It's been a month since I was unceremoniously banished to District 12 after my trial. Well, it's been 26 days, 10 hours, 15 minutes and 34 seconds, but that's beside the point. In that time, I have yet to leave the house and my only visitors are Greasy Sae and Haymitch, although I've only seen him a handful of times since we came back. Buttercup also made it back from Thirteen, but he tends to keep mostly to himself. Otherwise, I'm alone in this big empty house in the Victor's Village.

Greasy Sae comes over three times a day to cook and clean up after me, which translates to checking up on me for my Doctors to make sure I haven't died and have Buttercup gnawing on my face. She always comes at the same time every day and I make sure I'm always in the same place when she arrives – sitting in the rocking chair by the fire.

It ironic, really, considering fire destroyed everyone I loved or cared about. I just can't bring myself to move the chair, though. The last time Peeta was in this house he sat here and silly as it seems, being in this chair makes me feel as if we're still connected in some way. It's just about the only thing keeping me sane right now, besides the little yellow pills from Dr. Aurelius.

What Greasy Sae and Haymitch don't know is that when they're gone, I spend all of my time lying on Prim's bed, remembering. What I remember changes each time, but usually the memories are about her – how her shirt tail never stayed tucked in the back or how her laugh would become a snort when something was really funny or her ability to love unconditionally. I save the bad memories, like the image of her being engulfed in flame, for my nightmares.

The other person I think about is Peeta – the way he used to look at me as if I'd hung the moon or how he'd rub my back when I'd had a particularly bad nightmare or just his innate goodness before it was tainted by the Capitol. Sometimes I take my plant book with me and think about the days he and I spent together, adding drawings or updating the ones that were already there. The page regarding dandelions is the hardest for me to look so I tend to skip that one, unless I'm feeling particularly shitty and need more reason to hate myself. I will always associate Peeta with them, not just because of his beautiful drawing in the book, but also because of how he was the catalyst in my using them for our survival all those years ago.

What Greasy Sae and Haymitch also don't know is that when they talk during meals as if I'm not there, I'm actually listening to everything they say. Usually the conversation is pretty mundane – the changing weather, clean up and rebuild efforts in Twelve and beyond, who has returned, etc.

Occasionally, Haymitch will have some news from the Capitol and this is what I pay special attention for, hoping there'll be some mention of Peeta and how his own recovery is coming. I know from past conversations that he's been working intensely with Dr. Aurelius to overcome the remaining effects of the hijacking, but his current status is unknown. I also know that Peeta isn't restricted like I am and that he can choose to settle anywhere in Panem he wants when he's ready. Haymitch mentioned this little nugget tonight over dinner and it nearly sent me into a panic attack at the thought of him never coming back here to Twelve. I managed to keep up my façade of drug-induced indifference until they left before hurtling myself up the stairs to Prim's bed so I could scream my frustration into the pillow and cry without an audience.

dwdwdwdwdw

After what feels like hours, I roll over and sit up, my cheeks feeling cold and clammy from crying. My nose and eyes feel puffy and I have a headache centered behind my right temple. I get off of Prim's bed and walk to the door so I can get some aspirin. As I pass the mirror above her dresser, I catch a glimpse of myself in the moonlight and stop dead in my tracks at the sight.

My hair has uneven chunks missing where it burned off and it's tangled into greasy knots. Aside from the evidence of my tears, the skin on my face is ashen and drawn with dark circles under my hollow eyes. Even more startling is how my cheekbones, ribs and hips are jutting out from my way too slender frame. I look like a walking skeleton in my tank top and sleep pants, which I've worn pretty much every day since coming home.

I stare into my sunken eyes and try to remember the last time I was clean or had taken a shower. Horrified that I honestly couldn't remember, I immediately run to the bathroom in my room, turn on the water, strip off my clothes and step under the still cold spray of water. I adjust the settings to squirt shampoo into my palm and spend a good deal of time working the knots out of my hair. Once that's done, the water has warmed up so I move on to scrubbing my body until my skin is pink and raw.

