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I’m roused from the useless stupor I had fallen into by the sound of her voice, speaking quietly in the kitchen.
I sit up, ramrod straight on her living room couch, ears straining to hear her again. None of the horrible things I had been feeling, all the dark thoughts that had been burrowing around in my brain, wrapping themselves around me, tighter and tighter and making me nearly incoherent with pent up worry, exhaustion, and anger, can hold onto me anymore. They slide away at the sound of her awake and still able to speak.
For a long while there I really thought that the girl who had survived the death of her father, starvation, an unknown arena, fireballs and trackerjackers, the careers and the mutts and countless other dangers would finally be overcome by the furious whip of a new Head Peacekeeper.
I really thought we were going to lose her, when Delly had dragged me to the square, whispering frantically, ‘they caught her, Peeta, it's really, really, bad! You have to come quick!’
I really thought I was going to follow her to the grave, shot dead by a squad of armed peacekeepers because when I saw the back of her shirt torn and hanging open, her hands chained to the post, her head lolling half consciously, and her naked back, mutilated and bloody, carved open by the whip, I thought I would kill the man who had done it to her, without any regrets.
But thankfully Haymitch stepped in, and saved us both. But not before Thread nearly killed her, and I openly defied him when I jumped in front of the whip to take the thirteenth lash, right across my face.
“Prim’s fine, your mother’s fine. Everyone is safe.” Gale’s voice floats over from the kitchen. Deep and even, like he’s trying his best to be calm and reassuring.
“And Peeta?” Her voice cracks a little on my name. Everything inside me snaps to attention, and I’m halfway off the couch before I realize walking in on their private moment would be a really dick move right now. So I force myself to be still.
Gale’s tone is low, with that same chest deep rumble that accompanies almost all his conversation, but his voice is still audible.
“He’s okay too.” It’s said without inflection, or emotion. Like he’s trying to be very matter-of-fact about it. I wonder if it pains him to be asked about me. I wonder if he understands that she asks from a place of reluctant friendship, and not-
“Where is he? Did—did they whip him? Arrest him?” My thoughts are interrupted by her erratic sounding questions. I think I half imagine the rising concern I hear in her voice, but then—
“No—well, just the once, but-” Gale starts to explain but she cuts him off, as if no longer listening.
“Peeta?” Her voice is louder now, sharp, with a kind of panic that I’ve heard once before, in the arena. I can hear her clearly all the way in the living room. I imagine her turning her head frantically.
She sounds terrified, like when we split up to find food and both heard the sound of a cannon and thought the other had been killed. But really it was the red haired girl, the one who ate the poison berries by mistake, who had died.
I’m halfway across the room in a heartbeat. Half panicked myself at the searching sound of her voice, and worried that she’ll hurt herself more if she distresses herself, and moves the wrong way.
“Peeta!” She calls a second time, but I’m already by her side, my feet having made the decision while my brain was still processing why she was calling for me so desperately.
Her face relaxes immediately, and the panic leaves her eyes. Up close she looks so small, and battered, laid out the smaller, and informal kitchen table way she is. Her feet just barely skim the edge of the table, and she has more than a foot of extra room on either side. But the space next to her is decidedly not as generous.
I’m practically side by side with Gale. Large man that he is, Gale has to shift to make room for me.
In the back of my head there’s a voice commenting on the tragic irony of it all. Me, displacing him because the bizarre and unpredictable circumstances of reapings have made me someone in her life, a strange kind of footnote, when really I never should have been a concern of hers at all. Him, giving way and making room, not because I’m anyone of real consequence, not when compared to him, but because he can’t bear to see her in any more pain or discomfort than she already is.
Still, there is this moment where I matter enough for her to ask, and that alone is strangely comforting, and validating. Six months ago I probably wouldn’t have even been an errant thought in her mind. But jointly surviving a gladiatorial contest to the death, and then teaming up to deceive an entire nation with a made up love story does bring people together in strange and unpredictable ways.
I know it won’t last long, this moment of fleeting concern. She’ll see I’m alive and she’ll settle down. She’ll ask for him again, or maybe she’ll just pass out. I’ll do the expected thing, the noble thing, and take my leave. The world will be right again. All of Gale’s fears and doubts will be soothed and forgotten. And I’ll be forgotten but that’s ok. Even if I’m left alone in my big cold, empty house, at least I’ll know she’s not alone. That someone who loves her is looking after her.
