It has been roughly seven months since I last updated this. Whoops. Damn, I am so sorry. I really am. I know this chapter probably isn't going to suffice for the last couple of months, but I will try (really try) to update sooner. Okay, you might hate me by now but... I sincerely hope you enjoy this. If you do, please review and tell me all about it! If you don't, well, review all the same. :)

I am nothing.

I feel nothing.

Nothing but her lips on mine, moving of its own accord, like they were meant for this purpose and this purpose only.

I wonder if we used to do this.

Yes, I hear a voice in my head say. But it was all for the games, remember?

My hands curl up into fists on the floor, fighting memories, fighting the past. I feel a flashback start to take me, where I am black and blue with bruises underneath her, where she has a wicked grin plastered on her face that speaks of nothing but malicious intentions, where she kisses me first only to hit me afterwards—

But I fight it.

I fight it for the hope, that someday, I won't have to.

I fight it for myself, because I'd rather be thrown in another Games than hurt her.

I fight it because I don't want the kiss to stop.

Our lips continue to entangle with each other, releasing feelings that we'd previously kept under heavy lock and key, behind guarded walls we painstakingly erected, knowing the impending danger if we hadn't.

I can feel hatred.

Hatred for the things that we were forced to go through, because it's so unfair, unfair, unfair. Hatred for the injustice that we worked so damn hard to overthrow, even though we both know the truth. We hate the fact that things will never be the same.

I can taste tears.

And then I realize we're both crying.

We hold on to each other tightly, afraid to find out that none of this was actually real, afraid to wake up and realize that this was just a dream, afraid to know the pain we feel without each other.

Desperate.

She gives in first, and we both gasp for air sharply. I sit up, clutching my legs—and my sanity—together.

Inhale.

It was real.

Exhale.

She kissed me.

Inhale.

I kissed her back.

Exhale.

The kiss was amazing.

Inhale.

I fought the flashback.

Exhale.

"Did I win?" Her voice pulls me back to reality. (That's right; it was real.) I turn to her and she grins widely.

The return smile comes naturally to me. Happiness is contagious, after all.

"You cheated." I say, raising an eyebrow at her. I reach over my hand to her face, tentative, as if I'm giving her an out. She doesn't flinch.

I use my thumb to wipe away a tear streak on her face.

"Did not." she snorts, touching her hands to mine, and cradling it between them.

"Did too."

"Did not!"

"Did too." I say, wiggling my eyebrows at her. She laughs and lets go of my hand, standing up.

"Whatever, Mellark."

I follow after her into the kitchen, as she fumbles through boxes of cereal and packets of microwavable food.

"Hungry already, Everdeen?"

"M'hmm."

"Didn't we just have breakfast?" I point out, laughing.

She turns to me and crosses her arms. "Tickling requires an ample amount of energy, you know." she says with a scowl.

I seat myself on a chair closest to her. "Say, was it the tickling that exhausted you, or what came after?"

She rolls her eyes at me and turns back to the shelves, but not before I catch her lips turn up in a smile.

I can't blame her; I'm grinning like a fool myself.

"What are your plans for today?"

She's seated at the couch, absentmindedly browsing through channels in the television. I'm drying the dishes that she washed, and even though we've already had our lunch, it's still only ten in the morning.

"I don't know; I was thinking of painting actually." I reply. It's not entirely true. I had no plans initially, but the smile on her face after the kiss was so breathtakingly beautiful that my hands itched for a paintbrush and a canvas. "What about you?"

"Nothing, really. I don't usually go out of my house… except these days." she says, trailing off. I know what she means, though. These days. These days that we've been together, finding peace in each other's company.

I finish the dishes and set them up on the dish rack. "Don't you go hunting?" I ask.

She visibly stiffens, her finger pausing from the continuous channel changing, and we're stuck in a channel discussing the benefits of bull crap.

"No." she replies softly. "I haven't hunted since…" she pauses, looking wistful. She clears her throat after a few seconds. "Since I got here."

"Oh." I say, hesitating to continue the conversation. But I need to know, I need to understand. I need to heal. "Why?"

She fumbles with the hem of her shirt, biting her lip. "It reminds me of things."

I sit beside her, wondering if it would be okay to hold her. I used to do it, I'm certain of it. But it's different now, isn't it?

Sometimes it would be okay to not care. Sometimes it would be okay to guard yourself, knowing you'll prevent yourself from getting hurt.

But sometimes you just have to accept that things have changed now, that things are never going to be the same.

Different doesn't have to be bad.

I lean closer to her and stroke her hair gently. She rests her head on my shoulder, and I sense her relax.

"Peeta?"

"Yeah?"

"Ask me something."

My hand freezes in mid-air, on its way to brush a lock of hair behind her ear. "What do you mean?" I ask, although I know exactly what she means.

She raises her head to look at me, and her gaze pierces me, making me feel exposed.

Vulnerable, even.

"About what's real and what isn't." she says, her voice defiant. It's as if she's trying to convince herself that she wants this, that she wants me to ask her questions about the past that she has tried so hard to bury under layers of indifference.

I know she doesn't.

I sigh, withdrawing my hand from her hair. "You don't have to do this, you know."

"Peeta, I want to help you." she insists.

"No, you don't. You just feel like you have to, like it's your responsibility, but you don't want to. See the difference?" I reply, running my hand distractedly through my hair. "It's alright, Katniss. Really." I ass, seeing her mouth start to open and utter a retort.

She glares at me, her eyes the same shade of gray I lost myself to love back when we were five years old; her eyes the shade of gray that I have grown to know and love, just as naturally as a lion cub learns to familiarize itself with the scent of its mother.

"Fine. You're right. I don't want to remember." she says, rising from her seat. I would have honestly thought she was giving in—which Katniss never does, mind you—if it weren't for the fire in her eyes, the indignation in her clenched fists. "But I want you to remember. I want you to remember how much I cared; I want you to remember how much I suffered, thinking I'd never see you again."

Her breaths are shaky and I know she is close to tears. "It's the least I could do," she continues, "for everything you've ever done for me." Her voice cracks at the last word, and she holds her arms tightly at her waist, like she's literally holding herself together. Tears leave tracks down her cheeks, but she refuses to wipe them, just like how she always used to refuse admitting to weakness.

Girl on fire, flame reawakened.

I hold my head in my hands, with her words reverberating in my head.

I did everything out of love for her; she does it out of guilt.

It should frustrate me, I realize, but I know better. This is her way of showing emotion, and I have learned to accept it long ago.

"I just don't want you to do it if you're only going to end up locking yourself in your room and shutting me out again." I mutter.

I feel, rather than see, her sit beside me. Her hand reaches out to my hair, to flatten the strands sticking out, probably. "You know I can't promise you that I won't."

Why not? I wanted to ask. Why do you have to push me away all the time?

But what's the point of asking something that you know will always remain unanswered?

"I don't want to risk it, then."

"What's more important to you, me or the truth?" she exclaims, flailing her arms, obviously frustrated. I glare at her, because is the answer not obvious?

"Okay, forget it. Forget I asked that." she says, rolling her eyes. "Just, why can't you understand? I want to help you; I want you to recover just as much as you do, and—"

"I get it." I cut her off. "Let's do it tomorrow, okay? I don't think I can do it right now."

She scowls, but I know she's satisfied. "Fine. Whatever." Her stomach grumbles mid-sentence, and we both grin, falling back into an easygoing manner. It's not difficult, surprisingly. "How about some dinner then?"

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