Chapter Text
Rye surprises me when I hear his lumbering steps on the stairs before his first alarm has gone off. He rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm and yawns, looking like he’s still half dreaming.
“What are you doing up so early?” I ask over my shoulder, my hands busy keeping the steady rhythm of kneading dough. Lately, certain things are starting to come back to me. For example, my specific routine of push, pull, fold, slap, rotate, and repeat. It just slipped back into place one morning like a puzzle piece that I suddenly tilted in the right way.
Rye gives me a wordless grunt as a response. I hear clinking glass as he rifles through the shelves, the pop of something he’s unsealed from the icebox, and then the whir of the blender. It disrupts the morning quiet, which pricks at my nerves. A few minutes later, he wordlessly shoves a large glass filled with a thick, frothy drink under my nose.
“Here,” he says in his sleepy rasp.
“What’s this?” I ask, taking it, even though my hands are sticky and covered in flour.
“Breakfast.” Even though he’s mumbling, the words come out clipped.
I sniff the drink, curiously, and then take a small sip. It’s a straightforward milk smoothie with a hint of banana and a gritty aftertaste.
“Thanks,” I say, mildly bewildered as I set it down and return to my work. “Though you probably shouldn’t use the bakery’s milk and produce. If Mother finds out, she’ll throw a fit.”
He shrugs, still sleepy-eyed. “You're rich,” is all he says, like that can fix every problem now. I think the interaction is over, and he’ll go back to bed, and I’ll go back to work, but he stays unmoved next to me. He watches me intently, eventually crossing his arms like he’s the one being annoyed by his brother instead of the other way around.
“What?” I ask, confusion straining to irritation.
“Drink it,” he commands.
“I will,” I say, my tone terse. Next to Haymitch, my brother is the least pleasant morning person I know. When he doesn’t move, I stop my work again and ask, “Are you just gonna stand there watching me the whole time?”
“No,” he shoots back. “Just until you finish it.”
“I said I will,” I repeat, annoyed. “What’s the big deal?”
“Like you finished the food I gave you yesterday?” he retorts, eyes narrowed.
My mouth snaps shut. He did send me home with a bowl of grain and ordered me to eat it, but I had forgotten about it and left it half-eaten in my kitchen. He must have seen it when he came over later in the day. I did eventually finish the bowl of grain, but not on his schedule. The extra grueling workout he put me through yesterday makes more sense now. I woke up this morning sore all over.
It’s been two weeks since we made our deal, and so far, it’s been going well. He makes a good coach. He’s a perfectionist when it comes to form, and a hardass when it comes to excuses. It’s no wonder he came in first at our school’s wrestling competition. He’s even structured a basic nutrition plan for me, which was really just him telling me that I not only need to eat more protein, but also that I need to eat more in general. Hence, the grain and smoothie.
“I just forgot,” I say, my tone deflating. “I’m sorry, okay? I’ll make sure to drink this before I leave. You can go back to bed.”
Rye stares at me in the only way an older sibling looks at a younger one: a mixture of endless loathing, a hint of fondness, and mild tolerance. He doesn’t move.
“Rye,” I try.
“You wanted to bulk, right?” he snaps. “Getting stronger? That’s important to you, right?” His eyes roam around the shop meaningfully. He can’t say the rest of the sentence in case it’s bugged, which it more than likely is, especially after the repairs, but I can hear them anyway. You won’t tell me why it’s important, and I’m not asking, but I am helping.
My ire falls away with a sigh. I know Rye is trying to help me in his own way.
He still won’t talk about the Games themselves. Any time I mention them or need a quick break to adjust my prosthesis, he goes eerily quiet, quickly changes the subject, or makes an excuse to leave for a few minutes until I’m done. It annoyed me at first because it was me who was in the arena, but I’m the one walking on eggshells around him. It didn’t take long, however, for me to easily taste the bitterness in those thoughts, reminding me of the broken, resentful person the Capitol contorted me into, and the anger swiftly drained away.
We weren’t raised in a household that talked about difficult things. We swept everything under the rug and pretended the ugly, terrible things weren’t happening. That’s how my family always functioned. So I can’t necessarily blame Rye for reverting to that practice now. Watching the Games as a sibling—an older sibling at that—who could’ve taken my place must have been hard for him.
He’s trying, though, which is more than I can say for my parents. Who were nearly silent during our first weekly family dinner last week, and who I’ll have to see again tonight.
And here stands Rye, waking up before his first alarm just to make me a smoothie, refusing to go back to bed until I drink it all. Rye, who has at least two alarms and waits until the last possible moment to force himself out of bed, and is often late to his shift anyway.
“Yeah. You’re right,” I say, my tone apologetic. I pick up the smoothie and gulp down a good portion of it. “Thanks, Rye. I appreciate it.”
His furrowed brow softens, and he nods, accepting both my thanks and invisible apology.
After a few minutes of silence, Rye asks, “Did you deliver the cinnamon rolls to the Everdeens?”
