Here it is, the third part of the story that was only supposed to be a one-shot. Three cheers for excess.
A million, billion thanks to the wonderful Chelzie, who is both a flawless beta and a lovely friend. Without her, this installment would be a mosh pit of typos. Also, shout-out to the ever-so-fabulous loving-mellark for the gorgeous banner. The bird has a little crown and everything! How cute is that?
Anyhow, I hope you enjoy the chapter! Chelzie told me to put in a tissue warning, so just grab a box of Kleenex, and we'll all get through this together.
When they emerge from his room, their fingers are cemented together and entirely unwilling to part. Prince Rye is propped up against the opposite wall, his eyes growing wider and softer as he takes in his brother. Within moments, they're bolted in a bone-crushing hug.
Katniss can barely hear Peeta whisper, "Thank you for bringing her here."
When they pull apart, Rye really seems to take in his brother's appearance – sunken cheeks, shell-shaped purple shadows under his eyes, lost muscle mass – and he braces his jaw.
"What has happened to you?"
The brittleness in his tone makes Peeta turn the color of laundered bedsheets. On instinct, his fingers wander back to Katniss's arm, ghosting over the tender flesh of her wrist. She missed his constant need to touch her. She's grateful that, unlike most other things, that part of him has remained the same.
"We can't speak here," he says in a low voice. Then his eyebrow cocks. "The roof?"
The turret's floor space isn't very impressive. She assumes it's only intended to hold a gunman or two in the case of an attack on the kingdom, but there's enough room for the three of them. She crouches down against one of the cement blocks to shield herself from the cold, folding herself up like parchment. There's been a significant temperature drop, which has brought in a brutal wind and an army of storm clouds from the west. The sunset is entirely buried. Katniss imagines their time up here is limited.
Peeta comes to stand by Katniss while Rye leans against the opposite side of the curve. All eyes are directed to the youngest prince, whose gaze is brilliant but hollow. They wait.
"I'm seventeen," he finally says, his already-fragile voice breaking on the last syllable. Suddenly he's no longer a prince nor a man, just a desperate child filling out much larger skin.
Rye scratches a line over his scalp. "They shouldn't have made you come here," he sighs. "They should've chosen me. Or they should've waited."
But Peeta's shaking his head. "It doesn't matter anymore." He shoves the heels of his palms into the sockets of his eyes. "I'm here now. I—I have to figure this out. It's my responsibility."
In spite of the finality of his words, she can see the weight this burden carries, carving out his flesh and robbing the pigment from his skin and eyes. He's a sweet kid, a smart kid, but he's not ready for any of this. Not rule, not marriage, and especially not being a father. All Katniss has done by coming here is thumbtack yet another brick to his already devastating supply.
Rye takes a step inward.
"Maybe—look, I know this is difficult, but maybe you should speak with Madge."
Peeta's face whips up. His cheeks are pale. Katniss wants to cuddle him and warm the life back into him, but she can't pull herself from the cement blocks.
"No," Peeta whispers.
"Look, she won't be angry at you—"
"Exactly," Peeta hisses, curling his fingers against his palms. This turns his knuckles white. "She doesn't deserve to be dragged into this. She's tried so hard to make this easier for me and has been nothing but kind. I can't repay her by confessing that the reason I can't love her is because I'm in love with someone else. Who's pregnant."
Katniss's hands move to her belly, the gesture almost intuitive.
"But she deserves to understand why her husband can't get out of bed." Rye's eyes flash darker, his shoulders growing rigid, lips curling. Katniss feels her muscles contract.
She shouldn't have come, she realizes. She's just making things more difficult – for Peeta and his wife, for Peeta and Rye, for Peeta and his kingdom. For everyone. This was a mistake.
The two brothers remain static on opposite sides of the hatch, mirror images of canines waiting to pounce. This isn't Peeta. The Peeta who Katniss knew was always calm, gentle, and poised. Not aggressive. Not angry.
So she pushes off the floor, reaching out to touch Peeta's elbow. Her touch is all it takes; the contact alone drains the stiffness from his body, and she watches as his muscles sag like thawing dough. He turns to look at her, the blues in his eyes paling.
"What have they done to you?" she chokes out, barely. The sky growls above them. A crow squawks its warning cry.
These words are enough to break him, making his skeleton and his resolve disintegrate as he covers his face with his hands. She moves to hold him, threading her fingers in his hair, and he tucks his face against her neck. His cheeks are hot and a little wet.
"I don't know what to do," he says, his voice muffled against her skin.
Katniss looks beyond him to Rye, who's ducking toward the hatch. "I'm going to find Madge," he says as he looks to Peeta expectantly, as if anticipating a protest, but nothing comes. Soon, he has disappeared, leaving Katniss to comfort the boy she shattered in the first place.
Madge arrives just after the storm hits. Katniss has managed to drive Peeta from the roof and into the small space below, their skin iridescent with raindrops. Thunder barks above the hatch, a few droplets leaking through the seal, and she moves Peeta against the wall.
"I have to tell her," Peeta croaks just before Madge comes. The rawness in his voice makes Katniss's lungs feel like tar pits.
She sweeps his curls from his face, folding herself into his side. Then there's the shuffle of footsteps on the stairs, sparkling off the cobblestone walls. Katniss pulls away from Peeta as the silhouettes of shadows dancing against the orange glow grow bigger, bigger, bigger.
"I've found Madge," Rye pants as he reaches the top of the steps. Only a few seconds later, the princess emerges. Her gown's train ripples over the wooden planks, and her fingers are folded anxiously over her belly. Her eyes are wide. So unsuspecting.
When she sees Peeta, however, a relieved smile flits over her features; she bounds across the small space, taking him in her arms. Katniss tries not to grimace, pointing her gaze at the ceiling. Her cheeks feel like fire. This cavity smells like moss and rotting lumber.
"You're feeling better, dear?" Her hands cup his cheeks.
"I—I don't really know, I—"
"Let's get you something to eat, yes?" When Katniss finally marshals the courage to peek, she sees the woman's blue eyes sparkling. Madge reaches for his hand. "I'm sure Rooba can make you something wonderful. She could have it prepared in—"
"Madge."
She halts, her brows lifting, lips pursed. Katniss looks from the princess to Rye, whose face has flushed a patchy pink, possibly from running up so many flights of stairs or perhaps from anxiety over what's about to come.
Peeta pinches the bridge of his nose, then lets his hands flop down to his sides.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers.
Madge must not understand the gravity of his apology – she merely cocks her head to the side as if she's shocked to hear those words. "Don't be, dear. It'll all be better soon."
She tries to pull him toward the staircase, but he doesn't budge.
"I don't think it will," he says quietly.
There's something in his tone that makes Katniss's heart clench, the organ feeling like it's folding in on itself; it triggers something in Madge, too, because there's a shift of hue in her cheeks as her shoulders grow rigid, her hand falling away from Peeta's.
Her eyes flicker toward Katniss. There's no anger there, no suspicion, just… defeat.
"What's—what's going on?"
Peeta's jaw strains out, the tendons in his neck flexing as he squeezes his eyes shut. Katniss watches his hands ball into fists, the tension shooting from his wrists and up through his shoulders, neck, face.
