#the sourcing on this is horrific I apologize things have just been cluttering up my saved too long to find the orignals

[stolennumbers]

In Which The Black Boy Falls in Love & Learns to Start Running by @yvesolade// @boymiffy//Moth by Vitae //Malcolm Treadwell- Hollow Knight //Joe Rubberman, 1978 by Robert Mapplethorpe//Samu -Hollow Knight//Return to Life by Vitae// Upslash //Instagram//Unknown//Precious by Ateez (English translation)// No Lack of Love by Leah Horlick//Swallow-Tailed Moth, 2020 by Sarah Gillespie

[everlarkficexchange]

Full Circle

Written by: @emilia206

Prompt 26: Mockingjay canon divergent - Prim was never killed. Gale and Katniss try to get back to how they were before the war, but he realises that he’s already lost Katniss’ heart to Peeta, heart, mind, and soul. Any POV. Submitted by anonymous.

Summary: The prompt is pretty self explanatory, and I did my best to stick to it, however I was not prepared to completely write Gale out of Katniss’ life. Sorry? This is from Katniss’ POV.

Rating: Teen and up audiences.

Word count: 12,567

Thank you to my wonderful beta @melting-starlight. She’s more active on ao3 though, where she’s Starlight_Wren.

Breathe in. Breathe out. That’s all I’m doing. And for once, it’s enough. It’s enough if I just stand in the midst of lush greenery surrounded by the flutterings and scuffles of animals in springtime, just breathing and listening. My bow hangs limp in my hand and in the other I idly twirl an arrow. I’ll make my shot, eventually. When I feel the time is right, I’ll open my eyes again, to a world that’s coming to life once more, and I’ll aim and shoot. Dinner served. Not yet though, the time is not right.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Over and over again. It feels good to be out in the sun, to have it warm my winter chilled body. Perhaps it shall thaw out my heart too, but that can’t happen. Not yet, the time is not right. As the day warms up and begins to start in earnest, the animals become more loud in their search for food, shelter, and perhaps even a mate. They ignore me, standing as still as I am, not making a sound. I even briefly feel the tip of a wing swoop so low overhead it ruffles my hair. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. It’s almost time. Time to open my eyes and find my mark. I have to be quick about it, but these animals have become idle with their hiding skills in the time I’ve been away. No longer looking out for traps and flying arrows. I’ll use it to my advantage. Somewhere in the distance, a group of birds start up a melody. Conversing in short little tweets and chirps. Almost - I twirl my arrow once more in my fingers - time. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. My eyes snap open, letting the bright sunlight shine into them. I squint momentarily before I set my eye on my first mark. A wide-eyed rabbit, that stares at me from behind a protruding tree root. It doesn’t even try to run, it just stares right at me, until I lodge an arrow into its eye. A still comes over the clearing, creatures waiting with bated breath for the next arrow to fly. It doesn’t take me long, two squirrels, oblivious to the still around them, squabbling over an acorn. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. I bag tonight’s dinner, clean off my arrows, and am on my way. I’m not even ten metres away from the clearing when it comes back to life. Stupid things. I don’t know why, but it peeves me. Gale and I only stopped hunting regularly in these woods a little over six months ago, and already the animals have forgotten our presence. It’s ironic that with one tyrannical leaders fall, so did mine and Gale’s rule over these woods. Dr. Aurelius tells me that that’s OK, with a chapter closing within my life, another can begin. Then again, of course Dr. Aurelius can say these things, he’s not the one who actually has to let the chapter close. I don’t want it to - part of me still longs for days spent foraging and hunting in the woods, my partner by my side - but I know it has to.  

Breathe in. Breathe out. I’ve made it to the fence. Here comes the tricky part; making it back to the Village without letting myself slide into a mental vicious circle of passing the blame. Don’t look. Even as my rationale tells me not to, it’s impossible not to stare at the charred remains of my people being tipped into a gaping black pit that used to be the Meadow. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. No need to cry. My tears won’t help them now. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t cry. As soon as I think it, though, the tears burn at the back of my eyes, and my nose stings and flares. I move my feet faster up the hill. No point in hanging about. The gate to Victors Village looms up in the distance, towering above the carnage of my fallen District. It stands tall and proud, and I subconsciously shrink before it, though the wrought iron lettering looks rusted and dilapidated. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. I stand among the overgrowing gardens and sunken houses. Families are living in them now, and the entirety of the Village hums with life, all but Haymitch’s, Peeta’s and my own. In Haymitch’s resides only the old drunk with a sea of liquor bottles to wade through on the floor. Peeta’s house waits cold and unlived in, standing by until his return. In my own stands nothing but a few boxes waiting to be shipped off to District 4, where we will be greeted by my mother and Prim. 

Breathe in. Brea - a tremendous crash comes from within Haymitch’s house. I’m standing at my own front door, hand resting on the handle when another crash comes from his house. I might not be particularly fond of the old man, but I still care about him, enough to start running like a madman towards his house. He’s drunk most of the time so it wouldn’t surprise me if he accidentally threw himself down the stairs.

Bursting in through his door I yell his name, “Haymitch!” 

As expected, I get no response. I walk on soft feet through to his living room where he lies prone on his sofa, one of his arms hanging limply to the floor where a bottle of half finished liquor sways a little. No doubt he fell asleep like this. 

I give him a rough shake, and for once it’s enough to rouse him from his slumber. He sits up, giving me a disgruntled look, before taking another swig from the bottle. I snatch it from his hands, and he looks up at me, clearly pissed off.

I narrow my eyes at him, “Do you have a guest Haymitch, or have the racoons finally taken over?” 

“Wha-?” He continues to stare at me nonplussed.

“Jesus, how out of it were you Haymitch?” 

“I’d say he’d been out cold for a couple hours when I came in,” says an achingly familiar voice behind me.

I jump, and both mine and Haymitch’s head snap towards the source of the voice, where a blond boy - no, man - stands. He’s smirking slightly, I imagine at the shocked expressions our faces are wearing. I can’t help it, it’s a reflex really, one that I hate to have developed, but I take a step back. Peeta looks at me, and his smile drops, if only by a fraction.  I wince, I don’t mean it, just a precaution.

He looks well, and his eyes have lost that clouded, tortured look. As I stare unabashadley at him, he frowns slightly. 

“So, what, you just let yourself in and started doing god knows what with my kitchen?” Haymitch grouses. I finally manage to snap my attention away from him, and become very interested in my shoes. 

From the corner of my eyes, I watch as Peeta scratches the back of his neck and bounces his foot nervously, “Guess I’m more of a self-imposed guest then.” 

Following his comment, a silence falls over the room. I can’t really remember the last time we were all together alone like this. It must have been some time before the Quell happened, when we were training. Less than a year ago then, yet it feels like a lifetime. 

Quietly, I clear my throat, trying to think of something to say that will break this awkward tension that’s settled over the room. I should have left earlier. Instead I just say, “Well seeing as you’re OK, I’ll be on my way.” I point lamely to the front door, and start making my way over there. 

I’m just about out of the whole stinking house, hating them both for ruining what was looking to be a good morning, when Haymitch calls after me, “Hold it sweetheart, what’s in the bag?” 

I huff, yanking the whole bag off before throwing it at his face. As hungover as he is, his reflexes are still remarkably good and he catches it before it hits him. He gives me a pointed glare before taking a look inside. Giving me a satisfied smirk, he throws the bag back and announces, “We’ll have dinner at yours then.” 

I’m about to protest when he comes lumbering over to the door and slams it in my face. I stand dumb-struck, face inches from the door, hunting bag hanging clenched in my fist.

Breathe in. Breathe out. It’s all OK. 

———————————————————————-

I stand over my stove, grinding my teeth and staring resolutely out of the window, only occasionally looking down as I stir the mediocre stew I’ve concocted.  I worry my lip between my teeth, not caring if it starts to bleed. There’s so much that has been left unsaid between Peeta and I, a thousand apologies and explanations owed both ways. And I don’t even know where to start, or if I even want to open that conversation yet. But I’m wracking my brains and I can’t find anything else that Peeta and I really have in common, other than our horrific experiences. I decide that I’ll simply try and get through this dinner with as little talking as possible. 

I spent the rest of the day after the rude encounter with Haymitch and surprise reunion with Peeta cleaning up the entirety of the house and packing away the rest of the clutter, making space for whoever was going to move in after I left. I find that the menial chores of everyday life, such as cleaning, cooking, washing, help to alleviate some of my pent up frustration and have quite a calming effect. As dull and repetitive as they can be, focusing my brain power on such an unimportant task helps keep me centered and grounded in reality. 