It’s a harmless comment. He could just be talking about work, but I know what he's really asking.
“I did,” I say, my mood slipping further.
“And?” he asks, curiosity evident in his voice.
I look away. “Prim looked very excited to try them.” I take another large sip, so I don’t have to talk any further.
I waited until just before dinner time, hoping I’d see Katniss. I knew she was home. I could see the light on in her bedroom window upstairs, but she never came down. It stung, and Prim was intuitive enough to pick up on it, making up an excuse about Katniss being really tired that day. I thought we had started easing back into a friendship, or maybe a friendly alliance, but she seems to be keeping her distance again.
Rye gives me a quick pat on the shoulder. He understood what I meant, and that alone is enough to make me down the rest of the smoothie and give him the best smile I can muster.
He takes the empty glass. “I’m going back to bed.”
An hour later, a bracing wind greets me when I leave the bakery. It’s as if the chill in the air has turned frigid overnight. The tips of my nose and ears sting with the approaching winter, proof that time keeps ticking by. I try not to think about what else is steadily drawing closer: The Tour, the Quell, the bombings. A shudder runs down my back, but it has nothing to do with the cold.
I’m in the alley behind the Merchant shops, just passing the tailor, when I spot a familiar figure, and I almost come to a dead stop.
Katniss is a few feet away. She’s wearing her usual oversized leather hunting jacket with her game bag slung over her shoulders. She doesn’t notice me right away, but I brace myself for when she does.
Since we got back, we rarely ran into one another. Each of us likely doing everything in our power to avoid the other. Her because she was still hurt and upset with me. Me, because of the guilt and shame that enveloped me every time I saw her. It made me sympathize with the Katniss from my previous timeline, which is always a strangely humbling experience.
Before Katniss delivered the lemon balm at Rye’s request, she’d duck and run anytime she saw me, and I would pretend I didn’t notice her in the first place. The worst kind of dance, awkward and terribly painful. In the last two weeks, I’ve only seen her around a handful of times, but it was enough of an increase to confirm that we were definitely avoiding each other before. She no longer averts her eyes, but there is always that moment, right when she first spots me, where she startles and thinks about fleeing before forcing herself to stay put. It’s not something that makes me feel particularly welcomed, and there’s nothing I hate more than being somewhere I’m not wanted.
I wait, and when she finally looks up, I see the surprise flash on her face, but she doesn’t stiffen or stop walking, which I take as a good sign. I give her a small wave, maintaining my pace. An amiable greeting without an expectation for anything further. She might wave back, but more likely she'll give me a quick nod of acknowledgment before going on her way.
She returns my wave, and to my astonishment, she crosses the distance to meet me. I try not to show the surprise on my face.
“Hey,” she says, not looking directly at me, but I’m still too shocked that she’s approached me to really care. I spot fresh mud on her boots and notice that her game bag is bulging. She probably just returned from the woods.
“Hey,” I reply. Before the silence freezes solid between us, I add, “How are you?”
“Fine,” she says. The word falls out with a practiced force that I don’t believe, but before I can ask about it, she returns the question. “And yourself?”
“Same old, same old,” I say.
She nods, and I’m expecting a hasty goodbye, but she stuns me again and asks, “Are you heading back?”
“Yes,” I say with a hint of trepidation that almost feels like hope. “I just finished up at the bakery.”
“Oh,” she clears her throat, and I can see the almost imperceptible way she squares her shoulders before continuing. “Well, I was hoping I’d run into you, actually. Do you have a moment? It shouldn’t take long.”
“Of course,” I say, the trepidation coiling tight. “Is everything alright?”
“Everything’s fine,” she says as she rummages through her bag. A second later, she pulls out two glass jars, one significantly smaller than the other, and hands both to me.
“What’s this?” I ask. The larger one is filled with dried loose leaves, and the other contains thin bark-like fibers that look like tiny wood chips.
“That’s more lemon balm,” Katniss says, still not meeting my eye, pointing to the larger jar. “The stuff I gave you—Rye, I mean, should have run out by now. I went ahead and dried a bunch to save time.” Her cheeks slowly darken as she speaks, even though it’s freezing out. She points to the smaller jar. “And that’s Valerian Root. It’s also good for sleep, and, um,” she clears her throat again, “low mood, but it also helps with migraines and headaches… It’s what I use, and I find that it helps.”
My chest squeezes impossibly tight. A whole slew of balmy emotions cluster in a tight ball between my lungs. I don’t know what my face is doing, but when her eyes briefly flick up to meet mine, she flushes red and rambles on. One of her tells when she’s flustered.
“It really wasn’t a big deal. We have a surplus of Valerian Root. My mother and I are the only ones who take it regularly, and now you, of course. Well, if you decide you like it, that is.”
For a moment, I’m speechless. I swallow back the pressure clogging my ability to form words and say, “Thank you.”
