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Notes:
#1 one more chapter for this story to be marked complete. This part is written in Madge's (only the first few lines) and Katniss's point of view. Your opinion matters (it always does), so any kind of comments are more than welcome.
#2 the preview for the last chapter will be on my blog in a couple of minutes. Link on my profile, if you're interested:)
Words: 8,734
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing.
Update: 06.02.2013
July, Week One
"This is the last time I've told you, Katniss."
Madge has never looked like this; demanding, uncooperative, irritated to the point of being incapable of suffering the twins' peculiarities. But here she is now, grasping the door of the car her friend refuses to abandon, until her knuckles turn white.
And she really isn't like this. But she's lost too much—too many people—already to let it go. Tonight and till the moment Primrose is not in her hospital bed anymore—because she's strong, she's always been strong, and she can get out of there—it is going to be her way. Madge's way, that is.
"Don't make me call Peeta," she warns.
She knows that the mention of her cousin's name will have a decent effect on Katniss, if not a major one. She also knows how real and valid her threat is, the dim light from behind the curtains of the house giving her the proof she needs.
"I want to go back," Katniss pleads. If the blonde's heart was already broken, now it's ultimately crumpled. It is what she wants, too. But she can't leave the girl alone in the hospital. Sadly, she doesn't trust her to be alone.
"You need to eat something. You need to get clothes," Madge reminds her, her voice soft as a feather.
"What if Prim wakes? I have to be there for her when she wakes." She whispers the last part, her gaze unfocused, her eyes wide open. It is as if she is trying to impose this more on herself than anybody else.
Madge opens her mouth to tell her that it won't be that simple. To tell her that Prim is a comatose patient with minimal hopes of opening her eyes at all, let alone any time soon. Although Madge knows how capable Prim can be, her faith can only last so long. Someone owes to believe in her—truly believe in her—and if that someone isn't her sister, then who should it be?
She touches Katniss's shoulder. "Come on," she urges. "Please."
The response is not immediate, yet it's there. Katniss leaves her seat, balancing herself on her feet. She has no other choice but to obey.
"Let's get inside." She follows the brunette right after she has taken her first step forward, not bothering with locking the car. She closes her fist tightly around the keys, walking by Katniss's side, preparing herself to support her in case anything goes more wrong than it already is.
By the time they step foot on the threshold, Madge's hand reaches for the doorbell. She is reminded of a time when she'd have to convince Katniss standing here was for her own good. Quite frankly, she supposes there is no big difference between what she was and is trying to accomplish.
Only, this time, she feels as if she's fooling her.
The circumstances are undoubtedly worse. The irony of the situation hits her with full force. No one needs to be particularly clever to realize her words oppose to her thoughts.
The door sliding open is what alarms her, and the pale face of a worried-sick Peeta greets them both.
"Katniss," he protests, his voice screaming disgruntlement as well as exhaustion. "It is ten p.m. and I've almost gone insane. I've called you, your sister, Mrs Mason to see if you were at work for any reason, Madge who apparently wasn't aware, and Gale who had absolutely no clue of where his girlfriend might be."
The deafening silence that follows his sudden pause is what alters his facial expression. His features soften, his shallow breathing becoming more and more controlled as he observes Katniss blankly staring at the mat, silently requiring answers from Madge.
She purposefully doesn't break his gaze, fearing of pronouncing any phrases that will have the dark-haired girl falling apart before their very eyes.
"I think I need to make my things," Katniss announces, somehow making her way past Peeta who is too troubled by her reaction to hold her back. Madge can only be thankful (and then guilty for hoping she could talk to her cousin alone).
"Come on in," Peeta sighs, most possibly letting the facts kick in one by one, knowing he is in need of being enlightened about what might be going on.
"Thanks," Madge mutters, accepting his invitation. As she steps in, walking further, she seeks for her girl friend.
Katniss is nowhere to be seen.
"Madge," he pleads. She turns around, facing him. "Why are you acting like this?" he wants to know. "Both of you."
She inhales deeply. "Prim had an accident. She hit her head."
"What do you mean she hit her head? How bad?" he asks.
She only shakes her head.
"How bad, Madge?" he presses, his azure eyes narrowing dangerously at her.
"Concussion. She's in a coma," she whispers in response, unable to make the small wrinkles in-between her brows vanish. She balances herself on the tip of her toes, looking over his shoulder. "I need to make sure Katniss won't do anything stupid," she mumbles in her distress.
"Hold on, hold on," he says, preventing her from walking forward. "Coma?" he quotes in pure disbelief. "How on earth did that even happen?"
"Tried to ride a friend's motorbike. Katniss had been pretty persistent with giving her 'the talk' but—I don't know, Peeta."
Judging by his horror-stricken expression, Madge concludes he's been told more than enough about his roommate's parents' accident. He seems to be at a loss of words for a moment, although he is the one to speak before her.
"What about the helmet?" She recognizes the emotion she had seen painted in Katniss's eyes; hope. (The only thing that can be stronger than the fear threatening to crush them.)
