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“The power’s out again.”
Katniss stands in my doorway, bundled up in so many layers it’s comical. I would laugh, if it weren’t for the warning in her furled eyebrows peeking out from under a lopsided toque. The tail of her braid is just visible under the lumpy wool scarf she’s wrapped around herself several times over. Behind her, the snow falls steadily outside, almost covering her tracks already.
“What is that – the second time this week?” I ask, stepping aside for her to enter. We’re far past formalities like ‘hello’ and ‘can I come in?’ at this point.
“Third,” she grumbles, stomping her boots and leading a trail of snow across my floor as she shuffles inside. “It was out for a few hours overnight on Tuesday, too.”
I don’t ask how she knows that. This winter has been brutal, and sleep has not come easily for either of us this season. There’s something about the quiet of snowfall that makes our own thoughts even louder than usual. Instead, I close the door and take her scarf and toque to hang up while she wrestles with her jacket and boots. They drip freezing water and hang heavily, sodden from the snow.
“Were you out hunting in this weather?” I ask while I hang up her jacket, which is just as damp. I try not to sound too disapproving – she's a grown woman who can do what she wants, after all – but the thought of her out in the woods alone will always give me some anxiety. I turn back to her just in time to see her scowl.
“I’ve been out in much worse,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I just normally have a house with heat to come back to. I had the fire going when I left. It went out before I got back. I was hoping...”
Her eyes dart to my fireplace, which presently is just as dark and cold as hers must be. Her shoulders slouch a little and she looks at me with not-very-well-hidden disdain.
“Sorry,” I grin sheepishly. “I’ve been in my art room all morning. I didn’t even notice the lights weren’t on, if I’m being honest. And it’s too warm for a fire when I’m painting.”
Katniss sighs and rubs her hands together. She mumbles something about ‘hot-blooded bakers’ but not with any real malice. She knows more than anyone how often I tune the world out when it comes to my artwork. I turned the guest bedroom upstairs into a defacto art studio a few months ago, and it’s been where I’ve been spending most of my time and energy, especially during these last few weeks. The anniversary of the end of the war and all the carnage it caused draws nearer every day, and those memories keep my blood so hot I rarely need to keep a fire going when I’m alone.
Now that I’m downstairs however, I can feel the chill starting to creep into my limbs. Katniss, who has probably been out in the cold since dawn, must be absolutely frozen. Now that she’s shed her outer layers, I can see her shivering from here. I start towards the fireplace to get it going.
“It’ll take a while to warm up down here,” I say over my shoulder as I bend down to the hearth. “There’s a bunch of spare blankets in the hall closet. Why don’t you go get those while I get this started?”
I hear her feet pad softly away and then the creak of the closet door. She returns just as my match ignites the first bit of kindling. The warm glow feels nice against my stiff fingers and I hold them out to loosen them up. There’s a soft thud as Katniss dumps the pile of blankets unceremoniously on the floor between us and kneels down, too.
Now that she’s closer, I can smell the evidence of her morning’s adventure. Sharp pine, fresh earth, and when she undoes her braid and shakes her dark waves loose to dry, a subtle lavender scent that makes me want to breathe in deep.
“Are we taking bets on how long they’ll take to get the grid back up this time?” I ask.
“The sun’s going down already,” Katniss points out. “I doubt they’ll get it fixed until the morning, at least.”
I hum in assent. The new Capitol government has been doing their best to repair the long-term damage of the old regime, but there’s still much to be done. Every district has full time power now, but the grid is still being repaired in many areas. With Twelve being the furthest district out, we often take the longest to see results. Still, I can’t complain. Progress is progress, and everyone who came back here after the war is well accustomed to long, dark nights. Our old apartment above the bakery was often without power. I think of all the evenings spent with my brothers growing up, playing cards or chess by candlelight. How Rye would use the dimness to his advantage and switch his pawns when he thought I wasn’t looking. How Blair would quietly whittle away by the fire until it was his turn to play the winner. It might seem dull, but those were cherished moments, times when our mother wasn’t breathing down our necks and our father wasn’t worrying about the business. Those types of nights, we could just be a family spending normal hours together. A luxury in our household. A luxury for anyone in Twelve, I imagine, to just be allowed to be for a few hours.
