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Biggest Fan - Chapter 2

Way back in February, @peetabreadgirl had a birthday and her gift was Biggest Fan -- Canadian!Peeta and Texan!Katniss meet in the Marvel fandom and then have a real-life meet-up in Québec City. You can find the first chapter of this story on this blog. We've decided to stretch her birthday fun for five months and offer you this latest chapter. Enjoy!! Banner by @xerxia31

When the morning sun finally begins to glow behind his eyelids, Peeta is contentedly floating on a cloud of sheer comfort. The bed feels exactly right beneath him, his pillow cradles his head perfectly and Katniss is snuggled firmly against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder.

Never has a bed been so inviting.

He’s not sure when she migrated from her side of the bed to his, but he can’t say he’s sorry to start the day with her in his arms, her soft, steady exhales painting a warm trail on his pectoral muscles under his t-shirt. His senses are full of her; the sweet fragrance of her hair, the weight of her arm across his belly, her feet tangled in his. He leans down just enough to place a kiss on the crown of her head and is rewarded with a sigh from Katniss.

She stretches like a cat against him as her body comes to life. “Time is it?” she mutters.

“I’m not sure, about eight? Practically mid-day for a baker.”

The sound of his voice seems to bring her back to herself more quickly. Her grey eyes widen and a pretty flush paints her smooth cheeks as she notices the way they’re practically wrapped around each other, and the fact that they’re both nestled on his side of the bed.

“Sorry,” she squeaks, and in her haste to push away from him, she discovers just how awake Peeta is. He emits an involuntary hiss.

“Oh God,” she drops to her back and slaps a hand over her eyes. “I’m sorry again.”

Peeta can’t help it. He laughs. “It’s not like you hurt me, Katniss.” He rolls to his side, hoping it will provide some slack in his pyjama pants. She parts her fingers and peeks out at him. “Morning wood’s a pretty ordinary thing for a healthy guy, especially if he’s been curled up with a pretty girl all night.”

She snorts and her hand drops from her face in exasperation. “I may beta smut instead of writing it, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t teach you a few things, Cap.”

That line sends his mind careening in all sorts of different directions. His cock throbs for relief.

Her puzzled voice forces his train of thought off its rather sordid track. “Wait a minute. You think I’m pretty?”

He’s forced to shake his head in amazement. “Kat, I thought your Google Docs avatar was pretty. In real life, you’re so much more than that. Beautiful, yes, but there’s just something about you. It’s….” He stares at the ceiling searching for the right word. “Magnetic.” When he chances a look over at Katniss, her face is pale, her front teeth pillowed in her bottom lip.

“I’ve got to take a shower,” she whispers. Then she bolts for the bathroom, snapping the lock behind her.

Peeta lies in bed, bewildered by the turn of events. Wondering if he’d gone too far calling her beautiful. After their nice evening together, and especially after waking up with her in his arms, he’d thought they were on the same page. Now he’s left trying to figure out what’s real and what’s not.

He can hear the water running behind the bathroom door. A mental image of Katniss standing under the spray, her long black hair wet and cascading over smooth olive flesh flashes through his head, and he groans softly. Knowing she’s naked just a few feet away isn’t doing anything to help rein in his dirty thoughts. It’s taking every speck of his restraint not to take himself in hand. It wouldn’t take long. He’s so hard from being this close to her, she’d only have to breathe on it and he’d come.

Fuck, did he really just think about her lips near his cock? With a decisive kick, Peeta knocks the bedcovers aside and shoves his pants down his hips. He exhales in relief when he wraps his hand around the hot flesh, twitching in anticipation. It's not the first time he's stroked himself to thoughts of Katniss Everdeen.

But it’s the first time since he’d held her in his arms, learned her scent and the exact shade of her pink pouty lips. His hand circles his cock, his thumb sweeping over the weeping head to gather the moisture and ease the movement of his fist, slipping slowly downward from tip to root. He imagines those perfect lips enveloping him, slick and wet, taking him deep into her mouth. A quiver of excitement passes through his body and his breath quickens as he envisions Katniss’s grey eyes, dark and cloudy with desire, staring up at him from his lap. A moan rumbles from low in his throat and his strokes quicken, his hips flexing in time with the movement of his hand.

In his mind’s eye, Katniss’s perfect breasts bounce with every pass. She’s riding him now, his cock buried deep within her, the walls of her pussy tightening around him like a silken prison he has no wish to escape. The pleasure builds higher and higher, bringing him closer to what he craves. Every muscle in Peeta’s body tightens and strains as the pleasure mounts within him. He can see her, head thrown back in abandon, needing this, needing him the way he burns for her touch. He bites down on his lip when the familiar tingle begin in the base of his spine, sending bliss sparking throughout his body. And in the moment when his mind flies free and his body follows, he releases onto his belly, her name a whisper on his lips.

It’s only when he’s wiped himself clean with his t-shirt and thrown it to the floor, that he can focus on Katniss’s reaction and what, if anything, he ought to do about it.

