I slip through the gap in the fence nearest to Victor's Village, my game bag full almost to bursting. Today was an almost perfect day for hunting, the woods green and alive, the morning not yet hot enough to drive the animals into hiding. I've brought in more than enough game today to not only last a few days, but also to share, and I'm looking forward to bringing some to Greasy Sae after I clean it. I even have strawberries, tiny sweet wild strawberries from a patch I stumbled upon accidentally while tracking a doe. I missed the doe, but the strawberries are a decent consolation.
As I'm walking towards Peeta's house I see him sitting on his porch. As soon as he notices me he stands and jogs over to me. "Hi," I offer, almost as a question. Peeta is grinning and is a little out of breath, clutching a couple of papers in his hand.
"I got a letter from Delly," he says, waving the papers in his hand.
"Okay?" I like Delly, she's sweet and supportive, and I'll always be grateful for the help she gave Peeta in recovering his memory, but I don't think we'll ever be close. I'm not sure why he's so excited to tell me that she's writing to him.
"She's engaged, and she's coming for a visit." He's beaming. It occurs to me that Peeta is lonely here. There just aren't that many people in the district anymore, though the number is growing steadily.
"Engaged? To someone from Thirteen?" I ask. As far as I know, Delly and her little brother stayed in 13 after the war ended. Until this moment I hadn't even realized that Peeta was keeping in touch with her. I feel a strange little flash of jealousy, but I force it away quickly.
"Well, to someone she met in Thirteen anyway," he says. "Though Delly says he was originally from District Ten."
"Dalton?" I'm sure my eyes are wide; she couldn't be engaged to Dalton, could she? Peeta startles, his mouth dropping open a little.
"You, uh, you know him?" he asks. I forget sometimes that for almost all of Peeta's stay in District 13 he was confined to a hospital room, apart from the guards and the medical staff he really didn't meet many people.
"Yes, I mean, not very well, but he's a good man, made it to Thirteen on foot, all the way from District Ten, alone. He's a little older than we are though." I'm actually not sure how old Dalton is, but I think he must be in his late 20s, or maybe early 30s. "He performed Annie and Finnick's marriage ceremony." My voice trails off at the end. Remembering that day is so difficult in so many ways. I remember how happy Finnick was, and now he's gone. I remember dancing with Prim, she was so joyful, and now she's gone. And, selfishly, I remember that day as the one where I spoke with Peeta for the first time after his hijacking; I remember the flicker of hope when I heard he wanted to see me, followed by desolation as I confronted the boy who fell out of love with me. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, willing away the tears that are threatening.
Peeta is silent too; I wonder what he's remembering about that day. Probably not the same things as me. Finally after a minute he clears his throat and continues "They're coming to District Twelve, next week. They're going to stay with me." He sounds a little tentative, like he's not sure how I'll react. Like he's afraid I'll disappear during their visit. It certainly wouldn't be out of character for me I think wryly.
I shove down the lingering sadness and smile at him. "I'd like to see them too, if you don't mind me hanging around." His face breaks into a huge smile.
"I'd love that," he grins, "And I could definitely use your help hosting them. I've never hosted people before."
"You take care of me all of the time," I counter. "Delly will definitely be easier than that."
Peeta takes hosting, like everything else he does, seriously. He spends the week leading up to Delly and Dalton's arrival airing out and freshening up one of his spare bedrooms, planning meals, baking treats to tuck into the freezer. His single mindedness would be annoying if his enthusiasm wasn't so infectious. I keep him company, and help out where I can.
Their train arrives in the afternoon, Peeta and I meet them at the station. When Delly sees us she squeals and runs directly into Peeta's arms. That little pang of jealousy flares up again as I watch him lift her off the ground, his blue eyes twinkling. The months since the end of the war have been kind to Delly, she's healthy and curvy, her blond curls shine, she's radiant. I fiddle with the end of my braid self-consciously. Then I feel a hand on my arm and I'm looking up into Dalton's soft brown eyes. He hasn't changed a bit; all of that time living underground couldn't undo the deep tan of his skin from years of working on cattle ranches. "Soldier Everdeen," he begins with a grin, "We meet again."
