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Unsurprisingly, her dreams are full of dead people.
They always had been, to an extent. Not just the ones of her father suffocating in the mines; she'd often dreamt of the emaciated corpses, propped up against buildings, on the streets of the Seam, or—most horrifyingly—in the safe, summery Meadow. She'd never told anyone, simply because of the normality of those nightmares. Everyone had probably had them at some point, she wasn't special.
Her Games nightmares tend to be full of ways that she could've died, had anything gone differently. Foxface at the Career camp, grinning that sly grin, stepping sideways purposefully to blow both of them sky high; Thresh, glaring down at her, raising the rock already slick with Clove's blood; and Cato, always Cato, slicing her open or snapping her neck or lunging for her, throwing her down to the mutts, laughing victoriously. What does it say about her, that her nightmares are always about her own possible death, and never the other tributes' very real ones?
Peeta never features in those dreams. Maybe she never really believed that he could kill her, if it came down to it.
She was fifteen when she'd finally started menstruation, a late bloomer in every sense of the word. Later—much later—she'd come to the conclusion that it was the general malnutrition and starvation that had slowed her body's development, but in the moment, she was terrified.
How could she not be? Fifteen, and staring down at her raggedy underwear in the grimy school bathroom, bloodied by an unknown cause. She'd wiped it up and stormed out, gone home and put the underwear in the wash pile, all while feeling like she was about to keel over from abdominal cramps.
Her mother had spotted it, frowned, and asked her if she'd forgotten to grab a rag before she left for school. Katniss had stared very blankly at her mother, who had then sighed in either exasperation or disappointment.
"Lord, Katniss, it's just your cycle. Don't you know what to do?"
Katniss had—very reasonably, in her opinion—seen red. "No, I don't," she'd responded, slowly, through gritted teeth, "because you never told me. This has never happened to me before."
Her mother's face had shuttered briefly, before she blew out a breath and explained to Katniss that she was finally mature, that this would be happening for the rest of her life, that she had to wear a rag in her underwear every month and wash it daily. Needless to say, Katniss had been extremely surprised and extremely angry.
The next morning, walking with Madge to school, she had recounted the entire experience in deep frustration, and asked Madge if it had happened to her as well. Madge had hummed in answer, then stared down at Katniss sideways.
"You didn't know about it? About any of it?" she'd asked, sounding genuinely confused. Katniss had wanted to tear her hair out, but she liked Madge.
"No, was I supposed to?" she'd responded, sarcasm coating her words like coal dust coated the Seam. Madge had squinted at her.
"They pulled all the girls in our year out of class like, three years ago. Gave us the talk and everything. You don't remember?"
Three years ago. Katniss would've been eleven or twelve, fighting off starvation, trying to keep her family alive. She certainly wouldn't have been paying attention in class, listening to the useless lectures about their nation's history and coal mining. None of it had mattered to her, not when the hunger pains were so powerful she could barely think. She hadn't had the luxury to pay attention in class. She'd only shown up at all to keep up appearances, to make sure the district wouldn't get suspicious and send her and Prim to the community home.
She hadn't told Madge this. They weren't acquainted at that horrible time, and Katniss hadn't wanted to make her feel bad. She liked Madge.
"Guess I zoned out," Katniss had replied, and they'd spent the rest of the walk in their trademark silence.
Now, trapped in bed after the Arena, barely conscious, someone who she thinks is a nurse stops to check her vitals. She's talking quickly, not knowing or caring that Katniss isn't processing a word. She squints up at the nurse in drugged oblivion, words going in one ear and out the other. That is, until a sentence catches her notice.
"The injection will have worn off, you see, so anticipate the return of menstruation within a few weeks."
Truth be told, Katniss hadn't even noticed it was gone. Sue her—she'd had more important things to think about in the Arena. But now, drugged up and fighting for scraps of information, she licks her lips and asks the question.
"The injection stopped my cycle? Why?" she slurs out, curious and trying not to slip away into sleep. She blinks and meets the eyes of the nurse, who looks surprised at the question. Then, she laughs—a grating noise—as if Katniss has just told the joke of the century.
"Sorry!" The nurse squealed out, after a few minutes. "I just couldn't understand you at first!"
