A major thank you to TheAfterShock for agreeing to proof-read the story for me once the story is complete/whenever there is time (the chapter is unbeta'd, so every mistake is mine) and all of you who put it/me in your favorite/alert list, or reviewed. Feedback is much appreciated.
Notes:
#1 I am sorry for the delay. My computer had a problem I really needed to fix, and I had to do without it for two and a half weeks. That, unfortunately, messed with my plans. (I know I've already said it in a private message, but I apologize to those of you who got a preview of this chapter later than expected. This time, you should all get a sneak peek a week after the update:)).
#2 I am warning you that my updates won't be (too) frequent. There are many other priorities I need to keep in mind first. I'm sure most of you can relate to my situation. Please, understand me. I am certainly not prolonging the updates on purpose.
#3 as I've mentioned in chapter one, some of the characters' ages are a little different than in the books. The main changes are written below: (I hope I'm helpful)
Katniss E. (18), Peeta M. (19), Madge U. (18), Primrose E. (18), Rory H. (18), Gale H. (19), Vick H. (15), Posy H. (7), Greasy Sae (mid-fifties), Haymitch-Mr.-Mrs. Everdeen (40+), Thom (30), Johanna (25), Glimmer (18).
(Have I missed anyone?)
Replies to anonymous reviews:
Guest: Yes, it is an everlark story. I know things are going slow, there is not much dialogue, and Katniss isn't the one to open up right away. Though, I prefer the slow build-up of the relationships between/among characters. In this case, Katniss holding back seems more realistic. You should still expect a kiss nevertheless. "Roommates" is labeled under Romance.
Words: 10,313 (Normal word limits: 8,000-14,000)
Disclaimer: I own almost nothing.
Update: 31.10.2012
Three: March and April
March, End Of Week One
The scissors glistens in her hand. Its silver surface is smooth against her palm, while the tips of its two blades are sharp, barely ghosting over the sensitive flesh of her fingers. She notes how her nails were cut just a day ago.
She knows the thoughts and ideas that have been clouding her mind for weeks now are all insane and the frown she sees on her face as she reluctantly gazes at her reflection in the mirror of the bathroom does nothing but confirm the fact. She can only come up with one thing at the moment; she has never done this before.
She has never cut her own hair because of a comment that was meant to insult her—she has never let anyone corrupt her emotional strength or downgrade her. She quickly reminds herself that Glimmer was only the cause of her final decision. She has been considering having her hair cut for a while now, her father's words always repeating themselves like an unforgettable mantra inside her head.
Disappointing her parents while they were alive was one thing; doing so now should be unthinkable. It's not like she believes they can see her from whenever they are; no. Their loss was just one of the facts she has realized she doesn't always seem to embrace.
Katniss puts the sharp object down.
Her fingers comb through her hair until her hands reach the level of her waist, where her braid usually ends.
The pair of shears is back in her palm, which is starting to sweat at a pretty uncomfortable rate. For a single moment, her eyelids drop, and she exploits the chance of welcoming the darkness. However, she knows she can achieve absolutely nothing by shutting the world out. Even if she manages to push any kind of emotions away, her hand isn't steady enough for her to cut her hair evenly. She at least has to end up decent-looking.
After she releases the long breath she didn't know she had been holding, she brings her hair in front of her, leaning forward ever so slightly. She carefully trims the ends of it with a half heart.
She expresses no kind of fascination when it comes to long hair. Yet it is what she's used to. The insecurities of what she's about to do make her more self-conscious than she has probably ever been before. For once, Katniss cares for what people will think of her.
She loses herself in her train of thought before she has the chance to fully register it. She has no time to realize her movements are clumsier than she'd like them to be. She sees the aftermath of her actions in the white porcelain sink. The scream burns her throat, but never really escapes her lips.
The sound of her unusually loud footfalls, following the nearly inaudible growl, echoes in the entire house. She faces the full-length mirror in the hallway, gasping at the sight in front of her.
She touches her upper arm because, suddenly, this is where the imaginable braid will stop. A sharp intake of breath is heard. It takes her a while to realize it's her heart drumming inside her chest.
Her hand moves to her abdomen. She clutches the fabric there.
She is so focused on what could be done for things to go back to the way they were, that she misses the sound Peeta's feet make.
"One more question," he says. He chuckles. "Hopefully the last one." Her sister will be here tomorrow morning. He has been asking her questions about Prim's preferences—even the flavors in a cake—for the past two hours.
Peeta seems to regret his decision as soon as he faces her. "Why are you in the dark?" he wonders curiously. And he's right. The hallway is consumed by the darkness. The only reason why they can still see each other concerns the lighting of the rest house. Though, they can't see everything—Katniss wishes to keep it this way.
"I was heading for my room." The excuse sounds plausible to her ears. Eight in the evening is too early for her to sleep, but she's been finding enough peace and tranquility in there lately. She isn't entirely sure why, but she feels as if he's noticed this, too.
He turns the light on, regardless. He looks suspicious. Katniss hastily pulls her hair to the one side, hiding the short strands of it under the long ones.
"What's wrong?" He approaches her, his eyes narrowing at her in something close to worry. She wonders whether he can hear her heartbeat from where he is.
An incoherent phrase escapes her lips, while she clenches her fists around her hair tighter, in a way that's less discreet than she'd like it to be.
She drops her right hand to her side, simultaneously loosing the grip of her left one, not knowing what to do next. She proceeds to follow his gaze, betraying herself once she realizes it has landed on her hair.
The heat creeps its way to her cheeks. "What happened?" he asks silently, carefully.
She parts her lips, hoping for a clever lie—a small lie, really—to come out of them, but she has no such luck. "I tried to cut my hair," she blurts out instead, recognizing the pathetic truth in her own words. "But," she adds. "It didn't work out. I mean…I don't…I don't know how to do it…and I didn't want to call Madge. She'd have to take me to town and I…" She sighs, finally deciding to keep her mouth closed. She inwardly huffs at how nothing useful has escaped it thus far.
Peeta has a thoughtful expression on his face. "You don't need to call Madge. You can wait until tomorrow morning. I'll take you to a hairdresser—"
Katniss shakes her head furiously, cutting him off, refusing to even think about it. She certainly doesn't need to owe him any more favors. After all, there is no way she will allow him to carry her on his bike again.
