An Everlark One-Shots Collection

~5~

This morning is a peaceful one, with a quiet sort of contentment engulfing Peeta and me. He rose early to prepare us a lovely breakfast of pastries and berries I picked from the treeline the other day, and of course, cheese buns. There is hardly a day that goes by that he doesn't make them for me -- despite not having much of a taste for them himself. When I asked him why he continued making them if he didn't even like them, I received only a shrug in return.

"You do," he said, as if he had never given it a second thought.

We spend nearly an hour at the breakfast table, savoring our meal and each other's company. Since returning to 12 nearly a year ago, this has become my favorite habit of ours. There is no rush to scarf our food down before it disappears. It never does and it never will again, though I do have a hard time believing it even still. After you've spent your entire life starving, it's difficult to adjust to a constant supply of food--especially when it's as good as Peeta's. I've taken up cooking a little bit since the war, along with other practical skills like knitting and gardening in the little space Peeta made for me outside our house, but I am no Peeta. He is somewhat of a whiz in the kitchen and I must admit, it's been so nice having someone else take care of the food for once, especially after having to solely provide for my family for so long.

Still, we take care of each other. We grew back together this way, quiet months spent with him making us meals and me knitting him new socks when holes formed in his and the both of us comforting each other over things that only we understand. It wasn't long before I realized that it is Peeta that I need, that it always has been. Not in the way that my old hunting partner, who I haven't seen since the Capitol, implied once. Not that I need Peeta to survive, in the sense that I would die without him. I've proven tenfold that I can provide for myself. But Peeta gives me a kind of hope that I have never experienced before. Hope for the future, for humanity. And these things, after all of the horrific things I've seen and done, make this life worth living. We live for those who are no longer with us. We live for the future generation, in the hope that they do better than we have. This sense of hope is what I truly need and only Peeta can give it to me.

After we finish cleaning our plates and putting silverware back into its respective drawers in the kitchen, Peeta retires to the living room to read and I slip on a coat and lace up my hunting boots. It took me months to get back into the woods. For one, I refused to pass through the meadow--where a mass grave for my district's people now resides. But also because I was so afraid to pick up a bow again, to take even the lives of animals. For so long, the only thing I saw in the mirror was a ruthless, cold-blooded killer and my bow felt too much like a weapon, a deadly thing. Some days I still see myself this way. The people I have killed haunt me all the time, following me in both sleep and wake. They are always on my mind, and guilt is always heavy in my chest. I always wonder how many, how many people are gone because of me? There are too many to count I'm sure. I may not have always wielded the knife or bent the bow, but there are countless who were killed for me and because of me. Their souls never leave me.

But as Peeta has fallen back in love with me and I him, I try and hold onto the way he looks at me. He sees someone kind, selfless, and strong. Not cruel, not a killer. He sees someone kind. And though I don't feel this way about myself, I suppose if he sees something good in me, there must be something there. Because I think Peeta is the best kind of person I have ever met.

So, I forced myself into the forest and began hunting again a couple of months back. It's not even out of necessity anymore, really. Other people in the district have taken up hunting too and we could very well get food from any one of them. But it makes me feel a little bit more like myself and reminds me of my father, too, who I miss so dearly. When I'm in the trees, my hands wrapped around the beautifully crafted wood bow he made so long ago, I feel just a little bit closer to him. This is motivation enough to hunt again -- plus it gives me a good distraction and a way to get out of the house on occasion. Peeta loves me, and he would never admit it, but I know we both appreciate some alone time once in a while too.