It’s around that time of day when the afternoon is coming to an end, and the sun is starting to lower in the sky. The sun is coming in at an odd angle, blinding me, when I hear a firm knock at the door. I huff, stomping down the hallway to the entryway, rubbing my eyes to get rid of the white spots in my vision. Thinking it’s Haymitch coming early to give me some sort of lecture about behaviour around the newest inhabitant of Victors Village, or to watch me cook and tell me I’m doing it wrong.  I yank open the front door and say in a rather impatient voice, “You needn’t have come early, I know perfectly well how to cook without burning my house down.” 

I’m still squinting slightly, but when my vision finally clears I see only a broad chest standing in front of me. Looking up, I’m met with Peeta’s  face, once more frowning at me. “I know that,” he says, “I just thought I’d come early to help out a little, I brought some bread,” he sheepishly lifts his left arm showing me a small basket filled with rolls and buns. 

“Oh,” I stammer, “right, well come on in then.”

I turn my back and start marching back to the kitchen, scrunching my face and resisting the urge to bang my head repeatedly against a wall. Of all the ways I could invite Peeta into my house, that has got to be one of the worst. “Mind the boxes,” I say as an afterthought, conscious that most of the front of this house is littered with them, and not wanting him to trip over one. 

He hums behind me, and I can hear his heavy tread picking over the little maze that I’d inadvertently created when piling them up. 

I plant myself in front of the stove again, stirring the simmering stew - even though I know full well that it doesn’t need stirring anymore - and yank the curtain closed. 

He enters the kitchen and out of the corner of my eye I see him glance back down the hallway furrowing his brow slightly, I silently beg for him not to ask about them. 

“You can put the basket on the table,” I rush out, as soon as I see him open his mouth. He nods his head, and places the basket on the corner of the table. I can feel his eyes burning a hole in the back of my head. I don’t think I’ve ever wished for the arrival of Haymitch, but right now I really hope he comes waltzing in.

“What’s with the boxes?”

No such luck.

I sigh, and hunch myself over the countertop. “I’m, uh, leaving.” 

“Oh,” he says it quietly, and I’m not sure if I was even supposed to hear it. 

“District 4,” I elaborate, even though he didn’t ask, “My mother got a job there, and there’s a school with a good training program for Prim.”

“That’s good, I guess,” he says, his leg has started to bounce again, “I was wondering where they were.”

A silence falls over the room, and my breathing starts to pick up. Just say something! My brain scrambles for something to say, because there is no way I can stand here in silence with Peeta. “I only really came back here to, you know, pack up, and uh… say goodbye.” 

As I pull out the drawer to look for a good bread knife, I see Peeta nod, digesting this information. Still he says nothing, nothing about what he thinks of this, what he feels about me leaving. I don’t know why I should care, but I find that I do. Where is Haymitch? Can’t he for once in his life be on time? I’m drowning here, helplessly floundering around.

“Well you know how it is,” I continue, “needing a fresh start, after everything that’s happened…” I don’t know why I’m saying all of this, to Peeta no less, but the words won’t stop pouring out of my mouth. 

I take a deep breath to steady myself, and consider clamping a hand over my mouth to stop myself from saying any more. Peeta stands stock still in the entryway of the kitchen, I don’t think he knows what to say, which is a first. I’ve rendered Peeta Mellark speechless. 

To fill the quiet, and desperate not to say anything else, I begin scurrying around the kitchen. Wiping off countertops, and rinsing already cleaned and drying dishes. I’m frantic, and I have no clue as to where to go from here. What to say to this man standing in my kitchen, someone I know so much, and yet so little about. 

I’m banging open cupboards and drawers, searching for a knife to cut the bread with, when Peeta comes to stand beside me. I’m searching through a drawer, which I know doesn’t hold a bread knife, my hands are shaking and I can’t make them stop. That’s when he reaches over, and clasps my hands in his. I freeze, and look straight ahead at the standard kitchen tile, willing myself to breathe.

“Katniss,” he murmurs, “look at me.”

I blink slowly, and my lip trembles, but slowly I turn my head to look at him. He’s so close, and he’s looking at me with such intensity that it should make me nervous, but it doesn’t. 

“It’s OK,” he smiles, in what I think is supposed to be a reassuring way, but I’m transfixed by his eyes, and they’re not smiling with him. I sag slightly, I want so badly for it to be OK, every morning I trick myself into believing it’s OK, just to be able to get up. It isn’t though.

“No, no it’s not OK,” I whisper, “None of anything that happened was ‘OK’.”

I look down, fascinated by the way his large pale hands seem to engulf my own smaller darker ones. He doesn’t seem to have a response to that either, so we just stand there in silence, until Haymitch finally comes strolling through my back door. 

Quickly, I yank my hands from Peeta’s and take a step back, brushing away non-existent wrinkles in my clothing. Haymitch, seemingly unaware of the strained atmosphere in the room, plonks himself down at the table before rambling on about some phone call he received from Plutarch. Peeta tries to catch my eye, but I move swiftly away, collecting bowls and spoons, and finally procuring that wretched bread knife. Carrying them over to the table, I give Haymitch a withering look, it isn’t exactly his fault that I’m unable to be in a room alone with Peeta and have a normal conversation, but he didn’t have to invite everyone round to my house for supper either. 

He quirks one of his eyebrows in amusement, catching on to my annoyance. 

“I hope you didn’t stare at the food with such a sour face, you might have spoiled it,” he says, eyes narrowing at me in challenge. Goading me into saying something I might regret. He thinks I’m stupid, he thinks I don’t understand why he’s doing this to me. I fully understand that this is him punishing me for leaving, he doesn’t want me to know it, that he doesn’t want me to go, but unfortunately for him he told me once when I was escorting him back to his house after another one of these damned dinners. 

He’d leant in close to my ear, breathing sour fumes into my face, and said, “You shouldn’t leave, you can’t leave, Twelve is your home remember. And anyway, what’re you gonna do without your favourite resident drunk.” It hadn’t been the first time he’d tried to guilt me into staying, but at least he’d shown more finesse before, using Peeta’s inevitable return against me. This was the first time he had actually shown any indication that he was remorseful of my decision to leave. He’d then belched loudly, and fallen asleep right there, with me holding him up in the middle of the road. 

I stare him down, daring him to say another word, but he reaches over the table and grabs the bread and knife. “Well at least I can know that one part of this meal won’t give me food poisoning,” he exclaims loudly, I only roll my eyes and stalk over to the stewpot. Peeta tries once more to grab my attention, but I studiously avert my gaze from his and busy myself with finding a tea towel to carry over the steaming dish. I sigh quietly in relief when Peeta finally makes his way over to the table and takes a seat opposite to Haymitch.

“We’ve missed your bread around these parts,” Haymitch proclaims, “haven’t we, sweetheart?” He looks up at me, daring me to deny this sentiment.

I place the pot down onto the table with a little more force than necessary, causing both Haymitch and Peeta to jump in their seats. I give each of them my best glare, effectively shutting off all conversation for the next five minutes. 

As we eat in awkward quietude, the only sounds that fill the room are the clink of a spoon hitting a bowl or a crunch as someone bites into a roll.

The silence suits me just fine, and the glowering looks that Haymitch sends me from over his bowl don’t bother me in the slightest. At first I don’t realise, but Peeta starts to fidget on the other side of the table, tapping out an erratic beat on the table and holding his spoon in a death grip before releasing it slightly. 

I watch in fascination as his knuckles turn white from the effort, I know it’s a horrible thing to think, but I begin to wonder if it’s my throat he really wants to grip in a chokehold. I give an involuntary shiver, and stare down at the stew that I so hastily threw together, ashamed of my line of thought. 

I’ve just about finished my bowl, when Haymitch clears his throat. I inwardly groan, does the man never take a holiday? 

To my surprise, however, he only leans back in his chair, levels us both with a look, and says, “Thank you, that was… lovely,” his features, so hardened by years of having children die on his conscience, soften slightly and he turns his focus to me. I shrink back a little at the scrutinisation, but his eyes hold no malice, they just look right into my soul and I know what he’s going to say before he even says it, “You did good, sweetheart.”

Even though I knew it was coming, my breath momentarily stills in my chest. I look back at him and my face crumples. Haymitch knew exactly what he was doing when he said it, he’s reminding me that we were, and still are, a team. That as much as he doesn’t want to be, and I don’t want him to be, he’s here. And I am forgiven. 