"It's not that." It's not. She's not worried about going to town; she's worried about letting someone else cut her hair. A stranger, a person who won't even understand what she wants, someone who doesn't even see her on a weekly basis. Someone who simply isn't her mother.
"What is it, then?" His voice is still soft. He makes no effort to change his tone.
She wants to hate him more than anything else. After all those years, she has finally managed to see right through the people who reluctantly fake concern and those who are genuinely interested in her well being. Nobody has ever cared about her besides her parents and Madge. (Perhaps Haymitch, too.) She has been taught that life is this way.
But now there's Peeta and he cares. She wants to hate him for it. She could stay on her own, wondering for hours why she hasn't and will never be able to achieve this, but she would find no answer.
She convinces herself that if she lets her guard down for some moments, nothing bad can happen. A wrong move can be easily fixed.
"Generally speaking, I don't like hairdressers."
Her grandmother was a hairdresser. Not the one who gave her the beautiful locket when she was little, but the one who didn't accept Mrs. Everdeen's choice to marry an unprivileged villager; the one who sent her daughter away. Her mother had learned how to braid Katniss's and Prim's hair from her.
Katniss expects him to be surprised at her odd statement or even curious about the explanations she will not share. Though, he is the one to surprise her.
"That's no problem. I could do it," he tells her confidently. She stares at him in disbelief, her one eyebrow slightly arching as she attempts to grasp the real meaning of his words. A couple of seconds later, she realizes he means every single one of them.
"Do what?" she asks what's been bugging her, for she has to be sure.
"Help you cut your hair," he explains, confirming her assumptions. "I'd once done it for one of my brothers."
Katniss knows his father was a baker. There is, however, a missing piece in this puzzle. Does he know what he's talking about? Is his mother a hair stylist? When she left this house, she probably also left this village without a hairdresser. Maybe this is why everyone has to go to town for a new haircut.
Peeta distinguishes the query in Katniss's eyes. "I improvised," he confesses. The gasp is released against her will, even though her facial expression would betray her surprise anyway. "But things turned out to be okay," he adds, completely unbothered by Katniss's reaction.
"Did someone teach you?" she asks curiously. She almost immediately scolds herself—she should be reasonable, shouldn't she? She is positive he said something along the lines of improvising.
"No." He shakes his head. "Creativity was actually one of the very few things mother trusted me with." He counts his fingers. "Frosting the wedding and birthday cakes, decorating the bakery on special occasions, coming up with perfect excuses to be invisible every time an important person visited…" He trails off, making Katniss realize he has noticed the deep frown that is plastered on her face.
Invisible? There are so many other words he could have said to her, so why did he choose this one? He knows that's nothing but the ugly truth, yet he believes letting Katniss know about his family's distrust is unfair when she grabs every single chance she gets to shut him out.
"I think I can make it," he eventually says, trying to cover his previous mistake, but Katniss refuses to fix her lingering grimace.
In the end, she manages to focus on nothing other than her current worries. Peeta has been living alone for a while. She is sure those problems he started referring to concern his past.
When she nods, almost giving him permission, her insecurity only increases.
.
.
He helps her drag a chair to his bathroom, before he thoughtfully places it against his sink. He asks her to give him her brush, for her hair is still too long to be smoothed out with a simple comb like his. He takes a scissors of his own, but instead of closing his fingers around it, he puts it on a self away from her.
She stares curiously at him, anticipating his next move, even when she knows he has convinced himself to concentrate on his task rather than her.
He sends her to her half of the house one more time—she forgot her shampoo—and she can't help noting how the door leading to his room makes her feel a strange familiarity. Although this is considered uncharted territory for her, there is a calmness connected with Peeta as well as the way he has organized nearly everything in his life.
When she's back and he reminds her that her hair needs to be soaked before they're cut, she swears not to let him know she likes his hands. Sure, he must have realized she isn't as stressed about the results of her appearance anymore, but he can't know she's actually enjoying the way his fingers are massaging her scalp.
A series of shivers run down her spine and she blames the cool water for the unwanted shaking of her shoulders. Peeta mumbles a rushed apology for the temperature and promises to finish as fast as possible.
As soon as he makes sure he doesn't go back on his word, he surprises her by placing his index finger right below her chin, awakening unrest inside her brain and chest. Her eyes flutter open, her vision becoming clearer and clearer as the seconds pass.
"Is this because of Glimmer?"
His question is pretty simple, yet it has the desired effect. Even if Katniss is usually not a person of words, she is rendered utterly speechless. Now, when her gaze meets his, she knows he notices. He stares back at her, the intensity of his eyes urging her to bite the corner of her lower lip.
She can't explain it to him. He'd need to have lived not only the happy and beautiful, but also the painful moments with her to understand her. Sometimes, even Madge can't comprehend or interpret Katniss's actions. Only Prim can; only Prim is supposed to have this ability.
"No," she tells him, and it's partly true. He retreats a step once he realizes there's no point in hovering over her anymore. Katniss has this weird wish to be aware of what's going on inside his head at this very moment.
Her hands grip the edges of her seat. She wants to know how she looks, but not while he's present. She will have to leave his bathroom to achieve this, as she has no right to tell him to go.
He somehow still holds her gaze. Unlike the rest of the times they have interacted, he appears to be pretty hesitant to make the conversation a little easier for them to bear.
He eventually decides to break some of the tension by clearing his throat. "You're alright." He makes a movement with his head, referring to the haircut she hasn't approved of yet. "More than alright," he adds.
Despite everything, a hint of a smile play's on Katniss's lips. She stands up, glancing at the tiles of the floor to hide the extent of her gratefulness. This is one of the comments—compliments—that manage to make her feel alright. There are so many words that would normally make her blush and she doesn't like being embarrassed.
"Thank you," she whispers, deliberately avoiding the mirror in front of her.
He shrugs, copying her smile from before. "Anytime."
She has somehow managed to owe him more than she already does. He has offered her a place to stay after all, hasn't he? She is positive there are more comforts here than in the dormitories Prim lives. She feels guilty.
"You know, Katniss," he starts. She halts, turning around to face him. "Your self-esteem is unreasonably low. I think you're capable of much more than what you're giving yourself credit for." He shakes his head, before he corrects himself. "I know it."
