Chapter Text
I take a long sip from my glass. Haymitch says I’m only getting the cheap stuff, but I don’t care. The burn is a welcome distraction from the storm in my chest. This is my future anyway so better get started.
Haymitch is about as impressed with this behavior as I am when he does it, looking at me with disapproval. "Don't you have a husband to go home to instead of drying me out?"
Husband. The word slips out so easily now. For months Peeta and I had dodged it in the small, makeshift world we’d carved out for ourselves since our Capitol wedding. But I finally broke the night before the Quell. And after that, I couldn’t seem to put it back. The word kept surfacing whether I wanted it to or not.
In District Thirteen, I used it like a magic word. A reminder of what they kept trying to scrub out: the Mockingjay had a husband she needed, and the Capitol had him.
It was the truest word for why I walked straight to Peeta’s house—our home—when there was no hope left to cling to after the war. My body moving before my mind caught up.
And it explains why the huntress and the baker of District 12 were known to be coiled around each other like we were the last solid things in our world. Why being apart never really crossed our minds.
Until now.
“Better get used to it,” I say. “It’ll just be you and me soon.”
He lifts one eyebrow—barely a movement, but somehow it feels like a whole lecture. “Boy finally get sick of you?”
“No. But he will be.” my voice comes out meeker than I intended. The alcohol must not be working. “He’ll realize I’m not meant for this. He probably already has—he brought up couples who separate months ago. He’s smart. He’ll figure it out soon enough. His place is with some happy girl who can love him easily.”
The room tilts a little. Or maybe it’s just me reacting to my thoughts.
I can already picture it—Peeta with someone who smiles without trying, who doesn’t snap or shut down or ruin everything she touches. Someone who’d take all the warmth he gives and reflect it back the way he deserves. Someone golden and warm and worthy.
I take another swallow, letting the burn punch straight through the nausea. Anything to drown the thought that someday Peeta won’t love me anymore. And not because the Capitol twisted him. Because he realizes the reality of being married to me.
Haymitch snorts, "Have you told him that? From the horrors I've had to witness he seems very fond of girls with the allure of a skunk."
My face heats up at recognition of what he's talking about. Peeta and me pressed up against the door of my old house earlier today, both of us too preoccupied by each other to even notice Haymitch or do any of the actual cleaning of the house we had planned.
That’s what led me here, experiencing that same sweet hunger from the beach. What started as gentle kisses to chase away the chill ended with him pressing me against my old kitchen table, his body solid and grounding in a way that felt more like home than any four walls ever could. The scent of yeast and cinnamon clung to him, wrapping around me like a blanket I could breathe in until I felt lightheaded. His teeth grazed my neck, sending a shock to my very marrow. It was a hunger that consumed every nerve ending, a heavy, unrelenting want that made me realize I would never be full.
The sweetness lingered in my bones until I stepped into Prim’s room. Then reality hit, sharp and familiar. This is how it ends. How it always ends. With loss.
I thought I had learned that with my father. My mother couldn’t keep him, no matter how much she loved him. And no matter how hard I tried with Prim, I was useless in the end too. Love doesn’t stop anything. It just makes the damage worse.
I should've learned from how I had already failed Peeta. Loving someone only leads to destruction. Either his or mine.
But he had found his way into me anyway. Sitting there in Prim’s room, it hit me all at once—how far gone I was. How desperately I wanted him, my husband, the boy with the bread, pressed close, never leaving. His kindness, his words, his steady heartbeat, the way our bodies had fit together—it had burrowed into me, deeper than anything I’d ever let in, as essential as food.
We had been tangled so completely that even imagining a future without him felt unbearable, a knife twisting through every part of me. Every thought, every heartbeat, made me ache with the knowledge of how much I could lose.
So I did the only reasonable thing. Get drunk at Haymitch’s.
I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter how fond he is if he ends up dead or miserable. He should be with some girl who can give him love and children without breaking down. Someone who has fewer dead bodies in her history.”
Haymitch stays silent for a second. Probably agreeing with me. He’s seen how much of a screw-up I am. He knows as well as I do that Peeta deserves better.
