Hello! This is my first fic for The Hunger Games Series, but I hope you enjoy! Reviews are greatly appreciated :)

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The author of this fanfiction in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

The distinct smell of new primroses drifts into my second-story window and catches my attention as I wake from a particularly rough slumber. It's been a few weeks since Peeta so thoughtfully planted them on the side of my house below my window. I welcome the smell, thankful for the scent that flushes out that of the bright white roses that occasionally lingers here.

I can hear Greasy Sae skittering around the kitchen, most likely preparing a decadent breakfast I don't deserve. I've been meaning to talk to her for a few days now, relieve her of her duties here gently. I suppose I'm perfectly capable of producing my own meals.

I'm in a strange limbo these days. Not willing to kill myself, not really willing to do anything else. I have been hunting again, adding a small sense of normalcy to my life. But it's strange, the more I pull myself together, the worse the nightmares get. It's as if there is a direct link between my mental stability and the nature of my dreams.

Last night's was different from the usual nightmares that plague me. It wasn't the seemingly endless line of loved ones burying my body in ashes. Rather, the dream contained only loved one last night.

In the same hospital room from District Thirteen was Peeta. He and I were separated by the thick glass in the observation room. Morphling drip connected to his vein, he was tied to a flimsy, metal folding chair in front of a television screen.

From a door on the other side of the room entered President Snow carrying a jar and a remote. Snow set the jar on a tray next to Peeta, then turned to face the outdated television. He pressed play on the remote, and a montage of scenes began to play, beginning with press coverage from the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games.

Puzzled, I turned my attention back to Snow, who had begun to twist open the jar next to Peeta. He took a pair of tweezers, and finally lifted the jar open all the way, releasing a soft buzzing sound. By the time I saw the gold body of an adult tracker jacker, my mind made the connection.

I was not watching Peeta heal—which is hard enough—I was watching the hijacking take place.

I immediately began to bang on the glass, screaming at Snow to stop before he could ruin the boy in front of me. The boy who risked his life for me, and I risked mine for in return.

Peeta turned to the glass for a moment, though he couldn't see me on the other side, desperately trying to save his life like I usually do. Or was I trying to save my own?

President Snow followed Peeta's gaze, snickering because he knew exactly who was witnessing the event. With a patronizing wink at me, Snow stuck the tracker jacker stinger into Peeta's arm.

"No!" I screeched, making even more of a ruckus than I was before. Peeta was too lost in the footage in front of him to hear me this time.

I watched helplessly as Peeta's perception of me changed. I was not the girl in the red plaid dress from grade school. I was not the girl whom he saved with his generous bread donation. Instead, I was his enemy. I was the girl who tried to kill him (ironically) with the tracker jacker nest in the Hunger Games. I was a murderer, a mutt.

My cries of horror in the dream melted into similarly pathetic ones in real life. I awoke, throat raw from screaming, and panting like I'd run a marathon.

My cold sheets eventually soothed me into a dreamless, exhausted sleep. Though I know a certain pair of arms would have done the trick much better.

A distant knock pulls me out my mind for a brief moment. I hop off the bed and throw on some flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt before heading down the stairs. I half-expect the ruined boy from my dream to be there in front of me as I open the front door. But of course not. We haven't had a decent conversation since he planted the primrose bush. Why would he initiate contact now?

Instead, I'm greeted by Haymitch.

"Since when do you knock?" I ask, voice still hoarse from the screaming last night.

"Since I'm sober enough to remember," he replies, annoyed.

I pull open the door, and gesture for him to come in, no other greeting needed.

It's been quite a while since I've talked to Haymitch. But it seems like since we have returned to Twelve, he has been avoiding conversation—maybe even human contact entirely—more than ever.

Not that I'm one to condemn solitude. We've all been alone more than usual since our return. I kind of like it that way. No one to feign happiness for.

Though, I suppose if I would answer Dr. Aurelius's phone calls, he would probably urge me to reach out to the only loved ones I have left. But I probably never will answer his phone calls.