“Shh, shh, Katniss. I’m ok. I’m alive. I’m right here.” The words tumble out, comforting and familiar, and second nature to me. It's exactly what I would have said if she were waking up from a particularly bad nightmare on the train. But this is no bad dream. Even though the deep, vicious stripes carved into the skin of her back could have been summoned out of my worst night terrors.
Gale takes another, quick step away from us. It's reactive, like he’s stung by the familiarity, maybe even the intimacy in my tone. I feel a twinge of shame, and guilt for half a second before Katniss reclaims my full attention again.
“Peeta.” She breathes my name in a whisper so full of relief that my heartbeat stutters irregularly in my chest, before settling back into a normal rhythm. I feel like I can breathe again, now that I can see her dark, silky eyelashes flutter against her olive cheeks with my own eyes, and hear the soft husky way she says my name with my own ears. She’s alive. She’s alive and she’s not locked up somewhere, or on a train to the Capitol right now. Something very wrong in my world has been set right, and an indescribably huge relief settles into my bones.
She lowers her head back down to rest against the dark grained wood of the table, and my fingers twitch, restless and automatically reaching for her, but I myself stop before they get too far.
It must be uncomfortable for her, lying on her front, I note distractedly. She’s a side sleeper, and I wish I had thought to slip a towel or small pillow under her head when we were setting her down. Then I remind myself that it shouldn’t be my concern, her sleeping habits and her level of comfort. It's a vestige left over from the victory tour, the instinct to tend to her, see to her needs, to soothe with a touch or gesture.
It feels wrong to think these things, to anticipate in my head what she would want or need, with Gale looking on. It’s not really my place, and now that the tour is over and we’re back to reality. I need to remember we’re just friends. At best.
But then she goes and reaches for me all by herself, just stretches her hand in my direction like it's the most natural thing in the world.
And again my body makes the decision for me before my brain can finish listing the repercussions this will cause. Because there’s no universe in which Katniss reaches for me and I don’t take her hand, regardless of any prevailing wisdom or propriety.
“I thought I’d lose you for sure.” She whispers and I’m so stunned, all I can do is shake my head. She’s looking at me in a peculiar way. I wonder absently how much morphling they actually gave her.
“No,” Is all I can think to say, gently, once I finally get a hold of my ability to speak.
“You could have been killed. Stepping in like that.” She says, eyes locked on me, insistent, despite the odd angle of her looking up at me while lying stomach down on the table.
“I wasn’t. The only one who really got hurt was you.” I reply, disapproval bleeding through at the end, despite the knowledge that it would be disastrous to start an argument right now.
And not just for her health.
Something is happening right here, at this moment, something about the way she clutches my hand while she lies broken and bleeding on her kitchen table. Something oddly reminiscent of the way she had once looked at me when my fever was burning hot and furious inside my body when we were in the cave.
A large part of me has been operating under the impression that that look I remembered was a hallucination on my part. A made up fever dream. Especially after the argument on the train tracks when we first came home. When she told me it was an act.
But now—now I can see it wasn’t just a wishful figment of my imagination.
Katniss Everdeen really is looking at me right now like I’m something irreplaceable. Like I’m something she wants to protect. Something she couldn’t bear to lose.
Which is ludicrous. Totally ridiculous. She’s probably high out of her mind. Driven nonsensical by pain and drugs.
But that look. And the way her lips are trembling.
“You’ve got to take better care of yourself.” She warns.
I almost laugh.
My world feels like it's been turned upside down again, just when I thought I had gotten it straightened out. There’s a riot inside of me. Inwardly I’m a frantic, hopeful, confused mess. But outwardly, I’m calm.
“Look who’s talking.” I murmur, as I stroke her knuckle with my thumb. It’s almost absentminded but on some level I’m aware of it. I’m also aware of how inappropriate it is. But the need to comfort her is strong, so strong. I give her a reassuring smile. I remind myself she’s heavily medicated.
“You should rest.” I say, in as even a tone as I can manage, leaning in just a little to return her hand to the table. I’m not sure she should be stretching her arm out, or moving at all right now. I’m undoubtedly sure I shouldn’t be touching her like I’ve been, with her—whatever he is, in the room.
But when I turn in Gale’s direction to get an accurate assessment of just how badly I’ve overstepped my bounds, and fucked everything up, Katniss’ voice overrides my surprise at seeing we’re alone in the kitchen now.
“Peeta!” She says, in a very put out tone, but I’m still reeling over the fact that Gale had apparently left sometime while we were speaking before. I don’t know whether to feel relieved or guilty.
