Chapter Text
He guides her carefully from the office, moving his arm to chastely – yet protectively – wrap it around her shoulders. She keeps her head down, watching her footsteps. But even with her focus drilling into carpet, she can feel all of the attention in the office on her, leaving blotchy, red marks on her skin in its wake.
When they’re safely in the elevator, Peeta drops his arm from hers. Her shoulder feels cold in its absence, and she almost asks for him to bring it back. Then, she remembers her place.
They’re quiet. But he stands close to her, so she doesn’t mind. She tries not to think about what this means, ignoring the implications of his effect on her, because she’s dealt with enough trauma tonight. Still, she can’t deny the way her nerves soften from his proximity.
The air is wet outside, thick and heavy in its post-storm calm, but she still craves his touch, somehow. He’s walking just in front of her, leading the way. Her fingers twitch at her side. Gale used to drift in front of her, too, usually because his legs were so long. She’d always grasp for his hand to hold him back with her. She wonders if she craves Peeta’s touch for the same reason, or if it’s because of something else.
Just around the corner, a small bar stands, wedged in between two much-taller brick buildings, neon lights squiggled in the glass front. The name Ignia is framed and embellished. Patrons loiter along the patio area, and inside the bar, too; it’s almost a comfort to find the place so packed. It’ll be easier to blend in this way.
They manage to snag a booth toward the back. She asks the waitress for a Heineken. Peeta orders Sprite, and when Katniss leers over the table at him, he laughs. “What’s that look about?”
“Sprite?” she spits. “What are you, twelve?”
“Well, one of us is driving the other home tonight, and it surely won’t be the one who wanted alcohol in the first place.”
He leans back against the booth, draping his arm over the wooden divider. A part of her wishes her shoulders were there, remembering the warm firmness of his hold, but then she reminds herself to drop it. She’s just stressed. Emotionally distraught. Confused. She needs to leave the poor man alone, not drag him into her drama.
God, her beer can’t come quickly enough.
He makes moderately awkward small talk with her while they wait, continuing after their drinks have arrived. Katniss takes a mighty swig of her Heineken, avoiding his eyes as he talks. She feels hot all over, flushed and sticky. But if he can tell she’s flustered, he doesn’t say anything – perhaps that’s why he keeps talking. He’s charitably saving her from making her own uncomfortable attempt at conversation. She gives him curt nods and short answers, waiting for the booze to start swirling in her blood.
It takes several minutes too long to happen, but soon the heat settles into a more satiating warmth. Her shoulders slump. Her stomach simmers. The rigid muscles in her face relax.
“I’ve only ever been with Gale before,” she blurts, quite unceremoniously.
Peeta coughs, his eyes popping out as he pushes his Sprite away. “Oh. Um… okay.”
“No, sorry, that… that came out wrong.” She palms her forehead, finding it burning underneath the pads of her fingers. “I just… I want you to know that Gale was it for me. And that’s why this is so hard, I think.”
He sucks in his lips, still slightly pale from her unprompted confession, but eventually he nods. “So, you’re ready to talk?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she says. “But… I’m not good at it. This whole opening up business.”
His responding smile is generous. “Well, that’s what the alcohol and the really mediocre ‘mood-lighting’ are for.”
“Mood-lighting,” she mimics as she leans back against the booth’s padding, her shoulders digging into the cushion. Then, she frowns at him. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“You need to talk about it, Katniss. I think addressing it will help.” When he realizes this hasn’t answered her question, he leans forward, his elbows propped on the table. “And yes. I love talking with you, Katniss, especially if it involves me drowning you in unsolicited advice.”
Despite the ache in her chest, dully numbed by the beer, she manages a smile.
“So,” he continues, encouraging her with a half-grin. “As you were saying… Gale was it for you?”
“Supposed to be it, I guess,” she corrects. Her arms fold over her stomach. “You know how long I’ve known him?”
“Since high school?”
“Since first grade.”
If his expression had hands, it would be empathetically patting her shoulder. “Oh, Katniss.”
“All throughout elementary school, he was my only friend,” she says. “We were from the same neighborhood. Our dads worked together. He once hit me in the head with a baseball.”
“And, let me guess. That was when you knew he was the one for you?”
She doesn’t know how he manages to draw out another smile from her when her face is so decisively steeled. Her grins are notorious for being like four-leaf clovers – rare and really weird – and yet, here Peeta is, effortlessly plucking one after another from the slopes.
“Not quite,” she says. “I actually threw the ball right back at him. Bruised his eye up real nice.” Her chest twinges angrily, and to soothe it, she takes another swig of her beer. “I thought he thought I was just one of the guys for the longest time. He must’ve at some point, because he didn’t treat me much differently than his other friends, at least not until high school. He asked me to our junior prom out of the blue.”
