Chapter Text
When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold.
My fingers reach out, seeking Prim's warmth, but all I find is an empty bed.
My heart beats hard, but I wish it would stop.
I'm cold, coated in sweat from that awful nightmare that can't be true.
I look around the empty room searching for my sister, searching for some sign that that's all it was. An awful dream.
But then I remember the blazing heat of that fire, the explosions that continued to ring in my ears for weeks.
I remember the pain of those burns, the phantom pain I feel even now.
But worse than that pain was the pain of learning that my sister, the one person I've constantly, unconditionally loved, is gone.
It wasn't a nightmare. Just a memory.
My eyes prickle, tears gathering, threatening to spill.
I miss her.
Gosh, I miss her.
Her and her smile. The way she'd hug me. The wise words she'd whisper to me when I was so far gone.
That little duck tail.
And that look in her eyes, of disbelief, before she was blown into ashes.
I close my eyes, the tears falling over my cheeks, onto the pillow beneath my head.
And all I can think of is how badly I wish Peeta were here to hold me, to keep those nightmares away like he used to.
But that's not fair to him, or to me. We're both healing, and I don't know if what I felt for him was true. I don't even know what I feel for him now. And he's lost in that awful world of his mind, not knowing if anything is real or not real.
I settle back into the cold bed, but I can't throw off that longing for warmth, Peeta's warmth.
Every time I close my eyes, I revisit the scene of my sister's death.
I can't sleep. Haven't truly been able to sleep for a long time.
The cat on my bed hisses when I throw the covers off of myself, standing from the mattress.
"Oh, shut up," I tell Buttercup, but it's not with my usual loathing. The cat and I have something in common now, missing the one person we allowed ourselves to care for.
I can't believe I'm comparing myself to a cat.
The door opens with a creak, and I'm outside in the late spring air. A light wind keeps it from being fully comfortable. The hair on my arms rises, and I run my hands over the goosebumps as I begin to walk around the perimeter of Victor's Village. I need to clear my head. Then maybe I can finally sleep.
I'm on my second lap when I notice the soft glow coming inside one of the houses.
I slow, seeing the illuminated windows of Peeta's house.
It turns out I'm not the only one who can't find sleep.
The urge to stride up to his house is irresistible, but still, I hesitate. I doubt I'm welcome there. In fact, I'm probably the reason he can't sleep.
I should turn around, keep walking until I finally collapse from exhaustion.
But my legs move of their own volition, bringing me to Peeta's front door.
I listen for any sign of life, but the house is silent.
Maybe he is asleep. Maybe he just forgot to turn off the lights.
The thought makes me feel so alone. Like I'm the only one still suffering from the role I was forced to play in a war I never wanted.
I should turn around, I think again. But I find myself knocking, knuckles hitting the wood, a hollow thunk.
I hear a distant shuffling from inside the house, but no one comes to the door. I'm imagining it, I think. I've been imagining a lot of things.
I wait out there, in the brisk air, for a minute, and still no one answers.
I turn around, ready to stalk back to my empty house, alone. I take a step when I hear the click signaling the door is being unlocked, and the slight creak of the door swinging open.
"Katniss?"
The sound of his voice has me wanting to run to him and have his arms wrap around me the way they used to. I want him to take all of it away, the pain, the suffering, the grief. But I turn around and stay where I am, simply taking him in.
He looks tired. The bags under his eyes are so dark they look like bruises. I'm sure mine don't look so different.
"Hi," I whisper, meeting those blue, blue eyes. They were once so full of life, but now they're dim with exhaustion and the sadness that clings to him, hunching his frame.
Peeta looks at me in confusion, probably wondering why I'm outside his door, watching him like he holds the answers. "Is everything okay?" He asks, scanning me as though whatever's wrong is visible.
"Yes," I lie, crossing my arms.
He says nothing else, and neither do I. The silence stretches on, wrapping around us, chilling me more than the light wind. This feels so foreign, the awkwardness. He's so familiar, yet so changed, and my heart hurts at the thought.
"Did you want to come in?" Peeta asks hesitantly. He's being polite, unsure of what I want, unable to turn me away.
I should say no, leave before I hurt him or he hurts me. But instead I find myself nodding. Peeta steps back, and I walk inside.
His house is warm, but far from cozy. It's all so cold and empty, just like mine.
