Blooming in the Spring

Chapter 12

"I still remember the day you saved my life like it was yesterday."

The words come to me naturally, much to my surprise, the things I've noticed and learned about Peeta over the years we've known each other. I rely on my memory and give in to the many emotions I have felt and still feel toward this boy who sits in front of me, painting a portrait of himself.

I can tell he's uncomfortable, illustrating himself like this. I know he feels vulnerable and exposed. Looking back on the past few years, he's always been the one to shower me with compliments and tell me things about myself that I didn't even know were there. But when have I ever done the same--told him about what I see when I look at him? Probably never. The closest I've ever come to doing I suppose was in the Capitol during the war, when he was having trouble separating reality from the things Snow planted in his head.

You're a painter. You're a baker.

"It was so cold and rainy," I continue on, telling him what I remember of the day with the bread. "I really thought that was it for me; that I would just keel over right there in your backyard. But then I saw you."

"I remember some of that day too," he nods along, deep in thought.

"At first I wasn't sure what to make of it all," I say. "I wasn't sure if you had burnt the bread on purpose, though of course now I do. I'd seen you around at school some before, but things were different from then on."

"How do you mean?" he asks, looking up from the book pages and into my eyes. I can tell he's searching for something, trying to read my expression, though I'm not even sure of it myself.

"It's hard to explain," I say, thinking carefully about what I'm trying to say. "I guess I just couldn't believe how someone could be so kind, so selfless. Especially when you didn't know me."

He laughs half-heartedly at this and says, "Except I did know you. You just weren't paying attention."

"You didn't though, not really," I retort. "You knew the idea of me, I suppose. And the things your father told you. But you didn't know me. And you took a beating for me anyways. Which is the only reason I'm still alive."

I see a blush rise on his cheeks and I know he's not used to attention like this.

"Anyone would have done it," he says, attempting to brush off his own actions. I grow frustrated, not because I don't believe someone else would have spared bread for me--though obviously, no one else did--but because of his inability to see himself the way I see him.

"No, Peeta," I say, meeting his eyes. "You did. Not just anyone. You. Because you were kind and gentle and selfless. Not because you thought you loved me, or because you knew me at all. Because you were good. You still are, otherwise, you wouldn't be here with me now. Anyone else would probably hate me for everything I've put you through."

At this, Peeta is the one at a loss for words. He has stopped painting, though he didn't get very far. I wish I could show him how special he really is, how much he deserves.

"Can I?" I ask, motioning toward the book in his hands, which he hands over to me hesitantly. I hold the pages between my own fingers. I'm not much of an artist but I can write. So this is what I do.

I pick up one of the pens from a set that Aurelius sent with the paper and I write and write and write, about anything and everything I can remember about Peeta.

I start with the bread and move on to other things that have made an impact on me. The pearl and the locket on the beach in the Quell. The swirl of blood that the Morphling tribute painted on his cheek as he held her while she died. The sunset, orange and soft like his favorite color. Nights spent wrapped in his arms, in the cave and here in this house and on the train and the Tribute Center. Offering up our winnings to Thresh and Rue's families in District 11. The primroses he planted outside my house as soon as he arrived back home. Finnick and Annie's beautiful wedding cake. Cheese buns, which he never fails to bake for me--despite not having much of a taste for them himself. Afternoons spent in the garden on the rooftop before the arenas, especially the day he braided flowers in my hair. Dandelions that symbolize hope and springtime, much like Peeta himself. His long eyelashes and the way his forehead creases when he's concentrated. His paintings. His smile. His crystal blue eyes. I write about it all, for what seems like hours and I can feel his eyes on me as I do so.

When I think I'm finished, though I'm certain there will be more things I remember to add later, I have covered nearly four pages in scribbles of ink. Upon realizing how much I've written about him, I feel a bit embarrassed and vulnerable and like I've exposed a part of myself that I normally don't. The part that isn't so afraid to hold onto someone else. Or more so, the part that isn't afraid I will lose them once I open myself up to them.

Peeta takes the book gently back in his hands like it's the most expensive and fragile piece of glass he'd ever held. I pretend not to see the tears forming in his eyes. In fact, I try not to look at him at all. After years of such a one-sided dynamic between us, it feels awkward that I've suddenly admitted to noticing and remembering all of these things about him. I'm not sure either of us knows what to say.

I focus my silent gaze on the orange embers in the fireplace before us, which cast dancing shadows around the living room that has grown dark as dusk has turned into nightfall. Out of the corner of my eye, though, I watch Peeta pour over the pages and I can practically feel him hanging onto every word. He moves his fingers across the ink, trying to keep his place in the mess of rambling I've spilled onto the parchment. He reads slowly, carefully. Like he's trying to digest every single memory, every single bit of. . .What? Of love? Is that what these words mean? I feel my heart skip a beat in my chest. Recounting these memories of Peeta has awakened something in me, I think. Something I've tried very hard to forget. Because if I admit to feeling these things for him, then what happens? I like how things are between us. What if they change? What if, maybe he's lost those feelings for me? What if I'm too late? I think again about children and marriage. What if I can't promise him the future I know he wants? Won't it hurt us both even worse if I allow myself to open up to him? And then there was our kiss before. It only happened once, but I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about initiating another. Perhaps I'm too late and without thinking, I've already opened up to him by kissing him then.

"You remember so much," he says thoughtfully, his voice pulling me from my spiraling mind.

"I guess I was paying attention after all," I can hardly bring my shaking voice to muster up a whisper. He looks at me now, like he's never seen me before. Or rather, like he has seen me before but is only now understanding the real me for the first time. We hold each other's gaze for what feels like ages and I know now we are both searching for something in the other's eyes. I want to say something but I don't know what. I don't want to be wrong. I don't want him to feel differently. Looking at him now, I feel so afraid. But not of Peeta. Of myself. For not being able to control the things that I feel. Of the idea that I might hurt him. Or lose him. Yes, losing him would be the worst of all. The thought is unbearable. I think he senses this apprehension in me. He breaks his gaze, running his hands gently over the pages I've written on once more before shutting the book carefully.

"Thank you, Katniss," he whispers.

"For what?"

"I guess for reminding me of a version of myself I'd forgotten," he responds with a shrug. "Since the Capitol, it's hard not to become detached from myself. It's hard to see myself as anything other than a monster they created."

"I've never seen you that way," I say, willing myself not to cry.

He smiles sadly, "It's okay. I know you probably did, just like everybody else. But your words. . .I guess they've just reminded me that there's a lot of good there too. Because if you still see me this way, maybe I wasn't just a piece in the game."

I am transported back to that night on the Tribute Center roof. Peeta's greatest fear, even in the face of the Hunger Games, was that the Capitol would turn him into something he wasn't. That they would destroy who he was, and strip him of his identity. Make him play the game by their own rules, not his. How unbearable it must have been for him to find that this fear became reality. Because that's what happened, isn't it? They took away his kindness, his generosity. They turned him into a player in their sick and twisted games, exactly what he was afraid of. But they failed. Because this boy in front of me, with his golden smile and clear blue eyes, is not a monster. Not at all. They couldn't take him away, at least not permanently.

And I know confidently now that love and kindness will always overcome hatred. It will always overcome war. Anger. Revenge. Maybe this is why Peeta and I work so well together. While we both have so much anger and grief, we are able to show each other the good things too. We can show each other there is more. More than our past. More than the pain, death, torture, and suffering. We are more than pieces in a game. And as I look into his soft eyes, I know that as long as we have each other, there will always be more.