“Boy, would you give us a moment,” Haymitch says softly. 

I’m barely holding myself together, the flimsy strings that have been holding my already fragile psyche together all these weeks are about to fail, and I’m once more grateful for the fact that Haymitch understands me so well, because as much as I hate to admit it, I can’t fall apart in front of Peeta.  

I hear rather than see Peeta hastily vacate the room, and though I was expecting a floodgate to open and for the tears to stream from eyes as if a dam had been broken, none come. The kitchen isn’t filled with my howls and sobs, it’s filled only with the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall. Within me though, an inferno rages. Filled with the screams of the far gone dead, and me at the center gasping and retching. 

They are bursting to be let loose, they are threatening to tear at the very seams of my sanity and being. Some are my fault, some happened on accident, and some happened because I wasn’t watching closely enough, but they all shout the same. It starts with my father and ends with Squad 451. It’s pent up somewhere inside me, all the hurt and anguish, under lock and key, and it’s writhing and scrambling to be let loose. For me to let it go. But I’m scared that if I do so there won’t be anything left. These people’s deaths are what define me, and I have no idea where I lay in the mess of faults and debts.

In the kitchen though, silence still reigns, I’m staring stoically at the tiny amount of  watery liquid that remains at the bottom of my bowl. Haymitch takes my clenched fists in his own roughened and grubby hands. He doesn’t bore me with trite platitudes, he just sits in silence waiting for me to either release my torment, or push it back down. 

We stay like this for what seems like hours, but eventually my tense muscles relax slightly and I remember how to breathe normally. My ghosts are silent again. I look up at Haymitch, exhausted and emotionally rung out, and I wait for his ‘sage’ advice to come. All he offers up though is;

“You got off the train, sweetheart. Stop trying to get back on.” 

He rises from the table, and for once he carries the dishes over to the sink. He pats me once on the shoulder before leaving. I watch as he hobbles from my kitchen and down the road to his own house, looking years older than a man his age should.

—————————————————————————–

After the somewhat disastrous dinner, I made sure to isolate myself from anyone who might cause me some sort of distress. It wasn’t hard, seeing as I’ve never been the most sociable of beings, and I had plenty to do before my departure. I packed the remainder of the house up, and left a bottle of liquor on Haymitch’s doorstep, with a hastily tied bow wrapped around its neck. I then ventured into the woods, I didn’t bother with getting out one of my bows and arrows, I just wandered through the dense foliage, silently saying goodbye to all I used to know, and with it my childhood. 

The people came, as arranged, to help move the boxes to the train station. I boarded the train in the dead of night, with only Greasy Sae there to bid me farewell. The train moved out of the station with little ado, and I found myself a spot in one of the corners, sat on a crinkly tarp. 

It was decided that if I was to be travelling from District 12 to District 4, it couldn’t be on one of the new passenger trains, it would cause too much ‘excitement’ as Plutarch so eloquently told me. I was to travel in one of the trains filled with building materials, and rations. I agreed, as I see myself as being rather intimate with small cramped spaces.

The train chugged along, rocking me into a state of tranquility. I breathed in, and I breathed out, hoping with all of me that it could finally be OK.

——————————————————————–

It isn’t until a few days after my arrival in Four that I see it, a small piece of paper on my floor. It must have fallen from one of the boxes whilst I was unpacking. Frowning, I pick it up, 

If you ever want to talk.  - Peeta

Underneath is a number, a phone number, Peeta’s phone number. I clutch the paper in my fist, crumpling it a little. I’m standing stock still in my room, the sunlight is filtering in through the window. It isn’t particularly special, in fact, the writing is scrawled, as if he was rushing to get it done. But it’s still from Peeta, and it’s rattled me. 

There’s so much to do, I promised Prim we could go for a walk on the beach, Gale is visiting, I said I’d go see Annie for tea. But right now, none of that matters, because the world has gone still with me, and I don’t know what to do.   

I yank open my desk drawer, looking at the crumpled piece of paper one last time, before placing it in there with all of the other things that I no longer know what to do with, but can’t get rid of; a locket, a pin, a pearl, and a spile. I then slam the drawer shut, hoping that the sounding finality of it will echo across all time, time to say goodbye to all that. I close my eyes against the desperate want to open it again and cradle all of these things in my trembling hands. There’s just so much to do. 

——————————————————————-

I manage to stay away from the drawer, and the objects inside that call for my attention. I take walks on the beach with my mother and Prim, listening to all my little sister has to say. She looks so happy and content as she jumps and twirls on the sand and it makes me happy. I sit with Annie, in the surf or on her porch, holding her hand through her grief, or letting her talk about all she wants. Sometimes we prefer the sound of the waves though, letting the reliable sound of it coming and going fill us with a sense of security. Because even if it goes, it always comes back. 

Gale visits, and we try our hand at fishing and sailing. We fall in a lot, and the cold water is shocking and sobering. It’s good to be back on familiar ground with Gale, the uncertainty and mistrust that plagued our friendship over the past year still hangs over our heads, but we don’t talk about it. Sometimes, though, I’ll catch him looking at me a certain way, or a silence will fall over us, and I’ll curse the war for nurturing such a blank space in our friendship. 

I look into the Capitol archives, at my mothers request, to look for pictures of myself and Primrose from when we were younger. 

The pictures I find are black and white, standard for the mandatory pictures we had to take in school. In mine, I look about ten years old, I’m wearing two braids with ribbons in them. I don’t seem too pleased about this, in fact I look about ready to tear off the head of anyone who says anything about the ribbons. I’m staring at the camera with mild curiosity, but mostly apprehension, though the small smile I’m wearing suggests differently. Primrose looks so young, still carrying a meagre amount of baby fat, her blonde hair falling only to her small shoulders. I can practically hear her giggling at the camera, all blue eyed and dimpled. I forgot that she used to look like that, and my heart aches for the family of four who lived in a small shack in the Seam. I even find a picture of my mother, from when she was younger, and what people said is true. She’s beautiful, around fifteen or sixteen in her picture, and she’s giving the camera a sweet smile, her beguiling eyes are clear of all sorrow that plagued her later years.  

For a while, these pictures take pride of place on our mantle, next to my mother and fathers wedding picture, until Prim declares we must take new ones. So, we do. And their lively colour fills first our mantle, relegating the others (apart from the wedding photo) to my mothers bedside table, not quite forgotten, but no longer the center of attention anymore. Then our fridge, and eventually Prim and I create little collages on the wall. 

My phone calls with the good doctor dwindle to once a week. He tells me that whilst I might always ache for the ones I have lost, making new, happier, memories is a ‘damn good way to honour their memory’. 

———————————————–

All of this ‘moving forwards’ business comes to a grinding halt, however, on the 4th of July. My forced abstinence from the drawer of trinkets that I can’t make sense of, ends. It’s Reaping Day. And I feel so alone. 

I’m awake before dawn, having screamed myself awake from the nightmares that won’t ever leave. I don’t bother with going back to sleep. I slip out of bed and make my way to the kitchen, where I boil the kettle for something to do. 

The tide is in, licking its way further up the sand, coming closer and closer to our house. It never reaches, but a part of me always thinks that it will. I seat myself on our window seat, watching as the water encroaches further up the beach, swallowing sand as it goes. I curl my feet up underneath me, and drink slow tentative sips from my mug. 

Though I try to focus all of my attention on watching the water, my eyes keep on finding their way back to the phone that hangs happy and yellow from the wall, just out of reach. If my eyes aren’t staring holes into the phone, they start fidgeting over to my closed bedroom door, searching for the strength to stay where I am.

My tea goes cold, the tide starts to move back out, and the sky begins to go pink. And still my attention is focused only on the phone and the whiteness of my bedroom door.

Eventually, my will bends, and I can’t stand the stillness of my indecision anymore, I abandon my mug on the table and shuffle over to my room. I find the note exactly where I left it, crumpled in a ball and left to collect dust. A part of me was starting to think that I might have imagined its existence. 

Smoothing out the crumpled paper in my hands, I promise myself only once. 

I dial the number before I can lose my resolve and back out, and wait, impatiently tapping my foot. The phone seems to dial forever, and I’m sure that it’s about to ring off when I hear the click of the phone being picked up.

“Hello,” the voice that crackles through the speaker sounds remarkably tired and my heart sinks like a stone, “Peeta Mellark speaking, who is this?” 

I open my mouth, but my voice sticks in my throat and I can’t get the words out for the life of me. 

“Hello?” 