The tea has made a difference, I admit. I still wake up at strange hours and pace the house, but the lemon balm does help me fall asleep quickly. It’s staying asleep that’s the problem. The nightmares, the phantom pain in my leg, the sudden dread when I remember what's coming. They all jolt me back to consciousness at all hours of the night. But I don’t think there’s anything in the forest that could cure that.
“You’re really doing me a favor,” she continues. “It gives me something to do and more reason to get out of the house. We have this old book with all these medicinal plants, and my mother and Prim are—"
“Katniss,” I say gently. Almost on its own, my hand moves as if to grasp hers, but I pull back before making contact. The unintentional motion doesn’t go unnoticed. I curl my fingers, flustered myself by the involuntary reaction. “Thank you. This is incredibly thoughtful. It’s one of the nicest things anyone has done for me.”
Katniss ducks her head, but there’s a lilt to her voice that tells me she’s pleased. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“It is,” I say. “It’s one of the things I—” a pause, “admire most about you. You’re always thinking of others.”
She breathes out a light scoff. “I think you’re confusing me with yourself,” she says.
I shake my head. “Not possible. I’m nowhere near as pretty,” I say without thinking. I clamp my lips shut, face heating. I really can’t control my mouth around a pretty girl. Well, one specific pretty girl, at least.
Katniss’ entire face goes crimson. She blinks rapidly and turns away, nervously fidgeting with the strap of her bag, but it’s so heavy that it slips down her shoulder. She rights it quickly, trying to pretend it never happened. God, I really miss her.
“Do you have anywhere else to be?” I ask, impulsively. There’s no mistaking the hope in my voice, but it dims when my eyes fall on her heavy bag again. She’s probably on her way to the Hob.
She takes an extra second to answer. “No,” she says.
I feel a smile unfurl on my face, a thrill zipping through me at the realization that she’s lying. “Walk with me?”
“Sure,” she says with forced casualness.
I offer to carry her bag for her, but she declines. That connection between us is still frayed. She might have let me carry it for her before I ruined everything, but she is keeping that once-blurred line crystal clear now. I get it. She still doesn't trust me and doesn't want to rely on me, even for something as simple as carrying her bag. I try not to let that realization ruin my good mood as we walk along the quiet street towards Victor's Village.
Our pace is slow, but I don’t mind, and she doesn’t bring it up. I don’t have anywhere to be. I haven’t seen Haymitch since I stormed out of his house, and honestly, I don’t care to visit him any time soon. I know that can’t last forever, though, but I put it out of my mind for now.
We don’t talk about anything in particular, but the long stretches of tense silences from our last walk together are noticeably shorter. The subject of Gale is blatantly ignored, even though I’m dying to ask about the almost kiss, and if she knows about Madge and Gale’s … whatever they are or were. I remind myself that it’s not my business to share or to ask about anyone else she may be kissing, even if the idea makes me want to pull my own hair out.
For now, I just enjoy talking to her like we know each other again.
“I don’t know,” I say, “something’s just missing.” I’m at least able to tell her about one of my stressors, even if it’s the most benign one—the missing cheese bun recipe.
“I don’t know how you can tell,” she says, furrowing her brow. “They’re all equally delicious.”
“Yeah, but they’re not the ones I remember,” I say truthfully.
“You don’t have the recipe written down somewhere?”
“No, I think it was one I came up with, but I haven’t made them in a long time. It needs something sharp, but not overpowering, fresh, but not competing with the cheese, and something to add texture, but not too much.”
She tilts her head, giving me a soft smile. “You talk about it like it’s a painting.”
I shrug and return her smile. “I suppose that’s true.”
“Well, Prim and I don’t mind eating all the trial and errors.”
We’re approaching the entrance gate to Victor’s Village when she takes a break from biting her lip to ask something that I can tell has been on her mind since we started our walk.
“I didn’t ask how you were,” she says. It’s not a question, but there’s one hiding in there somewhere.
“You did, actually,” I correct with a small chuckle. “Same old, same old, remember?”
Her lips purse. “No, I meant … How are you feeling? Lately?”
Feeling? For a moment, I think she may be asking about my feelings for her, if they’ve changed. It’s hard to think clearly around her, but it becomes obvious that’s not the case when she adds, “Your headaches. Are they getting better? Have you … had another, um, episode?”
Panic and guilt seize hold of me like a cold fist. How could I forget? Well, truthfully, it’s not that I forgot about the promise I made her, nor did I plan to lie to her. Somehow, my mind didn’t connect the frightening episode with Rye in my kitchen two weeks ago with the promise I made her that same day.
She must see me tense up because she comes to a stop and watches me closely. The tension on her face tells me she’s bracing herself, but for what? It hits me a second later: she’s waiting to see if I’ll lie. All at once, the guilt coating my throat curdles. I try swallowing it down several times. It tastes bitter and scrapes against my insides as it makes its way to the pit of my stomach.
“I did,” I say, honestly. She looks surprised. Whether it’s because of the episode itself or that I admitted to it, I’m not sure.
