When Peeta regains his bearings after his flashback I drag him across the green to my house for dinner. He protests, though I think it's less about him being worn out and more about being embarrassed. I'm not going to let him feel bad for what Snow did to him, that's my fault, not his. And while I don't have much for intuition I think he probably shouldn't be alone right now. I know I don't want to be alone either. His protests stop when I hold his hand, even though I'm not really doing it for him as much as for myself.

Seeing him hunched in the ruins of his former life, a grimace contorting his handsome face, mumbling frightening things about killing the mutt, I'd almost run away. Maybe I should have run away, especially after he shoved me hard and I fell in the dirt beside him. But when he opened his eyes, and they were so full of terror, I knew, I just knew that he wasn't trying to hurt me. He was afraid of me. I think that was even more painful. I begged and pleaded with him to come back, crying with relief when finally he did. I'm not sure how long I'd been holding him while he swayed in and out of consciousness when Thom wandered over but I was so grateful for his help getting Peeta home and even more grateful when he didn't ask any questions.

Greasy Sae serves us stew over wild rice, then hurries away. Her house is full these days with so many people returning to the district and she's always busy, but still she comes to take care of me. Another debt I'll never be able to repay.

I haven't seen wild rice in a long time, there used to be a man who sold it at the Hob, but he died years ago and his source was lost with him. This must have come on the Capitol train. Peeta stares at his plate intently, gripping the edge of the table tightly as he does. For a few moments I'm sure that he's having another episode, that I've pushed him over the edge by selfishly not wanting to be alone, but then he shakes his head and looks up at me, eyes wide and a smile spreading across his face.

"My grandfather used to make wild rice," he says softly. "I remember."

"Tell me about him?" I ask. Peeta's face lights up.

"I think he was my favourite person in the world when I was little. He used to live with us, above the bakery. I was six, I think, when he passed away. He decorated most of the fancy cakes, until his hands got too shaky. After that he mostly took care of me and my brothers so that my parents could concentrate on running the bakery. I remember him cooking dinner for us most nights, he loved wild rice, and he used to make noodles too." Peeta's smile widens at the memory. I'd made noodles once with our tesserae grain, they'd been terrible, rubbery things that Prim and I could barely choke down. The look on Peeta's face suggests his grandfather's noodles were much nicer. I wonder if Peeta knows how to make noodles?

"He used to teach me when my father was busy and my mother wasn't around. He's the one who first put a piping bag in my hands. I was so young, too young probably, but he'd pull a stool up the counter in the mornings after my brothers left for school and let me pipe flowers onto the back of a bowl." Peeta chuckles before continuing. "I was decorating cupcakes before I could write my own name." I can see the pride on his face, and I suspect it's pride in being able to remember these details as much as it is pride in his skills. His laugh breaks me out of my reverie. "He used to call Rye 'Biscuit'. Brann and I were still teasing Rye about that years later. Nothing would get him mad faster than one of us calling him 'Biscuit' in front of a girl." I laugh at that too. I remember Rye, I didn't know him well but he had quite a reputation at our school as a ladies' man, and I doubt they were calling him 'Biscuit' at the slag heap.

"Did your grandfather have a pet name for you too?" I ask. He nods tentatively, as if he's not quite certain. "What did he call you?" Peeta's brow furrows and he's quiet for a while, thinking, trying to remember. Then he chuckles, I don't know if I've ever actually noticed Peeta's chuckle before, it's really deep and rumbly. I like the sound of it. I raise an eyebrow at him, but I'm smiling, that chuckle is infectious.

"Squishy."

"What?" I ask.

"That's what grandfather called me. Squishy." He's flushed, but his eyes twinkle with amusement. A giggle escapes me, I can't help myself, and then I can't stop either. My hands fly up to cover my mouth but it's no use, the laughter keeps bubbling out.

"Squishy?" I manage to say in between laughs. "Why Squishy?"

He's still chuckling. "I think it was because I had chubby cheeks as a baby. I guess they were squishy?" His shrug and sheepish half smile push me over the edge and I'm howling with laughter.

I laugh and laugh, and each time I think I might be done I imagine calling Peeta 'Squishy' and start laughing again. He gives me a look of mock disapproval. "I don't think it's that funny," he insists. That just makes me laugh more.

Tears are rolling down my face and my stomach aches. "I am so going to call you Squishy from now on," I gasp. Peeta scowls, a look so foreign on his face that I'm overcome with giggles once more.