She wants the floor to swallow her whole.
"Katniss is pregnant," Peeta says.
His voice is oddly calm, disproportionately counteracting the stiffness wiring his muscles. It would frighten Katniss if her panic wasn't reserved for Madge's reaction.
All eyes in the shadowy corridor are on Peeta's wife as his admission settles, melting in with the instrumental of thunder and rain on the plywood. But her confusion soon morphs into horror, and her collar tenses as she tries to suck in a breath.
When Madge looks at her, Katniss expects daggers to be shooting her way. And maybe they are, in some respects. But not the blazing, jagged sort she anticipates; instead, they cut a much cleaner incision, straight through her chest. Suddenly, Katniss wants to take it all back. Although she knows next to nothing about Peeta's wife, watching the poor girl crumble after not having done anything wrong has its domino effect, knocking her flat.
"You—you're certain?" is all she says, her voice wavering in its pathetic attempt to remain strong.
Peeta nods slowly, carving the knuckle of his index finger into his temple. "It was before, I promise. I… I never meant to hurt you."
But Madge is cupping her own neck, shaking her head. "It's—I know you wouldn't, but—" She chokes out some sort of strangled cry, and then swallows the sound as if startled by it. "Oh my god."
"Madge—"
"I need to go," she whispers, covering her mouth like she's about to be sick. And then she's spinning around, fleeing back down the staircase.
Peeta's face is the color of lily petals. His cheeks look like stone.
Katniss reaches for his hand, and although he doesn't resist, his fingers feel like ice.
Two separate guest rooms are prepared for Katniss and Prince Rye, in between which rests a small parlor. Long after the sun has plummeted and the storm has conquered the sky, Katniss drifts into this area to find Rye standing by a bookshelf, his fingertips skimming the manuscripts' leather spines. He acknowledges Katniss's entrance with a stiff nod. Nothing else.
She feels hopelessly out of place here. Being treated like a houseguest is far beyond what she deserves, especially after what she's done. Everything in her body feels taught and angry with her; she ducks into a chair, waiting for the feeling to return to her systems.
"I shouldn't have come here."
She hears Rye sigh, although he doesn't turn to look at her. "Maybe not."
Her thin knees click together. She looks down at her trembling hands.
"I just—I thought things would fall into place, you know? I thought if I saw him once more, I'd have closure. And I'd be doing the right thing. But—I've messed things up, haven't I?"
At first, she thinks Rye's blocked her out entirely, because a minute passes with no response. But without warning he pivots, leaning his elbow on the wooden ledge of the shelf.
"Things were a mess before you showed up, Katniss. You made Peeta confront what he's been trying to bottle up for months."
"But he hates me now." Her voice sounds like a weak sparrow's chirp.
She doesn't have to look to Rye to feel his frown digging into her flesh.
"Ms. Everdeen," he warns, his tone authoritative like a commanding father's. "You understand absolutely nothing about my brother if you don't know that when he loves, he does so with all he is. He's confused, exhausted, and more stressed than anyone his age should have to be. But he's not angry with you. With himself, certainly. But definitely not with you."
Katniss swallows, then opens her mouth to respond – to thank him? To apologize? – but he pads off to his room and disappears behind the door before she can get out a word.
She's neither been given a bed this comfortable before nor managed to remain so restless for an entire night, flopping like a dying fish between the sheets. The fabric feels too soft to be so cold; the bed's too wide to be so empty. And every time she thinks about how Peeta is only a few stories above her, yet entirely closed off to her company, her heart wrings itself out.
When morning comes, her body sags like a sopping garment. She's supposed to leave in an hour. She doesn't think Peeta will come to say goodbye.
Revisiting yesterday's events, it doesn't make sense how things crumbled this quickly. When it had been just her and Peeta, curling up in his bed as she told him she was pregnant, they'd both been terrified, but united – they would do this together, they had decided.
But the second they left his room, their harmony dissolved, leaving Katniss back to where she began. Or maybe even a step before that. At least preceding her visit, the possibility of resolution had existed. Now, with her fragile hopes shattered, she'll have to return home with a baby in her belly and no ties to its father. A father who's supposed to love her, according to Rye. But each second of his absence makes her doubt rise.
She's standing before her room's looking glass, pleating her hair with trembling, tired fingers when she hears a soft knock on the door. Her body stills, and her heart flutters. Peeta? She doesn't want to get her hopes up, but she can't stop the electric current pulsing through her system as she bounds to the door, taking the handle in her fist and throwing it open.
Her heart plummets contracting into a painful wad of tissue and capillaries.
"Y-Your Highness?" Katniss stammers, curtsying pathetically for Princess Madge, who stands on the opposite side of the threshold. Her cheeks are flushed red, but her eyes glint with something that Katniss would think – if she didn't know better – resembled fear.
Madge's windpipe bobs under the pressure of her swallowing. "May I speak with you?"
"Uh, y-yeah." Her eyelids flutter a little and she scrambles backward to hold the door open. "By all means, please come in."
Madge smiles mutedly before stepping over the threshold, her bare feet silent against the floorboards. Her heartbeat stumbles in anticipation as she watches the princess slowly wade around the room, and Katniss tries to keep her hands from quivering. Madge is scoping out the decor, her fingers folded over her stomach, chin pointed up.
Then, finally, she pivots to face Katniss. And she stills.
"I went to speak with Peeta this morning," she begins. "And I found him sitting at his window, painting."
Katniss reacts with wide eyes, as if this should be a surprise. But how could it be one to her? She's devoted years to admiring the way his hands can manipulate a brush, watching him bring his colors to life with gentle, easy strokes.
So, all she says is, "Oh?"
Madge looks to her feet.
"He hasn't painted in a month, Ms. Everdeen."
Katniss feels her stomach coil.
"Oh."
"And—" Her eyes flicker back to Katniss, the blue spangling with an impossible combination of warmth and devastation. "He was painting you, holding a child."
Oh.
As Katniss's calves flatten against the bed, she steadies herself by gripping the mahogany bedpost. Her face feels enflamed, her stomach doing wild vaults, and she opens her mouth to speak, but what is there to say? Is there anything to say?
She looks to Madge, completely lost.
And then, the woman closes her eyes.
"I want you to stay," Madge says.
The birds chirping beyond the castle walls fall silent. Static fills the room. Katniss wonders if she's dead. Yes, she's probably dead.
"Stay?" she, somehow, manages to squeak. "As in—"
"Here. Stay in our palace." A drop of water squeezes from Madge's closed lids, collecting on her golden lashes. "Peeta… he needs you. And I can't bear watching him wither any further, not when there's something I can do about it."
Katniss tries to find the joke. There must be something she's missing. "I—"
"The palace can always use another maid," Madge continues. "I know it isn't glamorous, and I wish I could promise you more. But… Peeta's in line for the throne. He must stay. You might as well, too, if it will keep him alive."
Katniss pinches her skin. She isn't dreaming.
"I—thank you, Your Highness," she whispers, knowing it's not enough, because nothing could ever compensate for this gift, but it's all she can give now.