Frankly, she has no clue how she should reply to him. His words could be the cause of her thinking for hours. She wonders whether he's always been like this.
Katniss finally nods as she begins to slowly digest the information.
He's making it hard for her to ignore him. Maybe too hard.
March, Week Two
Prim's blue eyes are vividly scanning the house. Her eyebrows threaten to rise over her forehead, her amazement evident. She mutters something about not knowing there are such awe-inspiring houses in a simple and small village like that, while her gaze keeps travelling.
It takes a while for Katniss to realize she's seeking for something she hasn't seen so far. Curiosity has never bothered her sister, so Katniss is not timid at all when she asks.
"Uhm…is there something you're looking for?" She had made a plan in her head the night before. Taking Prim in her personal space was among her intentions, but right now she has no other choice but to wait patiently for her to speak.
"Someone," Prim corrects, her brows furrowed in concentration. She is probably coming up with many different scenarios. Katniss knows that well from experience. Her confusion vanishes when she catches Prim's message.
"He's not here." She had repeatedly stated how she wanted to meet him. "He's at work."
"The bakery?" Katniss nods in confirmation. "When is he coming back?"
She doesn't need to glance at a clock to know. The color of the sky out of the tall windows helps her estimate the time. "Soon," she replies honestly, and she quickly recognizes the spark of eagerness in her sister's eyes.
"Would you like me to show you my room?"
She does, right after receiving a positive shake of Prim's head. The issue of Katniss's unexpected dinner with Gale at Panem somehow enters their conversation. After a while, it becomes the main issue of it. (Prim still can't believe Madge has showed interest in a boy so easily. She is, however, less worried than Katniss is about it. Her reasons and arguments overpower the brunette's once more. Madge is an eighteen-year-old girl and she can most likely take care of herself.)
Peeta makes no noise when he arrives. He only makes his presence known when he shouts her name from the lower floor, waiting to see her look back at him from the staircase, ask him what he needs to hear.
He questions her about Prim's visit and she looks behind her, just to see her sister poking her head out of the bedroom, the sound of the exchanged words effectively attracting her attention.
After Peeta invites them downstairs, Prim saves her small wave for some seconds later, before she greets him officially, offering her hand. She squeezes his fingers a little tighter than normal after he returns the gesture, a silent warning reflected in her azure eyes.
Katniss remains oblivious to the way Peeta follows Prim's gaze and nods his head, wordlessly promising her the time when he'd show indifference towards Katniss, her actions and movements in the house is over.
It really is. He isn't sure whether he has the ability of putting a name to what he's feeling for her, but he knows it is much more than gratefulness for just keeping him company. (He reminds himself this is not the reason why he let her stay in his house. Sometimes, he wonders why he even agreed so fast in the first place.)
It is also much more than the blind crush he had developed on her when he was fifteen. He sees her—really sees her—now. There is no wonder he would try to understand her, if she ever let him. He wants her to be more than just the title she was given. He wants her to be more than his housemate.
He blinks fast, clearing his throat as he catches her observing him with a small scowl. He has learned to recognize this facial expression of hers as one of concentration and suspicion. Katniss hardly responds sarcastically to his comments or glances anymore.
"We have croissants," he suddenly states. Katniss looks at him surprised. "And cheese buns. And muffins." Realization dawns on her once the last word is heard. Muffins are Prim's favorites. He hasn't gone back on his word.
"You didn't have to bring anything," she says, already knowing he'll dismiss her attempts to make him stop offering.
He replies by nodding. "I know," he tells her. "But there's nothing wrong with bringing things from the bakery," he states. "After all, I work there."
As he keeps making those small, sweet gestures for her and her sister, Katniss feels more and more in debt. She feels like she owes him, since she hasn't found a way to properly repay him yet. She feels inadequate.
Prim momentarily saves her from her excruciating train of thought.
"I cook, too, sometimes," she announces. The glint in Peeta's blue eyes becomes evident after he decides to use his voice.
"Really?"
"I don't know much about baking," she warns seconds later. She steals a brief glance at Katniss. "Our mother had taught me, though. Lemon pie is my specialty." Her grin spreads across her pale face.
Katniss admires—envies even—her ability to mention her mother without waiting for approval or fearing she has given too much information away.
"My mother wasn't as patient as my father was," Peeta lets them know with a thoughtful expression. Unlike Prim, his voice cracks in the end. The last part of the phrase is barely heard. "But she did teach me things, too." Practical things only (like tying his shoelaces so he wouldn't trip or counting money correctly, as they couldn't afford paying an employee), he adds inside his head, but not out loud. He doesn't want the girls to think badly of his mother, despite his opinion. Peeta's not always mad at his remaining family members. Sometimes he misses them, admits to himself that he still loves them.
"Well, not everyone's the same," Prim says smartly, at an attempt to get him out of the uncomfortable situation. "If you don't believe it, then all you need to do is take a look at Katniss and me." She shrugs.
"Of course I do," he assures her. "I agree. Partly." Katniss shifts her weight from the one foot to the other as soon as he eyes her.
He raises an eyebrow, playfully questioning them. "Are you sure you're twin sisters?" He smiles, lifting his left cheek seconds before the right one.
Katniss parts her lips, not quite sure how to respond to this. She and Primrose are just so different. When Katniss is quiet and thoughtful and scowling like a toddler, Prim is talkative and charming. When Katniss is cold and scared to love anyone who might have the same fate as her parents, Prim offers one of her heartwarming smiles and accepts everyone and everything. But mostly, she accepts that life goes on, no matter what.
Perhaps this is where Katniss is wrong; for her, the road is craggier than it should be. She stumbles on her own mistakes, refusing to let go off things that are valuable, yet meaningless.
At this moment, she confesses to herself that Peeta doesn't really deserve her as a roommate. Prim would have been a better company, an easier person to talk to as well as make arrangements with. Her visit has apparently brought multiple fears of Katniss to the surface. (Peeta considering her strange attitude insufferable enough to kick her out of his house. Her sister accusing her of being jealous—and she supposes she is in a way. She is jealous when she can't achieve unimportant little things that rarely matter to her.)
"Positive." Prim's voice rings distantly in Katniss's ears. The latter shakes her head, clearing it, and remembering Peeta's question about them being twins.