Peeta rolls his eyes. "Trust me when I say that no adult male ever wants to be referred to as 'Squishy', Katniss." I can't ever remember laughing like this. It feels so good. For just a moment I feel guilty, that I could be enjoying myself like this when Prim isn't here, but then I realize that she'd be the first to tease Peeta, about his old nickname. And he would have let her too. My laughter dies down but the smile stays on my face.

We eat the rest of our now cold meal in near silence, punctuated by my periodic giggles that burst forth from time to time. Peeta shakes his head at me but smiles broadly, eyes twinkling. When we finish I drop our dishes in the sink but don't start the water. Instead I drag Peeta into the living room.

"Tell me more stories, Peeta." I entreat, falling down onto the couch and dragging him with me. He seems surprised by my request, but pleased.

Over the next couple of hours we share stories of our childhood. It's amazing to watch, as Peeta tells me stories about his brothers and father and friends more and more of his memories are unlocked and he has more stories to share. He is elated, and smiles almost non-stop. I smile too; I'm amazed by how little I really know about Peeta's life before the reaping that changed everything. Sometimes it's nearly impossible to believe that we spent 11 years at the same school and grew up only a mile apart.

He tells me all about his eldest brother, Brann, who I saw a handful of times when I went to trade at the back of the bakery but whose name I never knew. Five years older than Peeta, Brann was the good kid, studious and serious. Brann had gotten engaged about 6 months before our first reaping but Peeta can't remember if he had gotten married. "I'd like to think I'd remember if he had," he says with a tinge of sadness. "But I can't even remember his fiancée's name."

There are far more stories about Rye. Only 2 years apart, Rye and Peeta were brothers and best friends. They looked a lot alike too, Rye was a little taller but both had their father's blond curls and twinkling blue eyes, and when they were wearing matching uniforms in the wrestling ring together it was nearly impossible to tell them apart. Rye was funny and boisterous, the kind of kid who attracted trouble but who was generally quite good at getting himself out of it. I remember overhearing the girls in school swooning over Rye, who had no shortage of girlfriends. The affection in Peeta's voice as he talks about his brothers is obvious and sweet.

He turns introspective. "Things were never the same between us after I got back from the Games. My mother was embarrassed by me, didn't want me to be in the front shop of the bakery since she thought I'd scare away customers. That didn't stop her from taking the monthly portion of my winnings I offered them." He shoots me a look that's almost apologetic. By now he's lying on the couch and I'm sitting on the floor with my head tipped back against his stomach. "Dad... Dad didn't want to upset her more so he never really said anything. Brann just had no idea how to deal with me, I wasn't his little brother anymore, I was a victor, and so completely different. And Rye…" Peeta is quiet for so long I think maybe he's not going to continue, but then he does. "I don't think Rye ever forgave himself for not volunteering for me, the way that you did for Prim."

There is nothing I can say about that. Volunteering for Prim was completely impulsive and I will never know if it was the right choice. Ultimately it didn't even save her life, it only gave her an extra year and a half. I can't continue on this train of thought or I'll plunge headlong into the darkness again, so instead I change the subject completely and begin to tell Peeta about Prim's first day of school, how my father had managed to switch his shift at the mines to walk his two girls to school, Prim's excitement to go to school followed by her disappointment that she and I wouldn't share a classroom. The paper crowns with their names on them that each child wore that day, and how she so very carefully brought hers home to show our mother. How she befriended every child in the class that first day. How she practically flew the entire walk back home she was so happy.

As I trail off I realize that Peeta has fallen asleep. When I lift my head off his stomach he doesn't even stir. He looks so innocent when he sleeps, the weary, careworn expression he carries in wakefulness has melted away and he looks years younger. With his curls falling over his forehead and those outrageously long eyelashes caressing his cheeks I can almost envision the towheaded toddler who adored his grandfather and big brothers. I should probably wake him, this couch isn't the most comfortable place to sleep, but I can't bring myself to disturb him when he looks so sweet. Instead I grab the blanket that my mother knit and cover him with it, adding another log to the fire at the same time.

Part of me wants to climb onto the couch beside him and sleep curled in his arms, like we used to on the trains, but I don't know how he would feel about that, or even if it would be safe. He's a different boy than the one who loved me so unconditionally, and I'm a different girl too. But spending time with Peeta is helping me to heal, I can feel it, and I'd like to think it's helping him too. It's been nice, really nice to just be together, talking or not talking, comfortable either way. I feel a little hopeful, for the first time in a very long time. My dandelion, bringing me hope yet again.

When I turn off the lamp by his head I pause to gently brush his hair off his forehead and whisper "Good night, Squishy," before I creep out of the living room and upstairs to my bedroom.