The two ladies stand across from each other, silence coating the room in an elastic sheen, one that makes the space seem much smaller, pushing them together. Katniss can hardly breathe.
"You'll still be married though, right?" she whispers.
"Yes. We must be."
"Good." There's a long pause, in which the birds begin to sing again. "And the baby?"
"It'll have to be a secret." She bites her lip. "But—it's Peeta's child. If you're careful, he… he can still see it. Should still see it."
She feels like all of her future's jagged, uncertain edges are beginning to smooth; although not everything is resolved, it's less threatening, more inviting, more… possible.
Still, she has one more question.
"Please, forgive me for being blunt, but…" The looming words sear her tongue, and Madge's eyes flutter open, focusing on Katniss. "Why are you doing this?"
Madge sighs, shrugs, and then replies, as if it's such a simple conclusion:
"I'd rather see him happy with someone else than not happy at all."
There's something in the certainty, in the determination of her words that makes Katniss feel like a tiny dust particle on the backdrop of the galaxy, that makes her skin shrink over her bones, and suddenly it all makes sense.
"You love him, too," Katniss whispers. It isn't a question.
Madge gives her a sad smile. "He loves you." She tugs her sleeves down, nods at Katniss, and pads to the door.
But, before she parts, she turns.
"So should you be the one to tell him the good news, or should I?"
She passes Rye in the corridor on her way to Peeta's room. He gives her a soft nod.
"He needs to see you, Katniss," Rye says. "He's not saying it, but it's painfully obvious."
She thanks him and briefly considers whether she should tell him about Madge's offer, but she figures the princess will when she sees Rye off.
The journey there seems to take a thousand years, but when she finally reaches his room, she finds the door already cracked open. Against her better judgment, she slips in without knocking, her heartbeat painting wild strokes against her ribcage. She sees him standing beside his easel at the window, his shoulders framed by the open panes. Outside, the sky's a milky lavender in its post-storm dawn, cool humidity seeping in.
She breathes it all in. The air, the aftertaste of rain, Peeta. Everything.
"I hope you don't mind a little company," she says, her voice spanning the room in threads of honey.
She doesn't realize he's been holding his breath until his shoulders ease down. He twists around, his expression illustrating a painful mix of exhaustion and liberation.
"I didn't think you would come," he says, his voice breaking.
The corners of her lips perk, just slightly. "You can't get rid of me that easily."
His chest caves a little, as if he thinks her words are some sick joke. And then his eyes narrow, his lips whitening.
"Let's run away, Katniss," he whispers almost inaudibly, as if the walls can't be trusted.
Her throat tightens. "Peeta—"
"Right now. I know where the service door is, and there aren't any guards there." He's closer now. His eyes are wild. "If we're fast, we can make it. The woods are right there, we can just run for it—"
But she shakes her head. "That isn't necessary, Peeta."
"It is if we want to be together," he says. "I've been thinking through the logistics all night. It'd be hard, Katniss, but we could do it. For us. For… for the baby. We can be together."
Half of her is flattered that he'd sacrifice virtually anything for her, while the other half's anxious over her impending announcement. Her hands reach for his, and instead of ice-cold fingers like the night before, they're warm and welcoming.
Her heart flutters. She tries to smile.
"There's another way," she says, falling in love with the glint of devotion in his eyes. He really does want her, doesn't he? "I spoke with Madge today. About you. About us. And… and she offered me a position."
Peeta's face twists up in confusion, as if she's just spoken in tongues. "W-what?"
Her palm squeezes his.
"I'm staying here, Peeta." Her eyes sting. "That is, if you—if you want me to."
The dazed glimmer in his eyes remains lodged there for a few more seconds, but then, before she can even register the shift, she suddenly finds herself smothered in his iron grasp. Cinnamon and honey and oil paint and Peeta waltz across her senses, masking the spongey scent of mildew and the sounds of songbirds from beyond his open window. His face is hot on her neck, and she thinks she may be crying into his shirt, but at this point, she's too numb to be certain.
All she can do is hold him, too, her arms winding around his core and vowing to never let go, not until the last possible second.
After several delicious moments, he pulls back just enough to look at her, the resolute blue she fell in love with glowing, growing, and turning her core into sunlight. "Is this real?"
"Very, very real," she giggles, feeling wetness stinging in the corners of her eyes. "And it beats running off into the woods."
He chuckles, wiping his eyes. "I—I don't know what to do."
"You could kiss me," she offers.
And so the prince obeys his maiden.
While Peeta and Madge go to see Rye off, Katniss is escorted to the maids' quarters. The compartment to which she's been assigned looks more like a bomb shelter, whereas the one she'd grown up in resembled a warehouse. For now, she can't decide which she prefers.
Instead of cots, the maids share bunk beds. Katniss is given the bottom of the one against the back wall. Unthinkingly, she sits down on the mattress; the bed's metal frame shifts, and suddenly, the bunkmate she hadn't even realized was there is dipping her head from the top bed.
"Who do you think you are?" the woman asks, her brown eyes narrowing, spiked hair hanging like poorly-dyed stalactites.
Being blunt herself, Katniss appreciates the girl's frankness. She offers her name with respect, but no smile. She can save the congeniality for someone else.
In response, the girl's brows crinkle, as if she's calculating whether or not Katniss is to be deemed tolerable. After a few moments, her hand shoots down.
"Johanna Mason." Her palm's warm to the touch, her handshake firm. "If you sleep-talk, or move around too much, I know where the chloroform is kept and I'm not afraid to use it."
After settling in, Katniss spends her first day touring the castle, the head maid – a firm but kind woman by the name of Paylor – showing her the ropes. But Katniss can't bring herself to focus, constantly checking around bends for her prince. She'll see other workers, and occasionally a guest, but her sunshine-haired boy remains hidden away.
She wonders if this is how it'll always be. Like in the palace where they grew up, in which they were forced to feign unfamiliarity, only now it's even worse. Instead of being scolded for chatting with a maid, Peeta's entire cover could be blown.
Their secret is such a fragile, frightening thing.
The daylight hours flurry by without a single Peeta sighting, and by the time the sun sets on her new home, her chest is aching for him. She readies for bed in the nightgown she's been given, grey and crisp and ill-fitting. She wishes she could sleep in one of his shirts.
While Katniss is wired awake, the other five maids sharing her bunker doze around ten o'clock. Once their snoring steadies, she creeps out of bed, slipping from her quarters.
Her trek is cautious, involving ducking around corners and silent footsteps, but she reaches Peeta's room within ten minutes. The door is closed, so she knocks softly; when she receives no reply, she lets herself in.
But the room is empty. The sheets are made.
Her heartbeat thrums in her chest – where has Peeta gone? Her paranoid mind whirrs to life, pumping life into each worst case scenario. They found out already. Madge wants him back. He was sent home with Rye. He fell out a window.
Her breathing has just spiked into shallow pants when she hears the door squeal, and she whirls around to see a head of golden curls duck through the threshold.
Before he can even get the door closed all the way, she's snared him in her arms.
"I was so worried," she whispers against his neck. He finishes sealing the lock and then reciprocates her iron-clad hold, tangling his arms around her.
