Hey, all! Thanks for such incredible responses last chapter, and not coming at me with pitchforks or torches. You guys all completely blow me away every single time I post, and I am impossibly grateful for how wonderful you all are.
Also, I'm sorry, but the rainbows don't exactly come out in this chapter. We still have some hardcore thunderstorms to deal with, unfortunately. :( Just bear with me. We only have one chapter left after this! (I know… already? The ending totally snuck up on me!)
This particular chapter turned out waaaay longer than I intended, but instead of being smart and breaking it up into two parts, I decided just to throw it all at you as one massive chunk. So I apologize if this takes you two or nine sittings to get through. Good luck.
Just a warning: I (accidentally) doubled the intensity of the smut this chapter. There's a solid 2,000 words dedicated to sexytime with Peeta, so… sorry?
002. Get Married
She's not quite sure what led her here, perched like a little sparrow nearly fifteen feet from the ground in a pine tree, her palms slick from sweat and head pounding with pressure.
Katniss Everdeen, will you marry me?
Then: I know you never really wanted to get married, and I don't want to make you do anything you don't want to do, but…
And then: Wait, Katniss—no, please, come back—
The words replay like a scratched record over and over in her head until she can hear nothing else but his voice, silky, soft, but broken, swelling in her ears. She can't decide which is stronger: her guilt for leaving him there on the knoll, or her anger at him for asking her to marry him in the first place.
She runs through the events of the last half hour in her head, wondering what she'd do differently if given a second chance, but she honestly doesn't know. Few people have a more operative "fight-or-flight" response than Katniss does, and when confronted with so much stress – Peeta's deteriorating health, and then his question – there's little else she can resort to.
She wasn't about to fight him. Not when he looked so vulnerable, so desperate, like a puppy that's been locked in a basement for a day.
So she left. Everything was too much for her, and the mountain air was way too thin for her to catch her breath. Peeta had cancer, and now he wanted her to marry him.
Or, really, someone to marry him. That's where the problem lies, isn't it?
The sky above her stretches a menacing black, lightened only by the stars strewn across its expanse like a gentle dusting of snow; it's so late, she realizes. The sunset must've been an hour ago, which means she's been settled in this pine tree for a solid forty-five minutes, free-falling to an entirely new level of heartlessness. She wonders if Peeta's still up on the mountain, or if he went back to the room after she abandoned him.
She shakes her head. No, she can't think about him right now.
Instead, she tugs out her phone from her back pocket, surprised and relieved to find she somehow has reception up on this mountain. Her trembling fingers dial the first person who comes to mind, someone who always tells her exactly what she needs to hear.
The line rings four times.
"Hello?" The voice cracks, thick with sleep.
"Shit, Prim. I'm sorry. I totally forgot about the difference in time zones."
Prim yawns. "No, you're fine. What's going on in Colorado?"
God, thank you for Prim and her fucking wonderful accessibility.
She breathes.
She swallows.
She breathes again.
"Peeta asked me to marry him."
Based only on the squeal that slices through the line, it'd be impossible to guess that Prim just woke up. "Oh my god, finally! That's so exciting, Katniss! How'd he do it? Did he spell it out in cheese buns? God, I always pictured that he'd spell it out in cheese buns... well, anyway, I'm sure it was wonderful. Please tell me you said yes."
Katniss flinches.
Cue the evasive lip-biting.
After a long pause: "Katniss… what have you done?"
"I didn't say no…"
"Oh, god. You left him. You ran away, didn't you?"
Leave it to Prim to predict Katniss's reactions to a tee.
"The cancer's back, Prim," she breathes, the pure sense of exhaustion that she feels blatantly evident in her tone. "And it's bad this time. He didn't have to say it, but I know."
"He told you he's sick, and you ran away from his proposal? God, Katniss! What were you thinking?"
Why does Prim always have to play Jiminy Cricket? Granted, that's why Katniss adores her so much, and respects her opinion like it's the fucking Declaration of Independence. And that's definitely why she called Prim, to sort through this mess that her judgment has become.
But Prim doesn't necessarily understand everything. Especially not this.
"I don't think he actually wants to marry me, Prim. That's why I ran."
"You're crazy. You're absolutely insane. Are you stoned?"
"Just hear me out, okay?" she hisses, tightening her jaw. "Look, Peeta has, uh… he wrote a bucket list when he found out he had cancer the first time."
"Even I have a bucket list, Katniss. It's not that big of a deal."
"And I've been helping him with it since then," she continues, as if Prim hadn't spoken. "Every item so far, I've done with him. And I guess the second to last thing on there is to get married."
She hears Prim inhale, as if she's about to speak, but only silence ensues.
And then, there it is. The knowing sigh.
"You think he's just asking you to marry him because it's on his bucket list, don't you."
It's not a question. She phrases it as a statement, because she knows.
It's as simple as that. Katniss understands that Peeta wants to get married – he's an idealist, a romantic. Why wouldn't he want a wife?
But does he want her?
"If anyone else had done this bucket list with him, he'd be asking them now, not me."
"But it was you who did everything with him," she states matter-of-factly. Not comfortingly, because Katniss doesn't need comfort. She needs reason. Well, she actually needs to be smacked on the side of the head with the Oxford-English dictionary, but curt honesty is a close second on that list. "He asked you."
"Because I'm here," she chokes, the anger and the guilt and the frustration and everything slithering through her veins with no mercy.
That's what hurts the most, she realizes. She never wanted marriage before, not at any time in her life, because she never thought she was capable of loving someone enough. But that's changed now.
After being with him for over a year and a half, she can't deny it. She loves Peeta. More than anything. More than life, more than the ocean loves the sand, always coming back in again and again because it can't stay away. If she's the tide, Peeta is her shore; regardless of how much his proposal hurt her, she knows she'll come back to him, because she's hopelessly in love with him.
She wants him. She actually wants to marry him, even if there's no rhyme or reason. But what she wants most of all is for it to be real. Not a marriage sanctioned by a stupid list.
"Peeta doesn't want to marry me. He just wants to get married," she finally says, her words a quiet breath, each syllable a punch to her gut.
At first, she assumes Prim's silence is out of acceptance, out of understanding.
And then she hears it. Prim's laugh. A humorless, dark laugh.
"You are out of your mind, Katniss."