“Your face!” Katniss says, horrified, as she tilts her head up to get a better look at me.
And I remember the sting of the whip. The white hot burn that split my skin in half a second. The sure and unflinching hand of the new Head Peacekeeper. It had been dizzying, and disorienting. Not the worst pain I had ever felt, but overwhelming in its suddenness.
Katniss had felt that pain 12 times across her back before Haymitch and I intervened.
It still hurts a bit, and my eye is almost swollen shut, but it's unbelievable that Kantiss is concerning herself with my scratch after she almost got whipped to death.
“It’s nothing. Nothing at all. Your sister already treated it.” It's not really a lie, the snow Prim insisted I put on, did help. “I’ll be fine. It's you who needs to rest now, Katniss.” I say, trying to infuse sternness into my voice.
But she’s still looking at me with concern, and that concern is quickly morphing into an expression I recognize all too easily on her. Anger.
“Thread whipped you 12 times before we could stop him. This,” I say pointing to my face, “is nothing Katniss. Barely a scratch compared to what you went through.” I tell her as I restrain her hand from trying to reach for my face, I fold her fingers inward and return them to the table, but cover them with my own hand.
To keep her imobile, I tell myself.
“You all need to go. Get out of here and far away from me.” She says in a plaintive, almost babbling voice.
“Shh,” I murmur as I carefully stroke the hair away from the side of her face, when she begins to shake her head stubbornly.
“Peeta, you’ll all be killed because of me.” She whispers, voice full of dread.
“No one is going to die today Katniss. They’ve had their fill of blood. They won’t get another drop.” I vow. My tone sounds far more sure than I can realistically prove or promise.
But in the back of my head, the rational part of my mind, that isn’t preoccupied with the need to get this girl comfortable and resting again, knows that the gamemakers in charge have filled their quota for violence, for now.
Katniss seems to take my words at face value, and settles down a little. Or maybe she’s just exhausted.
Yet that part of me, the unapologetic strategist, starts turning the gears, and starts going over the scenarios as I watch her try to get comfortable again on the hard wood table.
Internally I know the consequences this day will bring, for both us, and Snow, could be far reaching. Publicly whipping your victors in the town square, while it may be a power move, it will not be a popular one. Here in District 12 or in the Capitol. Public sentiment still counts for something even in our totalitarian society. And that could be used to our advantage. It could be used to keep her alive. If Haymitch and I can just figure out how to frame it.
While I try to work it all out, the rest of me, the bigger part of me that is physically standing in Katniss’ kitchen, is in overdrive comfort mode. I peel off my jacket, and fold it in two, and then gently, as gently as I possibly can, I lift her head and tuck it under her. So that she doesn’t have to lay with her face pressed against the cold, hard, bare wood.
“Thanks,” She mumbles, as she presses her face into the fabric, and of all things, inhales deeply. And then sighs, like she’s greatly contented by the smell of it. I worry absently, that it might reek of nervous sweat, after I forgot to take it off while I waited to hear the verdict of whether her mother would be able to save her or not.
“Don’t mention it,” I half plead, still wanting her to go back to sleep, to simply rest and get better. I need her to be ok. Need it, like air, or water.
“Smells good, like bread. Like you.” She whispers, sleepily. Her eyes are starting to droop. I almost let out a noise, a moan or groan of relief, the tension that had begun to gather between my shoulders lessening, at seeing her so close to falling asleep.
“I’ve been running around all day. Probably stinks. You’re just too doped up to notice.” I joke, relieved and yet sad that this conversation is coming to an end. It's been strange, and wonderful, but also, not real. Probably the morphing talking on her part more than anything.
“Nuh, uh.” She refutes clumsily. “You always smell so nice.” She admits in a hushed whisper, like it's a secret. And from the way red floods her cheeks I start to think maybe it is a secret that she’s been keeping. Something she secretly likes about me, like the million-and-one not so secret things I like about her.
Huh.
I notice then that I’m tilting my head at her in confusion, and it's probably that odd expression that is keeping her from closing her silver-gray eyes.
So I clear my throat, and adjust my expression. Give her another reassuring smile. Her hand clenches the fabric of the jacket tightly, and she looks like she wants to say something.
“Won’t you be cold?” She asks, voice slightly slurred, as if her thoughts are muddled. I’m actually glad to be free of the thing. I was overwarm, here inside her house but hadn’t noticed yet, my mind too preoccupied with Katniss and her injuries.