He pulls up his bottoms and climbs out of bed, tossing his dirty shirt into his duffle bag. Effie had said something yesterday about breakfast being delivered to their room in a petit panier. Sure enough, he discovers a picnic basket just outside the door. An array of fresh baked pastries, fruit, cheese, yogurt, and juice are tucked inside.

He’s just closing the door behind him when Katniss emerges from the bathroom, still in her tank and sleep shorts, her hair wrapped in a towel. He must have taken her by surprise because she gapes at him.

“Breakfast,” he smiles, holding up the basket and crossing to a small table beneath the window. “It looks amazing. I can’t wait to try these croissants and see how they compare to mine.”

Peeta fishes out a little card that states Gracieuseté de l’Hôtel du Vieux Québec. “A beautiful day is desired to you," he reads aloud. “It’s signed by the manager. Huh. I’ll forgive her English if she tolerates my high school French I suppose. It was nice of her to personalize it, don't you think, Katniss?”

“Katniss?” He turns to find Katniss still standing near the bathroom door, staring at him intently. “Would you like some breakfast?”

Her tongue darts out over her lips and she gives her head a shake. “Uh, yeah, sure. Just let me get dressed real quick. I, uh, forgot my bag earlier. I just need to, um, grab a few things.”

He nods and turns back to the basket. But reflected in the window, he can see Katniss still staring. A slow grin spreads across his face as comprehension dawns. Katniss Everdeen is checking him out.

He can't resist showing off a little. Though there's nothing wrong with the basket’s position, he hefts it into his arms, knowing it'll make the muscles in his back - toned and sculpted from years of lifting hundred-pound flour sacks - ripple and flex.

“OK Kat, you go ahead and get dressed. I’ll take good care of this breakfast basket.”

In the window, he watches her eyes snap off his back to shoot arrows at the back of his head. “Oh,” she sneers, “I don’t think so, Cap.”

He snatches a croissant from the basket and, turning to face her, tears into it with his teeth. His mouth is full of its flaky, buttery goodness when he smirks at her. He swallows. “That’s delicious.”

“Fine,” she harrumphs. “I’ll eat.”

They settle down at the tiny table, the morning light streaming through the window, enjoying the contents of their basket. The fruit is juicy and perfect. They sample ripe melon and strawberries, bits of pineapple and delicious raspberries. Katniss sinks her teeth into what appears to be an apple danish and sighs contentedly.

Peeta fishes an apple out of the basket, breathes on it slightly and is about to shine it on his shirt when he remembers that it’s sticky and buried in the bottom of his bag. Feeling Katniss’s eyes upon him, he shrugs playfully and mimics shining the apple against his chest instead. Katniss’s eyes follow the action, her rosy lips slightly parted. “See something you want?” he asks.

Her eyes round and return to his face. “What?”

“Just wondered if you wanted my apple,” he replies innocently, the rosy flesh of the apple now masking his grin. Katniss flushes and declines. With a shrug, Peeta brings the apple the remaining distance to his lips, the apple providing a satisfying snap as his teeth dig into its tart flesh.

It’s possible, he concludes as he chews, that the attraction he is feeling for his writing buddy is mutual. It’s just too bad that he’s fallen for a girl who’s every bit as shy as she is stubborn. If he approaches her directly, she’ll be on the first plane bound for Texas.

He’ll just have to convince her it’s all her idea.

→ thg ←

By mid-morning they’re both dressed and ready to face the crowds of Carnaval. Hôtel du vieux Québec faces out on the busiest street in the downtown core. The crowds have already begun to gather as people wander in and out of the quaint shops along the narrow streets in the historic city.

Peeta watches in amusement as Katniss takes in her surroundings, eyes wide, head snapping this way and that. The narrow stone buildings, the ancient churches, the snow-encrusted trees -- he sees all of them with fresh eyes as he observes Katniss’s awe. Several times, as they walk towards Carnaval, she’s distracted enough to nearly bump into someone in the thickening crowd.

It’s one of those quintessential Canadian winter days, brilliant sunshine streams across the frozen landscape, setting the snow ablaze in diamond-bright sparkles. But the sun’s intensity belies the breathtaking cold. And while Peeta is accustomed to the weather, Katniss, bundled up in her borrowed down coat and the boots and the snow pants Peeta brought in from the car that morning, has already started shivering.

Peeta tugs her close and gives her upper arms a brisk rub. “Cold already?” At her frantic nod, he tugs the firm trimmed hood of her coat over her bare head. “What have you got on for gloves?”

“These.” Katniss holds up her hands and Peeta clucks his tongue at the thin leather that covers them.

“We’ll have to do better than that,” he decides, and points to a little shop a bit further down Rue Saint-Jean. “They’ll probably have something in there,” he tells her. “Here, tuck your right hand into your pocket and I’ll hold your left in mine. It’ll help you stay warmer.”

The two of them weave their way through the jolly crowd meandering along the sidewalk, their breath freezing in puffy clouds before them as they make their way to the store. The warmth of the little shop is a welcome relief from the crisp winter cold and Katniss immediately lets go of Peeta’s hand to blow heat onto her own. “So cold!” she gasps as she stomps her feet and covers her ears with her hands.

