Archive of Our Own

With the anniversary of the reaping fast approaching every day, Katniss had become a pro at avoiding everyone and everything. 

Silence had become her companion as she wandered her halls during the long hours of the night or sat hiding in a corner watching the way the light changed on her walls. She didn’t know the last time she slept, let alone when she’d seen a person. 

It was one of the rare times she’d allowed herself a bite of food when she heard the first blast. The open window showcased the night sky, typically inky black, bursting into fractured red light that seemed to rain down like hellfire.

Instinct more than rational thought made Katniss drop to the ground, her breathing loud and ragged in the now, otherwise quiet. For a second, she wondered if she had imagined it, and then another few burst in quick succession.

And suddenly she was back in the capital. The hair on her arms stood on end, and heat seemed to lick its way up her spine. In the distance, she swore she could hear screams. Retching, she fought back the urge to vomit and forced herself to action.

That was how she found herself—a mess of trembling limbs, crawling into the cabinet under the sink.

Because even now, when she wanted to die, she couldn’t help but continue to force herself to survive.

Sitting there with the blasts going off, she was reminded of a time not too long ago when she had sat in the bunkers of 13. There, though, she had been with her mother, Buttercup, and Prim, among others. Now she was all alone.

Another explosion sounded, and she shoved the front of her shirt into her mouth to muffle a scream. The blunt edges of her nonexistent fingernails scraped along the baby pink, scarred flesh of her arms until pinpricks of blood rose to the surface.

She didn't know how long she had been there, cheek pressed against the dank wood, spindly legs curled tightly to her chest in the cramped space.

All she knew was that it had to have been a while, long enough for the sounds of bombing to disappear like mist in the morning, for the small bits of light that had slipped into the space to disappear and reappear a couple of times over, and for the phone to have rung far too many times.

Logic told her that it was likely safe to come out of her confines, yet she couldn't bring herself to move. Instead, she felt herself falling back into the deep well of despair. Body stiff and aching, surrounded by darkness, she was reminded of the coffins that enclosed the bodies of so many of her loved ones.

She wanted to feel their pain. Their loss. 

She closed her eyes and imagined being lowered, buried deep in the earth, never to see the light of day again. And she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe because there was dirt in her lungs, and she was dead and gone. 

Her chest constricted, and her mind seemed to go fuzzy at the edges, until, coughing, she accidentally hit her head against the back of the cupboard. 

Stupid, she thought, get a grip. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to move and settled back into place. A hare caught in a trap- fear kept her rooted in place. So, she found comfort in the discomfort of it all, sweat beading her forehead and the uneven surface of the wood scratching against her sensitive skin.

forty-one, forty-two, forty-three

So many lines and streaks that seemed to swirl across the wood. 

forty-four, forty-five.

Another knock at the door; however, this time instead of hearing the stranger leave as they had in days past, she heard the unmistakable sound of the doorknob turning and the floorboards creaking as they let themself in. 

Intruder, her brain screamed. It had to be someone from the capital. It had taken a while, but they had finally found her and were here to take her away. Make her burn.

Her whole body tensed, but she didn’t dare to move or breathe, even stopped counting, as if they would be able to hear the inner workings of her mind. As if that would keep her safe when nothing in this world could.

"Katniss," called out a distinct male voice, achingly familiar.

Peeta

The sound of his voice seemed to stir something in her, reminding her where she was.

Not the Capital, but District 12. 

Shame and embarrassment flooded her, causing her to shrink in on herself. When she closed her eyes, the fear came spiraling back.

More blood. More death. Dirt piling onto coffins at funerals she would never be able to attend. Her beautiful Prim, who wouldn’t even be able to be buried as her body was blown to bits and burned to unrecognizable ashes.

Perhaps she should’ve stepped out into one of the blasts after all.

Not quick or painless, but deserved.

The floor continued to give away the boy's location as he searched tirelessly for her. 

She could almost imagine it. 

First, looking in all the closets, shuffling the coats around before moving on to look under the furniture that barely lifted off the floor, and then, as if she were some small prey animal capable of hiding in such a place, under the carpet.

Over time, the sound of her name joined the noise, pleading with her to come out and asking if she was okay. 

Her fingers twitched at her side, but otherwise she didn't move; she did not want to be found. 

As his insistent calling came closer, she pressed further back, hoping the space would swallow her up. 