His breath is warm and inviting. "I'm sorry for frightening you."
When she's done confirming his presence, she pulls back slightly, threading her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. "Where were you?"
Her question makes Peeta's expression cloud.
"I—I didn't get the chance to tell you." He ducks his forehead against hers. "I had to go back to the master bedroom. The one that I share with… with Madge."
He says her name like an apology.
"Why?" Katniss asks, her chest panging a little, although she isn't angry. She can't be angry. She's well aware that most things are far beyond her control, and instead, she should be grateful for simply being here.
"My excuse for having a separate room was that I was ill," he explains, brushing her cheek with the pad of his thumb. "And we—we've decided we need to keep up the pretense that we're happy. It'll lower suspicions. So… I'll have to stay with her." And then he swallows. "But I can meet you here most nights, and we can sleep, if only for a little while. I want to see you."
It isn't perfect, but nothing's perfect, and she accepts it as enough.
"Okay," she concedes, pulling back just enough to look him over. Her hands skim from his hips up past his shoulders, cupping his jaw. She sweeps her thumb over the stubble there, and she wonders, briefly, how it'd feel against her own cheek, her neck, stomach, or the skin between her thighs.
Hopefully, the dim lighting cloaks her blush.
"I missed this," she murmurs.
"Like hell," he affirms. "Please, lie down with me. I've been sleeping alone for too long."
When he curls up with her beneath the blanket, she melts against him, savoring the way the contours of his chest seem to lock in so naturally with hers, their legs tangling easily under the comforter. She rests her head on his arm, gazing up at him through the dark.
"You feel like a dream," he whispers.
"I'm real," she says. "This is real. It's you and I, now."
The lines in his face smooth beautifully. "A prince and his little songbird," he murmurs.
And then his lips find hers.
It all feels so easy again, so natural; this time, Rye's not waiting beyond the locked door, and neither of them are being shipped to another kingdom come morning. So, while they only have a few more hours before he must return to Madge, they really have forever and a day, and each other, which is all that's relevant.
He holds the back of her neck to anchor her to him, and she runs her hands underneath his shirt, feeling the flat spread of his stomach. He trembles under her touch, a soft moan bubbling in the back of his throat, and it spikes her confidence, because she's the one who's making him feel this way.
Soon his fingers move down to her waist, gently digging into the flesh there; she stifles a yelp when he flips her onto her back, moving in between her splayed legs.
His eyes are gleaming, his nose skimming hers. He grasps the bottom trim of her gown.
"May I?"
She helps him remove the garment, leaving her skin tingling in static. There's a soft rumple of fabric as he drops the gown to the floor, and then he's over her again, gently suckling her collarbone. With fingers threaded in his hair, she holds him to her as he freckles her flesh with kisses.
"I missed the way your skin tastes," he says with a nearly-primal growl, and ice shavings feather up her spine. His lips move to her breast, which he gently takes into his mouth, eliciting a moan from her raw throat.
His stomach is pressing up at the juncture of her thighs, which makes heat electrify her belly. She's thrilled with the idea of where this is heading; the last time had been a measure of their goodbye. This would be their new hello, slightly delayed but entirely final.
He kisses his way from her breast to her sternum, and then downward until he reaches her belly. He pulls one hand from the mattress and palms a gentle, sweeping crescent just below her navel, landing on the tender spot under her left ribs.
"A baby." It's the awe in his voice that makes her realize he's had such little time to process this. Over a month has passed since she first found out, but some days, it's difficult for even her to swallow – what must he be thinking, after merely twenty-four hours?
So, she asks him.
He blinks up at her, his thumb grazing her belly button. "Are you keeping it?"
"I guess so." She watches the way his golden curls flop over his head as he leans down to press a gentle kiss to her stomach. "Are you angry?"
"Because you're pregnant?" He lifts an eyebrow incredulously. "I—I couldn't be upset with you, not even if I wanted to. I'm just…. It's—it's a lot to consider." Then, his expression colors with guilt. "To be honest, I'm a little terrified."
"Really?"
"Actually—" He bites his lip—"more than a little."
A heavy, leaden feeling that she hadn't even realized was resting on her chest lifts, leaving plenty of room for bursts of air to fill her lungs. It's such a relief to know she isn't alone.
"Me, too," she whispers. "I'm not—I haven't really allowed myself to think about what'll happen when it's born."
He nuzzles her stomach with his cheek, the scrape of his stubble sending tingles trickling through her system. Her toes curl.
"Well, we have time to figure that out." She starts a little when his fingers wind around her underwear, drawing back to pull the garment from her waist. "But, in the meantime," he whispers, returning to the triangular section of the mattress between her legs to hook his arms around her thighs, "I want you to sing for me."
And when his mouth dips to engrave his devotion in her flesh, she does just that.
Too many of the cleaning jobs involve chemicals, fumes, and other things she shouldn't even be exposed to, let alone handling, because what about the baby, Katniss? So, she finds herself making a lateral move from the laundry room of the Mellarks' palace to the laundry room here. Besides, forging through inordinate amounts of dirty garments, bedsheets, towels, and so on has become second nature to her – her expertise is an added bonus.
Another added bonus is the dim lighting, the uneven clunking of machine blades, and the trickling water. It makes Peeta's occasional ten-minute visitations significantly safer, because no one can see hands pulling at hair, frenzied lips, or hear the soft sighs, knees banging against the hollow sides of machines, muffled giggles.
Although it's not perfect, it's better than anything she could've ever deserved.
She wonders how long this can last.
On a particularly average day five months into her pregnancy, Katniss is wadding up dirty clumps of laundry and shoving them into the machines as she waits for Peeta to arrive. He always comes to her around this time. This is when they allow themselves to have fun, to be teenagers, pretending the outside world doesn't exist; on the other hand, the Peeta that steals into his old bedroom to meet his maiden at night is an entirely different boy – while his lovemaking may be slow and patient, he's also more somber, because that's when they force themselves to face reality. That's when they speak of the baby, and of Madge, and of power, and of the future.
But this, this, is when they let themselves fly free.
So her organs sink like stones in water and her skin feels like sheet metal when one, two, three hours have passed without a visit from her prince. Why didn't he show?
When she's reached a brief recess in her laundry cycles, she slips from the laundry room and ghosts through the corridors in search of Peeta. She finds the room he shares with Madge to be empty. She finds his old chamber empty, too. In the great hall, the King and Queen sit on their thrones, but neither he nor Madge are in their own.
He's not in the dining hall. He's not in the library. He's in none of the studies, none of the courtyards, none of the sunrooms.
When she flits through the kitchen, she overhears gossip from the waiting staff that Princess Madge has gone to see the apothecary. But for what?
She combs the palace a while longer, desperately and pathetically hoping she'll randomly run into him, that all will be well, and he'll have all the answers. But he's nowhere to be found, and her entire body feels like a hollow log.
Then, abruptly, her chest pangs as a thought flits through her head. She's unsure of how she's so certain, but regardless, she knows exactly where she'll find him.
