Disclaimer:This is the first chapter where the whole 'M' rating really comes into play, so if anything remotely smutty isn't your cup of tea, now would be the appropriate time to jump ship.
006. Sleep Under the Stars
In the same way that Peeta adjusted to the limp-causing tautness in his knee, that families adjust to new housing, that dieters adjust to the taste of sugar-free soda, Katniss adjusts to the feeling of heat clawing at her belly whenever she's within five feet of her best friend. Even actions as simple as a touch to her shoulder or his fingers in her braid send her stomach rolling in prickles of warmth; she thinks she's going crazy, but at least she's past the stage of denial.
The good-bye they face at the end of her summer is even harder than the one the year before, if possible, because back then at least she knew how she felt for Peeta. Now, she has no idea.
However, she knows what she should want from him—platonic friendliness, frequent phone calls, long walks with no hand-holding, etc.—because that's what's best for their relationship, what's healthiest. Of course it is. If she wants what they have to last until the end of time itself, and if she wants to be able to withstand a hundred miles worth of separation from him without fighting the urge to put her fist through the drywall of her dorm, she needs to hold him at an arms-distance. Friendship doesn't have to have an expiration date. Love can go sour at any moment, but true camaraderie has the shelf life of a Twinkie.
And considering they already agreed to be just friends, this arrangement shouldn't be too hard to maintain.
Even so, the separation is excruciating, and she finds it still takes quite some time to readapt to the Pittsburgh setting once the semester begins. This year, however, she's rooming with not only Johanna but Annie as well, in addition to Annie's cotenant from the previous year, Rue. Having three other girls filtering through the suite on a daily basis instead of only one curbs the worst of the loneliness.
Still, there isn't a day that passes without her chest tightening or her throat aching from the subtlest of triggers—the scent of cinnamon, a curly blonde head of hair, or even something as stupid as a loaf of artisan bread—which send her mind drowning in memories of her best friend back home.
In one of her lectures, she finds herself sitting next to a boy with startlingly blue eyes (not as blue as Peeta's, but then again, she doesn't think that's humanly possible) and she tugs out her phone to text him, because it's been too long since their last conversation, and she finds her screen already lit up with two new text messages. As if the wires in their brains are somehow connected.
Peeta: Thought you should know I'm wearing my Batman boxers today
Peeta: Is it weird that my underwear reminds me of you?
She rolls her eyes, smiling like an idiot at her screen as she pushes her hair from her eyes.
Katniss: As long as you don't throw cupcakes at anyone else while wearing them, it can be excused
His response is almost immediate.
Peeta: Shit. If only you'd told me that before
She makes a valiant effort to stifle the giggle that bubbles up from her lungs, but the sound she ends up making still merits a few condemning glares from the other students in the lecture.
God, she misses him like hell.
The weather in Pittsburgh seems to be relatively ungenerous in the fall, the air thin and wispy, but Katniss has always preferred the cold. She associates it with some of her best memories—hunting with her father when she was young, sharing mint tea on the back porch with Prim, building snowmen with Peeta—and if she had to live her entire life in one season, she'd choose autumn, when pumpkin-flavored things spike in popularity and the leaves burn brilliant shades of orange and red and yellow, as if all the trees have burst into flame.
The more time she spends outside during the season, the more nostalgic she becomes for home—or whatever's left of it. By the time fall is in full-swing, Katniss is nearly bursting at the seams, her loneliness at an all-time high. It's painful enough that she hasn't seen Peeta since the beginning of the school year, but the fact that four whole seasons have passed without her being able to hold the only person on this Earth she's not afraid to love with everything she has is agonizing. So, as she's ambling across campus one day in mid-October, she yanks her phone from her pocket.
The line only rings three times before it's answered.
"Katniss! Gosh, it's been ages since we last talked. I miss you!"
She doesn't know why she's let time stretch on so long without so much as a simple conversation between her and her sister—it's been three weeks, probably.
"Prim, I—I'm sorry I haven't called."
"No, don't be! Things have been super busy down here anyway. Mom's been working crazy hours at the hospital, which she seems to like… I mean, it's less time to sit around and, well… remember, you know? And I've been hanging out a lot with Lavinia, and she introduced me to Mitchell, Jackson, and Homes, so I think I'm finally starting to fit in, which is good. I just want people to like me, and I think they might."
The more Prim's monologue drags on, the brighter Katniss's smile becomes. She misses talking with Prim. (More like listening—Prim talks enough for the both of them.)
"Of course they like you, Prim. They'd have to be blind and heartless not to."
"Well, I hope you get to meet them someday! Although it's more of a priority to see you in the first place. It's been so crazy without you, Katniss. Mom's doing better—a lot better, really—but still, I miss you so much. We both miss you."
Katniss feels like she's swallowed a grapefruit. "I miss you guys too, Little Duck."
"Is it possible—I mean, do you think you could come down for Christmas, maybe? Last Christmas was so lonely without you. We didn't have anyone in the house to sing us carols." Katniss hated Christmas carols, but they were Prim's favorite component of the holiday, and since Katniss would rather dive into a sea of steaming tar than disappoint her little sister, she'd always grant her a song or two.
The memory rouses the taste of peppermint in the back of her throat; she feels her eyes stinging as she blinks back the moisture. Although Christmas with the Mellarks had been one of the most reassuring points of last school year, spending her first holiday season without Prim had been difficult. But she can't forget the reason behind the separation. "I don't have enough money saved up to buy a round-trip plane ticket, Prim. I hardly have enough for ramen noodles these days."