Peeta shuts the door, the click echoing through the corridor. The moment feels strangely intimate, intensified by this feeling of isolation. We're alone in this big, vacuous house.
Peeta leans back against the door, crossing his arms defensively. "Nightmare?" he asks warily.
I simply nod in response. He hums, clearly knowing the feeling. "I saw that you were awake," I mumble, staring at the floor. "I just didn't want to be alone."
We watch each other for a second, simply taken in the presence of another person.
"You know," Peeta says softly, like he doesn't want to disturb the ghosts occupying this house, "Sometimes, I'm so scared of the nightmares lying in wait that I'll stay up all night, just painting." His eyes are glazed, and he looks so exhausted that I wish I could do something about his nightmares, the same way he used to do for me. "It helps me sort things out a little more, seeing them on the canvas. It reminds me of what's real and what isn't."
Guilt overwhelms me, because how can I show up here, seeking comfort from my nightmares, when Peeta sits here every night, painting his way out of the labyrinth his brain has become.
"Can I see them?" I ask tentatively. "Only if you're comfortable showing me," I add quickly, letting him know that I'm happy with however much he decides to let me in.
After a moment of consideration, Peeta nods solemnly, and silently leads me to a room down the hall, the door slightly ajar.
He swings it open and waves an arm towards the room. Slowly, I walk in, immediately overwhelmed by color.
Paint is splattered all over the floor and the walls, like in a fit of temporary madness Peeta turned the room into his canvas.
And the paintings.
They're everywhere.
Some lean against the walls, stacked in piles. Others lay on the floor still drying. The easel lies in the center of the room, holding a single painting. I get closer, trying to make sense of the lines and colors.
It's me. And him. We're walking away from town, the familiar buildings in the distance. It's just the two of us on the dirt path. I wear a small, genuine smile, mid conversation with him. Peeta wears a twin smile, staring back at me almost adoringly, this tenderness in his gaze I haven't seen since that arena. Now he always looks at me somewhat warily, like he's still not entirely convinced that I won't turn into a mutt.
I miss that look.
"It's a reminder to me. That we were friends. That you were never my enemy." I flinch, so caught up in the painting that I didn't hear his approach. I turn and Peeta is right there, scrutinizing me, watching me while I watch the painting.
I turn away from that image of foreign contentment, turning to some of the paintings that are still drying. I see myself talking to one of Peeta's brothers while Peeta talks to his father. Another of me sleeping peacefully, the faintest smile pulling at my lips. I clutch a hand to my cheek, a hand that must belong to Peeta.
I recognize the scene as the night I broke my heel, when I was under the influence of sleep syrup. The night I asked him to stay with me.
The night he promised always.
Not all of the paintings are of me. I see plenty of our time in the two arenas, some of his family, others unrecognizable, the visions of a half-crazed man. But since I'm the biggest source of his confusion, it makes sense that I'm the most prominent in this room.
Everywhere I look, it's like staring into a mirror.
As I fully take in each painting I notice something odd. Most are peaceful images, wholesome moments, yet they look gray and dreary. Like the color is slowly being sucked from the paint.
"Why are they all so dull?" I ask, tilting my head, trying to puzzle it out.
"My real memories seem almost colorless compared to the vivid, shiny ones," he answers simply, picking at the hem of his t-shirt, no longer watching me. I feel cold without his gaze on me. "That's why I paint them so often, trying to separate the unnoticeable ones from the bright, nightmarish ones. And I think it's been working. The more I separate the real from the fake, the more vibrant the real memories seem to become, and the more fantastical the false ones seem."
"They just seem so sad, though," I whisper, reaching out to touch one of the paintings, but I hesitate. They're so untouchable, not just because the paint is still wet, but because these scenes feel like they're part of a different lifetime. One where Peeta and I were untouched by the Capitol and its cruelty. Where I wasn't forced to be the face of a war, and he wasn't turned into the one thing he hoped to never become. "I know that I was happy," I murmur. "But I can't remember exactly what that feels like anymore."
"Because of Prim?" Peeta asks, meeting my gaze this time. And for a sliver of a second, I see the look he used to bestow upon me. The kind where I feel like something precious. It's a gentle flame, not like the harsh ones that blew my sister apart. More like a fireplace, sweet relief from the bitter cold.