"I can't tell if there was a helmet. That wouldn't even cross my mind," she admits sadly. "These people are not you. They don't necessarily take such things for granted," she explains, justifying the potential reasoning of Prim's friend.
He looks away, as if slowly digesting the information.
"I'm coming with you," he eventually tells her, determination lacing the tone of his voice.
"No, Peeta. This is not going to work." He doesn't let her continue voicing the rest of her thoughts.
"I won't just leave her. She doesn't have to deal with this on her own," he insists. He doesn't need to elaborate. Perhaps, he loves Katniss as much as Madge does. She could decide she trusts him on it.
"Which is why you would be more helpful holding her here." Anchoring her here. "You don't get it, Peeta. Prim might never wake up again. Even if she does, she might never be capable of walking or completing her medical studies or doing anything she could before the head trauma." Her hand squeezes his bicep. "You know how my mother have been since aunt Maysilee's death. Do you want to watch Katniss transform into her? A ghost?"
Harsher words—words to characterize Mrs Undersee's condition—invade her head, but in the end they seem to die in her throat. Right now, all she needs to do is focus on Katniss.
"It's not in my power to help Prim. But if I can save at least one of them, I'll do it." She wouldn't let the chance slip from her grip.
It doesn't take long for realization to dawn on her, after Peeta's gaze has travelled across the hallway, breaking their eye-contact. He takes a deep breath, his hand twitching by his side, as if aching to reach for the brunette.
"Go home, Madge," she says, her voice hoarse.
The blonde shakes her head. "I'll stay here tonight. We will—"
"—Just go home, Madge." Her eyes fly open. "I can handle myself."
She wonders how much of their conversation Katniss has managed to overhear. Her face heats up, while the urge to bow her head finally overcomes her. She has never wanted to go against Katniss's free will, never wanted to impose her opinion on her. She has never actually doubted Katniss is responsible for herself, yet there have been multiple times when she simply had to accept assistance to hold it together.
"Are you sure?"
"Madge, it's okay," Peeta nods twice, reassuring her. "I am not going anywhere."
Katniss crosses her arms over her front, abstractedly shooting daggers at the floor. "I'll be fine."
As she moves near her, Madge envelopes her rigid form nonetheless.
"Okay," she answers, forcing a tight smile to her lips, for the sake of Katniss's curiosity. "I'll be back tomorrow. Get some things ready in case you decide to stay with Prim for a while."
She bobs her head in agreement.
"Peeta, please—"
"—Madge," he scolds. "I know," he mouths.
If something—anything—goes wrong, they will call her, she reminds herself. Another night of insomnia will not hurt her. After all, it is what she has learnt to tolerate the most.
.
.
Besides the stirring of the spoon inside the intact soup in front of her, and the hand of the clock signaling that the seconds haven't ceased ticking away, the sounds to be heard are minimal.
This is why the scratching of the chair against the kitchen tiles from her left attracts her attention to the point of nearly looking up. Nearly.
There is silence for the next few moments, and she chooses to neglect the fact that his presence would, under normal circumstances, have her feel slightly better. However, it doesn't exactly go unnoticed by him.
"Does it taste so bad?"
She knows he isn't waiting for a positive answer. It is evident she hasn't touched her food yet and has no intentions of doing so in the near future.
A light gust of air passes through his lips, and it isn't that long before she feels fingers tracing the outline of her arm. The contact gives her goosebumps she cannot quite ignore, despite her current refusal to accept help. She bites the inside of her cheek hard, not even bothering about the metallic taste of blood that could have inundated her mouth afterwards.
"Come on, Katniss," he prompts. His hand falls back on the table, eliciting a thump, which is loud enough for her to notice. He recognizes the tensing of her shoulders, the defensive clench of her jaw.
His voice is soft, barely above a whisper.
"You need to eat something," he reminds her of what she already knows, what she's already heard repeatedly from Madge. "Anything," he adds. "I just—I don't know what to do."
"I want to be alone," she lies, pointlessly gazing at the floor. She doesn't want him to leave her, but it only makes sense to her. Her sister is practically fighting on her own. Katniss doesn't deserve this sort of assistance from him, not when she's determined to give up on whatever he might have wanted their perplexing relationship to turn into.
And she can't just think about it during a time like this. Perhaps she never was meant to be able to handle the pressure of caring about someone more than necessary.
However, Peeta doesn't leave her as she had originally expected.
"Okay," he agrees. "Okay. But you have to eat first. Please. It could be good for you."
She presses her closed eyelids with some of her fingers, not liking the way he is forced to be there for her in the least bit. Maybe he doesn't feel compelled, but none of this would have happened if she never joined him in this house in the first place.
She hears his long exhalation.
"I hate pushing you like this," he confesses. She recognizes the pure truth in his words and wishes he would just listen when she implied he should have left the room. "The more energy you have, the better you can cope with all this," he points out.
She sniffs. "I only want to be with her. I won't make it until tomorrow morning."
Her whole body trembles, yet small, temporary waves of relief flood her at the very thought of not meeting the blue of his eyes. She thinks that if she faces him, every trace of sanity and control will be utterly demolished.