Which, okay, fair—the drugs make her tongue heavy, and combine that with her already obvious Twelve accent, it's no wonder a Capitolite would struggle to comprehend. But she's still waiting for an answer, so she stares blankly at the nurse until she starts talking again.
"Honestly, what a silly question!"
The nurse continues to titter, fluffing her pillows and making note of her vitals. Katniss begins to suspect that she won't get an answer. She tries to open her mouth again, to repeat the question, but the lady is already turning to leave. Frustration and desperation well up through the sedatives.
Before she leaves, Katniss is able to hear what the nurse says on her way out.
"District kids, I swear!"
Irrational anger quickly replaces whatever feelings had been breaking through the fog before, and Katniss feels her bony hands curl into shaking fists.
They treat her like she's some silly, backwards District girl. Like she hadn't sawed off that branch and dropped that nest on those kids, like she hadn't watched Glimmer balloon up and twitch until she died, like she hadn't heard the cannon for the District Four girl and thought, one more down. Like she hadn't turned to the District One boy and shot him in the throat unhesitatingly, and watched as the blood spurted and he fell like a puppet with its strings cut. Like she hadn't shot Cato in the hand and curled up for eight hours while the mutts tore him to pieces.
Once the trumpets sounded, she turned into a celebrity to the Capitol, a new doll to dress up and coo over and interview, conveniently forgetting the fact that she was a killer, through and through. A killer that they made. Katniss thinks vaguely, as the drugs pull her down again, that she kinda understands what Gale was getting at, with all those rants in the woods.
"Do they treat you like you're about five years old, too?" Peeta asks her that first night on the train home, in a rare moment of reprieve, just the two of them. No Haymitch to separate them out of anxiety, no buzzing camera crews or vapid journalists. Just them.
"Definitely," Katniss responds, feeling a small sliver of relief at being understood, though she suspects Peeta might have it slightly worse on that front. Because while the Capitol may look at her and see a sullen little girl, they seem to look at Peeta as though he's generally harmless, or even their friend.
And sure, this might make sense, he'd certainly played up the gentle, boyishly charming angle in the Arena, but Katniss had watched the recap. Even if the Capitol hadn't been watching, Katniss had, and she'd watched Peeta slice that Eight girl's throat like a loaf of bread, like it was just another day in the bakery for him. She'd also watched as he darted away, never looking back, and she'd also heard his voice, bland, confirming the kill to Cato.
He isn't their friend. He's a killer, just like her and just like every other Victor pulled from the Arena. You don't make it to Final Four—much less Final Two—without a kill, and Katniss may have shot the arrow, but it was Peeta who'd shoved Cato off the Cornucopia.
Katniss looks into Peeta's eyes and sees her own disillusionment, mirrored back at her. He stares back, mouth thinning, then looks out the window.
"Funny," he says, then doesn't speak again. Nothing about their situation is funny, but Katniss knows what he means. She'll probably always know what he means from now on. They're bonded for life now, her and Peeta. No one else will ever understand what they went through together—not their families, not Gale, not even Haymitch. It's unbelievably comforting, the knowledge that she'll always have someone who understands parts of her that no one else does.
Katniss looks at him for a moment longer, memorizing his silhouette—the mess of his hair, the curve of his jaw, the tense in his shoulders—before turning around. "Night, Peeta."
Back in Twelve, Katniss feels like she's being pulled in ten different directions. It's exhausting, it's overwhelming, but she's not sure that the people pulling her even care. She's a wire pulled tight, about to snap, but still stubbornly holding out.
Her mother is suddenly all fussy, maternal love, trying very hard and very obviously to make up for the lost years, stolen by grief and the desperation to survive. Katniss tries not to get impatient with her—she really, really does—but her mother has chosen the worst possible time to try to step up, a time where all Katniss wants is to be left the fuck alone.
Gale and Peeta pull her in opposite directions. Gale wants things to stay the same—that is, how they were before she killed four people on live television—and for her to be the same naïve girl who mocked Capitol accents and ate wild berries without flinching. Peeta wants the change in the Arena—the kisses, the love story, the reciprocity of his feelings—to be the reality, for her to look at him and not see his pale, sickly face, shining with blood poisoning. She ignores both of them, instead.