And then it's gone, replaced by the wary gaze of a man who isn't quite a stranger, but also isn't a friend. "Mostly." I look at him with so much intensity, he looks away again.
Maybe he can read the words I never said.
"I should probably get going," I blurt out, suddenly wanting to get far away from these bittersweet reminders of how life once was. "I don't want to keep you up."
Peeta laughs dryly, "You're not keeping me up."
Am I crazy, or does that sound like an invitation?
I walk briskly out of the room, but I pause at the front door. I turn around, and Peeta leans against the wall, hands in his pockets. Waiting for me to leave, or to stay?
Suddenly, I don't want to go. The thought of returning to my house, so cold, so empty, is too much to bear. I stare at the floor, scuffing my half-laced boot against the floor. "Can I stay?" I ask quietly. "Just for tonight. I don't want to feel alone." My eyes flit up to his face for just a moment, but I can't decipher his expression. "I'll stay on the couch," I add.
Peeta interjects, "Of course you can stay. You can take my bed."
I try to protest, but he holds up a hand, effectively shutting me up. "I insist. I don't think I'm going to be getting much sleep, anyway."
I'm so relieved that he's not just throwing me out. Maybe he's just being kind, but I can almost feel a flicker of friendship rekindling between us.
Peeta leads me up the stairs, to his bedroom. I take it in, these four walls, painted a muted green, warmly lit by a lamp. "Are you sure this is okay?" I ask again, not wanting to force Peeta into anything he doesn't want.
He nods, stepping back when I walk towards the bed.
"What are you going to do? Since you're not sleeping?"
"I'll probably keep painting." He turns back to me, and gives me a small smile. It's blinding. My heart, the treacherous thing, skips a beat. "If you need anything, or if you have another nightmare, I'll be downstairs."
Warmth radiates through me, and I smile back at Peeta. "Thank you for this."
"Of course. Good night," he walks back out the door, shutting it behind him.
"Good night," I whisper to the empty room.
I turn off the lamp and burrow beneath the covers, pulling them over me. I'm overwhelmed by the smell of him, of cinnamon and dill. It's almost embarrassing how immediately comforted I feel just by being enveloped in him.
My eyelids grow heavy, and I let them fall shut. I snuggle deeper beneath the sheets, feeling like I'm wrapped in his warm embrace.
➳➳➳
I wake with a smile on my face, feeling more rested than I have in ages. I inhale deeply, smelling something that makes my mouth water.
I open my eyes slowly, squinting until my eyes adjust. Peeta stands in front of me, holding a pastry towards me like an olive branch.
"Cheese buns?" I ask, sitting up.
He nods, smiling shyly, "These are your favorites, real or not real?"
He remembers.
"Real." I sit up and take the cheese bun, still warm from the oven. "You remembered," I whisper, looking into his eyes. They shine, and I'm almost blinded by the way he looks at me. It's like he used to.
He's back. My boy with the bread.
"I remember everything about you."
➳➳➳
The world goes on the way it always does, forgetting the people it has left behind.
My life also feels like it has been moving, no longer still.
My days slowly become more filled with Peeta and his presence. He begins to regularly bring me baked goods, making sure that I am never out of cheese buns. I think baking is a distraction. It keeps him from thinking too hard.
I am happy to be his distraction.
Some nights, when I can't sleep, I walk to Peeta's house, where he is almost always awake, painting away. I sit on his paint-splattered floor, watching him work.
And we talk.
About everything.
It makes the long nights feel shorter, spending them with him. I hope they're as much of a comfort to him as they are to me.
We've gotten closer, more like the friends we were before, though I miss the ease our friendship came with back then. I still find myself treading carefully, as though on ice, afraid to scare him off.
The leaves rustle softly, threatening to fall from their trees. A light breeze pulls at the loose tendrils of hair falling from my braid. I close my eyes, letting it run over me, feather-soft fingers leaving a caress that is gone as quickly as it came.
I can feel Prim all around me. It's her favorite time of year, the end of summer right before the cold begins to creep back in. That time when the leaves are still green and the weather is just warm enough to not be uncomfortable.
The mild air is like being hugged by her again.
A smile plays at my lips, one of the few genuine ones that have crossed my face since her death.
It's only a matter of time before the green leaves begin to turn red and die, just like her.
But for now, it's safe and warm, and I can pretend like she's still here, guarded from every harm.
