Chapter Text
Monday
The freezing cold of the morning touches my skin. It kisses my cheeks and makes me shiver. I drag myself through the blankets, but the cold penetrates through my sheet and reaches my naked body. Damn it, I hate winter.
A draft is to blame; my window is open. Just a few inches, but enough to make the wind blow and shake the curtains. Who left the window open? I ask myself. I slide my face across the pillow, and suddenly, I remember. It smells like Peeta Mellark. The cold is even more unbearable when I remember being next to his warm body all night, keeping me warm.
“Peeta..." I call him, too sleepy to open my eyes. I spread my arms across the bed —which isn't very big — looking for him. "Peeta!" I say more incisively.
“I'm here," he says, from the other side of the room.
"Close this window," I grunt. Then the sound of the window closing echoes, and the wind stops blowing. But my problem isn't solved; I'm still cold. So I complain, "I am cold." I wait a few seconds, roll over in bed, waiting for him to come and warm me up, but he doesn't. So I say it again, "I am cold!"
The indignation of being naked here in this bed, cold and alone, is so much that it makes me open my eyes. To my dismay, there he is. Sitting on the chair putting his sneakers on. He's already dressed, wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans. His hair has been combed, and he looks ready to leave.
“Are you leaving already?” I say, waking up once and for all. My alarm clock tells me it's almost 7 am. Peeta's train leaves at 8 am.
“Good morning, love," he flashes a smile that I see across my dark room. “I was trying not to wake you up."
"I am cold," I say one more time. Peeta finally does something and comes to me, sitting on the edge of the bed and running his hand through my hair.
I breathe a longing sigh. His hands are hot like fire; they burn my skin. I pull his wrist and hold him in a hug. Peeta has no choice but to sink into bed with me.
“Stay with me a little longer,” I beg, and he's so easy to convince lately that he lets out a murmur, almost giving in to my request.
“Ah...” he sighs. "I have training this morning. I can't miss my train... You know that," he says. This stupid little town only has one train that leaves here every hour and a half. If he missed this train, his morning would be over.
“You still have an hour before eight," I say, wanting to appear rational, but the truth is he has to leave in a few minutes to give him time to get to the station. He shakes his head, ready to argue, but I kiss him first.
It tastes like mint toothpaste, my toothpaste. His kiss is pleasantly warm, just what I needed. Peeta slowly lies down on the bed as my kiss makes him surrender. He wants this as much as I do. I know that.
My legs wrap around him, and he realizes he's fallen into my trap. “Katniss...” His lips touch mine as he speaks. I feel the heat of his breath. I've been so weak lately. This alone is capable of taking my reason away —not that I had much at this time in the morning. For me, he would miss that train.
“I won't last another week without you," I say.
"I'll be back on Saturday morning," he replies, and I sigh, unsatisfied. “I’ll call you every night.”
“It's not the same,” I say. Peeta gives me a peck on the corner of my lips to comfort me, but he never succeeds. Nothing is ever able to comfort me from the distance.
150 miles, two hours by train or three and a half hours by car. This is what separated us most of the week. There are no colleges in our small hometown, just cornfields, and coal mines that have been abandoned since the 90s. For six long months, when Peeta moved to study in the nearest big city from here, we are in this torture of only seeing each other on the weekends.
My fingers slide into his hair and grab at his blonde strands. I take a long sniff of his neck. I don't know how I can live without this for five days a week.
Some people have characteristic smells. Like my mother, who still smells like our old house even years after moving out. Peeta is one of those people. It's not perfume or sweat. It’s his natural scent, which exudes from him all the time, that stays in my pillows after he leaves, the smell that I’m addicted to.
It’s a mild smell, a mixture of several things. Peeta’s shaving cream, the sweet smell of his hair, a constant faint scent of cinnamon, and something I’ve only found on Peeta and nowhere else. Something that cannot be replicated and only comes from him. I breathe deeply once again between his golden curls.
“Will you give me a ride?” he asks, slipping away from me and standing up. The clock reads 7:25 am. I hate Peeta's punctuality.
I agree reluctantly. I get up and get dressed lazily in jeans and a warm sweatshirt to protect me from the morning cold, while Peeta finishes putting his things in his gym bag. He folds his clothes and rolls his socks into pairs carefully before stuffing them into his bag. He's very organized, almost always at the point of perfectionism. I can see him checking everything twice: charger, wallet, cell phone, toothbrush... Before zipping it up.
"I think it's all here," he says. I look around to see if he forgot anything, and there is a yellow t-shirt leaning against the chair. It's his training jersey. The yellow and black stripes are the colors of his university; he is on the wrestling team. There is the writing ‘P. Mellark’ on the back.
