Chapter Text
Fibonacci Sequence: By definition, the first two numbers in the Fibonacci sequence are either 1 and 1, or 0 and 1, depending on the chosen starting point of the sequence, and each subsequent number is the sum of the previous two.
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Year One (Prologue)
It’s been at least a year since the day that I found Peeta outside, dirty but well, planting primroses in the earth. In that time, we’ve been growing closer together, learning how to handle each other’s ups and downs, managing our struggles separately and (more often) together.
I hunt.
I wake in the morning when the sun is still starting to rise and the dew drops are heavy on the grass. Peeta, if he was with me the night before, has only just gotten out of the bed himself. His side is still warm with his body heat and sometimes I hear him putting on his shoes and shuffling out the door. On very rare occasions, I wake before he leaves to light kisses on my forehead, shoulder, cheek. I haven’t told Peeta that I know about those yet. I grab something to eat on my way to the forest – a leftover bun, usually – and dress quickly before going out the door with my bow and sheath.
Peeta will be back in a few hours with bread for breakfast, and I like to have something to add to the meal. Sometimes there are berries, or turkey, or wild eggs. We always eat well and we never starve.
Peeta bakes.
He bakes for us, but also for the few hundred people who have returned to District 12. Unable to face the pile of rubble and melted steel, he hasn’t reopened the bakery yet. Maybe one day he will, but it’s not like he needs the money. He loads up a cart with baked goods and knocks on people’s doors offering them free deliciousness – delivered at no cost. Sometimes people will ask for cakes, or cookies – something special. Peeta writes it down on a notepad and promises them for the next day. He is not just kind and generous with me – Peeta has a goodness in him that suffuses every action, every step he takes.
We spend time together.
Once the sun has fully risen in the sky, Peeta and I meet back at my house and eat breakfast. We talk about inane things – how the rebuilding of 12 is going, if Effie will actually ever come to visit, how Haymitch’s geese got loose once again. We don’t talk about the itching pain that sits just under the surface, the ache in my body that never seems to go away, or that haunted look that Peeta sometimes gets in his eyes.
After a while, Peeta starts trying to make me laugh again. I am far too serious to make him laugh, but I know that he finds joy in my own. The first time the rolling noise escapes my mouth, I feel like I have broken an unwritten rule. I clap my hand over my mouth, shake my head, and blink at tears. Peeta reaches out and touches the back of my hand – he knows something I don’t. “It’s okay, Katniss,” he promises me, even though it is not – never will be – okay. “She would want you to be happy.”
We share our evenings.
Peeta lies next to me in my bed, curled around my body, keeping me warm. The nights aren’t too cold, even with the window open, but my coldness comes from within rather than without. His arms cradle my head and waist, his stomach presses against my back with every exhale, his leg presses against my calves, his breath ghosts across my neck.
We dream.
My nightmares are still terrifying, heavy, accusatory. I wake panicked and guilt stricken, screaming and crying all at once and Peeta is there with soothing words. He murmurs in my ears and brushes my sweaty hair back from my face. After some time, he begins kissing my cheeks, my eyelids, my lips – using his feather light touch to ease the tension out of me.
We suffer.
His episodes can come any time of the day, but (luckily for me) do not often come at night. Rarely do I wake to an empty bed. More often, it will be in the middle of the day. I will go to the bathroom and come out to find a faraway look in his eyes, his jaw clenched, and his mind wandering. It is at these times I want nothing more than to go to Peeta. I want to be for him what he is for me – comfort, warmth, ease. But at this juncture, I know I can’t – it would only make things worse. So instead, I stand in silence and watch as he clutches the back of a chair, eyes crushed shut or wide open and searching for something I cannot see, muscles shaking with effort. I watch him suffer and flagellate myself for it later.
We grow back together.
The first year will be the hardest, I am sure. There is something better around the corner. I can’t feel it, but I see the hope in Peeta’s eyes when he climbs into bed with me and it is enough.
Year One
“Peeta and I grow back together. (…) I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips. On the night I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know this would have happened anyway. (…) So after, when he whispers, "You love me. Real or not real?" I tell him, "Real." (Mockingjay, Suzanne Collins)
We’ve been through one winter and are at the beginning of spring, when everything is still chilled and frost forms on the windows overnight. Even though the night air is cool, Peeta and I still crack the window open every night when we go to bed, so when I wake in the middle of sleep, screaming, the sweat on my skin feels like a sheen of ice. Peeta’s voice is quiet as he presses his lips to my temple. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. It’s not real.”
