Katniss
When I awaken, a warm and safe feeling nestles comfortably in my stomach. Stretching my arms over my head, a smile grips my face as I recall the way Peeta gazed at me before we fell asleep. In his eyes, I was the only girl that he'd ever held or wanted. It's not the truth, but knowing that he gave up Madge for me makes my heart swell. In the past days, I've known pain and hope, fear and rapture.
Also something I haven't been graced with in so long: happiness. The emotion is familiar. It was not always an easy life without Papa, but I'd known enough joy to miss it when it was gone, stolen from me by my sister's death.
But now, I feel the happiness return, caused by new things. The expression on my mother's face when she saw that I was alive, the gentle pull of her brushing my hair, and her fingers curling over the sheet as she tucked me into bed. The blurred image of Haymitch in the doorway, checking up on me during the middle of my rest. Buttercup venturing into bed with me, like he used to with Primrose.
And Peeta. Discovering the weight of his body as he loved me deep into the sand. The thud of his footsteps coming toward my room this morning and the nervous ripple in his voice as we talked.
He wants me as much as I do him. He asked me to be his girlfriend.
I drum my giddy feet on the mattress.
I'm alone, but his scent has infused itself into the pillow. Based the puttering noises coming from the kitchen, he must be there. Mama and Haymitch's voices drift in from outside, where they're speaking quietly with the Saes.
Hopping out of bed, I check myself in the mirror, comb my fingers through the knots in my hair, and scurry toward the kitchen...too fast, because I slide past the doorway and have to grip the frame to keep myself from falling.
Peeta is fiddling with the knobs on the stove. He's rumpled in gray jeans, a dark blue t-shirt, and a loose apron. That single, unruly tendril of blond hair branches out from his locks as usual. He doesn't see me, but his profile is just so handsome, and I'm so tipsy with affection for him that I enjoy spying for a moment.
He opens the oven, looks inside, and then closes it. Then repeats the process. Then glances at the clock on the wall while wringing the mitt in his hand.
He turns my way, but I dart behind the wall and hide. My face drops into my hands. We've already made love, yet I'm clueless about how to begin this courtship with Peeta. Being his girlfriend is not like being with Finnick. This is special. This is more.
I pace until I hear the side-to-side pattern of his own footsteps and realize that he's pacing, too. Smoothing my hair over once more, I twist back around to the kitchen doorway. And stop immediately. At the exact same time, Peeta has also turned and stepped in my direction. Catching sight of me, he halts as well. Our movements could not mirror each other more seamlessly. It's as if we choreographed this.
We both glance down and chuckle, then peek at each other. I adore this reaction more than life itself. One of us should really say something, though. I suppose it should be me, since I have plenty of catching up to do.
"H-hi," I say.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi," I repeat.
"Your mom is making dinner."
"I-I love dinner."
"And I made cheese buns."
"I love cheese buns," I blurt out. "Mama's outside with Haymitch."
"Yeah," Peeta says, his voice low. "Not for very long."
"Perhaps not."
I play with the strap of my nightgown, which gets his attention. He stares at the strap as he speaks. "They could be back any minute."
An energized pause follows, charged and crackling to the point where I can barely keep still. Our breathing infiltrates the silence.
"Katniss," he says.
"Peeta," I answer.
"For what I have in mind, we should really move closer to each other."
The request wraps around my waist. We close the distance until the tips of our bare toes bump. I crane my head to meet his eyes, which are bathed in so much blue that it's like staring into the sea.
Without looking away, he tosses the mitt over his shoulder and links our hands together, tugging me closer. Our heads move achingly slow, his head angling and mine following his lead, our mouths reaching out for each other, our lips gathering into smiles as they brush.
The door swings open. We spring apart and fly to opposite sides of the room. Haymitch strides into the cottage and idles at the kitchen's threshold when he sees that I'm awake. He frowns between Peeta and me. I'm stuck to the refrigerator while Peeta is glued to the opposite counter. He's retrieved the oven mitt and is choking it to death as he traces its faded mockingjay pattern.
"How're you feeling?" Haymitch asks me.