Unintentional sighs are heard, before Peeta promises to get the treats. They start from the muffins.
Peeta and Prim talk about every single kind of possible dessert; foam, but mainly butter cakes, chocolate cookies and sweet pies. Katniss notes rather sadly that if Prim doesn't make it until the end of her studies, she will be good at working at a bakery or a confectionery shop in town.
"Nah, we usually have cheese buns. Katniss prefers them."
"Katniss?" Prim calls worriedly. She must have lost track of their conversation. She blinks several times, pushing her confusion away.
A flutter in her stomach follows and it has nothing to do with the need to eat or being cold. Peeta's words wriggle inside her head.
Katniss prefers them.
It's true. Cheese buns are often what she likes the most, what she longs for. But does that mean he makes more of them for her? The thought calms her nerves a little, making her realize he might not mind her presence that much after all.
"Sorry," Peeta apologizes, grimacing a little. "I had no idea Prim knew about those things. We got a bit carried away, I guess." He unconsciously rubs the back of his neck—one of his nervous habits Katniss couldn't help but notice.
Katniss shakes her head, for once pleased that her sister has found someone to discuss one of her passions. Prim translates.
"That's okay. Katniss and I will have lots of time to catch up later." She breathes out dreamily. "I wish I could come here more often." She pauses, considering it better. "But it really isn't practical, is it? If this place wasn't worth the trip, it would be a waste of time and money. I don't remember the price of the bus tickets being so high before," she murmurs disappointed.
"You've had a while to come back here," Peeta reasons.
"Yeah," she agrees. "Maybe that's why."
Katniss plays with the slender fingers in her lap. Her name slides from Peeta's lips, so she lifts her gaze, giving him a questioning look. "Would you mind me showing Prim a last recipe? I promise this will be the last one."
Surprisingly enough, a small smile spreads across her face. "Okay."
When he's gone, the smile falls from her lips. She narrows her eyes at Prim who's giving her the thumbs up.
"I like your hair like that," the blonde blurts out, throwing bombshell after bombshell, making it harder and harder for Katniss to elaborate.
She can feel the blood rush to her cheeks and is thankful that she manages to recover before Peeta returns.
March, Week Three
She should have known. She should have known everything would be different from the moment she set Gale and Madge up—because, in reality, that's all she did after keeping her promise to transfer the boy's words to her best friend.
Katniss hears the long exhale of breath escape her, her shoulders slumping in disappointment. The days when she wishes for any kind of interaction are rare, since reading a book or organizing the events that will follow in the next couple of days is what she is usually occupied with. There are, however, still times when she wants proof she's not the only person in this world. She needs to see it, and therefore feel it.
Madge is obviously not available today. Even though, she isn't in town, she has chosen to spend her time in a different way than she all too often does while being in District Twelve. But then again, it's Tuesday. Madge had no reason to suspect Katniss would come back home earlier than expected.
According to Peeta, Gale would teach her how to drive a tractor. Katniss works in a farm and she doesn't even know how to operate one, let alone drive it. She has no clue how this will be a useful experience for Madge.
When Katniss reaches the sitting room, her feet stop moving. Her lips press together, forming a thin line. He is lying on the smallest couch of the two (she knows she'd always take the larger one), watching a trivial television show, dawdling. He almost immediately feels her presence, looking up to address her without speaking.
She understands.
"I called her," she announces with a frown.
"And?" He raises an eyebrow, his tone playful. He is probably more amused than he should be.
"She's busy," Katniss huffs. She eyes the empty couch, then Peeta. She gnaws the inside of her left cheek, hoping he won't mock her, if he realizes how welcoming it seems to her right now.
He grins stupidly, although she believes he really has no reason to. A small part of her would be ready to ask him why he seems so strangely pleased, if it weren't for the other half of her—the rational one. She eventually keeps her lips sealed.
"Sit," he suggests, his chin pointing to the long couch. She silently obeys, but writhes uncomfortably when realization hits her. He isn't going anywhere.
She makes several unsuccessful efforts to focus on the TV show. She drops her mobile phone on the coffee table, mentally cursing, for she manages to distract Peeta once more.
"You're going to break it someday," he murmurs.
"That's my business," she grumbles in return. This is enough to silence him, urge him to stop looking at her. Katniss reminds herself this is what she wanted from the very start, yet the guilt doesn't cease to exist, burning her insides.
He doesn't apologize for trying to make conversation, because honestly he doesn't think he should. Instead of feeling the need to mask his hurt, he simply pretends he heard nothing at all. He has learned not to take what she says personally. He doesn't know whether she always means the words or if they're just one of her various defense techniques.
Once again, he is the one to speak first. "Have you ever watched that show before?" He already wants to smack himself for his recklessness—the question is anything but thoughtful—but she doesn't seem to mind.
"I'm not sure," she replies, her voice gentler, calmer this time. "I may have. Once or twice." She doesn't watch television much.
He nods, not considering it essential to articulate any more words. He is more than just surprised when her voice fills the broken silence.
"Have you?" Her couch is right across from his. He shifts on it so he'll be facing her in case she chooses to tilt her head towards him. She visibly swallows, rushing to add more. "I mean that I don't…I don't know what it's about. And…yeah." She lets out a small cough, disguising her nervousness.
"No, I haven't," he answers, watching her carefully. "Though, I've been watching it for the past fifteen minutes, so I know." She boldly stares back at him, patiently waiting for him to enlighten her, even if she isn't as interested as she sounds. (He isn't, either.)
"It's about general knowledge," he lets her know. She shakes her head at herself. If she was paying attention, she'd notice the questions on the bottom of the screen.
Katniss mulls over how weird being here, like this, feels. It is one of the activities friends would do together. But they aren't friends, are they? She hasn't allowed it yet, since she believes she has a quite good reason not to. She briefly wonders whether he's also thought about it. She asks herself what would happen, if she actually let their forced relationship develop properly. Would he allow it, too, or would he try to restraint like she does now?
He interrupts her messy, complicated train of thought before the quiet has the chance to envelop them completely.
"I've never insulted your family." Of all the things he could have chosen to say, he told her this. No wonder there is bewilderment written all over her face. "I've never insulted anyone's family," he explains.
