Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/960816.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Hunger_Games_Trilogy_-_Suzanne_Collins, Hunger_Games_Series_-_All_Media
      Types
  Relationship:
      Katniss_Everdeen/Peeta_Mellark
  Character:
      Katniss_Everdeen, Peeta_Mellark
  Additional Tags:
      Romance, Drama, Alternate_Universe_-_Modern_Setting, Explicit_Sexual
      Content, Sexual_Tension, Masturbation, Explicit_Language
  Collections:
      Prompts_in_Panem_Collection_-_September_2013
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-09 Completed: 2014-05-21 Chapters: 18/18 Words: 72840
****** Waterlily ******
by HGRomance
Summary
     Peeta’s a high school exchange student spending a year on Panem
     Island, a foreign land of blue coves, lilting guitar melodies, and
     floral-scented breezes. He thought he left his love behind in
     America. But after meeting a village girl with a wild side, he’s not
     sure where his heart belongs. Modern AU.
Notes
     A little preview of a story set for regular postings this fall. It's
     a special one for me. I was once an exchange student, and I've been
     hoping to weave such an experience into a love story for a very long
     time. Although there are some details that came from my own
     background, most of this is simply inspiration. Ultimately, this is
     Everlark's story, not mine.
     Thank you to Chelzie, iLoVeRynMar, Court81981, and misshoneywell. And
     to Ro Nordmann for the pretty banner!
     Disclaimer: I do not own THE HUNGER GAMES trilogy. It belongs to
     Suzanne Collins. I merely want to spend more time with her
     characters.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Katniss
I could just let the tide pull me under. The moment is perfect, the moon's rays
scuttling across my arms, the taste of saltwater on my lips, and a thread of
seaweed grazing the side of my breast. The waves jostle me around, practically
begging me to let go. I float and glide and plop beneath the surface. I blow
bubbles, then break through and suck in a mouthful of humid air. I lose myself
in the sea and feel invincible.
Yes, I could let the tide take me. Or I could pretend to put up a fight, arms
cutting through the water until I'm too tired to do anything else but die
happy. The coral reefs are waiting for me to sink. They're waiting to catch me
in a sharp, pink hug and slice me to ribbons.
In a few minutes, I could drown and be with her again. Then I could gather
primroses for her, and we could smile at the significance of it and live the
rest of our lives on a new type of island forever...or not. Getting into Heaven
would be a challenge for someone like me. And if I even did crack the secret
password and step over that threshold, my sister would be furious to see me. I
had better not do it if it means getting reprimanded by her in the afterlife.
Or perhaps I'll simply wait for another night.
Sigh. Life would be much more interesting as a mermaid or a piece of buried
treasure.
I bob in place and glance at the foam stretching across the beach in the
distance. Panem Island's cliffs and peaks are green during the day, black at
night. The thin-necked silhouettes of palm trees rock in the wind, coconuts
dangling like giant testicles. I laugh and then choke on the sound. Shhh.
My body bounds forward, fighting the temptation to stay where I am. Coming back
to shore, it's a harder swim than when I first dove in. The water smacks my
cheeks and shoves itself into my chest. The sea wants me.
I clamber out, my nipples stiff as shells, my wet braid snaking around my neck
like a collar, and the damp sand sucking at my heels and crowding between my
toes. Where did I leave my nightgown?
I locate the flimsy orange slip a few feet away and shrug it over my head.
Because I don't bother with a towel, the nightgown clings to my dripping
curves. The ruffled hem covers my bare ass and trembles in the breeze.
The beach smells different tonight. Not like the usual sultry fragrance of tan
lotion that lingers after sunset, nor like the typical scents of papaya or
orchids. Instead, I'm intoxicated by melted sugar.
How odd. It's not a local scent.
Primrose would have said it's a sign that something's about to change. She
always swore by things like that.
Frogs croak at me as I cross from the beach into Seam Village. Sandy hills
become dirt roads. The outlines of thatched roofs, round terra-cotta shacks,
and hibiscus bushes come into view. I spot Old Man Sae on his porch, the only
other villager still awake besides me. The hushed curl of his guitar fills my
ears with a melody, what outsiders would call "exotic" or "spicy." No lyrics,
only the pluck of his instrument.
Grinning, I snap my hips gently from side to side, humming along, relishing the
way the guitar sets me free. I fall into a lazy dance. If the rhythm were a
little faster, I'd spin and try to turn back time.
It's late. I drag myself from the music and keep going. The windows of my
uncle's cottage are open, an attempt to filter out the moist heat even though
it's futile in late August. I still refuse to call the cottage home. Mama and I
used to live on the east shore, but we had to leave after Primrose died. We
moved here to the western side so that my uncle could keep a closer watch on
us.
The house isn't very different. It still has two rooms like our old place,
except these rooms are bigger. I don't have to share a bed with Mama the way I
did with Primrose. I slip through the window and tiptoe across the living room,
which is also the dining room, which is also part of the kitchen.
"Bedtime already?" a voice mocks behind me.
I stop in my tracks and groan inwardly. The problem isn't that I've been
caught—I never care about that. It's that I'm tired. I want to go to sleep...I
want to try to go to sleep.
Wheeling around, I find my uncle reclining in his favorite wooden chair, what
he calls The Situation Chair, his throne of damage control. He reeks of
tequila, and his attitude is stuck somewhere between lucid and glazed. He taps
a finger to his chin, unsurprised by my visible nakedness beneath the soaked
nightgown.
His gaze slides down to my bare feet, amusement twitching at the margins of his
lips. "So you left anyway. I should have known you'd be determined."
Did he really think hiding my shoes would stop me from sneaking out and doing
whatever I wanted? That's funny.
But something's not right. I feel it. He isn't brooding enough. I've given him
a run for his money this past year, but he looks like he might have gotten a
second wind. From what?
Mosquitoes buzz around us, hunting us for blood. I've read that they have a
fatal ancestor called the tracker jacker. It's extinct, but mosquitoes are
enough to deal with, ravenous and vicious in their own way. They love me. One
of them stings my calf, and I slap at it in the dark.
"And where have you been this fine tropical evening?" Uncle Haymitch asks.
"Skinny-dipping with Finnick again?"
I roll my eyes. Haymitch enjoys judging my boyfriend. He lives to drink and
make Finnick look bad, and he also doesn't understand what the handsomest boy
on this island wants from a plain-featured girl like me.
It has a lot to do with how often I let Finnick fuck me. But it also has to do
with mutual wounds. I have mine, and Finnick has his own to nurse. It works out
for us in this way. I don't have anyone to compare him to—he's was my first,
and I haven't been with anyone else—but I've shattered enough times in his arms
to know he's good at sex, good at making me forget. And he understands why I'm
quiet.
Sometimes it's hard to keep it all in, but I do. Even when he's pounding
between my thighs, I don't lose that part of myself. I don't let go.
We're good together. I don't ask for an emotional relationship, and neither
does he. Losing him forever wouldn't wound me, so it's a safe bet with him.
My uncle takes another guess. "Or were you out smoking banana leaves with your
playmates?"
Jo and Tigris are my friends, not playmates. Eccentrics are underrated.
"Ahhh," he says, inspecting my face more closely. "So you were alone and
untamed. That's rarely good. Once a sweetheart, now nothing but a wild thing."
I disregard the hole in my heart and raise a quizzical eyebrow. You seem
surprised.
Haymitch chuckles. "One of these days, you're going to talk to me."
I will never talk. Not again. Ever.
Not for anyone.
"I wasn't waiting up for you, you know," he says.
Who are you kidding?
"I wasn't," he insists.
Why don't you give me my punishment so that I can get a head start on ignoring
it?
My uncle grunts. He likes to think he can decipher all my expressions, but he
doesn't know how easy I make it on him. He doesn't see more than I want him to.
No one does. No one looks hard enough because that would require special
powers. Namely sensitivity.
As my warden strides over to the dining table, he says, "Matter of fact, I was
reading." Rather than waste electricity, he lights a candle and tosses me a
flat packet. "Have a look."
Puzzled, I pull out a stack of papers. My eyes scan the front page, then flip
through the rest of the contents, confusion pinching my face and causing my
nose to crinkle. There's a bunch of official-looking documents, letters
addressed to Haymitch from some kind of student abroad organization.
A photo of a boy my age is clipped to the stack. My stomach swoops for no
reason as I study him. He has blond hair and eyes that have dropped from the
sky. His fresh face and light complexion don't belong anywhere near this island
of olive-skinned locals. He's made of gold, and the rest of us may as well be
made of coal.
I find a questionaire filled with handwritten answers, clearly from this boy.
His penmanship is neat, stick-straight and angular. He probably lives a groomed
life and makes his bed each morning.
I must be hallucinating because it's truly starting to smell like melted sugar
everywhere.
I cover my trepidation with a cocky smirk of indifference and wiggle the papers
at Haymitch. And what is this supposed to be?
"It's a relief, is what it is," he mutters. "I've got grief in one arm, and in
the other, there's you bursting into uncontainable flames. This family needs a
bright spot, Wild Child. Call it a change of pace. It'll be therapeutic for you
and your mama to get your minds on something else."
Please. You don't know my mind, and mama has lost hers.
"Bottom line, I'm not cutting it, and I don't have enough liquor to sustain
another month of this."
Then you shouldn't have brought us to live with you. I could have taken care of
everything on my own.
Haymitch points at me. "Stop scowling. It's only for a year. He's an exchange
student from District Twelve in North America—unless you're going to actually
speak, close your mouth. And I said stop scowling. I know what you're thinking,
but this is my house, no matter how many times you refuse to listen to me.
Well, this is the deal: The boy'll be here next month when school starts. And
don't argue about food. He's being sponsored, so that'll give us the funds to
feed him."
This gets my attention. Resentment burns inside me that this boy can so easily
provide for himself, that he comes from a nation where its citizens are fed.
Meanwhile, the villagers in Panem are hungry, and children suffer from
malnourishment because of it.
Haymitch has more to say. "And don't waste my time about the damn lack of
space. The boy is bunking with me. "
Who said anything about lack of space? I'm not a queen. Most families on this
island crowd into their homes, with multiple kids sleeping on the floor. In
comparison, we have plenty of space.
Haymitch is still barking. "I pulled a lot of strings to get this for us. We're
not exactly the ideal candidates for a host family, but it's done. You'll thank
me later, so for the third and final time, curb the fucking scowl."
My index finger presses against the candle, and I calmly tip it over. Cursing,
Haymitch stumbles forward and catches it before it hits the floor, hissing as
the flame goes out and wax leaks onto his palm. "Jesus. Are you crazy?"
One small flame is nothing. It doesn't begin to compare with my level of crazy.
I burden my uncle with a superior look, slick as water but rough as the tide. I
don't want your pity.
His posture droops. "Anger won't bring her back, Katniss. It's also not a good
mood to swim with. It causes people to do things—self-destructive things they
can't undo. Do you understand?"
I underestimated his perception, but I couldn't care less whether he suspects
the real reason I went swimming. Without acknowledging him, I walk away, taking
the papers with me as he issues a parting tip. "And about the wet nightgown. Do
me a favor, and don't expose yourself like that in front of the boy. I know
you, Wild Child."
As if the warning will do anything but provoke me.
Pure isn't an accurate enough word for what I used to be. Prude is better.
Nakedness was a private thing for me until I lost my sister and gained Finnick,
but that trait never made sense anyway. On our beaches, nudity is a way of
life. And other more intimate things.
Mama once revealed while in the throes of despair over Papa—I lost him, too,
when I was a little girl—that I'd been conceived in a secret cove. People can
only get to it by boat. She reminisced about the event in detail, which I could
have done without, but she no longer remembers telling me. She rarely remembers
much.
Uncle Haymitch's "favor" is moot. I will dress, or not dress, however I wish.
If this boy from District Twelve—what kind of name is that for a country?—is
uncomfortable and doesn't have the sense to look away, it's his own fault. It's
not like he won't see bare bodies once he visits the ocean.
Anyway, Mama and I don't need Haymitch deciding what's best for us. I don't
need some American boy to preoccupy me. I have Finnick for that.
I've had enough change to last a hundred lifetimes, and I shouldn't have to
change a thing for this new boy. He'd better not expect me to or I will punch
him. I will wrestle him to the ground, and I will win.
Closing the bedroom door behind me, I lean against the frame and draw a shaky
breath. Mama is dreaming deeply, the mosquito net circling her narrow bed like
a veil, making her resemble a fancy corpse. She never tosses or turns.
After lighting a candle, I pull back the net and kiss her forehead. I hate that
she can sleep, but I'm happy that she can sleep. It's hard to say which feeling
is greater.
Peeling off my soggy nightgown, I climb into my own bed and run a comb through
my hair. Beads of sweat crowd between my breasts. It's a sweltering night, and
I'm thirsty, but I don't want to waste drinking water.
Why did I bring the foreign exchange packet to bed with me?
I pour through it more slowly this time. What does this boy want here? What
could he gain from spending a school year in a poor country? And isn't learning
another language an important part of the whole thing? Everyone on Panem Island
speaks English. Why would he choose a place that speaks the same language as
his own?
The boy's photograph is ridiculous. No one should have a puppy smile and
angular features at the same time and get away with it. His straight, white
teeth suggest his family has a full refrigerator and a licensed dentist who
doesn't trade his services for peacock meat. The boy's wearing a blue
shirt—he's probably aware of what it does to his eyes. He's soft but sculpted.
Not classically handsome like Finnick, but more unique and cute and innocent.
Innocent. I find myself anticipating the newcomer's shock when he first sets
foot on the sand and sees more skin than he ever has in one place. I chuckle
and then grit my teeth. Shhh.
It's not right to laugh without her here. It isn't fair, but the boy made me do
it.
His picture rips slightly as I whip to the next page. It's a short introduction
to the organization, explaining how there's limited space each year, so they
choose their students carefully based on applications, personal essays, and
social gatherings. I guess this information is meant to reassure the host
families. I'm certain that this boy was able to win his place quickly. He looks
the type, self-aware of his charm and probably arrogant.
The questionnaire. It's for the host family to read. It looks like the boy had
to fill it out after being accepted into the program.
Name: Peeta Mellark.
I smirk. God. That name sounds like it came out of an oven, all fluffy and
comforting.
Q: Why are you coming to this country?
A: "I'm supposed to say for cultural enlightenment and expanding my horizons,
right? Actually, I'm going for my dad. When he was a kid, he spent a year on
Panem Island and said it was the happiest he's ever been. I want to know what
he meant by that. He's told me some stuff, but I won't get it completely until
I do it on my own. I'm not sure I'll get it. Not for sure. I hope I will. Hope
is good place to start."
I don't believe a word of it. Even though he's being casual, he's aiming to
impress, and he's doing a fine job. But it's not real.
"It's nice following in someone else's footsteps..."
"I'd like to see a sunset that doesn't belong to my side of the globe..."
"I can learn to swim in my country, but it's not..."
He's very chatty. I scan the questions, pausing only for the ones that catch my
eyes.
Q: What is your favorite food?
A: "Bread."
Finally, a one-word response. That he has the luxury of even having a favorite
food makes me detest him.
Q: What will you miss most when you leave home?
A: "Well, now that's an impossible question to answer. I honestly can't choose
one thing. I don't know if anyone could."
I could.
"There are lots of ways to miss your life. People, places, the things you like
to do..."
Here he goes rambling again. My thumb begins to stroke his answer, but I stop
myself when I realize what I'm doing.
"What I'll miss the most are my family's bakery, my dad, and my girlfriend."
Bakery. His life is made of food.
Another mention of his father. What about his mother?
I glance over at Mama and feel a pang. Then I glance back at the boy's
handwriting and suddenly feel calm.
His girlfriend. Of course he has one, or two, or three. I wonder if she has
eyes like his and if they will have a romantic farewell under the stars, with
unrealistic promises and tokens of affection. And lovemaking.
The candle flicks a balmy orange glow on the wall. Mosquitoes bounce around,
droning like mad while pursuing the light. I'm sticky and gray-eyed and
inexplicably sad by what I've read. Sad makes me confused. Confused makes me
furious. Furious makes me frustrated.
Frustrated becomes a tightness between my legs. Squirming doesn't help, nor
does the wet air. I run my hands up my thighs and imagine him saying goodbye to
his girlfriend, then the scene melts into another one of him saying hello to
me, gazing at my nightgown, curious about everything underneath. I have his
attention, and it feels so good. In my fantasy, I corrupt his boyish face and
fill us both with longing, and for a moment, I'm all that exists in someone's
life. I'm truly wanted. I'm loved again.
He's moving on me. I'm moving on him.
He shows me how deep I truly am. How loud I can be if I allow myself.
The gasp I release is startling and brings me back to earth. One of my fingers
has found its way inside me. I'm outraged by the discovery, the almost-noise
that slipped from my lips.
Without hesitation, I carry the papers over to the candle and stick them into
the flame, watching as it drags across his photo, his thoughts, his very
existence. The leaflets darken and curl and disappear.
Peeta Mellark's not even here yet, but already I've burned him.
Chapter End Notes
     I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     Enjoy!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Peeta
I swear you can't catch a break from the beauty here. As the taxi winds through
a cliff road, I gawk at the bleached white sand and blue water below. The
waterfalls...the coves scattered across the coastline...and the small crescent-
shaped islands in the distance.
It's overwhelming. Touristy questions bottleneck in my head, but I have no one
to ask because I'm pretty sure it was my talking that put Mr. Abernathy to
sleep. He's slumped next to me in the back of the car, his arm slung over his
eyes and his mouth a wide-open chasm.
On the way from the airport, he asked me how my flight was, and sometime
between my play-by-play of the turbulence and recapping the pilot's sightseeing
announcements, Mr. Abernathy began to snore. It wasn't until I glanced at the
clock on the cab's center console that I realized I'd been babbling for twenty
minutes straight.
My dad says that I'm the least quiet person on the planet, but he understands.
We both like to joke and connect with people, which maybe stems from us being
bakers. And I guess it's because—
A pair of flapping birds cuts in front of us. The cab jerks to the opposite
side of the road to avoid hitting them, and Mr. Abernathy—Haymitch—wakes with a
growl while the driver curses in frustration. The birds have vermilion-colored
feathers. I practically smash my nose up against the window to catch another
glimpse of them before they disappear.
"Mockingjays," Haymitch mutters, sitting up and wiping his eyes. "Symbolic of
the island. They're as hyper and oblivious as toddlers but more appealing than
jabberjays—now those are dangerous little fuckers. You get offended by foul
language, American boy?"
"Um. No."
"Alcohol?"
"No."
"Titties?"
"Uh…"
"Of course you don't. You're sixteen. You don't get offended by anything with
titties."
He and the driver cackle as though they frequent the same strip club or
something. Embarrassed, I shift in my seat.
Haymitch slaps me hard on the back. "Well then, welcome to paradise, boy. Don't
worry about local predators. Your whiteness is—you okay?"
"Yes," I croak.
"Your whiteness is a rare delicacy here, but only a few of the snakes and bugs
are poisonous, so the odds are in your favor."
He has officially succeeded in shutting me up. If the rest of my host family is
anything like him, I have no clue how they made the cut with my exchange
organization. I also have no clue why the family wanted an exchange student in
the first place. This man isn't exactly the fatherly type.
Usually students get pictures and messages from their host family before the
year starts, but the Abernathy-Everdeens didn't send me anything. I learned
early on from the organization that the family doesn't own a camera. Or a
computer. Or a flat screen, or any television for that matter. The majority of
the islanders don't.
"So what do you do in District Twelve besides hustle bagels and baguettes?"
asks Haymitch.
The question actually makes me chuckle. I relax a bit, rubbing the back of my
neck. "I draw. I take photographs. I'm on the wrestling team and Student
Council and also the debate team. I like to—"
"Model child, eh?"
Not according to my mother. No matter what I do.
"In the questionnaire, you said you got a sweetheart back home," Haymitch
prompts.
My heart twists. "Her name's Madge."
I miss her already.
"Peeta and Madge. Madge and Peeta," Haymitch sings. "How are Madge and Peeta
going to last not seeing each other for a year?"
It's September. I'll be here without her until July. I reach for the chain
hanging around my neck, rubbing the silver M charm between my fingers. Madge
has the same necklace, only with the letter P. We bought them before I left
home.
I remember her red-rimmed eyes at the airport, her lips trembling as we kissed,
her meager attempt to smile. "I'll wait for you," she said.
"Me too," I said.
I think of the note she slipped into my jeans before I boarded the plane. She
told me to read it during takeoff. I did, and every once in while I read it
again to keep her close.
I love you.
That's what she wrote. In the six months we've been together, we've never said
those words to each other, but her confession makes me smile. We're perfect as
a couple. We have the same friends, the same overachieving goals, and we like
to do the same things, and she wants me, willingly opening her arms whenever
I'm near. I love her, too.
Haymitch isn't bothered that I haven't answered him. He's too busy frowning out
the window as we reach a public area that looks to be a town square at the
bottom of the hill, with farmer's market-style stalls and huts. They're all
scattered around a squat, official looking building—kind of like a
mission—painted in a light orange shade that reminds me of apricots.
A crowd is blocking the main road, which gets on the driver's nerves. He honks
the horn, but no one moves.
An oddly knowing glare warps Haymitch's profile. He rolls down the window,
letting in a blast of muggy air, not unlike the kind in my family's bakery. He
leans half his body out the window, swatting his arm out and hollering,
"Darius! Thom! Cray!"
I crane my head to check out what's going on, but all I can see are a bunch of
wandering heads, a woman lugging a basket of burlap dolls, and someone else
carrying…is that a lemur in that crate?
A guy approaches us and mumbles something to Haymitch that pisses him off.
"Dammit, Katniss!" he barks, dropping back into his seat only to shove open his
door a second later. I watch dumbly as he gets out of the taxi, then leans over
and curls his finger at me. "Let's go, boy. Don't worry about your luggage.
We're coming right back."
My passport is in this car. My personal memorabilia is in this car. My first
edition Extremely Compact Oxford English Dictionary is in this car.
I get out while asking, "Who's Katniss?"
Haymitch ignores me, striding through the chaos while I scramble to match his
pace. As more people notice us, the whispers and stares increase. Everyone
looks at Haymitch with an eclectic mixture of sympathy, weariness, and
amusement. They study me like I'm another species.
An older woman who smells like a hard day's work hustles toward us, her face
wrinkled with agitation. "Aye, Haymitch. I'm glad you're here," she says. "I
couldn't stop her. I tried, but she wouldn't listen to me—"
"It's all right, Sae," Haymitch answers, framing her shoulders to calm her
down. I didn't think him capable of being kindhearted and soft-spoken. It gives
me hope.
"Don't be mad at her," pleads the woman named Sae. "Katniss is just a sad girl.
She means well."
"Who's Katniss?" I repeat.
They both turn toward me, unsettled and unsure how to answer, as if I've
forgotten my manners and said something intrusive and they don't know whether
I'm telling a bad joke. I might as well have asked who farted.
Haymitch sighs. "Sorry, boy. We aren't used to people not knowing her." He
looks around for the source of the crowd and then points. "See that she-devil
over there? That's her."
My gaze travels the length of his arm, then his finger, then across the square
and lands on a girl. The sight of her steals my breath. She's leaning her whole
body against a giant statue of a mockingjay. Her arms are stretched out to the
sides like wings that have been pinned there for display. Her head also lolls
to the side, giving the impression that she's patient and resigned, but I can
tell that she's tired. Really tired.
She has full lips, generous cheeks, and her dark hair falls loosely around her
shoulders. She's wearing a long skirt that swipes at the dirt and hangs low on
her hips, and her top looks like a corset that's been shortened to reveal her
stomach. She's a mirage, like no matter how close I try to get she'll recede.
As though she's not real.
Maybe she isn't. I have to be seeing things because those can't actually be
handcuffs clamped to her wrists, can they?
A chain made of small links is wrapped around the mockingjay statue, and she's
tethered to the ends of them, trapped there like some kind of antiquated,
timeworn puppet. I twist my head in all directions, scoping out each face.
Who's done this to her? Why isn't anyone helping her?
"It's not what you think, boy," Haymitch says. "She's not being harmed. She's
protesting."
I gape. "She's what?"
Haymitch doesn't answer. He scrubs the stubble on his jaw and storms toward the
girl, stopping close enough to block her completely from me. He bends his head
and grunts a bunch of things at her. "Where's the key?...This isn't a
game...Did Finnick help you with this?...Jo or Tigris?...Who the hell do you
think you're fooling?...I said, where's the goddamn key?...Tell me right now."
He gets silence in response.
"You're the boy from America. Peeta, yes?" The woman named Sae appraises me,
then nods toward the scene and whispers, "She's not a bad girl. She really
isn't. Panem raised the cost of fishing permits, and my god, they now cost a
fortune. Katniss can't contain herself when it comes to anything that makes
people go hungry. She wants the fee to go back down, and if we don't get that,
that child won't budge until the mockingjays reach mating season."
Amazement replaces bewilderment. I've done charity work, watched my friends
pass out flyers and make campus speeches for righteous causes, but I've never
seen anyone my age take this kind of leap. It's—
"Pointless," Sae sighs. "This is pointless."
I feel more defensive than I should. "She's standing up for something."
"Oh, dear boy. She's Katniss. No one will take her seriously. They're only
going to pity her because—" She stops herself from finishing.
What was she going to say? Pity the girl for what?
Sae bobs a lecturing finger. "Haymitch has told her many times: The way to get
people to listen is to get them to like you, not make them angry. Look at
Cray." She nods to an officer who's prowling back and forth, glaring at Katniss
and Haymitch.
"This won't help any of us," Sae confides. "She's antagonizing Cray and
distracting him from true criminals. He's waiting for a locksmith so he doesn't
have to deal with her. This isn't…" She flattens her palms together as if in
prayer and sets them against the tip of her nose. "Well, we can't blame her."
I'm confused about Haymitch's involvement in this. I sidestep Sae to get a
decent view of the spectacle. Villagers shuffle their feet and watch in
anticipation. Most of them are adults, but there are a few kids my age. They
chuckle and smirk, but Katniss doesn't seem to care. In fact, she winks at them
like they're allies—two girls in particular, one with spiky hair and the other
with feline features.
Haymitch keeps up the interrogation. Katniss turns away in disinterest, and
those eyes of hers lock onto mine. And they don't look away.
I want to run in the opposite direction. I want to go home.
Which is why it makes no sense when I head toward. Sae's hand reaches out to
stop me. "Aye Peeta, that's not a good idea," she cautions.
It comes out automatically. "Haymitch needs help."
It's none of my business, and people might look at me like some foreigner who's
butting his nose in, who's got no clue what's going on. But I'm in a new place,
I'm buzzed on culture shock, and I might be coming down with something from the
plane. I want to get back to the cab before the driver finds an alternate route
out of this mess and then speeds off with my duffle bags—one of which contains
my favorite baking apron.
And the man who's going to be my host father is surrounded by anxious faces.
And a girl named Katniss is chained up.
I can't just stand here.
After a moment's thought, Sae reluctantly lets me go. "All right, but Katniss
doesn't speak, dear, so don't take it personally if she doesn't answer you."
She's incapable of speaking or she holds back by choice? Is the latter humanly
possible? Who has that kind of willpower?
"She refuses to," Sae clarifies.
I'm more disappointed than surprised.
Katniss glares when she sees me threading through the crowd. She's a bird of
prey, primed to capture me by the neck and swoop into the air with my limp
body.
That could be glorious.
God, the tropical air must be spiked with something.
Haymitch swings around to see what Katniss is looking at. His eyes narrow in my
direction. He meets me halfway and holds up his palms. "Don't get any ideas,
boy."
"Like you've been making any progress? She's still in handcuffs."
"You don't know her."
"But you do, and that's not working either. You're snarling at her like she's a
miscreant."
"A what?"
"A noun meaning a vicious or depraved person. The archaic definition would be a
heretic or infidel."
"Boy, you got a tedious way of saying very, very bad person."
"No one else is lifting a finger. She's burned these people out, including that
officer guy—that's what Sae said anyway, so maybe the girl needs someone who's
not from around here. In Student Council, they encourage us to—"
"Oh, for crap's sake! Go ahead. This was part of the deal anyway," Haymitch
mutters.
Unsure what he means by that, I open my mouth, but Haymitch strides past me and
marches through the crush, disappearing—he's got to be joking!—into a cantina.
Everyone turns my way. The elderly faces. The young faces. The high school
faces. The two allies who seem to know Katniss scan me from head to toe, one
with unbridled curiosity, the other with distaste.
What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing?
Approaching the mockingjay statue, I comb my hands through my hair and smooth
over my shirt. Katniss watches all of this with an intense expression. It's
either cheekiness or wrath. I have trouble deciding whether she wants to bait
me or beat the hell out of me—and I wonder what I did to deserve either
reaction.
As I stop in front of her, the inebriating scent of orchids swarms my olfactory
system. We use a lot of imported orchids to decorate the cakes back home, but
from this girl the aroma is infinitely more provocative. Up close, I discover
that one of her dark locks is woven into a thin braid. My gaze traces the
hourglass of her body. Her skirt billows in the breeze and taps my calf,
warning me to snap out of it.
I clear my throat to the point where it sounds like I'm hacking. "It's Katniss,
right?"
She stares at me. Her eyes are gray.
"I'm Peeta. My name's Peeta. You can call me, um, that. You can call me Peeta."
Or she can call me redundant.
I remember my manners, rub my palms against my jeans, and hold out my hand.
Katniss quirks an eyebrow. I can almost hear her saying, What am I supposed to
do with that?
A half-sigh, half-laugh tumbles out of my mouth. I'm certifiably stupid. She
can't shake my hand if she's handcuffed.
Her stoicism is unnerving. If I don't make a dent in it, it's going to suck the
marrow right out of my confidence.
"I once locked myself to my bike in protest," I blurt out.
Her, a bird of prey. Me, the helpless victim.
"I-I was ten. I was growing out of the bike, but then my parents said that it
was too old and rusty to pass onto another kid. You know, someone who could use
it."
She keeps staring.
"And I was sentimental, so if we weren't going to pass the bike on, why would I
get rid of a relic? So I slipped my wrist through a giant padlock set around
the frame...although I guess it wasn't really a protest. More like an
objection."
Yeah. Still staring.
"And I guess you've been here longer than twenty min—how long have you been
here?"
No answer. Of course, no answer. It was a lame anecdote anyway.
I struggle to keep my brain-to-mouth filter intact. "So you're an activist?
That's, uh, commendable—cool, I mean. That's cool. Do you fish? Haymitch said
you're doing this because of fishing."
The more I talk, the more focused she becomes on my mouth. And the more focused
she becomes on my mouth, the more I suffer. But there's something about the way
her wrists sag in the iron cuffs, how red and raw her skin is. I don't know.
She's tough everywhere except there.
"Are you hurt? Are you okay?"
My voice is embarrassingly concerned. It gets her attention. She tips her chin
back, eyeing me distrustfully. I could have been speaking in a different
language, she seems so unaccustomed to the questions. It really hits me that
I'll never get to hear her voice.
But again, I can almost hear her anyway.
Why do you care?
"You just…you look so sad."
It's like a curtain gets yanked to the side. The scowl disappears altogether,
and her eyes fog with pain. There's a moment, a legitimate moment when we stare
at each other, hiding nothing.
Too soon her features turn to granite again, and the hostility returns, even
worse than before. At this point, I feel like I'm talking to dynamite.
I murmur, "Look, there's a better way to do this."
She sets her jaw.
"My father always said—"
The jaw loosens on the word father.
"My father always said that doing things together makes more of a difference
than doing things alone."
Her expression is doubtful.
"Look around you. I'm not from here, but it seems to me that you're not the
only one affected by hunger issues."
How would you know?
"Well, I'm not as different as I look. And if I'm right, which I kinda think I
am, this isn't just about you. I don't think anyone here disagrees with you,
but what you're doing? It doesn't help the cause if you isolate everyone else.
It's about figuring out a way together. Is there a person who makes you feel
stronger when they stand beside you?"
Another flash of pain.
"A group is louder than one person. The way people look at you, I think you can
inspire them. You can spark something—if you stop thinking about yourself so
much. Just ask yourself, who else are you doing this for?"
Her silver gaze falls to the ground. I have the feeling she's latched onto a
particular face.
Drawing a breath, she gives a curt nod. Okay.
At least I think that's what she means. But there's some kind of condition
attached to that nod, like,You win. For now.
I'll take what I can get. "Soooo, um, the key?"
Her sudden errant gleam takes me off guard. Slowly, suggestively, her head dips
at an angle and her eyes travel down, down, down to…
Her skirt. It's somewhere hidden under her skirt. I'm supposed to slip my hands
beneath her skirt.
Katniss waits with a dare on her face. We're surrounded, and my palms are
melting, but I've got no choice. Ever so slightly, she sways her hips from side
to side.
Come and get it, American boy.
I'm unprepared for Come and get it. And if I do come and get it, will that be
considered sexual harassment? Is my exchange organization going to boot me back
home afterward?
I square my shoulders. My hand reaches out and pauses on the waistband of the
skirt. She's cool as ever, but I'm a wreck as my fingers disappear past the
elastic. Female chuckles dance somewhere behind me. A bunch of gasps and
disapproving mumbles ricochet through the crowd.
My knuckles drag across her abdomen, slide over a pulse point and then breach
forbidden girl territory in the form of lace-trimmed panties. My mind conjures
up possible prints and shades. The air is even more humid down there, thick
enough to swallow with a spoon.
The tip of my index finger locates the hard surface of the key. Its teeth are
poking out of her underwear, near her bony hip. I yank out the key and unlock
the handcuffs in record time.
Katniss stumbles forward. I catch her, but the instant she's steady on her
feet, I rear back. The crowd exhales and claps, that Cray officer sputters into
his walkie-talkie, and Haymitch materializes on the fringes, a cork lodged
between his incisors. When he sees us, the cork shoots out of his mouth.
He stalks up to us and studies me like he just can't believe it. Then he
chuckles. "Boy, you must be a wordsmith." He rounds on Katniss. "Don't you aim
those daggers at me, Wild Child. Just because I lost my patience doesn't mean I
lost my nuts along the way. You could have been arrested or fined. When we get
home, I oughta use those handcuffs and shackle you to the roof!"
I freeze. The words we and home are red lights flashing in my head.
"Peeta." Haymitch swings an arm toward Katniss. "This, unfortunately, is my
niece."
The ground tilts beneath my feet. Katniss is his niece. She's part of my host
family, and when I add the word home into the equation, I get it. I'm going to
be living with her in the same house. For a year.
My fingers, which lingered in private places a few minutes ago, seek out the M
charm dangling from around my neck. Katniss and I had shared one real moment,
when my words had meaning to her, but then she'd reduced that moment to a joke
and a mortifyingly public encounter with her skirt.
To be fair, it wasn't like she planned it. It's not like she expected me to be
the Chosen One to chart the nether regions of her panties. It could have been
Haymitch. It could have been Cray. It could have been anyone.
Whatever. She still enjoyed the effect it had on me. I'm perplexed, jetlagged,
and offended by the whole thing. What's more, I don't like her.
But I can be polite. Offering her a smile, I hold out my hand for the second
time. "Nice to meet you, Katniss."
Her eyes travel up and down my frame. Her own hand twitches, her fingers
splaying outward and then shrinking back in line, remaining at her side. She
turns her back on me and sashays toward our idling cab.
My untouched hand hovers in the air.
Chapter End Notes
     I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     Sorry for the delay on this guys. I know you're used to much faster
     postings from me, but I've got a few writing things coming up, so
     updates might not be as regular as I'd hoped. Even though a good
     amount of this story is complete, there's still proofreading and
     polishing to do. But I will try my best :)
     Happy CF premiere day!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Peeta
My least favorite thing in the world is an awkward silence. Katniss is the
embodiment of that. There's plenty of noise in the cab, but none of it is
coming from her. I'm hyperaware of her presence and sealed lips.
Throughout the ride, my attention is torn. There's the driver's thumbs tapping
the steering wheel, matching the rhythm of a Spanish guitar that loops from the
speakers. And Haymitch's second round of snoring. And the breeze whipping
against my face.
And the quiet girl riding shotgun. I'm in the back, directly behind her, with a
view of her profile in the side mirror. At this angle, the light emphasizes her
chapped lips and the freckles crowding her nose. A rogue tendril of hair beats
against her cheek.
No one would call her beautiful. Everyone would call her sexy.
Each part of her feels invasive. Her legs are stretched across the vehicle,
olive-skinned feet propped on the dashboard and crossed at the ankles like she
owns this car. She has a high arch that reminds me of a water-slide, and her
toenails are painted a balloon orange color. I wonder if her feet are ticklish
like Madge's. I have a thing for feet, but my girlfriend hates when I touch
hers.
My gaze flits to the side mirror again and finds a pair of magnetic gray eyes
staring back at me. I glance away quickly, but I still feel her attention on
me.
The driver turns up the volume, filling the taxi with pounding percussions and
thrashing maracas. I've never listened to this kind of music before. It's
flirtatious and energetic at the same time, and for some reason it fits to
everyone's accent here, a slight but zesty Panem Island lilt that one could
probably dance to. I chance another look and am relieved that Katniss is no
longer interested in me. She's swaying her body to the song, and the driver
joins in. It's playful, the way they synchronize their movements, shoulders
thumping from side-to-side, him chuckling and a festive glint reaching her
eyes. It's like watching a candid scene through a lens. It would make an
amazing photograph.
I don't realize that I'm smiling until Katniss catches me in the act. Again, I
look away. This girl's a crappy hostess. She doesn't have to like me—the
feeling is mutual—but she could at least make me feel welcome.
Someone should make me feel welcome. Dad said that studying abroad was one of
the best years of his life. I'm hopeful that my year will be the same, but I've
already caught myself nibbling on my fingernails twice in agitation.
Before I came here, I had visions of what it would be like when I arrived. My
host family would pick me up as one big group at the airport. They would be
carrying flowers for me or a homemade "Welcome" sign or some other traditional
island offering. Then they would gather me into an overwhelming and slightly
humiliating communal hug while I tried not to throw up from nerves.
On the way home, they would point out the all sights and list off historical
facts about Panem. They would dazzle me with culturally wise sayings that I'd
be sure to carry into adulthood. The mother would be motherly. The father would
be a rugged, sunburned character who couldn't wait to take me fishing. If I had
a little host brother, he would ask for wrestling lessons. If I had an older
host brother, he would talk nonstop about girls and insist on getting me a
tattoo.
The family would ask me about myself. They would laugh at my winning jokes.
They'd be happy I was here.
They would talk to me.
I may have embellished my expectations. This is what I get the one time I let
my imagination divert from reality.
Two miles later, the driver's rum breath has become more apparent. Katniss
stretches her arm out the window and pretends her flat palm is an airplane
riding the wind. She blows kisses at an old man driving a mule cart. A group of
teens in bikinis and board shorts call her name as we go by, and Katniss issues
a funny, three-fingered salute to them.
The cab swerves onto a dirt road, weaving through a cluster of thatched
dwellings that make up another village. Laundry lines hang in the yards. At one
home, a pair of bare-footed children chase each other through flapping white
sheets while a goat bleats from a pen. At another home, an elderly man plays
guitar on his front porch.
When we pull in front of the house, my mouth falls open. Because it's not a
house. It's a cottage.
And it's tiny.
It's painted a spicy paprika shade and hedged by tropical flowers.
And it's tiny.
After meeting Haymitch and Katniss, I expected a lopsided mailbox and weathered
roof, possibly broken windows, basically general destruction. I'm glad to be
wrong. It looks like someone takes care of this place.
It's got a porch like the other cottages. A seashell wind chime dangles by the
door.
And it's tiny.
How do the Abernathy-Everdeens fit in there?
My throat flares. I should have traveled lighter instead of bringing that extra
duffle bag. It's going to look like I own a ton of stuff, more than this entire
family.
Katniss unbuckles her seatbelt, twists around, and whacks Haymitch's thigh. He
jolts awake and damns God almighty.
Katniss bumps fists with the driver, whose eyes bluntly rate her ass a 9.0
while she slips out of the taxi. I can't say I blame him with the way the skirt
stretches over her curves. But still, it bothers me. Her uncle's right here in
the car, but the rude driver fails to disguise his interest.
Haymitch thrusts a wrinkled bill in the man's face. To my host father's credit,
it does the trick getting the driver's attention and making him flush.
"I deducted five for the look," Haymitch says.
I admire the warning tone in his voice. It's the same one Coach uses on
teammates treading a thin line with him. It demands respect.
The minute I follow Haymitch out of the taxi, I unleash a reflexive, "Whoa."
The heat may be mean, the cottage's size definitely shocks me, but the direct
view of the ocean wipes all that away. Straight ahead, beyond another twisting
road crammed with bright flowers and plants, is a slice of the coastline. The
sea glitters a short walk away, and I hear the faint echo of the surf.
The sky is a watery gradient of late afternoon colors with splashes of purple
and pink. I'm glad I brought my sketchpad and chalk with me.
"Boy, if your mouth drops any further, we'll have to scrape it off the ground,"
Haymitch remarks.
The taxi's gone, and Haymitch has collected my luggage, but I've been too busy
marveling to notice. I could have been drooling for all I know.
Haymitch isn't the only one observing me. Katniss lingers by the porch, head
slanted in my direction, her eyes rooting me in place.
"Mreeooww."
The cat breaks the moment. It slinks out of a bush, all stick legs and golden
fur. It winds itself around my calf, purring contentedly. I would lean down and
pet it, but the way Katniss's cheeks color as she scrutinizes me and the feline
makes me rethink that.
The cat hisses at Katniss. Her forehead crinkles as if the animal's hostility
hurts her feelings, but she recovers fast. She hisses back and then struts to
the door, her thin braid bouncing against the rest of her loose hair. Opening
the screen door, she pauses and tosses me another Sphinx-like glance. Her
fingers glide over the frame, giving me one more quick view of her wrist, red
from the handcuffs, before she disappears into the house.
I stare at the empty porch before remembering that Haymitch is standing next to
me. He probably thinks I've never seen a sunset before, with the way I was
ogling it. I force a chuckle and gesture at the sky. "Guess you guys are used
to this, huh?"
He shrugs. "Hell, boy. It's nice to be reminded of what we got. Some of us—" He
jerks his head toward the house "—are so focused on what we don't got."
I hate just letting subjects drop, but I'm not feeling up to asking what he
means. It's too much in one day. I haven't even unpacked my toothbrush yet.
"The sunsets in District Twelve aren't like this," I say. "They're more white-
orange—or cold orange. They don't have all these warm colors like here. I've
seen skies like this in movies and photographs, but it's different actually
looking at the real thing. My dad talked about it, and he wasn't exaggerating,
but I couldn't have guessed it'd be this radiant. You see how the shades are
changing so fast? Back home, the sky doesn't do that. Except for this one time,
when I was a sophomore—"
"Let's go inside." Haymitch pats the back of my neck and steers me toward the
house.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
The main rooms are joined—living room and dining room together, with an open
kitchen neighboring them. That's where I'm greeted by a soft silhouette and a
pair of frail hands folded over an oversized dress.
An older woman stands beside the oven, head cocked to the side, her eyes
washing over me. Except I'm not really sure if she sees me. Her expression is
sort of dull, half present even though she's waiting for an introduction.
She regards Haymitch with such a dependent expression, and he returns it with a
caring look of his own, so different from the man I met at the airport.