When I'm sufficiently clean, I stand under the steady spray, letting my thoughts wander back to Peeta. Suddenly, my mind latches onto that night on the beach during the Quell with a startling clarity. His blonde hair shone like rose-gold with the setting sun behind him, those ridiculously long eyelashes were also tinted red from the sunset, making his beautiful blue eyes look impossibly bluer. His body was still in shape from our training before the Quell, his arms and legs wrapped in hard, think muscle. His skin had taken on a golden hue from our time under the sun in the Arena. I think about that kiss and the hunger I felt, how it thrummed in my veins and heated my blood to the point where I couldn't think anymore, just feel. I think about what would have happened if Finnick hadn't interrupted us when he did, how far would we have let our passion carry us.

I imagine stroking his forehead with my fingers, brushing his golden curls away and trailing the tips of my fingers down the side of his face and cupping his cheek, all while mimicking the actions on my own face. My eyes drift closed as my fingers continue their journey down across my jaw to my mouth. As my fingertips ghost over my lips, I imagine they're Peeta's and I feel the familiar heat beginning to build in the pit of my stomach and my heart starts to race. The hand on my lips begins to drift down, stopping on my right breast. The other hand comes up to my left breast and I start kneading them, imagining my hands are really Peeta's. My palm inadvertently brushes over one of my nipples and I gasp at the sensation. Eager to feel that again, I take both nipples between my thumbs and forefingers, gently twirling them back and forth. Bolts of desire shoot straight down to my core and my knees almost buckle. I feel a warm wetness pool between my legs that has nothing to do with the water from the shower.

Curious, I open my eyes and let one hand trail down to my center, keeping the other on my breast. I begin to lightly run my index finger over and between my folds, again imagining my hand was one of Peeta's large ones, with thick, slightly calloused fingers. I slowly run my finger up and down, unsure what I'm doing as I've never really touched myself this way before. A second finger joins the first and on one of the upsweeps, I hit the small bundle of nerves at the apex of my core and the accompanying shot of desire causes me to make an odd keening sound, something between a gasp and a moan. My left hand shoots out to grab the wall of the shower as the right continues to rub circles of varying speed and size around my sensitive nub, letting instinct take over, all the while thinking about Peeta's blue eyes, strong arms and gentle smile. It's not long before my breathing becomes labored and my hips begin to buck of their own accord. I feel my body racing towards whatever is going to happen next; somehow knowing this is what's supposed to happen, that this is what Peeta and I were chasing on the beach that night. I feel a fluttering begin deep inside of me, and then a sweet numbness starts low in my belly, spreading out to the very tips of my fingers and toes. Stars shooting behind the lids of my closed eyes as my knees turn to jelly and I drop to the floor of the shower, panting and trying to understand what just happened.

"Well," I think to myself, "now I truly understand the appeal of going to the slag heap".

I sit there, thinking about what I had just done and wondering if the crushing grief and guilt I'd been living with until today would come rushing into my mind. Surely pleasure this intense will have a consequence, especially for someone as damaged as me. Strangely, neither emotion surfaces and as my heart rate returns to normal, all I feel is a sense of calm. I stand up, quickly wash myself again and turn off the taps. I grab a towel and dry my body before stepping out of the shower. I dry my hair with another towel and walk out into the hallway that leads to my bedroom.

I pull clean pajamas from the dresser and get dressed before turning to survey the state of my bedroom. I really haven't used it much since returning, so aside from the bed being a mess, the rest of the room is orderly, if a bit dusty. Looking at the bed, I see that my sheets are filthy, soaked with sweat and tears from my nightmares. In fact, my room reeks of dirty body, grief and the lingering scent of the rose President Snow left me many months ago. The smell of the rose in particular makes me nauseous and I know there's no way I can stay in this room another night. I grab a pillow and blanket then trudge downstairs to the couch and settle in for yet another sleepless night.

dwdwdwdwdw

The next morning, I wake with a silent scream, sweaty and panting from my latest nightmare. This one involved me being buried alive by those who died because of me or by my actions. They were all standing above me, taking turns shoveling dirt into my grave as I frantically tried to claw my way out of the deep, dark abyss. Their faces contorted in pain and anger, some even snarling at me as they spit down onto me.