I smirk, "It's just plain Katniss now."
Dalton pulls me into a hug. "I'm so pleased to see you Just Plain Katniss."
I laugh despite myself. "You too Dalton." I say, genuinely, pulling back to look up into his handsome face. Then Delly is launching herself at me, wrapping me in a tight hug, babbling about how good it is to see us, how wonderful we look, what fun we're going to have. I see Peeta and Dalton shaking hands out of the corner of my eye before Delly loops an arm around my shoulder and starts leading me from the platform, talking a mile a minute, leaving Peeta and Dalton to gather the bags.
Peeta shows them to the room they'll be staying in, on the main floor of his house, while I head into the kitchen to check on the venison roast I'd put into the oven before we left. When Delly joins me, she's carrying several bottles. "Dandelion wine," she says after I raise an eyebrow at her. "Dalton made it. After the war they lifted most of the restrictions in District 13 and we could all come and go as we pleased. Wasn't easy finding bottles, but he managed somehow." She says this as Dalton enters the kitchen, and her face lights up. He looks at her adoringly, and for a moment I think they've forgotten I'm even here, their locked eyes engaged in a completely silent discussion. I feel another pang of jealousy, but this one is completely different.
We make a good meal of the venison, plus vegetables and greens from Peeta's garden. Dalton fills four glasses with dandelion wine. I'm a little afraid to try it, remembering my last experience with white liquor, but the wine doesn't burn when I swallow it and it actually tastes kind of good. I tell this to Dalton and he smiles, telling me that it'll be even better when the bottles have had a chance to age properly. I'm not certain I understand what that means but I let it go. Peeta has even made a cake for dessert, chocolate with a dark chocolate frosting that is just delicious, and makes the wine taste even better.
After we finish, we all settle into Peeta's living room to chat, and drink more wine. We've lit some candles though there's still plenty of evening light filtering in at this time of year. I'm feeling warm and calm, it's surprisingly pleasant having people in the house. A few hours fly by in what feels like the blink of an eye.
Delly is more than a little drunk. She's sitting on the floor, leaning on Dalton's knees as he slouches contentedly in a chair, her hair spilling over his lap. He absently plays with the curls. "Did you know," she giggles, "that Peeta was my first kiss?" Dalton shifts a little and looks uncomfortable. Delly doesn't seem to notice, and continues, "We were twelve, I think? I had a crush on Symon Dennison." I vaguely remember Symon, a merchant kid a couple of years older than us. I guess he didn't make it. The guilt that always floods in when I think of the people lost in the firebombing is pressing into the edges of my heart, but I force it back with a big gulp from my wine glass. Not tonight. I don't want to feel sad or guilty tonight.
Delly continues her story, completely obliviously. "I wanted to kiss Symon, but I had no idea how, so I kissed Peeta instead. For practice." She grins; Dalton and Peeta are both fidgeting uncomfortably in their seats now. This makes me laugh. Delly flashes me a big smile. "I guess I was a bit of a late bloomer," she shrugs.
"I guess that's one more thing we have in common," I offer with another laugh.
"We're both late bloomers?" she giggles.
"Well that too, but I meant that Peeta gave both of us our first kiss." Dalton hoots, slapping the arm of his chair, and Delly laughs, but Peeta just looks at me with a strange expression. I can't concentrate on it though because Dalton is refilling our glasses, and Delly has started prattling on about plans for the new house and farm they're going to build on the outskirts of the district, and her excitement about being able to plant a garden there next spring, which draws Peeta back into the conversation.
The rest of the evening passes comfortably, Delly and Peeta reminisce about our childhood, Delly and Dalton talk about falling in love in Thirteen and how happy they are to be back above ground. I simply listen, I've never been very good at small talk but tonight I don't have to be, and my silence feels companionable instead of stilted. Peeta and I have shifted closer together on the couch, and at some point he wrapped his arm around me, so that now I'm half reclining against his chest. The lateness and the wine have made us all drowsy, and as my head lolls against Peeta's shoulder and Delly tries to stifle yet another yawn Dalton suggests that perhaps we retire for the night. Delly and Dalton head for the bedroom on the main floor, and Peeta takes my hand and leads me upstairs to his bedroom.