I feel a strange feeling, almost like contentment. It is a bit unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.
I walk around Victor's Village and get the sudden urge to go beyond here, back into my beloved woods.
Most days, I feel like I barely have the strength to leave the house, so I play into this enthusiasm, not knowing the next time I'll feel so alive.
I should invite Peeta. The thought enters my mind unbidden. But I do think I would like to have him there. My smile widens.
Walking briskly, I approach his door and knock. Peeta opens the door looking lost and half-conscious, trying to shake the grogginess off. I feel guilty for a moment, because I know that he barely sleeps, but I'm practically bouncing in excitement.
"Katniss?" He asks, running his hand through his hair in an attempt to fix his wild bedhead. His shirt goes up, and my eyes can't help but flit to the small strip of skin that is visible. I blink and return my gaze to his blue eyes.
"Do you want to go on a picnic with me?" I ask with a grin. "In the woods?"
I expect him to protest, or at least hesitate, but he responds almost immediately with a smile to match mine. "Okay."
He ushers me in, and we gather some food, a blanket, and a few other things, and we stuff them into a basket.
We amble towards the woods, soaking in the sunlight and fresh air. The conversation comes easily, and I find myself laughing at one of Peeta's funny stories. The muscles in my cheek ache from disuse, but I don't want this feeling to end. Peeta brightens considerably at the sound, more radiant than the sun that beams down at us. I can't stop watching him and that smile, more beautiful than any of his paintings could ever capture.
He can't seem to stop watching me either.
"So where are we going?" He nudges me with his shoulder, forcing me slightly off the trail. I push him back, but I'm grinning.
"The lake," I respond. "I haven't taken anyone there, besides my dad, and—" I cut myself off, not wanting to ruin the mood by saying his name. The boy who couldn't be bothered to visit me in the hospital while I was grieving my sister. The one who hasn't visited me since. The one who was the cause of my grief in the first place. "It doesn't matter." I say, my smile feeling a little more forced.
"What?" He asks, his smile gone too. Suddenly I'm mad at myself, because I want to see that smile again.
"Nothing," I insist. "I would rather not talk about him. Not today."
Realization dawns in Peeta's eyes, and he, thankfully, steers the conversation away. It's not long before I'm laughing again, at a joke I scarcely hear, all because I want to see him smile.
The trees begin to break up, and the forest opens up to the lake, shimmering in the sun. I throw the few things I'm carrying to the floor and run to the old wooden dock, not caring about splinters.
The air is cooler here, right above the water. I close my eyes and take it in, the smell of the outdoors, the soothing melody of the trees.
The peace shatters when a hand pushes me off the dock and into the water below.
I come up for air spluttering, and glare at Peeta, though there is no fury behind it. He's laughing at what I'm sure he thinks is very funny, and I ignore how much I love the sound.
"What was that for?" I ask him, wanting to cross my arms, but too busy treading water.
He shrugs, "I thought you'd appreciate a dip."
I roll my eyes, "You're not as funny as you think you are."
"I don't know, you were laughing pretty hard at my jokes earlier."
I scowl, but my cheeks are warm.
"Here let me help you up," Peeta says, crouching and extending an arm toward me, still chuckling.
I look at his arm and smirk as I reach up to grab it. Peeta reads the mischief in my eyes too late, the smile dropping from his face.
"Wait—" he starts, trying to pull away.
I yank him hard, and he falls into the water.
Now I'm the one who can't stop laughing as he comes up and tries to shake out his dripping hair, plastered to his forehead.
"Hey!" he yells, but he says it with a grin on his face. A wave of water crashes over my face, and I sputter in mock outrage.
I splash him back, diving under the water to avoid his retaliation.
After a water war neither of us definitively win, I climb onto the dock and lean back on my elbows, letting just my feet rest in the water. It doesn't take long for the blazing afternoon sun to dry me off, drawing the water out of my clothes until they're only slightly damp.
I shiver slightly at the breeze that seemed mild before, rubbing at my arms.
"Are you cold?" Peeta asks, laying our food around the picnic blanket.
"A little. Thanks to you," I tease.
He rummages through the basket and pulls out a sweatshirt. "Here." He offers it to me.
"You came prepared," I say, pulling the sweatshirt over my head, the hood snagging on top of my head. Peeta stands up and stops right in front of me, pulling the hood down. I'm swimming in the sweater, swimming in the smell of him. I have to resist the urge to inhale deeply. I'm unable to look him in the eyes out of fear that he'll see my feelings painted across my face.
