in elk universum

It was late, in Tampa Bay. Ilya was in his hotel room, phone in hand, waiting for Shane Hollander. He was leaning against the room’s desk; the vibrations of his phone were the only thing making a sound. Ilya glanced to see his brother’s name illuminated on the screen, but he ignored it, as he had been the past few days. Alexei was the last person he wanted to speak to.  A notification from Jane quickly appeared, to which Ilya moved towards the door, letting the Canadian player into the room. Shane didn’t speak as he entered, fidgeting with his fingers just outside of his pockets and avoiding Ilya’s eye. He immediately sat on the bed, taking a deep, shuddering breath as he did.

There was a moment of silence, which Ilya broke, as he was leaning against the wall, trying to figure out what was happening, “This looks serious.” “It's not. I mean, yeah, I guess.” Shane, still not looking directly at Ilya, was focused on the wall just next to Ilya. He couldn’t look him in the eye. “Can you just sit down or something?” Ilya obliged, slowly walking to the desk, leaning on it slightly, giving all his attention to Shane.

 “It's not just me, right?” Shane looked at him then, his face full of anxiety and trepidation. “Not just you, what?” “You feel it too, don't you?” “Feel what? “Last time we were together, it was different.” Shane hadn’t taken his eyes off Ilya, hadn’t even blinked. It took nearly all his willpower not to leave the hotel room, to run to his own room for safety, to ignore what was so blaringly obvious. This was not a comfortable conversation, not for Shane, but it was one he had to have. “What was different? That you ran away?” Ilya sniffed, rubbing his nose. A small tell that he would sometimes do whenever he was anxious, stressed, worried, or uncomfortable. Shane scoffed, shaking his head. The irritation rose within him; Ilya was clearly ignoring what Shane was saying. And maybe he deserved that. He had run away. He’d left Ilya there, all by himself, still wearing his clothes, Ilya’s taste still on his lips. And Shane had hated himself afterwards. He hated the fact that they didn’t speak for weeks. Hated that they only saw each other on the ice. Hated how he couldn’t see what was right in front of him. “Look, I'm... I'm sorry I freaked out, OK?” “Freaked out over nothing.” Ilya shrugged nonchalantly, trying to hide how much he cared, how much it had hurt him. Ilya had played that moment over and over in his head, trying to figure out how he could have fixed it. It was that one word, something that to anyone else wouldn’t matter, that had ruined it all. That had made Shane run away, all because Ilya had said his first name. It was something he had wanted to say for a long time. Something that had just slipped out. Something that, after 8 years, shouldn’t have mattered. But it had mattered. It had changed things. Shane raised his voice, “It wasn't nothing. Don't act like that. This is hard enough without you being an asshole.” “What do you want, Hollander?” Ilya sighed, moving his head to the side. He waited for a response, to which Shane just took another deep breath, trying to psyche himself up. “We get together, we fuck. It's simple.” “Simple?” “It's simple for me.” “Bullshit! I think...I think I'm gay.”  There. He had said it. Those words had been swirling around inside his brain for much longer than Shane wanted to admit. He couldn’t say it outright to Rose. Hadn’t told Hayden. Or his parents. But with Ilya? He could say it to him. This was a big step for Shane – to finally realise something so integral to himself.

Ilya was surprised at first. This was definitely not what Ilya had expected Shane to admit to. Something that was so glaringly obvious to Ilya. A laugh escaped Ilya; he couldn’t help himself, “Hmm. Oh yeah? What... what makes you think that?”

“Fuck you, you're not gay.”

“No, not completely.”

“Yeah, well, I think I am. Completely.”

“OK, so you're gay, so what?” Ilya shrugged his shoulders, exasperated at the direction of the conversation.

“Well, it's kind of a big deal. To me, at least. Sorry if I'm being boring again.” Boring. How many times had Ilya described Shane using that word? Boring, in a sense of comfort, home, calm. So yes, Shane was boring. But boring was not bad, not for Ilya. He longed for boring. Longed for the stillness, peace, that boring brought. But Shane didn’t see boring as a good thing. It was just another thing wrong. Shane Hollander, the boring hockey player. A great player, but a boring person. He never had anything interesting to say. Ilya groaned, pushing himself off the edge of the desk, plonking himself down next to Shane on the bed. Clearly, humour was not going to help Shane. He felt Shane’s body turn towards him; his eyes fixed on Ilya. “Why are you telling me this?” “Who else am I gonna tell?” This was a fair comment, Ilya could admit that. Maybe there wasn’t anyone else Shane could tell, or even wanted to tell. “It's... not just being gay. It's you. It's this. Being gay is one thing, but this fucking your arch-rival is another thing.”

Ilya hadn’t looked at Shane since sitting on the bed, his eyes focused on his lap. He couldn’t bring himself to look up; he knew he’d falter immediately. He had to have some form of control, even though he could feel it slowly slipping away. “That is why it is a secret.” “I know that, but last time... And for the record, I am sorry about last time, OK? I'm sorry I freaked out. But before that... it was nice.” “It was.” Ilya agreed, nodding to himself. He had to concede on that at least. It was more than nice; it was more than that for both of them. Shane had apologised twice now, which Ilya appreciated. It didn’t change what had happened, but it meant something. Ilya had tried so desperately to make it nice for Shane. He had kissed him so tenderly, so gently. He had asked him to stay, with no pressure. He had filled his fridge with those stupid ginger ale cans. Prepped food just in case Shane had been hungry. Made sure to put a hockey game on the T.V. Sat far away so Shane wouldn’t feel crowded, but gradually moved closer to him, as Shane loosened up. It was almost perfect. Almost. Until they had done the unthinkable. “And it felt like we were something.” “We cannot be something, Hollander.” Ilya shut Shane down. He was shutting him out, putting those walls up. “Would you want to be, if we could?” “We can't.” “That's not what I asked.” “What does it fucking matter?” Ilya raised his voice, looking directly at Shane, to which Shane flinched so slightly. He hadn’t meant to get angry, but this was a pointless conversation to be having. It didn’t mean Ilya didn’t want that. Because he did, of course, he did. Being something with Shane Hollander was a fantasy. It was something Ilya had thought about, but those thoughts had always been pushed away, brushed aside. It was not realistic. Even if it was the only thing Ilya wanted. Even if he so desperately wished things could be different. Even if it was taking all of his willpower to admit exactly how he felt about Shane. “I don't think I can keep pretending I don't like you anymore.” Shane’s eyes started to glisten. He wasn’t going to let himself cry. There. He had said it. He liked Ilya Rozanov. No, he more than liked him. He longed to touch him, to kiss him. He wanted to drag his fingers through his curls. Wanted to hold him when he was sad. He loved playing against him; the thrill Shane felt when they were both on the ice was like nothing else. He wanted to spend those slow Sunday mornings with him. He wanted to spend those quiet evenings with him. To come home to Ilya, waiting for him. He wanted the normal things that everyone else was allowed to have. “You don't like me.” Ilya shook his head, as if shaking it long enough would stop this from happening. Why would Shane feel like this for Ilya? Why should he? What possessed him to think Ilya would be good for him? Because he was not good for him. Ilya was not good for anyone. But especially not sweet, boring Shane. “Yeah, I do. I think I like you maybe a little too much.” Shane wasn’t sure how much clearer he could be. How else could he convey what he felt for Ilya? The longing looks, the desperation and need whenever they were together, the subtle touches in public. Shane had done everything but say the words. “Don't. Don't fucking do this, Hollander. I'm not...” Ilya sighed, “I wouldn't be able to go home again. Ever. Do you get that?” “Because your family?”

“Because Russia! I would not be able to go back to Russia!” “What would happen to you?” “I don't want to find out.” Ilya’s voice cracked as he finished the sentence. He could guess what would happen to him. Shane could also guess what would happen. But to utter those words would be too much. Ilya was always so careful back home; he made sure of that, now more than ever. Ilya’s relationship with Russia was difficult. He hated going home. Hated seeing his father in the state he was. Hated his brother. Hated the memories their home held. Hated that it was the last place he saw his mother. Maybe the last place he had been truly happy as a child. But to be seen as something ‘wrong’ by his home country, to be cast out, forbidden to return – there would be no turning back. “But would your parents...” “My father is police. My brother is police.” “And your mother?” “Dead.” Oh. How had Shane not known this before? Ilya rarely mentioned his mother, which now made sense. It was always his father. His brother. Shane had been so wrapped up in his own problems he hadn’t even noticed. “I'm sorry.” “I was young. My father is very old-fashioned. And sick.” “Sick like crazy?” “That too, a little, but no, sick more like...” “Oh, like cancer?” Shane was asking too many questions; he knew that. But this was a rarity. Ilya was answering them; he was letting Shane in. “Dementia.” “That's awful.” Yes, it was awful. Regardless of how Ilya felt about his father, to watch him fade away, to become someone Ilya didn’t recognise, it was not a nice feeling. Every summer, he would go home, and his father was even less of a person. Sometimes he would recognise Ilya, berate him for something that happened years ago. Other times, he would become very angry, questioning why this stranger was in his home. He would cry out for Irina; he would cry out for Ilya’s mother. In this state, Ilya couldn’t correct him; he could only let his father become more upset until he tired himself out. At one point, Ilya would have felt some form of vindication from this when he was younger, full of hatred for the man. But he just felt sadness now. It was a difficult feeling, feeling such sorrow for a man who caused so much pain in Ilya’s life. His father was becoming a hollow shell, with confused and tired eyes. It was exhausting, and Ilya was just waiting, waiting for his father to finally let go. Ilya could feel himself letting go, a small tear rolled down his cheek. He turned from Shane, not wanting him to see him like this. Not wanting the vulnerability to escape. He’d worked so hard to keep it inside, to hold it tight against him. “Hey. Hey...” Shane started to move towards Ilya, wanting to hold him, to stop Ilya from feeling this way. He wanted Ilya to know he was here, he would look after him, he could love him, if Ilya would let him. “Sorry.” Shane sat on Ilya’s lap, pulling him close. He held Ilya’s face before kissing him. It was a soft kiss, not full of desire, but comfort. Their foreheads brushed before Ilya wrapped himself around Shane, holding tightly. He allowed the tears to flow, allowed himself to be held by Shane, as they rocked together. It was only the two of them in that moment; nothing else mattered.

“Better?” Shane asked sometime later, pulling himself to face Ilya. He wiped the tears that had fallen down Ilya’s face with his thumb, kissing them afterwards. Ilya silently nodded; his face still pressed into Shane’s chest. Shane started to move off Ilya’s lap, but Ilya grabbed hold of Shane’s waist again, pulling him back, not wanting to lose his touch.  

“I’m heavy.” A small, playful whine escaped Shane, still holding onto Ilya’s waist, trailing small circles on his back.

“No, you’re not.”

“Come on.” Shane moved towards the side of the bed, still holding onto Ilya’s hand. Ilya followed, watching as Shane sat against the headboard, patting the space next to him. Ilya found his way to Shane, before being hooked under Shane’s arm, allowing his head to rest on his chest. A few absent tears rolled down Ilya’s cheek, dropping onto Shane’s shirt. Shane’s thumb appeared, caressing Ilya’s wet skin. Ilya felt Shane’s hand move up towards the top of his head, brushing his fingers through Ilya’s loose curls. They sat there, in those positions, for a while. Ilya wasn’t sure how long; he seemed to get lost in the rhythm of Shane’s chest going up and down.

Shane finally broke the silence after what seemed like an eternity. “What do you need?”

“You. Just you.”

“Okay.” Shane kissed the top of Ilya’s forehead, allowing his lips to drag down to Ilya’s cheek. Another kiss was planted. And then another. A kiss on his cheekbone. A kiss for his nose. A kiss for his jawline. A peck on the lips.

“Is this okay?”

Ilya nodded, pushing himself towards Shane, wanting his touch. His head fell into Shane’s lap; Shane adjusted himself slightly so Ilya could lie comfortably. A small jolt spread down Ilya’s back when he felt Shane’s fingers on the back of his neck. They slowly slid down underneath Ilya’s tank, rubbing up and down against his back. Shane’s fingers started to pull on the tank, dragging it up, over Ilya’s head. Ilya sat up, wrapping his hands around Shane’s thighs, gripping tightly. His breathing was quicker now, almost verging on a pant. He needed Shane. He wanted him. As if Shane enjoyed teasing him, Ilya soon felt a pair of lips on his neck. Then his shoulder. Shane’s head moved down Ilya’s chest, kissing each mole as he went. Ilya leaned his head back, breathing in deeply, trying to contain himself. Shane was taking his time with each kiss, clearly mesmerised by the scattered marks on Ilya’s skin, following them further down.  When Shane finally reached Ilya’s belly button, he pulled his lips away and looked up. His dark, beautiful eyes were staring up at Ilya with such admiration, Ilya thought he might burst.

“Still good?”

“Mm. Still good.” Ilya croaked, his voice sounding rougher and coarser than he had meant it to.

Shane moved back up to face Ilya, taking his chin in his hands, the way Ilya had done so many times before with the Canadian. Shane’s eyes locked onto Ilya’s lips, before smashing into a deep, but loving kiss. Ilya returned the kiss, crashing his tongue against Shane’s, pulling Shane closer to him by the collar of his shirt. Neither stopped for breath, but they didn’t need to. Shane manoeuvred himself so his knees locked in between Ilya’s legs. The kisses didn’t stop, even as Shane pushed Ilya down to flop on the bed, his ribs digging into Ilya’s bare chest. Ilya’s hands found their way to the buttons of Shane’s shirt, which were undone in mere seconds. Shane pulled away from the kiss not long after, leaving Ilya’s hungry eyes looking up at him. Shane didn’t say anything for a minute, he didn’t kiss Ilya, didn’t caress his cheek and run his fingers through Ilya’s hair. Ilya was getting impatient, which was clear to Shane, who just smiled at him. His glossy eyes blinked rapidly, as if he were studying Ilya’s features, not wanting to forget them. There was a softness to how Shane was looking at Ilya, a softness that Ilya wanted to kiss, to keep, to have.

“What are you looking at, Hollander?”

“You.”

“Please,” Ilya begged him this time.

Shane obeyed, kissing Ilya again. This time, it was slow; Shane was taking his time with Ilya, which made him want to scream. But Ilya allowed Shane to take the lead, to guide Ilya whichever way he wanted. Ilya liked this side of Shane, to know Shane wanted this as much as Ilya did. Shane, who in the past had been quick and desperate one minute and cold the next. It was as if Shane was carefully familiarising himself with Ilya again, not wanting to step out of place.

Ilya slid Shane’s shirt off his shoulders as Shane sat up, placing his legs on either side of Ilya’s torso. He allowed his bulge to brush against Ilya’s chest, moving back and forth as he slowly pulled his shorts down to reveal the rim of his tight boxer shorts. Ilya, who couldn’t and wouldn’t wait anymore, yanked them down around Shane’s ankles. He watched eagerly as Shane removed the shorts entirely, leaving only his boxer shorts on, just to tease Ilya a little more. Ilya leaned his head up as his lips brushed against Shane’s neck, but Shane pushed him back down to the bed, gripping hold of Ilya’s chin. Shane opened Ilya’s mouth with his thumb, allowing it to be covered by Ilya’s tongue, swirling around in his mouth. Ilya bit onto Shane’s skin hard before Shane dragged his thumb away from his mouth and down towards his neck. Ilya felt the wetness from Shane’s thumb drag down until it reached the chain that hung around his neck. Ilya waited and watched as Shane held the cross between his fingers before planting a small kiss on the cross as it lay back against Ilya’s skin.

Shane, realising he could no longer wait, dragged his head down until it reached the top of Ilya’s pants. Ilya felt the quick kisses placed just above the waistband of his underwear as Shane pulled them down. Shane’s tongue trailed down the inner of Ilya’s thighs, his cheeks brushing against Ilya’s rapidly growing erection. Ilya could hear himself moaning, his fingers gripped hold of the headboard as he braced himself for Shane to use his mouth on him. It was slow, delicate, which was going to send Ilya off the edge, before Shane’s tongue became messy, sloppy, all-consuming. Shane’s fingers were gripping Ilya’s thighs, which were bound to leave marks the next day.

“Fuck, fuck,” Ilya yelped out, not being able to contain himself any longer. Ilya knew he wouldn’t last much longer after this and cried out as he exploded in Shane’s mouth. Shane wiped his mouth on the corner of the bedsheet and stayed there, rubbing Ilya’s thighs.

“Do you want to fuck me, Rozanov?” Shane gasped, out of breath himself.

“Yes, please.”

“Fuck, Ilya.” So, that is what they did. Multiple times. They had some lost time to make up for.

*

It was much later, and the early morning light had started to creep into the hotel room. The two men were lying across the bed, sheets hanging so they touched the floor, pillows scattered, sweat lingering. Shane blinked as he looked around the hotel room. They had been in this exact position so many times before, but there had been a definite shift. It wasn’t just a casual fuck; it hadn’t been that for a long time. Things had felt different the last time. It was scary. It had made things real. Those feelings that had been pushed down so many times had started to bubble, and Shane didn’t know what to do. So, yes, he had run away. But looking at Ilya now, he knew how utterly stupid it had been. He never wanted to let go of Ilya and would never run away again. He had laid himself bare to Ilya. He had told him how he felt, in that Shane Hollander kind of way. And Ilya had seemed to understand. Neither Shane nor Ilya was naïve enough to think they were at the same place they had been the last time, sitting in Ilya’s penthouse, eating tuna melts, watching Ryan Price on the screen, closing the gap between them. But that didn’t seem to matter, not now. Something else had begun between them. Something far more precious.

It was only a few hours until their flights, travelling in different directions. They would have to move eventually, but neither could bring themselves to be the first. Ilya had fallen asleep not long after they had finished, a light nap, he would say later, but Shane enjoyed this moment of peace. He looked down at Ilya, who was tucked under his arms again, his head resting on Shane’s ribs. He looked peaceful, content, happy. He was beautiful in that moment. He always looked beautiful. Shane silently thanked whatever it was that brought them back together again. How had he been so lucky? He’d fucked up, he knew that, but the way Ilya looked at Shane in the bar, the first time they’d seen each other, properly, for months. Shane could have melted right there. A braver man than he would have run to Ilya, held him tight, and apologised over and over. But this was good. It was better than Shane had expected. Better than he could have wished for. Ilya had forgiven him. Ilya’s confusion, the hurt on his face when Shane had left him, that image flickered past in his mind. He did not enjoy that memory. But that was the past. Shane had realised exactly what he had wanted, and he was going to get it.

Shane looked at him for a few minutes, wanting to keep this moment in his memory forever. He’d be thinking of this on his walk back to his room. Thinking of it at the airport. Thinking about this during his flight. On the drive back. Fuck, it was going to overcloud everything else, just as Ilya always seemed to. Shane was focused. He was focused as a hockey player. Focused on what he wanted to achieve. But this damn Russian, who seemed so guarded, so closed off, but looked at Shane like he was the brightest thing he saw – he threatened that every day. Ilya Rozanov was going to be the death of Shane Hollander. But Shane would gladly accept that. Over the years, they’d taken the small snippets they had been given: the fleeting meetings, knowing looks across the ice, the stupid ‘rivalry’ they were forced to enact. But maybe now, there was a small chance of something else, something more. Shane didn’t want to hope, didn’t want to jinx it, but he could allow himself to be happy, just for this moment.

Knowing he couldn’t lie there for much longer, no matter how much he wanted to, Shane moved down to Ilya. Stroking his forehead with his index finger, Shane forced himself to speak. A small whisper, “Hey.” Shane sighed, “I should go.”

“Hm.” Ilya’s eyebrows furrowed; his eyes stayed shut as he scrunched them up.

“I’ll shower first, okay?” Shane didn’t wait for a response before he got up and moved away from Ilya. He stopped before leaving the bed completely, slapping Ilya playfully on the arm. Ilya responded by throwing a pillow right into Shane’s eye. So, it was only a light nap.

Ilya was lying on top of the bedsheets when Shane came out from the shower, like a Greek God, leaning his head on his hand, his legs sprawled out. Shane couldn’t help but stare; he wanted to look at Ilya always. Ilya caught him, raising his eyebrows and smirking to himself, clearly happy with how he made Shane feel. A small, soft smile appeared on Shane’s face; a few flicks of water dropped from his forehead before Shane turned his attention to his clothes, which were neatly folded on the desk. Shane stood in front of the hotel bed, the bathroom towel hanging from his hips, holding onto his clothes. He stood there, waiting for something, waiting for Ilya to say something.

Ilya took a deep breath, gulping down as he watched Shane remove the towel and find his underwear. The morning light reflected onto the silver marks surrounding Shane’s waist and thighs. Ilya kept his eyes locked on Shane and watched as Shane dressed himself. Shane was well aware that Ilya’s eyes were focusing on Shane, not looking anywhere else. He took his time, especially with his shirt buttons that felt much looser now after being violently attacked by a desperate Ilya Rozanov mere hours before. Shane chuckled, catching Ilya looking at him. He was looking at him in a way Shane hadn’t seen before. Maybe Ilya had always looked at Shane like this, and Shane hadn’t noticed. He was awake now, however. “What?” “Nothing,” Ilya spoke with his sultry eyes, leaning his head against his hand. It was as if Ilya was teasing Shane, daring him not to go. This was so close to working; Shane was so close to crawling back to Ilya, to wrapping himself around him, to kissing him just one more time. Ilya had this pull, this hold on Shane, and he didn’t want to let go, not ever.

Shane finished dressing, patted himself down and moved towards the door. The two looked at each other for a minute, saying so much without any words being spoken. “Good night, Shane.” Shane sighed happily, tilting his head slightly as he looked back at Ilya. “Good night, Ilya.” The Russian’s name sounded strange on Shane’s lips. Not wrong, though. Shane liked the way it sounded. He wasn’t sure the pronunciation was completely correct, but there would be time for Shane to perfect it. They had given themselves this time, after wasting so many years. He liked the way his own name sounded when Ilya spoke it, so softly, so kindly. He wanted Ilya to say it again, wanted him to whisper it in Shane’s ear, breathlessly shout it out. Fuck, Shane knew they had turned up at a point of no return; they wouldn’t be able to turn back now. But Shane didn’t want to. The path they had taken wasn’t necessarily going to be easy, but Shane had Ilya back, and that was something he didn’t think was possible a month ago, let alone a day ago. He had him, and he wasn’t letting go.

The front of the apartment complex was easy to find; dimmed lights surrounded the wide entrance. The street itself was quiet, and only a few people passed as Ilya stood a few metres away, smoking the last drag of his cigarette. It was late, later than he’d intended. But Ilya had selfishly been putting it off. The thought of walking up those steps, knocking on the door, and seeing Shane’s freckled face, his puppy-dog eyes, and beautiful smile would make Ilya fold immediately. And he so desperately wanted to. He wanted to feel Shane’s touch, to feel Shane’s fingers rummaging through his curls, to kiss his lips. It was becoming all-consuming. This was exactly the problem. Ilya was in love with Shane Hollander, so in love with him, but it was trapped inside. He couldn’t think of anything else but that stupid, adorable, slow hockey player. 

But Ilya was not naïve enough to believe they could ever be happy. The thought of choosing between his home and Shane hurt too much. Being back in Russia, Ilya hated every moment. He hated seeing his brother. Hated watching his little niece cry. Hated the cold air against his skin. Hated seeing his father’s coffin being dropped slowly into the ground. But giving that all up? Knowing he could never return home. He would cut his family off completely. He would never visit his mother’s grave again. He would be shunned by his own country, his own people. It wasn’t fair. Ilya could never love Shane the way he deserved to be loved. They could never truly be happy. And it killed Ilya. Shane was right, back in the Tampa hotel room. Things had changed; it did feel different. And that scared Ilya more than he cared to admit. Things had been good between them. But Ilya’s admission back in Moscow, that could threaten it all. He selfishly didn’t want it to change. But to love Shane in secret, it was taking over everything. And he couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t tell Shane either. That would make it real. So, there was only one thing Ilya could do. It was the one thing he didn’t want to do, the one thing that hurt so much. But he couldn’t trust himself. 

Psyching himself up to enter the building, Ilya put out the cigarette, forcing himself to walk to the glass doors. Ilya punched in those four numbers Shane had texted an hour earlier, before the doors opened. The foyer was empty, as were the stairs and corridor that led to Shane’s door. Ilya had one thing to do, and then he would have to leave. He couldn’t kiss Shane, couldn’t let him touch him, couldn’t let his feelings take over. But the moment Ilya wrapped his knuckles on the door, and the Canadian player opened it, with a wide smile he saved for Ilya, these thoughts seemed to go right out the window. Because of course they did. 