"Violet," he says, setting a hand on her shoulder. "This is Peeta. The boy I
told you about, remember?" He glances at me. "Peeta? This is my sister,
Violet."
Violet. Katniss's mother. They have same slanted eyebrows, the same petite
bodies, and the same mouths.
I grin and hold out my hand. "Thank you for having me. Haymitch told me a lot
about you," I lie smoothly. "He didn't say enough, though."
From the corner of my eye, I notice Haymitch blinking. But Violet—my host
mother, I guess—well, her answering smile is shy and underused.
Unlike her daughter, she shakes my hand. "I'm cooking."
She seems proud of this statement, so I widen my grin. "I'm hungry."
"I hope we have enough food for you." The spot between her brows wrinkles. "You
have strong arms for a short boy. You're built like a chimpanzee."
Heat creeps up my throat. Haymitch stifles a laugh.
Something's boiling in a pot on the stove. I'm unsettled by how little prep
space there is and how crammed together the burners are. There's no microwave
or dishwasher, but the familiar cast iron pans and manual grain mill are a
relief, basically lifelines to remind me of home.
Violet glances nervously at the pot, and Haymitch takes that as a signal to
leave. He guides me away while confiding, "She enjoys making the meals. It's…"
He gestures aimlessly, looking for the right word. "It's relaxing for her. And
don't worry about those muscles, boy. What you get on your plate'll be enough.
It won't be salmon every night, but we eat more decent than most people on this
island."
That, and I've got a sponsor paying for me. Neither of us brings that up.
Curtains billow from the windows in the living room. My organization wasn't
joking. There's not much in the way of entertainment, though I'm grateful to
see the family has a cordless phone and an old stereo—which appear to be
luxuries in this place—and a chess game set up on a fold-out tray in the
corner.
Haymitch mumbles as we walk through the house. "Couch for sitting. Table for
eating. The Situation Chair for when I pass judgment on misbehavior—don't do
anything to push me there. This is the hallway. The girls' bedroom. Bathroom
for you-know-what." He gestures at a closed door where a shadow passes beneath
the slit at the bottom.
The shadow has to belong to Katniss. I hear water running and wonder if she's
cleaning her wrists.
"Here's where we sleep," Haymitch finishes, ushering me into the second bedroom
where he drops my bags on the floor.
I do a stellar job masking my apprehension. I've got no problem sharing, but
I'm wary about sharing with this man in particular. He snores. Big time. And
he's not going to like finding out that I talk in my sleep.
The room has a bunk bed. I can't help smirking when I think of Haymitch trying
to climb to the top.
"Don't go getting ideas, boy," he warns. "I had to trade my old bed for this
thing, so I got first choice. I know it's not what you're used to."
"I didn't come here for what I'm used to," I say.
"Good," he says. "Because you're getting top bunk."
I laugh. "Are you afraid of heights?"
Creases form at the corners of his eyes. "Afraid of falling on my ass is more
like it. C'mon. Let's go eat. You can mess up the room later."
Dinner is rice, some sort of pepper, and some kind of white fish. We're
drinking from a gallon-sized plastic water bottle—the glasses are half
full—because apparently it's not safe to drink from the tap.
My host mother still has a distanced look about her, but she's kind, and I'm
starving. I relax into my chair.
Katniss appears around the corner, which immediately makes me straighten up
again. Her skirt whips around her legs as she plops down next to her mother and
begins to serve her.
Accepting her plate, Violet says, "Thank you, Primrose."
It's like the roof caved in. Katniss freezes. Haymitch grimaces.
It doesn't take a genius to know that asking who Primrose is would be a bad
idea.
Violet doesn't seem to register that she's said anything upsetting. Katniss
sucks her lips in tight, inhaling through her nostrils and curtailing her
response while she moves on, filling her own plate. Haymitch checks my
reaction, but I pretend to be oblivious.
Everyone becomes fixated on their food and digs in. Foreign spices snap across
my tongue. The fish is a little too oily, but it melts down my throat.
The quiet is light years away from the hysteria at the Mellark family table. By
now, my brothers and I are usually throwing napkin bombs at each other. Dad is
smuggling scraps to our bulldog under the table. Mom is complaining about
either life or me or both.
I feel bad for comparing. To make up for it, I do everything my host family
does, placing my knife and fork at the exact same angles as them, drinking when
they drink.
But should I wait for them to start a conversation? Should I compliment the
food before I'm finished or after?
Katniss refuses to spare me a glance. I'm drawn to the way her lips move as she
chews.
But then she stops. It's like she knows where my attention is.
Her gaze lifts, crosses the table, and latches onto me. I reflexively stuff the
pepper into my mouth.
Her eyes widen and then twinkle right as a fireball detonates in my mouth. My
own eyes hold hers, but I feel my lids pulling back in shock and my tear ducts
getting ready to spill as lava floods my throat. My gums and forehead and nasal
passages are scorching and just holy shit!
"How is it?" my host mother asks.
Holyfuckingshiteatingfuckinghotburningshit—
"Really good," I squeak.
"Pace yourself with the pepper, boy," Haymitch cautions around a full mouth. He
leans close and whispers the rest. "It'll burn your ball-hair off."
My hand shakes as I grasp for the water. I down it in one gulp, but it's not
enough to stop the pepper from incinerating my very soul.
Another glass skates toward me, inched forward by a single olive finger. I want
to thank her, but Katniss is focused on her meal, so I empty her glass in
seconds and blow snot into my napkin. I bat my lashes until I'm sure that I'm
not going to weep from the assault.
I need to get my mind off the heat. I need words. "I-I could help with the
cooking," I stutter. "I-I do it at home, but I'd like to learn something new."
Violet fidgets with her spoon. "Oh, I…I don't know. There's not much to learn."
"There's always something to learn. Mixing tastes. Preparing…" Breathing.
Inhaling. Exhaling. "Storing. Preserving. Making food last."
Katniss swings her chin up. What would you know about making food last?
My perked ears detect the rancor in her question, and what's more, it's
annoying. If there's one thing I won't let this girl judge, it's my
relationship to food.
I slide her empty water glass back to its original spot beside her plate. "When
I was little, and my family started the bakery, we used to live off stale
bread."
Her face falls magnificently.
"It wasn't until I was twelve that we started getting regular customers and
making money," I continue. "Mellarks bakes good bread, but we're mostly lucky.
But even before that, we donated whatever we could to soup kitchens. My dad
says no matter how little you have, there's always something left to share.
Some hope to give." I pause to think about it. "I would say, when there's not
as much to eat is when we learn the most about food. Also, my mouth is on fire,
so I need a crash course on your spices quick."
I've been speaking to everyone, but now I speak only to Katniss. "And one more
thing? My family lives fine, but we're not rolling in that kind of dough. I'm
not being sponsored for fun. Just in case that's what you thought."
The phrases crash course and the double entendre of doughall seem lost on them,
which must be a cultural thing, though they seem to understand what I mean
anyway. Haymitch reclines in his chair as if my words have pushed him. Violet
exhibits her first lucid expression. She smiles at me in admiration. And
Katniss…
Katniss does not look happy about that.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
Violet goes to bed, murmuring something about a headache. Haymitch works the
night shift at the cantina back in the village square, and since this family
doesn't have a car, he walks the two miles every day, then gets rides home from
another one of the bartenders that he's friends with.
Left alone, I panic. It hits me that this house isn't mine. I have no idea how
to behave. What's off limits? Can I use the oven to bake? Do I have to ask for
food every time I get hungry?
I mentally criticize my duffle bags, split open and revealing my possessions. I
see myself for the first time through other people's eyes—all the superfluous
things that I thought I couldn't part with but now feel spoiled for bringing.
What do I need my Letterman jacket for? It's eighty percent humidity outside.
Sighing, I decide to leave it in the luggage, along with my dictionary. I'm
selective, pulling out clothes, drawing tools, and framed pictures of my dad
and Madge. The gut-wrencher is, I'm iPodless, phoneless, and laptopless. I have
to adapt to my host family's lifestyle, and since they don't own modern
devices, my exchange organization advised me not to bring any. Well, except for
my camera, a vintage model that used to belong to Dad.
There's a couple of woven baskets under the bunk bed for me to store my
belongings, a narrow stand-up closet that holds maybe ten shirts, and a chest
at the foot of the bed.
Haymitch and I agreed: I get the closet, he gets the chest. I hang what I can,
then pile the rest of my clothes into the baskets. I stash my art supplies,
exchange organization packet, and notebooks for school in the empty nightstand.
My picture frames find a home beside the lamp. I sink onto the bottom bunk and
stare at the images. My dad has his arm around me in the bakery, and we're
holding up the first loaf I ever baked for a customer.
In the second photo, Madge is sitting on the floor of her bedroom, legs
crossed, cheek balanced in her palm as she smiles at me. I remember taking that
photo with my phone. We'd just officially gotten together the night before. I'd
prepared a speech asking her to be my girlfriend, but by the third memorized
page, she cut me off with a kiss. I like to think she did that because my words
swept her away.
She burst into tears when she found out that we'd only be able to communicate
through handwritten letters. "But my handwriting's terrible," she cried into my
chest while I held her, promised we'd be okay with just the letters, and
explained how romantic it would be.
I was told that my new school has a computer lab. I didn't want to get Madge's
hopes up, so I didn't tell her about it, but maybe I'll be allowed to email her
from there. Maybe I can surprise her.
The door to the room swings open, dragging me from the memory. I swerve around,
surprised because I thought Haymitch had already left for work. I open my
mouth.
It stays open.
Katniss has just walked in. And she's naked. Completely, totally naked.
I see legs. I see breasts. I see a triangle of hair.
I see stars.
Dark nipples swell from centers of her tits. There's a lighter patch of skin, a
birthmark that's like an island itself, on her inner thigh.
My whole body reacts at the sight of her. My pulse races, and I think my lungs
have collapsed. My head turns, following her as she saunters toward the closet,
her hips rotating, her feet padding across the wood floor. She casts me a
sidelong glance on her way.
Reflexes and common decency should have kicked in. I should have turned away
politely, gentlemanly, not gawked at her like a pig. I should turn away now.
Right now.
When she reaches the closet, I see the slope of her back. And an ass. A round
ass that curves into her waist. She's thinner she should be, but she still has
plenty to show off.
Hangers knock together as she searches through my wardrobe. She chooses one of
my new shirts, a white linen button-down that my dad said would fit to the
landscape and my brothers said was gay. She pulls it over her head and then
fluffs out her hair. The shirt reaches mid-thigh.
She turns to me and quirks a brow. What do you think?
I think I have a girlfriend. I think Katniss enjoys making me feel like a fool.
And I think I like her even less for it.
Fine. Two can play at this game.
I stand and level her with my eyes. Approaching her, I reach for the undone
button above her collarbone, prolonging the act of slipping it through the
corresponding slit, then rubbing the button between my fingers. Is it my
imagination or do I hear an intake of breath?
I take a step back and challenge, "Tell me why you don't you talk, and I'll
tell you exactly what I think."
Katniss's gaze skates over my face but can't settle on one spot. Once she's
done that enough times, she presses her lips together in annoyance, wheels
around and leaves, the tail of my shirt flapping behind her. That must be a
chronic habit: walking away.
It's obvious what she wants. She wants me to want my shirt back. She wants me
come and get it.
But after what happened in the village square, when coming and getting it
required my hand down her skirt, I've learned not to make the same mistake
twice. I'm not going to come and get it again. I'm not that stupid.
Chapter End Notes
     I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
     The movie did so many things to my heart. Wasn't that beach kiss
     lovely?
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Katniss
He doesn't ask for the shirt back. He doesn't call after me like I thought he
would, nor knock on my bedroom door expecting me to hand over his property.
That night, I crush the shirt into a ball and shove it in my drawer. He won't
miss it. He brought a mountain of possessions with him.
I lay in bed, my fingers skimming the contours of my belly, and list the
details about him in my head. His face isn't sunburned yet. He used to live off
stale bread. He once fought for the right to keep his bicycle. His words can
derail a protest and steal it right out from under me. He does what he has to
in front of a crowd. Also, there's this single tendril of hair that flares out
at the end, away from the rest of his locks like a stubborn thing. And he
defeated the odds and made my mother smile.
He's uncomfortable around me. He doesn't know what to make of me. He doesn't
like me.
Not speaking for so long has given me a new kind of power. I pay closer
attention to the signs. I can tell from the way his lips twitch, ready to go
off on a verbal tangent, that my silence is a place he's afraid of getting
stuck in.
I get a perverse satisfaction out of ambushing him. I had expected him to be
more intimidated by my naked body, but he saw past the act. He saw me for who I
was. Distrustful, manipulative, weak.
I hate him for it.
I've slipped too many times, almost shaking his hand, almost filling him a
third glass of water when he ate that pepper. I brace myself too often, waiting
to hear what's going to come out of his mouth. I'm inconsistent.
The fan whirs in the corner of the room. Mama is peaceful in her bed while I
toss and turn. Huffing, I get up, return to my drawer, and retrieve the white
linen shirt. It smells new rather than of his personal melted sugar scent, but
I wrap myself in it anyway. After that, sleep finds me.
And when I wake up to the sun pushing through my window, I frown. I'm rested
and weightless, but I don't fully trust the sensation. I cannot truly be as
refreshed as I feel. Things are never that easy.
The clock tick-tocks. The mockingjays chirp outside. Everything has a voice but
me.
Haymitch bangs on the door. "If you're late, I'll skin you, Wild Child!"
I haul my pillow at the door. I would have thrown the clock, but that would
wake up Mama.
It's the first day of school. Although summer has passed slowly, the knowledge
is a jolt to the system. I'm going to be making a public appearance with that
boy.
Finnick won't be there. He graduated last year, along with Jo and Tigris. I'll
be lacking support, but at least kids won't be giving me that pitying look
anymore, like they did last year after I lost my sister. Now, they'll just be
staring at my companion.
The whiff of fried plantains lures me from the sheets. I slip out of the boy's
shirt and change into a bikini the same color as the sunset that so beguiled
his goofy face yesterday, then layer the bikini with a dress. I do a sloppy job
braiding my hair, but that's fine. Finnick says I look best when I'm a hot
mess.
I pad into the hall, detouring to the second bedroom. I peek at the slant of
light. The perfectly made bed. The strange boy, Peeta.
My boyfriend would tower over him, but that hardly matters. Peeta has other
ways of standing out. His bare back faces me like a slab of ivory marble. His
broad shoulders lift and sink, and his backside is concealed by gray jeans. His
hands rest on his hips as he studies three t-shirts laid flat across Haymitch's
bunk.
Kids here don't often fret over what to wear. And they certainly don't pay
attention to what others wear. Though they might notice Peeta's wardrobe. He'd
better not show up looking rich.
When he turns and sees me, wariness cramps his features. "Uh…morning."
Ignoring the look, I prance into the room, stop beside him, and review the
options. He's narrowed it down to solid colors. I pluck the teal one because
it's soft-looking and slightly faded. I hold it out to him, and he takes it
without thinking.
"Why?" he asks, suspecting a trap.
I have trained him well to expect the bad from me.
I gesture to the shirt and then to his eyes. It suits you.
His cheeks flare. "Oh. Thanks."
My legs can't carry me out of there fast enough. I camouflage my haste by
adding a swing to my hips as I leave, knowing that he's watching me go.
After an awkward breakfast, a brief kiss planted on Mama's temple while she
washes the dishes, and a warning from Haymitch that we look out for each other,
I set out for the day with Peeta.
Girls stare at him. On the lane through the village. In the outdoor hallway at
school. And it's no wonder. He looks like no one on this island…or no one looks
like him. We're mostly a colony of dark hair, oily skin, and dry lips. He's the
blue-eyed minority.
He chokes the straps of his backpack and glances around with that wide American
gaze. I see what he sees. A miniscule building. Horny peacocks prancing through
the lawn, vibrating their feathers in search of mates.
We have a cinema in town, so I've seen movies set in America. High schools
there have sports teams and hundreds of students in a single grade. There are
clubs and dances. Students have cars and carry trays loaded with apparently
disposable food. It's another universe from this one.
Peeta's head swings toward me for guidance. He shuffles his feet and licks his
lips.
I'm amused. This is not your world.
"Yeah," he says. "I don't exactly fit in, do I?"
That's what you agreed to.
His shy smile bothers me. "Is it cliché if I say I'm a fish out of water?"
Fish out of water?
"It's an idiom in District Twelve," he explains. "It means someone who's not in
their own environment."
I wrinkle my nose.
"I know it's stupid, but it's all I could think of. I can't remember feeling so
out of place, except for on the basketball team. I play a lot of sports, though
wrestling is my favorite. Anyway, the guys in basketball are super tall, but
that's also normal, so it wasn't a surprise when I made the cut and then felt
like a gnome. What surprises me is when I see a guy even shorter than I am.
Then it's like—"
I sigh, grab his arm, and lead him to the administration office. Mrs. Trinket's
hair is a monstrosity of curls that bounce as she greets Peeta with a twenty-
mile grin and a makeup job that looks like an acid trip. Then she glares at me.
She's still festering over the peacock-in-the-teacher's-bathroom incident.
She subjects us to a series of twitchy hand gestures as she welcomes him to his
big big big day. She chirps about rules and snakes hiding in the shade and what
Peeta should do in case he gets bitten during lunch.
"Just make sure that you get here before your throat closes up," she says
breezily. "Once you turn purple, you're a goner."
There's no excuse for her enthusiasm. We head to class. A group of girls
practically swoon over Peeta. One of them begins to trot in our direction, but
my snarl winds around her ankles and fastens her in place.
Our whole grade is lumped into one classroom. Chair legs scrape across the
floor as students take their seats and murmur things to each other, mostly
about Peeta and me.
I'm headed to the back row when I feel a warm hand on my arm. I'm stunned by
the jolt of it, so my head snaps up in outrage. He pulls back, giving me that
annoyingly innocent Peeta face.
"What about sitting at the front?" he asks.
I turn and keep going, not taking him seriously.
"But shouldn't we make a good impression?"
I wheel back around and meet his eyes.
"It's just, I'm new."
I hold his gaze.
"I-I don't want to look like I'm hiding."
We fall into a staring contest. I feel dozens of pairs of eyes on us. The air
is thick as syrup. Palm fronds slap one another outside the window. The
overhead fan is broken.
That one tendril of hair pokes out from the rest. It's even blonder in the
morning light, nearly as blinding when seen from the right angle. The tendril
perches on the neckline of his teal shirt like an antagonist.
It's the shrill toll of the hour—coming from an iron bell that swings from the
building's roof—that ends it. Peeta hesitates, then turns and finds an empty
chair in the second row.
I retreat to the back and recline in my seat. A person can't daydream while
sitting in the front. A person can't stare out the window and think about their
boyfriend fucking the harsh reality out of them. A person can't stare out the
window and wish they were anywhere else.
Also, Peeta's assumption puzzles me. He traveled thousands of miles to be here
for a year. No one will think he's hiding because of the seat he chooses. No
one will think he's unfriendly or reserved. Yet he seems so certain that hiding
is a shameful thing.
My fingernail scrapes over an indentation on the surface of my desk. My gaze
slices past every row, every face, and every whispered discussion that
separates him from me. I stare hard at the nape of his neck and smirk when he
scratches the column of skin there. Go ahead and perch up close, American boy.
It would be a mistake to stay with me anyway.
Hulking Gale Hawthorne lands in the seat beside Peeta and introduces himself.
They glide into a conversation. I tune into the echo of their voices and read
their lips—Peeta is a clear speaker who knows how to enunciate his words, his
pronunciation crisp and easy to follow.
I've known Gale since childhood. Even though we're not friends, I don't have to
work hard to translate the slant and snap of his mouth. He talks about our
school and what class is like. He asks Peeta questions about himself. He cracks
island jokes that Peeta certainly doesn't understand.
At first, I think I've heard wrong when Peeta asks Gale about the computer lab.
"There's a sign-up sheet for the computers," Gale answers. "But they're really
strict about making use of the time since there aren't enough stations for
everybody. Only research, no personal activities."
Peeta sounds defeated. "No email?"
Gale groans. "Those sites are blocked because we can't be trusted to follow the
rules," he responds with sarcasm. "But there's an internet cafe on the north
side of the island. It's an hour away by bus."
"An hour?"
"Getting around is rough if you don't have a car or boat. Buses make a lot of
stops."
Peeta slumps in his seat. I crane my head and study his profile, how his brow
dips in frustration. His hand lifts to fondle the letter M that he constantly
wears around his neck.
The teacher arrives. We have Cinna this year, which is the one face in the
faculty that I can tolerate. After I lost Primrose, he was the only teacher who
expressed how sorry he was and inquired how I was doing. He accepted the fact
that I had no interest in responding.
He spots Peeta and shakes the boy's hand—everyone has done this but me—then
backs up while spreading his arms. "Welcome back, tributes. We have an addition
this year. This is Peeta Mellark, our exchange student from District Twelve."
Peeta's bashful but modest and friendly grin charms each person in the room. As
a flood of hellos greet him, envy gnaws at my gut. It occurs to me that he
thrives off being integrated, and that it comes effortlessly for him.
Cinna nods. "Make me proud, class. Show Peeta a pleasant day, and try to
participate so it appears like I know what I'm doing."
The class chuckles. As Cinna writes on the board, Peeta takes out a fancy
orange pen. When he notices that everyone else has cheap, plain ones, he
stashes his away, opting for a pencil instead.
Gale leans over to him and whispers. "So you're staying with the Abernathy-
Everdeens? That's a thick net to be caught in."
"They've been great," Peeta defends. "Really great."
I pause in the act of rebraiding my hair. I hadn't known he was capable of
lying.
"And Katniss?" Gale makes a sizzling noise. "Mmm, she can take one."
"One what?"
"That's what we say here about the ripe girls. The pretty ones. That they can
take a hard one. What I wouldn't give to pry open that clam and steal that
pearl. Though from what I heard, that pearl was already stolen by Poseidon."
Peeta's gaze flits down and back in my direction to check if I'm eavesdropping,
but his eyes only reach my sandals before darting away. Unlike he did with
Haymitch and Mama, he doesn't speak up for me.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
Each hour introduces another subject. Whenever local phrases leave Cinna's
mouth, instead of pausing each time to single Peeta out, our teacher allows
Gale to explain them quietly. I ponder whether I would be able to assist Peeta
better, and if he would appreciate that, and what my nearness might do to the
grip of his pencil.
Primrose would help Peeta in every way she could. She would be disappointed in
me for the way I've been behaving. The thought produces a speck of remorse
inside me.
One of our lessons is Survival. We have this subject every year. We're taught
the basics of life, money, house and home, and the nature of our flora and
fauna. We learn about marine life and the skills needed for fishing. How to
avoid local predators—from wild mutts to poisonous nightlock. Injuries and
wounds and how to heal them.
Peeta seems baffled by this topic's existence in a schoolroom.
When Gale invites him to spend lunch together, Peeta twists around to gauge my
reaction first. My glower is my answer. He accepts Gale's offer.
I spend the free time with Deliah, the only other girl in school who isn't
obviously imagining what the American exchange student looks like in the
shower. She's peppy, the opposite of Jo and Tigris. But I like Deliah. She's
content with my silence, so I'm content with her unapologetic optimism.
Peeta and I have stopped acknowledging each other. Which is why he takes off at
the end of the day without me. After trading a few parting words with Gale,
Peeta packs up, thanks Cinna, and rushes out of the classroom like he knows
where he's going. I'm staring at the vacant doorway when Cinna calls my name.
He ushers me toward his desk, leans against it, and crosses his arms. "How are
you, Katniss? Did your summer go well?"
I shrug, my default response with him.
His tawny eyes slide toward the door and back to me. "It must be a change,
having someone new in your house. I noticed you and Peeta weren't sitting
together."
I huff.
He chuckles. "Sometimes we're forced to make adjustments. It may seem unfair at
first, but the change could be worth it. I don't want to overstep my bounds,
but I'll take that risk and speak my mind because I care about you. Don't be so
quick to underestimate Peeta the way people do with you."
I bite the inside of my cheek.
"We might see ourselves clearly through people who are the same. But sometimes
it takes a stranger to show us what else we're capable of."
I'm not certain about that.
Cinna pats my arm. "All right. Get out of here and at least make sure Peeta
gets on the right bus."
My head snaps up. Bus?
"I overheard Gale giving him directions to the north shore. No idea what Peeta
wants up that way, though."
The Internet café. That must be where Peeta wants to go.
What is the hurry? Can he not live without technology for a second?
The north shore would be bus Thirteen. It's a local route, it's free to
students, and it stops at the corner by school. The problem is, none of Panem's
buses actually have numbered signs to indicate which one is which, but I'm sure
that's something Gale forgot to mention to Peeta—and that the Internet café is
closed on Mondays. I know because Jo used to work there until she got fired for
looking at pictures of people fucking.
Sure enough, when I get outside, Peeta is stepping into a battered bus driven
by that Puerto Rican man with a short fuse. Which means they're headed east,
not north. Grunting, I sprint after the vehicle and bang on the back door.
Tires skid to a halt, the door swoops open, and I hop inside.
The bus is crammed, passengers overflowing the aisle. Peeta's at the front,
clutching one of the overhead bars and looking flustered. It takes me a good
two stations to wedge myself through the mass of bodies and get to him. When I
pop out between a pair of middle-aged ladies, I emerge beside him, my hip
bumping against his.
Peeta's eyes sail past me—then do a double take. I wave grumpily.
"What—"
I jab my finger out the window. We need to get off.
"What are you doing here?''
This is the wrong bus.
"What do you mean?"
I point to the driver, then jerk my thumb back the way we came. My movements
are spastic, but Peeta comprehends my meaning. Nevertheless, he wavers,
exasperating boy that he is! I expel a weighty breath, letting my expression
speak for me.
I do plenty of wicked things, but I don't lie to people.
Peeta accepts that. He taps the driver on the shoulder. "Excuse me."
"Que? What?"
"Um, can you pull over please?"
"Pull over por que?"
"To let us out."
"No. No no no. No eh-stop here."
"But we took the wrong bus."
"My bus is no wrong bus!" the man scolds, insulted.
Peeta gulps. "I meant, the wrong route."
"Not my problem. No eh-stop here. I lose my job! Step back, both of you. No-eh
stop!"
"But—"
I knock Peeta out of the way, seize the wheel, and wrench it to the right. The
bus screeches across the lane and swerves onto the sandy sidewalk. An outbreak
of shouts hits the roof as passengers jostle against one another.
My foot slams onto the brake. We jolt to a stop.
The driver repeatedly whacks his palm against the wheel. "¡Malditos chicos
locos! ¿Quieren matarnos a todos? ¡Salgan de mi autobús!"
I yank on the handle. The doors flap open. I get out, landing on a narrow path
bordered by island forest. Peeta stumbles from the bus while gawking at me. The
driver and passengers continue to howl as the bus eases onto the road, a cloud
of exhaust blasting from the rear.
"Jesus, Katniss!" Peeta snaps. "Are you out of your mind?"
I squint.That's rhetorical, yes?
He shakes his head, eyes blazing. "You're a piece of work, aren't you?"
It's the first time that I'm tempted to explain myself out loud. My lips go so
far as to part. His gaze drops to them and lingers, flipping the mood inside-
out. An uninvited spark sweeps through my chest, followed by annoyance. Even if
I did speak, my answers wouldn't satisfy him. I'm not sure anything about me
would be good enough for the likes of this boy.
He takes in our remote surroundings and sighs. "Well, now that you have me,
what are you going to do with me?"
Jo and Tigris are expecting me. Finnick, too. We're not far from them, but
walking Peeta home would delay me, and I'm impatient for the taste of
saltwater, for my friends, and for the stars.
I glide my flat palm up and down in a rolling motion, mimicking a fish
swimming.
"The beach?" he asks.
It's more than a beach. Come.
"You're only inviting me because you have no choice."
Maybe.
"And you're not my favorite person."
I know.
"And I had plans. I was going to that café on the north shore."
I tap my wrist as though I'm wearing a watch. It's closed.
He laughs in irritation. "Of course it is."
I wave him along.Now come.
Peeta's boyish face teeters between temptation and reluctance. It's my fault
he's reacting this way. I can't say I regret it, but I can't say I enjoy the
sight either.
I think of Cinna and Primrose, and I curl my hand once again to beckon Peeta.
He falls into step alongside me. That tendril of hair twitches against his
shirt, in tandem to his footfalls.
It's quicker if we cut through the forest instead of hiking down the road. I
expect Peeta to question where we're going when I lead him into the wilderness,
or at least to chat circles around me, but he keeps to himself. We travel
through a dense area bursting with life, feathers swooping between branches,
colors brushing the tips of starburst petals, some breed of primate yowling—we
haven't gotten to primates in Survival yet—from overhead.
Peeta retrieves a clunky camera from his backpack. He snaps away at everything,
his photo-lust contagious. I've forgotten how beautiful this country is.
I discover a pond of waterlilies and dip my toe in, watching it create ripples,
adding movement to an otherwise stagnant bloom.
Click.
My head lifts. Peeta lowers his camera, glancing between me and the lily pads.
"Sorry. It just looked right for you."
I keep going. He catches up with me, and our hands accidentally graze. It's
like the tide has rushed in from the center of the ocean, stretching high and
chasing the safety of the coastline. Water roars in my ears. I'm drowning, but
I'm uncertain whether I want him to save me, because that might hurt worse.
That's what Peeta's touch does.
I'm finally recovering from it when we reach the ocean. Our shoes dangle from
our fingers, and sand sneaks between our toes. The sun is sinking, warming the
ground, pink shadows glinting off flat rocks along the shoreline.
Ahead is a small fire pit that has been lit despite the balmy temperature. My
friends and I call ourselves dreamers. And we dreamers like ambience.
Then I see him. His long back is illuminated, shadows dancing in the crevices
under his shoulder blades as he stands by the pit in a pair of low-slung
shorts. His body is so taut it could be made of fisherman's rope.
As we get closer to him, Peeta's pace slows down. "Who's that?" he asks, his
voice uneven.
The object of our attention wheels around, green eyes locating mine. His mouth
tilts into a sly grin, charisma and sex swirled together.
It's true. He is Poseidon. He's made of the sea and the crashing waves. And
he's mine.
In my head, I answer. That's Finnick.
Chapter End Notes
     I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
     Thank you everyone for reading and responding. Your support truly
     means a lot to me. And thank you to my pretty betas, Chelzie and
     Court81981!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Katniss
Finnick puts the landscape to shame. He struts toward us while flaunting a
pirate-like smirk. He spreads his toned arms and calls out, "Ahhh. There's my
girl."
But I won't go to him. I stay still as he approaches, because that's the way it
is. I won't ever go to anyone.
He was out spearing fish with his father during my protest, so I haven't seen
him since before then. He slings his arms around my waist, lifts me off the
ground, and kisses me. My knees bend, my calves sticking in the air and my feet
pointing towards the sky. We look like a postcard, I'm sure.
Finnick tips his head back. "Finally out of trouble and here to have your way
with me, eh? Aren't I the lucky one?"
I playfully shove at his profile. Don't flatter yourself.
"Look at you," he says. "Radiant as the sun, like some a girl on fire."
Before I can react to his praise, his green eyes drift over my shoulder and
land on the figure behind me. "Kat…" he draws out my nickname while staring at
Peeta. "There's a boy spying on us."
Finnick sets me down and sizes Peeta up. Finnick had passively listened when I
told him an exchange student—a boy—was coming to live with us. He absorbed that
information like he absorbs Peeta now, with flippant confidence.
My boyfriend grins. "Sorry about that. Blame it on my girl. Ladies first and
everything, and she has a talent for distracting me. I'm Finnick."
Peeta thrusts his hands into his pockets. "Hey, I'm—"
"Hunkier than we expected," announces a syrupy female voice.
Tigris. She and Jo are standing off to the side, their arms linked. They
couldn't look any more different, with Jo's spiky hair and the ax tattoo above
her heart, and Tigris's gypsy locks and the metallic bangles chiming from her
wrists.
The last time we were together, they'd been securing me to the mockingjay
statue. I see the judgment tightening Jo's face—like Peeta's an antidote to
fun. "So you're the American who talked Katniss out of doing Katniss things
yesterday," she says, disapproval leaching into her tone.
Peeta glances my way. I want to hint that he shouldn't take her seriously, that
she's just hungry and mad at the world, like me. Instead, I give him a look of
artificial disinterest.
Finnick does my job for me. He makes introductions and then tips his chin
toward Jo. "That one stings worse than a jellyfish." And then Tigris. "And that
one fancies you."
Tigris bats her lashes at Peeta. "I love your District Twelve accent. It's so
sturdy, like the rest of you."
He chuckles in amusement. "Um, thanks. I've never heard that one before."
"You're a thirst-quencher all right. Like water in a short, broad glass."
"That's supposed to be a compliment?" Jo criticizes. "You really are
brainless."
"I bet he tastes like a sugar cube," Finnick declares.
Peeta blinks. "I work in a bakery."
"Sweets?"
"Bread."
"That must be where your arms came from," Tigris says.
Jo dissects Peeta with her eyes. "Thousands of miles from the loaves. You must
be starving."
Peeta supplies her with a humble shrug. "I'm not complaining. Are you?"
Finnick and Tigris chuckle. Jo's lips clamps together. I have never seen
someone put her in her place.
Finnick bows and swings his arm at our camp. "The evening is young. Shall we?"
We settle on the towels spread around the fire pit. I peel off my dress,
revealing my orange bikini underneath. I sense Peeta watching me. He's probably
worrying about whether I'm going to strip again.
Finnick steals my attention by patting his thigh. After I find a comfortable
position on him, he secures me against him and teases, "So difficult to keep in
one place. Someday I'm gonna tie you up in knots."
I weave my arms around his neck, pecking it once for good measure. From the
corner of my eye, I notice Peeta studying us with a pensive expression. He's
fondling his necklace again as if in reaction to the sight of us. I'm curious
what the connection might be.
Tigris, who is perched beside him, inquires, "Do you like games, Peeta?"
He is thrown by the subject. "I don't know how to answer that."
That must be a first for him, not knowing what to say.
"I mean, what kinds of games?" he asks in apprehension, probably expecting a
naughty answer considering the personalities surrounding him.
"Ugh." Jo elbows Tigris. "Only you would call it a game."
"It's not a game," Finnick clarifies. "No one's a winner or loser. Are you good
with words, D12?"
"I know a few," Peeta says. "But only if you promise not to call me D12."
"Now why's that?"
"Maybe because it sounds like I come with batteries."
"Or are you afraid the nickname will steal your masculinity?"
Peeta's jaw becomes more angular. "Well, Finny, what can I say?"
This American boy might be wide-eyed, but he has backbone. When he doesn't like
something, he says it. When he says it with an attitude, it's...attractive.
On the other hand, was his sarcastic response an overreaction to Finnick? I
can't reconcile my boyfriend's jibe. It had been mild but still very
deliberate.
Finnick chuckles and inclines his head. "Suit yourself, Peeta. Anyway, we
dreamers like to tell stories. We conjure up new identities and lives for
ourselves. A bit of an escape for us, if you will."
"Pretending" Peeta translates unenthusiastically.
"Reinventing," Finnick corrects. "I'll start..."
We go around the fire, each of us taking a turn. Tonight, Jo is a tattoo artist
from Brazil, Tigris is a heroine from Atlantis, and Finnick is a tragic hero
forced to barter his body in a dystopian world. I communicate by writing in my
notebook that I'm an archer on a mission for my people. I once read a book like
that and have been fascinated by bows ever since.
When Peeta's turn comes, he wiggles on his towel. "I-I think I'm good at being
a foreigner."
Finnick shakes his head. "You have to do better than that."
"But I prefer the allurement of reality."
"The way you talk is as polished as a coin," Tigris compliments.
"Coins dull with age," Jo says flatly. "And they aren't that thrilling to begin
with."
"Depends on the other adjectives you use to describe them," Peeta answers,
deadpan.
"She didn't use other adjectives. She used polished."
"I meant it in a shiny way," Tigris defends. "Look at him. He's made of shiny."
"It's okay," Peeta says. "I'm really not that interesting."
My eyes narrow at him. No. You're a famous artist. You once led a rebellion and
now live in an exclusive village reserved for survivors. You sleep with the
window open and drink your tea without sugar. You've won the girl of your
dreams.
He gazes back like he can hear me. He seems to understand me so well, yet I
don't mind.
After we dream, we eat. Finnick has brought beer, oysters—his family is one of
the few who can afford the fishing permit—and rolls for supper.
Peeta is happy to see the rolls. He splits one with Tigris, gestures to the
fire, and suggests, "Let's toast it."
Finnick lurches forward, nearly spitting out his beer. He comes up laughing, Jo
snorts, and Tigris giggles.
A blush consumes Peeta's cheeks. He doesn't know what he said wrong.
For some reason, his embarrassment incites defensiveness in me. My elbow digs
into Finnick's ribs until he swallows his laughter.
"Em, no offense, Peet," he admonishes. "In Panem, toasting bread is what
couples do in marriage ceremonies."
"Do you have a girlfriend in America?" Tigris asks.
The question relaxes Peeta. His grin seems private. "I do."
"Oh." There's a pout in her voice, but she's too much of a selfless soul to
dwell on what could have been. "How long have you been together?"
"Six months."
"Not very long," Jo says.
"But you must miss her," Tigris provides.
I dip my head and mouth to myself,You must miss her.
"Yeah. A lot," Peeta admits.
Yeah. A lot.
I need to stop repeating the conversation. Someone will catch me doing it.
"We're going to write letters to each other," he adds.
"Will that be enough?" Finnick asks.
"Why wouldn't it be?"
"Come on. It's September, and you're here till when—July? How do you know she's
not out with the competition right now?"
"I trust her. And she trusts me."
My toe digs into the sand and draws a heart.
Finnick scoots me closer and persists, "Don't they have a saying in your
country? Out of sight, out of mind?"
"We also say that absence makes the heart grow fonder," Peeta shoots back.
My toe draws an arrow spearing through the heart's center.
I would argue that Finnick wants to entertain himself, to take Peeta under his
wing and introduce him to all various pairs of erect island nipples that Panem
has to offer. Yet the challenging tone feels akin to a test.
He sets his beer on the ground. "That's a shame. It'll get lonely for you with
no distractions."
"I'm not here for meaningless distractions," Peeta answers curtly.
Meaningless distractions.
"Is that right?" Finnick asks. "Are you picky?"
"I'm loyal."
Tigris sighs as though that's the best answer to come out of a boy's mouth. Jo
grunts and rises, slapping sand off her thighs. "I'm bored. I want to go play."
Finnick, Jo, and Tigris answer the call of the sea. As they rid themselves of
their clothing, Peeta focuses on his feet and twiddles his thumbs. He shows no
intention of moving. The nakedness must be dissuading him from swimming.
My friends race to the water, their heels kicking up sand. My boyfriend stays
behind, waiting for me to join him, but I want more time, so I wink at him.
Finnick is a slave to my winks.
Go on. I'll be there soon.
Before he takes off after Jo and Tigris, Finnick gives me a long kiss that I
suspect is for Peeta's benefit. It's like he is marking his territory, although
that cannot be right. It's unlike my boyfriend to feel the need to warn off
other guys. I suppose he merely wants to show me off.
The sun slipped beneath the horizon a while ago, allowing the stars to peek
from the darkness. I lay back on a towel, propping myself on my elbows and
stretching out my legs. Peeta glances at me from beneath his lids.
"This country is, um, surreal. I've read books and seen movies that take place
in paradise, and I thought I knew exactly what to expect, but it's not the
same. It's like going to an alternate universe."
I stare. I want him to keep talking, to see in what direction of thought my
gaze pushes him.
"You can try to paint it or photograph it or describe it, but you can't really
do it right. Yet you still try."
He taps his foot. His eyes skip over the flowering bromeliads before gingerly
checking to see my reaction.
My own eyes travel the length of him. I bite my pinky nail.
He speaks faster. "Like I read this fanfic once. Alice fell down a waterfall
instead of a rabbit hole and ended up on Croquet Island, and she shacked up
with this beach bum who turned out to be the Mad Hatter serving hallucinogenic
mushrooms instead of tea—though it fits to canon if you consider the wordplay.
And then the Jabberwocky was a sea monster…" he trails off.
I have no idea what fanfic is, or who Alice is, or the Mad Hatter, or the
Jabberwocky. I don't care. Normally, I would be fascinated by what sounds like
a certain form of storytelling, but right now all I am interested in is Peeta.
"And there w-was another story about kids being forced to fight to the death in
an island arena while the world watched on TV…"
Sweat has leaked through his shirt in patches.
"Th-those aren't really the best examples of what I expected from Panem. I just
expected, you know…grass skirts and…coconuts."
His jeans are tight around the thighs and must be stifling him in this weather.
"Did you know that jabberwocky's actually a noun? It means babble and
gibberish."
He catches what he said and flushes. I allow myself to melt just a little bit.
His eyes widen as I sit up and crawl over to him. I touch the silver M charm
hanging from his neck, massaging the cursive letter between my fingers. It's
flawless, elegant, and expensive-looking. My thumb eclipses its size and shape,
making it disappear.
The words come out of him at a sluggish pace. "It stands for Madge. My
girlfriend."
His chest rises and falls. His throat pumps. He sucks in air through his
nostrils. It's all very normal, yet I have trouble believing that anyone
breathes the way he does.
As I ponder what it's like to have control over those little intakes of breath,
my hand releases the charm and lands gently on his thigh, then slides to his
knee. His lips part in surprise, his eyes like whirlpools, drowning me in their
bottomless blue color. I trace the round, hard contours of the bend in his leg.
Indeed, pleasure dances inside me when his breaths grow shallow.
He wants me to stop, though he doesn't push me away. I doubt he's pure, but his
change in breathing does prove one thing. This boy has never been seduced. Not
correctly.
A wave slams into the ocean, breaking our trance.
Peeta inches his leg away and clears his throat. "Okay, I only have one
question."
To him, that's what I'm worth. A single question.
"Why do you like making me uncomfortable?"
My mouth opens involuntarily. I debate retrieving my notebook from my bag, and
what to write to him in response, when three rowdy voices shout my name in
unison from the water: "Kaaaaaatniss!"
It's my excuse. I stand, motioning for Peeta to follow.
He gets up but rubs his thighs. "No thanks."
It's dark. No one will see you undress.
"I'm good."
Good at what?
"I'm fine," he clarifies. "I, uh, can't swim."
I recall the questionnaire that I burned. Peeta had written on it that he came
to this place because his father once did. I guess that explains why Peeta
would choose to travel to an island even though he can't swim. He believes in
following in his parents' footsteps.
He smiles. "It's all right. I'd like to take a walk anyway."
An unforgivable part of me wants to join him. I squash that part and gesture
casually in the direction that's most scenic at night.
Peeta heads out. When I reach my friends, Jo scrutinizes my bikini. "Feeling
modest?"
I shrug. It's pretty. Why waste it?
She puffs. "Sure."
Of course, she knows me better, can sense that I'm keeping my suit on because
of Peeta. I'm no longer at ease having him see me naked—not when it doesn't
have the effect I want.
We play games, chasing each other in the water, battling and splashing one
another blind. Jo flattens her palms on Tigris's head and dunks her beneath the
surface. Finnick grabs Jo around the waist and hefts her up, twisting and then
flinging her into an oncoming wave. I leap onto Finnick's back and smash a
handful of wet sand in his face.
