll come to me if you need- ...if you want to be here. Promise me, Katniss."
I nod silently into the crook of his neck, not trusting myself to speak without a sob escaping. We stand in this way for what seems like a wonderful eternity, and I take in deep breaths of him, savouring the opportunity to do so without simultaneously recovering from a nightmare. Eventually my stomach lets out a loud growl and we both laugh a little, figuring now is a good time to break apart and actually eat the dinner we've made.
The rest of the evening is almost easy and relaxed – certainly more so than our recent lunches have been. We don't say much through the evening, but something has changed, and it feels more comfortable between us. If I allow myself to be hopeful, it feels like he's not gripping on so tightly to control himself… but I'm cautious of being hopeful these days. So I just try to enjoy how it feels to be relaxed around each other.
Despite the change in atmosphere, we are both exhausted and decide to head to bed a little early. He showers quickly before joining me under the sheets, and as always snakes his arm under mine as I lie on my side. But tonight, instead of simply resting it loosely around my waist he pulls me in a little closer to him and whispers "goodnight, Katniss" in my ear. I curl into him and mumble "goodnight, Peeta" before falling into a deep, uneventful sleep.
…
The next morning, as I am heading out my front door to hunt, I notice Peeta's back door is propped open. It is still propped open when I arrive back for lunch and for the rest of the day, and I feel that flicker of hope twitch inside me. In fact from that day onwards, his back door is propped open for me. Always.