Prim featured, as usual, heavily in my dream tonight. I’m not ready to talk about it, not yet, but Peeta doesn’t need to know specifics. He knows that my dreams are horrors concocted only in my sleeping mind. I try to quiet my crying, still my quivering muscles, relax in his grip, but my frozen body is wrought with tension. I feel like cold metal: unmoving and untouchable. I lift a hand and press it to his chest, where his heart beats a familiar rhythm: a little faster than usual, likely from being startled awake, but certainly more calm than my own. He looks down at my hand on his skin and smiles that shy smile of his that is easy and gentle, never frightening or overbearing.
Peeta pulls me towards him, pressing my cheek to his collar bone. Our legs are tangled together beneath the comforter but somehow he twists our torsos into a semi-comfortable sitting position. “You’re freezing,” he tells me, running a pacifying hand over my back.
Even though I felt cold before, it is only at his words that my body begins to shiver. “We shouldn’t have left the window open.” I know, as he says it, he’s chastising himself. He moves to get out of bed, likely to shut the window, but I grab the side of his sleep pants to stop him.
“No,” I mutter, my first spoken words since waking, “stay with me. Stay here.”
“You’re so cold,” he says, but nods and wraps his arms around me. There’s silence between us for a moment, no noise other than the steady breaths from Peeta and the slightly erratic ones from me. I’m not sure what he’s thinking about, staring towards one end of the room, but his hands are still reassuringly tight around me and even though my heart is still beating a tattoo against my rib cage, I feel my eyes fluttering shut with fatigue.
Just as I am drifting off, his words wake me. “Do you want to take a bath?”
“Hmmm?” I look lazily up at him, but see little more than the underside of his chin from my vantage point, so close my eyes once more.
“I could run you a hot bath, to warm up.”
I realize at his suggestion that I’m still shivering. I must be colder than I thought. It’s the middle of the night and it feels so strange to bathe for no other reason than warmth, but this house has running hot water available at the simple turn of a knob. I can take a bath whenever I feel like it, why ever I want. Peeta has ducked his head and is watching me for a response, so I nod slowly, cautiously.
I don’t want him to let go of me, but it would be ridiculous to try and shuffle out of the bed still locked together, and besides, Peeta needs both hands to reattach his prosthetic. He hunches over the side of the bed, picking up the prosthesis from where it leans against his nightstand. While he busies himself with attaching it (it doesn't take him long after all this time) I crawl towards him on the bed, pressing my face to the warmth of his back.
Once he’s finished, he rolls his pant leg back down and stands, turning towards me and taking my hand. I’m not a child, or an invalid. I don’t need to be led to my own bathroom, nor do I need a bath run for me, but I allow Peeta to take my hand and I trail along even though it's a short distance, because in the darkness I find reassurance in his palm.
He sits me on the closed lid of the toilet and begins running the water, testing the temperature with the inside of his wrist. Once it’s to his liking, he puts the stopper in the drain and sits on the lip of the tub, facing me. “Feeling any better?” he asks, even though he can tell I’m not, at least not by much. In the absence of his arms, I’ve wrapped my own around me. I must still be shivering because I can hear the lid of the toilet seat clicking beneath me, jarred by my minuscule movements. The tile of the bathroom floor feels like ice beneath my feet and I can see Prim screaming at me, burning, even though it’s just Peeta and I in the steaming bathroom.
I try to nod, but can’t seem to move, so I just end up staring at him. “Whatever you dreamed about,” he sighs, standing up and stepping towards me, “I promise it isn’t real.” He picks up the end of my braid, half undone from my nightmare induced flailing, and unties the string holding it together. He uses his fingers to loosen my hair, letting it fall to my shoulders. “It’s going to get better,” he promises, and even though it’s hard to believe him, if anyone knows about struggling through nightmares, it’s Peeta Mellark.
He grips the hem of my sleep shirt and looks at me for confirmation. I nod and he pulls it over my head. I feel like a toddler, sitting still, being undressed. The static of my shirt makes my hair go every which way and Peeta smirks at me, smoothing the unruly locks down. He’s a gentleman and never looks anywhere below my collar bone. I know this is for me, and not for him, some selfish, jealous part of my mind says. Because he had no problem looking below Johanna Mason’s collar bone.
