A/N: Monday again? Damn, time is flying fast!

If any of you guys have a spare moment, could you please check out the sample first chapter I've posted called 'Kindred'. It's an Everlark fanfiction and I'd like as many opinions on it as I can get before I start updating it weekly at the end of May-start of June time :) Thanks!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.

Chapter Eight

Before now, when I thought about anorexia, I thought about the girls in the NHS television adverts or the super thin cheerleaders who are so gangly they're close to snapping. Never did I think of someone like Peeta. One of the worst things you can call a girl is fat because immediately you are increasing their risk of wanting to be thinner, increasing the risk of anorexia also. Why doesn't that apply as much to boys? They don't deserve to be called fat either and they're just as likely to care about their appearance . . .

"Channing Tatum?"

"No. Too cliché. Everyone loves him. I can't see why, really."

"Okay . . . hmm . . . Brad Pitt?"

"Eh."

"Come on! Brad Pitt is sexy."

"Borderline okay."

"Jeez, man, you're killing me here. Okay, uh, Ansel Elgort?"

"I suppose. Better than most."

"I'm getting warmer, aren't I? I'm thinking franchises now. Hmmm . . ." I tap my finger against my chin thoughtfully. I'm playing a game with Peeta at my house of 'Would you rather'. Well, I say it's a game of would you rather. It's more a game of I spout out random names of guys and Peeta tells me which one he would buck if given the chance. I want to see if our tastes match up.

When I researched how to support people with anorexia, it said to include them in things as if there's nothing wrong. Before now, Peeta and I have barely interacted besides during our study sessions but the more time I spend with him outside the confines of mathematical problems, the more I'm seeing how much of a cool guy he is. Which is kind of jarring for me since I'd always thought he'd be as dull as a rock.

I also want to try and slip visiting the hospital into our conversations. If I can't tell anyone, I might as well try to nudge him in the direction of seeing a doctor. So far it's been unsuccessful but it's only been a few days so I'm going to keep trying.

I quirk an interested eyebrow at Peeta, who is sitting across from me on my living room couch. There's a plate on the coffee table in front of us, the resting place of two tuna mayo sandwiches. I'm not going to push Peeta to eat anything but I leave food out as tiny incentives. Peeta's head is resting against the backrest of the couch and his eyes are closed. I never noticed until I discovered the truth about him that he actually is tired very often. In school his concentration is scattered and he completes all his work at home. He used to take dizzy turns in class but Clove used to laugh and come up with some stupid story about being ill and still coming into school. Stories I used to laugh at . . .

"Josh Hutcherson?"

There's a pause.

Peeta can't fight the smile that comes onto his face, followed by a pink blush. I grin. "Ha ha! I knew I'd get there!" I declare. "Even though you're clearly delusional since you believe that Brad Pitt and Channing Tatum aren't worth it."

Peeta rolls his eyes. "I am very particular in my tastes," he says.

"I can see that," I smile. I clamour off the sofa and pick up the plate, walking into the kitchen and taking a quick bite before returning. I don't feel right eating in front of him. It almost feels like I'd be mocking him. On my way back, I glance forlornly at my mother's room. She's a doctor. If she ever saw him, her medical eye would immediately know that he wasn't well. She could help Peeta, if I told her that he needed it. But I can't. It feels so close and yet so far.

"Are you going to the Past to Present ceremony?" I ask, wiping any sign of the sandwich off of my face.

Peeta quirks his eyebrow at me. "Katniss, go back in the kitchen and finish your food. I'm not going to have a seizure or a panic attack because I see you eating something. I've been doing this for many years now. I'm conditioned to be able to resist."

"Resist," I repeat. "Resist means that you want it. Why resist something you need?"

"I am not right yet, Katniss," Peeta explains. "Not yet."

"When will you be right?" I ask.

"I will decide that."

I sit down beside him again. The sofa cushions are cold from my departure and feel cool against my skin. "I suppose you won't listen to me if I said that I think you're just fine?" I ask.