She nods slowly, apprehension still clinging to her face. I know what’s coming, and I brace myself. “And … did you call anyone?”
She must see the answer on my face because her face drops. Guilt twists my stomach painfully. “I haven’t yet.”
Her head nods slowly, disappointment written all over her. “When did it happen?”
“Ahh…” I scratch my head like I’m trying to remember, even though I know exactly when it happened. Her eyes harden the longer I don’t answer. Finally, I sigh and tell her, “Two weeks ago.”
Another slow nod. The frown deepens. “Okay.”
I see her blank mask slowly slipping back on. Panic spears through me. She’s about to shut me out. I don’t know if I can survive another month and a half of her cold shoulder, especially now that talking to her is becoming easy again. I can’t lose her, not again, not like this. Not when I already have so little time left with her.
Frantically, my mind works, and then impulsively, I say, “I want you to be there… when I—when I do it.”
The little crease between her brows deepens. “Me?”
“You can be in the room or nearby. Whatever you're comfortable with.”
“Why?”
“So, you can see for yourself that I’m keeping my word.” I take a breath, worry still clenched tight in my stomach. This old fear always sprouts when I least expect it—of being left behind. I don’t think I’ll ever get over it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to forget, really. My brain is just slow to connect things lately.”
She watches me closely, likely trying to decide if I’m lying. I can’t help but brace for her rejection. Her head tilts slightly as her eyes roam my face. Finally, she gives a stiff nod. “Alright.”
“Alright?” I ask, the first flickers of relief lighting up my insides.
“Alright. I can be with you when you call.”
Right. I rein in a new flush of anxiety and let the relief crash over me. I’m not sure who I’ll call, but I’ll think of something later. The important thing is that she doesn’t hate me or think that I lied to her.
She waves me forward, and it occurs to me that we might be doing this now. “Now?” I ask.
“Why not?” she asks. I’d laugh at the challenge in her voice if I weren’t on the receiving end of it.
“Okay, yeah, sure,” I relent, trying not to panic. There’s a smirk playing at the corner of her lips, like she’s caught me off guard and is waiting to see how I’ll squirm my way out of this. It’s endearing as it is scary.
Katniss follows closely as I walk up to my front door. As I open the door and wait for her to enter first, it dawns on me with a jolt that this is the first time she’s seeing the inside of my house. Frantically, I mentally go through every room, sifting through every possible embarrassing thing I could have left out. There’s no dirty laundry on the floors, I take out the trash every evening, and all my high school drawings of her are safely tucked away at the bottom of a stack of notebooks under my bed. The kitchen might be a little cluttered, but that’s not disconcerting. It’s the room I use the most.
I set the newly gifted jars on the kitchen table as she looks around with curious eyes at the space. I don’t interrupt as I wait for her verdict. I can’t help but try to look at my home through her eyes. The furniture is sparse, and there aren’t any portraits or hints of personal items. Except for the messy kitchen, it doesn’t look like anyone lives here at all.
When she turns to face me, there’s a noticeable change on her face. A tension smoothed over, letting light through. “It smells nice in here,” she says.
“Much better than Haymitch’s house, at least,” I say, trying to ignore the little bubbles of pleasure floating up my spine.
“No contest there,” she says with a grimace. She circles the room again, her face relaxing. “It smells like bread and sugar and cinnamon. It smells like you.” The tips of her ears go red.
“I did just make another batch of cinnamon rolls,” I confirm. “At Prim's request. Turns out she really likes them.”
“She did hog them all,” she says with a small smile. As if pulled by an invisible string, my eyes fall to her lips. They’re slightly red from the sudden temperature change and remind me of the sweet strawberry glaze I made the other day for a shortcake at the bakery. My mind wanders for a moment, recalling the softness of her lips. It’s been so long since I’ve felt them against my own, tasted her. My mouth suddenly waters with the memory.
“Where’s your phone?” She asks, ripping me away from my improper thoughts.
Phone? What–right. The anxiety creeps back in. I still don’t know what I’m going to do. I quickly swallow down the influx of drool in my mouth. “It’s over there.” I point towards the little nook between the kitchen and the living room, just under the stairs.
She looks around awkwardly. “Do you want me here, or…?”
My mind goes momentarily blank after Do you want me, but I manage to shake off the slew of inappropriate things that went through my head. “Wherever you're comfortable,” I say. “You can be right next to me, if you want.”
It’s a gamble, a risky one, but I’m betting on her aversion to anything potentially embarrassing, combined with her hatred of anything Capitol. It might be just enough to deter her from lingering right next to me while I do this.
Right on cue, she makes a face like she’s smelled something sour. “I don’t want to intrude. I can see you fine from here.” As if to emphasize her decision, she sets down her heavy bag. It hits the kitchen linoleum with a thunk.
“Do you want something to eat or drink while you wait?” I ask, stalling.
She raises one eyebrow like she can see right through me. I suppose if anyone can, it’s her. “I’m fine.”
“Okay, well, if you change your mind, help yourself to anything in the kitchen,” I say.