Then, without warning, he knocks the glass out of my hands. It shatters on the floor, and I stumble slightly, blinking at him.
I glare, trying to focus. “What the hell?” My words come out loud enough to make me wince.
“As your mentor, it’s my job to tell you not to drink cheap liquor straight,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine.
I narrow my eyes, swaying a little. “You’re the one who gave it to me!”
He glares back. “And since when do you listen to me?”
I slump back in the chair, rolling my eyes and feeling the room tilt just a fraction. My head pounds, but I keep staring at him.
“The war is over,” he says, like that explains everything.
I squint at him. “How drunk are you?”
He ignores me. “The boy is safe.”
I nod, though my balance is off. “For now, yes.”
“Do you ever think?” he asks snidely. “Neither of those things would’ve happened without you.”
I snort, the sound catching in my throat. “I got lucky.”
“Yes,” he says, his face softening. “Because the boy loved you. And he got lucky because you loved him. He would be dead a hundred times over if it weren’t for you. The same goes for you.”
I let out a long, uneven sigh, head spinning a little more than it should. “What’s your point?”
“Leave the drinking and the loss to me,” he says, leaning back. “Don’t look a gift goose in the mouth.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he keeps going. “If I have to deal with you two after everything, then you can go love the boy. Life doesn't end just because you expect it to. Or even because you want it to. And it especially doesn't end because you realize you're happily married.”
My argument is interrupted again, this time by footsteps. Loud footsteps I’d recognize anywhere. The door opens and there’s Peeta, still warm and golden, even with his face pink from the cold.
He looks between Haymitch and me, his expression sharpening.
“What happened?” he asks, already moving closer.
“The girl’s a pain,” Haymitch says. “What else is new?”
I nod. “He’s right. I only cause pain.”
Peeta doesn’t answer either of us. He moves closer, looking down at the empty glasses in front of me.
“You’re going to have the worst hangover tomorrow,” he says.
“Are you going to make me do push-ups again?”
He grabs my hands slowly pulling me up, "No I'm taking you home."
I look at my boy with his concerned eyes and sweet hands. I try reaching up to grab his cheeks but end up falling into his chest. Just as nice. "You're such a good husband" I say muffled.
Haymitch sighs, " I like you kid but I can't keep hearing about you. Get out of here."
I huff and turn to glare at him. Peeta has to steady me before I tip. “But you agree,” I insist. “I wouldn’t deserve him in a hundred lifetimes.”
“What are you telling her, Haymitch?” Peeta asks. His voice goes flat and hard, nothing like the way his hand stays warm at my waist.
“Don’t drag me into this,” Haymitch says. “Your wife’s just proving she only hears about half of what I say. I did some decent mentoring tonight, and she filtered it right out.”
I start to argue, but Peeta slips my coat over my shoulders, buttoning it up to the collar. I melt into him, too dizzy to care about anything else.
“Kid,” I hear Haymitch call, distant and gruff, “Take your wife home and actually talk to her.”
Peeta doesn’t answer. He just lifts me into his arms and carries me out of Haymitch’s house and into the cold.
I wrap my arms around Peeta’s neck, letting his heat press into me while the cold bites at my face. I nuzzle into his shoulder, annoyed the coat keeps me from feeling him fully. Still, it's nice. I let myself relax, enjoying the way he's carrying me. Another reason to stay his bride.
I tap my head against his shoulder in affection, 'Thank you Peeta," I say gratefully.
He smiles, "Don't thank me yet. Tomorrow my footsteps are going to make your hungover self want to kill me."
“No.” I shake my head too hard, nearly knocking into his chin. “I could never do that.” My voice wobbles. “I wouldn’t survive it.”
“Oh, Katniss.” He tightens his hold on me. “Don’t cry. I didn’t mean it. I was being stupid.”
“You’re not stupid,” I say fiercely. “It’s not your fault I’m such a bad wife you’d think that.”
“I didn’t think—” he starts, but I don’t stop.
“I hurt everyone. The District was bombed because of me. I was a joke of a Mockingjay. I hurt Gale.” Peeta’s hands loosen for a second. “I couldn’t save Prim. I couldn't save you.”
I thought the alcohol would make this all easier. Another lie from Haymitch.