"I bet Mom could buy one! I mean, she's been working such long hours lately… and we haven't seen you in over a year, Katniss. Skype doesn't count."
Since her father's death, Katniss has learned to never anticipate anything from her mother—she's about as accountable as a plank of plywood—so she dismisses her sister's suggestion, reluctant to get her hopes up.
So when she checks the mailbox two weeks later to find a small envelope concealing two shiny tickets, she almost passes out from excitement.
Her mother pulled through.
After an hour-long Skype session with Prim that involves plenty of sobbing and giggling and girlish squealing (from Prim, of course. Katniss isn't capable of girlish squealing.) she sets up another call with Peeta.
She feels that familiar, strident warmth feathering out from her core the moment his pixelated face flickers across the screen. The warmth only festers when she notes that he's shirtless, leaning back at his desk with his broad shoulders completely bared for the camera, blonde curls slightly damp from a recent shower.
"Alright, Everdeen. What's special enough to merit a Skype call? Make the Dean's list? Meet Morgan Freeman? Solve world hunger?"
Her smile is ear-to-ear as she holds up the two tickets in front of her webcam. He peers at the screen for a moment before his lips twists up in their own beautifully genuine grin, and he's leaning forward, his face enlarged on her screen.
She covers her mouth. "I'm going to see Prim," she manages to whimper, batting the tears away with her eyelids as she wills herself not to cry in front of Peeta.
"Oh god, Katniss, that's—that's wonderful!" He pushes a few ornery curls from his temples. "What'd you have to do to get those tickets? Please don't tell me you shot someone."
"No, uh—my mom, she sent me them," she sniffles, swiping her hand under her nose. "Her salary at the hospital is so much better than what it was in Panem. She's… she's doing well. Prim's doing well—great, she's doing great, and—"
She feels dizzy, disoriented, but absolutely elated.
"Katniss, I'm so happy for you," he murmurs, his eyes wide and honest and beautiful, and if she didn't have two camera lens and a hundred miles of highway between them, she'd hug him, kiss him, maybe…
It's a good thing she doesn't have the opportunity to find out exactly what she'd do.
In a whirlwind of papers, projects, snowstorms, pumpkin spice lattes, and ugly Christmas sweaters the break finally arrives, and Katniss finds herself on her first ever flight. She takes enough Dramamine to theoretically tranquilize a horse, which knocks her out for most of the ride down to Miami, and when she wakes up, she finds the same bleak, grey expanse stretching outside the plane as she'd seen in Pittsburgh.
Thanks to the exaggeratedly commercialized representation of Florida, she'd expected miles upon miles of sunshine. But she soon learns there's much more sunlight in her best friend's smile up in Panem than there is in Miami.
But that's okay. She's not here for the weather.
She's at the baggage claim when she feels sinewy arms coiling around her thin waist, a cheek pressed to her neck. She whirls around immediately to find her not-so-little sister standing before her, their eyes nearly at the same level… since when is Prim so tall? The Primrose Everdeen of her memory is so much smaller, more youthful than the girl that stands before her now, but she's no less delighted to see her. With her golden corn-silk hair, sun-speckled skin and eyes of a young doe, Prim is no longer the child that Katniss mothered for half of her life.
She thinks to herself, How much can things change in eighteen months?
Her question is never answered in full, because with each second Katniss realizes the world beyond her town certainly hasn't stopped spinning without her. Not only has her sister matured, but the change in her mother is striking, too. The once diffident, stony woman has loosened her resolve, the lines of stress in her face almost wiped away since Katniss last saw her. Of course, she isn't as vibrant and as loving as she'd been before Mr. Everdeen was killed, but at least she's responsive, and Katniss is thankful her little sister isn't living with a ghost anymore.
But not all the adjustment is easy to stomach. The townhouse Mrs. Everdeen is renting has been personalized so much that Katniss feels like she's intruding on someone else's home while her sister and mother feel completely at ease. After only one hour in the house she's slammed with the harsh reality that she doesn't belong here, that this isn't her home… this may be her family, the mother that birthed her and the sister she loves like her own daughter, but she doesn't belong here.
For a moment, Katniss wonders how narcissistic she's been for assuming her family couldn't get on without her. They've been more than surviving; they've been thriving, her mother adapting well to the new start and her sister settling in well with her classmates, and although she's happy for them, her chest aches to see how her place among them has withered like a dehydrated vine.
Of all the people in the world, she thought her family needed her most. She'd been the one to lead them through those painful years after Mr. Everdeen passed—she'd gotten used to being the alpha in the pack.
But now she feels like she's the extra mouth to feed, the extra body to house.
And it suffocates her.
The beach is a ten-minute walk from the townhouse and on Christmas Eve, when the sky is still a milky grey from the storms that've been scattering the coastline, she makes her way out to the sea, shoelessly padding along the bone-white sand. It's certainly warmer down here than in Pittsburgh, but the wind carries an empty chill that causes her to clutch the trim of her cardigan, folding herself tightly in the fabric as she walks along the shore.
She blankly watches the sea lap at her ankles like an overanxious puppy, feeling surprisingly lonely in the place she thought she'd be the most appreciated.
"You're miserable here, aren't you?"
Her head snaps to the side to see Prim's pixie-like face a foot from hers. She hadn't realized she'd been followed, but never will she turn down her sister's company.
In a weak attempt to contradict her sister, she reaches out and grabs Prim's hand in her own as she continues to walk along the seaboard. But she doesn't say anything.
