A preview of my new one-shot, "Poet," will be posted on my tumblr this Sunday ;) I wrote it for streetlightlove's Stories-to-Save-Lives charity (S2SL). Lots of great authors are participating, so if you want to read their work, be sure to donate!

Peeta

She's tipping the scales in my heart. I try not to think about it but end up thinking of nothing else. I lay in bed and attempt to get comfortable, punching my pillow to fluff it, but when that doesn't work, my hand reaches underneath, searching for the dandelion seed. Rolling the vial between my fingers, I think about my host sister. Who isn't really my host sister. Who's light-years from being my host sister.

Winter break is over, and I need sleep for school tomorrow, but instead I think and think and think. I think about when she's in the shower, the door slightly open so I can hear the splashes of water and see the steam swirling into the hallway. I think about her clothes scattered on the floor, covering the areas where tiles are missing. I think of her naked body, which I've already seen, and how it might look all wet and soapy, as she stands in the miniscule tin tub. I think about her braid. I think about how she might sound when she sings.

I think about the dress she wore on New Year's. I think about the way she gazed at the sisters fighting on the beach. I think about the ragged look on her face when she drew the K in the sand and waited for my reaction, asking if there was a place left inside me for her. I think about her weight on my lap and her arms locked around my shoulders and her warm breath on my neck. I think about how much I wanted to keep holding her and how important it was to stop.

I think about walking to class with Katniss, her hand tucked into mine. Would it feel right? Would I regret it later, once we have to say goodbye for good? Ah, shit. I really, really am thinking about this.

I hear Haymitch snoring. Thankfully, he's a lump, so when he gets home late, he's too tired to pay much attention to my sleep-talk. That's what he says, at least. If anything comes out of my mouth that does strike him, he spares me the humiliating details.

Above me, a gauzy banner of dust stretches from the ceiling to an adjacent wall. I smell fresh air on my pillowcase because the family doesn't own a dryer and hangs everything outside. I feel the vial's smooth glass surface against my fingertips and the change in temperature where my toes peek out from under the blanket.

I'm thirsty. My parched tongue forces me out of bed and down the bunk steps, which creak under my weight. I'm short and bulky, but Haymitch is wiry, so he should have taken the top bunk. But he'd probably slip on the steps while intoxicated and break his neck, so then again, maybe it's for the better that he didn't.

The cottage has a habit of wincing and groaning when I walk through it. Mom likes to comment that I stomp around like I'm in a wrestling tournament, even though I don't stomp, not out of anger or anything…I mean not at all because stomping is an exaggeration, the wrong choice of word for the way I move, except for when I'm in pain and limping. But I'm not limping on a regular basis, so actually it's just that I walk a little loud and…ugh. Even in my head, the engine keeps running.

Chugging a glass of water fixes the dry mouth. Quenched and hydrated, I not-stomp back the way I came, toward my room.

At first, I mistake the thud for my own step, and I wonder if Mom's right after all. But then I pause in the hallway and hear it again. It's not me. It's coming from Katniss's room. A girlish whine sneaks out from beneath the door, which multiplies into another and another. She sounds like a scared little girl.

Forget about making it to my bed, because the thudding intensifies in volume, intruding on my rationale and giving me hero feels. I move quickly to her door and open it. The room is small enough that I can see everything up close and personal, and the sight is disturbing: Katniss is having the equivalent of a street brawl with her sheets.

Her whimpers have me rushing to her side, where I kneel and grab her shoulders. "Katniss," I whisper. "Katniss."

Her eyes fly open. She lurches up in shock, her chest pumping for air.

"It's okay," I say, steadying her. "It was a bad dream. You're okay."

The current from the ceiling fan causes her bangs to sweep against her face. You're…you're here?

"I'm here."

You're real?

"I'm real."

I'm…I'm just…I don't…

"Shh." I smooth her damp forehead, spooked by the terror that I'd seen aimed at me and surprised that the sounds of her having a nightmare haven't woken up Violet.

After Katniss calms down, I tuck her in. "You're safe. Get some sleep."

I rise to leave, but her hand latches onto my hip. Wait. She uses pressure to draw me to her, flipping open the blanket in invitation and shimmying backward. Stay with me?

Katniss is half-naked, in a black tank and polka-dotted underwear. I'm half-naked, also in a tank and shorts. Not to mention her mother is only a few feet away.