She climbs the staircase, her skin bloating in the muggy air and weighing her down. But eventually, she reaches the top, her trembling fingers reaching for the hatch. With a loud cracking sound, it swings back, and she warily maneuvers herself through the opening, careful not to bobble her swollen belly – one of the maids, a mother of three, told her that the baby's currently about the size of a "spaghetti squash," whatever type of plant that is. When Katniss told Peeta this, he chuckled and kissed her belly, and made an awful pun about trying not to "squash" the baby. He was in a better mood, then.
But what she finds on the roof is nothing of the sort.
The crooked muscles in her heart begin to relax at the sight of him on the roof, but they immediately coil once she fully takes him in. He stands against a cement block, his broad shoulders cast in iron, hair wild and rippling in the wind. His silhouette is stone against the backdrop of rolling hills, green whispers and silver skies. He doesn't move even after he must hear her arrive. She wonders if he even knows it's her.
She steadies herself on her feet, shifting behind him. Her fingers lift, barely grazing the muscles corded over his right shoulder blade, but he remains entirely motionless. For a moment, she's convinced he's a marble statue.
And then, his throat clears.
"The King is demanding that Madge and I bear a child."
Katniss's vision blots. She grabs hold of one of the concrete slabs and vomits over the edge of the turret.
When she's done retching, the spaghetti-squash-thing feeling more like a leaden cannonball than a harmless fruit, she lets her grip on the concrete ease. Her body crumples backward slightly, her spine slanting into Peeta's chest. He must've moved behind her to hold her hair.
She feels his arms on her, his body trembling in tandem with hers. She turns, pressing her cheek to his chest, and he tangles his fingers at the roots of her braid, cupping her skull.
"I haven't—couldn't be with her in that way again, not since you came." His voice cracks against the shell of her ear.
"But you have to," she says, flattening in defeat. "It's unavoidable."
"There has to be another way."
"Not for everything." Fortune favored them once already. It'd be unwarranted for them to receive such luxury a second time. "Not for this."
He pulls back, his eyes digging into hers, guilt pouring like tempests from every inch of his body, and she's drowning, drowning, drowning.
She gulps for air.
"Will you ever be able to forgive me?" he whispers, and scrawled all over his expression is his anticipation of rejection.
There isn't anything to forgive, because there's nothing he can do about it.
But she still shatters all the same.
And there's nothing he can do about this, either.
She comes to their haven that night, finding the hollowness in the room to extend beyond a merely physical void. The vacancy cuts much deeper, and the moment she slips through the door, she can feel it settle into her bones until she, too, is left entirely empty.
She drifts to the window, gently pulling the panes open. The air palms her face, its touch momentary camouflage for her sunken hopes; she fools herself into believing that the open window will call him to her.
But she should've known he wouldn't come. After she left Peeta on the rooftop, she realized that Madge must've gone to the doctor to be given professional approval, or advice, even – and why would they wait after that? The King demanded a child from them. And his mandates don't have patience written into their bylaws.
She sprawls out on the bed, extending her hands and feet as far as they will reach. But the edge of the mattress rests far beyond the tips of her fingers and toes, and she decides that the extra space belongs to Peeta, and this isn't a place she's meant to be alone.
So, she pulls herself from the bed, hurrying from the room. She's back in her own bunk before she can let her mind run wild, before she can linger on Peeta with Madge, before she can think about what he's doing with her, how he's holding her, how he's kissing her, how he's filling the empty space in a bed that isn't hers, but is his, and his wife's, who loves him, and is allowed to have him, and is supposed to have him.
Katniss hopes that Madge, at least, remembered to open the window for him.
He doesn't come to visit her in the laundry room the following day. Even though she feels like she's been shoved down a garbage chute, her joints bruised and lungs crumpled, she still holds out hope that he'll come to the room tonight.
She arrives early, propping herself at the edge of the bed, her arms circling her stomach. There's a small comfort in having the baby so close, constantly warming her from the inside out. Whenever Peeta isn't here, he's still here – half of his genetics, half of him. It doesn't make everything suddenly alright, but it makes things a little more bearable.
She waits for several tortuous moments, her body growing tired and begging to lie down. But yesterday, she'd discovered that the bed was nothing but a sea of brittle blankets and pockets of cold air without him, and she wants no part in it if alone.
So, she waits. She cradles her stomach, letting the breeze from the open window whisper calming promises in her ear. He'll come, it tells her. The fates can't keep you apart, no, not ever.
Every nerve ending in her body is numbed with relief when she hears the door creak open. She can't bring herself to rise to meet him, but she watches him enter with a wide gaze.
His shoulders are hunched. His head is bowed. His eyes are boldly apologetic.
"Peeta," she whispers.
He crouches in front of her at the foot of the bed, steadying himself on his knees, his hands moving to her waist. She peers down at him, the moonlight ploughing pale crystals into his eyes, ringed slightly by pink. His fingers dig into the fabric of her nightgown.
"I'm so sorry, Katniss," he says, his voice trembling.
She manages to wrap her arms around his shoulders just as he crumbles, his cheek pressing against her chest as he holds her with quivering insistence. Braiding her fingers in his hair, she kisses the top of his head. "It's okay, it's okay," she promises. It really isn't okay, but he isn't the one to blame. It's the system, always the system, never her golden prince.
"It's not," he chokes out. "I feel—I feel like I betrayed you."
When he nuzzles her swollen belly, she realizes he isn't just speaking to her.
She cradles him while he cradles her, as if every piece in their cosmic jigsaw puzzle is hopelessly misaligned, and squeezing the life back into each other is the only remedy.
"You didn't betray us. If anyone's the—the other woman, Peeta, it isn't Madge."
"But you're my family." He swallows hard. "I was yours first. Both of yours."
She notes how he's allocated the possession in their relationship, treating her like she's the princess, and he's nothing but a servant to her and the baby.
"Peeta—"
"Please, I don't want to talk about this any longer. I don't. I can't." He starts to crinkle up her nightgown, pushing it over her belly, exposing the bloated curve there. She feels something wet smear across her stomach as he presses his cheek to her skin. "I just want to be with you. I want to forget."
He tries – and she tries to help him try – but as soon as his hips are cradled between her thighs, they both realize this isn't going to work. So instead, she curls around him, holding his head to her chest, drowning him in her heartbeat and in her affection and praying it's enough.
"I can't go through this again," Peeta whispers, his eyes vacant and shoulders rigid.
He's sitting on top of the dryer, his knees parted just enough to frame her hips. She's cupping his stubbled cheeks.
"Peeta, it's barely been a month—"
"No," he barks. And then, startled and ashamed by his harshness, he tilts his forehead against hers. "Jesus, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't want—I'm not angry with you, love. Please know that."
She kisses him gently to prove her understanding.
After a month of "trying," the princess returned from the apothecary with nothing but detached apologies and more "doctor's orders." It crushed Peeta in an entirely new way.
Of course, Katniss knows it's been painful for Madge, too. The princess loves her husband enough to shoulder some of his pain; she must suffer from his reluctance, and from staying silent while he tries to finish quickly, and from pretending to fall asleep as he slips from the room to be with another woman. All for nothing. But this is what they must do. The kingdom needs the renewed bloodlines, and Peeta needs Katniss. Without either, both would be broken.
