I'm reluctant to admit it, but talking to Dr. Aurelius helps. He no longer naps during our sessions, at least, I don't think he does, but he still doesn't push me either. He listens and he asks questions in a way that gently leads me to my own realizations. He never tells me what to do though he offers suggestions of things I might want to try. Sometimes I even follow them.
It's during our third call that the idea occurs to me: a memory book. I've been thinking a lot about my family's plant book, about how the knowledge in it kept me and my family alive after my father died. My ancestors had carefully recorded in it the things that they couldn't trust to memory as an archive and a guide for future generations. I want the stories of the people we lost to live on in the same way. Dr. Aurelius is thrilled with the idea and promises to send me supplies on the next train.
I want to ask Peeta to help me with the book, but I'm a little afraid. Asking him to help record memories when so many of his own memories are foggy or tainted or missing entirely? Times that he tries too hard to fill the holes in his memory he tends to get agitated, sometimes slipping into flashbacks. An entire book dedicated to remembering the people we've lost, I can't help but think it'll upset him, overwhelm him. When I mention my concerns to Dr. Aurelius he deflects, advising me to simply ask Peeta if he'd be interested in the project, and allow Peeta to make decisions for himself about whether he can handle it or not. That sounds sensible, but I know Peeta, and I know that he'll help me if I ask, no matter what the potential cost to himself, no matter whether he thinks himself capable or not. He'll push through his own discomfort, or try to anyway, for me, like he always has. I don't want to be responsible for hurting him yet again.
It's Capitol delivery day today, and I'm expecting the supplies Dr. Aurelius promised he'd send. I'm awake and staring at the ceiling long before dawn, my nerves making it too difficult to stay asleep. I slide out of Peeta's bed, leaving him snoring softly, and slip downstairs to make tea. I've been sleeping here more and more lately, so often now in fact that Greasy Sae suggested I was ready to make my own breakfast these days. She's still making dinner for us, but I have a feeling that will end soon too. And it should, I'm so much stronger now than I was when I first returned, when she was forced to spoon feed me as I stared into the nothingness. Sleeping here helps, Peeta's house is calming, there are no ghosts here. And we both sleep so much better together. It seems silly to fight the nightmares alone.
I find a loaf of bread with raisins in the breadbox and cut a few slices, setting them on a pan to toast. Peeta wanders down as I'm taking the fragrant golden slices out of the oven. He pours tea and sets out butter wordlessly. I enjoy how comfortable we are around each other in his kitchen. I feel like I can anticipate his moves and he mine, much like how Prim and I used to work together, learning how to feed ourselves and our mother. The comparison hurts a little, until I realize what it means. Peeta is my family now. I should tell him that, I think it would please him, but instead I drink my tea and enjoy the quiet. It's Peeta who speaks first.
"Delivery day today," he begins. "Would you like me to pick up your orders and mail?" This is another thing that Sae no longer does for me, though Peeta has stepped in to fill the gap. But not today.
"Actually, I'd like to come along with you today. I mean, if that's okay." I feel a twinge of amusement at the way his eyebrows shoot up. I've surprised him. I think I like surprising Peeta. He smiles enthusiastically.
"Of course, I'd love to go together. I was going to stop in town and speak with Thom too, and maybe we could go to the marketplace?" His expression is so hopeful and bright that I smile too, and nod.
After breakfast Peeta begins preparing dough. Even on delivery day he bakes bread, and sometimes treats, to share with the people around the district. I like to watch him, the muscles in his arms and shoulders ripple when he mixes and kneads, and he gets this special look of concentration in his face, almost like when he's painting or sketching. I don't realize that I'm staring until he quirks an eyebrow at me before asking "You're not hunting today?"
I shrug. "We have enough meat to last a couple of days," I say.
He smiles, and begins to set bowls and ingredients in front of me. "Well then," he says, "How would you like to mix up some cookie dough for me?" I wrinkle my nose a little, I can cook, but baking is Peeta's domain. He just chuckles, opening a paper bag and holding it up to my nose. I inhale deeply.
