XII. Sender: Effie Trinket

Crickets chirp highly in the tree in front of the window, almost as if they're in the room with us. While I keep turning from one side of the bed to the other, trying to find a comfortable position I almost collide with Peeta in the process. I stop immediately, forcing my body into stillness. This is good, I remind myself. A few weeks ago he was uncomfortable with light touches, hugs and kisses. Now we're lying in bed. Together. Still, it isn't cozy. Peeta has a hard time falling asleep with me in his bed, and cuddling happens rarely. He never falls asleep before me. This hurts, because I see it as an issue of trust. Sleeping in front of me is something that is hard for him, because he still isn't able to open himself completely. Sighing, I get up slowly. I won't find any rest in Peeta's bed tonight. I'm not even tired. My thoughts run in circles and always stop at the book that lies, deeply hidden in my drawer. Silently I crawl out of the bed and leave the room, creep down the stairs and out of his house. It isn't the first time that I leave in the middle of the night to go back to my house. I feel the slightest bit of guilt about not being able to rest next to Peeta, about leaving him like that. But then...

There was a package from Effie in the mail two days ago. I had almost forgotten, that I'd asked for books on human reproduction from her. While Ermengarde tries to answer my questions as good as she can, it is still very embarrassing to me. I simply cannot talk to her about sex the way I want to. Not because I don't trust her, or she is being weird about it or something. The truth is I have nobody I can talk to about this because I don't want to. It's too private, too intimate. When I opened Effie's note she told me that the book was the most popular on the topic and included centuries of research on human sexuality. I wrote a long and heartfelt thank you note to our former escort. I find myself reading through it every minute I find during my busy days, but mostly at night. The book, called 'Human Sexuality - A guide for the body and mind', comes in an unassuming red leather cover. Effie sent me the expensive edition, one a famous artist turned biologist, created the drawings for. It's said to be an all-time-classic in the Capitol.

For the first time in my life I begin to understand my body. The female anatomy, my fertility circle and finally - my fantasies. Many of them began when Peeta was gone for the year. I had been confused and thought that perhaps something was wrong with me when I imagined Peeta and me having sex in certain positions, but now I know it is natural for women to feel this way. The most interesting thing I learned is that it is important to know your own body, know what you like, know how to get off, so that you can show or tell your partner what to do. I want to take the pressure off Peeta. If I know myself, know how to make myself reach that peak, that climax, it will be easier for both of us. He shouldn't be burdened with an insecure partner, shouldn't have the responsibility of making me feel good on his own. In turn, I try to learn as much as possible about the male body. I want so badly to please Peeta, to know him, and to make him happy. I'm burning with desire, hoping every evening that he'll let me touch him a bit more. It's been weeks since he sucked my breasts and that is my go-to-fantasy to get me off by now. Our kisses became more frequent and sometimes he touches my breasts without me asking for it. It's hardly enough for me, but I know better to pressure him for more.

Winter turns into spring when I start to write a book of my own. This idea has been growing inside of me for a long time. Peeta rereads the letters I wrote to him from time to time, telling me that he loves the way I write, that I have a gift for it. That, even though I have problems putting my thoughts into words verbally, I excel at writing. As soon as I started this project I left messages for Fulvia Cardew, Cressida and Hazelle. I want them to spread the word, that I am writing memoirs. Shortly after the phone didn't stop ringing. The three biggest publishing houses of Panem are trying to outbid each other. My book, they are certain, will be an instant classic, a bestseller within hours. The demand is high. And the money, the money they are offering is far beyond what I expected. Happily I contacted the Bank of Panem a few weeks ago, positive that the advance payment would be more than enough to get the bakery and the building back.

