Archive of Our Own

I left Twelve thinking that I was going to die, that Katniss was going to make it home and that I would be brought back in a pine box for my family to mourn. That I would join the graveyard filled with children who hadn’t made it home. I took comfort in knowing that she would have the support system to go on. That Gale would help her heal. And I knew that she would be able to build herself back up.

Maybe she would be changed for the better. Maybe for the worse. But either way, I left on that train with her fully intent on it being my last train ride out of Twelve.

I’ve been back for two years now. And there are days when I expect to wake up, still in the hands of the Capitol. That I’m in a cell, waiting for the next cruel punishment they think up. But she sleeps at my side each night, so when I feel her pressed against me, I know that I’m safe. That I’m home. I don’t often wake her up after I’ve had a nightmare, even though she begs me to. She says she feels bad, that she wakes me several times a night while I let her sleep. But, just like before the Quell, my nightmares are calmed as soon as I see her by my side.

At least, they are most nights.

There are times when I have to retreat into my old house, to try and find answers as to why I’ve woken up next to a mutt that wants to kill me. The paintings, scattered in rooms throughout my house help. By the time she’s woken up in a panic, I’m usually calmed and recovered enough to return to the home we share.

I don’t wake her because I don’t want her to see the hate in my eyes. I can’t help but be ashamed of that man.

I’m happy to note that I wake up today completely nightmare free. I pull her closer to me, nuzzling her neck to take the in deliciously stale scent of sleep. Affection between the two of us isn’t as tentative. I have no shame in the feel of her against me, of how it makes me feel. Because I know that, at times, she feels it too.

Katniss wakes almost the moment my day old facial hair touches her bare neck. She stretches out against me, causing me to groan softly into her ear. Her laughter is soft as she turns so that we are nose to nose. Our legs magnetically tangle together. When we first began to share a bed again, I wore my prosthetic leg because I didn’t want her to be disgusted by the stump that remained. But after a few weeks of it being obvious that I wasn’t sleeping well, she insisted that I take it off each night. I was worried, nightmares plaguing me night after night of what I thought she’d feel.

It wasn’t until she finally took the fake limb off herself that my nightmares were put at ease.

Now, it’s not even something we think about. It’s just apart of daily life. So I don’t think about it when she scoots closer so that our thighs are pressed together, but I do enjoy the blush that covers her cheeks. I think her boldness still surprises her in a way she’s not sure off just yet. But I love it. I cherish every moment that she lets her walls down to allow her affection to be genuine.

“Good morning.” I whisper in her ear, my forehead pressed to hers. Her smile is sweet, covering her face quickly. I know my good mood is surprising to her after the night before. But we both value the start of a new day.

“Morning. Not baking yet?” Most days, I’m up before she is, hands buried in dough to keep the District fed. Some weeks, we have routine that we follow and others we just go with the flow. Neither of us can keep a regular schedule. There are days when she’s sleeping for hours, eats nothing due to depression. And I have my violent flashbacks that send me into a downward spiral. Flexibility is key for the both of us.

But the routine does help both of us. It’s not hard to find her when I know that she hides in the closet of Prim’s old room to be surrounded by the scent of a little sister who lingers there. And she knows that my only solitude is the house across the street.

I don’t know how long we lay there. But the gentle growl of her stomach forces us down into the kitchen. As if she’s flipped a switch, Katniss is a bundle of energy, moving around me in orbit. She’s attaching my leg before I can even think to reach for it. She doesn’t bother slipping on pants under my oversized shirt, but she does toss me one from my drawer to slip over my head. She’s pulling me to my feet and we are giggling our way into the kitchen.

She grabs the container of cinnamon, letting me know without saying a word that she’s hungry for the sweet rolls that we make once a week. We continue to rotate around each other through the kitchen, as if in a well practiced dance though space. This is a recipe that her and I have made dozens of times, each of us knowing our role. Even she doesn’t need to be reminded of measurements or ingredients, mixing the sugar and spices from memory.

There is an odd warmth that fills my heart. Baking has always been important to me. Knowing that she appreciates it as much as I do, that she puts just as much enthusiasm into this recipe as I do, only reassures me of what I’ve known for a while.

We are healing. And we are doing it together.

