The Story Continues (Mockingjay Fanfiction-Sequel)

A-pre-ci-ate (Part Two)

Slap.

"Why did you slap--"

"WHY DID YOU THROW A BUCKET OF WATER ON MY FACE!?" I scream and glare darkly at him. He stops dumping the water to laugh at my face. My scowl deepens and I pin him to the floor with my hands.

"Don't. You. EVER do that again," the lines of my scowl deepening in my face. He pauses and appears to think for a moment, then starts laughing again. The sound echoes through the whole room and I'm afraid that everyone in the whole train can hear it. I put a hand over his mouth and he suddenly stops. I get up and go to the corner of my room to sulk.

"So who sent you?"

"No one in particular," he smiles from the glass he's sipping from. Wonder where he got it.

"So... you came from your free will?"

"Not exactly," smiling like there's a secret that I should know but don't. 

"We're talking in circles."

"And..."

"Well," I say, "I'm going to bed."

"Good night," he smirks, because the sun hasn't even risen in the sky. I scowl again.

"If you keep doing that you'll have permanent lines on your face."

"I couldn't care less about beauty right now."

"That's what I thought," his easy voice comes from inside the refridgerator. He pulls out a salad and raises his eyebrows. I shake my head and raise my shoulders slightly. I didn't even know where we were going.

A couple minutes lapse as the only sound in the room is the crunching of lettuce and croutons. I stare out the window and am captured in my own thoughts, which is a hobby that usually takes up my free time.

After he's finished, he starts staring at his hands for what seems an incredibly long time. I continue to stare out the window, wondering how I know this as I had not looked at him for the past hour and sigh. Wonder when things will ease up between us.

The sun rises in the sky, and I begin to ponder questions of the universe for no reason. Why is the sun yellow instead of orange? Why isn't the sky purple? Who created trains? Who created food? Why is my life a mess? Why couldn't I have been born a thousand years ago? Who created the world? Why is Peeta here? Why am I here? Where is my mother? Why is the sky so painfully blue?

I sneak a look out of the corner of my eye. Still looking at his hands.

How old am I? Has it been my birthday yet? When was my father's birthday again? What did he look like? Did I forget who he was already? When was Peeta's birthday? Why am I thinking about birthdays?

"How long has it been?" Peeta breaks the silence.

"Hmm?" I hum, still partially stuck in my head.

"How long has it been?"

"Since what?"

"Since we last talked."

I try to think back a long time, but I can't remember. It must have been when Peeta planted those roses in from of my house. Primroses. I gulp.

"I can't really remember," I lie.

"That's what unsettles me," he speaks to himself, still looking at his hands.

"It shouldn't. Don't let it bother you."

His smile seems forced, which it is, and he says

"When did it become like this?"

"Us barely talking to each other?"

"Yeah."

"I think it was somewhere between when I found out you had serious mental issues and my self-pitiness."

That ends our conversation. He starts staring out the window as I do, and I start wondering what would happen if the world had no Hunger Games. How many people would still be alive? Prim, her father, Finnick, and countless other nameless faces. Suddenly, I feel a rush of gratitude for Peeta. Peeta, who was still there, and who someday might be able to trust me, and the me towards him again.

 -

It's a bit short but I haven't been writing for a long time and this is my warmup. Vote if you like it, I'll be writing on and off in my free time and when my mood and schedule entices it.

Luving you forevers,

Christine