She expects Peeta to throw in another witty remark, but he just watches her without comment, sympathy softening his features. She takes two more titanic gulps, but the throbbing in her chest still remains.
“I hadn’t ever thought of him like that before, not until he kissed me after prom. It was kind of gross, actually. He completely missed my mouth.” She touches her braid, growing red. “Anyway, I didn’t think he noticed me, but he said he always had, so we just… we just got together. It made sense, you know? We were always so close. A lot alike. No one was surprised. I wasn’t even surprised, even though I’d never given it any thought. So we dated through the rest of high school, went to State together, got engaged toward the end. Married at twenty-two.”
“So he really was it, then,” Peeta murmurs.
“I’ve never even looked at anyone else.” Her throat burns as she admits this. “I mean… I didn’t really care about romance. Then he stepped up, and everything fell into place. It wasn’t hard loving him, since being with him just seemed so logical to me. I haven’t…” She swallows. “Peeta, I’ve never even tried to love someone else. I don’t think I know how.”
Something in his expression breaks, the blue clouding over. Suddenly, he’s reaching over the table, the warm expanse of his palm engulfing hers, and then the burning dies, the ache coming to a halt. It’s just him. Him, his sad eyes, his soft hands.
She feels calm, if only for a moment.
Just then, the waitress comes up, offering to bring Katniss another beer. She accepts, but not before she snaps her hand away, holding it like a burn wound against her chest. As their server leaves them, Katniss can feel Peeta’s gaze on her. Her face burns under his stare, and without warning, a giggle bursts through her lips.
“You know what? How about you tell me your life story,” she laughs through her thick throat, aiming to diffuse some of the tension.
But he isn’t fazed by this; his frown only deepens. “Katniss, we’re here because you need to let off some steam.”
“No,” she insists, her tone light but her eyes pleading. “We’re here because I want to stop hurting. Over Gale, I mean. And you— well, you’re a fun guy.”
“Katniss—”
She leans forward, and this time, it’s her who grasps for his hand.
“Please, Peeta,” she whispers, sobering up.
Hesitation threads up his features, holding his tongue still for a moment. But then his fingers find hers, fitting too snugly in the spaces between for her to want anything else.
“There’s not much to tell,” he says, finally. “How much do you want to hear?”
“Everything.” She squeezes his hand. “School. Hobbies. Favorite color. Guilty pleasures. Lay it on me, Mellark.”
He chuckles at her eagerness, using his free hand to card through his curls. She’s used to seeing them so neatly styled, but this late, they’re more wild, and she thinks it’s the most beautiful thing.
The waitress brings her another bottle, which she grabs earnestly with her free hand, the other still clutching Peeta’s for dear life. She wonders if he wants to pull away. If he does, he surely isn’t dropping any hints.
“You’re going to regret this,” he warns. His eyes are lighter than before, though, which seems to drag the weight off her shoulders. She leans in.
He sighs.
“My parents were bakers,” Peeta begins. “Well, my dad did the baking. My mom did the bossing around. And I did the decorating. You know, sculpted sugar flowers, made fondant my bitch, all that jazz.”
Katniss snorts. “Then how come you’re not a baker now?”
“Well, that was the original plan, but the bakery burned to the ground when I was sixteen.” He says this so blithely that she barely has the opportunity to sober up; he grins immediately, almost consolingly. “Don’t get me wrong, it was awful at the time, but no one was hurt, and we had good insurance. The only issue we had to deal with was that we were out of work. So, we had to build a new bakery, and we had to do it rather quickly.”
“And that’s where you got your muscles,” she blurts, pointing accusingly at him.
“I wish.” He chuckles lightly, and as he does so, his eyes crinkle charmingly in the corners. “I didn’t do any of the building. But I did help with the floor plans. For me, blueprints became the new fondant. By the time the bakery was rebuilt, I’d realized my calling was in structural design. All the artistry involved with crafting sugar flowers came in handy, I suppose.”
“Think you could still do that?” she asks, her fingers dancing along the neck of her beer bottle. She tilts her head to the side, wishing someone could do the same to hers. Well, not just someone.
“Decorate cakes and such?” When she nods, he shrugs. “Sure. Not as precisely, but I doubt I’ve lost my touch. I’ve got pretty steady hands.”
“Do you, now?”
Her words are guttural, low and husky enough to make both of their eyes widen.
Jesus. Is she flirting?
“You’d be surprised,” he says, half with hesitation, half with intrigue. “Most contractors let their crews do the work, but I think of what I do as more of a hands-on job.”
She can’t tell if he’s teasing her or not, so she simply says, “Someone’s bragging.”
