My father used to call this "Indian Summer", when the heat returns for one last visit before autumn fully sets in. The unexpected heat and the overwhelming humidity, right when the weather has already cooled off and everyone is ready for fall, is incredibly frustrating. It's so hot, so damned hot that hunting is all but impossible. I think about going to the lake, floating in the cool waters until my brain doesn't feel fried anymore, but it's too hot for the long walk. I settle for wading in the stream, crouching in the cool flowing water and watching the little fish. It helps, but as soon as I've climbed out and put my clothes back on I'm overheated and miserable again.
I trudge back to Victor's Village earlier than usual and head to my house for once, instead of Peeta's because I can't fathom dealing with another human being right now.
I haven't been here a lot lately and it smells strange, musty. I open the windows to try to get any fresh air in, but there is no breeze today and the house remains stuffy. Whatever, all I really want is to stand in the shower under the cold water until I get wrinkly anyway.
The shower is cold, much colder than the stream, colder even than the lake would have been at this time of year. It feels so good; I can feel my irritation melting away. I even wash my hair with a forgotten bottle of shampoo, lavender scented, probably Flavius left it here long ago, maybe before the Victory Tour. I don't even realize that I'm singing until I notice the way that the shower tiles bounce my voice back at me, making me feel like I'm singing a duet.
When I finally drag myself out I'm feeling about as good as I get. I wrap a fluffy towel around my wet hair but leave the rest of my body damp and uncovered. I have no desire to put my hunting clothes back on; even cooled off as I am from the shower I can't bear the thought of putting on the heavy long garments so I head into the bedroom to look for something cooler.
There aren't many clothes left in this house I realize, my things have been gradually migrating to Peeta's house. Or maybe not so gradually, since he's only been back for 6 months. Still, I find some underclothes in a drawer and slip them on. I take a deep breath before opening the large closet. Apart from hiding in here from time to time during bad days I've never really used it. At the back are rows of garment bags, inside which I know are all of the gowns that I 'designed' as part of my talent. Really, Cinna designed them all, sewed them with all of the love and attention to detail that he put into everything, but I've never really looked at any of them. Off to the side are some of the Cinna designs that I've actually worn, or at least tried on, there are too many to have had occasions for all of them, and there's another large cupboard of them in the basement. My heart breaks a little as I finger the fabrics and remember the warm, brave man who made them. I force myself to turn away, not yet strong enough to face the guilt and agony of his loss.
The other side of the closet holds the clothing that my mother bought for me when I returned from the Games. She felt it was important that a person of my new standing 'look the part', so she had purchased simple but well-made dresses and blouses and shoes in the typical District 12 style. And I had, of course, all but ignored them, preferring to stubbornly hold onto my old clothes and my old life. I smile wryly, if only I'd known what an impossibility that was. These clothes are easier to look at, there are fewer negative connotations associated with them. I'm pleasantly surprised to find a couple of soft, lightweight cotton sundresses, perfect for an unbearably hot day like today. I pull one from its hanger, pale blue with white flowers, subtle and not too fussy. It fits well enough, not perfectly like Cinna's creations always did but I figure it's good enough. I'm not likely to find myself on one of the Capitol's worst dressed shows anyway. I'm not thrilled by how many of my scars are displayed by the thin shoulder straps and knee length of the design but it doesn't constrict me and I don't feel overheated wearing it. Plus the skirt kind of swishes around my legs, helping to cool me more. It's almost nice.
I leave my feet bare, my hunting boots are too hot and there's no way I'm going to dig further through this closet looking for silly dressy shoes, though I'm sure there are some in there. Bare feet feel best anyway.
The shower and getting distracted by memories of Cinna mean it's quite late when I cross the green carrying my boots, my hair messily braided and hanging damply down my back. I'll re-braid it when I get to Peeta's house, my brush and hair ties are all there anyway. I call his name as I enter and I can hear him coming down the stairs, speaking as he does. "Hey, where were you, I was getting worried when you…" He stops mid-word as he walks into the kitchen and sees me, his jaw dropping almost comically. His eyes roam over me, from my bare shoulders to the hem of my skirt and down to my bare feet and I feel my cheeks heating up.
"What?" I ask, defensively, crossing my arms across my chest.
"I'm sorry," he starts, his eyes still wide, "It's just, wow, I haven't seen you in a dress since…" his brow furrows slightly, and I remember, the last dress I wore was the wedding gown that became a Mockingjay and got Cinna killed. Which makes me even more tense.
