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The sound of torment brings me to Peeta’s home in the blackness of a cloudy night. In a moment of haste, I chose to throw caution to the wind and cross the space separating our homes. Because I've seen the scene before me very few times since he's been hijacked, and the only case in which he was able to be pulled from his hallucinations was when I was there to ground him.
Which begs the question: what do I do in this situation? I don't think the same action of a kiss would aid him well this time around. It wouldn't do anything more than confuse us both in the long run, because our relationship is so convoluted and confused as of late.
Slowly, I begin taking steps towards him. I make my way, inch by inch, and he still hasn't noticed me. I'm thankful for my hunters footfall every day, but especially at present. I fear that if he hears me and finds me approaching him, it may set him off.
Oddly, I'm not afraid at all. Death doesn't scare me any longer. What scares me is the thought of him physically hurting me and realizing in the aftermath once lucid. I'm worried about him .
Once I'm a foot from where he sits, I'm actually able to assess what I'm working with. Peeta, knees and head pressed into the floorboards as he rocks back and forth. It's also then that I notice he's muttering. To me it just sounds like incoherent sentences strung together hastily, although I can't help but wonder if it's something similar to the monologue I was taught by the doctors in Thirteen to ground myself to reality. That or possibly he's arguing with the multiple versions of himself fighting for dominance over his entire being.
I stand idly for another minute before deciding the only course of action is to take another step towards him. “Peeta,” I whisper softly, reaching far back into my memory for the tone I once saved for Prim in her small frightened state.
He visibly tenses at the sound of my voice, movements ceasing for a pause, but picking back up just as quick. I repeat myself, slowly lowering down until I’m on my knees. A hand, ever so cautiously, makes contact with his shoulder. This time, when I say his name, he turns to face me. And he is nothing like what I expected to find. Instead of that feral, destructive mutt I knew from District Thirteen, the Peeta before me appears nothing but broken.
His pupils are dilated, something I can tell even in the darkness of the room. I cannot see any blue shining through. What I do notice are the tears lining his ducts, and the shaking he seems to have no jurisdiction over.
“Peeta,” I say once more, though it comes out as more of a breath. Gently, I’m able to coax him to sit down instead of curling into the floor. I move even slower still as I reach for his hands, delicately prying his fingers out of fists and winding my left hand through his right, which he squeezes to the point of pain, though I hardly notice nor care. He seems so dazed and lost, nearly panting as I try my best to unwind him.
Seeing him this way, all I want to do is cry, which is something I cannot afford to do. Not when he so desperately needs me. Not after time and time again where I should've been there for him but did just sit back and let my emotions control me.
My free hand reaches up to push the damp curls off his forehead, and I press mine against his, palm shifting to cup his cheek as I whisper everything about him which I know to be true. I am not sure how long I repeat these facts for, but by the time his breathing starts to mellow, we have ended up completely wound together; me still kneeling, legs on either side of his hips. Peeta stops muttering as he drops his head down onto my chest. It is then that he finally seems to simultaneously come back to me and break down.
Sobs echo throughout the emptiness of his house. It's only now that I allow myself to crumble, all my energy spent. Our cries blend together, making it impossible to distinguish his voice from mine. Here we’ve become the truest form of Victors: frightened and broken beyond repair, inconsolable and alone.
Except, we are not alone. For too long I have ignored the boy with the bread. The boy who lost almost everything he’s known. Who came back to me, to his home - the only parts remaining from his tarnished life, both aspects having done nothing but hurt his spirit since our first Games. Despite all he’s lost, he never lost sight of who he is at heart.
Over time I thoroughly convinced myself that I was undeserving of him and his kindness. That Peeta was too good a person to be stuck anchored down by the weight of the baggage carried around with someone like me. That we had grown too impossibly far apart to ever be as whole as we once were. That it was for the best I pushed myself away, because all I ever managed to do was hurt him, and I'd already caused enough hurt to last multiple lifetimes.
And if I didn't pull back, I knew he would tug forward until I eventually relented and let him care for me as he once did. We would fall back into our old habits so easily because people like him have the innate ability to get under my skin. I was aware he would, because in spite of all he went through, the Peeta I recognized was still holding strong and becoming more prominent with each passing day. So I held back for both our sakes, until I persuaded myself that he and I don’t need one another anymore.
Peeta’s hand releases mine, and his arms snake around my middle. Mine too go to wrap around any part of him I can reach. I am desperate to never let him go. I never want to make the mistakes I seem to make time and time again when it comes to him.
He is still shaking, so I do the only thing I know to do: I sing. And I don’t stop until he’s fallen asleep, and even then I continue long after he’s come down from the episode. I keep stroking his wild curls, cradling his sleeping head against my chest as if my arms held the capability to shield him from everything his hijacked mind worked so hard to convince him of.
"Deep in the meadow, under the willow.
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow.
Lay down your head, and close your eyes.
And when they open, the sun will rise."
