Chapter Text
As I run back towards civilization, my capacity for movement is greatly hindered by the venom flowing through my left leg.
Shit. I, of all people, should be the last to forget that safety is never guaranteed in this world. Especially not in the deceptive lonesome of the wilderness.
I wasn’t really alone, I had remembered as I happened upon the nest. The mutts only needed a whiff of my scent to become enraged, and I’m lucky to have only been stung once. Even with the Hunger Games long gone, the Capitol-engineered tracker jackers still manage to pervade my life. Being stung for a second occasion makes the ache in my heart outweigh that of my bum leg—I’ve been fooled twice now, as without the merciful Rue, I probably wouldn’t have ever seen the hive in the arena either. Now, hobbling back towards the Victor’s Village, all of the shame is on me. I don’t have a little fixer to care for me anymore, not the girl from 11 or my Primrose.
If either of the two prodigies were still here today, in Panem’s first muggy summer without the Reaping, they would’ve already been administering care. I can practically hear them now, despite their voices being distorted in the haze. The memories of their girlish sounds have been stolen, though the thief’s identity is now indistinguishable between time and the venom. Horrifyingly, maybe it’s both that cause them to sound like impersonators. Echoing in my Capitol ear, their not-quite-pitches are still much more welcome than the noises of my heavy breathing. I’m utterly panicked, and I’m so winded that I can hardly get back up after tumbling under the fence. Prim would definitely be admonishing me for my recklessness. Like an idiot, I haven’t even removed the stinger yet. It’s like my mind is moving several paces behind my body, and I can only hope that I run into someone who can help me before I succumb to the white-hot agony.
Since my discardment in District 12, I can begrudgingly admit that accepting support has become simpler. It’s not any easier, but getting help isn’t such a daunting task when I have people like Greasy Sae around, overly eager to administer care without regard for my surly nature.
I don’t believe in silly myths like shooting stars, but I make a wish to the shining lights in my strangely darkened peripherals. I’ll need some kind of assistance, and I can only beg forces I know aren’t there that Haymitch won’t be too inebriated to know what to do next. That, or Peeta won’t be too busy with the reconstruction team to offer some relief. Unbidden photos of the young man collage the front of my mindscape, and my subconscious begins to take control of what’s becoming a hectic situation.
The grass is like blades under my feet, even through the leather boots. August heat makes me feel as if I’m breathing through a straw, though strangely enough, I feel cool everywhere but my offending leg. I’m incredibly clammy, in a full cold sweat. I suppose even the least lucid version of myself knows where I should seek comfort, as I gallop past Haymitch’s rotting manor. Instead, like a wilting flower, I vie for Peeta Mellark’s sunshine. Luckily for me, I can confirm that he’s home by the smoke arising from his chimney. My swimming vision makes the vapors in the air twist into beckoning faces and knowing smirks.
I’m compelled to argue with them, to ask them what exactly is so funny. However, I display my very own answer before I can start to kick off; looking up at the mirages in the sky has caused me to fall over myself, and I uncharacteristically join the vapors in their laughter. Perspiring, dizzy, and hysterical is how Peeta finds me on his front lawn. The scene is vaguely reminiscent of him showing up to my porch all those months ago, though I’m the one committing shenanigans outside his home this time. Of course, in my destructive fashion, I’m not selflessly planting primroses as he had. Rather than gift him with anything, the only addition I’ve ever served in Peeta’s life has been to burden him.
“Katniss!” yells Peeta. “What’s going on? What happened?”
He bursts through the front door as if he’s pro-wrestling in the Capitol, almost pulling it off the hinges in his attempt to close our gap faster. I have a newfound form of respect for his burgeoning muscles, as the young amputee is able to make it to my prone form in less that four leaps. With my leg out-of-commission, just like when I sprained my ankle, his physicality has beaten mine twice over. He dashes at the speed of a white rabbit, and it’s a wonder that his mass doesn’t slow him down more—he’s still a fraction of his old size, previously stocky and boyish, but his abundant growth shows even through his clothes. As if he stretched and has never relaxed, he’s grown taller since his eighteenth birthday party. Despite his arguably medium-height, everything else about him is markedly big: his hands, forearms, biceps, thighs, and chest.
Jeez, Katniss. Here I am, thinking about what’s under his clothes, as he’s trying to gently shake me into awareness. His anxious touches flit across my body in a poor attempt to scan for any lesions, and his warm skin feels searing against my own.
“Mmm…” I grimace.