He seems to consider what she has uttered for a minute, before he speaks again. She is surprised enough by his suggestion to look up.
"Then, don't wait until tomorrow morning." She musters all the courage she is left, blinking at him, silently praying he will elaborate further. And he does.
He motions to her full dish. "Eat. We are going to town."
Before she can obey to his advice, consuming what might not even survive inside her stomach, she freezes. Her heart begins to drum painfully fast in her chest. She is scared.
She is horrified and she doesn't hesitate to conceal the fact. Because the only way to get to her sister is with Peeta. And that would mean—
Peeta shakes his head furiously, pupils dilating as realization hits him. "No, not like this," he rushes to explain. A comforting hand reaches out to touch her, but it stops midway. It is as if he doesn't know her limits, doesn't know what buttons to press or where they're at.
"No bike," he promises gently, carefully. She is thankful he is aware of the lines he isn't allowed to cross, the lines she has drawn between them (and everyone else for that matter) in less than twenty-four hours. "We'll take the last bus."
She achieves a small, repetitive nod. "My things are ready," she mutters.
He swallows, his palms pushing the surface of the table to help him stand on his feet once again. "Good."
He doesn't tell her the bus leaves in less than half an hour. He won't have to.
Even though the guilt slowly starts fading away, the agony remains there, threatening to overcome her, cruelly burning her insides.
She is going to see Primrose.
.
.
It turns out Prim is not on her own.
Katniss recognizes him—the boy with the elbows resting on his thighs, fingers knotting through fingers—from the dark hair and the somewhat familiar body posture. She recalls seeing numerous photos of him (or him and Prim) in the past; Rory Hawthorne.
He might not resemble his older brother as much as Vick does, yet it is hard to say he could belong to a different family.
As soon as his gaze falls on her approaching figure, he seems to recognize her as well, because he jumps from the pale green seat and proceeds to meet her halfway.
"Katniss?" he acknowledges her first, then peers over her shoulder to call Peeta's name. He had been so silent throughout the entire bus route, she had nearly forgotten about him.
Katniss wonders whether Prim had ever shown her boyfriend—Rory—pictures of her. He has never laid his eyes on her personally. Not until now.
She decides to nod, confirming that yes, she is here. When he offers his hand she has no choice but to take it in one of hers, gripping it tightly and letting go.
"We haven't had the chance to meet properly," he tells her. "I'm Rory," he adds. His brows furrow, as if he is debating whether to refer to Prim or not.
She nods again. This is not a good time for introductions.
"Where is she?" she snaps. Right now, she cares about nothing other than the whereabouts of her sister.
Gale's brother talks to her about what she already knows from her first visit and what she apparently doesn't. The more he talks, the more she panics. He advises her to speak to a doctor, for he is neither a reliable source to transmit detailed information, nor a close member of Prim's family. He, of course, has no clue of her medical history.
He doesn't look as tired and devastated as Katniss feels. Though, he sure looks nervous.
What adds to the anger slowly welling inside of her is the fact that Prim has been in this hospital hours before Katniss was told there was an accident.
Her head injuries had been evaluated long before Katniss arrived.
Which leads her to believe they (Rory and Rue—Prim's friends) waited to notify her until things got bad. Which is absurd. Which is not what truly happened.
Which blurs her head that is nowhere near clear to the point of wanting to throw herself at the person in front of her, the claw at his face, to wrap her fingers around his throat so that he won't have to speak anymore (or use that false polite voice she should, but honestly can't use every time she's trying to be polite with people she doesn't like).
She feels Peeta, who has somehow perfected the skill of sneaking up on her, pressing a hand to the small of her back, attempting to bring her back from whatever frenzy she's into. His second hand squeezes the spot—the juncture between her shoulder and neck—that always seems to be tense.
It is a warning similar to the single word he hisses in her ear.
"Easy."
"She's been transferred to a room temporarily," Rory answers, his eyes instinctively following the path of Peeta's movements. She pulls away from the sweet heat he emits, in fear of suffocating (because this is all too much for her).
"Do they allow visits?" he asks for her shake, stealing the question from her lips, as if reading her mind.
The raven-haired boy shakes his head, pressing his lips together. "Believe me when I say I wouldn't be here, if they did." His reply does nothing to soothe Katniss. There is a pang in her stomach which lurches for the umpteenth time today.
"Why not?" Maybe letting Peeta do the speaking isn't such a wise option, since she is the sister, she is the one who should express their worried emotions about everything, but she can't promise she trusts herself.
Then, she's angry at him for making him feel like she needs him.
It is the way it's always been. She lets the fury control her, be an integral part of her. She seethes the grief as well as the sorrow into it, cloaking the frailty like the darkness cloaks the light every time the sun sets.
No answer comes from Rory—just another shake of his head.
What does that even supposed to mean?
Peeta nods in what she considers comprehension and thanks him. "We'll be back in a couple of minutes."
"No," she refuses, folding her arms in front of her. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay here until someone comes to tell me when Prim is going to recover."