"I appreciate your concern, Katniss. I really do. The change that you have undertaken since you broke your leg is mindboggling. But you are still afraid of what society will think." Peeta looks at me and smiles. "That's why we hang out here. You don't want to be seen with me."

I shake my head in denial. "You're wrong"-

"It's okay, Katniss. Baby steps. I understand that."

I look away from him in shame. "I'm sorry," I mutter.

I shouldn't care about what everyone else thinks. Now that I have concluded with absolute finality that there is nothing wrong with Peeta, I shouldn't care what Gale or Glimmer or Clove or Cato think of me. But I do. Why do I care so much? There's a part of me that doesn't want to even have Gale take me to the Homecoming Dance. I still want the popularity, however. It's like my being craves it. I want to push it away but it keeps returning.

Peeta still smiles at me. I feel it burning into the side of my face. When I look back at him now, his smile is completely contagious and I find myself smiling back. My eyes fall to his torso, which I can't help looking at every few minutes, and my hand twitches. "Can I . . .?"

Peeta looks apprehensive but he nods anyway. "Go ahead," he says.

I reach out with a nervous hand and touch his side. I can feel the bumps again. Except when I move my palm up, they continue up until his breast plate, confirming the suspicion that they are his ribs. "How can you think that this is better than the way you were before?" I ask quietly.

"At least this way I'm not fat," Peeta answers.

"You weren't fat," I mutter.

"My nickname seems to contradict that statement."

My fingers reach Peeta's collarbone, two huge contusions which meet just below his neck. "You shouldn't listen to what those other idiots say about you," I say. "They think saying bad things about other people makes them bigger than they actually are. Take it from someone who knows."

Peeta touches my hand and our eyes meet. Am I going mad or are the blue of his eyes getting more and more beautiful every day? "It's not the people at school I listen to," he says to me.

"Then who do you listen to?" I ask.

"Only the ones I care about."

"And who do you care about?"

Silence.

I look at Peeta's hand which rests on top of mine. When our eyes meet again I realize what he means. "How long?" I ask nervously.

"Since you sang in the music assembly in pre-K," Peeta answers, looking away from me.

"Oh Peeta," I whisper. I can't believe it. It almost feels like he's joking, pulling my leg because I've bullied him for so long and admitting such a thing would seem ridiculous. But I do remember singing in pre-K. How would Peeta remember if he didn't hold some sort of affection towards me? He's the last person I'd think cared about me.

And I spent most of my school years despising him.

I'm a horrible person.

"Why me?" I ask. "I'm a bitch . . ."

"It's not your fault," says Peeta. "I spent a lot of elementary bucking up the courage to talk to you but . . .when your dad died, I could see a shift in you. You stopped playing outside with Primrose and took up cheerleading. And in that instant, I knew I'd lost you. With cheerleading comes a reputation. A reputation I'd never be able to build up for myself. I'm not sporty, I'm can't win the school anything. I was fat and the only thing going for me was that I was clever. But Capitol High doesn't want smarts. Not really . . ."

"You won us the Mathletes," I feebly remind him. "You and Finch did. You used to come second in wrestling to your brother in elementary all the time. You were the school's treasurer for Freshman and Sophomore year. Until Bonnie spread that rumour that you were spending the money . . ."

Where is this coming from? How long have I been keeping tabs on Peeta? I'm supposed to have hated him, yet I can conjure up at least one thing he has done every year since first grade. Right down to that dandelion he picked and left in my Jolly Phonics book . . .

Peeta smiles at me. "What was the truth again?" he asks me. "It was something to do with her and Twill, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," I sigh, my mind distracted by the sudden realization that I know more about him than I thought I did. "They were bribing your co-treasurer to give them hand-outs so they could pay their vodka mule."

"Vodka mule, that's right," says Peeta. He takes a shaky breath (something else I've noticed, his breathing is completely off) and I remove my hand at the feeling of his ribcage pushing against the thin layer of skin it sits beneath.

"People like you deserve more than me," I say.

"We are all capable of change," Peeta contradicts.