"Wha—what are you talking about, Peeta?" Small wrinkles appear on her forehead.
"Four years ago. I wasn't the one who yelled those things in the hallway. About your sister, I mean. Or…your mother." All of sudden, his throat feels like it's made of cotton.
Understanding crosses Katniss's facial features. "That was four year ago," is all she can manage. What does he expect her to say, anyway?
He starts to speak again, but she is faster, cutting him off. "We don't need to talk about it. It doesn't matter anymore."
"It does," he replies.
"No, it doesn't," she insists. "And you know why? Because Prim is the one who's studying to be a doctor now. Prim is the one with a future ahead of her. She hasn't failed." She doesn't glare at him, but her look is so intense that the difference is not too big to tell.
He props his weight on his elbows. "I know, Katniss. But talking about this does matter. To me." She stares at him. "We didn't make a very nice start." She nods, instantly agreeing with his statement. "You misunderstood facts about me. That's not your fault—I probably knew nothing about you, too."
"Was there something to misunderstand?" she asks him. Her gaze is now trained on the orange curtains instead of him. "Everyone talked this way about my family. There were always rumors nobody cared to stop." She breathes. In, out, in, and out. "They used to say my father married my mother for her money." She shakes her head, looking him straight in the eye. "There was no money, Peeta. My grandparents disinherited her as soon as they were convinced she wouldn't change her mind."
"And you remember all this?" He sounds taken aback, though, there is also suspicion hidden in his tone.
"Of course not," says Katniss. "My mother just…talked to me once. When she realized I couldn't understand why we daily received so much unwanted attention. Prim had suspected the reason from the beginning."
"And she took it lightly compared to you," he fills in. His tone doesn't offend her, nor does his declaration.
"She believes that whatever happens in the past shouldn't always be a part of the present," she confirms.
He waits for her to reach her conclusion. Moments later, she does. "You—or whoever it was—were the first one I heard talking like that. I was caught off guard. That's all." He seems to be working on the information. "I learned not to care as time passed. Thus, I really don't care about what happened four years ago."
Peeta nods in comprehension. He has gotten a taste of her perspective, her complex thoughts, and that's enough for him. He believes her, even if she might not want to accept his excuses.
They don't talk about it again.
His eyes travel over her head and out of the window. The sun isn't going to set for a while. We have two whole hours, he estimates.
He stands on his feet, before he walks towards her without hesitation. "Come on," he urges, extending a hand for her to see. He doesn't expect her to take it, yet he intends for it to be an invitation.
Katniss examines his palm carefully. She is partly relieved as she watches it fall back to his side, but is still desperately trying to interpret the two words that have just escaped his mouth.
"Where?" she wonders out loud, her voice full of curiosity.
"I think I can take Madge's place for one day," he muses, a hesitant smile tugging on his lips. I think I can keep you company.
She repeats her question, unconvinced. "Where?"
"You'll see," he promises. "Outside. Half a kilometer from here."
That's not too far, she decides.
.
.
She had forgotten what seeing a real heaven on earth is like.
The colors unfold, dancing in front of her, making it nearly impossible for her to tear her eyes off the scenery and turn around to face Peeta, who's asking for her approval. He has placed the large blanket on the floor of green and stepped next to her in a matter of seconds.
"It's nice," she tells him. "It's like a meadow."
"It is a meadow," he clarifies. "A small one." Katniss is fast enough to catch the nostalgia in his voice. She studies his profile, for he's not looking at her anymore. His gaze is lost somewhere beyond the fields, beyond the horizon. For once, she is the one attempting to apprehend what is going on inside his head, trying to see right through him.
"I'm not hungry," she repeats her words from before, eyeing the basket he's brought with him. She effectively snaps him out of his reverie. She watches him walk to the object she referred to.
"This?" He grips the handle, lifting it to the level of his chin. "It's almost empty." He turns the basket nearly upside down to prove his point. "See?"
She nods as she catches a glimpse of the red apples. She isn't hungry for them, either.
"I used to come here with my father and older brother," he shares.
"You have a brother?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.
He shrugs. "Two of them," he confirms. "Darryl and Tyler." He looks to the ground, as if not knowing what to say anymore, miserably seeking for an outlet.
Katniss offers it to him. "Let's sit, then." He nods, obliging to her suggestion without proceeding to utter further words. He takes a round apple in his fist, looking at it, but not really examining it.
"What did you do?" He lifts his gaze, surprised Katniss was the one to break the tension between them. "When you came here with your family, I mean. How did you kill the time?"
He places the fruit back in the basket and drapes one of his forearms around his knee, hands clasping together. "We didn't just kill the time," he murmurs, already knowing this might be the only thing he and Katniss could do now. "We talked. Father told us stories about the village. We told him stories about our days in school. And Darryl had this blue ball." He smiles. "Sometimes we played, too."
Sometimes? Katniss smiles to herself, for a different reason. It was all she and Prim did for as long as they weren't burdened with liabilities.
"Sounds fun," she says after a while, not wishing to compare his experiences to hers. They must have a specific value to him, right?
He looks at her, eyes unblinking, face brightening at the mention of fun. There are thousands of definitions for this single word, yet he instantly approves of what she's chosen to refer to. He trusts her judgment.
"It was," he agrees. He moves closer to her, pointing at a nearby tree. A willow tree, Katniss recognizes. "I'd carved my name there."
"Do you still come here?" she asks curiously. She can effortlessly create the image of a young Peeta (blond curls, blue eyes full of happiness, chubby cheeks and feet—nearly like how Prim was) running, laughing in this meadow. However, he looks too busy, too somber to come here anymore.
"I do," he tells her. She realizes she's interested in hearing what he has to say. "Every time I feel as if I'm forgetting, missing something important. You'll think it's ridiculous." He lets out a humorless half-laugh. "But just being here helps. It's as if I'm finding my way again. Everything's in order."
"I don't think it's ridiculous," she rushes to say. The weight of her words hits her with full force. She is aware that now she's made the start, she has to keep going. "I hate forgetting, too." It is barely above a whisper.
They remain silent for the next couple of minutes. Katniss uproots a blade of grass from the ground, her eyes narrowing at it. She starts cutting it to small pieces. She feels like singing.