I scowl, "It's hot, and my hunting clothes are all too heavy." I don't want to think about Cinna or wedding gowns or all of the ways I've hurt Peeta, and I'm feeling angry and foolish for wearing the sundress and uncomfortable under his hungry gaze. This isn't who I am; I'm dirty pants and torn shirts and never warranting a second glance.
He clears his throat and continues, softly, "You look beautiful Katniss, that's all." He turns away, but not before I notice the tips of his ears turning red. He busies himself with pulling things from the refrigerator. "I made salad for dinner, I hope that's okay, it was just too hot to think about cooking."
I relax a little, and begin to set the table. "That sounds great." I tell him, sincerely. When we're seated and he's dished out heaping plates of greens with a sweet raspberry dressing, I add "I'm sorry I was late, I was hot and cranky, and when I went looking for something cool to wear I got lost in remembering Cinna." He nods sympathetically, and I continue, "And I'm sorry that I snapped at you." Lately I've been trying, really trying, to apologize when I know I'm acting like a brat, but it hasn't been easy. Dr. Aurelius encourages me to step back every time I lose my temper and look at the situation as if I was an observer. I've rolled my eyes more than once at the suggestion but I find when I do I'm almost always the one who has jumped to conclusions or gone off for no reason. It's infuriating, really, to always be wrong. I can't do anything about my prickly personality, but I'm trying to at least make amends for the worst of my behavior.
Peeta, of course, absolves me with a smile and a wave of his hand, like he always does. "The heat was unbearable today, wasn't it?" I nod. "No one did any work in town today, which I'm glad for since I didn't even turn on the oven." I can't blame him for that, possibly the only thing worse than wandering the woods in heavy pants and a long shirt today would have been toiling over a hot oven.
"Did your parents ever close the bakery during heat waves?" The question is out of my mouth before I can stop it, and I stiffen, hoping it doesn't set Peeta off. He merely smirks though.
"My mother never closed the bakery if there was a chance we could sell something. Heat waves were often our best sales days since nobody else wanted to cook." He smiles crookedly, "Though sometimes my mother would disappear for a while, so that she could get away from the ovens. And any time my mother wasn't in the bakery it was a lot more fun for us." Of course the witch would leave her children to slave in the heat while she went elsewhere. I can't keep the scowl off my face, but Peeta merely shrugs, "She wasn't much of a baker anyway, it's not like it would have been helpful had she stayed." That's fair I suppose.
"So what did you do today then?" I seldom, still, ask him what he does when we're apart, assuming generally that he's followed our typical routines, but if he didn't turn on the oven then he didn't spend his morning baking or delivering and visiting. And I'm curious.
He chuckles. "I painted for a while. I visited Haymitch. I had two cold showers…" I start to giggle at that. He raises an eyebrow.
"I had a long, cold shower too, and that was after I spent a couple of hours huddled in the stream trying to cool down."
"Great minds think alike." Peeta says. I wrinkle my nose at the old saying, I remember my mother using it but I never believed it.
"We're just both sensible about keeping our cool." I state. I swear I hear him snicker, but he quickly gathers up our plates and turns away.
The sun has set and the temperature outside is finally falling, I prop open the back door to let a breeze in as I quickly wash up the dishes. Peeta disappears elsewhere in the house. As I put away the last one he reappears.
"I – I want to show you something." He rubs the back of his neck, not making eye contact with me and looking so shy and uncertain. In this moment he reminds me so much of the boy who, in school, would meet my eyes so briefly only to look away every time. I try to give him my most encouraging smile, though I'm incredibly concerned about what he could possibly be so afraid of showing me. He loops his fingers through mine and leads me towards his studio. I stop just outside the door and look at him with trepidation, I never go into his studio, I know he uses his art as therapy and I imagine there are lots of things in there that I shouldn't see. Peeta seems to understand my hesitance. "There aren't any of those paintings in here anymore, don't worry," he chuckles, "But I wouldn't go into the basement if I was you."
I follow him into his studio cautiously, still worried about what I might find. True to his word the stacks of canvasses have been cleared out and the large room feels almost empty. A drop cloth covers much of the floor, the only furniture is a bookshelf filled with supplies, a pair of armless chairs that I recognize as being from the dining room set the house originally came with, and an easel. When I look at the easel my breath catches. There is a large canvas balanced on it, easily three feet wide. Peeta has painted my lake, in full glorious detail. It's utterly breathtaking; he's rendered the deep blue of the water, the dappled green of the trees, even the smooth rock where my father and I would dry off after swimming, all of it in such painstaking detail that I feel like I'm looking through a window instead of at a board covered in paint. I can't imagine why Peeta would be nervous about showing me such an incredibly, beautiful masterpiece. Then as I inch closer I see it, and I start to cry. Standing at the water's edge are two figures, shown from behind. A dark haired man, his pant legs rolled up, ripples radiating outward on the surface of the water as if his toes have just breached it. And holding his hand is a little girl in a red plaid shirt with her hair in two dark braids.