I remember he arrived with this shirt on Friday night. Coming here straight from training, hoping to catch the last train of the night. He had a sour smell of sweat. That's why he arrived and threw his jersey there and went straight to the shower.
I should warn him; he doesn't seem to have realized he forgot, but for some reason something tells me not to.
“I think that's all," I say, and he nods.
Tuesday
"Okay... you can open your eyes," Prim says, and I finally remove my hand from my eyes and look at the plate in front of me.
On a plate, there is some leftover rice from last night, covered with scrambled eggs. It is a bright yellow. The yolk is soft, but Prim and I always prefer it that way. She sprinkled some oregano on top and added a little ketchup for garnish.
“Scrambled eggs!” I exclaim.
“Yeah, again, Prim sits next to me at the table." Well, I'm trying to perfect my scrambled egg technique. If it's the only thing we eat, at least it has to be perfect."
They are the cheapest and healthiest things I can buy. Much better than instant noodles and way better than being hungry. I can't complain because since Mom got her new job, we've never skipped meals again. The best thing about eggs is that there are many ways to cook them: boiled, scrambled, fried, or omelet. Soft or hard yolk. It's honestly the best we can get right now.
I smile and take a bite. It's just right; well, it's a little salty, but the texture is perfect, and it melts on my tongue. Prim awaits my reaction with curious eyes. "You're getting better at this," I say.
She furrows her eyebrows and eats some too. She makes a face, analyzing every detail, like the food critics we see on TV. "It's salty," she says disappointingly.
“It's much better than mine," I say, but that doesn't seem to cheer her up. “Come on, it's good."
She grimaces and takes another bite. We share the plate of food in silence. I'm happy that she's constantly cooking now; I don't have to make dinner anymore. It's a relief! I always hated cooking. And Prim is a great cook, even if she is too hard on herself.
There are some scrambled eggs left in the pan, probably for my mom. For when she decided to get out of bed. She sleeps all afternoon because she works the night shift at the hospital. It's rare to have her at meals with us.
Prim turns on the television, as we do every night at dinnertime. She chooses a channel where some random romantic comedy is playing. I must have seen this movie before, but I don't remember exactly what happened. All these movies always seem the same to me. I think this is the one where they have to go on a fake date and make everyone believe that they love each other. Only to end up falling in love and actually getting married.
The couple argues in the rain. "You don't understand," the woman screams.
Prim loves this kind of thing. Soulmates.
"It's you who doesn't understand, Vanessa. I can't live without you," says the man back. Then the music swells with loud drums, and the two run toward each other and find themselves in a passionate kiss.
The artificiality makes my eyes roll, but Prim's face glows with enthusiasm. TV seems to cheer her up, but I look for my phone to distract myself. There's a message from Peeta.
'Look at the sunset.' The message is attached with a photo of the orange sky. Clouds spread across the sky in a bright yellow color.
'It doesn't even look like winter.' I type in response.
Peeta's answer is quick.
‘I wish I was watching the sunset with you right now.’ Then a new message from him right after. 'I already miss you.'
“Is that Peeta?” Prim asks. I notice my smiling face, biting my lower lip. I nod. "What is he saying?" she asks, looking at me with the same curiosity as she looked at the TV.
“Just nonsense,” I shrug at Prim as I type something in response to Peeta. She doesn't seem satisfied with the answer.
"Come on! Spit it out!” Prim says, climbing on me and peering into my phone.
“It's just nonsense, I swear,” I laugh and push her head away.
She crosses her arms and pouts but keeps a small, dubious smile on her face. She's been very interested in my love life lately.
“You never tell me anything interesting." She goes back to nibbling on her dinner.
“There's nothing interesting going on," I say.
"How not? You're literally dating."
“Yeah, so what? He's on the other side of the state most of the time,” I say, putting a spoonful of food in my mouth.
"Even so," she rattles, "it's more interesting than me on the shelf."
I giggle with a mouth full of food. "You're only 17. Why are you so worried about this?”
“Exactly, I'm 17 years old, and I'm here. I don't know anyone as boring as me at my age.”
“I was boring at 17," I say, watching her.
“Well, it must run in the family then," Prim says while touching the food with her fork.
I honestly was more worried about keeping the house in order at 17 than I was about boys. I think it was around this time that Gale kissed me for the first time. It feels like a lifetime ago now. At the time, it seemed like just another thing to worry about; dating was another responsibility I wanted to avoid. Until Peeta arrived some time later and turned everything I knew about myself upside down.
Prim, on the other side, seems very interested in growing up.
I feel Prim's intense gaze on me, pondering something. “He's not sending naked pictures, is he?" She finally says, a smile hiding her teeth.
I choke on my food and cough a few times.
“What? Ew. Where do you get that kind of idea?"
“I'm just asking," she shrugs.