“I’m not bragging. I just take pride in what I do.”
“And what else are you proud of?” She’s startled by the liquid taint to her words, the way they curl low off her tongue. But, strangely, she likes how it makes her feel, and she likes how it makes him swallow. Hard.
He mulls it over for a second before answering, “Well, not to sound cocky or anything, but I’m really good at tying my shoes. I double-knot them and everything.”
“You’ve impressed me, Mellark,” she giggles.
“It’s really all in the technique.” Something in his eyes glimmers as he says this, making her mind wander to something that definitely has nothing to do with shoelaces.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he parrots. “I’ve worked long and hard to perfect it.”
Unable to restrain herself from laughing harder, she clamps her hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. Peeta’s lip quirks.
“What’s so funny, Ms. Everdeen?”
She shakes her head violently, color licking its way into her face as she focuses a little too closely on the way he said long and hard. What the hell is wrong with her?
“Nothing,” she sputters, trying to swallow down her giggling. But it just won’t stop.
“I think I should take you home.” His voice is pumped full of amusement, and she’s thankful, because if he knew half of what she was thinking, he wouldn’t be so entertained.
“No, not yet,” she whines, but he’s already flagging down the waitress for the tab. “Peeta, I’m not drunk.”
“I didn’t say you were. I mean, you’d have to be one hell of a lightweight to go under after only two beers.” His eyes are so bright. Damn. “I do think you’re a little tipsy, though.”
Her nose crinkles. “How judgmental.”
“But you’re not arguing.”
She folds her arms indignantly, her silence telling all.
When the waitress comes, Katniss offers to pay and starts fumbling for her purse, but he slips the server his card before she can even locate her wallet. She opens her mouth to complain, only squeezing out a petulant Peeta before he leans in, smiling too honestly for her to think of anything else but how white his teeth are. And how they might taste like Colgate.
“It was my pleasure,” he tells her, snapping her attention back to him.
Her stomach burns in a much-too-pleasant way.
While she’s far from being too tipsy to walk straight, she’s reluctant to admit this as he helps her through the doorway. His hand on her waist is steadying, warm in its closeness; she accepts it without reservation.
But in the foyer, she can feel his hesitation. His imminent goodbye hangs in the air, heavy and unwelcome like a wall cloud. So she grips his hand and leads him up the stairs without a word. He doesn’t deny her, even if he makes a startled choking sound.
At the top of the steps, she veers from the bedroom, guiding him into the study. It isn’t quite finished yet, but the windows have been installed, the thick planks now propped in the walls instead of cluttering the floor. Moonlight cuts in through the glass, illuminating the wooden panels, which are scratched and in desperate need of new veneer.
She can feel his hand still lingering on the small of her back, more out of willingness now than out of obligation. His touch feathery but certain. The dust-lined air bears down on her skin, and she tries not to think about how she’d rather it be his breath. She also tries not to think about how this used to be Gale’s room, and how she’s now brought a man in here, for whatever reason. Well, she knows exactly what the reason is, but she’s not yet willing to admit that to herself. This will be much easier to do if she doesn’t think. About him, about herself, and especially about Gale, who she’s been holding at bay for the entire night.
But the mere thought of Gale cripples her lungs, and she reaches behind her, pulling Peeta’s hand from her back so that she can hold it in her own palm.
“I want to say something potentially deep, but certifiably cheesy,” she says.
His arm brushes hers. “Go for it.”
She takes a deep breath. His grip tightens in hers.
“I kind of feel this room on a personal level, you know?” she says, leaning her cheek against his shoulder. “It’s like a big part of me has been torn out, and I’m just hoping that what I put up in place of it will be better, even though it’s all really just a lot of space for me to be alone.”
He doesn’t say anything at first. Then, his other arm moves to touch her elbow, pulling her closer so that they’re facing each other, just inches apart, silver locking with concerned blue. He looks like he wants to hug her and never let go. She can’t say she’d be too upset.
“It’s a good place for you to get yourself straightened out. Which, after what you’ve been through, is a good thing,” he murmurs when he finally pieces together a response. His eyes twinkle, pupils dotted with stars of their own, stringing his expression up in the most beautiful constellation she’s seen. And then his voice deepens. “Maybe, someday, you’ll have room to bring someone else in, Katniss.”
She swallows thickly, unsure of how to tell him that he’s wrong. She can bring him back to her house, into her life like this, but she can’t let him in like that. She can’t let anyone in like that, not again. Lust is easy, practical – after all, she knows she’s attracted to Peeta. But anything beyond that is too dangerous.
“No, Peeta. Once a yoga room, always a yoga room,” she whispers, not at all talking about yoga rooms.