The envenomized blood coursing through my veins is scrambling my inputs, and the contact that he’s making with me is absolutely lighting me on fire. Not in a good way, either. Still, I don’t tell him to get off of me. I crave his touch, even without the sting of the mutt. We’ve begun to grow together, sure, but he hasn’t caressed me like this since right before the Quarter Quell. It’s like the romantic Peeta has been taken by the Capitol, alongside the majority of his first-hand experiences featuring me, the Mockingjay. I deserve it, anyway. Feeling any sort of nostalgia for our phony affair should be illegal, especially with all of the pain that my perceived indifference has caused the victor. We’re better off as friends. Our relationship is much more developed than I can ever remember it being, even during the wildest of our “star-crossed lovers” days. I’m not so untouchable anymore, not with how worn my strong facade has become after too many years of overuse. He’s able to meet me now, whereas I might’ve pulled away in the past.
The odds have never been in my favor, as proven by today’s tracker jackers, but I’ve lucked out by getting to keep Peeta in any sense of the term. Him coming home to District 12 is the greatest gift I’ve ever received. I try to beat down the part of myself that feels as if it’s a shame that his advances haven’t been amorous in nature. Like scattered dandelion seeds, his fractured memories come back in resilient puffs from their deep-rooted origins. But we are both different from before, and we’ve created better memories since our brief stint together. I spend more time with him now than I ever did as his fiancée. Am I still his fiancee?
We’ve even graduated to sleepovers once more, though unlike before, we remain stubbornly separated. I can’t ask for any more than that, even if I want him to hold me in bed like he cradles me today. My actions really are reprehensible, taking advantage of his goodness. But, against my better judgment, I let my tense body sink into his. He lifts me with practiced ease, although even his careful maneuvering jostles my staticky leg. No amount of writhing makes the limb feel less disturbed, and the raging discomfort rivals sharp pains in terms of agony.
His moving lips suddenly produce noise. “—atniss, please! You’re not bleeding, I don’t think. Did you fall again? Please, you don’t have to tell me what happened, but what’s wrong? Is this an episode?”
An episode? Those are more Peeta’s thing, I think. His eyes are shiny right now, reminiscent of the fragile look he has during his altered flashbacks. But today, the pair are more wet than distant. Suddenly, I’m looking out towards the vast ocean. With no end in sight, the deep blue contains entire worlds underneath its surging surface. Its tides are hypnotic, and I find myself sinking into its undercurrent before I can formulate any sensical response.
“Yer eyes always been this blue?” I drawl. “Oww, my leg is asleep an’ it won’t wake up.”
Peeta’s brows furl, waves crashing from within his stare.
“Are you drunk?” asks Peeta. “You weren’t with Haymitch, were you?”
“No, no,” I wave assuredly. “Went hunting, got stung by a damn tracker jacker.”
Though his tone was more curious than accusatory, I still feel the urge to clear my name. Whereas I’m expecting him to be relieved by my sobriety, his face goes pale at my revelation. I hardly weigh more than the sacks of flour he carries in twos while baking, so the last thing I expect is for his hold on me to falter. Peeta doesn’t drop me, but his brief buckling makes me feel as if I’ve stepped onto one of the high-speed elevators in the Tribute Center. My dizziness spills into vertigo, and I’m suddenly getting sick on the grass bellow us. The vomit is neon green, almost glowing. Peeta seemingly steels himself before speaking.
“Oh, Katniss,” coos Peeta genuinely. “Let’s get you taken care of. How many times did they get you?”
“Who get me?” I say incomprehensibly. “Sorry I threw up, Peeta. I din’t mean to…”
He swallows. “The tracker jackers. How many times were you stung, and where?”
Suddenly, it dawns on me how hard this must be for Peeta. His hijacking in the Capitol was only made possible with the use of the little golden muttations. I wonder if he was ever illicitly pricked by the actual wasps, or simply injected with their poison. Either way, the effects must have been excruciating, given his brain’s traumatic response. The amygdala supposedly isn’t designed to handle such intense, frequent activity. Thankfully, I managed to evade the rest of the lethal swarm, so my hallucinations haven’t quite contained the exploding butterflies and psychedelic nightmares of my first reaction. But even one sting from the beasts has rendered me completely useless, and I’m sure that his attempts to empathize with me are making his own reality glimmer in front of him.
“Just once,” I manage. “My leg.”
As he sets me down on a cool surface, I have to wonder if my mind is playing tricks on me again. We were just stood in front of Peeta’s house, and I was puking all over his garden beds. So coming to semi-consciousness atop my dining room table is certainly a surprise.