“You are disgusting. Your brain has shrunk after so much reality TV," I say as she falls back laughing. Her laugh is contagious; it sounds like a bunch of bells ringing. Her cheeks are flushed, but she doesn't seem embarrassed.
“What are you two laughing about?" Mom asks, coming out of her room. Already in her uniform and with her hair tied up in a bun. She is ready to go out to work.
“Nothing," I say with my cheeks turning crimson.
"Do you want scrambled eggs, Mom?" asks Prim to avoid the subject, but without taking her smug smile off her face. She gives me a wink.
“Thank you, honey,” says Mom.
Wednesday
I hang my jacket on the hook, and I close the door behind me. I am interrupted by a new message from Peeta: Can I call you when I get to my dorm? I'll be there in thirty minutes.
I type back an emoji with a thumb up.
"Prim, I'm home!" I shout into the dark. Night has already fallen, but no one bothered to turn on the lights. I put my shoes on the shoe rack, stepping onto our carpet in just my socks. I turn on the light switch in the living room, and there she is.
Prim's head is resting on her arms as she dozes off on the kitchen table. Her blonde braid gets tangled between her math homework and her English textbook. She fell asleep from exhaustion again during her long study sessions.
Beside her, her cat is on guard. Yellow eyes wide open watching me coming to her. His name is Buttercup and he doesn't like me.
"Hey, sleepyhead," I whisper, running my hand down her back.
"Mhm?" She lifts her head at once. "Oh no, did I sleep again?" Prim says with a yawn, rubbing her eyes with her fist.
She's been working hard to get good grades in school. My sister wants to go to college, like Peeta. For that, she needs a good curriculum so we can get her a scholarship. We're not as wealthy as the Mellarks, and even they needed at least some kind of scholarship to send all three of their kids to college. In our case, Prim would need a full scholarship. She takes this very seriously... It's not the first time that she has strained herself until the point where she is too tired to keep her eyes open. Almost every night when I get home from work, she's there at the kitchen table buried in books.
"Have you had dinner yet?" I ask, and she shakes her head no. So I roll up my sleeves and head to the kitchen.
As a good older sister that I am— but a terrible cook— I make a boxed pancake batter. While I struggle with the pancakes sticking to the bottom of the pan, Prim sits at the counter and starts telling me everything she's been studying. In math, logarithms and roots of fractions. In literature, European modernism (they are reading Kafka). She also makes a point of gossiping about how she thinks the chemistry teacher is taking his divorce out on the students, which is why they are getting twice as much homework.
My pancakes end up either soggy or too burnt. I sigh with longing for Peeta. On some Saturday mornings, he makes pancakes for us for breakfast. Real ones, not this box mix. He cracks the eggs himself, mixes them with the flour and milk, and pours fresh maple syrup on top. Peeta likes to show off to Prim, flipping the pancakes up in the air with the frying pan on his back. Only he can make her laugh like he does.
We ate my sad pancakes without complaining. Afterward, I go to the shower to get rid of all the smell of oil from the diner's grill that sticks to my hair after my shift.
When I leave the bathroom, Prim already has her nose buried in the books again. I kiss her goodnight. "Don't stay there all night," I say as I walk wrapped in my towel towards my room.
"Okay! Goodnight," she whistles as I walk away.
I get to my room and look for something to get dressed in and protect me from the cold. First, my thick sweatpants. Then, I look for something for the top in my drawers. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy the bright yellow of Peeta's jersey in the same place he left it. I go and pick it up sneakily, as if someone could see my embarrassing longing outburst, and put the shirt on. It is made out of a thin material, made for working out. It doesn't hold the heat of my body, but the smell pays off.
I slide my nose through the necklace and sniff. It's like having him here with me. The sweet, pleasant scent that he exudes that nothing else in the world has other than him calms me down.
Then, and only then, is when I remember that we had agreed to speak on the phone tonight, as soon as I got home— that is— an hour ago. "Fuck!" I let out a grunt as I ran around the room trying to find my cell phone somewhere.
I find it inside my jacket pocket. I haven't bothered to check my messages since I arrived. There are three new messages from Peeta. What a big idiot I am!
'I'm ready. Call me whenever you want,' he texted me 40 minutes ago.
Then, a little after that, he sent another message. 'Did you fall asleep again? lol Text me when you wake up.'
I think about replying, but I just decide to call him right away. He picks up the call.
"Hi, Katniss," says Peeta on the other end of the line.
"Oh, I am so sorry! I completely forgot..." I say, "Guilty. I was making dinner for Prim."
"And what did you eat?" asks Peeta.
"Aaah, I hate doing this," I say again. It's even worse how he acts like it's no big deal.
"Tell me what you had for dinner," he changes the subject once again.
"Pancakes," I say defeated, falling onto my bed.