“Okay,” she replies and then tilts her head towards the hallway where the phone looms.
My belly flips at the amusement on her face as she watches me.
My steps are leadened as I walk to the telephone. I only used it once when Effie called me to inform me about choosing a talent. It’s been silent since, mostly because I don’t have anyone to call, but also because I don’t want Snow listening in on my conversations.
Inside the nook, the phone hangs flush with the wall, with a long cord dangling below. Underneath is a thin shelf that doubles as a table, with a small notebook and a pen in the corner, as if one is meant to take copious notes while on the phone. Maybe they are, I have no clue. I don’t remember using the phone in my past life, even though I must have.
I pull out the uncomfortable stool that lives under the shelf and pick up the receiver. A low tone sounds from the phone that must mean it’s working. There’s a list of phone numbers right on top of the notebook in loopy handwriting that looks suspiciously like Effie’s. She must have had someone drop these off when the phone was activated. A thin layer of dust coats the names and numbers, and I mentally cross off each option as I read down the list.
Not Effie, not any doctor, and certainly not Haymitch. His phone is ripped off the wall and in pieces scattered around his floor, anyway. I find Twelve’s mayor’s number is included, which is odd, and so is Head Peacekeeper Cray’s, which is vomit-inducing. My eyes snag on Everdeen, Katniss, and there’s a blip in my middle at this additional connection we have. My eyes pause again at another name, and I finally know what to do. I almost kick myself for not thinking of it sooner as I begin punching in numbers.
It gives a low ring when I place the receiver next to my ear. I glance over to where Katniss still lingers. Instead of watching me, she’s taking in the mess of my kitchen with interested eyes, perusing through my open recipe book and scattered ingredient containers. She’s too far away to hear every word, but close enough that she can probably tell if there is actually someone on the other side of the call. I grow anxious when four long rings go by without an answer. Finally, my chest unclenches when I hear a click on the other end.
“Hello?” says a familiar voice. A sudden rush of warmth envelops me like one of her hugs.
“Portia?” There’s silence on the other end for a beat. I start to think the connection is lost when she answers.
“Peeta?” I can’t see her face, but I can tell there is a mixture of surprise, relief, and apprehension in her voice. It makes me miss her terribly.
“Yeah. Hi,” I say.
“It’s good to hear your voice,” she says.
“You too.” It hits me suddenly that I unintentionally broke another promise. “I’m sorry I haven’t called until now.”
“It’s no problem.” She pauses. “Are you all settled in?” There seems to be more to the question. I wonder if she’s also aware that the calls are monitored. I’m certain she is.
Every time I’ve spoken to Portia, she’s had this uncanny ability to pry the truth from me. I’ve always felt safe sharing my true feelings with her, my real fears. It isn’t until now, when I can no longer safely do so, that it hits me how very lonely I’ve been. Still, I can’t help but let some of that truth slip out. “It’s been … a lot to process. All the changes.”
Portia hums. There’s understanding and concern woven into the sound. “It’s a lot for anyone to transition through. How are you managing?”
I huff out a mirthless laugh into the receiver. “Not the best. Sleep is hard. Talking to people feels impossible. I feel … lost.”
It may not be the smartest idea to be so candid on the phone, but I haven’t said anything incriminating or particularly informative. Yet, the call to unburden myself to someone who genuinely cares about my well-being is too appealing, a longing for relief I didn’t even know was already at the brim. It tumbles out as hushed confessions now.
“Oh, Peeta,” she says with real pain in her voice. “It can be hard. To carry so much.”
My throat feels too tight to speak all of a sudden. Yes, it is a lot, I agree.
“How are you treating yourself?” she asks. The way she words it, I’m not sure I understand the question.
I swallow down the lump in my throat and ask, “Pardon?”
She half sighs, half laughs into the phone. “I think you just answered my question. You should give yourself some leeway. Allow yourself to feel and go through the hard emotions, think the terrible thoughts, and be kind to yourself. It’s the only way you’ll begin to heal.”
I inwardly scoff at this. I don’t have time to coddle myself. There is too much to do and too much on the line to wallow in my own misery.
“You don’t believe me,” she says, and I can tell she’s smiling on the other end.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Your silence was more than enough,” she says. “Alright, do me a favor. Picture a loved one. A member of your family, a friend, anyone. Don’t tell me their name, just picture them in your head. Someone you love unconditionally.”
My mind conjures a few faces, but my eyes glance toward the kitchen on their own, and her face is the one that lingers the longest.
“Have them?”
Katniss is studying the chives and fennel I left out for a recipe I had planned on making this morning. She smells each one before carefully setting it down, the act hurling me back to the Training Center all those months ago. “Yeah, I do.”
“Okay. Now imagine they went through the same things you did.” I nearly snort into the phone. I don’t have to imagine that. As if somehow reading my mind, she adds, “I don’t just mean the Games, but everything after them too.”