"Mmm-hmm," I respond, which isn't a response at all.
He gives me a quizzical look. "Well, you're back to making no sense at all. That's a relief." He pats the side of my face, gives me a reverent look, and then lumbers off to his room.
Peeta drops the mitt. I launch myself from the refrigerator. We collide in the middle of the kitchen. I throw my arms around his broad shoulders and issue a desperate sound as his hungry mouth crashes against mine. His tongue parts my lips and flicks inside, the steadiness of his jaw making me dizzy.
"I can't keep my hands off you," he mumbles against my mouth. "This is the total opposite of going slow, but I really don't care right now. It's like I want to make up for every second all year that I didn't touch you."
"That is a lot of seconds," I pant.
"Lots and lots of them," he agrees.
We reel into another kiss, our lips slanting over one another. My knees are about to give out when Peeta rips his mouth from mine. I'm about to glower at him for stopping, but he's too busy gulping at something over my shoulder. I twist in his arms, expecting to see Mama, but it's my uncle again. He's staring at us, dressed for work and arrested in the act of heading out.
Peeta and I freeze, still holding onto each other. I prepare myself for an argument. Haymitch didn't want us to get this close. I remember him warning Peeta about it when I hid in the closet months ago, on the night of the first street fest.
My uncle puffs himself up to speak, then closes his mouth in contemplation. Finally, he picks something out of his teeth and waves us off. "You call that a kiss?"
With that, he walks out the door. I stand there, scrutinizing the empty space where he'd stood until Peeta's hands cup my face and swerve me toward him. He shrugs, amused, and licks his lips.
Our mouths strain to connect in a third kiss. But Mama ambles in.
Deftly, I free myself from Peeta before she catches us, and I welcome her hug. Peeta wrenches open the oven door and retrieves the tray of cheese buns, dumping them on the tiny counter. Mama is too busy focusing on me to notice his taut shoulders and beet-red neck. She fiddles with my hair for a second, checks the beans and rice she was cooking to make sure they're done, and finally leaves to clean up before supper.
Peeta glances at me expectantly. In the sudden mood to play, I strut to the sink rather than go to him again, aware that his eyes are on my hips as I move. Turning on the faucet, I begin washing the utensils and bowls he and Mama used to prepare the meal. Coiling ribbons of steam rise up from the water.
My skin prickles as I hear him throw down that silly mitt and approach with unhurried footsteps. His body temperature brims against my back. He wraps his solid arms around me from behind, rests his chin on my shoulder, and speaks against my ear. "Can I help?"
"Yes," I giggle secretly.
Setting the sponge aside, we dip our hands into the soapy water and lather our fingers instead, washing a spoon that's technically already clean. Together, we skim up and down the hard wooden handle as the hot water sloshes over us. His touch slips and slides with mine, knuckles bumping, palms brushing. Suds run down our skin, the tiny bubbles multiplying and popping. We shiver.
Peeta nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck and whispers, "I love you."
With a gasp, I drop the spoon into the sink, not caring who walks in next. I've heard and felt enough. I twist my head and taste his words.
"I love you," he repeats seconds later.
"I love you," he says with swollen lips.
kpkpkpkpkp
Time passes in immeasurable bliss. He puts his arm around me as we walk to school. We eat lunch with Deliah and Gale, and sit together in the back of class, play-kicking each other or stealing innocent touches under the desk. Cinna doesn't reprimand us that often. I suspect he's glad that I'm no longer ignoring each subject except for Survival. That I'm actually participating and talking.
After school, Peeta and I take the bus to the Internet cafe, where he shows me images of his town and high school, or plays his favorite music for me. We read electronic books and some of his favorite fanfiction. I like discovering new stories and songs. I find myself longing to sing again.
I show him more of the island, secret niches that others don't appreciate. One of them is a wild mockingjay habitat. Peeta goes crazy with his camera, snapping away at the kaleidoscope of feathers swooping through the air. I whistle, and they whistle back. One of them lands on my shoulder—I love whenever this happens—and Peeta takes a picture. It ends up beside his bed, where Madge's picture used to be.