She jolts, almost losing her balance in the tree. "Prim—"
"There are a lot of things about you that I understand way more than I should, but why you consistently underestimate Peeta is beyond me. I get that you look for the worst in people, but Peeta? Katniss, there is no 'worst' in that boy."
"I know, but—"
"He practically worships you, and you assume that he's marrying you because of a stupid list he made when he was a teenager? I love you to pieces, Katniss, and that's why I'm being brutally honest with you: Peeta has cancer, and he worked up the courage to ask something huge from you, and you basically smashed all of his hopes into the ground."
Oh. Oh.
Guilt swallows her whole, as if she's nothing but a tiny krill in the mouth of a whale. But she deserves it. She's not sure where the characteristically sweet, gentle Prim went, but as painful as this is, she's glad the frank version of her sister is the one who answered the call.
"I'm an awful person," she whispers, almost too quietly for her voice to carry over the line.
"You're not awful, Katniss. Just extremely cynical. And misguided."
"Do you really think he wants to marry me?"
"Without a doubt," Prim says, softly. Now there's the gentle sister she raised. "I mean, for the love, the boy was on the phone with Mom all week. All she told me was that he asked her permission to take you on a road trip after your graduation, but I could tell there was something more. I'm pretty sure the proposal was it."
"You think he… he asked for Mom's blessing?"
Prim giggles. "This is Peeta we're talking about, Katniss. He's as old-fashioned as they come."
She drags her hand across her forehead. "I fucked up, didn't I?"
"Yes." But her voice is gentle. "It's not too late, though. Go find him."
"Thanks, Prim. For everything."
"That's what I'm here for. Even if it is one in the morning in Miami."
"I love you," she murmurs. "Now, go back to sleep, little duck."
"Aye aye, captain."
But the moment the line goes dead, the calm she'd felt from talking to Prim dissipates, and the anxiety comes back full-force. She's trembling as she lowers herself from branch to branch. Hell, what if it is too late? What if she's finally cracked Peeta, and either made him too angry to forgive her or too shattered to trust her again?
After emerging from the tree line to the grassy hummock where they'd cuddled up to watch the sunset, she finds the space empty. He must've gone back to the hotel.
Everything is a blur around her as she hurries down the path, winding through the trees, hyperaware of the thudding in her chest and in her ears, but numb to all else. The guilt that's rooted itself in her core leaves her distracted, nauseated and dizzy.
She wishes she could take it all back. He bared his heart and soul to her, and she treated it like a fucking punching bag.
She tears through the lobby and bobbles like a pogo stick in the elevator, cursing herself for not taking the damn stairs as she nervously bounces around. She could've ridden a sloth up six flights more quickly than this damn elevator ride.
Her hands are shaking so badly that it takes her a few moments to slip the card into their suite's key slot. Her heart bores a hole in her chest when she's greeted by an entirely dark room, but she comforts herself with the possibility that maybe he's just asleep.
But when she slips into the bedroom, the sheets are still ruffled from earlier, the mattress untouched. A soft cry balls up in the back of her throat, panic swelling through her from head to toe. She opens her mouth to call out for him in the dark when she sees it.
A sliver of soft, orange light threads the underside of the bathroom door, left slightly ajar. Her lips form his name, although no sound comes out; she tip-toes closer to the light, her unsteady hands delicately pressing against the wood of the door as if it's made of thin glass.
"Peeta?" she murmurs, her voice choppy and metallic. She doesn't hear a response, but she gently pushes her way in anyway.
She feels like she's been struck by an eighteen-wheeler once her feet hit the tile and she sees him, crouched with his spine to the wall, knees tucked up against his chest. His hands are fisted in his disheveled hair, and even though he won't look at her, she notices how red and puffy his eyes are, with wet, shiny strokes trailing from the corners down his cheeks.
His entire body is trembling.
What has she done?
All she wants to do is hold him, kiss away those tears he could've never possibly deserved, and apologize until the earth stops orbiting the sun.
Instead, she merely kneels at his side, desperate to touch him, but her arms stay plastered against her ribs. She doesn't know if she has the right to feel him. Not after what she did.
Her mouth opens, but before she can conjure up a voice, he chokes out a semblance of a sob.
"I'm so sorry, Katniss," he whispers, his voice ground into dust.
That's all it takes to break her. His apology, as if he thinks it's his fault.
"Peeta—"
"No, please, listen to me." He wipes his eyes, but when he squeezes them shut, another droplet escapes. "I never meant to ruin us. Please know that. I—I never meant to hurt you."
I could live a hundred lifetimes and never, ever deserve you, she wants to say. The fact that he blames himself causes every last vestige of self-respect to wither away, leaving her vacant and pathetic.
"You didn't do anything wrong," she murmurs softly, implicit apology packaged in each word.
"I fucked everything up," he chokes, pressing his forehead to his knees. "I knew this wasn't want you wanted, and I still asked you anyway because I'm so selfish, and—"
Her hand settles on his shoulder; she's surprised at the heat that lingers under her palm.
"Come to bed with me, Peeta," she whispers.
These words finally draw him out of his shell, his head craning to look at her. The moment his red-rimmed, confused eyes align with hers, she decides she'd rather immerse herself in a tub of acid than ever do this to him again.
"W-why?"
She can't look at him anymore, not like this. Her forehead tilts, slanting against his arm. "Nothing you say or do could ever come between us."
It's a miracle that she manages to coax him from the bathroom and into the darkness. She sits him on the bed, slowly undressing herself before him; each movement, rather than sexual, becomes more of a metaphor meant only for him, and she bares herself to him, letting him know that she's his, all of her, that she's done hiding in every sense of the word. And when he complies as she helps him undress, too, she wonders if he's accepting her offering.
They are each other's, down to their flesh and bones.
She wraps them both in a cocoon of blankets and heat, his skin feeling like an undeserved sanctuary as his warmth engulfs hers; she brackets his face in her palms, pressing her forehead to his.
"I did everything wrong," she tells him, unsure of how she can even begin to apologize for her Goliath-sized mistake.
"You didn't want me like that," he says in acceptance, or in premature forgiveness, speaking as if it's a fact of life rather than a misjudgment.
"Peeta, I want you too much." Which is entirely true. She loves him too much to accept a proposal she once thought was misguided.
But she knows better, now. And she hopes he'll forgive her.