Gripping one of my elbows, he helps me stand and uses his free hand to push my sleep shorts off. He’s behind me and couldn’t see much of anything if he wanted to, but I’m sure he’s staring stoically at the back of my head. I don’t need Peeta’s physical support as I clamber into the hot water of the tub, but there’s a line, a tether between his hand and my elbow that’s holding me here and keeping the images of Prim at bay.
I sink into the water and it’s so hot I let out a little gasp, but the heat feels good as the water rises and laps at my belly.
“Too hot?” Peeta asks. He let go of my elbow when I sat down in the tub, and his hands are at the taps, ready to change to temperature of the rushing water.
“Perfect,” I whisper. His face is flushed and his hair is a little damp. I’m only just warming up, but it must be pretty hot in the bathroom. “Thank you.”
He nods and offers that sweet, shy smile that has become one of the few good things I recognize. He turns towards the door. “Well, just call me if you need anything.”
Suddenly, his potential absence causes the panic from earlier to rise in me once more. The water doesn’t feel hot anymore, it feels like I’m sitting in a pool of ice. Words stick in my throat like cotton, and I struggle to get any noise out. Peeta’s already at the door, hand turning the knob, when I manage to make a sound like a squeak.
“Hm?” he asks, turning halfway to look at me, confused.
“Stay,” I plead, the word pulling itself past my lips like frozen molasses.
Peeta doesn’t reply, but nods cautiously. He comes to sit on the floor next to the tub and lines his body up with mine so that our heads are only about a foot or so apart. He leans his head up against the porcelain and closes his eyes, letting out a small contented noise.
We don’t speak. The water runs until the tub is almost overflowing and then I lean forward to turn it off, but other than that there is no sound in the walls of the of the bathroom. Peeta has likely drifted off, uncomfortable as his position may be, because he makes no move when I reach my hand out of the water and run my fingers through his blond hair. The heat of the water, the calm stillness of Peeta slumbering next to me, the silence of the space – all of the things serve to calm my frayed nerves and after some time, I find the shivers have left me and panic behind my eyes has ebbed. My blood runs smoothly through my veins once more and once my skin has begun to prune, I decide it’s time to return to bed. When I stand in the tub, Peeta lifts his head from the side, looking blearily at me. He blinks a few times before looking down, redness staining the back of his neck.
Neither of us speak while I reach for one of the fluffy towels and dry off my skin. He waits in silence while I dry my hair and braid it once more. Peeta pulls the drain and watches the water funnel out of the tub and we go back to bed.
I’m sure he expects me to redress while he removes his prosthetic once more, but I merely drop the towel and climb into bed naked. I’m not sure what drives me to this boldness, but I draw the blanket around myself and watch Peeta as he turns and situates himself under the covers. It’s dark but the moon offers enough light that I can watch his face. He reaches for me, his arm spanning the few feet between us before coming into contact with my bare waist. He looks a little surprised, but maybe thinks that my shirt has merely ridden up. He moves his hand down to my hip and, finding no fabric barrier there either, opens his mouth a little. “Katniss?” he asks me, his voice low and sharp.
“Peeta,” I tell him, and scoot closer so that my knees bump his thighs.
His hand skitters up my side, brushing over my exposed ribcage, past my arm and shoulder, out from under the blankets and onto my cheek. “Katniss?” he asks again. We know more words than each other’s names, but we don’t need them right now.
I nod and turn my head, gently kissing his palm. I move as close as I can to him, my legs between and around his, my chest against his, and he groans at the skin to skin contact. His hand moves from my cheek to my bare back, fingers skittering over the peaks and valleys of my scar tissue and he dips his head to meet my lips. His other hand is trapped beneath my body and I lift myself a little so that he can free it, letting his fingers trail over my freshly braided hair.
I feel no nervousness, even though I have no clue what I’m doing (beyond the kissing) as I let one hand settle on his hips, the waist of his pants. My other hand is wedged between our bodies, pressed against the damp skin of his chest. His heart is hammering against my fingers, flying faster than I’ve ever felt it before. Peeta’s kisses abandon my mouth and move down the side of my chin to my neck and my collar bone. He slides his body down and his groin presses against my thigh.
I feel a familiar hardness against my leg, but now it has more meaning to me. For me. I inhale a shaky breath and press my lips to the crown of Peeta’s head.
“Okay?” he asks me, the stubble on his chin scratching the sensitive skin of my breasts.
“Okay,” I say, fingers tracing patterns on his upper back.
He pulls back a little, maneuvering his hips back so that I no longer feel the evidence of his arousal. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You can…” he sighs quietly and kisses my nose. “We can just go back to sleep.”