"Chocolate?" I ask, wide-eyed. Peering inside the bag I can see a large handful of chocolate pieces, each a uniform drop shape. Next to cheese, chocolate is my favourite food. Suddenly baking seems like a wonderful idea.
I don't know how Peeta manages to both prepare multiple loaves of bread and direct me in mixing up cookie dough but before too long there are several trays of slightly misshapen chocolate chip cookies in the oven and the rich smell of chocolate fills the kitchen. As before, we manage to clean as we go along, so there's nothing left to do right now but stand together and wait. Now would be the right time to ask him about my book idea, but I don't know how to start. As always, Peeta saves me.
"You know you can talk to me about anything, right?" he says softly. My eyes snap up from where I've been concentrating on swirling the dregs in my teacup. He shrugs a little. "I can tell you have something on your mind." It's a little disconcerting, how well he can read me. I nod and set aside my mostly empty cup, trying to buy myself some time to think about how to bring it up.
"Do you remember my family's plant book?" I start. He nods slowly, his brow furrowed in thought.
"We worked on it together, when you hurt your foot?" His voice rises at the end, as if he's not certain.
"Real," I tell him. "We added some of the plants we learned about in the Games. You drew the pictures and I wrote everything we knew." He nods, and the small smile playing on his lips tells me he remembers, truly remembers, those days we spent together working on the book, days that were so sweet and calm and just normal. Days where I started to understand the depth of my feelings for him. I feel myself returning his smile, flooded with warmth from those happy memories. After a few beats I shake my head a little, and continue.
"That book was so vital to my family's survival because it was a record of the things that were too important to risk forgetting. It helped my ancestors heal and it helped me keep Pr… keep my family alive after my father died." I start to falter, thinking about everyone who is gone, imagining their stories being lost forever. Peeta simply nods encouragingly as I gather my thoughts, taking deep breaths.
"I… I want to make another book," I continue. "A book of something else too important to risk forgetting." He nods again but he wears a confused expression, as if he's not sure where I'm heading, which is likely given how I'm jumping around and trying to keep my emotions under control, but generally failing.
"I want to make a book of memories. I want to remember them," I whisper.
I look down at my hands, unable to watch his face. "All of the people we've lost, I want to make a book to remember them. Madge…" my voice catches, but I push through, "Madge is gone, her whole family is gone, there is no one left who remembers her but us. Her story is important; I can't stand to think that someday she'll be lost forever. I want to keep her memory alive. I want to keep all of them. I don't want to forget." I flinch a little at the awkward wording, how cruel to phrase it that way when Peeta was made to forget so much, when I know how much it bothers him. I try to push ahead, to move both of our thoughts elsewhere.
"Dr. Aurelius is sending me supplies on the train today; he thinks the book is a good idea, that it might help me. To… to move forward. To heal. And, and I don't want you to say anything right away, because I know it would be hard, so hard, and you're doing so well, and I don't want to push you… but maybe… maybe we could work on it together?" It comes out in a muddled rush. Peeta doesn't respond. He's standing across from me, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed as I slump against the edge of his kitchen table, but I can't bear to glance up at his expression. His silence makes my heart pound, makes me desperate to banish the quiet, to talk my way out of this. To run. I close my eyes tightly and draw in a deep, shuddering breath.
"But… but it's fine, it's really fine, if you don't want to, if you think it'd be too much. It's probably too much. I… I shouldn't have dumped all of that on you. I'm sorry, I just, I don't know what I was thinking, I mean…" my voice tapers off as I hear his heavy footsteps leaving the kitchen. I swallow back the lump forming in my throat. Stupid, so stupid, I shouldn't have said anything, I think furiously, swiping at my eyes with the back of my hand before the threatening tears can squeeze out from beneath my clenched eyelids.
I only have time for a couple of deep centring breaths before the footsteps return, and I can sense him standing in front of me. I keep my eyes tightly sealed though. I can't bear to see his anger, or his disappointment.
"Katniss…" His voice is soft and close. My breath hitches in my chest.