She grazes her thumb over his wet cheek, flattening herself against his body so he can feel all of her, her toes curling with his beneath the blankets. Her apology isn't enough, and it will never be enough, but he seems to understand where she's coming from, and his fingers trace patterns along every dimple of her spine.
Even as they lay completely bare, intertwined like two strands of a double helix, she feels so innocent in his arms, because this is where she belongs. With him. Always with him.
Such a simple truth.
"Yes," she murmurs, suddenly, with no preface; her outburst startles him, and even through the gloom she can see confusion doing cartwheels in his eyes.
"What?"
"Yes, I'll marry you." Her fingers curl in his hair, relishing in how soft it feels against her fingers. "That is, if you can forgive me."
He's still for a few moments, but then his signature-Peeta puppy-grin spreads over his lips like a wildfire, and he cups her jaw, his hands trembling.
"Are you serious?"
"Yeah," she laughs, pathetically, her eyes stinging as she tilts her forehead against his.
"Oh my god," he whispers, like someone's just told him he's won the lottery, a detail which is certainly not lost on her. "Oh my god."
He's kissing her suddenly, frantically, jubilantly, his lips tasting like paradise and his arms feeling like home.
She tells him between kisses: "I don't deserve you."
He responds between kisses: "You deserve the world."
She'll never understand why he doesn't see her for who she truly is. How he can look past her brokenness, her anger, her poor judgment.
How he can still love her so unconditionally.
Soon fervent kisses actuate wandering hands; his bring her to life as they spread her open, her body a blank canvas to his gentle, worshipping fingers. He slants his mouth against hers, swallowing her soft moans as he curls one, then two inside of her.
"I want to feel you," he chokes after she reaches out, taking him in her small hand, working her fingers up and down his length, firm and warm but still petal-soft. "All of you."
Accordingly, she flips him onto his back and straddles his hips, her braid falling over her shoulder. A surge of warmth filters sunlight through her blood as he lifts his hand to pull the band from her hair, his fingers delicately combing through the pleats until they loosely fall around her arms like a waterfall.
As much as he loves her braid, she's well aware that when she's on top, he likes her hair down most of all. And she's not about to deny him that. Or anything, really. He could ask her to kiss every square millimeter of his body, and she'd acquiesce in a heartbeat.
As she settles above him, he grips her thighs. He roughly slides his hands up and down the silky expanse of her skin, raising goose bumps wherever his calloused palms pass.
"Are you sure this is what you want?" he asks, his voice a quiet plea.
She frowns. "What… this?" Unsure of what he means, she motions to their bodies.
But the nervous glint in his expression betrays what he's really asking. He's afraid she's agreed to marry him out of pity, or simply because of the bucket list.
As an answer, she curls up against his chest, her lips sweeping butterfly kisses along his neck until she reaches his mouth.
"For better or for worse," she whispers, her tongue swiping the seam of his lips as she captures his mouth in a gentle but resolute kiss. "In sickness and in health."
When she withdraws, his fingertips ghost across her cheek, then her lips; he's smiling at her as if she's made of sunbeams.
"I love you, Katniss Everdeen."
"And I love you, Peeta Mellark."
With that, she props herself up, sliding lower along his body until her center brushes his. As she braces her palms against his chest, his hands move to her hips, holding her steady, both of their bodies thrumming anticipation.
They both moan softly with each inch of him she takes in, the entirely new feel rooting white-hot heat in her belly. Although she's been on birth control for months, to be extra safe, they always used condoms; this is the first time they've joined without the barrier, and the sensation swallows them both whole.
"Oh—oh my god, Katniss," Peeta hisses through clenched teeth as his grip on her waist tightens, his hips gently rolling against hers. The way he reacts to her never fails to strum her heartstrings like a mandolin, its music pulsing in her blood.
All words escape her at the feel of him there, so deep, his touch and his scent and his sounds bubbling her into a perfect fantasyland. She rocks against him, gasping softly with each movement, with each snap of his hips against hers to fill her completely. Her eyes lock with his in the gloom.
And what she finds only spoon-feeds her energy. The look he's fixed on her is predatory, hunger flashing in the blue, yet the adoration she's used to seeing there is stronger than ever. The way he watches her as she moves over him makes her feel so majestic, like she's entirely rocking his world. It emboldens her.
"Engaged sex is so much better," he jokes, but then moans as she leans back slightly, taking him in at a new angle.
"I can't even imagine what married sex will be like." She grasps his palm, sliding it up her sweat-slickened body to cup her breast.
His eyes are alight. "I hear it's not that glamorous," he teases, molding her breast gently with his palm, but then his hand lowers on her body. At first, the loss of touch confuses her, until his fingers near where their bodies are joined; he spreads her apart like delicate leaves of a book, tracing poems against the heated flesh with delicate but insistent touches, and it makes her sing.
"I guess we'll—oh, fuck—just have to redefine it, then." Her fingernails skid across his skin, but if it hurts, he doesn't say a thing.
Tendrils of heat wrap around her body like a grapevine, threatening to pull her under; she wanted to last longer, but the tightness in Peeta's jaw suggests he's not going to hold out much more easily than her. She gives into the delicious coiling in her belly, focusing on him – his fingers, his incredible features, him, filling her so deliciously – as she rocks against him, up and down, over and over and over and over…
"Katniss, I can't—" The fingers of the hand that remains on her hip dig into her flesh, the sensation shooting straight to her core. His eyes are desperate, but still pinned on her, gazing at her face, her breasts, the spot where they're joined, as if she's the eighth wonder of the world.
She warns him when she's there, at the crest of the precipice, the helix in her belly snapping as that sweet, all-engulfing rapture welcomes her into its arms. His fingers don't stop rubbing circles into her, though, and as stars glimmer behind her lids, she collapses onto his chest, feeling like her entire body is made of pudding. But before she can even catch her breath, he joins her at the pinnacle with a soft moan, which he pours out against her neck, his arms holding her close as he fills her. And although she's never doubted his feelings when he made love to her before, something about tonight feels even more impossibly real.
They lay there together, still joined in a sticky, sweaty, but blissfully exhausted mess. He peppers kisses along her skin lazily for a while, no words necessary.
"That was fantastic," she finally wheezes.
"We're getting married." His voice sounds far away. "I can't believe we're getting married."