“What are you thinking about?” Katniss asks beside me. I startle and shake my head, wondering how long we’d been sitting in silence.
“Just chess,” I tell her. She snorts and raises her eyebrows.
“I know I’m not much of a conversationalist, but am I really that boring to you?” she asks, giving me a playful shove. I laugh, waving her arm away.
“I was thinking about my brothers,” I explain, “and how we’d spend these kinds of nights.”
She smiles and cocks her head a little.
“It’s good, that you can remember things about them.”
“Yeah. I’ve been trying more,” I say, and I realize that it’s a luxury in itself that I can think of my family now without worrying about what it will make me do. Without worrying if what I remember is real.
“What did your family do, when it was like this before?” I ask her.
“Slept, mostly,” she says, and we both laugh. But then she quiets, and out of the corner of my eye I watch her chew her bottom lip for a while, deciding on something.
“When we were little, my father would sing us songs,” she says. “Prim would make up silly dances to them and make me do them with her.”
I grin, at the thought of Katniss dancing in the dark with her sister, but also at the notion that she’s willing to share a piece of her family's past with me. She rarely speaks of her father, Prim even less so. It feels nice, to be trusted with her memories.
“Wish I could’ve seen that,” I tease. “Any chance you’ll show me your moves? I’m sure they’re amazing. I’ll sing, if I have to.”
“Not on your life,” she declares. “I’d rather waltz with Haymitch.” She pauses, then makes a face. “Actually, no I wouldn’t.”
I chuckle, but that does remind me of the old man.
“Speaking of which, do you think we should check on him?” I ask. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”
“Maybe we should,” Katniss agrees.
She rises, grabbing a blanket from the pile and wrapping it around herself. I stoke the fire before grabbing one for myself, too. I join her at the window with a view to Haymitch’s house, which is barely visible against the dark sky and flurries outside.
“I think he’ll have to hold out ‘til the morning,” Katniss says. “We’ll get buried in the drifts if we try to get over there now.”
I have to agree. Even the short walk to our mentor's house could be treacherous in these conditions.
“I’ll give him a call,” I say. “Just to make sure he’s alright.”
Katniss nods and follows me into the kitchen. I tell her to grab whatever she wants if she's hungry while I pick up the phone and dial Haymitch’s number. She doesn’t need to be told twice, and is already halfway through a cheese bun when he answers on the fourth ring.
“What’s up, kid?” The gravelly voice on the line asks. “Everything good?”
“I was just checking in,” I say. “The snow’s getting pretty bad.”
“You think I’m afraid of a little snow?” He barks out a laugh. “Thanks kid, but I’m doin’ just fine. Stocked up on bread and bottles for another week, if I’m cautious. You got everything you need?”
“Yeah, no issues here,” I tell him.
“Did you call the girl, yet?” he asks.
“She’s here now, actually,” I say. I feel nervous telling him this, for some silly reason.
“Oh? And I wasn’t invited to this party, I guess?”
“I wouldn’t call it a party,” I say, “but you’re welcome to come over if you’d like.”
“Oh no,” he admonishes, “If I get over there and then we all get snowed in, she’ll kill me before it melts. Something tells me Sweetheart wouldn’t like it too much if I intruded on your evening alone.”
I can’t think of anything to say to that, so the line is quiet for a moment. Then Haymitch chuckles and says something under his breath I can’t quite hear over the static. Before I can ask him to repeat himself, he tells me to ‘enjoy the sleepover’ and hangs up. I put the phone down and roll my eyes, silently vowing to skip his house on my next delivery of baked goods.
“What was that about?” Katniss asks. She’s sitting on my counter, her blanket pulled over her head like a hood.
“Oh, just Haymitch being Haymitch,” I say. “He’s hunkered down. He’s got his geese for company, I suppose.”
“Poor birds,” Katniss sighs. Then she hops off the counter and wraps her blanket tighter around herself. Even with the added warmth, I can tell she’s still cold. Her cheeks and nose are pink and her bottom lip trembles slightly.