They were reluctant to tell me how much the bakery is worth. Maybe sensing that I want to buy it back fast. Hot, fierce anger made me scream at the director, when I realized that they also bought the bakery because of the Mellark name, trying to push the price, so that rich Capitol folks who were or are fans of Peeta will pay a sum that exceeds the actual worth of the building and the facilities by far. They didn't want to sell it to me, that much was clear. I was beside myself with rage and began to threaten the guy, told him he could have it, we would just open another, better one. Then he calmly stated that we could - only without Peeta, as he sold the rights to his name as well. This bank, they had screwed Peeta over. My blood was boiling when I got off the phone with them. Peeta had been in pain, under no condition to make such an important decision. The bank of Panem utilized on this. I was tempted to creating a new chapter of my book, where I would tell my readers exactly who these people were. The realness of the situation was like a rug that was pulled away under me. I never thought I would have to face such unfairness, such discussions, with such people. It was clear that the bank of Panem was still under the thumb of former Capitol people. People from the Districts would never use each other like this, would they?

Spring slowly turns into summer, when Peeta and I fall into a routine. He is in the bakery more, especially since the famous summer festival is approaching fast.

"I need help from the boy next door," I tell him one night, when we get ready for bed in his house. I'm not sure if I will find sleep here, but I try to go to bed with him at least. He never complains about not waking up with me. I hope I don't offend him with my actions, but it when I get up so early I need my sleep and most nights I cannot do it. I refuse to masturbate when he is in bed with me, as that would be rude. So i find my release in my house, in the shower, early in the mornings, before I leave for work.

"You know, I cannot do it on my own," I whisper in his ear, "The work is overwhelming."

Peeta sighs, "You're not alone, though," he says, "You have Peatrice and Eric."

"As hot as they are," I say teasingly, while I play with his earlobe, "They are a far cry from famous and talented Peeta Mellark."

He chuckles, and then nods. "I'll help, of course," he whispers back.

Feeling a bit of relieve I snuggle closer, while Peeta massages my back.

"Mmh," I mutter into his chest, already drifting off, when he suddenly speaks.

"Plutarch Heavensbee called," he states coolly. I'm awake immediately, pulling myself up.

"He called you?" I ask, confused. Plutarch has been working hard ignoring my letters and phone calls. For years.

"Yeah," Peeta answers. "I haven't talked to him in a long time. The last time when I was at Mount Nebel."

"Okay," I blubber, "What..what did he want?"

"He made me an offer."

An offer? What does Plutarch Heavensbee has to offer Peeta?

"Don't think I didn't realize what you're doing, Katniss. You're trying to raise money so that you can buy the bakery. I know."

Never have I talked to Peeta about it. Actually, I had wanted it to be a surprise. Giving it to him, when I bought it back, as a gift. I had it all planned out, but in hindsight that seems stupid. It is very obvious what I was doing these last few months.

He searches for my hand and squeezes it against his heart, when I don't answer.

"I'm glad," he says into the darkness, "Glad that you fight for me and my happiness. When I first realized what you were doing I wanted to stop you, I was furious and angry. I went to the bakery, ready to call you out on it, when I saw you through the window, laughing with Peatrice, and talking to some customers. You looked so happy and then it was finally clear to me that you don't only fight for the bakery so that I can have it back. You also do it for yourself. I turned around and went back home. I didn't confront you. I didn't stop you."

"Oh," I say and pause for a second. "So...you...I mean, you're right. I do it for myself. I do it for you. I want it for us. Because I think it will be good. For both of us. To live a life as bakery owners. That has never been my life plan, but...I want it now."

"Bakery owners," he says, weighing the words, "I never saw it this way. And it still kind of befuddles me. That you really want the bakery. That you like to work there. Never, ever would I have imagined you would like it that much. Well, maybe as a young boy..."

"What did you imagine?"

I'm curious about this. What were his fantasies, what kind of life did he imagine as a child?

"Well," he answers, and I can just make a out a little blush on his cheeks, "You and me owning the bakery. I was an only child in the fantasy. My father and mother long gone. I sell at the front and you knead dough in the back. And between our legs a dozen kids, a mixture between black and blonde, who would never be hungry, who would always be loved. There was to be no shouting or hitting. Only love in the Mellark bakery."