When he came to a stop, she felt her heart drop to her stomach. Even through the wood, she could feel his penetrating gaze, the weight of his cool blue eyes inescapable. She knew if she just tapped the cabinet door, it would swing open and hit him.  

Minutes passed where she wished with every fiber of her being that he would just leave. Leave her as everyone else had, allowing whatever had come to pass to take her with it.

And still, when the sound of him faded away, and the front door opened and shut, she couldn't help but feel disappointed.

Licking her dry, cracked lips, she realized she’d lost count of the markings and began again.

One, two, three...

At some point, her eyes must have closed against her will because she awoke shaking and gasping for air from another nightmare. It wasn't until she heard the cabinet door creaking open that she realized she’d been found.

Light flooded into the confined space, bathing everything around her in golden light and obscuring the details of the intruder, instead highlighting a dark-haired halo and a pair of light, seam gray eyes filled with strength and determination.

"Dad?" She couldn’t help but ask; her voice cracked and thin with disuse, though there was a hint of hope to it as her heart thundered in her chest like a bird taking flight.

She had not wished for her father in so long, not when there were other fresher wounds that needed tending. When she so desperately longed for her sister.

Maybe she had died.

But then she blinked, her eyes adjusted, and she realized she wouldn’t ever be so lucky.

“Sorry, sweetheart, just me," Haymitch drawled, though it seemed somewhat apologetic, and that was when she noticed his breath didn’t stink of the usual booze. Not that it mattered.

She stared at him, not quite sure how to make words form, and unsure whether or not to be happy that the whole world hadn’t in fact been bombed to smithereens.

Her tongue felt thick and useless in her mouth.

"Found her," he shouted, ignorant to her inner turmoil. 

At the sound of thundering, animal scaring, footsteps, she ultimately decided she was not happy. In fact, she wanted to throttle Haymitch. Wanted to hiss and scowl and scream. 

Because didn’t he know she destroyed everything? Didn't he know that everything around her burned and turned to ash? 

She couldn’t even save herself.

All of the humanity had been burned out of the girl on fire.

The girl she’d been before the games was a completely different person, and already that girl had been wretched and surly on the best of days. Since then, all the goodness had been scooped out of her, leaving a hollow shell of a human, more similar to the wild dogs she used to run from.

Why couldn’t he leave her there? Leave what was left of her alone?

The only good thing left in the world was Peeta Mellark, and if the world was still turning, then he deserved to be happy, and that meant being far, far away from her.

As if sensing her thoughts, Haymitch’s fingers wrapped around her slender wrist like a manacle. “Get out from under there,” he snapped. When she didn't move, he shook his head and continued, voice low so that only the two of them could hear, “When that boy gets over here, you’re going to listen, and you’re not going to complain.”

She bore her teeth at him; the two had seen little of each other since they’d gotten back, and that had been fine with her. Despite some of their reliance on each other during the war, their relationship had never quite returned to what it’d been before the quell. Before he had lied and betrayed her, leaving Peeta behind when it should’ve been her. 

‘I hate you,’ she wanted to tell him, ‘I hate you, and you should’ve let me die,’ but she couldn’t muster up the energy; besides, she didn’t want Peeta to hear. So, she channeled the feeling into her scathing glare.

He returned the look with equal malice before attempting to yank her from her position. When she let out a blood-curdling scream, all defiance rather than hurt, he dropped her arm as if he's been scalded, his face screwing together in a way that left her feeling self-righteous. 

Good, she thought.

At least until she saw Peeta run into the room, pale and scared, his shoulders tense, and eyes searching. Guilt crept up her like a vine strangling her with its thorny grasp.

It was only when he spotted her, still hunched over in the cabinet, that he relaxed slightly. 

Simultaneously, she too, felt herself become more at ease, the knot inside her chest unraveling with each step he took closer. 

As he stood tall before her, eyes all honeyed and cheeks rosy, her heart turned in on itself. He gave her a small smile, one that still managed to reach his eyes, and the whole room seemed to brighten.

She should tell him to leave, she knew, but she had always been selfish, always ready to take what he would give.

“What happened?” he managed to ask between breaths.

“Nothing,” Haymitch said with a roll of the eyes, and despite Katniss’s annoyance, she didn't disagree because as soon as Peeta turned his gaze on her—eyes crinkled with worry and brows knitted together in a way she wanted to smooth— all the fight in her melted away. 