But Katniss had a nightmare. She's better now, though she's still a little shaken, and she matters to me. I fumble and weigh my options, which are non-existent. I'm not going to abandon her like an asshole. I'm wide awake as it is. Her plea conjures only one type of response, one word that's best kept inside my head. This would be the perfect time to create a manifesto: I will not cave to the Silent but Beautiful One.

As a secondary precaution, my M charm could be used as a talisman against the K. But that would be stupid and lame—and stupid. I doubt it would work anyway.

The bed sags under me, squeaking as I shuffle to find the right position. I'm in the middle of getting adjusted to the situation when Katniss's curves slant against me. She drapes an olive-skinned arm over my abdomen and rests her cheek on my chest, inspiring me to cradle her. Her orchid scent and the way she fits to my side is a comfort, although all hell is breaking loose across the mountains and valleys of my conscience. My thumb glides over her shoulder while I shush her. She sinks into my frame, small and sweet, her temperament made of so many highs and lows—sometimes it seems like I'm the only one who sees them, because I'm the only one she lets in. Which can't be true since I don't deserve that privilege and, theoretically, we aren't the only people in this bed.

We both have significant others. Though I've never had to be there for Madge in this way—I don't know if she even has nightmares because she always arrives to school bright-eyed and glossy-haired and rested, and the most angsty kinds of things that we talk about are pop quizzes and college applications.

Katniss bunches my tank in her fist, pulling me from my thoughts, urging me to come back to her. In response, I kiss the top of her head.

On her nightstand is the photograph that I took of her by the waterlily pond. I stare at it for what seems like forever while she drifts to sleep. I'm still staring at it when she wakes up about two hours later. It's still dark out, but she looks more peaceful. We gaze at each other for the longest time. Is it right for us to feel this close? Snuggling like this, I'm sure I can tell her anything, no strings attached, no compromises or conditions or embarrassment, which is weird seeing as we've been walking a tightrope with each other.

"Your nightmare was about your sister, wasn't it?" I venture.

Her eyes mist. She grabs her notebook and pencil off the floor and writes, She drowned. I wasn't there. I relive it over and over.

"It's not your fault."

I didn't protect her.

"No, but you can't protect everyone. Superheroes can't do it, and neither can mythological gods, or great fictional characters who fight in wars, or soldiers, or real-life heroes. Doctors can't save everyone. Firefighters can't. And you know what? I hate to break this to you, but you're a sixteen year-old village girl who's only in her third year of Survival at school. You're not almighty. You're not supposed to be."

I wasn't talking about everyone. I was talking about my sister.

"Did she think you were a supreme being?"

Katniss startles.

"Did she rely on you all the time to keep an eye on her?"

She grins warily as if recalling a memory.

"Or was it the other way around?"

Her chin sinks into my chest in defeat. Primrose was the superhero. I was the mere mortal who almost slipped while cliff-diving. She's the one who bandaged my sprained ankle.

"Was she a good swimmer?"

Better than me and Finnick.

"Katniss, it's not your fault. You think she'd want you to feel like this? I'll bet she doesn't blame you, could never blame you. I'll bet she admired you and tried to imitate your singing too—don't tell me if I'm right, just listen. You shouldn't feel guilty about all these things, especially not for being alive or having a voice. Staying this way, so quiet, is an insult to her. Don't do that."

I'm worried that I've gone too far, but then she fixes me with a meaningful stare. Why don't you like me?

I hadn't expected that. If she only knew how completely she engulfs my thoughts. "I do like you. I more than like you," I admit. "I guess you like me, too."

She nods. Why had I announced the obvious? Is it because I wanted to actually see that nod, like a confirmation?

I brace myself. "What about Finnick?"

I've told you about Finnick. It's not the same with him.

"Jo said that you have mutual histories," I prompt, wanting to understand but not believing that I actually will.

I'm surprised that Katniss doesn't hesitate when she writes about it. He loved a girl once. Her name was Annie. I knew her from school. She died over a year and half ago.

God. I'd had a feeling. "What happened?" I ask.

A nest-full of tracker jackers got to her when she went hiking in the forest. She veered off the trail to explore and went too deep. She was found a day later.

We learned about tracker jackers in Survival. They're one of the island's more dangerous natural predators, along with jabberjays, snakes, and some sort of baboon mutt that lives in higher elevations. Tracker jackers are like wasps, only their stings can cause powerful hallucinations, and sometimes even death.

Finnick spent the whole summer locked up in his boat. When school started, he walked around the hallways like a ghost. Katniss pauses in her writing, then continues. Then Prim died that Fall. And I knew how Finnick felt. We hadn't talked much before that, but he did hear about what happened to my sister. And in the spring, when the weather warmed up, he joined me one morning for a swim. And every morning after that. And last May, right before he graduated, we discovered how else we could comfort one another. We make each other forget.