“Let’s get you back to the fire,” I say. “I'll make you some tea.”
She agrees without complaint, and as she heads back to the living room, I have to admit that Haymitch has brought up a good point, no matter how crass he was about it. If we were wary about the path between my place and his, then what would make the walk to Katniss’ house three doors down any less dangerous? Nothing at all, I wager. As I boil our water for tea, I steel myself to convince her to stay.
When I return to her with two steaming mugs, I snort at the pile of quilts on the couch formally known as Katniss.
“I come baring refreshments,” I announce, and a lone hand reaches out from the mosaic of faded colours. I carefully hand over one of the mugs and set mine down on the coffee table before joining her on the other side of the couch.
Katniss emerges and sighs gratefully as she sips her tea.
“What’s the plan, now?” she asks.
“Was going to ask you the same thing,” I counter. “You’re not going to get any warmer if you try to go back outside now.”
“No, you’re right on that,” she says, squinting out at the blizzard through the window. “Your couch is pretty tempting, I won’t lie.”
I hold back a sigh of relief. Maybe she was planning on spending the night already, and this won’t turn into a battle between me and her stubbornness.
“My bed is even more tempting,” I say, and Katniss chokes on her tea.
“Oh! Uh, no. I only meant-” I stutter as I reach over and pat her on the back. “What I meant was, you can have my bed if you need to sleep here tonight, and I can sleep down here.”
“Right. Of course. I mean…thanks,” Katniss squeaks. Her cheeks are even more pink than before, and I can feel my own blush burning up my neck. ‘Fantastic work, Peeta,’ I think. ‘Just when things were starting to get back to normal.’
What ‘normal’ is for people like Katniss and I is, of course, on a vastly different scale than for others. There was a time when sleeping in the same bed – for warmth, for comfort, for familiarity – would’ve been second nature. But that was before, when we were in very different circumstances. When I came back to Twelve in the Spring, things between us were frosty and formal at best, for the first while. Neither of us knew what to do with the other, I think. Slowly, we’ve been able to creep back into each other’s lives, on our own terms. As friends. As confidants. As two broken people who know how to pick up the other’s pieces. But always with a line drawn. The Star-Crossed-Lovers façade we created ended formally when the war did, and ever since, I’ve let Katniss lead us into whatever kind of relationship we have now. For the most part, this has actually worked out exceedingly well in my favour.
As it turns out, without the imminent threat of death and destruction hanging above our heads, Katniss is an even better friend than I could’ve imagined. There are still bad days of course, when she’ll lock herself away from the world, but when she emerges, she laughs far more easily now. She tells hilarious stories and has a kind word for anyone she sees in town. She can be annoyingly intuitive when I’m having a hard day, and she has a habit of dropping squirrels off for my favourite stew in the days that follow the hard ones. She invites me on her hunts on fair weather days, and doesn’t tease too badly when I inevitably scare the game away. When I brought up the idea of rebuilding the bakery a few months ago, she was my biggest supporter, and will often listen intently to my ideas for new recipes or my gripes about construction plans, on the condition that she remains the official taste-tester. Perhaps most importantly, she's been steadfast in her efforts to help me remember myself. What started as confirmations of ‘real’ or not ‘real’ on my worst days has blossomed into hours-long conversations about everything from funny stories in school to what her favourite cakes in the old bakery windows looked like. She can tell me about wrestling matches she saw me win (or lose, for that matter) and about fights she saw between Rye and I. On braver days, she’ll talk quietly about the games, training mostly, and how she saw me talking with other tributes. All of these memories and attributes and likes and dislikes about myself that would have otherwise laid dormant in my mind come alive with her help. I don’t even think she realizes how tantamount she is to my recovery, and while the old me would know the perfect string of words to explain this to her, the best I can do now is try to bring her the same type of comfort when she needs it.
