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Katniss has been called innocent. Peeta has called her innocent. She allows that, to some extent, it’s true. It isn’t a matter of being unaware of desire—of that burning between people which makes them seek each other out like dogs in heat. But lust, desire, sex—to Katniss, they are distinct and separate from the immediate necessities of life. Feeding her family, feeding herself. Surviving. Saving Peeta. Saving Gale. Saving herself. There isn’t time to think about desire, and anyway, all that love had gotten her mother was a dead husband and years of living as more ghost than woman.
But late at night, when Katniss steals beneath Peeta’s covers to lay with their bodies fused together like necessity, desire rears its head. Not hers, not at first. At first, it’s Peeta’s desire. Peeta’s body, which, despite all that it has been through, is still helplessly young.
“Sorry,” he says, when she feels it the first time. “It just does that. I can’t really control it.” He shrugs, an apologetic note to his voice. Then they shift so her chest is to his back, and that’s that.
Katniss has never slept in the same bed as anyone but Prim. She has heard—or overheard—stories. Boys getting handsy, pushing their luck. Girls maybe even letting them. Sometimes there were stories about boys and boys, or girls and girls. She expected her first encounter to be more momentous. Rather, she expected there would never be an encounter in the first place. But here she is.
It doesn’t happen every time. Most nights it doesn’t happen at all. They don’t talk about it—or anything, really. Peeta is probably as exhausted and anxious as she is, if only better at hiding it. Maybe he doesn’t even want anything more to happen between them. Whatever he feels for her—whatever she, too, feels for him—is more than any physical act could encapsulate. That, if nothing else, is something she knows for certain. Nobody goes through what they have and develops a relationship that can be broken by sex, or a lack thereof.
So, night after night, Peeta gets hard and they adjust themselves until it becomes more a plausible deniability than a reality. After the first night, Peeta never mentions it. Neither does Katniss.
Until the baby.
“How do you know?” Katniss asks. Tonight, they’re on their sides, facing each other. Only their legs tangle together under the sheets. Even in the dark, Peeta’s eyes are bright and blue.
“Know what?” Peeta’s head rests on the crook of his elbow.
“You always know what to say and how to say it. Whenever you go out there, it’s like—“ Katniss pauses. Peeta’s gaze is intent on hers. “It’s like you know what you’re doing." She can't help the tone of accusation that slips into her words. Peeta has always been a layer of mysteries to her, each revelation revealing some fresh new unknown.
Peeta’s mouth quirks, and Katniss feels her own expression mirroring his. “Trust me, Katniss, I don’t have a clue. I just try to be genuine. I know, I know,” he says at her skeptical expression, “the baby thing was a lie. But I just imagine—I imagine how a real couple would act and feel, under our circumstances. If we were really in love with each other. I think about how a baby would be this purest expression of love, and how the Capitol twists that love. Makes it—I don’t know. Not love. Just another way to reassert their power.”
Katniss frowns. Silence stretches the moment.
Peeta sighs. “I never know what you’re thinking.”
Katniss almost, absurdly, giggles. She allows herself a smile. “I never know what I’m thinking, either.”
Peeta reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. His hand lingers, thumb tracing the curve of her jaw, before pulling back. “No, you do. You’re always doing something. Getting something done. It’s me who’s always making things more than they are.”
There’s history in his words and history in his gaze; it’s a history Katniss can't face. She flips over onto her back. There are a million things she wants to say. She has no idea how to start. Instead, she says: “Thank you for the bread.”
Peeta laughs. “I think you’ve already said that.”
“Shut up. It doesn’t count in front of the cameras. I mean it. I owe you.” The admission dredges up something dark and pathetic and weak. She can’t bear to look at Peeta. Above her, the ceiling reflects the shrouded beams of light filtering through the window blinds. If she uses her imagination, it almost looks like the real sky.
“God, Katniss,” comes the exasperated reply. “It’s not about owing. We saved each other. We are saving each other. Do you count the number of times you’ve saved Prim? It’s like that. We’re—family. Or something. We just—“
Katniss still isn’t looking at Peeta, but she feels her eyes wanting to drift over to him, curious. Peeta is so rarely at a loss for words. She wants to look, but it feels like a breach of privacy. Even though they’re half-dressed in a bed together. Some types of closeness are different than others.
Peeta clears his throat. “We look out for each other, don’t we?”
It’s the vulnerable edge to his voice that finally convinces Katniss to meet his gaze. “Yes,” she says, unhesitating. Peeta’s eyes shine in a gleam of moonlight. “Always.”
On odd expression crosses over Peeta’s face, searching and serious. Katniss doesn’t know how to look away, worried that doing so will break something irreparable. So she looks. And she feels. Something wells up inside her like a wave that refuses to crest, building and building.
Then Peeta sighs, drags a hand over his eyes, and says: “I’m tired.”
The exhaustion hits her all at once. “Me too.” It comes out a whisper.
Peeta throws an arm around her, pulling her close. Katniss shifts automatically, until his chest is flush against her back. She clutches his hands to her chest, intertwining fingers.
She’s half-asleep when she feels it again. Maybe that’s why she has the courage to ask. “Does it hurt?”
Peeta lets out a low half-chuckle, a hot gust against her neck. “No, don’t worry about it. Go to sleep.” And then he does something that he has never done, and presses a soft kiss to the nape of Katniss’ neck. An involuntary shiver runs down her spine. She nudges closer; he pulls her in deeper.
But in that twilight zone of half-wakefulness, Katniss’ tongue runs free. “I’ve never,” she manages, before reigning herself in. Heat blooms. There are people who can talk about this sort of thing. There are people who can deal with this sort of thing. But Katniss has never been, nor will ever be, one of them. Even to try is an embarrassment.
But Peeta just takes another steady breath. “Me neither,” he admits, carelessly.
It takes a handful of minutes before Peeta’s breathing evens out and his grasp on her loosens. But Katniss remains awake long into the night.