Peeta hasn't just painted the lake as he sees it. He's painted it as I see it. As the place where my father's spirit lives on.
I am so completely overwhelmed, I turn and throw myself at Peeta, wrapping my arms tightly around him and sobbing into his shoulder. He holds me close, but he's tense, and I realize that he's not sure if I like it. I pull back enough to cup his cheeks in my hand. "Thank you," I gasp out. "It's so beautiful, so perfect." His smile lights up the room. I'm crying and laughing and stroking his cheeks with my thumbs and impulsively I lean up and kiss him.
I'm hit with a wave of hunger so intense it makes the feeling I experienced on the beach seem like a whisper.
Peeta must feel it too because the kiss quickly deepens and his hands begin to move up and down my back. I'm clutching at him, frantic to feel every part of him under my hands. When his tongue pokes into my mouth I whimper and wind my fingers through his curls. I want to devour him, and it seems like he feels the same way. He slowly walks us to the side of the room, and then falls back into one of the chairs, pulling me with him so that I'm straddling his lap, never breaking the kiss. My dress is hiked up around my waist but I barely notice, so focused am I on the feeling of his mouth, his tongue stroking mine insistently. He winds my braid around his hand, pulling gently so that my head falls back, leaving my neck exposed to his exploring tongue and teeth. I moan softly as he sucks on my collarbone, electric shocks running through my chest, heat pooling between my legs. I can feel myself getting wet and I squirm unintentionally. Peeta groans and thrusts his hips upwards, pressing his very evident erection against my core, the thin cotton of my panties offering no barrier to the rough fabric of his trousers.
I gasp and he pulls back slightly, panting and eyes wide, but I lean forward again, capturing his mouth, kissing him hungrily, grinding myself against his hardness with abandon. His hands are frenzied, running up and down my back, coming to rest on my buttocks, pulling me against him as he thrusts his hips against me again. My entire body is on fire, I've never felt anything like this before, I'm trembling with need. I arch back, rocking against him, eyes screwed shut, moaning his name. His hands on my hips rock me against him, increasing our speed, the delicious friction of his thrusts pushing me higher. He moans, low and deep, like a train rumbling in his chest as I lean forward to lick and kiss and bite at his neck, his hot skin tasting sweet and salty and intoxicating. The pressure in my belly is relentless, I'm chasing something. My nipples are rigid, when I press my chest against his the friction sends shockwaves from my breasts down, down, the throbbing between my legs becoming almost unbearable. I whimper, "Peeta, please, oh please," I have no idea what I'm begging for, but Peeta does, pulling me tightly to him he thrusts his hips more insistently, one hand my tailbone, pressing me against him.
"Let go Katniss," he murmurs in my ear. "Come for me." I grab his face in my hands, panting, and lock my eyes with his blue ones which are shining with love and lust, willing him to see what I don't have the words to tell him. Then I am nothing but sensation, my body spasms and shudders, I cry out loudly as waves crash over and over me, until I fall forward, spent, resting my head on Peeta's shoulder, quivering and panting while his hands gently stroke my back. As my body calms down I feel myself blushing furiously, I can't bear to look at him, I'm so embarrassed. As if he senses my unease he pulls back to look at me, tipping my chin up, and I see in his eyes awe and wonder. "That was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." He whispers, his smile lighting up his entire face. I lean in and kiss him gently, then tuck my head into the crook of his neck. My mind is overloaded, I have no idea how to even begin to process what just happened, or how I feel about it. Though his cock twitches stubbornly against the inside of my thigh, Peeta simply holds me and continues stroking my back and hair, kissing my head and murmuring sweet things into my hair. After a long while he kisses my temple and says, "Let's go to bed Katniss."
When we're tucked into his big bed together, my head on his shoulder, our legs entwined under the sheets, I lean up and whisper in his ear "Thank you Peeta, that was the most incredible thing I've ever experienced."
He kisses my forehead and says softly "I love you Katniss." I drift off to sleep, hoping that someday I'll be able to say those words back to him.