All of this is to say, by teaching me about myself, Katniss managed to teach me all about her again, too. And somewhere along the way, I realized that I didn’t need to ask what was real and what wasn’t anymore, not when it came to how I feel about her. The shiny memories have dulled to non-importance and the fragmented reality I was left with is piecing itself together more and more every day. As I heal, I’ve come to terms with the fact that my love for her is just as real as it was when our names were pulled from that cursed glass bowl. It’s become impossible, in fact, to do anything but admit that I’m just as hopelessly devoted to her as the little boy who heard her sing for the first time was so long ago. The effect she has is far more potent than any tracker jacker venom. The only mystery that remains is how she feels towards me, after everything.
I can’t pretend that this part hasn’t been confusing. Our lives are intertwined in a way that’s proven unbreakable, without question. Katniss cares about me, this much I know to be real. But in what way, that’s a different matter entirely. As a friend, yes, but I can’t lie to myself and say that lately, it hasn’t felt like something a little bit different. The way she lets her gaze linger. The soft smiles she's stopped trying to hide. Hands grazing and not pulling away when we walk together. The embraces she’ll melt into when I can’t think of any other way to stop her tears. Even the way she shares her past – personal, private moments that I can’t help but think she would’ve kept hidden from me and anyone else until recently. These are small things, perhaps entirely insignificant things, if they were coming from anyone else. But to know Katniss is to know that these small acts are anything but small to her. I am terrified to lose them, to go back to formalities and the empty ache that I know will sit in my chest if she decides to turn and run. I’ve earned her trust and her friendship, but pushing for anything more than that feels unthinkable and callous on my part.
After everything she’s been through – a forced romance with a near stranger, fighting for her life in the games and then for everyone else’s in the war, handling me and all my awful transgressions, losing so many and so much, it’s a miracle she’s willing to stand me at all. I should be grateful, and I am, truly. But there is a part of me, a very dark and cruelly selfish part, that can admit that I miss other pieces of her. The ones strictly forbidden now, like her lips that gave me solace and her body tangled with mine in the dark. Even in the throws of my hijacking, when nothing I thought could be trusted and confusion and fear ruled all, I knew I was missing something. The Capitol had made me hate her, made me think things about her that bring on too much shame to bring up ever again. Still, I would lie awake some nights, wading through the evil thoughts to get to the ones that brought me the most peace, and they always involved my arms around her. To ask that of her now, when she hasn’t given me any true indication that she misses that too, would risk losing her entirely, and I’m not much of a risk-taker anymore. Even if I was, accidentally referring to my bed as enticing was not how I had imagined making my first move.
“Do you want some more tea?” I ask, trying for an air of nonchalance that I don’t quite master.
“No, thank you,” she answers, her voice just above a whisper. She stares into the dregs of her mug, as if willing them to start talking themselves.
“Are you still hungry?” I try again. Maybe a distraction will put her more at ease.
“Hungry?” She repeats slowly. She says the word like it means something entirely different to her. Her eyes fly to mine for a moment, the grey reflecting like silver moons in the fire's glow. She holds my gaze for just a beat, but it’s long enough for me to see them widen with something like recognition before she looks down again. The blush that was just beginning to fade in her cheeks comes back in full force.
“I can make us sandwiches or something,” I offer, begging for a task to do. Anything to make us move past my stupid mouth's mistake.
“Sure, sandwiches are fine,” she answers haltingly. There’s something in her voice that sounds vaguely like disappointment, and my heart jolts at the notion that she might actually think I was insinuating anything she’s not ready for or interested in. Suddenly, I’m worried that she’ll change her mind and try to walk home instead.
“Great!” I say, far too cheerily. I jump up from the couch and nearly knock my untouched tea off the coffee table in my haste. Katniss raises an eyebrow.
“I’ll help you,” she says, detangling herself from the quilts. When she stands, I can see that her shirt sleeves and pant legs are still damp.
“Nah, sandwiches are a one-man job,’ I say. “Besides, you’ll catch your death in those wet clothes, even with the fire. Why don’t you go upstairs and change? You can take anything you like from my drawers. There's pajamas in the bottom one, I never wear them.”
Katniss gives me an odd look and opens her mouth as if to argue, but seems to think better of it once she looks down and realizes I’m right.
“Thanks,” she says instead, and heads upstairs.