"You're not really good with change, you know," Prim says softly at her side. "You always like things to stay exactly where they are, and so this… it's not easy for you. You don't have to tell me—I know it isn't."
Prim has always sported a kind of world-class empathy that's beyond Katniss; while Katniss has no idea what the people around her are thinking and feeling, Prim has it as a sixth sense. She's like Peeta in that respect. She knows what's going through Katniss's head before Katniss even does.
But still, the eldest Everdeen sister sighs, her integrity too solid to deny it but her pride too prominent to agree. "I'm really happy to see you, Prim."
"But that doesn't mean you like it here." She smiles understandingly. "You don't belong on a beach where the humidity is as thick as a milkshake and there's massive hordes of people everywhere you turn. This isn't your scene. You belong in Panem, in those woods we grew up in."
"I belong with you. I'm supposed to be the one who's looking out for you. I promised myself I always would, but… but now—"
"—Katniss, you've done more than we ever could've asked for," she murmurs softly, her palm pulsing against Katniss's. "The only reason we made it this far is because of you. But you have your own life to live, you know—you can't keep being a mother to your own mother and little sister. You have to create a life for yourself. This is better for all of us, really—I mean, there are still mornings when I roll over in bed and expect you to be next to me, or when I come home from school thinking there'll be a borderline-stale loaf of bread you brought home from the Mellarks on the table, and I—I miss you, Katniss, but things are finally starting to go in our favor. For all of us. Mom's been talking to me, and making sure there's always food in the fridge, and you… well, you're in college. You're not burdened by us anymore."
She wants to cry out, You were never a burden to me, but she can't; every single day was a contest of survival, a game of hunger, and she struggled to support both herself and them, but there hadn't been a single moment that she wished she didn't have them along for the ride. At least, not with Prim. Taking care of her little sister was one of the most gratifying things Katniss has ever done.
But the time for that is up.
She doesn't hold that rank any longer.
Her throat is tight, her chest pulsing, and she feels like she's strangling on molasses as she says pathetically, "I just don't know where my home is, Prim. I thought it was with you."
Prim smiles sadly at her. "It was, at one point, but all birds have to leave the nest eventually... you've got to find another place to perch. It's painful, but life isn't about doing what's most comfortable."
Katniss's jaw clenches. "I don't know where to go."
"Of course you do," Prim tosses back, her voice like silk against the coarse grain of the wind.
At first, Katniss wants to protest—What the hell am I supposed to know?—but unlike the answer to her first question, this one splatters across the front lobe of her mind as if it's been scrawled in neon painting all along.
Of course she knows where her home is.
It's the only place she's ever been truly afraid to leave. A place that smells like warm butter and flour, where frosting is a food group and sturdy arms keep her planted in bed every night, where blue eyes are the only ocean and golden curls are all the sunshine she needs.
"How was the flight?"
Katniss sprawls out in one of the chairs by the baggage claim, eyes pinned on the metal conveyer belt as she waits for it to start moving, spitting her bag through the plastic curtain.
"Long. Boring. The kid behind me threw up the entire time."
Peeta's sympathetic chuckle rings like a chorus of silver bells on the other end of the line. "And how'd saying goodbye go?"
The entire affair had been bittersweet, as none of them knew when Katniss would see her family again, but with Prim's bird analogy lingering in her memory, it hadn't been as excruciating as she'd expected. Spending Christmas with her family had provided some odd sense of closure; they were doing fine without her, and so leaving them felt less like an abandonment and more like a farewell that'd been weeks in the making.
She knows she's always welcome with them. They're her family, after all. But they're not her future.
"It was a little rough," she finally says after a short pause. "But Prim's doing so well, and even my mother has some life to her… it didn't feel like I was betraying them by leaving, so it wasn't as bad as I thought. Besides, I didn't feel comfortable there. I wasn't happy to leave them, but I was more than relieved to finally get out of that state."
"Well, I'm glad you seem to be steering clear of separation anxiety."
She crosses her legs, pursing her lips as her impatience with the stupid baggage claim flares. "Enough about me. How was your break?"
"Full of surprises, actually," he chuckles, his laughter drizzling like honey. God, she misses him. "Soren hasn't been down for Christmas since Mom left, and so we took an impromptu trip up to Philadelphia, which completely blew up in our faces. We haven't seen him since he graduated from UPenn three years ago, so we went to his old apartment… turns out he wasn't even there, so we called him, and he said—rather angrily, might I add—that he was spending the holiday with his fiancée down at Myrtle Beach. Apparently, he's been engaged to the girl for two years and he didn't think to tell any of us in the little contact we've had. Who knows if he's even planning on inviting us to the wedding. But anyway, we were all the way out in Philadelphia, so we decided to spend Christmas there, which was a disaster since most of the halfway-decent hotels were booked, and… well, at least I got to spend some good, old-fashioned family time with my dad and Hans, right?"
"Whatever happened to Soren, anyway? Was he always so—so—"
"—So much like my mother?" Katniss had been afraid to say it. "He always got along better with her than he did with the rest of us, probably because he was the Herculean first-born she practically worshipped while my dad didn't play favorites. I have a feeling he's been contacting her lately, wherever she is, but none of us are all that eager to ask."
Katniss doesn't know exactly how to respond, so she doesn't.
A few seconds lapse before she hears him inhale. "Well, I guess this proves that we need you around during the holiday season so we don't make any rash decisions. What do you say you come spend Christmas with us next year?"
She can't help the smile that breaks out over her lips. He has no idea how much she'd enjoy that arrangement.