I slip into the washroom to change into pajamas, and when I return Peeta is sitting on the edge of the bed, still dressed, watching me intently. "What?" I smile at him. The alcohol and the drowsiness have chipped away at my walls; I don't feel any of the wariness I normally would.
"I wasn't really your first kiss?"
"Yes you were," I counter, "I've told you that before." He simply shakes his head. "Sure I did," I continue, "On the Victory Tour."
"You told me then that you'd only ever kissed Gale once, after the Games, not that you'd never kissed anyone at all before the Games." He's slurring a little.
My head is fuzzy, and I feel like I should be offended, but I'm not, I just feel too light and too warm to be upset. I flash him a half smile. "I never thought about boys before the Games, Peeta. Not in that way. I just wasn't interested, and besides, I was too busy trying to keep my family alive."
He looks morose, "But those weren't even real kisses Katniss."
I sit down beside him, and turn so that our faces are only inches apart. "Some of them were Peeta. Surely you know that." He looks skeptical, so I continue, "Do you remember kissing me after the feast?" He nods, and I go on. "That was the first time we kissed when you weren't half dead or burning up with fever." I can't help but smirk, before continuing, "That kiss made me feel like my blood was on fire, made me hungry for more." My voice has dropped to barely a whisper and I can't stop looking at Peeta's lips, so soft and full, parted just slightly, and so close to me. Before I can stop myself I murmur, "I wish you'd kiss me like that now." His eyes widen briefly, then his hands are cradling my face and those warm lips are pressed against mine. I lean into him, and he deepens the kiss, his tongue shyly poking into my mouth, teasing mine, sending jolts of pleasure through me. He wraps one arm around me while his other hand undoes my braid, winding his fingers through the strands.
Slowly Peeta lays me back on the bed, his hands stroking my face, my hair, down the curve of my side to my hip, gently, searchingly, as he hovers over me. I feel warm and dreamy, his hands leaving trails of fire on my skin. He kisses me again, his tongue dancing with mine, and I sigh into his mouth. This is what kissing Peeta should always have felt like. I run my hands tentatively over his broad shoulders and strong arms, feeling his muscles flex under my exploring fingers. My hands move up and bury themselves in his soft curls, tugging gently, the way I've sometimes imagined. He moans, pulling back to trail kisses along my jaw and down my throat. His hands slide under my camisole, stroking my side, my ribcage. If I wasn't drunk before I am now; I'm drowning in sensation, every inch of my body feels alive.
Our bodies have moved together, pressed into each other, the heat and weight of him against me thrills me. I arch against him, trying to get even closer, and he whispers my name with such reverence I feel it between my legs, throbbing and curiously wet. I wrap one of my legs around his thigh, drawing him closer, and my hip brushes against his arousal. He bucks against me, then groans deeply, dropping his head against my shoulder, a tremor running through his body.
"Katniss," he moans, finally raising his head to look into my eyes, "We're drunk, we need to stop before we do something we'll regret in the morning." I reach up to stroke his cheek, the stubble just coming in is rough against my hand as I struggle to calm my breathing. He presses his forehead to mine, panting. I really don't want to stop, but I know he's right; neither of us is in any condition to be taking such a big step forward, and while I'm curious and needy, I know I'm not ready.
"Okay," I murmur, disappointment evident in my voice. He pulls back just slightly and smiles tentatively; relief and I think regret in his eyes. He traces my cheek with his finger and I can't resist leaning up to kiss him again, but just lightly. His smile widens as I sigh, "I really like kissing you Peeta."
He chuckles, a delicious, deep rumble that I swear I can feel deep in my own belly. "You're utterly irresistible Katniss, do you know that?" He leans in to kiss me again, sweetly and tenderly, then he climbs out of bed. "I'm going to get ready to sleep now," he says, heading for the bathroom.
With another sigh, I crawl under the covers and wait, the throbbing between my legs slowly subsiding and drowsiness taking over. It feels like he's gone a long time; when he returns I'm almost asleep. He slides into bed behind me, wrapping his arm around my waist to pull me in snugly, and kissing my hair. I hear him whisper "Good night Katniss," as sleep pulls me under.
