Happy holidays :)

Katniss

Whenever bad things happened to one of us, my sister and I would take refuge in the hallway closet together. We'd join forces, wedging ourselves between broom sticks and boxes, and we'd hold hands and try to slay the demons—scary myths that gave us nightmares, an accidental encounter with a jabberjay that left us shaken, or even an embarrassing rash.

Primrose would nestle her face into my neck and wait for comfort to return in the form of familiar things—like Mama coming home with oranges from the market. Primrose often expected to be rescued by such moments.

I didn't. I went to the closet anticipating that it would get worse, knowing Mama's presence couldn't do much to heal me. Because when Papa died and she screamed for five minutes straight, I stopped believing that parents were able to conquer the world.

Sometimes while in the closet, my sister and I would hear airplanes overhead. We'd make up stories about where they came from or where they were going, and there was always a good reason those planes couldn't land on our roof and take us with them. One was that Mama needed us. She needed Primrose.

One afternoon as we hid away in our spot, Mama had frantically called my sister's name—only her name—when she couldn't find us. I was ten. Primrose was six. As siblings, we were loyal to each other first and foremost, so we didn't come out for a long time to spite Mama for neglecting to call my name as well. Hiding meant we were the victors, so shh.

Don't let her know we're nearby, that we're listening. Not yet. Save our words and keep them between us.

I haven't escaped to the closet in over a year. But I find myself there now.

I kissed the American boy tonight.

I want to do it again. Which isn't good.

Peeta hadn't even opened his mouth, yet his kiss had tasted irresistible. Sweet and safe. If we'd continued, I'm sure that I would have been forever chasing his mouth, running out of breath, my need constant. The residue of his lips still coats mine, their effect lingering even though he's outside and I'm inside. I've retreated like a coward.

Pulling my legs to my chest, I rest my forehead on my knees. I don't know where my self-control went, not from the moment we began to dance. I regretted letting Finnick cut in between us, but not for long, because it was for the best. Because the connection between Peeta and I was getting dangerous. It needed to stop.

That's why I decided to lure Finnick into the alley. I wanted to erase Peeta from my mind and fast, and Finnick has fast hands, and I have a fast response to them.

Or I used to, at least. Up against that wall, I had trouble getting into it. I tried so hard to concentrate on him, but his body has stopped being my drug. During our interludes, it has become a routine for me to imagine another pair of eyes.

I cannot believe Peeta caught us again. I cannot believe how terrible he is at dancing, or how that charms me. I cannot believe he's my friend.

The muffled sound of an argument invades the closet. The hallway is near an open window at the side of the house where male voices collide. It's Peeta and Haymitch, hissing and struggling to keep their voices down because they're outside on the lawn, where neighbors might overhear. I crack open the closet door to eavesdrop.

"Is that why you brought me here?" Peeta grates. "To be some kind of therapy? I'm not a piece in your game to mend her."

"Calm down, boy."

"Don't call me boy. I have a name."

"Peeta."

"Thank you."

"Peeta."

"What?" he snaps.

"Wipe the lipstick off your face."

Silence. Silence from Peeta.

I bite the tip of my index finger. Shh.

Did he stay outside to wait for Haymitch to get home from work? Or was he too repulsed by me to make it through the front door?

"I thought that picture by your bed meant you still had a girlfriend," Haymitch muses.

"I do. Don't change the subject."

"Something tells me whoever kissed you is part of the subject."

Guilt wracks Peeta's voice. "I-I didn't ask for it."

"Your cheeks tell another story."

"I object."

"Did you stop it?"

The quiet and Haymitch's relieved sigh suggests that Peeta has done something to indicate the affirmative.

"Good," Haymitch says. "Your cock might not know better, but emotionally you're an honorable kid."

"It's…not like that."

"You and my niece are good as friends. You need to keep it that way. I can't afford for things to get even more complicated around here. That's not what I wanted."

"What you wanted?" Peeta repeats. "You wanted me to be a distraction because I'm from another country. You brought me here to use me because you're selfish and you don't care."

"That's not true."

"You haven't asked a single thing about me," he says incredulously. "Not since that first day. You don't ask about my family or my home. You don't know how many brothers I have. You haven't asked to see my photographs. You don't know what my favorite sport is. You haven't bothered to spend any time with me, to get to know me, or tell me about yourself. You haven't even taken me past the damn village square.