"You remind me of my father, you know," he suddenly blurts out. Her hands still, her stare piercing his eyes, strangely warming his insides. "Even when he knew he'd be gone sooner or later, he wasn't afraid of death. Said there was no point in defeating it." He exhales loudly, shaking his head. "He defeated life instead. He told us he was happy. He seemed happy. He managed to live seven months more than they told him he'd live."
Katniss has no clue what all this has to do with her.
"I couldn't remember what having something worth living for is like." He keeps confusing her. "But you make me remember. Every single day. I see how you are around your sister, or even Madge. You care about them deeply." He hasn't seen anyone love so fiercely. He keeps those last thoughts to himself.
She bobs her head in understanding. Suddenly, all she wants to do is ask. She wants to know, because seeing Peeta like this, right now, seems so unbelievably unfair. He deserves more than what he has. He deserves his family.
She doesn't hold back. "What happened to your dad?"
Surprisingly enough, he doesn't hold back, either. "They found something in his blood. They didn't even know what it was." Peeta isn't as angry as he once was. He is only disappointed, tired now. "The doctors knew he had little time left. They knew he was going to die, but they had no idea what to do to prevent it from happening." His throat closes.
"When did you find out?" she asks softly, carefully.
"The whole family had heard of the diagnosis from the very start. I remember them being so awfully quiet and—" He looks away. "It was my sixteenth birthday. I wanted to thank my father for his present. The bike. My first and last bike," he clarifies. "When I heard my parents whispering—alone—I knew something was wrong." Perhaps it was the wrinkles on his father's forehead (those creases made Mr. Mellark seem so old), or even his mother's worried—panicked—expression, but Peeta just knew something was different that day.
Katniss drops the chopped blades of grass back down. She notes how she will have to rub her hands meticulously for the green to fade completely from her fingers. She remembers he can't read her thoughts, can't know she's actually listening to him. She decides to focus her attention solely on him.
"I eavesdropped," he continues. "It was wrong, but I still did it. They apparently had no intentions of saying anything to me." The phrases are bitter as they roll of his tongue.
Overwhelming images invade his brain, furiously tangling with one another. Images of his mother spotting him, her brow furrowing with anger, her eyes blazing. Images of him not giving a single damn about her reaction, as there were times he just couldn't control his temper. Images of notebooks flying across the room, pages torn and crumpled, fingers fumbling with a key.
There was a door—it was brown, it still is brown—and his father behind it. Peeta remembers his words—he refused to open up, no matter how hard Mr. Mellark had tried—but can't remember the sound of his voice.
He suddenly panics, for he has to remember. This is why he walked here, this is why he is here, this is why he brought Katniss with him here; to remember. He needs to—
Foreign, cool fingers—fingers he's only ever touched once before—graze his hands. Shocked, he turns his head to the left, his gaze colliding with Katniss's troubled one.
"But you're okay now, aren't you?"
He parts his lips, hesitating.
"You're okay right now. Right here." It is more of a statement. To his complete surprise and amazement, she sounds concerned; as if she's trying to convince him nothing is wrong.
It's not like he believes she isn't capable of it. He is just tempted, that's all. He is tempted to long for her attention, this enviable adoration she feels for her sister. Even though she has made it crystal clear he could never compete with her family, he can't help thinking about it.
Once he realizes he's staring at their hands wide-eyed, it's too late to withdraw his fingers from hers. She's noticed and she did it before he had the chance to blink.
"Um. Sorry," she stutters.
He rushes to shake his head. "No, it's okay." He swallows. "I'm okay," he reassures her.
"And I'm sorry for bringing your father's loss up. I didn't mean to upset you," she says honestly.
He sighs and steals a quick glance at the sky. He was too ignorant, too preoccupied to watch the sunset tonight. He missed it. He also missed showing it to her. "It's getting dark," he announces.
Katniss tenses. Did he deliberately avoid answering? Does his silence mean he doesn't approve of her apology?
She jumps to her feet mechanically as soon as she sees him do the same, and watches him sweep the blanket off the ground, folding it. He takes the basket in his hand and Katniss counts the apples—three.
He makes an effort to retract one of them, but isn't sure where to put the blanket.
She steps closer and reaches for it. "Here, let me take this," she offers, watching him closely, hoping he isn't holding anything against her. There is a knot in the pit of her stomach. If she treats him the way he deserves to be treated, if she returns his kind comments and gestures, if she learns how to reciprocate to his rapport, that knot might just be untied.
"Thank you." The sound of his teeth sinking in the fruit signals his excuse to stop talking.
Only, this is no excuse. She's pacing nervously—it's not long before he realizes this is because of him. He really does owe her an explanation.
"I don't mind you bringing anything up." Although he concentrates on biting the apple, he sees her looking at him out of the corner of his eye. "I wouldn't have told you, if I didn't want you to know."
Katniss knows that. If he asked her about her parents now, she would probably pretend there was no question at all. But he has opened up to her and she does feel a strange kind of connection between them. (Is it due to the fact that they're both orphans? She shivers.)
She nods. Seconds before home is in their eyesight, she speaks again. "I'm not as strong as you think I am." He is about to protest. She hugs the blanket with her one arm and lifts a palm to silence him. "At least not always." She drops her hand to her side.
"We all have our bad days," is all he says. And maybe, for now, that's enough.
April, Week One
Hours, days and weeks pass, and the uncomfortable knot in Katniss's stomach is replaced by something different; something unfamiliar, something heartwarming and pleasant. It is strange—she sometimes wishes she could label it, just like everything else—but she finds herself welcoming it with open arms.
When she's at work (she is at work now) she thinks about his baking (his sweets and those cheese buns she adores), or their conversations that have started to become longer and more meaningful, or just him. Then, she always smiles to herself—it's not so difficult to slightly lift the corners of her lips anymore.
Her smiles can either be cheerful or sorrowful.
They've talked about things Katniss hadn't considered sharing with anyone—except Prim, who knows everything—before. She's told him about the locket around her neck, its history and its importance to her. She's told him about her love for trees—like his willow tree—and green. She's told him about words and how much they scare her. (She doesn't tell him she's sometimes scared of the truth, scared of reality, but she implies it.)