I make myself busy in the kitchen, grabbing bread and meat and cheese from the icebox, which thankfully has not been affected by the lack of power so far. I set two plates of sandwiches on the table and sit down, waiting for Katniss before I dig in. Five minutes goes by, then ten, before I start to wonder what she could be up to. I’m debating on calling up to see if there’s a problem when she appears in the doorway, and then I can’t speak at all.
I recognize the black and white stripes of my favourite old sweater, faded with time. The sleeves of it fall past her hands, which hang at her sides. The hem falls to her thighs, which are otherwise bare. The only other clothing she wears are a pair of my old wool socks, pulled up nearly to her knees.
“I took this instead. I hope you don’t mind. Your pants were too big,” Katniss explains hastily. “They kept falling down.”
I swallow hard. I would be in danger of falling down too, if I weren’t already seated. I’ve seen Katniss in far more provocative outfits – the skintight bodices and low cut gowns of the Capitol's choosing – but there’s something so genuine, so alluring about seeing her in my own kitchen wearing nothing but my own clothes, that makes my knees shake and my throat dry.
“Of course I don’t mind. I’m sorry,” I say, stupidly. It takes an embarrassingly long time to drag my gaze back up to Katniss’ face, which has once again gone back to an adorable shade of pink.
“Not your fault,” she shrugs, and I don’t dare let my eyes slip back down to see the hem of my sweater rise with her shoulders. “Also, I’m not sleeping in your room tonight.”
“What? Why not?” I splutter. My mind can’t make sense of the image of her in….that, with the implication that she’d rather get lost in the blizzard than stay here.
“You left the windows open up there,” she says before I can protest further. “It’s freezing. I closed them, but you’d still have to thaw me in the morning. I’ll take the couch, if you don’t mind.”
I am both flooded with relief that that’s all she means and also trying very hard to ignore the many ways my mind immediately conjures up to keep Katniss warm in my bed.
“Sure, of course,” I tell her. “Wherever you’re most comfortable.”
“Thanks,” she replies. She crosses to the kitchen table and slides into the seat across from me. I quickly turn my head when the skin of her upper thigh reveals itself, hoping against hope I don’t look quite as jittery as I feel. Katniss, thankfully, is distracted by the food in front of her and doesn’t seem to notice.
“Delicious as always,” she praises after a few bites.
“They’re just sandwiches,” I laugh. “Nothing special.”
“Yeah, but they’re yours,” she says plainly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. This simple compliment makes me beam.
We eat mostly in silence after that, making slow small talk about what we’ll do when the snow dies down and making silly bets on how long it’ll be before Haymitch orders more goslings. Katniss’ responses become shorter and shorter, and by the time our plates are empty, her eyes are heavy.
“Time for bed?” I ask with a smile. She hides a yawn before answering.
“No, I can stay awake if you’re not tired,” she says, but I don’t know if either of us believe it much.
“I don’t mind,” I say, because I really don’t, not when she is so adorably sleepy. “Come on, I’ll tuck you in.”
She snorts, but doesn’t protest. I follow her into the living room, eyes trained dutifully on the back of her head and not any lower. Katniss pushes the pile of blankets over and sinks into the couch, tucking her legs underneath her. I grab the softest fleece I own and shake it out with a dramatic flourish to make her giggle before I lay it gently over her body.
“Do you want a pillow from upstairs?” I ask while tucking the blanket in all around her.
“No, this is perfect,” she sighs. Her eyes are half-closed already. I make do with one of the throw pillows and fuss about fluffing it up before gently lifting her head to put it behind her. She leans into my hand, and my fingers brush her cheek of their own accord.
“Peeta,” Katniss half-mumbles, “will you stay with me? Just until I fall asleep?”
I’m transported back in time, to another snowy night where a bruised and sleep-drunk Katniss had asked me nearly the exact same thing. I answer in the same way I did then, with the same simple promise:
“Always.”
With her eyes already closed, she smiles and nuzzles down further into the couch, pulling me closer by my hand. I end up half on top of her, knees straddling her and the rest of the blankets. I start to pull away to readjust and she makes a small noise of protest.