“Shh,” I say, moving my trapped hand to his ribs, using both hands to pull him close, pressing our bodies together once more. “I don’t want to sleep,” I tell him, and I mean it. I never have to tell Peeta anything I don’t mean.
He looks at me intently for a moment, staring at my face and then shakes his head a little. He dips once more and kisses the tip of one of my breasts. I gasp and arch my back. Peeta puts one of his hands in the dip of my back and uses the other for balance as he focuses on my nipples. I have never touched this part of my body for any purpose other than dressing or bathing, and the sensation of his lips on such delicate skin is entirely new to me. It’s hard to keep my breath from stuttering as it escapes my lungs, but I don’t want him to think I’m upset and stop.
“I don’t want to sleep,” I repeat quietly, as encouragement. Peeta seems to understand because he rolls me over onto my back, slow, gentle movements and hovers over me. I lay still beneath him, his hips close to mine as he tries to balance on one leg and both arms.
“You’re so gorgeous,” he whispers. Part of me wonders if he meant to say that out loud. He dips his head to kiss my lips once more. I feel a heat, a warmth, begin to spread throughout me that has nothing to do with the bath I took. It’s like a coil of fire, starting in my chest and spreading to all of my limbs, my fingers, and toes. It doesn’t burn me, but brings a flush to the surface of my skin. I tuck my leg around Peeta’s whole one, my calf fitting in the crook of his knee.
I nudge at his sleep pants with my fingers and he nods, letting me push the fabric away. It pools at his knee, covering my leg, but freeing most of him. We’re still under the blankets, so I can’t see anything, but when Peeta lowers his body to kiss me again, I can feel his bareness against me.
It’s terrifying and reassuring all at once. I’ve known, for a long time, that this would happen. I take comfort in Peeta’s presence in my life and this circumstance is no different. His gentleness, his kindness, his warm glow, like embers instead of fire: these are the things I need. His presence in my bed and in my arms is no different. I need Peeta here, and I need this now.
I’ve never had been intimate with anyone, and I don’t know if Peeta has either, but there’s a lot of fumbling. There’s crushed limbs and more than once we tip over, compensating for Peeta’s lack of balance. There are murmured apologies and little giggles, and then finally, Peeta reaches between us. I want to hold my breath, but something inside of me is telling me to breathe, relax, trust.
When Peeta slides into me, I feel so many sensations at once. There’s the gust of his groan across my chest, the pressure of his muscular arms against my ribs, the scratch of his hair against my stomach, the slide of his legs against my own, and a tight dryness between my legs that causes me to close my eyes and knit my brow.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks, his breath tight with anxiety. I remember overhearing once that after a man starts, he can’t stop. But Peeta is a still as stone over top of me, muscles shaking with exertion, a fine sheen of sweat on his skin. He’s looking at me with more concern than lust, but I can see the effort it’s taking him to stay still.
There’s nothing but discomfort between my legs: dryness, fullness like I’ve never known, and a scratchy feeling. But Peeta’s face brings out a flush on my chest and I remember the sensation of him kissing my nipples, trailing his hand over my abdomen. “It’s fine,” I say. Because he did hurt me, but it’s not important and it is fine. I know this will pass, my mother’s explained the medical aspects of sex, if nothing else.
Peeta moves and the discomfort doesn’t fade, but I’m able to ignore it by watching his face. He closes his eyes, crushing them shut, and tilts his chin down to offer me a slightly sloppy kiss. His muscles are still shaking as he moves himself – a sort of back and forth, up and down motion. He mutters something I can’t hear and opens his eyes a fraction of a second before I feel more warmth inside of me. Peeta frowns, like this wasn’t what he planned and lifts one hand to press it to the open space on my chest, between my breasts.
I lift my hands to his face, fingers cupping his jawbone, thumbs tracing his eyebrows. “It’s okay,” I say, because I know the first words past his lips will be an apology.
“You didn’t enjoy it,” he huffs, tipping his head to one side to kiss the heel of my palm. I can hear his guilt in his words.
“I did,” I reassure him, because there was so much I did enjoy and I know it can only get better.
Peeta lets his body drop next to mine and I feel something warm and wet on my skin. He drapes his arm over my stomach and looks very carefully at the side of my face. I turn to make eye contact and see him squinting in the dim light.
“You love me,” he says. “Real or not real?”
I can’t help the small smile when I reach out to press my thumb to his lips. “Real,” I tell him, and I mean it.