Part Two

Chapter Five

I quickly chop the lettuce, cucumbers, basil and tomatoes for our salad while Peeta ladles Crock Pot Whatever onto some rice. Deciding to forgo the kitchen table we settle on the couch in the living room without talking. We're both ravenous and clean our plates pretty quickly; Peeta goes back for seconds while I nibble on some French bread that he brought home from work.

"I want to talk to you about why I was late, if that's alright." I look over at Peeta and he nods, putting his plate on the coffee table and turning toward me. "Something made me think of my dad on the way home from work and I felt this need to go visit his grave. Haymitch was there. It turns out that Haymitch is always there."

"What do you mean 'always'?" Peeta takes my hand and offers it a squeeze.

"He told me that he goes to visit Dad every day. I think he's still working through losing his best friend. I guess my dad took his shift that day he died and Haymitch hasn't gotten over the guilt." I squeeze Peeta's hand. "I, um, never talked to you about this before and I should have. I guess I felt like it didn't really matter since it wouldn't bring him back. But I want to talk to you about it now. If you'll allow it."

He smiles and says, "Of course I'll allow it."

"I think you would have liked my dad a lot. He reminds me a lot of you, you know. Big heart, always smiling. Wait…let me go get something." I run upstairs, grab the book and run back down, snuggling into Peeta's side. "See? This is my dad. I think he was really handsome. Another thing you two have in common." I nudge Peeta's side and he chuckles, putting his arm around me.

"Your mom seems so different here. I've never seen her look, well, happy."

"Before the accident she was so alive. She was one of those moms who baked, volunteered at school, helped with book reports, the whole nine yards." Peeta holds my hand and I'm thankful for the gesture that keeps me from falling apart. "I suppose I started resenting her after the fact. I was mad that I lost two parents—Dad to death and Mom to grief. I love Prim—you know I would die for her—but I got so tired, Peeta. Sometimes all I wanted to do was act my age and not have to worry about making sure that the bills were paid on time or that someone would show up for parent-teacher conferences."

"Katniss, why didn't you tell me? I would have done anything to help."

"I know you would have. And I love you for it. But I didn't want you seeing that side of my life. I had to keep everything together and I was afraid that if I let you in I'd lose focus. If I fell apart, I'd never be able to put myself back together. Your life was so deliberate and planned…I was sure that you'd think that mine was too much to handle."

"Katniss—."

I'm on a roll so I interrupt him. "But I also hated it. I fucking hated having to have all of the answers all the time. I felt like I was suffocating, like nothing would ever change. All of a sudden we were talking graduation, jobs, a house, kids. I love you. God, I love you so much. But I'm scared of not having the answers. I'm scared of always needing the to have the same answers as you. And I'm sorry for thinking that you couldn't deal or wouldn't understand. I'm so sorry. It was a horrible decision top to bottom, keeping you in the dark like that. It was the reason I left. I know it was. Peeta, I'm sorry. If I had just talked to you we might not be here."

I take a deep breath and Peeta covers my hand with his own, wordlessly asking me to let him speak. I nod.

"But maybe I want to be here." I look up at Peeta and he continues, "Katniss, we don't always need to be on the same page. I would appreciate reading the same story though." I shakily laugh and he continues, "I'm scared shitless half of the time, but losing you would be worse than losing just a vision of kids or jobs or whatever is scaring you."

"Isn't that what you want though?"

"Well…yeah, eventually. They're things we've never done before and we'd be doing them together. But it doesn't have to be now, and it doesn't have to mean that life as you know it is over. I never want to hold you back. But maybe take me along sometimes?"

I can't help but smile, thinking of Haymitch's words. "I thought that begging you to come to Massachusetts with me was a dead giveaway."

"It's still nice to hear that you want me around. I'm trying not to push."

"I want you around. Very much. And you can push a little."

"So as long as we're knee-deep in honesty hour, mind if I take a turn?"

"Please."

He's fidgety when he asks, "Did you ever want to marry me?"

I don't hesitate when I say 'yes.' I might have had moments of being scared, but I know that I want to be with Peeta. I knew that then, and I know it now. "Peeta, I still do. That probably isn't what I'm supposed to say, but I'm trying this whole honesty thing."

"And how's that working out for you?"

"Alright." I nudge Peeta's side and say, "It kind of sucks when you don't know where the other person stands, though. Hint, hint."

"You've been really patient. Uncharacteristically patient. You can push a little, too, you know."

"Honesty hour? I don't know how to push without making you upset. I ran away and have no claim to you anymore."

"Don't you know?"

"Know what?"

"You claimed dibs on me a long time ago. Dibs don't expire."