The four of us swim and glide and float. We submerge and flap our arms and legs
out, and it's like another planet down here, a womb cocooning us. Tigris, Jo,
and I are mermaids. Finnick is the God of the Sea—minus the trident. We can't
open our eyes underwater, but I can imagine. Three girls circling a boy, our
seaweed hair floating upward as we exist amongst clownfish and starfish and
eels slipping through the cracks in the ocean floor—because even under the
surface, cracks can be found.
I'm amazed. I haven't thought of my sister once. She's usually with me,
existing at the boundaries of my mind, the place that I dare let myself venture
to as the memories trace the lines of my heart.
Not tonight. I'm content without her tonight.
I follow the shoreline, resisting the chance to plunge deeper. The darkness is
a dangerous siren's call.
The best part of swimming is that moment when my body propels through the
surface, my mouth splitting and my chest filling with oxygen. The moment when I
choose life over suffocation.
When I come up for air, I discover that I've separated myself from the group
without intending to. Their feathery voices stroke my ears from a distance.
I glide closer to the beach until I'm able to stand, the water lapping at my
chin. I scan the beach, searching, wondering and then catching sight of the
American boy's footprints in the sand, a long line of tracks visible in the
silver light but gradually fading into the dark—walking away from me. It's the
saddest thing I've seen all year, like I've been left behind.
I imagine Peeta being able to swim. I would love to wrestle him down into the
abyss, race him, and wipe him out.
A pair of sinewy arms sneak around my waist from behind. A saltwater voice
murmurs three hot words in my ear. "I missed you."
The confession is playful but hardly serious. Missing each other isn't who we
are.
Yet Finnick also picks this moment to bring a real concern to light. "I was
worried about you yesterday," he says. "I didn't know if you were alright or if
something went wrong in the square. I wish you'd do these things when I'm
actually around. I had to hear from Old Man Sae that you were fine."
Jo and Tigris were supposed to be my messengers and keep Finnick posted on the
protest. I guess they didn't get to him quick enough. I don't care for him
getting soft on me, but although there's little jail space in town, Finnick had
cause to fret. After all, if he'd been sufficiently riled up, Cray could have
detained me in some way.
I kiss Finnick's arm to apologize. It's all he needs to return to more
enjoyable tasks. His hands travel up my ribcage and slip under the thin
triangles of my top, thumbs teasing my nipples, coaxing them to harden. I sigh
inwardly, falling against his chest, wanting more. My boyfriend enjoys spoiling
me with his embraces, making me as wet and loose as this ocean.
I'm glad he's here. I've been tense for the past two days, he's in the early
stages of an erection, and I need release. I'm grateful that we can do this
here without any worries or barriers. The minute I turned sixteen, Haymitch
took me to a clinic to get a shot against pregnancy. It's one of the few
treatments shipped in from America that islanders don't have to pay for.
Finnick secures me with one arm and dips his free hand into the front of my
bikini bottom. "Hmm. Looks like I found a secret. Any more worth my time?"
Absolutely.
I melt further into him, my arms reaching back, fingers threading through his
slick hair and latching on for support. I know where this is going and what it
will do to my stamina. I won't be able to hold myself up for long.
His fingers skim over the soft swells between my thighs. My pulse beats, small
as a pebble, right in the center of my body. The ache is endless, expanding to
my toes and navel. If he would just hurry up…
My desire goes unanswered. Finnick rebels against his usual swift and
passionate pace, reverting to the guy who took my virginity slowly. Aside from
that first time, his languid movements are new.
So much newness lately. A chain reaction of newness.
I writhe, and he nips my lobe. "Pull yourself together."
I pull his hair, and he responds, the tip of his pinky barely tracing my slit
while the stars fall out of focus. That tight part of me responds, bucks into
his hand, a greedy movement that's rewarded with Finnick's groan.
I win. I always do.
A light probe…a little bolder…a little rougher…until he's there. His fingers
slide in, and I unleash, riding them with firm snaps of my hips. We disregard
sensuality and go for it.
"That's right, Kat," he says. "Open for me."
Yes. I'm spreading, catching fire. My boyfriend's pants grow louder, more
hectic. Jo and Tigris are too far away to hear him.
I keep my own noises locked in a vault in my throat, a place that no one can
penetrate or unlock. The end shouldn't take this long, though. By now, I've
usually dropped off the edge of the world. Instead, I'm racing but getting
nowhere. This isn't enough.
Finnick withdraws his finger, spins me toward him, and hooks my legs around his
waist. Droplets run down his torso, his pupils glittering. He pushes aside the
panty line of my bikini and strokes me with the head of his cock.
"You're so beautiful," he says. When I scoff, he captures my chin, preventing
me from looking away. "You are," he insists.
Then he thrusts up into me. My teeth dig into my lower lip, holding back the
moan. I'm weightless, and he takes advantage, seizing my hips and bobbing me on
top of him, exposing my upper body over the water. Each time I come down, he
gyrates his pelvis upward so that our hips collide. Our stuttering breaths mix
together.
I'm facing the horizon. He knows I don't like that, so he turns us again,
enabling me to face the beach once more.
"You're going to come with me like the beautiful wild thing you are," he says.
That's what I want. This is who we are, a pair of starved bodies, a guy who can
turn grief to putty in his hands. His forehead falls onto my shoulder, and he
doubles his efforts, lashing his body into mine and jolting me repeatedly into
the air.
But I'm still not there. What's wrong? Why isn't this working?
My gaze lands on the footprints again. I think of watercolor paints and irises
the same hue as this ocean—crystalline, piercing, and bright.
Blue.
While I fuck my boyfriend, the blue surrounds me, soaking into me and touching
me in a different way. It envelops me, swarms my mind, my toes, my blood.
That's when I burst, my pleasure shooting out into a million directions as I
think of the American boy's eyes. My mouth opens in a silent orgasm.
Yet it's not the ebbing pleasure that I pay attention to. It's the second pair
of footprints retracing its path across the sand. It's the shadowed face angled
toward us and the broad silhouette arrested mid-walk on the beach. It's the
tendril of blond hair reflected by the sky. It's the person watching us.
It's Peeta.
 
Chapter End Notes
     I know, I know, I know! Hang in there, please...
     I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Peeta
I know what I saw. I can't get the harsh images out of my head, so much so that
it keeps me awake that night, troubled and confused. It's not like I meant to
see them, or even expected to see them. I'd been returning from my walk and
just turned my head toward the ocean, and then the scene caught me off guard,
freezing my feet in place while shock took over. Still, no matter how paralyzed
I was, I felt like a creeper while they...while she...while...
God, I don't know what to think. Even from a distance, Katniss had looked like
she was dwelling on something else besides Finnick. The surf's whooshing made
it hard to tell for sure, but I figured that she'd been silent the entire time.
Even he can't draw out her voice.
He'd kissed her cheek afterward. She didn't seem to care.
Because by then she had caught me watching.
I turned away and forced myself to walk slowly back to the fire pit, pretending
to be clueless and hoping it was convincing, realizing that it wasn't as her
gaze pierced me across the flames later.
For the next three days, the awkwardness continues to drill a hole into my gut.
I'm tongue-tied before and after school, when we're forced to be home together,
but Violet is too lost in her own world to notice, and Haymitch is probably too
grateful for the break that he doesn't waste his time asking why I've been as
mute as his niece.
By Thursday night, I'm still suffering the aftereffects of what happened at the
beach. It takes me two hours to get to sleep. And it feels like two seconds
before I wake up again.
A hand rests on my shoulder, gingerly shaking me out of a dream. Katniss's nose
is inches from my own as her free hand grasps the handles of the stairs leading
up to my bunk.
I sit up too fast for my equilibrium. The room spins. "What—"
She puts her finger to her lips and then points down, reminding me that
Haymitch is snoring beneath us. She motions for me to rise, then she climbs
down to the floor. My delirium subsides, my brain catching up with her request
as I untangle myself from the sheet, obedient but confused.
On the ground, she checks out my sleeveless tank and boxer trunks. Nodding at
them with approval, she gestures for me to follow her.
Out of the room. Out of the cottage.
The warm, fragrant air works like caffeine to my system. Did I just leave the
house without getting fully dressed?
Barefoot, Katniss glides ahead of me, periodically checking over her shoulder
to make sure I'm there. Her white dress billows like a cloud around her legs,
and her loose hair reminds me of spilled ink.
The echo of the ocean gets louder as we return to the beach. We stroll to the
water's edge where she frowns at the sheet of black and blue ahead of us, the
water disappearing into a void. Her lips press together as though she's torn
about something.
She turns to me abruptly and speaks with her eyes. I don't want to make you
uncomfortable anymore.
I'm caught off guard yet again. It seems awfully sudden for her to change her
tune, but then I did catch her having sex with her boyfriend, and she knows
that. And it's like she's had a glimpse of how the scene must have looked to an
outsider. Because now I notice a tint of embarrassment in her gaze, even though
she's trying to hide it by tightening that chin of hers.
I want to believe her. She brought me out here, in the middle of the night, to
tell me this. Like this place is her safety net.
"You love the sea, don't you?" I say.
She wavers, debating whether or not I'm serious.
"I mean, you grew up here. It's not a stretch. You're…" I feel lame saying it.
"You're like the ocean."
Wild. Building momentum. Approaching and receding.
Katniss shakes her head. That's not why I love it.
She pantomimes diving deep, and then points at the sky. The sight would
normally be funny to me, cheesy and a little ridiculous, but her earnestness is
endearing.
I get what she means. In the water, she's between two places, with infinity
above and below. It's the deepest anyone can sink and the highest anyone can
soar. That's why she loves the sea.
She jogs toward it, stops, and twists around, peering at me expectantly.
When I was eight, my mother made fun of me trying to swim in the lake back
home—in front of all my friends. I had flopped around hopelessly at the shallow
end, swallowed a bucket of slimy water, and eventually gave up. From then on, I
stuck to what came naturally, things that I knew I wouldn't fail at.
I tell Katniss, "I can't swim, remember?"
She's unfazed. I will show you how.
Just like that, something officially shifts between us.
The waves knock me around. The saltwater stings my eyes. No one is here to
witness my clumsiness except for Katniss, her wet fingers holding onto my
forearms, her dress clinging to her skin. She's stern, refusing to coddle me,
but she doesn't laugh at me or lose her patience. She acts like she expects me
to learn, like she knows I can do this. I relax, manage a few capable
breaststrokes, and feel ridiculously proud.
When we return to the cottage, she stops at her bedroom door and waves
goodnight. The view of her soaked and transparent dress feels far more intimate
than when she was completely naked in front of me.
I avert my gaze, but I have to say it before she leaves. "Katniss, I'm so
sorry. I'm sorry about the other night. I didn't mean to see you and...him. I
wasn't...it wasn't on purpose. I didn't know you'd be there. And I...I was
shocked. I wasn't...I wasn't watching you like that. I swear."
I glance back up, keeping my eyes strictly on her face. She waits a moment,
then nods. I know.She slips into her room, leaving me staring at the trail of
water droplets that she brought into the house.
I used to think she was crazy. But maybe it's only me. Maybe perfect is crazy.
After that, we begin to spend time together. We take nightly walks on the
beach, with me talking occasionally but mainly staying as quiet as her, while
the warm water laps at our feet. And she keeps giving me swimming lessons. And
the more we're together, the more we loosen up.
The weeks pass quickly. I go to school and sit next to Gale, who's a nice guy
and tends to rant about deforestation in North America. His passion is
practically radioactive. He wants to know why this and why that, as if I have
an answer for everything that goes on in my continent.
Questions become my lifestyle here. Students ask me what I was taught in
District Twelve about totalitarianism. Do people fish where I'm from? What are
cheese buns?
I dodge the human strobe-light, Mrs. Trinket, who dresses like a parade float
and speed-walks through the hall on faculty errands, nearly running students
over on her way. I listen to Cinna, our teacher—only one teacher all
day—lecture about physics one hour, Panem legends the next hour, and first aid
the next.
I miss the spirit of high school back home. The pep rallies, the jokes and
phrases that I actually understood. The sounds of lockers slamming. Posters on
the walls. Invites to parties. The familiarity of waiting for Madge outside her
biology class.
Panem's high school is too poor to focus on anything but lessons. But outside
of school, I have time to draw and take photographs. For hours, I get to hear
chalk grazing paper and the click of Dad's camera. I follow his directions to a
small business—surprisingly, it's still around to develop film rolls—and send
pictures home.
Madge's letters come less often than mine, but they're longer and typed—she
still hates her handwriting—and are more about our friends than about herself.
I tell her that I miss her. She writes the same, except with acronyms, which is
a zap to my brain because villagers don't speak that way here, and I like that
about them.
I get used to my host family. Haymitch works a lot and then comes home smelling
like tequila. Once in a while, I'll catch him watching Violet with a sad
expression or studying me like I'm a math equation.
Buttercup is the family cat. We're buddies.
I still don't know who Primrose is.
I help Violet in the kitchen and learn about local spices. I teach her as much
as I can about baking despite the limited variety of flour imported to the
island, and the fact that everything has to be done manually instead of with
machines. There's a hand-crank mill, and I have only a small oven to work with
instead of an industrial one, but I don't have to rush to fill orders or get an
entire bakery ready before sunrise.
My host family eats mostly vegetables and fried fruits and grains. No soda,
chips, or pastries, but the cheap juices are amazing. I'm low on protein and
lose a few pounds because of this.
Violet is soft-spoken, but she lets me fill the kitchen with talk. Sometimes
she grins to herself, sometimes at me.
Sometimes Katniss watches us from the doorway.
September slips into October.
Katniss and I still sit in our own corners of class, but we do our homework
side-by-side at the dinner table. She scowls at me if I try to help her with an
assignment, especially when it comes to Survival. One time in response, I take
a chance and cross my eyes, and she sucks in her cheeks to keep from smiling.
Another day, we tentatively migrate to her room, facing each other on her bed,
a pad and pencil in her lap so she can communicate with me. I insist on a round
of "Would You Rather," a game from my country and discover she'd rather lose a
leg than a hand. We do random Q & A sessions where I confess to being afraid of
closed windows, and she confesses that she's terrified of jabberjays, Panem's
most predatory bird.
I try to figure her out and fail miserably. And I like that, too.
She's tender with Violet, brushing the woman's hair and filling her plate at
meals, staring at her mother with an expression that I recognize—longing.
She goes out regularly looking for an after-school job but always comes home
and thwacks the nearest plant in frustration because jobs are scarce here.
When we're not alone or with the family, we hang out with her dreamer friends
at night. I learn to anticipate whenever Tigris is going to tease me, and when
Jo is going to glare at me, though it happens less and less over time,
eventually shifting to something like acceptance.
As for Finnick, I can predict whenever he's going to draw Katniss closer into
his nest of biblical muscles, and when Katniss is going to allow it. I have no
clue what they mean to each other, but I'm not a fan of them together. Their
relationship rubs me the wrong way, I guess because something about it feels
insincere, and it's just...it gets on my nerves. I'd rather not be around
Finnick at all, but I find myself wanting to stay near Katniss.
I try to concentrate on the group's stories instead, their imaginations
overflowing with fiction. It's the silvery glint in Katniss's eyes that finally
encourages me to participate. When I turn myself into a Robin Hood-type figure,
they all applaud, and I have to admit, it does feel good having taken a chance
and seeing if I'm any good at it.
In one of Jo's stories, she's a virginal warrior.
"That's quite inventive," Finnick jokes. "Who of us is remotely virginal
anymore? Ah, wait. I forgot. Peeta, are you a virgin?"
I remember the last time Madge and I were alone. Her room, the shades closed,
the house empty.
"No," I answer, my voice clipped. "But we don't need to talk about it."
It's private. Anyway, it's nothing to brag about. Even though we did it twice
in a row, it was difficult for both of us, and I wasn't that good at it, the
first time being painful for her, the second time not as painful but still
clumsy. We tried to get it right, but I didn't last long either time, which is
no one's business.
Yet there's another reason why I'm uncomfortable with the topic. It has to do
with Katniss. She's staring out to sea in distraction, her silence even more
intense than it usually is. The orange sunset shines on her toes. She
contemplates something, then gets up, pressing her fingers to her temple to
indicate she has a headache. She won't allow Finnick or I to walk her home.
Once I've mastered the art of swimming, she takes me to an isolated lagoon to
celebrate. On the hike there, she forgets to tell me—to write me—that we're
coming from a trail that ends looking down onto the water. We have to jump from
there.
Peeking over the edge, I see a glittering teal pool shrouded by foliage. I
wouldn't classify the drop as lethal from this height, but it's enough for me
to step back while shaking my head.
"N-no way," I stutter.
Rather than writing her response in the notebook in her bag, Katniss tilts her
head. It's not dangerous.
"Isn't there another route to get down there? From the other side or
something?"
There is, but that's boring.
"You totally planned this!"
It's more fun this way.
"What if the lagoon is too shallow?"
I've done this before. Trust me.
I wonder if this is what she's really saying or if I'm failing at reading her
facial expressions. "We could slip as we're jumping, we could bang into the
cliff on the way down, we could smack our heads on a rock—would you quit
smirking?"
Katniss marches in place and salutes me. Yes, sir.
"I'm serious."
Yes, sir.
"Be serious with me for one sec…" I want to be annoyed, but the comical sight
of her flattening her palm against her forehead and stomping her foot like a
soldier makes me laugh.
Katniss kicks off her sandals and peels off her dress to reveal her orange
bikini, tossing everything else, including her bag, over the side and watching
them land on the mossy ground surrounding the lagoon. I do the same, stripping
down to my trunks.
She takes my hand, threading her fingers through mine. Every selfish impulse
that I've ever had intersects right there, sparking and crackling at the place
where we're connected.
We won't let something happen, I think she promises. We'll protect each other.
We back up, then launch ahead and leap off the edge. It's a free-falling blur
of senses—weightlessness and shapes and Katniss's hand clasping mine.
"Ohhh...myyy...godddddddd!" I holler.
We hit the water. I hear a roaring splash and then nothing. I'm submerged for a
second, and then I'm crashing back up through the surface, mist from a nearby
waterfall spraying my face. Katniss floats next to me. The rush of our fingers
entwined is the same as when we were plummeting. It's incredible.
I'm about to shout my elation when her face shifts, her lips bowing upward and
revealing teeth for the first time, showing me what she looks like when she's
happy.
Out of nowhere, I realize that November has snuck up on me. Just like her
smile.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
I'm sitting on my bed, my legs hanging over the top bunk while I review a
chapter of the book we're reading for Survival. I can't believe I'm studying
the steps and risks of CPR for a grade.
Mid page-turn, a hand wraps around my ankle and tugs. I grin to myself but
ignore it, and it tugs again harder.
"What?" I ask, not looking up.
Nevertheless, I see a blur out of the corner of my eye. Katniss's face pops
over the rim of my textbook. You have to look at me when we talk.
"I'm busy."
No, you're not.
"There's a test next week."
It's Friday night.
"It's Friday afternoon," I correct. "The sun doesn't set for another two hours,
and I still have one more page—"
She swipes the textbook from my hands and races out of the room.
"Hey!" I leap off the bed, my feet slamming onto the floor, and chase after
her. Haymitch is at work, and Violet is visiting with a neighbor, so no one's
home to see us cannonball through the house.
Katniss runs into the living room, hopping over Buttercup on the way. The cat
crouches low and hisses at her, the hairs on its back raised.
We dart around furniture. Each time I reach out, I miss Katniss narrowly.
Breathless, she stops by the front door and tosses me the textbook. I catch it
against my chest.
"Okay," I laugh. "Obviously you're determined to distract me."
There's a certain nervous energy to her. What is she up to? She's always up to
something naughty, and I always get sucked into it, like the cliff jump or that
one time she challenged me to a fork fencing match at the dinner table.
She grabs her bag and opens the door to the great big island world. Here we go
again. She is going to lead, and I'm going to follow.
We walk two miles to the village square, where Haymitch bartends at the cantina
and where Katniss tied herself to the mockingjay statue. It's barely four
o'clock, but by the time we get there, the sky is a swirl of dusky colors, dim
enough for the familiar yellow lights strung over the courtyard to glow.
Beneath the lights is a crowd. I gape at the guitarists—including Sae's
husband—playing Latin-sounding music and the couples spinning each other like
discs. The scent of sizzling chiles wafts from the thatch-roofed carts
scattered over the area. It's a street fest.
What do you think?
Katniss watches me, chin hiked in defensiveness as she awaits my judgment. She
had asked that same thing on my first day, when she tried on my shirt, which
she still hasn't given back.
"I wish I could draw this," I answer. "What's the occasion?"
She points to herself and then at the mockingjay statue. She holds out her
wrists, shackle-style.
"The protest?" I ask. "Is-is this is a protest?"
She nods.
"You did this?"
She nods again. I'm bowled over. I thought she'd forgotten my words from that
day, about doing things as a community.
"A protest for the fishing permits," I assume. "So the party goes on until the
cost of the permits goes down?"
She pulls her notebook from her bag and writes. We'll be here all night if we
have to. And into the next day. People will come and go, for rest and other
things.
"Because that will help keep the party going," I summarize.
She holds up her thumb, a District Twelve gesture that I taught her. I barely
have time to chuckle before she sets down her bag and sashays backward into the
dancing, curling the fingers of both her hands. Come on, American boy.
She picks up the hem of her long skirt and snaps it from side-to-side, her hips
revolving, her sandaled feet beating out a quick pattern. I don't know how to
dance like that. It reminds me of cha-cha-cha or salsa. Or are they the same
thing?
People call out as I stand awkwardly on the sidelines. "Come," they cheer.
"Come, Peeta. Dance with her! Dance with Katniss!"
They're right. I should.
The music is energetic and fast, with a sexy pulse that makes me feel
inadequate, so Katniss takes pity on me and keeps us on the fringes of the
crowd. She sets her hands on my waist and swings it from left to right.
Move only your lower body. Step like this.
One-two. One-two-three.
One-two. One-two-three.
I watch our bodies sync together, praying that I can do this without
accidentally head-butting her.
She tips my face up. Look right at me. Feel me. Move with me.
She drapes her arm over my shoulder and clasps my free hand, pulling me closer,
her hips rocking against my palm.
I remind myself that dancing in public is okay. Dancing with a friend is okay.
That's what Katniss is. We've become friends.
As I get the hang of the dance, she smiles, and I smile back, but then our
faces go slack. The air gets hotter as our hips roll tightly together,
overstimulating me in all the wrong places. Then, fuck, a single droplet of
sweat trickles down the side of her neck, making me wish that I could break the
rules and swipe it with my finger, before it disappears between her breasts.
Her lids droop, as if she's having similar, unprecedented thoughts. We move
nearer to one another.
"There's my girl."
And we come to a clownish end, bumping into each other as Finnick approaches.
He kisses the side of her neck and greets me with a brief, "Hey Peeta," while
his eyes warm at the sight of Katniss. I back off as he claims her and leads
her deeper into the crowd for a dance. She cranes her head over her shoulder to
glance at me before the throng swallows her. By now, the sun has gone down.
"He's the bee and she's the pollen," Jo remarks, appearing beside me.
"Where's Tigris?" I ask, spotting Finnick's bed-hair above the crowd.
"She's somewhere flirting."
"Bees are fat and fuzzy. Finnick isn't a bee."
"Your shiny vocabulary knows better than me what to call him."
Assholeseems accurate, I think to myself. Out loud, I make a more polite list.
"Cavalier. Grandiose. Clean-shaven."
"Huh. So where can I find Katniss in the dictionary?"
"I don't think the words for her can be found in a place where they're frozen
forever."
"Shit. Are you for real?"
I balk at Jo. "You like pretend you have a magic ax that cuts souls in half,
but nowyou want real?"
She snorts. "I didn't like you at first for invading my friend's life. I
thought you'd be too snobby and righteous for this place, but I was wrong. The
last time I saw Katniss smile was when Primrose was still alive. I bet you have
something to do with resurrecting that smile. You've done what none us have
been able to. And this." She flits her arm out at the scene. "This is also
because of you. You're good for Katniss."
That's not an option. The evidence of it is hanging around my neck. "I'm
already good for someone."
"Then why are you glaring at Finnick like you want to tear him away from my
friend?"
I sigh. "I don't like him with her."
"Fair enough. But since meeting you, I've learned not to take people at face
value. You might want to do the same."
"So I'm off the mark in assuming their relationship isn't a fluffy, romantic
one? And that Finnick isn't out just for himself?" I mock.
"Does Katniss look like the type to let someone victimize her?" she counters.
"He isn't as deviant as you think, and Katniss may be wounded, but she's not
weak. She's a survivor. She's the one who made the first move. She knows what
she wants and how she wants it. And he gives that to her."
I grind my teeth. "I bet he does."
"It's the only way she'll let him help. And it's the only way she's willing to
help him." At my puzzled expression, she clarifies, "It's a mutual, coping
thing. Let's just say they have similar histories." Then she grunts. "I mean,
don't get me wrong. I think you're infinitely better for her than he is. I know
why they're together, but I'm not crazy about it, and I told her so. Not that
she listens."
"Back up. They help each other with what?"
"Come on, brainless. It's not my job to tell you everything. Let Katniss fill
you in. If I'm right about you being good for her, she will."
Jo's remarks about coping and similar histories bring me back to someone that
she mentioned earlier. "Who's Primrose?"
Jo plants her hands on her hips. "So they haven't told you. Well, that figures.
Primrose was Katniss's little sister. She drowned last fall, a year before you
got here."
I almost have trouble believing it. "In the ocean?" I ask like an idiot. "But
Katniss loves the ocean. How could she, after that?"
"Katniss doesn't blame the sea. She blames herself for not saving Primrose and
hasn't spoken since then."
I think back to Katniss's protest, when Sae had said something about her wild
attitude.
Well, we can't blame her.
I remember Violet calling Katniss by the wrong name—Thank you, Primrose—and the
look on Katniss's face when it happened.
I recall Haymitch grumbling when I insisted on preaching Katniss out of her
handcuffs.
This was part of the deal anyway.
Suddenly, I have a disturbing, disappointing, infuriating idea of why I'm here.
On this island. With this family. I need to talk to Haymitch. I need to yell at
him…no, he's my host father. I need to...raise my voice.
Finnick's bed-hair has disappeared from the crowd. He and Katniss must have
left.
I mutter parting words to Jo, abandon the party, and storm toward the cantina.
The heavy moans seeping out from an alleyway detour me. I don't know what
possesses me to follow them, but I do. More cords of light hang overhead,
outlining Finnick's hair. He and Katniss are pressed up against a wall, her leg
hitched over his hip as he moves steadily against her.
A profoundly sharp sensation splinters through me. I'm about jerk my gaze away
when she twists her face in my direction, revealing her features, the look of
raw frustration there, like this isn't going the way she wants it to. Like
something's keeping her from enjoying it. It's the same look that I saw that
night I caught them.
Then Finnick holds her wrists above her head, which reminds me of the shackles
that bound her during the protest, those red marks left behind on her skin.
And I'm on Finnick before I know it, hauling him off Katniss and ramming him
into the opposite wall. "Get your hands off her!" I growl right before my fist
cracks against his face, wrenching it to the side.
I aim for another swing, but Katniss's nails dig into my arms and yank on them,
distracting me enough for Finnick to free himself.
"What the hell?" he spits. "What the hell is wrong with you, Peeta?"
"Stay away from Katniss!"
"Away from her? She's my girlfriend! She brought me here!"
My mind reels. I should be roaring at Finnick, but the fact that Katniss is
clasping his face and checking to see if he's okay makes it all too clear. I
thought he was forcing himself on her. I was wrong.
"What, you think I'd hurt her?" Finnick says between his teeth, insulted. "You
think I'd do that? Fuck you!"
I brace myself for a fight. I'd caught him unexpectedly, but now he's prepared
and sufficiently fueled for one. My wrestling skills versus the eight inches he
has on me, plus the fact that he's Poseidon, proves that I'm in mortal danger.
I won't hesitate to punch back, but I know my ass is about to be handed to me.
Hopefully after the police scrape me off the pavement, Haymitch will tell my
dad that I loved him very much.
I'm wrong again, though. Finnick holds up his arms, elbows bent, to curb his
anger. "I'm warning you, Peeta," he hisses, pointing at me. "Fucking go ahead
and try me. Go ahead."
Katniss manages to lead him away while he's still seething, and they disappear
around the corner. I sag against the wall, shaking like crazy. Guitars
strumming and people clapping overlap in the background. I can't reconcile what
Jo said about not taking people at face value and what I saw in this alleyway.
I overreacted, blindsighted by his grip on her wrists, and I just don't
understand how I'm supposed to feel, what I'm supposed to think. About anyone.
It's a solid twenty minutes before I pull myself together and another forty-
five minutes before I make it home, carrying her bag because she'd left it
behind at the square. When I arrive, Katniss is already sitting on the front
porch.
When she sees me, she lurches up and storms my way. She's a tsunami in a dress,
her gray eyes ripping me to shreds.
"Katniss," I begin. "I'm sor—"
Her open palm slaps me across the face, stinging the living hell out of my
cheek and causing me to drop her bag. She's panting so loud that I can almost
imagine what her voice sounds like, and for some reason, that makes me angry.
"Why are you with him?" I demand. "Is it just...just for sex?"
Katniss looks me up and down.I don't have to explain myself to you.
"Oh, that's brilliant," I sneer.
She flings her arms out to the sides in exasperation.What is?
"He's using you. You're in pain, and he's using you, and you're okay with
that?"
Damn you! You don't know him! You don't know me!
I fall silent as she yanks her notebook from her bag and scribbles, You think I
picked Finnick at random? He knows my past. He understands it in ways you
can't!
She's right. And what Jo said before starts to make sense. Finnick must have
lost someone, just like Katniss. He doesn't look like the type of guy who's
coping with anything, but if anyone seems like they can put on a performance,
it's him. He's a good storyteller, so maybe he's also a very good actor.
I still hate him, though.
Katniss flings the notebook to the ground. No one. Uses. Me.Then she wheels
around, and escapes to the screen door. It winces as she opens it.
I don't want her to go. "Please, Katniss, wait."
Her back tenses.
"It was a mistake."
She squeezes the knob.
"I just..." My eyes sink to the ground. "I was trying to protect you, like we
agreed to."
Festering silence goes on for ages. Then I hear the screen door bounce against
the frame, followed by the sound of her feet hurrying across the grass and
getting closer to me.
I look up right before she grabs my face and crushes her lips to mine.
I make a noise of shock, grabbing onto her hips to keep myself from stumbling
back, inadvertently pulling her flush against my chest while my heart turns
into a ping-pong ball from the contact. Her mouth is eager, slanting over mine
and fitting us together in a soul-stirring, reckless, dizzying kiss.
It's like plunging head first into that lagoon, only deeper, possibly leading
to the place where her voice is hidden. My mouth yearns to open and taste her
moist breath. My lips are on the verge of parting, my fingers winding into her
hair and dragging up her scalp a split second before I realize what I'm doing.
And who I'm doing it with.
I tear my mouth from hers. "I can't," I gasp. "I…I can't. I'm sorry. I can't do
this."
Her lips are half-puckered as if hoping for more, but her irises dim. She looks
so lost that I feel an emptiness in my chest.
She turns, walks to the front porch, and disappears inside the cottage.
 
Chapter End Notes
     I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Notes
     Happy holidays :)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Katniss
Whenever bad things happened to one of us, my sister and I would take refuge in
the hallway closet together. We'd join forces, wedging ourselves between broom
sticks and boxes, and we'd hold hands and try to slay the demons—scary myths
that gave us nightmares, an accidental encounter with a jabberjay that left us
shaken, or even an embarrassing rash.
Primrose would nestle her face into my neck and wait for comfort to return in
the form of familiar things—like Mama coming home with oranges from the market.
Primrose often expected to be rescued by such moments.
I didn't. I went to the closet anticipating that it would get worse, knowing
Mama's presence couldn't do much to heal me. Because when Papa died and she
screamed for five minutes straight, I stopped believing that parents were able
to conquer the world.
Sometimes while in the closet, my sister and I would hear airplanes overhead.
We'd make up stories about where they came from or where they were going, and
there was always a good reason those planes couldn't land on our roof and take
us with them. One was that Mama needed us. She needed Primrose.
One afternoon as we hid away in our spot, Mama had frantically called my
sister's name—only her name—when she couldn't find us. I was ten. Primrose was
six. As siblings, we were loyal to each other first and foremost, so we didn't
come out for a long time to spite Mama for neglecting to call my name as well.
Hiding meant we were the victors, so shh.
Don't let her know we're nearby, that we're listening. Not yet. Save our words
and keep them between us.
I haven't escaped to the closet in over a year. But I find myself there now.
I kissed the American boy tonight.
I want to do it again. Which isn't good.
Peeta hadn't even opened his mouth, yet his kiss had tasted irresistible. Sweet
and safe. If we'd continued, I'm sure that I would have been forever chasing
his mouth, running out of breath, my need constant. The residue of his lips
still coats mine, their effect lingering even though he's outside and I'm
inside. I've retreated like a coward.
Pulling my legs to my chest, I rest my forehead on my knees. I don't know where
my self-control went, not from the moment we began to dance. I regretted
letting Finnick cut in between us, but not for long, because it was for the
best. Because the connection between Peeta and I was getting dangerous. It
needed to stop.
That's why I decided to lure Finnick into the alley. I wanted to erase Peeta
from my mind and fast, and Finnick has fast hands, and I have a fast response
to them.
Or I used to, at least. Up against that wall, I had trouble getting into it. I
tried so hard to concentrate on him, but his body has stopped being my drug.
During our interludes, it has become a routine for me to imagine another pair
of eyes.
I cannot believe Peeta caught us again. I cannot believe how terrible he is at
dancing, or how that charms me. I cannot believe he's my friend.
The muffled sound of an argument invades the closet. The hallway is near an
open window at the side of the house where male voices collide. It's Peeta and
Haymitch, hissing and struggling to keep their voices down because they're
outside on the lawn, where neighbors might overhear. I crack open the closet
door to eavesdrop.
"Is that why you brought me here?" Peeta grates. "To be some kind of therapy?
I'm not a piece in your game to mend her."
"Calm down, boy."
"Don't call me boy. I have a name."
"Peeta."
"Thank you."
"Peeta."
"What?" he snaps.
"Wipe the lipstick off your face."
Silence. Silence from Peeta.
I bite the tip of my index finger. Shh.
Did he stay outside to wait for Haymitch to get home from work? Or was he too
repulsed by me to make it through the front door?
"I thought that picture by your bed meant you still had a girlfriend," Haymitch
muses.
"I do. Don't change the subject."
"Something tells me whoever kissed you is part of the subject."
Guilt wracks Peeta's voice. "I-I didn't ask for it."
"Your cheeks tell another story."
"I object."
"Did you stop it?"
The quiet and Haymitch's relieved sigh suggests that Peeta has done something
to indicate the affirmative.
"Good," Haymitch says. "Your cock might not know better, but emotionally you're
an honorable kid."
"It's…not like that."
"You and my niece are good as friends. You need to keep it that way. I can't
afford for things to get even more complicated around here. That's not what I
wanted."
"What you wanted?" Peeta repeats. "You wanted me to be a distraction because
I'm from another country. You brought me here to use me because you're selfish
and you don't care."
"That's not true."
"You haven't asked a single thing about me," he says incredulously. "Not since
that first day. You don't ask about my family or my home. You don't know how
many brothers I have. You haven't asked to see my photographs. You don't know
what my favorite sport is. You haven't bothered to spend any time with me, to
get to know me, or tell me about yourself. You haven't even taken me past the
damn village square.
"And forget that. You know what's worse? You don't spend time with Katniss,
either. You were too busy in the cantina to see what she did organizing that
street fest. You only pay attention when she acts up and provokes you into the
Situation Chair. How the hell would you know whether we're good as friends, or
why we should be friends, or why we shouldn't kiss? You think she's just a
problem you can correct by taking advantage of me. And you didn't tell me about
Primrose."
I inhale. I imagine Peeta exhaling.
"And who did tell you about Primrose?" Haymitch asks.
"Jo did."
I grimace, remembering Jo standing beside Peeta while Finnick and I danced.
"Well," Haymitch says. "I'm impressed by you."
"Great. I can die happy."
"Look. You're right. I don't know how to do this. I haven't got it all figured
out, but I ran out of options once Katniss ran me into the ground. My family's
grieving, I care about them, this house needed a buffer, and yeah, you're
it—let me finish, Peeta."
I picture Peeta closing his mouth.
"Yeah, I'm using you as a cushion. Whadda you know? It's working. The air in
our house doesn't smell like depression anymore, and I don't regret a thing
about that, but I'm not a leech. I care about what happens to you, too."
Peeta mutters something too faint to hear. There's a pause before Haymitch
continues in a softer, more considerate voice. "It may not seem like it, but I
want you here. You're a good kid. I'm sorry I haven't said it. And also, I was
there at the street fest. Sae made me dance with her."
"You can dance?"
"Not on purpose," he grunts. "You and Wild Child must have been long gone by
then, but I saw what she did. That is, until Cray and his cronies got there. I
was around for that, too. I see more than you think."
"The police broke it up?"
"Hell. That was bound to happen."
My lips press into a thin line. I hadn't thought to go back to the protest
after what happened with Peeta. I could have done something to prevent Cray
from ruining everything. I could have schemed up a diversion.
"The police got the message anyway," Haymitch suspects. "Besides, it doesn't
seem like people will give up. I wouldn't be surprised if they stage another
peppy revolt with more people. Katniss inspired it. It's a step, at least."
I fidget with my braid. Primrose would be proud.
"So tell me Peeta, you think coming here was a mistake?"
"You put all this on my shoulders. You shouldn't have done that. It's messed
up."
"No, it's fucked up," Haymitch corrects wearily. "I may not regret it, but I
know it was a fucked up thing to do. I'm supposed to be the adult, not you. So
look, you can stay here and be your big-mouthed self, just like you've been
doing. Or you can apply for another host family, if you want. It's up to you."
I knock over a broom as I lean toward the gap in the door. Peeta responds
faster than I expected. "I…no, I…I'm not a quitter. I don't want to leave."
"Maybe not, but that doesn't mean you want to stay. It's not the same thing."
"To me, it is."
I let go of whatever it was I was squeezing. I shut the closet door and then
slump onto my back on the hard floor, remaining there until morning.
At breakfast, Peeta and I bodysurf on a smooth, evasive wave, him straddling
the line between muddled-looking and not looking my way at all, and me
sharpening the edges of my scowl. During the week, we forge boundaries and ban
eye contact—any contact—between us when we're in the same room. Which isn't
easy considering the small cottage we live in. We exist around the noise each
of us creates—coughs, pages turning, doors closing, spoons scraping against
bowls. We become familiar with one another's routines and perfect the art of
avoidance.
It's against everything that Haymitch wanted, and oh, he notices it, but he
wisely keeps his feelings to himself. He takes what he can get out of us, which
is me too unnerved by a kiss to think about misbehaving and Peeta being Peeta,
exhibiting forced liveliness.
It's humiliating how many nights I spend replaying the tremble of his mouth. I
give my pillow a workout, burying my face into it, especially whenever I hear
his midnight footsteps venturing to the bathroom or the kitchen. Months ago, I
would have intercepted him in my underwear and backed him up against the
nearest counter or the humming refrigerator with a single, penetrating,
intentional stare.
It wouldn't work anymore. He knows me better now. His I can't has given him
power, the kind that keeps me rooted to my bed, too afraid to hunt him down in
the shadowed corners of the cottage. To him, I'm a regret. And probably far
from his mind as he falls asleep.
He keeps up a regimen of talk at family meals. He's a social magician and
manages to earn a few laughs from my mother while they cook together, the sound
of it beautiful but piercing, driving me to the beach for refuge.
Finnick isn't about to complain when I tell our group that Peeta won't be
joining us anymore, but my girlfriends take the news differently. Jo crosses
her arms in annoyance, and Tigris does her share of pouting.
I sneak out of the cottage when nightmares erode my sleep. I swim alone,
suspecting that Peeta has yet to brave the waves on his own. The thought sends
an embittered spike of satisfaction through me.
Anger is another emotion that I welcome. It battles the shame of my attempted
tongue-thrust and my uncle revealing to Peeta that I'm a pathetic wreck in need
of saving. I refuse to be that. I won't be weak because of him. I can survive
fine without his friendship.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
The humidity goes into hibernation, and the tide rolls deeply into December. On
Christmas Eve, Haymitch hauls home a squat pine tree imported from America. My
parents could never afford one, so Primrose was always delighted for Haymitch's
holiday visits. A tree has been his customary present since I could walk. The
dark needles and the wintry scent of foreign forests cause my eyes to prick
with tears. It's my second Christmas without her.
My mother decorates the tree with threadbare red balls strewn from yarn and a
cord of green lights, while Haymitch supervises from his end of the couch.
Peeta walks in from the kitchen, drying his hands with a rag. His Christmas
gift to my family is a District Twelve meal. Haymitch had taken Peeta to every
market in Panem to gather the ingredients he needed, while the rest were mailed
to him from his family.
The tree brings a smile to his lips that I'd like to staple shut. With his
flour-dusted apron, his ruddy skin, and his jubilant expression, he looks
adorable. Like someone assembled by elves in the North Pole.
Once the tree is lit, the food is ready, and Buttercup is contentedly swatting
at a spool of ribbon on the floor, I set the table. Haymitch disguises his
pleasure over my glossy manners with jibes, goading me to retaliate and stick
out my tongue at him.
I'm setting a fork beside Peeta's plate when his own hand appears out of
nowhere. I tense at his nearness. It's the closest we've been to each other
since the kiss, and it heats the right side of my body.
"S'cuse me," he mumbles, leaning over to light a single candle at the center of
the table. We stare at the flame whisking to life, which should create a
festively romantic atmosphere but feels more like witchcraft.
When Peeta moves away, his hand brushes mine. We jerk back in such perfect
synchronicity that anyone watching might assume we rehearsed it.
"Sorry," he says.
Sorry, I gesture.
Peeta introduces us to a meal that smells of new things. A duck surrounded by
glazed carrots, potatoes smothered in a creamy sauce, a crimson-colored jam
that he calls cranberry-thyme chutney, and a cracking loaf of warm bread. It's
a feast. Haymitch and Violet clap. My applause lags behind, I'm so preoccupied
by the girth of the bird. I've never tasted duck before. Meat is an
extravagance that Peeta must have paid a fortune for. I'll wager that he got it
from Greasy Sae's stall.
Peeta blushes as he sits across from me. "I wish everything could be fresher.
My dad sent canned cranberries and gravy, and the herbs were prepackaged."
"No, it's perfect," Violet assures him. "Thank you."
"I don't know if I'll remember what it all tastes like. It's been so long."
Peeta says this with anticipatory giddiness, and I know it's because his home
has joined us for dinner. I'm oddly glad for him. And oddly stung.
A knock sounds from the front door. In response, Haymitch drops his fork
against his plate. "Maybe I'll need a drink, after all."
I'd told him that Finnick might make a brief stop here. Giving my uncle a look,
I rise from my chair and answer the door. Finnick is standing on the porch, a
tray in his hands and a rogue smile on his face.
He admires my gray dress. "You look pretty."
Hi.
"I've got something for you."
Come in, then.
Following me to the table, Finnick is greeted by Violet's open arms, Haymitch's
disapproval, and Peeta's silence. Both boys regard each other curtly and
without enthusiasm. Though I don't know what Peeta has to be sour about. He's
the one who threw a punch where it didn't belong. He knows that Finnick wasn't
trying to hurt me.