Haymitch wants her to perform, constantly perform, for the cameras and the interviewers and even the people of Twelve, who don't actually seem to care if she's maddeningly in love with Peeta or not. It's draining, this performance: she can't ever drop it if she wants her family to live. The only times she lets herself relax are in the woods, with nothing but chirping birds and rustling leaves for miles in any direction.
One day, wandering through the trees, in a daze, Katniss finds herself crouched in a large thicket of wildflowers. The scent is cloying, sickeningly sweet, causing her breath to catch.
She squints at the petals, trying to recognize them—trying to come back to herself. A mistake, one she realizes immediately upon identifying a few of these blossoms. White carnations and chrysanthemums, blue forget-me-nots, pale irises.
The flowers she adorned Rue with.
Sweet, gentle Rue. Tiny in life and even tinier in death. Katniss feels her breathing speed up, feels her vision go blurry with panic. She knows she should get up and stumble home before she loses it completely, but finds herself unable to stand.
Later, she'll find out that she staggered home, catatonic, clutching a ragged bouquet of the wretched flowers, a minute away from passing out. Prim had apparently pried the flowers out of her iron grip and placed them in a vase, before guiding her upstairs and tucking her into bed.
Katniss wonders what she did to deserve Prim.
That night—after the wildflower incident—she dreams of the Cornucopia, only it's Peeta who shoves her off this time. As the mutts inevitably tear into her, Katniss is forced to watch Peeta stare down at her, face blank, waiting for the trumpets.
She jolts awake, breathing ragged and desperate in the dark, unfamiliar bedroom. Everything is too polished, even in the night. She wrenches open the curtains, staring out at the midnight sky, but it isn't enough. Her eyes stray to the telephone collecting dust, bolted to the wall next to the window. The Capitol people that installed it had left her with a book, full of numbers—Cinna, her prep team, Effie, and most of the other Victors. She hasn't touched it once, partly out of mistrust, but also because it's always struck her as useless. The only two Victors she knows are across the street from her: why would she ever need to phone them? Plus, she's pretty sure Haymitch ripped his out of the wall ages ago.
This is how she finds herself stumbling out of bed and lunging for the phone book, squinting in the dark, and shakily punching in Peeta's number. Hesitantly, Katniss raises it to her ear, the droning buzz of the dial tone helping somewhat to slow her breathing, to quiet some of the storms in her brain.
"Hello?"
His voice is groggy and confused, like he'd just woken up. Katniss can't speak, just lets out a little whimper.
"Hello? Katniss?" He sounds concerned now, and she briefly wonders how he recognized her voice so quickly, with such little information.
"Peeta," she manages to get out, a choked noise escaping from the back of her throat. "Sorry. Sorry."
"Katniss," he responds, less of a question, more of a statement. "Are you alright? What's wrong?"
"Sorry," she repeats; apologizing is all she ever seems to do with Peeta, lately. "I had a nightmare."
"Oh," he says, tinny through the telephone. "Do you—what do you need?"
It should be alarming, really, how a simple question shoots its way into her heart, lowering her guard, leaving her utterly defenseless. Peeta doesn't have to do this for her—in fact, he shouldn't be doing this. Katniss broke his heart. How Peeta even had the capacity to think of romance after she'd explained their dire situation to him still remains a mystery to her, but she did lead him on in front of the entire nation. Maybe they both have a lot going on in their heads.
"I just," she starts, then swallows, trying to get it out. "Your voice."
"Okay," she hears him say, "okay."
He begins to speak at length about his day, his surroundings, how much he hates his prosthetic, Haymitch's audacity—mindless topics that fade in to the background as Katniss focuses on the cadence and rhythm of his voice. In the days since the Arena, she's forgotten how much of a comfort it is to her: it reminds her of the cave. She can almost imagine that her head is pressed against his chest, listening to him speak above her head instead of through a telephone.
She's not sure how long he talks for, only that the sun is just beginning to rise above the horizon, shining its beams onto her hunched figure. She clears her throat, and Peeta stops talking.
"Better?" he asks, voice hoarse.
"Yes," Katniss breathes, "better."
The next day, as Katniss is walking into town, she sees Peeta in his yard, weeding his garden. She stops and stares, just for a minute.
Like he can feel her eyes on him, he turns his head and stares back. The morning sun is in her eyes—she can't see his face, can't read his expression.
Peeta lifts a hand and waves. She thinks he's probably smiling.
Katniss raises a hand, and smiles back.