Peeta can’t help but laugh at her reaction. “You’re no winter soldier, KatsEye.”

She scowls at him. “Shut up, Cap. It was 82 degrees in Texas on Thursday. I had lunch on a patio in my flip flops.”

“And now you’re a Katsicle.” Her silver eyes roll skyward and he reaches out to squeeze her hand. “Come on,” he urges, changing the subject. “What better Canadian souvenir than a pair of mittens?”

The kitschy little souvenir shop is plugged with shelves of stuffed moose and beavers in Mountie uniforms. Peeta spots bottles of genuine Quebec maple syrup lined up on a shelf near the cash and a whole display of magnets shaped like maple leaves and fleur de lis. Near the back of the store, they finally find a thick pair of navy mittens with “Québec” embroidered upon them in white stitches. They snatch them up and are soon back out into the cold, making their way towards the Plaines d’Abraham where Carnaval is held each year.

Katniss’s newly mittened hand is clasped in Peeta’s once again when he spots l’Escalier Casse-Cou. The steep concrete staircase descends between historic buildings and patios to the lower part of town.

“Why don’t we go this way,” he suggests as they stand at the top, admiring the view over the snow-topped roofs of the centuries-old buildings below. It reminds him of a medieval village. “This is the oldest part of the city, founded in the 1600s by an explorer called Samuel de Champlain. There are some fantastic galleries down there.”

“Are you sure? We could break our necks walking down these steps.”

“Well, they call it the Breakneck Staircase, but I’ve never heard of anyone actually breaking their neck. I’ve never been down it in winter before, though.”

“Maybe we should get a selfie before we fall to our deaths,” says Katniss, pulling her phone out of her coat pocket, but her mittens are so thick she can’t swipe the screen to unlock it. She curses in frustration and pulls off the right one before sliding her finger across the screen. “The ice was just starting to thaw from my fingertips,” she mutters.

“It’s a Canadian hazard. Come here and stop complaining,” laughs Peeta, and holds out his arm. Katniss snuggles underneath it, her arm around his waist, but she can’t angle her camera high enough to get both their heads in the shot. “It’s a good thing you’re cute,” Peeta teases as he seizes the phone from her. They’re still laughing when he takes the picture. It’s a good one. They’re wrapped in each other; rosy cheeked and smiling brightly with the Quartier Champlain in the shot far below them. “Send me that, will you?” Peeta asks, and she nods, making a few quick swipes on the screen before slipping it back in her pocket.

“Together?” Her navy mitten reaches for his gloved hand.

“Together.”

The trip down the stairs is surprisingly uneventful. The wrought iron handrail is every bit as sturdy as it is decorative and before long, they’ve stepped farther back in time, wandering the narrow cobblestone streets and peeking into the mottled glass windows of the historic buildings. The wooden signs that swing by the doors of the various storefronts boast of artists and artisans of every kind. Peeta points out the textile artists and the painters. Music and delicious smells waft through the doors of the various pubs and restaurants as their heavy wooden doors swing open and closed.

He’s telling her a story about the founding of the city more than four hundred years ago when she stops suddenly, nearly yanking his arm from its socket. “Wait,” she says, leaning towards a window display, her mittened hand hovering over the glass.

It's the kind of combination gallery and souvenir shop that's ubiquitous in Quebec, so he's not sure what's caught her eye. She tugs him closer, silver eyes alight. "My sister," she says, and Peeta nods. If there's anything Katniss talks about more than Bucky Barnes, it's her little sister, Prim. "She's studying marine biology. She'd love that." Peeta squints through the glass and finally understands. In the middle of the handmade mukluks and miniature inukshuks is a soapstone seal, its glossy green surface glinting in the spotlights. “Can we go in?”

Like he could ever say no.

His hand delicately resting on her lower back, Peeta guides Katniss under a garland of greenery, festooned with tin cups and snowshoes, and into the warmth of the shop. It’s small, even smaller than it appears from outside, and jam-packed with Aboriginal art. Katniss heads straight for the window display, but Peeta is distracted by the framed prints that fill every inch of wall space. Until, that is, he realizes the shopkeeper - an older man with greasy hair and bloodshot eyes - is speaking at Katniss in rapid-fire French while she stares, wide-eyed and silently pleading for him to intervene.

“Monsieur,” Peeta says, pulling the man’s attention from his horror-struck companion. “Est-ce que vous pourriez nous aider?”

“Aie, mon homme, viens ici une seconde.” Peeta struggles to keep up with both the speed of the shopkeeper’s speech and his strong accent that suggests he’s from the Outaouais region of Quebec. “J'veux te montrer un p'ti truc qui va sûrement te rendre chanceux avec ta blonde ce soir,” the shopkeeper continues, grinning, and Peeta can feel the heat flooding his cheeks. He’s exceedingly grateful that Katniss doesn’t speak French. He can’t imagine she’d be thrilled to know that a greasy huckster thinks buying this piece of Inuit art is likely to improve his chances of scoring with his beautiful friend. “Check ça mon gars, une super beau phoque.” He gestures to the seal sculpture in Katniss’s hand, and she jumps back, eyes widening further. “J'te dit, c'est un vieux eskimo qui a sculpté ce phoque - il a soixante-quinze ans!” Peeta snickers at that, carved by a seventy-five year old Eskimo. Yeah, that’ll increase the price for sure. He glances back at Katniss, and his amusement recedes. She’s full-on scowling. The shopkeeper clearly doesn’t notice, because he wraps an arm around Katniss’s shoulder and continues. “Tu trouve pas que ta blonde aimeras ça? T'sais déjà comment elle adore ce phoque!”