And I told him that Finnick and I relate to one another's past, that I'm not
being toyed with, that I'm with him willingly. What more does Peeta want to
hear?
"Can't stay long," Finnick announces.
Haymitch coughs a word into his napkin that vaguely sounds like good.
"My family's waiting on me, but I told Katniss that I'd bring over some oysters
if we had a strong catch today." Finnick frowns, noticing the North American
spread, which is probably getting cold. "What's all this?"
"Peeta made us a traditional supper from District Twelve," Violet beams.
Finnick's eyes slither toward Peeta. The salty whiff of shellfish competes with
the sweet-tartness of carrots and cranberries. This is getting ridiculous.
And why does this bother Finnick? Honestly, I resent these bull-headed boys for
looking at the food like it's some form of competition, especially when my
family doesn't usually get this much to eat. It's a luxury, not something for
their egos to spar over.
When neither boy speaks up, my uncle slaps his palms on the table and lies,
"Well, sorry to hear you've got to leave, Finn."
I inconspicuously kick Haymitch's heel. I don't need to deal with yet another
surly male. Not on Christmas.
I grab my notebook and walk Finnick outside. Once there, he stares at his feet
with a grin that lacks his usual dimples.
I widen my eyes, prompting him to speak, and he shakes his head. "Sorry about
my moodiness. It's just...I'm not in one piece tonight. Christmas was Annie's
favorite holiday."
Oh. I'd forgotten.
Are you okay?I write.
"Seeing you definitely helps. You're easy on the eyes."
His flirting is half-hearted. Even in this moment, he's trying to keep up that
veneer. That flippant veneer to hide the scars, which are the same ones I wear.
For all we know of one another, and for all that we call ourselves boyfriend
and girlfriend, that's not what we are.
In fact, it's only now that I realize how foolish it is for us to call
ourselves that at all. We're allies. Grief partners. That's what we are.
"That scene in there—" he nudges his chin toward the house. "Your family looks
better. They seem to like Peeta. That's a quite a fancy supper he made."
He searches my face for a reaction. Peeta does make my family happy, and I owe
him for that. When we were friends, he made me happy, too. And tonight, his
meal and proud smile combated the humiliation that I'd been suffering over
kissing him, his thoughtfulness attracting those notoriously warm feelings
towards him again. As usual, I hadn't seen it coming.
I'm not certain how well I conceal my thoughts in front of Finnick because some
sort of ailment creeps into his features. Something akin to doubt. "It's still
us, right?" he asks. "You and me?"
Is...is he worried that he's becoming less essential to me? Because of what he
saw inside the cottage? Peeta and I haven't been speaking, and Finnick knows
that. But perhaps there are other signs he's noticed that I have not.
Not to mention, we haven't slept together in a while. I keep making excuses not
to. It just hasn't been working with him anymore. Truly it hasn't been working,
hasn't been the same, since Peeta got here. I'm not sure what to do about that.
I dodge Finnick's question like a bullet but kiss his cheek to reassure him,
then send him on his way. As I come back inside, Peeta's gaze follows me to my
chair. When I glance up, he offers me a cautious smile, pulverizing my
intention to stay mad at him for being as brusque to Finnick as my uncle. I
swallow a forkful of cranberry chutney, and it sparkles on my tongue.
I take another bite. I like it.
His smile widens, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Pleasing him makes me
blush, so I look away, hoping he doesn't see.
We unwrap gifts at midnight. Peeta goes first, tearing open a box filled with
presents from his family. He receives packages of cookies and chocolates, a
sweater, and a cookbook.
There's also an elegantly-beribboned gift from his girlfriend, Madge. The
golden paper is fancier than what Peeta's parents used to wrap his gifts. She's
sent him a sketchbook bound in orange leather. The material is soft and
probably made from the shaved newborn ass-flesh of an endangered species.
And there's a card that says "Waiting for You" on the front. As he reads it, I
flip my braid over my shoulder and pretend that I need to pee, discreetly
plucking a tiny box from under the tree and making my escape. Safe in my room,
I chuck the box onto the bed and then plop myself beside it, wondering how long
it will take him to finish reading the card before I can go back in there.
I feel stupid. I'd buckled and gotten him a gift, but it's not made of inhumane
leather or immortalized in gold wrapping. I can't give it to him now.
"Hey."
Twisting around, I find Peeta radiating light in the doorway. "Can I come in?"
he asks timidly.
I hesitate. He comes in anyway and perches at the edge of my bed, fidgeting
with a flat package tied with a green bow. "Um, I wanted to give this to you.
When we were alone." He holds out the gift. "Merry Christmas."
I catch myself staring at the present like it's going to attack me. Carefully,
I accept it and take my time unwrapping the paper.
It's a framed photograph of me. It's from the day we hiked through the forest
and he snapped a candid photo of me dipping my toe in a waterlily pond. In the
photo, I'm made of delicate, faded lines. It looks like an old picture, but the
details of my outfit prove that it was taken in this decade. It's the first
photograph I've ever seen of myself.
Something inside me spreads its arms and floods me with warmth. And I know. I
know how I feel about the boy sitting next to me. All at once, it becomes
clear.
I look at him. Thank you.
"You're welcome," he says, grinning. Then his gaze finds the box that I'd
dropped on the bed. "What's that?"
Like a three-year-old, I snatch the thing and hide it behind my back. But Peeta
leans to the side, trying to peek. "Is it a gift?"
I shrug.
"Is…is it for me?"
Sighing, I slap it into his hand. Peeta opens the box and plucks out miniature
glass vial containing a white, fuzzy seed that looks like a parachute. He
politely conceals his bafflement.
Heat creeps up my neck. I grab my notebook and write, It's a dandelion seed.
From District Twelve.
His head snaps up.
To remind you of home. So you won't miss it so much.
This species of dandelion is native to his country. Leave it to Greasy Sae to
import the impossible for me.
He stares at me, his irises an infinite, reverent blue. "I don't know why to
say."
I set down my notebook and quirk an eyebrow. Finally.
Peeta's sheepish laughter fills the room. My shoulders shake with mirth.
Haymitch interrupts, appearing in the doorway and holding up the phone. "Peeta.
It's Madge."
Her name vacuums up his laughter and strangles my own silent chuckles. Peeta
once told me that his exchange organization wanted their students to get the
full, uninterrupted experience of being abroad, so the organization recommended
limiting phone calls with family and friends. He's talked to his parents only a
couple of times over the months, but this is the first time he's been able to
talk to his girlfriend.
There's a pause as he considers the phone. He glances at me, and I glance away,
feigning preoccupation with my nails while I bleed internally from the heart.
He takes the phone, then waits until Haymitch leaves before holding the
receiver to his ear. "Madge?"
A feminine voice squeals from the phone, glittering with affection and
excitement. The sound reminds me that I'm an interloper. I'm glued to the
mattress although I should have left him alone.
"I…I miss you, too," Peeta answers, his voice flustered and uncertain. "Yeah, I
just opened it. It's amazing."
She says something that sounds flirty. I set my photograph on the bed, next to
the dandelion seed tucked in its vial, and get up to leave.
Peeta notices immediately. He holds the phone from his ear, looking like he's
about to ask me to stay but then thinks better of it. "I'll be out in a
minute," he tells me, I guess so that I can relay the message to Mama and
Haymitch.
"Sorry," he says into the phone. "That was…no, that was…um, my host sister."
My feet grind to a halt. The resentment flares up like a brushfire, wiping out
the timid phase that I've been stuck in. I grab my notebook, tear out a sheet
of paper, crumple it into a ball, and pitch it at him.
Peeta rears back. "What—"
More paper. More balls. He fights to listen to Madge while I throttle him. Then
I go for my pillow and whack it against his side repeatedly.
"Hey!" He sees that I'm not playing and sets his jaw. "Stop it!"
"Hello?" I hear Madge say.
Peeta quickly apologizes and asks her to call back in five minutes. The instant
his hands are free, he wrenches the pillow from my grasp, seizes my forearms,
and hisses, "Katniss. I said, stop it. Now."
I launch at him, knocking him backward and straddling his waist. I grapple to
fasten him to the mattress, but he performs a trick with his body and flips me
over. We're a furious mess of arms and limbs rolling across my bed, wrestling
to pin the other down.
Peeta wins. He lands on top of me once more, his chest beating against mine. He
realizes that he's between my legs and blinks. Inwardly, I sigh from the bliss
of his coarse zipper sliding over my panties, the immaculate feeling of his
weight on me, and my thighs flanking his waist. We gaze at each other, our lips
so close, his eyes glittering. Oh, how I want him to move his hips, to roll
them into me.
He won't. He won't ever do that.
I shove him away and leap off the bed, fixing him with an expression that
belies exactly what we're both thinking, what this moment just proved.
I am not your fucking sister.
Chapter End Notes
     I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
     Happy New Year to everyone!
See the end of the chapter for more notes

Peeta
After Katniss leaves, I run my fingers through my mussed hair—she had pulled it
a few times. Even before she attacked me, the words had sounded wrong. They
slipped out because I was cornered between Madge's voice and Katniss's very
existence, and because Madge wanted to know who I was talking to, and the only
neutral, acceptable, uncomplicated and girlfriend-friendly answer was "host
sister."
It hadn't felt like I was wrestling a sister. The paper air raid and pillow
fight unleashed the beast in me, and when Katniss's groin bucked against mine,
the thoughts eating away at my mind weren't sibling thoughts. Thankfully, she
pushed me off her, preventing other hidden parts of me from waking up from
hibernation.
When Madge calls back, I worry that she can see through the phone and figure
out what happened. But then I notice that the tiny vial with the dandelion seed
Katniss gave me is missing. As an innocent bystander, it had become a victim to
our wrestling match and fallen off the bed.
I crawl on all fours across the room, hunting for it with the phone wedged
between my ear and shoulder. Buttercup appears in the doorway, his bright
marble eyes watching me paw at the floor boards. I monologue my girlfriend to
death about the things I plan to draw in the sketchbook she sent me, until I
find the vial hiding in the shadow of Katniss's overturned sandal.
I slump against the wall in relief. "I really love it," I say while rolling the
glass-encased seed between my fingertips.
Madge sighs happily, and I realize that she thinks I meant the sketchbook.
She's proud of her consistent ability to pick out the right ones—this is the
fourth one she's given me (last Christmas when we were still just friends, my
birthday, my going-away present, and today). My praise pleases her and
effectively detours potential pouting over having to call back in the first
place.
She says she misses me. She says that I sound different. She cries a little. I
feel slightly panicky and profoundly responsible, so I renew my boyfriend vows.
She says she loves me. I say, "Me, too," but when we hang up, I do a mental
recap of the semantics and know I've come up short. Madge deserves better than
"Me, too," but I won't get the chance to do it over until my next letter or
one-hour bus trip to the Internet café. A rare phone call with my girlfriend
after a four-month drought has been ruined.
I deserve better than Katniss's island-infused tantrums. But the dandelion seed
stands in my way of holding a grudge.
That and her chronically doleful mood. It possesses her right up to New Year's
Eve, as the family sits out on the porch, waiting for the clock to strike
twelve and listening to Old Man Sae strum his guitar—he and his wife are
celebrating with us.
Katniss is luminescent in her long, clingy, cottony dress, with that slim
braided lock hanging among her loose hair. It would be nice if she'd pass me
the shortbread cookies that she keeps hogging. My parents sent me a boxful, and
it's not that I want to eat one—it gives me a happy thrill seeing her gobble
them up. It's just that I want her to remember I'm here. Pass me just one
cookie.
But it's still a nice night. We all sing songs—well, Katniss claps—mostly old
Panemian tunes from a century ago. We drink fruity concoctions that fizz in my
stomach. I tell everyone about my country's tradition of New Year's
resolutions, but I take a little too long with my explanation because
eventually the group bursts into a collective but playful arggg and tosses
napkins at me. It makes me laugh.
I catch Katniss biting her fingernail and watching me, the cookies forgotten in
her lap but the hunger still on her face. In the true spirit of cowardice, I
pretend I don't notice.
She hands me the cookie box. Our fingers brush. God.
Greasy Sae criticizes Haymitch in an amusing, motherly way about how many
drinks he's had, but he denies it. Violet plays with Buttercup, stroking the
cat's back and scrunching his face. Katniss grins fondly at them.
As Old Man Sae begins to sing, his wife waves her hand in the air. "Aye, stick
to playing, my love."
The group chuckles. I like it right here. For the first time, I feel at home
with these people. A boulder forms in my throat as I realize that I'm a part of
them. I belong. On this lazy, delighted night, I'm perfectly content.
And then Haymitch belches into my ear.
"Gross!" I shove him away. "What the hell?"
Old Man Sae and Katniss crack up. Katniss has her hand over her mouth—it's an
adorably sad sight.
"Aye, Haymitch." Greasy Sae slaps him upside the head. "You're supposed to set
an example for Peeta. What's the matter with you? Be romantic."
Haymitch sets his heels up on the porch rail. "My niece should sing."
Sae gives him another reproachful look. Her husband stops playing. Katniss
glowers at her uncle.
"You can sing?" I ask, mesmerized by her for the thousandth time.
She blushes. No, I can't.
"Katniss has the prettiest voice I've ever heard," Haymitch announces. "She
wanted to be a singer."
Her eyes widen in mortification. My mom used to put me on the spotlight too,
also not in a good way.
Haymitch's glazed eyes signal that he's having too much fun with his bottle.
"Is this New Year's or not? Come on, girl. Sing."
Katniss shakes her head, openly hating him.
"Haymitch, if she doesn't want to—" Sae begins.
"She should want to," he argues. "Start the new year right by making herself
useful."
"Hey," I snap. "Cut it out."
"What's it to you, Peeta? Don't you want to hear her? We all do. This silence
crap has gone on long enough. Sing something, girl. You might actually realize
you miss it."
"That's enough." I reach out to steal his glass, but his foot presses into my
chest and pushes me back onto the front stoop.
He grunts. "You almost made me spill my drink. On my brand new pants." He slaps
his thigh. "Violet, tell them. Tell them about Katniss's voice."
Violet had been spacing out and enjoying Buttercup's company, but now she
blinks, picking up on the conversation. She comprehends the magnitude of the
moment and glances between everyone like a little kid who's been asked to
choose between Santa and the Easter Bunny.
Katniss stares at her, tense but hopeful.
"I...well...her father used to sing. It was magical," Violet says. "And
Primrose was only a toddler, but she used to imitate him." She gets that far-
off look again. "I think we've had enough singing tonight."
Katniss's face falls. The sight of it tempts me to break the porch in half.
She takes it out on her uncle by snatching his glass and pouring the contents
into a bush. He lurches to his feet, doing an angry dance and cursing up a
storm while the rest of us watch in shock. Katniss tosses the glass to the
ground and stalks barefoot down the road. I've lost count of how many times she
has taken off to avoid stuff.
She wants to be alone. Probably. Definitely.
Or maybe she'll go to Jo and Tigris. Or maybe she'll go to Finnick. Either way,
I'm the last person she wants to see after that. I'll just end up with a
handful of sand flung in my face. That's the best I can hope for. She'll be
fine. She can take care of herself. She was doing it long before she met
me...actually no, she hadn't been taking care of herself that well, from what
I've seen and been told. But she's a tough girl...isn't she?
I should make myself useful. I should look up the definition of tough.
I unstaple myself from the porch and leave the house. I leave despicable
Haymitch and impossible Violet and the innocent Saes behind.
I go after Katniss.
It's instinctive, the direction my feet take me. I almost expect to see her
footprints ahead, a permanent trail of them embedded in the ground and showing
the way. Not that I'd need it. I've taken this walk enough times that the
darkness is a sidekick instead of a hindrance. The air is its usual salty self
while the surf pounds out its rhythm, giving the sand a thorough beating. She's
huddled by the dunes, the spot that we'd unspokenly christened as our own
during that narrow window when we were friends. I lower myself next to her and
wait for a sign that she wants me to back off, but it doesn't come.
She's so small, hugging her legs against the breeze. It's cool at night, though
not uncomfortable, much tamer than what District Twelve has to deal with in
January. Snowfall and flurries and frostbite are myths here. Still, the chill
makes me wish I were a blanket, a soft one that would fit around her shoulders.
I take off my cotton sweater and cover her with it. She flinches but accepts
the warmth, then twists her face and nuzzles her nose against the fabric. Each
time I think she can't burrow any further into my chest, she does something
uncensored like that to prove me wrong. It's crazy how much access she has to
these parts of me. Sometimes I can't take it. Most times I wish she'd stop.
She's about to say something when we hear a commotion, the high-pitched,
squeaky-toy whine of little kids fighting. It's then that I notice the shadows
of people—couples and families—scattered throughout the beach, choosing to
celebrate the New Year by the water. The clashing voices belong to two little
girls fighting while their father—I guess they're sisters, and I guess it's
their father—tries to play the mediator. One girl points to the other and
declares, "She pushed me!"
I can't see the father, but I imagine he looks like my dad, of the pink-nosed,
silvery-blond-haired variety, even though those traits are virtually non-
existent in Panem, except for the tourists who come to marvel at the island's
pristine and wild beaches, and the handful of citizens who live up in the north
shore. In a tired voice, the father asks, "Why did she push you?"
"Because I hit her," the girl answers.
Watching them, I chuckle and catch Katniss silently doing the same. Her
shoulders ripple, and her teeth show whenever she laughs. She gazes at the trio
wistfully until they stroll away from us. She could have escaped here to think
about her sister, to miss her in private, and maybe try to communicate with her
in some way. I forgot to consider that.
"Am I an intruder?" I ask.
She shakes her head.
"Good. It might be easy for you to walk away all the time, but I can't do that.
I don't want to leave you."
She stares at the ocean. I go off on a tangent. "I expected to go numb or
immune or something to the sound of the waves, like at one point I would get so
used to them that I would stop hearing them. But my dad swore that the sound
would always be in the back of my mind, no matter what I was doing here, but
I'd doubted him. The idea seemed pretty hectic anyway. But Dad was right. I
still hear the waves. It's reassuring."
I inhale, and then keep going. "Compared to a lake, I also thought the ocean
was a monster, you know? That it didn't let anyone actually swim because it
knocked people around like punching bags. But the ocean is actually a different
kind of peace. It's an exciting one that lives out loud. The lakes in District
Twelve are like sleep. The ocean is like waking up."
Do I ever shut up?
She sniffles and wipes her nose with her arm. I'm scared that she's going to
cry, because I can't endure the idea of Katniss crying, how the tears might
smother her face yet make her look even more gorgeous. The possibility is
mildly terrifying.
"Just tell me that you're all right. Let me in," I say.
She swipes sand off her leg in frustration, implying that of course she's not
okay. If I really want to be a friend, I need to show that I'm willing to hear
the ugly truth.
Her notebook is at home. If I persist, how will she answer? With her hands?
With looks? Which one am I hoping for?
Her head dips, a sheet of dark hair blocking her profile. I reach out and cup
her chin, forcing her to face me, my thumb skimming her cheek and causing her
to squeeze her eyes shut as if pained. Her brows crinkle together. A milky-gray
sheen illuminates her features, exposing lovely flaws like the pimple in the
crook of her nostril, the oval chicken pox scar on her chin, and the bra strap
peeking out of her dress, threatening to slide down her arm. I can discover all
I want about her, but these details all pale in comparison to the one thing she
holds back.
"You can talk to me," I promise.
Her eyes squeeze tighter.
"I want to hear your voice," I plead.
I'm being unfair. I wish she'd hold it against me and bite the hand that's
touching her.
"Please say something," I whisper.
She pulls away. I should have known better and am about to apologize when she
gives me a wry smile and writes in the flat of sand between us. I squint to
decipher her response in the dark, using the waning moon for light.
No one needs me.
The words grab onto my stomach and yank. There's no self-pity in her words,
only resignation and acceptance. It's like she believes that if she's ever
really going to get noticed, or valued, she'll have to use her voice. Even I've
stooped so low as to request it.
It's more than that. She's more than that. She has to know it.
"I do," I insist, leaning closer. "I need you."
Katniss looks upset, her face crumbling with doubt.
"Look at me," I command.
Struck by my tone, she does. I've learned that I have to be firm if I want her
cooperation.
"Now listen to me," I say. "I miss our friendship. I miss it all the time. I
didn't like you at first, but I like you now. I'm sorry that I punched
Finnick...actually I'm not sorry about that, but I'm sorry that it screwed
everything up between us. I'm sorry I let the kiss get in the way and then
avoided you. Yeah, you've been ignoring me too, or scowling at me, but I don't
care. I'm still sorry I didn't own up to my half of it and just confront you,
talk it out. I didn't face the music."
She frowns.
"Facing the music is when you…it means…it doesn't matter," I amend. "Katniss,
you're wrong. I'm desperate to hear your voice, but not for the reason you
think. Yeah, I want to know if it sounds as beautiful as I think it does, but I
care about you. I don't want you to lose that part of yourself. You have a
right to speak. You have a right to that."
I take her hand. "But still, we agreed to protect each other. So I'm here. I
want to be here with you. You can be quiet for the rest of your life. You can
speak with flags or maracas or smoke signals or airplane banners or in Morse
code, and I'll listen no matter what." I scoot closer. "You think no one needs
you? Your friends need you to share stories with them. Haymitch needs you to
keep him from being lonely, to keep your family together. He can't do it on his
own. Your mother needs you to brush her hair and be her daughter."
Her chin wobbles.
"And I...this year isn't the same for me without you. It doesn't measure up. I
need you in it. I need the girl who taught me to swim without making me feel
like a loser. I need the girl who convinced me to take an Evil-Knievel leap off
a lagoon cliff. I need the girl who helped me invent different lives for myself
around a fire. I need the girl who dances and plays with waterlilies in the
forest and stages protests. That girl is brave and caring. She has the
strongest will I've ever seen, and I want to know her like I did before. I want
her to know me…" My breath dies a million deaths as she presses her pinky
against my mouth.
"Please," I say against her skin. "Be my friend."
Her sad gaze ventures down to my chest. She wipes away her last words and
writes in the sand. A single letter.
K
She points to it, then presses her fingertip against the M charm I'm wearing,
then looks at me imploringly. And it breaks my heart.
"Oh, Katniss," I whisper.
This is the one possibility that I've avoided since our incredible kiss. That
she doesn't want to be friends. What she wants is more.
At first, I thought she'd kissed me for the same reason she kisses Finnick, as
some deluded form of comfort, nothing beyond that. Which had stung. But after
receiving the dandelion seed for Christmas, after seeing her face fall when
Madge called, after witnessing the outrage and hurt when I referred to her as
my host sister, and after being throttled by the yearning in her eyes and the
blush on her cheeks when I landed on top of her, it dawns on me now. That kiss
had been sincere. It had been real.
I've replayed that moment over and over again in my head. We hadn't gotten very
far, but that kiss affected me more than any other kiss has. I felt it in my
knees and in my blood, the sensations bursting like firecrackers. Since then,
I've been wondering what the rest of her mouth would taste like, how it would
feel to mold my lips to hers. And if things were different, I would grab her
face, right now, and find out.
But I can't. How do I explain that? How do I even begin to hurt her? How do I
do it without hurting myself?
Katniss closes the distance, and it's the stray lock of hair curling across her
parted mouth like a warning that alerts me. Her hand curves around my neck, her
lids on the verge of fluttering shut as she slants her face toward me. Her lips
nearly swipe mine by the time I think to lean away from her, ignoring the
tremor that races up my body from the near contact. I brace my hands on her
shoulders, keeping her in place. "I just...I just love my girlfriend."
Don't I? It's not like how I think of Madge has changed. Doesn't that mean I
love her?
Disappointment and mortification contort Katniss's features. As she turns away,
her bra strap chooses that moment to slip and land on my thumb. I'm tempted to
draw it back up, secure it place, take care of her—but also to find out if the
material is soft.
Of course, I won't. I feel like a giant asshole when I should be feeling noble
for refusing to be one of those guys, a two-timing alpha hound that nails a
willing girl in spite of the fact that he's taken. Yet I want to wipe that look
from Katniss's face and fix it, fix her, make everything better between us.
Something about my choices feel wrong, but I can't figure out which one I
regret: what I just did or what I chose not to do.
Is there a choice at all? Madge is steady. She'll be there when this year is
up. She's enduring and solid like a charm made of silver.
Katniss is not steady. She's this whole island, water and fire and wind and
earth. She's special and can't be duplicated or molded, but she's as temporary
as that initial in the sand. I'll be without her someday. I'll be far from
here. Even if I weren't already with someone, it couldn't work. This would
never happen anyway.
I'm so fucking confused.
There's a horrible pause in which I can barely meet Katniss's wounded gaze.
People always rely on the eyes to determine emotion. On her, it shows up
everywhere. The worst part is her mouth. That's what scares me the most. The
quiver, the teeth and tongue working in tandem to substitute for her voice.
Cheers erupt from the people on the beach. They sing and celebrate with bottles
of alcohol and sparkling wands that look like handheld comets or dandelions
receiving electric shock therapy.
It's midnight. Katniss turns away from me, but I can't stand it.
"Katniss," I whisper, "I don't want to be with anyone else on this night. Just
you. I meant it when I said I need you. I do. I've missed you so much."
For an instant, Katniss resists my words. Then, with a sigh, she scrambles on
top of me, straddling my thighs and crushing me in a tight hug. She hides her
head in the side of my neck. Not to get something out of me, but to give
something to me. To share the moment.
I'm too stunned to object, and I'm not sure I will—not right away—once I get
over the high of having her this close. I let it happen. Wrapping my arms
around her, I hug her back. If kissing is impossible, and if separating is
intolerable, and if this is the best we can do, I'll take it. I'll spend the
first seconds of this year holding her. Until it's time to let her go.
Chapter End Notes
     I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Notes
     A preview of my new one-shot, "Poet," will be posted on my tumblr
     this Sunday ;) I wrote it for streetlightlove's Smut-to-Save-Lives
     charity (S2SL). Lots of great authors are participating, so if you
     want to read their work, be sure to donate!
See the end of the chapter for more notes

Peeta
She's tipping the scales in my heart. I try not to think about it but end up
thinking of nothing else. I lay in bed and attempt to get comfortable, punching
my pillow to fluff it, but when that doesn't work, my hand reaches underneath,
searching for the dandelion seed. Rolling the vial between my fingers, I think
about my host sister. Who isn't really my host sister. Who's light-years from
being my host sister.
Winter break is over, and I need sleep for school tomorrow, but instead I think
and think and think. I think about when she's in the shower, the door slightly
open so I can hear the splashes of water and see the steam swirling into the
hallway. I think about her clothes scattered on the floor, covering the areas
where tiles are missing. I think of her naked body, which I've already seen,
and how it might look all wet and soapy, as she stands in the miniscule tin
tub. I think about her braid. I think about how she might sound when she sings.
I think about the dress she wore on New Year's. I think about the way she gazed
at the sisters fighting on the beach. I think about the ragged look on her face
when she drew the K in the sand and waited for my reaction, asking if there was
a place left inside me for her. I think about her weight on my lap and her arms
locked around my shoulders and her warm breath on my neck. I think about how
much I wanted to keep holding her and how important it was to stop.
I think about walking to class with Katniss, her hand tucked into mine. Would
it feel right? Would I regret it later, once we have to say goodbye for good?
Ah, shit. I really, really am thinking about this.
I hear Haymitch snoring. Thankfully, he's a lump, so when he gets home late,
he's too tired to pay much attention to my sleep-talk. That's what he says, at
least. If anything comes out of my mouth that does strike him, he spares me the
humiliating details.
Above me, a gauzy banner of dust stretches from the ceiling to an adjacent
wall. I smell fresh air on my pillowcase because the family doesn't own a dryer
and hangs everything outside. I feel the vial's smooth glass surface against my
fingertips and the change in temperature where my toes peek out from under the
blanket.
I'm thirsty. My parched tongue forces me out of bed and down the bunk steps,
which creak under my weight. I'm short and bulky, but Haymitch is wiry, so he
should have taken the top bunk. But he'd probably slip on the steps while
intoxicated and break his neck, so then again, maybe it's for the better that
he didn't.
The cottage has a habit of wincing and groaning when I walk through it. Mom
likes to comment that I stomp around like I'm in a wrestling tournament, even
though I don't stomp, not out of anger or anything…I mean not at all because
stomping is an exaggeration, the wrong choice of word for the way I move,
except for when I'm in pain and limping. But I'm not limping on a regular
basis, so actually it's just that I walk a little loud and…ugh. Even in my
head, the engine keeps running.
Chugging a glass of water fixes the dry mouth. Quenched and hydrated, I not-
stomp back the way I came, toward my room.
At first, I mistake the thud for my own step, and I wonder if Mom's right after
all. But then I pause in the hallway and hear it again. It's not me. It's
coming from Katniss's room. A girlish whine sneaks out from beneath the door,
which multiplies into another and another. She sounds like a scared little
girl.
Forget about making it to my bed, because the thudding intensifies in volume,
intruding on my rationale and giving me hero feels. I move quickly to her door
and open it. The room is small enough that I can see everything up close and
personal, and the sight is disturbing: Katniss is having the equivalent of a
street brawl with her sheets.
Her whimpers have me rushing to her side, where I kneel and grab her shoulders.
"Katniss," I whisper. "Katniss."
Her eyes fly open. She lurches up in shock, her chest pumping for air.
"It's okay," I say, steadying her. "It was a bad dream. You're okay."
The current from the ceiling fan causes her bangs to sweep against her face.
You're…you're here?
"I'm here."
You're real?
"I'm real."
I'm…I'm just…I don't…
"Shh." I smooth her damp forehead, spooked by the terror that I'd seen aimed at
me and surprised that the sounds of her having a nightmare haven't woken up
Violet.
After Katniss calms down, I tuck her in. "You're safe. Get some sleep."
I rise to leave, but her hand latches onto my hip. Wait.She uses pressure to
draw me to her, flipping open the blanket in invitation and shimmying backward.
Stay with me?
Katniss is half-naked, in a black tank and polka-dotted underwear. I'm half-
naked, also in a tank and shorts. Not to mention her mother is only a few feet
away.
But Katniss had a nightmare. She's better now, though she's still a little
shaken, and she matters to me. I fumble and weigh my options, which are non-
existent. I'm not going to abandon her like an asshole. I'm wide awake as it
is. Her plea conjures only one type of response, one word that's best kept
inside my head. This would be the perfect time to create a manifesto: I will
not cave to the Silent but Beautiful One.
As a secondary precaution, my M charm could be used as a talisman against the
K. But that would be stupid and lame—and stupid. I doubt it would work anyway.
The bed sags under me, squeaking as I shuffle to find the right position. I'm
in the middle of getting adjusted to the situation when Katniss's curves slant
against me. She drapes an olive-skinned arm over my abdomen and rests her cheek
on my chest, inspiring me to cradle her. Her orchid scent and the way she fits
to my side is a comfort, although all hell is breaking loose across the
mountains and valleys of my conscience. My thumb glides over her shoulder while
I shush her. She sinks into my frame, small and sweet, her temperament made of
so many highs and lows—sometimes it seems like I'm the only one who sees them,
because I'm the only one she lets in. Which can't be true since I don't deserve
that privilege and, theoretically, we aren't the only people in this bed.
We both have significant others. Though I've never had to be there for Madge in
this way—I don't know if she even has nightmares because she always arrives to
school bright-eyed and glossy-haired and rested, and the most angsty kinds of
things that we talk about are pop quizzes and college applications.
Katniss bunches my tank in her fist, pulling me from my thoughts, urging me to
come back to her. In response, I kiss the top of her head.
On her nightstand is the photograph that I took of her by the waterlily pond. I
stare at it for what seems like forever while she drifts to sleep. I'm still
staring at it when she wakes up about two hours later. It's still dark out, but
she looks more peaceful. We gaze at each other for the longest time. Is it
right for us to feel this close? Snuggling like this, I'm sure I can tell her
anything, no strings attached, no compromises or conditions or embarrassment,
which is weird seeing as we've been walking a tightrope with each other.
"Your nightmare was about your sister, wasn't it?" I venture.
Her eyes mist. She grabs her notebook and pencil off the floor and writes,She
drowned. I wasn't there. I relive it over and over.
"It's not your fault."
I didn't protect her.
"No, but you can't protect everyone. Superheroes can't do it, and neither can
mythological gods, or great fictional characters who fight in wars, or
soldiers, or real-life heroes. Doctors can't save everyone. Firefighters can't.
And you know what? I hate to break this to you, but you're a sixteen year-old
village girl who's only in her third year of Survival at school. You're not
almighty. You're not supposed to be."
I wasn't talking about everyone. I was talking about my sister.
"Did she think you were a supreme being?"
Katniss startles.
"Did she rely on you all the time to keep an eye on her?"
She grins warily as if recalling a memory.
"Or was it the other way around?"
Her chin sinks into my chest in defeat. Primrose was the superhero. I was the
mere mortal who almost slipped while cliff-diving. She's the one who bandaged
my sprained ankle.
"Was she a good swimmer?"
Better than me and Finnick.
"Katniss, it's not your fault. You think she'd want you to feel like this? I'll
bet she doesn't blame you, could never blame you. I'll bet she admired you and
tried to imitate your singing too—don't tell me if I'm right, just listen. You
shouldn't feel guilty about all these things, especially not for being alive or
having a voice. Staying this way, so quiet, is an insult to her. Don't do
that."
I'm worried that I've gone too far, but then she fixes me with a meaningful
stare. Why don't you like me?
I hadn't expected that. If she only knew how completely she engulfs my
thoughts. "I do like you. I more than like you," I admit. "I guess you like me,
too."
She nods. Why had I announced the obvious? Is it because I wanted to actually
see that nod, like a confirmation?
I brace myself. "What about Finnick?"
I've told you about Finnick. It's not the same with him.
"Jo said that you have mutual histories," I prompt, wanting to understand but
not believing that I actually will.
I'm surprised that Katniss doesn't hesitate when she writes about it.He loved a
girl once. Her name was Annie. I knew her from school. She died over a year and
half ago.
God. I'd had a feeling. "What happened?" I ask.
A nest-full of tracker jackers got to her when she went hiking in the forest.
She veered off the trail to explore and went too deep. She was found a day
later.
We learned about tracker jackers in Survival. They're one of the island's more
dangerous natural predators, along with jabberjays, snakes, and some sort of
baboon mutt that lives in higher elevations. Tracker jackers are like wasps,
only their stings can cause powerful hallucinations, and sometimes even death.
Finnick spent the whole summer locked up in his boat. When school started, he
walked around the hallways like a ghost. Katniss pauses in her writing, then
continues. Then Prim died that Fall. And I knew how Finnick felt. We hadn't
talked much before that, but he did hear about what happened to my sister. And
in the spring, when the weather warmed up, he joined me one morning for a swim.
And every morning after that. And last May, right before he graduated, we
discovered how else we could comfort one another. We make each other forget.
"Does it work?" I bite out.
It used to. It was working during those first months. Until you arrived.
"You're not right together. You may think you're helping each other, but you're
not. Ignoring the pain won't erase it."
That's very easy for you to say.
"You deserve more," I argue. "A boyfriend who matters to you in deeper ways."
Maybe. But I could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve the one boy that I
want.
In the dark, she stares right at me. I'm trapped, yet I don't want to be
anywhere else. Holding her close, I'm giving her mixed signals, the same way
she gave me mixed signals in the beginning. But I can't help it. I can't help
wanting this moment to last, with her in my arms. No girl has ever looked at me
this way, like I'm the last sunset in existence. No girl on earth is Katniss
Everdeen.
I swipe her hair aside. "That's not true. I'm the one who doesn't deserve you.
You're boundless."
Stop saying things like that.
"Why?"
You know why.
"You started it. And anyway, I mean it. You're worth so much more than Finnick
Odair."
Hey!I care about him. I care about him very much.She sets down her pencil and
then raises her eyes to me.But he's not you.
I need to conceal what this does to my heart and stay on a platonic course.
"Katniss, there's no one like you either."
She challenges me with a wry but sad smile.Our meanings are not the same.
"I know, but it's not an easy thing to respond to. It's not like our Q and A
game. We're not swapping favorite colors."
Green.
"Orange."
I know.
I jerk my head back. "How do you know?"
It's the color of your backpack and the sketchbook Madge gave you. It's the
color of that shirt you wear all the time. It's the color you use the most in
your drawings.
"God, Katniss…"
Finnick isn't you, she repeats. It hasn't been the same with him, because of
you. If you would have me, I wouldn't be with him.
"If I'm not faithful, then I'm no better than my mom," I blurt out.
She frowns. Dammit. What did I just let slip out?
She waits for me to elaborate. The story tumbles out of my mouth, recapping
that day last year when I saw my mother with another man. I tell Katniss what
I've never told anyone else.
Sophomore year. Spring semester, just before Madge and I got together. Going
out for ice cream with friends. I remember the air-conditioner snarling, the
plastic chairs, the smell of vanilla. Clove rehashing to Marvel how someone's
supposed sexual-racist-religious remark in Drama II had so obviously
beendirected at her. I remember the Leeg twins finishing each other's
sentences.
I remember ordering a banana split. My mother stepping into the ice cream shop,
her arms around a man who wasn't my father but another basketball team parent.
Cato Calloway's father.
Cato Calloway. Tall. Trim. Destined to be voted "Most likely to be on a
Wheaties Box." The guy who liked giving me a hard time at practice because of
my height.
When Mr. Calloway's lips touched my mother's, I buckled into a chair in the
corner. I bent to untie and retie my shoe, then looked up and collided with my
mother's gaze. She held a cone of papaya sorbet, even though I'd only ever seen
her eat regular ice cream.
I ran out of there. When I came home hours later, the strange apologetic smell
of veggie lasagna, my favorite, filled the hallway. Over dinner, my brothers
made lots of noise while Dad kept talking about the weeds choking our backyard
plants. Mom and I never glanced at each other, but I wanted to stab the life
out of my dinner with my knife. I never knew that she liked sorbet. For weeks,
I couldn't stop looking in the freezer, waiting to find our vanilla bean ice
cream to be replaced with something else entirely.
All those times she reminded me how imperfect I was, how I'd never be enough
for her like my brothers were, mainly because I was the youngest and the most
like my dad. All those times when she set impossible standards that I strove to
meet, while she couldn't even manage to stay loyal to her own family.
Katniss lets me recover from the story before writing, I love my sister the way
you love your papa.
"Yeah," I whisper. "I couldn't protect him from Mom's betrayal. I still can't.
He doesn't know what I saw." I feel Katniss's warmth, and it softens the rough
edges of the memory. "He'd never lie. He'll always be faithful. I'd rather be
like him than her."
She sucks in a breath. There's more to you than just your parents.
Seeing the words on paper, in her handwriting, I almost believe it. "There's
more to you than Primrose," I counter.
We miss them.
"Yeah. I miss peanut butter, too."
She chuckles quietly. The mood lifts.
"What would you miss if you went to another country?" I ask, imagining her in
District Twelve with me.
She interprets the question differently as she bundles herself against me. She
gestures between us. I would miss this.
This. Now. Us.
All I can think is, that it isn't hypothetical. Eventually, she will miss this.
I'll miss it too.
Will you come to me again? To sleep?she asks, hopeful.
"Are you sure? I can't give you more," I caution, denial twitching in my
throat, because huge chunks of me want to give her more.
I'm sure. I 'll take what I can get. I want these months with you.
I've broken her heart enough. Plus, there's a huge possibility that my
girlfriend wouldn't be happy about me literally sleeping with another girl. As
it is, I feel the material of Katniss's underwear rubbing against my boxers,
and I've spent a significant amount of time trying not to get hard. Yet I can't
stay away either. I care about her, and if I can help close her eyes and defuse
a nightmare, that's what I'll do. So I give in.
We're careful about separating by dawn. It becomes a routine throughout
January. We're apart during the day, making a game out of stolen glances across
the classroom. Or when no one is watching, we tease and play. I tug her hair on
our way home from school, and she baits me into one of our fork wars when we're
supposed to be washing the dishes after a meal.
At night, after Haymitch leaves for his night shift and Violet has conked out,
either Katniss sneaks into my bunk or I sneak under her sheets, where we wrap
ourselves around each other, confiding secret and silly thoughts until she
drops into an easy dream.
There's something appealing about having this clandestine connection with
Katniss. Like if we keep it to ourselves, it will become impenetrable enough to
stop time. This way, she and I grow back together. She never tells me what she
dreams about, but she wakes up happy. I like being with her when it happens.
One night, she catches me off guard when she says that she's heard me sleep-
talk. I knew this was a risk, but I'd taken it anyway. Internally, I still
freak out that I might have mumbled something illicit. "What, uh, did I say?"
You said "Always," she writes.
Always. Definitely a word that's only possible in dreams.
The morning of February first, it hits me. I leave Katniss and creep into the
living room, too antsy to return to my own bed. I pace for, like, five minutes.
I stare out the window as the sun drags itself over the island and consider
drawing something, anything, but I know I won't be able to concentrate.
I stare at the kitchen. Maybe I should make breakfast for Haymitch since he'll
be home in half an hour.
A tap on my shoulder makes me flinch. Katniss is rubbing her eyes, her face
craned up at me in confusion. I wonder how long she watched me space out.
"Today's the first," I explain. "I've been here exactly five months."
Katniss gets it. It's the halfway point of my exchange year. I'm here from the
beginning of September to the beginning of July. Not exactly a full year, but
that's how things go with my organization.
"It just feels strange," I say. "Do I look different?"
She cocks her head and examines me. Her expression brightens with an idea as
she tousles my hair. Your hair is shaggier.
Okay. That means, yes.
She, on the other hand, takes this as an opportunity to give me a trim,
assuring me that it's purely to enhance what's new. Gluing me to a chair, she
circles me with scissors. The morning light from outside warms my cheeks…or
maybe it's the nightgown she's wearing, which shifts each time she moves. Not
to mention that my eyes are level with the swells of her breasts.
Her knees knock gently against mine, her legs wedging themselves between my
thighs. I clear my throat and focus on the clay pots in the corner of the
living room, which contain a bunch of well-endowed, sexually-aroused looking
flowers, their centers protruding and sprouting at the tips.
In between delicate snips here and there, feminine fingers comb through my
hair, toying with my bangs and layers. My eyes fall closed at the sensation of
her nails lightly scratching my scalp. With my lids shut, I'm more attuned to
her body heat, the sounds of her gown rustling, and her feet padding over the
wooden planks. Her unsteady breathing.
She pauses behind me, and I swear, my spine vibrates in anticipation. She runs
her hands up the back of my skull. That's when a strange, needy sound tumbles
out of my mouth. She does it again. I'm a goner.
The phone shrieks. I jump out of my seat and Katniss drops the scissors. It
could be Haymitch, so I grab it, my grip basically squeezing the life out of
the phone. I'm winded and nearly shouting when I answer, "H-hello?"
"Peety?"
I freeze. It's Madge. But…but…she's not supposed to call except on holidays. I
feel as though I've just been caught with my head under the bride's dress right
before the processional.
"Madge!" I croak over-enthusiastically.
Katniss, who was in the middle of picking up the scissors, drops them again.
"What…um…hey," I say.
"Hi!" I hear the beam in her voice. "I know it's early for you, but I couldn't
wait. I'm sorry."
"No, it's fine. It's—I'm just surprised."