It's strange to think that just this morning we hadn't spoken more than a few dozen sentences to each other since his return to Twelve. And now here I was, in his kitchen, wrapped up with him so tightly that discerning where he and I began would prove impossible without some difficulty.
For the better part of the last three months I had been practically ignoring any and all things Peeta. Yes, he accompanied Haymitch to my house for dinner every night, but I hardly had any commentary to offer. And often he dropped off bread in the mornings during breakfast with Greasy Sae, but I was always conveniently busy being balled up on the couch in the other room whenever he stopped by.
Yet, I don't stop singing. Maybe at this point it had become for my own benefit than for his, since it certainly wasn't providing Peeta anymore comfort in his unconscious state.
My legs were beginning to strain. We had shifted sometime in the night, the ache stemming from being on the hardwood floor and from Peeta's weight pressing into me, but I didn't dare move an inch. That, I wasn’t sure I could convince myself was just for his benefit.
Back pressed against one of the kitchen cabinets, I allow my head to fall back and take a few seconds to collect myself, tune never once ceasing from my lips. Willing myself to assess the damage, I shift my gaze back up to the room which has certainly seen better days.
Truthfully, it could've been much worse than it is. A few plates were lost, and a bit of flour's gone askew across the countertops and floors, but for what occurred, it's relatively tame. If I hadn't been here to calm him, I'm sure my view would look a lot different.
I can only hope that his waking won't cause the horror and embarrassment a situation like this would surely bring onto him. He shouldn't have a reason to feel either things, truthfully, because none of it is his fault. Our current circumstances really aren't all that different from me waking from my nightmares and seeking his embrace a lifetime ago. Except, as the thought crosses my mind, already I know he'll object to that reasoning the instant I try to speak it into existence.
The thought of speaking to him at all mortifies me. But I know that however much I wish to run and hide again, it won't be possible. Not after tonight. Something's shifted between us, and subconsciously I've known this shift was approaching sooner rather than later.
Haymitch had been pestering me about my reluctance to talk to Peeta just last week. Unlike most people in my life, Haymitch is brutally honest with me at all times, whether I want him to be or not. Where some would find it dehumanizing or rude, it’s one of the things I have always admired about him. Too many times I’ve been left in the dark or had the severity of situations watered down to cater my age or what little innocence I used to hold.
Our talk began on a lazy morning over breakfast, like most of them tend to do. I’m not sure why they do exactly, but when I gaze up and catch that look in Haymitch’s eye, I know he’s about to dig into me.
The fact is, I’m aware that he’s right. That ignoring Peeta wouldn’t solve anything for either of us. That it won’t heal our hurt or make my care for him go away. Eventually we would’ve had to talk. It was inevitable. But my avoidance was intentional for those specific reasons, and Haymitch struggled to understand why. He’s so similar to me that often he’s able to read my actions when even I can’t; but on this topic, he was left dumbfounded. Maybe because truly, it didn’t make complete sense to me, either.
But what neither of us expected was this. I bet when he finds us in the morning he’ll be more shocked than either of us. Already I’m aware he’ll be the one to storm into Peeta’s house in a few hours, because now that I’ve got the boy in my arms, I cannot let go. Not after I’ve seen him in such a vulnerable position. Not even I am that heartless.
Focusing my attention back down, I watch my hand glide through Peeta’s locks. My humming has quieted down a bit, but still lingers against the stillness of the room.
I'm tired of fighting my feelings towards him and hurting both him and I countless times by punishing myself for the atrocities of the war. I refuse to let us suffer from this tug and release, this back and forth we always wind up in.
We've lost far too much to afford being at a constant standstill. Though we've aged lifetimes since that day on the beach, our words still ring true. I need him, and he needs me. And somewhere beneath hijackings and fire mutts, we're still those same people who were willing to set everything else aside to die for one another.
Peeta is still my hope. My blooming dandelion on a cold spring day. He is everything I've ever needed and nothing I ever wanted. And I’m exhausted from pretending he isn’t.
And, a small part of me is aware that if we keep up with the pattern, it means Snow wins.
"Here your dreams are safe
And tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you."
I shift around a bit, the uncomfortableness in my legs becoming too prominent to ignore. It’s this that causes Peeta to stir. I feel his limbs slowly wake as his consciousness returns. He grunts softly, and already I’m aware that he has a splitting headache. I remember Prim mentioning to me that after he comes down from an episode, those linger for some time.
“Katniss?” Peeta says, his voice hoarse and tired. I brush my fingers through his hair in response, unable to string anything together. He pulls me in tighter, “Stay with me.”
The question takes no further contemplation, and I find the answer comes so naturally. A mantra of sorts, it’s something we’ve held onto on our darkest of days. It is so complex, yet nothing but simple and concise. “Always.”
Content with my promise, he settles back down, awake but not wanting to commit to anything more for the moment. The next verse of the lullaby strings through my mind and carries me to what lies ahead as the sun continues to rise on this new chapter.
"Deep in the meadow, hidden far away.
A cloak of green, a moon beam ray.
Forget your woes, and let your troubles lay.
And when again it's morning, they'll wash away."