The horror of the dream is still fresh in my mind as the last tendrils of sleep slip away. As the haze of panic subsides, I realize I can still hear the sound of a shovel scraping dirt, just as it was in my nightmare. I quickly sit up on the couch, twisting my head left and right in confusion, listening and trying to figure out where the sound is coming from. I wipe the sleep from my eyes with the thumb and forefinger of my right hand, then get off the couch and stumble to the front door. I yank it open forcefully, furious that someone is disturbing my self-imposed solitude, even if they did do me a favor by waking me from that horrible dream.

As I come tearing around the corner of the house, fully prepared to kick someone's ass, I'm pulled up short at the surprising sight before me. There, sweating in the early morning sun is Peeta, hunched over a shovel that he's pushing into the ground with is boot. He's facing away from me and hasn't noticed I'm there yet, so I take a moment to really look him over. I notice his green tee shirt is plastered to his back with sweat and streaks of dirt create dusty patterns on his arms, neck and face. I also notice his arms and neck bear the same roadmap of scars that cover my own. They're further evidence of his brush with the Girl on Fire as she tried in vain to save her sister from the flames.

I tear my eyes away from his scars and notice the knees of his dark khaki pants are almost black with mud. The boots he's wearing are also caked with the same black mud. The ground around the house is dry, so I don't know where he could have picked up the mud.

He's shoveling dirt away from the side of the house and piling it near a large wooden wheelbarrow that's weighed down by what looks to be a pile of branches, but is really several small bushes. Their limbs are bare so I can't tell right away what kind of bushes they are. I stand there in shock, unable to move or speak, but he must sense I'm there because he suddenly stops mid-scoop and straightens before slowly turning around and looking at me. Our eyes lock, grey to blue, mine wide and disbelieving, his equally as wide, but with a resigned, sad expression. We stand there for what feels like hours, but is really only seconds before I break the silence.

"You're back." I say as my voice cracks from disuse. I know I'm stating the obvious and sound like an idiot, but my brain doesn't seem to be functioning right now and he knows full well that words are not my forte. I wrap my arms wrap around my stomach to hide the tremors that start; whether from fear or some other unknown emotion I'm not sure.

"Dr. Aurelius wouldn't let me leave the Capitol until yesterday," Peeta says, never breaking eye contact with me. "Also, he said to tell you he can't keep pretending to treat you; you're going to have to pick up the phone eventually".

I just nod in response and we continue to stare at each other for a few moments more, until it finally registers in my mind exactly what type of bushes are in the wheelbarrow. "Roses", I think to myself as I feel the anger start to bubble up inside me, "he's planting ROSES? At MY house? The FUCK?" My arms drop to my sides, hands fisting with rage and I'm about to rip him a new one when the full name floats up into my groggy brain – 'Evening Primrose'. I feel my anger dissipate as quickly as it came, leaving me feeling deflated and unsure.

Peeta must notice the rush of emotions that pass across my face because he says, "I thought you'd like them as a reminder. Of Prim."

His confession stuns me and I'm not sure how to react. "Oh, ok….uh….carry on then" I manage to choke out as my eyes begin to fill with tears. I quickly turn on my heel and run back into the house, leaving him standing there, hands still clutching the shovel tightly.

I close the front door and run up the stairs to Prim's room where I collapse on the bed. I wait to dissolve into gut-wrenching sobs, as I always do after thinking about her, but strangely it doesn't happen. The tears that began downstairs fall, but for some reason, I don't feel the overwhelming sadness that usually accompanies them.

dwdwdwdwdw

I lay on Prim's bed a while longer, thinking about both the primrose bushes and the boy that planted them. While I'm still not sure how I feel about the bushes, I'm even less sure how I feel about Peeta actually being home. I think back to the last time I saw Peeta, when he tore the nightlock pill off of my shirt after I assassinated Coin. He seemed to be acting less like a crazed lunatic up until then, but does his being here now mean he's cured? Or at least he doesn't still think I'm some Mutt created by the Capitol to kill him? I'm sure Dr. Aurelius wouldn't have let him come back if he was still a threat, but I can't help but be somewhat concerned.