There are flogged men with varying degrees of injuries waiting for healing, lined up across my kitchen. Closing my eyes to avoid the gashes in their faces and oozing backs, I can pretend the Seam men aren’t even there. In my blinded state, I can’t even smell the sick wafting from the tortured. My mom clangs around in the background, likely searching for herbs that have become scarcer and scarcer since the tyrannical Thread became Head Peacekeeper. The number of dead has risen steadily, and the number of whipped patients has all but exploded. I can’t stand the sight of the gravely injured, not like my brave little sister. The apprentice healer paces towards my make-shift gurney, attempting to roll my pant sleeve before opting to remove my cargos and boots outright.
“Prim?” I whisper.
I open my lids, catching a glimpse of her golden halo. But the eyes that greet me aren’t her cornflower chasms. They’re blurry azure, twisted up with emotions that I can’t quite place.
I clear my throat, shaking off his pity. “Peeta, sorry. I’m sorry.”
And I am sorry. Sorry that he has to endure anymore of this horrid venom. Sorry that he has to take care of me. Sorry that I’m pantless in front of him, and that my underwear is embarrassingly pink.
“Don’t apologize,” he murmurs softly. “That’s what we do, right? Keep each other alive?”
“Real,” I slur.
Letting my head fall back dramatically onto the tabletop, I examine my surroundings. We probably are in my house, in the Victor’s Village. Of course, there isn’t anyone present but us two; there are no half-naked men, and there aren’t any other Everdeens in District 12 besides myself.
“Watch your head,” says Peeta. “I’m no good at this. I need you—you and your brain. I thought maybe you’d have some of those leaves here?”
Leaves?
Obviously, Peeta means the green leaves that we mashed into paste in the first arena to draw out the poison. It’s a common enough plant in District 12, and coal miners used to carry its solvents into dark caverns where tracker jackers may rest. I can’t remember the last time I’ve foraged the unassuming leaves, as my apothecaric family has virtually dissipated since the bombings. I’ve never had the same foresight that they did for anticipating affliction.
I shake my head no. “The stinger, Peet. Take out the stinger.”
The nickname is unfamiliar in my mouth, and I immediately dislike it. I’ve never been one for unnecessary name changes, as I hate being called Kat. I didn’t really prefer the petname “Catnip” either, but I do my best to avoid thinking about Gale. The mere thought of the man makes me irrationally terrified. Trying to focus on the situation at hand, it's obvious that Peeta doesn’t really know what he’s doing. At least he’s washed his hands thoroughly, but beyond that, he clearly doesn’t have much knowledge in the area. I’m no expert either, and in my sorry state, I don’t have much advice to give. My tongue feels like lead, and the extended stay of the foreign object in my limb is making me see colors.
He pulls my hips towards the edge of the counter, where I’d likely be sitting with my feet dangling if I weren’t reclined into a half-assed ball on my back. This can’t be medically sound. But anything is better than allowing the buzzing under my skin, radiating from the sting, to continue. I cry out as my tender leg is unbent, and Peeta incessantly apologizes as a lone tear traces my cheek. He unprofessionally throws the limb over his shoulder, and my lifted joint reveals the nasty welt that the tracker jacker has left behind. The blasted thing got me just as I was turning tail, sticking me just inches above and slightly inwards of the pit of my knee. This time around, it’s not pus-filled and dripping like the wounds had been in the arena. I don’t know which version is real, the clean bump from today or the grotesque lumps, and I can begin to understand Peeta on a completely different level.
Sympathizing with him was one thing, and even now, I can hardly touch the horrors that he’s had inflicted upon him. However, my empathy for him is overwhelming as I squint at the shininess around me. It’s quite reality warping, not being able to trust the memories you’ve made. Nothing is tangible, not the mahogany under me or the scene in front of me. For all I know, I’m being experimented on, I’m in the Capitol right now, and I’ve only been living under the guise of freedom for nearly a year. No wonder Peeta occasionally wakes up restless, terrified that he’s back in their labs. He’ll clutch the frame of a chair, lost in the throws of his own solo round of real or not real. I cling onto him in the same hopes of grounding myself to the present.