Peeta slips between Katniss and the older man before she has an opportunity to eviscerate him. Bright red splotches stand out on her cheeks and her jaw is tense, he can practically hear her teeth grinding. Peeta didn’t think she understood French, but he knows she speaks Spanish, so maybe she’s catching more of the shopkeeper’s lewd suggestions than he’d hoped.

“J'te laisse pour cinquante pièces. C'est bon? Tu va me remercier, c'est sûr,” the clerk says, waving toward the small sculpture and winking at Katniss. And while fifty dollars is highway robbery, Peeta is anxious enough to get out of the store that he’ll pay pretty much anything.

“Oui, nous allons le prendre, s'il vous plaît,” he says, sliding the sculpture from Katniss’s clenched fist and pulling out his wallet while Katniss huffs beside him.

By the time they emerge from the shop and back out onto rue Petit Champlain, Katniss is absolutely seething. “Hey,” Peeta says, reaching for her as she attempts to stomp away in the wrong direction. She shrugs him off, spinning to glare at him. Her anger is a lot scarier when it’s aimed in his direction.

“What the hell was that?” she spits, and Peeta struggles to guess which part of the entire strange transaction she’s referring to. “How could you let that guy talk about us like that?”

Peeta stammers. “Katniss, I’m sorry. I was just trying to get us out of there. I didn’t know how much of the conversation you understood.”

"Understood?” Katniss throws her hands in the air, her eyes afire. “What was there to understand? That guy dropped more f-bombs than IronMutt in a smut scene!”

“F-bombs?” Between the colloquial French, and the tension in the shop, Peeta is certain he missed a few words, but he doesn’t remember any f-bombs - French or English - in the shopkeeper’s pitch. He’s just about to argue with Katniss that the salesman - while incredibly lewd - hadn’t actually cursed, when the realization hits him. Phoque sounds a whole lot like fuck to the untrained ear. It was a source of endless joking back in middle school, but Peeta hasn’t thought about it in years.

He snickers like the middle school boy he once was, and Katniss growls. “It’s not funny, Cap,” she says, her voice only slightly below a yell. She’s so pissed that she looks ready to explode, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek hard to tame the giggles. “I thought you Canadians were supposed to be polite?”

She tries to storm away again, and it sobers him. ”Kat- Katniss, no, wait,” he begs, grabbing her arm to halt her escape. He can see her body stiffen, but she doesn’t pull away, turning to face him with fire in her silver eyes. Peeta is struck by the thought that she looks good in flames. Very good. He pulls back, rubbing a mittened hand over the back of his neck, attempting to derail the lustful train of thought his mind is trying to take. “I’m sorry,” he says, a bit breathlessly, and her expression softens a little. “Phoque,” he says, drawing out the vowel sound slightly, “is the French word for seal.”

“It… wait, what?” Katniss scrunches her nose up in confusion, and Peeta bites his cheek again because he wants to tell her that she’s adorable, and he doubts she’d consider it a compliment. Not right now anyway. “Really?”

“Really. The conversation would have sounded a lot different if you’d picked a polar bear instead.” Well, it would have to her, anyway, Peeta thinks. The greasy clerk would probably have been just as convinced of the seductive powers of an ours blanc if it meant freeing another fifty from their wallets.

“Oh,” Katniss says softly, watching him with that cute wrinkle between her brows, as if she’s not completely sure whether to believe him. Peeta wants so badly to kiss that little line. He shakes his head slightly to clear away the image. She has no idea, the effect she has on him. But if he’s learned anything in his eighteen or so hours with Katniss Everdeen, it’s that he has to be patient.

“Yeah, oh,” Peeta smiles, unable to resist teasing her just a bit. He winks to soften the sting. “Let’s continue,” he says, tugging her elbow gently. “There’s so much more to see and daylight’s wasting.”

She huffs, but relents, and they fall into step again, walking the snowy cobbles in silence.

“Ah, there it is,” says Peeta, and points to the end of the street, where the word “Funiculaire” is posted in huge letters on an old house.

“There what is,” asks Katniss, her voice still showing traces of temper.

“The Funiculaire. Our way back up,” Peeta explains. They halt in front of the doors of the house and Katniss cranes her head to watch the little white car slowly climbing the track up the cliff.

“Oh lordy,” she mutters. “Just what, exactly, is a Fun-ic-yoo-layer?”

“Huh.” Peeta purses his lips and screws up his face as he thinks it over. “Well, if an elevator had sex with a ski lift, the Funiculaire would be their love child.”

