Chapter 32

Tense muscles. Eyes squeezed shut. Uncontrollable shaking. I can tell he's barely hanging on to sanity.

Cinna appears at the doorway but I quickly motion for him to leave. He shouldn't have to see this. To see what the Capitol has done to Peeta.

When Cinna is safely out of sight, I turn back to Peeta's hunched form. I can hear soft grunts erupting from his throat, as if he's trying to fight off the beast inside of him. Trying to hold it back from coming out and tearing everything apart.

My heart thumps in my chest at his personal torture. I don't know what to do. There is a slight possibility that Peeta can hurt me. Wrap his hands around my throat. Ignore my pleas for him to release me.

But I know that the Peeta that is kind to me, the Peeta that would never deny me of anything, the Peeta that would always stand by my side, is still there.

The difficult part is reaching in there and pulling him out of this episode.

Part of me is screaming to get away and run. He has hurt me before, whether or not it was intentional. He is much stronger than I am, especially since I have only been hunting sporadicly lately. I haven't regained the taut, lean muscle that I had before Prim was reaped into the Games. I stand no match against him, who is maybe twice my body weight and size.

But the other part is begging me to stay. Reminding me desperately that I had promised this boy to help him. Making me remember all those times that Peeta has made me smile. Had given me hope. The bread. The cave. The beach. The Quell. Those kisses we've shared. The burning intensity of whatever came between us when we were close.

I owe it to Peeta to do this.

I slide in front of him, moving the easel to the side carefully so that the ruined painting doesn't come crashing to the floor. He's gasping, sweat pouring from his brow as he takes in short rasping breaths. His eyes are squeezed so tightly that his expression can only mean he's in the highest throes of pain.

"Peeta," I whisper softly. It hurts me to see him like this. It cuts me to the core to know there's nothing else that can be done about this. "Peeta, open your eyes."

He shakes his head harshly, his hand flexing even tighter.

"Peeta, please, open your eyes. Its not real. None of it is real." I stroke my hand over his, trying to calm him with the soothing strokes. "Not real, Peeta. You're here, you're safe with me. I promise."

Peeta raises his face to the ceiling in anguish. I can hear his breathing grow harsh, as if he just came up for air after being underwater for a long time. The tremors in his hand have multiplied, spreading up his arm in violent shakes that alarm me.

This is an episode that is far worse than any I have ever seen Peeta experience.

My hunter instincts beg me to flee. I can feel my legs instinctively move so I'm ready to dart out of the room in case Peeta loses the little control he has left.

But I determinedly remember my promise. And I don't back down once I make a promise.

So I close my eyes and begin to sing.
Its the same song my father sang to me when we would visit the lake. The song of the Hanging Tree. The one that my mother forbade us to sing. My father loved that song, however, and whenever we were alone, he would braid small necklaces made of twine and give them to me.

The eerie lyrics seem to flow from my mouth naturally. I haven't sung since the war began, so my voice is coarse. But the notes still find their way back to my throat as I sing quietly, still kneeling in front of Peeta.

Still hanging onto his hand.

Never intending to let go.

I have sung the entire song twice when the broken paintbrush halves fall to the floor with a clatter. I am just about to end the third time around when I feel Peeta's hand move up and touch my cheek.

I open my eyes, half expecting him to be ready to strangle me, but instead of black, angry eyes, I'm met with a dark, wistful blue. One that expresses all the sadness and pain in the world.

I trail off the last few notes just as Peeta falls to the floor, sobbing. I take him into my arms dutifully, knowing exactly the way he feels.

Broken.

Defeated.

Shattered.

And now its my turn to pick up the broken pieces and piece him together as he's done so many times for me.

Peeta's tears trickle down my neck, where he has buried his head, and they are absorbed by my shirt, but I don't mind at all. Instead, I use one hand to run my fingers through his hair and the other to keep him pressed closely to my body.

I see a flash of movement behind Peeta from the doorway and spot Cinna along with Haymitch. Cinna must have fetched him when he left me to deal with Peeta.

Haymitch's face is one of worry, his brows knitted tightly as he spots me and Peeta on the floor, but I shake my head and motion for them to leave. Cinna is expressionless, but I'm sure he is as confused as anyone who sees Peeta after an episode.

When its just me and Peeta, I carefully push him back so I can look at him. His skin is red and blotchy from his tears. There are darks circles under his eyes, as if he hasn't slept at all. It must be the stress, I realize. The fighting.

Peeta looks at me with such a pitiful look that I almost break down and cry myself. "I'm so tired, Katniss," he says quietly. "I'm just so... tired of fighting it."

I reach out my hand and run it along the side of his face, using my thumb to wipe away stray tears. "We're survivors," I respond, just as quietly. "We're survivors. We're fighters. I won't let them break you again, Peeta. I won't let them break us."

But Peeta's eyes darken to almost a deep navy blue. "They already have."

His words break my heart, but instead, I help him to his bedroom across the hall and lay him down on top of the mattress.

I'm hesitant when I debate whether or not to just tuck him in and leave him, but I shake away my fears.

I'm here for him. I'm not going anywhere.

I try to keep my eyes on his face as I unbutton the paint-splattered shirt and remove it from his body, tossing it to a corner of the room to be cleaned later. From the closet, I pull out a pair of flannel plaid sleep pants and a white sleep shirt.

Peeta's eyes are barely able to stay open as I work. Embarrassment washes over me as I reach up and loop my fingers over the waistband of his pants, but I steel myself. I tug the pants down his legs gently, extremely careful to avoid his undershorts. I've never been so acutely aware of someone else in my life, but I can't help it as I run my gaze along his body.

Even slumped on the mattress tiredly, he is extremely attractive. His muscles from the Games and baking aren't as large as before, but still defined, even when they aren't flexing. His large shoulders are propped up with two pillows because they're so broad. I briefly wonder why no other girl in town has jumped on the opportunity to try and get close with Peeta.

Or maybe they had.

I shake the thought away quickly when my gaze rests on his bad leg. Guilt shoots through me as I stare at the shimmering silver metal of the contraption. I hate it. I hate how it is attached to him like that.

A piece of the Capitol that will never leave Peeta.

I slap myself mentally. "You've seen more skin than this, Katniss," I mutter to myself as I try to stem the blush that is burning in my cheeks. And its true. My mother's patients used to come in all the time with some kind of injury. Some of them were completely naked.

So why am I reacting this way to Peeta? Because I can't run anywhere? Because I am the one dealing with the unclothed patient?

I have a hard time pulling the pants over Peeta's prosthetic leg. As soon as I've pulled them up to his waist, I attempt to put the sleep shirt on over his shoulders, but Peeta is so far gone in exhaustion that I am unable to lift his heavy torso to slip it over his shoulders. I opt to leave it off instead as I get off the bed to put it away.

Peeta's voice, so quiet that if I hadn't been standing still putting the shirt away I wouldn't have been able to hear it, rings out in the bedroom.

"Stay. Please."

I walk over to the bed and pull the sheets up and over his body. "You need to rest," I tell him, but he only says it again.

"Stay?"

I don't want to. I feel as if I'm intruding, somehow.

But Peeta and I have slept in each other's beds before. This is no different.

And he needs me now more than ever.

So I close the bedroom door, strip off my heavy coat, and join him.

Before I close my eyes, he inches his arm over my waist to hold me closer. His words are muffled by exhaustion, but I am so close that I can hear them clearly.

"Thank you."