She opens her mouth to protest when he pulls away from her, but he silences her with a quick kiss before hopping out of bed. He returns within a minute, slipping down the mattress, pressing a warm washcloth to the insides of her thighs. She's silent as she savors the sensation of him wiping her clean, pampering her like she's a fucking kitten. God, he's divine.
"You asked my mom for her blessing, didn't you?" she murmurs absently when he dips off the bed again to toss the rag in the sink, returning to pull her against his body.
He kisses her temple. "Are you going to give me the silent treatment if I tell you I did?"
"Quite possibly."
He chuckles, brushing a sweaty lock of hair from her forehead. "Well, it's quite possible that I did ask her."
She shakes her head, nuzzling the warm skin of his neck, burrowing her head underneath his chin. "You're crazy, Peeta."
"Crazy about you," he slurs teasingly, and if she weren't so goddamn spent, she'd punch him in the arm.
Instead, she presses a soft kiss to his collarbone, and relishes the sensation of a thousand imaginary butterflies fluttering in her stomach as she feels his lips against the top of her head.
Before she knows it, her eyes open to the warmth of sunlight streaming through the open window. Peeta's still coiled around her, his arms serving as her blanket; they must've both completely passed out last night, because neither of them has moved from their tangled position.
Or… have they? The window wasn't open before, and when Katniss cautiously lifts her hand to rub her eyes, something cold and metallic swipes her eyebrow.
She looks down to see a gold band on her fourth finger, a small pearl clinched in the center.
Unintentionally, a slight smile sweeps over her lips. It's beautiful, but modestly classic; he knew she'd hate something flashy.
What about her doesn't this boy know?
She draws back just enough to watch him sleep, his features relaxed and calm, blonde eyelashes practically glowing in the shard of sunlight that falls on his face. He's so beautiful, she thinks; of course, he's always been stunning to her, but in the morning after such an eventful day, when they nearly fell apart but somehow emerged even stronger, united as one…
He's the sun of her world, the shore she'll forever reach for.
But before her blissful reverie can stake its claim on her thoughts, sudden realization twists her stomach into knots. The word forever, which had filled her head with metaphorical unicorns and rainbows, suddenly tastes sour on her tongue.
Peeta has cancer.
Of course, his health has no effect on whether or not she wants to marry him. Although she's still unsure if he would've asked her if it hadn't been on his bucket list, at least she knows she wants this.
But it hurts like a spear to her heart, because she can't fathom a world without him in it. Not just one without her boyfriend – fiancé, now, she corrects – but more importantly, one without her best friend, her saving grace. The man who has all the stars of the galaxies rolled up and packaged perfectly in his single being.
It's not that she doesn't want to picture things without him. It's that she literally can't. He's always been there for her, regardless of whether she deserved him.
She hopes the cancer isn't as bad as he's making it out to be. She took his silence to mean the worst; what if she got so wrapped up in her gloomy pessimism that she misjudged his meaning?
Either way, the thoughts are becoming too much for her, and she quietly ventures to extricate herself from his grasp so she can go shower away her agitation like it's nothing more than a thin film of dirt on her skin. But the slightest movement wakes Peeta, and before she can even unravel one of his arms from her waist, his eyelids flutter open. The haziness clears within seconds, those beautifully blue rings delving into the silver just inches away.
"Good morning, beautiful," he murmurs, his voice splintered from sleep. He presses a chaste kiss to her forehead.
Quickly gathering her composure, she forces a smile at him, holding up her left hand between them. "You know, most girls live for the moment their future husbands slip the engagement ring on their finger, and you totally robbed me of mine."
He chuckles, kissing her fingertips one by one. "But you aren't like most girls, now."
"W-well, that's beside the point."
He peeks up at her through his beautifully golden lashes. "I can take it off, if you want. Pretend it never happened."
"It's too late." She shrugs. "You ruined everything."
His eyes brim with amusement. "I'll just have to make it up to you, yeah?"
He's sucking greedily on her collar before she can even acknowledge that he's pinned her on her back, his entire body flush against hers. Heaven almighty, he feels glorious.
"You look beautiful this morning," he grunts against her skin, drawing the flesh of her neck into his mouth. She gasps.
"I—I look like the fucking Grudge," she tries to say, but his lips on her body are simply too distracting.
And then he's moving down the length of her, leaving a trail of tingling kisses as he goes lower, lower, lower—
"Peeta!" she half-gasps, half-shrieks as his mouth aligns with her center, his tongue lazily drawing shapes over her sensitive flesh.
"I've always wanted to wake you up like this," he murmurs, drawing back to press a single kiss to the inside of her thigh before greedily diving back in again.
"That's—" Oh, shit. Heat slithers through every synapse in her body, her fingers automatically knitting themselves in his curls. "That's nice, Peeta."
She glances down to find him gazing up at her from between her thighs, a devious look gleaming in the rings of blue that've nearly drowned in his swollen pupils.
"I guess that's something to look forward to tomorrow."
"So. The wedding." He watches her carefully for her reaction.
She tilts back in her chair on the terrace, a breeze kissing her cheeks as she eyes her ring, watching the way the iridescent pearl shimmers in the afternoon sun.
She lets the idea marinate. Because they've only been engaged for a little over thirty-six hours, she hasn't exactly had much of an opportunity to think it over.
Truth be told, weddings never meant a thing to her. While all the other little girls were dreaming up their fairytale ceremonies, she was learning how to skin squirrels. If anyone cared about the actual process rather than the product, it'd be Peeta.
After considering her options: "What do you want?"
His eyes pan out over the horizon, the blue expanse condensed by the high wall of mountain peaks.
"I think it should be soon," he says timidly after several moments. "I'm starting treatment right when we get back to Panem, and… I'll be sick, Katniss. I want to be as healthy as possible when we do it."
She blanches. That gives her, what… less than a week?
When her eyes land on his, she notices the remorse planted there, his face twisted in pain.
"I'm sorry. You don't even want this, and I'm forcing it down your throat before you can even try to swallow—"
"Peeta." She reaches a hand across the small table, her palm cupping his knuckles. "I want this, okay?"
"We can wait," he rushes. "I mean, maybe things will be better in six months, or a year, and we can wait until then…"
But this isn't what he wants, made obvious by the unenthusiastic expression he's desperately trying to pass as compromise.
"We don't have to wait." She gazes at the engagement ring again, still appalled that it's even on her finger. She never thought she'd see a band there, much less one from Peeta. "I mean… it might be easier this way, to have it done soon. That way, we can live together, and I can help take care of you when you're getting treatment—"
"But what about your job?"