I close my mouth and breathe in deeply through my nose, trying to calm the nerves that are causing my heart to bang incessantly against my ribcage. I feel as if I have run a marathon. My head is pounding and my palms are sweating. 

“Alright, well I’m going to hang up now.”

I panic, scared that he might actually hang up and then I won’t be able to get a hold of him again; “Wait!” 

“Katniss?” He sounds so shocked and mildly confused. When I hear him say my name, I realise how desperate I’ve actually been to just hear his voice again. I want to talk to him, so I force the rest of the words to unstick from my voice box.

“Yeah, it’s me,” I say, taking another deep breath, “Katniss.”

There’s no sound from the other end of the line, and for a moment I’m scared that he might have hung up the phone. 

Almost as if he was reading my mind he says, “Sorry, just grabbing a chair.”

“Oh.” The relief is tangible in my voice.

Once more a silence fills the line, with only the crackle of static and white noise filling it. I’m filled with a sudden sense of guilt, why did I leave it so long? 

“So…” Peeta starts, “you called.”

“Yeah,” I reply, searching for something to say that won’t outright tell him that I only called him because I was feeling lonely. Isn’t that why I called him though, because I’m so alone, even when I’m around people. I shake the thought from my head, Peeta doesn’t need, let alone want to hear about that. 

He’s about to say something, but I jump in before he can, “Peeta, I’m sorry for not calling you before,” and as I say it I realise that I mean it, I really am sorry for shutting him out of my life. Because as much as I want to move on, I can’t if I leave whatever we have unresolved. I take a deep breath and manage to squeak out, “It’s Reaping Day, and I can’t get through it without you.”

I lean heavily against the wall, suddenly weak in the knees from my confession, scared that it won’t be enough to start to make up for all the harm I’ve caused him. 

Turns out that it is though, because he tells me to take a seat, and he starts to talk. Distracting me from the paranoia I’m feeling, how am I supposed to get through this day every year for the rest of my life. I have a sudden vision of resurrecting snow from the dead, just so I can kill him, for all the suffering he has caused me, everyone really.  

He talks about nothing at first, but then I join in, and I realise it’s not that bad. It’s actually good, I feel good talking to him, like a weight has been lifted from me and I’ve finally reached the surface of deep deep water. Breathing in deep, clean breaths of air. 

“Tell me, what’s happening in Four, right now I mean,” he asks.

“Umm,” I turn my head to look out the window, “the sun is starting to rise over the houses.” 

“Oh?” he says, interest piqued, “that must be pretty, describe it to me.” 

I do, stumbling over my words and trying to tell him just how gorgeous it is. How the pinks wash away the greys and blues of twilight, how the sun looks so yellow and bright, delighting in the fact that it is rising once more, how it makes me feel as if the world is being given permission to awaken by the sun. And once I’m done I can feel that Peeta is smiling on the other end of the line.

“The sunset is even better, you should come see it,” I whisper without really thinking about what it is implicating. 

A silence settles over us once more, and it isn’t awkward even though my last sentiment is hanging in the air. 

Peeta either didn’t hear what I said, or chooses to not say anything to it, because what he says next is so completely off topic that it takes me off guard; “Katniss, why did you vote for there to be another Hunger Games?” His voice is grave, and I can tell that this has been on his mind for the entirety of our conversation, if not longer.

“I’m sorry,” he says, following my prolonged silence, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, no,” I say, quick to wave off his apology, “you have a right to know.”

I’m quiet whilst I try to collect my thoughts, and Peeta doesn’t interrupt, already sensing that this will open up a larger conversation, one that I wasn’t anticipating when I decided to pick up the phone.

“Coin didn’t like me because I didn’t trust her. She wanted my support when it came to electing a new leader, and she wasn’t sure that she would get it from me. So, she wanted me gone, I had served my purpose as the Mockingjay, and now I was more useful as a martyr than anything else. That’s why she sent you out onto the field, and had you join Squad 451, she was hoping that you would kill me,” at this I hear Peeta’s sharp intake of breath, and I can already hear him try to start to apologise, but that would only open up a whole other can of worms, and I only want to say all of this once, so I continue heedless of Peeta’s attempt to interrupt with an apology.

“I guess she wanted to get it on film or something, to prove what a horrible monster Snow was, turning two lovers against each other, and all that. As we both know, that didn’t really work out for her when we went off the grid on our own mission. She could no longer control what I did, and had no one supervising me, she could only hope that one of the many pods in the Capitol would kill me off. When it became clear that I wasn’t dead, and in fact very much alive, despite much of our Squad not being so, she needed to get me back under control. Rope me back in as it were.”

I suck in a deep breath, preparing myself for what I would next confess. I have only spoken of this once, shortly with Gale. Long enough to know the gist of what happened, and understand what exactly needed to happen next. Peeta sits in silence on the other end of the phone, I have his attention, “Coin needed to break me, she needed me to be so worn down and desperate that I would go for the easy way out. The people would now follow me into anything, and if I did not lead them to Coin they would not go on their own.”

“So, she authorised Prim to be sent into the field. Only thirteen, she would not have been allowed otherwise. That day, in the City Circle… Primrose was supposed to be there, by chance her hovercraft got held up with some sort of technical difficulties, and only made it in time to see the aftermath of the second round of bombs going off.”

“I voted for another Hunger Games because I could see no other way out, nothing was going to change. Ever. Not with Coin around, anyway. I needed her to trust me, to think that I was on her side.” 

I hear Peeta suck in a sharp breath on the other end of the line, digesting all of this information, and understanding what I’m implicating. That Coin’s assassination wasn’t just me going slightly off the rails. 

“Guess the odds were slightly in my favour on that one,” I add with a wry smile. 

The line is quiet for a while, but Peeta catches on faster than I expected, and asks; “Does anyone else know?”

I debate on telling him names, but decide against it. He already knows enough, and if there ever is a deeper investigation on the matter, I don’t want Peeta to be implicated. “As far as I know, only three, and one of them is dead anyway.” 

In my mind’s eye, I see Peeta nodding his head, understanding that he won’t be getting names and shouldn’t press me on the matter. 

“Does, uh, Prim know what could have happened to her?” He questions in a soft voice.

“We’ve never really talked about it, but I assume she does. She was part of the crew that helped rescue myself and a few others from the carnage.” I look out the window, curling myself tighter into my ball on the window seat, picturing what my sister must have seen that day, I shiver involuntarily, my voice trailing off. The sun has risen fully now, and I can hear my mother and Prim rousing, getting ready for the day. 

“Listen, I - uh - have to go, my mother and Prim are awake, and Prim will probably want to be with me today.” I chew nervously at my nail, wincing out how it might sound to Peeta.

“Oh, right, of course,” he replies hastily, “I’ll leave you to it then.”

Frantic that he might disconnect the line, and I won’t get the chance to speak to him again, I rush out; “I’ll call again, I promise.”

“OK, that’s… good.” he states.

I can hear some shuffling on the end of the line, and I know he’s standing up to hang up the phone so I hastily add, “Oh, and Peeta, take care of yourself.” I then rush to hang up the phone before him, with a smile as bright as the sun on my face. 

Later that day I receive calls from both Johanna and Haymitch. Johanna tells me she’s planning on visiting soon, and with a chirpy voice that drips with sarcasm trills down the phone, “Happy Hunger Games, brainless!” Then hangs up the phone so fast I have no chance to get a word in. Haymitch calls rather late in the evening, already buzzed, and slurs some well wishes down the phone that make hardly any sense. 

I spend most of the day with Annie and Prim, who clings to my side and holds me at every opportunity she gets, sitting on the warm beach, sunning, and listening to tales of the sea that Annie murmurs to us whilst stroking her steadily swelling tummy.

Gale visits in the late afternoon, though it wasn’t planned, stating he won’t be staying for long. We sit next to each other on an abandoned pier that’s become our new spot, and he lets me lean my head on his shoulder. We sit in silence whilst I doze in and out of a light sleep, and he stares steadfastly out into the ocean, intermittently stroking my hair. 

That evening, my mother, myself, and Prim sit on the porch, listening to the wind whistle through the reeds, and the waves crash against the shore. My mother brushes and braids my hair, and I let her. Prim sings silly songs that our father used to sing to us when we were little, whilst she strokes a rather disgruntled Buttercup. 

I’m not surprised when that night Prim curls up into bed next to me, hugging me tightly. She whispers into my neck, “I won’t let them take you from me, not ever again.” I stroke her hair and back, murmuring assurances into the top of her haid, fighting the urge to cry. 