Rory almost immediately looks down, averting his gaze. If it was his bike that did this to Prim, it would have taken her roommate a lot more than touching her back to help her get a good grip on reality.
Speaking of which— "It's only a couple of minutes, Katniss. We need coffee." His voice hasn't sounded more persistent since the first time she realized she truly knew things about him.
Before she can protest or object, he pulls her hand in his, his shoes sliding against the material of the floor, the odd sound his feet elicit attracting attention. A nurse—dressed in that sickening white—hurriedly walks by, eyeing them suspiciously, yet quickly losing interest.
Resistance is futile. As the thought passes through her mind, Peeta pulls her closer, his hand tightly enclosing her fingers.
"Don't make a scene."
She would have expected words of comfort and consolation. She would have expected a near-hug. But not this.
She bites her lower lip, shivering, nodding. She speeds up to match his steps, not daring to tell him no whiff of coffee will rescue her from the odor of medicine and chlorine—or erase it completely from her memory for that matter.
She steps into the elevator after him, ready to be consumed by her distress. However, she can't help the way her heart clenches for him as she watches him.
She doesn't know what worries her the most; his iron grip on the silver metal bar, his horrid effort at shutting his eyes, or his determination to face away from her so that she won't question him.
The eyes of their reflection meet. It is obvious he's trying his best to offer a smile—a smile that feels as out of place as ever.
"I've made this route more times than I can count," says Peeta. "Elevators keep making me claustrophobic since then."
Although he doesn't explain, she knows what he's referring to. There had been a time when he came here daily. For the sake of his ill father. The father who is gone. The father whose loss has changed him.
The doors slide open, but none of them makes a move.
"We could have used the stairs to get to the second floor." She wishes there was more to say.
"It's okay," he promises. "We're here now. That's all that matters."
On their way to the cafeteria, she successfully gets to wonder about the only bakery of the village. She hates how many people depend on her and her sister's situation, as he confirms he will stay with her for as long as she wants him to.
By the time they have bought the drink they agreed to share, and they have returned to the first floor by descending the stairs, Katniss is ready to hear any kind of instructions.
Because Prim will open her eyes before any of them has the chance to realize it.
Or so she thinks.
.
.
They return home one and a half days later.
It is late afternoon and Katniss unexpectedly—unwittingly—notes how the orange rays of the sun filter through the light-colored curtains as she walks towards the main way leading to her room, the only place she thinks she can call sanctuary after all she's been going through.
Stopping to see whether or not Peeta has passed the threshold is out of the question. Even though he had been there for her and nobody else, he hadn't been capable of avoiding what he went through. (After all, it had been two whole years of him shunning the hospital in town like the plague.)
They need time alone. They need the privacy they gradually stole from each other.
So, she climbs upstairs as fast as her sore feet will allow, saving her mind from more trouble. Better yet, saving her heart from more pain. (He cannot tell her he is better off without her right now, if he cannot find her.)
Unlike the rest of the showers she's had in this house, this one is short and cold. She scrubs herself clean forcefully, furiously chanting obscenities until the distinctive hospital smell has ultimately evanesced.
She is in the process of putting on her soft yellow tank top, when she hears a knock at the door. She whispers words she is sure Peeta can't hear from the other end of the door, hastily dressing for the upcoming night.
He calls her name before she has the time to grip the handle of her bedroom door. She creates a crevice, which is simply enough for his eyes to take her in.
"'Just wanted to see if you're alright," he admits sheepishly. There are faint dark purple circles under his eyes. He blinks tiredly at her, waiting for her answer. She is positive she looks the same way, if not worse.
"Okay," says Katniss, her voice raspy, her throat closing up.
"Go to bed," he encourages. "They'll call us, if anything important happens."
She nods again.
He sighs. "Can you keep your door unlocked tonight?" She never locks her door. It is just a measurement he seems to be taking, a precaution. He trusts her. But not enough, a voice inside her head rustles. "Can you please do that?"
"I will," she fails at assuring him. In reality, her inability to sound cogent has nothing to do with her reluctance to listen to him, even if she sometimes does tend to defy him (the way she defies everybody else).
As soon as the door is shut, and there's a barrier between them once again, her hand doesn't hover over the lock, not even for one single moment. She hears him retreat several steps whilst she practically drags herself forward, blindly caressing the soft covers of her bed once she's reached it.
She places a palm flat on her stomach, clenching her fist around the fabric in discomfort. The waves of dizziness hit her one by one, disallowing her to neglect the feeling she gets every time she's completely washed-out. Her wet hair does nothing but exacerbate it.
She kicks the cool sheets till the moment she's under them. She hugs her pillow with one arm, burying her face in it.
And screams.
Every sound she makes is muffled along with her prayers, never reaching the world's ears.
Because she didn't want or intend for any of this to happen. Because Prim is likely to never wake up. Because even if she does, she might never walk or speak again. Because she might be incapable of completing her studies. All the sisters' struggle has been in vain.
She is too restless to just settle for closing her blurry eyes. But then again, she's too tired to fight against the slumber that is quickly, and effectively, pulling her under.
She wishes she could just cry herself to sleep.
.
.