“Hey.” Shane was smiling. His eyes lit up once he saw Ilya standing in his doorway. He was wearing a grey hoodie, dark sweats and white socks pulled right up. He looked comfy, cosy. God, that did something to Ilya. Why was he making this so difficult? Shane’s eyes looked tired, which wasn’t a surprise considering the game they had just played. Shane had knocked into Marleau, the reason for the bruises scattered around his face. It was sheer luck that neither of them were that badly injured. It didn’t stop a small scuffle happen on the ice, and Boston had won, because of course they did. There was a small part of Ilya that felt bad about this. Of course, Boston would have won even without the accident. But maybe it wasn’t an entirely fair match. This was not something Ilya would ever admit to Shane, though. 

“Hey.” Ilya whispered; he whispered so quietly he almost didn’t hear himself. 

“You, uh, found it.”

Smirking, Ilya walked past Shane, their arms brushing against each other. He turned back to Shane, closing and locking the door as Ilya slipped his jacket off. Shane followed the man in front of him, hands in his pockets. “Yes, Hollander. I found it.”

“Sorry, habit.” Shane apologised, his hands fidgeted inside his trouser pockets, not knowing what to do with himself. The two had been in this position so many times before, for so many years. But after the All-Star Games, the hotel room in Tampa, the time Shane spent at Ilya’s before the game, it was foolish for either of them to believe things were as they were. Things were different. Shane could admit them, even if Ilya didn’t want to, not yet. 

“How’s your face?” Ilya asked, leaning against the glass table. He watched as Shane’s eyes followed him, clearly unsure if he should follow him. 

“Hm, it’s okay. Hurts a little. I’ll survive. Does it look bad?”

Ilya moved his hand to stroke the light bruise on Shane’s cheek, who had moved closer to the Russian. It was red, and Shane flinched ever so slightly once Ilya’s fingers grazed his skin. But he didn’t recoil, didn’t move away, allowing Ilya to drag his fingers down Shane’s cheek before finding his jawline. He rubbed the top of his thumb there for a few seconds before retracting it and smiling. “No, it does not look bad. A shame, as you still lost.”

“Fuck you.” Shane chuckled, in that annoying way Ilya loved. He had relaxed a little now; the initial anxiety that he always felt with their hookups disappeared. It was silly, after all this time, to feel this way. But it didn’t stop either of them tiptoeing around each other. Especially now.

“Hm, my thoughts exactly.” Ilya crashed his lips onto Shane. If he was going to break it off, he at least deserved one last kiss, surely? This was fine and only a little irresponsible. It wasn’t as if Shane didn’t want Ilya to kiss him. He could see that Shane did by the way his eyes followed Ilya’s lips. By the way Shane bit into Ilya’s kiss, by the desperate groans escaping his mouth, by his hands cupping Ilya’s face. It was messy, it was rough, it was desperate. This was how it always was with the two of them. But Ilya slowed it down. He pulled away, gripping Shane’s chin with his hand. Shane’s breathing heightened, waiting for Ilya’s next move. Ilya waited, taking in Shane’s features. The light scatter of freckles across his cheeks. His dark, brown eyes were wide and waiting. How his breath hitched every time Ilya touched him. God, he was so beautiful. How had Ilya been so lucky to find him? How had they been so stupid to waste so much time? How was Ilya going to let Shane go? 

It had only been a minute or so, but Ilya could tell Shane’s patience was wearing thin. He himself couldn’t wait much longer, so he moved his hand down to Shane’s neck, stroking his Adam’s Apple lightly. Shane gulped down, his eyes still on Ilya. Ilya moved his face closer to Shane, slowly brushing their lips against each other. Ilya was always so tender and soft with Shane; it was something he never quite understood himself. Even the first time, when they were young and naïve and felt the instant lust and desperation for each other, Ilya was gentle. Not wanting to make Shane wait any longer, Ilya kissed him. He kissed him deeply, he kissed him like he was making a promise, to something Ilya couldn’t admit quite yet. Shane followed Ilya’s lead, kissing him back tenderly rather than the usual franticness of his kisses. 

They soon found their way into Shane’s bedroom, into Shane’s bed and into each other. 

The two lay entangled together on Shane’s bed. Shane had his arms wrapped around Ilya, holding him close. Ilya could hear the steady rhythm of Shane’s heartbeat against Ilya’s back. The two were laid in this position for longer than Ilya would have liked. Okay, that was a lie. He liked it very much, but his plan to break it off had diverted far too much. It was Shane’s fault, of course it was. 

“You okay?” Shane whispered into Ilya’s ear, Shane’s lips brushing against him. He lingered there a moment, his slow breaths floating towards Ilya’s face. 

“Hm, yes.”

“Excited for the play-offs?”

“Always. Oke, I will shower.” Ilya sighed, forcing himself out of Shane’s touch, out of his bed. Ilya could feel Shane’s eyes on him as he left the room, and he didn’t believe they looked away once. Ilya showered longer than normal, hoping to drown out those thoughts he didn’t want to listen to. It didn’t work, because of course it didn’t. Shane was always so loud in Ilya’s brain. It wasn’t fair. Ilya didn’t want to think of anything else, but it hurt. It hurt so much that Ilya could not love Shane the way he wanted to. It hurt that they lived in a world that made Ilya feel like this. It hurt that one admission would destroy everything. It hurt that Shane didn’t know how Ilya felt. It hurt that he might not feel the same. 

Shane must have noticed Ilya was avoiding coming back to him. When Ilya came back into the room, he was sitting upright, the loose sheets covering his lap, head leaning against the headboard, eyes glazed over.  He perked up when Ilya’s body moved across the room, flopping onto Shane’s lap. Shane’s free hand found Ilya, his fingers raced through the wet curls, circling slowly. It felt good, too good, but Ilya couldn’t bring himself to move away, to ask Shane to stop. It was peaceful, and Ilya longed to be held by Shane like this. 

“I’m wet.” Ilya mused eventually, breaking the trance the two had been in. 

“Yeah, no shit, Rozanov.” A small laugh escaped Ilya, as it did, he was sure he could feel Shane smiling down at him. God, they were idiots. 

“Hey, I wanted to ask you something,” Shane spoke into Ilya’s hair and planted a quick kiss on his forehead. Then another just under his eyebrow. And another kiss on the side of his cheek. He finally found Ilya’s lips, giving him a soft kiss. Ilya moved his head up to kiss Shane again, bumping his chin with Shane’s nose. 

“Oh, no. More questions.” Ilya playfully sighed, moving from Shane’s lap to sit next to the boy beside him. He placed his hand on Shane’s stomach, tracing the silver lines across Shane’s skin. Shane’s breath hitched up at Ilya’s touch, which was one of Ilya’s favourite things. Ilya could feel Shane’s eyes on him, watching him as intently as Ilya stroked Shane’s stomach. He loved to touch Shane like this. There was no need for anything but this. He wished he could stay in this moment, never leaving Shane and his bed.  

“After the season. I wondered if you wanted to come to my cottage this summer?”

Ilya faced Shane, his pupils flickering left to right, trying to comprehend what Shane was saying. “Your cottage?” How could Ilya not see this coming? He’d been an idiot. So consumed by Shane, by his cute freckles, his beautiful brown eyes, his kind smile. Shane’s cottage. His ‘favourite place on Earth’, that’s what he called it in that god-awful special. Shane wanted Ilya there. With him. But Ilya couldn’t do that. No matter how much he desperately wanted to. He would ruin it for Shane. And this wasn’t the plan. 

“Yeah, it’s super private and quiet. Secluded.”

Ilya shook his head, “Hollander. I can’t do that.” He said this quietly, secretly hoping Shane wouldn’t hear it. 

“Just a week or maybe two, if you want. Don’t go to Russia. Stay.” 

“We can’t.” Ilya was firmer this time, but it was agony to see the look on Shane’s face. His smile had faltered, his eyes were sad and wet, and his hands had started to fidget again. Ilya hated that he was the reason. 

Ilya half-expected Shane to leave the room, to hide away from Ilya. But Shane took a deep breath and nodded to himself. “Just hear me out, okay? No pressure. It’s just an offer. It could be nice.” Shane said this calmly, keeping his composure, even though Ilya was sure he wanted to whack him around the head. 

“Hollander…”

“You could still go home after. But…maybe we could-“

“We can’t. We already had this conversation.”

“Ilya…” God, he loved it when Shane said his first name. Loved it when he screamed it when Ilya was inside him. Loved it when he struggled to get it out when Ilya had his mouth on him. Loved it when he said it so sweetly, like he had just done. It was enough to make Ilya forget everything he had told himself about how it could no longer work and confess his undying love for Shane. 

Shaking his head, Ilya moved further away from Shane, creating a devastating space between them. “Don’t.” He turned to face the end of the room, his eyes blinking rapidly. 

Shane wasn’t going to let Ilya do this. He wasn’t going to let him shut down, shut out Shane and completely ignore everything that had happened. “We didn’t have this conversation.” Shane moved to touch Ilya’s cheek with his thumb. Ilya closed his eyes and moved his head down, allowing himself to be stroked by Shane. Why did he do this? Why did Shane have this control over Ilya? Why did he make Ilya feel this way? Shane moved his thumb away, pulling Ilya’s face to him, forcing the two to look at each other. 

“What do you want me to say?” Ilya asked, exasperated, waving his hands in the air in the dramatic way he did. 

“Yes, I’ll come to your cottage, Shane. It’s a great idea.”

Ilya couldn’t help but roll his eyes. In an ideal world, Ilya wouldn’t have missed a beat. He would have said yes. He would have kissed Shane hard. He would have told Shane that yes, he would come to the cottage, and he would stay all summer. He would have smiled at the idea of being with Shane, alone, with nothing else. He would have told him how he felt. Told him he loved him. And Shane would have said it back. But this was a fantasy world, a dream world, it did not exist and would never exist. “Bad idea.”

“It wouldn’t have to change anything.”

“But it would. It would change.”

“You don’t want it to change.” Shane was hurt, though it was clear he was trying not to show it. He didn’t want to scare Ilya away, but it was clear he wanted them to have this conversation. 

“I never said that.” This was not how Ilya had wanted it to go. Why couldn’t he just say it? Things had changed. And it was okay to admit that. But the idea that this had started as just hookups, just fucking, and now all these feelings were involved scared Ilya. And these were not small feelings. Big, obsessive, life-altering, all-consuming feelings. It was different now. And to enter into something else entirely? For Ilya and Shane to spend more than a few hours together, to be alone, to be free. It would change things. Ilya wondered whether that would be such a bad thing. Could he let himself have this one thing? Would it destroy everything completely, or would it change things for the better?

“I would like you to come.” Shane nodded, as if trying to convince himself. No, he was trying to convince Ilya, and Ilya couldn’t fault him for that. Shane had been so sincere that it was clear to Ilya. He had asked Ilya in such a way, as if he was tiptoeing around him. He didn’t want things to go backwards. Asking in such a casual way, as if he was asking something so simple, it was done for Ilya. It was just as Ilya had felt that day of the tuna melts, making sure everything was done in a way to make Shane comfortable. God, he loved this man so much it hurt. He didn’t know what to do. The idea of being so in love with Shane and knowing it could only end badly for them both, it was destroying him. 

“It’s just an offer, okay. Think about it, at least?”

He was relentless, but Ilya couldn’t say no to that face. He was too weak. “Oke.”

“Okay.” Shane nodded and allowed a small smile to appear on his face. He had broken through some of Ilya’s walls at least. His plan had been successful. Ilya’s had not. Not that it was a competition, of course. 

“I should go.”

“You could stay. Only if you want.”

Ilya wanted nothing more. The logical part of his brain was screaming out to him, telling him he needed to go, that he shouldn’t stay because that was a very bad idea. But this wasn’t loud enough, not strong enough for Ilya to listen. It was the other part, the part that longed to be touched by Shane. It was the part that felt safe in Shane’s arms. The part that had never felt this amount of happiness in his whole life. It was that part that loved Shane Hollander, that took over.  “I do want.”

“Okay, then stay. No more cottage-talk, I promise.” 

“Oke.”

“You hungry?”

“You gonna make me a tuna melt?”

“No. I eat other things.”

“Mine were too good anyway.” Ilya teased, smiling widely, showing almost all of his teeth, before feeling the force of Shane shoving him away from him. Ilya responded by jumping on top of Shane, raising his eyebrows, and pinning Shane down. Shane looked up to Ilya, his eyes soft and loving. 

“Hm, no. It’s no competition. But we can eat something else.” Shane gave Ilya a small smile. It wasn’t sad, but it was longing, which made Ilya sad. Shane had been brave, asking Ilya to his cottage. And Ilya hadn’t given him the answer he wanted. But the idea of letting himself do that, it was scary. Ilya wasn’t a coward, but this was one thing that terrified him. 

The two men forced themselves out of the comfort of Shane’s bed eventually. Their hands finding each other, as Shane dragged Ilya back to the kitchen. Ilya allowed himself to watch Shane as he walked in front of him. The stretch marks around Shane’s waist glistened almost in the late-night light. His usual tidy, black hair was ruffled and messy. His soft skin that Ilya longed to touch. Ilya didn’t think he could fall more in love with Shane, and every single time that stupid, slow, beautiful, freckled-faced, Canadian hockey player would surprise him. And he loved that. 

“I drink other stuff too.” Shane looked back at Ilya, who was leaning against a kitchen chair, his eyes still transfixed on Shane. 

“Like diet ginger beer?”

“Shut up.” Shane slid a Coke can across the kitchen island into Ilya’s hand. Ilya watched the man across from him, cursing himself for being in this situation. He was so in love with Shane, and that wasn’t going to change anytime soon. So, Ilya’s plan had not worked out. And Shane had invited him to his cottage. And Ilya desperately wanted to say yes. This was a problem. But it could be a problem for tomorrow. In that moment, it was Shane Ilya who would focus on. And only Shane. 

Katniss hadn’t stepped foot in his house for months, she’d been so occupied with Peeta that she hadn’t given a second thought to Haymitch. Not that he’d gone anywhere. Oh, no, Haymitch was exactly where he always was, where he would be until the end of time. The mentor’s house was a few doors down from Peeta’s, curtains always drawn and there seemed to be an ominous feeling from that side of the Victor’s Village. Maybe it was the distance, maybe it was the emptiness. Only a few houses now stood, the rest destroyed by the Capitol, by Snow, just as the rest of District 12 was. Katniss walked slowly to the lone victor’s house; she wasn’t sure why she even wanted to go. There was just this niggling feeling, one that she knew Haymitch would have a completely rational reason for, because he always did. It was one of the many annoyances about that man, and the list was long. And yet, after everything, Haymitch had come back home with Katniss. He hadn’t spent much time with her when they first arrived, but Katniss appreciated that. She’d wanted to be on her own. But after a few weeks, Greasy Sal would come during mealtimes, not staying for long, just making sure Katniss was fed. She knew Haymitch had sent her. She didn’t see him leave his house for weeks, but then, neither did she. It was a few months down the line when more people arrived back home. Katniss would go to the woods. She’d hunt, then drop off something for Haymitch. He soon realised this would be the routine. They didn’t need to talk, they understood each other. 

The house was in complete disarray, which didn’t surprise Katniss at all. Her home wasn’t much better, but Peeta managed to keep her in check, tidying here and there. It gave them something to do, something together. Haymitch didn’t have that. Hazelle had cleaned for him when they were last in 12, but she had stayed in 13, not wanting any memories of their old life. And so Haymitch had just carried on living, drinking, sleeping, ignoring the world outside, whilst the rubbish piled up, the clothes were sprawled across the floor and Haymitch stayed static. It didn’t smell, which was unusual. Forcing her way through the door, Katniss almost tripped over the pile of clothes bundled up in the entrance. Thankfully, it wasn’t underwear, as Katniss didn’t think she could deal with that. Plates were stacked high on the countertop, the remnants of food stuck to the surface. Making her way through the house, she noticed the empty bottles circling the sofa, clearly where Haymitch had fallen asleep after a busy night of drinking. Haymitch was nowhere to be found. Katniss didn’t fancy searching through his bedroom, so instead she picked up as many empty bottles as she could, placing them neatly on the kitchen table. The plates were chucked into the sink, hot water spilling out. Surveying the rest of the house, Katniss looked at all the individual messes. She wasn’t sure why she’d randomly decided to clear up, but she was intent on doing something. 

It wasn’t long until a body emerged, Katniss wasn’t sure where from, but there he was. Her once mentor. He looked tired, as they all did these days. His eyes surrounded by dark circles; the stubble of his beard was unkempt as was his hair. Clearly, it has been days since he’d had a shower, but Katniss wasn’t going to judge. This was who Haymitch was, maybe not who he’d always been, but it was him now. He was fully clothed, which was something, though it looked like he’d been wearing them for days. A whisky glass with in one hand, empty, whilst the other rubbed his forehead, clearly trying to soothe his hangover. 

“Haymitch.”

“And what do I owe the pleasure?”

Katniss shrugged, wiping her hands down from the sink water. She walked across the kitchen, pulling a chair out to sit. Haymitch watched her sit, before slowly swaggering over to the table. “Oh, I see. Peeta’s busy, right?” He let the whisky glass hit the table and flopped into the seat opposite. 

Katniss rolled her eyes. Yes, Peeta was busy. And yes, that left Katniss at odds with what to do with herself. But she didn’t need to be glued to Peeta all of the time, for hours on end. She could cope very well without him actually. Not that she’d ever admit any of this to Haymitch, he’d just end up laughing at her. “Maybe. Anyway, you’re one of the only people who’ll tolerate me.”

“Just as you are for me.”

“Delly likes you.”

“God knows why.” Katniss wondered that too. Delly was a sweet person, she saw the good, always the good. Even after everything that had happened. Katniss knew Delly visited Haymitch sometimes, every so often, to check up on him. It was more than Katniss had done. Peeta did too. Though looking at the state of his house, it seemed no one had visited for a while. 

“She sees the best in people. Like Peeta.” Katniss mused; Delly and Peeta were quite similar, and Katniss could see why they were friends. She didn’t remember much about the other townies they spent all their time with. Katniss may have judged them before, but all that disappeared. 

“Where is he, anyway?”

“Out. Making a difference, unlike us.”

“Excuse me. I have been making some very good progress with this delight.” Haymitch gestured towards the whisky bottle sitting next to the sink. Katniss shook her head, getting drunk wouldn’t be particularly helpful. 

“I think it’s council stuff.” Katniss sighed; she didn’t want to admit it to Haymitch, but he was the only one who would understand. He was the only one who knew Peeta like she did, maybe even better sometimes. A part of Katniss was worried about Peeta; that after all the effort he’d put it to help with the rebuilding of 12, that he’d still be viewed as the Capitol mutt, when he was anything but that. Peeta now was so far removed from the person who came back from the rescue mission. He still had his nightmares, he would still clutch onto a chair sometimes, his painting were still dark and disturbing. But things were different now; Katniss would be there when the nightmares came. She could make him smile like no one else could. And she helped him remember. 

“He still not a part of it?”

“Not officially.”

“No, not officially. But when have we ever cared about protocol, Katniss?” 

“True.”

“Have you seen his plans?”

“What plans?” 

“Oh, looks like the Mockingjay doesn’t know everything that goes on.” 

“What plans?” Katniss demanded; she was getting angry now and Haymtich was just smiling at her. 

“The buildings…” Katniss sat back, ignoring Haymitch who was laughing at her. Katniss knew Peeta wanted to be more involved with the council. She knew he had so many ideas that could really help 12. And she knew Peeta would do anything to help people if he could. She felt stupid really, that she hadn’t realised what Peeta had been doing. He was so busy a lot of the time. Between working on their memory book, soothing Katniss’ nightmares, baking, painting, visiting people in town, checking up on Haymitch, planting flowers around 12, Katniss didn’t see how he had any time for anything else. But he did, because that was just Peeta. It was who he was, ingrained in him. He was making a real difference, but still didn’t even realise how important he was.

“Not just that. All of it. All of 12. Ways to start up this whole ‘new world’.” Haymitch was still smiling, but he wasn’t mocking Katniss. He, like her, and many others didn’t believe Panem could fix itself. Maybe homes could be rebuilt, communities would come together, but they would never forgive, and never forget. 

“Hm.” Katniss nodded. “Cameras?” Truthfully, she knew Peeta never had to act up for the cameras, not really. It was all so natural for him, but everything he had done since coming home wasn’t for the citizens of the Capitol to marvel at, it was because he wanted to. Katniss had heard about the televising that was planned. Several districts were actively opposing it, not wanting to once again capitalise on people’s lives. Others saw it more positively, as a chance to show everything Panem was doing to rebuild itself. And a way to communicate with each other, asking for support if needed. Katniss wasn’t sure where she stood, only that she did not want to be anywhere near any cameras again. She didn’t believe anyone would want her there anyway, not exactly the poster child for rebuilding society. 

“Probably. But that’s not why he’s doing it.” Haymitch shook his head and poured some more whisky into his now empty glass. He swirled it around before necking it all in one. Katniss wondered how much of the drinking Haymitch actually enjoyed. The hangover wasn’t nice, Katniss knew that much. Certain drinks tasted nice but not enough to warrant drinking truckloads. It was to forget, Katniss supposed. Sometimes she could see that, could picture herself doing the same. But other times, Katniss realised she didn’t want to forget. They couldn’t. 

“I know. Keeps him busy.” Peeta had so much to keep him busy. Painting, baking, these ‘plans’. He’d try to visit Haymitch, check up on him. Spend the rest of his time with Katniss. What did she have? Hunting. Bothering Peeta. Her nightmares. Those feelings that she couldn’t admit to herself. 

“Not just that.” Frustratingly, Peeta was good. He cared. He was the best of them, both Katniss and Haymitch knew that. Peeta didn’t, he didn’t believe he could be that good again. But Katniss knew better. She saw it in him, all of the time. And she would show him. 

“My support wouldn’t do any good.”

“Maybe not, but Peeta would like that.”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“Not all secrets are bad, Katniss.” 

Peeta was still protecting Katniss. Maybe he wasn’t playing a game; they weren’t in the arena anymore. 

Katniss rushed back to her house, leaving Haymitch alone with the only thing he would accept as company. She would have to somehow coax it out of Peeta, without pushing him too hard. It wasn’t fair though; Katniss and Peeta spent almost every minute together and yet Haymitch once again knew more than she did. It wasn’t a surprise, but that didn’t stop it from stinging. Katniss opened the front door; Peeta was sat at the kitchen table; the parallel between this scene and the one Katniss found in Haymitch’s house was obvious. This was a home, a real one. Peeta’s eyes were focused on a list he was checking, his right hand tapping a pen on his chin. Supplies. Must be. The rest of the house was relatively spotless, a few plates were scattered across the countertop, Peeta’s selection of paint brushes lay across the sofa with some half-started drawings, and a few traps Katniss had left from last night. 

“Hey, where have you been?” Peeta looked up, dropping the pen he was holding, his attention all on Katniss. His curls were loose, a little damp, clearly from his morning shower. His dark circles weren’t as bad, maybe he had got at least a little sleep. But he still looked as handsome as ever. Katniss waited a second, watching the light appear in his eyes when he noticed her. 

“Just out. Saw Haymitch.” 

“Oh. He okay?”

Katniss nodded, removing her jacket and placing it on the sofa. “Peeta, why didn’t you tell me?”

“What?” Peeta frowned, his mind clearly searching for something he had done wrong. Maybe Katniss had been a little harsh, but she was annoyed. Peeta should have told her. They shouldn’t keep things from each other. It wasn’t how they worked. 

“The plans, your sketches…”

“Oh, that. I, ugh, don’t know. I just didn’t.” Peeta avoided Katniss’ eye, focusing back onto the list he was studying earlier on.  “It’s silly anyway.”

“No, it isn’t.” Katniss frowned, grabbing the list from Peeta’s hands as she sat in the seat next to him, edging closer to him. 

“I haven’t shown them yet. And some of them seem too complicated.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Katniss-“

“It’s simple. You go into town. You show the council everything.”

“It doesn’t work like that. They’re not going to suddenly approve everything and make me in charge. I don’t want to be in charge.”

“But you want to help?”

“Yeah, of course.” 

“They’d be mad not to vote you in.”

“I don’t care about that, I just want to help, in some way. I don’t know if I’m much use anywhere else.” On the contrary, Peeta was one of the most useful citizens of District 12, far more useful than Katniss was being. Yes, she’d hunt and donate a lot of it around 12. But she hadn’t been hunting for ages. For some reason, she couldn’t face the meadow recently. Being alone out there, it caused too much anxiety. And Haymitch wasn’t happy with her going alone, especially early in the morning. He couldn’t talk, with what he did with his days. But Peeta? Oh, Peeta did everything he could to be useful, maybe too much. He’d bake, for himself and for Katniss, but for anyone who requested it. There was no currency, so he’d trade bread and cakes for anything he thought we’d find useful. It was ‘we’ rather than just him, which made Katniss happy, like they were a little unit. The Victor’s Village was now surrounded by different flowers, the primoses starting at the entrance and trailing right until the end. Peeta would check on Haymitch when he could. Bring him food, clean him up, throw away the empty bottles. No one could stop Haymitch drinking, and Katniss believed he drank more out of habit than anything else. She understood that though. It wasn’t just Haymitch Peeta would check on, he cared about so much and gave so much. And all of those times that Katniss would want his company. He must have been exhausted. 