I pause and take a deep breath. "Peeta, tell me about PT. About your leg. Please." I purposefully move my hand slowly as not to upset him, placing it on Peeta's thigh. "Please."

Peeta is quiet but places his hand over mine. He quietly murmurs, "How can you possibly come to terms with it if I can't?"

"Because I love you." I get up off the couch and offer him my hand. "I'll love you enough for both of us."

…

We head back upstairs and get ready for bed, taking turns in the bathroom. I change into my most comfortable, worn out, holey sweats and am ready with my arm extended when he comes out of the bathroom. Instead of going to my room, I lead Peeta to his.

I don't spend any time in here: this place is Peeta's refuge of art, books and blankets, but now I'm going to push. I shut the door and move us to the bed, hand in hand.

"I don't know how to do this, Katniss." And I get that. I'm not asking him to drop his pants. Yet.

"Why don't you show me some of your sketches? We haven't done that in months and I'd like to see what you've put down to paper."

So we move to the bed, sketch books in hand and get comfortable. Peeta runs a hand over the green cover and explains that some of the images are unsettling, stemming from the accident. I expected that, but perhaps not to the extent that he drew them.

The artwork is, for the most part, abstract. Colors—both light and harsh strokes—dominate the pages. "Can you talk to me about them? Help me understand?"

"Um, sure. I can try. This—" he points to a drawing near the front of the book, "—is the last thing I remember. Just white noise and headlights." He continues to peruse through the book. "I sketched this based off of my feelings the first time I knew I had lost my leg. I felt like I couldn't catch my breath at first, so I wanted to depict that in the drawing."

Page after page of sadness and anger. When he found out I'd left. When he'd first moved into his parent's place. When he fell at the bakery. A time when he'd destroyed a display case out of frustration. The day he'd trashed his room in a fit of anger. He shuts the book and I lean my head on his shoulder for a long time.

Eventually he sits up and takes my hand, moving it to the hem of his shirt. Together we pull it up to reveal Peeta's torso. I look into his eyes for permission before ghosting my palm over the raised red and pink scars that almost mirror Peeta's art. His left side is marbled with rippled skin, making patchwork of his chest and stomach. The skin there seems slightly warmer, so I hold my hand against it and gently cup the side of his face with the other, searching his eyes. They seem to be pleading with me.

He lowers his shirt and awkwardly raises his hips, starting to remove his sweats. I help him pull them off, finally revealing the true extent of his injuries. The best word to describe the prosthesis is 'bionic' with its working joints, metal and silicone. Peeta won't look at me so I take his hand in my own and move it to his thigh. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little scared, too, but this isn't in any way about me. This is about Peeta.

"Please show me."

He slowly works at the leg, eventually removing it entirely. There is a sleeve of sorts that he also takes off, unveiling unnaturally tight skin and puckered scars.

"Does it hurt?"

"Sometimes, yes." He places his hand over the limb and brushes it gently. "It gets irritated at the pressure point, so I should remove it at night."

I look at him, alarmed. "But you haven't since I've seen you again. Not once. Why?"

Peeta shrugs and I wrap my hand around his wrist, removing it from his leg. I then take my small hands and gently place them where his was moments earlier, exploring the newness.

I can hear the desperation in his voice when he says, "Say something."

I pause to collect my thoughts before beginning, "You came back." I lean him back to rest on his pillows. "You're whole," I shift down to kiss his exposed leg, his breath hitching, "beautiful," I lift his shirt and kiss the skin there, "and new," I lean down to kiss his lips. "You came back to me. Thank you."

I snuggle into Peeta's side and he wraps an arm around me. My nook. His body gently quakes with unshed tears so I softly start singing a song that my mom used to sing to Prim and I when we were kids. Eventually Peeta hums along. At the end of the tune we lay quietly, listening to the breaths between us.

"Katniss?"

"Hmm?"

"I think that's all I can be pushed tonight."

"Okay." I take that as my cue to leave, kissing his forehead and whispering goodnight before walking across the hall.

…

I'm frozen with terror, my heart beating rapidly in my chest. It's only 1 a.m. but my dream won't let me get back to sleep. All I see are Peeta's drawings.

I can't help myself. I quietly get out of bed and tiptoe across the hall to Peeta's room. It's too early for his nightmares to bring him to me, but I need him. I gently lift the quilt and slip into his bed. He startles but immediately pulls me into his chest, his arms wrapping around me.

"See? I said you could push."

"Thank you."

"Goodnight, Katniss."

Author's Note: Thanks, emarina! Here is your haiku:

hey, emarina
you might be my sister from
another mister