After hours of inner debating with herself, Katniss comes to a conclusion different from the one of staying inside.
It was what she and Prim had promised to each other that made the decision so much easier for her to make. Consider she never goes back on her word, Katniss knows she can't give up on her daily duties. She owes it to her sister—she knows it is what she would have wanted her to do, had she been in the position to have a say in this.
Moreover, she might have been allowed to take a couple of days off, but taking advantage of Sae's magnanimity isn't exactly a very wise option. She cannot be fired from her job. Not again.
Just when she is about to put on a pair of shoes, Peeta's voice makes her halt.
"Katniss, wait!" he calls, hurriedly walking to her side, almost running to prevent her from preparing to exit the house. She does wait for him with patience. There should be plenty of that, if she intends on surviving the current situation, right?
"I called Thom," he says, breathing heavily for a second. "To let him know if he needed anything from the bakery today, I would be there," he explains, then. "He said to tell you not to go to work. Have some more rest."
Wrinkles of confusion begin to form on her forehead. She must work today. It will be good for her, if she does. It will make the agonizing wait much more practicable for her. It will mean she could actually succeed in keeping her promise to Prim.
"But—I'm ready." She bobs her head in confirmation, gaining confidence as she continues speaking. "I can do this."
He offers a sorrowful smile. "You can," he agrees. "But the point is that no one will be in the farm once you get there."
Her bewilderment only doubles. Why not? She rushes to voice her obvious question.
"They're all at the hospital right now. And I think they will be for a while." He sees her horror-stricken expression, quickly waving his hands between them to help her make any sort of negative ideas disappear.
"Johanna has gone into labor. That's all," says Peeta.
"Oh." She feels like an idiot, standing there, her mouth opening and closing, even though no words are tumbling out of it.
Correction. She feels like a jealous idiot. Not because she would like to be in the woman's shoes (not even close), but because there are people who visit the hospital for delightful reasons. Happy people who become happy mothers and fathers, who deliver happy babies and raise happy children.
She was happy once. When her father sang to her. When her mother first taught her how to spell her name right. On her first day to school. Every time she added a new book to her personal library. Whenever she and her sister did something—anything—that would please both of them. When she was graduated from high school. When she decided she would find a job instead of studying in college like Prim (and her parents supported that wish of hers).
Peeta breaks her out of her reverie before she is sure she can let the memories, the illusion of being happy go. In the end, she is sure about absolutely nothing.
"I should be going," he reminds her. He shoots a wary glance her way, and she realizes she should probably reply to him.
"I'll be fine," she mumbles, answering his unspoken inquiry. His pursed lips do nothing to hide the extent of his doubtfulness, nor does his thoughtful expression, which slowly transforms into one of concern.
He must be unaware this is going to wear him out. Worrying for her, that is. Really, what has it caused him thus far?
Only trouble.
"Okay. But if you need anything—if you ask me to stay—"
"—I'm not going to," she interrupts him with a shake of her head.
"Okay," he echoes, dropping his hands to each one of his sides in defeat. It's not too long before he turns his back on her, surely planning on fetching anything he might need to take with him at work.
After he is out of her eyesight, she literally runs to her still dark room (the sun has risen by now, but the shutters are closed), saving him from confronting her one more time and, therefore, feeling obliged to reconsider.
If her bed wasn't already made, she would jump right in. Eventually, she opts for lying on the mattress, turning her head to the right angle so that she is facing the wall, her soft outtake of breath caressing the skin of her arm.
Katniss's hand curls around the phone buzzing on her nightstand moments after the persistent sound first starts. She is greeted with Madge's name.
But not her voice.
She places the device back on the furniture, facing away from it. She is not ready to talk about a mood she cannot quite put a label to. She also knows it would have taken more than a simple call from her friend, if something noteworthy had happened.
Her phone buzzes again, alerting her, informing her about a new message.
Having completely lost track of time, she reads it several minutes—or maybe hours—later. As expected, it is her friend checking up on her. She sends a quick, dismissing reply, and is glad when no more text messages arrive.
.
.
Beads of cold perspiration slide down her forehead as she her whole body jolts, awaking with a start.
She feels as if the air of the room is sucked out of her lungs as she grips the covers she tossed aside during her sleep tightly in her fists. She bolts upright in bed, catching her breath, her eyes growing large in the darkness.
She momentarily panics, trying to decipher the meaning of all this, trying to tell the difference between what's real and what's not.
Katniss carries herself out of bed, walking towards the closed shutters, her eyes locked on the window as if it is her lifeline. And, in a way, it is. Because when the warm daylight hits her, blinding her to the point of bringing the back of her palm in front of her current hypersensitive eyes, she can shudder at the memory of a nightmare and nothing more.
She heads for the bathroom next to her bedroom, washing the evidence of her obvious trepidation off her face. She grabs the brush, ruining the knots in her hair, before re-braiding it.
For the first time in a in a quite long time, the person starring in her dream was him; Peeta. She is not particularly surprised that he would appear in her sleep. Truth to be told, he had met her, talked to her while she was unconscious multiple times before (even though she has never told him). The point is that she almost every time woke with a smile on her lips, confidence in her heart.
