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I’m convinced my unconscious mind hates me. I’m entirely convinced that somehow my brain is secretly conspiring against me, that somehow it’s purposefully setting out to attack me without my knowledge.
Years ago, after my father died in the mines, I began to have vivid nightmares, begging him to run, to escape, to get out before the colossal collapse, to find a way to miraculously survive. I woke up every time screaming my head off, sobbing incessantly, alarming my mother and Prim with my upset.
The nightmares only transformed into something far worse, something altogether too sinister for words, after surviving my first games. To the point that my mother grew accustomed to breaking up her sleep in order to check in on me and Prim adapted to crawling into my bed at night, to console me until I fell back asleep. A total and complete reversal from our relationship before I took her place in the area, to say the least.
The dreams only got worse — if that was even in the realm of possibilities — after the Quell. But by that point I had too much going on — who didn’t by then? — and having pow-wows with my family or Gale for my night terrors just never felt quite right. Not even in the small amount of downtime I had with my loved one did mulling over my dreams ever feel appropriate.
But the war is over and my sister is gone now too and my mother is living her own life in District Four and my nightmares are as present and as prevalent as ever before.
And I should have known I had a bad one coming. I should have anticipated the dream before crawling into bed tonight and carelessly closing my eyes.
Because too much has gone right lately. Life, for once, has worked out almost idyllically in my favor.
And nothing in my life can ever remain good for long. When something works out for me better than I could have ever imagined, my brain decides I need to be terrorized as a way to counterbalance.
Two days ago I told Peeta I loved him, in just so many words. Two days ago we made our relationship official. And two days ago, we took our intimacy to a place that once upon a time I venomously swore I’d never go.
So naturally, the horror show was coming. My psyche could never let me bask in my bliss for too long.
And I naively didn’t prepare myself for the onslaught of gruesome, harrowing images that my brain had created just for me.
The terrors that played behind my lids, that my dreams tonight were packed full of, are beyond words, beyond description, beyond articulation. And far beyond anything I’ve seen for the last few months, to put it lightly.
So I suppose it’s no surprise when I wake up shaking and shivering, my throat raw and tasting like blood from my screams and pleas, my entire body drenched in sweat and hot, salty tears.
It’s also no surprise that my bedmate is awake as well. Awake and prepared for my inevitable meltdown. It’s been a small while since I dreamed anything close to this but not long enough for him to forget every time before that I’ve awoken in a similar frenzy.
Would it ever be long enough though? Is there a stretch of time that could come to pass where Peeta would forget how deeply disturbing my night terrors have the capacity to be? Is it possible for him to ever underestimate the threshold of my nightmares? Is there a length of time in existence that could make me forget his flashbacks? His episodes? His own paralyzing turmoil?
Peeta gently rolls me off the edge of the mattress, where I’m clinging for dear life, and pulls me into his embrace. His arms and legs encircle mine, his flesh and metal press against my damp skin like a wool blanket clings to your lap in winter. Comforting, reassuring, soothing. Maybe a little restraining but in a way you long for and not in a way you repel.
His hand travels up my back, rubbing my bare skin soothingly, as I bury my face deeper into his neck and clutch myself to him. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to hush me or stop my — very raucous — wails from piercing silence of the room. He doesn’t even shift, keeping his arms locked around me in a cradle, keeping me safely against him, as if to convey physically what he knows better than anyone no words could convey to me verbally. Not in this state, that is.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper hoarsely, after my tears dry up, after I’ve cried myself out for the better part of two hours. The sun is almost up by the time my weeping is done.
“Katniss, do not start apologizing for your nightmares,” he commands, sounding suddenly exasperated. I roll my eyes a little — okay, a lot — at his assertion and he catches the gesture, pecking my forehead with a smirk now. “There. That’s my sweet girl. Scowling at me, like always.”
I laugh at that, shoving against his chest lightly, despite the clogged, choked sensation lingering in the back of my throat. “Are you still tired?” I whisper, too lazy to even turn around and check where exactly the sun is in the sky, to get a vague idea of the time of day.
“No, but I can tell you are,” he replies with another smirk, his hand continuing to rub up and down my spine rhythmically. “Go back to sleep,” he urges, his voice getting quieter now. “I’ll still be here when you’re ready to get up.”
I feel a warm sensation spread across my chest, a feeling of safety and of contentment that I’d previously never really known. A feeling that remains very foreign to me, if I’m being honest. But it’s a feeling too good to question and I close my eyes, resting my cheek against Peeta’s chest, feeling safe and protected and only slightly afraid of having another debilitating nightmare.