I take a seat next to Haymitch at the kitchen table. He looks uncomfortable. I attribute that to the lack of soothing alcohol in his system.

"Why are you sober?" I ask, only adding to the uncomfortable atmosphere in the room.

"I'm not always plastered, you know. I can make it a few hours without a drink," he says defensively.

Of course Haymitch isn't going to reveal the reasoning behind his presence when I ask. He will wait until he feels like telling me, most likely after there is a warm meal sitting in his protruding stomach.

Following my prediction almost exactly, Haymitch leans back in his chair after eating a delicious breakfast of eggs, sausage, and bacon, and lets out a sigh. "There is a reason I'm here."

I let out a small laugh. "I know."

Suddenly, butterflies start in my stomach. Whatever he's here for, it cannot be good. If it was good, he would have celebrated with a new bottle of alcohol. The lack of alcohol on his breath is alarming.

"Plutarch is here in Twelve."

The statement is simple enough but the butterflies linger, sure there is more to follow. When Haymitch doesn't continue, I grow even more worried. For a man so quick to throw me a sarcastic remark, he is having an awfully hard time putting the words together to tell me what he needs to.

"You know about how he planned on that new television show? The singing one? Yeah, well that one bombed. The critics hated it, and the ratings sucked. They pulled it off the air after only four or five shows."

I only stared at Haymitch while he rambled on about the history of Plutarch's short-lived television show. If I weren't so preoccupied with figuring out what this had to do with his presence here, I would have kicked him out by now. Probably given him some money for new alcohol. He's not doing so well without it.

"Plutarch is actually in town for a new television series."

Haymitch doesn't continue, but rather fumbles with his hands in his lap.

Suddenly, my mind makes a connection. "It's about me, isn't it? The new series."

Haymitch hesitates. "Well, sort of…"

I wait patiently, wondering how this could get any worse.

"It's about you and Peeta."

Oh. That's how.

I left Greasy Sae alone in the kitchen with the excuse of going hunting. Haymitch had let himself out earlier while I sat there stunned at his words.

As I lay in the soft grass of the Meadow, Haymitch's explanation comes back to me. A fire begins to rage in me. It burns at my insides, but it feels good too. I haven't felt that fire in a long time.

"It would probably be best to at least let him talk to you. But I'm not forcing you into anything," he explained, too cowardly to look me in the eye.

Hell no, you're not! I wanted to scream at him. But my mind was reeling, too overwhelmed to make a connection with my mouth. I sat there, jaw dropped and completely unmoving.

"Plutarch will most likely come over here tomorrow anyway. He'll probably bring a camera crew to scope out the place. I just thought you should know."

We sat there for a moment in silence, as I digested his words and he waited for me to respond. After an extended amount of uncomfortable silence, Haymitch let himself out, most likely understanding I wouldn't be responding to him.

I shouldn't be angry at Haymitch. He had even sobered up for me.

But the fire burns within, a fiery rage that is a refreshing change from the numbness I've become accustomed to.

I rip grass from its roots, slamming my fists to the Meadow floor with unrestrained force.

It wasn't supposed to be like this! Peeta and I have been completely balanced in the past few months. He bakes, I hunt. Simple as that.

It's only for our own good that we stay out of each other's hair for now. We are equally volatile; Peeta with his flashbacks, me with my nightmares and lingering grief.

I'm holding him an arm's length away. He's still next door, baking his bread. I'm allowed to think of him. Maybe even talk to him once in a while. But I'm careful not to ruin the balance between us.

If I'm being honest, I think about him more someone who is still grieving the losses of so many people.

Maybe he thinks of me too. Maybe sometimes he sees me through the eyes of the old Peeta. The Peeta that didn't want to hurt me. The Peeta that just wanted me to love him back.

It's ironic, really, how our roles have reversed.

I flop down on the ground, lying under a tree. Is that what this is now? Love? Do I love Peeta?