My eyes burn. What a sweet imagination little Peeta had.

"I was six, that is my excuse," he laughs. I chuckle and sink back on the pillow, next to him.

"It sounds wonderful."

"Plutarch's offer was to return the bakery. As a gift, no debts left with the United Bank of Panem. A clean slate."

I gasp. This is fantastic. I succeeded, it worked!

"Yes," I exclaim, clapping my hands together in excitement, "Finally some good news."

"I refused," Peeta says calmly.

"What?"

'No', I want to shout, 'No, No, No, why would you do that?'

"We're talking about Plutarch Heavensbee, Katniss. Naturally he wouldn't make that offer because he likes us so much, and only wants to see us happy. This man has ulterior motives in everything he does, and he wasn't shy when it came to the conditions. First of all he wanted to film a documentary. Of you and me, years after the war. What we were up to, how we live now."

"That doesn't sound so bad," I say slowly. Yeah, I don't want our lives to be public property again, but that seems like a small price to pay to get our business back. How bad could it be?

"It is bad. Do you think we would have any say in this? Plutarch insisted that we won't. So he can cut this documentary however he wants it, adding the off-commentary he wants. He's out to manipulate again, and I won't have it. I don't want any camera team filming us, nor do I want to be a public figure ever again. This is not good for my healing. He wanted to do a TV-show on mentally 'challenged' war-survivors as he called them, when he talked to me on Mount Nebel. Dr. Aurelius would have received a nice donation if he'd agreed, but he is too wise and saw through Plutarch's plan. This is serious stuff. Plutarch believes himself a puppet master, stringing us all along. We shouldn't be a part of this."

"Oh," I say, slightly puzzled, never knowing that Peeta dislikes Plutarch this much. I admit I'm not his biggest fan either, but always kind of..well, saw him as not exactly one of the good guys, but at least an ally. He played a big part in the revolution, and he always seemed like an intelligent man. Like he would listen to reason. Sometimes.

"This is not all." His voice tightens. "He wanted me to promise that I would do all in my power to stop your writing. He doesn't want this book published, Katniss. He tried to hide it real good, like this condition was only an afterthought, but I think this is his main motivation. He is scared. I guess, he has spies with the publishers and as soon as he realized that they were willing to pay good money he was happy to open his purse. It's not even his own money, but money from the government. I told him no. He said, "If you could only convince her that this is not such a good idea.." and then started a rant about hiring a ghostwriter for you, if you really want to publish a book. So that you could work together. I hung op on him then."

I'm so shocked by these words and more or less ashamed at myself that I had almost fallen for the offer.

"Why would he call you? Why not tell me of these plans himself?"

Peeta hesitates for a second, "I have a few theories. One, he thinks you do hold a grudge for what happened with your retrial. And two, he thinks I can influence you, while he doesn't believe that I'm as clever as you are. I'm easier to fool. And it is my bakery. He probably believed I would do all I could to have my shop back, not counting on the fact that you are involved with the business."

Shaking my head I nestle closer, "Do you really believe that Plutarch would underestimate you like this?"

Peeta chuckles darkly, "You might not believe it, but most people think you're the brain behind the star crossed lovers."

Shivering I try to breathe in deeply, and succeed. It's been a very long time since Peeta referred to us as the star-crossed-lovers. The words bear a certain weight, and I realize that I despise them. It is not us. We're not that.

"That's not true," is all I say. Once more I cannot find the words for what I'm feeling.

"It is. Plutarch Heavensbee also chose you, Katniss. Made you the Mockingjay. You know that. You know, I was disposable," he pauses and then slowly says, "I was very naive when I got reaped. While I knew that the world was no happy place, I also bought the Capitol propaganda. I was too sensitive for the games. Too soft."