I stay silent until we reach the bedroom. Deciding to enjoy Peeta carrying me while I still can. Before he dies or leaves me.
He lowers himself onto the bed and stays perched at the edge, peeling my jacket off while I sag against him, letting him do the work.
“You’re really good at taking my clothes off,” I mumble, watching his hands.
He makes an odd sound, like an exhale caught halfway out. “I try,” he says, wry.
The room starts to spin, slow and sideways, but I don’t let go of Peeta. If I do, he’ll vanish.
“Hey,” I say, tugging on his muscled arm to pull him down. “Join me in bed.”
He smiles and brushes the hair back from my face. “You don’t need to tell m—”
“Yes, I do,” I interrupt. “You never came unless I had nightmares.” The memory of the separate bedrooms from when I moved in surfaces, irritating and wrong.
He sighs, "That was to give you what you wanted."
I huff. “Well, that was stupid. I always want you in my bed.”
I start tugging my shirt up, trying to be helpful. Peeta freezes for half a second before catching my wrists, his ears a pretty pink.
He meets my gaze, eyes wide and intense. “I always want to be in your bed. You don’t have to worry about that.”
I shake my head. “Yes, I do. You’re going to leave.”
His eyebrows jump. “That’s news to me.”
“You’ll figure it out,” I say. “How much I’ve failed you. Then you’ll go.” The words start tripping over each other. “Or you’ll stay. And I’ll still fail you. And you’ll die.” My chest tightens until it hurts to breathe. “Peeta, I’d be an even worse widow.” My voice comes out cracked and pathetic.
The tears start again. The dizziness makes the room tilt and blur, and I barely register him pulling me into his lap. My cheek presses against his chest, and the steady beat of his heart does something to slow the racing in my own.
“Katniss,” he says softly, stroking my hair. “It’s okay. You could never fail me. I'm here. I'm safe.”
He presses his lips to my forehead. The warmth seeps through me, and for a moment, I just breathe. “You kept me safe,” he whispers.
It's enought to get me to finally rest my head back on the pillow, letting him tuck me in. When he slides under the covers, I settle against his chest, letting out a contented sigh as he wraps both arms around me and presses a kiss to my hair.
"You're not a bad wife."
"What," I say stupidly wondering if he could hear me wondering how many more of these I'll get.
"What you said earlier, I don't think that at all."
"Doesn't make it less true," I mutter into his chest.
“No, listen,” he says, making me look at him. “Something terrible happened to me, and I wasn’t myself anymore. And even when I came back, it wasn’t really about me getting better.”
His thumb keeps moving through my hair, slow and sure. “But do you remember what helped the most?”
“Kissing?” I say, dumbly. It’s the only thing I can fish out of the soggy lake in my head. I don’t know why he always asks me hard questions at night.
He laughs softly. “Kissing you always helps.”
His voice turns serious again. “But it was you, when you started talking to me. You were the only person who saw me as something other than a piece in a war. You remembered what I would want.”
His face softens. “And a whole lot more. The tea. The shoelaces. The window.”
He presses his forehead to mine. “How could you not be the best wife in the world,” he says quietly, “when you led me back to myself?”
5 months after Capitol Wedding
“You can turn around,” Peeta calls from behind me, his voice amused. I’m too relieved just to see him again to tease him about mocking my skittishness over him being naked.
If only he knew. How I almost wanted to step into the shower with him, to let the warm water wash over both of us, to close the space between us for a while. No barriers, no distance, just him and me, skin to skin, breathing together in that quiet, moment.
It’s not like I haven’t seen parts of him before, in situations where no one was actively dying. We share a house. Despite Peeta’s efforts, my quiet steps have caught him more than once, shirtless and fresh out of the bathroom. Enough that noticing how solid and comfortable his chest looks isn’t a new thought.
Well if tomorrow's my last day. I rest my cheek against his chest, warm and solid, shaped by months of training, and let myself stay there.
Peeta seems to understand without being told. His arms come around me, letting his fingers rest against the bare skin of my back my tank top has exposed. The touch is warm and steady, and it settles there as if it’s always been meant to.