He’s picking at the barb with his nails, a move that Asterid Everdeen would likely be endlessly abhorred by. His maneuver to extract the stinger in a singular piece is a painstaking one, and we both cuss in frustration at his multiple attempts to get it out. Whines escape me without any real acknowledgment from either of us, besides Peeta’s hushed platitudes. The anguish in my left half is alive. Yet, I still can’t help but squeeze onto the purchases of his skin that I can reach. Despite all of the ache that he’s inadvertently imposing upon me, I need him infinitely closer to me. He’s been my only truth on this planet full of lies, even when I became quite worldly myself.
I wonder if he hurt this good when I stabbed him with deceit too many times to count; if, every time that we gravitated together on the Victory Tour, my touches were just as bruising as his are today. Did his chest clench for me like this, after he was envenomized? If he could withstand the pain of knowing me again, and forget about the fire mutt that he was programmed to destroy, then I can handle his well-meaning damage to my inflamed wound.
“Fuck,” grumbles Peeta, clearly holding himself back from soiling his clean hands in his ashen locs. “Sorry! It keeps snapping off, and I just can’t get the thing.”
I wish I could offer some advice, but my priority at this moment is attempting to copy his resilience. It’s the only way I can remain sane. All of my perceptions are heightened to a nonsensical degree, and I can’t control the occasional shouts that bellow from my throat from his constant missteps.
Peeta looks decided. “We need to get the venom out now. I’m sorry, Katniss.”
In an unexpected twist, he lowers his lips towards my thigh. A kiss? I’m belated, sure, but now isn’t the time. The questionable sequence makes me doubt reality once more, but my sluggish mind realizes that he’s going to attempt to suck the stinger out.
“No,“ I say, mouth chalky. “You shouldn’t—“
I can hardly explain myself, but Peeta is regaining his unnatural ability to understand me without so much as a word.
“I’ll be alright,” says Peeta. “Worry about yourself, okay? I’ll handle everything else. I did this for my older brother once.”
He’s right, in that my main concern was him—I don’t know if he should be ingesting the same chemicals that permanently transformed his neural pathways. But even then, my grievances with the situation don’t end there: if my mother would’ve been abhorred by his fingernail tweezers, she’d be one foot in the grave due to his contaminated mouth contacting my sting. We chewed up the leaves in the Seventy-Fourth games, sure, but genuinely sucking the barb out is an illegitimate old wives’ tale. The action only invites infection, and Peeta’s performed the procedure a fat total of one time. That’s to say nothing of the fact that he’s never purposefully handled me in such a manner. In only my briefs from the waist down, I’m positively mortified.
Despite my growing list of apprehensions, my dire need for this whizzing train ride to stop is infinitely more pressing. I don’t fight him as he suctions his mouth around the swollen puncture on the inside of my leg.
The thrill of blood circulating under my skin is audible as he drains the venom from my lifeless limb. My eyes roll back, obstructing the vision that I had of him in between my legs. Despite him physically pulling matter out of me, it doesn’t feel as if I’m losing anything. In fact, the sensation that he transfers to me is quite pleasant. Euphoria replaces the heightened ache from before, though the thrumming in my body hasn’t slowed in the slightest. Forget channeling his robust energy—it’s as if I’ve become one with Peeta Mellark. Where his body starts and mine ends is indistinguishable, and our melded spirit fills me with a wholeness I’ve never experienced. His life force enters me in shockwaves that vibrate all the way down to my toes. Forbidden noises, halfway in between harrowed and hungry, are escaping me once more. This incredible wave of togetherness, followed by brushstrokes of vibrant oranges and shamrock splashes, must be a hallucination.
Kaleidoscopic is my vision as his pinkening face and wide eyes meet my own. In the shoddy lighting of the dining room, Peeta is dazzling. The suction ends in a disappointing pop, though he thankfully takes most of the pain with him. Taking the barbed stinger into his palm, he spits the rest of his mouth’s contents into the sink in the connected kitchen.
“Ah, got it,” says Peeta distractedly.
“What was that,” my hindbrain asks before I can vault up whatever that experience was.
“What—“ fumbles Peeta. “Ahem. What was what? Did you mean the, uh, the stinger?”
No, I didn’t mean the stinger. But he doesn’t need to know that I was actually referencing a delusion that I was experiencing on a different plane of consciousness. I relive the moment in my head, and I’m terrified by the implications of it. The union fledged between us, however one-sided as it may have been, felt deeper than I’m ready to admit. I can’t help but wonder if the depth of my mother’s devotion to my father can compare to the unprecedented connection I just felt with Peeta. Anxiety racks me as I realize a secret of mine, another one that’s somehow been concealed from me.
I love Peeta Mellark.