When she asks if I’ll sing the Meadow Song to her, I do, but I have to stop when the tears start  streaming down my face. Prim, so young, and yet so wise, understands, and tells me in no uncertain words, “Rue is safe now, they’re all safe.” And with those words accompanying me, I fall into the first dreamless sleep I’ve had in months.

——————————————————————–

I make good on my promise to Peeta a week later, breaking my silly promise to myself that I would only call him once, and call him. We only talk for about ten minutes, where he tells me all about the rebuilding in Twelve and how Haymitch has adopted some wild geese, and I tell him about the comings and goings of Four. The conversation isn’t a long one, and we don’t touch on any touchy subjects, but I realise it’s enough. It’s enough to hear his voice, and to know that he’s OK. Eventually, our calls go from every other week, to once a week, to twice a week, to every other day. We have a few false starts, but I come to realise that that’s OK too. Sometimes, our conversations are lengthy, and other times, they are a mere five minutes of us sharing meaningless conversation.

Dr. Aurelius continues to call, and gives me new ways to deal with and think about everything that happened. Usually half of what he says is complete jargon, but if I listen closely enough I can pick out the little nuggets of advice that are worth my while. 

Buttercup finally ventures further out onto the beach when he realises that that’s where all his fish dinners are coming from, and ascertains that he’s still scared of water after what I did to him as a kitten. It amuses Gale and I though, to watch the cat find a fish in one of the many rock pools, and hiss at the unyielding water whilst stalking around the pool. 

Johanna does come and visit, in late July, and she has me lead her into the sea bit by bit. It takes two weeks of some tears, lots of swearing and cursing at the Capitol and Snow, coaxing from myself, and shouts of encouragement from both my sister and Annie before Johanna manages to stand before me, salty water up to her armpits. She’s gripping my forearms in a vice hold, and she’s standing mere inches from my face.

Gritting her teeth she hisses out, “Say something, anything, to distract me.”

I think for a moment before telling her, “You know that weird lumpy thing on my forearm that you were commenting on earlier,” she nods at me, “You gave me that ugly scar, you bitch.” 

It has the desired effect, and she starts cackling, before adding, “A thank you would have been nicer.” She then dunks herself fully underwater. When she comes back up, Annie and my sister are cheering from the beach, my mother is leaning against the railing on our porch stairs smiling. Johanna coughs a few times, before shaking the water from her short choppy hair like a dog, and embraces me fiercely, wheezing into my ear, “We don’t talk about this, ever again, alright.” 

I only smile, and pat her on the back a few times, before leading her back onto the beach, where the sun dries our chilled bodies. 

Later that day, when my sister has gone off to one of her classes, Annie, Johanna, and I sit on the sand watching the waves rolling in and out. It has a calming effect, and the hypnotic sounds cause both myself and Johanna to yawn and lay back, looking up at the clear blue sky. 

Johanna’s almost dozed off and I’m beginning to feel heavy headed, when Annie unwittingly plants a seed in our heads. She turns and looks out at the unrelenting sea, and says, “Have you ever wondered what else might be out there? I used to, I still do. Finnick used to tease me for it, said there was no point in wondering about the what ifs of this world, I don’t know though.” 

Johanna and I both look at each other in bewilderment, to be truthful I had never really considered the wider world around me when I was younger, too concerned with the here and now and the immediate obstacles facing me; such as getting enough food to live through the week. I think the younger me would have sided with Finnick on this, why ponder about something so out of reach and fantastical. Sure it might have been a fun thing to wonder about, but at the same time a little hard to wrap one’s head around. But now… the possibilities seem endless, and the thought of there being more people out there doesn’t seem so worrisome and out of reach anymore. 

Johanna says something first, “Nope, never wondered. And even if there were other people out there who’s to say they wouldn’t be ten times worse than us.”

Annie shrugs, and says with a little smile, “Who’s to say they’re not terribly nice, and maybe even awfully rich,” She looks down at us with an intense look in her eyes, “My mother used to say there were people, from way back when, who would pillage and steal from other ships and cities, they were called Pirates and they sailed the seven seas in massive wooden boats,” She sighs contentedly, obviously thinking of some sort of happy memory that we’re not privy to, “Doesn’t that sound amazing?” 

I try to imagine this, stormy seas and troubled skies with big ships rocking back and forth on the waves, but I can’t quite envision it. We abandon the conversation and the sun begins to set. I sigh contentedly, watching as the sky turns a blood red and the few clouds are stained orange.

Johanna nudges my arm, “Say, I’ve been meaning to ask, how’s things with lover-boy? Is there anything happening between you two?” 

I’d managed to avoid this conversation with basically everybody for the past couple of months. My conversations with Peeta were a private matter and it was a luxury that I was extremely grateful for after our relationship in the past being shoved under a microscope for all to see, I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to let anyone in on this yet, if ever. I’m pretty certain that my mother and Prim are aware of whom I’m talking to on the phone, but they’ve never asked me about it, for which I am thankful.

I ring out the ends of my hair, which are still a bit damp from the sea, and gnaw at my lip, “Uhhh, nothing much to tell really…” 

Johanna makes a disbelieving sound and raises her eyebrows at me, “Sure there isn’t, brainless,” she turns to look back out at the sun setting, and I think she’s going to drop it when she adds, “You’re still an awful liar, by the way.”

I splutter, trying to seem cool and indifferent, but clearly they both see right through me. Annie pats my shoulder sympathetically, before proffering her opinion; “It’s alright, Katniss, you don’t have to tell if you don’t want to… but if you are talking, I think you should invite him for a visit, he’s probably awfully lonely in Twelve with only Haymitch and the reconstructors for company.”

This last comment gives me pause, I’d never really considered what Peeta does when he’s not on the phone to me. I just sort of assumed that he painted and baked and did other Peeta-ish things, I don’t really surprise myself with this either, for I am once more reminded of how self-centered I am, especially when it comes to Peeta. 

I scratch at my ankle absentmindedly, “Yeah, maybe I will.”

We sit on the beach even after the sun has gone down, Annie’s words still ring in my head and I actually begin to consider inviting Peeta. At the moment, I’m completely fine with keeping our friendship as an over-the-phone thing, I know it’s always there waiting and I can always come back to it.

 Annie is a good distraction from these thoughts though, as she points out a few constellations. I’ve never been much of a star gazer, my father used to try and show me the shapes they made in the sky, but I could never make them out, so instead of showing my inadequacy I just pretended I didn’t care. 

She likes these sort of things though, myths and legends that her mother told her when she was little, passed down from mouth to ear for centuries. We used to have an old man like that in District 12, he would hang around the Hob telling stories from an overturned crate to the miners’ children. My father used to describe him as ‘away with the fairies’ and I find that that analogy fits Annie rather well.

Eventually, Annie bids us a good night and clambers up the beach. Johanna, still lying next to me, turns her head to face me. Her eyes are hard, and her face looks serious, I’m about to ask her what’s wrong when she holds up her hand to stop me.

“Look, I’m not going to pretend to know what type of relationship you have with Peeta, but I’m gonna tell you this straight because I know Annie would never. You are the only one out of us Victors who got out of the war relatively unscathed, the rest of us kind of lost everything and everyone we ever knew. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, but you should be aware of this.”

She sucks in a breath, clearly quite desperate for me to understand, “You care for him to some extent right? Like enough to risk your life for him, repeatedly?” she asks me. I nod slowly, wondering where she is headed with this impassioned monologue. “Then cling to it, and don’t ever let go. You have him now, you could have him now if you chose to do so. I’m not saying in that way, because I have no idea where you are at with that hot cousin of yours, but you have a choice. Which is not something the rest of us have. Your months of pining after him in District 13 are over, brainless.”

“I wouldn’t say I pined after him,” I say defensively.

“Oh whatever,” Johanna replies, borderline aggressive, “and that is so not the point anyway.”

“No, I know.”

“Just think about it, alright?” she says as she pulls herself up from the sand, waiting for me to follow.

We’re walking up the beach when Johanna adds, “Also what the fuck is up with Annie and her crazy stories? I have not once thought that there might be something else out there,” she waves her hand out dismissively at the ocean, “Is that just me?”

I snort at this, she might be one for cultivating awkward situations, and she loves uncomfortable lines of questioning, but she never really gets so earnest about it. I decide to play along, “No, I never did either, until this evening of course. I guess when you live next to the sea though, and you can see where the horizon ends, it makes sense that someone like Annie would wonder about what came after.” 

Johanna nods at this, adding in a conspiratorial voice, “I think we would make great pirates, don’t you brainless?” 

I laugh a genuine laugh at this, “Sure we would be.”