I awaken with a jolt some time later, disoriented. It's still dark; I can't have been sleeping long. I roll over and immediately realize what woke me: Peeta is having a flashback. He's sitting up, the bedsheets twisted in his fists, and he's rocking slightly, back and forth. He's mumbling under his breath, but I can't make out any words. I carefully crawl over until I'm kneeling in front of him. I can just make out his features in the moonlight. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut. "Peeta?" I try, but he doesn't respond. I carefully take his face in my hands and say his name again, more insistently. His eyes spring open, the irises entirely swallowed by fat black pupils, but he looks right through me. His hands fly up and grip my arms, hard, making me yelp. I can feel him trembling. "Peeta!" I say loudly, "Peeta! It's not real, not real, not real, Peeta." I hold his face gently, but firmly, and force him to look into my eyes. "Come back to me Peeta, come back Peeta, my Peeta. Please." He's panting hard, whimpering, and as I watch, his pupils slowly return to normal. He drops his hands and closes his eyes; I can hear him struggling to control his breathing. I shower his cheeks and forehead with soft kisses, then pull his face against my chest and wrap my arms around his broad back. Slowly his arms snake up around my waist and his trembling subsides. When his breathing finally returns to normal, I pull back slightly to look at him. "Are you okay?" I whisper. He nods, his eyes pinched tightly closed, and I know he's not yet ready to speak, not quite free of the flashback. I continue to rock him and kiss his hair for many minutes.
"I'm sorry Katniss," he mumbles, his voice is hoarse with unshed tears. I grip him more tightly.
"It's okay, it's not your fault Peeta," I say quickly. He nods against my chest. "Do you want to talk about it?" He shakes his head, and then he pulls back a bit.
"Did I hurt you?" He can't quite meet my eyes.
"No Peeta, no, I'm okay, we're both okay, you fought it off really well," I murmur, stroking his cheek. Truthfully I'm pretty sure my arms will bruise, but I don't want to burden him with that guilt. Besides, he wasn't trying to hurt me, he was trying to prevent me from hurting him; he's still, in that part of his mind that they tampered with, afraid of me. I don't blame him for it, but it hurts a little just the same. I don't let him see that it bothers me though. I've spent enough time making him feel badly for things he can't control, I won't do that to him any more.
I release him just long enough to bring him a glass of water from the bathroom. Once he's taken a few sips I set the glass on the bedside table and encourage him to lie back down. His eyes droop closed almost immediately and he's asleep in minutes. I lie quietly beside him for a long time, stroking his hair, listening to his deep even breathing. I know I won't be able to sleep any longer tonight, and eventually the restlessness drives me out of bed and down the stairs.
I find myself curled up on Peeta's porch swing, listening to the night song of the crickets and frogs, and replaying the evening's events in my mind. I'm grateful that Peeta stopped us; the alcohol had stripped away my inhibitions, made me confess things to Peeta that I wasn't even ready to admit to myself. I'm a little ashamed of my recklessness, of the way my body responded to him, but at the same time I'm burning for more. Each time I've felt this hunger something has happened to stop us: my head wound bleeding, the lightning bolt, and now Peeta himself. It's all so very confusing. I've spent half a lifetime convincing myself that I could never love a man, never marry, yet I can't deny the feelings that his hands and lips raised in me. I squirm involuntarily thinking about his mouth on my throat; my mind might be thankful that we stopped but my body has other ideas.
Then I think about Peeta's episode. It wasn't a particularly bad one, though having it start when I was asleep and vulnerable beside him unnerves me a little, makes me realize that taking anything that might reduce my reaction time is probably a bad idea. Really, what upsets me is the knowledge that I likely brought on the flashback by kissing him, making him confused again about my feelings for him. He's been so restrained since he returned to Twelve, never pushing, never expecting anything, grateful for whatever I offer in return no matter how little. He's been beside me through my depressions and nightmares, backed away when I needed space, gently encouraged my healing, all the while he's never asked a single thing of me. It would be a lie to say that I don't know how he feels about me, I've caught him looking longingly at me when he thinks I don't notice, and I've pretended to be unaware of his erections in bed most mornings.
