Aftermath

Always

I knew Haymich was going to say it. But knowing and hearing it are two different things all together. I shove my hands deep into my pockets and continue to trudge along the snow-slush roads.

Nothing, I think. Nothing.

I take a deep breath in and run my fingers through my hair in frustration as the loose strands begin to taunt me.

I can do nothing for Peeta, nothing. I can’t help him overcome this. I can barely reach him anymore, he’s shut himself away from me again, and this time I don’t think I can cope….

I kick a growing pile of black snow and let out a tearless sigh. Nothing.

Within 15 minutes of severe fast walking I arrive home. Well, it’s not exactly my home or Peeta’s, they were lost about 2 years ago in the destruction of District Twelve, but it’s built on top of the remains of mine.

More happy memories flood in.

Memories of how Peeta organised it all, how it was built for me, how he designed it himself and had workers from all around the districts come in and help, how I was astonished that it took them only 10-11 months to make, how Peeta helped me decorate it, how we’d argue over which colour should be used, how Peeta would always, eventually, agree with me, how he based it all on his own home and mine, how he’d asked me to describe my home and father, how he incorporated everything we were into 3 floors of wood and brick, how I decided to ask him to move in……how I needed him….

I shake my head once more to rid me of these memories, I have to stop dwelling on how he was.

 I approach the stairs and scurry up, slowly opening the door. I almost instantly relax as my nose twitches and mouth fills with warm saliva, bread. Peeta’s baking again. I giddily scurry through to the kitchen to find him deep in concentration kneading some bread.

“Hey!” He grins, still watching his bread. “Hungry?”

“Yeah.” I say licking my lips and sitting down at the table submissively.

I watch Peeta as his eyebrows draw together and a faint line drags along his forehead as he mixes and bakes. I love watching him bake, even more than when he paints.

Because sometimes when he paints his eyes look lost again, like he’s remembering something, but when he’s baking his eyes are steady and controlled. That’s probably why.

I’m glad he’s recovered now, but this is always the case: he’s fine for a few days or hours and then he slips back into….insanity.

Peeta gently lays down my plate in front of me, topped with fresh and doughy small buns dotted with symmetrical poppy seeds alongside a hefty dollop of thick oozing butter. I smile at it. Peeta attentively sits down across from me and lights the candles which have been soothing the table for some time now. He then pours some mint tea- remembering that my mother used to- and looks up at me for my judgement. I grin in reply.

“It looks amazing Peeta.” I say taking a huge bite out of the bread. It’s even better than I’d allowed myself to imagine, as the dough hits your tongue it dissolves and a  soft gooey inside coats the inside of your mouth leaving a warm cheesy after taste. A triumphant smile spreads across his face.

“Thank you.” He whispers, his hands beginning to tremble slightly. I clutch them tightly and hold his gaze.

“Hang on Peeta.” I whisper, I can tell he’s going back to the dark memories of the Capitol. He shakes his head and clutches my hand tighter, before smiling at me again. I let out a sigh of relief but don’t let go.

“Always.” He smiles cheekily and begins to tuck in.

“Always.” I repeat.