He’s never done this before. Not once, not through all the dresses on the Victory Tour. Not even on our wedding night, when he unbuttoned that awful gown with such care it made me feel protected instead of exposed.
We continue in the bathroom, brushing our teeth, taking turns waiting for the other. It’s a little ritual I hadn’t even realized we’d developed. Even when Peeta was focused on training, not on being my friend or husband, he lingered nearby, quizzing me as I brushed. And before that, he was always there, making me almost spit out my toothpaste with his jokes, and I did the same, sitting by his side while he brushed.
As we make our way to the bed and crawl in, our bodies naturally aligning, I mourn that this never became a daily ritual during the months we spent together. Only nightmares, the times Mother lent us the plant book, and studying for the Quell ever brought Peeta and me to sleep in the same bed. That added up to more than half our time together. But now, at the end of my life, I'm reminded of how it's not enough.
Our heads share the same pillow, our feet tangled. I press against him, and he drapes an arm around me, steady and warm. I fold into him, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the warmth of his body fill all the unsteady pieces of me.
I stare at him, mesmerized at how he can make me feel safe after everything. "Peeta?" I whisper.
"Yeah?" he whispers back in the quiet way he only has with me.
I brush my fingers through his hair and look at his lips. "Thank you… for being such a good husband." The words feel small. Not nearly enough for everything he means to me.
I lean in and press my mouth to his. His lips part, soft and warm, and he responds, slow and steady. I can feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of his shirt, the steady beat of his heart under my hand as I slide it to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss deepens, gentle but urgent in the way only he can make it, his breath mingling with mine, the faint taste of him lingering on my lips.
Everything else disappears—the Quell, the Capitol, the rest of the world. Just him. Just the safety of us together. Something only Peeta has been able to give me.
We continue like this for a while, indulging in this last little meal of sweetness before my execution, both of us determined to memorize the other. Peeta’s hands thread through my hair, tugging me closer, while my fingers trace the lines of his shoulders and down his back. Our lips meet and part, soft nibbles and lingering presses, tasting each other.
Peeta interrupts for a second leaning his forehead against mine, those blue eyes that have grown dear to me looking at me intently "Always."
The words are sweet, but they hit wrong, jarring me with a grief I can’t shake at how false they'll soon be. For the life I’m losing, the life I’ve shared with Peeta. The last few months have been brutal, one ache after another. But our home, with Peeta’s easy smiles and loud footsteps—even when he was making me do push ups—was a little safe place.
I rest my head on his chest listening to the beat of his heart. Lucky. That’s all I can think. I’ve been lucky to call Peeta Mellark my husband.
I wake with my tongue feeling parched, rough as sandpaper dragged over wood. My temples pound in sharp, relentless bursts, like a woodpecker’s set up shop inside my skull. I groan and shove my face deeper into the pillow, hoping the darkness will muffle the world a little—especially Peeta’s footsteps, which seem even louder this morning, heavy and impossible to ignore.
No wonder Haymitch is irritated with us all the time.
I feel large, warm hands stroking the back of my head, slow and steady, easing the pounding in my temples. When I blink my eyes open, there’s a tall glass of water waiting on the table beside me, and Peeta is already easing onto the edge of the bed next to me.
He presses the glass into my hands, steadying it when my fingers falter.
“You’re a much nicer drunk than Haymitch,” he says, voice gentle and low, as if he doesn’t want to jar me. Then his fingers tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, grazing my cheek in a way that sends a small, unexpected flutter through me.“Prettier too.”
I down the refreshing water, putting it to the side before collapsing on the pillow. "You didn't think so last time." I mumble, remembering how Peeta threatened and scolded me last time I drank like this.
He chuckles, "I always think you're pretty. You're just prettiest when you're alive." His fingers curl around mine, lifting my hand to his lips and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my knuckles.
“But not my best moment as a husband,” he admits, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Then again, in my defense, I wasn’t planning on being one much longer.”
I snatch my hand away, annoyed at those thoughts even now. "Well you were wrong. You're still my husband."
His blue eyes scan me intently for a second. A soft smile blooms at the corners of his lips. “Right you are,” he murmurs. “I have a lot to make up for.”
The sweet moment is ruined by me. What else is new.