"Just—another month, Peeta," Katniss pleads, grimacing from the way her own words cleave away at her skin. "Give it another month, and maybe—"
But he's shaking his head furiously. "No one deserves this. You don't deserve how I'm treating you, Madge doesn't deserve being used like that, and… and the baby…" He tugs at his hair. "I'm hardly ready to father one child, let alone two! This situation, this entire situation is so twisted and wrong, and I—it's my fault, all my f—"
She senses his rapid deterioration just in time to stop him, firmly grasping his jaw in her hands.
"Peeta Mellark." Her eyes drill into his. She clenches her teeth, gripping him until he begins to deflate under her influence.
He lifts his palms to cup the back of her hands, their fingers tangling. He says nothing, and neither does she, but the quiet whisper of lips that ensues is more than enough.
After the royal family's supper, Madge pens herself in the third-floor library. Katniss is soon to follow.
When she lets herself in, she finds the woman curled up in one of the plush armchairs, her fountain of golden curls falling in front of her face, which is resting on her knees.
Katniss clears her throat.
"Your Highness?"
Madge starts at the sound, her chin flickering up. She quickly moves to wipe the silver sheen of tears from underneath her lower lid, forcing a twisted smile on her face.
"Oh. Hello, Katniss. Can I help you with something?"
Cautiously, Katniss begins to approach, her movements as slow as they'd be if she was advancing on a feral animal. Her hands rest on her rounded belly. She can see Madge's eyes flicker to the bump there before ashamedly finding Katniss's face, her already-wavering smile faltering even more.
"Princess Madge, if you'll allow it, I'd like to make a proposal." Her throat, dried and cracked, quivers under her attempt to swallow. "About… about the baby."
Her face pales, her brows knitting together, as if that last word has poisoned the air. "Is this Peeta's idea?"
Katniss shakes her head. "Peeta doesn't know that I've come to speak with you."
Madge's jaw hardens, her chin tilting up slightly. Her eyes beg Katniss to continue.
Her skin feels like it's been splintered with sheets of ice, cold breath jutting out in her lungs. She holds her stomach tighter, feeling a slight flutter underneath the flesh as if the baby is protesting what his or her mother has yet to say.
Katniss takes a deep breath.
"I want you and Peeta to raise my baby," she says, startled by the way her voice seems entirely detached from her body. "As your own."
When she tells Peeta of her agreement with Madge, he crumbles onto the bed. She tries to touch him, but he walls himself in, crying out.
"No."
"It's for the best, Peeta—"
"It's our baby. Ours."
Her palms lift, moving to brush his hair from his forehead, but he draws back.
"Peeta, please!"
But he's shaking his head, tucking his knees into his chest like a child, and she hates herself for reducing him to this. She's hurt him too many times; this must be the last.
"Look," she begins, her tone thick and syrupy, sticking to all corners of the room in a swampy coating. "If she fakes a pregnancy now, by the time the baby is born, we can pass it off as being really, really premature—"
"No."
"—and keep him or her from the public eye, until he or she is old enough to dodge suspicion—"
"No."
"—and I can still take care of it, Peeta! Madge said I can be the head caregiver, and still help raise the baby—"
"No!"
"—which will give it such a better life, don't you see? It won't be raised in poverty! It'll have access to food, and medicine, and you, Peeta! It'll be able to grow up knowing you are its father, and—"
He springs to his feet, his entire body shaking.
"This is your baby, Katniss! I—I can't force you to sacrifice your child for me! I wouldn't—fuck, I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I knew that I was the reason your child was taken away from you!"
Silence throbs against each wall. Her skin digs into her bones.
Everything hurts, and at the same time, she goes entirely numb.
"Oh, Peeta," she whispers as she stands, her voice diffused with compassion.
Finally, finally, he doesn't try to draw away from her when she reaches to touch him. Her arms find his back and shoulders, pulling him down, tucking his face in her warm neck.
"This was the only thing they couldn't touch," he chokes against her skin. "This baby, it was the only thing that wasn't theirs. I'm their pawn, you're their employee, this marriage is their parade… but the baby was ours. Only ours."
She feels something shimmer like butterfly wings in her stomach, pattering against his own abdomen. He must feel it, too, because he stiffens, his hands moving to cup her belly.
As his palms graze over her flesh, feeling the slight movement, his eyes shift.
And then, after several long moments of holding her and the baby:
"But I'm being selfish, aren't I? I'm only thinking about myself, and what I want, but—but you're right. About what's best for the baby. You're always right, Katniss."
She nuzzles her nose against the tender flesh below his jaw, her lips grazing the skin.
"You give me too much credit."
"I couldn't give you enough."
She plays with the downy curls at the base of his neck. She breathes him in.
"I want our baby to have everything," she whispers. "A home, a reliable mother, and a loving father who isn't too heartsick to be there, you see? And good health, shelter, safety. If I have to sacrifice my title for that, for all of that… it's a sacrifice I'll have to make."
He gazes down at her as if she's made of gold, and also as if she's just snapped his heart in two. And maybe she has. It wouldn't be the first time.
The coils above her squeal in protest as Johanna flips on the mattress.
"I can't believe the Princess is having a kid. Already." She sighs. "Jesus."
Katniss's stomach is a crawling bed of acid bubbles. She rests her hands over her belly, trying to quiet the child.
They announced the "pregnancy" earlier today. Madge claimed to be two months along, putting her three months behind Katniss. This would mean that after the birth, Katniss would have to relinquish her baby to a select team of medical professionals, ones who were:
A) Responsible enough to keep the entire setup confidential
B) Capable of raising an infant for at least two months, or until Madge was mentally prepared to feign labor
C) Not Katniss, nor Peeta.
She won't have access to her child for two months. Right after it's born, the baby will be pronounced dead and then taken by the doctors who are slated to care for it outside the palace walls. For the first months of their infant's life, neither Peeta nor Katniss will be able to touch it, hold it, even see it.
But this is what they must do. It's what's best for them all – Katniss will be promoted to Head Caregiver, Peeta won't have to father a second child while tip-toeing around his first, and the baby will have access to everything he or she could ever need.
It's a hard pill to swallow, but nevertheless, it's the best remedy imaginable.
A long silence elapses before Katniss hears Johanna chuckle.
"It's gonna be one adorable little squirt, though."
Katniss's toes curl, her throat stringing tight. "Hmm?" she forces out, attempting to be conversational.
But this was the wrong choice. She should've just let it drop.
"Picture it," Johanna says. "All blue eyes, all blonde hair, fair skin. Storybook enough to make me want to vomit."
Katniss wants to vomit for a different reason.
What if the child looks like her?
Over the following months, Katniss's belly swells in chorus with Princess Madge's carefully-tailored pillow baby. The main difference (other than Katniss's head start) is that Madge is still able to glide gracefully through the castle while Katniss hobbles like a drunken elephant.
Peeta, of course, thinks she's adorable.