Sometimes, we camp on the beach. We lie on our backs, in our special place, and talk about our families. I slip occasionally, reverting back to silence without thinking, staring at Peeta and expecting him to get my meaning, which he does. Or I reach for my notebook, then flush, remembering that I didn't bring it.
Haymitch knows about us, so I gather the courage to explain everything to Mama. Although she's elated for me, I sense a wistfulness in her voice, and perhaps even concern. Not so long from now, the road Peeta and I are on will diverge into two, but I tell her with my eyes not to worry. When the time comes, I'll feel what needs to be felt. It's worth it.
The nightmares don't come anymore. Still, we can't resist sneaking into the same bed once Haymitch is gone and Mama is dreaming. Of course, we would never do anything that close in proximity to her. All we do is talk, trade light touches, and sleep.
That isn't to say it's not difficult resisting temptation during other stolen moments. For all that we agreed to tread slowly, we have trouble controlling ourselves when we're completely alone. Sometimes all it takes is a glance. As the weeks go by, the kisses expand to other parts of our bodies, and one more inch of clothing is swept aside in our heated fits. It's a glorious ache, getting closer and closer.
kpkpkpkpkp
It's a late afternoon. Our homework is scattered on the floor, forgotten. We rock back and forth on my bed, clawing at each other's scalps and kissing like mad. Frenzied kisses separated by heavy breaths.
Nearly a month has gone by. A month of embraces taken step by step. I detect the possibility of more in the air.
He licks my upper lip, causing my legs to spread wider, allowing his waist further into the space between my thighs. My short skirt flutters up over my waist as our pelvises grind together. I dare to let my fingers dive into the back of his shorts and slide over his bare ass. When I do this, he keens softly into my mouth and sucks on my tongue with more fervor. And when he does that, I grip him tighter.
He works harder against me, the delicate slam of his hips creating a friction that effectively breaks the kiss. We gasp against each other's mouths. I'm going to plummet soon, I can feel it, the tightening.
Peeta feels it too and, with growing confidence, shifts the focus to something new. His hands slip beneath my camisole, fingers searching in confusion for the missing clasp of my bra. He hasn't touched me there since the beach, I realize, but I'm ready for it. I guide his hands to the front where the closure is located. The snap releases, the sheer material flutters apart, and my breasts fill his palms. He alternates between stroking them fully and looping his thumbs over the buds until they toughen. His patience pushes me to the brink.
My turn. Shoving my hips into his, I roll us over and land on top. I take good care of him, lifting his shirt over his head, tossing it aside, and drawing his skin into my mouth. His waist and abdomen taste like sugar and salt, like summer in a faraway place with crisp woods and bakeries. All I want to do is tear the rest of his clothes off and consume that taste. My teeth are ready to bite into him and leave marks down his torso.
Traveling upward, my nose grazes the fine hairs on his chest. My cheek sweeps over his heartbeat. My lips suck roughly on a spot just above his ribcage. I've learned that Peeta likes it when I use pressure. He arches into me, panting up to the ceiling as I get closer to his nipple. He moans, so fucking sweet, and hearing it feels too good.
We both forget to be quiet. That's how Uncle Haymitch finds us.
I've never seen Peeta vault away from me that fast. So fast that he falls off the bed.
kpkpkpkpkp
It's late morning by the time I wake up on a Saturday. I shuffle into the hallway and find Peeta by the window near the closet, staring out at the sunrise. He's wearing his sleep pants and nothing else, his blond hair a wonderful mess. As my feet patter across the creaky floorboards, he turns and cocks his head at me, smiling lazily through his bangs. His boyish smile has the power to disintegrate me.
I sashay to the bathroom, giving him a look before slipping inside. I lean against the pedestal sink and wait, my heart flapping like it has wings. He follows me, shutting the door behind him, rubbing his thumb thoughtfully over his bottom lip as he regards my position, as if he's deciding what part of me to tackle first. My thighs part a bit more in invitation.