Yes, of course. I've always loved Peeta. I just don't know how I love Peeta. We're not even friends. Somehow, we always seem to skip friendship. From acquaintances to "star-crossed lovers."

And now we're stuck in between. Not strangers, not friends, not acquaintances, not lovers.

I let out a frustrated sigh. So where does that leave me? In the same position Peeta has been in for years? I suppose I deserve that. I deserve the same unrequited love.

I lift myself off the ground and begin my short trek back to my home in the Victor's Village. I didn't even bother to catch anything.

The sun is almost set now. I must have been in the woods longer than I thought. When I reach my house, the lights are still off. Surely Greasy Sae is here, preparing dinner?

I enter my house and immediately regret not catching anything when I don't hear Sae's familiar light footsteps in the kitchen. I suddenly become worried. Has something happened to her? Did I offend her by leaving without helping her to clean up after breakfast this morning?

I hesitate before reaching for the phone. I don't use the damn thing unless I have to. But if there is ever a time to use the phone it's now.

"She's not coming tonight. I told her she could have the night off. I said I would cook for you," says a familiar voice from behind me.

I whip around at the sound, clapping my hand over my mouth to hold back a surprised screech.

Standing behind me with a basket in hand is the object of my afternoon musings, the one and only Peeta Mellark. "Greasy Sae," he clarifies, staring at me with his stupid, big, blue eyes.

And those stupid, big, blue eyes are looking at me the way they did before his hijacking.

I don't know what to make of this. Everything's so different with my feelings almost sorted out in my mind. It's different knowing I love this broken boy with the big, blue eyes. And different because I don't know if he loves me back for the first time in my life.

I clear my throat and reach for his basket. "Right."

He pulls it away from my grasp. "No, let me," is all he says.

I wordlessly watch him put together a lovely dinner of homemade lamb stew, complete with dried plums and perfectly golden rolls on the table set for two.

When he is finished setting the table and making it presentable, he turns to me. I throw him a suspicious look, but sit down in the chair to the left to his.

The atmosphere in the room is extremely uncomfortable for the second time today. It's hard for me to not have the upper hand when it comes to my relationship with Peeta. I'm so used to him being openly sure of his feelings for me while I keep my own hidden. I can adjust to them accordingly.

But of course now our roles are reversed. I'm the one who is hopelessly in love with him, while he sits, carefree with his own feelings in secret. At least he doesn't know my feelings like I knew his. The fact that my feelings are still secret makes this dinner slightly less painful.

After several excruciating minutes of silence, I blurt out thoughtlessly, "Is this because you tried to kill me?"

Peeta simply chuckles. "No, but I'm sorry about that, by the way."

"Then why are you here?" I ask, not even attempting small talk. Maybe if I can cut down on the useless words, this torturous dinner will end quickly.

His eyes flicker down to his plate. "I'm assuming Haymitch has gotten a chance to speak with you today."

Oh. This is about Plutarch and his show. Of course he's not just here for me.

The fiery rage from the woods returns. I manage to hiss out, "Yes."

Peeta's voice drops to almost a whisper. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Katniss. I won't let them do anything to you that you don't want them to."

He's protecting me like he always does. And suddenly, he's the same Peeta from before. It's like the war never happened. He's still here in front of me, with his big, blue eyes begging me to return his love. My rage is gone.

Unfortunately, Peeta has gone with it.

Physically, he is still in the room. But the sparkle is gone from his eyes. He squeezes them shut and his face contorts in pain.

Before the flashback can flush out the rest of Peeta's lucidity, he is able to choke out, "Leave, Katniss."

But I could never leave him like this. I could never leave him in such pain no matter how much danger I am in.

Instead, I slide closer to him, and gently stroke the back of his hand. Peeta's grip on the edge of the table doesn't loosen whatsoever. I move my hand to his forehead, where tiny beads of sweat are forming. I sweep the hair out of his face.

My touch seems to soothe him minutely, but he is still panting and gripping the table for dear life.

