All of my snares are empty today. It's not surprising, really, it's getting quite late in the season, there'll be snow before much longer, but it's disheartening just the same. I wander the woods for a long while, not shooting, just searching for the peace I usually find out here, but today it's elusive, and I find myself tired and cold and just generally cranky. There's no way I can spend another full day wandering out here, even as much as I love my woods.
I make my way slowly back, not even bothering to be quiet. Not that I'm ever loud of course, but I have no intention of hunting right now. I do spot some oyster mushrooms at the base of a giant oak tree and tuck them into my game bag. It's not much, but at least I'm not coming home empty handed. Tomorrow I'll go to my lake, there might still be ducks there, and plenty of fish.
It's early when I reach Victor's Village, not even noon. I know Peeta won't be home for lunch today, he hasn't been all week. Or last week. He hasn't come home for lunch since his team started construction at the bakery site, except on Sundays when there is no construction. As much as it pains me to admit, I miss him, terribly. It's lonely in the big house without him. I'm lonely at home, I'm lonely in my woods. All of the routines I've been depending on for months seem to have disappeared. The garden is done for the season, covered now in a thick layer of leaves and mulch, resting until next year. I'm sure Dr Aurelius would have plenty of ideas about what I should fill my time with, but I'm not interested in hearing them. I used to be happy being alone, depending only on myself. What's happened to me?
Part of me wants to go home anyway and prove to myself that I don't need anybody, but the piece of me that is lonely and miserable wins out. I contemplate going to see Greasy Sae at her stall in the marketplace, but with an empty game bag and the lunch rush just beginning I'm not sure she'd really have time for me. Delly is still in Thirteen with her brother, and Dalton has his hands too full with building his house and barn to be entertaining me. That leaves Haymitch.
When I try to push the back door to Haymitch's house open I'm met with resistance. It takes a firm shove with my shoulder to open it. When I force it wide enough to squeeze through I can see why: garbage is piled up against it. In fact, nearly the entire kitchen floor is covered in trash. "Haymitch!" I bellow, trying not to gag at the stench of the sink overflowing with dishes and stagnant water. It's early yet, he's probably sleeping, but the state of his kitchen aggravates me enough to want to wake him.
When he staggers into the kitchen I can tell that I haven't woken him, that he's been up long enough to be several drinks into restoring his perpetual drunken state. Or possibly he hasn't slept at all, judging by the deep circles under his eyes. My heart softens a little for him. His nightmares are just as bad as mine and Peeta's, and he's forced to face them alone. My compassion is short-lived though, as Haymitch belches loudly and sneers. "What do you want, Sweetheart?" he growls.
"What happened in here Haymitch? Where's Carter?" I ask, referring to the young woman I hired only a couple of weeks ago to clean Haymitch's house and help keep an eye on him.
"Quit." Is all he offers. I scowl.
"Dammit Haymitch, that's the fifth one!"
"Sixth," he corrects, and I swear I see an amused glint in his eyes. "She said, now how did she put it?" he continues, the amusement becoming more evident. "Oh yes, she said 'there's not enough money in Panem to put up with a degenerate like me'. Then she stormed off. Good riddance, she was bossy anyway." I can't stifle a laugh, before long I will have gone through the entire population of Twelve trying to find someone to look after him.
I begin picking up some of the trash while Haymitch falls into a chair and finds a partial bottle of something on the floor, which he proceeds to drink straight from the bottle. "Have you eaten?" I ask him once I've cleared a path from the door. He shrugs, which I take as a no. I reach for my game bag, hanging from the door knob, and withdraw some of the mushrooms I gathered earlier in the woods. There are eggs in Haymitch's fridge and onions in his nearly bare pantry. With them I throw together a pair of simple omelets, and even find clean plates to put them on. Haymitch plows through his, seemingly without even pausing for a breath and I feel guilty, it's been too long since I checked on him. I push my untouched plate towards him, mumbling about not being hungry. He takes it without comment, being from the Seam neither of us can stand wasting food. He inhales the second omelet almost as quickly as the first, and then leans back in his chair with the nearly empty bottle and a rare look of contentment on his face.