But his hand lifts, his thumb dabbing her chin.
“Can’t yoga be a team sport?”
She’s not sure what possesses her to do it, but nothing in her seems to hesitate. Her arms are draped over the slope of his shoulders before she can consider what she’s doing, her fingers tangling in the now-wily curls she loves so much, her mouth curving under his.
His lips are slack in surprise at first, but he soon complies with her sloppy assault, his mouth slow and delicate as it seeks to steady her own. He tastes too good – not at all like Colgate, but a little like Sprite, and a lot like something so deliciously Peeta-esque – and all she wants is to bottle up his flavor, memorizing and worshiping it with her tongue.
His hands drop to her waist, holding her with a gentle firmness that sets her nerves alight. As she deepens the kiss, she expects to feel Gale there, but Peeta holds her so differently. Now, all she can focus on is her desire to see just how different he is from Gale, to test the limits of his wide, steady hands, to curl under his tongue as it explores more than just the inside of her mouth. Unable to wait, she trails her hand downward from his hair to his collar, pectoral, abdomen, stomach, down, down, down…
He jumps a little when her palm grazes the front of his slacks, but she eagerly cups his erection through the fabric anyway. Before she can even gauge his size, fashioning yet another comparison to Gale, his lips tear from hers. He yanks her wrist back.
“Katniss— this isn’t a good idea.”
Her cheeks blaze, partially from embarrassment, but mostly from arousal. Unwilling to stop, she surges forward, seeking his lips again.
But instead, her shoulders are stopped by his palms as he holds her at a safe distance.
“Are you sure you aren’t drunk?”
“Well, if I am, then drunk me really likes kissing you.”
Through the gloom, glazed silver in the moonlight, Peeta smiles sadly at her. “Katniss, unless sober-you agrees with drunk-you, I think I should stop.” Her throat catches, anger swelling in her veins as she tries to protest, but he stops her by curling his fingers around her shoulder. “Look, I know you’re hurting, and I’m not about to take advantage of you. I’d rather try to help you the right way.”
“What do you mean, the right way?” she snarls.
“I— I’m not sure,” he admits, cupping the back of his neck. “But I know that you have more than your fair share of pent-up emotions to deal with, and if I just helped you cover them up by encouraging whatever we were just doing… look, it’ll only hurt the both of us. And, if there’s anything I can do about it, you won’t be getting hurt on my watch.”
She rubs her temples. “You’re confusing me, Peeta.”
“I’m sorry.” He reaches forward, his palm molding to the curve of her cheek. “I just— I want to be careful with you. I want you to be able to heal.”
She’s clueless as to how she should respond, so she keeps her lips screwed tight.
“I really like you Katniss,” he murmurs after a moment, his thumb grazing the curve of her cheekbone. “So I refuse to be reckless with you. I’ll do what I can, but… I don’t know what will help you. So you’ve got to tell me what you need. If you want my help, of course.”
Her head snaps up. That’s a stupid thing to say. She doesn’t think she’s good enough to be the benefactor of all his noble efforts, but she’s tired of hurting. If he can help alleviate some of that pain, through whatever “healthy” means he’s speaking of, she’d be insane to reject him.
So she nods, just slightly, terminating the gesture with a heavy swallow. Then she pushes out a deep breath. The sound is thick and shaky, clinging desperately to her lungs.
Her voice breaks.
“I just don’t want to be alone,” she whispers.
She can hear him exhale, his sigh a pathetic, despairing sound, and he tilts his forehead against hers. He doesn’t object once she pulls away, gripping his hand so she can tug him from the demolished study and guide him to the bedroom.
She doesn’t have the energy to remove her clothes, only enough to kick off her shoes. Once they’re discarded at the foot of the bed, she dives onto the mattress, the coils squeaking in surprise under her limp form. Her hand hasn’t left Peeta’s, however, so she feels the slight resistance from his wrist as he hesitates at the edge of the bed frame.
“Please,” she whispers, her voice thinned by the pillowcase against her mouth. She turns her head to look at him, simultaneously heartbroken and enamored with his stocky form, all thick curls and bright eyes, as he hovers over her. “Stay with me, Peeta.”
When she tugs slightly on his arm, she’s relieved to have her gesture met with compliance. His body dips into the mattress beside her, and he lifts the covers to tuck the both of them underneath. She snuggles up against his chest, craving the flutter of his heartbeat, and also him, because she knows that’s the only thing that’ll grant her sleep.
As she flattens her cheek against his chest, lulled by his pulse, she hears him whisper something to her hair. But she’s too tired to isolate the words. Before she can ask for him to repeat them, however, she fades from consciousness, her last thought one of how impossibly safe she feels.