It's not that we're trying to hide anything, but we have so little privacy. Haymitch is passed out from work, and Mama is already outside tending to her herb garden, so we take advantage. Before I know it, Peeta's hoisting me onto the sink's edge, stepping between my legs, and dipping his head. He presses warm, open-mouthed kisses up the center of my throat, and when he chases the next one with his tongue, my head flies back.
By my third whimper, Peeta has to stop what he's doing to my neck to calm me down. "Quiet," he murmurs, flushed and rather proud of himself. But he sighs hotly as I thread my fingers through his hair and urge his lips back to the hollow of my throat.
I'm feeling murderous when he finally breaks away. "I-I've got to start the bread."
He uses it as the excuse to leave me there, steaming worse than a kettle. Frustrated, I shed my clothes and am about to step under the spray of the shower when the door whips open a minute later.
Peeta stalks back in. "Oh, fuck the bread," he growls and grabs my naked body.
The cramped tub—an oval tin basin—is small enough to push our wet bodies together under the shower head. The interlude is swift and cautious, with the bathroom door locked and the hiss of water muting the sounds we make. I hitch my leg over his waist, showing him how to touch and rub me, until he catches on, his fingers going right through me while I dissolve into his shoulder.
He's a fast learner. When his thumb traces that secret fleshy part of me, he watches in amazement as my body yields to him.
We end up drenching the floor.
kpkpkpkpkp
On my birthday in May, Haymitch gives me a journal for song-writing and Mama has sewn me a new yellow dress. She's at my side for most of the day, playing a card game with me and making floral crowns for our hair while Peeta sketches on the floor.
Eventually, he holds up a sheet, angling it so only I can see. Go on a birthday date with me?
"Yes!" I blurt out, startling Mama. "Yes," I say, more quietly.
That night, she comes into our room, beaming because I'm wearing her gift. Nevertheless, I'm huffing and fussing with my hair in the mirror, unable to manage a simple braid.
"Let me," she says, unraveling the mess I've made and starting again.
My thoughts buzz around me like mosquitoes. Having a celebratory evening with Peeta is akin to dating the sun itself, something that's completely impossible to touch but crucial to my survival. What I still can't fathom is what I actually did to win him.
"You deserve Peeta," Mama says, reading my mind. "As much as he deserves you. Just trust that."
In spite of my sweaty palms, I'm feeling brave tonight. "Was it simple loving Papa?"
Her fingers halt, then continue weaving my locks together. "Loving isn't simple. That doesn't mean it should be doubted," is all she says. "If it's complicated, it's genuine. If it's genuine, it's worth it."
"Primrose would say that," I muse.
Our gazes lock. We haven't spoken of her before. Yet, instead of drifting from me, my mother finishes knitting the braid at the nape of my neck. "Yes. She would have said that. She would have been excited for you."
We share a smile. Primrose would have been excited about this moment, too. Mama and me, our reflections conversing through the mirror.
Mama steps back. "All done." A knowing glint brightens her eyes. "You may not believe it, but Peeta has liked you for as long as you've liked him. Long before you both started sleeping in the same bed."
I'd been in the middle of touching the braid, but now my hands fall to my sides in surprise. "How—"
"How could you think I wouldn't know?" she asks. "I sleep only a few feet away. It's been a comfort knowing someone could be there for you, if it wasn't me. I've never worried or thought you would do more than keep each other company at night. I trust you both. Now, as for what goes on when you're by yourselves..."
My cheeks roast as she goes on. "It's alright, Katniss. I understand. You've had your medical shot." She clears her throat. "But please be good to one another. Talk and listen. Do things only when they truly feel right. Okay?"
She has no idea just how much I've already done, but I soak up her advice because everything with Peeta is different. I nod, and she shoos me out of the room. "Go now. Before he reorganizes my spices."
As I cross through the cottage, Haymitch lounges in a chair reading a newspaper. He does a double-take when he sees me, then offers a wink.
Peeta's waiting in the kitchen. Mama's right. He's so agitated that he's giving the spices a onceover. I tap the doorway. He turns, and I nearly die of ecstasy. He's wearing the white linen shirt that I took from him, the sleeves rolled up his arms. His hair fans around his head, and his skin glows from days in the sun.