Katniss looks at him incredulously and then bursts out laughing and squeezes his hand. “You’ve written some crazy analogies over the last year, Peeta, but that one takes the cake.”

Peeta grins sheepishly and shrugs. “Hey, cake is never bad.” He thinks he hears her snort, but is too busy thinking about how natural it seemed for her to take his hand to be sure.

“Come on, let’s go before I change my mind,” she orders, tugging him down the street. “You’re paying for the ride in this death trap, beeteedubs.”

A few minutes and six Canadian dollars later, they are slowly riding up the cliff. Katniss snaps a few shots of the city from the air as they slide towards the summit. When they get to the top and exit the green gazebo-like terminal, they find themselves at the foot of Quebec City’s largest, and possibly most famous, landmark; the Château Frontenac, its turrets pointing to the sky and each one of the pristine windows in the brick towers glinting in the icy glare of the winter sun.

“That is literally the biggest castle I’ve ever seen,” Katniss murmurs. “Not that I’ve ever seen one before.”

“It’s actually a hotel,” Peeta explains. “The oldest in Canada. I would guess that royalty has probably stayed there, but it’s never been an actual castle. I think it has something like 700 rooms.”

“Have you ever stayed there?” She wanders the path in front of the Funiculaire exit and snaps a few pictures with her phone.

Peeta wonders if he should have tried to get them a room there. “No. My parents have, a few times, I think. It’s very swanky.”

“It’s a beautiful building, that’s for sure, but I bet they don’t serve breakfast in a basket.”

Peeta watches her pocket her phone and wonders whether she could be any more perfect for him. Her grey eyes are dancing when she links her arm with his and they start to stroll along the boulevard beside the hotel. “How much farther to the Car-na-val?” She lingers over each vowel sound, attempting the French pronunciation. It’s so adorable he can hardly stand it.

Instead, he points to the noisy park just a stone’s throw away. “We’re almost there. Can you see the ice castle? That’s where Bonhomme lives.”

“Who’s Bonhomme?”

“The King of Winter,” Peeta explains. “Come on. We’ll get our effigies and we’ll go find him.”

“Effigies? What kind of carnival is this?”

Peeta laughs. “Relax. It’s like an ornament. Of Bonhomme. It’ll get us in and out of the carnaval.”

When they get to the gates, Peeta requests, “deux passeports de Carnaval, s’il vous plaît.”

“Quatre-vingt-dix pièces, monsieur.”

Peeta reaches for his wallet to pay for their ultimate passes, but Katniss stills his hand. “No way,” she insists. “You paid for the hotel room. You paid for dinner last night. You bought the phoque.” Her upper lip curls when that word slips past her lips. “You’re not paying for this too.”

He sighs, knowing there’s no point in arguing with Katniss when a line is forming behind them. “Fine. I asked her for two Carnaval passports. It’s $90.”

Katniss pulls her wallet from her pocket. “Lemme get my Monopoly money out. So, I need a pink one and two green ones, or one brown one, right?”

He can’t help it. He snorts, but gets out of her way while she pays the ticket seller. The look on her face when a plastic bag filled with goodies is shoved back through the window is so priceless, he laughs aloud. They make their way through the gate and Peeta pulls her aside, whipping the fleece-lined souvenir toque from the bag, and tugging it down over her ears before flicking her nose with one of the bright red pom-poms that swing from a braided tassel.

“I look ridiculous,” she huffs.

“We’ve got a second set for me, so we’ll look like tourists together. Now shut up and put on your scarf.” He pulls the brightly woven scarf from the bag and ties it snugly around her neck. He pins her effigy to her coat and stands back to admire his work.

“Canadian is a good look on you,” he decides. “Plus, now you won’t be cold.”

He pulls off his own toque and replaces it with the official carnaval hat, then ties his scarf around his neck and pins on the little plastic snowman. There are six tickets in the bottom of the bag that he passes to Katniss, asking her to tuck them in her wallet. He stuffs his old hat and scarf in the bag, tosses in the infamous phoque sculpture and takes her hand back in his own before tugging her towards the giant ice castle.

“C’mon. I want a picture of us at the castle,” he insists, “all dressed up in our matching gear.”

Peeta drags her past vendors and activities. She points to snow rafting, an ice slide and a petting zoo and begs to stop, but he keeps going until they are standing in the shadows of l’Assemblée Nationale du Québec where an enormous castle made of ice glistens in the afternoon sun. “

You people sure like your castles,” she drawls.

“This is Bonhomme’s house,” he explains. “It’s our best chance to see him, but first I want that picture. Peeta pulls his phone from his pocket and positions himself behind Katniss with his arm around her waist. He waits for her to pull away and can’t help but feel a surge of pleasure at the way she relaxes against him instead. He whips off his mitten and aims the camera for the perfect selfie. “Now smile,” he orders.

When he lowers the camera, he can’t help but smirk at how couple-y they look in their matching gear, wide grins and cozy pose. The tips of their noses glow and their eyes sparkle in the sun.