Now I really have to speak up, "You told me something. On the roof before our first games. That you wanted to die as yourself. That you thought you had no chance, but did not want to become a monster, didn't want them to change you. That didn't sound like some simpleton spoke them. You're intelligent. Long before I even realized the meaning, you knew."

He waits for a moment and then says, "Might be so. We were young. It feels like a lifetime ago. I'm not so sure now, who I was and what I felt before the games. I wanted to keep you safe. Keep you alive, that's why I joined the careers. It might seem noble in retrospect, but sometimes I wonder if I did all this, confessed my love and tried to get you back home because I was so afraid of facing what was really happening. That I was going to be in The Hunger Games and that I was going to die. I focused on you so that I didn't have to focus on myself. I gave up on me. There wasn't much love of self in my life. Sure I didn't want to die as someone else, but why was that the most important to me? Wouldn't that be not dying at all? For me it wasn't."

Coldness seeps through my veins. Peeta is opening up, and I should be glad for it. But what he is telling me is dark. So dark I'm not sure I can handle it. Peeta is my hope, my sun, the one who makes the world brighter. That he didn't value his life, that he had been in such a dark place - it is scaring me.

"I'm sorry," he says, "This conversation got weird, real fast. I think you would make a good Dr. Aurelius. You listen and ask the right questions. Anyway, back to Plutarch. I told him take his offer and shove it. You will write your book. And you will publish it under your terms. If the publishers want you to make any edits, you can refuse. We will find someone who wants to print the truth. You can do it."

I'm not so sure about that.

"My original plan was exactly what Plutarch proposed, Peeta," I admit, "I never planned to publish the book. I only wanted the bakery back. It doesn't surprise me that Plutarch wants to avoid this, I counted on it."

"Does that feel right to you?" he asks, voice shaking, "To get the bakery through such means? I mean, it wasn't stolen from me. I sold it, because I needed the money. I know have to find a solution, soon. I really didn't want to ask for it, but I got an backdated invoice last week. The bank wants to see money. If we continue to bake in the building they want a piece of the cake, so to say. Rent for the building and facilities, share of the turnover."

I can only gasp. What?

"Yeah, I know. However this plays out I don't want you to give up your book. And if you end up publishing it, don't use the all of your money for the bakery."

"Peeta," I begin. Of course, I will use the money. It is the solution to all of our problems, presented on a silver plate.

"I'll stop hunting," he announces. Unconsciously my hands turn into fists.

There it is. He will stop hunting. While I should be happy about this, I am not. He notices my frown.

"Working in the bakery won't make enough money. I want the bakery back, but I want to buy it myself. With my own money that I earned with honest work. I started looking for a job a while ago and I will work with the construction crew, starting next week."

"No," I plead.

"The pay is good," he reinforces, "And you don't need to fire Peatrice and Eric. I wouldn't be able to either, Elmar and Cora were hard enough. The construction job involves painting and decorating, so it is not like it'll be a job I dislike."

"But Peeta," I respond, "Please think about this more. Let's find a way to work in the bakery. We need you there." Struggling, I try to find a solution but my thoughts are all chaotic. Maybe we can make it work if Peatrice reduces her hours? I cannot force that on Eric, he needs the money more.

"It's not so bad, Katniss," Peeta says softly, "I'll continue to help you guys in my free time. Maybe in the mornings, before the construction work begins. I'm young and strong. I hope to get the bakery back before I turn thirty."

I'm not satisfied with this plan. It could be done, faster, easier. The United Bank of Panem has no argument. As soon as Peeta and me stop working at the bakery, it will wither. The building isn't even worth that much. I know he needed the money, but that he signed away the name "Mellark's Bakery" was the biggest mistake. The name, and Peeta himself made the shop. And the Bank of Panem is counting on it. I don't want Peeta to overwork himself. I've seen what happens to him when he stops having leisure time. It might not be that bad this time, because I am involved now, but generally too much stress will be a big mistake for us. Construction work is physical. Might be that Peeta will set a punishing pace. Might be that Peeta destroys his body before he can even make it to thirty. That he wants to buy it back with his own money is understandable, but still...I cannot let him go that far.