This once, she didn't.
Watching someone you care about deeply—in more ways than you can explain—turn his back on you, hear you but never stop to acknowledge you, and ignore you instead is no reason to grow positive feelings.
As she bends forward, meticulously straightening the sheets, she remembers it. (All of it.) The terror in his wide eyes when he couldn't stop the speeding motorbike. The brakes refusing to work for him. Her screams of despair and, soon, her screams for help. The crimson blood staining the left side of his face, his golden hair, her unsteady, trembling hands.
She wouldn't believe it for a second, if the likelihood of it happening never existed, if everything she saw (but didn't really see) wasn't so damn real.
There are some times when he is just as stubborn as she is. It is not safe, but it is not unsafe, either. It is just the right amount of healthy for her to yell at him and for him to yell back. There are, however, some other times when he is more stubborn than her. These moments are really rare, but she knows she will not understand him and he will not listen to her then.
She knows the number of the bakery by heart. So, when she takes her phone in her hands, she doesn't even need to look through her contacts. It rings four times before he picks up, his professional tone melting into one of unrest once he recognizes hers.
"It's nothing," she promises. "I only wanted to—" She swallows. What is she supposed to say? I wanted to verify you were alive? Right now, her thoughts seem so stupid, too stupid, to her.
"I can come back," he says. "Or you can come here, if you don't want to be alone." He is met with silence. "Tell me what's wrong," he asks.
"Nothing," she repeats truthfully. "Just—be careful."
"What?" He couldn't be more confused. "What do you mean?"
"I'll see you in a few hours," she tells him. She hangs up.
She releases the breath she didn't know she had been holding and moves to her wardrobe, making a mess of her ironed clothes, just to get some fresh, clean ones. Afterwards, she takes her time to dress.
She can't be sure whether walking to the meadow Peeta introduced to her will be good for her.
The only thing she is sure of is that she can't stay here, if she wants to take her mind off things, to learn how to function properly again. She will not become Mrs Undersee, Maysilee's sister. She will not make anyone suffer because of her.
And she will believe every single thought crossing her head, like she will believe every single word sliding from her tongue.
So, why can't she?
.
.
When she returns, the sky is painted a muted orange color. She enters the house she left behind, softly sighing as she closes the front door. Two seconds after she catches sight of Peeta's shoes placed neatly against one another, she hears a commotion from the living room.
"Katniss?" he calls, getting closer and closer in the process of her looking up. She nods in affirmation, watching his facial features instantly relax. She almost shakes her head at him, then. Somehow, she has to tell him how much older she makes him look.
"I needed to be out of here," she confesses.
It is his turn to bob his head in agreement. "Fresh air helps," he adds in a reassuring manner that makes her (surely) more uncomfortable than he had originally planned to. A wry smile follows his statement.
It's all wrong. The smile is not Peeta's. She is not in the mood to play pretend at this very moment.
"There are no leftovers today. From the bakery," he explains, disappointment filling his voice. "But I could—"
"—no. You are stopping this right now."
He shoots her a baffled look. For once, she gazes directly into his eyes, watching his surprise take over.
"Katniss—"
"You don't get it. Stop it. Stop acting like you are my babysitter. I am not a toddler," she snarls, feeling the blood rush to her face, boil in her veins.
Instead of receiving the reply she has been expecting from him (to stop acting like a toddler), she is forced to deal with the hurt she sees she has caused him. She almost breathes in relief when he masks his wounded mood. There is, however, something that holds her back from doing so.
"I'm sorry," he says. He huffs, sarcasm practically dripping off his next words. "I'm sorry that I want to make you feel better." His voice raises an octave.
"Well, stop wanting to make me feel better, then. There's nothing you can do to help me and you do know it." She looks at her hands. "For some reason, though, you keep making the same mistakes," she mutters, nearly under her breath. "You need to stop."
"I can't stop wishing for you to be okay, Katniss," he reasons, nodding once she faces him again, emphasizing his point. "That would change everything for me."
"I can't stop wishing for things, either, but it changes nothing for me!" she exclaims, frustration getting the better of her.
He flinches.
"I want things, too, Peeta."
He takes a step forward, silently urging her to continue. She does, without having the chance to consider the effect she—or what she tells him for that matter—has on him.
"I want you to never touch that fucking motorbike again, but it means nothing, does it?" she demands. She, embarrassingly enough, lets out a low growl, simultaneously gasping for air. She has never talked to him like this before.
He takes two steps backwards.
"But you sure as hell know what that fucking motorbike means to me, don't you?" he retorts, imitating her dangerous tone.
Millions of thoughts cross her mind (from apologies to similar words that will only fuel their negatively heated exchange), yet she doesn't find the courage to part her lips. She watches him blink, hears his deep inhalation.
"Alright," he says, lengthening the distance between them. "Since there's nothing more to this," He pauses, eyeing her carefully. ", I'll stop."
If she wasn't a coward, the shock would have probably stilled her every movement. But she is, and she can't risk seeing him again in case he decides to return (despite the fact that she, deep down, wishes he would return to take his words back).