"When you're a famous scientist or the President or something amazing like that I'll still be where I am now," I mutter, looking at the ground. "You shouldn't have wasted so long caring about me when I don't deserve it." My hand finds his and I squeeze it tightly. "You need to give your compassion to someone who isn't a total bitch."

Peeta sits up and leans forward. I try to crane my head further away from him. Admitting this sort of thing to him is hard. I don't need to be thrown off by his gorgeous eyes. I can't turn any further though and he takes my chin between his forefinger and thumb, forcing me to turn back and look at him reluctantly.

"Who you are today will not be who you are tomorrow. There is always time for change. It is never over until you say it is," he tells me firmly. "The worst thing you can do is let your past ruin your future."

"But my past is"-

"Is in the past."

I finally lift my eyes to look at him. How have I never noticed how handsome he actually is? Was my judgement clouded by a hatred even I didn't know the source of? Did the bright lights of popularity blind me from seeing Peeta for the beautiful person he really is. I find myself smiling. "You haven't signed my cast," I say.

Peeta raises his eyebrows. "Do you really want my name on there? Might cause suspicion if your stalker's name is written there," he points out.

I roll my eyes. "Hopefully that lie has died by now," I say. I snatch a black sharpie off my coffee table and hand it to him. "Go on." I grab my cast with both hands and heave it up between us. There's a perfect spot on my shin, clear of any drunken scrawl from Cashmere's party.

Peeta glances at me unsurely and nod him on. He takes the cap off and carefully writes his name on the spot. Where Gale's writing was just so boyish and scratchy, Peeta's is careful and smooth. I'm hypnotized by how he writes. Even with shaky hands, his name looks just so . . . so . . . perfect.

When he's finished, he looks at me again. I stare at him. He stares at me. Those deep azure pools that hold so many secrets, most of which I fear he is still hiding from me. This boy . . . who has cared for me since pre-K; gave me a dandelion when we were merely children; spent all of elementary bucking up the courage to talk to me only to have me trip up and fall into the bottomless pit of outright bitchiness . . . He deserves way more than me. I know he does. Yet, somehow I don't want him to have anyone else. I think of my previous plan to set him up with someone else. Now I can't bear the thought. I want him to be mine.

I imagine the shockwaves this will cause. Gale will think I'm still trying to make him jealous. Cato will be jealous. Glimmer will laugh and spread rumours. Clove will stand by me no matter what my decision is. Johanna will want Peeta happy, as will Finch and Annie. If I look after him, hopefully they will warm to me.

I want Peeta to be my Peeta.

I lean forward and press my lips against his with nothing to hold onto but the hope that he won't push me away . . .

However, I jump away just as fast as I had closed the distance. I cover my mouth with my hand, completely horrified by my actions. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me"-

"It's okay, Katniss," Peeta says, even though he's staring at me like I'm some wild animal and he's been caged in with me. He stands up and walks around the back of the couch. I don't know what to say. It's like our lips touching has sucked my voice out of my body. "Just don't do it again, okay?"

"I'm sorry, Peeta," I repeat. "I just . . . I don't know . . . I . . ."

"You were being sympathetic. I understand," Peeta tells me. He leans against the back of the sofa and closes his eyes, like he wants nothing more than to fall asleep right where he stands. "I won't tell anyone, either. I know what it would do to your reputation. You'll still get to go to the Homecoming Dance with Gale and live out your happy little fantasies." He looks at my door forlornly, like he wants to cross the distance and leave but he just doesn't have the energy to.

"I wasn't trying to mock you or anything," I insist. I want to stand up and face him but the struggle of heaving myself off with my crutches might distract from the problem at hand. I realize that he might think this, since he did tell me that he's liked me since pre-k and I haven't shown such affection to him . . . well . . . ever. I've been a bully. And in being a bully I would easily seize an opportunity to make fun of him. Except I didn't. When I kissed him, in that fleeting moment, I had wanted to.

"I know," says Peeta. "It's kind of nice, I suppose. Since my first kiss was with the girl who used to be the girl of my dreams."

For some reason, his use of past tense bothers me and I resist the urge to flinch. "That wasn't your first kiss," I deny.