Katniss pulls out her phone and waves it at him. “Send me that,” she orders, and he obliges. She flicks her finger across the screen and a satisfied smile spreads across her lips. “It’s a good one.” She flicks and taps the screen a few more times to save the image and then tucks the phone back in her pocket. “So, are we going to meet this snowman or not?”

Hand-in-hand, they join the queue for Bonhomme’s home, shuffling as it snakes slowly forward and stamping their feet to keep their toes from freezing. When Katniss starts to shiver, Peeta wraps his arms around her.

“Bonhomme, Bonhomme sais-tu jouer ? Bonhomme, Bonhomme sais-tu jouer ?” Peeta’s song is more than little off-key but she laughs as he bounces her back and forth in his arms, so he keeps going. “Sais-tu jouer de ce violon-là ? Sais-tu jouer de ce violon-là ?”

“Peeta, what on Earth are you singing?”

“The Bonhomme, Bonhomme song,” he chortles. “The Ontario education system tortures us all with it. Bonhomme, Bonhomme, tu n’es pas maître dans ta maison quand nous y sommes!”

By the time they make it to Bonhomme’s front door, Peeta has challenged Bonhomme to play the violin, the flute and the drums and Katniss is begging for relief. But she’s not shivering, so he counts that as a win.

Just inside the door, an eight-foot tall snowman awaits them.

“Holy frick, what is that?” Katniss breathes, her head tilted upwards to take in the giant’s red toque and maniacally grinning face. Her head leans against Peeta’s chest, the pom pom of her Carnaval hat tickling his jaw and he almost sighs with how good it feels.

“That,” Peeta says, unable to resist the urge to pull her a little closer, “is who we’re here to see. Meet Bonhomme Carnaval, the king of winter.”

“Hello! Bonjour!” calls Bonhomme to the crowd. The voice booms through the ice castle, but Peeta finds the whole effect to be a bit strange since the snowman’s mouth can’t move in his plastic face. “Bienvenue! Welcome to my home. Do you want to see my kick?” The giant kicks his leg high into the air.

As the snowman carries on with his antics, someone taps Peeta on the shoulder. He turns to find one of the festival workers grinning broadly at him. “Veux-tu que je prenne un photo de toi et ta blonde avec Bonhomme?”

“Absolument,” Peeta replies. “Merci.” He tugs Katniss’s hand. “They’re going to take our picture with Bonhomme.”

“Peeta, he’s creepy,” she hisses as they approach the front of the line.

He agrees, but can’t resist teasing her. “Who were you expecting, Frosty the Snowman?” When she sputters in outrage, he gives her hand a tight squeeze while handing his phone off to the attendant. When he’s sure no one is listening, he leans over to whispers in her ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from the weird cultural icon.”

Just then, Bonhomme steps between them and throws his arms around their shoulders. “So, you want a photo with Bonhomme? Bon! Un joli sourire pour le caméra. Un, deux, trois!”

The flash on Peeta’s phone goes off and they are hustled away to make room for the next group. The attendant meets them with a grin and passes the phone back to Peeta. “Je crois que ta blonde n’est pas une fan de Bonhomme,” he says gleefully.

No, Peeta thinks, gazing down at their latest picture. Katniss, her face twisted into a suspicious grimace, certainly isn’t a Bonhomme fan. “Elle est Américaine,” he confides, causing the Carnaval staffer to burst into laughter. The other man nods knowingly as though Katniss’s nationality explains everything. “Joyeux Carnaval!” he calls out, slapping Peeta on the shoulder before they make their way out of the castle.

Once outside, Peeta realizes the day is slipping away. “How about a hot chocolate?”

Katniss looks at him in relief. “No more weird snowmen?”

“Not today,” he chuckles. “We’ll sip hot chocolate, check out the snow sculptures and then go back to the hotel. Sound good?”

Before long, they have traded two of the tickets in Katniss’s wallet for steaming cups of hot chocolate. Katniss hums happily as she takes her first sip and the warmth Peeta feels around his chest has as much to do with the smile on her face as the chocolate in his belly. Arm in arm, they stroll around the Plaines d’Abraham, admiring the sculptures that are strategically positioned between the other attractions.

“The snow sculpture contest attracts artists from all over the world,” Peeta explains as they gaze at a mythical horse rising out of the snow, it’s mane unfurled around it. “It’s one of the biggest snow sculpture competitions in the world.” Their next stop is a giant lizard, his long tongue stretching across the snow, seemingly ready to lick unsuspecting passersby. A man of snow lies on the ground, fighting off a pack of wolves. Each design is more fanciful than the one before and Peeta and Katniss find themselves weaving elaborate stories about them.

“What do you think about this one?” Peeta asks, as they admire a sculpture of a woman, gowned in an elaborate dress, her hands outstretched in a frozen plea. Her wings tower high above them. “An angel?”

Katniss shakes her head vigorously. “No way. She’s a warrior. Check out the arrows on her back.”

Sure enough, Peeta spots the strap of her quiver carved into her dress and the fletchings peeking out over her shoulder. “I guess she’s an avenging angel, kind of like you.”

Katniss peers at him incredulously. “Are you kidding me?”