"And forget that. You know what's worse? You don't spend time with Katniss, either. You were too busy in the cantina to see what she did organizing that street fest. You only pay attention when she acts up and provokes you into the Situation Chair. How the hell would you know whether we're good as friends, or why we should be friends, or why we shouldn't kiss? You think she's just a problem you can correct by taking advantage of me. And you didn't tell me about Primrose."

I inhale. I imagine Peeta exhaling.

"And who did tell you about Primrose?" Haymitch asks.

"Jo did."

I grimace, remembering Jo standing beside Peeta while Finnick and I danced.

"Well," Haymitch says. "I'm impressed by you."

"Great. I can die happy."

"Look. You're right. I don't know how to do this. I haven't got it all figured out, but I ran out of options once Katniss ran me into the ground. My family's grieving, I care about them, this house needed a buffer, and yeah, you're it—let me finish, Peeta."

I picture Peeta closing his mouth.

"Yeah, I'm using you as a cushion. Whadda you know? It's working. The air in our house doesn't smell like depression anymore, and I don't regret a thing about that, but I'm not a leech. I care about what happens to you, too."

Peeta mutters something too faint to hear. There's a pause before Haymitch continues in a softer, more considerate voice. "It may not seem like it, but I want you here. You're a good kid. I'm sorry I haven't said it. And also, I was there at the street fest. Sae made me dance with her."

"You can dance?"

"Not on purpose," he grunts. "You and Wild Child must have been long gone by then, but I saw what she did. That is, until Cray and his cronies got there. I was around for that, too. I see more than you think."

"The police broke it up?"

"Hell. That was bound to happen."

My lips press into a thin line. I hadn't thought to go back to the protest after what happened with Peeta. I could have done something to prevent Cray from ruining everything. I could have schemed up a diversion.

"The police got the message anyway," Haymitch suspects. "Besides, it doesn't seem like people will give up. I wouldn't be surprised if they stage another peppy revolt with more people. Katniss inspired it. It's a step, at least."

I fidget with my braid. Primrose would be proud.

"So tell me Peeta, you think coming here was a mistake?"

"You put all this on my shoulders. You shouldn't have done that. It's messed up."

"No, it's fucked up," Haymitch corrects wearily. "I may not regret it, but I know it was a fucked up thing to do. I'm supposed to be the adult, not you. So look, you can stay here and be your big-mouthed self, just like you've been doing. Or you can apply for another host family, if you want. It's up to you."

I knock over a broom as I lean toward the gap in the door. Peeta responds faster than I expected. "I…no, I…I'm not a quitter. I don't want to leave."

"Maybe not, but that doesn't mean you want to stay. It's not the same thing."

"To me, it is."

I let go of whatever it was I was squeezing. I shut the closet door and then slump onto my back on the hard floor, remaining there until morning.

At breakfast, Peeta and I bodysurf on a smooth, evasive wave, him straddling the line between muddled-looking and not looking my way at all, and me sharpening the edges of my scowl. During the week, we forge boundaries and ban eye contact—any contact—between us when we're in the same room. Which isn't easy considering the small cottage we live in. We exist around the noise each of us creates—coughs, pages turning, doors closing, spoons scraping against bowls. We become familiar with one another's routines and perfect the art of avoidance.

It's against everything that Haymitch wanted, and oh, he notices it, but he wisely keeps his feelings to himself. He takes what he can get out of us, which is me too unnerved by a kiss to think about misbehaving and Peeta being Peeta, exhibiting forced liveliness.

It's humiliating how many nights I spend replaying the tremble of his mouth. I give my pillow a workout, burying my face into it, especially whenever I hear his midnight footsteps venturing to the bathroom or the kitchen. Months ago, I would have intercepted him in my underwear and backed him up against the nearest counter or the humming refrigerator with a single, penetrating, intentional stare.

It wouldn't work anymore. He knows me better now. His I can't has given him power, the kind that keeps me rooted to my bed, too afraid to hunt him down in the shadowed corners of the cottage. To him, I'm a regret. And probably far from his mind as he falls asleep.