She takes a quick shower while the rolls rise. When she comes back, she’s dressed to take off into the woods. “I thought we could go on a hike today.” While her plan makes me wonder, I don’t question it. I don't hike with her often, because my leg and natural gait doesn’t make for good hunting. The few times I have gone, I can tell that she’s frustrated by how loud I seem to be. So the fact that she wants me to go with her warms my heart.

I shower shortly after putting the rolls in the oven, knowing that she won’t let them burn. I don’t take very long and by the time I’ve joined her, she’s already making the icing for them. Unexplained pride swells though me— there is something special about the fact that she cares, that she’s put time and effort into something I’ve taught her. I join her in frosting them as they come out of the oven.

I don’t need much warm this late in the spring, so the pants and shirt I’ve chosen are light and comfortable. The boots on my feet are sturdy, which I’ve learned is crucial when walking on the uneven terrain. She’s packed a bag, still filling it with food. I don’t really have any idea what she’s planned, but it will probably take most of the afternoon. I can smell the coffee brewing, a new taste we both seem to have developed on nights when sleep can be so little.

We settle onto the small table the kitchen, enjoying a lazy breakfast of sweet rolls and coffee. She asks about the blue prints for the bakery, and this sends me into an animated conversation about the progression of an idea I had this winter.

It’s time to move on, to figure out where my life, where our lives, are going to lead. And for me, the future was always meant to be owning the family bakery. And it will stand on the same ground as my parents did. They might not have been the best, or the most supportive, parents, but they were mine. And this was how I could honor them. How I would honor them.

The conversation continues throughout the initial trek into the woods. We discuss the size, if there should be any sort of apartments above it, how many ovens should there be. I know she doesn’t honestly care and that all decisions about it will be up to me. But she is a good spring board to figure out what will work or not. And she’s watched me bake enough to know my flow, to help me sort of the immediate needs verses desires.

The ground gets a little more rocky, and the conversation drops off to allow focus. Not for her benefit, but for mine. Because I have to stare at the ground, to make sure my foot is landing on a firm surface. There is no feeling on the bottom of my prosthetic foot. The rest of my leg has adapted, but this is the most rugged hike I’ve taken since the Games. Katniss takes position behind me, making sure I don’t fall. Still incredibly protective of me, of my disability.

We must be getting close, because there is a palpable change in the air. She’s excited again, almost 2 hours later. She takes the lead as soon as the ground evens out. I have a hard time keeping quiet, about her reason for bringing us out here. But I don’t; I’m enjoying this side of her.

An hour later, she’s forcing me to hunch over so she can cover my eyes. I laugh, explaining that I can do it myself, but she’s insistent. We walk for another 5 minutes before she’s stopped us. Her silence is slightly concerning, as is the nervous tension. “Alright, we’re here.”

Still, her hands don’t leave my eyes. She’s unsure of herself, which confuses me. My hands move to cover hers, reassuring her with a soft squeeze. It’s another minute or two before our hands fall from my eyes.

And we’re both left speechless.

Katniss has spoken of this lake a few times, when working on the memory book. But she’s never brought me here. But the water isn’t what brings me to silence. No, it’s the surrounding insignificant blooms the litter the ground that make my hand grasp onto hers.

The yellow and white dandelions are every where.

She pulls me close, drawing my attention from the flowers to her. There’s something in her eyes that I don’t know if I’ve ever seen before. There is sorrow, but maybe acceptance, too? I can’t really tell. Her voice is low, but the forest is silent enough for me to hear her. “Do you remember the day after you gave me the bread?”

I don’t have to think hard to remember that day at school, having watched her most of the day to make sure that she was going to make it. She wouldn’t look at me, but I had been alright with that. She was alive, and looked happy. And that had been enough. But at the end of the day, her eyes briefly met mine and I smiled. Her cheeks had blushed and she looked away, fascinated with something on the ground.

“You picked a dandelion, real or not real.”

She smiled, her hands sipping into mine. “Real.” Her cheeks blush, much like they had that day. “My father spent our days in the woods teaching me everything he knew. I didn’t remember until that day that dandelions were edible. The leaves are bitter, but they can be used for salads. And the heads make a slightly sweet tea. The white ones are seeds pods, and he always insisted that I take every single one I could find to make a wish with, blowing the seeds to create more.” I don’t know what she is getting at. I remember her selling my father the plants, eating them blanched and boiling. But I do not understand why she brought me here.