"Good, because it's a day for surprises."
Oh. I know that excited sound. I'm fluent in it. It's the sound of Madge when
she's about to burst with news. A sense of foreboding washes over me. Katniss
stands in a knoll of my blond hair as I lock eyes with her.
My girlfriend's words blast my eardrum, like confetti being shot from a cannon.
"I'm coming to see you!"
Chapter End Notes
     I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Katniss
"Here's how you deal with that bitch—" Jo begins, but then Tigris whacks her
before she can give me advice.
"You don't know that she's a bitch," Tigris argues.
"Didn't you hear what Katniss said? The girl booked a flight before even
talking to Peeta about it. She's a self-indulgent, invasive rich American
bitch."
We're lying on our backs in a circle, on our turf at the beach, with our heads
close together as we gaze up at the starry sky. When Jo had caught onto my
crankiness and asked what the hell was bothering me, I gave in and wrote them
everything, from the moment I kissed Peeta to this morning when Madge called.
Which was followed by a long silence, then Tigris's romantic sigh and Jo's
wrath against a girl she doesn't even know.
I hadn't wanted to tell anyone. I wanted to keep my time with Peeta tucked
close to my chest, but I needed someone to talk to about Madge. I'd needed to
recruit my friends, though I disagree with Jo. Most likely, Madge merely
assumed that Peeta would be euphoric about her visit. Maybe he is. He's seemed
adrift ever since.
She's not a bitch. Peeta wouldn't choose such a girl. He wouldn't wear her
initial.
Writing that to Jo is pointless. I don't understand why she approves of my
kinship with Peeta when she used to glower at him. But I do want to find out
how to keep myself from breaking when I see the lovers reunited. And that means
enduring the rest of her rant.
"Peeta wasn't supposed to get visitors, but here she comes," Jo prattles on,
waving her hand. "And I don't care that nothing happens between you guys at
night. You want more, and I'm betting he does too. You might not think so, but
the moonstruck way he talked about you at the street fest proves it. That's why
Madge is gonna hate you. She might seem sweet and perfect, but when she sees
the island goddess that her boyfriend's been sleeping within fucking distance
of, she's gonna peel off her face and reveal the true competition. And it's
gonna have fangs that suck blood by the pint."
"I hate your portrayal of our species," Tigris says.
It's not a competition, I insist. Peeta rejected me.
"On the outside, he did," Jo says. "On the inside, he's been swept away by you
for months. So here's what you do: Be yourself. Be nice to the blond demoness
with the fangs and the bat wings. And be sincere about it. Channel Prim's
kindness and mix it with your spice, and you'll be irresistible."
"Smile more often," Tigris chimes in. "Ask Madge questions about herself."
"But be the fierce Katniss that you've always been," Jo adds. "Don't become a
tame, withering victim. Don't let her weaken you. Don't let anyone weaken you.
"
The last thing I intend is for Princess Madge to weaken me. What's scary is not
knowing whether I'll be able to tolerate the sight of them as a couple. Her
alone, I can take. Her permanently affixed to Peeta's side, and her mouth
sucking on his, is another story.
Still, Jo's right. Shrinking isn't me. I won't let it happen no matter how I
feel about Peeta, or how he doesn't feel about me.
In bed that night, I squirm against him. Truthfully, I hadn't expected him to
join me now that Madge has slipped through the cracks and become a reality
between us.
"What's wrong?" Peeta asks, as if it's a mystery.
Already my resolve to be strong is plummeting. I snatch my notebook. Where will
you sleep when she's here?
Peeta hedges, staring at my hand on his stomach. In the dark, his cheeks look
hollow, but his nose is still adorable. He agonizes over how to respond, but
there's no need. The unspoken answer churns my gut. I'll have to watch them
embrace. I'll have to watch him put his arms around her. I'll have to watch
them kiss. And I will definitely have to spend my evenings by myself, my heart
spasming while he spends his in her hotel room. They lost their virginity to
one another, after all. Why wouldn't they fuck after five months apart?
I'll have to watch him come home in the mornings. I'll have to watch him be
happy...well, that part is nice.
Are you excited?I ask.
"It hasn't hit me yet," he says with a neutral smile.
That's him, sparing me from the harsher answer. Irritation courses through me
at the idea that I'm being pitied and protected. Katniss Everdeen is made of
more durable material than that. I toss away my notebook, sick of using it when
he can read my expressions better than anyone. I pinch his side.
"Ouch!" he squeaks.
Do not lie to me to make me feel better.
"I'd never lie to you," he says, his eyes flitting between me and my sleeping
mother.
I deflate. No, he wouldn't. I'm overreacting.
Peeta takes my wrists gingerly. The gesture strikes me. He has often reached
for that part of me but then held himself back.
"When I met you, you wore handcuffs that chaffed your skin, all red and raw,"
he says. "I thought to myself, that it was the only place where you weren't
strong. I wanted to touch you here." He strokes my wrists with his thumbs. "To
make you feel better, or maybe to explore what a wound felt like on you, or
both, I don't know. I guess I hoped that I could comfort you somehow and sort
of confirm that you were more vulnerable than you seemed.
"But it was a mistake to think that I could fix you. Your wrists healed on
their own. I know you're tough, Katniss. I mean, you're not inhuman. We all
need someone to help us. But I know you can survive the truth, and I'll always
give it to you."
I do not want things to change.
I don't want to stop talking like this. I want us to know one another, to
confess things and make jokes. I want him to babble more about words and art
and this storytelling called fanfiction that he misses so much. I want to tell
him more about swimming and the great big sea. I want to explain why I wish I
could find the courage to sing again. I want us to be ourselves.
I don't want Madge to take that from me. To take him from me.
Peeta sees what I'm thinking. "Nothing will change," he promises. "I'll be busy
with her, but I won't be far."
He cares about me. If he didn't, he wouldn't be here holding me every night,
trusting me with his private, random, and wandering thoughts. He confessed that
he likes me more than he should, but it's not enough, because cannot predict
what will happen. There's only so much any of us can control. He's a faithful
boy. A good, honorable boy like his papa. He'll show Madge whatever affection
she needs, and that will be his priority.
I am not a fool, though suddenly I feel foolish. What am I doing? Finnick and I
aren't in love, and my mind is elsewhere when he's on top of me, which is
seldom now. But I assured him that our relationship is still intact. Yet I've
tried to kiss Peeta, and I would do it again, if it were invited. I've flung
myself at him. And I'm lying to Finnick about him.
Perhaps Madge coming here will be a blessing and a reminder of how things are
supposed to be.
She's arriving during the spring holiday from school. Over the coming weeks,
plans are made through phone calls and Peeta's trips to the north shore to
email her. He talks to Haymitch about everything, rather than to me. I assume
it's because he believes that I don't want to hear about it. He's right. Our
communication is already yielding to more "important" tasks.
Only once am I in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens when Haymitch
offers to take a room at the hotel since it's near his job, suggesting that
Madge can share the bunk bed with Peeta. Before I can mentally put an arrow
between my uncle's eyes, Mama grows nervous, claiming a fit of anxiety over
Haymitch being gone and leaving her with three teens to answer for. Mama needs
routine, so I could have predicted this reaction, though it still appears
staged to me. Maybe she'd noticed the murderous look on my face, or the
stricken one on Peeta's.
Either way, it put the option to rest. Peeta insisted that it was better for
Madge to stay in the hotel instead. Relived, Mama's zone out after that, but I
continued to stew.
During the hours when he prepares for his girlfriend's visit, I spend time with
Finnick, Jo, and Tigris on the beach. I sharpen what I've learned in Survival
in the woods. Cinna is pleased when he learns how seriously I take his lessons,
though I'm unsure whether they will ever be put to use.
When I write this to Cinna after class, he laughs kindly. "That's the point,"
he says. "That's what we should hope for."
Thinking of what happened to Primrose, I hope so too.
February becomes March. March becomes Spring. On a Friday evening, turbulence
fails to take Madge's plane down, and she lands on Panem Island safely. Peeta
picks her up at the airport by himself. He leaves the cottage with flowers, a
pale tint to his skin, and a quick glance at me. Last night was the last one
we'll spend together for a week, and most of the hours were wasted by him
fussing with the blankets and being eerily quiet.
I set the table for dinner, determined to stay focused. When I hear the cab
pull up in front of our home, I look around our humble living room, instantly
prideful and defensive.
"Is that her?" Mama asks, coming out from the kitchen. Together, we peek
through the curtain, watching as Peeta gets out of the cab first, followed by a
pair of feminine legs and pink sandals.
Pink. An impractical color for shoes, which can only be worn by someone who
doesn't have to worry about owning only one or two pairs.
Madge appears beside Peeta, outfitted in a short, black dress. She's carrying a
bag that has so many zippers and clasps that it could rightly serve as a
medieval torture device. But she looks like she was made for him, with glossy
blond hair that bounces as she walks and irises like melted gems. She's blessed
with healthy skin. Her breasts are significant. I'm certain they've found their
way into Peeta's palms many times in the past.
She smells the flowers Peeta picked for her and leans into him. He responds
with a close-mouthed smile and obediently slides his arm around her shoulders,
which makes her beam. Like a rainbow, she's perfectly shaped, massively pretty,
and impossible to outshine.
"She certainly looks fancy," Mama observes.
Yes, I think.
"Pink shoes."
Yes.
"Flamingo pink."
We chuckle, her nervously, me silently. The laughter fades as fast as it came.
Her presence of mind is a magical moment that I can't fully appreciate right
then, which sets me to a high flame. This is what seeing Peeta with another
feels like. I'm an inferno.
Mama's hand comes to rest on my back, where she rubs me gingerly. An ache
spreads over my skin. I can't remember when she last did something like this.
Somehow she knows what this visit means to me. I grip the curtain, stopping
myself from twisting into her arms.
A well-bred American girl is about to dance into our cottage. A girl who can
afford to travel to another country to visit her boyfriend for only seven days.
She's going to see our furniture, eat our food, and take up residence beside
him for dinner. We had to borrow an extra chair from Greasy Sae just to fit
five at the table.
I dash into my room and stare at myself in the mirror, the abrasive gray eyes
and hair hanging down my chest. The faded orange dress that's too loose and
frayed along the neckline. Issuing a frustrated grunt, I rip off the dress and
tear through my drawers until I decide on something daring, something private
between Peeta and me. Something that will feel like armor.
The front door opens. I hear Peeta introducing Madge to my family. Her voice is
made of porcelain and sounds cheerful. I take a deep, all-consuming breath,
smooth out my clothes, and strut into the living room.
"Ah there you are, Wild Child," Haymitch says. "Grand entrance as usual."
I'm not looking at him. I'm looking at Peeta, who turns and meets my eyes. "And
this is Katn..." His blue eyes widen. They flit up and down my frame,
recognizing my outfit. I'm wearing my favorite long green skirt.
And his white shirt. The one I stole from him.
I had smelled the newness of it that day, so I am confident that Madge isn't
familiar with it. I've tied it at the waist and rolled up the sleeves. Peeta is
dumbstruck, gazing at me like I'm the moon and the stars, with a magnetic light
in his eyes.
Madge is unaware. She pivots, a greeting ready on her lips. Her smile flattens
when she gets a prominent look at me. My feet are bare, and I'm probably the
exact image of a plain and poor village girl. The inadequacy that I work to
hide gets worse when I see the glint of a silver P hanging from her neck. I may
be wearing his shirt, but she's wearing his name.
My chin gets a bit heavier to hold up, but I manage. I will always manage.
Madge recovers her grin as she shakes my hand. "Katniss. Peety told me so much
about you."
I raise an eyebrow at this. What does she consider "so much" when I'm a
complete stranger?
Madge isn't surprised by my silence. That gives me one indication. He must have
warned her in advance that I don't speak.
"Peeta doesn't have a sister at home, so this is a cool change for him," she
adds.
Peeta flinches. What does he think I'll do? Plow her with a pillow for saying
that? No. I'd only do that to him. I give him a look that says so.
Madge means what she said in earnest. I can tell. But I can also tell that she
wants it to be true. I don't respond with any gestures since it wasn't a
question. I meet her stare with a cryptic one of my own, the kind I would have
given Peeta when I met him. By the way her smile remains stapled in place,
displaying manners rather than sincerity, I doubt she's used to people treating
her this directly.
"Madge is a cheerleader," Peeta blurts out. "Varsity. She likes big groups that
make lots of noise. And she has two sisters, so she has a soft spot for people
with no girls in the family. Except for mothers," he concedes. "Not that
mothers aren't enough, but other girls to mix things up. Besides her, I mean.
But she has two brothers also, so yeah, that mixes things up a lot."
Madge, my family, and I stare at him.
"Madge doesn't go for spicy food, Violet," Peeta continues. "Sorry, I forgot to
mention that before you cooked. She and I have that in common. And other things
too. We're both overachievers, and we're both into etymology, and we both
like...bread...not all bread," he corrects. "Madge isn't crazy about
pumpernickel. We're not eating pumpernickel tonight, so...but so long as we
have other choices besides peppers and—"
Madge and I both touch Peeta's arm to stop him. She glances at me, and I pull
back, acknowledging her territory. I don't want to surrender, but I don't want
to make things awkward for Peeta either. I suppose wearing his shirt hasn't
helped.
Haymitch claps his hands. "Can we eat? I can't stand seeing young people be
cordial. It confuses me and disturbs the natural order of things. You hungry,
American girl?"
Madge's laugh is polite. "Absolutely. Peety says the food here is amazing."
Hearing that nickname again, Haymitch's brows spike. Peety, he and I privately
mouth to each other in amusement, behind the lovers' backs.
We all sit around the table, which brims with the scent of burnt rice—Mama must
have been anxious about this visit while she was cooking. The charred smell
battles with Madge's perfume as she cradles herself against Peeta and does
girlfriend things like play with his shirt collar. Peeta glances at me
regularly, a tidepool of emotions collecting on his face. Guilt, discomfort,
longing, concern.
Madge whispers something about his new haircut that makes him blush. I stab my
pepper and relish the aggressive spark of heat on my tongue. I'm tempted to
serve Mama, but she's clearheaded enough tonight to do it herself. She's the
one casting me questioning looks.
Madge chews and pretends to enjoy the blackened rice. Peeta finally gets over
his nerves and leads the conversation, helping her out whenever her District
Twelve phrases confuse us. She talks about her family and school and
compliments Panem's beauty. She's perky and eloquent. And she refuses to stop
touching him.
I learn how it feels to be an outsider when she speaks exclusively to him about
a school dance called Prom. I've heard of it, but I don't know the details.
"Glimmer asked Marvel," she says.
"No way!" Peeta chuckles. "Glimmer actually did the asking?"
"It was classic. She got him roses."
"That's so not her."
"I know, right? I guess you and I'll have to wait until next year," she flirts.
My head shifts back and forth between them. I cannot relate to prom. I have no
relation to Glimmer and Marvel. For the last six months, Peeta belonged to this
island. I now see his history somewhere else, with someone else. They grin at
each other. They took a while returning from the airport, most likely spending
some appropriate time alone first. They have so much to talk about, but my
family is here. We're interlopers.
"So what made you come visit our boy?" Haymitch asks.
Peeta opens his mouth in a hurry like he wants to seize the answer and disguise
it, but Madge cuts him off. "Oh." She fiddles with her fork. "It's our one-year
anniversary."
My own fork clatters onto my plate. Madge and Peeta startle. Haymitch is too
busy cramming his mouth with black beans to notice.
Mama takes the focus off my blunder by saying, "That's very sweet."
"I thought it would be the perfect time, especially since Peety also has Spring
Break," Madge shares. "Mommy and Daddy adore him, so they gave me permission to
come here, as a gift. Peety's super sentimental. We got together during his
favorite season. He loves spring."
Peeta gives me an apologetic look, but my chest still contracts. I didn't know
this little fact about him, because knowing everything would take longer than
half a year. I feign preoccupation with my meal, behaving like I drop forks all
the time and acting like every sentiment Madge reveals is unimportant. In
short, I do a horrible job of being nice like Jo told me to be. Fierce, yes.
Nice, no.
Peeta begins to notice my prickly attitude, willing me to either acknowledge
him or at least be civil to Madge. But I can't. Never mind sparing him the
awkwardness and making things easy on him. Instead, I brush off each of her
attempts to get to know me.
"Peeta says you like to dance," Madge prompts.
I merely shrug. I don't like that he's been talking to her about me.
She waits for more. "Do-do you go to clubs or something?"
I scoff openly. Clubs? There's no such thing here.
Haymitch and Mama harpoon me with warning looks. Madge withdraws into Peeta,
propelling him to drape his arm around her and pin me with a glare. I act like
I don't notice, but he knows me better than that. While Mama engages Madge in
conversation, I finally lock gazes with him, and we launch into a silent
argument.
Why are you doing this? his eyes demand. I know this isn't easy. And I'm sorry.
But is it that hard to be nice to my girlfriend?
What do you want me to do? Pinch her cheeks? I snap back.
You could start by actually responding to her.
Humpf. In case you haven't noticed, I don't have my notebook. I cannot write to
her.
That's an excuse. Use your hands. Nod. Smile. Can't you do that for me?
I don't owe you anything. I'll behave however I wish. This is my house, not
yours! You're just a guest like her!
Peeta falls back into his chair, hurt burrowing into his features. I don't know
what possessed me to say that. I don't know how we understand each other
without actual words, but we do. Our connection is so dear to me, yet I've
severed it. I've crossed a line.
I want to take my outburst back, to reassure him that of course this is his
home, but it's too late. His irises darken just before he swings his head away
from me. For his part, he indulges Madge and spares me hardly a glance from
then on. Nothing's going to change? Since we sat down, we've abandoned all
pretense of being friends.
After supper, Madge offers to help clean up, but Mama waves her off while
Haymitch relaxes before work.
"It's been a long flight," Madge hints. "Maybe we can stop by the beach on the
way to the hotel?"
The beach. The hotel. Peeta's ears turn as pink as her shoes.
I look away as they lace their fingers together and say goodnight to my family.
I barely acknowledge Madge's wave—"And I love your shirt," she compliments
me—before the door closes behind them. They're going to the beach. My beach.
Our beach.
I wash the dishes with Mama, who briefly touches my shoulder. While the water
scalds my hands, visions of Peeta and Madge flash in my head. The two of them
holding each other on the sand, kissing passionately, then naked together in
her hotel room, him picking her up as she giggles, draping her on the bed, her
hands on his body, their legs entwined. Peeta making love to her, like he's
done before.
Once the plates are dry, I make my escape. I can't hide in the closet with my
mother and Haymitch awake, so I climb into bed. I cradle the picture Peeta took
of me to my chest, because it's the only image that doesn't hurt right now.
Chapter End Notes
     I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Notes
     Repeat after me: Everlark is endgame. Just keep doing that and we'll
     get through this. Promise!
     Music: "Dust to Dust" by The Civil Wars.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Peeta
I hate that she's hurt. I hate that she has to see me with Madge. It's my
fault. It hadn't felt right, sitting on Madge's side of the table instead of
Katniss's.
Still, I hadn't expected her to be so acrid to Madge, or for her to gut me with
her silent thoughts, glaring at me like I don't belong to her family, that the
cottage isn't my home too. I guess I don't know everything about Katniss. Maybe
that was just a fantasy of mine.
Madge wants to see the ocean before we head into town. We'd checked in her
suitcases at her hotel's front desk right after she landed, so we have nothing
to lug around now. It's a shock having her here, both my lives colliding, while
I'm in the middle.
I lead Madge to the ocean, feeling the tug in my chest as we pass the spot
where Katniss and I like to sit. Madge sighs at the waves, though the tide is
pretty feral tonight, slamming into the sand. In her dress, she's elegantly
casual, but it's weird. Has her hair always been so groomed, not a hint of
frizz, even in this climate? Have her clothes always been so free of wrinkles?
Has she always been this tidy and...perfect?
At the airport, I noticed a lot right away, things I hadn't noticed back home
like her expensive and superfluous pink sandals, and her matched luggage. She
hugged me back and wept dainty tears, but our kiss had been close-mouthed.
Neat.
Seeing Madge after nearly eight months is like seeing a picture. There' s
nostalgia as well as affection, but it's still part of the past, not part of
the present. She moves in front of me and leans against my frame, and after a
moment, I slip my arms loosely around her waist. She came all this way just for
me. She's entitled to an explanation for Katniss's attitude.
I hang in my head in thought, torn between anger and remorse, yearning and
hurt. The constant fluctuation of feelings drives me crazy. And I miss Katniss.
After only ten minutes, I miss her more than I've ever missed my girlfriend.
Madge giggles. "You're so quiet."
"Am I?" I say.
"It's romantic here. Like in a movie. Has the island's allure tamed your
monologues?" she teases.
"The ocean is loud, so probably not. Though the people aren't loud, so you
could also be right. They rub off on me."
Madge's head tips down as she glances at her shoes. Her next words are
measured. "Your host sister is stunning."
"Her boyfriend thinks so."
"Oh? She has a boyfriend?"
"She has a Greek god. Hey, I'm sorry about dinner."
"Don't be, " she says, but I detect a note of pleasure over my concern.
"Katniss is probably just suffering from only-child syndrome."
This off-handed comment chafes at me. It also makes me think of Primrose.
Madge sighs. "It must be hard having no one, then gaining a brother, then
losing him when his girlfriend arrives."
I stare at the violent waves. Katniss hasn't lost me.
"Being an only child makes a person needy," Madge adds.
"She's not like that, " I defend, more sternly than I meant to.
"I'm just saying that she can't be blamed for the way she acts."
I'm not a fan of that remark and feel like I'm betraying Katniss by letting it
slide. Madge is my girlfriend, but Katniss is...my best friend.
"And in a small country like this, it's no wonder that she latched onto you,"
Madge finishes.
My arms unwind from around her waist. "Katniss doesn't latch onto anyone. "
"Really?"
"Really."
But what bothers me the most is that Madge might be right. Maybe that's all I
am to Katniss, just someone to cling to. The possibility crawls into my stomach
and settles there.
Madge turns and flattens her palms on my chest. She grins apologetically.
"You're right. I don't know her. And why are we talking about your host family
anyway? I missed you so much."
She rises on her toes to kiss me. I hesitate, then kiss her back, hoping to
make up for everything that's happened, everything I'm feeling, everything she
doesn't know. Essentially, I throw myself into the kiss, wanting to prove other
parts of my brain wrong because Madge and I are right for each other. I owe her
this moment, and nothing has changed, nothing at all. Isn't that right?
The force of my lips causes Madge to moan. I should be consumed and burning for
her, but a flash of gray races behind my closed eyes. Frustrated, I kiss Madge
deeper, but my body is numb and pulse is normal, although a kiss like this is
supposed to feel like it did when...when... I pry my mouth from Madge's. It's
early, I tell myself. She just got here, so it will take time to get back into
the swing of things.
Madge flushes. "You've never kissed me like that before."
It's better not to take this as an insult. "Well, that's how I kiss now."
She presses herself against me. "Let's go back to my room."
The hotel is in the village square. Compared to the tourist resorts in the
north shore, this minuscule building is a shack made of paper-thin walls with
only a handful of rooms containing rickety beds. It's not exactly five stars,
but it's the only thing near my host family's place.
I'm going to make a lame joke about the amenities, but then Madge starts
unzipping her dress. Which spirals me into a panic. I sense the onslaught of a
very long monologue coming on, a conga-line of words ready to pile out.
Madge drops the dress, revealing a pink ensemble of straps and lace, and steps
forward.
"Not here," I say.
Madge frowns. "Why not?"
Digging up a reason takes a second. "It, uh, should be special. Under the
stars, not under a chipped ceiling. We should wait, find the right place."
She laughs wryly. "If you wanted a different setting, we could have found
somewhere at the beach."
I tap dance around that with a portion of the truth. "I hadn't seen the room
yet."
"Oh Peety, I'm not genteel. This room is... rustic. Old world."
"But you're not." It comes out like an accusation, so I backpedal. "We should
take it slow. We shouldn't rush this."
"It's been months."
"Yeah, but seeing this place puts everything into perspective."
Madge looks pouty and doubtful. "The first night back together is an ideal time
to do it. It sets the pace."
"Frankly, I don't give a shit about those standards."
"Peety!" she lectures, disappointed. "What happened to your vocabulary?"
I frame her shoulders. "Don't you want it to be perfect for our anniversary?"
Perfect. The magic word.
Madge crosses her arms. "Well..." She relents with a wan smile. "It has been a
long day. And under the stars would be nice."
She nestles against me in bed. She angles her head for more kisses, which I
give her until she's sufficiently mollified. The sheets are coarse and the
mattress squeaky, but she falls asleep easily. Meanwhile, I stay awake and long
for the sound of Katniss, the feel of Katniss, the sight of Katniss. I fret,
wondering if she's having a nightmare.
I get my answer the next morning when Madge and I walk back to the cottage for
breakfast. Katniss is tending to her mother's garden, yanking weeds from the
soil. She halts when she spots us and gets up, wiping dirt from her skirt. It's
the same one from last night, because she hasn't changed, not even my white
shirt, which is wrinkled and hanging off her like a curtain. Taking in her
disheveled appearance, resigned expression, and the dark shadows beneath her
solemn gray eyes, I come to the sinking conclusion that she hasn't slept. The
knowledge cleaves me in half.
God. What the hell am I doing?
The three of us linger awkwardly by the front porch. Madge slips her arm
through mine. "Hello, Katniss," she says.
Instead of issuing another unfair attack, Katniss musters a nod. Then she faces
me and offers a carefully manufactured grin.I am happy for you.
I see right through the act. But that's it. We've made our choices, if we had
any to begin with, when we both have people who trust us and a time limit over
our heads, an ocean that will eventually split us apart. I feel her slip
through my fingers the way water would.
After an unnerving breakfast—Katniss doesn't join us, electing to disappear
into the bathroom instead—Madge chats with Violet at the table. I go into my
room to grab a few things I'll need while showing her around the island. And on
my bed, I find my white linen shirt returned to me, painstakingly folded but
still wrinkled.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
She wears an orange flower in her hair. It's a waterlily, the smallest one that
I've ever seen, a type that can only be found in Panem. Peeking out from behind
her ear and framed by her dark hair, the flower is the first thing I notice
from across the square.
Since it's Spring Break from school, and I've been staying at the hotel, this
is my first glimpse of Katniss in three days. She's wearing a new dress, or
most likely something she borrowed from one of her girlfriends, strapless and
dyed a rebellious red color, the hem split into ribbons, like flames fanning
around her thighs. She's glowing and pretty and fearless, radiant compared to
than the last morning I saw her.
She's not alone. As the band plays, she dances with Finnick, their bodies
strung together. He spins her away from him and then whisks her forward, her
leg and skirt slashing the air as she twirls. Their arms flick out and do a
complicated series of movements, winding and tangling around each other, then
fluidly breaking free from the web. They've had practice with one another, from
way before I came here.
All I can do is stand by and watch. The thing is, Katniss didn't tell me there
would be another protest about the fishing permits. This is the third one, if I
count her solitary attempt back in September. Jo and Tigris are backing up the
band, shaking their hips and two sets of maracas. Mrs. Trinket stands in a
corner, chirping at Cinna. Gale Hawthorne is laughing with a bunch of other
guys.
It's like everyone knew to be here except me. I may have been busy touring the
island with Madge, but Katniss could have told me what was happening. The fact
that she didn't is another blow, like she's shutting me out, or she really
believes this isn't my business since, as she put it, I'm nothing but a
visitor.
Well, she couldn't have thought that I wouldn't discover it when the protest is
happening right outside Madge's hotel. My girlfriend squeezes my hand and gasps
at the night's setting the second we step out of the lobby. We'd been planning
on catching a cab and then taking an evening walk through the more touristy
north shore, where the merchant class lives. But Madge loves parties, which
means she'll want to stay here. The musicians, their exotic rhythms, and the
dancing throng beneath the overhead cords of light guarantee it.
Madge is riveted. Most likely she won't be as cozy with the atmosphere when she
learns it's an illegal street fest. I'm about to explain the situation when
Katniss and Finnick abandon the crowd. They find a table, where she perches on
his lap and grins at him, steering my thoughts off course.
What did I expect? For her to pine over my absence, in addition to the
nightmares she might be having? No way would I want that for her.
I'm shredded anyhow. I guess just I just expected her to miss me like I've
missed her. Evidently, this is a glimpse of how it will be when my year is
up—everything going back to normal, with her life full of music and the ocean
and Finnick.
My jaw locks. Her silence will still be there, though. The prediction gives me
a validated feeling, which means that I'm a jerk, because it's wrong to wish
that on her. She provokes me to think in un-Peetafied ways.
"Oh," Madge says. "Is that Katniss' s boyfriend?"
It's a rhetorical question, so I'm saved from having to answer. My girlfriend
is doing her best to sound casual, but her awe is clear. Finnick has a magnetic
effect on girls.
Katniss chooses that moment to glance around the area and see me, her
expression faltering. Turning away, I find Madge gazing from me to Katniss and
back again. I offer her a practiced smile, gaining a soft one in return.
She wiggles my elbow. "Well, um, aren't you going to introduce me?"
My stiff legs lead us to Katniss's table. On our way, people cast Madge looks
of interest. Many of the villagers know me by now, but with Madge as a new
addition, they're obviously trying to decide whether she's a visiting sister or
my sweetheart. They've been speculating since she arrived, but even Greasy Sae
has left us alone. The islanders aren't nosy.
When Katniss realizes we're heading toward her table—I remain impassive because
I'm still mad at her and want her to know it—she tenses and maneuvers closer to
Finnick. And when Finnick catches sight of me, his face tightens, his arm
slinking possessively over the slopes of Katniss's shoulders.
However, his eyebrows shoot up once he notices that I have a girl with me.
Didn't Katniss mention Madge to him? Well, it's Finnick. I'm probably the least
popular topic of conversation with him.
Katniss bobs her chin at Madge, formal and reserved. Madge mumbles a
noncommittal, "Hi."
"And what have we here, " Finnick inquires.
Mimicking his earlier move, I tuck Madge to my side. "This is Madge, my
girlfriend."
"Well, well. The golden-haired girl worth waiting for," he says over the music.
"Crossed the ocean to see your baker boy, have you? Welcome to the tropics."
Madge blushes. Finnick multitasks by flashing his teeth at her while riding his
hand up Katniss's bare thigh, the action burning a hole between my eyes.
"Speaking of oceans, are you enjoying our beaches?" he asks.
"Oh, I..." She blushes even more. Soaking up the sun was one of the first
things she wanted to do, brushing off my preface about nudity until we got to
the sea and she saw how daylight altered the setting. Naked bathers no longer
surprise me, but Madge had avoided peeking at anyone the entire time we were
there.
She finally settles on, "The beaches are, ah, quite a sight."
For the first time, Katniss tries to be a good sport. She grabs her notebook
and writes, By the time you leave, you will be used to it.
"I doubt that," Madge responds in a trim voice. "Peety tells me that you taught
him to swim."
I did, Katniss writes. With pleasure.
"During the day or at night?"
Does that matter?
"Oh, I'm quite certain it didn't. I'm just curious about your tactics."
It happens too quickly to for me to react. Katniss hops off Finnick's lap, and
Madge juts out her chin. The girls launch into a very blunt staring contest,
with Katniss leaning forward, invading Madge's personal bubble and leveling her
with a blank expression that speaks volumes under the surface. It fractures
Madge's resolve and causes her to look away first.
Finnick watches them carefully and, to his credit, intervenes before I do. He
slides off the table's bench and arranges his features into another cavalier
smile. "Do you Salsa?" he asks Madge.
She blinks. "Do I what?"
"Peeta, what have you been depriving this girl of?" He offers her his arm. "I
insist."
Madge hesitates and looks to me for permission. She's excited to dance, I can
tell.
"Go ahead," I say.
Poseidon gets the same permission from Katniss, then leads Madge smoothly into
the mass. I stare after them until I can't stand it anymore and turn to
Katniss. Her notebook is there, but she's not. She's gone.
I find her hidden amongst the trees and flowering bushes across the street. Her
dark frame is leaning against the bark of a palm. Overhead, the mockingjays
tweet along with the music from the square. I think she came here to listen to
them.
She's ethereal like this, her lone silhouette better than any photograph could
capture. It would be so easy to sneak my arms around her from behind. Whether
she'd let me at this point is questionable.
Without turning, she raises her arm and motions for me to join her. My face
burns from having been caught. Standing next to her, I bury my hands in my
pockets and watch her profile in the dark, the moon and the bulbs from the fest
giving us sufficient light to see one another.
"Was I that obvious?" I say.
She regards me sideways and indicates my feet. You have a heavy walk.
"That might be why I can't dance."
A predator will detect a gait like yours.
"Are we expecting that kind of company?"
If you hear a rattle, stay calm.
I'm not in the mood for games. "Have you been sleeping okay?"
She winces but nods.
"Fine, so we got that out of the way. You know I'm not happy with you for
not...for the way you treated Madge that first night."
She bristles.I'm sorry.
"That's it? So easy?"
What do you want?
I don't know. I don't know what I'm madder about. That I'm crushing her, that
I'm equally crushed by what she said to me at the dinner table, that she was
rude to Madge, or that I had the nerve to expect her to welcome Madge with open
arms in spite of a broken heart, or that Katniss seems to be getting over the
whole thing easily with Finnick, or that I'm jealous as hell of him, or that
I've been holding that against her. I'm an asshole of epic proportions for
expecting her to behave any other way toward this whole mess.
Katniss begins to stomp off. My hand shoots out and seizes her arm. "Don't," I
plead. "Don't walk away. That's all you ever do."
It could either be my tone or my grasp that shocks her. She wrenches away from
me and scowls, and of all reactions, that one digs a crater-sized hole in my
gut.
"Katniss, I'm sorry," I say, ashamed. "I just don't know how to handle this.
I'm...God, I'm sorry."
Her eyes thaw. I don't blame you.
"But do you forgive me?"
Only if you'll forgive me.
I'm mystified. "There are people who I don't understand with words. Yet without
words, I understand you perfectly. Why?"
Katniss shrugs, my question unnerving her, or so I think until she offers me
her hand. You can dance fine.
She would know. She's the one who taught me.
I should be worried about Madge, who doesn't know where I am and has been left
with a stranger. But Madge enjoys meeting people, and the villagers are all
nice, and if anything Finnick will make her comfortable. Katniss trusts him, so
I do too. I dislike him, but he's not the shark I once took him for. And I just
want to stay here, near her.
With a balmy stringed melody seeping into the enclosure, my body is drawn to
hers. She links her fingers over the nape of my neck while my hands land on her
hips, and we sway from side-to-side, our chests and stomachs and thighs rubbing
in a slow, sensual dance. She bites her lip, the innocent action spiking my
pulse and rousing forbidden places below my waist.
We need a distraction. "You've been busy."
She nods. Cray didn't think we'd try again.
"Will he arrest people?"
Ha! Of course. That can't be prevented.
Except there's no room in Panem's jails, and the debacle will make his cronies
tired. That's the point, I assume. Everyone's learning how to speak up and
succeed, because of Katniss.
"You didn't tell me about this," I grouse.
She drops her gaze. Like everything else, I hear what she won't communicate: I
thought you would be too busy to come.
Needles prick my skin. "Oh, you think that highly of me, huh? That I wouldn't
support you?"
She looks at me. Madge is your priority now. Time with her is precious.
"I haven't been sleeping with her," I blurt out like an idiot.
This stuns Katniss for a second, but she recovers. Thankfully, she doesn't
dwell on what I said. I don't know how you are together, so I didn't know if
this night would be an inconvenience to you. And...She draws a shaky breath
that makes her breasts quiver against my chest.I didn't want to be rejected.
A cracked sounds falls from my lips. "I would never do that."
Sadly, she shakes her head like I'm a lost cause. I've already rejected her
many times, meaning there's no reason that I wouldn't do it again. The very
possibility of my refusing her was enough to scare Katniss from asking me to
come to the fest at all. The remorse swells in my throat.
"Katniss, you're never an inconvenience," I say. "You have no idea..."
She waits for me to continue.
"...no idea what you mean to me."
I get it, though. She would have had to seek me out, find me and Madge, which
she must have wanted to avoid because...it's plain on her face. She wants me,
but she's decided to give up. This dance won't ever happen again.
Our hands wander, hers traveling the length of my arms, mine sneaking toward
the curves of her hips. How did I end up here in this country, on this island,
in this lush alcove with this brave and strong girl? This girl who wears a
waterlily in her hair, whose drugging looks render me stupid. A girl who...I
stop deluding myself...who I have immeasurable feelings for.
I want her to be mine. I want to give her everything, make her happy, make her
smile. I want to kiss her so badly. I want to press her against the nearest
palm tree, hitch her leg over my waist, and coax a rusty moan from her throat.
I want always. I want that more than anything. But I don't have the right.
We continue to dance, to crave what we can't have. I'm another person she's
lost, yet there's no self-pity staring back at me. There's understanding.
There's an end.
You have my heart. But I get to keep my will.
"Katniss, please." I have no idea what it is that I'm begging for.
We will finish this dance, and then I will go, and we will forget. Okay?
"I don't want to forget," I whisper.
Yes, you do.
Yes, I do. I'm not like my mother, a liar and a cheater. Whatever I feel in
this private enclosure is a trance that will lift once I get back to the
square. It has to.
Maybe it's the finality of Katniss's words, but something else suddenly bothers
me, a bizarre sixth sense like a premonition warning me not to let her leave
this place, not to let her go. It extends beyond the romantic sense, kicking up
the protective side of me in spite of the whole thing being random and
superstitious.
The trepidation vanishes when her hand steals up to touch my face, my eyelids
falling shut at the contact of her palm against my cheek. Her lips skate across
my ear and then pause to sweep the ground out from under me. Somehow I'm aware
of what she's about to do, even before the birds stop to listen.
I suck in a mouthful of air and go still. A voice like fog, like a dream,
drifts from her mouth as she whispers, "Peeta."
I splinter apart, helpless to stop her when she twists from my embrace and
disappears back the way she came, taking her voice and my name with her.
Chapter End Notes
     I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com
     Also, the deadline is approaching for streetlightlove's charity, s2sl
     (Stories to Save Lives), in which many wonderful Everlark writers
     have contributed fanfics. My one-shot "Poet" will be in the
     collection and won't be posted anywhere else, so if you'd like to
     read it on Valentine's Day, please donate and support a good cause!
***** Chapter 12 *****
Chapter Notes
     Music: "Youth" by Daughter.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Katniss
I walk away before Peeta can see me cry. The tears stream down my cheeks,
hiccups sneaking out from between my lips.
Shh.
But it's no use. As love washes through me, I continue making sad, pathetic
noises.
Shh.
I'd forgotten what my voice sounds like. Hearing myself speak again had been
akin to hearing a stranger talk, someone worn out and incomplete.
But shh. Now.
As I near the street fest, I swallow the rest of my weeping. I scrub my face
dry and take refuge in the color and music, retreating back to my spot on the
table.
It never happened, I tell myself. I've been here the whole time. It's Peeta who
walked away from the square. I never danced with him or said his name. I don't
want him anymore. We are over now. We couldn't have ever been permanent. This
would have happened anyway.
Finnick and Madge are still dancing. She's enjoying herself, learning the steps
as my boyfriend teaches them to her. She thinks he's beautiful, that much is
clear, but she's gracefully strict about keeping one hand poised on his
shoulder and the other within his grasp. She shows little interest in letting
her fingers roam. She's a trustworthy girl who will not betray Peeta.
My eyes burn. The aftertaste of his name lingers on my lips.
Stationed by the band, Jo and Tigris notice me sitting alone and look concerned
by whatever expression I'm wearing. They start toward me. I shake my head,
urging them to stay put.
When the music ends, Finnick detours to chat with Sae's husband, while Madge
returns to the table. Her skin is rosy. In comparison, I must be a terrible
sight because one look at me causes her to frown, her brows punching together.
"Where's Peety? " she asks, scanning the area.
Nonchalant, I flap my fingers, mimicking two legs walking away. Then I pump my
thumb behind me, in the direction of the trees across the street.
Madge understands. Skeptically, she glances toward the alcove, then at me.
"What else do you like to do besides swim and dance, Katniss?"
Her timing couldn't be worse. Against my better judgement, I snatch my notebook
off the table and consider what sort of answer will fluster her the most. Then
I write the truth. Read. Daydream. Eat. Sleep. Fuck.
She flinches and valiantly sticks up her nose. It's impressive how hard she's
trying to not be offended. "Well, I enjoy dancing myself," she pipes. "I've
taken ballet and gymnastics."
I know how to spear a fish. And skin a mutt.
"You see, I'm not blind. I know what you're doing."
I'm sure you'd like to know a lot more.
"Your boyfriend deserves someone who won't lie to him."
I practically snarl. Judging any portion of my life is unwise. It does not sit
well with me, nor will it end well for this prissy American girl.Leave Finnick
out of this.
"Oh, I think you already have. But fine. Let's talk about Peety," she says,
regal and superior and utterly calm. "I live ten blocks from him, did he tell
you that? We've known each other since elementary school. Our families know
each other. I've been there for everything that matters to him. I saw his first
painting. I've cheered at every one of his basketball games. I've rallied for
him in wrestling meets."
I've kept him from drowning.
"Commendable," she concedes, fiddling with her P charm. "Thank you for taking
care of my boyfriend. He means the world to me. We've grown up together, so it
wasn't a surprise when things sped up between us. In fact, before he even
finished asking me out, we had our first kiss."
He saw me naked within an hour of landing.
Madge's pretty blue eyes bulge out of their sockets. Her features scrunch
together in outrage. "Why, you...you are...are a..." With a huff, she flounces
off to find Peety.
My triumph is quickly outlived. Once she's gone, Finnick approaches. His
brittle, knowing stare bores into mine, hinting just how long he was watching
us. He offers me his arm. "Let's take a walk, shall we?"
Dramatic as it sounds, I feel his intentions in my bones. I don't want to take
the kind of walk he means. I know what he's going to do once we're out of
earshot. And I'm selfish. As much as I burn for Peeta, I don't want to lose
Finnick. I never did. I long to remain right here where nothing has changed and
I still have a chance of redeeming myself to him. But Madge is right. I've
overstayed my welcome in his life.
So I grab my notebook and loop my arm through his. When he leads me into that
alley where Peeta punched him, I wonder whether Finnick has a sharper agenda
for choosing this spot. He withdraws from me and leans against the wall, his
shadow slanting behind him and narrowing into a vanishing point. More cords of
light dangle above us.
"This is where I knew" Finnick says. "I was suspicious from the beginning, of
any guy living with you. I questioned his loyalty to Madge right after meeting
him."
I remember Finnick doing that. On the beach, he attempted to goad Peeta into
admitting that he might possibly cheat on Madge.
"But I knew for sure that he liked you when he came charging at me like some
little white knight. I'd expect no less, mind you. You're too magnificent to be
treasured just by me." Finnick's reserved tone softens around the edges. "I
just didn't want to believe that you felt the same way about him."
I didn't, I scribble.
"It would really help if you stopped lying to yourself."
I didn't! I mean, I didn't know that I felt the same way back then.
"That's right. You usually don't see what's in front of you."
He couldn't be more correct. Until tonight, it seemed impossible that Peeta
yearned for me, not while his porcelian girlfriend existed. Even so,
discovering his desire hasn't eased the pain. It has intensified it.
"In the last year, the only times you smiled or cried were because of him,"
Finnick says.