“No, don't leave. You’re so warm,” she groans.
“I’m not leaving, don’t worry,” I soothe her in a whisper. Gingerly, I scoot her further to the front of the couch and slide in behind her. She’s so small, there’s ample room for the both of us this way. I snake an arm under her waist and gently lay the other one over her. She pulls me flush against her back and snuggles in to me. I count her breaths, long and slow, while I try to control my own. This feels too good, too impossibly good to be real. It’s so good that when she speaks, a whisper almost lost to the crackling of the fire, I think I’m imagining things.
“I’ve missed you so much.”
“I’ve been right here,” I whisper back against her ear. I feel her shiver against me, and this time, I’m certain it’s not because of the cold. The thrill of it emboldens me beyond common sense. Before I can think it through, I place a long, lingering kiss against her neck.
Katniss’ whole body freezes. Her rigidity sharply contrasts the softness of the previous moment and a thousand apologies fly to my lips. Before any can make their way out, she deftly flips herself around to face me, and her expression is not the one I’d been expecting.
Wide-eyed, Katniss stares at me with an intensity I’ve seldom seen. Even with the shadows that cascade across her face, I can see that ever-present blush blessing her cheeks.
“I’ve missed this so much,” she says. “You and me. Like this.”
I can’t do much else but blink at her. This kind of confession from Katniss is more than I've ever had the bravery to dream of. Five words – and only five syllables at that - but from Katniss, it means more than I could say in a million. Her and I. Together. Like this, pressed against each other so closely I can all but feel every goosebump on her charged skin, can smell her lavender scent enveloping us both, can see the way her eyes search mine, studying every inch of me for a response. For once, I take a page from Katniss’ playbook, and respond with action instead of words.
I mean to brush my lips gently against hers, to let her take the lead, but her proximity and the magnetic pull she has on me sends my mouth crashing on to hers. She makes a surprised noise in the back of her throat, but it quickly turns into nothing short of a purr. It’s Katniss who deepens the kiss, weaving her fingers into my hair and pulling just enough to make me gasp. I feel her smile against my lips and am delighted when she opens that smile fully to let me in. Our tongues explore, slow and tentative at first but not for long. Soon, we’re both panting, clutching to each other and half-sliding off the couch. The pile of blankets falls away, entirely unneeded for all the heat between us now.
Katniss shifts us, pulling me up until I’m sitting against the back of the couch. She lifts her knee and drops it on my other side, then lowers herself into my lap until I groan. She presses even closer, humming when I groan again, and slams her lips onto mine once more. She’s frenzied, kissing up and down my neck, against my ear, even my nose, pausing and repeating actions whenever I can’t contain the sounds that escape me. I match her pace, catching her lips with mine when I can, hands sliding over the soft skin of her calves, her thighs. I grab fistfuls of my sweater, pulling her ever closer, savouring the noises she makes when I do. She starts to rock against me, and my eyes nearly roll back. I’m lightheaded and almost dizzy. This is bliss, this is perfect, but I am also so painfully aware that this has all happened far too quickly. Somewhere, very far off in a secluded part of my brain where logical thinking has been banished for the time being, I recognize that this is the first time either of us has ever been this close to one another without a camera capturing it. I don’t want to make it the last by pushing things too far. With a mountainous effort and all my remaining self-restraint, I pull back from Katniss’ lips.
“Hey,” I gasp, “we can take it slow. I'm not going anywhere. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
Katniss leans back, looking beautiful and ethereal in the light from the fire’s embers. I take a moment to drink her in, already picturing the portrait I’ll be making of this very scene. Her lips are a little swollen, her hair is tangled from my fingers raking through it, and she’s never looked more gorgeous.
“All the time in the world,” she repeats, and her smile strikes right into my chest. She leans over me and places a light kiss on my lips, sweet and chaste and the perfect ending for a memory I’ll never let go of.
We lay down together again, watching the fire and hiding in our cave of blankets.
“The snow’s stopped,” Katniss comments after a while.
“Pity,” I say, “I think I’ve grown to like it.”