Even without Haymitch’s warning, she would’ve done as Peeta liked. After everything she had put him through, she didn’t think she could deny him anything.

“Hey, Katniss,” he spoke gently, as if to a wounded animal.

Eyes round as quarters, she blinked up at him. “Peeta,” Her mouth formed the word, but no sound came out. 

Despite the lack of real response, he continued to give her his soft, unjudgmental smile. “What do you say we get you out of there?”

Slowly, coming back to herself, she nodded. 

“Do you need help?”

Yes, she would say if she was in the business of being honest, but stubborn as always, she just shook her head no. Thankfully, Peeta didn’t listen, reaching in to assist and pull her out.

Finally free of her confines, she began to notice how sore her body was. Neck stiff, shoulders at her ears, feet tingling. And after days without use, her legs barely seemed able to support her weight. Swaying, she stood on unsteady legs like a newborn deer. It lasted all of ten seconds before Peeta swept her into his arms bridal style, ignoring her scowl.

Annoyed by the coddling, she wanted to push back, but emotionally drained, she resisted the urge. Though she was loath to admit it, the physical contact was nice. Eventually, she even allowed herself to lean back in his embrace, savoring the safety and warmth it brought to her. Head pressed to Peeta’s large chest, she listened to the steady rhythm of his heart, trying to let it erase the memories of the sound of bombs and screaming. 

“I’ve got it from here, thanks, Haymitch.” He left no room for argument, essentially dismissing the older man.

Unperturbed, Haymitch gave a curt nod and took his leave, truthfully looking rather relieved. She couldn’t blame him. 

With surprising ease, Peeta brought her upstairs, managing to find her bathroom without instruction. She supposed it helped that his own house was essentially a mirrored version of hers. 

After looking around the space, he ended up setting her on the sink counter. Long legs dangling over the ledge, she felt strangely young sitting there, reminded of all the times her father had once bandaged up her scraped knees. 

You don’t have to help me, she wanted to say, but staring up at him, the words slipped through her mind like water, nothing finding purchase. Eventually, she gave up attempting to speak, her jaw snapped closed, and her lips screwed together in frustration.

If it bothered him, he didn't let it show, muttering something incomprehensible to himself as he brushed a hand over her head before he puttered about, searching for a washcloth. It was a barely there touch that seemed more reflexive than anything else, but it sent a shiver down her spine all the same.

She watched him intently, focusing on the way he moved, all gentle, sloping lines, supremely careful in the narrow space despite his size. He was in all sense of the word a gentle giant. There was more to it, though, an inelegance about him that was charming, though she’d never admit it.

Letting out a sound of triumph, he brought up the washcloth, old and threadbare. Despite the measly fabric, he seemed inexplicably pleased with himself, and at the sight of his beaming face, she couldn't help but let out a small huff of amusement. The sound only seemed to bolster his confidence. 

A shiver ran down her spine when, after wetting the rag, he brought it to her skin. His touch was firm but delicate as he wiped the blood off her— first her knees, then her arms, and finally her hands — all the while murmuring about everything and nothing all at once. 

It soothed her, the sound of his voice a balm to her aching soul. She was no more than an echo of a human, but if he were to keep talking, perhaps she could learn to bear the weight of this life.

Slowly, the red marring her skin faded, and the scabs were once again just scabs. A reminder of how she was a patchwork of scars.

It was almost comical when he finally went to apply a bandage to her knuckles. As if any of these were real wounds, as if she cared how they healed. This was a tenderness she didn’t deserve, but she didn’t object, just allowed herself to be taken care of.

Finished, he brought both hands to her face and held her still as he looked her over. She did not fight it like she knew she should. Instead, eyes fluttering closed, she savoured the feeling– the callouses uneven against her face, the heat from his palms. Everything about him was warm, like the rays of light in the early morning.

With increasing difficulty, she tried not to lean into his touch as he cupped her cheek, thumb stroking the scarred flesh as if it were sacred. Eyes closed, she pretended to be unbothered, but she knew if she were to look down, she’d see shaking hands. 

And then her hands were shaking for an entirely different reason as she remembered his hands, large and strong, wrapping around her throat. Squeezing, squishing her like a bug. 

The memory flitted by quick and visceral, giving her whiplash. Anger pooled in her stomach, and with gritted teeth, she pulled away from him.