"You look like you have a cannonball shoved under your gown," he chuckles as he brushes his fingers over her hips, pressing her back against the washing machine. Their little romps in the laundry room have become increasingly difficult with the extra being lodged between their bodies, but that doesn't deter him.
Still, Katniss groans. "Feels like it, too." Her body tingles under his touch. "Good thing it's almost over."
His eyes crinkle in the corner as he smiles. "Nine days?"
"Eight, now," she corrects. "Although, who knows? If the kid takes after us, its timing will be horrific."
His nose skims the length of her jaw, depositing feather-light kisses on her neck. "And you're still sure you're okay with this?"
He's been asking her this every day. And, every day, her answer has remained the same.
"I have to be," she says.
She feels his fingers curl stiffly against her waist, his lips moving up to hers for a soft kiss. Possibly in gratitude, possibly in apology, or maybe even in surrender; she can't taste the difference.
Like always, she lets him kiss her breathless, gripping at her gown. Her chest tightens as she concedes, her own hands moving to his chest, flattening, gripping, flattening again…
And then she feels something jerk inside her abdomen.
Her lips rip away from his, jaw slack in the aftershock, eyes wide.
"Katniss?" he breathes, his voice twisting up with panic at the end.
Her gaze locks with his, a chuckle of dismissal preparing to pluck at her vocal cords, but then she feels it again. It's a mechanical jolt, swirling her belly with discomfort.
She buckles over.
She barely even gets to meet him.
His chubby body decides on an early – and painful – delivery. Thankfully, the team of doctors are already on standby; they're able to take her to a secured chamber, one with a bed and a nearby stool for Peeta. He holds her hand as she screams, then cries, and then screams even harder until there's another piercing shriek flooding the room to drown out her own.
They cut the umbilical cord, clean up his angry red body, and bring him to the side of the bed to show his parents.
They don't let her hold him. His eyes are scrunched, his skin tinged pink, hair matted in sun-colored clumps under the blanket. But they don't know what color his eyes are, because before he even opens them, he's taken away from his birthparents.
Peeta holds Katniss's shoulders, cupping the back of her head as she sobs into his neck. She feels shattered, her body torn and her heart trailing her newborn as he's smuggled from the castle. Her core throbs like one massive cavity swallowing itself, a tingling ache searing every edge and corner.
She's unsure of how she managed to fall in love with her son after under a minute of connection, but it's only after he's been ripped from her that she understands her devotion's magnitude. After carrying him for nine months, she was rewarded with thirty seconds of policed affection, and then it was over.
"This sucks," Johanna says, more emotion plugged into her tone than Katniss has ever heard from her.
But Katniss can't bring herself to uncurl her crinkled body, can't bring herself to speak. She's been lying in her bunk for two straight days, cold and empty and alone. Since the other maids think her baby didn't make it through the birth, they've left her to grieve, and she's thankful for every second. In some twisted way, it does feel like her child is dead. She just wants to hold him. Wants to kiss his rosy skin.
Johanna touches Katniss's shoulder before she leaves for the day. The gesture is awkward, but its intention isn't lost on her.
Soon, the bunker is quiet, grey air covering everything around her. She tries to steady her breathing and remember that it's only two more months. Two more months. Two more. Two more. The words align with her pulse. Two more. Two more.
The other maids have been gone for about twenty minutes when she hears the door creak, and she assumes it's Johanna or even another girl she shares the room with, coming back to retrieve a forgotten item. She expects there to be a rustle of sheets, then maybe a cough, and the scratching of footsteps on the ground, all drowned out by two more, two more.
But instead, she feels the mattress's coils groan underneath her as they dip to accommodate an extra body. She doesn't have to turn around to face him to know exactly who her visitor is by the swirling scent of cinnamon and honey. Thick arms rope around her, holding her in.
She starts sobbing at the feel of his lips on her neck.
"I'm sorry," Peeta says, his apology stemming more out of empathy than remorse. She can hear the pain in his voice, too, and realizes he also isn't doing well.
Two more. Two more.
She snuggles her spine deeper into his chest, encouraging him to tighten his grip, and he concedes to her wordless plea. He holds her like a man would clench his heart as it came pouring from his chest, letting her cry and reminding her that it's okay to not be okay.
Two more. Two more.
The entire palace seems to tremble with the news of Madge going into labor. It's been seven weeks since the delivery of Katniss's baby, meaning seven weeks of heartsickness, seven weeks of secrets, seven weeks of indefinite waiting.
Katniss is eating lunch with Johanna – a stale cheese sandwich – when she's approached by a man in a grey jumpsuit.
"Everdeen?" he grunts.
She can feel Johanna's eyes boring into her cheek as she stares up at the stranger.
His grey eyes are flashing. "The Princess is requesting a caregiver for her baby."
The stiff bread sticks in her throat, making her cough. "Y-yes. Okay."
She slaps the sandwich onto the table and looks to Johanna, whose gaze is knitted with suspicion.
"You? Why you?"
Katniss's jaw feels like putty. She remains silent.
Then, something in Johanna's gaze softens.
"Is it because—because of your baby?"
Yes, Katniss wants to yelp. It's a good excuse, saying they've selected the mother who lost her own child to help care for the Princess's. The justification isn't foolproof, but it'll suffice. It'll have to suffice.
She can only bring herself to nod, however, before standing up and trailing the man out of the dining center.
As they steal into a hall, darkness washing out the cobblestone, she hears him whisper, "You gotta be careful with this secret, girl."
"I know—I will," she sputters, trying to keep up. "How is he? The baby?"
"He's a fuckin' brick." The man wipes his nose as they round a corner. "Clearly too large for a newborn, so he'll need to be kept from the public eye for a little while."
Katniss feels a ghost of a smile string up her lips. Her heart hammers against her ribs.
"Is he here?"
"The Prince and Princess are sealed in the medical ward with him, yes." Anticipating Katniss's questions, he continues, "And he's doing very well. Eating, sleeping in healthy intervals, not too temperamental. Also looks enough like the Princess to reduce suspicion."
Her heart feels like a clump of lead. She breathes deeply.
"Thank you, uh—sir?"
He steals a quick glance backward before slinking into the stairwell.
"Haymitch Abernathy. Seeing as I'm the director of this operation, you should probably call me Dr. Abernathy. But I'm not one for professionalism, so Haymitch will do just dandy."
With a stiff nod, she follows him up to the medical ward.
She can hear hushed voices as they duck into the front office. A nurse in a white gown with blue-striped sleeves regards Katniss with buggy eyes, wide in something resembling shock, as if the young mother is missing an arm or bleeding from the ears.
"Oh. Miss—Miss Everdeen. Hello." She springs up from behind the counter. "Let me—I can take you to the—the prince."
Katniss remains silent as Haymitch passes her off hot-potato style to the nurse. Electricity weaves through her legs and urges her to hurry, as if her body's a magnet in her child's field, pulling her closer, closer, closer. But she holds herself back on the nurse's tail.
The girl takes her past the rigid blue curtains, past the cubicles with other patients, to the hall's end. A metal door splits her from the room and her family. Her blood hums in anticipation.
The nurse shoves a small key into the door. She turns the knob. She pushes it back, and yanks Katniss inside.