“Okay. We’ll go. Today.” Katniss nodded. She wasn’t going to let Peeta argue, she was making this decision and that was that. 

“I can’t go today, Katniss.”

“Why not?”

“I promised Delly I’d bake something for Dirk. It’s his birthday in a few days.” Katniss sighed. Of course, Peeta had an excuse. But she wasn’t going to argue with that. Dirk, Delly’s younger brother, was the only family member she had left. People still celebrated birthdays, anniversaries, though Katniss didn’t have any reason to. But Delly? Well, she couldn’t blame her. She’d do the same. She would have done. “Okay. Tomorrow then. Morning. There’s a meeting then, isn’t there?”

Katniss didn’t keep up to date of the town’s coming and goings like Peeta did. Haymitch didn’t either for that matter, but he always seemed to know things before Katniss did. It was his special talent. 

But the more Peeta got involved, the more Katniss could see how much this mattered to him and she wanted to be a part of that. “There’s no getting out of this is there?” Peeta sighed, resigning to the fact that Katniss wasn’t going to budge, she was too stubborn.

“Nope.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, I promise, Katniss.”

“Good.”

“Do you want to see them?”

“I’d love to.”

“Just..they aren’t finished and some of them doesn’t even make sense or are even logically possible so-“

“Peeta, just show me.” 

Peeta slipped off to wherever he was hiding the plans and came back moments later holding a large pile of papers. Katniss wasn’t sure how many plans he had actually made, it was as if once he got started, he couldn’t stop and let the ideas run away. Motioning towards the kitchen, Peeta sprawled the plans out on the table. They were so detailed, so intricate; Peeta had clearly spent hours working on these. Katniss wondered when he’d found the time. The kitchen table was soon full of these designs, it was almost a little overwhelming. Katniss could see plans for every possibility; Peeta had thought of it all. Schoolhouse. Market. Town Hall. Hospital. Factories. Farms. Houses. There was even a memorial. Katniss lingered on that design, dragging her fingers across the page, her skin touching the strokes of the pencil. They were beautiful. Peeta was a part of the future of 12, of Panem, but Katniss was still stuck in the past. Stuck in her head. Peeta was moving forward, but he was leaving Katniss behind. No, Katniss was staying behind, she only had herself to blame. She wanted to follow Peeta, but it was as if she couldn’t. Something was pulling her back. 

Peeta noticed Katniss, not quite getting emotional, but he could sense something was wrong. “Is it too much?” He moved to tidy up the scattered plans, but Katniss stopped him, her hand pulling his away from the table, interlocking their fingers together. 

Katniss shook her head. “No, it’s perfect. They’re so good, Peeta.”

“Really? You sure? I don’t-“

“They’ll love them. You’ll be a shoe in.”

“I don’t know about that, but… I’m glad you approve.” Peeta smiled, nudging Katniss slightly. It clearly meant a lot to him. receiving Katniss’ approval. And why wouldn’t she approve? Peeta had thought so carefully about what to include, about what the people of 12 needed. He had so cleverly planned it out. And the drawings, the designs, they were beautiful. It seemed everything Peeta did was beautiful, and just made Katniss fall faster and harder. She couldn’t stop it; but she didn’t want to.  

*

“You sure you want to?” Peeta was stood by the front door. It was afternoon, the sun was slowly going down, though it was still light. Peeta was wearing his jacket, and it looked tighter, not so loose and baggy. He’d clearly put on some weight; it was good to see. Physical proof that things were getting better. Katniss’ jacket was still too big, but it no longer engulfed her. He looked nervous, he wouldn’t keep his eyes focused on one thing, twitching about and he was gripping the plans tightly. He had nothing to be nervous about – the plans were perfect, and everyone would agree. If they didn’t, well, that wasn’t going to happen so Katniss didn’t even entertain that thought. Peeta hadn’t put his shoes on yet, the boots were tied together, sat by the door. He’d been waiting for Katniss. Neither of them had slept in, both waking up early, but Katniss didn’t feel tired. Peeta didn’t look it either – he was wired today. 

Katniss nodded, slipping into her boots and moving to take the plans from Peeta. He passed them over slowly, not wanting to ruin them and quickly untied his own boots before taking the plans back. Katniss rubbed his arm, wanting him to know he wasn’t going to do this alone; Katniss would be right beside him. “I’ve walked past a few times but doesn’t hold the same memories.”

“I haven’t, not properly. Try to avoid it.” Katniss’ mind was surrounded by images of the bakery. The town. Ash. Rubble. Death. It was no wonder Peeta hadn’t gone back before, she could just about face it, but she avoided it most days. The town meant people, and people wasn’t something Katniss usually wanted to deal with. But today was different. She was going for Peeta, it was important to do that. He did so much for her, she needed to give something back. And she wanted to. Peeta needed to realise he was good, no matter what had happened in the past. 

“Have you been back?

“No, but we don’t need to today. The council hold all their meetings in one of the side buildings by the Seam or what’s left of it.” Peeta took a deep breath. One of the first actions to council decided on was the demolition of the Seam. Katniss had mixed feelings about it all. That was her home, her real, true home. The home that held the memories of her father. The home of Buttercup, scowling and hissing anytime he saw Katniss. Where her mother would bring injured miners, patch them up and send them on their way. The home that was Prim’s, in every single way. Peeta said it was a way of destroying the divide. The two of them both bought into it in some way growing up. Peeta was a townie, his friends were the same, and they all stuck together. Shop owners. Katniss kept to herself; seam kids never wanted much attention. The except of course was Madge, who kept Katniss company, who’d eat lunch with her, walk home together and never judged. But none of that mattered now. The seam was gone. The town was mostly destroyed. But the people of District 12 carried on. 

“It’s okay, together?”

“Together.” 

Katniss locked her hand into Peeta’s, and he gripped tightly. He clearly needing the physical support, but Katniss knew it was more than that. They walked from the Victor’s Village to the edge of the Seam, still holding hands. Peeta rarely spoke on the way there, forcing Katniss to make conversation about the most boring things she could think of. The weather, how sunny it was after days of rain. The flowerbeds Peeta had planted or how Haymitch looked when Katniss had visited him. The letter from Johanna, Greasy Sal’s bake she had delivered last week. Anything to distract Peeta from the meeting. She wasn’t entirely sure it was working, but every now and then Peeta’s hand would grip tighter, wanting to check that Katniss was still there. 

Katniss didn’t recognise the building. It wasn’t one of the seam houses or shacks she would walk past every morning. Maybe it had always been there, and Katniss just hadn’t noticed. Peeta was familiar with the building; he had attended meetings before even without being officially involved. He tensed up when they saw the small crowd forming outside the window. Taking the lead, Katniss walked towards the building, dragging Peeta along with her. He wasn’t getting out of it now. 

“I can wait outside.”

“What? No, come in, I need you to come in.”

For the most part, the meeting was actually extremely boring. There was talk about farming on the free land, which was obviously a good thing. Katniss did not enjoy waiting for the train to arrive with any supplies she needed, and imagined many other people felt the same. What they could grow themselves, they should. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t accept anything from the rest of Panem. Being able to trade, as people should, it was proof that things would change and move forward. She zoned out a few times, instead looking around the room, trying to imagine the lives of the people there. 

Katniss watched as the members of the council argued over things that seemed trivial to her. There were a few people she knew, but the rest were strangers. Thom, a miner who’d work with Gale, he was on the council and seemed to be a voice of reason. Leevy sat at the head of the table; his eyes focused on the other members. He seemed to stay quiet, only chiming in when he had something important to add. A girl with blonde hair, cropped, sat next to Thom, she wasn’t Seam, so must have been a townie. But Katniss didn’t recognise her. She looked young, younger than everyone else. Peeta noticed Katniss was frowning, he elbowed her slightly and moved to whisper in her ear. 

“Harper. She’s from 13.” He nodded towards the blonde girl. Katniss hadn’t realised so many people from other districts had come to live in 12. She wasn’t sure why, exactly. Though, she didn’t think she could live underground any longer than she had. A few hundred had moved back to 12, thereabouts. The rest of the council members had names Katniss didn’t know, and she didn’t recognise them. Maybe they were from 12. Or maybe somewhere else. Regardless, they cared about 12, which was the most important thing. 

This was a public meeting, allowing any member of 12 to listen in. Greasy Sae and her granddaughter, Tara, were sat near the back. They didn’t look too impressed, but Tara didn’t seem to be paying too much attention to what was being said, her eyes drifted from each person in the room. Delly, and her younger brother sat a few rows in front of Katniss and Peeta. Dirk was his name. Katniss remembered Delly mentioning when they were in 13. She was one of the few of Peeta’s friends who survived. The majority of 13 refugees from 12 were seam kids. Almost all of the townies were wiped out. Katniss didn’t have many friends, but she had Madge. The Undersees did not survive. They hadn’t worked on a page for Madge in the memory book, but Katniss made a mental note to mention it to Peeta later that evening. A few people sat across from her looked familiar, seam kids she’d pass in the morning or notice at school, but she didn’t know their names. Clerk Clammie sat near the front; Katniss was a little surprised he’d decided to come back, he seemed at home in 13, but maybe, like everyone else, he felt the pull dragging him back home. 

The meeting finally moved onto building plans and Katniss could feel Peeta tensing up beside her. Her hand found his and she squeezed it, bring Peeta back to her. A medicine factory was already voted on, taking priority as well as rebuilding houses.  Thom looked over to where Katniss sat, nodding towards Peeta, signalling him to come forward. Katniss still didn’t understand why Peeta wasn’t an official member of the council; he’d be perfect. Surely most people could see that. 

Peeta gripped hold of Katniss’ hand one last time before letting it go and picking up his sketches. She watched as he moved further away, making his way to the front. Peeta seemed to take a small breath between each step. He was nervous. He had no reason to be though, his plans were perfect. He was perfect. Katniss couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. It was the same warm, fuzzy feeling she would get watching Peeta talk to the people of 11 during the Victory Tour. The way he held the morphling in her last moments. The care he took in planting those primroses in the Victor’s Village. Peeta never ceased to amaze Katniss, even after everything that had happened to them. He wasn’t the Peeta she sat next to on the way to the station. Nor the Peeta she kissed before midnight in the Quarter Quell. But he wasn’t the Peeta who would thrash out in 13. The Peeta standing at the front of the room, pulling out his designs, explaining every single detail, he was a complete new Peeta. One Katniss, and so many others could love. 

It was later that evening; Peeta had tired himself out at the meeting and regretted doing so. He’d got so worked up and excited about his plans that he’d probably gone too far, and now his body was paying for it. Katniss had smiled the whole way through the meeting, Peeta couldn’t remember the last time he saw her happy, not like that. There was a memory that lingered, it was on the train, maybe for the Quarter Quell. There wasn’t much to be happy about. But there was an argument between Effie and Haymitch, and Katniss’ laugh, that laugh, it stayed with Peeta. Maybe this wasn’t real, but how could a memory like that be fake? 

They had walked home, hand in hand. Katniss had taken some of the plans to carry, whilst Peeta held the rest. The council liked the plans, which Katniss said they would. She knew. But Peeta didn’t want to jinx anything. There was still a long way to go. Peeta wasn’t on the council, but Thom had pulled him aside after the meeting, telling him he’d speak to the rest of the members, but they couldn’t do it without Peeta. That created mixed feelings for Peeta. It was more responsibility for one, but then it was a chance to do something good, make up for everything that had happened. It would keep him busy, though Katniss would say he was becoming too busy. There was probably some truth to that, but Peeta didn’t like how slow things would go when he was by himself. He’d spent so many nights with Katniss now, that he didn’t think he could do it alone anymore. That had become his norm. 

It had been a surprisingly good day for Peeta. It wasn’t a warm day, but the sky was clear, only a few clouds scattered up above. He’d spent the morning baking, with Katniss watching him, asking him questions about what he was doing. It felt normal. They ate together, the last of what Katniss had hunted. Before heading to the meeting, they had dropped off some bread rolls to Haymitch, though he was still asleep. Peeta spent the afternoon painting. It wasn’t for the memory book, and it didn’t seem to have any purpose, but he needed to. Katniss had left him be, taking a nap. He had no real idea in mind, just let the colour and the brushes travelling across the page as they wanted to. It was messy and disconnected, and by the time Peeta was finished, even he couldn’t quite comprehend what he had painted. It was like a release for him, and nothing else worked as well. 

But even after a good day, there was still a niggling in the back of his mind, that problem that he couldn’t ignore. It was Katniss. He would constantly feel her eyes watching him. He’d noticed the way she’d curl up to him during those cold nights, and long evenings. They spent almost all their time together now; Peeta living at her house almost full-time. There was a routine. It was becoming more often that Peeta’s mind would drift to Katniss, only Katniss. He would remember the things she did, the things he had done. He would remember the softness of his lips on his. The grip she held on to his skin. The way he had fallen for her the first time. The first time, he was young and innocent. But now, Peeta had realised her was falling for her again. Falling in love with Katniss, just as he once had done and there was nothing, he could do to stop it. 

Peeta was laying down on the bed, on top of the covers. His shoes were tied together, hanging from the end of the bed. His eyes were closed, though he couldn’t sleep. Too many thoughts were swirling around his brain. As if she knew, Katniss entered the room, quietly closing the door and made her way next to him. He could feel her warm body snuggle up to his; she moved his arm and placed it around her body before placing his head on his chest. Peeta knew they couldn’t avoid what was happening any longer. They would hold each other throughout the night, Peeta would bake, Katniss would hunt, they would work on the memory book. But there were something more to what they did. Peeta’s feelings for Katniss, the way he felt now, it meant he now had something to lose. He didn’t want to lose Katniss, couldn’t. They had lost each other before; and yet, found their way back to each other. So many memories of the way Katniss would kiss Peeta in the games, the nights they would spend together, the way she would look at him, they surrounded his mind. Peeta was slowly falling in love with Katniss, but he couldn’t find the words to say it. He wanted to, desperately. He wanted to hold her, to feel her tucked in beside him, to kiss her goodnight, and see her just as he woke up. But the more she kissed him, the more he kissed her, the more time that passed, it would all become too much. And yet, Peeta still had no real idea what Katniss was thinking, or how she felt about Peeta. Peeta loved her, oh, he loved her, and he wouldn’t ask for anything in return. Only he wanted to know, truly know how Katniss was feeling. But Katniss and Peeta had never been great with their words, not to each other at least. Katniss would kiss Peeta now, she would kiss him as they lay next to each other waiting for the nightmares to come. She would kiss him when the nightmares had faded, and the sun began to rise. But what did it mean? Kissing was kissing. It didn’t mean Katniss felt anything for Peeta. She didn’t want to be alone, and Peeta wouldn’t blame her for that. Even if it hurt him. 

Knowing he couldn’t wait any longer, Peeta spoke, breaking the long silence. “Katniss, you remember what we spoke about before?”

Katniss didn’t need to ask; it seemed she knew exactly where Peeta was going with his question. He couldn’t see her expression or know if she had even heard him. But Katniss adjusted her head to look up towards Peeta, her eyes were wide, eyebrows furrowed, she was thinking hard about her answer. “Finnick, he said it was in the quarter quell. When your heart stopped.” 

“And is that what you think?”

“I don’t know…before I couldn’t think like that, and I didn’t want to. I wanted to keep you alive and protect…” Prim. That was always Katniss’ priority. She wanted to protect Prim, keep her alive. Peeta wanted to protect Katniss. Katniss wanted Peeta to live. Peeta wanted to sacrifice himself for Katniss. It just went around and around and around. They were actually quite insufferable when Peeta thought about it, no wonder people got tired of the act. 

“I guess it doesn’t matter.” Peeta shook his head, he didn’t want to disregard Katniss but wasn’t sure this conversation was helping. There must be a way to voice his feelings, but he just couldn’t work out how. He used to be good at that. Another thing the Capitol had taken away. 

“Doesn’t it?”

“It’s done now, Katniss.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s like you said, everything’s changed. We’ve changed. I’m not the person I was when I fell in love with you. Neither are you. I’m surprise you can still…”

“Can still what, Peeta? Love you?” Peeta hadn’t expected Katniss to come out with it. Yes, they had loved each other once. Maybe at difference times, only existing together for a short while. But they had loved each other. Peeta had never assumed anything Katniss felt for Peeta was in the present. Of course, that was what he wanted; he understood that now. If Katniss felt the same as Peeta, well, that would make everything so easy. But nothing was ever that easy. 

“Do you? Did you?”

“I did…that was real. I didn’t see it coming, in a way I almost didn’t want to. But I couldn’t help it. It was you….”

“It was in the cave. That’s why I so hurt after the games; I think. Do you remember?” Flashes of a memory spiralled through Peeta. The darkness of the cave. The touch of Katniss’ cold hands on his burning skin. Her long braid in the moonlight. The patter of raindrops. Her lips touching his. Again, and again. The hunger he felt for her in that moment. How it seemed everything he ever wished for was coming true. The star-crossed lovers had something real. Peeta had up until that point never thought anything would come of his little crush. He’d been content with seeing her every day, but knowing just like his father, the girl would slip away from him. And yet the moment he was reaped, the moment he sat next to her on the train, held her hand in the chariot, admitted to all of Panem how he felt, there was a small part of him that hoped it may all come true. The logical side of Peeta knew this was a silly dream, and he would die in that arena making sure she would get home. But she had found him, she had saved him, and she would kiss him. Knowing he was only inches away from death, Peeta finally allowed himself to admit it. He fell in love with Katniss in that cave. 

“I remember."

“I had these feelings, but you didn’t feel the same. Before, it was just silly, a little fantasy. But after that, I don’t know…It all seemed so real. I was just hopelessly in love with you, Katniss.” Peeta’s eyes caught Katniss’, he was pleading for her to see, to understand what he was trying to convey. He was in love with her now and wanted her to know. But he just couldn’t find the words. He didn’t want that burden on Katniss, to think she had to respond or feel the same. 

“Peeta-“

“But… I remember in the quarter quell, on the beach. What you said. That you needed me. Was that real or not real?”

“It was, it is.” Katniss had always needed Peeta, she didn’t think she could live without him now. The thought of that hurt, she didn’t like it. But Peeta needed Katniss too, maybe just as much.  “Maybe that was it. When I realised, I couldn’t ignore or pretend anymore. You were the one who was supposed to live.”

“Katniss, there’s no point thinking like that now. We’re both here. We made it.”

Katniss moved to sit up; she wasn’t done with this conversation. They were on the brink of something, and she wasn’t going to stop now. She always found talking so difficult. But the times she could remember with Peeta, they were different. He made it easier. So why was it so hard now? “It’s ironic.”

“What is?”

“That you spent so much time loving me and I, so little. And then look what happened. Look how it changed.”

“Did it?”

The conversation seemed to come to an end at that point. Katniss wasn’t sure how many times they could go over the same thing. It was tiring. It was as if the two of them couldn’t say it. They’d spent so much time declaring their love for everyone in the Capitol and the districts to see. But now it was just the two of them, now they had to be honest, and they couldn’t do it. Katniss knew Peeta would never make any admittance to how he felt. She imagined it was too confusing for him. Was what he was feeling real or just a memory? Katniss had to be the one. Accepting how she felt and proving that to Peeta was what she had to do. She thought that Peeta must know or at least have some feeling about Katniss’ love for him. Whether he believed it to be real or not. And maybe he didn’t want to admit it, not for himself, but because of Katniss. Katniss knew she had been closed off at first, knew she had kept her distance. Peeta understood why more than anyone and he’d respected it, never asked for anything. He’d become so passive, but Katniss couldn’t blame him. Or maybe Peeta didn’t feel the same way. Maybe he was only there because Katniss wanted him there. It wouldn’t be the first time Peeta put Katniss before himself. But this just made it so much harder. Katniss was still in love with Peeta, of course she was. 

The problem was Peeta was scared. He was scared of screwing it all up. He’d fallen in love with Katniss before. But this time was different. He’d seen how she’d overcome her fears and rallied around him. Peeta was so scared that the mutt was still inside him. He was so scared that all the work he had done with Dr Aurelius, everything he had tried would have been for nothing. He was so scared of losing Katniss again. After the war, when Peeta was well enough to go home, he had never expected to be as close to Katniss as he was now. Planting those primroses, in memorial of her sister, of Prim who was too good and too gentle for this world, Peeta had no expectations. He knew Katniss had come home, long before Peeta could, but Haymitch had said she was a recluse, like him. It was by chance that she had seen him that morning; the sunlight caught her hair at the right moment, she was wearing her hunting jacket, her fathers, and looked so bewildered that Peeta would even consider coming home. Of course he would, because where else could he go? The Capitol was a place he never wanted to set foot in again. District 13 was never his home; it was a hospital for Peeta. And the bakery was gone, destroyed, ashes. 

Katniss watched the snow fall as the tiny snowflakes flew into the window. It was the first real snow she had seen since being back home in District 12. Peeta was outside shovelling the already settled snow covering the walkway, preventing anything or anyone from making their way out of the Victor’s Village. Katniss was not going to be one of those people. She wasn’t a recluse, anything but. But she didn’t feel any need to leave the safety of her house to go hunting in the snow. She had listened to Haymitch’s warnings of how icy it was and didn’t fancy the next week bedridden due to a twisted ankle. Of course, this would give her more reason to require Peeta’s company, but thoughts like those were ones for silly little girls. Katniss wasn’t a silly little girl. Not anymore. If she wanted to spend time with Peeta, she just had to ask. But why was that still so difficult?  

She tried to remember the first time she saw snow. The memory was hazy and a little blurred. Prim hadn’t been born yet. Katniss must have been around 4 years old. Her father was there, out in the snow with her. Her mother…she was inside, at home. She didn’t do well in the cold, so delicate, so fragile. Her father and Katniss had walked to the market. It was so cold that day, Katniss remembered her mother fussing over her before she left, putting on as many layers as possible. Her father wasn’t at work, but Katniss couldn’t quite remember why. Perhaps the temperature was too low, even for the mines. Katniss was so excited, to spend the day with her father. She couldn’t care less about the strange, flicks of snow that would fall on her coat as she walked with her father. Or how it would crunch loud whenever they took a step. Her father would spend all week in the mines, working the long, tiring hours to come home to Katniss asleep.

They sold some game to the peacekeepers that day. Katniss remembered the warm bread they had with their supper, so a trip to the Mellark bakery must have happened. But Katniss didn’t have any recollection of that. It was the perfect day, as far as she could remember. Katniss had been thinking of her father more often recently. She had spent so much of her childhood watching her mother forget, watching her distance herself from her children, her life with her family. Katniss didn’t want that. She couldn’t turn into her mother; she wouldn’t let herself.

“Hey, Katniss.”

Katniss hadn’t noticed Peeta come in; her mind too involved in the lost memory. He was standing by the door frame, still holding the shovel he was using for the snow outside. There was slight flicks of snow dripping from his soft curls, snow drops hanging onto his coat. His eyes were bright this morning, as if he was happy about something. Katniss couldn’t quite put her finger on it. There was a slight pinkness to his cheeks, where the cold had found its way to Peeta’s face.

“Hm?” Katniss turned fully away from the window, to face Peeta as he walked towards her. She had tucked herself into the corner, wrapped in a blanket, not wanting to move.

“Enjoying the view?” Peeta raised his eyebrow, placing his coat on the side before slipping his shoes off. He knelt down to prop his boots against the wall, taking a moment to straighten them out.

“I…”

“I was kidding, relax. Where’d you go?”

“Just thinking.”

Peeta moved closer to Katniss, rubbing her arm ever so slightly, before starting to remove his gloves and scarf. “Well, I think we should be okay for now. It’ll probably snow more later, but we can deal with that then.”

Katniss smiled at Peeta, here he was musing over things that seemed so inconsequential. So normal. Like nothing that had happened to them had happened. No Reapings. No Games. No rebellions. Just them.

“What? Am I boring you?”

“Of course, not.” A smile escaped Katniss’ lips again, it crept up on her. She just couldn’t help it; seeing Peeta like this, it made her feel warm inside. It felt normal, natural for the two of them to speak to each other like this. Be in each other’s company. Katniss could freeze the moment, just there, and she’d be happy.

“You’re not hunting today?”

“Haymitch didn’t think it was a good idea.”

“When have you ever listened to Haymitch?”

“It’s a new thing I’m trying out. And I’d rather spend the day with you.”

“Okay, that’s what we’ll do then.” Peeta smiled as he hung his coat up by the front door, tucking the pockets back in.