"Did you make them?"
"Yes, they were terrible."
"I ordered Thai food," he says. I give a long sigh of shame at myself for having forgotten our call. He listens to me on the other end of the line and finally says, "Don't beat yourself up, Katniss. It can happen to anyone."
"I miss you so much," I say, needy like a child.
"Tell me about your day," he asks.
"Just... work. I just worked all day," I say with a yawn. It's hard to make this sound interesting; nothing happens in our little town. "And you?"
"I went to college in the morning and trained all afternoon at the gym. I'm exhausted."
"With your wrestling team?"
"Yes, my coach is obsessed with getting our team in the next division. I don't know how he's going to take the weaklings from our team to the state championship.”
"That's not your case," I say, slipping under the covers in my small single bed.
“Well, it's not, but we are qualified in teams, not individually. Even if the fights are individual. It's the whole that counts.”
“Do you want to go to the state championship?"
“Oh no," he says with a sigh, "I would like to be there as little as possible. If it wasn't so important for my scholarship, I would quit. I've been doing this since middle school… I'm sick of getting my ass kicked."
"Don't be modest," I tell him. Peeta is good at wrestling, even if he doesn't make it seem like it when he talks like that. I've watched him a few times. He's a pain for his opponents… sneaking up on them, surrounding them, and tiring them out before knocking them to the ground. But Peeta's passion is something else; I know he would trade the ring for his sketchbook in an instant.
“Even to win, you have to get your ass kicked," I hear his smile on the other end of the line.
I bring his jersey necklace back to my nose, I close my eyes, and I sniff again.“I can still smell you on my pillows," I say, even if his smell comes from his jersey.
“I'm so jealous," Peeta says softly on the other end of the line. "There's nothing that smells like you here."
“No, don't be jealous. It's horrible to constantly remember that you were here with me three days ago and now I'm alone in the cold."
“If I'm going to miss you, I'd rather be smelling you."
“I would rather forget you until you come back," I blurt out, clinging to his jersey.
“I would hate to forget you," he answers, his voice tickling the inside of my ear.
“Mhm," I mutter.
"Are you taking the morning shift tomorrow?" he asks.
"Yes, we will open at eight."
“Do you want to hang up and try to sleep?”
“No!" I open my eyes and look at my head clock; it reads almost eleven at night. I have to leave the house tomorrow at seven to get there on time; this involves waking up at six. Maybe I should sleep, but I don't want to. We'll only have time to talk again tomorrow night. "Just let me hear your voice a little longer."
Peeta sighs on the other end of the line.
"Want to hear what I was doing before you called me?" he asks.
"Please."
He clears his throat and begins to read. "…That the sun will not rise tomorrow is no less intelligible a proposition, and implies no more contradiction, than the affirmation that it will rise…" His words are clear, his diction is perfect, his tone is eloquent… Peeta sounds annoyingly attractive.
"David Hume?" I interrupt.
"Oh," he exclaims excitedly, "how did you figure it out so quickly?"
"I took philosophy in high school. I'm not a complete idiot."
"That was hot, you know?" he says with a chuckle.
"Don't underestimate me."
"Oh, I would never do that," he says in a clear voice. I can't help but smile at his flirtatious tone. At least there's one good thing about being at a distance. I don't give him the pleasure of seeing me blush.
"Why are you reading Hume?" I ask, maintaining my composure.
"It's for an essay that I have to write. The deadline is in just three days."
"Saturday then," I say, and he nods. I sigh. It's when we'll meet again. "Feels like forever."
"I'll be there before you know it," Peeta says, reading my thoughts.
“But I want you right now," I say, sinking into my bed. "Nothing is worse than sleeping without you; I want to feel your arms around me; I want to smell you."
"What else?" he asks, and I can almost see the smile forming on his lips. I can imagine where his thoughts are going.
“Are you trying to do that… thing… again?"
“Maybe," he laughs, "are you in the mood?”
“Weren't you reading your college papers?"
"I don't know if I can concentrate anymore."
"I'm horrible at phone sex," I throw my head back.
"Oh…! So, you want to have phone sex?"
I frown. "You were the one who suggested it first."
"I did?" he asks as if he were innocent.
"Yes!" I object. "You're the one who started talking dirty."
"It was you who said you wanted me," he says, and I'm sure he can hear me grunt on the other end of the line. "Alright, alright," he tries to erase it. "It doesn't have to be a big deal. Let's just talk."
"Talk about what?"
"Mhm," he ponders for a second, "things that go through our heads."
"Like what?"
"Well," he starts in a hoarse voice, sounding pretty confident, "lately I have been thinking about our night before I left. You don't know how much I love hearing you. Especially when you try so hard to stay quiet."
I feel a swirling sensation forming in my belly button.