Second semester picks up full-speed when she returns to campus, and she immediately regrets taking eighteen credit hours as opposed to the recommended fifteen. On top of the heavier class load, her labs are twice as difficult; it isn't until this semester that she's ever regretted majoring in Environmental Sciences. She's here for the biology, not intangible ideas like gravity and torque. It takes a mere three weeks for her to decide her arch-nemesis is whoever first conceptualized physics.
And it's because of her stupid physics class that when Annie asks her mid-February if she wants to swing down to Panem with her, Katniss actually turns her down, because she has a lab write-up due at midnight, and the car ride down to her hometown would confiscate two precious hours she can't afford to lose.
What's worse is that Peeta pretends he's okay with it, tells her that it's fine she hasn't come home since early November, when it's the farthest thing from fine to her. Even if they're just friends, they're still best friends, and random text messages, weekly phone-calls and the rare Skype session don't satiate the clawing sensation of starvation as it rips through her abdomen.
She needs him. She needs to feel his warmth, to wrap herself in his sunshine; she doesn't understand the strange ache that simmers in her stomach at the thought of him, but whatever it is, she knows his touch is the only remedy.
And so after she submits her write-up at 11:53 P.M., she curls up on the sofa and sobs into a throw pillow. She must've not been as quiet as she hoped, because at some point the shy, quiet Rue slips from her room and comes over to her, wrapping her arms around Katniss like a grape vine until she stops crying. Rue doesn't expect Katniss to explain, simply sitting with her in the quiet to provide her with substitute touch. She's no Peeta, but if anything Rue reminds her of Prim, and so she accepts her closeness and lets the feeling of warm skin and a beating heart quell her distress.
She has never felt so weak, so feeble in her life.
When Annie comes back late on Sunday, she drops a white paper bag in Katniss's lap.
"He thought you could use these."
Frowning, Katniss tears back the top of the paper, opening the bag to see a half-dozen small rolls resting in the bottom of the sack. The warm, buttery scent that balloons from the pouch turns her tensed muscles to neoprene, and for the first time this weekend she suddenly feels relaxed. Peeta knows her well enough to understand that cheese buns make everything better.
At least for the time being.
She hopes she never has to discover what full-body paralysis feels like, but whatever she feels is pretty damn close when he calls her in March, his voice filled with gravel and a thousand years of pain that a twenty-year-old boy shouldn't ever have to know.
"Katniss?"
"Peeta?"
"Katniss, I—it's…"
"Peeta, what's wrong?"
"The doctors did x-rays on my knee today."
Spring break begins in a week from today, meaning every last soul on the face of the planet who has a car is more concerned with travel next weekend than this weekend. Meaning no one will take her home.
"Annie—"
"Katniss, I'm so sorry. I know how much this means to you, but I have a group project to finish up for Monday. I can't go to Panem."
But she needs to go, needs to be back in Panem, needs to be back in that bakery, needs to be with her sunshine boy because for the first time in ages he sounded more like a rainstorm than sunlight. And he might be sick.
The cancer might be back.
She shuts herself in her room and buries her head under her pillow, screaming into the threaded fabric. How the hell did this happen? It's been over three years. She thought, surely, they'd escaped it by now.
He called her last evening after her Thursday night class got out, his words glazed in apprehension as he told her that he'd have to get a biopsy done next week. She'd been planning on returning to Panem for spring break, but he needs comfort now, and she told him she'd pull whatever strings necessary to bring her home to him this weekend.
Unfortunately, Annie's strings cannot be pulled, Johanna isn't about to drive her gas-guzzler two hours to a town she has no connection with, and Rue doesn't have a car. Katniss could always sift through campus and try to find Marvel, and although they haven't spoken in a year, for a brief moment she thinks she may just be desperate enough.
And then, out of the blue, Katniss experiences a little miracle in this otherwise merciless black hole of a situation.
She hears her phone vibrate at her side.
Madge: All my friends are going to Panama City Beach for spring break this week and I'm going to tiny-ass Panem. What does that say about me?
Her heart clogs her throat. Is Madge's break a week earlier than hers?
Before she can second-guess her desperation, her fingers fly over the keys and she holds the phone to her ear. It rings two, three, four times before Madge finally answers.
"I'd love to talk about my tragically pathetic situation, but I'm on the interstate right now, and God knows I'm a bad enough driver even when I'm not on the phone."
"You were just texting me!"
"I was at a rest stop, Everdeen. Don't get your panties in a twist."
"Look, Madge, I have a huge favor to ask," Katniss breathes into the phone, rolling onto her back.
She hears Madge groan. "Unless it involves me refurbishing your atrocious wardrobe—"
"Peeta might be sick again."
There's silence over the line for a few moments as Madge lets the declaration settle.
After a while, she blows a puff of air through the receiver. "Well, shit. I'm just past Carlisle, so I'll be at UPitt in just under four hours, okay?"
Katniss lets out a sigh the size of the state of Texas—she's beyond grateful she didn't have to humiliate herself and actually beg her friend for a ride. "Madge—"
"I'm only doing this because Dad's giving me two hundred dollars for gas this weekend." Her voice softens. "And because I care about the kid, too. I know how much he means to you."
"Thank you," Katniss exhales.
"Just know that this means you'll be the one explaining to Gale why he's going to have to cancel our dinner reservations for tonight. You deal with his wrath better than I do, anyway."
Katniss would do anything from baking a cake to travelling across the Sahara in a wool sweater to show Madge her appreciation—getting in Gale's line of fire is a small, very digestible selection.
