AU: Katniss and Peeta never had to compete in the Games a second time, and became Mentors for District Twelve.
The stage lights make her skin sweat. Even after five years of this, she refuses to become used to it. She thinks perhaps Peeta’s used to it though, with his steady hand in hers and the way he and Caesar have a rapport that quickly becomes the holy grail of television, bouncing off one another effortlessly (and do we hear wedding bells yet, Peeta? Well, I don’t know, can you hear anything under that new wig of yours? Generous applause, screams of laughter). Her mind is somewhere else; behind the curtain where exactly three days ago she’d held a fourteen year old boy in her arms as he’d struggled in his tailored black suit and cried for his mother. He was a Seam boy (he’s lasted a whole seven hours in the arena so far, so Katniss supposes that’s something, at least). He had to do his whole interview with puffy red eyes and she’s so preoccupied that she doesn’t notice Caesar ask her a question until Peeta scuffs the back of her hand with his thumb. It’s a comforting gesture borne from needing to communicate silently all these years. It means come back.
(I think someone’s a little preoccupied with wedding thoughts, don’t you folks!) Please, no. Not yet.
She slumps through the rest of the interview with Peeta’s help. They won’t crawl in to bed (shhh, Katniss it was just a bad dream, I’m here) until the tiny hours of tomorrow. She dreams every night of crying children, silk, and Prim’s name being drawn from a pool of blood.
Post-Mockingjay: Katniss watches Peeta paint.
It’s nice, just to be with him. His presence becomes a comfort. The way his hands work, the smear of paint across his forehead, the tightness of his lips when he makes a mistake. The sun shines through the window behind her, and Peeta paints a meadow where Prim sits, the wind blowing through her hair in a field of dandelions. Perhaps it can be good again.