He keeps up a regimen of talk at family meals. He's a social magician and manages to earn a few laughs from my mother while they cook together, the sound of it beautiful but piercing, driving me to the beach for refuge.

Finnick isn't about to complain when I tell our group that Peeta won't be joining us anymore, but my girlfriends take the news differently. Jo crosses her arms in annoyance, and Tigris does her share of pouting.

I sneak out of the cottage when nightmares erode my sleep. I swim alone, suspecting that Peeta has yet to brave the waves on his own. The thought sends an embittered spike of satisfaction through me.

Anger is another emotion that I welcome. It battles the shame of my attempted tongue-thrust and my uncle revealing to Peeta that I'm a pathetic wreck in need of saving. I refuse to be that. I won't be weak because of him. I can survive fine without his friendship.

kpkpkpkpkp

The humidity goes into hibernation, and the tide rolls deeply into December. On Christmas Eve, Haymitch hauls home a squat pine tree imported from America. My parents could never afford one, so Primrose was always delighted for Haymitch's holiday visits. A tree has been his customary present since I could walk. The dark needles and the wintry scent of foreign forests cause my eyes to prick with tears. It's my second Christmas without her.

My mother decorates the tree with threadbare red balls strewn from yarn and a cord of green lights, while Haymitch supervises from his end of the couch. Peeta walks in from the kitchen, drying his hands with a rag. His Christmas gift to my family is a District Twelve meal. Haymitch had taken Peeta to every market in Panem to gather the ingredients he needed, while the rest were mailed to him from his family.

The tree brings a smile to his lips that I'd like to staple shut. With his flour-dusted apron, his ruddy skin, and his jubilant expression, he looks adorable. Like someone assembled by elves in the North Pole.

Once the tree is lit, the food is ready, and Buttercup is contentedly swatting at a spool of ribbon on the floor, I set the table. Haymitch disguises his pleasure over my glossy manners with jibes, goading me to retaliate and stick out my tongue at him.

I'm setting a fork beside Peeta's plate when his own hand appears out of nowhere. I tense at his nearness. It's the closest we've been to each other since the kiss, and it heats the right side of my body.

"S'cuse me," he mumbles, leaning over to light a single candle at the center of the table. We stare at the flame whisking to life, which should create a festively romantic atmosphere but feels more like witchcraft.

When Peeta moves away, his hand brushes mine. We jerk back in such perfect synchronicity that anyone watching might assume we rehearsed it.

"Sorry," he says.

Sorry, I gesture.

Peeta introduces us to a meal that smells of new things. A duck surrounded by glazed carrots, potatoes smothered in a creamy sauce, a crimson-colored jam that he calls cranberry-thyme chutney, and a cracking loaf of warm bread. It's a feast. Haymitch and Violet clap. My applause lags behind, I'm so preoccupied by the girth of the bird. I've never tasted duck before. Meat is an extravagance that Peeta must have paid a fortune for. I'll wager that he got it from Greasy Sae's stall.

Peeta blushes as he sits across from me. "I wish everything could be fresher. My dad sent canned cranberries and gravy, and the herbs were prepackaged."

"No, it's perfect," Violet assures him. "Thank you."

"I don't know if I'll remember what it all tastes like. It's been so long."

Peeta says this with anticipatory giddiness, and I know it's because his home has joined us for dinner. I'm oddly glad for him. And oddly stung.

A knock sounds from the front door. In response, Haymitch drops his fork against his plate. "Maybe I'll need a drink, after all."

I'd told him that Finnick might make a brief stop here. Giving my uncle a look, I rise from my chair and answer the door. Finnick is standing on the porch, a tray in his hands and a rogue smile on his face.

He admires my gray dress. "You look pretty."

Hi.

"I've got something for you."

Come in, then.

Following me to the table, Finnick is greeted by Violet's open arms, Haymitch's disapproval, and Peeta's silence. Both boys regard each other curtly and without enthusiasm. Though I don't know what Peeta has to be sour about. He's the one who threw a punch where it didn't belong. He knows that Finnick wasn't trying to hurt me.

And I told him that Finnick and I relate to one another's past, that I'm not being toyed with, that I'm with him willingly. What more does Peeta want to hear?

"Can't stay long," Finnick announces.

Haymitch coughs a word into his napkin that vaguely sounds like good.