“C’mon Katniss. You know you love the underdog the best. You’re not afraid to fight for what you believe in. You even shoot. And I think she looks a little bit like you.” His companion scoffs. “No, really. Look. Long hair, pointed chin, big eyes that are impossible to resist. She’s stunning. Like you.”

Katniss gazes at him silently over the rim of her cup for a few seconds, then downs the rest of her hot chocolate. “You about finished?”

Peeta nods slowly, swallowing the now-cold dregs of his cocoa and watching her carefully. He’s observed - and catalogued - a wide variety of different Katniss expressions over the past twenty-four hours, but he’s not sure he’s seen this one before. “Sure,” he says. “Shall we head back to the hotel?” He knows she’s cold. He is too, and a little tired.

“How about we get some food?” There’s something about her soft smile that makes Peeta think she’s not talking about maple taffy, or frites from one of the food vendors around Carnaval. “There’s, uhm. There’s a little restaurant at the hotel. I peeked at it this morning,” Katniss says shyly, and Peeta can’t help grinning. They don’t have reservations, but he’s prepared to grovel, or maybe bribe the maitre d’, if it means seeing Katniss’s shy smile again.

They toss their paper cups in a bin, then Katniss’s mittened hand curls around Peeta's again.

The sun sets early in Quebec City in the winter, so when they pass Bonhomme’s house once more, the towering ice castle glows an almost otherworldly blue in the fading light. “It’s beautiful,” Katniss breathes, and as Peeta looks at her lovely face bathed in the ice-diffused spotlights he can’t help but agree.

A comfortable silence stretches between them as they stroll in the twilight, until they’re only about a block away from the hotel. “Hey,” Katniss says, her nose wrinkling in that way that Peeta can’t resist. “How are we here already? Where’s the foo-nic-yoo-lair?”

Peeta laughs, a silver-mist cloud of delight. “We took the scenic route this morning. I figured you’d want to get back to warmth a little faster tonight.” Katniss shrugs, but her hand squeezes his more tightly, he thinks maybe in gratitude.

Once they reach the hotel, Katniss heads directly to their room while Peeta pops into the restaurant to see about a table. It turns out he doesn’t have to beg or even take out his wallet; once he gives his name to the host the man smiles and tells him to come back in an hour. Peeta can’t help marvelling at his luck that Bistro Tournebroche can fit them in, even though it’s Carnaval time and the city is crazy busy.

He bounds up the stairs two at a time, anxious to tell Katniss the good news.

Katniss is sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the gas flames in the small fireplace. She’s taken off her winter gear, reddened fingers and stocking-clad feet stretched out towards the warmth. And for a few moments, all Peeta can think is how perfect a picture she makes, how much he would love to see her similarly perched in front of the fireplace in his Toronto condo. But he shakes away the mental image. Too soon, he chides himself.

When Peeta clears his throat, Katniss turns from her contemplation of the blue flames, and lifts an eyebrow. “They can fit us in at six-thirty,” he says. “Just enough time for a hot shower, if you want?” Peeta wouldn’t mind one himself; despite the breathtaking cold, all of the day’s walking has left him sweaty and with an epic case of hat-hair.

“Perfect,” Katniss says, standing gingerly. “Maybe that’ll thaw out my toes.”

They manoeuvre around each other in the small room like two people perfectly in sync, taking turns in the washroom, sharing the lone mirror. When Peeta emerges from the bathroom refreshed and fastening the cuffs of the deep blue button down shirt his father talked him into packing, Katniss is waiting. He freezes, jaw dropping. “What, too casual?” she asks.

“God no,” he breathes. She’s wearing the same slim jeans she wore yesterday, the ones Peeta already knows cling to her curves in the most incredible way, but she’s paired them with a slinky silvery top that hugs her perfect breasts. “Wow,” is all he can manage.

Katniss snorts, and the sound shakes away the fog, forces him to lift his eyes to the cascade of black hair, unbound and framing her face. To her lush lip, trapped between white teeth as gazes at him with trepidation, waiting.

“You are absolutely beautiful,” Peeta says sincerely. Her silver eyes briefly light up in pleasure, but she shrugs off the compliment.

“Right, okay, let’s go before I starve to death.” She tries to push past him, but Peeta reaches for her hand, tucking it firmly into the crook of his elbow.

The restaurant, like the hotel interior, is modern and cozy. They’re seated by one of the large windows, the perfect place to watch the flock of tourists who still stream by, lit by the street lamps. “Bonsoir madame, monsieur,” a young man in a waiter’s uniform greets them. “Puis-je vous apporter quelque chose à boire?” he asks, gesturing to the expansive wine list on the table.

“What do you think,” Peeta asks, skimming the list. “Would you like wine, or there’s a nice selection of local microbrews?”

The waiter, it turns out, speaks English, like many in the tourism industry in Quebec do. When he returns with their drinks - red wine for Katniss, beer for Peeta - he seems quite happy to translate the menu for Katniss and answer her questions. Peeta sips a very pleasant bier de blé while listening to him explain to Katniss the various organic offerings on the menu, the farms they’ve partnered with, the garden and beehives on the hotel’s rooftop. As Peeta watches her animatedly discuss ethical farming, he marvels at how perfect she is for him, how easily her interests align with his own.