She shrugs. "That's not important."
"Katniss, you aren't throwing away your career because of me." Anticipating her protest, he tacks on, "You aren't putting it off because of me, either." His brow furrows. "We can get a car. A really shitty one, since neither of us has much money, but that way you can work and still live with me."
She smiles sadly at him. In an ideal world, she knows Peeta would want a grandiose wedding, one in the church down the street from the bakery, the one with the stained glass windows casting all sorts of colorful patterns on the pulpit. She'd have a white Cinderella dress, and all the bridesmaids would be wearing that beautiful shade of orange he loves, and there'd be flowers everywhere. And the cake…
But he can't have any of that. What she knows he wants to be magical will have to be practical; what his dreams convey as elaborate and lavish will instead be modest. C'est la vie.
"We can do it right away," she folds. "We can elope, even. I know it isn't responsible, and everyone will hate us for it, but if you want to be healthy when we do it… I'm not going to take that away from you."
His hand, which still rests beneath her palm, flips to lace her fingers with his, raising it to his lips.
"I'm so sorry, Katniss."
"Why?"
"This isn't how it's supposed to be." If she didn't know better, she'd almost say he sounds angry. But Peeta is never angry.
She leans in, digging for his gaze; when she receives it, she smiles sadly. "You're sick, Peeta. None of this is how it's supposed to be. You're supposed to live a long life, free of pain, with the ability to run the bakery one day and have at least two dozen Aryan children to carry on the family name. And you're supposed to be able to start that life whenever you want—" With whomever you want, a girl like Delly who's better wife material than me—"and not have it hastened because Fate's an asshole who decided to fuck you over by random design. But…" She sighs. "It is what it is. It isn't supposed to be this way, but we've been dealt a shitty hand, and we're just going to have to play it the best we can. If that means we have to elope, we do it."
"You used the royal 'we,'" he notes, deliberately avoiding the rest of her spiel, although the arcane gloom behind his eyes proves that he understood it all.
She squeezes his hand. "Peeta…"
"I know. I just… it's all so frustrating."
"It is." She sighs, the sound resonating from her lungs to the tips of her toes. "This shouldn't be happening to you."
"And Justin Bieber shouldn't have a singing career, but…"
Even though her heart feels like it's made of lead, she can't help but grin. "You're ridiculous."
"And you're my miracle," he responds, his voice feathery but genuine. "You're putting up with all my bullshit, even throwing yourself into a hasty marriage because I've got telekinesis osteoporosis."
Laughter bubbles in her throat; it's been almost six years, and for the life of him, he still can't even say the name right.
"God. I love you."
The corners of his eyes crinkle as he grins her way. "I love you, too."
"And I'm sorry you can't have some grandiose ceremony that'd put the Royal Wedding to shame."
"I don't need a ceremony, Katniss."
She cocks a brow; her heart flutters when his eyes lock with hers, smoldering beneath his long lashes.
"I've got my bride. She's all that matters."
She dozes for most of the ride home, absolutely exhausted from their implicitly surrogate honeymoon. A post-wedding escape isn't exactly plausible, considering Peeta begins chemo on Monday, leaving them only the weekend to head to the city hall for their marriage license, and maybe a small, intimate ceremony meant just for them.
It certainly isn't ideal, but none of this is. In the end, the union itself is what matters most, and that's exactly what they'll give each other.
Halfway through their drive, they've got it all sorted out. The only loose end – if it could be called that – would be Peeta's father, who still doesn't know about the proposal.
"Hey, Katniss." She feels a hand on her shoulder, gently rustling her awake. "We're here."
She wakes to two blue eyes gazing at her from across the center console, a nervous smile crossing their owner's lips. Stretching, she glares out the car window to see the sign of the bakery dangling from the storefront at the end of the walk.
"So, we tell your father."
He swallows hard. "Hopefully he won't castrate me."
"Hey, he only said he'd do that if I was pregnant. Which, unless Fate decides to be an even bigger bitch, shouldn't be a problem."
They leave the car parked on the street, their belongings packed in the trunk, as they amble up the front walk. Katniss's throat feels like the Sahara, but when she glances to Peeta, her own insecurities seem completely dwarfed. The poor kid looks whiter than a fucking polar bear.
"It'll be okay," she murmurs, stretching on her tip-toes to press a kiss to his cheek. In turn, he loops his arm around her and tucks her into his side, his lips finding her temple.
"The good news is that the cancer won't kill me. The bad news: that's because Dad will first."
"You're twenty-two, Peeta. Some of our high school friends have kids by now."
"True." He doesn't look any calmer.
"I mean… you remember Clove, right? Facebook tells me she's on her second husband."
"Clove was also one of girls who got suspended for that threesome in the bathroom."
"My point is," she hisses as they push through the front entrance, the chiming of the bell heralding their arrival, "we may be young, but twenty-two isn't too shabby, comparatively."
He nods tightly; she doesn't understand his overwhelming anxiety, because it's just Mr. Mellark. There's nothing to be afraid of.
At least, that's what she thinks until he comes parading into the lobby.
"Hey, you two! I was wondering when you'd get back."
He's sliding some croissants into the front display, his eyes bright and expression jubilant. So blissfully unaware.
Katniss's stomach feels like it's been trampled by a herd of cattle.
Both she and Peeta seem at a loss for words, glaring at each other in hopes to provoke the other to share the news.
"So." His dad closes the door of the glass case. "Tell me. How was Colorado? No surprise-avalanches? Or rockslides? And no one got pregnant?"
"What is it with you and pregnancy, Dad?" Peeta groans, running a hand through his hair.
"I'm just teasing you. Mostly." He comes around the counter to welcome them both into a hug. "But, really – did you have a good time?"
Katniss nods as he pulls away, but Peeta can only swallow, his face shading that sickly pale pallor again. He might as well be wearing a fucking I'm-Hiding-Something-From-You sign on his forehead. After all, nothing says guess who has a secret! like translucent skin.
"Peeta, you look a little sick," his father comments, pressing the back of his hand to his son's forehead. "Are you… are you feeling alright?"
"I asked Katniss to marry me, Dad."
His bluntness makes both Katniss's stomach and jaw drop to the floor. She gapes at him, wondering where the sudden burst of candor came from.
