The Hunger Games: Staying True. (Completed)

Chapter Twenty-Three; A Thousand Times. [Edited]

I'm confused when my eyes flutter open. Mostly because it's still dark, but the warmth compressing in on my skin lets me know that I'm wrapped up tightly in the sleeping bags, and that's why it's dark.

The next thing I feel is Peeta's arms around me, tight as iron rods, his big hands splayed across my back like he's trying to shove me into his own skin. I wonder what it's like to be a part of him; Full of kindness. Is it a weakness, or a strength? Is he glad that he's kind? Would he be here if he wasn't?

I'm not kind, and I still ended up in the Games, so I guess it might not have changed all that much about his life.

Peeta wakes up all at once - a full body shudder that forces his eyes open. I feel every inch of him against me. His arms tighten around my ribs, fingers curling in to clench my shirt. His eyes are wild and panicked. That is, until his eyes find mine.

Then he relaxes, becoming pliant and soft against me again. Though his fingers do not release my clothes.

"Morning." I murmur to him.

"I thought you were leaving." He says, in way of greeting. "I thought you might run again." His Adam's apple bobs unsteadily, letting me know just how uncomfortable he is with that prospect.

My hands, tucked carefully against his heartbeat, shift to curl over his shoulder. The naked skin under my palm is warm, borderline hot, and the muscle beneath makes the skin hard and unyielding. The solid mass of him chases a shiver down my spine.

"I thought about it," I whisper, unable to speak any louder for fear it'll bring attention to us. Hopefully the cameras won't focus on us and we can have one conversation in peace. "But then you might need me to save your ass again."

He smiles and even manages to hold it for a few seconds before that forlorn look of sorrow creeps again onto his face.

"Emerald-"

"We don't have to speak about it, Peeta."

"Yes, we do." He says firmly. He's staring at the canopy of material above us, and I prop my chin up on a hand to stare at him. The line of his jaw is sharper than a dagger's edge. It distracts me. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" I scoff.

"I'm sorry for what happened. That the world has done this to you. I'm sorry that Plutarch got you involved. I'm sorry that when they dragged me away from you that day, I didn't fight for you harder. I'm sorry I didn't look for you after the fighting stopped. I'm sorry Coin has done this to you. I'm sorry... I'm just, I'm sorry."

"The choices I made led me here, Peeta, no one has to apologise for where I am."

Peeta huffs a breath of irritation. "You're much kinder than I am, you know that?"

The question floors me, the words stealing any response right off my tongue. Me, kind?

"I would be hollering." He shakes his head, locks of blonde hair flopping about messily. "I'd be screaming vengeance at every camera. I'd be furious at everyone and everything for betraying me."

"I expected it." I shrug again, and the motion jostles us both. "I'm used to it, at this point."

"You shouldn't have to be," He growls, "You're seventeen, for fuck's sake. You deserve-... More. You deserve more."

"Did you even listen last night? I told you what I did for the Resistance-"

"Yes, you killed for them." His eyes squeeze shut for a moment. "You killed bad people. You killed people who deserved it."

"That's not our decision to make."

"Isn't it?" Peeta challenges, sapphire eyes ablaze. "You don't think people who profited from slave labour and suffering deserve a bullet wound? You don't think rapists and abusers deserve a noose? They threw children into this bloodbath and they laughed as we died, why shouldn't they suffer?"