"Your boy doesn't bring me bread anymore," he grouses. There's an uncomfortable squeeze in my chest at his words. Peeta hasn't been baking very much at all lately. He really hasn't been doing any of the things we used to do together. He's so excited to take off to town every morning, and he stays there all day, working on the bakery. In the evenings we still sometimes work a little on the book after dinner but he's distracted. He goes to bed early too, and though I join him he doesn't seem interested in anything but sleep. I miss him so much it hurts.
"He's really busy with the bakery rebuild," I tell Haymitch, and I'm surprised by the note of melancholy in my voice. I know he hears it, but for once he doesn't make fun of me for it.
"You could be down there with him you know, helping him." His voice is soft, not judgemental. I shrug.
"I don't know anything about construction Haymitch, I'd be in the way. I can't imagine the people in charge would want me underfoot."
Haymitch shoots me a look, a look I know well. The look that says he can't quite believe how stupid I am.
"Peeta is in charge, Sweetheart. I have no doubt he'd be happy to find you something to do."
"I know it's his work site, Haymitch," I say, rolling my eyes, "But the guys directing everything aren't going to want me getting in the way of everything."
He shakes his head at me. "Peeta is directing everything. Haven't you been down there at all?"
I scowl at him. "I go every Sunday to see the progress, Haymitch."
"Yeah, but have you been while the men are actually working?" I shake my head, I can't guess what would be different except for the obvious; that workers would be there, working.
"I swear you don't even know that boy sometimes," he says with an odd edge to his voice. "He's in his element out there Sweetheart, interacting with all of those people. Keeping busy. Doing something meaningful." His words sting, I don't like the implication. That I'm not doing anything meaningful or that Peeta wasn't doing anything meaningful when he was spending his days with me. Both probably.
He rises from the table, leaving the empty plates in place. "Go see him. See what he's accomplishing. Be part of it." With that he staggers back out of the kitchen, leaving me alone. Again.
...
There are reasons I'm a good hunter, and the ability to track without being seen is one of them. I've been following Peeta for the better part of two hours already and not a single person has noticed. With the chaos of rebuilding all around town there are plenty of places to hide and still see everything. Right now I'm sitting in the back of a supply cart, huddled between stacks of bricks.
Peeta is only about 30 yards away, close enough that I can hear virtually everything he says. A group of men surround him, hanging on his every word. He speaks to them with authority, when he asks them to do things he doesn't hold back or double check that it's okay to ask. He never once appears flustered, though he's spoken to dozens of people since I've been following him, about dozens of different things.
Most of the men on Peeta's crew are Seam, before the war none of them would likely have ever spoken to Peeta, with his obvious merchant looks, and certainly never worked with him, but now there is an easy comradery among them. But more than that, there's a deep respect. It'd be uplifting… except all I can feel is confusion, tinged with sadness.
I shake my head; this isn't the place to get lost in my thoughts. Silently I slip away, again unnoticed, and make my way out of the town proper. Though I don't intentionally head there I'm not surprised to find myself in the meadow. The meadow grasses are still tall, but now they're frost damaged and yellow. Still, when I fling myself to the cold ground they obscure me completely. I lay there for a long time, watching the clouds drift by as the sky changes from blue to pink to Peeta's favourite orange. Another lifetime ago, before my father died, my mother would sometimes bring Prim and me here, and we'd lie on a blanket, finding shapes in the clouds. I was always terrible at it, they all just looked like clouds to me, but Prim was brilliant. She had such an imagination, such an ability to see potential. I miss her so much. She'd be able to tell me what to do. Because my jaunt through town today proved that Haymitch is right, Peeta is a completely different person when I'm not around.
The Peeta I followed today is confident and outgoing, a born leader. Powerful even. In full control of each situation he steps into. So much like the Peeta who stood up to armed Peacekeepers in District 11 when we were on our Victory Tour. Like the charismatic boy who charmed Caesar Flickerman over and over. Like the Peeta who joined the careers to keep me safe. He's even a little bit like the Peeta who insisted on working Haymitch and me half to death to train us for the Quell, though this Peeta is forceful in a much kinder way.
But the Peeta I followed is nothing like the Peeta who holds me at night. The Peeta who tolerates my kisses and clumsy explorations but who never moves his hands from my hips nor ever initiates anything between us. The Peeta who is quick to pull away and even quicker to hide in the bathroom when things get too intense.
