The Nightmares Hidden in Dreams - A Hunger Games Fan Fiction

He's gone.

He's gone, he's gone, he's gone.

I'm alone.

But it can't end like this. I'll make Peeta see reason, see that he can't hurt me, because he always comes back.

I slip on my shoes, disregarding my bleeding foot and the way it stings when I put pressure on it. I don't bother tying the laces; it'll take too much time and effort to reach over my stomach. The lightheadedness caused by the aching bump on my head is ignored, as well as the throbbing in my neck, though the phantom feeling of that glass still pressing into the delicate skin remains.

I set off into the cold outside, alternating between a jog and brisk walk. My breathing gets heavy, but I don't stop. There's no sign of Peeta, no sign of any life save for the fog in the air that appears with my labored exhales.

Where could he be? I slow at a streetlight, leaning against the freezing metal. Eyes shut, I frantically ponder, running through a list of the most probable locations Peeta may have fled to. It's safe to say that he's angry, hurt and angry at himself, so he must be somewhere that pains him. Somewhere he can punish himself a little more.

It hits me, then, the only place he could be.

I take off again, this time with a new purpose, a destination in mind.

The dilapidated outskirts of town, that dead place where no one, or at least no one alive, chooses to go. Except for me.

And the hunched over man, with his head in his hands, rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

I approach slowly, like he's some skittish, wounded animal who will flee if I move too abruptly. But Peeta senses me, the way I always seem to know when he enters a room. We're so attuned to each other that it doesn't feel right when he's not there.

Peeta looks up, but not at me. Out towards the town. Towards where his family's bakery used to stand. Another place buried with bodies and bad memories.

"You know, when I...came back," he starts, eyes fixed on that spot in the distance. "And I saw all of the damage I did..." he swallows, "I looked at myself and saw my mother." He sniffs, voice cracking. "And that terrifies me."

"Peeta," I whisper, looking at the shine on his cheeks, tears still dripping, not stopping. Like a dam that's broken.

"Don't," he says shakily. He takes a breath. "Don't. Don't tell me that it's not my fault, or that I'm not like her. I can't control myself, Katniss." He's agitated now, making wild gestures with his hands. "It's like I'm a puppet and someone else is holding the strings. And I don't know how to take them back."

I step closer, but Peeta inches back, an expression of fear crossing his face. "You've been fine for so long. This is just one incident. That doesn't make you your mother, or the monster you paint yourself to be."

"But I've never lost control like that before," he whispers. "It's never been so close. I've never cradled your life in my hands and chosen to crush it. Not until now. Look at yourself. You're bleeding. I did that. I did that to you. I'm the one who hurt you." His breath hitches, a silent sob caught in his throat. He clears it, trying to hide it from me. "Maybe next time will be worse."

"There won't be a next time," I argue.

"You can't know that," he shouts, then shrinks back again. "I'm sorry, Katniss. I just don't think I should be near you. Because what if there is a next time? And it won't just be your life at risk. It'll be our baby's too. And I can't do that to you, to them. I just can't."

I shake my head, because how could he think that my life without him would be better than one with him. He knows me, knows me better than any person ever could. He sees all of me, the good, the bad, the broken, the ugly, and loves every part of it. And I see his kindness, his flaws, and even that mutt that still lives inside him, and I can find it in myself to love that part of him too.

"You can't leave me alone," I whisper sadly, my tears meeting the dirt beneath my feet. Peeta hangs his head, still avoiding my gaze. He looks so ashamed, dejected. I sit next to him, plopping down with a grunt. "Look at me." When he doesn't listen I cup my hand beneath his jaw, damp from the tears that have pooled there. I force his eyes to meet mine. He blinks at me, eyes glassy and red. "I've already forgiven you, Peeta. All that's left is for you to forgive yourself. And then you're going to come home with me, because I still need you."

"You deserve better," he mumbles. "There's got to be someone out there who's better for you, who isn't fighting these demons."

A tad aggressively, I pull Peeta to me, wrapping my arms tight around him, like a vise. Slowly, he lowers his head to my shoulder, and then the shaking starts. He sobs into my shirt, dampening it with his tears, but I don't mind. How many times has he comforted me this same way? When I wake up hysterical from the nightmares, who's the one who holds me until I stop shivering? "Don't be silly," I murmur, running my hand through his hair, over and over and over. "How could I be with anyone but you? Who else would keep back the nightmares? Who else would make me cheese buns practically every day? Who else would always make sure I'm okay, even when I don't want anyone to know that I'm not? Who else would love me so completely and unconditionally, even when I'm the most undeserving?" Now I'm in danger of weeping, but I swallow the lump in my throat and stay strong, because this isn't my sadness or fear.

Peeta's breathing slowly becomes more even, and he stops shuddering under the weight of his sobs. He looks up at me with sad, bloodshot eyes. "I just don't want to hurt you." The words pierce me like a blade, hurting me far more than the makeshift one Peeta held to my throat this morning.

"And you won't," I respond assuredly. "We protect each other, remember."

He nods, burying his face in my shoulder for a moment longer, and I indulge him. Because he's usually the one doing the holding, so I owe this to him.

Finally, Peeta extricates himself and stands on shaky legs. He offers me a sad smile and his hand, and I take it gratefully. There was no chance of me getting up on my own.

We walk back quietly, my arm around his waist, head tucked into his side. I hold him to me so that he can't run off again. And also because I just like being near him.

Once we get closer to home, the adrenaline that fueled me and made me forget about the pain wears off, and I begin to limp. There must still be glass in my foot, because I can feel it digging in with every step I take. Peeta, of course, notices, and without a word scoops me into my arms. I try to protest, but he won't hear it.

"It's my fault you're limping, so carrying you home is the least I can do."

I don't argue anymore, because I am pretty tired, and my feet hurt, and so does my back, and my head is also throbbing a little.

I rest my head on his chest and listen to his heart, the steady pulse that tells me that he's still here. That I'm not alone.