“I want to hear you again," Peeta says before I can say anything.
"Peeta..." I groan, rubbing my face across my pillow.
“Too much?"
“It's so much easier when you're here with me," I whine. I mean it. I'm not a chatterbox like him; I don't have the ease of putting everything into words like he does; I don't have his ingenious mind. I do much better when I can respond to his provocations with my mouth on his.
"I can start if you want..." he says.
"Peeta, do something for me..." I settle into my bed, "Read Hume."
"Read Hume?" he repeats in surprise. "Do you want me to read it to you?"
"Yes."
He doesn't question me; soon I hear him adjusting himself in bed as well and the papers rustling. Peeta clears his throat before starting. “As to past experience," I can feel his smile when he speaks, even though he tries to remain serious. "…it can be allowed to give direct and certain information of those precise objects only, and that precise period of time that fell under its cognizance; but why this experience should be extended to future times and to other objects..." He enjoys the difficult words, pronouncing each consonant with confidence. "This is the main question on which I would insist. The bread, which I formerly ate, nourished me; that is, a body of such sensible qualities was, at that time, endowed with such secret powers…"
It's like music; I could listen to it all day. I find myself curled up, sighing into my phone, caressing the jersey with my fingertips methodically.
"How do I do?" he asks on the other end of the line.
"You always sound so confident," I say.
"Years on the high school debate team must have served me well," he says. "Now… can I make you a request too?"
I come out of my trance. "Yea," I agree suspiciously.
“Tell me the things you were saying before..." he keeps his soft voice, "the things you said you want."
“You're much better with words than I am," I say.
“But I want to hear you," he asks.
I sigh deeply. I wish I could read my thoughts like he read his papers. So much easier than putting all my thoughts in order. First of all, I want him here sharing the bed with me, wrapping me in his arms, like he always does. I wish I could complain about the cold coming in through the open window that he can't sleep without. I wanted to be able to kiss him in every way, in every place. I wanted to feel him lying on top of me, his weight holding me against the mattress with the weight of his body. I want to feel his hardness pressed against my thigh; I want to bury my nose in his hair while he fucks me.
“I don't even know where to start," I say, after a while thinking. I lift his shirt back to my face and inhale. It's like he's here with me; the smell intoxicates me, making me move my hips against my own hand. “I want it all."
"All what?" he asks.
"Well, you know..." I say, unable to hide how embarrassed this makes me. What else could I want?
"Tell me," I can hear him smile.
"I want to have sex with you," I say, frowning.
He laughs. "That's the hottest thing you've said all night."
"I told you I'm not good at this."
"No, no, you're doing so great..." He teases me again. It's not my fault I'm not as chatty as he is. "Tell me what you think about when you're alone, you know... what goes through your head when you..."
"I know," I clear my throat. I close my eyes and try to think. His blond hair between my fingers, his big hands on my waist, his mouth sighing disconnected words in my ear, and his... "… your dick."
Peeta is taken aback. "Oh," he lets out a chuckle held deep in his throat. "You don't beat around the bush, do you?"
I sigh on one end of the line, and he sighs on the other. We remain silent in our conversation. I'm here wondering what could be making him sound the way he does, and he's asking himself the same questions.
“I would love it if it were my hands instead of yours touching you right now,” Peeta says. Well, what makes me sigh like an idiot is his jersey. I'm not even touching myself, just putting my hand between my thighs and moving my hips. It's good, but I think Peeta is imagining something very different. "Do you know what I want?" he asks without waiting for my answer. "I want to make you cum with my hands, then with my mouth, as I watch you struggle not to wake up the whole house."
Cocky Boy, I think.
"So I want to make you cum with me inside you," he chokes. "You have no idea how much I want this."
I bury my burning face in his jersey. Even though no one could see, I still felt the urge to hide my face.
"Look like you already have everything planned out," I mumble.
He chuckles on the other end of the line. From what I know of him, the way he clears his throat before continuing to speak, maybe he is a little red too. “Want to hear the rest?"
“Yes," I say softly.
He lets out a sigh. "Do you know what my favorite part is? I love watching you m—” His voice stops abruptly. There are some voices in the background, rustling of the sheets, and muffled sounds. Until he hangs up without even saying goodbye.
I look at the screen, horny and confused. I realize how invested I was in our conversation. There is a button for me to call back, but I don't do it.
In a few minutes, there is a message from Peeta. 'I'm sorry, my brother just showed up. I thought he was staying at his girlfriend's house today.'
'Don't worry,' I type.
He types for a longer time than usual. Then send me the following message: ‘Did I disappoint you?'
I smile as I write, 'It is ok. I really need to sleep.'