“Weren’t you going to the bakery today?”

“I can go tomorrow, if the snow settles. I doubt anyone is going to venture out when it’s like this. I can just bake here, for us.”

“I don’t have any ingredients.” Katniss frowned, she wasn’t being intentional difficult, though she may seem like it. Any time anything seemed too good to be true, it was. Things was calmer now, time moved slower. District 12 wasn’t what it was. Panem wasn’t. Katniss could allow nice things to happen. She just had to keep persuading herself that.

Exasperated with her protesting, Peeta softly spoke up, “I can fetch them from my house. Katniss, why do I feel like you don’t want me here?”

“I do…just not because of me.” Her voice sounded so small in that moment. It was silly really; Peeta was one of the only people left Katniss could truly be herself with. Gale was gone. Prim. Her mother. Cinna. But Peeta. He had stayed. He’d left once, and Katniss never believed she would get him back. She would have to let him in, let herself be vulnerable and open. It was the only way to be.

“Katniss, of course it’s because of you. I don’t have to bake, either. I was thinking…”

“What?”

“The memory book, it’s been a while…if you wanted to?”

Katniss nodded. It was always difficult at first, settling down to open up for those memories. Katniss would collect the book; it was usually hidden away in her house. Sometimes she’d get Peeta to hide it just so she wouldn’t be tempted. Those memories plagued her dreams every night, she didn’t need them during the day too. It was different when they went through the book together, however. Katniss knew she held the majority of the memories, and Peeta hung on her every word. He'd listen so intently, putting his pencils down instead of scribbling away, watching Katniss as she spoke. Sometimes she wasn’t sure where to start, but Peeta always had questions. There’d be things he could remember, others he wasn’t so sure of. Peeta, Katniss’ Peeta always knew how to bring out the best in her. The best of everyone. He had a way with words that Katniss could never quite understand. How he spoke so eloquently, knew exactly what to say. She just wished he saved some of that for himself.

“Good. After lunch?”

“I don’t have anything in, Sal said she was going to the market but-“

“Ah, I thought so,” Katniss turned to see Peeta’s rummaging through her kitchen cupboard. He pulled out a few tins and a bag of flour. Peeta gifted Katniss a wide smile before placing the ingredients on the kitchen table. “I left some stuff here last time, just in case. I know what you’re like, Katniss.”

“And what’s that, then?”

“For me to know. I can make some cheese buns. And er, we could cook this…rabbit?” Peeta motioned towards the animal hanging up by the sink, frowning so slightly.

Katniss smiked, “Hare, actually. I forgot about this one.”

“Is it still good?”

Katniss nodded, “If we cook it right.”

“Well, you can be in charge of that. I’ll get started on the cheese buns. And then the memory book!” Peeta raised his voice, quickly smiling at Katniss before moving back to the counter. He started to pull out various bowls from the cupboard, clanking them down before pouring in several ingredients. Katniss watched as he moved around frantically, her eyes shifting from Peeta to the mess he was creating. She wasn’t entirely sure what has gotten into him. Something had clearly riled Peeta up, he was fine only a minute ago. But Peeta was different now. Katniss knew she was too. She’d noticed small things he’d do now to stay calm, stay still, stay secure. He'd zone out sometimes, mostly when painting or baking. His eyes would shift, become dazed. He’d go quiet, his hands would grip whatever was closest. Sometimes it was Katniss, but sometimes it seemed the sight of her just made him worse. There were times Katniss wouldn’t see him for days. She knew he was cooped up surrounded by pieces of paper, filled with sketches in wild colours. Katniss knew she could be difficult; she’d always been difficult. The meadow was the place she’d hide, for hours on end. She’d tried to not go as often, especially when Peeta would actively spend so much time with her. He didn’t love how long she would spend hunting, but it was the one place she could escape. Just Katniss and her bow. It was the songs of the mockingjays. The gentle breeze that travelled across the meadow. The burnt orange of the sun setting.

“Peeta, is everything alright? You’re acting more…”

“I’m fine. Honest. Just…enjoying the day.” A quivering smile escaped Peeta’s lips as his eyes looked away from Katniss, losing all focus. There was a hint of sadness within the pretend happiness in his eyes before he turned back to the mess he’d created on the counter.

Peeta was not fine, and it was unlikely he would ever be fine again, but he had accepted that, and just wished Katniss would. He could tell she was tiptoeing around him, which almost seemed laughable to him. He wasn’t someone who she needed to be scared of, and the thought of that wasn’t something Peeta wanted. But during those days in District 13, he was scary, he was viscous, he was confused, he was angry, he was sad. But Peeta wasn’t like that now. Peeta was not who he was before their first games. Or even their second. Peeta was something entirely different now, just as Katniss was.

Peeta knew trying to hide the fact that he felt broken almost every single day would not solve anything. And yet, Dr. Aurelius had given him some homework until his next session. Not to hide the darkness, or the so-called ‘bad’ parts as Peeta would call it, but to embrace the good. To take notice of things that made Peeta happy, things to be enjoyed. Peeta had tried to make a list in his head, but it wasn’t a very long one. Everything he thought of just had a different memory, a sad one that included a Peeta that didn’t exist anymore. Peeta enjoyed baking. He liked spending that time alone, creating something that someone could enjoy. The way Katniss’ face lit up when he made her cheese buns again. Making his monthly batch for Haymitch, and Greasy Sal. Baking at home was fun. But the thought of going into town, visiting the old site of the bakery, that only conjured up the worst of memories.

Peeta had supposedly been an artist at one time. Painting, drawing, decorating. Some of his old paintings from after the first games had survived. Some had been gifted to Katniss, others he had kept hidden away in dark corners of his home. But Peeta couldn’t look at them anymore. He had new paintings to create, new memories to put down to paper. Some of these memories were dark, destructive, and damn right horrific. But Peeta couldn’t keep them all inside of him anymore, he had to let them out. And the memory book…that was helping. Katniss would talk, she would tell Peeta things he imagined he should have remembered. Sometimes it would trigger a memory. It could be a happy one, one filled with good things, but other times it would be something sad, something that Peeta didn’t want to remember. But he did regardless.

Peeta knew he had decorated Finnick and Annie’s wedding cake in District 13. But he had little memory of it. He knew it had happened. But he wasn’t at the wedding. ‘It’s probably for the best’, that’s what everyone had said. The drugs they were using to soothe Peeta seemed to cloud everything. Haymitch said he had done a good job. But that could have just Haymitch being kind. And yet, Peeta couldn’t remember Haymitch had ever been particularly kind to Peeta. He had always preferred Katniss over him, which was something Peeta had been resentful of at one time. For a moment before their first games until he realised, they could use it. For a while in District 13 until he realised it wasn’t that important. Decorating cakes was something intricate, delicate, personal. Peeta hadn’t had any opportunity to decorate anything special since being back home. Cheese buns. Sourdough. Tiger bread. Scones. They were simple, easy, formatted. He knew people would have birthdays, anniversaries, celebrations, but were they ready to celebrate them? Being the only baker in the district also came with more pressure, something Peeta hadn’t thought about.

Peeta had a little plan in his head, it was a silly one really, something that was so inconsequential to everything else that was happening. He wanted to re-open the bakery. He knew it would never be the same, nothing ever could. It wouldn’t have his mother dictating the kitchen, his father at the front of house, smiling at any passerby or customer, or Peeta and his brothers helping as much as they could between school and the wrestling competitions. Buildings were being build up again, and Peeta was sure the council would be willing to spare one for a bakery. It would be nice for people to have a place to go, for Peeta to have a real routine again. He hadn’t mentioned this to anyone else yet, almost too scared they would laugh in his face and tell him what a silly little idea it was. There was someone who Peeta did want to tell. He was sure she wouldn’t laugh at him. He was sure she would listen. He was sure she would convince him to do it.

The problem was Peeta still had no idea where he stood with Katniss. It has been a few weeks since she had kissed him. A few weeks since Katniss had made that move. A few weeks since Peeta had realised what was happening between the two of them. But this wasn’t the first time Katniss had done something Peeta never thought she would. The first kiss during their first games. The way she would look at him in that cave. Those long nights on the train during the Victory Tour. And some things were still blurred, confusing. Moments when Peeta wasn’t so sure if they had even happened. Had he remembered it wrong, was it just a dream? The little game, real or not real, it made things easier, about what had happened before. But not how he felt. Not how Katniss felt. He couldn’t work her out, but maybe he didn’t have to. The way Katniss and Peeta were acting around each other was almost normal. Almost, but not quite. As if the two felt the shift between them, something unspoken but they couldn’t face it. Would rather tiptoe around each other until it became too much. Peeta wasn’t sure he wanted that, not anymore.

Peeta’s house was quiet, no, not quiet, it was silent. Peeta had realised just how silent it was a few days after the snowstorm. They were trapped in Katniss’ house, which was fine by Peeta. He didn’t want to leave Katniss alone, and he was sure she didn’t want to be alone, that she wanted Peeta beside her. But the blizzard had calmed down, the snow started to melt away and Peeta knew he’d have to go home eventually. He promised Katniss he would be back, back soon, and it was clear by her expression that she didn’t want him to leave. Peeta didn’t want to either; time spent alone meant time spent with his nightmares. Time with the monsters, the memories that would never leave him. The things he would never forget, no matter how hard he tried. He wouldn’t turn into Haymitch. Spending his days alone, drinking whatever he could find. Things had got better for Haymitch; he was at least trying. But it was hard for a leopard to change its spots. Was a life of alcohol and misery in store for Peeta too?

It wasn’t until late afternoon that the two of them sat down with the memory book. Peeta was right, it had been a while since either of them had worked on it, or even mentioned it. It wasn’t intentional from Katniss or Peeta. Although Katniss didn’t necessarily enjoy re-living everything that had happened, she knew how important it was for Peeta, and she wanted to help him. Even with all the time in the world, Katniss just hadn’t found a good moment to bring it up. And Peeta always seemed so busy. He was baking more regularly now, making sure to find time to make something for some usual customers. A trading system was in place in District 12, rather than the currency before. Peeta would often trade his bakes for more ingredients or paint supplies. As well as baking, Peeta would attend all the regular council meetings. He wasn’t an official member yet, which Katniss couldn’t understand. Peeta was the perfect candidate for the council. He was clever, kind, well-spoken, could articulate his thoughts about the future so clearly and he cared. He cared so much. But there was a part of Katniss that thought Peeta was afraid. Afraid to take too much responsibility, as if it was easier for him to sit by the side-lines, watching everyone else make the progress he knew he could help with. This irritated Katniss on Peeta’s behalf, she wanted to push him to do something about it and made a mental note to do so. Even with not being an official member, Peeta was involved in the rebuilding of the district, and spent many evenings working on plans on how to make it possible.

There was the painting and sketches too. Peeta didn’t openly admit it, but he had been painting more and more recently. He wasn’t trying to hide it from Katniss, he just wasn’t ready to share them all yet. The sketches he did for the memory book was different, it was something shared. But the other paintings, the things he saw in his nightmares, they were only for him. He didn’t want to scare Katniss, didn’t want her pity or her sadness. It wouldn’t be a regular thing, just whenever the inspiration came to him. Sometimes it was from the nightmares that would greet him every night. Other times it were the memories that would haunt him even during the day. Some were dark and clouded, so much so Peeta couldn’t even make sense of them. But it was almost like a release for him. Katniss had her hunting. Haymitch his drink. Peeta had these paintings.

The last person they had worked on had been Katniss’ father. Peeta only had vague memories of him. He remembered his father telling him a story about Katniss’ mother, but the man she married was only briefly mentioned. Katniss had described him so well, and so vividly, it was almost like Peeta did remember him. The one thing Katniss focused on was his laugh, and her smile when she remembered, that was something Peeta would never forget. Katniss praised Peeta on his sketch of her father, but it brought up some strange feelings. It wasn’t as if Katniss hadn’t applauded Peeta’s work before. No matter how terrifying or upsetting his paintings had been, she could always appreciate the beauty. But there was something different this time. This was her father, someone she loved and missed dearly. And Peeta had made her feel something for him again. It was special.

Peeta had let Katniss take the lead with who they worked on; it made the most sense as she remembered more than Peeta. Peeta wasn’t surprised that they seemed to surpass Prim and go straight to Finnick. Peeta knew Finnick was less painful that Prim, but still painful, nonetheless. His ‘sea green eyes’ as Katniss had put it filled Peeta’s brain. Finnick was someone Peeta remembered, some parts were blurred and didn’t quite make sense. Quiet and calm, then loud and swirling, like the waves Finnick was so used to. Peeta remembered his dark, ruffled hair and the way it would move along with Finnick and his trident. He remembered how his teeth glistened whenever he smiled. He remembered how popular Finnick was wherever he went. He remembered the unsuspected kindness Finnick showed them both. Katniss didn’t need to spend too much time speaking about Finnick, clearly understanding that Peeta could get a sense of what he wanted to sketch for their shared friend. Peeta couldn’t understand the things Finnick and Katniss had in common, just like he and Annie did.

Katniss walked over to the kitchen at one point, leaving Peeta to his sketch of the sea. She returned quickly, holding something in her hand. Once Peeta had finished the section he was working on, she slotted the polaroid photo onto the right-hand side of the page. It was Annie, and her son. Finnick’s son. Peeta nodded, as if to say he approved, and the two didn’t speak for a while. Katniss watched as Peeta scribbled all the details in his mind. When Peeta’s hand started to ache, he realised it was time to stop. Finnick’s page was filled with small details of him, his eyes, the sea, the trident, all sitting alongside the polaroid of the people who loved Finnick the most. Peeta glanced up to Katniss for her approval, and she gifted him a small smile.

Finnick was the only person they managed to work on that evening. It seemed to take it out of both of them. It was still raw. Peeta didn’t need the memory book to remember the tunnels, nor did he need it to be reminded of everything Finnick had done for Peeta. He would be forever indebted to him. He had saved him, countless times. And Peeta would never be able to repay the debt. Katniss seemed to understand this. She closed the memory book after a while, placing it on top of a cabinet sitting at the edge of the living room. Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, she motioned towards her bedroom. Following her lead, Peeta tidied up the supplies he was using, and dimmed the candlelight, carrying it towards Katniss, who blew out the last flicker of light, before pulling Peeta towards her bedroom.

Finnick visited Peeta that night. It was rare for anyone but Katniss to haunt Peeta in the night. His sea green eyes, the toned, golden skin, his bright smile. And then the screams. The water. The trident. But then he was gone, forever, as he would always be now. Peeta didn’t want him to go, he almost urged him to stay, to not leave. But Finnick couldn’t, and Peeta knew that.

Peeta’s usual nightmare then took centre stage. He could never escape it. Even during his time at the Capitol, when all he could hear were Johanna’s screams, that particular nightmare would always be present. Yes, others occurred, but they could never overpower the one, true nightmare Peeta would have. The one he had since he left the arena the first time. And the one he had every night since. Even knowing he couldn’t lose her now; those fears were always there. Logically, this nightmare wasn’t realistic. Dr Aurelius had told Peeta he could control the dreams if he tried hard enough. But Peeta couldn’t seem to master it. And yet, there was a part of him that didn’t want her to leave his thoughts, not even within the nightmares.

“Peeta…” It was her voice that broke the link between Peeta and what was haunting him that night. It was always her; he could never escape her and frankly, he didn’t want to. Katniss haunted his nightmares, visited him in his dreams. She filled his brain; she clouded his thoughts. Peeta couldn’t face it all without her. They needed each other. “Peeta!” Katniss had shouted his name this time, her face full of worry. She was sitting in front of him, her hands cupping his face. She was blinking rapidly; it was unclear how long she had been shouting his name.

“I’m sorry. Where-“ Peeta moved to sit up, but Katniss kept her hands on him, not wanting to let go. He still had his eyes closed, the nightmares still swirling around his head.

“A nightmare. I’ve never…”

“I told you. Mine aren’t loud, they’re quiet and…” Peeta was rocking ever so slightly, mumbling words to himself that Katniss couldn’t quite make out.  “I’m sorry. I need a minute.”

“OK.”

“I’m gonna get some water, do you want anything?”

“No.” Katniss whispered, as she shook her head. She watched as Peeta scrambled out of bed, he swayed as his walked, clearly adjusting to being in the living world again. Katniss waited for Peeta to come back. It seemed far longer than she had expected. After what seemed like hours, Katniss could hear the soft sound of Peeta’s feet walking from the kitchen back to her. His eyes were red, a little puffy too. He was holding the glass of water, filled to the brim. Katniss didn’t believe Peeta left for that. But he was walking as he normally would, just a small limp as a reminder of what the Games took from him. Even in darkness, the sight of Peeta walking towards her, back to her, filled her with this feeling. It wasn’t the hunger she had felt before, though she could admit to herself she felt that often enough. A longing maybe or something else. Something sweeter. Happier.

Katniss shifted, to make room for Peeta. He placed the glass on the nightstand, straightening it before he crawled into the bed. Without hesitation, Katniss moved towards Peeta’s body, and he took her in his arms. His arms tightly wrapped around her, clearly wanting to hold on extra tight. Feeling the vibrations of his breaths, Katniss found herself drifting back to sleep quickly. Her dreams were filled of him that night.

Katniss woke first in the morning. Peeta hadn’t let go of Katniss the entire night, which may have been why Katniss had slept so well. The best she had slept in months. She felt guilty; that Peeta had such a terrible night, and yet Katniss felt almost like herself again. She didn’t want to wake him, not straight away. He looked so peaceful, deep in his sleep. The morning sun escaped through the window, reflecting onto Peeta’s forehead. His light curls almost looked yellow. Katniss watched as he breathed in and out, so calm and quiet. It wasn’t until Katniss heard Buttercup sprinting around that she moved closer to Peeta. He started to stir, clearly aware of their close proximity.

“Peeta…”

“Hm?”

“Last night…your nightmare.”

“Katniss, do we have to? I’ve just woken up.” Peeta yawned, before rubbing his eyes. His curls were all over the place that morning. So much so, Katniss dragged her fingers through them, smoothing them down.

“So, you did sleep?”

“A few hours, I think. I couldn’t properly after... I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Don’t be.”

“What did you want to ask?”

“What was it? Was it a bad one?”

Peeta shifted, moving to face Katniss. The two laid on either side of the bed, their bodies parallel to each other. Peeta gripped his pillow with his right hand but allowed his left to stroke Katniss’ forearm. They were still for a few moments, just watching each other. “It must have been…I don’t usually wake you. I can’t remember much, really. Just…”

“Yes?”

“You weren’t there, here. But when I woke, there you were.” Peeta forced himself to smile. Katniss was there, and Peeta didn’t want her to go. He’d hold onto her as tight as he could, in his nightmares too.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, Peeta.”

“Katniss…” Peeta sighed, not out of anger or frustration, but of desperation. He longed for Katniss to utter those words. Deep down, he knew she wouldn’t leave, but so many parts of him couldn’t quite believe it. But Katniss admitted it. She’d told him what she felt, what she’d wanted with just those words. Katniss didn’t need to say anything else, that had sealed it.

“Ssh, it’s still early. You could get some more sleep.”

“I don’t think so, why would I waste such a lovely morning?” Stretching out his arms and legs, Peeta shifted to sit upright, leaning against the bedframe. He smiled as Katniss watched him, he eyes following his.

“It wouldn’t be wasting it.”

“I’d much rather stay awake with you.”

“OK.” Katniss moved to lay on Peeta’s chest, trying to soothe him, if she could.

“Katniss…we do need to get up soon.”

“Not yet.” Nuzzling her face into Peeta’s body, the two laid still. Katniss drifted, not quite asleep, but not completely awake either. The bright morning sun seemed to dim once she came to again, indicating it had been some time. Katniss’s forehead moved to sit just below Peeta’s nose. She dragged her lips up inches away from Peeta’s chin. He could feel her quick breaths float against his skin. Peeta knew what she was doing, she was waiting for his agreement that this what he wanted. Of course it was. Peeta had longed for it. From the moment Katniss and Peeta sat in the car riding to the station. From the moment he watched her interview with Caesar. From the moment she had found him covered in dirt and muck. From the moment she nursed him back to health in the cave. From the moment they were announced victors of the 74th Hunger Games. Even before, seeing her sit out in the rain, starving. Watching her sing the Valley Song. Eating her squirrels his father would trade each week.

Everything was different now; for both of them. Peeta and Katniss could allow themselves to heal, could allow themselves to open up and they would do it together. Peeta saw that now, as did Katniss.

Peeta lifted Katniss’ chin with his index finger, allowing her lips to find his. This kiss was slow, it dragged on and on, Peeta didn’t know how long exactly. But Katniss didn’t stop, and nor did Peeta. The two not wanting to part. Her lips were soft, a cherry-like taste travelled from Katniss to Peeta. Her breaths quicken as Peeta pulled her in closer, the tip of their noses brushing against each other. Katniss ran her fingers through Peeta’s curls again, pulling on the ends. Peeta’s hands found the back of Katniss’ neck, tracing his finger along her skin. It was Peeta who pulled away first, smiling to himself to the sight of Katniss. Her cheeks reddened, clearly embarrassed. But Peeta didn’t care, he liked that about Katniss. A memory appeared, one from the first games. He remembered the way she had kissed him in the cave. Remembered how lost he had felt before. He remembered teasing her about how peaceful she looked in her sleep. How her frowning seemed to disappear.

It was a dark night in Winterfell. The guards were shivering down below, whilst their Queen sat high above. Sansa, eyebrows furrowed and eyes focused, was sitting in her chambers, scribbling on a piece of parchment. Arya, who was sitting opposite her, spinning her blade around her fingers, was watching her sister. She didn’t think there could be anything more tedious than the ‘duties’ her sister would harp on about. And yet for some reason, here Arya was keeping her sister company. She supposed she didn’t have much else to entertain herself, not at this hour anyway. But Sansa suddenly stopped, placed her quill on top of the piece of parchment and looked over to her sister. Arya was taken aback, Sansa never liked it when Arya would stare at her. It was mostly glares growing up, but staring was not much better. 

“Arya. I was thinking. Once, I officially become Queen. There’s certain positions that need to be filled. Master of Coin, Ships, Laws-“

“War, Whispers.” Arya smirked as continued to spin her knife, watching as the silver glint surrounded the room. 

“Well, I’m not too sure on those ones. But Lord Commander, Grand Maester…” These positions in Kings Landing were filled by deceitful men, who would plot a downfall so swift no one ever saw it coming. You would not cross these men, for they had more power than people knew. That was something her that would have saved her father. The honourable Ned Stark, loyal, trusting and foolish. Sansa would not make the same mistakes as her father. She owed that to him. 

“A lot of decisions.”

“I can’t do it by myself, I need your help, Arya. As my sister, I need you.”

“I’d be honoured, Your Grace. But you have to promise me.”

Sansa sighed; nothing was ever simple with Arya. There was always something.  She always seemed to complicate things. “Promise you what?”

“That you’ll tell him, eventually.” Arya gave a sister a knowing smile, once that Sansa couldn’t reciprocate. It was something unspoken between the two sisters. Arya knew exactly what Sansa was thinking in that moment, like many moments before. Sansa couldn’t deny her sister knew her better than anyone, especially know almost everyone they knew growing up was gone. 

“Arya…”

Arya shrugged, placing her knife back in her scabbard, “Well, you know what to do if you want my services.”

*

Theon was sat upright in the bed he soon would no longer call his own. He had realised in the last few days how uncomfortable the bed really was. He didn’t complain, who would really care if the Ironborn traitor couldn’t sleep? But he had hardly slept the past few days. Though, Theon imagined this wasn’t due to the bed, rather something else that was constantly on his mind. Theon would soon leave Winterfell, and he would very unlikely never return. What we he doing? Why was he going along with something he hated the idea of? Oh yes, that’s right. Duty. Honour. His sister. And Theon didn’t deserve to decide what he wanted. He had promised his sister to stand by his side, and he couldn’t take that back, not now. No matter what he felt about a certain Northern Queen. 

The Maester was checking on Theon’s wounds, but the two had sat in silence, Theon did not know for how long. He didn’t particularly feel like speaking, especially to the Maester. There was one person he would gladly speak to, and yet he assumed she was far too busy for Theon now. A difficult conversation would have to be had soon, however. Theon couldn’t put it off any longer. Yara grew more agitated by the second, she would not wait forever, and Theon couldn’t expect her to. Theon Greyjoy would have to go home, back to the Iron Islands, back to Pyke. Theon would go back to the place he had yearned for all his childhood. And yet, Theon could not think of anything worse in that moment. Theon did not want to leave, so why did he feel so compelled to do so? He couldn’t take advantage of the Starks hospitality any longer. Sansa and Arya had been gracious, more than Theon deserved, or even expected. Hostility would have been more suited to the man Theon believed himself to be. 