Okay, that’s a lie. I’m terrified of having another bad dream. And although I won’t admit it aloud, I know Peeta can read the fear in my limbs, that are still tightly curled around him like a band of chains. I know he can read the anxiety in the way my back remains stiff, even as his fingertips trail lightly up and down, tracing my burn scars like pretty freckles and not disfigurements.
But when I open my mouth again, I don’t account my agitation to fear but rather discomfort. “I’m so sweaty,” I murmur quietly, causing Peeta’s hand to abruptly still. “My whole body feels like it’s covered in grime.”
It’s not a lie. I do feel disgusting, covered in perspiration and the remnants of my tears. Maybe I didn’t bathe every day of my life growing up, as warm water was not a luxury afforded by those in the Seam, but I kept clean. And I groomed myself more than most in both my arenas. The feeling of being damp and shaky only serves to remind me even more of the Hunger Games and subsequently makes it nearly impossible to fall back asleep.
I should just get up and start my day, whatever time it may be. But I’m too depleted still and the sleep I did get wasn’t exactly sound and even feeling gross, I can’t make my body disentangle from Peeta quite yet.
Apparently he has other plans though. Because as soon as I resolve to just lay against him for a little while longer, he kicks the covers to the end of the bed and sits us up swiftly.
The sudden movement leaves me startled and somewhat displeased, but when I open my mouth to complain, to demand he lays back with me again, I feel strong arms scoop me up into their incredible embrace.
“What’s going on?” I murmur, wrapping both my arms and legs around him, realizing I’m even more exhausted than I thought while laying in bed.
That’s another dreadful thing about having either nightmares or insomnia — or in our lucky cases, both. You don’t recognize just how drained you truly are until you’re already up and awake.
I’m actually genuinely surprised when Peeta crosses the threshold into the bathroom, not entirely coherent yet. “What are we doing in here?” I ask stupidly as he sets me down on the toilet seat lid.
He chuckles, a little incredulously, shooting a sardonic glance in my direction. “You said you felt disgusting,” he reminds as he makes his way to our quite large, porcelain tub. Years ago, they were installed in every single house built here in Victor’s Village.
Part of me hates continuing to live in this house, continuing to build a life in a home that, at least in part, represents the games to both of us.
But this is also the last home my sister and me ever shared and the idea of severing the very last physical tie I have to her stings akin to a knife wound.
I watch Peeta turn and adjust the knobs for a moment, alternating the temperature as steaming hot water pours into the bath, filling it quickly. I watch as he stands back up and moves towards me. But I don’t understand until he kneels down and touches the hem of my sleep shirt what his intention is.
“Oh,” I say, maybe a little bashful as he casually lifts the article over my head. He chuckles quietly at my diffident expression, but otherwise remains nonchalant.
Probably so I won’t feel so shy, I recognize as he slowly tugs my underwear down and helps me step into the deep tub. He’s probably trying to act casual so I won’t be self-conscious.
I sink down into the hot water, feeling the layer of sweat and stickiness immediately melt away from my skin. It’s so relieving that I lean my face against the side of the tub and close my eyes, feeling further and further from my nightmare by the second.
Peeta turns the water off once it reaches my neck and carefully sits on the edge of the bath, gently raking his fingers through my tangled locks. A transparent attempt to relax me even further.
And I don’t hesitate to move closer to him now, the timidness from only a minute ago ebbing away with the shelter of the water. I shift to lay my cheek against his leg, wanting to feel him beside me still.
“Hello,” he greets wryly and his hand moves from my head to my upper back, softly massaging the only portion of skin that isn’t consumed by the bath water.
A shiver runs down my spine but it’s the pleasant kind. It’s the kind I’ve only recently discovered and that I’m still getting used to. The kind only Peeta has ever been able to elicit from me.
And I suddenly realize I want him closer, that I want to feel him beside me. That I want him in the bath with me.
My sudden desire comes with an uncharacteristic boldness — at least, uncharacteristic when it comes to physical intimacy — and I say in a breathless, rushed voice, “Peeta, get in here.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice though. He hears my request and smirks a little, before murmuring, “Okay,” easily and stripping himself down.
I try not to watch him undress, unsure if it’s appropriate or not. I know — for an absolute fact — that he wouldn’t mind if I were to gawk but I still feel unsure about a lot of the new aspects in our flourishing relationship.
