A/N: Just like the others, this one is a late entry for Starvation forum's July prompt: Dawn.
I do NOT know the math off the top of my head, nor do I like calculators. That's what Google's for, folks.
:P
Disclaimer: If I were Collins, so many people would be ABOVE the ground and OUT of their coffins. And not as zombies.
"Katniss?"
She doesn't turn, but he won't give up. With a surprisingly gentle touch – for his hands have killed and killed again – he rubs her back comfortingly. He waits for her to turn, and eventually she does.
Her face is tearstained and her eyes bloodshot, and he can't help but think of the other times when she looked like this, but more haunted – if that's possible. She tries to smile, but another sob breaks from her chest, and he holds her in his arms as if he were the sane one.
"It'll be okay… don't cry… it's all right…"
Meaningless words, he knows, but all the same, there's something nice about hearing them. It doesn't matter that nothing's been okay for his entire life – or hers. It doesn't matter that they've both cried more tears than anyone should have to, and that they'll likely cry a few thousand more before next week. It doesn't matter that nothing will ever, ever be right again. The phrases were whispered by mothers and fathers, and now by lovers, though they won't admit that that's what they are to each other. It doesn't matter how broken they are, they're just going to tell each other that things will get better, someday.
She looks up at him, her gray eyes meeting his blue ones. He can see the familiar plea for help.
"It's been a year, Peeta," she whispers, "and no one's gone away."
"I know," he tells her, because he does. "I know."
"A whole year," she says. "It's all exactly the same as it was."
He doesn't answer that, and he knows she's thinking of things that have changed, that aren't the same. He knows that she didn't mean the physical. And he knows that what she's talking about will always be the same, just as it will for him.
"I still see Prim," she whimpers, "telling me to come home. Finnick's offering me a sugar cube like it was yesterday. Madge is handing me my pin."
"I miss them, too," he murmurs. A ray of light hits them where they stand in the room, and together they turn to the window, where a golden glow is setting the snow on fire. For a long moment, they watch the sun climb over the horizon, safe in each other's pain and love.
It's been a year since the end of the war. Twelve months since they won their freedom. Fifty-two weeks since they didn't have to worry each summer. Three hundred and sixty-five days since they could argue and know that there would be time to make up. Eight thousand, seven hundred and sixty-five hours since a girl with an arrow and a metal bird saved her world. Five hundred and twenty-five thousand, nine hundred and forty-eight minutes since a boy with strong arms and an outstanding kindness remembered that there was nothing to be afraid of.
And they've lived thirty-one million, five hundred and fifty-six thousand, nine hundred and twenty-six seconds in the knowledge that even as they've saved countless lives, so many have been lost that the damage is irreparable.
The sun rises, and with it comes a sense of peace. Everything is the same as it was before the war, because there is still an overwhelming loss. But so much is different, because this dawn marks a fresh start, and that's exactly what is needed.