"I'm sorry," I blurt, "I didn't mean to push, I shouldn't have said anything, I just, I know they're important to you too, and I…"
"Katniss!" he interrupts. His voice is firmer, insistent, and right in front of me. I can't stop the tremor that runs through me. "Open your eyes," he implores.
I do, and I can see he's holding one of his sketchbooks out to me. I look up to meet his eyes, which are soft and sad, but not angry. "Look," he whispers, nudging my hand with the book. I take it from him, and draw a deep breath before flipping to the first page.
It's a pencil sketch of his brother, smiling. Peeta's talented hands have captured the mischievous twinkle I always saw in Rye's eyes when our paths crossed at school, the soft curls, so much like Peeta's, that fell into his eyes. The pencil sketch is only in black and white, but I know those eyes were the same heart-stopping blue as Peeta's. And along the right side of the page are written in Peeta's slightly messy angled script all of the things he remembers about his brother. All of the ways he misses his brother. I sniff back the tears as I turn the page. There I find another pencil sketch, his father this time, and another list. I flip more quickly through the other pages, his other brother, his witch mother, some of the town kids I recognize but never really knew. When I reach a drawing of Portia I can take no more and close the book quickly, but I don't look up at him. I can't look up at him.
His hands close over mine, curled around his sketch pad, and his thumbs rub gently, soothingly over my fists. He leans forward, resting his forehead against mine before murmuring "I don't want to forget them either."
We stay that way, forehead to forehead, breathing together in the quiet, until the timer sounds and he pulls away to empty the oven. After a few moments I set his sketch book on the kitchen table, letting my fingers trail reverently over the cover, then turn to help Peeta pack away the warm baked goods and
reload the ovens.
When the timer has been reset he offers me a warm cookie and a sweet smile, which broadens as I bite into the cookie and moan softly at the feeling of gooey chocolate coating my tongue. He faces me again, resting his hand on my waist in a way that makes my heart jump. "I'd love to make a book together Katniss," he starts. "I can't promise how often or how quickly I'll be able to work though. It's… it's still really hard to keep myself together when I think about them. But I don't want to lose them again."
I nod, and reach out to lay my hand on his bicep. I feel his muscles twitch under my hand and I wonder if he's trying not to flinch away from me. The idea makes me a little sad, and I rub my hand gently up and down in a way that I hope he finds soothing. "It'll be hard, I know, but we can go slow, there's no rush, not anymore." Peeta bites his lip and blushes, but before I can think about why he gathers me into his arms and hugs me tightly. I melt into his embrace, wrapping my arms around his broad back and clinging. He rocks us gently and I can feel all of the tension and apprehension fade away.
"Thank you," he sighs into my hair, and though I'm not sure what he could be thanking me for I nod against his chest and snuggle more fully into his warmth.
When we arrive at the station after having distributed Peeta's bread and cookies to the crews working around town, the train has already been mostly unloaded and the worst of the crowd has dissipated. A porter stands in front of wheeled carts of boxes and bags, handing things off to the few latecomers. He has a clipboard but doesn't seem to need to consult it. We're still a fairly small group in District 12, though we're growing every week, and the porter seems to know everyone who approaches. My instincts are proven right when he turns to greet Peeta by name. They exchange handshakes and pleasantries as I stare at my feet, feeling out of place and wondering why I decided I needed to pick up this damned box myself, I could have let Peeta bring it home for me, it's not like he'd have looked in it. And even if he had, it wouldn't have made a difference. I'm going to show him all of it anyway.
I'm jolted out of my thoughts by a hand on my arm and I flinch reflexively before realizing it's only Peeta. He grins at me sheepishly before introducing me to the porter. Although I've never met the man he clearly recognizes me. I don't think he's originally from 12 or 13, based on his accent, which means he probably sees me as the Mockingjay. It's a struggle to keep the scowl off my face, and I'm not certain I'm completely successful.
A commotion down the platform distracts all three of us. I turn to see Haymitch staggering towards us, pulling a loaded hand cart behind him. The faint tinkling sound that accompanies him suggests that at least some of his packages are alcoholic in nature. There's another noise too though, a faint peeping maybe? I know Peeta hears it too because he glances at me with one eyebrow raised in question.