When we slept together a few days ago — and I said I loved him for the first time — both our minds were focused on our emotional development and every fear my admission brought out of me.
But now we’ve resolved that, we’ve talked through all my anxieties and we’ve never been closer. And suddenly it seems that there’s so much for of both us to discover. There’s so much that’s new to both of us, so many more firsts to experience together, and it feels like I’m just as bad at this as I am at everything else romantic.
And Peeta appears to be just as much of a natural as he’s always been at flirting. Like love and romance and intimacy are his second language. And I feel even more apprehensive and clunky by comparison.
But he doesn’t think so , I remind myself as Peeta settles in behind me. He’s always insistent that I’m exactly what he wants, that nothing I do turns him away, that I can’t screw this newfound aspect of relationship up even if I tried.
I find myself overcome with a wave of gratitude towards him though, when he lightly tugs me backwards, settling me between his one full leg and his half amputated one. His hands run up and down my sides, before clasping together on my stomach, holding me to him tightly. He knows that in this one area I am desperate for him to still take the lead. At least for now, I still need him to guide me.
Because this is still so new. And he’s so good at everything — except being quiet — and I’m never quite sure of myself the first time we do anything.
This right now being a perfect example. I’ve had sex multiple times with Peeta in the last couple of days, but we’ve never done this . We’ve never been naked and touching without the presence of sheets and moonlight and his warm, heavy body covering mine.
His lips touch my temple as he whispers, “What’re you thinking about?”
I don’t know why I feel a blush creep up on my cheeks in response. It causes an unintentional innuendo though and I have to hurry to rectify it before his laughter gets too loud. “I was just thinking about how … this,” I emphasis, gesturing between him and me, curled together in the deep water, “is all new. To me, at least,” I add on the end.
I can almost feel him roll his eyes but his smile is still so prevalent. “It’s all new to me too, Katniss.”
“But you’re better at this than me,” I murmur, sounding more put out by that fact than I really am. After all, one of us should know how to take the lead. I don’t even want to imagine if he was as dumbfounded as I am half the time.
“That’s because you make it easy for me,” he explains but I don’t understand what he means.
“How?” I lean my head back against his chest, hearing his heartbeat — which is actually faster than typical — drumming against my ear.
He sees the skeptical glint to my gaze and leans down to rub his nose to mine lightly. “Because you’re so genuine,” he says, his baby blues getting infinitely softer. “You’re so genuine and honest. You never lie about how you feel to me. It’s incredibly easy to be intimate with someone who can’t act.” He laughs a little at his own joke before catching my scowl and taking me by surprise with a soft kiss to my lips. “You’re just Katniss . No matter what we do. So you’re right. This is easy for me, because no matter what, I know I’m with you.”
His words leave me awestruck, not expecting that kind of response. And instead of conjuring up some reply that may be well-intended and true but comes across as forced, I turn my head and fuse our lips back together now, kissing his mouth for a long moment before moving down to kiss his jaw, his chin, the corner of his smile.
Before recognizing that’s not the greatest idea, the way our bodies are positioned.
He chuckles, sounding a bit more tense now. “This bath is about helping you relax ,” he says, gently turning me forward again. I can feel though, nipping this exchange in the bud isn’t exactly what he desires. “We shouldn’t do any more.”
I don’t know if it’s the strain in his voice or the slight rigidity of his body now but I suddenly get the whim to tease him. “Yeah, besides I’m still sore after what you did to me last night after dinner. And after dessert.”
Now he flushes pink. I realize I like it when his cheeks turn rosy. His fair skin looks attractive with the color.
And I like it even more when I’m the one who causes it.
“How about you just relax,” he suggests drolly and pulls me tighter to his chest, his arms wrapping snugly around my frame.
His fingertips lightly trace circles on my collarbone and I feel gooseflesh raise across my body. It hits me abruptly, not as a new revelation but as one I had yet to put into words — even just to myself — that I much enjoy being bare, skin to skin with him. That even without the act of having sex, I really like laying here in his arms, with no barriers between us. As close as two people can be.
Okay, well. Almost as close.
Maybe soon the novelty will wear off and I won’t find new excitement in the unexpected small revelations of our newfound affection, but as of this moment, discovering new thrills, feeling unexplainable enthusiasm in things I never even imagined I’d desire, brings me a rare delight. A rare delight I didn’t even know I was capable of feeling.
As if trying to prove my point, Peeta’s hand moves swiftly from my chest to touch a button over our head. I don’t even have the time to question what he’s doing before he rubs both his palms together and moves his fingers into my hair, massaging my scalp lovingly.