My eyes must be red. It's clear that he's figured enough out on his own. I
still need to explain some things, but ever since fate let Madge out of her
cage, I've felt stripped of energy.
"Were you using me to make him jealous, Katniss?" he asks.
I shake my head. No!
"Because I thought we were a team. I thought you meant it at Christmas, when
you promised me that it was still us. Just you and me."
The notebook falls to the ground. I drop my face into my hands.
"Can I tell you a secret?"
I nod into my palms.
"I'd understand if you were using me. I still remember what it's like to love
someone."
I raise my face to his broken one. His irises glint in remorse. "After Annie
died, I didn't know how to get better. But then...you and me...we found each
other. I used you to recover." He laughs bitterly. "When Peeta came to live
with your family, I got nervous. I was afraid he'd steal your attention and I'd
be alone again. I kept you from being with the one you wanted."
Finnick.
"This was never right. What we've been doing. I should have stopped this before
it started, no matter what I felt."
The confession chips at my conscience. I used you as well.
"That doesn't excuse me," Finnick says, his voice watery, defeated. "I'm so
sorry, Katniss. I was so wrong."
I cross over to him. Me, too.
The first time we were alone, I was nearly sixteen, self-destructive and angry
at everything that got in my path. He was eighteen and had dared to block that
path, his bronzed body strung as tight as a net, strong and unbreakable, which
got my attention. What did Finnick Odair gain from hanging out with plain
Katniss Everdeen?
He swam with me that day, both of us lost in grief and memories. Nothing
happened, but from then on, the rhythm of my breathing changed for good. He was
the first boy to ever find a route into my dreams. The first one to ever disarm
my friends, earning his place in our dreamer world. The first one to touch me.
Neither of us have an excuse for what we've shared, how we've attempted to cope
with things, how we convinced ourselves that sex could somehow help us forget
our losses. We should have known better. But perhaps we can still learn. We can
heal as friends.
My hands cup his face. And I give him a kiss. I kiss him chastely, lightly,
sweetly, telling him goodbye. The difference between this moment and the last
one with Peeta is that my eyes are going to stay dry once it's over. I'm
crushed and ashamed, yet I'm free of tears.
The sound of Cray barking threats from the square forces Finnick and I to
wrench apart at the same instant. We rush toward the commotion and halt at the
lip of the alley. Cray and his uniformed minions are stationed at various
points throughout the square, armed with black sticks. We'd known that Cray
would break the street fest up again. But none of us expected him to do it this
soon, with all the crime in the east shore usually keeping him busy.
As he and his snaggle-toothed cronies start closing in on the villagers, his
high-pitched voice honks through a megaphone, its wide rim sprouting from his
face like a snout. "Leave this area now. That's an order!"
The music trips to a halt and the dancers stumble over one another's feet. The
crowd ripples with tension.
Cray sneers and tugs a pair of handcuffs from his belt. The police don't have
enough shackles to do the job. But there are enough to punish a handful of
people on everyone else's behalf, to make examples of them by locking them to
the nearest surface.
He threatens, "Or we can detain you right where you are. Starting with your
little mockingjay activist."
Me. The one responsible for all of this.
The villagers explode, their shouts overlapping through the square. The police
move forward. The villagers stay put, pumping their fists in the air, hollering
their own demands.
They're only yelling. Nothing else. It's okay.
Until it isn't. I'm unsure how things escalate from hazardous to disastrous,
but they do. Someone bumps into someone else, and that someone thinks it's a
push, and they push back, and this action gets repeated and repeated, spreading
like a disease. Like fire. Bodies collide. Others scamper away. Two women get
shackled together. Gale Hawthorne throws a punch at someone. An arm raises one
of those black sticks and brings it down.
My gaze darts wildly across the chaos, hunting for Jo and Tigris. Where are
they? Where's Cinna? Where's Uncle Haymitch?
Where's Peeta?
Cray snatches Greasy Sae's husband by the collar and forces him to drop his
guitar, which gets stampeded by frantic feet. Old Man Sae used to entertain
Primrose and me with that guitar. He's my neighbor and my friend. And he's
being handcuffed to a pole.
I blink from my stupor and launch myself ahead to help him, but I'm instantly
yanked back. Finnick's hands clamp around my waist as he hauls me away. I make
it difficult for him, alternating between kicking and clawing at the air, and
grinding my heels into the pavement.
Let me go! Let me gooooo!
Finnick hoists me off the ground, tosses me over his shoulder, leans over to
grab my notebook and pencil, and then rushes down the alley while I beat my
fists against his back. A short while later, I sag, pretending to have given up
as the sounds of the uprising fade, replaced by the whoosh of the surf. The
second Finnick is certain that we're out of harm's way, he drops me to the
ground.
And I sprint in the direction we came from. And he catches me again.
I manage to get in a few smacks before he seizes my arms. "You can hit me all
you want. You're staying right here. Katniss, it's too dangerous to go back."
I stab my finger into my chest repeatedly.
I started it! It wasn't supposed to come to this. I owe our people.
"This isn't about you, remember? It's about everyone."
I pause. Peeta once said that very same thing to me.
"The fishing permits, the hunger, it's everyone's fight. You didn't force
anyone to be there. It was our choice. You started it, but you couldn't have
stopped it. You're not thinking straight, dammit! You won't do anyone any good
by getting yourself trampled on. Nobody wants you hurt. I don't."
Haymitch! My friends!I mouth.
"They can take care of themselves."
Old Man Sae!
"Old Man Sae knows what he's gotten himself into."
Peeta! my lips cry silently.
Finnick winces. "All right. I'll go back and help. I'll make sure he—everybody
is safe. As long as you stay away, you can go from house to house and spread
the word about what's happened."
Only adults came to the protest. Children were left with other family members
and neighbors who volunteered to watch them. Many of them don't have phones.
They need to be told in person.
I can't disregard the people who have no idea what's going on. Warily, I give
in.
"Good, " he says, trusting me to keep my word. He collects my writing materials
from the ground-they must have fallen during our scuffle-and offers them to me.
He starts to leave, but then twists to give me one last kiss, rough and rushed.
"Goodbye, Katniss."
Goodbye, Finnick.
It takes all night trudging into homes and trying to reassure families with
scrawled words on paper. It's difficult to explain, to find the right words,
with the guilt churning inside me. My hands shake as I write. There was a
riot...Cray came too soon...but it will be...everything will be...too many
people..I couldn't be sure...I don't know...Finnick said...yes, I saw your
son...no, I didn't see your aunt...yes, if I see them...yes, I will tell
them...I will look out for...I promise...I'm sorry...
I have to erase and rewrite my thoughts so often because I'm not good at this.
Peeta would be. He should be here.
As the hours pass, faces show up, meeting me on the road on their way home.
They say it's over. Some people are in the hospital. The villagers who return
are tired and battered, but they're proud, their smiles rising with the sun.
They squeeze my shoulder, not blaming me for abandoning the scene.
When I spot Old Man Sae hobbling down the lane, I fling myself at him. He hugs
me back as best he can with a broken wrist and a patchwork of bruises all over
him. Finnick got him out of the shackles, but Old Sae doesn't say exactly how,
nor do I care. My eyes water at the loss of his instrument, and I long to
apologize for leaving him behind, for not helping somehow, for favoring my
safety first. But he merely pats my cheek.
"There is enough music for us all," he says. "There is only one of you."
I promise myself that someday I will sing for him again. Then I probe him for
information, but no, he didn't see Peeta anywhere. No, none of the people
dragged to jail or carted to the hospital were him, or Haymitch, or Joanna, or
Tigris, or Cinna. Old Man Sae believes Peeta wasn't in the square at all.
Once my visits are done, I race to the cottage. Mama is sleeping because she
wasn't there to begin with, but no one else is home. I pull on the roots of my
hair. Finnick said he would look out for the ones I love. I believe him, yet it
isn't enough for me. I set off on my own search, checking back at the alcove
where I last saw Peeta, then in the square, and then at Madge's hotel. I comb
through the nearby trails that he's most likely to use.
Nothing. It's just past dawn. I can only hope that he and Madge went somewhere
far away, before the mob even started, and haven't returned yet. My family and
friends are missing, but they too may be wandering around.
My pulse slows as I force myself to breathe. A strange, numbing calm oozes into
my blood, sedating my thoughts. Peeta is fine. They're all fine. I know it.
Peeta is with Madge. He's safe.
My arms and limbs droop with exhaustion, but there is only one cure. One place.
It's the same place, the only other place, that I might find Peeta. The sea is
calling, so I answer it.
But he's not there either, I discover.
Standing at the beach, I stare ahead at the horizon. Primrose used to say that
if either of us ever drowned, it would be her. I never believed that, nor that
I was better at staying afloat. She was the one who conquered the waves,
slicing through them, graceful as a dolphin. She made me proud. Not once had I
doubted her abilities, foolish girl that I am.
It dawns on me that maybe my love for her is untrustworthy. Maybe it has
obscured the memory. Maybe my sister insisted she would be the one to drown
because she wanted it to be true, not because she expected it to be true. The
possibility stalls me halfway across the sand. Why has it taken me this long to
consider all the tiny ways in which she tried to protect me? Was I too
preoccupied doing the same thing with her to notice?
She looked out for me. She was strong and self-reliant. I taught her to be
those things, although it turns out that I didn't need to. They were already a
natural part of her, like her wisdom and selflessness. She did not worry about
herself in the water. She was too skilled for that. But the water found a way
to take her anyway.
Maybe I could have saved her if I had been there, but maybe not. I couldn't
have predicted what would happen. And I couldn't have controlled the sea that
day, any more than I can control the beats of my heart, or this island's heart,
or my mother's heart, or Finnick's heart, or Peeta's heart. I can't control the
ocean, nor the sunset or the cliffs or the direction a mockingjay will fly. I
can't control who loves me or who I love. I can't control whether people leave
me. I can't control many things, so I need to stop trying.
Slipping off my sandals, I tilt my head toward the sky. I inhale the salted
wind as it pushes against my clothes and hair, more aggressively than usual for
this early hour. Because the sun has barely risen, I'm alone. Just me and my
naked feet. And the bleached sand dunes rolling down the coastline, the
blooming bromeliads, the palms, and the waves shifting from green to blue like
the eyes of two very different boys.
I race toward the color, my legs pumping, building momentum the closer I get.
My arms spread like wings as I hurl myself into the surf, sprays of water
jetting around me just before I dive into an oncoming wall of water. Surfacing
for air, I feel resistance as the ocean slams against me, then an invitation as
it withdraws into the horizon, tugging me with it.
Though my dress clings to my thighs, making me a little less agile, I'm
undeterred. I join the sea's rhythm and swim. I leave the heartbreak behind and
swim. And swim. And swim.
And then I see her. I gasp out loud and accidentally swallow salt water as the
sight unfolds before me. Bobbing ahead, amongst infinity, is my sister. My
beautiful little sister.
My body gives out, causing me to slip beneath the water briefly. Shocked, I
struggle to the surface just as a wave knocks me back down. The second time I
recover, I expect her to be gone. But she's not. Her silhouette floats within
reaching distance. So near. So very near.
My eyes sting from tears and from the onslaught of salt. No. It can't be her.
It's impossible. Please no. Please.
Primrose.
Although I didn't speak, she turns as if she heard me call out to her. When she
sees me, a precious smile splits her face.
The scream begins in my spine and vaults into my chest and up my throat, but I
plug it shut. This isn't right. It's not her. It's not real. I need to go. But
I'm tired. Her smile makes me painfully tired, and her laugh transfixes me.
Happily, she shouts, "Katniss!"
She wants to play like we used to. She looks like she's in the mood for a race,
but she has a head start on me.
I've missed this so much.
I surrender to the vision, kicking hard, my body working to against the tide.
With each stroke forward, I pray. Don't go, wait for me, I'm coming. Yet no
matter how much distance I cover, she remains just as far away as she was when
I set out. I'm failing to reach her. And worse, she's getting darker, her
features blurring. In terror, I fling myself ahead, desperate to stop her from
vanishing.
My side is beginning to ache. It tightens each time I move.
Then the ocean betrays me. It roars like an animal, flexing, cresting, and
sweeping me underneath its wide, foaming mouth. Everything goes quiet except
for the wretched, gurgling echo of bubbles. A mantra forms in my head. I'm
Katniss Everdeen. I'm sixteen years old. I'm most likely about to die. But I
won't die peaceful or spent, nor will I die willingly.
I will die fighting. I flail, wild but disoriented and grabbing at nothing. As
I spiral further into the well, away from my sister, away from every person I
love, I think about finding my voice again. And how much I'll miss using it.
Chapter End Notes
     So I decided to post today because, well, it's my birthday and I
     wanted to celebrate with you guys! I am astounded and beyond grateful
     by the response to this story. I read every review, and listen, and
     smile.
     As for birthday treats in the name of Everlark, many heartfelt thanks
     to the illustrious Court81981 ("All for One") and the delightful
     Baronesskika ("All the President's Men") for the dedication chapters.
     Also, some of my favorite people have gifted me with beautiful
     stories:
     "Looking for a Lifeline" by Chelzie (WIP! Gypsy Katniss and small
     town boy Peeta)
     "Reel Love" by the Court81981 (WIP coming soon! Everlark as Hollywood
     BFFs, with a special nod to my story "Rebel")
     "And the Book" by iLoVeRynMar (timeless Post-MJ)
     "Paradise Lost" by TomiStaccato (Everlark as Adam & Eve, which can be
     read if you donate to streetlightlove's charity s2sl)
     You guys are stardust. I don't know what I'd do without you!
     Until the next update, dear readers. *wink*
     I'm at: andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com.
***** Chapter 13 *****
Chapter Summary
     Thank you for all your sweet reviews and birthday wishes. You guys
     blew me away!
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Peeta
Right after Katniss breaks our dance and leaves me standing there, I stare
ahead in a daze. I stay that way, with her voice looping in my head, for
minutes. Or maybe hours. I don't know.
"Peety?"
I whip around so fast that Madge takes a reflective step back, and I release a
shaky, disappointed breath. It's Madge who's here now. Madge who said my
name—but not really my name, so I shouldn't have expected anyone else. She
still uses the nickname she gave me in middle school. It's never bothered me
before, but now I wish she'd just stop calling me Peety. It's gotten
irritating.
But God, the sound of my actual name would also feel wrong coming from her. It
should be coming from another pair of lips, from another intonation, one that's
made of smoke and silver and the sea. A voice that came and went too quickly.
So quick that I miss it already, and am scared that I'll never hear it again.
It's the only voice that I want saying my name.
But she's gone. Back to Finnick. And I deserve it because I'm a fool.
My choice is standing just inside the thicket of trees, the moon outlining her
blond hair and hourglass waist as if trying to remind me that I'm dating an
angel, not an island wildflower. That's what Katniss is—a waterlily. She
belongs to someone else like I do.
My choice is pristine in a white dress and pink sandals. She picks up her feet
in order to avoid stepping in anything dirty as she approaches me, then pauses
a few feet away, folding her hands in front of her in the practiced pose of a
well-bred girl. There's us and the weak light and the uninspiring scent of her
perfume all brewing together, clashing with the memory of a different girl
whispering one word in my ear.
"What are you doing out here?" Madge asks, keeping her voice light, trusting me
even while I detect the doubt in her words.
"Waiting for you," I murmur without thinking, because maybe I was waiting for
her, maybe I need her right now to help me get over whatever spell Katniss's
voice has cast on me.
A pretty frown gathers on Madge's face, revealing more doubt...but also hope.
"Waiting for me?" she repeats with a nervous chuckle. "Why here? What for?"
Here's what could happen. I could rush to close the distance between us, then
grab the material of her dress and kiss her. A surprised noise would squeak
from her throat, of course, but she'd wind her arms around me anyway. We'd
stumble backward until we hit a tree. My body would crush hers against the
rough surface as I leaned in, taking her mouth, shutting out all the raging
thoughts in my mind.
She would wiggle enough to extract her lips from mine, try to ask something
that begins with "What," and I would cut her off, begging her to be quiet.
She'd try to speak again, but then she'd gasp as my mouth latched onto her
throat. It would be so easy to convince her that this is the right place. It's
perfect here. I'd insisted that we needed to find a special spot to be with
each other again. This could be it. Having sex with my girlfriend, who's been
more than patient, would eradicate the last thing that happened here, the
instant when Katniss spoke for the first time.
Once I've melted Madge, she would become equally enthusiastic. She'd caress the
back of my neck while my hands thrust under her skirt, groping her thighs,
hurriedly spreading them in order to get closer.
But at that moment, Madge would do something wrong. I know her. Eventually, my
name would come out again, a feminine moan released into the air, impossible to
snatch back. And I would stop everything.
Actually, even if she didn't say my name, I'd eventually stop myself no matter
what. That's what would happen. I've done enough to Madge, and to Katniss, and
to myself. I've been a selfish coward incapable of choosing when the decision
should have been clear.
Instead of trying to fake it with Madge, I do the right thing and back away
from her. "Madge...I'm sorry. I thought I could do this, but it's..."
It takes Madge a moment to register that I'm putting distance between us. She
slumps against the nearest tree and glances at her shoes in misery. "I know,"
she mumbles, like she's been holding some knowledge hostage for a while.
A hot brick drops into my stomach. "What do you mean you know?"
She averts her gaze. "I thought we'd simply continue, as if we were never
apart."
That's what I'd thought, too. That things would just go back to normal.
Madge plays with the strap of her dress. "We're so focused and dedicated, you
and I. You strayed from home but only because of your father, so it felt like
you were following a tradition coming to this place, not doing something
spontaneous. And as long as you still liked art and talked nonstop and looked
the same, I expected everything would be normal when I got here. I should have
known I was wrong the minute I saw your shaggy hair."
I touch the ends of my curls. Katniss hadn't exactly tamed them with her
scissors, only trimmed them. "I may look different, but that's not a bad
thing."
"Oh Peety, stop it. That's not really the problem. I'm merely using subtext.
You know I do that whenever I'm playing a verbal chess match."
That's true. She uses that tactic a lot in Student Council.
She goes on. "Your letters were still long, but I sensed a change from the tone
of them, starting sometime around, oh, I suppose late November. I ignored it,
but the second I met your host sister, I realized how different things things
had become. I'm sure a sister is the last thing you consider her to be."
"Madge, what are you saying?"
"Have you seen her naked?"
Shit. "Not on purpose," I squeak. "She ambushed me."
This doesn't account for the night I saw through Katniss's wet dress, or how
often I've memorized her wicked curves while swimming with her, or that those
images crystallize in my head whenever I'm alone. Who am I kidding? I know
exactly what I'm doing, and who I'm thinking about, while I'm in the shower.
I've fantasized about her so many times that I've earned myself a one-way
ticket to hell.
"Katniss told you?" I ask.
Madge waves that off. "Never mind. I figured she wasn't lying. I just wanted to
see the look on your face." Based on the demure little half-sniffles, I can
tell she's forcing herself not to cry. I've never heard her like this before,
not even at the airport when we said goodbye. "I didn't want to believe it.
I've only been here a few days, but that's all it took to realize. I already
know where this is coming from."
"It's complica—"
"You're in love with Katniss."
"No!" I insist. "I wouldn't cheat on you. I haven't."
She spears me with her wobbly smile. "I know you haven't, but you've wanted to
cheat. The way you look at her...it's obvious you love her. More than you ever
loved me."
My feelings for Katniss are infinite, yet I can't think about what that means
right now. This also about my feelings for Madge—the ones I don't have anymore.
I care about her, but I don't feel passionately about her. Maybe I never did.
That's why I'm breaking up with her. I haven't said it out loud, but she knows.
So really, the last thing she needs is salt rubbed into the wound, some kind of
acknowledgement that Katniss has taken her place.
I step forward. "I swear, it's not—"
She sighs. "Peety. You talk in your sleep."
My heart compresses, and I swallow the remainder of my protest. The way heat
invades my cheeks, she may as well have caught me with my pants down and my
fingers wrapped around my dick. "What did I say?" I blurt out. "Whatever I said
was unconscious, Madge."
Sure enough, she erupts into tears. It's awful to see, and it's my fault, so I
return to her and pull her into a hug. I plant a kiss on the top of her head,
half of me freaking out and guilty about what she heard, the other half
defensive about breaking a boyfriend commandment while I literally had no
control over it.
"You said her name," Madge reveals. "You said 'Always.'"
"Oh, Madge," I start.
"Please be quiet."
Yeah. Shut up, Peeta.
It's a challenge to bite my tongue, an avalanche of words on the precipice of
pouring out, but that comes with too many risks. Forget that I might slip and
say something I don't mean—what if I slip and say something I do mean?
As if my sleep talk hasn't already done enough damage, I managed to keep my
incriminating thoughts bottled up in my dreams for months, not spilling any
secrets to Haymitch while sharing a room with him, nor to Katniss while sharing
her bed. But with Madge, I do a bang-up job of giving myself away.
Then again, I remember 'Always.' Katniss had told me one night that I'd said it
out loud while sleeping, and it makes sense since that's what I'm thinking
every time I lay my eyes on her. I'm thinking 'Always' yet wishing I wasn't.
Madge's tears seep into the front of my shirt where I cradle her to my chest,
trying hard to console her even though I'm the culprit here. Once I did want
her because we fit well together, and it was safe to be with someone like me. A
girl who understood ambition and pressure, who ran in the same circles as I
did. A girl who had a sweet but tidy laugh. My mother approved of her, and
she'd charmed my dad. Having Madge as a girlfriend hadn't been wholly romantic,
but she made me smile. I'd wanted to make her happy.
I never expected to crush her heart. Anyone's heart, for that matter. Most
likely we would have lasted if I'd stayed home, but what's the point in
dwelling? I don't regret signing up for this year.
While Madge cries, I hold her tight, whispering that I'm sorry, that I didn't
mean to hurt her. "What can I do?" I finish lamely.
Madge cranes her head. "Take me somewhere. Let's just walk until the sun rises,
and then I want to catch a plane home."
I hate to separate myself from Katniss during the street fest, especially if
there's a chance Cray might show up. On the other hand, the lively strums of
the guitar coming from the square reassure me of a few truths. Katniss isn't
alone. She has Finnick nearby and Haymitch working at the cantina. She has Jo
and Tigris. Anyway, she would bristle at me for assuming she can't take care of
herself.
I owe Madge this much. I take her hand and lead her from the trees, heading
down the road until the protest music fades. We wander parallel to Panem's
coastline, not speaking. This how we say goodbye.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
At sunrise, I bring Madge back to her hotel but tense when I see the mess:
overturned tables and the remnants of broken instruments. It's like a war zone.
The party is over, the square empty except for a few battered looking men
drinking away their aches and pains at the cantina.
Madge asks what happened. I don't have an answer, only horrible visions of
Katniss handcuffed again. And worse, in a dank cell manned by Officer Cray. And
far worse, in an alleyway somewhere, with a split lip and covered in bruises. I
rush to the cantina to find out what went on last night, but it turns out that
Haymitch is no longer at work, so I approach the men passing around a bottle of
rum on the sidewalk.
"Hey," I begin. "Where did everyone go?"
"Where I did you go?" a familiar voice accuses.
Jo emerges from the cantina with Tigris at her side. Jo snatches the rum from
the group, ignoring their grunts, and takes a long swig while passing a
critical eye over Madge.
I don't have time for this bullshit. "What's going on?"
"Nothing anymore," Jo says after wiping her mouth. "You're too late."
"Where's Katniss?"
"Like you care."
I flush and then knock the bottle from her hand, sending it crashing to the
pavement in glass shards. Madge yelps. Jo is impressed.
"Answer me," I demand. "Now."
"She's all right," Tigris says. "Finnick got her out of here in time. He came
back looking for you. I think he'd been searching all night."
She tells us what happened with Cray and the mob. I hear her correctly about
Katniss being safe, but I won't be able to relax until I see it for myself.
Madge offers to stay another day, but I've wasted enough of her time. I take
her to her room and force myself not to pace while she calls the airport for a
morning flight and subsequently pays an exorbitant fee to change her ticket.
I catch her removing her necklace and gazing at it for a moment. With
reluctance, she holds it out to me, the P charm trembling from its chain. I
wait for the gesture to sting, but all I feel is relief. I almost tell her to
keep it, because it's clear that she wants to. It's a memory, after all.
It would do no good, though. Madge would assume that I'm offering out of pity,
which would insult her. So I accept the necklace and wedge it into my jeans
pocket, then unclasp my own necklace and hand it to her. We don't say anything
about it. Not that there is anything to say.
When the cab arrives to pick her up, she wavers. "You're edgy. I don't like
leaving you this way."
So I lie. "I'm just being anal. If Tigris says everything's good, then I
believe her. My host family is probably at home waiting for me."
"I'll miss you. I still love you."
I speak softly. "I know that."
"You won't be here forever. Maybe when you come home..."
I press my lips together, because we've tried waiting for each other already,
and she can't change her tune at the last minute. And I don't want to think
about going home, or about where home actually is anymore, because I'll just
get more confused, and I need to get back to the cottage and see if my family's
there, and find Katniss, and tell her that I...
"Okay, okay," Madge concedes, seeing the maelstrom going on in my head. "I
just...I..."
I silence her with one last hug, and it seems to be what she finally needs to
leave. After the cab drives off, I run home.
The second I get there, the door blows open, and Haymitch stomps out of the
cottage wearing a black eye and a sour expression. He pokes me in the chest.
"Boy, where the fuck have you been?!"
"You're okay," I sigh.
"Not as handsome as usual—" he gestures to the eye "—but yeah, I'm breathing.
Now answer my question. I heard you were at the fest. You all right? You look
it."
"I was with Madge. I didn't know about the mob."
"Jesus. If you plan on being out all night, tell me that first! I wasn't far.
The cantina was right in the square! I've been going out of my mind. I was damn
near ready to go on a jungle hunt for you. While you're here, it's my job to
make sure you stay alive, got it?"
I hadn't thought about that, the responsibility that Haymitch accepted by
taking care of someone else's kid. It never seemed to faze him before. But then
there hadn't been a mob to deal with until last night. Evidently, he's also
forgotten that I've been sleeping at Madge's hotel for days, so there was no
reason to assume I had to check in with him. Yet he had every right to panic.
I can relate. "Where's Katniss?"
Haymitch waves tiredly at the question. "She's safe. Greasy Sae said that she
saw Peacock Odair dragging Katniss away. The wild child's probably with him
right now having rescue sex." He winces the instant it comes out of his mouth.
"Erm, sorry. I didn't mean to say...you probably didn't need to hear that. I
know you and Wild Child are close."
I nod miserably, then immediately shift gears and shake my head. "No. I ran
into her friends. They said Finnick was looking for me until an hour ago. He
promised Katniss that he'd make sure I was okay. Katniss wasn't with him. I
mean, Jo and Tigris said that she was fine, but still."
"Well, I bet Finnick took her to his boat and forced her to stay put. Or she
came back here, waited for you to return, and when you didn't, she and her
stubborn nature went out again to prowl the island for you, probably thinking
to cover more ground than her boyfriend can on his own."
"She would be looking for you as well," I insist.
"Me? Ha," he mutters, sober and sad. "I've done nothing to earn it. Anyway,
she'll come back. Just wait."
That Haymitch isn't alarmed doesn't surprise me, considering Sae's recap of the
events—and the fact that he's used to his niece's unpredictability. However,
this doesn't sit right with me. My instincts had warned me not to let her walk
away last night, but I had. The pinpricks of foreboding that I'd felt in the
darkness have been returning since I saw the empty square.
Something's wrong. I know it is.
"I'm gonna go find her," I say.
Haymitch blocks my path. "Uh-uh. No way—"
"The mob is over."
"—am I letting you outta my sight."
"You can't stop me."
I will swing at him if I have to. He can take his seat in the Situation Chair
later and decide how to punish me.
Haymitch throws up his hands. "Fine. Suit yourself. You'd better return in one
piece, you hear? Violet volunteered to help the stitch up some of our
neighbors, so no one's home. I should stay here and keep a black eye out for
Katniss anyway. In case she gets back before you do."
I take off without responding, my feet carrying me to the one place Katniss
will escape to if she's upset and needs to heal, my pulse escalating the closer
I get to the beach. With the sun barely up, the coastline is deserted. I slow
to a jog and then stop altogether, glancing east and then west. She's not here.
But her shoes are. They're lying discarded, close to the water line. Holding my
breath, I scan the waves a half dozen times before I see a dark head bobbing
from an immeasurable distance away, a dot cutting into the orange horizon. I
take a reflexive step forward. It's her, I'm sure of it.
Cupping my hands over my mouth, I holler her name, but she doesn't turn around.
It's like she's trying to reach the sunrise, getting further away, heading far
west to where cliffs replace the beach. My heart seizes, and then everything
happens so damned fast. She's out there gliding through the foamy surf, and
then a hungry wave swallows her.
I vault across the sand, stumbling as I rip off my shoes. She comes back up
just before another wave devours her.
"Katniss!" I scream. "Katniss!"
I fling myself into the water, dive beneath an oncoming wave, and pop up on the
other side. Adrenaline speeds through my blood, propelling me forward the rest
of the way, focusing on her as she struggles to stay afloat. My vision is a
swirl of water and sky and her shape as it gets larger.
I'm almost there, I promise. Hang on.
She goes under. I gulp down seawater opening my mouth to shout her name,
sputtering while the ocean fights to hold me back. I plunge after her, the salt
piercing my eyes, but the water is crystal clear, helping me spot her. She's
sinking fast toward a coral reef, her head bent forward, limbs and arms
floating like marionette with its strings cut. My body shoots forward,
torpedoing through my own bubbles, my hand grabbing onto hers and yanking until
she's against my chest.
My legs kick us to the surface. Desperately, I suck up air and clasp Katniss to
my side, my muscles burning and throat charred as I swim with one arm toward
the nearest stretch of land. It's not as far as getting out here, and I realize
why once we reach it. It's a secluded cove, separated from our beach by a line
of cliffs.
I sink to my knees and then collapse with Katniss onto the sand. Crawling to
her, I'm horrified by the pale color of her skin, and I swipe the wet strings
of hair from her forehead. "Katniss?"
She's limp. She's not breathing. She's not breathing!
"Katniss!" I shriek, feeling for her pulse. Her heart has stopped. "Katniss, oh
God, no! No-no-no, please."
I launch into the CPR steps we learned in Survival, alternating between rescue
breaths and chest compressions. "Come on, Katniss," I beg, terrified the
pressure of the heels of my hands will crush her. "Please breathe for me." My
voice escalates to hysteria, because she needs to live. Because I can't lose
her.
It's a cycle of torture, pumping her chest, breathing into her mouth, praying,
hoping. "Please don't..." my voice splits into a sob. "Don't go, please."
There's only the surf and my labored pants and her silence. She looks so
peaceful, the way she does whenever we sleep together. I want more of those
nights. I want more of her. Only her.
"Stay with me," I plead.
Her body jolts. Then her mouth flies open like a fish, her nostrils flaring,
and she's coughing up water and wheezing.
I gasp, my fingers shaking and cupping her cheeks. "Katniss, oh my God."
Her lashes flutter, the gray of her eyes blinking up at me in recognition. She
raises her hand and gestures weakly, nonchalantly at the sea as though to say,
Careful. There's a high tide today.
And I laugh through my tears.
Chapter End Notes
     I'm at: andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com.
***** Chapter 14 *****
Chapter Notes
     Music: "Truly, Madly, Deeply" by Ray LaMontagne.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Katniss
When I wake up, I see a star. Two stars. They're blue and glittering with
tears.
It's Peeta. He's hovering over me. He's blubbering, anguish and relief gripping
his features. I don't understand what the problem is. The morning sky is clear,
the air is balmy, and the sea laps at my toes. The boy I love is here, holding
me as droplets fall from his nose and splash onto my cheeks. Even better, his
soaked shirt clings to the hard contours of his body.
Oh, how I adore my imagination. I've had dreams of him before, but they were
never this real. I savor the fantasy, hoping to reserve it in my memory, so
that I can use it in a story the next time we're at our beach.
But in this dream, we must have been swimming. And something must have gone
wrong for Peeta to be this distraught. I'm sure it was my fault, whatever it
was. I long to comfort him, apologize for making him worry, but I'm weak,
pinned down by exhaustion. My throat is parched, my hair is in tangled clumps,
and my splayed limbs are trembling. I feel limp as seaweed. So instead, I
gesture toward the ocean and think something that he reads within my
expression. It makes him chuckle in between watery gasps of breath.
"Oh, Katniss," he sputters. "Y-you were dead. Your h-h-heart s-s-stopped."
Really? How dramatic. I'm not keen on having to be rescued, though delight
swirls in me when he leans over and kisses the spot where my heart beats.
My heart stopped, did it? That must be why my chest feels like it's been
battered repeatedly. I can only muster enough strength to pat his wet head.
It's okay. It's working again.
I want to say this aloud, yet the words hide in my throat. I'm inconsolable
when he crawls away, depriving me of his warmth. I whimper in protest, but he
shushes me, promising to come right back. It seems to take forever because I
drift off, my vision blurring to a prism of greens and yellows. Then I'm being
lifted from the ground, which makes me sad. I was comfortable lying there.
Though I'm not too sad as I sink into Peeta's arms, my cheek lolling against
his skin. His pulse quickens as he walks a short distance and lays me down once
more, onto a smooth but hard surface. A dark rocky ceiling arcs above me. Where
did it come from? Who put that ceiling there?
Where is my waterlily? I'd pinned one in my hair for the protest, an orange
one, the petals fanning out and curling at the tips. It's a native Panem bloom,
but it had taken me ages searching through foliage to pick the right one. Peeta
had once said that I remind him of that flower, ever since he took that picture
of me by a waterlily pond after school. The bloom I'd finally found was lovely,
his favorite color, and I'd plucked it from the forest, hoping it would bring
me luck. I secured it in my hair, just behind my ear, but now as I comb though
the nest of tresses, I can't feel it. It's gone. I've lost it.
Peeta begins touching me. His touches are cautious but hurried. The breeze
tickles my clammy skin, and I feel myself being stripped of fabric, layers of
it hastily peeled from my curves. The freedom of it is nice, though it would be
better if I were still wearing my waterlily. I miss it terribly. I'm rolling my
head from side to side and making low, needy noises. The urge to hum a song
until the flower materializes is so great, but Peeta's hands are now on my
cheeks, stroking them as he whispers something. I don't know what he's saying,
but his tone is a soft current passing through me.
When I go quiet, his shape moves from my line of sight. I close my eyes, which
feels nice. My ears pick up on some rustling sounds coming from him, like he's
baring himself too. It's a possibility that I wouldn't have dared imagine.
Knowing that I hardly deserve this sort of dream, I wait for the moment when
I'll awaken.
A flurry of spectral images and sensations confuse me. His clothes and my
clothes laid to rest in the sun. The cavernous walls that surround us. Grains
of sand cover my thighs and dry in my hair. I hear his footsteps leaving, then
silence for a long time, and then his footsteps return. His breathing is heavy,
and he starts hitting something hard, then I hear him cursing and hitting
whatever it is again, over and over. Coconut water is poured into my mouth,
taking pity on my parched tongue. My ribs expand as I guzzle. Peeta's heat
envelops me as he collapses by my side, carefully scooping up my body and
holding me close. I smell melted sugar as he murmurs things that dissolve into
the air.
A thick, syrupy blackness draws me into its well, engulfing the rest of my
consciousness. I melt into oblivion and find bliss. It's dark everywhere, and
yet it's a comfort. Too much of a comfort. I begin to question whether trusting
the dark is wise. I was doing something the last time I plummeted like this. I
was...I was swimming. No, I was drowning. The ocean had tricked me.
I'm submerged within nothingness. I'm beneath the surface of the ocean. I've
let the water woo me. Oh, God. Have I drowned? Am I dead? Or can I still save
myself?
I try to fight my way out of the sea. Pumping my arms and legs, I swim upward
against the suction, until I'm blowing through the surface and splitting the
blackness apart.
My lips flap open. I lurch upright, my muscles tensing. My bones ache from some
source of exertion. My fingers and knees quiver as if I haven't used them in
ages. I feel haggard and used beyond my limitations, like a shredded sail.
A dream. It was only a dream. I'm in a cave that opens up to the beach, the
sand stretching out from the entrance and leading toward the sea, the white
froth of the waves reflected under the stars. Night has fallen. How long have I
been asleep? Where exactly is this cave? I don't recognize this coastline or
this cavern, though I get the sense that I should know it somehow.
Heat brims from my left, where a fire crackles within a tiny circle of rocks,
with branches and coconut husks used to fuel the flames. It was constructed by
an amateur, but it's serviceable nevertheless. I lick my chapped lips, vaguely
recalling drinking sweetened water, and spot two pairs of coconut shells lying
empty on the ground. They're green, which means they were young and fresh with
liquid. There's also a flat, sharp rock beside them, perhaps used to break them
open.
Large leaves are tucked beneath me. Palm fronds form a haphazard bed and keep
the sand away from my naked body. I jolt at the sight of my bare limbs and
breasts in the weak orange light. My head snaps up, searching until I locate my
dress laid out on a rock, next to a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. I nearly miss
the delicate puff of breath against my hip, I'm so baffled by my nudity. I
twist to discover the source. And every secret physical part of me flares to
life.
Peeta is here, sharing my makeshift pallet. He's not wearing clothes either.
His shape is beautiful. Because I lack the willpower to restrain myself, my
eyes focus on the spot between his legs, putting my previous fantasies of him
to shame. It's soft but glorious, the sight of it causing me to ache all over.
My gaze feasts on him, moving onto the expanse of his stomach, the whipcord
muscles rising and falling with his breaths, the belly button that I'd like to
tickle, the fine hairs curling up his legs. I cannot resist touching him, my
fingers skating over the splendid tilt of his hipbone.
He smacks his lips in his sleep. It brings me to my senses. Nothing happened
between us, I'm certain. We must have washed up here, and he must have stripped
us, believing it was best not to sleep in wet clothes. Still, that doesn't mean
he would like what I'm doing while he's unconscious.
After tracing the fan of his lashes, I lumber to my feet and stumble out of the
cave on jellied limbs, crossing to where the tide meets the shore. The beach is
horn-shaped, lit by the constellations poking white holes in the sky. It looks
to be a small cove. Where though? I've never been here.
Squinting toward the east, I make out the scattering of lights from the
mainland and my village. We're not impossibly far from there but still enough
of a distance away, with cliffs separating us, that swimming back would be too
dangerous. Only a boat would make it here. I survey the area, the waves bumping
together and ramming into the cliffs.
And I know. I know where I am. I've stared at this cove from my beach so many
times. I must truly be dazed, because there's no other explanation for why it
didn't dawn on me sooner. This is the cove where my parents made me, the spot
that Mama once said they came to on one special day. I've always known of this
place and yearned to see it, but I could never bring myself to venture here.
After Papa's death, I feared how much the memories would hurt. Even now, a
flood of images crowd into my heart.
Suddenly, I remember what happened this morning. I dove into the ocean, hoping
to swim off my troubles, and I saw Primrose. She was waiting for me, and I
drifted without thinking, and I almost reached her. I almost had her. It had
seemed so real. Yet it hadn't been. I lost her for a second time.
My knees hit the sand. I hunch over, flattening my palms on the ground. The
tears break through and pour down my face, my gasps getting louder by the
second. Beyond the waves, I hear his feet pounding toward me. I want to sprint
away so he won't see me like this, but I'm no match for the other desire
winding around my heart. The desire for him to see the worst of me.
"Heyheyhey," he says, landing by my side and capturing me in his arms.
"Katniss, it's all right. You're all right. Shh."
"Peeta," I cry. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I drowned."
"No, Katniss, that's not your fault."
"Primrose" I try to explain. "I was swimming, and I saw Primrose, and I
thought, and I..."
And I'd been wrong. In the ocean, my sister had called my name, but I realize
now that it hadn't been her voice. It hadn't even sounded like her. It had
sounded distressed rather than playful, and much deeper, like a male voice.
Something tells me that the shout I'd heard was in fact Peeta. He must have
seen me swimming. He saved me.
Everything I'm trying to communicate, he understands without words. He rubs my
back, telling me that I don't need to say more about what happened. That he
knows.
It's a novelty, how we cling to one another naked while I weep and he whispers.
But I don't want to shh anymore. I've already spoken to him, whispered his name
in the dark, and I won't hold back anymore. I cry until I've drained myself of
each bad dream, each second the ocean had pulled me under. I cry until I return
to the surface. The sobs ebb to hiccups, the hiccups to gulps.
I tilt my head back and watch him as his thumbs swipe the last of my grief
aside. My throat is raw, but I cannot say whether it's from the crying, or the
aftereffects of swallowing heaps of seawater, or from speaking after so long,
or from his nearness. Or maybe it's from all of that.
There is so much to question. How had he managed to get to the beach before the
ocean claimed me? Where has he been? Did he see the mob? Or did Finnick find
him? Is everyone okay?
Intuition says the ones who matter are fine. As safe as Peeta and I are. Also,
the look in his eyes affirms that I have no need to worry. That my life hasn't
ended, that it can be better, and for the first time, I believe it. That's what
Primrose would want. That's what I want.
The past eighteen months lift from me like a weight. My little sister's gone
but still sweet in my memory. Meanwhile, I have myself. I have Peeta.
He swallows, reading my mind as he does so well. "You're a dreamer. You're an
island flower and a symbol for your people. You like to sleep with a
nightlight. You never drink coffee. You always braid a thin lock of your hair."
One more swallow. "And everyone loves you."
Everyone. My neighbors, friends, the rest of my family are still alive, still
with me. And even if Peeta doesn't feel this love, even if he was referring
everyone but himself, his feelings almost match my own. I discovered that when
we danced, heard it in the words he spoke. I don't want to forget.
And why should we? We matter to each other.
Tonight, his arms are here to comfort me. And...and also...
He captures the inside of my wrist and skims it with his lips. It brings me
back to the night in my bed when he confessed how my wrists had struck him on
his first day, when he saw them red and raw and in shackles.
I thought to myself, that it was the only place where you weren't strong. I
wanted to touch you here. To make you feel better, or maybe to explore what a
wound felt like on you, or both, I don't know. I guess I hoped that I could
comfort you somehow and sort of confirm that you were more vulnerable than you
seemed. But it was a mistake to think that I could fix you. Your wrists healed
on their own.
They did heal, and yet here he is, covering them with his lips. Simply because
he wants to.
There is no one to interrupt us but us. His eyes are luminous, wide awake and
blue-blue-blue. They travel from my face to my feet, and my body squirms, my
chest pumping into his chest, his pulse beating with my own. The impact is all-
consuming. I crave his gravely moans against my skin, our legs linked and going
wild, and kiss me, please kiss me, kiss all of me.
He does. His mouth brushes my cheekbone, sweeps across my skin to peck my
earlobe, then down, yes down, to the indentation beneath my jaw, where he
sighs, and I sigh with him. Then please yes, his soft kisses coast across my
neck, marking a path along my shoulder. He kisses my nose, my eyebrows. I tilt
my head for more, and his eyes open on me. We inhale together, nearer, yes
nearer, so that our bottom lips graze. The contact makes us shudder. So much
and yet not enough. Come here and please end this. And start this. Kiss me.
Yes, kiss me.
"Kiss me," I whisper.
At last. He frames my face, his gaze locking onto me as he gathers his wits and
then leans in. And his mouth catches mine.
