My mother never broached the topic of sex with me. By the time I was old enough to talk about such adult themes, she had checked out on life and I had been running the household. That disconnect grew between us; by the time I was old enough to discuss it, she wasn't that kind of mother to me. Even though I worked to grow closer to her after surviving my first Games, there was always so much going on after that. The Victory Tour. The second Games. And then the war. None of which allowed time to even think about sex, much less sit down and talk about it.
I wish she had at some point. It would have undoubtedly been the most awkward experience in my life, but it would have saved me, perhaps, from the awkwardness I feel now as I pull Peeta through the front door and lock it quickly behind him. Though I am by most standards naive, I at least know where babies come from, as they say. One visit to the Hob could cure you of any innocence in that department. If not, the Victory Tour to the Capitol, and all the whisperings, and even rumors about Finnick. But it isn't the same as sitting down with someone experienced and older, and asking the questions you would never ask the Peacekeeper who shouts suggestive comments to you.
At some point upon entering the house, our roles shift as I lose myself in my thoughts. No longer am I the one pulling Peeta along. Instead he is the one guiding me, quickly, towards the bedroom. The bedroom where we sleep together every night, wrapped in each other. Where we have kissed and touched but nothing more. Suddenly, it's real. It's far too real, and it scares me.
"Peeta," I whisper, my hand clinching his as I pause in the upstairs hallway. He turns back to me, his eyes full of hope and love and lust. All emotions I'm sure my own reflect back to him. Only I don't see the nervousness in his, or the fear. The sudden worry that presses down upon me is vacant in his eyes.
We are only a few steps away from the open door. Upon hearing our thunderous footfalls up the stairs Buttercup appears, eyeing us suspiciously. After writing us off as nonthreatening, he ambles away, as if he knows there will be no peace and quiet found up here.
I cannot get myself to cross those last few steps. My feet stay rooted in place, my legs shaking, but now with equal parts excitement and fear. "What if..." I trail off.
"What if what?" he asks just as softly. His hand reaches for the end of my braid, already starting to grow back long, and plays with it in that nervous fashion he often has.
"What if you..." but still I cannot complete the thought. Passion overcrowded my logic back in the bakery. Standing in the hallway, it all comes back. Being in the house reminds me of all the times Peeta has had to fight to regain control of who he is, his sense of self. And I cannot help but remind myself of how many of those times I was an instigator in bringing about an episode.
"Can't get it up?" he asks, catching me completely off guard. I have never heard Peeta make a single suggestive comment about sex. Those words coming from his mouth feel wrong, and I blush furiously. He adds, "I assure you, that won't be a problem."
My head drops to his shoulder because I can't bear to look him in the eye now. He chuckles, his shoulder shaking beneath my forehead. His lips press a gentle kiss against my temple. "Katniss, I'm fine. I'll be fine," he says, finally acknowledging that he's aware of my true concern. "I promise."
"You and I have a habit of making promises to each other that turn out to be lies, one way or another," I mumble against his shoulder, still too embarrassed to meet his gaze. Especially since now, held against him, I can attest to the fact that though he was teasing me, he hadn't been lying.
"I've waited over ten years for this moment," he says, the words achingly sweet. "Well, not this moment, precisely. That is to say, it's not like I obsessed over, well, you know... What I mean is, I've been waiting for you to see me and to give me a chance, to give us a chance, since I was five. Do you really think I would let anything ruin this moment, now?"
I want to make a crude, suggestive comment of my own, not only in retaliation but to defuse some of the tension I feel. But I'm a prude, as people so blatantly point out to me, and I can't bring myself to do it. "I can't lose you again," I tell him instead, because it is the truth. I've lost my father, my mother, my sister. I lost Rue, and Cinna, and Gale. I lost Finnick. Getting Peeta back, getting my boy with the bread back, is the only thing holding me together some days. I would rather have not enough with him than risk losing everything.
He pulls my head from his shoulder. Tilting my head, cupped between his soft but strong hands, he forces me to look him in the eye. "I'm not going anywhere," he swears, his eyes staring deep into mine. "You are going to be stuck with me for a very, very long time." Then he kisses me, his lips pressed to mine almost painfully. As if he's promising himself just as much as he's promising me.
My hands grip his biceps as he pulls away. Running my tongue over my lips, already slightly swollen, I give him an almost unperceivable nod. My heart hammers in my chest, slamming into my ribcage. The fire burning within me threatens to explode. I can no longer deny it, though a hint of worry still lingers in the back of my mind.
"Katniss?" he asks. It is the most loaded question ever without being a question at all.
"Yes," I respond. It isn't a question, but a statement. A firm one, at that. I begin to ease him backward, bridging the gap between us and the bedroom. When we reach the doorway, he pauses, his hands on my waist. "You're sure?" he asks, and I finally see the worry in his eyes. That somehow, I will change my mind. That somehow, I will still be Katniss Everdeen, the girl who doesn't know what she is to Peeta Mellark.
But I know now, in my heart, that this is what is supposed to happen. This is what I want, and it's okay to have it. I'm allowed to be selfish this time. "Yes," I answer again, pushing him back into the room.
I take comfort in the fact that we go into this as one. Both exploring a new area, together. It makes it easier knowing I'm not the only one completely clueless. We fumble. We share nervous laughter. We make light of the situation, though we both know how serious it is, taking this next step together. And then the joking gives way, and we fumble less and less as we find our rhythm. And then I can do nothing but try to gasp for breath as pain and an entirely new fire consume me at the same time.
"You love me," Peeta whispers against my hair as I lay in bed, trying to sort out how I feel. His breath is warm against my neck, both of us slicked with sweat. "Real or not real?"
"Real," I tell him, without hesitation as I roll over to face him. I wince at the dull ache of pain, but it's already subsiding. Of all the pain I've been subjected to over the past few years, this is by far the best. "Real," I repeat, just in case, as I kiss him. Our eyes flutter shut, and I repeat the word silently to myself, making this moment real and solidifying it in my memory, blissfully aware that Peeta is still with me. He is still my boy with the bread.