Static air fills up the room and presses at her skin, stilling her heartbeat. She feels disconnected from her body as she tries to gauge her surroundings too quickly, seeking out Peeta, seeking out her child, hoping everything will be pointing to them. Her breath catches. Her blood halts. Her lungs stiffen.
And then she hears a baby cooing.
Sitting on the edge of the made bed are Peeta and his wife, their focuses both pinned to the tiny bundle in his arms. A small smile is threaded over Madge's lips, while Peeta's grin is absolutely ridiculous, the elation not confining itself to his mouth as it floods his eyes, rosy cheeks, and puffed-out chest.
Behind her, the door slams. Both Madge and Peeta's eyes are drawn to her.
"Hey, hey, come meet him," Peeta murmurs. She can't feel her feet as she makes her way to the bedside. Possibly, she's floating. There's a spot for her at his hip, and she takes it, peering over his shoulder to gaze at the tiny bundle.
All she sees is sunlight.
Her throat sticks as she studies the tiny slope of his nose, the rounded cheeks, the yellow wisps of curly hair over his forehead.
The grey eyes.
Her grey eyes.
This is her child, Lord, this is her baby.
"He's—he's perfect," she chokes out. My little sunbeam.
"Takes after his mother," Peeta whispers. And then his arms shift, gently depositing the baby in her grasp. The fabric feels like a cloud on her fingers, the weight of her child so unfamiliar and yet so right. She tucks her son against her chest, feeling his warmth bleed into her core.
He peers up at his mother, eyes wide with innocence, and she decides then and there that she's never going to let any harm touch her baby. Peeta's baby.
And hell, does he look like Peeta. He's clearly adopted his father's frame, hair, and chubby fingers. Their son is his spitting image with her own irises and nose tossed in there – just enough for her to know that he's her own.
"What do you want to name him?"
She startles at the new voice; it takes her a few moments to realize it's come from Madge.
Katniss's eyes bug out.
"I—we can name him?"
"He's your baby," she says, sympathy softening the edges of her tone. "It's only fair, since I—I'm technically taking him from you."
She looks to Madge, whose expression is swallowed by remorse, then back to her child. Her fingers brush his cheek, the skin silky under her knuckle. He looks like he's glowing. Like sunlight.
Her lips quirk.
"Ray," she says. Again: My little sunbeam.
Peeta's arm curls around her shoulders. His own hand moves to cup the back of Ray's head, fingers grazing hers. She thought she'd feel anger in this moment, in this brief interlude between her being separated from the baby and handing him over to the royal family, but all she feels is warmth.
This isn't goodbye. Not at all.
He's just over a year old when it happens.
Katniss is in the courtyard, curled up on a bench as she watches Ray toddle around on his still-chubby legs. He routinely stumbles, rolling in the trimmed grass, but he'll pop right back up again like a true victor.
Now, under the tree, there's a butterfly grabbing his attention. It flutters through the threads of sunlight puncturing the leaves, its wings practically sparkling in the yellow glow. His plump fingers stretch for the creature, which is hopelessly out of reach, but the poor kid's depth perception leaves much to be desired, so he doesn't realize this.
Behind her, there's a squeal of hinges. Katniss turns to see Peeta slipping through the door to join her in the courtyard.
Heat flushes her chest and collar; the quad is paneled on all sides by long windows, giving any passerby the perfect view. Peeta being with her is risky enough, but here, in broad daylight, it's practically a suicide mission.
"Peeta?"
He smiles at her as he joins her on the bench, careful to keep plenty of distance between them. "I wanted to see you."
"You saw me this morning."
(Most mornings, he does. He comes by the nursery to distribute good-morning kisses to his son, and when Ray isn't looking, his son's mother.)
He shrugs, leaning back against the bench's armrest. "Couldn't help myself. I was walking down the hall and happened to see you two out here – what was I supposed to do?"
"Stick to protocol?"
He smirks. "Katniss, it's okay. It's not like we're ripping off each other's clothes. I, the Prince, am just enjoying a warm afternoon with my son while he's being supervised by his caregiver. No grounds for suspicion."
Katniss's shoulders slump, but the feeling of paranoia doesn't ebb. She doesn't suppose it ever will. But it's an attractive tradeoff, considering it allows her to see her two favorite boys every day.
She feels his fingers ghost over her knee, the action swift and discreet enough, but it still causes her to whip her head in his direction. He only grins at her, his face relaxed and bright.
She can't help but smile back; she loves seeing him happy. During the long months leading up to Ray's birth, she could've never predicted this outcome. It'd been such a dark era, in which she'd worried almost daily about losing both him and their child. With where they are now, however, those days are almost unrecognizable.
His eyes rake over her expression, the blue brilliant and eager.
"Do you think you can sing for us?"
Her hand flies to her chest automatically as if to verify that she still has lungs. She does.
"I don't know, Peeta—"
"C'mon, my little songbird." His grin widens. "Please?"
An obsession with her voice is one of the many things Peeta has passed down to their son. Ray refuses to go to sleep without a lullaby, and can often only be calmed down by her melodies. Madge tried, once, which ended in a disastrous round of sobs – since then, the routine has rested entirely in Katniss's hands. Blissfully so.
She leans back slightly, letting her lungs expand. Her throat tingles with anticipation, and she swallows hard.
Deep in the meadow, under the willow…
It's a favorite of both boys, and she can feel all the pent-up tension rolling off Peeta's shoulders as he relaxes at her side. It only takes a couple of lyrics before Ray's attention is grabbed, too, his pudgy face turning in their direction. The butterfly is entirely forgotten.
He stumbles through the grass as he makes his way up to Katniss, silver eyes drowning in delight. She opens her arms to beckon him closer as she continues.
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow…
Ray unleashes a delighted squeal as he falls into her hands, lips parting to reveal pink gums and all of two teeth. She lifts him into her lap, cradling him against her body as he peeps at her. As of yet, their communication is limited to her short sentences and his responding squawks – she anticipates his first words will happen soon, but for now, it's all senseless babbling.
Here it is safe, here it is warm…
His hands press at her cheeks, breaking her song into fragmented giggles. Peeta slips his hand over Ray's chubby belly, holding him back so that his son doesn't smother Katniss as he lets out an amused chuckle. Katniss would join in, but her son's fingers are too busy prying into her teeth.
"I can't sing with your fist in my mouth, my little sunbeam."
She uses the nickname partially for her son, and partially for Peeta. She knows he loves it when she calls Ray that.
His little songbird and their little sunbeam.
In return, the child squeals, his gums smacking together. He babbles out something unintelligible, and Katniss works around Peeta's palm to tickle Ray's belly.
"What was that, little guy?"
He gabs again, only two syllables this time, and Katniss laughs.
"Hmm?"
Her hand grazes Peeta's as she wraps her arms around his body, nuzzling his nose. Typically, she tries to abstain from so much physical affection, but sometimes, she just can't help it.
Ray's eyes gleam as he beams up at Katniss. This time, the two syllables are finally distinct.
"Mama," he giggles.
I'm on Tumblr at the-peeta-pocket, if you want to be friends.