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He looks like a creampuff. That is all Katniss can think during the visit, sipping her tea and raising an eyebrow in question. They expect her to marry this plump blondish boy who could barely get a word in edgewise around his mother? This whole arrangement seemed to be getting more ridiculous by the minute.
Her parents and his leave them alone, with the shadow of her guard Haymitch lurking in the corners of the library as their only company. It’s too easy to ignore him, but the creampuff—Peeta, her mind corrects. If she was forced to marry him, she might as well get used to calling him by his name—can’t stop his eyes from watching the old man stalk the room. Baby-blue eyes following the slobbish old man irritates her and she voices it sharply.
“Sorry,” he blushes, timidly sipping his tea before adding another cube of sugar. That was his fifth cube, she notices, and only his first cup.
“Do you not like tea?”
“Oh, no. I love tea.” He takes another sip to prove his point, but his grimace betrays the lie. “I love the stuff, really. I just hate all the sugar.”
“Then why do you keep adding it?”
“I hear it’s weird not to add sugar.” She blinks a couple times, her mind slowly processing his words, but they still seem as ridiculous as the first time she heard them.
“I don’t follow.”
He shrugs. “My brothers told me that only freaks drink their tea plain. I didn’t want you thinking your husband is an incompetent idiot who doesn’t know how to properly take his tea, so I just keep gradually adding cubes until you finish your cup. That way I can stop drinking without seeming rude.” The sentiment is sweet, if not strange. This plump little man cares what she thinks of him? She glances down at her half-drunken cup and with a little too much force, sets it down in front of her. His eyebrows arch up, curious at her sudden aggression.
“I don’t want to get married,” she confesses, ignoring his questioning gaze, and only feeling a little guilty when his face falls just a tad. But it was the truth, and if they are expected to share a bed one day soon, he might as well know what he was getting himself into. “I’ve never wanted to, but for political reasons, I must.”
“I highly doubt the future queen of Panem needs a king to help her gain popularity.”
“Prince consort,” she corrects without even pausing to think. Her cheeks flush at the natural response of correcting people when they assume getting married diminishes her rightful place as queen. “And it’s nothing to do with popularity. It’s about our roles as future leaders. Our relations with your kingdom and mine will only prosper if we’re united as husband and wife.” All words from her father, words she doesn’t truly believe in.
Peeta shifts in his seat, looking uncomfortable all of a sudden. “You sure know how to charm a fellow, don’t you?”
Katniss frowns. Is he joking? “This is serious. People are going to look to us for guidance, Peeta.” His name feels more foreign on her tongue than it aught. Too many vowels and not enough consonants. It could roll off her tongue for days if she let it. Peeta. Peeeeeeeetaaaaaaaa.
“I know,” he plainly states like they are talking about the weather and not a whole kingdom looking to them for answers in every aspect of life. “I’m not worried about people. People I can handle—have you not met my mother?” he jokes, his crooked grin showing off a scar in the corner of his mouth. “I’m not concerned about being your prince consort.”
“Then what are you worried about?”
“You.”
“Me?” she blanches at his blunt confession, looking back at Haymitch to see if he was in earshot. “You barely know me! Why would you worry?”
“Shouldn’t most people be concerned over what their spouse thinks of them?” The hint of sarcasm laced in his voice couldn’t be ignored no matter how hard she tried. “People like me, your highness, and I know that. I don’t really care about them in that sense either, because there’s not much I can do about public opinion once it’s been set, but your opinion, well that I do care about.”
“It seems silly to care when there’s no choice in the matter.”
“It’s silly not to care, then.” He had her there. Her mouth opens a few times, all arguments falling flat before leaving her tongue, and her lips purse in defeat. What could she say to that? Would all their arguments leave her tongue-tied like this?
“I suppose you’re right,” she concedes, back straightening under the pressures of her corset. “And you may call me Katniss. ‘Your highness’ sounds too formal for this type of situation.”
“And what do I call you when we are husband and wife?”
“Katniss. And I shall call you Peeta because I don’t enjoy pet names when we aren’t pets.” She picks up her teacup and waits for him to lift his. He does so, raising the cup in the air in silent agreement, and downs the rest of his drink, face scrunching up in disgust instantly. The corners of her mouth lift around her cup.
He looks more like a stuffed bear, she decides.