Chapter Text
He has been seeing a psychologist every single day.
They talk. Not much, not evenly. The doctor does most of it, careful, measured words meant to make him trust, to make him think. She gives exercises, small tasks that are supposed to help, though Peeta isn’t sure how. He does them anyway. He listens and sometimes he answers.
It’s dangerous, this talking. The more he speaks, the more he listens, the more things start to slip. He is still certain, he was not rescued. This is another trick. Another layer of manipulation. But something about the way the doctor speaks, the way she never forces anything, never contradicts him outright, just lets him think, makes it harder to hold onto what he knows is true.
Because what if, what if, he is wrong?
He doesn’t understand the logic. If this is the Capitol, then why? Why try to convince him he was rescued by the rebellion instead of breaking him further, instead of twisting him into their weapon, instead of killing him? Why this? The Capitol’s versions of the people he lobes have always been consistent, relentless in their cruelty, their pain, their reminders of what he has lost. But they have changed. Why? They stay back now when he flinches. They don’t mock him the way they used to. They do not twist their words into knives, they don’t twist their knives on his skin.
His family is gone, they say they’re sorry.
At first, he thought it was another trick, that the Capitol was simply looking for new ways to break him, but Haymitch, this new Haymitch, had looked him in the eye, so sincerely and told him. District 12 was gone. Burned to the ground. His family, his mother, his father, his brothers, gone. He wants to believe that this Haymitch lies, but he doesn’t know anymore.
The doctor tries talking to him about it. Tries to get him to say it outloud. Processing, she calls it. But he stays quiet, the words never come.
He wants to keep denying it, he wants to convince himself it’s another layer of the game, another cruel manipulation. But they haven’t come back. The Capitol versions of them. Katniss and Haymitch, the only people from his old life that he’s seen. The ghosts they’d send to torture him, are simply gone. They don’t appear at his bedside. They don’t sneer at him from corners of the room. They don’t whisper things that twist his insides into knots. No more beatings?
They are dead. Dead. Dead.
The doctor asks him how he feels about that.
He doesn’t answer.
But he starts to feel something else creeping in, something worse than fear. Hope.
He starts to feel safer here and that alone terrifies him. It is a dangerous thing, hope. He knows better than to trust it, knows how easily it can be ripped away. But it is there, flickering, insistent. He does not want to let it take root. If this is all a lie, if he falls for it, it will ruin him in ways the Capitol never could.
And yet.
Some things make sense. The warmth of real food. The steady hands of the nurses, never cruel, never careless. The way his body is healing without punishment. The way they haven’t beaten him once. Snow would never go to such lengths to make him comfortable. Would he?
He starts to want to believe them.
But it is a lonely thing, this wavering between reality and illusion. His family is gone. His friends are gone. Katniss is gone. In another district, far away, keeping her distance. Avoiding him. Because he is broken and she knows it.
She does not want him now. Maybe she never did.
Haymitch is here, but not enough, not anymore. And when he is here, it is worse than when he’s gone. He doesn’t soften his words, doesn’t hide his frustrations, doesn’t try to comfort him. He says things Peeta doesn’t want to hear, things that make his head hurt, things that only add to the storm in his mind.
He is trapped in the space between wanting to believe and knowing he cannot.
Because if it is real, then everything else is too.
And he doesn’t know if he can survive that.
During his sessions, the psychologist lets him draw. It’s the only real comfort he has, the only thing that feels like it belongs to him. Each time, he is given a small scrap of paper and a tiny pencil, and each time, he must return the pencil when the session ends. He never keeps anything.
He draws whatever they talk about, lets his hands work while the doctor speaks, while the words drift around him like smoke. Today, the topic is Katniss.
His fingers tighten around the pencil, the sharp tip digging into the paper, leaving lines too heavy, too rough. He doesn’t look up. Apparently, she’s back. The doctor asks how he feels about it, and he shrugs, staring at the page, at the mess of lines that are supposed to mean something. He doesn’t answer right away because saying it out loud makes it real.
But he is nervous. Terrified.
Because for all his doubts, for all the times he has questioned what is real and what isn’t, a part of him believes she’s real. And if she is real, then that means he has pushed her away all these weeks. It means she has been here, alive, waiting, while he sat in silence, drowning in his own mind.
He is scared. Scared that she will be angry. Scared that she won’t want to see him. Scared that she will run again.
He wants her to be real. More than anything. Because if she is not, if she is just another trick, another cruel illusion, he knows it will break him.
She is all he has left.
She is the only person who truly understands him, even if she doesn’t love him, even if they aren’t friends anymore. Even if they are just two broken people, barely holding themselves together. He needs her. He needs her in a way he cannot explain, in a way that makes his stomach twist and his chest ache.
The doctor presses him gently, urging him to say more.
He hesitates, then asks, “Can I see her?”
The doctor shakes her head. Not yet. First, he must talk. He must explain how he feels about her return. He nods, though his throat tightens at the thought of saying it out loud.
“Nervous,” he finally mutters. “I am nervous to see her. I am nervous she won’t want anything to do with me.”
The doctor writes something down in her little notebook, her pen scratching against the page. Peeta watches it move, watches her record his fear like it is nothing more than another symptom to fix.
They talk more, though he barely hears himself speak. Then the doctor tells him something new.
Katniss has been hurt.
She was in District 2. Something happened. She is here now, in District 13, in the hospital wing. She is being treated.
The pencil in his hand snaps.
He does not move. Does not speak. The doctor keeps talking, but the words don’t register. She’s hurt.
He should have known. Of course, she’s hurt.