"We don't have to decide that tonight," I say, hoping to find sleep soon, so that I can find a solution in the days to come.

Peeta sighs and we settle into our usual position in each other's arms, falling into an uneasy sleep.

There is no magical solution. Peeta starts his construction job the following week and I stay at the bakery. He's uneasy when he shows me the payment requests from the bank. Rightfully so, as I cannot hide my anger at them. Payment is due in two weeks. I wonder if these sudden demands are my fault. Did I wake sleeping dogs when I started to inquire, when I contacted the bank last year? Suddenly they seem aware that they own it. I give Peeta a forced smile and tell him not to worry. There is some profit we made during the year. It's not much, as I had to pay Peatrice and Eric and buy ingredients, but the first two or three rates should be covered by the sum. However, we need more - and soon. That Peeta wants to pay it by himself might be good for his confidence and self-sense, but in the mean time we have to pay for absolutely nothing, helping the Bank of Panem getting richer. This is ridiculous, even Haymitch and Ermengarde agree, when I open up about our financial situation one afternoon in Ermengarde's practice, while Peeta is out in the District, working hard.

"I could help you guys, Katniss," Haymitch offers, "I'm sure I could pay for it."

Ermengarde nods, "There are still some savings left. But I have a feeling that Peeta wouldn't want that money, right?"

"Spot on," I confirm, "He wants to buy it back with his own money. And even if it's only one half. I'm proud of him, that he wants to do this his own way, but he makes it unnecessarily hard on us at the bakery, too."

"Perhaps..." Haymitch starts, "Maybe I can try and talk to him. Convince him that no matter what, it'll be the best to cut out all relations to that stupid bank."

He gives me a long look.

"Would you?" I ask in a hopeful voice.

"Of course, Katniss," Haymitch says, smiling "I want to help the boy."

"You could also ask Dr. Aurelius to help Peeta. Make him more open to accepting help," Ermengarde suggests.

This is a good idea, but the last thing I want is to make Peeta feel like I put several people on him, concerning this. Peeta has to make his own decisions and choices. He knows my stand on the matter. And now it is up to him, how to proceed. There is not much more I can do.

Peeta arrives shortly after and we walk back to the Victor's Village hand in hand, a stupid grin etched on my face, as we walk past the bakery, because Peeta was the one who grabbed my hand.

"I must smell like a pig," he laughs, when a light wind strokes us from the side.

"It's not so bad," I giggle. "I like your scent."

"Really?" he laughs, "That's because you haven't smelled under my armpit. Go on take a whiff."

He moves his arm up and closer, while I shriek and try to escape. Peeta is faster and captures my hand again.

"I promise, I'll take a shower when we're home," he says, after we leave the last houses of Town behind. The light manner in which he squeezes my hand, makes me think he has something to say.

"Will you sleep in my house tonight?" he asks.

"I've been sleeping there for weeks," I answer, laughing. What does he mean?

"And waking up somewhere else." His voice is low, quiet. He hides his eyes when I look up at him. Blushing, I curse myself. Of course, he worried. Of course, he thought it was rude.

"Are you scared of me?" he asks. "Did I say something in my sleep? Or...or do something?"

"No," I deny, "No, no. Not at all. Peeta, I'm sorry."

"Why do you leave then?"

"I.." Gosh, this is hard. 'Honesty', I remind myself, 'Honesty, Katniss'.

"I have to. If I wouldn't I would attack you in your sleep."

He stops and stares at me. "Attack?"

Looking back at him through wide eyes, I smile. "I must go, because I cannot hold myself back. If I stayed I would touch you. I would undress you. I would kiss you. On your mouth, your chest, your belly. And lower. All those places of you, I'd like to know. It is hard to hold back. Almost impossible. So I go. Back into my house. To touch my mouth, my breasts, my belly. And lower. While I imagine my hand and my fingers to be yours. I need this Peeta, but I don't want to hurt you. So that's why I leave."