She's not sure what she expects from Mr. Mellark, but it isn't him standing there for a few moments, his face unreadable.
And then he nods.
He nods?
"And did she say yes?"
Mr. Mellark is looking to her now; she's confused as to who his question was directed at.
"I—I—"
"Yes," Peeta answers for her, and her shoulders slump in relief. Although she's never had much of a way with words, Katniss isn't used to being reduced to a completely inarticulate mess by a single question. So it's good he knows when she needs him to speak for her.
"Well, congratulations," Mr. Mellark says evenly, his smile oddly… genuine. "I would say 'welcome to the family,' Katniss, but you've virtually been a part of it for years."
She looks anxiously to Peeta, seeing a frown much like hers threaded over his brow.
"Dad?"
"Yes?"
It looks like someone's slathered bright red lipstick all over Peeta's cheeks, which would be comical, if only Katniss wasn't so damn confused with his father.
"You… you're not mad?"
Startling them both, Mr. Mellark chuckles lightly. "Why would I be mad? I've seen this coming since you were kids. You've been inseparable for over half of your lives." And then he turns to face Katniss. "You're like a daughter to me, child. You were so wonderful to him last time he had… last time he was sick, and it was because of you that he recovered so quickly. Peeta's lucky to have you." Then, to Peeta: "But don't get her pregnant right away."
Warmth floods Katniss's cheeks and chest, and she hides an amused smile against Peeta's shoulder.
"I wasn't planning on it." Then he clears his throat. "But, uh—Dad?"
Mr. Mellark raises a brow.
Here comes the real blow, Katniss thinks, bracing herself for the emotional fallout that'll shower them if Peeta's father spontaneously combusts. Which is a very likely possibility.
"Do you think you could help us get the marriage license?"
He smiles at the two of them, opening his hands. "Of course. When were you thinking?"
Katniss lowers her head. Peeta shuffles his feet. They both inhale deeply, as if God's about to sever the country's oxygen supply.
Peeta coughs.
"Saturday," he replies, his voice soft with nerves.
She anticipates frustration, possible upturned tables, pastries thrown against walls, angry stomping, thermonuclear war… anything, really.
But Mr. Mellark's disapproving silence hurts the most of all.
"Kids, that's really soon."
"We're aware," Peeta responds, his voice cast in iron.
"Too soon."
Katniss's gaze might as well be superglued to the toes of her sneakers.
A slight sigh of irritation fizzles from Peeta's clenched teeth, and he growls, "We've talked it through, Dad. This is what we want."
In exhaustion, Mr. Mellark rubs his face. "Marriage isn't something that you just do on a whim, Peeta. It's the most significant commitment you'll ever make."
"You were just telling us how happy you were for us!" She isn't used to Peeta raising his voice, so the sharpness in his tone shocks her. "Why does the date of the wedding make so much of a difference?"
"Because you're not giving it an opportunity to settle," he says softly, but his tone is insistent, reproving, and it makes Katniss want to shrivel up and hide away in her sweatshirt. "Even though you've talked about it, you need time to really think it through."
"I've thought about it way more than you think—"
"But do you even understand how serious this is?"
"Of course I understand!" Peeta snaps unexpectedly, the sheer volume of his voice making her jolt in shock.
Shit.
Never has she heard him so furious.
But before Mr. Mellark can say anything, Peeta surges on, each thundering word so piercing it practically turns Katniss's skin inside-out.
"In case you forgot, I have cancer. Which, to refresh your memory, the doctors told us is already at stage two, meaning I've got about as likely a chance of going into remission as the moon does of crashing into the damn sun, unless I get some pretty intense surgery that – newsflash – probably won't even work. Remember that percent chance of survival they gave us? The one that sounded a hell of a lot like a shitty college player's batting average? Because I do, and it's all I can think about anymore! I don't exactly have an endless supply of time left, and for the love of God, I just want to be happy – and if that means I marry the girl that I'm in love with, because for some reason beyond my understanding, she actually loves me, too, I'll do it. If I'm not going to pull through, I might as well try to salvage every last ounce of worth I have left and put it toward something, instead of letting it rot away! Why can't you see that, Dad? Why can't you just let me try to make my life mean something?"
Shell-shocked into silence, Mr. Mellark stands frozen in place. Katniss aches to say something, but with his speechlessness and Peeta's uncharacteristic – but warranted – rage, every possible word seems to be resting somewhere on the other side of the Atlantic, leaving her with nothing to do but follow him when he pushes his way out the front entrance.
But first, she turns to Mr. Mellark, who is still pulling a Statue of Liberty and standing stock-still in the lobby.
"I'm sorry," she tells him, sincerity glazing her tone. "I didn't mean for things to fall apart."
Her voice seems to shake him from paralysis, and after gathering his scattered composure, he ushers her a soft smile.
"Don't be sorry, child. You've done nothing but give that boy reason to hope. He needs you."
She takes that as permission to leave, and heads the direction Peeta left in, hurrying along the sidewalk to catch up.
When she finally does, he doesn't say a word, but his hand grasps for hers desperately. He leads them through the town, silently, determined; they trek through the Seam, and then the woods, his destination the exact one she'd been praying he'd take her to.
For the first time in a year, they climb up into their old, rickety treehouse, the wood creaking but still steady under their weight. She props herself up against one of the walls, beckoning him to her; he curls up against her, his head resting on her chest. Gently, subtly trying to coax his emotions right out of him instead of encouraging him to hold everything in, she runs her fingers through his curls, pressing kisses to his crown every so often.
As she holds him against her while he trembles, she's brought back to almost six years ago, when the cancer had found him the first time. Illness can reduce even the strongest people to children, and now, she watches it tear all of Peeta's strength from his body, until all that's left is a frightened boy in need of hope. Even if there is too much to hope for.
So she'll care for him, she decides. She did it before, and she'll do it again. He's looked out for her in every other moment of her life; when she needed a friend, when she needed comfort, when she needed love, when she needed a home. When she needed bread, just two loaves, to survive.
Peeta was always there for her. She owes him this much.
And even if she didn't owe him a thing, she's confident she'd stick by his side, simply because she loves him.
And she tells him so.
They get married on that Saturday.