Doubt floods him like ice water, crawling up his spine, settling deep in his bones. Why now? Why tell him this now? Why give him hope, only to twist the knife? His breath starts to quicken, his chest tightening, his heartbeat hammering against his ribs.
Snow would want him to believe she was hurt. Snow would want him to think she was dying.
Snow would want him to suffer.
His hand clutches at his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, yanking it, twisting it, trying to hold onto something solid as the panic sets in. His lungs won’t work right. His body won’t obey him. The doctor is speaking, but the words are distant, muffled, useless.
Everything feels like it is falling apart again.
And he doesn’t know what is real anymore.
He wakes up to the sound of Haymitch’s voice.
“Gettin’ some beauty sleep, huh, boy?”
His head is heavy, his body slow, like he’s swimming through something thick and unshakable. He groans in response, shifting upright, the hospital bed creaking beneath him. His limbs feel distant, detached, like they don’t belong to him.
“You got a nice little morphling shot,” Haymitch says, settling back in the chair across from him. “Knocked you out cold.”
Peeta blinks at him, trying to force his sluggish thoughts into order. Morphling? His frown deepens. “Why did they give me morphling?”
Haymitch chuckles, but it isn’t a warm sound. “You had yourself a little fit over Katniss being shot up,” he says, waving a hand as if to brush it away. “Don’t worry, kid. She’ll be fine. Just a little banged up.”
She’s fine.
She’ll be fine.
Hurt, but okay. Real.
It’s real.
His breath comes unevenly, his heart hammering a little too fast in his chest. He clamps his hands down on the thin blanket draped over his lap, grounding himself in the texture, in the weight of it. He needs to hold on to something solid. Something real.
My name is Peeta Mellark.
I am 17 years old.
I am in District 13.
District 12 is gone. My family is gone.
I was rescued from the Capitol by the rebellion.
His thoughts stumble, circling, latching onto the words like a lifeline. My name is Peeta Mellark. I am 17 years old. My name is Peeta Mellark.
If he says it enough, maybe it will feel true. Maybe it will feel like something he can believe in.
Haymitch shifts in his seat, watching him. His expression is unreadable, or maybe Peeta is just too tired, too fogged up from the drugs, to interpret it.
“Your head doctor said you weren’t ready to see her,” Haymitch says, like he’s just tossing it out there, like it doesn’t matter. “But I’ll take you if you want.”
Peeta barely has time to process it before Haymitch smirks. “You are her husband, after all.”
The words hit him like a physical thing, sharp and sudden. Husband. The Capitol’s lie. The persona they built for him, the perfect star-crossed lover, the fool so easy to manipulate.
His hands clenched tighter around the blanket, his nails digging in.
Haymitch stands, tilts his head toward the door. A signal.
Follow.
Peeta hesitates for only a second. Then he moves.
Because whatever is waiting for him, real or not, truth or lie, he needs to see her.
They walk in silence to the room where Katniss is resting.
She is sleeping when they arrive. Peaceful, still, her breathing slow and even. He stops just inside the doorway, but Haymitch moves forward and sinks to the floor. Peeta hesitates only a moment before doing the same.
And then, he just watches her.
For hours, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink for too long, doesn’t let his mind wander, doesn’t risk missing even the smallest movement. He watches the slow rise and fall of her chest, the faint flutter of her eyelids, the way her fingers twitch against the sheets. He watches and makes sure.
Because if she stops breathing, he needs to know. If this is another trick, he needs to catch it before it takes him under.
At some point, Haymitch leaves. Peeta doesn’t notice when. One moment, he is there, the next, he is gone. It doesn’t matter. He stays.
And then she stirs.
He gets to his feet immediately, moving closer, not too close, just enough. Close enough that she will see him the moment she wakes. Close enough that he can see her clearly, take in every detail, every flicker of movement, every small proof that this is real.
Her eyes open slowly. Heavy, hazy with sleep. Her eyes.
He knows them too well. The sleepy, unfocused way they blink open, the small furrow of her brow as she adjusts to the light. He has seen this before, on the train, in the arena, in stolen moments when the world wasn’t looking.
It is too familiar. Too her.
She frowns in confusion, shifting slightly against the pillows, and the smallest wrinkle forms between her brows.
It is too much. Too real.
He swallows, stepping forward. “Hi, Katniss.”
Her expression softens, still sleepy, still confused. “Hi, Peeta.”
Silence follows. A moment suspended in time. Neither of them move. They just watch each other.
“You got shot,” he says, voice hoarse.
She blinks, glances down at herself, as if just now remembering. “So I was.”
His fingers twitch at his sides, his pulse uneven. Slowly, cautiously, he reaches for her hand. This is the test.
She watches him. She has time to pull away. She doesn’t.
His fingers close around hers, warm and solid. Real.
“I don’t like you getting shot,” he murmurs.
She laughs, then immediately winces, a soft whine escaping her lips. “I don’t much like it either.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close. He bites the inside of his cheek, running his thumb absently over her knuckles.
The silence that follows is different. Not cold. Not distant. Just quiet. The kind of quiet that isn’t empty, but full of things neither of them know how to say. He sits there, stroking her hand, grounding himself in the warmth of it, in the solid weight of her fingers between his.
After a few minutes, he begins to pull away.
But she stops him.
Her fingers tighten around his, gripping him, anchoring him to the moment.
“Stay?” Her voice is small, fragile, uncertain in a way Katniss never is. But her eyes, her eyes are big and hopeful and looking at him.
His chest tightens. He grips her hand back.
“Always,” he says.
She gives the smallest nod, her lips curving just slightly before her eyes flutter closed again.
He doesn’t move.
And for the first time in longer than he can remember, he does not feel like he is drowning.
Real.