I curl up on the blankets and turn off the lamp on my bedside table. His absence is even harder now. I slide my face down his shirt and let the rough fabric of the collar tickle my lips. I move my thighs together, putting pressure on the middle of my leg. Peeta has left me with a hunger that I cannot satisfy on my own. As my hands inside the hem of my pants I receive a new message from Peeta. ‘Good night.’
Thursday
The sun came out today, after days behind the clouds. The weather is actually quite pleasant for a February morning. Even though I don't give up my good old burgundy-brown leather jacket, I don't need to turn on the car heater; the sun's rays do the job of warming me up.
I parked in the parking lot of Diner Hall (the small restaurant I've been working at for the last few months). Here is where I plan to spend my lunch break.
Underneath my jacket, I'm wearing my waitress uniform, consisting of a white button-down shirt. And underneath my uniform, I still have Peeta's jersey on. The truth is that as soon as I put it on, the material stuck to me, the smell got into my nose, and I simply haven't been able to take it off since last night. It's the only thing that can ease my longing. It doesn't even look like I have it on… the neck of the uniform is high enough to hide the bright yellow of the jersey. And what escapes through the bottom, I tuck it into my pants.
"And what did you say?" Peeta asks over on the other side of the line. I hold my phone to my ear with just my shoulder. My hands are busy with my sandwich that I brought for lunch.
Peeta doesn't know I have his jersey. I would never tell him.
"I told her she could squeeze her own oranges if she wanted to," I say as I chew my lunch. I get a laugh from Peeta. "No, don't laugh! It's not funny."
"You have a sharp tongue. That's all."
"A sharp tongue and a short fuse," I sigh. "I'm going to lose this job too."
"No, you won't. Don't think like that."
"But I will," I retort. "My manager already hates me; he just needs a reason to fire me." I've had this conversation more than once with my manager. I've been told that I'm very rude to customers. They think that with such a measly tip they can treat you however they want and say whatever they want, and just because you're wearing a uniform, they expect you not to talk back. "It's my fourth job this year; I'm running out of places to work around here."
"You can always come to the city," suggests Peeta.
"Yeah," I take another bite of my sandwich, "you know that's not going to happen."
"It's just that maybe customer service isn't for you. I mean, you hate it. There are way more opportunities here; you can find something that fits you better."
We've had this conversation many times before. "I can't leave Prim living alone with my mother..." I say like a broken record. "Prim only has me."
"I'm not saying this just because we would be closer," says Peeta, sounding a little defensive, but I wasn't thinking about that. "I just think that your well-being improves Prim's."
"Peeta, I—" I'm ready to object.
"Just think about yourself too. Think about the opportunities you can have... You have so many qualities; I'm sure you'll do well in whatever you try to do."
"There is nothing wrong with a restaurant kitchen."
"Ah, Katniss," he grunts, "you know I didn't mean it like that."
I sigh, Yes, I know he didn't mean it. I know I'm being unreasonable. I keep quiet. Taking the final bite of my ham and pickle sandwich. I don't want to discuss this for the thousandth time, not now.
"What did you call to tell me anyway…" I change the subject.
Peeta pauses. "We can talk about it after your shift..."
"What is it?" I ask apprehensively. "Is it something bad?"
"No, it's just... we can talk about it tonight when we have more time."
"Now you've got me worried."
Peeta sighs. "My brother broke up with his girlfriend," he says, and I almost laugh. I'm not interested in his brother's love life (which is quite complicated, by the way).
"I thought they were back."
"They were until they break up again. Last night, he came home drunk, and... My coach suspended him from his next official match.
"How did your coach know he was drinking?"
"He was putting on a show in the middle of the campus..." Peeta says, and I think it can't get any worse until he adds,. "It seems he tried to break into his ex-girlfriend's dorm."
"Shit…" I blow.
"Yeah. Ryen has been having problems with alcohol lately. Our coach is losing patience with him. You know, I'm..." Peeta clears his throat. "I'm my brother's backup. If he can't fight, I do it for him in official matches."
Then he pauses, and I wait restlessly on the other end of the line for him to continue.
"This Saturday is his next match... The coach asked me to go in his place, and I accepted." So I finally realize what he means: Peeta isn't coming this weekend. "Sorry, Katniss… I'm so mad at him. He always needs someone to sort out his messes... Is just that… Wrestling is all my brother has. I think if his actions hurt the team one more time, my coach won't give him a second chance. At least I can fix his mistake this time... I really don't know what he'll do if he stops wrestling."
"That's a lot," I am processing everything he just said.
"I know..." Peeta has lost all the confidence he had last night. "Oh, I... I don't even know what to tell you. I'm sorry."
"No," I interrupt him. "It's okay. You made the right decision."
"I hate to disappoint you."
"We'll see each other soon..." I reassure him, "We've been through worse."
Friday
Bzzzzt. Bzzzzt. Bzzzzt.