Fire. Wind. I feel both. We rise to our knees, arms wrapping around each other,
our lips yielding, moving with a slow but crazed sweetness made of months and
days and hours and minutes. His tongue seeks me out. With each flick, I burn.
He tastes of airy things like sunshine and time itself. I want to live in this
kiss and never stop. Never stop.
He stops. He pulls away too soon, inhaling unsteadily. "We shouldn't," he
rasps.
I blink my way back to earth. "Shouldn't?"
For a second, I think he means that we have no protection, but that can't be
it, because Gale Hawthorne once boasted to Peeta that Panem girls are safe,
because we get shots at sixteen. To my astonishment, it isn't until my gaze
drifts to his chest that I remember Madge, and only because I see that his
necklace is missing. Perhaps he lost it in the water. Perhaps it's adding to
his guilt. After all, wasn't he with her while I was swimming? If so, what
brought him to my rescue?
My palm presses against his skin, where the necklace used to hang. The
possibilities churn my stomach, filling me with the worst kind of dread, butI
have to know, I need to know... "What happened?"
His hand covers my own. "I took it off. Madge went home."
I go absolutely still. This is not what I expected, never what I expected,
because I'd given up on expecting. So all I can do is ask, "Why?"
Beneath our fingers, his heartbeat crashes like a wave. "Because you said my
name," he replies.
That answer is a sunset. It's each glance I stole when he didn't notice. It's
each time I reached out to touch him when he wasn't looking, then pulled back
just before he caught me. It's each time I had to leave the room. It's each
time I wanted, but he didn't want back. It's all of that in reverse, like
another chance.
"Finnick is gone, too." It would be odd saying this much at once, talking of
important things, if I weren't so determined for Peeta to know them. "At the
protest, we said goodbye."
I don't need to explain further, not with him. His mouth goes slack for a
moment. "Why?"
I smile. "Because I said your name."
A relieved exhalation falls from his lips. It's rare to see him speechless.
"So why must we stop?" I ask.
Our hands haven't moved from his chest. He squeezes them tightly. "This place
is. You almost..."
Died. I almost died. He's worried this is the wrong night and place for us, so
soon after what happened.
No. It's not the wrong night. I may have been in shock after he saved me, and I
may have broken down, but as the tears have subsided, I feel hopeful, released
from the past. I want to celebrate. I'm not ashamed, in spite of how we got
here.
"Peeta," I begin.
His eyes narrow in a wonderful way. "God, Katniss. Your voice."
He wants my voice. He will have it. "You're a baker," I say. "You're a painter
and a fine swimmer. You like to sleep with the window open. You never take
sugar in your tea and you hate hot peppers. You always double-knot your
shoelaces." I hold fast to his gaze and murmur, "And this is real."
With a sigh of defeat, his mouth swoops down onto mine again. The world spins.
I dissolve under his kiss, the angle of his jaw as he grabs my face and fastens
me to him, prying my lips apart without delay and stroking my palate with his
tongue. The effect is a liquid throbbing from between my legs. I clasp his
shoulders and open wider for him.
Peeta makes a shrill wanting sound in his throat. I whimper against his pliant
tongue, my fingers diving into the nook where his hair meets his nape, pulling
on the blond curls while his head moves attentively with my own.
He tears his mouth away, and I crane my head back as he sucks his way down the
tendon of my neck, descending to the curve where it meets my shoulder, drawing
it into his mouth until I'm inconsolable. This gets him even more worked up,
and he sucks harder, and I get more vocal.
He veers back and gives me a dark, smoldering look. The light from the stars
and half-moon reveal the patches of sand scattered over his neck and waist, his
nose red from the sun, and his windblown hair. A golden wild child.
My eyes settle on his lips, silently asking for more. His answer is an
affirmative groan. He seizes my hips, and his lips knot with mine yet again,
our tongues whipping together impatiently. And then we're sinking to the
ground. I don't care that we're stranded. I don't care that we won't make it
back to the cave, nor that we're getting sandy.
The sea rushes forward to pool around our thighs before retreating. We're
eager, panting and grappling to get as near as possible. He pulls me onto his
lap, my legs split and wind around him. He's stiff against me, and the sight of
him like this, and the contact of it, rubbing, rubbing, sends a white flash of
heat through my body.
Peeta cups my breasts, staring at them, captivated. Swearing under his breath,
he lets go, palms my ass, and hefts me upward so that my chest is level with
his mouth. Clutching the nape of his neck, I fling my head back, the ends of my
hair skirting the water, my nipples pebbled and aching. One by one, he draws
the peaks into his mouth, lapping at them with his tongue.
"Peeta," I chant. "Peeta."
As soon as I begin, he makes it his mission to conquer my voice, sucking me
into a near faint, intent on hearing all the different ways I can gasp his
name. Neither of us is able to withstand the friction going on below though,
the intimacy of me writhing against his abdomen. The second he releases me, he
twists us around to lay me on the damp sand.
I'm in a hurry. I need him much, much closer. Even so, Peeta's hands beg to
touch, his expression silently pleading, Let me.
Let him. Let him touch.
He's all fingers and lips on my collarbone, my stomach, the arch of my feet. He
fluctuates between immersing himself in the task and checking my reactions
often, as though I'll dissolve if handled wrong.
Experimentally, he cups his hand and collects water, then lets each droplet
splash onto parts of me that twitch with need. They land on my nipples. They
trickle between my legs, at the peak where all my nerves gather. Peeta
concentrates on that place, scooping up more of the sea and...one drop...two
drops...right where I'm throbbing. I whine as another bead of water dissolves
into me, then another falls from his fingertip and shimmies down my center.
It's the most erotic thing I've ever experienced. But...but...
"But I can't wait," I say. "Please. Now."
Smiling, Peeta uses his thumb to dab my lips with saltwater and then gives me
another kiss before settling on top of me. We may be clumsy, him fumbling to
align us, me mapping his body with impatient hands, trying to decide what part
I'd like hold onto and constantly changing my mind. But there's no more
uncertainty. The two of us shake with nerves and anticipation.
He tries to aim, then meets my eyes. Show me.
Let him. Show him.
Our whimpers collide as I grab him and guide him, and we angle our hips,
watching together as he disappears inside me. And pivots all the way. And oh,
the fullness of him. Ohhh.
Peeta's back arches as a long-suffering noise escapes him, something like a
strangled cry, and it goes on and on. He tries to speak, but all that comes out
is a flood of incoherence. I grab his face and make him look down at me. Our
eyes meet, and his are rapturous, and I think mine are too. That's how we
remain, fixated on one another.
My American boy trembles from within, hinting that he needs to move. I want to
devour him, but I struggle to control myself, because he hasn't done this as
often as I have. He needs help, otherwise he may not last.
Once he settles, I flatten my feet on the ground and raise my pelvis into him,
jutting up and down to suggest a sinuous rhythm. When I do, his mouth falls
open and high-pitched groans, soft but laborious, topple from his lips. He
sounds surprised by his own pleasure.
"Do you feel it?" I moan.
He nods frantically and loses himself in my slick limbs, his head landing on my
shoulder, where he bites down. I'm doing this to him. It's me. No one else.
After a few moments, he catches on, synchronizing with me, allowing my legs to
give out and wind around him. He hoists himself onto his elbows, cradling my
face close to his, slanting into me from a new angle that tingles my spine. The
change in position has us both panting. He withdraws and pitches forward, then
does it again, and again, and yes, again.
And then. Suddenly. His tip hits a narrow spot inside me.
We let loose. Our bodies go wild, speeding up and chasing that tiny spot.
Peeta has always been what people would call a nice boy. But in this cove, with
the sand at my back and his body stroking through mine, he's not moving like a
nice boy. He's moving in a passionate, tireless way, his pace ripping my voice
from my body. I clasp his lower back, the hot glide of his length sending me to
a new plateau.
"Oh...oh God," I mewl. "My...my God. Oh...Peeta."
I'm unsure how much more either of us can handle. Yet we stare at each other.
We sense it, the need for more, more, more. He falls against me, and by now we
are shouting over the waves, with the water charging around us and our wet hips
pushing and pulling. Everything is slippery and warm. The surf is in my ears as
Peeta's weight moves over me, his body stealing my breath.
Peeta squints, quietly beseeching, Finish me.
Let him. Show him. Finish him.
I'm spread out, twisting in the sand, and reaching, reaching. One final thrust,
and I seize him. He goes still, his mouth parting on a silent moan, and I catch
his lips and tongue. That's what ends me, the taste of him succumbing to it. I
join him, the pleasure pitching me off the sand. Gone. Utterly gone.
We collapse. His head lands on my chest, his lips resting at the top of my
breast. I could do this with him forever, unraveling him like this. It wasn't
long, yet it was an eternity.
Peeta rises to look at me, to see how I am, if I enjoyed myself. He's flushed,
a little drugged, pink-painted cheeks and masculine glee. There's wonder, hope,
and more than that. I see those two blue stars again, glowing and taking up
every spare inch of my heart. As if it can't get any better, his hands find my
wrists again, his features reverent as he caresses me there. The reason is not
lost on me, nor its effect. It tells me that I'm his and right here, right now
he's mine. Like we promised, we protect each other.
Chapter End Notes
     All my gratitude to Chelzie and Court81981 for helping me reach the
     heart of this chapter, for kicking my author-ass when I needed it,
     and for being stars in my night sky. I couldn't have done it without
     you guys.
     I'm at: andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com.
***** Chapter 15 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Peeta
I wish that I could tickle her feet until she wakes up. That high arch was one
of the first things I noticed about her during that awkward taxi ride home from
the square. I'm tempted to find out if the skin is as soft there as I've always
imagined. But if she woke up, I'd feel bad. Besides, this is an opportunity to
study her naked.
With the early morning rays permeating the cavern, I memorize how she lays her
on stomach, her head twisted toward me and her dark hair covering part of her
face. One arm is propped beneath her head while the other arm is tucked closely
to her side, with her hand curled under her chin.
I think of what we did, unable to believe it happened. It's amazing that I
lasted at all. At first, I'd felt like a victor and a klutz at the same time,
basking in the moment but clueless about how to make it good for her. But God,
the thing I did with the water—her pretty moans turned me into a superhero. And
inside her, it was like the deeper I went, the closer I came to immortality.
She sang out my name, made so many noises just for me.
Afterward, we dragged ourselves back into the cave, covered the fronds of the
palm bed with our clothes to give us padding, and passed out again. Later, the
clouds swooped in, the sound of the downpour pulling me from my sleep. In my
drowsy state, I hauled Katniss outside once more to wash the sand from our
bodies. We tipped our heads to drink, then we kissed, then I got hard. She
touched me as the rain drenched us. She touched me while I grabbed onto her, my
fingers in her hair, my hips rolling toward her hand. I fought not to lose it
too fast. I held on until my muscles gave up, then threw my head back and
called out to the wet sky. She supported me with her free arm, saving me from
crashing to my knees.
This morning, my mind straddles a thin line between gawking at her breasts and
debating what to do next. The CPR that I'd learned in Cinna's class saved her
life, I was able to put those fire-building skills from Survival to use, and
there are coconuts to drink from. But I'm worried about food and how to get out
of here.
Not worried. Scared. I'm scared.
There aren't many options for returning to the mainland. There's no way in hell
we're swimming back. We'd need a boat, or at least an accessible trail through
the cliffs, but that kind of hike could take days, and there's no guarantee
we'd run into fresh water.
Then again, no one's a greater ally than Katniss. When she wakes up, we'll face
this together.
I settle closer to her. "I'm going to tell you a story now. It's about a guy
traveling to a new place and meeting a girl who's the polar opposite of him.
She's wild. She's got steely eyes and sun-kissed skin. She smells like orchids
and sea salt. She has loopy handwriting and walks like there's always a guitar
strumming in her head. Mockingjays sit on her shoulder when she whistles to
them. The ocean knows her secrets. She's unafraid of showing off her body, but
she's afraid of her own heart.
"And this guy's a dumbass who doesn't appreciate her at first, because unlike
her, he's never been out of control a day in his life. Even his year abroad was
meticulously planned, although it was naive to assume things would go his way
in a foreign country. Anyway, maybe that's what he really wanted. To find
himself by losing himself, if that makes any sense."
Katniss sighs unconsciously. She's the most beautiful person I've ever known.
And I've been inside her.
I shake my head. "This girl knew what he needed before he did. She unlocked
him, showed him what it's like to take risks without the fear of failing. She
taught him how to play."
My finger curls around a lock of her hair. "The story has some funny moments as
they get to know each other, but it gets harsh quickly. They're not friends,
and then they are friends, and then they're more than friends, and then they
force themselves to stay friends. The girl wants him, and he starts to want
her, but he refuses to give in because he thinks he's being some kind of
faithful knight. He breaks her heart repeatedly." My head dips. "And he's
sorry. He's so sorry for that, Katniss. He should have figured he was doomed
the minute she tried to intimidate him by stealing his shirt."
I feel a grin surface on my face. "By the way, you can keep the shirt. It's
always been yours...I..."
"Well, shit," a mythological voice mutters.
I bolt upright. Finnick is standing just outside the cave, watching us with
mixture of shock and weariness.
Am I hallucinating? No. All six-feet, four-inches of him are actually here.
Embarrassed, I fumble to cover Katniss. He glances away, bracing his hands on
his waist and giving me time to take care of her and then leap into my pants. I
cross over to him, craning my head over my shoulder once to make sure Katniss
is still out cold. Seeing Finnick materialize out of nowhere, as if the ocean
carried him here on a wave, adds to the Poseidon effect.
A motorboat bobs near the shoreline, a rope tethering the vessel to a nearby
rock. I hadn't even heard the motor, but who cares? My pipes have never belted
out such a long exhalation. Thank fucking almighty!
On the other hand, I need to proceed with caution. Now that he knows we haven't
been eaten by sharks, an envious muscle ticks in his cheeks. He knows what
Katniss and I have been doing.
Shadows peek out beneath his eyes. "Is she okay?" he croaks, as though sharp
rocks crowd his throat.
"Yeah," I reply.
"What happened?"
"She went swimming and thought she saw Primrose." He glances up at this, and I
abridge the rest. "She drifted. The waves were too strong, but I got to her in
time."
He considers the broken bits of my story. "Thank you."
There's no use responding to that. It goes without saying that I didn't do it
for him, even though I understand where he's coming from.
Finnick scrutinizes me. I don't cower away, but I do raise my hands, palms up.
"Listen, I get that you hate me, but Katniss and I...this is...what happened
was..."
He pinches the spot between his brows. "You know what? Don't bother."
"Dammit, I have to bother. This wasn't just some—"
"No, I mean you literally don't need to bother, Peeta. She ended it with me at
the protest, okay?" he snaps, but it sounds like it's more from exhaustion than
bitterness.
"I know," I admit. "She told me. But—"
"I don't want to talk about this with you. I'm not blind. She and I were just
friends who shared a bed and whole lot of grief." He sets his mouth into a
tight line. "She can't afford to lose anyone else."
"Good," I say. "Because I can't afford to lose her, either."
He studies me hard. It's like he wants to be certain I'm not bullshitting him.
Who does he think I am? Considering the kind of relationship he had with her,
what gives him the right to judge me? I'm too tired to hold it against him,
though, and it was bad timing of me to bring this up anyway.
Finnick sees something in my expression that makes his lip twitch. Satisfied
creases form at the sides of his mouth. "Alright, then."
"Peeta?"
Her voice stretches across the balmy air. Finnick and I turn. She's sitting up,
her hair disheveled, and her cheeks flush as she holds her dress to her naked
chest. I can't resist privately gloating, knowing she looks this way because of
me and relishing Finnick's dumbstruck expression from hearing her speak.
My name. Mine.
She's mine.
Still glazed with sleep, she grins at me, but it only takes a millisecond for
her to register that I'm not alone. Her eyes widen as they focus on Finnick
standing beside me, and then she's yanking the dress over her head, jogging
toward us, and pulling a shocked Finnick into a hug. Jealousy threatens to pull
me under until I see the relief etched into her features. It's not a romantic
hug.
Still, I feel a hell of a lot better when she lets him go and glances my way, a
whole new light brimming into her features. I open my arms, and she rushes into
them.
Her voice shimmers. It's surreal, whisking me to life and spanning my entire
body as she whispers against my shirt, "I want to go home."
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
Finnick came prepared, in case he found us dehydrated and starving. Wrapped in
a blanket, Katniss and I huddle close, guzzling a gallon of water and devouring
all the fruit, crab meat, and rolls in his cooler. The rest of the ride is
silent, with Finnick operating the boat over the choppy, turquoise water and
Katniss curling into my chest and staring out to sea.
Finnick casts us occasional glances. There's hurt there, but also acceptance. I
used to see him as a willing boy-toy who treated Katniss like his grief
cushion, not someone who wanted the best for her. Now, I know better. I guess
we all do.
I give him a nod, quietly thanking him for finding us. He seems to understand
and inclines his head.
Arriving back on the mainland, we tramp the short distance from the beach to
the cottage. I offer to carry Katniss, but she glowers at me. The Everdeens fly
out the front door and charge at us. The instant Katniss sees her mother, her
face crumbles. "Mama," she cries as Violet scoops her into her arms, both of
them shaking with tears.
"Oh, Katniss," Violet says. "Oh, my girl."
"Mama, I'm sor-sor-ry," Katniss hiccups.
"It's alright." Violet brushes her fingers through her daughter's hair. "I'm
here. I promise, I'm here."
Even Haymitch does the unthinkable and crushes me to him, provoking a dry sob
from me as my forehead presses into his shoulder. "Dammit, boy," he gasps, but
that's all he manages.
My host family thanks Finnick profusely, and after embracing Katniss, and
giving me one more look, Finnick heads home. Violet and Haymitch corral us into
the house, where my host mother's former healing skills kick in. She gets to
work, more clearheaded and industrious than I've ever seen her, checking us
from head to toe for injuries, then grinding herbs for a tea that she tips down
our throats, then making us take turns in the shower, then ordering us to bed.
Violet ushers Katniss to their room. Haymitch tugs me toward ours. Katniss and
I swap helpless glances before being pushed through parallel doors. Forcing me
into a change of clothes—my charm necklace is no longer in my jeans pocket,
which means I must have lost it at some point—Haymitch grunts that the whole
village has been searching for us. I start to apologize, but he plants a hand
on my shoulder and shoves me into the bottom bunk, instructing me to sleep.
When my head hits the pillow, I black out.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
My body feels heavy. My eyelids are cemented shut. Groaning, I pry them open
and blink at the peaceful colors floating in the room. Gold and purple. It must
be late afternoon.
It's quiet. No echo of the surf, nor the usual bustling activity of the
neighbors. No guitar or children playing. I listen, anxious for signs of my
host family, but there's also nothing. The silence reminds of me too much of
waking up in District Twelve.
A mockingjay lands outside the window like a savior. It flaps its ochre
feathers as if welcoming me back to the land of the living, then begins to
tweet. The sound is similar to Katniss's voice.
Katniss. Whipping the sheet aside, I get to my feet and stumble into the hall.
After taking two panicky steps, I hear the muted voices of Haymitch and Violet
drifting in from the porch. The tension leaches from my bones. They're here. I
peek around the corner and through the screen door, relaxing at the sight of
their hunched backs as they gaze at the landscape. Two shells curved inward,
heads bowed. A pair of shrunken adults.
"She spoke," Violet says in a flimsy but dazzled voice. "She spoke again. Did
you hear it?"
"I heard it," Haymitch answers, also amazed.
"I'd forgotten what she sounds like. I just want to wake her up and hear it
again."
"We'll hear it again."
"She let me brush her hair and tuck her in. I felt like her mother again."
"You were always her mother," Haymitch assures Violet.
"How did Peeta's father take the news?"
I grip the wall corner. Of course they would call Dad to let him know what
happened.
"He sounded shaken," Haymitch admits with a twinge of shame. "Almost booked a
flight down here until I convinced him that Peeta was fine and would call
later." He sighs. "Those kids. I don't know what I'd do without them."
My eyes well with tears, my nostrils flare, and my insides burst at hearing
Haymitch say this. I'm part of his family. And Violet brushed Katniss's hair,
which must have made Katniss happy.
"I should have been the one to go find Katniss," he says. "I should have
protected them more."
"Stop it," Violet lectures, her words cracking. "You did the best you could. I
didn't do anything except abandon her. I didn't brush her hair. I used to braid
it for her."
Haymitch slides his arm around Violet. "You're better now."
"I'm glad you brought Peeta here. He's special."
"He is."
Wiping a few stray tears from my eyes, I pad away as quietly as I can. I'm not
sure how well I disguise my heavy gait, because when I inch open Katniss's
door, she's already waiting for me.
Looking at her stalls my breath. The blanket covers her chest, her bare
shoulders and nightgown straps peeking out. Her hair falls in waves down her
chest, she's rosy from sleep, and her eyes alight on me. This is the first time
we've been alone since we were naked together on the beach. I'm nervous. I
don't know what to expect, but I know what I hope for.
She beckons me inside, and as I close the door behind me, apprehension trickles
through my mind that she's reverted back to silence. I meander across the floor
and stop beside her. She pats the bed and shuffles backward to give me space.
As I sit, I notice Buttercup resting at the foot of the mattress and scanning
me like, Where have you been?
I've never seen Buttercup in Katniss's bed. He must have kept her company while
I slept. I'd like to have my job back, but the problem is that I'm at a loss
for words. Whatever we've become, I don't want it to end.
We glance at each other. My hands fidget in my lap. When she tucks a strand of
hair behind her ear, I notice her nails are bitten down.
"How do you feel?" I ask.
"I..." she wavers. "I was worried. Are you well?"
"I'm in one piece. I slept like a rock."
"Rocks don't—"
"Never mind. It's just a saying."
"Oh." She hangs her head. "I wanted to go to you, but I wasn't sure."
She speaks carefully, tasting her own words, getting to know them again. It's
all I can do not to grab her.
I try to focus. "You weren't sure...?"
"If you wanted me there."
Oh, hell. She thinks I'm second-guessing this thing between us, that I might
have gotten carried away at the cove because of the insane situation. That I've
had time to rationalize about the inevitable stuff, like what happens when I
leave in three months.
I scoot closer, the blankets rustling underneath me, and take her hands in
mine. Katniss glances up in surprise. Can she tell how jittery I am? Can she
feel my sweaty palms?
"Last night," I begin.
Her blush expands to her neck. I've never seen her this shy before, which
proves I'm no expert on Katniss Everdeen. Not yet, at least.
"What happened," I begin again. "It wasn't just because we almost died or were
stranded. Yeah, everything happened fast, but honestly, did it really? Haven't
we been swimming toward this for eons?"
"You are a good swimmer," she acknowledges.
"It's a metaphor."
"I know."
My eyes fall closed. My head tilts to rest against hers. "It was the most
incredible night of my life."
"It was new for me," she answers.
"Me, too." I open my eyes, spiraling heart-first into her strong gray ones and
landing with a thud. "Katniss, I don't know where this will lead, or what'll
happen when the year's over, but I want to be with you while I can."
"You should pinch me."
"Don't do that. This isn't a dream. It's real. You said so yourself."
"It must be a dream," she insists. "To have this much goodness in one day."
"Do you have any idea what it does to me to hear you speaking?"
Her brows knit. "It's strange?"
"No. It's the best sound that's ever existed. Better than rain or music or the
click of my dad's camera. Your voice is the last sound I want to hear before I
die."
"Too much pressure," she jokes softly.
"We're used to pressure. We can handle it. I want to make the most of our time
left. I want you for as long as I can have you."
"You can have me any way you want me."
Goddammit. She sounds good enough to suck on. We've had sex, but there's still
more. Plenty more to know. A mouth-watering amount more. I want to pull the
covers away and explore the rest of her, see what each part of her body is
like, what would happen if I touched there or right there. How else it responds
to mine, what else we can do together, and how else it can be done.
She toys with the blanket near my inner thigh. I should tell her to stop, only
because it's getting me excited, and we can't afford to think like that with
her family in the house.
So how did my thumb sneak up to the hollow of her throat without me noticing?
How did I end up stroking her there? The up and down of my touch produces
goosebumps along her skin. I'm a slave to the amazing way she responds to me.
"We should be careful, " I murmur even as I continue what I'm doing. "There's
not much time to get this right, but I want to try."
"But we decide what is right," she tempts.
"What's right is you and me being together. And...and, um..." I chuckle,
sheepish. "The last time I declared myself to a girl, I had a speech prepared.
I kind of wish I had one now, but I don't think any speech I'd come up with
would do you justice, and I know you're not a girl who would want a speech
anyway, and in the grand scheme of things, speeches are pretty unromantic when
a guy's asking a girl out. And you're not just any girl to me."
I shut up and find Katniss smiling. She didn't stop me from babbling, much less
attempt to. Matter of fact, her smile invites me to talk for as long as I want.
"So," I continue, my thoughts suddenly easier to formulate. "So what's right is
us letting this happen. All of it."
"As we did on the sand," she says.
"No, not just with sex. That's what I meant about being careful. I've never
done this when it mattered, and you deserve the works, and I want to give that
to you, because if we just lose our minds and go nuts—trust me, it was
incomparable, but if we keep doing that, fucking ourselves into a frenzy—"
"I liked it."
"I liked it, too, but this is worth savoring. I want us to experience us. As
something real."
She frowns in uncertainty. What else makes it real?
Her silent question is surprisingly nostalgic, despite the fact that she's only
been talking for a day.
I pray that I'm not about to sound stupid, or lame, or cheesy, or sentimental.
"I mean, growing together. Dating."
"I haven't been with someone that way," she confesses, staring at my chest.
"Katniss, it would make me super happy if you'd look at me." When she does, I
explain, "It's almost the same as being friends. Going places, doing things
alone. Except—"
"I know what dating is," she says, insulted.
"—except I get to kiss you."
That makes her laugh. "Intimate friends," she muses.
"But exclusive. Friends as lovers. Flovers," I joke, earning more of her
laughter. It chimes through the space and seems to make curtains billow. Then I
say simply, "Boyfriend. Girlfriend."
"I'll allow it. If I can touch you," she declares.
"One touch at a time," I add, my confidence fueling quickly. "And
eventually..." I quirk a brow. "We can do more."
"Tell me about more."
"More would be...my tongue wrapped around yours. I'd...I'd like to discover you
slowly. Kiss you for hours, also slowly."
The room itself may as well be blushing, for all the hot moisture in the air. I
lick my lips to cool them down, but they still burn. My words tug us closer to
each other, her leg sliding over my lap and my hands sliding around to her
lower back.
I struggle to contain myself. "And after days of kissing you like crazy, we'll
end up in this room."
"And?" she prompts.
And I gulp. "I'll finally find my way under your shirt and...and let your
breasts fill my hands until we're both wiped out. And one night, when I can't
help myself anymore, I'll lower my head between your thighs and taste you. All
sweet and moist. Slowly."
My throat and ears are so damn warm. I have no idea where this is coming from,
but Katniss's expression is fierce and expectant and alive. Only that one look.
I know from that look that she's wet. And she knows I'm hard. But we do nothing
but stare.
"Soon, we'll be together again," I say. "Like last night. We'll be right here,
and we'll take our time."
"A long time," she whispers. "I'll fuck you slowly."
Now, I'm really hard. "Or we could make love."
"Can't we do both?"
We giggle. Our noses rub together.
Katniss hesitates but nods. "Slowly."
I brush my lips against hers. "Slowly," I agree. "Katniss, I feel everything
for you. Every single thing."
Her chin wobbles. "So do I. For you."
"Come here," I say. Even though I'm the one who said it, she's the one who
takes my arms and guides me under the covers, like she has a better idea of
what come here means.
Katniss. With me.
Not forever. But for a little while.
We make our own island in her bed, our legs and arms winding together. My hand
settles on her hip, along the crinkled outline of her panties under the
nightgown. She wiggles slightly, causing my breath to stutter against the slope
of her ear. Contentment, desire, and an achy sort of desperation stream through
my veins as I imagine the morewe talked about.
Nope. Going slow isn't going to be easy.
Buttercup hops off the mattress and slinks across the floor. More movement in
the window catches my attention, a set of feathers flapping in the breeze. A
whistling melody that soars into the big, open sky.
Curled into me, Katniss hums the melody back. A slight vibration of her vocal
chords, a hint of how it would sound to hear her sing. And right then, I feel
it. Beyond arousal and peace, another sensation builds in me, until I'm
overflowing with it.
It's the biggest emotion I've ever felt in my life.
Chapter End Notes
     Thank you for nominating Waterlily and my other stories in the
     Fanatic Fanfics Multifandom Awards. And congrats to the other HG
     nominees. I'm stoked to be in such wonderful company.
     I'm at: andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com.
***** Chapter 16 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Katniss
When I awaken, a warm and safe feeling nestles comfortably in my stomach.
Stretching my arms over my head, a smile grips my face as I recall the way
Peeta gazed at me before we fell asleep. In his eyes, I was the only girl that
he'd ever held or wanted. It's not the truth, but knowing that he gave up Madge
for me makes my heart swell. In the past days, I've known pain and hope, fear
and rapture.
Also something I haven't been graced with in so long: happiness. The emotion is
familiar. It was not always an easy life without Papa, but I'd known enough joy
to miss it when it was gone, stolen from me by my sister's death.
But now, I feel the happiness return, caused by new things. The expression on
my mother's face when she saw that I was alive, the gentle pull of her brushing
my hair, and her fingers curling over the sheet as she tucked me into bed. The
blurred image of Haymitch in the doorway, checking up on me during the middle
of my rest. Buttercup venturing into bed with me, like he used to with
Primrose.
And Peeta. Discovering the weight of his body as he loved me deep into the
sand. The thud of his footsteps coming toward my room this morning and the
nervous ripple in his voice as we talked.
He wants me as much as I do him. He asked me to be his girlfriend.
I drum my giddy feet on the mattress.
I'm alone, but his scent has infused itself into the pillow. Based the
puttering noises coming from the kitchen, he must be there. Mama and Haymitch's
voices drift in from outside, where they're speaking quietly with the Saes.
Hopping out of bed, I check myself in the mirror, comb my fingers through the
knots in my hair, and scurry toward the kitchen...too fast, because I slide
past the doorway and have to grip the frame to keep myself from falling.
Peeta is fiddling with the knobs on the stove. He's rumpled in gray jeans, a
dark blue t-shirt, and a loose apron. That single, unruly tendril of blond hair
branches out from his locks as usual. He doesn't see me, but his profile is
just so handsome, and I'm so tipsy with affection for him that I enjoy spying
for a moment.
He opens the oven, looks inside, and then closes it. Then repeats the process.
Then glances at the clock on the wall while wringing the mitt in his hand.
He turns my way, but I dart behind the wall and hide. My face drops into my
hands. We've already made love, yet I'm clueless about how to begin this
courtship with Peeta. Being his girlfriend is not like being with Finnick. This
is special. This is more.
I pace until I hear the side-to-side pattern of his own footsteps and realize
that he's pacing, too. Smoothing my hair over once more, I twist back around to
the kitchen doorway. And stop immediately. At the exact same time, Peeta has
also turned and stepped in my direction. Catching sight of me, he halts as
well. Our movements could not mirror each other more seamlessly. It's as if we
choreographed this.
We both glance down and chuckle, then peek at each other. I adore this reaction
more than life itself. One of us should really say something, though. I suppose
it should be me, since I have plenty of catching up to do.
"H-hi," I say.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi," I repeat.
"Your mom is making dinner."
"I-I love dinner."
"And I made cheese buns."
"I love cheese buns," I blurt out. "Mama's outside with Haymitch."
"Yeah," Peeta says, his voice low. "Not for very long."
"Perhaps not."
I play with the strap of my nightgown, which gets his attention. He stares at
the strap as he speaks. "They could be back any minute."
An energized pause follows, charged and crackling to the point where I can
barely keep still. Our breathing infiltrates the silence.
"Katniss," he says.
"Peeta," I answer.
"For what I have in mind, we should really move closer to each other."
The request wraps around my waist. We close the distance until the tips of our
bare toes bump. I crane my head to meet his eyes, which are bathed in so much
blue that it's like staring into the sea.
Without looking away, he tosses the mitt over his shoulder and links our hands
together, tugging me closer. Our heads move achingly slow, his head angling and
mine following his lead, our mouths reaching out for each other, our lips
gathering into smiles as they brush.
The door swings open. We spring apart and fly to opposite sides of the room.
Haymitch strides into the cottage and idles at the kitchen's threshold when he
sees that I'm awake. He frowns between Peeta and me. I'm stuck to the
refrigerator while Peeta is glued to the opposite counter. He's retrieved the
oven mitt and is choking it to death as he traces its faded mockingjay pattern.
"How're you feeling?" Haymitch asks me.
"Mmm-hmm," I respond, which isn't a response at all.
He gives me a quizzical look. "Well, you're back to making no sense at all.
That's a relief." He pats the side of my face, gives me a reverent look, and
then lumbers off to his room.
Peeta drops the mitt. I launch myself from the refrigerator. We collide in the
middle of the kitchen. I throw my arms around his broad shoulders and issue a
desperate sound as his hungry mouth crashes against mine. His tongue parts my
lips and flicks inside, the steadiness of his jaw making me dizzy.
"I can't keep my hands off you," he mumbles against my mouth. "This is the
total opposite of going slow, but I really don't care right now. It's like I
want to make up for every second all year that I didn't touch you."
"That is a lot of seconds," I pant.
"Lots and lots of them," he agrees.
We reel into another kiss, our lips slanting over one another. My knees are
about to give out when Peeta rips his mouth from mine. I'm about to glower at
him for stopping, but he's too busy gulping at something over my shoulder. I
twist in his arms, expecting to see Mama, but it's my uncle again. He's staring
at us, dressed for work and arrested in the act of heading out.
Peeta and I freeze, still holding onto each other. I prepare myself for an
argument. Haymitch didn't want us to get this close. I remember him warning
Peeta about it when I hid in the closet months ago, on the night of the first
street fest.
My uncle puffs himself up to speak, then closes his mouth in contemplation.
Finally, he picks something out of his teeth and waves us off. "You call that a
kiss?"
With that, he walks out the door. I stand there, scrutinizing the empty space
where he'd stood until Peeta's hands cup my face and swerve me toward him. He
shrugs, amused, and licks his lips.
Our mouths strain to connect in a third kiss. But Mama ambles in.
Deftly, I free myself from Peeta before she catches us, and I welcome her hug.
Peeta wrenches open the oven door and retrieves the tray of cheese buns,
dumping them on the tiny counter. Mama is too busy focusing on me to notice his
taut shoulders and beet-red neck. She fiddles with my hair for a second, checks
the beans and rice she was cooking to make sure they're done, and finally
leaves to clean up before supper.
Peeta glances at me expectantly. In the sudden mood to play, I strut to the
sink rather than go to him again, aware that his eyes are on my hips as I move.
Turning on the faucet, I begin washing the utensils and bowls he and Mama used
to prepare the meal. Coiling ribbons of steam rise up from the water.
My skin prickles as I hear him throw down that silly mitt and approach with
unhurried footsteps. His body temperature brims against my back. He wraps his
solid arms around me from behind, rests his chin on my shoulder, and speaks
against my ear. "Can I help?"
"Yes," I giggle secretly.
Setting the sponge aside, we dip our hands into the soapy water and lather our
fingers instead, washing a spoon that's technically already clean. Together, we
skim up and down the hard wooden handle as the hot water sloshes over us. His
touch slips and slides with mine, knuckles bumping, palms brushing. Suds run
down our skin, the tiny bubbles multiplying and popping. We shiver.
Peeta nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck and whispers, "I love you."
With a gasp, I drop the spoon into the sink, not caring who walks in next. I've
heard and felt enough. I twist my head and taste his words.
"I love you," he repeats seconds later.
"I love you," he says with swollen lips.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
Time passes in immeasurable bliss. He puts his arm around me as we walk to
school. We eat lunch with Deliah and Gale, and sit together in the back of
class, play-kicking each other or stealing innocent touches under the desk.
Cinna doesn't reprimand us that often. I suspect he's glad that I'm no longer
ignoring each subject except for Survival. That I'm actually participating and
talking.
After school, Peeta and I take the bus to the Internet cafe, where he shows me
images of his town and high school, or plays his favorite music for me. We read
electronic books and some of his favorite fanfiction. I like discovering new
stories and songs. I find myself longing to sing again.
I show him more of the island, secret niches that others don't appreciate. One
of them is a wild mockingjay habitat. Peeta goes crazy with his camera,
snapping away at the kaleidoscope of feathers swooping through the air. I
whistle, and they whistle back. One of them lands on my shoulder—I love
whenever this happens—and Peeta takes a picture. It ends up beside his bed,
where Madge's picture used to be.
Sometimes, we camp on the beach. We lie on our backs, in our special place, and
talk about our families. I slip occasionally, reverting back to silence without
thinking, staring at Peeta and expecting him to get my meaning, which he does.
Or I reach for my notebook, then flush, remembering that I didn't bring it.
Haymitch knows about us, so I gather the courage to explain everything to Mama.
Although she's elated for me, I sense a wistfulness in her voice, and perhaps
even concern. Not so long from now, the road Peeta and I are on will diverge
into two, but I tell her with my eyes not to worry. When the time comes, I'll
feel what needs to be felt. It's worth it.
The nightmares don't come anymore. Still, we can't resist sneaking into the
same bed once Haymitch is gone and Mama is dreaming. Of course, we would never
do anything that close in proximity to her. All we do is talk, trade light
touches, and sleep.
That isn't to say it's not difficult resisting temptation during other stolen
moments. For all that we agreed to tread slowly, we have trouble controlling
ourselves when we're completely alone. Sometimes all it takes is a glance. As
the weeks go by, the kisses expand to other parts of our bodies, and one more
inch of clothing is swept aside in our heated fits. It's a glorious ache,
getting closer and closer.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
It's a late afternoon. Our homework is scattered on the floor, forgotten. We
rock back and forth on my bed, clawing at each other's scalps and kissing like
mad. Frenzied kisses separated by heavy breaths.
Nearly a month has gone by. A month of embraces taken step by step. I detect
the possibility of more in the air.
He licks my upper lip, causing my legs to spread wider, allowing his waist
further into the space between my thighs. My short skirt flutters up over my
waist as our pelvises grind together. I dare to let my fingers dive into the
back of his shorts and slide over his bare ass. When I do this, he keens softly
into my mouth and sucks on my tongue with more fervor. And when he does that, I
grip him tighter.
He works harder against me, the delicate slam of his hips creating a friction
that effectively breaks the kiss. We gasp against each other's mouths. I'm
going to plummet soon, I can feel it, the tightening.
Peeta feels it too and, with growing confidence, shifts the focus to something
new. His hands slip beneath my camisole, fingers searching in confusion for the
missing clasp of my bra. He hasn't touched me there since the beach, I realize,
but I'm ready for it. I guide his hands to the front where the closure is
located. The snap releases, the sheer material flutters apart, and my breasts
fill his palms. He alternates between stroking them fully and looping his
thumbs over the buds until they toughen. His patience pushes me to the brink.
My turn. Shoving my hips into his, I roll us over and land on top. I take good
care of him, lifting his shirt over his head, tossing it aside, and drawing his
skin into my mouth. His waist and abdomen taste like sugar and salt, like
summer in a faraway place with crisp woods and bakeries. All I want to do is
tear the rest of his clothes off and consume that taste. My teeth are ready to
bite into him and leave marks down his torso.
Traveling upward, my nose grazes the fine hairs on his chest. My cheek sweeps
over his heartbeat. My lips suck roughly on a spot just above his ribcage. I've
learned that Peeta likes it when I use pressure. He arches into me, panting up
to the ceiling as I get closer to his nipple. He moans, so fucking sweet, and
hearing it feels too good.
We both forget to be quiet. That's how Uncle Haymitch finds us.
I've never seen Peeta vault away from me that fast. So fast that he falls off
the bed.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
It's late morning by the time I wake up on a Saturday. I shuffle into the
hallway and find Peeta by the window near the closet, staring out at the
sunrise. He's wearing his sleep pants and nothing else, his blond hair a
wonderful mess. As my feet patter across the creaky floorboards, he turns and
cocks his head at me, smiling lazily through his bangs. His boyish smile has
the power to disintegrate me.
I sashay to the bathroom, giving him a look before slipping inside. I lean
against the pedestal sink and wait, my heart flapping like it has wings. He
follows me, shutting the door behind him, rubbing his thumb thoughtfully over
his bottom lip as he regards my position, as if he's deciding what part of me
to tackle first. My thighs part a bit more in invitation.
It's not that we're trying to hide anything, but we have so little privacy.
Haymitch is passed out from work, and Mama is already outside tending to her
herb garden, so we take advantage. Before I know it, Peeta's hoisting me onto
the sink's edge, stepping between my legs, and dipping his head. He presses
warm, open-mouthed kisses up the center of my throat, and when he chases the
next one with his tongue, my head flies back.
By my third whimper, Peeta has to stop what he's doing to my neck to calm me
down. "Quiet," he murmurs, flushed and rather proud of himself. But he sighs
hotly as I thread my fingers through his hair and urge his lips back to the
hollow of my throat.
I'm feeling murderous when he finally breaks away. "I-I've got to start the
bread."
He uses it as the excuse to leave me there, steaming worse than a kettle.
Frustrated, I shed my clothes and am about to step under the spray of the
shower when the door whips open a minute later.
Peeta stalks back in. "Oh, fuck the bread," he growls and grabs my naked body.
The cramped tub—an oval tin basin—is small enough to push our wet bodies
together under the shower head. The interlude is swift and cautious, with the
bathroom door locked and the hiss of water muting the sounds we make. I hitch
my leg over his waist, showing him how to touch and rub me, until he catches
on, his fingers going right through me while I dissolve into his shoulder.
He's a fast learner. When his thumb traces that secret fleshy part of me, he
watches in amazement as my body yields to him.
We end up drenching the floor.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
On my birthday in May, Haymitch gives me a journal for song-writing and Mama
has sewn me a new yellow dress. She's at my side for most of the day, playing a
card game with me and making floral crowns for our hair while Peeta sketches on
the floor.
Eventually, he holds up a sheet, angling it so only I can see. Go on a birthday
date with me?
"Yes!" I blurt out, startling Mama. "Yes," I say, more quietly.
That night, she comes into our room, beaming because I'm wearing her gift.
Nevertheless, I'm huffing and fussing with my hair in the mirror, unable to
manage a simple braid.
"Let me," she says, unraveling the mess I've made and starting again.
My thoughts buzz around me like mosquitoes. Having a celebratory evening with
Peeta is akin to dating the sun itself, something that's completely impossible
to touch but crucial to my survival. What I still can't fathom is what I
actually did to win him.
"You deserve Peeta," Mama says, reading my mind. "As much as he deserves you.
Just trust that."
In spite of my sweaty palms, I'm feeling brave tonight. "Was it simple loving
Papa?"
Her fingers halt, then continue weaving my locks together. "Loving isn't
simple. That doesn't mean it should be doubted," is all she says. "If it's
complicated, it's genuine. If it's genuine, it's worth it."
"Primrose would say that," I muse.
Our gazes lock. We haven't spoken of her before. Yet, instead of drifting from
me, my mother finishes knitting the braid at the nape of my neck. "Yes. She
would have said that. She would have been excited for you."
We share a smile. Primrose would have been excited about this moment, too. Mama
and me, our reflections conversing through the mirror.