Peeta's cheeks are flaming red.

"Oh," he says, and adds a more determined, "Oh. Yeah. Okay."

He holds out his hand again and I take it, while we continue on. We stay silent until we reach his house. He takes out his key and opens the door.

"Come in," he says, looking at me. It sounds like a question. I step in, as he closes the door behind me and takes my hand into his once more. Taking a deep breath, we continue to walk until we arrive in his sitting room. Stopping in front of the sofa, I see that there are several tins of paint and rolls of tapestry on the table.

"This room..," he begins, ".. is like a ghost. A bad spirit. It reminds me of that day, and I hate to think of that day. I can barely step in here without seeing...things. So...working in construction, painting and creating, I found out that there are many possibilities. I decided that I would like renovate my house. Fix it. And I want to finish this room last. Demolish it, and create something new."

He looks at me shyly. "What do you think? Would you like to help?"

"Yes. This is a wonderful idea," I look around the room, "I never liked the interior decoration of the houses anyway. Too dark. Too Capitol."

Suddenly I can see it too. This room, with new furniture, new colors. It is possible.

Turning around Peeta is in front of me. Close, so close. He looks down into my eyes.

"It'll be exhausting," he says deeply, "Renovating is only for the toughest. It's going to be strenuous, so challenging that you will hardly be able move your little limbs upstairs, and most certainly not to your house. You'll need your sleep. You'll need to stay. In my bed. Do you understand?"

A shudder runs through my body at these words. Oh, oh. I'm getting wet. From his voice and the way he looks at me.

"Yeah," I lick my lips, "Your bed. Absolutely."

"Good," he grins at me, his eyes twinkling. "We start tomorrow. I'll pick you up from work so that you can help carry more paint. Alright?"

"Alright," I answer and he smiles.

"Shower time," Peeta whispers, "Do you wanna join me?"

"Eh?" I stare. This is not possible. Is this real? He must be kidding. It's impossible to describe how much I want and need this. Unfortunately I'm at the end of my period. Still bleeding a bit and I don't want to confront him with that of all things, the first time we're going to be completely naked together.

Peeta senses my discomfort. His eyes lose their shiny twinkle, and the teasing is gone from his tone. "Just joking, Katniss."

I don't know what to say. This isn't rejection. I loved what he said. His invitation. He turns away and I grab his arm.

"I'd love to," I say soothingly, "But not tonight."

"You just don't want to smell my armpit," he says, and the teasing is back. Good.

"Let's just say that you wouldn't want to be the one to smell me tonight. I heard that renovating is dirty business, though. We'll shower together. I promise."

Peeta wraps his arms around me gently. It is so strange, the way he changes from confident and teasing to insecure and hesitant.

I circle my arms around his hips and lose myself in the shining blue of his eyes.

"Kiss?" I ask, a little smile playing around the edges of my mouth.

We let our lips and tongues do the talking, then.

Starting at the first floor we throw out all the furniture. Because the quality is top notch, we have no problems selling most of it in town and make some money in the process. Haymitch gets most of the wooden furniture, for he can make new things with the planks. In return he builds us a new bed and chairs and tables. Together, he and Peeta spend most of their free time in the workshop. All the plush carpets are thrown out and I go slightly crazy with the coloring, giddy like a child.

"Your house should be painted with a mixture of a soft orange and a dark green," I announce one afternoon, while we work in the adjacent bathroom, next to the bedroom.

Peeta laughs so loudly I look up at him, shocked. "Katniss, if you mix orange and green you'll get a murky shade of brown. Trust me, we won't want that."

"You're the painter," I mumble, embarrassed by my lack of knowledge in that area.

"Take off your shirt," he says suddenly.

"What?" I wear an old work shirt of his, from the bakery for the renovation.

He grins, "Let's mix orange and green. Maybe you're right, and we only need the right mixture, to create something incredible. I need canvas to try it out, though."