“My mother checked out after my father died. She couldn’t function, couldn’t stand to get out of bed most days.” She continued, our eyes locked. “But that dandelion reminded her that it had medicinal uses. She might not have come back completely that day, but she told me to bring home the roots next time because she could make a brew with them. It was the first thing she had said that hadn’t been about my father.” Katniss doesn’t bother with tears, but I can tell that this is emotional for her.

I brush the tail of her braid over her shoulder, my hand resting on her cheek. “You had the brightest smile after seeing that stupid little weed. I didn’t understand it.”

Her face turned into my palm, kissing the inside of it before letting herself relax into the touch. “From then on, any time I saw a dandelion, I thought of you, Peeta. You kept me alive long enough for me to remember what my father taught me. Your bread, the dandelion— it gave me hope.” There was a sweetness in her smile, my thumb dancing across the thickness of her cheek. “You give me hope, Peeta. Every day since you came home.”

My cheeks flush, trying to remember what Haymitch had told me about her initial return. How broken she had been. I have tried to imagine her as she had been, knowing that it was much like she had described her mother had been after the death of her father.

And that only my return had brought her back to life.

“So you brought me here to help you harvest?” I tease, stepping close to her.

I get a soft laugh in return, “No. But that’s not a bad idea.” I can tell that she isn’t sure if she should continue. Feelings have always been hard for her to deal with. “Last year, I came here and found a few dozen of these. And I picked all the white fruits I could find. And I wished that you would find peace after everything that happened. I wished for a way to help make the bad days easier. I wished for the strength to accept your help. And I wished for forgiveness for the way I’ve treated you in the past.”

“Katniss…”

She shakes her head, stopping me from interrupting her again. “I should never have been indifferent with your feelings. I shouldn’t have used you when I needed comfort and not reciprocating when you needed me back. I was cruel to you. Haymitch told me I could never deserve you. And he was right.”

My face turns into a soft frown, wondering why he would say anything like that. “That’s not true.”

“See, you’re too kind, Peeta. You should hate me after what happened. And yet, you’re hear.” She steps back, her eyes forcing mine to look at the abundant shores covered with the little weeds. “I came back here yesterday and released that each one of these is a wished fulfilled. That I need you as much as I needed that bread. You brought me back to life.”

“So did you.”

Her hands moved into her pockets, closing herself off for a moment. “But not in the way you did for me. I was waiting to die here, hoping that I wouldn’t wake up. The fire was dead in me. But you came home and brought me back just by not giving up on me. Even after I gave up on you.” I refuse to let her fears take any sort of root. My arms wrap around her, pulling her tight against me. Her own arms wrap around my neck as my head drops to her shoulder. “I brought you here to make a promise. Each one represents the years I want to spend with you, Peeta Mellark.”

I pull back, taking in the hundreds of flowers around us. “That’s a big promise, Katniss.”

She pulls me back in, “I know. And I want to make it. Because I want the good days. And the bad. There is no one else I want to hold me after my nightmares. Or to wake me up with a cup of hot chocolate and a smile. I want to be the only one who can bring you back after a flash back.”

“I could hurt you.”

“And you probably will. But I will do the same to you.” It was bound to happen in any relationship. “And I want to get the chance to make it up to you, too. You are my best friend. And I will spend a year for each dandelion proving how much you mean to me.”

I don’t hide the few tears that have fallen down onto my cheeks. No, I pull her close, my head dropping to hers. And without hesitation, for the first time since the war, our lips meet. There is no tentativeness in my actions, nor in her reciprocation. There isn’t heat, but there is tenderness. And maybe a bit of love, too.

Our foreheads rest against each others, our smiles mirrors.

I don’t know how long we stand there, holding each other. But it’s long enough that hunger forces me to pull her down into the grass. We set up the picnic and eat the dried meats and cheese that she’d packed. Katniss settled into my lap afterwards and we enjoy the tranquility of the day. “We did this on the roof of training building, real or not real?”

“Real.” I kiss her forehead, my arms around her waist. She grabs a white dandelion and holds it out to me. “Make a wish.” I take it, blowing the white fluff into the wind. I watch her, staring at the seeds dancing off across the lake. “What did you wish for?”

I smile at her. “A million more dandelions.”