———————————————————————– 

Summer wears on, and things happen as usual. Buttercup learns that he can scare the fish into leaping out of the water, so that he can catch them in his mouth. I help Annie in buying things to prepare for her baby. Her tummy is swollen, and looks quite uncomfortable. When she walks, she does the signature pregnant woman waddle. I continue my calls with Peeta, and eventually I decided that it wouldn’t be half bad if Peeta came to visit. It takes me a while to build up the nerve to invite him, remembering the last time I made an off-hand comment about it, but I do. We speak at length about it, and eventually I convince him. It takes the incentive of a break from Haymitch, and a sunset to remember for the ages to get him to agree, but in time he does. A date is set in September, which according to Annie is when the sea is at its warmest. I find that I’m actually looking forward to it, and when I tell my mother and Prim about it, I can’t help but grin like an idiot. My mother gives me a knowing smile, that I try not to let grate on me, and Prim gives me a brief but excitable hug.

I knew the conversation would have to happen at some point, even so, I’m not prepared for it when it comes. I was hoping that the conversation wouldn’t have to happen at all, but I know that if Gale and I are going to have any sort of relationship in the future I need to start being honest with him. I think I owe him that much. 

We’re heaving ourselves out of the water, onto the pier. We went deep sea fishing, and on the wooden planks awaits a healthy pile of clams, muscles and oysters that we’ve collected over the morning. Gale is busy separating them off into separate piles and counting them up, whilst I’m wringing out my hair and tying it up into a bun so it doesn’t drip too much down my back, when he casually asks what I’m doing next weekend. I freeze, deliberating on how I should best tell him this.

I decide I should just be bluntly honest with him, “Uh, Peeta’s coming to visit,” I try to keep all inflections of emotion out of my voice, nonetheless I still choke on the last part of the sentence as it comes out. 

Out of the corner of my eye I see Gale freeze in his sorting, but he recovers quickly and continues, asking in a level voice, “I didn’t know you were in touch with him?” 

To his credit, it doesn’t sound like an accusation, more of an enquiry. “Yeah well, most people don’t. I guess after so long of having everyone paying attention to us, I just wanted to keep it private.”

“That makes sense,” Gale replies easily.

I’m a little confused, and perhaps even a little peeved that Gale is acting so reasonable. A part of me wants him to freak out on me, or become acidicly jealous. I’m not really sure why that is, but it’s the truth. 

Gale gets up to grab his shirt, and it seems that he is wholly done with this conversation. This confuses me even further, what is he playing at? I try to read his face, try to understand what he actually thinks about this, so I know where to go next. But his trademark scowl is absent from his face as he reaches for a towel to scrub at his hair, it’s neutral and passive. 

“We’re not an item you know,” I blurt out.

Gale stills, and looks up from underneath the towel, “OK?” 

I once again try to read his expression, but come up short. Losing my patience with him I cry out, “Oh for fucks sake Gale! Would you just tell me what you’re thinking, instead of acting like a… like a block of cheese.” 

He raises his eyebrows at this, “A block of cheese? Really, Catnip?” he chuckles, and I feel myself blushing furiously.

“Well you know what I mean, don’t you? You’re acting so… so… Oh I don’t know, you’re just being annoying!” I huff out, standing up and reaching for my T-shirt as well. 

There’s quiet for a moment, and I think my outburst will just be ignored like so many others I’ve had, but then I hear Gale sighing behind me, “What do you want me to say to you Catnip? Be careful? Congratulations?! I know for a fact that neither would go down well…”

My back is still turned to him, and I’m scowling out at the sea cursing whatever deity decided that I needed to care about whatever the fuck Gale thought. I could almost growl for the frustration of it. 

“Katniss,” Gale starts, “Where exactly is all this coming from?”

I whirl around to face him, ready to tell him all the things he should be doing right now, saying in this situation, because I have about a thousand nasty things that I could hurl at him. But I see his face and it’s asking for me to be open and honest with him, so I am, “I’m scared I’ll fuck it up, like I did before… like I did with you.” 

“Well… I can’t promise you that you won’t,” he smiles at me, “but even if you did, he’d come back to you, like I have, and like he’s done a hundred other times.”

“I don’t know, Gale, I’m pretty screwy in the head, and well, so is he. What if I do or say something that… sets him off?” 

“Well you’ve been talking to him over the phone I assume,” I nod in confirmation, “and has anything you said or done set him off on a violent rampage?” 

I shake my head, “No, but there are times when he just goes silent…”

Gale is quiet for a while, and he’s looking at me strangely, when I raise my eyebrows at him in askance, he says, “Sorry, just wondering how I got into this situation.”

I smile sheepishly and tell him, “I’m sorry, I’m such an ass.”

Gale smirks at me and says, “Now that is something we can agree on.”

“Oh, shut up,” I say playfully, but then I add in a quiet voice, “I’m sorry I couldn’t, don’t, love you the way you wanted me to,” thinking that whilst we’re at it I might as well apologise for this as well.

Gale looks at me for a few moments, seemingly contemplating what to say next, “Don’t be, having you as my friend is one of the greatest privileges of my life,” he shrugs, “And it’ll pass.”

I look at him, and I too wonder how we got here. Johanna’s words from a couple weeks prior ring in my head; You are the only one out of us Victors who got out of the war relatively unscathed. A sudden wave of nostalgia hits me, and I rush forwards to embrace him. He might not be the same kid I met all those years ago in the woods, but neither am I. I might not agree with all of his opinions, or the things he’s done, but I forgive him for it. And I need him to know this.

“I do love you though,” I say into his chest.

And like the idiot that he is, he replies, “I know.”

I look up at him in mock outrage, and he’s smiling down at me. I can see it too now; It will pass, and he will get over it. I lean my head back into his chest, smiling secretly at how glad I am that I still have him too.

—————————————————

The next weekend arrives far quicker than I would have liked, but it arrives nonetheless. The day is balmy and warm, and the walk to the station has my clothes sticking to me. I shrink into the shadows as much as I can on the platform, wanting to see him before he can see me. The unnaturally warm day seems to be getting to the people of Four as well, who are usually quite personable, they hustle and bustle around me not even looking back when they accidentally bump into me. 

I’m all jittery with nerves, and I can’t stop bouncing on the balls of my feet, twisting my fingers in my other hand. The train pulls into the station and I feel as if I might puke, I get the overwhelming urge to run before it’s too late. But then he’s stepping off the train steps, he has a small overnight bag in his hands, and he’s looking round the station for me. 

I watch him for a few seconds, take in how he’s filled out in the past few months, his blond hair a little too long on the top as it falls in his eyes. The station, so busy only a few moments before, is now emptying out as people get off the train to attend to business or board the train to be whisked off to who-knows-where. 

Finally, it looks as if it is only him and I on the platform. I step forward, off of the pillar I’ve been shrinking into, making myself more visible to him. As soon as he notices me, my heart stills in my chest. There’s no going back now. He smiles warmly at me as he comes up to greet me. Was he always this tall? I look up at him and am greeted with his startling blue eyes that seem to almost glitter in the sun.

“Hey,” he proffers.

“Hi,” I return.

We’re silent for a beat, and I rock back and forth on my feet waiting for him to do something.

“Lead the way,” he says, gesturing for me to go.

We walk in relative silence on the way back to the house, only exchanging a few words with one another as we leave the station. Otherwise I let him take it all in, District 4 is pretty different to Twelve. Architecture and landscape wise, but also in that it wasn’t hit that hard during the war. The things that were bombed, a few fisheries and a port, have long since been rebuilt. 

It’s an uphill trek towards the Village, as all Victors Villages were always built apart from the actual District. I guess in a show that Victors were no longer a part of normal District society, and should be regarded as something other.

The afternoon passes with easy chatter, and before I know it the day is cooling off from the initial midday heat. The sun is beginning to lower in the sky and I realise all we’ve done today is sit in the surf, toes in the sand, talking. I did briefly go into the water to splash around and cool off, and Peeta went in up to his waist, but refused to go any further into the constantly shifting water. 

I can already tell that the sunset will be spectacular, there’s a little bit of cloud coverage and the sun is shining brightly. My father used to say that this type of sunset is a ‘shepherd’s delight’ I have no idea what that means seeing as I never bothered to ask. 

There’s a slight lull in the conversation, and I stare wistfully out at the horizon and not for the first time since Annie asked, I wonder if there is anything out there. I start untangling my knotted damp hair and turn to Peeta who is also staring out at the sea, though I have no clue as to what he’s thinking about. 