My mind is a mess. I can't sort through what I'm feeling, and why my stomach seems to flutter every time Peeta looks at me the way he's looking at me now. I don't know why I want to run my hands through his hair. I don't know why his lips, pulled up in a small smile, are so tempting.
I'm not allowed to feel these things for him. It's not fair to him.
But that doesn't stop my heart from picking up when Peeta brings a hand to my hair. I inhale a hitched breath. "This was in your hair." Peeta's fingers move from my head, revealing a small leaf, one that has fallen before all of the others.
I clear my throat. "Thank you." And I think he can tell that I'm not just thanking him for removing the leaf, or for the sweater, or even for keeping me company today. No there's so much I should thank him for, but will never find the words for.
I'll forever be in his debt.
And maybe that's not a bad thing.
We sit on the blanket, and I make quick work of the food we brought. Peeta stares at me, shaking his head, amused, but never judgmental, as I devour the sandwiches, and then the dessert.
I could lie there, spotlighted in his gaze, forever.
The day passes quickly, blissfully uneventful. I don't think I've ever been so content to do nothing.
I don't think I've been content at all in so long.
I lay down on the blanket, letting my bare feet rest in the grass, staring at the sky. I pick out pictures in the sky, pointing each shape out to Peeta.
I turn to watch him, and see him lying on his side, his head propped up on his hand. His blond curls have dried all frizzy and uneven, and I smile at the sight. Peeta looks up, and I avert my gaze, embarrassed that he caught me staring.
He keeps scribbling in his sketchbook, the light scratch of his pencil against the paper joining the song of the birds and the trees. I crane my neck to see that he's drawing me. I like the idea of being his muse.
I look at Peeta again and find that he's still watching me. This time, he's the one who turns away, continuing to sketch, making lines and shading.
Still drawing, he asks, "Why did you ask me to come with you today?"
I pause, pondering it myself. Truth be told, I don't know my motive. All I know is that I woke up feeling something close to happy, and I knew that Peeta would only amplify the feeling. And I wanted to share a piece of my joy with him. But all I say is, "Because you're my friend."
My answer, while simple, and not even beginning to encapsulate all he means to me, seems to be enough for him. He smiles, a small one, but there's not even a hint of that lingering sadness behind it. I start to smile too, happy at the sight of him happy.
I turn back to the clouds, because the bright blue sky and the blazing sun is easier to look at than the blinding, shining look in his eyes.
What has this boy done to me?
Everything is a reminder of the person whose presence I can't ignore. The blue of the sky matches his eyes. Finding shapes in the clouds reminds me of the pictures he pulls from his memories.
He's taken over my thoughts.
And the scariest part is I don't think that's a bad thing.
I look into the distance and see a small patch of wildflowers, a rainbow littering the ground.
Abruptly, I get to my feet, ignoring Peeta's protests. I run to the field, and gather the multicolored blossoms. I bring them back to the blanket, where I sit cross-legged, and I begin to weave a flower crown.
I crawl over to where Peeta is now sitting, and place it atop his head, slightly crooked. He gives me a goofy grin. My heart skips a beat, and I can't help but give him a stupid smile in return.
"Can I have that?" I ask, motioning to his open sketchbook.
He looks at me, slightly confused. "Go ahead."
I linger on the page with the picture of me, admiring it. It's like I'm wreathed in light, the picture of peace.
Is that really how he sees me? Because if it is, maybe I am someone worth living for.
I turn to a blank page and start to draw, biting the inside of my cheek in concentration. I look between my sketch and my muse, trying to get them to look slightly more alike. Finally, I put the pencil down and hold the drawing at arm's length, tilting my head and squinting as I inspect it.
It's awful. His face vaguely resembles a misshapen potato, his nose is too big, and his eyes are all wrong.
I start to shake, tears streaming down my face. My core aches with my silent laughter as I toss the book face down onto the blanket.
"What?" Peeta asks, looking at me with amusement.
I can't talk, can't even breathe. I beckon towards the sketchbook. He picks it up and takes a second to look at my horrific picture.
He starts laughing too, the two of us dissolved in a fit. Every time we begin to calm down, we look at each other and immediately start shaking again.