The weather is generous, so they hold the ceremony in the small clearing behind the bakery, the town's priest willing to spare an hour from his weekend to marry them under an old oak tree. Mr. Mellark is there – courtesy of the drawn-out apology he gave to Peeta the night of their fight, taking his son into his study to make amends – along with Hans, as are Prim and Mrs. Everdeen, who flew up the night before.
The entire affair is under the radar and nothing if not modest (apart from the cake that Peeta bakes, which is practically the Mona Lisa of all desserts), but it's theirs, and the look he gives her as she meets him underneath the tree at noon – as if he's seeing the world in color for the first time – makes it all worth it.
As does the sound of Mrs. Mellark rolling off his lips. Each time his tongue curls around those three syllables, like a poet crafting a verse, she forgets what gravity feels like. It unravels her every time. When they're dancing together on the grass, when he's unlacing the ribbons holding the back of her dress together – the dress her mother wore when she married her father all those years ago – and then when his mouth dips between her thighs, and finally, when they're tangled together between the sheets, sleep on their tails.
Katniss Mellark.
She never thought anyone's last name tacked on to hers would sound so right.
"You… you got married?"
Blushing wildly, Katniss half-heartedly holds up her left hand, letting the ring there speak for itself. Cue panicky smile.
Madge runs her fingers through her waterfall of blonde hair, her eyes as wide as oceans as she leans forward on the sofa. "Jesus, Katniss. It feels like you just started dating Peeta a few months ago."
She doesn't know why her heart stings so sharply. "You used to say you always thought we'd end up together."
"I did. I also thought you'd have an actual engagement before hastily hitching yourselves to each other." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "And, on top of that, I thought you'd want to give your best friends a heads-up. Didn't it occur to you that we'd want to know?"
"Of course it did, Madge." But our buddies' opinions weren't exactly the top items on our list of concerns.
"And didn't it occur to you that we'd want to be there? I mean, Gale probably likes raw liver more than actual wedding ceremonies, so I can't exactly speak for him, but what about Annie? Or Finnick? Or Delly? Or even those friends from Pitt?"
"We wanted to, Madge. Really. We just didn't have time or money to put into this."
Madge's jaw hardens. "That's why you wait. So you can save up."
"We didn't want to wait, Madge—"
"What, are you pregnant?" Her eyes flash with an odd mixture of anger and concern. "Was this a shotgun wedding?"
"No."
"Then were you drunk?"
"God—no!"
"Did you hit your head or something?"
Anger prickles underneath her skin. "Damnit, Madge! Peeta's sick," she blurts, her entire face feeling like it's been doused in gasoline and lit up with flames.
And now, Madge's fire is suddenly smothered, her jaw slack in surprise.
"…Oh."
"The cancer's back again," she says flatly.
"I'm so sorry, Katniss."
"It's a lot worse this time."
"I shouldn't have gotten so angry at you without waiting for an explanation."
"We wanted to get it out of the way before he started treatment. Before things start going downhill."
"Yeah, that makes sense."
"So we rushed into it, and it may not have been the most responsible option, but this was what we wanted."
"Of course."
They're both silent for a few awkward seconds, eyes dutifully pinned on the carpet.
And then Madge reaches out a hand, her palm cupping Katniss's knee.
"I am happy for you, Katniss. It's just… so sudden, you know?"
Katniss tries to smile back, but her mouth tastes like stale bread.
"Yeah. I know."
When she and Peeta venture out to tell their other friends of the wedding, they receive a wild collage of responses. Annie and Finnick's reaction is nearly identical to Madge's, with shock, but eventual understanding, after Peeta explains their situation. Delly sniffles so much that neither Katniss nor Peeta can figure out what she's saying, but they imagine she's happy for them. Rue promises to send a late wedding gift in the mail. Johanna laughs at Katniss over the phone for a solid two minutes. Gale turns bright red and stalks off, but considering his rage can even be spurred by puppies, Katniss doesn't find his response too surprising. He'll come around. Eventually.
Before Prim and Mrs. Everdeen fly back to Miami, they help Peeta and Katniss move into their new apartment, a ground-level studio in shitty complex about five minutes from the bakery. It's got two bedrooms, one of which they turn into an art studio for Peeta; it'll give him something to do, Katniss supposes, during his treatment. Especially since she won't be able to be there to entertain him all the time.
Monday morning, Katniss goes in for her interview at the state park. By two in the afternoon, she's curled up in the chair next to Peeta at the clinic, holding his hand as the tubes pump poison into his bloodstream. At six, instead of sitting down with Peeta for dinner, she crouches in the bathroom, her palm rubbing comforting circles into his back as he holds himself up to the toilet bowl. And by nine o'clock, she's curled up with him in bed, holding his shaking body as he presses his forehead to hers.
"I don't want to go through this again," he whispers brokenly, trying so desperately to keep some semblance of strength in his voice, but she just wants him to let go. He should know he doesn't have to pretend to be tough for her. She's his wife, after all. For better or for worse.
Gently, she presses a kiss to his cheek. "It's the only way you'll get better, Peeta."
"But what if I don't?"
She tries to swallow the fear that wells in her throat by clenching her teeth together. "Don't say that."
"We can't avoid it, Katniss."
"Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. If we come to it."
"I think we're already at it."
No. No, no, no. She refuses to believe that. Any of that. That this is the turning point, the watershed; that he could be gone by this time next year. He pulled through last time, so he'll pull through again, which is something she just knows. She's never been superstitious, or one to believe silly premonitions, but there's a tingling in her bones that promises he'll be okay. She can feel it.
Her palms bracket his cheeks. "Listen to me. We're fighters, okay? We'll beat this."
Through the gloom, she can see a sad, weak smile pulling at his lips. But he doesn't say anything.
So, she seals her mouth over his, trying to ignore the fact that she can already feel the difference in his lips, the loss of energy, even though the treatment just started today. His vitality is the first to go; his weight will be next, and his hair, too.
"I'll shave my head for you," she says abruptly, her voice startling them both in the dark.
He surprises her with a faint chuckle. "There's no need, Katniss."
"I don't want you to feel alone."
"I don't feel alone," he replies, placing a soft kiss to her nose. "I feel closer to you than ever before. Chopping off all of your beautiful hair wouldn't do anything but give me less of you to touch."
Her eyes sting with tears; she blinks rapidly, determined to ward them off, but it's too late.