After what seemed to be an eternity, the Maester seemed to slow down. He had discarded a number of bloodied wrappings that were once on Theon’s legs and seemed to be adding only a few new ones. “I’d like to go outside, if...” Theon spoke, almost not recognizing his own voice. It was small, and quiet, as if he didn’t want the Maester to truly hear him. 

“Very good, m’lord. You’ll need to become accustomed to walking again soon. Now is a better time than any.” 

Theon watched as the Maester wrapped the last of the cloth around his leg. The pain had faltered in the past few days, and Theon knew he couldn’t stay lying in this bed forever, no matter how much he wanted to. It was odd, Theon spent years and years yearning to be taken home. Waiting for his father to save him from the Starks and Northerners. And yet now, with his sister waiting to take him back home, he didn’t want it. Pyke would seem so small, so quiet in comparison to Winterfell now. Something was achieved here, something Northerners would remember for centuries. The myths, the stories, the songs. And the one person who was almost as hated as the Lannister Queen, was a part of that. Theon could admit only to himself that he felt some sense of pride. It made all those years he was so angry worth it. Even if it was only a little bit. 

It took Theon an exceptionally but predictable long time to even get down to the courtyard. He refused any help from the Maester, he couldn’t bear to look at his face, filled with sympathy. It wasn’t that Theon didn’t want his sympathy; he just didn’t believe he deserved it. He could walk quite well now, only limping every so often. The pain had subsided too, it was more of an ache now, as if Theon was lugging around something heavy. 

The courtyard was still covered in the white snow, though it was a warmer day, with the sun shining down. Theon noticed her straight away. Her auburn hair shone in the winter sun. She had styled it different today, embroidered with some kind of winter flower. She was speaking to a guard, deep in conversation. Theon couldn’t make out what was being said, only that he felt an odd sense of pride watching Sansa there. She looked quite beautiful in the morning glow. Yes, Theon could admit that to himself in the moment. All senses of what was right and the duty he had for his sister fell apart, just for that second. Sansa had always been beautiful, no one could deny that, and Theon had always thought so. But standing there, something had changed. Theon wasn’t entirely certain what his feelings were for Sansa, he couldn’t quite explain it. He just knew he felt them so strongly, it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep them to himself. Maybe it was for the best that they would part ways. Theon didn’t deserve to have those feelings for someone like Sansa. She deserved better. 

He waited a moment, watching her gesture quickly, before he made his way over to her. Sansa must have heard him coming, or felt his presence at least, as she didn’t move until Theon was barely inches away from her, as if she was preparing herself. She turned to face Theon and smiled. Her eyes glossed over Theon’s injury and wooden stick that was supporting him. A little sadness seemed to travel across her eyes, worry perhaps. She cared about Theon’s health; he knew that much. He supposed he should be grateful for that at least. 

“Lady Sansa.” Theon nodded, attempting to bow but failing miserably and completely embarrassing himself in front of her. Sansa didn’t seem to notice, her eyes fixated on Theon’s face and only his face. 

“Maester Wolkan mentioned you were feeling better.”

“I am.”

“That’s good. I suppo-“

“I think-“ 

Theon wasn’t sure what he was going to say in that moment, and a sense of relief almost engulfed him when Sansa began to spoke at the same time. Anything she had to say would be far more important, of course it would. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ll be going home soon.” Sansa continued to walk, but decided the snow patches on the ground were far more interesting that anything else in that moment. She couldn’t look at Theon, Theon could sense that. He didn’t think his facial scars were all that bad. They had healed pretty quickly, all things considered. Theon was the opposite. He didn’t want to take his eyes off Sansa for one moment. It would be a moment too soon. Leaving Sansa and Winterfell was not what Theon wanted to do, but he had to. He didn’t want to forget Sansa. Didn’t want to forget how softly spoken she was with Theon. Didn’t want to forget the small freckles dotted around her cheeks. Didn’t want to forget the way she made him feel. He would memorise everything about her, her features, her laugh, her smile, her favourite colour. Everything. That is what he would take and treasure. 

“Er, yes. I suppose I will.” 

“Your sister seems quite agitated.” Sansa motioned towards the Ironborn Queen, who was in that moment sat crossed legged ranting at the blacksmith. Theon only caught glimpses of the conversation, but it did not sound like a jovial debate. It never was with Yara. 

“She doesn’t like the North.” Theon sighed. It was a sentiment he had felt from the moment he stepped foot in Winterfell all those years ago with Ned Stark. But a part of Theon knew he never truly hated the North or Winterfell or even the Starks. He couldn’t. He hated himself more than anything now. 

“No, I don’t suppose she does. I’m not sure how well a Northerner would do in the Iron Islands.”

“A wolf in sheep’s clothing.” 

“She doesn’t like us Starks.”

“Have Greyjoys ever? My father didn’t.”

“I don’t know…things can change.” Sansa turned to Theon, her eyes locking onto his. She was blinking quickly, her breath hitched, though Theon may have imagined that. He too felt his heartbeat quicken the moment Sansa’s eyes found his. They didn’t stay for long, however. But moved down to his nose, and then his mouth. Sansa must have seen Theon noticing where her eyes fell to, she quickly focused back onto the courtyard, her eyebrows furrowed. What was she thinking? A question both Theon and Sansa pondered at. 

*

“Sansa, you should eat something.” The two Stark sisters were sat opposite each other. They rarely ate in the dining hall. It was far too big for just the two of them, so they would often sit in Sansa’s chambers. 

“Is there anything left?” 

“Plenty! That,” Arya grabbed the scroll that was taking all of Sansa’s attention and slid it across the table. “Can wait.” 

Sansa sighed, “Fine, fine.” 

“I haven’t seen you lately, have you been ignoring me?” 

“No, don’t be ridiculous.” 

“But you’ve been ignoring something else? Or someone.” 

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Yes, you do.” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“Are you going to make me spell it out?” 

Sansa shrugged her shoulders; she was so tired and didn’t think she had the strength or energy to argue with her sister any longer. 

“When does he leave?” 

“If you’re talking about Theon-” 

“I thought that was obvious.” 

“A matter of days, I suppose.” 

“I don’t like her. His sister.” 

“Hm. I think the feeling’s shared.” 

“Do you?” 

“I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. Theon has to go home eventually.” 

“I always thought Winterfell was his home.” 

“Well, it’s not.” Sansa snapped, glaring at Arya. She was getting too angry at the wrong person and her sister wouldn’t thank her for that. But it was like Arya had no real idea what she was talking about. She had no idea what Sansa was feeling, how confusing and complicated it all was. 

“Sansa.” 

“What?” 

“I’m your sister, I know you better than anyone else, yes?” 

“Yes, Arya. Unfortunately.” 

“So, you can tell me.” 

“And what is it I’m supposed to be telling you?” 

“Are you being intentionally dense?” 

“That’s your Queen you’re talking to.” 

Arya sighed, of course Sansa would try to pull rank, “Sansa, please. I’m not an idiot. And nor is he.” 

“I don’t know-” 

“You can admit it, you know.” 

“Admit what?” 

“That you don’t want him to leave!” Arya exasperated, jabbed her fork into the wooden table. Sansa jumped at this, a little exaggerated Arya thought. But her sister was always so dramatic, making problems when it was quite clear to Arya what the answer was. 

“It sounds like you’re the one that doesn’t, not me.” 

“Well, that’s not true. But I have become used to Theon being here again. Like when we were younger. Before...everything changed.”  

Sansa stayed silent for a moment. “Maybe there’s some truth to that.” Annoyingly, Arya was right. It wasn’t just Sansa, Arya felt it too, as did many others at Winterfell. It was right to have Theon there. He was a hero after all. 

“Of course, there is. I’m never wrong.” 

“Oh, you are, plenty, Arya.” 

“Beside the point. So, what are we going to do about it?” 

“There’s nothing to be done. I can hardly command him to stay.” 

“Why not?” 

“Arya.” 

Arya shrugged, “I would.” Sansa wondered how much of that was true. The Baratheon bastard had followed her around like a lost puppy before the battle and even after. But it wasn’t long before he was bidding her a frosty farewell. 

“Which is why you’re not the Queen.” 

“Maybe for the best.” 

“Yes.” 

“So, you don’t want him to leave because...of what?” 

There was no point delaying or trying to dissuade Arya from the topic of conversation. Sansa would just have to face it. She was becoming sick of doing things she didn’t want to. Surely being Queen had some perks. “When I came back to Winterfell, promised to Ramsey, you were all gone. Father, Mother, Robb, Jon, you, Bran, and Rickon. Almost everyone we grew up with, disappeared, missing, dead, forgotten” 

“But Theon.” 

“Yes. Sometimes it still feels strange being here again. I thought this time, he perhaps would stay. Having a choice.” 

“Does he?” 

“Well, yes.” 

“So, you’d miss him?” 

“Yes, Arya, I would.” 

“Why?” 

“What?” 

“Why would you miss him? It can’t just because of Father, or Robb.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because I know you, Sansa.” 

“As you keep reminding me.” 

“Sansa-” 

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to do.” 

“You just don’t seem very happy.” 

“Fine. I don’t want him to leave. I want him to stay! But there’s nothing to be done.” 

“You could tell him.” 

“That wouldn’t make a difference.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“It may not, and then where would we be? I couldn’t just confess-” 

“It isn’t some dark secret, Sansa. It makes perfect sense.” 

“If I did, and he still...” “And besides, I couldn’t do that. Make someone choose. I wouldn’t be the choice.”  

“You don’t know-” 

“I do, Arya. I can’t.” “I’m the Queen of the North now, I have duties that are far more important.” 

“I can sense we’re not going to get anywhere. Are you going to finish that?” Arya had been eyeing up Sansa’s plate for most of the conversation. She was hungrier than ever. All the arguing. 

“Have it.”  

*

Theon knocked gently on the bedchamber door. He knew Sansa was in there, probably far too busy for him, but he knew he’d have to just stop being a coward and tell her. He didn’t want to tell her. He would rather do anything else. Well, maybe not everything. But he had to. He knew that. 

“Come,” Sansa’s voice travelled through the door, and Theon obeyed, slowly opening it to find her standing in the middle of the room. She had her hands on her hips and was intently reading a piece of parchment. 

“I hope I’m not interrupting.” 

“Oh, no.” Sansa looked up to find Theon waiting anxiously by the door. She placed the scroll down and turned to face him fully. 

“Your new position, it’s keeping you busy?” Theon gestured towards the mountain of parchment and scrolls sprawled across the wooden table in the middle of the room. 

“Very. Everyone who came to Winterfell for safety, the ones that survived, have all gone home now. But that doesn’t mean we have enough to feed or clothe everyone...I sometimes wished I’d paid more attention when I was in King’s Landing or perhaps to Father.” Sansa sighed. She didn’t want to burden Theon with her problems, which seemed so insignificant compared to his plight. And yet, he was the only person she wanted to speak to. About how she was feeling, how he was making her feel. But she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t destroy the last shred of happiness Theon would have once he set foot back home, where he belonged. No matter what Sansa thought. 

“I’m sure you’ll get there.” Without you. Sansa couldn’t help but fill her brain of these thoughts. Theon was leaving Winterfell. He was leaving her. She doubted she would ever lay eyes on Theon Greyjoy again, and that pained her terribly. He looked so handsome in the light. Now most of his wounds had disappeared, Sansa could see his face properly. It was as if she was transported back to the younger self, watching Theon strut around Winterfell’s courtyard. She’d always thought he was handsome, though a little smug for her taste. She didn’t dare tell anyone, especially Robb. Oh, the teasing! But Sansa wasn’t a little girl pining over a Ironborn Prince. She was a Queen. But that didn’t mean queens couldn’t feel the way Sansa did. The way she wanted Theon to feel. 

“Is everything alright?” 

“Oh, yes. I, uh, spoke to my sister. She wants to leave in the morning.” 

Oh. Sansa hadn’t expected that, not one bit. This was far too soon. This didn’t give her enough time at all. But how could she tell him no? It wasn’t her decision to make. Theon was his own person and could very well do as he pleased. It wasn’t for Sansa to have complicated feelings about it. She was being selfish. “On the ‘morrow?” 

“Yes.” 

“So soon.” 

Theon nodded, blinking repeatedly. Sansa watched as Theon attempted to give her a small smile, though he looked pained to do so. Did he want to stay? Was that what he was trying to tell Sansa? She was more confused than ever. Why couldn’t he just say it? Why couldn’t she? 

“You’re not asking for permission?” 

“Uh, no, I don’t think so. Should I?” 

“No, Theon. Please, don’t.”  Sansa moved forward, closing the gap between the two of them. Theon watched as she walked. She seemed more vulnerable in this moment, as if she was laying herself bare just for Theon. Only for Theon. 

“Right. I just...wanted to tell you, in person.” Theon moved as if was going to say something else but stopped himself.  

“Thank you.” 

Beat. An awkward silence.  

“Is there anything you need before you go?” 

“Uh, no, I don’t think so.” Theon answered, far too formal for Sansa’s liking. 

“Of course. Well, you will be missed, I’m sure.” 

“Oh.” 

“The Hero of the Godswood.” 

“Very funny, Sansa.” 

“I’m not jesting. The North remembers, does it not?” 

“Of course, it does.” 

Sansa smiled; she tried to at least look happy for Theon. This was supposed to be a good thing. Theon was going home. He was recovered enough that he could travel. But Sansa felt anything but happy. And she was sure her face couldn’t hide that. 

“Arya will miss you.”

“Will she?”

“She’s become oddly sentimental recently. I suppose…you remind her of Robb. Of home.”

“Sansa-“

“I will miss you too, of course.”

“Of course…” Theon echoed Sansa’s comment, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Sansa would miss him. And she had openly admitted it. Well, of course she would. They had something shared the two of them. And Theon had come back to her, to Winterfell, for Winterfell. A small part of Theon pushed its way to the forefront of his mind, the small part that had a tiny glimmer of hope. The hope that Sansa felt as Theon did. That there was a chance Theon could have some happiness in his miserable life. This part of Theon had been pushed down, pushed away. Sansa had never shown any true interest, and it was comical to think so. But now, the way she stopped when Theon admitted he was leaving so soon. The way she spoke so softly to him. The way she was the first person to see Theon when he woke. The way she told him she would miss him. That maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want him to go. 

“I’m sure you’ll be happy to go.” Sansa spoke so softly, and yet it bought Theon back to reality, shattering that slimmer of hope he had. No, of course, not. Sansa would miss him, as she would miss anyone. But she was happy to see him leave. Too many memories. Theon was not a good person, especially to Sansa and the Starks. Why should he deserve any true happiness? He was alive. That was all he got. The old gods had been merciful, and Theon should be grateful. Dreaming of anything changing between him and Sansa was a folly, it couldn’t be. 

“You’ll be happy to have me out of your hair.” Sansa didn’t understand why Theon seemed so intent on putting himself down. She could never think like that and would not. She wanted to tell him that wasn’t true. That she couldn’t think of anything worse than him leaving her. She wanted him to know how she truly felt. But it wouldn’t make a difference. Theon was leaving, he wanted to, otherwise why would he go?

“We never saw it like that, Theon. Never.” Theon took a sharp intake of breath, but he stayed silent. Sansa waited for Theon, for him to understand what she was saying. Theon caught a glimpse of something in Sansa’s eyes, almost as if she was pleading with him. What was she saying? Was she yearning as much as he was? She couldn’t be, she couldn’t feel as Theon did. Why would she? What did Theon have that Sansa could want? He’d betrayed her, her family. He’d destroyed so much. And yet, Theon could feel his mask failing, his wall falling. He so longed for Sansa to reciprocate how he felt. He longed to mustier up the courage to voice his feelings. To tell Sansa how important she was to him, how he believed he couldn’t live a true life without her. How he would think of her noon until nightfall. How she plagued his dreams, how she soothed his nightmares. How her kindness, her softness, her delicateness, were the only things that brought Theon joy. How could he ever tell her that? Putting those feelings into words would be difficult enough. But he couldn’t. He had to let her go. And she had to let him. It was the only way. 

“Well, I’ll be sure to bid you farewell in the morning.” 

Theon nodded, “Thank you, Sansa. I’ll, uh, leave you to...” 

Before Sansa could return her thanks, Theon had left. He’d disappeared completely. Slipped out. Just as he would the next morning. Theon Greyjoy was leaving, and there was absolutely nothing Sansa could do about that. She was losing him. 

*

Upon waking the next morning, Theon realised he had almost not sleep at all that night. He wasn’t particularly surprised. How could he? The early morning was spent trying not to overthink everything that Sansa had said. The way she looked at him. The small smiles she would give only to Theon. How sad she looked when Theon told her of his plan to leave. But he couldn’t help himself. How could he not think anything of it? He couldn’t bear to think of what could have been. He didn’t want to think of Sansa. But she followed him everywhere. He couldn’t not think of her. Her ugly laugh whenever she found something funny. The depth of her hair, and how it trailed down her back. Her fingers touching Theon’s. How she had sat with Theon almost every morning after he woke up. The way her eyes sparkled whenever she was excited. Theon didn’t want to part with those memories, with those feelings. He couldn’t. And soon that would be all he had left of Sansa. 

*

“Sansa. Sansa!”

Sansa stood, next to her sister, up high on the balcony. The two sisters were watching the commotion in the courtyard. The Ironborn soldiers along with their Queen and Theon were crowding around. There was laughter, shouting, drinking. Arya thought they were all very pleased to be leaving, just as many Winterfell folk were glad, they were going. 

“Yes?”

Arya glanced over to the courtyard, noticing the young Greyjoy talking to the Maester. Sansa’s eyes were still fixed on him, though her expression was unreadable. “Are you listening or are you slightly distracted?”

“I don’t know what you mean; I’m listening.” Sansa was frowning, but didn’t take her eyes off the courtyard. She couldn’t bring herself to. She wanted to watch Theon until the moment he was no longer visible. It was the only thing she could do in that moment. “Proceed.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Oh, yes.”

“He’s off then.”

“Yes, Arya, he is.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Arya-“

“Clearly not, he wouldn’t be leaving if you did.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. Sansa-“

“Arya, please!”

“Did you say goodbye?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, I suppose that’s settled.” 

“Arya-“

“You’ll have to find a new candidate.” And with that, Arya stormed off, speeding down the steps. Oh, great. 

“Arya!”

Sansa’s eyes found Theon, still stood in the courtyard. His sister walked away, leaving him alone down below. Sansa wasn’t sure how long it was until Theon glanced up to find her still watching him. Sansa wasn’t embarrassed this time. This may have been the last time she would ever look upon his face. She was going to treasure it. Memorise all of his features. The way his curls bounced around his face, the slight stubble he had grown since being at Winterfell, how calm his eyes looked now the fighting was over. She would remember it all. All of it. 

Sansa smiled at Theon, waiting for him to respond. But he couldn’t return it. 

And as Arya said, that was that. Theon Greyjoy was gone. And Sansa Stark would just have to put up with it. 

*

The Ironborn party hadn’t been riding long when one of the soldiers stopped in his tracks. Theon had been trying to think of anything but the red-headed Stark but had failed miserably. In a sense, it was a relief to have something to distract him from her, even for just a moment.

“Stop! We have a shadow.” 

“What-” 

Only a few feet away, was a young boy, a servant boy; Theon remembered him. He ran around the courtyard not long before the Battle of Winterfell, playing with, whom Theon presumed, his sisters. And it seemed he was running again, but this time, towards Theon. 

“Lord. Theon.” The boy was panting hard, clearly from running all the way from Winterfell. It must have been at least a few miles. But he still made sure to bow in front of Theon. Theon hated when people did that. ‘Lord Theon’! What a joke. 

“Yes?” 

“The. Queen. She. Sent me.” 

“Good gods, will he get on with it?” Yara was tired of this. She had spent far too long in Winterfell, in the North. She needed the Iron Islands, and as soon as possible. 

“He just needs to catch his breath.” 

“Well, Theon. You stay with him while he does. Ride on!” Yara turned away from her brother, to continue riding. Theon watched the Ironborn soldiers follow suit and waited until they were out of earshot. He moved himself off his horse and knelt down, so he was level with the young boy. 

“She sent me. To give you this.” The small boy held out his hand. Something wrapped in cloth stood before Theon, waiting to be unwrapped. Theon didn’t understand, he couldn’t think of anything Sansa would want to give him. The servant boy waited for Theon to unravel the item. To Theon’s surprise, it seemed to be a pin of some sort. A wolf’s head. The Stark crest. Theon held it in his hand, up to the dim light of the early morning. He rubbed his index finger over the wolf, feeling the smoothness drag across his skin. Sansa had given him this. To remember her by perhaps? Or was it something more. Theon never believed himself to be a Stark. But he didn’t truly feel like a Greyjoy either. Maybe he could be one, maybe this was proof. Theon did belong somewhere, but he was going in the wrong direction. 

“Thank you. Will you tell the Queen...” 

“Yes, m’lord.” 

It had been a few weeks since Katniss had seen Peeta properly. Things in District 12 have gotten so busy, and Peeta had wanted to be a part of that. There had been several council meetings about the plans, Peeta had even hosted some of them. Katniss would watch several different important people leave his house but didn’t dare visit Peeta during those times. She imagined they tired him out. 

Katniss on the other hand couldn’t think of anything worse and had spent her days hunting and bothering Haymitch whenever he was awake, which was more than Katniss had expected. Since their unspoken agreement of Peeta staying the night, Katniss hadn’t spent another night alone. She was grateful, extremely grateful for Peeta staying true to his word. Some day they would only share their supper together and end up sprawled in Katniss’ bed. Other times they would spend their whole day together, Peeta would bake, whilst Katniss would watch. Katniss would search her brain for the things she wanted to remember about the people she had once known, whilst Peeta would swirl his pencils and paintbrushes across the page. They would even go into the woods together, on sunny days and Katniss would hunt, whilst Peeta would watch. Sometimes, Katniss would catch him from the corner of her eye. He would be sitting on a rock or tree stump; the sun would shimmer down to catch the top of his curls. His hair had grown a lot since he arrived back at 12. Katniss had noticed how healthy he looked now. The dark circles under his eyes were non-existent, he had put on weight again, his skinny arms were now fuller and there seemed to be a hint of muscle again. But he would be lost in the moment, allowing the heat to find his skin and rest there. Maybe he would be trying to remember something, or perhaps it was the present Peeta would be focusing on. Katniss enjoyed these moments, she allowed herself to sneak a peek at Peeta in that moment. It was nice. But that didn’t mean it made anything easy. If she was being honest with herself, she was extremely confused as to how to feel about him now. Katniss had tried to ignore her feelings, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. 

Katniss had found Peeta in her bed once again one night. There was a storm, one that reminded Katniss of the time before the Quarter Quell. It was loud, dark, and miserable. Peeta had stayed for dinner, bring one of his new loaves with him. This one had a hint of spice, which Katniss wasn’t too sure of. Peeta knew immediately she didn’t love his new bread as much as the cheese buns but appreciated the honesty and constructive criticism. Katniss wasn’t so sure Peeta would actually take on anything she had said. She’d heard from Greasy Sal how Peeta’s bread was becoming the talk of the town again, which was nice to hear. Even if Katniss couldn’t do it, she was glad Peeta was integrating into society again. He deserved it. The two sat in silence while they ate, but it was a comfortable silence, that didn’t need to be filled. Katniss could sense Peeta wanted to talk to her about something, something important but he hadn’t approached the subject yet. It was only when the two had decided it was time to sleep, that Peeta spoke his words. The storm had grown stronger since the two had begun eating, and it was clear Peeta couldn’t leave, not that Katniss wanted him to. 

Peeta’s head was upright, leaning against his pillow, whilst Katniss lay just beside him, her braid sprawled across his chest and head just below his bicep. His breathing was steady, but Katniss could tell he wasn’t going to stay silent for long. Peeta was clever, he knew when to pick his moments, but Katniss knew him better than anyone else. She picked up on things. There were things that Katniss had noticed more since the two had come back home. The way he would sometimes stop mid-sentence, mid-walk, mid-eating, as if he was overcome by a terror, a memory, a nightmare. How he would take more time with almost everything he would do. The way he would listen to Katniss so intently, hanging onto every single word. How he would act so cautious, so delicately around Katniss whenever they spoke of what happened before. Things were different know. Katniss knew this, she understood, and she was even beginning to accept it. 

“Katniss?” He spoke her name so softly, as if not wanting to stir her.

“Hm?” Katniss murmured, shifting her body closer to Peeta’s, wanting to share his space. She could hear his heartbeat now, it had sped up ever so slightly, as if Peeta was preparing himself to ask the inevitable. Katniss didn’t know how she felt about that, she didn’t know if she could truly face it. She just wanted Peeta to stay by her side, always, forever. She couldn’t lose her boy with the bread, not again. She wasn’t going to let that happen. And if she opened up, who knew what would truly happen? 