I lift my eyebrows.

"Yeah," he nods. "Don't worry, I'll use the oil colors you gave me for New Years. They won't irritate your skin."

Hesitantly I remove my shirt. My bra follows, when Peeta goes to get his brushes and palette. Feeling courageous I also get rid of my socks, boots, jeans and finally panties. It's a bit cold in the bathroom and I shiver. My nipples get hard from the cold.

When Peeta returns with the colors he doesn't even look that surprised. I don't know if he plays it cool or if he really feels that way.

"It's a bit cold," I say, knowing that the colors on my skin won't warm me up. Summer is almost upon us, but the Victor's houses are always cool.

He seems to think for a while.

"Let's go into my painting room. The light is best in there."

He walks in front and I follow him. Naked. It's naughty and fun. In Peeta's atelier stands a small couch with some blankets on top.

"Lie down," he says and I splay myself on the fluffy fabric, putting a pillow under my head.

Peeta gets on his knees in front of me, his head near mine and I can see that he is blushing now.

"Did you know," he says, while he mixes a bright sunset orange next to a dark forest green on the palette, "That I drew countless pictures of you naked?"

"Yeah," I answer, hoping he won't be mad at me for discovering them, "I found the ledger in the bakery."

"Oh," he looks up at me, "What did you think? Creepy?"

"No," I answer honestly, "I felt warm and happy. Aroused. And a bit insecure. I'm not as beautiful as the Katniss you imagined."

He shakes his head, looking at the brush in his hand. "That's not true."

"How can you say that?" I tease, "You haven't taken a closer look."

I almost hear him gulp. "Isn't this weird for you? Being naked and vulnerable, while I am kneeling here in all of my clothes?"

"Quite the opposite," I growl, "I'm turned on. Come on, Peeta. Use that color on me."

He begins on my left breast, over my heart. And that is what he paints, in the soft orange at first. Teasing my nipple with the brush, he adds more shades of orange, swirling the paint around in a curly pattern.

"Mmh," I groan, pressing my thighs together. "Green, Peeta. I need more green."

"Don't be hasty," he chuckles, "I have a plan for every part of your beautiful body."

He begins to work in earnest then. Concentrates on the orange heart for a while and then begins to use the dark shade of green. Paints a stem that goes from my breast down my belly, around the criss-crossing of my scars and ending shortly before my dark curls and back up again to the swell of my breast. He keeps adding little leaves halfway. On the side and around my bellybutton.

"Peeta," I moan. He nods. He feels, senses, knows what I want. He is still focusing on the leaf, when I pull his wrist gently, motioning for him to put the brush away. He puts it on the floor and turns his attention back to me.

"What now?" he asks, voice shivering.

"What would you like?" I ask.

He smiles. "I want to please you. Like that time on the couch."

Warmth spreads through me, when I smile back. "Would you like to take it a bit further tonight?"

He swallows and then comes a short, "Uhm. Yeah." I don't allow myself to overthink this hesitant answer, and move my hand between my legs. "Watch me. And when you're ready, join my fingers."

Opening my legs slightly, I pet the curls over my mound gently. I'm sweating, the area around my slit is damp with perspiration.

"Go ahead," I tell Peeta, "Have a closer look."

Complying he moves away from my head and kneels in front of my most intimate place, giving the nest of curls a loving look. I spread my outer lips gently, exposing my clit from under its little hood.

"Incredible," he whispers, making me feel his warm breath. "It's like a flower, like petals opening to the sun."

Rubbing my lips slowly I take my time to watch Peeta's expression. He is not looking at my face but moves his face, closer and closer, unconsciously licking his lips. A low moan leaves me.

He looks up at me, "Promise me, that you'll let me draw you again."

"Of course," I promise, thinking "Whatever you want. Whenever you want. In any position you want." Continuing to masturbate in front of him, I enjoy the mesmerized awe on his face. It makes me feel so beautiful, so loved.