"Does it work?" I bite out.

It used to. It was working during those first months. Until you arrived.

"You're not right together. You may think you're helping each other, but you're not. Ignoring the pain won't erase it."

That's very easy for you to say.

"You deserve more," I argue. "A boyfriend who matters to you in deeper ways."

Maybe. But I could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve the one boy that I want.

In the dark, she stares right at me. I'm trapped, yet I don't want to be anywhere else. Holding her close, I'm giving her mixed signals, the same way she gave me mixed signals in the beginning. But I can't help it. I can't help wanting this moment to last, with her in my arms. No girl has ever looked at me this way, like I'm the last sunset in existence. No girl on earth is Katniss Everdeen.

I swipe her hair aside. "That's not true. I'm the one who doesn't deserve you. You're boundless."

Stop saying things like that.

"Why?"

You know why.

"You started it. And anyway, I mean it. You're worth so much more than Finnick Odair."

Hey! I care about him. I care about him very much. She sets down her pencil and then raises her eyes to me. But he's not you.

I need to conceal what this does to my heart and stay on a platonic course. "Katniss, there's no one like you either."

She challenges me with a wry but sad smile. Our meanings are not the same.

"I know, but it's not an easy thing to respond to. It's not like our Q and A game. We're not swapping favorite colors."

Green.

"Orange."

I know.

I jerk my head back. "How do you know?"

It's the color of your backpack and the sketchbook Madge gave you. It's the color of that shirt you wear all the time. It's the color you use the most in your drawings.

"God, Katniss…"

Finnick isn't you, she repeats. It hasn't been the same with him, because of you. If you would have me, I wouldn't be with him.

"If I'm not faithful, then I'm no better than my mom," I blurt out.

She frowns. Dammit. What did I just let slip out?

She waits for me to elaborate. The story tumbles out of my mouth, recapping that day last year when I saw my mother with another man. I tell Katniss what I've never told anyone else.

Sophomore year. Spring semester, just before Madge and I got together. Going out for ice cream with friends. I remember the air-conditioner snarling, the plastic chairs, the smell of vanilla. Clove rehashing to Marvel how someone's supposed sexual-racist-religious remark in Drama II had so obviously been directed at her. I remember the Leeg twins finishing each other's sentences.

I remember ordering a banana split. My mother stepping into the ice cream shop, her arms around a man who wasn't my father but another basketball team parent. Cato Calloway's father.

Cato Calloway. Tall. Trim. Destined to be voted "Most likely to be on a Wheaties Box." The guy who liked giving me a hard time at practice because of my height.

When Mr. Calloway's lips touched my mother's, I buckled into a chair in the corner. I bent to untie and retie my shoe, then looked up and collided with my mother's gaze. She held a cone of papaya sorbet, even though I'd only ever seen her eat regular ice cream.

I ran out of there. When I came home hours later, the strange apologetic smell of veggie lasagna, my favorite, filled the hallway. Over dinner, my brothers made lots of noise while Dad kept talking about the weeds choking our backyard plants. Mom and I never glanced at each other, but I wanted to stab the life out of my dinner with my knife. I never knew that she liked sorbet. For weeks, I couldn't stop looking in the freezer, waiting to find our vanilla bean ice cream to be replaced with something else entirely.

All those times she reminded me how imperfect I was, how I'd never be enough for her like my brothers were, mainly because I was the youngest and the most like my dad. All those times when she set impossible standards that I strove to meet, while she couldn't even manage to stay loyal to her own family.

Katniss lets me recover from the story before writing, I love my sister the way you love your papa.

"Yeah," I whisper. "I couldn't protect him from Mom's betrayal. I still can't. He doesn't know what I saw." I feel Katniss's warmth, and it softens the rough edges of the memory. "He'd never lie. He'll always be faithful. I'd rather be like him than her."

She sucks in a breath. There's more to you than just your parents.

Seeing the words on paper, in her handwriting, I almost believe it. "There's more to you than Primrose," I counter.

We miss them.

"Yeah. I miss peanut butter, too."

She chuckles quietly. The mood lifts.

"What would you miss if you went to another country?" I ask, imagining her in District Twelve with me.

She interprets the question differently as she bundles herself against me. She gestures between us. I would miss this.

This. Now. Us.

All I can think is, that it isn't hypothetical. Eventually, she will miss this. I'll miss it too.