“I’ve been thinking…”

“Oh, no.” Katniss joked, but Peeta was not joking. He moved himself so he was sitting up right, but making sure he didn’t push Katniss away. She kept her eyes closed throughout but could sense something had shifted. Peeta was serious now, he was feeling anxious about what he wanted to ask. 

There was still a sense of not being completely honest with each other. Katniss knew this, and she was sure Peeta did too. She didn’t know if she could truly be that for Peeta. They had shared things in the past, things they were only for the two of them, but the Peeta who had held Katniss during the Victory Tour, who had defended Gale, who worked so hard to protect Katniss did not exist anymore. The Peeta who lay beside her in her bed knew those things about her, but the way he thought and felt about certain things had changed. And yet, Katniss knew she couldn’t avoid it for much longer. There were things that were still hidden, still unspoken. And Peeta knew that, and Katniss could sense it. 

“It might be good for us, to talk.”

“What about?” Katniss had opened her eyes and portrayed a confused look on her face. She knew Peeta would see right through it, but she at least had to try. She couldn’t and wouldn’t make the first move, she was no good with words, with speaking how she truly felt. Over the past year she had spent so much time being spoon-fed what to say, how to say it, when to say it and who to say it to. It was as if she had lost her true voice, the Katniss that existed before the reaping. Of course, she had changed in so many ways, ways she never believed could have happened. 

“I had an appointment with Dr Aurelius yesterday. There’s still a lot of things I’m confused about or don’t really understand. Things that haven’t been spoken about.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think you know what I mean, Katniss.”

There’s a pause, as if Peeta is expecting Katniss to drop the act and admit she of course knew what he meant and would divulge all of her feelings. This, of course, was not going to happen. Katniss knew she should, for both of them. Even if Peeta didn’t feel the same about Katniss, she wasn’t sure she could ever admit to him how she felt. It would hurt too much, and the idea that Peeta had stopped loving Katniss was one she couldn’t face. Even if she believed deep down it was her reality. 

“How we’re feeling.”

“Oh, that.” Katniss whispered; she spoke more for herself than Peeta in that moment. Peeta was clearly waiting for her to expand but she couldn’t do it. “What?”

“Well, you know how I felt about you.” Peeta had barely mentioned how he had felt about Katniss before the Capitol had changed him. There had been moments since the two had reunited in 12, and even back after Peeta had arrived in 13, that Katniss had seen a glimpse of what had been. It would only be for a second, sometimes not even that, but Katniss would see how Peeta felt about her. How he had protected her, cared for her, loved her. And she had taken it all for granted. It was as Haymitch said, she didn’t deserve Peeta. He was always too good for her. And now, Peeta, who had been so broken, so angry after the Capitol had changed him, he was still too good. Maybe Peeta had thought about his love for Katniss, why he had loved her so much, why he would have ever put his faith in someone like Katniss. But he hadn’t made that clear to Katniss. There had been moments of Peeta trying to remember certain things, or times when he had been triggered by something, but he’d never really disclose what those memories were. It made Katniss think maybe it was to do with her, and the fact Peeta couldn’t tell her about it, she felt hurt. It was something the two had always seemed to share, since their Victory Tour. They would protect each other, trust each other but they would always tell the truth, keep each other in the loop. But that wasn’t happening now, things had got far too complicated. 

“And now?” Katniss felt the words slipping out and she couldn’t stop them. Yes, she wanted to know how Peeta felt. She truly had no idea, and it was becoming more and more confusing. Her feelings were becoming more and more apparent, and yet she had no real scope of what Peeta was thinking or feeling. Did those feelings even exist anymore for Peeta? Or was it just a childish dream that would never come true? 

“Katniss… how many people fall in love with the same person twice?” Peeta sighed, and allowed himself a little chuckle, as if it was so amusing to him. Katniss was rather taken aback by this admission. It hadn’t occurred to her that Peeta could do that. After everything that had happened, she had of course yearned for Peeta to feel the same. The day they rescued Peeta from the Capitol; she had dreamed of their reunion so many times only for it to be torn away from her. She had watched Annie and Finnick together in the days after, spending all their time together and not letting each other go. She had thought of what it would like to kiss Peeta again, to touch him, for him to hold her in the night when the terrors came to visit her. Katniss had wondered whether there was a part of Peeta that did love her, but that part could never come to the surface. But Peeta had just admitted that he loved Katniss. How could that be? 

“How could you, after everything?”

“I don’t know,” Peeta shook his head, but turned to face Katniss. Their eyes caught each other, and Katniss allowed hers to linger on Peeta. He looked sad, almost. Katniss didn’t like to see that, it hurt her in a way she couldn’t quite explain. “Because it’s you.” Peeta gave Katniss a smile, one only reserved for her, before stroking the bottom of her chin with his index finger.

A pause, as Katniss watched Peeta, trying to suss out his movements. He took a sip of water, before placing the glass back on the mat. Clearly sensing Katniss watching him, he turned back towards her, flopping back down onto the pillow. 

“You were always so tricky to work out, real or not real?” Peeta frowned, glancing over towards Katniss. Katniss wondered whether this was really something Peeta needed reassurance on. There were times when he would ask a question and Katniss knew he didn’t need the answer, but he asked anyway. It was like a little game, like he was goading her, tricking her into saying something she felt she shouldn’t, or didn’t want to. But later on she would be angry at herself for thinking Peeta would do something like that intentionally. They both did things to survive, but could Peeta be that cruel? It was that unspoken thing between the two of them; that some things didn’t need to be said, that some things were left alone. But there was a time when Peeta was cruel, when he was angry, when he wanted Katniss dead. Katniss mind would sometimes wander back to those days when Peeta was released from his hospital shackles and would roam around District 13. His words were spiteful, they hurt. Peeta knew exactly what he was doing, even then. It was like he didn’t have a filter. He was using one of his strengths against them all. Katniss and anyone else who questioned him, anyone who attempted to make Peeta see the truth. But that was months ago, that broken Peeta had gone. The Peeta who lay beside Katniss was not fixed, but he was healing, just as Katniss was. 

“Real, or at least you thought so, sometimes.” Katniss didn’t believe herself very tricky or very interesting at that. She didn’t let anyone in, she knew that. It took months for her and Gale to have a proper conversation, and even then, it was mostly about hunting. Katniss didn’t consider herself to be a very popular person. She had Prim, she had Gale, she spoke to Madge sometimes at school, she had her bow and that was enough. But Peeta had always made a point about that. He’d wanted to know things about Katniss, about her life, her family, her father, the Seam. Even when it was for the cameras in the first Games, Peeta always seemed to show an interest in what Katniss was saying. The story of Prim’s goat came to mind. It was something so small, so inconsequential, but seemed so important to Peeta. But Katniss seemed to give him so little, even when she tried so hard. But things didn’t have to be like that anymore, they couldn’t. 

Another silence from Peeta. Katniss wasn’t sure whether she should try to fill it. She was never very good at that. That was always Peeta’s thing, his strength. But things were different now. Sometimes it would be like nothing had changed, Katniss would be reminded of those days on the train during the Victory Tour, or when the two were living in their separate houses, calling each other during the long storms, preparing for their wedding and waiting for the announcement of the Quarter Quell. Other times were harder, more difficult. Katniss had to do more than just listen or be in Peeta’s company. She had to put in the work, no matter how stubborn she could be, this was important. She understand how Peeta felt during those times on the Victory Tour, when he would desperately try to find out the silly little things about Katniss, when he tried to build bridges with her and be her friend. But Katniss didn’t want them to be friends. They could never truly just be friends. Admitting this to herself took some time, but once she had realised that she couldn’t think of anything else. 

“You don’t need to work me out Peeta.” Katniss whispered this, as if she didn’t want anyone else to hear her admission. It was true though, Peeta didn’t need to. The two of them knew each other well enough, they shared something that no one else could truly understand and Katniss was going to hold onto that. 

“OK.” Peeta moved closer to Katniss, placing a small kiss on her forehead, before brushing a strand of her to the side of her face. Katniss stayed silent, unsure on what to say next. Peeta had just admitted his feelings, but why couldn’t she? What was she so afraid of? 

“Why is it always here?”

“What?”

“Why is it always here, my house and never yours?”

“I thought that was what you wanted. For me to stay.”

“Yes, but-“

“And I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, Katniss, but there’s a pretty big storm outside.” Katniss frowned, which just made Peeta smile wider. A memory flashed before Katniss’ eyes. The cave. Peeta’s injuries. His memory of Katniss singing the song. Her retelling of the goat story. Peeta’s smile when Katniss kissed him. It was still raw, at least to Katniss. She wondered if Peeta felt the same. She hoped Peeta remembered it. Those moments from their first games, those were the memories altered in Peeta’s brain. Those were the moments the doctors in 13 used to bring him back. Things the Capitol didn’t use to change him. That was what Katniss kept in the back of her mind, always there, just not reaching the surface. During that time in 13, it was hard to have any hope that Peeta would come back to her, her Peeta. It all had to be ignored, locked away. But things had changed, they were different. Peeta was here, he was next to Katniss, he was with her. Peeta was smiling at Katniss, in the only way he could. He was present, and Katniss was not going to let him go. Not this time. Peeta had said the words, the ones they could never truly say before. He had said them as if they held no power at all, as if it was obvious. 

“I suppose we spend more time here than at my house. It’s not really my house anyway.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not where I grew up, it’s not the house I had after the first games. Everything I had before Is gone.” Peeta opened his mouth, as if he had more say, but closed it shut tight again, not letting the words escape. Katniss wondered what was going through his mind. Memories of his family, perhaps. The bakery. His older brothers, who he would wrestle with. His father, who was always so friendly to Katniss. His mother who scolded him that time with the bread. All of that had gone. Maybe Peeta had lost just as much as Katniss, maybe more. Peeta couldn’t travel through the districts to see old friends. Peeta couldn’t write letters. Peeta couldn’t phone his mother to keep up with her news. Everything Peeta once has was gone, and it was never coming back. But Peeta, he wasn’t alone. There was someone who never wanted to part from his side. Someone who would do everything in her power to stay and protect him. There was someone who loved him. 

“You still have me.” Katniss realised she had blurted this out, without even thinking. But it was true. Peeta did still have Katniss, even if everything else was lost. Sometimes, Katniss imagined he felt as she had him, but he didn’t have her. There were things that she could have done differently, so many things. If Katniss ever thought too much about it, it hurt. It hurt a lot, like so many other things. But Peeta was there, they had each other now, and nothing could separate them. Katniss wasn’t going to let it happen. She didn’t have much belief in the system of Panem changing. She would watch as the world move on from what had happened, knowing she truly never could. But maybe it was just that she couldn’t do it alone. There was only one person who knew exactly how she felt, knew exactly what she had been through, and he was lying beside her. Peeta had experienced the same, if not worse than Katniss. He had even tried to shield her from those horrors. But he had made it out of the other side. Being part of the future, actually going to Dr Auerilius’ appointments. He was being better and making Katniss better to. 

“And what a consolation.” Peeta smiled, his eyes lighting up as he focused them on Katniss. “It feels different there. I don’t…I don’t mind it but, I’m not sure I should be there. Just me.”

“You should be here. Where you belong.” And without even realising what she was doing, Katniss moved her head, so it was level with Peeta’s. A small kiss appeared from her lips to his. She had wanted to do that for a while but was too scared. Scared of how Peeta would react, what it would trigger. But Katniss couldn’t keep it to herself any longer. She had to let Peeta know this was how she was feeling. She wanted to touch him; she wanted him to touch her. Katniss didn’t want to be apart from Peeta, not ever again. The comfort she felt in his arms, the warmth, it was what she had longed for. This proved to Katniss exactly how she felt about Peeta, even after everything, after the battles, the death, the sadness, the guilt. Her feelings were stronger than ever and were not wavering. She couldn’t stop it now, it had to come to life. The fear Katniss had once felt about being open with Peeta, she couldn’t let it control her anymore. There was no point going back now, they had to move forward. And as Peeta said, they could do it together, they would do it together. 

“Katniss…” Peeta started but stopped himself. 

Katniss braced herself for disappointment. She knew how Peeta felt about her, or at least she did. It was more difficult now. She expected an excuse or a reason but none of that came. Instead, Peeta took the lead and planted a small kiss on her mouth. Clearly being careful with what he was doing. But Katniss didn’t just want a small kiss, it was like in the first games. Everything was confusing and she was playing the part, but she couldn’t deny that every time they kissed, she was always left wanting more. Peeta was confused. How he felt about Katniss, how she felt about him. But that kiss, the kiss that was initiated by Katniss after so long, told him everything he needed to know. That was Katniss’ way of saying ‘I want you’, ‘I need you’, ‘I love you’, ‘Do you love me?’ 

Peeta never stopped, even hijacked. That’s what made everything so frustrating and so difficult. He was always there, looming in the back of Katniss’ mind. Everything she did during the Games, during the Rebellion, and after, it all seemed to be for Peeta, connected to him. There was an invisible string, tethering them together. It was no use trying to deny or avoid it, they would always end up in the same space. As Katniss could feel Peeta pulling away, restricting himself, not pushing too far, she found herself pulling him towards her. Their simple, small kiss turned into something else, something more. That hunger that Katniss felt so many times had reappeared and had seemed to take over. Katniss’ lips crashed onto to Peeta’s, they found them and would not let go. Their noses brushed against each other, and Katniss felt Peeta’s soft hands stroke her jawline. 

“Katniss, what took you so long?” Peeta whispered, his lips only inches away from hers. Katniss could feel the warmth of Peeta’s breath blowing against her. His question wasn’t accusing, but there was a sense of longing, a sense of confusion flowing from Peeta. This was a genuine question. What had taken Katniss so long? She was scared, of course she was. Scared that how she felt for Peeta wasn’t going to be reciprocated. Scared that she would have to live the rest of her life with the guilt, the anguish, the sadness but without Peeta. Katniss knew it was her turn to show Peeta how she felt. She had spent so long, so many times ignoring how she felt. Allowing Peeta to take the lead, to do the talking, to hold her in ways she couldn’t quite explain. But things had changed, as Katniss kept reminding herself. 

“Me?”

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, don’t ever be sorry.” Peeta smiled at Katniss, allowing his fingers to drag across her cheekbone. He tapped her face ever so slightly, tracing the odd freckles that had recently appeared on her face. Katniss could feel her cheeks warming up, likely turning a blush tone of red. Peeta still hadn’t taken his eyes off her, as if he wanted to remember every single detail of her face. All of her scars, her tears, all of her insecurities. Katniss wasn’t sure why she was blushing this time, but something felt different. The way Peeta was looking at her, it was as if something had shifted. Katniss realised something. She had never been in love with Peeta the way she was in that moment. She wanted to freeze it and stay in it forever. 

Peeta picked up the pearl which was sitting on the bedside table nearest to him, allowing it to swirl around in his palm. Katniss watched him anxiously, not knowing what was going through his head. “I gave this to you, real or not real?”

“Yes,” Katniss swallowed, she continued to watch Peeta, trying to understand what he was thinking. Did he know how much that tiny pearl meant to her? How much she treasured it when she was in 13? How she’d kept in with her from the moment Peeta gave it to her, until when she shot her arrow through Coin’s chest? Maybe not, Katniss had never uttered the words to him. But she hadn’t needed to, neither of them needed to. Words didn’t always matter, not with Peeta and Katniss. It was things they did, the way they were around each other, the touches, the glances, those things said so much more than Katniss’ words ever could. Peeta was always better at that, being more open and honest, even when he had kept his true feelings for Katniss hidden away, not wanting to confuse her. And that just made Katniss feelings even stronger now. She loved Peeta. She had loved him longer than she initially realised. And Peeta had loved her, he had loved her when she thought she was completely unlovable. Even now, even when she returned to 12, broken and bruised. Peeta was there, and he would always be. 

“I remember. We were on the beach. And then after…” Peeta stopped, furrowing his eyebrows, as if he was trying to remember what happened exactly. It seemed his couldn’t, but Katniss replayed that memory in her head. Peeta had opened the shell, ‘for you’, was what he had said to Katniss. A gesture so small and meaningless, and yet Katniss had thought of it so often. Twirling the pearl around in-between her index finger and thumb was the one thing that helped her sleep in those days underground. But she was always met with a dream filled with Peeta, a Peeta who didn’t exist anymore. 

“You kept it?” Katniss nodded. She waited for Peeta to ask, for her to stumble over her words, trying to explain but it never came. Peeta continued to roll the pearl around and around and around. “I’m surprised it survived.”

“I kept this, too.” Katniss motioned towards the bedside table. Peeta’s medallion sat closest to her. Along with the pearl, her Mockingjay pin, and the photograph of her father, it was one of her most important possessions. She always kept it close, like she had a piece of Peeta close to her. It hadn’t been opened in some time; Katniss couldn’t face the photographs that were placed inside. Katniss watched Peeta as he turned to the direction of the medallion. He started to frown, clearly trying to remember it, remember who gave it to him, what he had done with it, what it meant. It meant a great deal to Katniss, maybe more than she had allowed herself to realise before now. When Peeta had shown her what was being kept inside, when he had laid his soul bare to her, it changed something in her. Katniss knew in some way how Peeta felt about her. She understood the unspoken agreement the two had with each other, protecting each other. But Peeta’s admission to everything when he showed her the medallion, that sealed it for Katniss. Peeta put Katniss above himself. Nothing else seemed to matter to him, only that Katniss survived, that she lived, even if that meant a life without Peeta. “Do you remember?” Katniss asked innocently, trying to trigger something within Peeta. Anything. It didn’t have to be a memory, not even a thought but a feeling. Peeta must have had some kind of feeling about that moment in time, that moment in their life, that moment that was engraved in Katniss’ brain. It was a moment that she played over and over again whilst in District 13, wondering if she would ever see Peeta again.  

Peeta blinked and took a moment to answer. “Yes, I do.” He moved to lie on his back once again, his face looking up at the ceiling, with almost no expression. Katniss couldn’t read him, he didn’t look angry, or sad, there was nothing there. Maybe he was lost in a memory, maybe it was a cold, dark one. Or maybe he was just thinking. Sometimes, Katniss would catch herself worrying about Peeta’s memories before she even opened her eyes in the morning. Whenever he would suddenly stop, a wave of anxiety would fall upon her. It was tough, at times, to be constantly on edge. But Katniss couldn’t blame Peeta, and she wouldn’t. She had done enough of that in the past.But now? She didn’t want Peeta to be lost in a memory. Katniss had to be the one to anchor him back. She couldn’t lose him again. 

Realising Katniss would need to be the one to talk this time, she would need to fill the silence, she shifted so slightly, knocking her arm into Peeta’s. “You were being noble, trying to tell me no one needed you, that no one would miss you.” Katniss wanted to bring Peeta back to the present, back to her. So many times, recently had he become lost in a memory, in a moment from their past. It would take over, take control, and show Peeta the unimaginable horrors of his past. Sometimes it would last a minute, sometimes hours. And after…Peeta would be so exhausted. He’d close in on himself, and Katniss couldn’t get in. Some nights he would just sleep, even with the nightmares visiting him. But other times Peeta would change, he would be quiet and push Katniss away. Tonight, would not be one of those nights. 

“Hm. I seemed to do a lot of that. I remember…what they showed me in 13. Things from the Games, things that had been…altered, I guess. It made everything so confusing. But at the Capitol, they never showed me that one. I remembered it though, when the doctors showed me.”

“I remembered too. I thought about it a lot.” Katniss was almost surprised at this admission, but she knew it was important for her to say. 

“I’m glad you kept it. But you didn’t answer my question, Katniss.”

“I didn’t realise it was a question.”

“Katniss.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I don’t want you to say anything, Katniss, bu-“

“Need me to say?”

Theon knew it would happen eventually, he knew he would have to face it, no matter how much he tried to ignore it. His past always seemed to come running after him, he could never escape it. 

Theon heard her before he saw her. “Theon. You’re alive, then.”  Swaggering into the bedchambers, Theon watched his sister’s movements. Her hair looked shorter, and her eyes were angry. She didn’t look like much of a queen, not how Theon understood it. But that didn’t matter. She was inspecting the room, until her eyes fell upon Theon. They stayed there for a moment, as if she was playing through every moment they had once shared in her head. A small smile crept on her lips when she pulled a nearby stool over to his bedside. Her legs were sprawled out and she was leaning back, still eyeing up her brother. 

Theon nodded, moving himself to sit up properly. He wasn’t technically in bed, only sitting on top of the bedclothes. The Maester had advised he start to familarise himself with moving around, and soon enough, he should try walking. Theon couldn’t think of anything worse. Not only would it be likely to be difficult, but it would also be another place for Theon to see Sansa. He couldn’t easily avoid her, and he was sure she would want to speak with him. She spent a lot of her time watching over the courtyard. Theon imagined it was a good place to be with her thoughts. But Theon didn’t want to put himself in certain situations. Not yet. “Yes, and Euron’s dead.” 

Yara smiled at that, clearly relaying the moment she found out their uncle was killed. Theon wasn’t sure he felt the same way. He didn’t relish that fact, not in the way Yara did. He didn’t laugh at the thought of his uncle being slain, at the sight of his mangled body, the loss of breath. They were not the same, Theon had realized that. They were too different. But he was glad Euron was gone. “He is. Thank fuck for the gods.” 

Theon watched his sister for a moment, the way her smile stayed etched across her face. Theon couldn’t remember a time he ever felt that elated. Not for a long time, not truly feeling happy. There was always another feeling that overwhelmed that. And Theon didn’t like it. He deserved it, but he didn’t enjoy it. “I’m sorry.” 

“For what? You did what you came here to do. And have a good scar to prove it, I’m sure.” Yara didn’t want to hear Theon’s self-pity, she was tired of it. Theon knew this, he knew how Yara felt about him. She knew she didn’t truly understand the torment he felt every day, and she didn’t want to understand. She was different to him. She had been allowed to stay with their father, with their family, in their true home. Theon could never truly understand how that felt. Sometimes it felt as if they were too different. There were people who weren’t Ironborn, who understood Theon better, who had experienced the same things, who knew exactly how he was feeling. But that was not Yara. And going back to Pyke wasn’t going to change that.

Of course, there was one person in particular who could understand better than anyone. Sansa. But Sansa wasn’t sitting in front of Theon, it was Yara. And she could never understand him. 

“I do. And it hurts.” 

“Of course, it does.” Yara scoffed, as if what Theon was saying was so self-pitiful, so inconsequential. She didn’t mean it, Theon was sure. But that didn’t make it any easier. This was exactly how Yara was, how she had always been. Theon almost dying wasn’t going to change anything. He had disappointed her, he knew that. She may not admit it, but she had wanted him by her side, not running off to Winterfell, to the home of his captors.

“Are you going home?” 

“I’ve only just got here but being surrounded by the Starks isn’t my idea of fun. He killed her; you know.” 

Theon seriously doubted anything Jon had done in the past few weeks even came close to what Theon had done. Jon was honourable, he was good, and he was Ned Stark’s son. He hadn’t let anyone down, he hadn’t killed innocent people, and her certainly hadn’t committed the atrocities Theon had. Theon was sorry to hear what had happened to Jon, to know he could have fallen so low. And to leave Sansa as she was. But wasn’t that exactly what Theon was going to do? How was he so different from Jon? How could Yara sit there, thinking about Jon with such disgust? When she and her stupid, little brother were truly no different. “Jon’s a good man. Better than me.” 

Yara ignored that comment, rolling her eyes. She had clearly heard enough about how good and honourable the Starks were. Theon thought the same himself not so long ago. But there was no point thinking that way, not anymore. “But yes, eventually I’ll go home.” 

“As Queen.” 

“As Queen. But we still need to decide what to do with you.” 

“And who’s deciding?” 

“Me, of course. But I’m sure the Lady of Winterfell will have something to say about her hero.” 

“I’m not her hero,” Theon mumbled, not wanting to think about Sansa. He hated how Yara’s smile curled up, like she knew something Theon didn’t. He couldn’t think about Sansa, without feeling an immense wave of guilt and regret. He longed for her to visit his chambers, ached to be in her company, see her smile and laugh, to feel safe. But whenever he saw her, he didn’t know how to act. He didn’t know what to say to her, and he knew eventually, Yara would take him home. It was unlikely Theon would see Sansa again, not for a long time. Theon still couldn’t quite comprehend how that made him feel. The things he felt about Sansa…they were becoming stronger and stronger, travelling up to the surface and Theon couldn’t ignore them for much longer. 

Yara sighed, shaking her head. “If you say so.” She clearly didn’t believe him, but it seemed futile to try to argue. She couldn’t care less about the Stark girl. “Get some rest, Theon. You deserve it.” 