I didn't understand before how he could love me when he really didn't know me at all, but now I understand even less. Because now he does know me, knows how broken and mistrustful and petulant I am, and somehow he still loves me. He was hijacked and tortured, fed lies and forced to watch altered videos of me ordering his family's deaths and somehow he still loves me. I dragged him through the streets and sewers of the Capitol handcuffed, led him into the fire that scarred him and almost took his life and somehow he still loves me. I've insulted him, run from him, confused him, yelled at him, hidden from him and somehow he still loves me.
Haymitch was right, I'll never deserve him.
The sun is just cresting the horizon when I hear him coming down the stairs. I've spent the last few hours in a dreamlike state, neither sleeping nor fully awake, thinking about Peeta. I'm still not sure that I believe in romantic relationships, after all, I don't have much of a basis for faith in them, but I know that I can't keep pulling him closer then pushing him away. It's not fair to Peeta, he's already had so many reasons, both real and not real, to be confused by and doubtful of my actions. It's not really fair to me either, the world is moving on, I have to decide whether I'm going to move with it, or retreat into my solitude like Haymitch, locking everyone out.
Part of me thinks that's not such a bad idea.
Peeta steps out onto the porch, squinting at me through bleary eyes. He looks insecure and I melt a little. I flash him what I hope is an encouraging smile and pat the seat beside me. He joins me, though he seems a little unsteady on his feet. He leans his head back and closes his eyes. His brow is furrowed. "Are you okay Peeta?" I venture.
He nods, and we sit in silence, rocking gently as the sky slowly brightens, streaks of gold and pink painting the clouds. After a while he counters, "Actually, no, I feel pretty terrible. My head hurts and my stomach is rolling. I think I might have a hangover." He turns his head and opens just one eye to peer at me. "How come you're not hungover?" he asks.
Why am I not? Surely getting drunk once before, more than a year ago now, hasn't given me a higher tolerance? Maybe I simply had less to drink than the others. I shrug. "I'm not sure actually. Maybe it'll hit me later." I smile at him. "Let's get you some mint tea; I think that'll help your stomach anyway." I stand, and then offer him my hand. He takes it gratefully and I lead him into the kitchen.
I make us both tea, he sits at the table, staring at his cup glumly. Finally he blurts out "I'm sorry about last night Katniss." I stiffen, sorry, sorry for what? Sorry for kissing me? Sorry for letting me think he might want to be with me that way? My panicked thoughts swirl, my flight reflex is trigged; I need to get out of here. He senses my alarm, and reaches for my hand before I can flee. He looks straight into my eyes and takes a deep breath. "I'm not sorry about kissing you Katniss, I'm sorry for getting drunk and losing control after." Oh, he means the flashback. I relax a bit, releasing the breath I didn't know I was holding.
"There's nothing to be sorry about Peeta." I reach up to brush his over-long hair out of his eyes and smile at him.
He shakes his head, "No," he insists, "I should have known better, they warned me in the Capitol that alcohol could set me off. It was stupid, and incredibly dangerous of me to have allowed it to happen. I could have hurt you!" His beautiful eyes are filled with pain and self-loathing.
"Peeta," I breathe his name softly, twining my fingers with his, "It's okay, nothing happened, you didn't hurt me. You'll never hurt me Peeta." I don't realize until I say it that I believe it with all my heart. He still looks so sad; I feel an overwhelming need to comfort him. Without a second thought I stand, move around the table and perch gently on his lap, wrapping my arms around him and leaning into his chest. He startles a little, I don't think he expected me to be so forward, but then his arms wrap around me and we cling to each other in the quiet. I don't know what the future will hold, I'm not even sure what I want, but right now it feels so good, so right to hold him, to have him hold me.
"Katniss?" he questions against my hair, but before he can continue Delly bursts into the kitchen, complaining that she's feeling terrible too. Peeta and I quickly pull apart, and I busy myself making Delly some mint tea while Peeta starts breakfast. Being hungover doesn't dampen Delly's chattiness at all and she keeps up a near steady commentary. I know that Peeta and I need to talk, I know he needs, we both need, clarity about our 'relationship', if that's what this is, but now is not the time.