Now, he can freely run his fingers through his hair. “Breathe, Katniss. Please, I can hear you thinking. Everything will be ok, but we’re not out of the dark yet. I need to go see if Haymitch has any of those leaves, and that old drunk doesn’t have a landline anymore. I don’t want to, but have to leave for three minutes, okay?“
I can’t argue with him, not in my physically lax state. I’m grateful that, although he’s medically inexperienced, Peeta is incredibly considerate. Rather than leave me exposed on the hardtop counter, which has begun to dig into my bony butt, the blond brings me to my familiar sofa. I haven't slept here much since I started sleeping at Peeta’s, but my couch became my bed during my first months back in 12. He drapes an expensive velvet blanket over my legs, shielding my indecency. The plush cloth rubbing against my calves makes me wish, for the first time in my life, that my legs were bare of any hair. I’d never voluntarily sign up for a wax, and I’ve sworn off any removal beyond trimming. But remembering how enrapturing the glide of my hairless legs used to feel against my satin sheets, I can only imagine how amazing that would be right now.
Get a grip, Katniss. I shouldn’t be thinking like I’m still some morphling addict, chasing the highs of drugs as lethal as tracker jacker venom. I didn’t even know that one could have any sort of response like the one I’ve experienced from the fear-inducing wasps. Yes, there’s a pain returning to me that’s been present since the incident initially occurred. But not all of the hallucinations that I encountered were so bad, especially not the jaw-dropping sensation that I can only describe as our souls intertwining. As my rational brain lags to catch up with my actual surroundings, my solitude in the space truly washes over me. I hadn’t noticed Peeta’s hasty exit.
Although he announced that he’ll be back soon, soon seemingly can’t come fast enough. I feel faint, and vaguely like I need to upchuck again, but that may be more nerves than anything else. My stomach only really churns when I stare into the zigzagging walls. It’s my left thigh that’s actually beginning to bother me once more. Getting comfortable is hardly an option, but I try my damndest to fast forward these next few days. I can barely doze off before I hear the heavy gait of Peeta, followed by the scuffling steps of his intoxicated companion. The two men appear, their curly heads nearly butting together in the younger’s haste to get through the doorway. It’s crazy that, in their short time knowing one another, the mentor has gradually been eclipsed in size by his trainee.
“Took a little longer than expected,” says Peeta, at my side in an instant. “Haymitch didn’t have the goods, but we’re in luck that Sae and her granddaughter sure did.”
I chase his warmth even as he hovers inches away, my desire for his undivided attention bubbling low in my chest. It’s only Haymitch’s presence that stops me from abandoning all shame to cuddle up to Peeta. Why he chose to tag along, I’m unsure. He didn’t have the medication, and three is a bit of a crowd, isn’t it? The stale smelling man reeks of alcohol. Usually I wouldn’t be so uneasy because of Haymitch, but my fight-or-flight can’t seem to stop triggering due to the pungent body in the room. My psyche is anticipating some sort of second shoe to drop.
The drunk’s snort is unrefined. “You look like hell. No wonder the kid’s got such a fire under his ass. Greasy Sae barely put the tin in his hand before he was already peeling down the street.”
I can’t muster a reaction.
“Yeah, and I could’ve left you behind but I didn’t,” says Peeta. “Maybe I should’ve. Then, I wouldn’t have been so late.”
Haymitch scoffs, taking a swig of what I thought was white liquor from his flask. But as he stashes it back into his slouchy pocket, the corners of his mouth are painted bright red. For a second, I fear for his liver. The next second, I’m scared stiff. A grimy six-o’clock shadow is replaced with a sheet of frost, the wiry white hairs framing the plump lips of President Snow. This isn’t the first time he’s intruded this house, but I never could’ve suspected he’d make his return. The dictator was in the study last time around, waiting for me. Now, I can’t control his distance as he closes in on me. Rosy fragrances invade my nostrils, and I take the liberty of burying my head into Peeta’s hip.
I hear their dialogue unpause. “—ughta put it on generously. The girl looks like she’s seen a ghost.”
The voice isn’t that of Coriolanus Snow. It’s still the charismatic fry of Haymitch that fills my living room. Thank goodness. The old bastard is still kicking, and I’m reminded the dreaded dictator has been dead for months now. Still, I can’t stand to sit in this house full of apparitions anymore; I don’t enter my useless study, sit in Prim’s bedroom, or eat off of the gurney that I call my dining table due to all of their artifacts of the past. My only real home is with Peeta, a discovery I didn’t make until I was abandoned in 12 without him.