We finally stop, both of us gasping. My cheeks are sore, my abdomen twinging in protest after so long without laughing like that.
I've missed it, feeling like this. And Peeta is one of the few I've ever felt like this with.
We don't speak anymore, instead lying next to each other, hands so close yet not touching. I desperately want to close that gap and intertwine our fingers together, but I settle for his closeness.
We watch the sky as it gradually changes colors, blue blending into pink, purple, and orange.
"Look, it's your favorite color." I point at the light orange of the sunset.
I hear a faint rustling, and I turn over to see Peeta looking at me instead of the sky. "You remembered," he whispers.
"I remember everything about you," I reply, repeating his words to me. I expect to regret my honesty, feeling like I've shared too much. But I feel like I haven't shared enough. I want to tell him everything about himself, to prove just how much I remember. But I don't.
We just watch each other until the orange fades into dusky blue.
➳➳➳
Peeta walks me back to my house, and I find myself not wanting this day to end. Because tomorrow I might wake up unhappy again, this tranquility foreign. I'm scared that if I go to sleep, I'll wake up and this fragile bond between Peeta and me will snap.
We stop at my doorstep, the door right behind me, but I don't want to go inside.
"I had fun," Peeta says, smiling down at me. "Thank you for inviting me."
He turns as though to walk away, and I grab his hand. It's like electricity travels through the touch, shocking me. But I don't let go.
Peeta turns back to me, head slightly tilted as he waits for me to speak.
"Will you stay with me?" I whisper, so quiet I wonder if he'll even hear me, or if my voice will simply be carried into the wind, lost to the woods.
"Of course," he agrees.
I'm so relieved.
I don't let go of his hand as I pull him into my house and up the stairs towards my bedroom.
I go into the bathroom to change, and offer Peeta his sweatshirt when I come out.
He shakes his head. "Keep it."
I don't want to seem too eager about the offer. "Are you sure?"
"I have plenty. And you look better in it anyway."
We climb under the bed together, and it's like those days in the train, back when we were forced together out of sheer panic. But there's nothing forcing this moment anymore. Now I choose to have him here.
I choose him.
Peeta is the first to fall asleep, and I listen to the sound of his deep breathing. Knowing he won't feel it, I allow myself a few minutes to run my hands through those curls.
I marvel at the fact that he's soundly asleep. And I marvel at the fact that I'm the reason he finally feels safe enough to fall asleep, to brave the nightmares that plague him.
I trace each feature of his face, memorizing the feel of him, just in case this is all just a beautiful dream.
It's one of the first nights I go to bed without thinking of all I've lost.
Instead I fall asleep thinking of all I have.
➳➳➳
Peeta's presence in my bed slowly becomes a nightly thing. He keeps a toothbrush in my bathroom, and half of my dresser is devoted to his clothes. It's a comfort, knowing he's there.
His arms are always there to soothe me when I wake screaming and shaking, unsure of where I am and who I am. I try to do the same for him, but it's never as obvious when he has nightmares. I'll open my eyes in the morning and find him staring blankly at the ceiling, petrified in fear, breathing fast but quiet, so as not to wake me.
I do think it helps him, in some small way, to wake up and find me there, next to him. I just wish he'd let me help him the way he helps me.
Though our friendship is stronger, I can't help but subconsciously yearn for more.
Is this what it felt like for Peeta all that time he was in love with me?
Am I in love? Is this what love feels like?
Maybe not yet, but I'm falling. And I'm afraid that Peeta won't be waiting at the bottom to catch me.
I can't deny the way my heart skips a beat every time I see him, the way my eyes always linger on his for a beat too long, the warmth that spreads through me, all the way to my fingertips and my toes, every time he looks at me in that special way he reserves just for me. Or am I imagining that too?
Is he falling too? Is he even open to the idea of falling?
Maybe he's happy just being friends. And if that's all he wants, I'm happy with that too. Just being his friend again is more than I ever thought I'd get.
All I know is I'll do whatever it takes to keep him in my life, and I'm happy with whatever role he chooses to play in it.
➳➳➳
I hear screaming, ringing in my ears, deafening.
It's a man's screams, wails of unimaginable agony.
I don't want to know what is causing those cries of pain.
The screaming becomes pleading, as whoever it is begs for his life, his sanity, I don't know. His words are contorted and unrecognizable through the weight of his anguish.