He gazes at me, looking just as awestruck as I feel. "Wait," he says suddenly, then darts out the front door.
My family and I blink at each other. Mama chuckles when we hear the knock.
She answers the door, and Peeta steps inside. "Good evening, Mrs. Everdeen," he says, combing a hand through his hair. "I'm here for your daughter."
"Oh for God's sake," Haymitch grumbles but with an evident smirk. "She's Violet. That's Katniss. And you're bananas."
Who cares what my uncle thinks. Peeta's gesture charms me to the core. Kissing Mama goodbye and throwing a couch pillow at my uncle's head, I lead Peeta to the front porch, where we grin toothily at one another.
"God," he says, admiring my dress. "You look so..."
If he finds the right word, I will melt and become useless for the rest of the night. I narrow my eyes at the shirt and playfully poke him in the chest. "We should talk about how you look first."
He quirks an eyebrow. "I stole it back. Just for tonight."
My wickedness has rubbed off on him. Perhaps this will be a new game for us, committing thefts on each other. I'd like that.
To my surprise, he takes me to the lagoon that we once jumped into, only we reach it from a level trail this time. The waterfall plunges into the pool, but near the rim it's calmer, the water quivering like liquid silk.
However, that's all I recognize about the place. My hand goes to my mouth as I take in what Peeta has done.
Waterlilies float along the surface, though they don't belong and must have been placed there by him, and square lanterns are scattered across the grass. Floral shapes have been cut into the metal and glow from the flames inside. There's a blanket spread out, with a basket of fancy cookies, also shaped like waterlilies, and a small bottle of dark liquid.
The most I had expected was a meal in the square, perhaps a bowl of fish stew from Greasy Sae's stall. Maybe a dance or two at the cantina.
"I made the cookies, because I know from New Year's that you like shortbread. My dad had to send me the stuff to decorate them," Peeta admits. "And um, I didn't know if you like champagne, but I'm guessing you don't, so I made iced chocolate. It came out a little too sweet. I wasn't really concentrating. Not that you needed to know that, but I hope you like—"
I grab his face and kiss him. He grins against my lips, a goofy smile claiming his face as I pull back. "Tigris and Jo helped me set up," he finishes.
After he rescued me from drowning, Jo and Tigris became Peeta's biggest fans. They liked him before, but now they've developed a greater kinship with him during our story nights at the beach. Finnick hasn't joined us since he and I broke up. I appreciate the space he's giving us, but I hope he'll feel comfortable enough to return someday. We are friends, after all.
To my relief, I've felt no skittishness returning to the water since the cove. Nor has Peeta. I will never forget the way my friends and I cheered when he peeled off his clothes and jumped in with us. He's found his own touch of wildness. I've found my peace.
"I chose this spot because..." Peeta hedges. "Well, this is where I started to fall for you. When we jumped off the cliff."
No one has ever done something like this for me before. Somehow, I've found a way into this boy's heart. I want to stay there until I'm old and dusty.
I pull him into a hug. We do this a lot, stop what we're doing and simply hold on tight, refusing to let the distance in, because right now we still have that power.
We swim naked in the lagoon. He splashes me, tries to tickle my waist, but I'm a master at slipping from his grasp. The lantern lights glint off the water and roam over the contours of Peeta's face. His eyes want me. "C'mere," he murmurs.
My body tangles with his, my legs linked around his waist and my wet breasts crushing his chest. I tease him, dodging his kisses a few times to my satisfaction. He catches me once, brushing his mouth over mine and pulling back with an impish, triumphant grin. It's that grin that seduces me completely.
Leaning in, I seize his lip with my teeth, cutting off his breath. Encouraged, I dab the crook of his mouth with my tongue, one time, two times, trembling at the sensation of his fingers diving into my wet hair. His grip tugs me forward, and our eyes stay open until the moment our lips fuse together. He clasps my head in place, angling it so he can kiss his way through to my soul.
There's no point in doubting what he said earlier. Peeta has never lied to me.
My head tips back as his lips drag across my neck. "You love me, too," he breathes against my skin.
And I will never lie to him, either. "Yes," I say.
Two more chapters left guys :*)
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