“It’s okay, Katniss,” shushes Peeta. “It’ll be okay. Here, I have to put some of this stuff on your leg.”
Unbeknownst to me up until now, I’ve been whimpering into Peeta’s jeans. I unstick myself from my hiding place. My face feels vaguely wet, which I’m sure the man takes note of as he does a double-take in my direction. He pushes forward, knowing all about my embarrassment without even needing to ask. The blanket is shifted just enough to reveal my sting once more, and the salve he applies is soothing against the bump.
Avoiding any further eye contact with any of the room’s inhabitants, I silently wipe my face. “Can’t stay here no more.”
“You can move after I put the gauze on. Don’t worry, I’m almost done. You’re doing a great job, hun.”
I huff.
Hun? Again with the nicknames. I wonder where Peeta pulls the comforting phrase from, as it certainly couldn’t have come from his mother. The thought of a spoon-welted, toddler-sized Peeta receiving the same kind of praise makes my tears return. Maybe the baker used to treat his third son’s wounds with the same mince of empty words.
“No,” I whine childishly. “Can’t live here no more. Wanna be with you.”
I didn’t mean to add the last part, and I can see Peeta’s eyes flicker to Haymitch in a brief nonverbal conversation. He sets down the green-filled tin, and our mentor produces a roll of gauze from his stuffed pocket to give to the young man. Their exchanges are quiet, though the faces they make are anything but. I wish I could read the messages inscribed in their visages, but they’ve always been better communicators than me. Not to mention, my swimming vision loses any chance of me guessing.
Peeta seems to deliberate internally as he begins to simply wrap my thigh. “Uhm, well… Maybe we should talk later. Of course you can stay with me, always. But I don’t know if you really mean that, y’know, for good.”
How could he doubt my words? I don’t want to be in this haunted house anymore. Not only that, but I never want to be without him again. Have I not shown him that’s all I’ve wanted over the previous weeks?
“We already sleepin’ together,” I shrug to the best of my abilities. “What’s forever?”
Peeta coughs as if he’s choked on his spit, floundering to finish my bandage. Haymitch sounds choked too, though it’s more like he’s suffocating his laughter.
“Well, shit. If I didn’t know any better, you’ve proposed again,” howls Haymitch. “Good going, sweetheart.”
I can feel my clammy face go sizzling hot. Peeta glares at Haymitch, though he looks as if he’s fighting sheepishness. He’s probably humiliated. In my usual, imbecilic style, I just had to go and insinuate our matrimony for a second time. He was less than thrilled the first time around. I suspect that, telling by the tired expression he’s beginning to sport, he’s not very happy with me on this occasion either.
Haymitch whistles at Peeta’s glowering. “Yeesh. I can tell when I’m not wanted. I’ll get outta your hair for now, but don’t expect me to play moving crew when the time comes. Or babysitter, either.”
The drunkard stumbles back to his opulent shack.
“Just ignore him,” says Peeta, utterly flushed. “Let’s go to bed.”
It’s only midday, and the young man has no business retiring so early. But the black spots in my vision keep me from any protest. My leg is no longer full of hundreds of buzzing tracker jackers, and the numbness I feel in their place is luring me into sleep.
“Here?” I ask, the only word of resistance I offer.
Peeta looks like he hardly knows what to do with himself. Despite me being the one soaked in a saline, he’s starting to look the slightest bit sweaty too. He jitters in place. With the little strength I have, I take his large palm in my weak grip. Just to slow the shakes, I tell myself. He smells bitter, like the salve from the tin. Collecting himself, he is stone when he scoops me into his awaiting arms. He obliges my half-spoken plea, and we’re trotting back to his place in no time.
“Shoulda just stayed over there, huh?” asks Peeta rhetorically.
I nuzzle my face into his chest, unsure if I’ll ever get the opportunity to do it again. His pec jolts under the skinny tip of my hooked nose, and I let the true scent of Peeta envelop me. I’m holding the fuzzy blanket closed, and the small container of medicine slides across my velvety lap. I think I can see Haymitch chuckling from his porch, but I’m much too lost in the sweltering sun to leer at him.
The light tingles across my few exposed slivers of skin, and the heat seems to leech out the richest notes of cinnamon from Peeta’s t-shirt. It feels like I’m a loaf of bread in the most pleasant oven, and I’ve just been kneaded by the baker embracing me.
I’m off into a deep slumber before I can help it.