Rest. All Theon had done for weeks was rest. He had laid in that bed for so many nights, waiting and longing. He couldn’t do it anymore. He didn’t need to. Soon, his body would be healed. Soon, he’d be walking around like nothing happened, like nothing had changed. That was wrong, of course, everything had changed. And yet, he was going to end up exactly where he started. Stuck on Pyke. How wonderful. 

*

Theon was sure Sansa had watched Yara leave his bedchambers. It could only have been a few minutes that passed before Theon was visited by the Lady of Winterfell. Theon wasn’t exactly sure what to make of that. There was a little voice in the back of his head, that voice kept whispering things that couldn’t possibly be true. Things that were not true. Theon wasn’t fool enough to believe them. But Sansa had seemingly just missed Yara as she walked down the corridor to Theon’s chambers. She knew Yara was speaking with him, informing him of what had happened. And Sansa had waited until the two Greyjoy siblings were finished. She clearly didn’t want to intrude and wanted to speak to Theon alone, without anyone else there. 

Theon watched Sansa closely as she made her way across to occupy the stool Yara had placed in front of the bed. She gave him a quick smile when she greeted him, but Theon could sense there was something on her mind. She hadn’t just come to visit Theon on a whim, or because she wanted to be in his company. Oh, no, she came with a purpose. There was a reason for her visit, and clearly, it was not something Sansa wanted to do. She wouldn’t be there otherwise; she had far more important things to worry about, to deal with. Theon…he was not important. Not to Sansa. And yet, she was too important for him. She filled his brain, even when he didn’t want her to. 

“Theon.”

“Sansa, is everything alright?”

“Yes,” Sansa answered, rather abruptly. “It’s...urm, it’s been decided. You’re to stay here, at Winterfell, until you’ve fully recovered. And not a day before. After that...” Sansa trailed off, blinking rapidly, and trying to look anywhere that wasn’t Theon. Her hands were placed in her lap. but she kept twiddling them between each other, as if she just couldn’t stop herself fidgeting. Why was she acting that way? What was going through her mind? 

“Yes?” 

Sansa closed her eyes for a moment, before turning back to Theon. “Well, you’ll go home. With your sister, your Queen.”  Sansa’s eyes found Theon’s and they locked on with them. Whilst his were filled with disappointment, anguish, and anger, hers were filled with guilt, regret, and sadness. Theon knew this was what was going to happen. But he couldn’t help a small part of himself thinking he could stay in Winterfell. Thinking he could finally be able to make the decision that he wanted. 

“I see,” Theon paused, taking a breath to consider what he would day next. “Alright.” Any thoughts of how he felt about Sansa instantly disappeared. His feelings didn’t matter, they truly didn’t. He didn’t quite understand them himself. But those confusing, strange feelings couldn’t be voiced, couldn’t be acted on. Theon was going to Pyke, whether he wanted to or not. He had no real choice in that. It was what Yara wanted. And Sansa…Theon did not know what Sansa wanted; he couldn’t understand her. 

“There’s something else.” Sansa’s soft voice interrupted Theon’s thoughts. Again, he couldn’t read her, not at all. Her eyes glazed over, the burning candle by the edge of the bedside table flickered, matching the auburn colour of Sansa’s hair. She seemed to allow herself to glance over to Theon every so often, as if she didn’t want him to notice. He did, of course. But he couldn’t make sense of why she was acting in such a way. 

“What is it?” 

“Jon’s gone. Arya too, although I suspect not for long. She comes and goes now. Bran is...Bran. I’m the only Stark left at Winterfell.” 

“There must always be a Stark at Winterfell, isn’t that what your father used to say?” The Stark words, or at least one of them. They seemed to have so many. Winter is Coming. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. The North Remembers. Theon remembered when he was younger, having only been the Stark’s ward for a few moons, he learned of the importance of the Starks and their words. Ned Stark was heralded as this honourable man, just, true, fair and loyal. Not at all how his father had presented him to be. Theon wasn’t so sure either version was entirely true. How can a man who takes a child from their home? Who forces them to live among their enemies? But Ned Stark was not a bad man. Theon knew what bad men looked like. He saw one whenever he looked upon the looking glass, his own reflection staring right at him. Those gaunt eyes, the twisted curls, the tremor of his lip. But regardless of how Theon felt, about himself or the Starks, their words seemed to have so much power, especially in the North. 

“Yes. But...the North is an independent kingdom now. And with Jon gone...” Thinking about Jon hurt Sansa. They all had made mistakes, but Jon was paying for them. Leaving her alone in Winterfell. 

Being Lady of Winterfell was something Sansa had become accustomed to. She understood the importance of the position, having watched her mother until she had left for King’s Landing. It was true that her head was filled with fairy tales, a type of life that did not exist. But Sansa wasn’t completely ignorant of the world around them, no matter how much her younger sister protested she was. She had learned a lot when Jon had left for Dragonstone, she had been truly tested as Lady of Winterfell, of the North. But being Queen? That was something different. Something Sansa was not sure of. 

Theon finally realized what Sansa was getting at. “Not Lady Sansa, Queen Sansa?” 

“Yes.” Sansa merely nodded, her facial expression staying frozen. 

“I see.” 

“It’s what I always wanted, to be Queen.” Sansa sounded bitter when she spoke those words. How foolish a girl she once was. Only caring about the beautiful dresses that she would wear, marrying her prince, carrying his babies, and living in a big castle, far away from Winterfell. How wrong she was. She couldn’t have been wrong if she had tried. 

“And now you have it. I’m sure you’ll be a great Queen.” Theon only realised how flat his voice sounded as if he couldn’t care less about Sansa’s new position. That, of course, wasn’t true. He did care. Very much. This was a big change for Sansa, though he knew she could do it as easily as anything. Sansa seemed to always pick up things so quickly, so effortlessly. It was something he admired about her. One of the many things. 

“I hope so, but I should go, there’s much work to be done.” 

“Of course.” 

Sansa left not long after, citing her busy schedule as a reason. Theon felt hollow once he was alone again. It was strange. Something felt off, Sansa felt different, as if she was harbouring some feelings that she would not let escape. She would not let Theon see them, not even get a glimpse of them. Theon didn’t know whether he wanted to know what those feelings were. He couldn’t think of his own, let alone Sansa’s. But it was the uncertainty Theon felt that made him uneasy. And he didn’t like it. 

*

The next time Sansa was faced with a Greyjoy, it unfortunately wasn’t as pleasant. Sansa wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about Yara Greyjoy. She seemed extremely angry and agitated all of the time, particularly now she was in Winterfell. A permanent scowl could be seen on her face, and she spent most of her time outside of the castle grounds. Sansa knew exactly where she was going every night. But Sansa knew that wasn’t important, she had to put that behind her. Yara Greyjoy was here, and it looked like she was here to stay, at least for as long as Theon would. That wasn’t an enjoyable thought for Sansa, but she would rise above it. She would do what her mother would have done, her father. She was Queen now. And Queen’s had to act a certain way. 

“Your Grace.” Sansa bowed her head towards the Ironborn Queen, forcing herself to smile. She knew the woman beside her could see through the niceties, but she may as well keep up appearances, for the sake of both families. 

“Lady Sansa,” Sansa noted how the Greyjoy gritted her teeth as she spoke Sansa’s title. She wasn’t particularly pleased with the current predicament, but unlike most of her family, she had learned how to keep her true feelings close to her chest. But some of those feelings, feelings about certain people, they didn’t want to stay hidden. Not anymore. They would creep out eventually and change everything. 

“Shall we walk?” Yara didn’t answer but followed Sansa regardless. Sansa knew this was going to be an uncomfortable conversation, she knew exactly how Yara felt about her and her family. But the Greyjoys had never been regarded very highly by the Starks. Maybe not until now. Theon and his sister were the last Greyjoys. Just as Sansa, and her siblings, were the last of the Starks. Maybe they could be better than the previous generation, than their parents. Sansa knew her father had good reason to not trust Balon Greyjoy, but she could never understand why Theon had to be punished. Even as a young girl, when she would watch from the balcony the young, Ironborn prince striding about, Sansa would wonder what it was like to be so far from home. Things had changed, and Sansa was sure that they couldn’t go back. “Thank you, for coming to Winterfell.” 

“I don’t suppose I really had a choice, did I?” Yara answered gruffly, looking straight ahead, as if she couldn’t bear looking at Sansa. Well, Sansa felt the same way, or at least she wanted to. This was Theon’s sister, but that didn’t mean Sansa couldn’t have qualms about her presence in Winterfell. Sansa knew only too well how troubling and difficult sibling relationships could be. “My brother is here, so I am here.”

“The North will forever be in debt to Theon. We all will.” I will. But Sansa didn’t dare speak that aloud, especially not to Yara. Sansa couldn’t even truly admit it to herself, not outside her own mind. In a strange way, she felt a certain affinity for Yara. It was a feeling Sansa couldn’t quite explain, but it was clear to her that the two Queens were more similar than they first believed. 

“How strange that sounds. My father wouldn’t believe it.” Sansa was sure a smile had just crept onto Yara’s lips, even for just a moment. Maybe the Greyjoy Queen wasn’t as resentful as she made out.

“Nor would mine.” 

“I don’t think there’s any need for pleasantries, we may as well get straight to the point.” 

Sansa sighed, “You’ve come to collect him?” She knew she couldn’t avoid this topic forever, but as the words travelled from her mind to the outside world, she knew it couldn’t be taken back. Yara certainly wouldn’t leave without her brother, and Sansa doubted very much that she would want to stay any longer than required. 

“Return him, you mean,” Sansa noted the shift in Yara’s tone, even more frustrated than before. She didn’t quite believe that could be possible. Return, like Theon was a lost package. Return, like he was stolen from her. Sansa supposed in a way he was. But Theon had gone home, more than once. And yet, he had decided to come back to Winterfell. He had decided to come back to fight to save it. He had come back to Sansa. He had come back to a place that was never his home, that he never felt he belonged to. And there was a reason, Sansa wished she was the reason, but couldn’t say for sure. 

“Maester Wolkan informs me healing takes time. You can’t rush it.” The maester hadn’t said those exact words, but Sansa wasn’t being untruthful. The maester had spoken to Sansa about Theon, briefly, over the past few weeks, just informing her of his progress. Sansa didn’t know the exact details of Theon’s injuries, but she understood enough to know Theon still had some recovering to do. But that wouldn’t last long, and soon Yara would take him away, take him back to Pyke, take it home. Sansa wasn’t sure she could stop it, but she would do everything in her power to make sure it would smoothly. 

“I didn’t expect to be back in Pyke by the ‘morrow.” 

“I know that I was just preparing you.”

“And are you prepared? To lose your hero of the Godswood.” 

Sansa could tell Yara found it amusing, she clearly knew how Theon felt about himself and what he had done for Winterfell. Perhaps she had not expected her brother to survive, just as Theon had. But regardless of how anyone felt, Theon was a hero. He was a hero to Sansa; in more ways than he knew. “I wouldn’t let him hear you call him that.”

“Hm.”

“You may jest, your grace, but Theon is a hero. In more ways than he knows.”

“I understand.” The Ironborn Queen did not sound as if she did fully understand. Sansa supposed she could appreciate it. Theon was her younger brother; he would always be just that. Just as Bran and Rickon were Sansa’s. But still, Sansa would forever be in debt to Theon. She never believed she could ever make it up to him. But she wanted to, desperately. 

“I’m not stupid, I know how you feel about being here. But I thank you, I do.” 

“Your brother-“

Sansa sighed, “What Jon did is not relevant. Not to me, not to you, and not to Theon. He’s paid the price, just like so many others. I do hope that won’t taint your stay here.” She had grown tired of hearing about Jon’s disgrace. 

Yara waited a moment before she nodded, realising that there was no point arguing with Sansa.

“We’ve had a room prepared for your stay, for as long as you need it.”

“How kind.” 

*

“Everything alright, dear sister?” Arya was standing in the doorway, leaning up against the frame. Her eyes were watching her sister scribbling down words and words on the parchment. She looked tired, no, she looked exhausted. He hadn’t noticed Arya standing there, too focused on her work. Her chambers were messy for the first time in Sansa’s life. Arya had never seen her like this. The Sansa that she knew was always in control, she knew what to do in a crisis and wouldn’t waiver. But something had changed, like it had for Arya. For everyone. 

“Oh, fine, just fine.” Sansa didn’t look up when she spoke, her hand quickly rushing against the piece of parchment. Arya watched her for a moment, before sitting on top of the stool opposite her sister. 

“You don’t sound very sure, my Queen.”

Sansa closed her eyes, before placing her quill down. “Arya.” She could see her sister smirking at her, she knew Arya thought all the sudden change was ridiculous, she always had. Arya was never one for following the rules, she didn’t enjoy their lessons with the Septa, and she didn’t like wearing dresses or acting like a proper lady. Sansa on the other hand had done everything she was supposed to, but that didn’t make her life any easier. And yet, here they both sat, in Winterfell, at home, just the two of them. Sansa was Queen of Winterfell, after everything. And with the one person she could truly rely on. 

“Alright, alright. I apologise.” Arya could sense Sansa wasn’t in the mood. She could sense something was seriously wrong with her sister, and she very much doubted it had to do with her royal duties. “What is it?”

“Just…there’s a lot to do.”

“I can help.”

“I’m sure you can, and I may take you up on that offer.”

“But?”

“It’s not this. This, I can solve this, fix it, find a way.” 

It didn’t take Arya long to figure it out. Actually, she had known for quite a while. Arya knew her sister better than anyone, their years apart had not changed that. She saw the way Sansa would glance at Theon when she thought no one was looking. She noticed to slight tint of pink that would appear on her cheeks whenever someone would mention his name. She also noticed how much time Sansa had spent in his chambers since he awoke, and how she was the first to visit him. Arya was not stupid; she knew exactly what it meant. She’d thought about mentioning it many times, but it only seemed right now, when the two sisters were alone. “Theon.”

“What?” Sansa gulped, not expecting Arya to even think to mention Theon. Of course, she had been thinking about him, he filled her brain. She had tried not to think of him, she had tried to think rationally and reasonably, but nothing seemed to work. Sansa had tried to distract herself, which wasn’t proving too difficult with her new position. There were so many different things she had to worry about, more than her parents ever did. But the days were moving on and time was running out. Theon had almost recovered, and he would soon leave. Sansa couldn’t stop it no matter what she felt. There was no real point trying to stop it. She was powerless. 

“Yara. The Ironborn Queen.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, though she was glad the subject was drifting from Theon to his sister. “We should never have invited her to stay.”

“Hm, it’s the done thing, is it not?”

“Mother wouldn’t have let another Ironborn even think about entering the gates.” Sansa couldn’t help but smile at the thought of her mother. Her hatred of the Ironborn was well-known to any who knew her. And yet, Sansa had allowed not one, but two of Balon Greyjoy’s children into their home, let alone the Ironborn soldiers who came and died for Winterfell. Oh, how times had changed. 

“But you’re not Mother, Sansa.” No, Sansa was not Catelyn Stark. No matter how much she tried to think of her mother during times of need or trouble. No matter how many times Littlefinger would tell her how much she looked like her. Sansa was her own person; she could never be her mother. But she missed her desperately. She wished she had got to say a proper goodbye. She wished she had listened more, been kinder to her. She would have to do her justice now, as the Queen of the North. 

Sansa sighed again. “What is it, Arya?”

Arya knew Sansa wasn’t going to tell her without any probing, even though the both of them knew exactly what was troubling the Queen of Winterfell. “You can admit it, you know. You can admit it to me.” Arya’s eyes locked with Sansa’s; she could sense the fear in her eyes. She could see how everything she was feeling was just about to burst out for all to see. But Sansa couldn’t keep it to herself forever. And Arya didn’t want her to, not if it was making her so unhappy. 

Feeling Arya’s eyes on her, Sansa couldn’t help but turn her attention to something else, anything else. The words she had been scribbling down previously didn’t seem to make any sense. The words on the page didn’t matter, it was just a way of Sansa avoiding the inevitable. But she couldn’t do it, she couldn’t say the words. She knew what Arya was trying to say, but Sansa didn’t want to admit it. Not even to Arya. Not even her sister. She couldn’t do it; she couldn’t let those feelings come to pass. Even though she wanted to, she didn’t truly understand how she was feeling. She’d never felt so much in such a short amount of time. It hurt to see Theon, and yet, that was the one thing she wanted to do. She missed him when he wasn’t there and wanted to check on him. It was foolish really, for Sansa to feel like a little girl. But she couldn’t help it. She’d tried, desperately, to think of anything else. But that was becoming more and more difficult. She was just too scared, scared that it would all be for nothing. “And what is it I’m admitting?” 

“Sansa, please. You can’t deny we’ve become used to Theon being in Winterfell again.” Arya used the term ‘we’ lightly. Yes, it did take Arya back to when she was young. Seeing Theon reminded her of Robb, it reminded her of Mother and Father, of little Rickon. But some of those memories were not happy ones. The loud crowds by the Sept. The chaos at the Twins. The battle in the snow. But technically, yes, it was nice to feel as it was, before. 

“True. You the most.” 

Sansa was missing the point entirely, of course, she was. She didn’t want it to be real, she didn’t want to have to face those feelings. But she couldn’t wait forever. Soon, Theon would be gone, and she would miss her chance. Arya knew what that was like. There were times she regretted how she and Gendry had left it. But it was the right thing to do. Sansa, however, would be making a big mistake. “Everyone we grew up with is gone. All of those memories, those people…”

“So yes, I don’t like the idea of losing another. Not again.” 

“I see.” Arya nodded, perhaps this was Sansa voicing those feelings. Not exactly in the way she had expected or even wanted, but Sansa was very different from her sister. “Have you…voiced these feelings to anyone else?”

“No, just you.”  Sansa rolled her quill across the table, sighing to herself. Why was she telling Arya this? It wasn’t going to help or even change things. “Why is that funny?” Arya seemed to be sniggering at her. 

Arya scoffed, “I…just…would never have imagined this conversation to ever exist. You confining in me.” She shook her head at the ridiculousness of it all. If only their father could see them now. The thought of Ned Stark still brought an enormous wave of sadness to Arya. Maybe more so than anyone else they had lost. She would never admit that to anyone else, not even her sister. But she missed him so much, more than anything. Even after all those years. 

“You’re my sister. The last of the Starks. Of course, I confine in you. I trust you.”

“And I, you. But it doesn’t have to be that way.” Arya was urging Sansa now, but she couldn’t change her mind. Sansa was stubborn, just as she was. 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do, Sansa. You can’t fool me.”

“Arya, please. I’m tired.”

Katniss was sitting in the middle of the kitchen. It was late morning, and she hadn’t got much sleep the night before. Of course, she hadn’t. Why would she? There was a certain stillness around. Once again, she was alone, or at least she was at that moment. Greasy Sae hadn’t been around much lately, but Katniss didn’t mind. Peeta and Katniss had agreed to meet later, he wanted her opinion on something. Katniss could see him from the kitchen window. He was gardening, planting more flowers, scattering them around the Victor’s Village. Peeta was doing something good with his time, something useful. And what was Katniss doing? Feeling sorry for herself, feeling guilty, of wasting her time. And she couldn’t even do that right. 

Katniss knew she needed to stop thinking this way, but that was easier said than done. She would hunt during the day, trying to escape those feelings, those memories. She would walk through the town, or what was left of it, trying to avoid as many people as she could. And she would spend time with Peeta. It was only then that Katniss felt the most comfortable, truly comfortable. But there was still a nagging feeling that would creep up on her. The way she and Peeta were around each other, didn’t feel natural. It was as if the two were tiptoeing around one another. There were many things unspoken that needed to be voiced. But Katniss wasn’t going to be the one to do it, she just couldn’t. Her feelings for Peeta…she didn’t want to think about them, but she knew she couldn’t push them away. They would come spilling out eventually, but Katniss had some time before that would happen. She would have to take control, even if she didn’t want to. 

Those feelings came back later in the evening. Peeta had spent the night again. Katniss didn’t like to admit it, but she was feeling a little guilty. Falling asleep in Peeta’s arms again was all Katniss wanted. Of course, it was. It was where she felt safe, the only place she wanted to be. But there was a sense, not that Peeta didn’t want to be there, but he felt obliged to. It was for Katniss’ sake more than for his. There was no proof of this, but that didn’t help disregard any of those feelings. Peeta would never let on if that was how he felt. But the Peeta who would hold Katniss in his arms until she would drift off after a harsh nightmare was not the same Peeta. This was a constant battle Katniss would have with herself over and over again. Peeta was not the same. But he was Peeta. He wasn’t the same, just as Katniss wasn’t. No one was. She couldn’t keep harping on about how Peeta was gone when she could feel his body against hers. When he would give her a look that would almost make her crumble. When he would spend the evenings with her, filling up the emptiness she so often felt. Peeta was here. 

It made sense, though, of course it did, that Peeta would stay. The two had spent the evening together, they’d decided they should try to finish the family book they’d started after the Victory Tour. It wasn’t a family book, but a memory book now. Peeta had mentioned it briefly, something he remembered, but it wasn’t a direct memory. Katniss knew something like this, would help. It would help Peeta. Not to be who he was, but to at least remember. She wanted to do that for him, when everything he had done, all the pain and suffering he had endured, was for Katniss. As soon as they’d finished their supper, Katniss had brought the unfinished book to the kitchen. She wasn’t exactly sure where they’d start. Would Peeta remember any of it? How would he react to all of these memories? Would it even be worth it? But it seemed that none of those questions plagued Peeta. He clearly remembered the book, or at least remembered that the two of them had worked on it. Making sure to take in every single detail of the pages, Peeta spent almost the first hour searching through the book, taking it all in. 

After that, every seemed to fall into place. 

They’d spent hours, pouring themselves over the book. It made Katniss quite tired. They were her memories, rather than Peeta’s. Every so often, Peeta would stop Katniss in her tracks, as if a memory had just appeared. He’d scramble to note something down, a phrase or a quick sketch. And then Katniss would carry on. It was the most she’d spoken about people from their past in a long while, and though she could appreciate how helpful and useful it would be for Peeta, she was glad when he suggested they retire. 

After tidying up the book, Katniss left Peeta alone on the couch. She felt guilty, leaving him with only a blanket as cover. But he had started to drift before Katniss had even reached the stairs. She hadn’t wanted to leave him lying there but didn’t think it wise to ask him to follow her. It was right, she couldn’t ask Peeta to stay, just to keep her company. But she knew if those nightmares came, so would Peeta. It hurt, in a way, to know he was only there to soothe her from them, not for any other reason. But what reason should there be? The Peeta Katniss knew, the one she had so many confusing feelings about, didn’t exist. Or at least he was still so hidden away, pushed away within the darkness. No. Katniss needed to stop thinking like this, it just wasn’t fair. None of it was Peeta’s fault. And he had worked so hard to remember who he was, and to be better. It had been months since Katniss had seen him again after returning to District 12. Peeta did what Katniss couldn’t bring herself to do; he got help. He went through Dr Aurelius’ treatment, he listened, he took his medication (even if he noted how little it did), and even now, he would take occasional visits to the Capitol when needed. He was better than Katniss in every way. And yet...her feelings didn’t waiver. 

The nightmares visited Katniss again that night, but she didn’t have to wait long before those warm, secure arms found her. It felt so natural, so real. This was exactly where Katniss wanted to be, where she needed Peeta to be. 

Katniss could sense that Peeta wasn’t going to fall asleep, not anytime soon. His breathing was calm, but something felt off. So many thoughts must have been racing through his mind. Katniss wished she could just ask him, she wanted to, but she was just too much of a coward to do that. Luckily for Katniss, Peeta decided to delve into a feeling, one he’d been wondering about for a while. 

“We loved each other once. Real or not real?”

Peeta already knew the answer to that question, but he asked anyway. Sometimes Katniss wondered if he was doing it on purpose, pushing the boundaries. Or maybe not. Maybe he was trying to remember, trying to find some sense of belonging. Katniss wasn’t going to blame him for that, she felt the same way. The bakery was gone, his brothers, his mother, his father, his friends. It seemed only Delly survived from their small group. She was still in 13 with her brother. Peeta had spoken to her a few weeks ago, but his eyes seemed so sad when he’d mentioned it to Katniss. Finnick was gone too, someone who had tried so hard to help Peeta when he was spiralling. Finnick saw Peeta before Katniss did, and spoke to him properly, whilst Katniss did everything to ignore what was happening. She was ashamed, so ashamed about how she had acted. None of it was Peeta’s fault, not then and especially not now. 