But suddenly I'm screaming too, because I recognize that voice. It's broken and hoarse now, but how often have I heard that voice reassure me, calm my fears, comfort me from the terrors that face me every night.
"Peeta?" I yell, panicking. For the first time, I take in my surroundings. I'm in a dark forest, filled with imposing trees, branches reaching out like clawed arms, trying to trap me in their clutches.
I run, ignoring the scratches gouging into my skin. I'm desperate. I need to reach Peeta before his voice dies out. Because as long as he's crying out, he's alive, and there's some hope of his survival.
Silence would mean the end.
Maybe I'm selfish, because silence would also mean mercy. But I can't bear to think of a world without Peeta in it.
No, I've already lost too many people. I can't lose him too. It would kill me.
I push through the last of the woods, emerging in a clearing. Peeta lies in the middle, on his knees shaking from his fear and his pain.
He's soaked in red. His hair, his skin, his tattered clothes, it's all stained crimson.
His blood. How much has he lost?
Too much. I can see that he's already lost too much to come back from.
"Katniss?" he calls out, voice quiet and shaky. So weak. I've never heard him sound so weak.
"Peeta." I rush to him and kneel at his side, trying to find the source of the blood, so that I can stop the bleeding. But it's hopeless. I know that even before finding the gaping gash over his heart, gushing a spurt of blood with every stilted beat of his dying heart. "No, no, no, no, no, no," I wail, putting pressure over the wound, but the blood spills through my fingers, dripping down my wrist.
"It's okay," Peeta whispers, slumping against me, too weak to even sit up anymore.
"No, don't say that," I sob, placing his head in my lap.
He smiles up at me with as much strength as he can muster. "It's okay, Katniss," he repeats.
"You can't die. I forbid it." I look around for anything, for some miracle that can cure the incurable.
"I'm just happy you're here with me," he mumbles, reaching up with bloodstained hands to touch my face. "I'm happy you're the last thing I'll ever see. Something beautiful."
"Don't say that. You're going to be okay."
But his hand drops from my face, leaving smears of his blood behind. His eyes remain open, staring at me endlessly, staring at nothing.
I hear screaming, ringing in my ears, deafening.
Screams of unimaginable agony.
They're coming from me.
➳➳➳
My eyes fly open and I jolt up, swallowing a shriek. I'm gasping for air, clutching at my chest as my heart beats so fast it feels as though it's going to burst from my chest.
This must be what it feels like to have a heart attack. The room keeps spinning, moving faster and faster until it's a blur. I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't breathe.
Peeta! Where's Peeta?
He's dead.
He's dead, he's dead, he's dead.
Impossibly, my heart beats even harder, so hard it almost hurts my chest.
Vaguely, I hear movement beside me. I turn my neck so fast it twinges.
Peeta. He's beside me.
I listen, and breathe marginally easier when I hear him breathing.
He's alive.
It was just a nightmare.
"Katniss?" Peeta calls, voice husky and rumbly. He's groggy, barely awake, yet he's reaching out for me. "Are you okay?"
My heart continues its rapid beating, unable to let me feel the relief that he's living and breathing right next to me.
"You were gone." I mean to whisper it, but it spills out of me as a sob. "I thought you were gone."
Peeta wraps an arm around me, pulling me down so that I'm laying down, my back against his chest. Involuntarily, I relax into his embrace, the tension bleeding out of me, some of my fear easing with a simple touch.
He traces small shapes on the now exposed patch of skin on my stomach, where my shirt rose. "I'm right here," he whispers, his lips moving against my neck, spreading vibrations through me that I find far too pleasant. I shudder a little bit, unable to think of anything but his skin touching mine. "What's wrong?" he asks, lifting his head a little bit, and I immediately miss the feel of his lips resting on my neck.
"Nothing." I'm flushed, cheeks hot. I'm grateful that it's dark, that Peeta can't see my face and how affected I am by something so meaningless.
"Are you still scared?" His voice sounds so concerned, and I don't want him to be worried for me.
"No, just cold," I lie. But this is apparently the wrong thing to say, because Peeta pulls me impossibly closer to him. His hand now moves up and down my arm. Goosebumps rise along my skin. The motion is maddening, the only thing I can focus on.
"Better?" His voice is low, and I swallow hard.
No.
"Yes," I breathe.