Her hands frantically seek for something in her wardrobe for a second—and probably the last one—time today. Only, now she doesn't put the wrinkled clothes in order, like she promised herself she would. She extracts the dark colored suitcase that has been occupying so much space inside, effortlessly letting it fall to the floor. Its weight falls on the tips of her toes, eliciting a hiss of momentary pain from her.
She bends down, pulling it off her feet, her fingers blocking the small yelp that escapes her mouth. She leans closer, and before she has the time to process what's happening, she falls on all fours, her knees cracking in protest.
Startled by the loss of balance, Katniss shifts so that she is seated on the wooden floor. She runs a hand over her forehead, trying to control each and every one of the unwanted tremors and whimpers.
It's no use. Her head still aches, and the unstoppable sobs still shake her form violently, thoroughly. She draws her legs to her chest, covering the back of her head with both of her hands as if it will break any moment from now.
She should keep going—she has to keep going. She has to start collecting clothes for her suitcase, for her departure, for Prim. But the sensation of the blazing tears rolling down her cheeks in a torturously slow manner is more comforting and welcome than anything else could possibly be.
The continuous, soft knocking on her door does little to break her out of her grief bubble. She does everything in her power to push the sound of Peeta's voice away, and somehow succeeds. In the end, as soon as the entrance to her room is half-open, she has drained every trickle of her strength to require her solitude.
She hears him move in front of her, but barely feels the touch of his hand on her right elbow. She bites on her lip, hoping for the small sounds of her distress to fall off. She wipes her wet eyes with the back of her one palm, even though she already knows there's no point in it.
"Katniss," he calls. There's a crack in his voice as soon as he finishes pronouncing her name. "I didn't mean to upset you more," he whispers, his tone promising, his knuckles brushing her calf.
She opens her mouth to tell him to go, because she has to fill her empty luggage. The incoherent whimper that escapes it instead forces her to press her lips shut once again.
Peeta pulls her to him without a word, his cheek pressed to her hair. The fight against him lasts only for a couple of seconds. He doesn't tell her not to cry, which relieves her more than her teardrops do.
"It's not fair," she blubbers. "All I w-wanted was for Prim and I to have a normal life." She quits talking, knowing that right now nothing will come out stutter free.
"I know," he murmurs, his lips touching her temple. "I know," he echoes, and runs his thumb over her cheekbones, sweeping the dampness off her skin.
It is several minutes of effort to control her breath later that she achieves to speak to him again. She tells him the truth.
"A motorbike is dangerous. You could be dead." She involuntarily cringes due to what she has uttered. "I thought you were dead. It was nothing but a stupid dream—I know—"
"A dream?" he parrots confused. He watches her nod. His blond brows furrow in concentration as he attempts to grasp the meaning of what she might be recalling.
Finally, realization seems to dawn on him. "Katniss, you know I'm careful." His tone suggests he is surprised she would even consider it. As a matter of fact, he is surprised she would fear for his safety on the road. "I'm always careful," he adds in hopes of reassuring her.
She shakes her head, as if believing him is infeasible. "Prim has always been careful, too," she reminds him of what he is probably unaware of.
"It's not going to happen, though," he insists. "We live in District Twelve." His hands gently drop from her face, leaving a curious kind of warmth on their wake, and rest on top of his thighs. She keeps her eyes on them, for she can't handle to watch anything else.
"I don't want to worry about more people getting hurt," she admits sheepishly, almost keeping the thoughts to herself. He is rendered speechless as well.
There is a comfortable silence, which stretches between them, until he breaks it.
"Why did you get your suitcase out?" he asks. He pauses, probably expecting her gaze to meet his. He mulls over the possible reasons and different scenarios. He is thinking so loud, she can practically hear him. He moves some more inches away from her, reaching for the object that effectively attracted his attention.
She hears the sound of it being dragged against the floor. She notes how there will be scratches on the wood, if he doesn't go easy on it.
"Katniss?" he calls again.
"I want to be as close to her as possible," she blurts out. I want to move, she implies. I want to stay in town. "But I don't know where to go." Frankly, there is no one else who would be kind enough to let a complete stranger in his house like he did, especially not in town.
"Then, don't go." His answer is far too fast for her liking. He couldn't be more sure, like he couldn't be more wrong about it.
Nevertheless, if she is honest in the slightest bit, she is not all that eager to leave, either.
All of sudden, she feels too tired to contemplate whether she should stay here or not.
"How about you stay home tonight? We'll talk about this tomorrow," he suggests.
"Okay," she says. She repeats the word once he asks her for reaffirmation. He helps her stand by letting her lean on him for support. "I have to wash my face," she declares.
"Alright," he compromises. He stands on his feet, too, not wasting any more time. "I am going downstairs. Is there anything that you need?" he questions.
"Yeah," she mumbles under her breath, the sound of her voice barely reaching her ears, let alone his. But it truly does, as he waits patiently for her to continue, to enlighten him about what's plaguing her mind.