“Have you ever wondered what else could be out there?” I ask tentatively, rousing Peeta from his thoughts. 

His brow furrows as he considers my question, “No, not really. I mean we were always told that everywhere else became uninhabitable after multiple natural disasters and nuclear war,” he recites the things that were told to us every week in class. “Why’d you ask?”

“I don’t know, just something Annie talked about when Johanna was here, I just keep on thinking that if Panem survived then maybe some other civilisation could have as well. I feel like if we ever did do some sort of… expedition, I would want to be a part of that.” As I’m saying it, I’m trying to yank my hair apart, the trouble with salty water is that it makes everything feel sticky and hair is no exception to that.

“Here, let me help you with that,” Peeta offers, holding up his hands. I shrug and hand him the knot, trying not to finch away when his hands travel conspicuously close to my throat, though I can tell that he is making his movements as deliberate as possible. We sit like that for a while, my sentiment hanging in the muggy air, whilst Peeta disentangles my hair. 

“You’re not thinking of leaving again, are you?” Peeta asks quietly.

“No, I mean if the opportunity arose, then maybe,” I murmur, “I just feel like everyone has these things going for them; Prim is studying to become a doctor, Annie has her baby, and I’m fine with helping with all that, but it’s still her baby, you know? And Gale is off doing his thing in District 2 most of the time, which I’m alright with. I’ve just sort of become his weekend hobby. I mean I’m happy for them, of course I am. It’s just I don’t have any real purpose anymore, I don’t even have to worry about bringing food to the table either, because my mother has a steady job with a steady income and then there’s still the Victor’s earnings that I get,” this is the first time I’m admitting all of this out loud, or even formalising these feelings into coherent thoughts, but I realise that this feeling of ennui has been plaguing me for some time now.

“I just, there’s no purpose for me anymore. I served my job and now I’ve just been cast off, and am expected to ‘figure it out’. How am I supposed to know what I want to do with the rest of my life?” I come to the same conclusion that Peeta must have come to before the Quell, “Nobody needs me anymore.”

I look down at my nails and start picking at them even though I’ve already bitten them down to the quick. It’s a nervous habit of mine that I just can’t seem to shake. Peeta’s fingers still in my hair as if he’s debating on something, finally he says something though, “I do, I still need you.”

I twist around to face him, and I swear if only for a second his eyes shift down to my mouth. I find myself almost subconsciously leaning towards him. I’m about six inches away when I check myself, our friendship is still fresh, and so, so precarious. There’s no space for me to mess this up with a choice that I make on a whim. I shake my head a little and move back, looking away from him in embarrassment. It’s then that I notice that the sun is about to set, and I really want Peeta to see this. In all of its glory. Because the weather here can switch from unbearable muggy heat, to thunderstorms and clouds the next day. 

I stand up, brushing the sand from me, and look down at Peeta whose eyebrows are raised in askance. “Come, there’s this really good place we can watch the sunset from.”

It’s a cliff I found in my earlier ventures of District 4’s landscape. The ground is a soft mixture of sand and mud, the grasses stand tall even when the blustering wind bends them. The sea crashes around below, as it hits the rocks and foams and sloshes around. It’s wild up here, but also oddly quiet. 

We get there just as the sun begins to dip lower and lower into the sky, staining the clouds pink and orange as it goes. I’m watching Peeta as he watches the scenery, and I can see a faint smile touch his lips. He must feel my eyes on him, because he turns to look at me and says, “I get it Katniss, I do. To keep on trying to find your place in this world, the nagging thought that you should just start over somewhere new. I understand why you think about what comes after the horizon… and if there ever is an opportunity where you get to go figure that out, I would support you.”

I look at him a little astounded by what he’s said, but wanting to forget the whole rant form before, I dismiss it with, “Yeah well even if I wanted to go, I’m not sure they’d want me. I can’t follow orders for the life of me, and I’m pretty sure that’s a trait that they’d want.”

“Ah, well I can’t disagree with that,” Peeta says teasingly.

He’s smiling down at me, and I find that I’m grinning like an idiot. I keep on wanting to tell him to watch the sunset, but I’m mesmerised by his smile and the way his eyes laugh with it. And it feels so good to know that I put that there. So, I think fuck it, and pull him down by the shoulders to kiss him fully on the mouth. 

It only lasts a mere few seconds before we break apart. Peeta is holding my jaw in his hands, and is breathing heavily, his forehead pressed against mine. And for a moment I’m scared that this was the wrong move after all. That in my attempt to make this day perfect for him, I’ve inadvertently messed it all up. 

But then he smiles again, and relief courses through my veins causing me to almost slump against him. He breathes out, “I’ve been waiting for you to do that all day, I thought I was actually going to have to ask you if you didn’t catch up on all my hints.”

I chuckle lamely, trying to think of when he dropped any hints, but before I can think too much about it, Peeta’s lips are once more brushing up against my own. It starts soft, but the kiss quickly intensifies, and I think I may have whimpered into his mouth. As Peeta sucks my bottom lip into his mouth, I think that this is right. That with the sun setting the sky ablaze, making it seem as if the world is once more on fire, this was the perfect time for Peeta and I to share this moment. 

And as I reach up to tangle my fingers into his too long hair, I know it without a doubt. That even if I did move away to Four, that even if I did sail away in search for something more, I’d come back to him. As reliable and predictable as the world coming back to life in spring, as the tides moving in and out, as the waves crashing against a shore, retreating but always returning, as the sun rising and setting, or even as simple as breathing in and out. I’d come back to him. Always. And as I come to this realisation, I know that with this knowledge, things could finally be OK.

- Fin -

[b-does-the-write-thing]

The Demon Earl’s Deal, A Rumbelle Big Bang Fic

With the fate of Avonlea in the balance, Belle French will do anything to save her village, including making a deal with the Demon Earl of Lonsdale himself.

This story is part of @rumbellebigbang . A huge thank you to the runners of this great program as well as to my partner @rumpledspinster . She was a wonderful partner throughout the process and continually surprised and delighted me with her scene interpretations, fresh ideas and supported me every step of the journey. You can see her artwork for this story here.

Chapter One

Wales, March 1810

Everyone in Avonlea knew the story of the Demon Earl.

Robert Gold had first appeared at Askham Hall as a young child to everyone’s surprise, including his father, Lord Malcolm Gold, Lord of Lonsdale. There was no use denying the parentage; the young boy was Malcolm’s spitting image.

The surprising series of events was chalked up to youthful indiscretions and the boy was promptly shipped off to boarding schools. Avonlea almost forgot about the Lord of Lonsdale’s bastard son entirely until the day when he had returned to Askham Hall as a wedded man with a bride on his arm.

The Demon Earl lasted less than a year before he decamped back to London. He left his young wife in Wales with her father-in-law and her new mother-in-law, a lady younger than she was.

Stories leaked out from Askham Hall about the devious debauchery Lord Robert engaged in while he was in London. Servants often noticed the ladies of the house in tears, and the Lord of Lonsdale in fits of rage over the reports in the paper about his son cutting a swath through every boudoir of London.

He ordered his errant son back home but less than a year later...Lord Malcolm Gold and his daughter-in-law were dead. Robert Gold disappeared the very same night and had not been heard from in four years.

Until today.

Standing along the path overlooking the valley, Belle French gazed out at Askham Hall. Smoke curled up from the chimneys which meant the rumors were true; after four years, the Lord of Lonsdale had finally come home.

No one had known where he had gone. There had been no word, no whisper, not even a mention of the errant lord in the society papers. So, of course, in his absence, speculation had run rampant throughout Avonlea.

Some said the new Lord Lonsdale had pledged his soul to the devil and had since been off cavorting with demons. Others whispered he had gone off to profit from Napoleon’s bloody war on the Continent, while the bolder among them insisted he had gone to sell secrets to the dictator himself in exchange for refuge in France.

Rumors varied from source to source but everyone agreed upon one thing: Lord Robert Gold, was capable of anything.

Which was why, despite all the horrific rumors, Belle was on her way to Askham Hall.

--

Gold had been home for less than twenty-four hours and he already felt buried alive. His solicitor, Sidney Glass, had been firm that he could not put this off any longer, so Gold had returned to Askham Hall to put an end to this chapter of his life, once and for all. If he was truly going to be free of his past, he had to sever the last tie, the matter of the estate.

The halls were too quiet. The few remaining servants avoided him, scurrying out of his way less he curse them. He had heard the whispers, he knew the rumors. If he occasionally began to mutter something under his breath in Greek, just to watch a maid hurry away in terror, it was only for a moment’s respite from the eyes following him from room to room.