Each second feels like an hour as she and Madge speed down the highway, the pavement glowing amber in the light of the sinking sun. Her stomach is flipping in violent cartwheels, and she can't decide if it's because she's thinking too hard about Peeta or because Madge drives like a ninety-year-old woman on LSD. She can barely even appreciate the streaks of pink and orange in the sky as the daylight hours fade, because even the natural phenomenon reminds her of Peeta—his favorite color is this same shade of orange, after all—and every time a thought of her best friend pops up like a whack-o-mole in her head, she feels like she's going to vomit.
Of all the people in the universe, her sweet, everlastingly gentle Peeta deserves this the least. He didn't deserve this at sixteen, and he certainly doesn't deserve his growing hope to be squashed after over three whole healthy years.
The last shard of light in the sky is just beginning to wane when Madge pulls up in front of the bakery.
"I can drive you back to Pittsburgh on Sunday if you need me to. I'm due for a big-city shopping outing, anyway."
Katniss leans over the console to give her a rare hug.
"You're a miracle-worker, Madge," she mutters into her hair, her voice stodgy. "You have no idea how thankful I am for all of this."
"You are very welcome, Ms. Everdeen."
She pulls back. "How can I repay you?" Katniss will never allow a debt to go unsquared.
The sly smile that slithers over Madge's glossy lips makes Katniss gulp.
"Let me pick out some skirts for you. Then we'll be even."
Before she knows it, she's standing at the door of the bakery with her sloppily-packed duffel slung over her shoulder and her heart beating at a hundred miles an hour. The bakery's closed at this late hour; she knows they probably won't hear if she knocks.
She doesn't have to mull over her options before she finds herself at the foot of the tree beside Peeta's window. She hasn't scaled it since the summer after they graduated—she never had any need, after all, considering Mr. Mellark has no problem with her marching uninvited through their front door—and she feels like a child again, like she's fourteen years old and about to wrap herself in her best friend's arms and rant about Gale's latest pigheaded contention.
But they're twenty now; despite always being children at heart—especially in each other's company—they are adults, and instead of gossiping about junior high relationships they'll be discussing the uncertainty of his own life.
Even with her bag dangling over her shoulder, she manages to scale the tree in record time, squatting on a branch as her fingers work at the window's seal.
She's relieved to find it unlocked.
If her Environmental Sciences degree gets her nowhere, she decides she can pursue some sort of criminal career, because she has mastered the art of trespassing; within seconds the window pane is shoved upward and she stumbles into Peeta's room. When she steadies herself on her feet, she finds him sitting up in bed, hair ruffled and eyes startled.
"Katniss?" He's out of breath. She must've scared him.
She lets her duffel drop to the floor with a decisive thunk and then she's on his bed, over him, her hands dimpling the mattress on either side of his shoulders, her braid swinging by his ear.
"You're in bed early."
Before she can even breathe, his arms are around her. One hand splays over the small of her back while the other crushes her thin shoulders to his chest. He hugs her with the might of a boa constrictor, the ferocity of a lion, but the gentleness of a lamb; she feels her entire body become pliant in his hold, molding into his silhouette as if she's made of clay.
She missed touching him. She missed him touching her.
"I didn't think you were coming," he croons after a while, a slight quiver to his words.
She pulls back. "I'll always come for you," she whispers, her fingers cupping over the sharp definition of his jaw, feeling the slight graininess from a day's worth of stubble. Even in the poor lighting she can see the exhaustion in his eyes; no wonder he's in bed before 8:30. He probably hasn't slept since he came home from the clinic.
He smiles weakly up at her, craning his neck to press a chaste kiss to her cheek; the plush feeling of his lips against her skin sets her nervous system alight. Suddenly, she's acutely aware of their closeness, of how her hips are snug against his in a way that makes her ache... It takes every muscle in her body not to press harder against him, to eliminate every inch of distance between them.
Fuck. Her friend's life is in limbo, and she can't even curb her goddamn hormones. What the hell is wrong with her?
She shifts to his side, clamping her thighs together as she presses her cheek to his shoulder. There. That should keep her "inclinations" in check.
(Hopefully.)
"You know, you're allowed to use the front door," Peeta jokes as he wraps his arms around her, hugging her close like a teddy bear.
"Where's the fun in that?"
He chuckles, but after a few seconds the laughter fades in the back of his throat. "It… it almost feels like we're kids again," he murmurs, saying exactly what she'd been thinking moments ago. "You using the window… you sneaking into my room…"
"I know."
"Well, maybe that's good luck. I mean, we beat the cancer last time—"
She loves how he uses the legendary "we," as if she had anything to do with his recovery last time, but she hates the fact that they even have to discuss this in the first place.
"You don't even know if you have cancer, Peeta."
"Expect the worst but hope for the best, right?" He doesn't sound nearly as enthusiastic as she knows he intends.
"Peeta—"
"What's funny is," he begins, a wry humor slithering into his tone, "I just stopped waiting for it to come back. I'd been so paranoid since it went away the first time—I mean, it just went away without surgery or anything, which already raised the probability of recurrence—but I thought that after three fucking years I'd be out of the woods. But now…"
She doesn't know what to say. What string of hollow words could possibly make this any better?
Instead of ransacking her spent mind for some pitiful excuse of consolation, she curls up tighter against him, pressing her lips to his shoulder. Words have always been his forte, anyway; her strong suits involve running and shooting things, neither of which prove very useful in this situation.
A long while passes before he hisses out a deep sigh.
"Well, on the bright side, this gives me an excuse to guilt you into knocking another thing off my bucket list, right?"