And they've shared odd secrets. She knows that, when they're at the meadow, he's like a different person. It is as if he's letting go of everything that pains him, tortures him, troubles him. He refuses to say to her what his family—his mother mainly, Katniss infers—did to him, but he does admit there are times when he's trying so hard to love them and can't.
One evening, when the sun went down along with her guard, she recalls showing him the inside of her palm. She drew a thoroughly-shaped heart there, whispering to him that this is how her parents used to say goodnight to their daughters. In reality, the small gesture had a deeper meaning for Katniss. It was a way to be reminded that she was loved, that her family cared about her.
"You injured?"
Katniss nearly jumps from the rock she's sitting on. She visibly relaxes for a couple of seconds, before she remembers her duties as well as responsibilities here.
"Thom," she addresses the man. He is Sae's firstborn son—the only one who has stayed at District Twelve, with her.
Katniss struggles to stand on her feet. "I'm sorry—I know I should have been working, this isn't my break, but I—"
"That's alright," he cuts her off. His eyes travel downwards. He notices how she's rolled the one leg of her pants. "You're injured," he declares. He doesn't ask.
"Just a scratch," she says. She feels the blood trickling down her calf and flinches at Thom's grimace.
He starts to ask how it happened, but refrains from finishing the question. Katniss is pretty grateful for that, as she doesn't want to explain her clumsiness and misfortune to stumble on a nail inside the stall. She probably has to warn Sae next time she catches sight of the sharp obstacle.
He moves his palm towards her direction, gesturing to the other side of the farm. "C'mon," he urges.
Katniss fights her wish to raise an eyebrow. She shoots him a look full of query instead.
"You don't like skin infections, do you?" He offers a toothy smile similar to his mother's. Katniss shakes her head, deciding against lying. "Then, you should sure put some iodine on it."
"Okay."
"Follow me."
Thom's house is small, but comfortable. Katniss hesitates at the threshold, unsure of what she ought to do next. She hears murmurs from inside and imagines him talking to his wife, probably keeping her aware of the situation. Although Katniss has seen Mrs. Mason once, she has never really talked to her. All she knows is that they take her to the hospital in town every once in awhile. She's been pregnant for six months now.
By the time footfalls are heard, Katniss takes a step back, knowing the door will eventually swing open. It does, just like she expected.
"Why are you standing there, Brainless?" the woman asks. Her brown eyes are wide-set, her dark hair short and spiky. She must be in her mid-twenties. Katniss stares at her, unable to form a decent sentence. How is she supposed to reply to this comment of Sae's daughter-in-law without actually offending her?
"Johanna." Her name is similar to a warning as it leaves her husband's mouth. "Come in, Katniss."
Katniss offers a timid nod, copying Thom's actions and moving to the place she supposes is the sitting room. The woman—Johanna—seems to be irritated by how Thom is the one to carry the chair for the girl. Frankly, Katniss doesn't understand why. Shouldn't she feel grateful for having him by side while being in this condition?
Katniss eventually takes the seat and pulls her pants upwards, getting a better view of her injured leg. Her nose wrinkles in displeasure. Blood has somehow always repulsed her.
"It's nothing," she manages to say instead.
"That ain't nothing," Thom argues. "Not until we bring you some iodine." He flees before Katniss has the chance to consider objecting.
"Staring is quite rude, you know." Katniss looks up, surprised. Once realization dawns on her, she can feel her cheeks blazing. She's been—unconsciously—observing the woman's blossoming stomach.
"I'm sorry." She has nothing better to say.
Johanna scoffs, her eyes finally landing on Katniss's wound. "I saw you walking," she announces. "Do your legs hurt or are they crooked?"
Katniss does her best to hold back from gasping at the woman's tactlessness. She never wondered whether her feet are crooked or not. Better yet, she never cared about it.
Thom returns with iodine and cotton in his hands, rescuing Katniss from having to respond in a way she knows she shouldn't.
"Does your leg hurt?" Katniss grits her teeth together, inwardly huffing at the familiarity of the question. She swears she sees Johanna smirk in triumph out of the corner of her eye. She almost immediately shakes her head, ignoring the small ache right above her ankle.
"Johanna, can you bring some water?" Surprisingly enough, Katniss notes that there is no sneer after Thom's request. Only a curt nod and a grimace of contentment. Katniss shudders as soon as she realizes how much like her the woman is; she prefers to be of use, even while she's been carrying a child for half a year.
Katniss is thankful the younger Mrs. Mason is absent from the room nevertheless. Thom's words suggest he sent his wife away for a reason. His apologetic smile only confirms the fact.
"Please, be patient with her, Katniss. She's been a bit upset lately." Right. The hormones. Katniss has no idea how pregnant women can deal with them. For now, she can say she isn't curious to find out at the least.
"That's alright." And it is. She can handle this.
As Katniss receives the wet cloth to wash her wound from Johanna, Thom grabs the chance to clear his throat. His voiced thoughts have been expected.
"How did you fall? 'Cause you fell, didn't you?" he wonders.
"There was a nail I hadn't seen on the ground. I tripped."
A snort is heard and Katniss doesn't have to look up to know who made the mocking sound. She breathes in to calm her nerves. "Calling you brainless wasn't such a mistake, then, huh?"
She dumps the cloth into the bowl with the water. Maybe she can't handle this, after all. "I should probably go."
Katniss feels a strong hand applying pressure on her one shoulder and has no choice but to slump back into the chair. She is rendered speechless while she watches the woman drop carefully to her knees, in front of her. Johanna reaches for Thom's direction, showing him her open palm.
"The iodine," she orders and he complies. Katniss makes no move to press her parted-from-shock lips together. She bites her tongue to keep from hissing for as long as her wound is forcefully cleansed.
"I haven't seen you a lot here." Katniss looks at Thom for help, but he only smiles, shaking his head knowingly in the process.
"I don't work in this part of the farm. I haven't been in this house before," she replies honestly.
"I figured that one out." The woman's movements become gentler by the time she uses the dry, scratchy towel. "You'd better keep your pants this way."
"I know what I have to do," Katniss says defensively, yet not as aggressively as before. "My mother was a healer."
"And she isn't anymore?" Silence. This isn't the first time Katniss has used past tense, and it won't be the last. Even though she's slowly letting go (it's been five months since the car accident—it only makes sense), it still hurts when others notice.
"No." For once, her voice is steady. "She isn't."