The lingering nausea finally rises, and I’m sprinting for the bathroom, spilling acidic bile into the toilet. By the end, I’m on my knees, dry heaving and miserable. Peeta’s right behind me, one hand keeping my hair out of the way, the other rubbing slow, steady circles between my shoulder blades.
Buttercup makes his way past the doorway to send me a look of digust. I expect him to slink on away but instead he walks in staring at me. But not without dropping the look of derision.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I snap. He may be annoyed by my general existence, but he’s certainly doing Prim’s bidding by looking after me when I’m sick. His bedside manner could use a lot of work.
Peeta chuckles, adjusting his leg and getting up. "Seems like you're very loved." he teases.
The way he’s looking at me makes it clear he’s not just talking about Buttercup. That dismissive glare from the cat suddenly feels earned as I remember half of what I was rambling last night.
I kick Peeta out and stumble to the sink to brush my teeth, shame and dread curling in my stomach as last night’s memories come back. His knack for making even a hangover feel almost joyful only makes it worse. I'm going to inevitably lose him one way or the other. Will I even be able to drink in peace when that happens?
As I step out of the bathroom, Peeta is waiting. He holds out my favorite shirt of his. “Here,” he says, “you’re still in last night’s clothes.”
He turns around, but not before I notice the red creeping up his pale cheeks, bright as strawberries and cream. I can’t help the small smile tugging at my lips. What a sweet boy. I tug his shirt over my head, letting the fabric swallow me up, and for a second I can’t help but breathe in the faint smell of him—bread and spices, and something that’s just him. Or maybe he's a sweet man now. A husband. My husband.
I'm almost temped to tease him that I don't mind him seeing me. But those words would sound stupid out of my mouth. It's only something Peeta could say.
Though the words don’t feel as frightening anymore. Maybe it’s my new acceptance of Peeta as my husband Haymitch mentioned. It only seems right that he would see me. More than right, I think, a pool of heat flaring in my stomach at the memory of how our bodies met recently—the heavy, searing drag of his palms up my waist, the friction of his calluses against my skin, the ragged catch of his breath at my throat, a sound of pure want. And then his mouth, claiming mine with a desperation that awakened that same dangerous ache from the beach, a heady starvation that made me ache to pull him closer and consume him whole.
He opens his strong arms, and I nestle into them, settling onto his lap. I sigh, letting the steadiness of him seep past the fog of my hangover.
I whine when he moves, "You're not doing a good job making up for the last time if you do that" I complain.
He hands me a plate with toast before settling behind me, his hands working through undoing the rat’s nest of my braid. “How about now?” he says with a grin in his voice. I stay quiet. Last time we talked about this I was compared to Buttercup.
Peeta’s fingers work carefully through the tangles of my hair, patient and strong, and I can’t help but notice how precise they are. Perfectly sweet on my skin. “Eat some toast,” he says. “Your stomach needs it.”
I look down at the raisin-and-nut bread, golden and soft, its sweet, warm scent curling around me like a hug. Even after all this time, it soothes me. Just like the boy who gave it to me who is still caring for me after all these years.
I scarf it down, the warmth of the bread and Peeta’s hands chasing away the chill of the world outside. And the cold knot of worry still lingering in me.
Peeta finally finishes remaking my braid, ending it with a small kiss on the nape of my neck. A spike of hunger shoots through me that's definitely not from the toast. I turn to look at his face, so kind and bright, and lean in to press a small, grateful kiss to his cheek.
He grins like I've made his day, "What was that for?"
I feed him the last bite of toast, my fingers brushing his lips. The hungry warmth inside of me makes me bold enough to linger there a moment longer. "Thank you for being such a good husband".
His face lights up like the sun, and before I can even think, he’s pulling me into his lap, pressing me against him. His lips trail over mine in soft, teasing nips, making my skin tingle and my chest tighten with something fierce and tender. It makes me want to follow every inch of him, to let myself believe that if I do, we could be close enough that nothing would ever come between us again despite my history.
He stops for a second as we shift, so I’m beneath him, and presses a gentle kiss to my forehead. His face mirrors the feeling swelling in my chest. “Always,” he whispers.