"You don't have to guilt me into doing anything," she mutters. She'd willingly pose as shark bait for him at this point.
She tries to ignore the way his lips feel, pulled back in a smile, as they graze over her forehead. The fire in her belly only smolders; she begins to wonder just what she'd be willing to do for him.
"Well, the next thing on the list is to have unprotected sex, so—"
Her breath catches on some valve in her lungs and she sputters against his shoulder, her eyes bugging dangerously wide. "Are y—"
And then he's laughing, the sound so beautiful and melodious and infuriating; she delivers a necessary slap to his shoulder as he corrects, "It's actually 'sleep under the stars,' but I couldn't pass up this glorious opportunity to give you a heart attack."
"Peeta Mellark, you are officially at the top of my hit list."
When she glares at him, despite her seething anger, her heart flutters like butterfly wings when he winks at her through the gloom.
"And it was so worth it."
When he said "under the stars" just an hour ago, she definitely hadn't envisioned this—piles of feather blankets and downy pillows positioned under a faded landscape—but this is Peeta's list, not hers. His interpretation of "under the stars" is the only one that really matters… so what if it's a little unorthodox?
Either way, it landed them here, snuggled up in their treehouse on a Friday night, eyes raking over the synthetic stars he'd painted for them two summers ago.
"After tonight, there will be officially no way to convince my dad we're just friends," he laughs as she nuzzles into his side. "Sneaking out to sleep in a treehouse has to be the last straw."
"I think the last straw was that night in your kitchen," she counters.
"It's not like we were doing anything then."
"We were in our underwear, Peeta!" she half-screeches, half-laughs. Not to mention we were also about to start playing a passionate game of tonsil-hockey.
"Like he said, it could've been worse. For instance, we could've been in less than our underwear." His grin is teasing, but it still makes something in her boil. Maybe it's because there's an odd twist to his smile, something almost… provocative.
"That's not something two people who are just friends would have a problem with," she jests, clenching onto their pact from last summer with shaky, rigid hands. It's the only thing she can grab hold of right now as the closeness of his body engulfs her, the startling blue of his eyes suddenly everywhere.
When did it get so hot up here?
As he gazes down at her mercilessly, she's thankful for their agreement. Without it, there'd be absolutely nothing to hold her back, to keep her from throwing their friendship as they know it in the dumpster.
When he responds, there's something sharp in his voice, like a jagged edge, and it slices at her flesh.
"Well, usually people who are just friends don't sleep in each other's beds every night they're together."
She feels her breath catch in her throat, and his own eyes widen slightly in surprise, startled that he actually said that. They've been doing this for years, and even though small fractions of them know just how unconventional the arrangement is, they've never questioned it.
Until now.
How dare he use that against them? Her teeth grit, but strangely, she doesn't say anything. There's a spark of anger glowing in her chest, but another emotion douses it—Intrigue? Excitement?
As if to taunt her, Peeta's face inches a little closer, the arm that'd been draped across her torso tensing, caging her in.
"And usually, people who are just friends don't hold each other like this, do they?"
She gulps. Heat shocks through her systems, pooling between her legs. Fuck. She'd rather be angry, because rage is something much more manageable than this.
"Peeta—"
His voice is a silk-woven whisper. "And when a guy is just friends with a girl, he doesn't usually get jealous when she's dating someone else. He doesn't usually kiss her. And she doesn't usually let him."
Her entire body is electrified, pulsing with a violent current. She wants to disagree, to shut him up… to remind him that she's here to comfort him, that she came down to Panem only because he needed a friend…
Right? That's the only reason why she came to be with him? Because that's what best friends—just friends best friends—do?
Shit. She doesn't even know anymore. His face is so near hers that she can taste his breath, and if sunbeams and the color red had a taste, this would be it.
"Peeta, I came here to make you feel better—" Even she's unconvinced with her own assertion by how shaky her voice sounds. She'd expected to mourn with him. She'd expected to cry with him.
She hadn't expected the sexual tension that visited them last summer to suddenly return, smothering them until all she can feel is every inch of her skin meshed with his, the trickle of his breath swelling across the planes of her face.
And suddenly, his nose is skimming over hers, his smile gone, replaced with an expression so sobered she believes what he says before he even opens his mouth.
"If a guy was just friends with a girl, he wouldn't want to kiss her until his lips forget what anything else feels like, would he?"
Her resolve crumbles down in one massive avalanche of emotions, and she's swept up in its tide, her eyes fluttering closed just in time for his mouth to connect with hers.
It's only their second kiss, but it's no less exhilarating than the first, the sensations completely renewed as Peeta surrounds her, his palm cupping the side of her face. His lips fit against hers like lock and key, slanting over her mouth in a way that makes her heart carve into her ribs. As with everything else he does, Peeta's kiss is firm but tender, rendering her weightless.
Until she remembers what she's doing.
Her brain defeats her cravings as her hands find purchase on his chest, pushing him away. The moment his lips break from hers, everything feels cold, and her eyes shoot open to see him gazing at her, a degree of hurt registering in those baby blues that makes her want to wither away.
"We're just friends," she pants, but by now, she's not even sure that's what she wants. It's what's best, but holy hell does the alternative seem so much better.
His jaw tenses, his eyebrows knitting in dejection. "Katniss, please—"
"Please, what?"
In a gesture so diminutive yet so significant, his thumb swipes over her cheek as his hand caresses the side of her face.
"Please let me kiss you. I—I need you, Katniss."