"My family's waiting on me, but I told Katniss that I'd bring over some oysters if we had a strong catch today." Finnick frowns, noticing the North American spread, which is probably getting cold. "What's all this?"

"Peeta made us a traditional supper from District Twelve," Violet beams.

Finnick's eyes slither toward Peeta. The salty whiff of shellfish competes with the sweet-tartness of carrots and cranberries. This is getting ridiculous.

And why does this bother Finnick? Honestly, I resent these bull-headed boys for looking at the food like it's some form of competition, especially when my family doesn't usually get this much to eat. It's a luxury, not something for their egos to spar over.

When neither boy speaks up, my uncle slaps his palms on the table and lies, "Well, sorry to hear you've got to leave, Finn."

I inconspicuously kick Haymitch's heel. I don't need to deal with yet another surly male. Not on Christmas.

I grab my notebook and walk Finnick outside. Once there, he stares at his feet with a grin that lacks his usual dimples.

I widen my eyes, prompting him to speak, and he shakes his head. "Sorry about my moodiness. It's just...I'm not in one piece tonight. Christmas was Annie's favorite holiday."

Oh. I'd forgotten.

Are you okay? I write.

"Seeing you definitely helps. You're easy on the eyes."

His flirting is half-hearted. Even in this moment, he's trying to keep up that veneer. That flippant veneer to hide the scars, which are the same ones I wear. For all we know of one another, and for all that we call ourselves boyfriend and girlfriend, that's not what we are.

In fact, it's only now that I realize how foolish it is for us to call ourselves that at all. We're allies. Grief partners. That's what we are.

"That scene in there—" he nudges his chin toward the house. "Your family looks better. They seem to like Peeta. That's a quite a fancy supper he made."

He searches my face for a reaction. Peeta does make my family happy, and I owe him for that. When we were friends, he made me happy, too. And tonight, his meal and proud smile combated the humiliation that I'd been suffering over kissing him, his thoughtfulness attracting those notoriously warm feelings towards him again. As usual, I hadn't seen it coming.

I'm not certain how well I conceal my thoughts in front of Finnick because some sort of ailment creeps into his features. Something akin to doubt. "It's still us, right?" he asks. "You and me?"

Is...is he worried that he's becoming less essential to me? Because of what he saw inside the cottage? Peeta and I haven't been speaking, and Finnick knows that. But perhaps there are other signs he's noticed that I have not.

Not to mention, we haven't slept together in a while. I keep making excuses not to. It just hasn't been working with him anymore. Truly it hasn't been working, hasn't been the same, since Peeta got here. I'm not sure what to do about that.

I dodge Finnick's question like a bullet but kiss his cheek to reassure him, then send him on his way. As I come back inside, Peeta's gaze follows me to my chair. When I glance up, he offers me a cautious smile, pulverizing my intention to stay mad at him for being as brusque to Finnick as my uncle. I swallow a forkful of cranberry chutney, and it sparkles on my tongue.

I take another bite. I like it.

His smile widens, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Pleasing him makes me blush, so I look away, hoping he doesn't see.

We unwrap gifts at midnight. Peeta goes first, tearing open a box filled with presents from his family. He receives packages of cookies and chocolates, a sweater, and a cookbook.

There's also an elegantly-beribboned gift from his girlfriend, Madge. The golden paper is fancier than what Peeta's parents used to wrap his gifts. She's sent him a sketchbook bound in orange leather. The material is soft and probably made from the shaved newborn ass-flesh of an endangered species.

And there's a card that says "Waiting for You" on the front. As he reads it, I flip my braid over my shoulder and pretend that I need to pee, discreetly plucking a tiny box from under the tree and making my escape. Safe in my room, I chuck the box onto the bed and then plop myself beside it, wondering how long it will take him to finish reading the card before I can go back in there.

I feel stupid. I'd buckled and gotten him a gift, but it's not made of inhumane leather or immortalized in gold wrapping. I can't give it to him now.

"Hey."

Twisting around, I find Peeta radiating light in the doorway. "Can I come in?" he asks timidly.

I hesitate. He comes in anyway and perches at the edge of my bed, fidgeting with a flat package tied with a green bow. "Um, I wanted to give this to you. When we were alone." He holds out the gift. "Merry Christmas."