"Well, that's weird, because I haven't been kissed by anyone else."

"What about that guy you said you dated in Middle School?"

"Thom? He wouldn't even hold my hand."

I feel sick. Oh my god, I took his first kiss form him. I can't believe it, I don't want to. Surely there's been someone else. Just because he's bullied and broken doesn't mean that somebody didn't see through all that before now. I "If I'd have known I wouldn't have . . . urgh! Why am I such a fuck up?!" I throw my face into the back cushion of the sofa and yell into it.

"You're not a fuck up," Peeta says tiredly. "You're going through a transition. It's difficult. Nobody is expected to go from bitch to angel in a millisecond."

I laugh dryly. "You saying I'm a bitch?" I lift my head and quirk an eyebrow in amusement.

"Not anymore," says Peeta, trying to sound helpful. "Except you're not exactly an angel either. Not yet, anyway."

I can't help laughing at this. How can Peeta manage to be so cool about everything? I literally just stole his first kiss from right under his nose without any feasible explanation as to why and yet he barely flutters an eyelash. The only time I've ever saw him lose his cool was when we had the discussion in the library about his disorder . . .

"You didn't answer my question earlier," I say. "Are you going to the Past to Present ceremony?"

The P2P ceremony is just another way for the school to boast about its achievements. They can bring forward things students have won from the 20's and still act like it's amazing. It's also another event I would have participated in if I hadn't broken my leg. The start of the school year is always filled with things for the cheerleaders to do and the fact that I'm missing out on it all, after all the work I put in, is beginning to bother me. There is nothing I can do, even if I wanted to. I'm just . . . helpless.

"I have to," Peeta answers. "Since I missed the day that was taken up with that godforsaken competition I have to go in for the P2P ceremony. Either that or my attendance is going to drop like a rotten cabbage."

"You might get a mention," I say. "You know, for the work you've been doing with me. Johanna, Finch and Annie could too."

"God, I hope not," Peeta replies. I tug on his wrist and he climbs over the back of my sofa, flopping back onto the space beside me. "I can see it playing out just like it did in Carrie."

"Someone's going to dump pig's blood on you?"

"They'll dump something."

I snicker and scoot closer to him. I find myself drawn to him like a moth to a flame. He radiates a warmth I can't ignore. I nestle in beside him and let my head fall against his chest. He wraps his arm around me, the embrace warm and welcome. With every breath he takes, his bones press against the side of my face. It worries me that my ear is right over where his heart should be and I can't hear a thing. I thought that since he's so thin, I would easily hear it pumping away but I can only faintly hear it if I strain. No wonder he's always so tired. His heart is as weak as his body.

"We should study outside of school more often," says Peeta. "You're more concentrated."

"I am?" I frown.

"Yeah. Probably because there isn't a risk of someone seeing you actually being civilised to me," Peeta explains. I know he's teasing me even though there's a ring of truth to his words.

"Well, I can't always study here," I say. "My sister brings her scout group back here every other day. They practice their knot tying or first aid or whatever gets them a badge, I don't know. Could we do a sort of every other day thing? Where we go to yours one day and mine the next? We could meet after school at the library as usual and walk together . . ." My last sentence trails off unsurely as the image of people seeing me with him comes into my head. I shake it out unhappily, having no desire for it to be there.

"I don't know if that would work," Peeta tells me.

"Why not?"

"My house . . . it . . . it's always busy." That's right. Peeta lives in an apartment above the bakery. He probably has to work shifts too.

"Would your family not mind, since it's for school?" I frown.

"It's not that," Peeta says quickly. "Things are always hectic. It wouldn't work. We wouldn't be able to focus properly." Before I can question him further, he quickly says, "How about when your sister and her scout group are at your house, I take you to where I always go to study? Since there's no peace at my house?"

I smile, even though his urgency for me not to go to his home is unsettling. "Sure."

There's still a long way before I solve the puzzle that is Peeta, it seems.

A/N: I'd like to thank you all for your wonderful feedback! I appreciate each and every one of your comments! :)