His fingers continue to drift up and down my arm, and I'm scared I'll do something rash if he doesn't stop.
I shift as though to get more comfortable, as though I plan on sleeping again. The truth is I've never felt more awake.
I settle a little further, so I'm not pressed flush against him.
I breathe slowly, pretending. Hoping that if he thinks I'm sleeping, he'll drift off too. Maybe then I'll be able to escape the too-hot clutches of his arms. And then I'll be able to get outside into the December air, cold enough to blow the warmth from my cheeks, make them flushed for a reason that has nothing to do with the pretty boy whose skin is still touching mine.
His pretty voice cuts through the silence, shattering my facade. "I know you're not sleeping."
I stay quiet, hoping maybe he'll decide that he's wrong, that I really am asleep. "Katniss?"
I sigh through my nose. "Yes?"
His arms twitch, almost like they want to pull me closer. Part of me wishes he would, though I immediately shut that down.
We're friends. Just friends. That's enough.
Would a friend make me go mad with the tantalizing back-and-forth motion of a touch?
Would a friend's smile be enough to blind me, his laugh be the only music I could ever bring myself to appreciate?
Would a friend take up nearly all the space in my thoughts?
Maybe. That's the answer I give myself.
"I want to confess something," he whispers, so close that I feel his breath against the nape of my neck.
I turn my head slightly. "What?" I whisper back.
He finally moves his hand from my arm, and I'm split between my relief and disappointment. But wasn't I just wishing he would stop, so that I could finally think of something other than him?
"I think," he pauses, suddenly sounding unsure. I turn onto my other side, so I'm facing him.
I can't see him well in the darkness, but I can see the glimmer of his eyes, reflecting the moonlight. Eyes that stare into mine, looking through my every flaw, right to my core.
He sees me. I think he is the only one who can. Or at least the only one who won't turn running.
"What?" I murmur, my voice soft. I want to reach out and touch his face, trace his silhouette.
He clears his throat. "I think I might be falling for you. Again." He's so quiet, I wonder if maybe I misheard him.
My heart skips a beat at the idea that my feelings might not be unrequited.
I just watch him, afraid that he'll take it back if I move.
"I understand if you don't feel the same way," he adds quickly. "This changes nothing. I'm happy being your friend, if that's all—" I cut him off.
He makes a sound of surprise when my lips meet his. It hardly qualifies as a kiss, but I'm terrified. I pull back when Peeta doesn't respond, afraid that I overstepped. But he quickly closes the gap.
He kisses me deep and passionately, holding my face in his arms like I'm something precious.
I part my lips slightly, gasping when I feel his tongue in my mouth.
I clutch the back of his shirt in my hands, pulling his body closer to mine. My hands move to his hair, and I smile against his lips.
It's everything I've dreamed of. No, more.
I begin to have that feeling again, like the one in the cave in that first arena, and on the beach in the second. This hunger for more. A hunger I can now recognize as a hunger for him.
But more does nothing to sate me. It only amplifies my yearning.
I could've gone on kissing him all night. In fact, I probably would have, but Peeta is the one to pull back, leaving me feeling cold and naked.
I'm breathless. I run my fingers over my swollen lips, the phantom of his kiss lingering. I look at him and I can tell from the faint glow of the moon that he was just as affected as me. I can practically see the pink tinge in his cheeks, the glazed look in his eyes like separating from me physically pained him.
"You should go back to sleep," he says softly, beginning to play with my hair.
I doubt I'll be sleeping anytime soon. In fact, I never want to sleep again. But I feel so at peace with Peeta's hands running through my hair. It doesn't take long for my heavy eyelids to fall shut.
I dream of him again. But the dream is far from a nightmare.
➳➳➳
My nightmares become far and few between, but when they do come, Peeta's arms are there to comfort me, his lips a ready distraction.
Our friendship becomes a steady romance. Without any sort of pressure or cameras, it all comes so naturally. I don't have to hide because Peeta has seen me at my worst and chooses to love me anyway.
My nightmares don't go away. I don't think they ever will. And Peeta's mind will never fully be his own. But our flawed life is enough.
We're together. That's all that matters in the end.
We work on the book, filling each page with pictures and scraps of memory, so we can never forget the ones we loved. So we can never forget each other.
And it takes time, but pretty soon we become happy again. Life goes on, and I finally feel like I'm living again.