The loss was immediate, leaving her cold and wanting.

At the look of sorrow on his face, regret filled her, stinging more than any cut. 

Her heart slammed against her ribcage, and she wanted to bang her head against a wall. She could never do anything right. All she knew how to do was hurt. The only person she’d ever really known how to care for was Prim, and look how that had turned out. 

Sorry, she wanted to say, but her mouth opened and closed uselessly like a fish as he stole the word from her, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked away in shame, “I shouldn’t have done that.”

She shook her head, wanting him to understand that she didn’t blame him. That it was all the capital's fault. It’d messed them both up beyond recognition.

However, after spending so much time in silence, it was hard to form words. Everything seemed locked away in the recesses of her mind.

Before she could think better of it, she reached back out to grab the hand closest to her, playing with his fingers awkwardly for a few moments, staring at all the blemishes that marked him just as they did her. 

They were both mutts, she thought, with their different hues of pink, stretched and wrinkled skin. 

Resolved, she intertwined their fingers together. 

Once again, she searched for the right words, but they never came. Desperate for something, anything, she went with the first thing she could think of, a lame “Uh, thank you.”

She could tell it startled him, blonde brows drawn together in a line before he burst out into a laugh. It was entirely unlike her own from minutes ago; it was large and full of life, unafraid of taking up space. The sound left her lightheaded and dizzy, even as embarrassment set her skin aflame.

All tension gone from his shoulders, he helped her off the counter, “Let’s get you to bed, Katniss.”

Hand still in his, she didn’t resist, simply let herself be pulled along.

They reached her room with little fuss. 

Exhausted, she skipped most of her old nighttime routine, barely caring to change until pressured to by Peeta. Graciously, he faced the wall until she’d finished like the well-mannered boy he was. 

When she got under the covers, she waited for him to join her, watching as he went to turn off the lights. 

“Good night,” he said, hand now on the doorknob as he turned to go. Stupidly, she finally realized that he was planning to leave. She was going to be alone. Again. The thought filled her with unspeakable dread. Unease set her heart racing, her whole body taut as a wire.

She sat up.

Noticing, he moved back toward her face, etched with concern. “Katniss-” 

“No,” she shook her head rigorously. It had been so long since she’d allowed herself to actually sleep that the concept seemed foreign to her. Scary almost. Any time she made the effort, closing her eyes long enough to drift off, she’d awake no more than a couple of hours later, covered in sweat and on the verge of screaming. 

“You need rest.”

Hands clenched at her sides, she looked around in desperation as if searching for a way out. She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. Once again taking a leap of faith, she reached out to grab at Peeta, her fingers landing feather-light against the pulse point of his wrist.

“Don’t go,” she murmured, the words barely audible, but she knew from the way his heart beat quickened that he’d heard. 

He looked at her, pain etched across his features as he warred with himself, clearly looking from her to the door. They both knew what the smart decision was. Still, her fingers tightened around his wrist, urging him closer. Selfish as always.

“Stay with me,” she pleaded, and he seemed to lose the internal battle as he nodded. 

Quietly, he stripped from his outer clothes, and she couldn't help but watch, afraid that at any moment he might change his mind and leave. Yet, there was care in the way he moved, a calmness that soothed her. It felt peaceful, mundane, almost as he folded his shirt and pants and put them atop her dresser.

In the evening light of the setting sun, he seemed to glow golden, blonde hair a halo. Her dandelion in spring, tall and broad and beautiful. Color came to her face, which she hoped was easy to miss in the shadow he cast over her. Still, she continued to look him over. The pale expanse of his back, the slope of his shoulders, freckles dotting him like constellations. Then there were the lines of soft pink flesh, a map of all they'd been through. 

What she'd been the cause of.

And just as quickly as the calm had appeared, it vanished. Her hand clenched as she tried to rid herself of the incoming thoughts and images. But once fire caught, it was hard to put out. It burned and ate away at everything around it.

"My eyes are up here, Everdeen," Peeta joked, startling her from her thoughts.

"I'm sorry," she said instantly, managing to tear her focus away from the scars to look up into crystal-blue eyes full of humor and mirth. All it did was make her feel more guilty. 

"For staring?" he laughed, "Don't worry, it's kind of flattering."

"For everything." She didn't have to explain for him to understand. They knew each other too well by now.

His face hardened, "Never apologize for it. Not ever. It wasn't your fault."