I hum unintentionally in bliss as he guides me to lean back, cradling my neck in the crook of his arm so my hair will flare out in the water, so he can sift his fingers through my tresses until they’re rinsed and clean.
My eyes are still closed as he pulls me back up, holding me against him, the exhaustion from my interrupted sleep getting more and more palpable the more at ease I become.
But I’m not quite tired or relaxed enough to miss the feeling of Peeta massaging my legs. Both of them. First my left leg and then my right. I barely crack my lids open in time to see him reach up and refills one of his palms with soap.
He’s washing me , I realize idly, feeling like an idiot for not catching onto that right away.
I open my mouth to say something, but I can’t think of anything that feels appropriate — I mean, what is there to say? Thank you ? — and I’m so comfortable, curled up in his lap, with warm water swishing around me, my face pressed into his throat. I feel so safe and so wonderfully happy here, I make an effort to stay as silent and as still as humanly possible, as if moving or talking will abruptly end Peeta’s gentle ministrations.
His sud covered hands continue to softly move across every inch of my body, tenderly cleansing it of any remaining perspiration my nightmare left behind. His touch is sweet and loving, as if I’m the most precious thing in the world to him, as if I’m something of worth in his eyes. As if he loves me.
Which he does. That much I can’t deny, even on my worst day. Even when I hate myself for all that’s gone wrong, I know deep in my bones that he loves me. That he loves me more than he’s ever loved anything.
Somehow he’s aware that I’m still awake, that I haven’t completely dozed off quite yet. His lips touch my forehead lightly, lingering there for a long moment before murmuring, “Just go back to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”
My arms sleepily reach up and lock around his neck, shifting my body to hug him as close as I can get.
But the horrifying images are still there, still lingering in the back of my mind, and a sliver of fear creeps up once more. “Peeta, what if I have another nightmare?” I whisper, pressing my nose to his Adam’s apple.
“Then I’ll still be here. And we’ll do whatever it takes until you’re okay.”
I press my lips to his neck in reply, without even so much as opening my eyes. His words so sweet, his sentiment too kind and too wonderful to be directed towards me.
I do eventually fall asleep again, with Peeta’s quiet voice still running through my head, with his strong arms still supporting my entire body weight, with the warm water and the grandiose tub and the boy I love all surrounding me like a quilt.
When I wake back up, I’m in bed, tucked in and surrounded by cool sheets and a light wind blowing in through the open window. But despite the fact that I should be chilled, I’m somehow wrapped up in warmth, snuggled tightly by something large and protective and secure.
It takes me half a second to register it’s my boyfriend surrounding me.
He’s asleep now, his breath quiet and even, fanning against the back of my neck rhythmically. I can tell just by the way his arms are contorted around me, just by the way his legs are loosely tangled in mine, just by the way his bare chest feels pressed against my back — apparently Peeta didn’t see any point in redressing either of us before climbing back into bed — that he’s at peace. That the sleep he’s getting right now is more sound and more restful than it has been in so long.
Even after all these months, we both struggle with finding peaceful sleep.
When you have a hope chest of horror packed tightly where your teenage years should be, serene sleep is a rarity. It’s an absolute luxury.
As every unconscious mind tends to let it’s guard down. And the terrors of our past are significant. Significant and persistent and always on the lookout, for an opportunity to haunt us. To remind us of all that’s happened. Of all we had to go through, all we had to survive, to end up here now.
And I can’t ruin Peeta’s slumber. Not when it’s finally peaceful. And especially not after all he did for me earlier, after my nightmare sent me into a sweaty panic.
Instead I roll over carefully in his arms, still keeping our naked bodies close and entwined. I lay my head against his chest once again, resting my ear right where I can effortlessly hear every beat of his heart, and peer up at him, admiring his unconscious face. Unbeknownst to him for once.
He looks younger while asleep. I remember thinking the same thing about him a few years ago in the cave and then about Gale too after he got whipped. Does everyone really look younger when they sleep? Because for a moment I can almost pretend Peeta was never reaped, that he didn’t volunteer for the Quell, that he wasn’t kidnapped, that Snow never got his hands on him. That somehow he was spared of everything that destroyed the the willful innocence he exuded prior to the war.
It’s not just that though. It’s not just how tranquil he appears while in deep sleep. I remember months ago when he told me I was pretty, when we went walking in the woods and he casually dropped how he had watched me that morning before I woke, when the sun shone in on my face.