Will you come to me again? To sleep? she asks, hopeful.

"Are you sure? I can't give you more," I caution, denial twitching in my throat, because huge chunks of me want to give her more.

I'm sure. I'll take what I can get. I want these months with you.

I've broken her heart enough. Plus, there's a huge possibility that my girlfriend wouldn't be happy about me literally sleeping with another girl. As it is, I feel the material of Katniss's underwear rubbing against my boxers, and I've spent a significant amount of time trying not to get hard. Yet I can't stay away either. I care about her, and if I can help close her eyes and defuse a nightmare, that's what I'll do. So I give in.

We're careful about separating by dawn. It becomes a routine throughout January. We're apart during the day, making a game out of stolen glances across the classroom. Or when no one is watching, we tease and play. I tug her hair on our way home from school, and she baits me into one of our fork wars when we're supposed to be washing the dishes after a meal.

At night, after Haymitch leaves for his night shift and Violet has conked out, either Katniss sneaks into my bunk or I sneak under her sheets, where we wrap ourselves around each other, confiding secret and silly thoughts until she drops into an easy dream.

There's something appealing about having this clandestine connection with Katniss. Like if we keep it to ourselves, it will become impenetrable enough to stop time. This way, she and I grow back together. She never tells me what she dreams about, but she wakes up happy. I like being with her when it happens.

One night, she catches me off guard when she says that she's heard me sleep-talk. I knew this was a risk, but I'd taken it anyway. Internally, I still freak out that I might have mumbled something illicit. "What, uh, did I say?"

You said "Always," she writes.

Always. Definitely a word that's only possible in dreams.

The morning of February first, it hits me. I leave Katniss and creep into the living room, too antsy to return to my own bed. I pace for, like, five minutes. I stare out the window as the sun drags itself over the island and consider drawing something, anything, but I know I won't be able to concentrate.

I stare at the kitchen. Maybe I should make breakfast for Haymitch since he'll be home in half an hour.

A tap on my shoulder makes me flinch. Katniss is rubbing her eyes, her face craned up at me in confusion. I wonder how long she watched me space out.

"Today's the first," I explain. "I've been here exactly five months."

Katniss gets it. It's the halfway point of my exchange year. I'm here from the beginning of September to the beginning of July. Not exactly a full year, but that's how things go with my organization.

"It just feels strange," I say. "Do I look different?"

She cocks her head and examines me. Her expression brightens with an idea as she tousles my hair. Your hair is shaggier.

Okay. That means, yes.

She, on the other hand, takes this as an opportunity to give me a trim, assuring me that it's purely to enhance what's new. Gluing me to a chair, she circles me with scissors. The morning light from outside warms my cheeks…or maybe it's the nightgown she's wearing, which shifts each time she moves. Not to mention that my eyes are level with the swells of her breasts.

Her knees knock gently against mine, her legs wedging themselves between my thighs. I clear my throat and focus on the clay pots in the corner of the living room, which contain a bunch of well-endowed, sexually-aroused looking flowers, their centers protruding and sprouting at the tips.

In between delicate snips here and there, feminine fingers comb through my hair, toying with my bangs and layers. My eyes fall closed at the sensation of her nails lightly scratching my scalp. With my lids shut, I'm more attuned to her body heat, the sounds of her gown rustling, and her feet padding over the wooden planks. Her unsteady breathing.

She pauses behind me, and I swear, my spine vibrates in anticipation. She runs her hands up the back of my skull. That's when a strange, needy sound tumbles out of my mouth. She does it again. I'm a goner.

The phone shrieks. I jump out of my seat and Katniss drops the scissors. It could be Haymitch, so I grab it, my grip basically squeezing the life out of the phone. I'm winded and nearly shouting when I answer, "H-hello?"

"Peety?"

I freeze. It's Madge. But…but…she's not supposed to call except on holidays. I feel as though I've just been caught with my head under the bride's dress right before the processional.

"Madge!" I croak over-enthusiastically.

Katniss, who was in the middle of picking up the scissors, drops them again.

"What…um…hey," I say.

"Hi!" I hear the beam in her voice. "I know it's early for you, but I couldn't wait. I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine. It's—I'm just surprised."

"Good, because it's a day for surprises."

Oh. I know that excited sound. I'm fluent in it. It's the sound of Madge when she's about to burst with news. A sense of foreboding washes over me. Katniss stands in a knoll of my blond hair as I lock eyes with her.

My girlfriend's words blast my eardrum, like confetti being shot from a cannon. "I'm coming to see you!"

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