"Hello Haymitch," Peeta calls out in greeting. "What have you got there?" Haymitch covers the last few steps between us and grunts in acknowledgement, unceremoniously dropping the handle of the cart. It falls with a bang, and the peeping noises become louder. I snicker.
"Birds, Haymitch?" I ask, unable to suppress the laughter from my voice. I can see Peeta's mouth quirk up too, but Haymitch fixes me with a scowl.
"Baby geese," Haymitch sneers. "Got a problem with that, sweetheart?" He takes a long drink from a glass bottle he's already liberated from his liquor box.
"Why do you have a box of goslings?" I'm genuinely curious.
"Two boxes," he slurs, and I glance into the cart to see that there are, indeed, two boxes with holes spaced around the perimeters. Every so often a tiny beak or a tuft of yellow down appears through one of the holes. "I'm going to raise them for food. If you two can grow food in your garden, I can grow food in my yard too. Besides, I need a hobby." The way he mumbles the last part has me biting back laughter again.
"You're going to raise geese in the Victor's Village?" I'm incredulous. "You know they need water, right? Like a pond… They're waterfowl after all…"
"Nope," he interjects, "The catalogue said they only need grass, and I've got lots of grass." The idea that he read even a little bit about caring for these creatures before ordering them shocks me speechless. He smirks and reaches down for the handle of his cart, stumbling away without another word.
"Wonder if he knows he'll need a pen to keep them in at least?" Peeta says, almost to himself. I shrug, and turn back to the porter who has mostly finished loading our orders onto another hand cart. I have two boxes today, one from Dr. Aurelius, and a second box of the food and sundries that Greasy Sae orders to stock my pantry, as well as another large bundle of mail tied with twine. Peeta also has two boxes, and an absolutely enormous bag of flour which is leaning against the cart. The porter flashes him a self-conscious look, but Peeta merely picks up the bag as if it weighs nothing, though I know it must be 100 pounds, and nestles it into the cart.
We stop at the marketplace to pick up a few things. Sae is there, scoping out spots for her new stall, and we chat comfortably for a few minutes before heading back to Victor's Village. As we pass through the gates we encounter a fluffy yellow gosling that could only have come from Haymitch's package. I reach down and scoop him up, rubbing my nose through the soft down before catching myself. Peeta notices and grins, but doesn't say anything. We find two more before reaching my house. Peeta leaves the hand cart in front of my porch and we both walk around to Haymitch's yard. There are tiny little yellow goslings everywhere, and Haymitch is sitting on his back steps, taking long pulls from his now mostly empty bottle and rubbing his hand over his eyes. He looks up as we approach.
"Maybe geese were a bad idea," he moans. "They don't stay put! How the hell am I supposed to keep track of 'em?"
I start to laugh but Peeta proves himself the better person, again, gathering goslings and tossing them into Haymitch's house, muttering about phoning Thom to get some chicken wire to make a pen. I leave them to their task and drag my grocery order into my house, leaving it on the kitchen counter for Greasy Sae to look after. I bring the cart over to Peeta's house next and bring the three remaining boxes inside, one by one. I have to leave the flour in the cart though; the bag weighs about as much as I do.
I'd like to put away his groceries for him but I don't know what else he might have in those boxes and I don't want to invade his privacy. Instead I bring the box that Dr. Aurelius sent me into Peeta's living room and sink onto his couch to open it.
Inside is a large ream of parchment, each piece crisp and flat, and a beautifully bound book to hold the pages. There's also a thick envelope, and when I pop the seal on it I'm shocked to find it full of photographs. Most of them appear to be images captured from videos, which I guess a Capitol doctor would have more access to than still photographs. I only manage to flip through 4 or 5 before I'm overwhelmed. As much as I miss the people whose faces smile up at me I don't feel like I'm strong enough to face them today despite my earlier words.
By the time Peeta returns I've tucked the book supplies back into the box and set them in his study, not hidden, but not out in plain sight either. We don't need to start right away. We have time. We have time.