"Feel free to explore," I say after a while, "Touch me, Peeta."

His hand, so much bigger, covers mine easily. His middle finger joins the gentle ministrations.

"How does it feel?" I ask.

"Warm. Wet. Like you're melting. Sweet." A pause, "Amazing. Just amazing."

Groaning my hips begin to move out of their own volition, seeking his fingers, rubbing myself on them. Fast. Faster.

"Katniss," he whimpers, "Katniss, I'm hard, gosh, so hard."

"Yeah. That's good, so good," I mewl, closing my eyes, "Do you...ah, do you want me to touch you?"

He shakes his head, and breathes in deeply, "I want to...with my tongue...can I?"

"Yes," I almost shout, "Yes, yes. Do it. Lick me."

Taking my hand away I grab onto his locks, not caring that the pearly drops of my wetness glisten in his golden curls like the morning dew of the grasses in my woods. I guess, I should help and instruct him how to do it correctly, but that thought leaves me as soon as he buries his nose between my legs and takes a deep sniff at it.

The sound that leaves me reacting to this primal act can only be described as a low whine. When Peeta takes the first long lap, dragging his tongue in one agonizingly slow sweep, I know I won't be able to last long. I can hardly stand the sensation and bury my hand deeper into his hair.

"Peeta," I whimper. 'Peeta, Peeta, Peeta', I think.

My orgasm hits me fast, unexpected. Drowning in the sensation my toes curl, making my feet and legs shudder. My hands are still interwoven into Peeta's hair when he suddenly falls back onto his hands. He stands, practically jumps up and stares at me out of red eyes. His mouth is wet and his gaze is wild. My eyes fly down to his loose working pants. He is spotting a huge hard-on.

"Pee..ta?" I ask, unsure, feeling suddenly naked, exposed. I hold out my hand. I want to be close. Cuddle. Help him. Touch him. Make him happy. But he already turns around, running away.

"No," I shout, "Peeta, wait."

Standing up, I look around for something to put on, but my clothes are in the bedroom. Following him out of the room I hear the lock of his bathroom turning. Has he locked himself in the bathroom?

Entering the bedroom I slip into my panties and slowly dress myself.

Listening hard, I creep to the door and put my hand on the wood.

"Peeta?" I whisper.

Nothing from the other side. No water running. No...jerking off noises. Nothing.

"Please," I beg, "Say something."

"Would you leave?" comes his voice, muffled, numb. He sounds tired and exhausted, "I need you to leave."

'Leave and let me do my job'
'Go away'
'I don't want to see you'

I hear his words, and I am back, back in his bakery looking into his eyes. Cold, unforgiving. It is clear that he wants nothing to do with me. It is clear that he hates me now. The feeling is back, the feeling of my heart being quenched in my chest. Slowly I have to force myself to breathe. Calm down. We're not in the bakery. We are in Peeta's house in the Victor's Village. Long years have passed since then. We are different people. I have to be the mature one.

"Yeah," I say, and try to make my voice soothing, void of any hurt feelings, feelings that are still there, no matter how much I fight them, "I'll leave you alone. But I'll be back soon. Okay?" If he doesn't agree, I won't leave. But I refuse to deny him this privacy he needs and wants.

A long pause. Then,

"Okay."

So I turn, leave the bedroom, walk down the stairs and through his hall, out of the door, over his front lawn to the other side of the road. Return to my own house, and my own bathroom. Undressing in some kind of trance, I proceed to lock the door behind me. Hiding to clear away the traces of the flower that Peeta had so gently, so softly put onto my naked body. The delicate lines which had made me feel loved and happy. The orange heart is a sight I cannot stand anymore, without sobbing. I take a bottle of shower gel and pour the milk-white liquid into my palm, proceed to clean away all the traces of it. My hands don't find the place between my legs, the place that always gets the most attention when I'm alone in my shower.

All arousal has left me.

All desire has faded out.