"My mother was a healer, too." The woman grips her husband's hand firmly, accepting his help while standing to her feet once more. She offers her free hand to Katniss.
"I'm Johanna."
She nods, taking it in her own, shaking it. "Katniss Everdeen."
"Thom. You're driving Katniss Everdeen home today." She has no time to protest or object. A ride home would be nice. Her feet hurt, anyway.
She thanks the Masons and she means it.
.
.
Peeta can't seem to help the frown after the doorbell rings and he comes face to face with Katniss. He isn't bothered by the fact that he was interrupted from his baking. What makes the smile slide easily from his lips is the sight beyond the brunette's shoulder; Thom's car.
He doesn't question the presence of Greasy Sae's son in front of the house. He eyes Katniss, speaking slowly. "I wasn't expecting you yet."
Instead of asking herself why he would wait for her or why his blue orbs reflect suspicion as he recognizes Thom, she shrugs. She has nearly quit thinking—or rather overthinking—while being around him.
"I wasn't expecting to be back so soon, either," she confesses.
They stare at each other for a good couple of seconds, before Katniss moves towards him, trying to walk past him, even though he's still blocking the biggest part of the entrance. Understanding crosses his features and he steps aside, getting a better view of the old red car. He hears the horn and watches Thom's head pop out of the window.
"He told me to call you for him," Katniss lets him know. He almost jumps when he realizes she's still behind him, the distance between them paltry. She gives him a nod of encouragement.
She soon finds herself in the kitchen, softly sighing at the sight of a full counter. She disposes of her leather bag, placing it on the eating table. She pours some of the liquid soap they use to wash the dishes on her hands and rubs them together, tilting her head towards a non-empty average-sized baking pan.
French apple pie. She's already told him she loves French apple pie. Although she shouldn't let him spoil her as much as he does his guests, she can't truly avoid the upward stretching of her lips.
She doesn't know the recipe—she doesn't know most recipes—but she decides to help him as much as she can. She opens the door of the oven, looking inside, estimating the space the baking pan will occupy. She takes the object in her hands, moving carefully so that her wounded leg doesn't collide or come in contact with anything around the kitchen.
Out of habit (a habit she's developed in the last two or so weeks), she pulls a chair to sit on, patiently observing the raw apple pie inside the oven until Peeta reappears.
"Oh." He halts. "You saw." His eyes flick between her and the counter. His smile is one of those reaching his light-colored eyes. "Thank you."
"No problem," says Katniss. "Might as well have it ready sooner."
His happy grimace turns into a mischievous one. "You mean eat it sooner," he corrects. "You're eating it with me." Alright. He isn't spoiling her unconsciously. He seems to have serious plans about making it happen.
"I'm going to get fat," she jokes, his chuckle encouraging her.
"I'm finding problems with imagining you fat." He shakes his head. "You'd probably still be pretty, though." He almost bites his tongue, for it has started disobeying his brain at a serious rate.
Time slows down for what seems like centuries. Katniss, unable to stop herself, lets her cloudy eyes grow larger for only a fraction of a second, before they return to their normal size. None of them moves an inch.
"Okay," she eventually replies, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips. She should have known she'd be thirsty like she always is after coming back from work.
He arches an eyebrow in disbelief. "So you'll allow it?" She rises from the chair, as she feels more comfortable when they share the same eye level.
She isn't sure what he's talking about, but she tells him nothing concerning her bewilderment. "I—yes—I mean I don't—"
"You'll allow me to call you pretty?" The incredulousness is more than just evident at the moment. She stares at him and he continues. "Every day, every moment I feel like it?"
"What?" she squeaks. "No."
He just laughs. "I thought so." His whole face lights up and he jumps as if he remembered something only seconds ago. He fumbles a bag from the bakery that's inside the cupboard he keeps most of his baking ingredients. "Almost forgot." He takes a biscuit out and throws it at her.
Katniss's quick reflexes allow her to dive forward and catch it long before it was intended to reach her. She examines it. "I thought you had those for the little kids?"
"Yeah, the bakery wasn't that crowded today." They are both aware that the word crowded is some kind of a hyperbole for a shop in the market of such a small village.
Katniss spares a look at the cookie in her hand. She has started to doubt the problems he has with imagining her gaining weight. But then again, he always eats with her—or even without her—and his body shape remains the same as before. His metabolism is incredible.
"Hhmhm," she hums while chewing. The dryness in her mouth reminds her of her need to quench her thirst, and she walks to the sink to fill a glass with water. "What did Thom want you for?"
As if on cue, his gaze moves south, staying on her leg. "He told me to make sure you don't walk to the farm in the morning." He meets her eyes. "Johanna insisted on him volunteering to pick you up. I said I could do it, though."
She freezes. "Wait a minute. You could—what are you talking about?"
"I could drop you by the farm tomorrow."
"But you don't have a car," she reasons. Her arguments are futile, since she already knows where this conversation is going.
"You know I don't," he tells her. "I have a bike." She shakes her head furiously. Before she has the time to utter a word, Peeta keeps speaking. "You're scared," he states accusingly, although he isn't really accusing her.
He sighs deeply, closing his eyes for a brief moment, then letting them flutter open again. "Why are you scared? Don't you trust me?" By the time she opens her mouth, nothing comes out. He becomes more specific. "Don't you trust me with this?"
"It's not that," she admits.
"But it could be that, Katniss. I've had this bike for over three years. If you trusted me with it, the rest wouldn't matter," he points out.
It's not that, she repeats in her head. She knows that she has faith in him when it comes to such things. She just doesn't know what exactly is holding her back, what makes her feel so biased.
Suddenly, though, Katniss sees he's right. Because he's been here all along. He's been here while she's been successfully taking those tiny and blind, yet solid and sure steps towards him. He's been here to open up to her, to slowly smash the walls around the heart and soul she's been trying so hard to protect. (She wants to believe that, in a way, she's managed to be here for him, too.)
She eventually decides against saying nothing at all, shrugging. "I guess it doesn't matter so much, then." She gnaws her bottom lip and is rewarded with one of his real (her favorite) smiles.
She absent-mindedly tugs on the end of her now short braid and agrees to eat some of the apple pie with him. He suggests they pick a good movie. It's been a while since she's watched one.