When this glorious boy inspires you to write a literarily-inaccurate drabble.
My eyes flicker up in response. Peeta’s crouched in front of me, much closer than I expected, and my heart makes a small leap. Even through the scent of ash, rubber, smoke, there’s the faintest hint of something warm there. Something Peeta.
After all this time – the hijacking, the training, the episodes, the disconnect – he’s still under there. Somewhere. I can feel it.
I open my mouth, my voice ripping through a dry throat.
His eyebrows are arched, eyes wide, clear. Clear. Not foggy or hazy or confused like they’ve been so often in Thirteen, or during the mission to the Capitol.
He swallows hard, struggling to find the right words.
“The Valley Song. You—you sang it. When we were five. Real or not real?”
There’s a crackle of innocence in his question. It almost makes the thousands of angry sneers and cutting hatred worth it.
I look around, noting that we’re alone in the room. I suspect Gale is nearby, out in the hall, probably. And the others are downstairs, maybe – in a mission this risky, they couldn’t be too far.
But for now, we’re alone. Really, truthfully alone.
My throat bobs, and on their own volition, my knees inch closer to him. He flinches a little out of habit, but doesn’t pull away.
I scratch behind my ear. “Real, Peeta. You always, well—you always said you were a goner, then.”
I don’t know if this was the right thing to say. It probably wasn’t. Peeta’s memories are edging closer to reality, but oftentimes the ones he trusts are not the ones I try to restore. He still can’t put all his faith in me. I don’t suspect he ever will be able to, not after what they’ve done to him.
But he seems to consider this, leaning back slightly on his haunches, his eyebrows relaxing. Underneath the crusted dirt, slight abrasions, matted curls, his face is smooth, surprisingly enough. Entirely smooth.
A sudden urge to hold him swells through me, but I squash it down. This isn’t the time to let that grab hold of me. The cave, the beach – those were right. This is not.
He takes a deep breath, ash-peppered fingers splaying over his kneecaps. I watch his jaw strain.
“Do you think you could sing it for me again?” he asks. “I—I want to remember.”
Flushing crimson, I look around the small apartment, positive that Gale will come bursting in here immediately. And then the haze will veil Peeta again. The moment will be gone. Just like Finnick, just like Boggs. Just like Twelve. Just like the old Peeta.
But his eyes are so hopeful now, shimmering and expectant and so much like the old Peeta that I feel myself crumble.
I cross my legs. I look at my lap.
My voice is twisted, warped, and I’m too afraid to look at Peeta, knowing I’ll find disappointment there. But I can’t bring myself to stop. Not even when I hear him shuffling closer. Not even when I hear his gentle sigh, just inches from my face.
When it’s over, when I’m positive I’ve broken everything, I finally muster the courage to look up.
And there he is, peering at me underneath those impossibly golden, impossibly long, impossibly tangled lashes with impossibly bright eyes.
This boy, crouched before me, is so impossibly Peeta that I don’t even think to question his hands when they move to cup my jaw.
This time, his lips find mine, just as they should’ve in the hospital in Thirteen after he was rescued.
This kiss is Peeta. His taste is Peeta, his soft moan is Peeta, his hands on my cheeks and in my hair – it’s all Peeta, the boy with the bread, the boy with courage, the boy with extraordinary resilience.
The dandelion in the spring.
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