With that last thought circling through my head, I get up off of Prim's bed and walk into my own room to get dressed for the day. The smell of Snow's rose assaults my nostrils again and it jolts me into action. I immediately open all of the windows, rip the sheets off of my bed, grab my dirty clothes from the bathroom and run downstairs. I throw everything into the fireplace in the living room, then find the offensive rose and toss it in as well. I light the fire and watch it all literally go up in smoke. As I sit on the hearth and watch the rose petals curl as they burn and crumple into ash, I feel a sense of calm wash over me, as if some of the guilt and grief that have been eating me alive are going up the chimney with the smoke from the fire. Not all of it, of course; that's too much to expect, just enough for me to be able to breathe again. I sit there, staring at the flames, thinking about Peeta's sudden reappearance in my life this morning.

What does his return mean to me? To us? Will he want to continue the friendship we had before the Quell or does he want something more? Will he ignore me now that the cameras are no longer around (not that I'd really blame him)? The real question I need to ask myself is this – what do I want now that he's back?

dwdwdwdwdw

I'm still pondering that when Greasy Sae shows up to make breakfast. I half expect Peeta to be with her and I'm surprised how disappointed I feel that he's not. She looks at me sitting on the hearth, my hair and clothing clean with a fire burning in the fireplace. If she's surprised, she doesn't show it, just turning to the kitchen with a small smile. I follow her in to the kitchen and set the table before taking a seat. I sit there while she bustles about making breakfast, wondering if she's going to say anything about Peeta's return or if not, how I can possibly work it into conversation without sounding too curious.

After a few more minutes go by in silence, I casually say to her, "So, how are things going in town? Anything new?"

She quickly turns from the stove to look at me, her face registering shock as these are the first words I've said to her in ages. She looks at me, eyebrows raised so high on her forehead they practically blend into her hairline and her mouth hanging open as if her jaw were broken. For a moment I'm afraid I've stunned her speechless as we just stare at each other.

She blinks a couple times and then swallows before she speaks. "Well," she begins cautiously, "Thom and the crews are working hard on clean up and hope to be able to begin rebuilding within the month".

"Oh" I say, "That's really good news." I look at her expectantly, hoping she'll mention something about Peeta's return without me having to prompt her. When a few moments go by with nothing more forthcoming, I hesitate slightly before saying, "I was thinking I may go hunting today. If I do, I'll bring you some game. You know, as a thank you for everything you've been doing."

She just looks at me for a few more seconds, then blinks as if trying to keep tears away and says "Child, you don't need to thank me, I'm just happy to help out. But I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't be happy to have some fresh game." I smile in response, and she turns back to the stove to finish breakfast. I hear a few suspicious sniffs from her direction, but otherwise we lapse into silence once again; this time it's comfortable and not awkward.

When the food is done cooking, she puts some on a plate, which she sets on the table in front of me with a glass of water. The delicious smells make my mouth water and I dig in eagerly; suddenly more hungry than I've been in quite some time, while she begins to tidy up the kitchen. Once that's done, she gets ready to leave until she'll be back to cook for me again later today.

As she's about to walk out of the kitchen, she stops and turns around, saying to me with a twinkle in her eye, "Oh, I almost forgot. This was left for you." She pulls a loaf of freshly baked bread from her bag and sets it on the table. My eyes widen in surprise and I want to ask where she got it, but she's gone before I can say anything.

I stare at the bread, wondering again about Peeta and what this gesture means. He clearly wanted me to have it, but he didn't bring it himself, so maybe he's as unsure of where we stand as I am. Maybe this is his way of saying he's thinking about me but he's not ready to face me yet. Suddenly, I have this strange feeling in my chest, something I haven't felt since the day I saw the dandelion after Peeta threw me the burnt bread, something I didn't think I was capable of feeling ever again after my Father died. It took me a moment to realize what the feeling was - hope. A ridiculous burst of hope that maybe we could start again and have a real friendship, not something fabricated by the Capitol for their tawdry entertainment. It was the hope that all of the death and sacrifice we endured wasn't in vain and that together we would finally be able to get past the hurt and the lies and begin to live again.

A/N: Come see me on tumblr (famousfremus) for more info, random snark and other nonsensical musings! Thank you to Marycontrary82 for beta-ing and Ro Nordmann for the fantastic banner.