“ I woke up and you were still asleep. And I laid in bed and watched the way your face looked when the sun hit it, and I just couldn't get it out of my head how beautiful you really are. "
I didn’t get his meaning then. I was too embarrassed and too self-deprecating to ponder the sentiment, to grasp what kind of vision he was raving about.
But I see it now. As I lay against him, watching his fair skin, his pink and cream colored face, his soft mouth that turns up slightly in a smile when dreaming something good, his incredibly long blonde eyelashes, I see it. As the morning sun shines in from the open window, giving his skin the appearance of satin, I finally grasp what Peeta meant that day in the woods. I understand what it means to watch the person you love, content and safe and unaware, while beams of light land on their skin, illuminating them in the most ethereal way.
And before I can stop myself, I stretch upwards and press a kiss to his forehead. My lips linger there for a long stretch of time, wishing for convey the feelings I know I’m so awful at verbalizing.
Unsurprisingly, he stirs as the gesture. “Hi,” he mumbles as his eyes blink awake, his voice groggy for once. I’ve found recently that I sort of like it when his voice is thick and full of sleep. Which is unexpected — to me more than anyone else probably — because I never once paid much mind to anyone’s voice in my life.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I whisper, unable to resist pressing my lips to his forehead again. This time the contact only lasts for a second before I maneuver back down to lay against him, to snuggle back fully into his warm embrace.
“Are you okay?” He mumbles, his brows knitting together in — albeit, tired — concern.
“I’m great,” I say, closing my eyes against him now, feeling great for once in my life.
For some reason that reassurance only serves in rousing him more. “Since when do you ever say you’re great?”
“Since I felt like it.”
He chuckles a little before closing his eyes again, relaxing back into the mattress. His arm tightens around me, holding me so close to him it’s almost as if we’re one being. “Goodnight,” he murmurs, despite it being daylight hours now. He snuggles even closer to me, resting his cheek against my temple, seconds from dozing off some more.
I close my eyes too, content to cuddle him for as long as he’ll allow, but for some reason our conversation feels unfinished. Like there’s something more I need to say.
Apparently my mouth already knows the words before my brain can catch up. “I love you, Peeta.”
I watch with childish satisfaction as his eyes fly open again. He’s still not used to hearing the sentiment from me, still too accustomed to deciphering my actions instead of relying on me to actually articulate my feelings.
And his lips are suddenly on my cheek, trailing down my jaw, focusing intently on the space right below my earlobe. “Say it again,” he pleads, his hands running up and down my sides now. “Please, say it again.”
I giggle girlishly as he moves lower, as his mouth travels the length of my neck, over my collarbone and down between my breasts. “I love you,” I murmur, my hand unconsciously reaching up to pet his hair, to brush it back so I can see his face as his kisses move further south.
I tug on his arms, signaling I want him to move upwards though. It’s evident what I’m asking, my lips already ready for his, for the feeling of his mouth on mine, for our tongue to meet, for my lips to swell, to feel that warm tingle in my belly that no one else on Earth has ever been able to conjure in me.
But he decides to tease me instead. He touches his nose to mine, rubbing back and forth for a moment, his lips remaining an inch away. “Say it again,” he requests, his voice even huskier than usual, even when he first wakes up.
But I don’t like being denied and my stubborn nature abruptly rears it’s ugly head. “No,” I say and then scowl up at him.
But he’s undeterred and smiles — rather proudly — at my pout. His lips touch the tip of my nose lightly and then my chin, the shell of my ear, my temple, before softly pressing repeatedly to the corner of my mouth.
As if just to tease me more.
“Please, Katniss? One more time?” He bats his eyelashes at me and I can’t help but roll my eyes at his antics.
“I love you, Peeta,” I say, much less sweet and instead rather deadpan.
But it’s enough for him. It’s more than enough evidently. He must have expected my attitude, as he chuckles before he plunges down and connects our lips.
The kiss is a reward in itself, sweeter than any words could ever be. I get so lost in it that my eyes close in pleasure, that I wrap my legs around his waist and make the unrealistic decision to never ever move from this position.
“I love you too,” he whispers, pulling back just as I let out a small moan. Leaning down and kissing both my eyelids, he murmurs quietly, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything.”
And I stroke his curls again, pulling him down to rest his forehead against mine. “You’re my angel,” I mumble softly, not convinced that he’ll even hear it.
But he does. He does and he smiles brightly. “No, Katniss, you’re mine.”
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