She doesn't know why he needs her—to distract him from his impending fate, to ease the hunger in his belly that she feels in her own core, or for other reasons—but what she does know is that his voice breaks her, shattering her into a million tiny shards.
And there is only one remedy.
No more persuasion is necessary. She lifts her hand to braid her fingers in the downy curls at the nape of his neck. She's not sure which one of them initiates this kiss, but she doesn't suppose it matters, because within an instant they're connected again, and she feels beautifully whole.
He kisses her hungrily, like a ravenous man who hasn't had food in weeks, the hand that isn't cupping her cheek moving to her hair, tugging the band from the end of her braid. She doesn't protest when he drags his hands through the pleated strands, freeing her tresses for him to wrap around his greedy fingers. Her own palms find his shoulders, so broad and strong, pulling him down to her as he shifts in between her legs, his hips settling against hers. The contact alone spurs a sudden tendril of heat to curl through her entire body, and she shivers; she hopes he doesn't notice, but he must, because she can taste the responding smile on his lips.
Her rationale violently claws at the corners of her mind—what the hell are you doing?—but it's no match for his lips, because he kisses every last ounce of fear from her body. She may regret this when it's over, but at the moment, it doesn't matter. She ropes off the logical quarters of her mind, definitively deciding that she won't bother herself with justifications or concerns.
She wants Peeta. She doesn't know how, or why, but she does.
That's all that is relevant.
His hand grazes on a pathway down from her cheek, skimming over her neck, shoulder, elbow, finally finding purchase on her hip. She's wearing sweatpants—and awful idea in retrospect, considering their dome of body heat feels like a furnace—and his fingers clench around the fabric, his hips intuitively grinding against hers so that she can feel just how aroused she's making him. Her lips snap away from his as she lets out a sharp gasp; her sound seems to spur him on, because his own mouth finds hers more eagerly this time, his tongue sliding against the seam of her lips, pleading for access.
She complies. Neither of them has had much practice kissing, but their movements reflect the others instinctually, easily, and Katniss has never felt kissed so fully.
Of all the people in the world, Katniss is not exactly high on the list of sexually aggressive partners, but with her inhibitions lowered and her body aching with pent-up longing, she finds herself gripping onto Peeta's shoulders as she rolls him onto his back, her knees landing on either side of his waist. The action disrupts the kiss, and she opens her eyes to find Peeta's brows arched in rapt surprise, his cheeks flushed and hair tousled.
She has never found him so attractive before.
And by the way his gaze rakes over her hungrily, she thinks he must be thinking the exact same thing. Instead of embarrassing her as it typically would, it only emboldens her, and she brackets his face in her palms to reconnect their lips.
"Please tell me I'm not dreaming," he mutters to her lips as his hands find her waist.
She gasps when she feels his fingers tug at the hem of her t-shirt, exposing her midriff; when he palms her bare skin, her flesh feels like it's been lit on fire.
"Do you have dreams like this often? Kissing your best friend in a treehouse?"
He chuckles but doesn't answer her. She finds herself more than okay with the sudden silence—there are much better things to do than talk, anyway.
Her own fingers find the bottom hem of his shirt; she doesn't have to ask for him to understand what she wants, and within a few moments he's wriggled from the extra article of clothing. With his torso now exposed, she allows her palms to roam the broad expanse of his chest, his skin fiery yet soft under her fingers. She's been around him shirtless so many times before, but now it all feels so different.
Both of them are well aware that Katniss is to sexual prowess as Leo is to an Oscar, so both of them are equally shocked when she begins to pull at her own shirt. Peeta's barely able to gather himself to help her remove it.
"It's getting really hot up here," she explains as she sits up on his hips, although she knows the real reason she did this was because:
She wants him to touch her like she just touched him
She trusts him enough to let him see her in a way no one else has before (he is her best friend, after all)
She happens to be wearing that orange bra she bought a few years back, since it reminded her of Peeta, and if he's ever going to see it now is as good a time as ever.
His eyes strain to stay connected with hers; he must be struggling not to look her over, because even as she sits half-naked on top of him, he still respects her personal space enough to grant her this element of privacy.
But now, oddly, that's not what she wants.
"You can look at me, Peeta," she whispers, her bottom lip catching under her teeth.
As always, he does what she asks. She watches his expression transform as those blue pools drown her, her stomach flipping pleasantly in reaction. In all honesty, Katniss knows she's not the most attractive creature to ever grace the planet—her skin is uneven and dusky, her bones sharp and her breasts small under the cups of her bra, and she's wearing no make-up—so innately, she expects Peeta to see her as such. But he doesn't look at her in mild disgust as predicted, or even like she's a piece of meat; he drinks her in as if she's made of solid gold, has just sprouted wings, and glows in the dark.
He shifts under her, pushing himself up so that he's sitting straight, his stomach flush against hers as his hands splay over the bare skin of her back. She shivers underneath his touch.
"Katniss Everdeen, your body is just as beautiful as your soul."
Fronds of heat feather down to the spot where their hips meet as he plants open-mouthed kisses, slow and reverent, along the column of her throat. She weaves her fingers in his hair to anchor herself there, because if she doesn't grasp onto him, she's convinced she'll use those recently-sprouted wings to fly away into some state of rapture.
As he kisses her neck, his lips leaving a trail of white-hot heat along her flesh, one of his hands glides from her back to her ribs, his palm flattening against the underwire of her bra. Her heart thumps wildly and he draws back, eyes wide in silent question.
Her silent answer comes in the form of her hand flattening against the back of his, guiding his palm over the fabric of her bra.