She hates this. So much. She hates to see the light of her sunshine boy being blanketed with doubt. He was always her hope, her inspiration, her source of ridiculous optimism to combat her own reservations. He may still be alive, but the essence of who he is has already begun to wither away.
She doesn't know which scares her more: the fear that her ray of sunshine – her best friend, her husband, her Peeta – won't make it through the year, or the fear that everything she loves about him will fail before the rest, leaving an empty shell that holds nothing but her fragile heart in its decaying skeleton.
Despite the ocean-deep pain that the cancer drops on both of their backs, Katniss finds little spurts of happiness in the things she knows she might've overlooked had Peeta not been sick.
She loves waking up to him in the mornings as his wife, with him as her husband, and leaving the bed with the knowledge that these sheets will be waiting for them at the end of the day.
She loves how he always sneaks baked goods into her purse so she'll have something to tide her over while she's at work, especially when they're cookies with inspirational quotes frosted onto them.
She loves the weight of the ring on her finger, the way it pulls at her skin when she locks her hands together, how the pearl glimmers whenever the light refracts off it.
She loves how eager he is when he suggests they take a bath together every evening, as if her answer will be different than the previous night. She loves how he loves to wash her hair. She loves how his hands reverently drag over her skin. She loves how his hands will slip under the water and gently pry her apart.
She loves the random mornings in which she wakes with his mouth painting pleasure between her thighs. The chemotherapy and its general side effects strip him of his stamina, and it saddens her and frustrates him to adjust to how strenuous sex has become, but eating her out is something he's never too exhausted to do.
She loves how their names begin to appear jointly on their mail.
She loves that they have a coupon drawer.
She loves to come home to find him in his studio, hunched over a canvas that sports an outline of her. He transforms her curves into cursive, and her eyes into moons, and all she wants is to know how he can see her as something so exotically beautiful when she's nothing more than just… Katniss.
But, most of all, she loves how he calls her Mrs. Mellark. Being his wife, having him as her husband, is the greatest gift she never thought to ask for.
It all comes with a price, though, she comes to realize all too quickly. Such as the sleepless nights, where he tosses and turns, when she wakes up at three AM to find the bed empty, scrambling around the apartment for five minutes until she realizes he's on the porch, simply trying to breathe. Or the frequent naps, which always seem to overlap with her return from work, when all she wants is to tell him about her day only to find him fast asleep on the sofa. Or the increased necessity for takeout, since he rarely has the drive to cook, and mac n' cheese and PB&J get a little old after a while.
Or his unshakable silence after she shaves his head for him, once his hair began thinning, because he didn't want to wait for the rest of it to fall out. He didn't talk to her for the rest of the night, refusing to even look at her. Because, as he later told her, he was too ashamed.
Or the wheelchair he begins to use once his strength dries up and he can't put any pressure on his knee anymore without writhing in pain.
Or the way that his grip on her seems to grow more hollow every day, because although he tries to cocoon her in his warmth as he used to before, he becomes so frail, so weak, so faded, he simply can't muster the energy any longer.
Or the way he says I love you as if it's an apology rather than a promise.
Peeta has an appointment with his oncologist one Monday morning. Katniss offers to call in sick to work to go with him, since the doctors will be assessing his progress since he started treatment to figure out how they should proceed, but he won't allow her.
So instead, she sits at her desk all day with an elephant-sized knot wedged in the pit of her stomach. She lays her phone out on her desk, waiting for a text, or a call, but instead of news, all she receives is silence.
By the time lunch has passed, her stomach is too snarled for her to concentrate on anything but the taste of bile in the back of her throat, so she slips into her boss's office.
"Mr. Abernathy?"
The man pivots in his swivel chair, abandoning his computer screen to give her his full attention. Well, as full as his attention could ever be, considering the man is afflicted with a chronic hangover.
"If you're looking for some task to do out in the park, I've got nothing." He takes an unnecessarily deep breath. "I do, however, have some incredibly mesmerizing paperwork that needs to get done."
"I've got enough records to file," she says, folding her arms over her stomach, pleading desperately for her body not to regurgitate the contents of her stomach onto her boss's desk. That probably wouldn't win her Employee of the Month.
He opens his mouth to say something, and then seems to really look her over, leaning back in his swivel chair. "You don't look too good, Everdeen," he grumbles, scratching his stubble-peppered cheek.
"Well, that's good to know, because I definitely feel worse than I look."
"If you've got some sort of bug, get the hell away from me. I've already used up too many vacations days."
"I was just wondering if you'd let me go early today. I know there's a lot of work to be done, and I'll stay late tomorrow, it's just…" A sickening chill feathers up her spine. "Look, my husband's going through chemotherapy, and today his doctor is telling him whether or not it's working, so I really want to be with him."
If Katniss didn't know that Haymitch Abernathy was incapable of any human emotion beyond pervasive, misanthropic irritation, she'd think it was actual sympathy flashing across his features.
"Alright." He waves her off as he props his feet up on his desk. "Fly free, little mockingbird."
She comes home to a dark apartment, assuming the place is empty, until she sees the silhouette of his body slouched in a wheelchair against the white light streaming from the open window.
"Peeta?"
He leans forward, his head falling in his hands. As she nears, she can see the tremors wracking his emaciated body, and she rests a hand on his bony shoulder to find his shirt damp with sweat.
"There's nothing they can do," he whispers.
She feels like someone's just replaced the blood in her veins with frozen asphalt.
"What do you mean?"
He's trembling more fully now, his shoulder taut under her fingers as he clenches what little muscle he has left as tightly as he can manage.
"They can amputate my leg," he begins, his voice filled with gravel, "but that'll likely just make it worse, because I've responded so poorly to the chemo, and my body's too weak to fight off an infection. The doctors say that the c-ca – that it's spread too much."
She can't breathe.
Oh god. She's drowning.
"Katniss." His voice is as thin and fragile as a moth's wings. "I think we've lost this fight."
In attempt to make up for the fact that I'm a terrible human being, I might be posting a wedding outtake in the near future. (If that's what you guys want, of course. If you want me to never write again after what I've just done to you, I'll put down the pen for awhile and assign myself to the corner where I belong.) I would've described the whole ceremony in this chapter, but since I'm a sucker for weddings and anything fluff-related, condensing it and squeezing it into an already oversized chapter didn't seem too appealing. So, be on the lookout for that.
In the meantime, come yell at me on Tumblr at the-peeta-pocket.