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I’m woken with a start, yanked abruptly out of nightmares of lizards and parachutes and death. They always end in death. Burrowing down further under the thin blankets, I try to block out the memories that swarm my mind- I’m safe, I’m home in District 12, Snow is gone, Peeta and I are safe to-
Peeta.
His familiar warmth is missing, his gentle hands aren’t here to offer comfort, his steady frame nowhere to be found.
“Peeta?” I call, emerging from my blacked-out sanctuary under the covers to search for my boy with the bread. His name is just reaching my lips for a second time when my head surfaces, returning to reality once more, and a soft gasp overtakes it.
Peeta sits on the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched over in pain, hands shaking violently as he stares directly towards the ground. His knuckles are turned white from effort as he squeezes his hands together, occasionally shaking his blond curls as if fighting to dispel some horrific vision conjured up by his memories.
“Peeta?” I ask, as gently as I can so as to avoid triggering any further torment. He doesn’t reply, doesn’t even acknowledge my presence; he is entirely consumed by the nightmares. So lost in his own thoughts that he can’t even hear me fighting to bring him back. His hands slowly lock into claws as the cramps overtake his fingers, his breath shallow and convulsive, gasping for the air he can’t reach.
“Peeta..” The name escapes me once again, laying a hand on his shoulder in a desperate attempt to bring him back to me. At my touch, he tenses up in response, still fighting the darkness away but back, with me, in 12. He lifts a rigid hand to meet mine, gently caressing my wrist, and a smile escapes me. My lover boy. He lifts his head, turning it to meet my eyes, his grip tightening.
It won’t stop tightening.
My wrist is slowly being crushed by his clutch, his once-delicate fingers pressing deep into my veins, cutting off my circulation and turning my arm white from the pressure of his grasp. His sky-blue eyes meet mine, glazed over with a glassy layer of insanity- river rocks drowning under an icy river of cruelty. I’ve seen these eyes before. These are the eyes of the hospital room; the look of Snow’s weapon. The eyes that hated me then, and don’t recognise me now.
My fingertips are beginning to lose feeling when he draws in an agonised gasp, as if he’s only just reached the air, and yanks his hand fiercely away, freeing my wrist from his grip.
“Katniss.” My name is the first thing to come out of his mouth, still fighting to draw breath as he chokes out the word. The tremor in his hands has returned, worse than before, as he runs his shaking hands through his tousled hair. He tries to speak again, but he can’t get the words out in between his racking breaths. He claws at his windpipe, trying to fight back the invisible hand that constricts it. Snow’s hand.
“Katniss- I- I’m sorry- I can’t- I’m sorry- I didn’t- Katniss-“
“Peeta? It’s okay. I’m here.”
I go to gently stroke his arm, but he recoils fiercely upon feeling my touch.
“No,” he chokes. I can do nothing but sit and wait while he tries to steady the frantic rhythm of his breathing. He clings tightly onto the bedframe, anchoring him back to reality, as he eventually manages to regain his voice.
“Katniss… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to- I’m so sorry, are you okay?”
The bruises are already beginning to pool under my skin, but I yank my sleeve down to cover them. I don’t need him feeling any guiltier than he does already. It’s not his fault. It’s Snow’s. It’s always been Snow’s.
“It’s okay. I’m not- What about you? Are you okay??”
He doesn’t reply. At first, I wonder if he didn’t hear, but then I hear the pained sobs and know he doesn’t need to respond. He won’t look at me. He hates for me to see him cry. Always has. The tears leave a pool of dark bruises on the bedding, mirroring the pattern of red and purple forming on my wrist. He buries his head in one hand, but doesn’t object this time as I slide my fingers into his other. His touch is cold and shaky, not like the usual warm, steady hands that I have come to love; but as his fingers close over mine, we just sit for a moment, taking in the small embrace.
The sobs recede once more. “Katniss. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to- I wasn’t…”
“You weren’t yourself, Peeta. You would never try to hurt me. I know you wouldn’t.” I remember how he wouldn’t let me get the medicine to save his life, for fear that I could be injured in the process. Does he remember that? How much does he remember?
“We’re in District Twelve. Not in the Capitol. Snow’s dead. Real or not real?” Peeta asks quietly.
“Real.” I reply. He’s safe. He’s with me. I’ll never let anyone take him again.
“Thank you. I forget sometimes,” he admits softly, lying back down cautiously as I curl up by his side. He doesn’t quite trust himself around me.
“Wanna talk about it?” I ask. I still know so little about what they did to him there, what I can do to try and make things better again.
“It’s okay, I think. I spoke to Beetee about it. There was a lot of very long words,” he laughs softly, and the sound of his laughter drowns me in a wave of relief. My lover boy is back.
“Sounds like him. Sometimes I wonder if he just knows everything,” I reply.
“Probably,” Peeta agrees. He wraps his arms tentatively around me, enveloping me in his familiar embrace as I bury my head into his chest. He still feels tense, not quite trusting his own body not to betray him, but I know he won’t hurt me, even if he doesn’t. A thought crosses my mind, bringing a smile to my face.
“There’s one thing he doesn’t know, though. And I do,” I murmur.
“Oh, really?” He taunts, meeting my eyes again. The cloudy blur of the hijacking has vanished, leaving only a sea of sparkling, clear blue as he smiles back at me.
“Yes!” I insist.
“And what might that be?” Ever the tease, Peeta Mellark, I think to myself.
“Your favourite colour is orange. Not bright orange. Sunset.”
“Sunset,” Peeta repeats. It’s almost become a secret code between the two of us, a reminder of who we are. A soft orange sky, the perfect backdrop to a deep green forest. The bright marigold petals amid a patch of leaves and stems.
“Thank you.”
I don’t hesitate before I reply,
“Always.”