Mama steps back. "All done." A knowing glint brightens her eyes. "You may not
believe it, but Peeta has liked you for as long as you've liked him. Long
before you both started sleeping in the same bed."
I'd been in the middle of touching the braid, but now my hands fall to my sides
in surprise. "How—"
"How could you think I wouldn't know?" she asks. "I sleep only a few feet away.
It's been a comfort knowing someone could be there for you, if it wasn't me.
I've never worried or thought you would do more than keep each other company at
night. I trust you both. Now, as for what goes on when you're by yourselves..."
My cheeks roast as she goes on. "It's alright, Katniss. I understand. You've
had your medical shot." She clears her throat. "But please be good to one
another. Talk and listen. Do things only when they truly feel right. Okay?"
She has no idea just how much I've already done, but I soak up her advice
because everything with Peeta is different. I nod, and she shoos me out of the
room. "Go now. Before he reorganizes my spices."
As I cross through the cottage, Haymitch lounges in a chair reading a
newspaper. He does a double-take when he sees me, then offers a wink.
Peeta's waiting in the kitchen. Mama's right. He's so agitated that he's giving
the spices a onceover. I tap the doorway. He turns, and I nearly die of
ecstasy. He's wearing the white linen shirt that I took from him, the sleeves
rolled up his arms. His hair fans around his head, and his skin glows from days
in the sun.
He gazes at me, looking just as awestruck as I feel. "Wait," he says suddenly,
then darts out the front door.
My family and I blink at each other. Mama chuckles when we hear the knock.
She answers the door, and Peeta steps inside. "Good evening, Mrs. Everdeen," he
says, combing a hand through his hair. "I'm here for your daughter."
"Oh for God's sake," Haymitch grumbles but with an evident smirk. "She's
Violet. That's Katniss. And you're bananas."
Who cares what my uncle thinks. Peeta's gesture charms me to the core. Kissing
Mama goodbye and throwing a couch pillow at my uncle's head, I lead Peeta to
the front porch, where we grin toothily at one another.
"God," he says, admiring my dress. "You look so..."
If he finds the right word, I will melt and become useless for the rest of the
night. I narrow my eyes at the shirt and playfully poke him in the chest. "We
should talk about how you look first."
He quirks an eyebrow. "I stole it back. Just for tonight."
My wickedness has rubbed off on him. Perhaps this will be a new game for us,
committing thefts on each other. I'd like that.
To my surprise, he takes me to the lagoon that we once jumped into, only we
reach it from a level trail this time. The waterfall plunges into the pool, but
near the rim it's calmer, the water quivering like liquid silk.
However, that's all I recognize about the place. My hand goes to my mouth as I
take in what Peeta has done.
Waterlilies float along the surface, though they don't belong and must have
been placed there by him, and square lanterns are scattered across the grass.
Floral shapes have been cut into the metal and glow from the flames inside.
There's a blanket spread out, with a basket of fancy cookies, also shaped like
waterlilies, and a small bottle of dark liquid.
The most I had expected was a meal in the square, perhaps a bowl of fish stew
from Greasy Sae's stall. Maybe a dance or two at the cantina.
"I made the cookies, because I know from New Year's that you like shortbread.
My dad had to send me the stuff to decorate them," Peeta admits. "And um, I
didn't know if you like champagne, but I'm guessing you don't, so I made iced
chocolate. It came out a little too sweet. I wasn't really concentrating. Not
that you needed to know that, but I hope you like—"
I grab his face and kiss him. He grins against my lips, a goofy smile claiming
his face as I pull back. "Tigris and Jo helped me set up," he finishes.
After he rescued me from drowning, Jo and Tigris became Peeta's biggest fans.
They liked him before, but now they've developed a greater kinship with him
during our story nights at the beach. Finnick hasn't joined us since he and I
broke up. I appreciate the space he's giving us, but I hope he'll feel
comfortable enough to return someday. We are friends, after all.
To my relief, I've felt no skittishness returning to the water since the cove.
Nor has Peeta. I will never forget the way my friends and I cheered when he
peeled off his clothes and jumped in with us. He's found his own touch of
wildness. I've found my peace.
"I chose this spot because..." Peeta hedges. "Well, this is where I started to
fall for you. When we jumped off the cliff."
No one has ever done something like this for me before. Somehow, I've found a
way into this boy's heart. I want to stay there until I'm old and dusty.
I pull him into a hug. We do this a lot, stop what we're doing and simply hold
on tight, refusing to let the distance in, because right now we still have that
power.
We swim naked in the lagoon. He splashes me, tries to tickle my waist, but I'm
a master at slipping from his grasp. The lantern lights glint off the water and
roam over the contours of Peeta's face. His eyes want me. "C'mere," he murmurs.
My body tangles with his, my legs linked around his waist and my wet breasts
crushing his chest. I tease him, dodging his kisses a few times to my
satisfaction. He catches me once, brushing his mouth over mine and pulling back
with an impish, triumphant grin. It's that grin that seduces me completely.
Leaning in, I seize his lip with my teeth, cutting off his breath. Encouraged,
I dab the crook of his mouth with my tongue, one time, two times, trembling at
the sensation of his fingers diving into my wet hair. His grip tugs me forward,
and our eyes stay open until the moment our lips fuse together. He clasps my
head in place, angling it so he can kiss his way through to my soul.
There's no point in doubting what he said earlier. Peeta has never lied to me.
My head tips back as his lips drag across my neck. "You love me, too," he
breathes against my skin.
And I will never lie to him, either. "Yes," I say.
Chapter End Notes
     Wow, thank you guys for voting and choosing Rebel and Legend in the
     Fanatic Fanfics Multifandom Awards. That's so cool!
     I'm at: andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com.
***** Chapter 17 *****
Chapter Notes
     Music: "Au Revoir" by One Republic.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Peeta
She loves me. The word yes never sounded more awesome, not in all of living
history.
Even now, one month later, with my toothbrush sticking out of my mouth and
froth smeared across my lips, I'm still replaying that moment at the lagoon in
my head. How once she said it, we'd fallen into a deep kiss that went on and
on.
Afterward, we sat at the edge of the lagoon, Katniss ensconced in my lap, and
watched the light from the lanterns flicker against the water, a prism of white
and dark greens. A lizard dodged a dragonfly and slinked into a bush. The air
hadn't been as muggy as it usually was during the day. We even heard some sort
of monkey howl peacefully into the dark, and it was crazy how at home it made
me feel.
"This is romantic," Katniss said, like the notion was foreign to her.
"Yeah," I said against her bare shoulder.
That was all. For once, I had no urge to talk. There was nothing I needed to
say to make that moment any better than it already was.
But that night at the lagoon was an exception. Since then, she hasn't expected
romance. The little things have mattered more to her. Bread baked just the way
she likes it. Long showers where the spray eventually runs cold on us. Evenings
where I make Jo and Tigris laugh while Katniss looks on. Her hand in mine at
school. The funny cross-eyed pictures we take of ourselves with my camera.
My feelings have had me steamrolling through my days. Until now, what I've
forgotten during my island high is that summer is a dead-end. I can't veer from
it no matter what I do.
It's June. Four more weeks and I'm out of here.
Haymitch banging on the bathroom door jolts me out of my thoughts. I jump and
nearly gag on my toothbrush. It's my last day of school. I'm a mess of
excitement and sadness. I'll be free for the next month, but I don't want to be
free, not when everyone is preparing to go separate ways without fanfare,
knowing they'll be back in the fall.
The hours go by too quickly today. When the final bell rings, Cinna wishes me
well and gives me a mockingjay pin as a present. I'll miss him. I'll even miss
the familiar trill of Mrs. Trinket and her daily powerwalks through the halls.
I'll miss Gale's political rants and his friendly jibes at lunch. I'll miss
walking that familiar path home with my girlfriend.
The school throws me a farewell party that afternoon. In the courtyard, Cinna
and the other teachers pass out plates of fried fish and cups of mango juice.
They play music from a boombox that has seen better decades, and someone
initiates a game of soccer. Ever the ceremonious culture, they demand a speech
from me. I think they're all stunned when I keep it brief.
A mockingjay swoops in and perches on Katniss's shoulders. She's so beautiful
and carefree. Watching her, all I can think is that I want to be part of the
reason she'll always look that way.
Fuck. I retreat to the bathroom like a loser and splash icy water on my face to
keep from crying. The suffocating hug that I give Katniss when she comes
searching for me, inquiring whether I'm okay, dulls the pain. She wipes away a
few stray tears that linger at the corners of my eyes and makes a goofy face
that I'm able to laugh at.
The walk home is quiet. I don't mind because I doubt that I'd be able to
concentrate beyond the drumming of my heartbeat. Our linked hands swing between
us, but the movement seems like a buffer. The sun catches those little features
I'd first noticed during that infamous cab ride. Her freckles and chapped lips.
The same glossy orange polish graces her toenails, which leads me to study the
arches of her feet as the hem of her skirt brushes the pavement. My tongue
wants to race up those arches.
She wears the corset-style top that I've complimented many times. It's laced
tight up the middle. And tucked in the dark hair cascading around her shoulders
is that one thin, naughty, hippie braid. I'd smile, maybe tease her by tugging
on it, if I weren't so antsy.
Our feet beat out a rhythm on the sand-dusted road. The humidity has taken a
turn for the worst, beading sweat across the back of my neck, along the
waistband of my jeans, and definitely in the crevices of my palm, where it's
pressed against Katniss's skin. But the summer air is still saturated with the
perpetual scents of Panem. Salt and orchids. Sunscreen and spicy food.
I'm attuned to lots of things, like the relentless prickles of anticipation and
desire in my abdomen. Katniss's breathing thickens and speeds up a little. She
feels me peering at her clothes, the way they hug her body, as well as her
pretty ankles and delicate wrists. She's aware of what I'm thinking. Somehow,
we both know what's going to happen when we get home.
Staring ahead, we begin to walk faster. Not quite a mad rush but not patient
either. By the time we reach the cottage, I'm dizzy in a good way. I want to
get her inside, and I can tell the feeling is mutual from the way both of our
pulses throb in the spot where our fingers are linked. I know Katniss. I know
her thoughts and movements, and this dynamic between us, this hyperawareness.
No one is home. During the day, Violet has begun making house calls to the
villagers, resuming her role as a local natural healer. It's brought more money
into mix, but for the most part people pay her in food. And Haymitch is busy
restocking supplies for the cantina. Buttercup is probably hiding under the
couch.
Katniss and I climb the porch steps. The door sighs open for us. The quiet
continues even as we step into the living room. We stand there, weighing the
options, the different available surfaces.
Okay, so maybe my habits haven't fully changed, because I'm ready to spill
everything I want to do to her, and how, and where. We turn so our bodies face
one another. She brings our joined hands to her mouth and kisses my knuckles,
then gives me one silvery look that makes my shorts tighten.
Before we met, sex was never meaningful for her. But in that cove, when it was
just her and me, it was meaningful. It was the best night I've ever had, but it
was still fast. I want this to be different. I want it to be the kind of moment
she's always deserved.
Katniss has no words. She simply releases me and tiptoes backward, then swings
around and heads straight for her bedroom. Her hips and skirt do that flouncy
thing they're so good at, demanding my full attention. The sheer curtains
billow as a hot breeze sweeps into the cottage, and the plants quiver. Arousal
claims me from head to fucking toe. Dropping my backpack on the floor, I trail
after her.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
"Like that?" I pant, circling my hips.
Katniss whimpers in the affirmative, the sound as thin as a string of thread.
Between the sweltering temperature and the friction of our movements, we're
sweating as our bodies roll in tandem above the sheets. My arms shake, bracing
my upper body while I pin her wrists above her head and slide in and out of
her.
This is real. I'm between the cradle of her thighs, the head of my cock popping
slowly through her dark, sweet wetness. My mouth descends and slants over hers,
and then I gyrate my hips, only to hit a soft spot that makes her yelp in
pleasure. Triumphant, I repeat the action, learning about her with each
breaking thrust. She enjoys when there's a slight pivot to my movement, right
at the end like a surprise. Adding this twist makes the mattress coils bounce,
but it also makes her knees quiver.
The force of it pitches her into the bed, but nothing about this is hard or
swift. We're liquid. Back and forth. Backward and forward. It's one of my
favorite sights, seeing her face like this. Her open lips, the greedy flash of
her eyes, the creases across her forehead while I fuck her gently. The moans
bubble from her throat, and I'm the one doing this to her. She's mine. I'm
hers. There's no one between us anymore.
Our fingers lace together. I need this moment to last. I'm determined to make
love to her until she's lost all sense beyond my cock working through her. But
I can't take much more. She's too good at this, looping her waist with mine,
tightening around me so that I hiss. She's trying to be the giver, but I won't
let her. That's my job today, to satisfy her, to give my feelings to her, all
of them.
Rocking into her, I prop my tongue against my teeth and concentrate on her
reaction. I sink down, putting my weight into it, which spreads her wider. It
forces our damp chests to rub together as we trade hot puffs of air.
On a particularly solid thrust, her nails bite into me. I murmur, "Was that...a
good one?"
"Uh-huh," she keens.
I chuckle. She sounds overwhelmed. How else can I overwhelm her?
"Tell me...what...to do," I say.
"Love me," she answers.
"Always," I rasp.
But the way her pelvis tilts up hints that she'd like it to be faster.
Eventually, I give in. "How 'bout this?" I say, rising on my knees, her legs
circling my waist as I shift from long and deep to shallow and quick.
The instant I do, Katniss cries up at the ceiling. "Peeta! There. Fuck me right
there."
That's more like it. I nod and grasp her hips, locking her in place as I
increase the momentum. Her face thrashes from side to side as if she can't
handle it, a line of sweat drawn across her hairline. It's slippery where we're
connected and oh, fucking god.
Almost. I need to hold out. She has to be first.
I work us into it, chasing the beautiful noises she makes until it happens. Her
teeth grind together. She squeezes my waist as her joints tense.
"Come," I encourage her. "Come loud and deep."
With a shout, she convulses around me, drenching me in her orgasm. My head
flies back as I lose myself to it, feeling our muscles twitch together, the
flexing sensation drawing me fully out of my skin. Gasping, I land on top of
her, collapsing into her arms. For a while, we just lay there, listening to the
mockingjays tweet outside the window while Katniss plays with my hair.
Glancing at each other, we giggle. We're exhausted, but I still have plans. I
kiss the side of her breast and, in a breathless voice, say, "Again."
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
And again. And again. Each time, it takes me a while to be ready for her, but
that afternoon doesn't let up. My body loses track of itself. I can't control
what she's done to me, what she brings out in me. I want to know everything.
I relish the sight of Katniss biting into her pillow while her thighs flank my
head. My tongue flattens over her opening, then lashes into the wetness, and
then rides up the crease to the the tiny center of her, which swells as I draw
it between my lips. This is followed by her twisting me onto my back, and the
explosive sensation of her own mouth bouncing around me while my hands weave
into her hair. I've never done either of those things until her.
Later, my body hovers over hers once more, but I still need help from finishing
too soon and have to pause. At her insistence, I bring her leg over my shoulder
to test the depths we can reach, and forget it. I nearly die with her.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
The rest of the month moves fast. I sketch my favorite places to go and all the
different ways Katniss smiles. I master local recipes and have a cook-a-thon
with Violet, then grow bolder, altering some of the ingredients and testing the
outcome on my host family. At every meal, the table is free of tension and
bustling with jokes.
Now that Violet knows, Katniss feels more comfortable coming to me once
Haymitch is gone for the night. Nevertheless, her mom stays out occasionally,
visiting with Greasy Sae and not returning until late. I think Violet leaves
for a few hours on purpose. We wouldn't go that far with her in the house, so
we make the most of these small windows of privacy.
With the sheets pulled over our heads, we stifle our moans. Sometimes, I'm
dangerously loud. One time, she has to clamp her palm over my mouth while she
rides me. She hikes her knees up to the sides of my chest, her chest flush
against mine and her head buried in the crook of my neck while she muffles the
octave of my cursing.
When we're finished, she shifts a bit on top of me, and I misinterpret. "Don't
leave," I whisper.
"I'm not going anywhere," she promises with a wicked smile. "I'm staying right
here—" she wiggles her hips to emphasize where we're still joined "—to cause
all kinds of trouble."
We get better and better at it. I lick around her nipple until she's begging me
to suck. She does the same to the tip of my erection. I make her grip the
headboard posts. She palms my ass, encouraging me to go quicker. I tug her legs
to the end of the mattress, part her thighs, and kneel. She climbs onto my lap.
I bend her over. She bends over me.
On the nights when Violet is in bed early or Haymitch has the evening off, we
bring blankets to the beach and have sex there. Or we just kiss. Or we merely
sleep after losing count of the stars.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
At the tail end of June, I talk to my dad on the phone. His voice is familiar
but distant, like something pulled out of mothballs. I've missed him so much.
It's a comfort listening to him while I mope on my bunk, glancing morosely at
my packed luggage by the bedroom door.
My brothers get on the line, mostly to grill me about my ex-girlfriend (they
heard) and my new girlfriend (I told them in a letter). They start describing
the hissy fit Mom went into when she learned what happened with Madge, but then
they break off awkwardly. It's weird, but I get the feeling they're hiding
something.
I'm dreading having to speak to my mother next, but my dad retrieves the phone
instead. This time there's a cautious slant to his voice.
"Peeta, there's something I should tell you," he begins. "Your mother..."
I grip the edge of the bed. "Dad...?"
I picture him in him standing in the bakery, flour dusting his wrists as he
arranges and rearranges the stainless steel measuring cups. He does that
whenever he's nervous.
My father sighs. "I'd thought to wait until you were home, but I don't want you
to arrive to a shock. Your mother and I...we've...that is, we've been having
some difficulty lately." My silence makes him chuckle, shakily and without
humor. "I suppose some things have changed about you." He clears his throat.
"Peeta, your mother...she's moved out, Son."
That announcement drops from his end of the world and lands with a thud into
mine. Instantly, I know where this is coming from, more than he can imagine.
Guilt punctures my chest. I'd been planning to tell him face-to-face about Mom
cheating. But I guess I don't have to.
The Mellark dam bursts. He rehashes the gory details. In a nutshell, he caught
my mother. It happened around Christmas time, although he thankfully leaves me
in the dark about what exactly he saw. She'd been having an affair for over a
year, and my father had had his suspicions early.
After six months of her failing to change her ways, she left. He insists that
Mom still loves me, that this isn't about me, that she'll still be there for
me.
He's wrong. I know for sure that she won't be around at all. She's not even
there to break the news with him, or to defend herself. Because what I think
doesn't matter.
I hear the veil of doubt in Dad's tone, but he refuses to let the news do more
damage today. He sounds completely wrecked from having to drop this on me, that
I can't do it. As shitty as I feel for not outing Mom when I had the chance,
what's the point in telling him that I knew about her all along? Dad would
understand, but learning that his own kid had to see firsthand what she was
doing would hurt him even more. Easing my conscience isn't that important.
There's a pinch of sorrow, yeah, but mostly I'm just relieved that she's gone.
Dad says things will be different once I'm back.
All I can say is, "Good."
He tries to coax my feelings out of me, but it's awkward, and I'm too far away.
And somehow, it's like we don't have to say much else. I sense us both thinking
the same thing: In lots of ways, we've been waiting for this to happen, for her
to bail out on us.
It's not like Dad to end on a tragic note, so he asks me about Katniss, and
that's when I can't shut up. I tell him that I can't let her go. I don't want
it to be over, but I don't know if I can handle the pain of losing her either,
being helpless if distance changes us. I've always been a hopeful person, but
can I take this chance?
"Oh, Peeta," Dad says after a long pause. "You're not afraid of taking chances
anymore. You already took one just going to Panem. You took one dating Madge.
No matter who you're with, there's always a risk."
I wonder if he's thinking of Mom. They couldn't make it work even in the same
house. There's never a guarantee.
"All you can ever do is try. If it's worth it," he says.
It is, I think to myself. Katniss is worth it.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
On my last night in Panem, Violet and Haymitch make themselves scarce, with
Haymitch off to work and Violet to Sae's house, giving me and Katniss that time
again.
I walk into my room and find her waiting there. She stands in front of the
window with her back to me, illuminated by the light of a single candle. She's
wearing only my white shirt. We watch each other's reflections through the
glass as I stop behind her, slide my arms under hers, and begin to unbutton the
shirt.
Within minutes, we're moving in the dark.
She arches her back.
"Yes," I pant.
And she moans.
"Yes," I repeat.
She moans so hard for me.
"Yes," I cry out.
The bed sighs as we come.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
We're up all night. I hold her to my chest, sucking up my tears because it just
won't help. But I'll remember this.
And in the morning, we make love again. And I'll remember this.
She stands at the porch, her body wrapped in a blanket, watching the sun rise
with me. There it is, lifting, lifting, here, an orange light stretching across
our toes and warming them. I'll remember this, too.
A thousand moments surge through me: red birds in flight through dense foliage,
a girl tied to a statue, her shackled wrists, this little home, Violet in an
apron, Haymitch clapping me on the shoulder, spices, a naked body, Cinna's calm
voice, Gale's impassioned comments in class, the weather-beaten and sun-touched
faces of the islanders, a bus swerving across the road, dreamers by the sea,
sky and palm trees, sheets of color, jumping off a cliff, music, Old Man Sae's
guitar and his wife's wrinkled smile, a waterlily pond, the click of my camera,
a dandelion seed, a kiss, a dance, a cove.
The light touching her braid. Her feet on my lap. Her smirk as she stole my
notebook and made me chase her around the house. The snipping sound of her
cutting my hair. Her labored breathing when she taught me to swim. Water
dripping from her chin. Her limbs rippling beneath the lagoon surface. The
letter K drawn in the sand. A white nightgown billowing like a cloud as she led
me secretly to the beach.
Nights. Nightmares.
Pen and paper. Silence.
My name. Words. Love.
I'll remember this.
At breakfast, Violet's eyes shake with sadness, but I grasp her hand to help
thwart any tears. Haymitch swallows but keeps the conversion light. Katniss
just stares at me from across the table.
When I cut a tiny piece of my pepper, there's a pause. Then we all crack up.
The story of my first pepper is legendary in this cottage, so we all replay the
whole thing, which leads to more stories about this year. It helps cheer us up.
Every neighbor comes by to wish me well, because on this island the villagers
are all family to each other. They grow up together and sing songs and dance
together. They raise each other. And when someone who's part of their family
leaves, they say goodbye together.
Old Man Sae pats me on the cheeks. "Be a good boy."
Greasy Sae wipes her eyes. "You're going too far."
I think she might be right. I can barely respond around the lump in my throat.
On the porch, Violet gives me a book she made of all the meals we've cooked.
She smooths back my hair and then hugs me tight, refusing to let me go. I don't
want her to.
"Thank you," she says.
I don't need to ask what for. I know.
Haymitch isn't as sentimental, but his clears his throat, his voice gruff. "I
should say something inspirational, but I haven't got your knack." He smiles
wryly. "I'll just repeat Violet's words. Thank you."
No. Thank you.
"I don't regret a damn thing," he says.
Neither do I. This is home. I'm leaving my home. Again.
He shakes my hand, but I tighten my grip and pull him into a hug. My voice
cracks. "I'll miss you, Haymitch."
Sighing, he ruffles the back of my head. "Ah kid...you've got no idea," he
mumbles. He separates us, then nudges his chin toward Katniss and speaks
quietly. "Don't give up."
I nod. I'll do my best.
He's coming with me to the airport, but Katniss isn't. She and I want to say
goodbye in our special place, not in some air-conditioned, white-walled
terminal. We spend our last hour at the beach play wrestling on the sand,
Katniss blocking my attempts to tickle her feet and retaliating by going after
my armpits.
The tide is low. Pink and ivory seashells dot the sand. Katniss and I call a
draw. Wiped out, she straddles my lap and rubs her nose against mine.
She's still wearing my white shirt. "You'd better take care of this shirt," I
tease, fingering the collar. "It's only on loan."
I wasn't serious, but she sobers and starts fussing with the shirt, smoothing
it over repeatedly. "K-keep swimming," she manages. "In th-that lake you talked
about. And make sure to...and be careful whenever..."
"Katniss?" I ask, concerned. "Tell me. What is it?"
She glances at the water, then draws a breath that seems to come from a faraway
place. "You'll be returning to your friends and going to parties," she says,
her words shaking in the breeze. "You will meet other people."
This isn't what I expected. My stomach lurches. "That won't—"
"We'll write, yes. And you will call, I know. But..." She swallows. "You'll see
Madge again. And there will be other girls, too. Pretty girls who like you, who
are fun to talk to, who'll make you laugh. You'll have new experiences like you
did here, moments you won't expect. And if one day—"
"Katniss. Stop."
"I-I will understand, Peeta. You should be happy—"
A sob leaps from her mouth. I grab her face and sweep my thumbs over her
cheeks. "This isn't our last kiss."
My lips cover her lips, my tongue tumbling with hers, seeking and finding. The
kiss is salty from her tears but nevertheless sweet. With only ten minutes left
before the cab will show up, I bury my face in her hair and whisper everything
she needs to hear to make her strong. "We have a story," I say. "An American
boy who travels to Panem Island and falls for a girl. They met by the sea—"
"They met in a square," she corrects.
"It's still by the sea. Can I finish?"
She chuckles. "I will miss your rants. Never finish them. Never, Peeta."
I kiss her ear. "You know the best part about our story? It's a true one. It's
real. It's permanent, no matter what happens next."
"That sounds nice," she realizes. "What does happen next?"
"I don't know, but the sea isn't going anywhere. Some things stay constant. So
maybe. Someday..."
"Someday."
"Someday, we'll meet here again. Katniss, I've loved you since before I knew
it. There's no way I'll stop now that I do know it."
I'd been forcing myself not to break down until I got on the plane, where no
one I care about would see me. Just as I feared, I can't hold back anymore.
When I pull back, we're both crying but grinning. My heart ruptures and my
throat squeezes, and I'm shattering. But we're grinning. That's a good end.
She presses her three middle fingers to my lips. I kiss them and mouth, I love
you.
No one ever told me how much willpower it takes to let go. I learn what that's
like as I haul myself to my feet and crush her to me, wishing that I could
somehow disappear inside her, or just take her with me.
I'll remember this. Her arms, wrapped around me, changing me forever. Her
voice, saying that she's mine.
"I'll never forget us," I promise.
I meant it when I said that I won't stop loving her, but she's right. My life
will continue, despite my heart being here, despite what I feel. It will
continue. If there's anything I've learned this year, it's that I can't control
things, or foresee what's around the corner, or who will be standing there.
But there's always hope. So I hold onto that and pretend everything I've told
her is a certainty, while she pretends to believe me.
We share one last long look. I walk backward, holding her smile in my head, in
my chest, in my whole body, while my feet drag over the sand. The girl that I
love seems to know I can't do it, so she blows me another kiss. And turns her
back first.
That's the moment I relive on the plane as it speeds over the ocean, as the
cluster of islands below gets smaller, as my life there gets smaller and
smaller until I can't see it anymore. I close my eyes and replay my last sight
of Katniss. I picture her turning away and walking down the shoreline, along
the edge of the sea, her footsteps slow but graceful. As if she, like me, has a
long way to go.
Chapter End Notes
     Come cry with me at: andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com.
***** Chapter 18 *****
Chapter Notes
     Katniss's song: "Home" by Gabrielle Aplin.
     Peeta's song: "Big Bad World" by Kodaline.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                                   Epilogue
                                One Year Later
Katniss
Two children play in the square, giggling as they chase a mockingjay that flaps
around their heads. Watching them relaxes me enough that I clear my throat,
ready to begin, and focus on the sea of faces before me. My friends. My
neighbors. The people of Panem are gathered together as we have been many times
before, but this is not a protest. This is a celebration.
They tilt their heads up to where I'm sitting on the stage. They beam, cheeks
and noses tinged from the summer sun, which has begun to sink over the horizon.
It's sunset. The cords of light bulbs glow above us. The men salute with
bottles, while the women wear waterlilies in their hair like me, except mine is
orange. The petals' fragrance floats through the air.
The mockingjay perches on the statue of its own likeness—a monument that I once
chained myself to, paving the road for this moment. The children's mother
corrals them back to their seats. A collective hush settles over the crowd as
everyone stares at me, waiting to be told a story.
This is home. As Old Man Sae begins to play his guitar, and my voice joins him,
that's what I sing about.
My eyes close. The lyrics I've written are warm in my chest and light on my
lips, following the curl and pluck of Sae's fingers. Of all the stories I've
told—with my dreamer friends and with my sister—this is the first time I've
created something about the place I truly come from.
This world is not an imaginary setting where faeries exist, where wheatfields
grow, or where cobblestones cover the ground. Nor am I a fictional heroine. I'm
not medieval lady, or mythological goddess, or a girl at a carnival. I've never
met a famous poet or been a secret admirer. And I've definitely never wielded a
bow—although I plan on learning someday, the way I learned to fish.
In the end, this is Panem. Endless sky, burning sunsets, white sand, and clear
waters.
And I'm just me. While I will never stop telling stories—they are a beautiful
part of my life—I no longer rely solely on them. They're not my lifeline
anymore. I don't always need to be someone else. Especially not today.
Today, I'm exactly who I want to be. Katniss Everdeen. Wild child. Songbird.
Activist. Waterlily. Daughter. Niece. Sister. Friend. And so much more.
I'm his. I see him behind my lids. I feel him in the music, in the slant of my
voice, because the things he taught me have become the words rising out of me
now. I remember him in this song.
Yes. Everyone I care about is on this island, in this room. Even Primrose.
Everyone except one person. The most important one.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
Dear Katniss,
There's only one way to start this letter: I miss you. I love you.
I don't know how to feel about being back. I just want to be in Panem, where
everything makes sense.
The night I got home, I kind of panicked. My dad was the same. My brothers were
the same, meaning still idiots. Even though Mom isn't here anymore...well, even
that feels the same. She was never really here to begin with.
My dad put up this giant "Welcome Home" sign across the bakery, and my brothers
toilet-papered my room, but nothing else was different in the house. Once I
cleared the toilet paper, everything was exactly like I left it. The paintbrush
and wrestling trophies. My pillows. My notebooks. Everything.
That's when I freaked out. I've changed, but nothing else has. Standing there,
it was like going back in time full throttle. Like the whole year away hadn't
happened. It scared the shit out of me.
I just don't want to forget...
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
Dear Katniss,
I hope you like these pictures I'm sending you. Dad's old camera still works
better than anything.
It's me and him in the bakery (I seriously thought I'd gotten all the flour out
of my hair), my brothers (yeah, they're trying to impress you with their
muscles because they think your waterlily picture is hot, but as you can
see,I'mthe one who has Rye in a headlock), the woods by our house (just thought
you'd like that), the lake that I told you about (I swim there a lot), and
don't laugh at that one of my bedroom. I tripped over my backpack when I
clicked the shutter.
The last one looks like it's me on the phone with someone else, but it's really
us. I'd just dialed your number and heard your sleepy voice answering...
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
Dear Katniss,
First day of senior year was a little weird. I felt like a foreigner, but I
carried the dandelion seed you gave me in my pocket, like I promised...
I wish you could meet my friends. Thresh is a great guy, and you'd like his
girlfriend Rue...
Wrestling is definitely going to happen, but I have to get in shape first...
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
Dear Katniss,
Alright, alright. I won't get you a laptop or smartphone. I know the house
phone works fine, and of course I love our letters, but I just can't help
wanting more of you. I know you're scowling right now, but stop it.
What can I say? I'm greedy. I'm forever greedy when it comes to you...
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
My voice is like a wave rushing across the square. It builds, crescendos, and
comes back down to earth. On the last note, it thins out and becomes a gentle
lap of water, until it fades altogether.
The crowd bursts into applause. I burst into proud laughter. Old Man Sae
enfolds me into a hug and pats my cheek. Cinna winks at me. Greasy Sae blows me
and her husband kisses. Gale and Deliah raise a three-fingered salute. Jo and
Tigris punch their fists in the air.
Finnick whistles, his green eyes sparkling. We share an easy moment across the
square, not spoiled by loss but healed. A friendship that has mended.
Mama dries her tears. Haymitch claps and smiles an "I'll-be-damned" smile.
I'm equally awed. The villagers staged more protests about the fishing permits
over this past year. We were relentless, and most times it was dangerous, and
each time I made the people I love worry.
Especially Peeta. His father once had to physically restrain him from getting
on a plane and flying here to protect me. After that, Peeta became proactive
from his home and somehow got a hold of the media's attention. His ceaseless
chatter and wordsmith skills brought Panem's efforts into a small spotlight,
and at the last protest, camera crews showed up. Unlike the protests that ended
in chaos, that final one ended in triumph.
Since the cause had originally been incited by a young and voluntarily mute
girl, I became the center of the story. At the same time, I also began writing
songs about everything that's happened since I lost Primrose. The little bit of
media recognition I'd gained worked in my favor, because a man named Plutarch
heard me sing at my uncle's cantina one evening. He'd opened a humble studio on
the north shore and thought I might be interested in recording my music there.
It's nothing where I'd have to abandon my life or end up on television. This
Plutarch fellow simply envisions me becoming an "indie favorite" with the
public. It would mean enough money to sustain my family, to contribute to the
island, and to let me stay home. I can do it now that I've graduated. Or I can
teach like Cinna. Or I can create my own survival courses for tourists. Or I
can do all of it. I have choices, and that's a comforting thought.
Haymitch wraps me in an embrace when I come off the stage. "Not bad for a wild
child."
I'm about to pinch him when he teasingly holds up an envelope from District 12.
"This came for you."
My heart spins. I snatch it from him. I don't want to leave the party early,
but I need Peeta, and I always read his letters alone.
"It's alright," Haymitch says without me having to explain. "I have specific
instructions. You're supposed to read it at the beach, at around..." He checks
his watch. "Now, actually."
Puzzled over why or how he'd been given instructions, I bolt for the shore. As
I run, memories of earlier letters flit through my mind.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
Dear Katniss,
...and those spices you sent were an amazing surprise. I love them! Dad
remembers them from his exchange year too. We've been trying them in a few
recipes. It's nice talking to him about Panem. He understands what it was like
to live there...
He just admitted that he's been thinking about opening a second bakery. He's
babbles a lot about "life changes"...
I might do this special food management class at night...
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
Dear Katniss,
God, your last letter. It's all your fault that I'm hard while writing this. I
want to kiss you so bad, and throw you on my bed, and...
You're going to finish me off, sweetheart...
And you claim you're not good at saying something.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
Dear Katniss,
Those song lyrics you wrote were beautiful. I can't wait to hear you sing
someday.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
Dear Katniss,
It makes me so happy to know you liked the grad picture of "your Peeta."
That's what I am. I'm yours.
                                  kpkpkpkpkp
I build a fire at the beach. The low tide rocks peacefully into the horizon
while the setting sun is a half-disc disappearing beneath the water, its orange
reflection rippling across the ocean's surface and tapering to a point like an
arrow's head. Around me, pink and yellow bromeliads bloom from the trees.
The hem of my green skirt brushes the sand as I kick off my sandals. I run my
hand over Peeta's white shirt. I wore it today, tied it into a knot at my
waist, to keep him close to me. I hope it's enough to prepare me for whatever
his letter says. My fingers tremble as I stare, terrified, at the envelope with
his handwriting on it. It's not merely a feeling that I have. I know he has
something important to tell me.
Over time, Peeta did what I predicted he would do. He reconnected with friends.
He went to parties. He maintained a friendship with Madge, though he didn't see
her often, and I trusted him.
At the same time, he did what he predicted and kept his promise. His heart
remained mine alone, never once straying to other people. And my heart has
remained his as well. We've been dedicated, persistent, and perhaps simply
lucky.
Though we haven't been specific about what will happen between us now that
school is over. In his phone calls and letters, I've sensed him considering
many things but withholding his thoughts, which is unusual. He's been
mysterious about college, about this second bakery idea of his papa's, and
about other possibilities.
Peeta has assured me that he's finding a way to bridge the miles between us. He
hasn't given me a reason to doubt his love, but love may not be enough, and
I've been too cowardly to question or push him. Perhaps I'm about to regret
that.
The briny ocean breeze wafts into my nostrils. Dragging my thumb along the
envelope's seam, I agonize whether to sit or stand, then set my chin. I'm
Katniss Everdeen. I will stand.
Dear Katniss,
Keep standing. Also, p lease don't be afraid to read this. It's me, remember?
I'm the one who should be nervous. It's taken me forever to get this letter
right. You might think words come easily to me, but they don't where you're
concerned. Never where you're concerned. It's impossible to find words that
live up to those endless gray eyes of yours and that endless voice.
I miss your voice all the time, Katniss. Even right after we hang up with each
other, I miss it instantly.
You sang today. I hope you thought of me when you did and felt me there,
because I was. I promise.
In the interest of preserving that promise, I have a proposition for you. You
know I came to Panem for a year to have the same experience as my dad. He and I
have talked about it a lot, and Katniss? It's the best thing we've ever shared.
So we thought, why stop there?
Keep standing, my love. Read carefully. In the north shore, there's a building
off that pedestrian street by the Internet cafe. If you go there, you'll see a
sign that says it was bought. You see, my father liked the picture I took of
it. It's crazy how a random photo, a shot taken by mistake because my finger
slipped, can change the future.
The building caught his attention more than I expected. Turns out, the second
floor is an apartment and the first is exactly the kind of place two Mellarks
can sell a few loaves of bread. At least, that's our plan.
It's dawning on you now, isn't it? Katniss, I've been mulling this over for
months, but the choice turned out to be simple. I've already been doing what I
want to do my whole life. The bakery's it. There's a second branch ahead for my
father and me, and there's no question where it should be. Or where I belong.
Panem is home. I went there because of my dad. I want to stay there because of
me.
Because of you. You're my home, Katniss. You've been my home since the moment I
met you, and I don't want to miss you anymore. I want a bed with you and the
ocean with you. I want your arms. I want us. That's what I want.
I'll dance with you. I'll tell stories with you. I'll fight with you. I'll
tease you. I'll make sure you sleep and kiss your stubborn chin when you wake
up. I'll grow with you. I'll jump off a thousand cliffs with you.
Will you allow it?
If yes, then turn around.
The letter flutters to the sand. I whirl around, my heart in my throat.
It's that stray, pesky tendril of hair I see first, sticking out from the rest
of the windswept blond locks. His silhouette appears next, a dark outline of
broad shoulders. As he takes a step forward, his hands in his pockets, the
dusky light swims across his face. His smiling face.
Blue eyes, steady and familiar. Full of longing.
Peeta.
I scream. Letting out a prolonged and girlish shriek, I sprint across the
distance. He meets me halfway, arms outstretched to catch me as I take a flying
leap into the air. I barrel into his chest, my legs entwining around his waist,
but the impact sends us plummeting to the ground.
Sprawled across his body, I attack him with my lips, planting kisses all over
his jaw. I'm touching him, seeing his smile, hearing his laugh.
"Hey there," Peeta says when I finally pull back.
"Hi," I say, matching his grin.
We gaze at each other for ages. His complexion has lost its sun-kissed Panem
glow, but that's no surprise from the the pictures he's sent me. He's as fair
as the day I met him, and he's more toned from sports and his country's
generous food supply, but he still smells like melted sugar. His hands still
know how to hold my hips.
His clothes are new to me. A light blue v-neck, dark grey shorts, and...a
necklace. A black leather strap with a tiny jar dangling off the end. The
dandelion seed.
"Oh, Katniss..." His gaze drinks me in. He looks like he's about to say
something sentimental, but then he plucks my collar. "Nice shirt."
Tears sting my eyes, but I play along. "You can't have it back."
"That's okay," he says sweetly, brushing my cheek with his knuckles. "I've got
everything I need now."
I lean into his palm. I just want to hold him. I've yearned for his skin, his
warmth. "You're here," I say. "You came back to me."
His free arm wraps around my body, securing me against him while his other hand
continues to stroke my face. He smiles as though I should know better. "Let me
be clear: There's nowhere else I want to be. I'll always come back to you. I
love you." His grip on me tightens. "Say it, Katniss. Tell me."
Words aren't enough to convey how much I want this boy. But I say it anyway,
because the words are still true. I press my forehead to his. "Peeta, I love
you."
He sighs in bliss and relief. "You sang so beautifully."
I veer up, my hands flat on either side of his head. "You were there?!"
He blushes, guilty. I would have been elated to see him in the audience. He
should have told me.
"I'm sorry," he says, reading my expression. "And I'm sorry I didn't tell you I
was coming, or about my plans with Dad. I just didn't want to say anything
about the bakery until it was for sure. Believe me, I was dying to spill it.
And then I got this harebrained idea to make a grand romantic gesture and
surprise you, and I wanted our first meeting to be here, alone, but I couldn't
get a flight earlier than today, otherwise I would have, you know, done the
whole reunion thing first, and then I wouldn't have had to go all cloak-and-
dagger and watch you perform from a distance. Anyway, I was stupid."
"You were," I agree. "But I've missed you too much to scold you."
"Don't even get me started on how much I missed you back." He rubs his nose
over mine. "Dad's gonna be here in a month, once he's done finishing up some
stuff in District 12. I have the apartment above the new bakery, but it's not
furnished yet, and besides I'd rather stay with you until then. That is..."
Peeta smirks. "I mean, if that's what you want."
His flirting makes me chuckle. "Yes," I answer. "Stay with me."
"Always," he says.
He tries to kiss me. As much as I want that, I jump up and swagger backward.
Come and get it, American boy.
This time, Peeta does. He chases me down the beach and around palm trees until
he finally catches my waist, pulling me close, his eyes the only two stars that
matter. It's nightfall now. Our lips connect in the dark. The kiss tastes
familiar, like sunshine. Like home.
Everyone is in the square celebrating, but we're here, tugging each other's
clothes off. They land in a pile on the sand. I straddle him by the fire. My
gaze locks onto his as he fills me, trembling and triumphant. We move so deep
and quiet, our hips rocking softly. No need to rush.
My hands brace on his shoulders for leverage. His hands wander over my spine.
Color flies up Peeta's throat, and his eyes fight to stay open, but he's there.
We're there. He crushes me to him and cries into my mouth. The feeling rushes
up my limbs, the sensation akin to leaping into the air.
After our bodies have recovered, Peeta grins and laces his fingers through
mine. "Together?"
I nod. "Together."
We stand and race to the ocean, running into the waves, the surf spraying
around us. We hoot and dive in like wild ones. And when we pop back up to the
surface, our hands still clasped, we can breathe again.
Chapter End Notes
     Swoon. Sigh. Smiles.
     From the beginning, I mentioned that I was once an exchange student.
     Lots of little memories wove themselves into these chapters, yet this
     was very much Everlark's tale. I hope you guys enjoyed where the tide
     took them.
     Many thanks to each of you for reviewing, following, and favoriting.
     Also to my illustrious betas, Chelzie and Court81981, for their
     support, perception, and wickedly funny (oftentimes naughty) notes.
     To Ro Nordmann for the romantic banner. And to Everlart for the
     beautiful Waterlily fan art that surprised me on tumblr yesterday.
     Most importantly, this story is dedicated to my boy from the Baltic
     Sea. Thank you for being there when I landed, for inspiring me to
     live a little wildly, and for that spring afternoon when everything
     changed.
     I'm at: andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com, where I'll also be
     posting details about my novel Touch as time goes by.
     Have a brilliant summer ~HGR
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