My amusement dies when I picture Katniss in my place. Thrust back in time to relive the Games all over again. Then to come home, burdened with the knowledge of all the horrors to come but unable to tell anyone, much less warn them. Her family leaving her alone in a big, empty house, plagued by constant flashbacks as well as nightmares, and the ever-present pain from a missing limb. All at once, this thought exercise becomes unbearable.
“Okay,” I say. My voice sounds small, feeble, on the brink of shattering.
“Would you tell them the same things you tell yourself every day? Or would you show them kindness?”
“Okay,” I repeat, understanding her point.
She hums again, a hint of snugness behind it. “Will you promise to try to be kinder to yourself?”
“I’ll try,” I promise.
“Good.” Her tone changes back to breezy. “Have you taken a look at that pamphlet I gave you about getting used to your prosthesis?”
It takes me a while to dig through my memories to finally bring up the image of the trite pamphlet she handed me before I boarded the train. I highly doubt it will have any useful information, and I didn’t plan on ever opening it, but I don’t want to say this. “I forgot about that,” I answer honestly.
“Well, you should take a look. It has a lot of good information,” she says in an almost chastising tone. It brings a smile to my face.
“I will,” I say, meaning it, deciding to be better about keeping all my promises.
The conversation turns to lighter topics. I tell her I’ve started painting, but that it hasn’t really been going well, and she says she’ll send me some tools and books on techniques. As innocuously as possible, I mention my headaches, just so I can tell Katniss that I brought the topic up to someone without feeling like I’m lying to her. Portia mentions she gets tension headaches as well when she’s working too hard or not sleeping enough. It’s perfect. She doesn’t call attention to it while telling me that I need to take better care of myself.
By the time we hang up, I feel twenty pounds lighter. Katniss looks up when I enter the kitchen. She takes in my face and seems to relax at whatever she sees. She asks, “How’d it go?”
“Great,” I answer. “You were right. That helped a lot.”
“Really?” I wonder if she thinks I’m just saying that to placate her.
“I was made aware that I’m not taking all that great care of myself,” I say, embarrassed by the truth of that statement. “Turns out, I should’ve listened to you from the beginning.”
A hint of relief crosses her face before she looks away to pick up her bag. “Yes, you should’ve.” She still sounds annoyed with me, like it shouldn’t have taken a call to the Capitol to get me to listen to her. She’s not wrong there, at least.
There’s an awkward pause as we stand in front of each other in my kitchen. I can tell she wants to say more, and I don’t want her to leave so soon, so I don’t rush her.
“Thank you,” I say, wishing I could reach for her as easily as I used to be able to. “For not giving up on me.”
Something sad flashes across her eyes, too quick for me to name. She bites her lip like she’s chewing on the words she wants to say. Her eyes find the two jars she gifted me on the table.
She nods to them. “Tell me when you start to run low.” It’s not a request.
“I will,” I say. She could get me to agree to anything at this point.
She still doesn’t move away, and I still don’t want her to go just yet.
My eyes fall to the jar of Valerian Root, and something occurs to me. Maybe it was Portia’s thought experiment that’s burrowed into my brain and sprouted roots, but Katniss' earlier words return to me. Now that my mind feels less cluttered.
It’s also good for sleep, and, um, low mood, but it also helps with migraines and headaches… It’s what I use.
I’ve been dealing with the trauma of three Hunger Games, a hijacking, time-travel, and secret plans. I don’t remember what it was like for me after my first Games, but it dawns on me that Katniss is going through a similar struggle. She just came back from her first Games, and from my sparse memories of the previous timeline, she did not cope well either.
I hate myself for almost forgetting that.
“So,” I say, trying to find the right tone not to scare her away. “How are you really?”
Her brows pinch. “I already said I was fine.”
I don’t respond immediately, holding her gaze, willing her to see that if anyone can understand, it could be me. I lighten my voice further. “Wanna try that again?”
She blinks once, and I see a crack forming in her stone wall.
“I didn’t want to admit that I wasn’t coping well, either,” I say, sheepishly. I can’t physically reach for her, but I can still try to close the distance. “Someone cared enough to force me to see it.”
Her grip on her bag tightens as the silence stretches. I let it grow. Finally, she sighs, the bag slipping down her shoulders and thudding on the ground again.
“Nightmares,” she says. The word hangs in the air like a floating ember.
Even though I know it will burn, I grasp hold of it. “They won’t go away, but I’m always willing to listen if you ever want to talk about them.”
She gives a slow nod and then continues, “And I feel restless. I’m usually busy this time of year, stocking for winter, but now that I don’t need to… I can’t make myself relax.”
This is her version of my cheese bun problem. It’s not the thing that plagues her the most, the thing that keeps her up at night, but it’s still something that bothers her. A small problem she can’t fix, but is willing to tell me about. In a cluster of frayed edges, it’s the one that hurts the least to pull on in front of me.
“That’s understandable,” I say. “You’ve been providing for your family for so long that letting go will take some getting used to. It doesn’t mean you’re failing or abandoning your responsibilities.”