And he knows-- she’s it for him. He’s completely head-over-heels in love with her.

It's the best date Peeta's ever been on, and he's not even sure it's a date. He's utterly captivated by the way the candlelight plays in Katniss’s ebony hair, crowning her in fire. He's lost in her silver eyes, imprisoned by her musical laughter. She's the most attractive person he's ever seen, the most appealing, the most dynamic. But beyond that, she's still his KatsEye, his best friend in the world. She still makes him laugh and think; still amazes him, only now the thoughts that enthrall him aren't lines of text in a chat, but actual words murmured in her husky voice, accompanied by a wrinkled nose or a bemused smirk.

They linger over coffee and crème brûlée, never once running out of things to say. Only when Katniss stifles a yawn does Peeta become aware of just how long they've been huddled together in the dim restaurant. “I guess we should call it a night?” Peeta’s reluctance is clear in his voice. But Katniss only nods.

Hand in hand, they ascend the stairs to their room. When they pause at the door, Peeta is struck by how much it feels like walking a girl to her door after a date. Except this isn’t just any girl, this is Katniss Everdeen. And he won’t be leaving her at the door.

He closes the door behind them, then turns to find Katniss stopped just inside, looking up at him with a mischievous glint in her steely eyes. “I had a really great time today,” she says, just barely loud enough for him to hear. “Thank you.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” Peeta smiles. He knows this day will live forever in his memory as one of the best of his life. Then Katniss reaches up, fingering the collar of his dress shirt, and he swallows hard. He wants to kiss her so bad, the impulse nearly consumes him, but he reins it in; even as her thumb brushes against his jaw, catches the day’s stubble, making him erupt in goosebumps. His hands find her tiny waist seemingly of their own volition, but even then he holds back. Peeta knows how skittish she is, knows that if he pushes things she’ll run, and he just won’t risk that.

But then Katniss smiles, beautiful and blinding, and before Peeta even realizes it, he’s leaning down. And she’s standing on tiptoe, her fingers winding in the curls at the nape of his neck. Time seems to stop at they stare, unblinking, lips only a breath apart. Fuck it, he thinks. She flew all the way here, she’s already been bold. Now he has to be too. And with that thought, his eyes drift closed and he places a gentle kiss on those lips that are just as soft as he imagined.

He pulls back a little, but she chases him, then they’re kissing like they really mean it, a delicious exploration. Home, Peeta thinks as Katniss nips his bottom lip, then soothes the sting with a swipe of her tongue. He’s home, and he never wants to leave.

Each slide of her lips against his fuels his hunger, each soft sigh a lightning bolt straight to his gut. As many times as he’s fantasized about kissing Katniss, the reality is so much better. Her shuddering breaths against his cheek. The heat of her skin where her top has pulled up just an inch, smooth under his twitching fingers.

They’re both breathing heavily when Katniss pulls back, eyes still closed and licking her lips as if she wants to savour every last taste of him. Peeta drops his forehead to hers, their noses just brushing. “Wow,” she whispers, and he puffs out a soft laugh.

“Wow,” he echoes

→ thg ←

While yesterday there was a sweet awkwardness in climbing into bed with Katniss, today there’s a crackling tension. Yesterday, the tank and tiny shorts she sleeps in were adorable, today they’re excruciating.

Peeta managed, barely, to get himself under control while Katniss was changing in their shared bathroom. But as she clicks off the light and slides under the comforter, her bare legs grazing his flannels, it’s all he can do to keep his dick in check. She’s gorgeous, she’s six inches away, and he now knows what her perfect peach pout tastes like. It’s the most delectable torture. But her post-kiss escape to the bathroom convinced him that they needed to slow down. For now.

He lies on his back, watching bits of light from a crack in the curtains play across the ceiling and listening to Katniss squirm as she tries to get comfortable. The distance between them feels intolerable, he wants to touch her, just to remind himself that she’s here, that she’s real. So he reaches out, tugging her closer. She stiffens, just a bit at first, but then she sighs and rests her head on his chest, right above his heart. And Peeta’s world realigns itself.

“Peeta?” It’s been quiet for so long he thought she was asleep. His fingers still where they’ve been doodling designs on the soft skin of her bare shoulder.

“Mmm?”

"What does tablon mean?”

“Tablon?” He searches for what she could be asking, coming up blank.

“I heard it a lot today. The crazy seal guy said it. The guy with the scary snowman. Even the waiter tonight. And maybe I’m wrong, but I think they were calling me tablon?”

Peeta’s breath catches. She means ta blonde, and yes, those men were definitely referring to her when they said it. “Ah,” he says, uncertain how she’s going to react. “Ta blonde, it, uh. It means ‘your girlfriend’.” He holds his breath, waiting for her to yell, or slap him.

“Oh,” she murmurs. “Ta blonde.” Her lilting accent makes the endearment sound like music. Then she nestles more snugly into his chest and he swears he can feel her smiling.

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