She doesn't know if it's the way his hand works over her, gently pressing and kneading her through the cloth, or the way that his teeth lightly nip at the juncture of her neck and her shoulder, but a sharp moan forms in the back of her throat. In response, she feels Peeta hum against her skin, and it causes her to tremble in his grasp. Her entire body is live wire. The feeling of his lips and his hands takes her higher and higher, but it's not enough, it's never enough, and she impatiently guides his other hand to the clasp of her bra in the back, allowing him to fumble with it for a few moments before she ultimately snaps it free.
"Katniss—" Her name turns her body to pudding as he moans it against the skin of her throat, his kisses trailing down, down, over her clavicle and sternum until his lips are on her breast, one palm gently working over her flesh as his remaining hand presses against her back, desperately, holding her to him. Pleasure shocks from her chest down to her core, and she gasps again, the taste of his name so sweet on her lips.
She never did anything like this with Marvel—or anyone—and never has she been so thankful, because with Peeta it's new and unfamiliar and frightening and beautiful and restorative, and it makes sense with him, only him. They're supposed to be just friends, but somewhere along the way he became her everything, and she became his, and this is right.
It's strange and it's sudden and confusing and probably will ruin everything between them. But it's been a long time in the making, and she can finally breathe after having her oxygen siphoned for years.
She complies when he gently lays her out over the blankets on her back, hovering over her with a few stray curls falling in his face. While the kisses before had been hasty and starved, when his mouth captures hers this time around, his lips are quiet, careful, adoring. He kisses her slowly, as if they have all the time in the world. Maybe they do.
She feels his palm sweep down her sternum to her abdomen, past her belly button and trailing along the waistband of her sweatpants. The ache between her thighs suddenly intensifies as she knows what he's thinking, what he wants, and she draws back, her own eyes searching his expression for some sort of answer.
His gaze is shy, curious, affectionate.
"May I?" he questions, because he would never ever push her boundaries without her permission. Not boundaries like this, at least.
Her throat is dry as a bone, her temples pulsing as she searches for her voice deep down in her chest cavity.
"I've never done this before," she confesses, her voice feather-light.
Eyes squeezing shut, he leans his forehead against hers, lifting his hand to cup her cheek.
"Neither have I."
"I don't know what to do."
He presses a soft kiss to the tip of her nose.
"We can figure it out together."
And with that, the seams of their lips converge, their mouths hot and nervous and eager all the same. She feels him trembling as he dips his hand past her waistband; she sure she's quivering just as much. But she wants this. And he must want it, too.
She's thankful his lips are on hers when his fingers find her slick heat, because at least his mouth is there to catch her gasp and her mouth is there to catch his moan, because his touch is fire and ice, summer and winter, stars and moons; there's a tensed coil in her core that only tightens as he dips a finger in, and then two. He murmurs something about how wonderful she feels, and she can only whimper back.
It doesn't go entirely without hitch. They're new to this, after all; she has to give him directions on more than one occasion, but for the most part he listens to her sounds to identify what should be repeated and what should never be done ever again. With a little help, he soon discovers what makes her writhe pleasantly underneath him, and with careful focus directed there she feels that coil in her stomach compressing, tightening, vibrating as his lips work over her cheek, jaw, throat, collar, and then the heat is building and building and his name forms on her lips and she tries to warn him before she shatters entirely, brilliantly, in a flash of Technicolor. When that coil suddenly unravels his mouth is on hers, and she pours a string of incoherent cries against his lips, most of which sound somewhat like his name, and she bursts, turning to a pile of tingling stardust underneath him.
It takes a few moments for her breathing to even out before she opens her eyes, finding him smiling down at her with heavy lids. The warning signs of embarrassment begin to flood her cheeks, but before they can progress, his lips are on her forehead.
"That was beautiful. You are beautiful."
It only takes those six words for her storms to calm into soft ripples.
If he wants her to return the favor, he doesn't ask; instead, he wraps his arms around her sticky silhouette and gently cradles her against him, holding her to his chest just like he has so many times before. But now she is boneless, she is weightless, and she is completely satisfied.
Not to mention, tragically exhausted.
He tucks her into the blankets, snaking his arm under her neck so that she can rest against the flat of his chest, and she clings to his warmth like a lost child, her hand splaying over his bare skin and memorizing his feel. Since she's not sure whether or not she'll regret this in the morning, she might as well capitalize on the sensations now.
She's flirting along the ridge of unconsciousness when she feels his lips against her temple, his fingers brushing her sweaty hair from her forehead.
"Thank you," he murmurs.
She doesn't know what on earth he could possibly be thanking her for—For helping him knock off another item on his bucket list? For distracting him from his current situation? For relieving the tension that's been building between them for years now? Or for something else too grave, too significant, too genuine for her to believe?—but at this point, she's too tired to play any guessing games.
After all, those are her least favorite games to play.
I'm sure you ALL love unresolved plotlines, so that's why I'm leaving it here. I'm hoping this little bit of lemon zest (I'm praying you all don't think it was too distasteful… smut definitely isn't my forte) will at least make all this confusion bearable. Of course, things will catch up with these two lovebirds pretty quickly, because we all know Katniss is the queen of misinterpretations—get excited for even MORE of her oblivion next chapter! Woo!—but I promise, there are good things coming. Eventually.
If you have the time, please tell me what you're thinking about this circus of emotions! Constructive feedback is eternally appreciated through reviews, and I'm always accessible on Tumblr at the-peeta-pocket.
Have a lovely week!