I’m expecting another nod or a dismissive shrug.
I’m not expecting her face to be strained like she’s trying not to let it crumple. It makes me take an automatic step towards her. She stiffens, and I stop. Too much, that was too much for her.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She shakes her head at me, that terrible, shattered look still etched on her face.
Her mouth opens as if to speak again, but a series of loud knocks sounds from the front door. We look at each other, puzzled, the conversation severed. The knocks come again, more urgent. Katniss and I move together, as if the arena is ingrained in our bones. Me to one side of the door, and she to the other. We don’t have our usual weapons, but I snatch the fire poker from the fireplace on instinct. I peek through the peephole and drop the fire poker and wrench the door open.
“Prim?” Prim looks anxious, but instantly relieved when she sees me. At the sound of her sister’s name, Katniss rounds to the front of the door, panic replacing her misery.
“Prim? What’s wrong?” The panic strangles her voice a bit.
Prim’s eyes go wide at the appearance of her sister in my house. “Katniss? I thought you said you were going to the Hob?”
“I was—I am, I—What are you doing? Is everything okay?”
Prim looks curiously between us and then gives her head a small shake. The urgency is back in her voice. “It’s Haymitch. There’s something wrong. I don’t know what, but you have to come help.”
I’m out the door the next second. A series of horrible images flicker through my mind as I cross the distance to his house. Prim continues explaining as she and Katniss follow close behind. “I was on my way to school, and I heard yelling. Mother was taking out the trash bins. I couldn’t understand what he was shouting about, but he sounded so angry. Mother told me to get Peeta right away.”
“Prim, you should get to school,” Katniss says. “We’ll figure it out, whatever it is.”
“I’ll only worry the whole day,” Prim replies.
“I’m sure he’s fine, probably just drunk,” Katniss says with an edge to her voice. Prim, as any younger sibling would, ignores her sister.
We don’t even need to make it to his front yard to see what’s going on.
“—Last time, Asterid! I don’t want your help!” Haymitch barks. Immediately, I know he’s not drunk. There’s no slur to his words or slight sway to his movements. But I recognize the mannerisms of someone stuck in another reality—the wide pupils of someone seeing things that aren't there.
I start to think this is a matter of calming him down, enough to get him to bed and sleep off whatever episode he’s in the middle of, but just as I start to open my mouth to address him in a soothing tone, the atmosphere shifts.
“Now stay away! You and Burdock!” Haymitch hurls an empty liquor bottle right at Mrs. Everdeen’s feet, shattering and spraying broken glass all over the street. She gasps, taking a step back.
Prim shrieks, and Katniss tells her to get behind her.
“Hey!” I shout, all plans of easing him back to bed abandoned. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” This isn’t right. Haymitch is surly, but not violent. All bark and no bite, which I realize is a strange thing to conclude about a victor.
Haymitch swivels around and squints in my direction, recognition sparking. He rolls his eyes dramatically. “This don’t concern you, Baker. Don’t you have a wife to get back to now? Or are you still trailing after Asterid here for her scraps?”
I’m jarred into speechlessness.
“It’s withdrawal, I think.” Mrs. Everdeen says, looking uneasy. “There must be a shortage or something. I couldn’t get rubbing alcohol the other day. He’s … He’s not here. He thinks my husband is still alive.”
Then he must think I’m my father. I don’t have time to decide how to feel about that or his crude comment because Haymitch’s eyes suddenly drift behind me, to Katniss and Prim. I move myself between them. “Alright, Haymitch, I think it’s time you head on home.”
He ignores me, his neck craning to get a better look behind me. His eyes widen, his pupils shrinking to pinpoints, and all the color drains from his face.
“You,” he says, pointing a shaking finger. His entire body is trembling from head to foot. “You’re supposed to be dead!”
Katniss makes herself into a stone wall, hiding Prim behind her, chin lifted, shoulders squared. I move in front of him again. “Hey!” I say, trying to get his attention again. “How about I take you home now? Okay, Haymitch?”
He ignores me, muttering on without caring if anyone is listening. “I saw … you fell off the chariot,” he says, eyes distant. “I carried your body… Everyone saw it.” Katniss’ brows pinch, but she doesn’t engage. “And then in the arena. I had to be the one to do it because they wouldn’t. I begged, but they wouldn’t, and I couldn’t watch a second longer… There was so much blood, and you started thrashin' around in pain… It was horrible.”
He’s not making sense, lost past the point of any reason. How can someone die twice?
As if remembering I'm here, he whips his head at me, and his eyes harden like forged steel. “And you! You idiot! Why’d you have to go and kill yourself for her? You knew her odds!"
His words unsettle me in a way I can't really understand, but they send a ripple of uneasy familiarity down my spine. It almost reminds me of the resentful way I referred to the Boy with the Bread inside my head way back in the early days of returning to this timeline.
"She died the very next day," he says, chin trembling. "You wasted your life for nothing!”