The head of house was the sole exception. “My lord,” Dove announced as he swung open the bedroom’s door, uninvited and unannounced. “I’ve brought you up the tea you requested.”

Turning from the window, Gold frowned. “I don’t recall requesting anything, Dove.”

The older man bowed. “My apologies,” he said as he left the tray on the table. HIs eyes flickered in disapproval around the guest bedroom. “We’ve finished airing out the state chambers,” he declared. “Perhaps those would be more suitable?”

Gold flinched. He had no interest in using his father’s rooms. He would rather barricade the door entirely then so much as take a step inside. As for his old rooms, it had merely taken one look at his bed for the memories of Milah to return.

These past four years, he had managed to banish her from his mind but her ghost had been awaiting him in their marriage bed. So, he had retreated to a guest room on the other side of the manor.

Let the household gossip about his choice of rooms. It did not matter to him. He was only here long enough to break the trust, to sell these cursed stones and leave the ghosts to some other poor sod.

The head of house lingered, clearly about to make his case on why a lord should not be staying in these lesser rooms. Uninterested in a lecture, Gold brushed past Dove towards the door. “I’ll be in my study,” he grumbled.

Arriving in the study, Gold tried and failed to find something to occupy his time when a flash of amber caught his eye. A bottle of brandy had been left out with a tumbler nearby. He stared at it for a long moment, debating.

Finally, figuring he had nothing else to do, and facing down a long afternoon of boredom and painful memories, he uncapped the brandy and poured himself a tall glass. It may not be the answer, but it was a solution.

--

Despite growing up in Avonlea, Belle had never actually been this close to Askham Hall. The great stone facade sprawled in every direction against the horizon of the sky, the dark stone glistening in the spring sun as if alive.

Belle lingered upon the stairs, mustering her courage. She had no experience with lords or great houses, but there was no helping that now. Steeling her spine, she stepped to the knocker, raised up to indicate the master of the house was at home and knocked.

It reverberated in the inner caverns of the great house. Belle pulled self-consciously on her sleeve and reached up to fix her bonnet. She had taken time to arrange her appearance just so, but now that she was actually here, she felt undressed. It did not take long for the door to open to reveal a somber fellow, whom Belle recognized at once as Askham Hall’s head of house, Dove.

Everyone in Avonlea knew the skeleton staff still employed by the errant lord; they were fortunate compared to the rest of Avonlea, with steady pay and lodgings while the rest of Avonlea had declined in the years that had followed the tragedies.

“Good afternoon,” Belle greeted. “I’m here to speak to Lord Lonsdale.”

The head of house recognized her as well. Being the town’s schoolmistress lent her a certain air of notoriety. “Miss French,” he said, though he did not open the door. “I don’t believe his lordship is receiving anyone today.”

She had not expected to be turned away at the door. She felt a bit silly that she had not considered that possibility. She plastered her best smile upon her face. “It’s a simple matter,” she said, which was not exactly true. “Perhaps Lord Lonsdale has just a moment?”

Dove wavered but with a slight tilt of his head, he gestured for her to follow after him. The hall was as great as Belle had expected. It was white marble with a great chandelier hanging overhead, glistening in the early spring sunlight but there was an unearthly stillness as if the hall was awaiting something.

Dove escorted Belle down a long corridor. Every room they passed showed signs of neglect and age, cluttered and crammed with furnishings. It was a shame to see such a beautiful house brought low but if the rumors were to be believed, this house had seen terrible things and perhaps it was for the best.

Caught up in staring at her surroundings, Belle almost walked straight into Dove when he stopped to open the library door. “Miss Belle French to see you, my lord,” Dove announced without so much as a look back at her.

Belle did not give the earl a chance to refuse to admit her. Seizing her courage, she walked straight past Dove into the library.- only to falter at the sight before her.

She hadn’t known what she expected the Demon Earl to look like, but it was not this. The earl was standing at a window, clad only in his shirt sleeves. The sun cut through the thin fabric to show the planes and lines of his frame beneath the muslin.

He was not a particularly physically intimidating man but there was a stillness about him, an air of power, that proved that this was indeed the man who had spawned so many legends in Avonlea. He was not a typically handsome man but there was something about him that drew the eye, invited one to look closer.

The door closed behind her as Dove departed. Jolted out of her reverie, Belle turned back to the door, rather wishing the head of house had lingered. Belle had never spoken to a member of the peerage before and suddenly felt wrong-footed, uncertain where to start.

When she did not speak, the earl lifted an eyebrow at her. “And who would you be?”

“Belle French, my lord.”

He waved his arm, the glass in his hand catching the sunlight. “Yes, I know that, Miss French, as you were just announced mere seconds ago. I meant who are you to me? It is considered the highest of impropriety for a lady to call upon a lord unaccompanied without so much as an introduction.”

Biting back an angry retort, she managed, “I’m the schoolmistress in Avonlea.”

“Ah.” Gold waved his hand and turned back to the window. “Barely home a day and already they come knocking,” he muttered to himself before saying loudly for her benefit,” I assume you are here seeking funds for a worthy cause. I’d advise you to have your husband or father apply to my steward in the future rather than inconveniencing me. Good day, Miss French.”

At his curt dismissal, Belle’s temper flickered and caught. “I am unwed and my father has been dead and buried ten years this August. Besides, this is not some simple matter for your steward, my lord.”

“It never is,” he said over his shoulder. He strolled over a decanter-covered cabinet and refilled the glass in his hand. “Everyone thinks their matters are too important for a steward. I wonder what I pay him for. ”

“Lord Lonsdale,” Belle said, starting again. ”I’m here because the people of Avonlea are suffering, and you are the only one in a position to help them. It will cost you little in time or money.”

“I don’t care how little it costs,” Gold snapped. “I don’t want anything to do with your village or the people in it. Which includes you.” He gestured toward the door. “So, I suggest you leave before things get uncivil.”

From her perspective, things were already uncivil, so Belle did not see that as a reason to leave. She gave up on any niceties, planting her hands on her hips. “I am not asking for your help, I am demanding it as your role of lord requires of you. Now, shall I explain now or wait for you in the parlor until you are sober?”

Lord Gold lowered his glass. “I wouldn’t speak to me like that if I were you,” he warned as he took a step closer. “Last I checked, you were in my home. Have a care how you speak to me.”

Belle had prepared for a certain level of antagonism and had meant to meet it with a calm, level head but as usual, her temper was starting to get a hold of her. “Your father was a good man,” Belle reminded him. “He did a great deal for the people of Avonlea. The poor fund, the chapel-”

“I am not my father.”

She had touched a nerve. Belle crossed her arms and blustered, “No, it appears the apple has fallen rather far from the tree. Since you have inherited, you haven’t done a thing for the estate or the village.”

“Nor do I intend to,” he picked his drink back up and finished it in one swallow.

He meant it too.

“How can you say such a thing?” she asked him. “No one is that heartless.”

Gold smiled. “Miss French, your innocence is touching.” He leaned against the edge of his table and crossed his arms. “You had best depart before I shatter any of your other dearly beloved illusions.”

She gaped at him. “Don’t you care that people are suffering?”

Gold thought for a moment. “No.”

“What would change your mind?” Belle pressed him. She had not come all this way to just give up

Gold waved his hand. “My help is not available for any price you would be willing to pay.”

“How can I know that unless you name your price?”

This caught his attention. He stilled and the air in the room shifted. “You want to make a deal?” he drawled, taking a step closer to her. He crooked a finger and beckoned her closer. “And what exactly do you have to offer, Miss French?”

Too late, Belle realized what could be insinuated from her reckless words. A flush spread across her face but she tried not to avert her eyes from his smug countenance as he sat upon the desk.

When she could not find her voice, Gold stood, victorious. “I fail to see why I should spend my time and energy when there is nothing in it for me.” He retrieved his glass and poured himself another glass of brandy, returning to the other side of the desk. “Close the door on your way out, Miss French.”

Belle was tempted to do just that, but she had to try one last time, not for her sake but for the sake of Avonlea. “I will not leave until you have named a price for your aid.”

The Demon Earl stared back at her, his face an impassive mask. ‘You will not like my answer.”

No, she rather thought she wouldn’t. Still. “At least name your cost.”

A shadow crossed his face, calculating and triumphant. “I’ll name my price, but it’s one I’m confident that you will refuse to pay.”

“What is it?” she asked warily.

“What I want,” he paused for a deep drink of brandy, “is you.”

Read the rest on A03