Blooming in the Spring

Chapter 6

It takes nearly half an hour for Peeta's sobs to subside. I do not let go of him the entire time and I don't speak either--unable to find the right words to say to him. Because, what am I supposed to say? There is a multi-month-long gap in time when he was in the Capitol and I have little to no knowledge of what really happened to him there. And the things I do know, I don't know how to talk about. I don't even know where to begin. And I'm frustrated because I want to help him, more than anything, but I don't know how to be the comfort that he needs. Especially when I'm the reason he needs comforting in the first place. 

Peeta is the one to pull away from me first. Slowly, he rubs his eyes and shifts backward. I watch him carefully. His eyes are tired, his mouth turned downward in pain and defeat and exhaustion. 

"Peeta. . ." I whisper softly, gently urging him to say something. What exactly? I'm not sure. I'm no good at forming words the way he is. I wish so much that I could be there for him the way he always is for me but I just don't know how. I don't know what he needs, though based on the look on his face, neither does he. 

He ignores my futile attempt to get him to talk to me, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. 

"I'm going to go get some water," he mumbles, his voice hoarse from all of the screaming. Without another word and before I can say anything more, he disappears out the doorway and I hear him descend down the stairway. 

I sit frozen for a few moments, unsure of what I'm supposed to do. Follow him? Give him space? I don't want to push him. I don't want to make him feel worse. I realize then that Peeta rarely comes to me when he's in pain. In fact, I can't even remember the last time he did--if ever. No wonder I don't know what to do with myself. I guess I always assumed he was stronger than me; that he was able to work through his pain and grief. That he didn't let it get to him the way I do. But maybe he's just better at hiding it. The thought hurts me. I don't want to imagine him crying himself asleep at night or waking up in tears in the morning. I don't want to think of him breaking down alone. 

I push these painful thoughts out of my mind and attempt to busy myself by fixing the mess of bedding twisted and piled up on the mattress. I doubt Peeta will want to come back to sleep tonight but I decide he left the bedroom for a reason so I should give him a few minutes of space. 

I remake his bed the best I can, trying to remember the way my mother used to fold the corners of the sheets and fluff the pillows--though the pillows on our cots in the Seam never had much to fluff. When that's done, I sit awkwardly on an armchair in the corner and wait a few more minutes to see if Peeta will come back upstairs. 

When he doesn't, I begin to panic. Not that I think Peeta would do anything rash. If anything, selfishly I am comforted by the fact that he wouldn't leave me here alone. But there is a part of me that fears he will push me out forever and repress the pain he's feeling. I know better than anyone that this only makes things worse. I don't want him to get worse. 

I tiptoe as gently as I can down the stairs, careful not to startle him. He must've expected me to come after him because he doesn't even look at me when I turn into the living room. He sits hunched over on the couch in the dark, though I can make out a full glass of water on the coffee table in front of him.  

I light one of the candles sitting on the mantle and we are illuminated by a soft orange light. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, doesn't flinch when I sit next to him. 

We sit in awkward, unbearable silence for a few moments when curiosity gets the best of me. 

"What was it?" I ask. 

He is quiet for a second, pondering whether or not he wants to tell me. Or if he even should. 

"You," he says, and I glance at him, furrowing my brow. Me? Does he dream that I hurt him? I instantly regret asking. "In the Capitol, after the Quell. They captured you, instead of me."