It’s impossible to follow whatever conversations he’s having with his ghosts, but the best I can do is divert his ire. “Yes,” I say calmly, “You’re right. You’re right, Haymitch. Let’s go inside now, okay?”
“The Callows are supposed to be the best Oddsmakers,” he snarls, pointing a shaky finger at me. He blinks as if waking, and there's a hitch to his voice when he asks, “Why didn’t they pick you instead? Why’d it have to be me?”
“I don’t know,” I say, trying to mollify him in any way I can. “I don’t know why.”
“They took everything,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, like he can't risk the Capitol listening even out here, away from any hidden microphones. The instinct is embedded deep, even broaching through a hallucination. Suddenly, his eyes go blank, and his shoulders slump. His knees sink to the ground. “… everyone.”
Air rushes out of me as I recognize the episode coming to a close.
Unsettled, I turn to the Everdeens. “I can get him home. You all should head back inside.”
“I can help,” Katniss says, “Prim, you should head to school.” There’s some arguing back and forth for a minute, but Prim eventually complies. Mrs. Everdeen turns back towards their house, while Katniss stays behind.
“Are you sure?” I ask as I wrap one of Haymitch’s arms around my neck, who’s still babbling and shaking all over. “This won’t be pleasant.”
“I’m sure,” she says, wrapping the other around her shoulders. Haymitch is still muttering in low, raspy whimpers, but he doesn’t resist as we carry him back. There’s a strange feeling of deja vu that I can’t place. Not like the tell-tale hum under my skin, but not the feeling of a lock clicking into place either, landing somewhere in between.
It’s a bit of a struggle getting through the mess in his house. If possible, it’s deteriorated even more since I was last here. A pang of guilt hits me square in the chest as I take in the destruction. We plop him on the couch, and I turn on every light in the room before scouring the piles on the floor for a passably clean blanket.
The whimpering slows down, and I can start to make out some words. I only catch bits and pieces. Something about someone named Syd and someone else named Lenore. Something about canaries and doves, and something else with an edge of a sob about gumdrops. It’s all incoherent babbling I can’t even begin to untangle. I doubt I make any more sense when I’m in the middle of an episode, either.
“I didn’t know he was running low,” I say, guilt twisting my gut as I drape a ratty blanket over him. He starts to quiet, and the trembling begins to slow. Now that he isn't shaking as badly, I notice his dulled gray eyes and pale skin, drenched in a cold sweat, and his clothes are filthy. He’s a mess, even by his own standards.
I don’t know if he’ll actually fall asleep, but at least he’s calmed down for now. Hopefully, all the exertion will have tired him into a fitful doze for at least a few hours. That’s usually the case with me anyway. After an episode, my body is spent from the sudden spike and drain of adrenaline, plus the effort of all my muscles tensing with fear for a long period of time. It’s exhausting.
“I didn’t know that was even possible,” Katniss says, setting down a tin mug of water by his head. “But I guess you can run out of anything in Twelve.”
I sigh. “I feel terrible. I haven’t checked on him in weeks.”
“It’s not your fault,” she says to me, and then in a hollow voice, “I haven’t checked on him for even longer.”
“Maybe we should come up with a schedule,” I say, mostly in jest.
“Okay,” Katniss readily agrees. “Although I can’t guarantee one of us won’t kill the other.”
I huff out a laugh. “We’ll see. He hates me more, after all.” The bitter tone I expected to appear in the words isn’t there. Katniss snorts, and I concede, “Alright, well, I don’t think people in general are his sort of thing.”
I coax a small fire in the fireplace, while Katniss rummages through the clutter for an empty basin in case he needs to vomit. When Haymitch starts snoring, we decide we’ve done all we can for him for now. I’ll return with some food later tonight after my dinner with my parents.
Katniss and I don’t talk about what Haymitch said as we leave his house. It seems intrusive somehow, getting a glimpse into his nightmares.
“There’s a train coming in a few weeks. There’s probably a shipment of liquor for him there,” I say, grasping for a way to move forward. “Hopefully, he’ll be okay until then.”
“Maybe Ripper will have a new batch before then,” Katniss adds.
“We should probably check on him at least once a day until we know for sure,” I suggest as we cross the street to my house. “I’ll check on him tonight, and after, I can come in the mornings when I get back from the bakery. That’s what I’ve been doing … until recently anyway.”
She nods, her brow tense. “I can check on him in the evenings before dinner. Maybe my mother has something to help him until the train gets here.”
Katniss collects her bag from my house, and before she turns away, she says, “Thank you. For keeping your promise. It means a lot.”
My chest seizes. There’s so much I want to say. I wish I could tell her everything. I can’t imagine going through this alone like Haymitch. Well, no, I correct myself, he’s not alone anymore. He has us.
And as it turns out, I’m not as alone as I thought I was, either. Rye, Katniss, Portia. They’ve each reached out a hand to me in their own way.
I turn to face her, grateful that she still considers me an ally.
“Always,” I tell her.