"Can you sleep here later? With me?" she pleads. She has never asked him anything similar before. Thus, her hesitance is more than just tangible.
He also looks taken aback for a brief moment. However, he quickly manages to collect his tangle of thoughts. "Of course," he says, easing her anxiety for a second. "That is—if that's what you really want to."
He looks unsure of himself. Nervous even.
Fair enough.
She probably shouldn't ask for things there is a chance he'll be uncomfortable with, selfish things, even though her reasoning is truly simple.
"I just don't want to be alone," she professes. That's all she knows for now.
He shakes his head affirmatively once more. "Sure." This time, he might as well believe it.
.
.
He enters her room approximately twenty minutes after her head hits the pillow.
It is pitch black, and although her eyes have slowly adjusted to the darkness, he seems to have issues with his orientation. Her gaze follows his figure zigzagging several feet in front of the bed, his hands trying to memorize the feeling of random objects under them.
She sighs in defeat, before she—as silently as possible—props her weight on her elbows, sitting up. As careful as she tries to be, though, the unpredicted noises she makes are loud enough for him to hear.
"Katniss?"
She—timidly at first, but more confidently as the minutes tick by—crawls on the mattress. She approaches the lower edge of the bed, extending her hand for him to take.
He grasps her fingers, palms cupping her bare forearms. His earlier frustration vanishes, but he still freezes on the spot, his feet glued to the ground, the unspoken question ready to roll off his tongue.
She foresees what he wonders about, what he fears she might have regretted. She doesn't blame him. Keeping track of her mood swings every single time she's upset has always been a hard achievement according to Madge. (She can't say she's proud of it, but she can say this is what is likely never going to change.)
"Come," she commands, her tone more persistent as well as urgent than encouraging.
She leads him to what she has currently, mentally labeled as his side (considering the other side is where she lays), and lets go of him, her nails digging into the inside of her palm self-consciously.
He moves a little, at least until he's comfortable.
"I would have come sooner, if I had known you were waiting."
"I wasn't. I mean I was, but—I couldn't really fall asleep." She swallows her indecision. "Prim's presence used to calm me at night. Sometimes. So, I thought…"
She thought whatever it is that he unconsciously does to tame her fire could actually have a decent effect on her this night.
"It's okay," he assures her. "I have nightmares, too."
"Oh," she mouths at him, knowing he can make out her facial features by now, because she honestly has no clue of what she ought to tell him.
Dead silence prevails until it doesn't. It is half an hour of tossing and turning later that she wonders whether he is still awake or not (she chooses to doubt the fact). She presses her lips together thoughtfully, deciding to take a chance, hoping he won't be bothered. Her breathing becomes more labored before she can realize the change.
He notices. "Can't sleep yet?"
She turns towards the direction of the voice, facing him fully again. "Sorry. I can't shut my mind off," she offers guiltily as an excuse.
He closes his eyes. "I guess it's not working then." She detects the faint hint of amusement as he speaks, even though the worry is not something she can sidestep, either.
"No," she objects. "It's not you. I—" She inhales as deep as her lungs will allow. "I—I lied. Earlier," she clarifies. "I don't want you to stop being who you are. It is for the best, but—I don't know if I'll be ready to let go. That's all."
He parts his lips to intervene to her monologue. She cuts him off, stealing his breath and words.
"I'll have to. At some point. But when Prim is not with me, I feel like no one will find a reason to stay by my side. Loneliness scares me."
"It shouldn't," he rushes to advice. "You know what you said is not true. You have Madge. You have me."
If she knew, aloneness would never frighten her. "I wish I did. It would make everything so much easier," she points out.
"Sae will probably be with her daughter-in-law tomorrow. Come to the bakery with me. You can help me."
She clutches the pillow closer to her face. "There's nothing I can do there, Peeta. I can't bake. And it sure as hell is not a time for me to start being friendly with people."
"Then, we'll find something you can do. I enjoy being around you. I think we've established that multiple times." They have, indeed. He wouldn't be here, if he couldn't afford wasting his spare time like this. In fact, Katniss suspects everything goes much deeper than that. That is, only because she is feeling this way.
"I don't know," she trails off. "I just don't."
He spots her fingers, holding them tightly again. His grip turns out to be more painful than comforting till the moment he loosens it. He is aware the bakery is not a real issue. It is not what troubles her.
"I'll stay with you," he vows. He weaves their fingers, bringing them to where her borders end and his begin on the mattress.
What he said make her grow agitated in a matter of seconds. "Not always."
"Always," he insists.
"You can't. Forever is an awfully long time and we don't even know whether Prim will wake up," she hisses. Her throat nearly closes at this.
"Always, Katniss. Stop thinking about it. It doesn't matter. We can make it. Even if it takes five, ten, fifteen years." When her response doesn't follow, he completes his unfinished, concise speech. "I'm too involved to back off now."
He clenches and unclenches his fist around hers. She squeezes back a little too late. But it doesn't matter.
A dreamless sleep lures her away after a minute—or maybe two, his words twirling around in her head like infinite, delicate snowflakes dancing in the wind. His voice chases her until dawn.
Always.