The Hunger Games: Continued

Rekindling

Katniss' POV

Two weeks later.

I climb through the large hole in the ceiling and onto the tiled roof of my house in the Victors' Village. I try to keep my balance as I walk to the edge. Carefully, I sit with my legs tucked to my chest and my arms wrapped tightly around my knees.

I've been coming up here a lot lately—for the view, for the quiet. I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and let out a sigh I didn't know I was holding. The spring breeze whips against my jumper, cooling me from the burning sun.

"You're not gonna jump, are you, sweetheart?" Haymitch's voice drifts from the gap in the roof as he joins me. He lowers himself onto the tiles beside me.

"No, I'm not gonna jump," I reply. His question doesn't surprise me. Since my return, I've not been the most stable person. But with Peeta's friendship, things have been easier.

A silence lingers, broken only when Haymitch asks, "What'd you do to your hair?"

It takes a moment to register, then I remember. "Wanted something different, I guess." Yesterday, I cut off my braid. Now I wear a short bob, neat enough if I say so myself.

"You don't like it?" I ask, though I don't much care for his opinion.

"No, I do. It suits you." And I know he means it—Haymitch doesn't hand out compliments unless he means them.

"Thank you," is all I say.

From here, I can see Peeta's house, Haymitch's, and beyond them, the meadow. No one seeds it anymore, but it's turning green again. Once, I loved walking there, but after the bombings, it feels like a graveyard. I still leave flowers when I hunt, though it never gets easier.

District 12 is being rebuilt. Supplies arrive daily from the Capitol. No one goes hungry. In the grand scheme, our world is... well enough.

A few minutes later, I see Peeta leave his house. He's been good. Every night he comes to dinner with Greasy Sae. Dr. Aurelius says he's as cured from the hijacking as he'll ever be. He won't hurt me. Still, he has breakdowns—"venom attacks," the doctor calls them. He knows what's real and what's not, but sometimes at dinner, we still play real or not real, just to be sure.

I only realise I've been staring at him when Haymitch speaks again. "How are you two?"

"Good," I answer. "He comes around almost every night."

"He visits me most days. He's the same old Peeta I once knew," Haymitch adds.

"Yeah... except he's not as affectionate as he used to be. Not with me." My voice cracks. A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it. I shut my eyes to hold the rest in.

Haymitch pats my back softly. "Well, sweetheart, if it bothers you that much, then it must be love." He gives me a small smile, then climbs down from the roof, leaving me with his words echoing in my head.

It must be love.

And honestly, I'm in no position to deny it.

⸻

The air chills, goosebumps rising along my arms. I head inside, Haymitch's words still following me like a raincloud.

Later, I warm myself by the coal fire until I hear a knock at the door. Peeta and Greasy, I assume.

I open it to find Peeta alone. His cheeks are rosy, his blue eyes clear, his frame filled out again. He looks healthy—as if he'd never been to war—except for the faint burn scar still crossing his cheek.

"Where's Greasy?" I ask as he steps inside.

"She's got a bad cold. Didn't want to pass it on," he replies.

So, it's just us.

"How are you?" I ask as he heads for the kitchen.

"I'm good. As good as I can be." He smiles, and it warms me in ways I can't explain. "Still a bit confused about some things, but Dr. Aurelius says it'll pass."

"What things?" I ask, watching as he reheats cheese buns.

"I have this memory of you pushing me into an urn after the interviews for our first Games. Did that really happen? Real or not real?"

I laugh—at the memory, at how silly it seems now. "Real. After you confessed your undying love for me on live television, I pushed you because I thought you were trying to make me look weak. Only later did I realise you were trying to get me sponsors."

Our eyes meet. Usually his dart away, but this time they don't. A small moment, but a significant one.

Then his gaze flickers to my lips, my neck, and back again. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.

"I really like your hair," he says at last. "It suits you."

"Thank you. I did it myself," I say, smiling shyly.

"Really? Never thought of you as much of a hairdresser." He runs his fingers through his blond mop. "You should do mine, after we eat. Needs a cut."

⸻

After devouring the cheese buns—delicious, as always—I lead Peeta to the bathroom. He sits on a stool before the mirror while I stand behind him, scissors in hand.

"Don't mess this up," he warns, laughing.

Carefully, I trim small sections, working slowly around his head. By the time I finish, his hair is shorter, neater. I set the scissors down and notice him watching me in the mirror. His eyes flicker from mine to my lips. I realise I'm doing the same.

I know what I want—to kiss him. But it's too soon. Too complicated. Too dangerous. I resist.

"Thank you," he says, running his hand through his hair. "Better than my mother ever did."

He turns on the stool, and suddenly his face is much too close to mine. The urge hits me again. But I hold it back.

"I best be off," he says.

No. I want to beg him to stay, to not leave me alone with another nightmare. But I don't. I can't. We've only just begun to be comfortable again. Intimacy can wait.

So I let him go.