I thought he was tentative, even a little shy, because he was still a bit broken. But the man moving effortlessly between groups of townspeople isn't tentative or broken.
Maybe I make him broken.
He often seems almost wary around me. When I grab his hand or touch his arms there's always a slight hesitation before he responds, like he has to convince himself not to pull back. I didn't see that in any of his interactions today, he was quick to initiate physical contact, to offer a handshake, to clap someone on the back, I think he touched virtually everyone I saw him with today, men and women both. Maybe he's more cautious with me because of the hijacking?
Or maybe he just doesn't want you.
The thought feels like a kick in the stomach. He loves me, he told me he loves me!
You're not worthy of his love.
That I know to be true, I've never been worthy of him, and even less so now after all I've done. Another thought pounds in my head: what if he's just putting up with me because he feels sorry for me? Sweet and kind Peeta, caring for the less fortunate has always been his way. Is damaged, insane Katniss a project for him? Worthless, you're worthless.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, hard, until lights burst behind them. Stop stop stop I plead with the voices in my head.
When I open my eyes again I'm staring at millions of stars suspended in a pitch black sky. And I'm freezing cold. Shit! I don't know how I could possibly have fallen asleep on the cold ground in the meadow but I must have, and it's late. The night is moonless and I'm disoriented, when I rise shakily to my feet I'm stiff and achy from the cold which feels like it has frozen all of my joints. I walk back to Victor's Village as quickly as my aching body will allow. Peeta will be frantic, wondering where I am.
But when I approach the house it's mostly dark.
There's a small light on in the kitchen, I enter through that door but Peeta isn't there. A plate of dinner, my dinner I guess, sits on the stove. Cold. I tip toe through the main floor, he must have had an episode, be cowering in a corner somewhere. But the main floor is empty.
I work my way upstairs with my heart hammering in my chest, and am shocked when I find him in his bedroom. In his bed.
Fast asleep.
Still, I approach him quietly, cautiously, but he's definitely sleeping, not passed out. He's dressed in pajamas, curled up on his side, snoring softly. Peeta is not a night owl by any definition, but it's only 8:30. He ate dinner and went to bed without even wondering where I was? Even though I've had dinner with him every single day for months? Wasn't he concerned about me? I could have been injured or dead, didn't he care?
I lower myself to sit on the floor cross-legged, the cold still hasn't fully left my joints and it's uncomfortable to sit like this but I stay for a couple of hours, looking at him, trying to figure him out, but Peeta is as confusing in sleep as he is awake. In the darkness I can't see his features, I can only make out the shape of him, can barely discern the soft rise and fall of his shoulder as he breathes in the slow, even way that suggests deep sleep.
I war with myself, I want to run back to my own house and lock the door, show him that I don't need him either, but the thought of facing the night alone keeps me rooted to the spot. Finally I climb into bed beside him, still dressed in my hunting clothes. I lie with my back to his back, on the very edge of the bed, 18 inches of space between us. Sleep isn't going to come easily tonight I'm sure, with the unintentional nap I took earlier and all of the thoughts swirling in my head. Staring out the window at the blackness, the loneliness presses down on me again. Without my permission silent tears begin to slip down my cheeks.
I feel the bed move as Peeta rolls over behind me and I hold my breath. His arm reaches over and draws me towards him, my back to his chest. For a moment I melt into him, his warmth, the security of his embrace. But his breathing is so deep and even that I'm certain he's still sleeping. I'm sure he doesn't even realize I'm here; his body is just so used to reaching for me in the night that he does it subconsciously.
My tears fall a little less silently, until I'm choking back sobs, trying not to wake him.
It is a couple of hours before dawn when I give up on the idea of sleeping and drag myself out of bed, feeling miserable. Not wanting to wake Peeta I make my way downstairs silently. I get ready in the little washroom off the kitchen, the mirror above the sink revealing red rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks. My dinner from last night still sits on the stove, untouched. Impulsively I take the food off the plate and wrap it in a bit of paper, tucking that into a bag along with a waterskin. Then I head out into the cold and begin walking to my father's lake. I hope I'll feel his spirit there today. I need him.