She opened her mouth to offer a rebuttal, but quickly stopped when he sat on the bed and gave her a serious look. The dimples and smiley eyes he usually sported were replaced by a piercing stare that could put even hers to shame. Never one to back down, Katniss fixed her gaze on his, sending arrows his way. 

They glared at each other for what felt like an eternity before she looked away, and he, taking it as a victory, returned to his natural state of smiling as he took off his prosthetic. 

It didn't take long before he was slipping beneath the sheets, and as the bed dipped beneath his weight, she turned to face him. 

Twinkling eyes, raised cheeks, sunshine incarnate, he was still smiling, though there was a little bit of shyness to it.  

Warmth coursed through her, making her feel light and fuzzy. She tried to return the smile, but was certain hers looked more like a grimace from the way his seemed to grow at the sight of it. Eventually, it turned into a slight chuckle, and Katniss, who normally hated being laughed at, couldn't help but notice how she didn't seem to mind for once. 

"Good night, Katniss."

"Goodnight." She muttered practically into her pillow, forcing her eyes closed in an effort to block out the swirling emotions threatening to overwhelm her. 

Breathe in, 

Breathe out. 

In,

Out.

In,

Out.

She tried to fall asleep. Really, she did. But, tossing and turning, rest seemed impossible despite how emotionally exhausted she was. 

Even though he was only on the opposite side of the bed, the distance between them felt too vast. He felt oceans away. 

Heart thundering in her chest, she inched closer, hesitant, waiting to see if he'd back away. When he didn't, she proceeded until her nose pressed to his chest, and before she could think better of it an arm around his torso.

He tensed beneath her, and for a second she'd thought she'd gone too far, but then he pulled her closer, letting out a contented sigh and relaxing, as if he needed this too. 

Eyes wide with disbelief, she was glad her face was obscured as her cheeks flushed. She was also glad that from this angle she could watch every inhale and exhale he took- afraid that like all things this was temporary. That one of them would break. 

Fear. Her body seemed made of it these days.

Experience had taught her that when one thing was fixed, it was only a matter of time until the ball dropped and something else went awry, often much worse.

It had turned her into a wound that never healed, wet and soft and gooey.

"Breathe with me, Katniss," he whispered as if reading her thoughts. "In, and out," His fingers skimmed over the bare skin of her arms, his voice inexorably calm and tender. 

She did as she was told, breathing in the scent of him— warm and earthy from the linseed oil of his paints, and there was something sweet there too. Cinnamon. A combination of things he loved. Her heart pitter-pattered in her chest. Safe, she told it. We're safe here. 

"Good," She felt him nodding, "that's it."

His hand traveled up and into her hair, combing through the uneven pieces. So gentle she could cry. It had been so long since anyone had taken care of her like this. Since she had allowed it. With him, it felt easy. 

Slowly, the tension began to leave her body, unfurling like a fist.  

Neither of them spoke, the sound of their combined breathing its own sweet melody. In this quiet darkness, she could pretend they were nothing more than two beating hearts. 

Somewhere along the way, her eyes drifted shut, and her breathing slowed as she entered that twilight place between wakefulness and sleep. 

"You are so strong, Katniss, stronger than you know." Came Peeta’s voice, barely more than a whisper, soft as morning dew on moss. It sounded far away, barely recognizable in her sleep-addled state. 

Her eyes wrinkled as she struggled to respond, her mouth refusing to listen in her haze. All she could manage was a weak shake of her head to deny the claim. 

There was a sigh, and a kiss to her forehead. A barely there thing that still had the power to make her feel as if she were floating, sending her drifting back towards restfulness.  

"The fireworks, they scared me too, you know," he continued, more unsteady this time, "And when I couldn't find you.. I nearly went out of my mind." 

Another comforting hand through her hair, ushering her ever closer to the true precipice of sleep. She felt caught in a cloud. 

"But it's okay now. We're together. And I won't let anything happen to you. You're so used to having to protect everyone, but you don't have to do that with me. We take turns protecting each other, remember? And right now it's my turn. You've got me to protect you now.

It's okay to go to sleep, Katniss. I’ve got you." 

"You'll stay?" a voice that sounded like her own murmured, sad and child-like. 

"Always."

With that word, the final, stubborn part of her managed to let go, allowing her to slip away into darkness. 

And for once, she did not dream.