“Don’t worry about the jacket, I’ll borrow something to walk home in.” I say, trying to reassure her again.
“No!” She nearly yelps, hand darting out to grab the edge of shirt.
“Please don’t go.” She implores needlessly. My feet are already moving, not towards the door, though. My hands pull out the chair her mother had been sitting in an hour ago. I plop myself down without ceremony, gathering her small, cold hand in my own and clenching it fiercely. She must be cold because of the snow they had to put on her back, but better to be cold and numb than for her to actually feel the stripes of pure fire the lash cut into her skin.
I remind myself to be gentle, to softly, slowly rub warmth back into her hand, her arm, to stop clinging to her like--like--
But she is the most important thing in my entire world. And I’ve never been very good at hiding that. So at her kitchen table, with her back shredded, and her hand clasped in mine, I stop trying to hide it.
My cheeks grow wet with the unshed tears I’ve been holding back for what feels like forever and I say, “Please, don’t scare me like that again. You have no idea what would happen to me, if something happened to you.” I practically beg, in a wrecked voice.
Her voice is thick with sleep, but her hand is steady and impossibly gentle as she brushes away a tear, near my swollen eye. “I think I might.” She says in a sad voice.
We stare at each other unblinking, revealed to each other just a little more in this raw, and painful moment. Why is it that all of our deepest interactions are marred by danger, tragedy, or pain? I muse internally, as her hand finds its way back to mine.
“Then you know, I’d be a disaster. Without you.” I say, laying myself bare, and not caring at the moment how vulnerable I sound, how much it could end up hurting later, to be this honest. We’re both hurt, and bleeding, from everything that's happened today. Hell, from what’s happened in the past year.
There’s no use pretending with her.
“Then stay, and I’ll try my best, not to get into any more trouble.” She says in a voice that sounds surprised. As if she wasn’t expecting the words to come out of her mouth. Almost as surprised as I feel actually hearing her say something like that to me out loud. But my response is quick, instinctual, I don’t even have to think about it.
“Of course,” The words are automatic. The way my feet are always automatically rushing towards her, hand automatically reaching for her. Like a compass pointing north. Like the earth rotating on its axis. Firmly established in its immutability.
“Always.” I add, because it doesn’t matter if she only wants me for comfort, as a constant. As if she knows I can do nothing but say yes to her, and anything she asks of me. An unfailingly predictable phenomenon. Like the sun rising in the east.
If it's only for tonight, this one moment in time, that she wants me, then here I’ll be. By her side, because there’s no digging this girl out of me. I’ve tried, and she will not budge. She knows she owns me, heart and soul, and here she is claiming me when she has no business doing so. When she should be receiving comfort from another, more acceptable source.
But that’s just another thing I love about her. Her absolute disregard for how things should be done.
Most people don’t go volunteering for the Games to save their little siblings, no matter how much they love them. Or running headlong into obvious danger to save half dead boys they hardly know. Or outwitting gamemakers with a handful of berries when they try to go back on their word. But Katniss Everdeen isn't like most people.
If she was, maybe I wouldn’t be so hopelessly lost at the thought of life without her near permanent scowl, or the firm press of her calloused fingertips, tracing invisible patterns into my palm.
“Mmm,” She murmurs, incoherent. She’s quickly being dragged under by exhaustion and the promise of sleep.
I lean forward and press a kiss to her forehead, lingering just a little.
Come morning this might all just be a hazy, morphing induced dream to her.
But right now, she needs me.
And I have never felt as alive as in these moments. When fate and circumstance conspire to make Katniss Everdeen reachable, and dare I say, attainable.
Yes, tomorrow it will be as if none of this ever happened. I’ll wake up and remember that she didn’t mean anything she said. It was just the medicine. Just the newest near death experience to add to the alarmingly fast growing list we’re compiling together.
But there’s a part of me that still wishes I could stop time and exist in this one moment.
My heart full of her halfhearted promise to try and stay alive, for my sake, and her hand dragging my mine closer, her lips pressing an unconscious kiss to my buzzing skin, as she nuzzles her face against my palm, and the rest of the world forgotten.
Forgotten, like all that matters is this.
And maybe that’s all that really does matter. That when it came down to it, it was my name she called, my hand that she reached for.
That in these crazy, unpredictable situations we keep finding ourselves in, we are for each other.
We stand unapologetically, unequivocally, together, despite whatever comes.
In that undeniable fact, I take comfort, and in the undisturbed, even breaths she takes, asleep, and safe here by my side, finally.