I catch myself staring at the present like it's going to attack me. Carefully, I accept it and take my time unwrapping the paper.

It's a framed photograph of me. It's from the day we hiked through the forest and he snapped a candid photo of me dipping my toe in a waterlily pond. In the photo, I'm made of delicate, faded lines. It looks like an old picture, but the details of my outfit prove that it was taken in this decade. It's the first photograph I've ever seen of myself.

Something inside me spreads its arms and floods me with warmth. And I know. I know how I feel about the boy sitting next to me. All at once, it becomes clear.

I look at him. Thank you.

"You're welcome," he says, grinning. Then his gaze finds the box that I'd dropped on the bed. "What's that?"

Like a three-year-old, I snatch the thing and hide it behind my back. But Peeta leans to the side, trying to peek. "Is it a gift?"

I shrug.

"Is…is it for me?"

Sighing, I slap it into his hand. Peeta opens the box and plucks out miniature glass vial containing a white, fuzzy seed that looks like a parachute. He politely conceals his bafflement.

Heat creeps up my neck. I grab my notebook and write, It's a dandelion seed. From District Twelve.

His head snaps up.

To remind you of home. So you won't miss it so much.

This species of dandelion is native to his country. Leave it to Greasy Sae to import the impossible for me.

He stares at me, his irises an infinite, reverent blue. "I don't know why to say."

I set down my notebook and quirk an eyebrow. Finally.

Peeta's sheepish laughter fills the room. My shoulders shake with mirth.

Haymitch interrupts, appearing in the doorway and holding up the phone. "Peeta. It's Madge."

Her name vacuums up his laughter and strangles my own silent chuckles. Peeta once told me that his exchange organization wanted their students to get the full, uninterrupted experience of being abroad, so the organization recommended limiting phone calls with family and friends. He's talked to his parents only a couple of times over the months, but this is the first time he's been able to talk to his girlfriend.

There's a pause as he considers the phone. He glances at me, and I glance away, feigning preoccupation with my nails while I bleed internally from the heart.

He takes the phone, then waits until Haymitch leaves before holding the receiver to his ear. "Madge?"

A feminine voice squeals from the phone, glittering with affection and excitement. The sound reminds me that I'm an interloper. I'm glued to the mattress although I should have left him alone.

"I…I miss you, too," Peeta answers, his voice flustered and uncertain. "Yeah, I just opened it. It's amazing."

She says something that sounds flirty. I set my photograph on the bed, next to the dandelion seed tucked in its vial, and get up to leave.

Peeta notices immediately. He holds the phone from his ear, looking like he's about to ask me to stay but then thinks better of it. "I'll be out in a minute," he tells me, I guess so that I can relay the message to Mama and Haymitch.

"Sorry," he says into the phone. "That was…no, that was…um, my host sister."

My feet grind to a halt. The resentment flares up like a brushfire, wiping out the timid phase that I've been stuck in. I grab my notebook, tear out a sheet of paper, crumple it into a ball, and pitch it at him.

Peeta rears back. "What—"

More paper. More balls. He fights to listen to Madge while I throttle him. Then I go for my pillow and whack it against his side repeatedly.

"Hey!" He sees that I'm not playing and sets his jaw. "Stop it!"

"Hello?" I hear Madge say.

Peeta quickly apologizes and asks her to call back in five minutes. The instant his hands are free, he wrenches the pillow from my grasp, seizes my forearms, and hisses, "Katniss. I said, stop it. Now."

I launch at him, knocking him backward and straddling his waist. I grapple to fasten him to the mattress, but he performs a trick with his body and flips me over. We're a furious mess of arms and limbs rolling across my bed, wrestling to pin the other down.

Peeta wins. He lands on top of me once more, his chest beating against mine. He realizes that he's between my legs and blinks. Inwardly, I sigh from the bliss of his coarse zipper sliding over my panties, the immaculate feeling of his weight on me, and my thighs flanking his waist. We gaze at each other, our lips so close, his eyes glittering. Oh, how I want him to move his hips, to roll them into me.

He won't. He won't ever do that.

I shove him away and leap off the bed, fixing him with an expression that belies exactly what we're both thinking, what this moment just proved.

I am not your fucking sister.

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