I roll around in bed until the phone's buzzing stops, just for it to start again. My bedside clock reads 1 AM.
Bzzzzt. Bzzzzt.
I mumble sleepily. I open my eyes with difficulty while I get used to the brightness of the cell phone. He is calling me.
"Peeta?" I ask with a voice hoarse from sleep over the phone. "What happened?" I sit down on the bed, putting my head back in place.
"Sorry to wake you up," he says, "could you... come open the front door?"
"Huh?"" I mumble, confused. I rub my eyes with my hands. "What door?"
"I'm here. I don't want to ring the bell so I don't wake up Prim—"
When I realize, my heart is racing in my chest, in a second I'm running to the front door, dazed by sleep. With shaking hands, I unlock the latch. I'm dizzy from having gotten up so quickly. I open the door, and it wasn't a dream... Here he is.
"Oh," sighs Peeta when he sees me. My loose hair falling over my eyes and my face crushed by the pillow. He looks me up and down, scanning me. "So, you found my jersey?" He looks back at my eyes, now with a smile so big that he can't even hide his teeth inside his mouth. Then I remember, since Wednesday his jersey has continued to be my pajamas every night. Today is no different. He caught me red-handed.
"What are you doing here?" I whisper so as not to wake Prim.
"I came to see you," he whispers back.
I make way for him to get inside, and I close the door behind us. My heart is pounding inside my chest.
"And your match?"
Prim's cat goes between my legs and goes to Peeta's feet. He rubs against his Vans shoelaces in welcome. Buttercup loves him for some reason, while despising me. This stray cat is trying to steal my boyfriend...
"I'll catch the first train tomorrow morning," says Peeta with a shrug.
"What if you get late?"
"I didn't want to go without seeing you."
"You won't have time to sleep at all."
"I slept on the train, and I'll sleep on the way back too." He keeps giving me answers faster than my questions.
"You should have told me you were coming."
"I didn't think I would have time. I didn't want to give you false hope again."
"You're going to give me a heart attack one day." I expected everything this Friday night, except Peeta Mellark.
"Tell me you're happy I'm here," Peeta asks softly, and my answer is just to kiss him. In a whirlwind of movements, we intertwine with each other, and the kiss soon turns into an outburst of longing. He drops his gym bag on the floor. Our feet stumble across the carpet into the dark living room. When I finally pull away from him to get some air, I realize we're being watched by Prim's weird cat. With his yellow eyes shining in the dark.
This thing gives me the creeps. "Come on," I pull him by the arm to my room, out of Buttercup's sight.
I close my bedroom door behind me and lock it. So I'm looking for the switch to turn on the lamp on my nightstand so I can see anything other than the total darkness. The room fills with the dim light of the lamp, and then I can look at Peeta. He takes off his shirt and stands naked from the waist up, and I'm ready to do the same.
"No! Don't take it off," he stops me. "You look nice dressed like that… With Mellark written on your back."
His ears burn crimson, and nothing can hide the big smile on his face.
I press my lips together. "You have to see your face right now."
We are still talking in whispers.
"I'll think about you like that all week," he says, coming to me. I do as he says, and I keep the jersey on.
I hide my red cheeks with a frown, as Peeta comes to me on the bed. He crawls towards me and we kiss again. Peeta pushes me until I'm lying on the bed and he lies on top of me.
"Since you're dressed like one... It's worth mentioning that this is a wrestling position, you know?"
"This?" I'm wondering aloud. Peeta is lying between my legs while I wrap them around his waist, locking my ankles behind his back. That's why this sport has a bad reputation. "And how do I defeat you?"
Peeta gives a smug smile. "I won," he says. "Your back is on the ground. The referee already blew the whistle and gave me the point."
"I want to try again then."
Peeta raises his eyebrows, smirking. Then he gets off of me and extends his hand to help me get up in bed. We both kneeled on the mattress facing each other. "Don't let me put you on your back," he tells me. His blue eyes flicker over me, and I stare back at him with a toughest face I can do. He's still bigger and taller than me; I'm sure I have no chance at all.
I try to keep myself steady, but his hands are already around my waist. I lose my balance, and we fall onto the bed. His legs immobilize mine. He doesn't take it easy.
"You said you wanted to try. Come on.” He encourages me, but I can't move.
“You know I can't do it," I grumble.
“Try it.” Peeta insists.
I lift my hips with all the strength I have until my back is off the mattress. Peeta keeps holding me. I can't do anything more than a failed attempt to get up.
"That's it! You got it. Now roll onto your belly.” Peeta says with a smile.
He still hugs me so tightly; it's impossible. The harder I try, the harder he holds me. I push as hard as I can, trying to get his arms away from my waist until I start to grunt. My strength is of no use; he locks my right leg with his, blocking any attempt to roll over.