Before I can stop myself, I press my lips to the back of his hand, and slowly work my way up to his forehead.

I want to whisper calming words, tell him that I'm right here and I would never hurt him. I only want to protect him. But he's too far gone, and I'm too afraid he'll attack me before I can even finish the sentence.

So I caress him and wait while he fights back the Capitol's hold on him.

He opens his eyes, but it's clear he's not there. His panting has stopped, but his calm demeanor scares me more than ever. Peeta stands, shaking my hands off his body.

I do the only thing I can think of to bring him back to me. It's probably not the best idea, but it's the only one I have.

I begin to murmur comforting words. "Peeta, I'm not going to hurt you. This isn't real. Peeta, this isn't real. Look at me, I'm not going to hurt you." I don't have to act vulnerable, I already am.

Slowly, his breathing becomes labored again. His eyes squeeze shut, and I pray that my words have the desired effect on him. That some part of Peeta registers that it wasn't real.

When his eyes open again, I know I'm safe. Peeta's eyes are no longer void of emotion and he seems exhausted, like the flashback has drained him of all the energy in his body.

We sit for a while, just looking at each other. Speechless.

Finally, he whispers, "I'm sorry."

I only shake my head. "Never."

We continue to look at each other without saying a word until Peeta stands. He mumbles something about checking up on Haymitch while gathering his basket, and leaves as quietly and suddenly as he entered.

Before I can think too hard about tonight's encounter with Peeta, I run upstairs and get ready for bed.

Emotionally, today has been especially draining. I stupidly assume that because today has been so exhausting that the nightmares won't be as bad. I assume that I can somehow fall into the same dreamless slumber I slept in last night.

But of course that's not in the cards for me tonight. Tonight's nightmare is familiar, but it also takes a new edge.

I recognize that I am lying at the bottom of the familiar grave that haunts my dreams. As the first perished loved one steps up with a shovel full of ashes to throw on me, another face comes into view at the other side of the grave.

Puzzled, Peeta looks on as the line of my perished friends and family begins to throw ashes on me, and I scream in horror as I am buried alive. Soon enough, he realizes what is happening.

"Katniss! Katniss, I've got you! I'm going to save you, I promise," he cries.

Peeta drops to his stomach and extends an arm to me, but I'm already halfway buried. Our fingers are connected, but it's no use. There is no way Peeta could possibly pull me out of the ashes no matter how hard he tried.

He lifts himself off the ground as I'm almost completely buried. The last thing I see before the ashes are thrown over my eyes is Peeta's body falling into the ashes with me.

The screams stifled by ashes in my dream fade into blood-curdling ones in reality.

Without thinking, I run over to my window to check on Peeta's house. It seems my startlingly loud screech has alarmed him, because I see him staring back at me through his window.

Something in my expression must have frightened him, because he vanished from view. I don't have much time to wonder where he went before I hear my front door open and Peeta's footsteps run up my stairs.

Neither of us says a word, but Peeta instantly knows to wrap his arms around me. His body heat seeps through both of our thin layers of clothes, and I allow my muscles to relax for the first time in a very long time.

He guides me to the bed and covers me up. As he pulls away, I catch his forearm between my hands.

"You can't leave me," I beg.

"I wouldn't," he responds, and gently pulls his arm out of my reach. I feel my cheeks heat up in a blush as I realize he was only leaving me to slide in on the other side of the bed.

I am amazed at the way we fit perfectly together. We wrap our arms around each other and I tuck my head in the space below his chin. He strokes my arms with the backs of his fingers and presses his lips to my hair.

A sense of déjà vu washes over me when I hear him whisper, "It wasn't real, Katniss. It wasn't real."

As I drift back to sleep with my broken boy in my arms, I allow myself to hope that maybe he still loves me back. And maybe we could heal together. Maybe, just maybe, we could put each other back together.

Thanks for reading! Reviews, etc. would be greatly appreciated. :)