The Hunger Games: Continued

Unfair Expectations

Katniss' POV

The next day

"So, sweetheart, why are you here... exactly?" Haymitch rasps, lifting the bottle to his mouth. I wrap myself tighter in the blanket draped over his sofa.

"It's not good for me to be alone too long. I needed company."

"So why bother me instead of Peeta?" he asks, yanking a crumpled navy hanky from his pocket and blowing his nose.

"Peeta and I aren't talking." The words fall blunt and heavy. Haymitch's eyes flick up, suddenly sharp.

"Why's that?"

"He wants a child." I burrow under the blanket like I can hide from the weight of it.

"And you don't...?"

I snap out from under the fabric. "Of course not! Why would I want to bring a child into this world? It's full of evil and sadness. Peeta's seen the same things I've seen — he has the same scars —"

"Maybe," Haymitch cuts in, his voice rough but steady, "it's because Peeta's realised the world isn't like that anymore. There are no Games, Katniss."

My eyes flick to the clutter on his desk — broken bottles, used tissues, empty frames. And the knife. Always the knife.

"You still sleep with a blade," I point out. "The Games are over. Remember?"

"You still wake screaming. But you know you won't relive them."

"I don't know that," I hiss.

"For god's sake!" Haymitch slams the bottle down, amber spilling over the lip. "You're still in the arena. You've never left."

"I don't know how to leave it!" My voice cracks.

His shoulders slump. He drinks. "You've got to stop being afraid of the day you'll never see."

Maybe he's right. Maybe not. Either way, I reach for a half-empty bottle on the table and take a gulp.

"No," Haymitch snaps, lurching over to snatch it from me. "That's not a road you want."

"You went down it."

"And I never found my way back." His voice is flat.

"Just this once. I need a distraction." I tug the bottle back and drink.

He scowls. "Don't count on me to drag you home."

⸻

The whiskey burns, but the warmth it leaves behind is almost worth it. The room spins pleasantly, blurring out my self-loathing. I think of Peeta — how patient he was this morning, how I stonewalled him anyway. How I'm always the one to pull away, punish him, make him apologise twice. He'd never treat me like this. But me? I did. I do. Sometimes I despise myself for it.

I drink until the bottle's empty.

When I finally stumble out into the cold, Haymitch is snoring in his chair. I lurch home, half a block of weaving footsteps, and collapse onto the couch.

⸻

Peeta's POV

Every time we argue, I'm the one who pays. I apologise, and she goes silent. I bake her cheese buns, and she eats them without a word. I hold her at night, and she turns away in the morning.

Still, I can't stay angry. Only worried.

By the time the sun sinks low, I'm hurrying home, praying she's safe. The door's ajar. My stomach drops.

"Katniss?"

No answer. Then I see her, sprawled on the sofa, vomit staining her shirt, her face pale. My chest seizes. I rush to her side, checking her pulse, her temperature, begging for her to breathe. She's alive. Just unconscious.

I carry her to the bath, wash the mess from her hair, whisper apologies she can't hear. Only when I spot the whiskey bottle on the counter do I realise — she did this to herself.

⸻

Katniss' POV

I wake in one of Peeta's shirts, my hair damp, the scent of lemons on my skin. His arms are around me, steady and warm. If you'd asked me before I passed out, I'd have told you I expected this. I always expect him to save me. He always does.

But can he expect the same of me? No. I'm not as good as he is. Still, I want to be. I want to deserve him.

When he whispers I'm sorry against my hair, I kiss him back, whisper I love you. Because I don't say it often, and when I do, I mean it.

That night, he holds me tight.

And I whisper, "Yes."

His head shifts. "Yes what?"

"Yes, I'll have a child with you. Not now. But one day."

His eyes widen, shocked, then soften with something almost like relief. He doesn't say a word. He just kisses me.