I'm able to lift one of my shoulders off the bed, but not do a full turn. I feel Peeta loosen me up and free my leg. I manage to roll onto my stomach, but my right arm is pinned beneath my body, and my left is held by Peeta's hands against the mattress. I don't have any mobility.
“You helped me," I pant.
“You did well," Peeta says. I can feel his smile on my shoulder. "You're strong, but I'm 60 pounds heavier than you. There's no way you can win. That's why they separate us by weight in wrestling. Do you want to stop?”
He is happy when he is winning.
"No,” I mumble. “Teach me how to get out of this situation."
“Ummm, it's really bad for you... " his hand sliding down my back while the weight of his body still holds me in place. "You have no control over your arms to stand. Practically, I already have another point."
Then he pulls me, not only with his arms but also with his legs. I try my hardest to stay as I am, but not even the position is in my favor. He can do it without much effort. We're both panting when he lies on top of me again. He's between my legs this time. Peeta holds one of my arms against the mattress.
"I won again," Peeta whistled. "2 to 0."
"You seem to be having fun..." I whisper, returning to my starting position under him.
"You see, I'm very competitive."
I silence his smug tone with a kiss. We got back to making out very quickly and at full speed. His hands grab my ass, and mine grab his curls. And when he lets his guard down, I can lay him on his back and climb into his lap.
"Does this count?" I say now that I'm on top. I can feel how he turns on he is underneath me.
"I still have a one-point advantage."
His head rests against the headboard, and I'm sitting on top of his lap. I rub myself against his erection, between my pajama pants and his jeans. Peeta pulls down my pants, and I stand up just enough to take them off, leaving me naked from the waist down. With eager hands I unzip his zipper and feel his skin soft as velvet... I slide my thumb over his damp tip. I hear a moan escape Peeta's lips.
As made to happen, his hands guide my hip, and I am so wet that he slides inside me so easily. I see stars behind my eyes. I rest my hands on his chest, looking for balance. I ride him in a rhythm that feels good to me. I miss this, oh, how I do. Nothing feels like him inside me. Whatever I try is never like having him with me.
As I move my hips slowly, getting used to him, Peeta's hands run up my thigh. His fingertips barely grazed my skin. They travel to my ass and up to my back, getting under his jersey. It gives me goosebumps. His big hands can be light like a feather.
By the time I am comfortable enough to move freely, Peeta is already getting up and sitting on the bed. I wrap my arms around his neck, and my face goes straight to his blond curls. I sink into his intoxicating scent, holding on to his hair like it's all I have. Peeta guides my movement with his hands on my hips.
His face is buried in the side of my neck, his lips brush against my skin. "Ah—" He pants, "Slow down, babe." But I don't even listen to him; I keep my pace because now it's really good, and I can't think about stopping.
Until Peeta's nails pierce my flesh and hold my hips in place, forcing me to slow down. Peeta grunts sweetly and falls back onto the bed. His curls stick to his forehead, and he tries to catch his breath.
I blink a few times. "Did you just finish?"
"You are so hot..." he whimpers, with his eyes closed. That was... fast.
"Another point for me then," I say with a smile. "Does that leave us in a tie?"
He doesn't answer me. Peeta hugs me and spins me around, making me fall on the mattress again. It feels almost looks like another wrestling move. My head lie on the pillow; Peeta is on my side, supporting himself with his elbow. He's blushing; even in the half-light I can see it. His hair is messy, falling down his face, and his lips are shiny and swollen from all the kissing I've done. I scan him from top to bottom.
"I am homesick for you," he whispers softly, running his hand down my belly to my bush. I close my eyes, and I grab on to my pillow.
Oh, it's so much for me to concentrate on. His fingers thrusting inside me as he kisses my neck with his lips and teeth. His other hand is not free. His jersey was lifted enough for him to reach my breast. My entire breast fits in his hand. He slides his fingers over my nipple, then pinches them until I can actually see stars.
"Shh," he sighs happily. Telling me to be quiet. But I can't hold back whatever is inside me. I writhe in the sheets, biting my own fingers to muffle my moans.
The whirlpool in my belly button boils. I rock my hips in time with Peeta's hands inside me until I can't take it anymore. I tell myself that this time I won't let him go... that I don't know how I can go without this for another week.
It's early morning. The sun has just come out, and I'm already dropping Peeta off in front of the train station.
I give him a goodbye kiss. "Text me when you arrive," I say.
He nods. "See you on Friday."
Then he gets out of my car and walks towards the check-in area. Peeta looks back and gives me a wave with a big smile on his face. I tighten my fingers on the steering wheel; I already miss him so much. And this time, I have nothing that smells like him for myself. Because the jersey now smells like me, and he took it with him.