The only other person Peeta had apart from Katniss was Haymitch. And Haymitch? Well, Haymitch wasn’t the type of person you could really ‘have’, not now. After everything that had happened, Haymitch had fallen further and further into the darkness. When the two travelled back home to 12 after the trial, they didn’t speak for a month. Katniss would sleep. She would hunt. She would sleep. Hunt. Sleep. Hunt. Haymitch would drink, what he did best. One late evening when Katniss had finally decided to visit him, knowing she couldn’t spend her days in the company of Buttercup, he’d told her he was making up for lost time. There was no point even trying to stop him, Haymitch would deal with his guilt the way he always had. He never listened to Katniss; they were too alike. But Peeta? He always knew a way to get around Haymitch, more than Katniss ever could. Katniss knew the two spent time together, more than Katniss did. She knew the two had grown to have a certain respect for each other. They had something that Katniss could never understand. 

And Katniss? Who did she have? Her mother was in District 4. She had called her a few days ago, her voice timid and fragile. The two of them didn’t know what to say to each other, there wasn’t much to say. Everything was still so raw, and they knew it. Peeta had told her it would take time, and that she should allow that time to pass. Katniss wished her mind worked that way, wished she could sympathise, and see the good in everyone. But she was still angry, though she knew her mother couldn’t change. 

Gale was in District 2. He would never come back. Katniss didn’t believe she would ever see Gale again, and though it pained her to say, it had to be that way. She could never look upon his face again without remembering, thinking about what he had done. When she looked at Gale, she felt his anger, and hers in turn. It wasn’t like that with Peeta. And maybe, that’s when she realised something so important, so integral about Peeta. He softened everything. He soothed it. Calmed it down. Like a dandelion in the spring. Like a sense of hope that things could and would be better. 

“Real.” Katniss managed only this word, gulping down any of the words she had thought of.  Once makes Katniss feel hollow. Once. Past tense. Maybe the Capitol took all the life away, and maybe Peeta can never love Katniss again. When Katniss thinks of how they were before, everything they said and did, she feels ashamed. Katniss took Peeta for granted, or at least she took his love for granted. It wasn’t until all that was stripped away, that Katniss truly realised what Peeta had meant to her. What he had done, just for her. 

“Katniss… I think...”

“Peeta.” No, no. Katniss couldn’t do this, not now. No matter how much she wanted, how much she ached for it. The realisation that it may actually come to head, no. Katniss couldn’t do it, she couldn’t bear to see that look, the one Peeta would undoubtedly give her. No, this wasn’t how it was going to be. Katniss didn’t want to shut Peeta out, she knew it would cause more damage, and it wouldn’t do any good. But what else could she do? How else could she tell him? It was too hard; it was still too difficult. 

Katniss shifted slightly, signalling how she was feeling. She wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but she didn’t like the direction the conversation was going in. She wasn’t ready. Peeta could obviously sense this, as his arm started to move away from Katniss and the space between them became clear. This was not what Katniss had wanted. Great. 

“Katniss…I’m so-“

And now Peeta was apologising. But what for? He hadn’t done anything wrong. This wasn’t a memory being relived, but a feeling. Peeta had loved Katniss, once, yes. That was true. He’d loved her the way no one else had. He’d protected her. He’d cared for her. He’d appreciated her. And then that all disappeared. Katniss… she had loved Peeta. She’d missed Peeta. She’d lay awake every night in District 13, wanting, waiting for him. She dreamt of him. Loved. Past tense. Were her feelings still in the past? Did she no longer feel that way? Katniss wasn’t so sure that was true. But could she admit that to herself? No, she could not, and she didn’t want to. It could only end one way. 

“No, Peeta.” Pulling herself closer to Peeta once again, Katniss placed her hand on his chest. She wasn’t going to let him do this. Before thinking, Katniss felt her body move across Peeta’s, her hand still placed on his chest, feeling his tempered breaths. A small kiss was planted on the top of Peeta’s forehead. Katniss wasn’t exactly sure what made her do it, but she knew it was right. It felt right. Her face found peace once it was nestled under Peeta’s chin. “Night.”

“Goodnight, Katniss.” 

*

The nightmares had seemingly stopped for the remainder of the night. Katniss awoke from her slumber, feeling more refreshed than she had in months. There was a slight tingling feeling rising up from her knee to her inner thigh. It hurt. She imagined she must have sprained something on one of her hunts. She’d always been careful, but it was hard without anyone spotting you. Managing to rise out of her bed, she noted how Peeta’s shoes were still placed by the edge of the bed. The shoelaces were double-knotted, as they’d always been. She could hear a slight commotion coming from the kitchen, and followed the noise, finding Peeta standing in front of the sink. Katniss watched him for a moment, allowing her those few seconds of admiration before Peeta felt her watching him and turned around.

“Morning.” Peeta gave Katniss a quick smile and passed over the hot mug towards her. 

“Good morning.” Katniss walked slowly towards Peeta, trying to hide the obvious discomfort she was feeling. She hadn’t noticed how much her leg had ached the previous night. Her mind was occupied with something far more important. Something she spent so much of her time thinking about but could never find the words to let those feelings free. She was still too weak, too scared, too guilty. 

Frowning as he watched Katniss hobble towards him, Peeta asked, “Everything alright?” The concern in his voice was obvious, and he clearly wasn’t an idiot. Katniss couldn’t hide anything from him, not now. But it didn’t matter, not really. It didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. She had far more important things to worry about. Her leg was irrelevant. 

“Yes, it’s fine.”

“Katniss.”

“What?”

“Come on, what is it?”

“It isn’t anything.”

“Katniss, don’t…I know, you’re a terrible liar.”

“Can’t be that bad, you…” Katniss stopped herself before finishing that sentence. It was harsh, what she was thinking. Yes, Peeta had believed her, in their first games. So, in a way, she was good at pretending, acting, at lying. But there were times when she forgot about all that. Those times when the hunger took over when she just wanted to kiss Peeta, be with him, and forget what was happening. It wasn’t all a lie. The things they did in the games, the things they said, and how Katniss felt, it wasn’t a lie. It was the most truthful Katniss had been in a long time. She just took too long to realise that. She was too slow. By the time she had, Peeta was gone, she had lost him forever. No, maybe not. She had thought so, but Peeta wasn’t gone. He was there, standing there, frowning at her. Katniss couldn’t help but smile. 

“OK. Fair enough.” Peeta raised his eyebrows ever so slightly before conceding, turning his attention away from Katniss. Clearly, this was a memory he had himself. There wasn’t any need for either of them to explain further. Of course, he would remember that. But he wasn’t going to push it further. 

“I was thinking about last night…what you asked me.” Katniss moved towards the counter, watching Peeta as he stirred his tea. He seemed agitated somehow. His fingers were wrapped tightly around the spoon, going around and around and around. It was as if he couldn’t stop, like if he did, everything would just crumble. 

“Right.” Peeta had expected Katniss to elaborate on it, but instead, she kept her mouth closed and walked over to the kitchen table, which was still full of sketches and writings from the night before. Sighing, she pushed some aside, making room to place her hands on the table. She didn’t want to think about that right now. She wasn’t even sure why she’d mentioned it. But she couldn’t help herself. 

“Katniss…”

“What?”

“What happened, to your leg?” Katniss didn’t want to look Peeta in the eye. Was she embarrassed? Ashamed? Whatever she felt, her eyes slowly followed Peeta’s, staring down at her leg. Katniss had always been relatively good at hiding her injuries. But Peeta knew her too well. Even after everything, he could still tell when something was wrong. Of course, he could. The one-time Katniss didn’t want Peeta to remember, he had to. 

“It’s nothing.”

“Fine…” Peeta shook his head, still watching as Katniss winced whilst trying to soothe the pain. She could feel Peeta’s eyes on her, but she wouldn’t look at him. She wasn’t going to give him satisfaction. But she knew it was only a matter of time before Peeta would see her leg. It wasn’t that bad. Really. 

“Katniss, why didn’t you tell me?” Peeta sighed, moving closer to Katniss. He moved his hand to touch Katniss’ leg, managing to find the exact place it ached the most. Katniss flinched at his touch, which told Peeta everything he needed to know. He didn’t move his hand though, allowing it to slowly move between Katniss’ knee and thigh, watching intently. 

“I…”

“You can’t keep stuff from me, it’s not fair.” There was a change in Peeta’s tone. Katniss hated to admit she was wrong, particularly to Peeta. She didn’t like it when they disagreed. The two had tried so hard recently to not approach any subject that could cause some anguish. But that had fallen apart. It had just made things worse. Katniss was never one for facing things head-on, not things that she knew would be painful. She didn’t want to imagine how Peeta would react if she had let all her feelings run wild. It was easier to keep it all to herself. But that had changed. It wouldn’t last forever, and the two of them would have to realise it eventually. Arguing over something so simple like Katniss’ leg, well, that was only the start. 

“I’m not keeping anything from you.” Katniss didn’t understand why Peeta seemed so worked up. Her leg was fine, probably. It didn’t matter. She knew that wasn’t what Peeta was angry about, it was obvious. But neither of them would admit it. He was just as stubborn as she was, and he knew that. 

“Yes, you are. This isn’t how it should be. We tell each other what’s bothering us, we protect each other, we…”

“What? What do we do Peeta?”

“We look out for each other, care about each other. It’s no different than before.”

“Yes, it is. How can you say that?”

“I just-”

“Everything is different, Peeta. Everything.”

“Because I’m different. That’s what it is, isn’t it?”

“Peeta…”

“Because I’m not the boy who was hopelessly in love with you.”

“No-”

“Well, I’m sorry, Katniss.” Shaking his head, Peeta moved as far away from Katniss as he could. Katniss could feel the distance between them so clearly, and it hurt. He turned towards her, that sad look in his eye once again before slamming the front door. And then Katniss was alone. As she always seemed to be. 

*

Katniss waited. She wasn’t sure how long exactly, but then the morning came, and she knew she couldn’t wait any longer. She’d have to go and see Peeta. To apologise. It was stupid, really. The whole idea of them arguing. She didn’t like it. Not one bit. The argument wasn’t even important, what had they been arguing about really? Katniss was reminded of something Haymitch said, back in 13. That Katniss was punishing Peeta for everything that had happened to him. She knew she shouldn’t have, but she couldn’t help it. Deep down, she knew that if things were different, Peeta would have never treated her like that. Just like he wouldn’t now. He was right. She should have told him. But Katniss had never been very good at that, or maybe she had. Maybe she only had one with Peeta. 

Taking a slow, deep breath, Katniss knocked on the door, dragging her knuckles down before retracting completely. After only a moment, she heard the footsteps of the person she’d been waiting for. Peeta opened the door, and Katniss was greeted by an odd sight. Peeta was wearing a white t-shirt, or at least it had been white at one point. It was now covered in a wide range of colours, blues, reds, oranges, pinks, and browns. The t-shirt wasn’t the only thing covered, his hands, those delicate, those soft hands had clearly been hard at work. 

Peeta had been painting. That much was clear. Some of the paintings Peeta had once shown Katniss after their first games were gone, destroyed when the Capitol bombed almost all of 12. In a way, Katniss was glad, she hated those paintings. How Peeta was able to capture everything so beautifully, it was like she was being transported back to those moments. And she didn’t want that.  Peeta had his book still, but it seemed his attention was focused on something else, something new. 

“Peeta.”

“Hey, Katniss. Wanna come in?”

Katniss nodded, following Peeta into the landing. The tension was obvious, Katniss could feel it in the distance between the two. Katniss was never very good at admitting she was wrong, she could remember countless times throughout her life when didn’t dare admit it, not to anyone else. This would not be one of those times. She didn’t like disagreeing with Peeta, let alone arguing. Peeta had spent so much of his time protecting, helping, and supporting Katniss. He always seemed to initiate things. The admittance of his feelings, the friendship, the apology, the allies. But he never stepped over the line, never pushed Katniss too far. It just wasn’t in him. 

There was no point holding it in. Katniss would do what she came here to do. Not wanting the distance to grow between them, Katniss quickly grabbed Peeta’s arm, stopping him in his tracks. Peeta turned as soon as he felt Katniss’ grip on his skin. 

“I’m sorry, Peeta.”

“It’s OK, I’m sorry I got mad.”

Sighing, Peeta carefully slid Katniss’ handoff, allowing their fingers to touch just for a moment. Katniss could sense Peeta wanted to do something else but had thought against that. He moved to sit on his couch, quickly shifting away discarded, half-started paintings onto the floor, making room for Katniss. Katniss watched him for a moment before walking over to where Peeta sat. She didn’t sit at first, her attention was on something else. The discarded paintings sat still on the floor until Katniss moved them with her hand. None of the paintings were finished. It was as if Peeta had a thought, a vision, a memory. He’d scrambled to paint it, to draw it, to get those emotions out. But then it all stopped. Dragging her fingers over the strokes, Katniss felt closer to Peeta. They all told a story, and it was as if Katniss was reliving those stories. These paintings were different from the ones before, the ones after the Games. Katniss remembered when Peeta had shown her, how disgusted she was at the detail, at the horrors they experienced. But these paintings were different.  Not as vivid, but still just as beautiful. 

Still kneeling on the ground, Katniss looked up at Peeta. He’d been watching her, almost anxiously. Peeta had shown Katniss his paintings before, he’d painted in front of her, painted her, and he’d wanted to show her and see her reaction. But this time it was different. It was as if these were more private, they were unfinished after all. But Peeta hadn’t made any attempt to hide them. He must have known Katniss would come to apologise. Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he thought he was in the wrong. “Peeta, the paintings…”

“Yeah, they’re not…not like before. It’s like I said, it’s as if I had to learn it all over again. It’s different. There’s so much stuff I had to do again.” Peeta frowned, fighting the urge to spill everything out. He grabbed one of the paintings. This was a more recent one, he could have only painted it a few nights ago. It was hard to make out exactly what he was depicting. The colours were dark, harsh, and thick. Swirls and swirls of paint covered the edge of the paper. 

“Oh, Peeta.” Why did Peeta have to say things like that? Katniss knew he didn’t mean it, not in that way. He didn’t say anything to hurt Katniss, didn’t say anything to make her heart bleed. But that’s exactly what it did. There was no point sugar-coating it however, this was what happened, this was real, was reality. Katniss couldn’t do anything but move herself towards Peeta and wrap her arms around him. He quickly hugged her back, his raggedy breath floating along Katniss’ ears. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Peeta looked at Katniss in a way Katniss couldn’t remember. It wasn’t sadness, wasn’t regret, wasn’t anger but it wasn’t happiness either. This was a different look. Was it a new look? Was it one Katniss had ignored? She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t even sure she liked it. But she didn’t want Peeta to stop. Katniss didn’t want him to look away, to take those blue eyes and focus on something else. She wanted to keep them just for herself. Still tracing Katniss’ face with his eyes, Peeta moved to flick a loose strand of Katniss’ hair out of the way of her eyes. It was as if he wanted to remember this moment, remember everything about the way Katniss looked. He didn’t want anything to get in the way of that. 

“Katniss,” Peeta spoke Katniss’ name so softly, she almost didn’t hear it. It seemed to bring her back, back to that moment with him. He was watching her closely, his eyes flickering between hers. Katniss wasn’t entirely sure what Peeta was looking for, but he seemed to have found it. 

“Yes?”

“I was thinking…about back in the Capitol. After Finnick…” Katniss could sense where this was going. Finnick acted as Peeta’s rock during that time. Making sure he was safe, keeping him grounded. And after…Peeta almost lost it. At that moment, Katniss did the only thing she could do, something she’d wanted to do for so long. That kiss meant something; she knew that. 

“When you kissed me...”

“I wasn’t...” What wasn’t Katniss doing? At that moment, kissing Peeta was the only way she could bring him back to her. It was like that moment, on the beach in the Quarter Quell. She wanted to kiss him, desperately and he’d kissed her back. That kiss was different, it seemed to change everything. She couldn’t lose Peeta then, after everything. At the time, Katniss wasn’t sure it would even work. She wasn’t sure that she wouldn’t have to leave Peeta there. But she couldn’t, she wouldn’t. 

“Thank you. For doing that. I...I needed it.” Katniss hadn’t realised she was frowning until she saw Peeta’s change in expression. It wasn’t exactly intentional. It wasn’t an angry frown. But Katniss wasn’t confused either. She hadn’t expected Peeta to admit to that, to even mention that last kiss. Katniss had thought of it often. Kissing Peeta then wasn’t for any selfish reasons, wasn’t for any desire she felt for him or had felt, it was because it was the only way Katniss could pull Peeta back to her. It was an impulse. She wished she had some of that now. “It brought me back, made me remember.”

“What did you remember?” This almost slipped out. Katniss hadn’t meant for those words to fall out so fast. Of course, she wanted Peeta to tell her, but she couldn’t expect that. It would be foolhardy. 

“What I needed to.” Clever answer, Katniss thought. Peeta was clever, and calculating, or at least he had been. Those four words contained so much more meaning than it seemed on the surface. Katniss could tell that Peeta wasn’t going to explain what he meant, and Katniss definitely wasn’t going to ask. She wished she could, but that just wasn’t possible. 

The two sat in silence for some moments, Peeta moving the different paintings around them. He seemed to be ordering them as if they all had a specific place, but Katniss couldn’t make much sense of it. They were beautiful, yes, but they all seemed to blur together to create this unimaginable horror. And yet she could imagine. She could remember it. She could dream of it. And she did. Almost every night. Selfishly, she tried to not think of what happened to Peeta in the Capitol. She had enough of her own pain, even just imagining from the subtle hints Peeta would give, that was enough for Katniss. 

Peeta spoke suddenly as if he had no real control over the words that escaped his lips. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you again after you left for the mansion.” Another memory, but not an old one. One that the Peeta sitting in front of her had experienced. Something they both had shared. Katniss didn’t know what was going to happen. Just that Snow had to be stopped. Leaving Peeta behind…Katniss didn’t want to do that. But she couldn’t think of anything else at that moment. Everything that had happened was leading up to that moment. And everything fell to pieces. She had lost her then.

“You didn’t have faith?” Katniss allowed a small smile to form, watching as Peeta looked taken back by the cheekiness in her words. 

“Katniss...none of us knew what was going to happen.” That wasn’t entirely true, someone did. Gale knew, or at least had some idea what the rebels were going to do. Katniss didn’t. Peeta didn’t. Once again, they were clueless about the games everyone else was playing. “I had to...step back.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think? I was a ticking time bomb.”

“For me?”

“Yeah, for you.”

“And now?”

“Not ticking, just...Sometimes things feel right, like they did before. But other times it feels a hundred times worse.”

Katniss understood completely. “Things can’t go back.”

“No, neither can I. I’m not the same, I understand that.”

Katniss nodded, and Peeta seemed to accept that as an answer. 

“You hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Ah, that’s a real shame, Katniss,” Peeta smirked to himself, raising his eyebrows. 

“Why?”

“Oh, I think you know why.”

The realisation hit Katniss. Peeta had baked them, the cheese buns.“You have them? You baked them?” 

“I may have.” 

The two ate in comfortable silence. Katniss savoured every single bite of the cheese buns. Peeta watched her in amusement, and the two kept catching each other’s eyes. Katniss didn’t think she could feel any happier than she did at that moment. Everything else seemed to stop. 

*

Katniss didn’t see Peeta the next day. He’d wanted to go into town to gather some supplies for the memory book. Katniss wasn’t entirely sure if he’d be able to find them. District 12 was building itself back again, but it would take time. People were starting to come back, come home. But the district would never be the same again. Panem was forever changed, and it was slowly starting to accept that. 

It was later, when Peeta had followed Katniss to her room, without a second thought. It had become routine for the two of them. Peeta had stopped lying on top of the covers, allowing Katniss to put her whole weight against him. Sometimes they would just lie in each other’s company, enjoying the silence. Katniss would lay her head on Peeta’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. She would trail her index finger up and around his stomach, watching his slow breaths. This calmed her more than anything, knowing Peeta was there and would stay there, just for her. Other times Peeta would play a little game, checking what was real or not. He would ask things that would make Katniss laugh, ones that wouldn’t even make sense. Other times he would have to think long and hard about what he would ask, things he needed to know for certain. Katniss could tell how much those moments of clarity meant to him, and she would always oblige. There were times when their late-night talks would turn to their nightmares, to the things that haunted them. Katniss knew Peeta was there for hers, but she was never there for him. She knew his were quieter than hers, but they were still there. 

“Your dreams…”

“Still about losing you, Katniss. But different than before. At the Capitol…”

“You don’t have to”

“I want to.”

Peeta hadn’t spoken much about what happened whilst he was kept at the Capitol. Snow used him for the interviews. And each time he looked worse and worse. But what happened in between? Katniss knew what happened after. How they changed him. Of course, she had some idea what they had done to him in between but never liked to think too much about that. That kind of image of Peeta would plague her mind during her time in District 13. The constant fear and worry of what was happening to Peeta, what they were doing to him. Those images still haunted Katniss, they’d come in the form of her nightmares, and they’d never go away, not truly. But in a way, it was good. Peeta was talking, he was explaining, he was opening up. It reminded Katniss of those late nights on the Victory Tour train, those conversations on the roof of the Training Centre. 

“I dreamt about that night in the arena so many times. It was always the same one. I should have stayed with you.” Peeta sighed, closing his eyes. Katniss had thought of that moment too. They were supposed to meet at midnight, things were supposed to be different. But everyone else had a different plan. 

“Peeta.” 

“I know, it’s futile now but…I had to hold onto something. Before I saw you in that propo, I didn’t…how could I know you were safe? Even then…”

“You saved us. All of 13 lived because of you, Peeta. So many people lived because of you. I’m the one…” 

“No, Katniss. Don’t you dare! Would we even be having this conversation without you?”

“I never wanted it,” Katniss mumbled. She hated how Peeta praised her. It made her squirm. She didn’t deserve it. 

“I know, but you did it anyway.” And that was it, wasn’t it? Katniss had never wanted any of it. She didn’t want to be the Mockingjay, didn’t want to be a part of the Games, didn’t want to fight some senseless war. But it had to be done. 

And Peeta understood that, and he understood the sacrifice she’d made. Katniss could have run off with Gale in the woods so many times. She could have not volunteered for Prim; she could have watched her sister and Peeta both die in that arena. But she didn’t. She made that choice, and that choice changed everything. Panem would never be the same because of that, and neither would she. Neither would Peeta. District 12. No one. 

All Katniss wanted was to save Prim and keep Peeta alive. That was it. Prim was gone. And Peeta? That Peeta, the one Katniss wanted to keep safe, where was he? Was he still lurking? Was he trying to get out? No…Peeta wasn’t the same. But neither was Katniss. It was stupid to think anything would be as it was before. Katniss had to understand that. They couldn’t go back to how things were, but maybe things could be simpler now. Time was slow, clear

“We don’t deserve to be here, that’s what I think. Or I don’t. Other people should be here in my place.” Rue. Cinna. Mags. Madge. Finnick. Prim. The list was endless. So many people lost their lives and sacrificed themselves, and for what? For Katniss. For Katniss to be doing what? Wallowing in self-pity. But she couldn’t help it. What did she have to live for now? At that moment after she shot Coin, she was ready. She would take the nightlock pill like she was always meant to, and it would be over. The pain, the suffering, the guilt would all end. Katniss would be at peace. But Peeta, goddamnit Peeta. He couldn’t let her go. And there was a part of Katniss, a small part that was glad he did. Glad he didn’t want to. 

Peeta didn’t say anything, just watched Katniss with those sad eyes he so often wore when their late-night conversations took this turn. It was important to speak about it, but that didn’t make it any easier. Before Katniss could say anymore, Peeta’s arms were wrapped around her His warm touch soothes those feelings of anger and regret. They always did. He always knew how to diffuse the fire. He stayed like that for a while, Katniss’ head buried into his biceps, allowing him to engulf her. Slowly, Peeta’s fingers stroked her forehead, like he used to whenever Katniss had a nightmare.

“Katniss, I think it’s time to go to sleep.” Peeta’s muffled voice beat across the top of Katniss’ head. Katniss knew what this meant. He would have to leave eventually; He would have to go home. But she didn’t want him to, she didn’t want to leave Peeta. They could just stay as they were, in that particular moment, forever. Before she could begrudgingly move away, Katniss felt Peeta’s fingers drag themselves along the loose strands of her hair, then a small kiss appeared too. Or at least that was what Katniss felt. She couldn’t be sure exactly. 

“OK.”

“Peeta, will you-”

“I’ll stay, you know I’ll stay. You don’t need to ask.”

“OK. Thank you.”

From that moment, there was an unspoken agreement. Peeta and Katniss would spend every night together. Peeta would hold Katniss before they both drifted off to sleep and more often than not would be there when Katniss awoke. They spent most nights in Katniss’ room, but there was a part of her that didn’t want to take Peeta away from his own house. It was different, she supposed. Even after their first games, Peeta lived alone. He saw his family, that was true, but it wasn’t the same. He 

Not as it was with Katniss’ house. The two bedrooms across the hall were not always so empty. And that was what scared Katniss the most. That they would always stay empty, forever. Peeta however, was becoming accustomed to his loneliness. maybe it was that he knew Katniss needed him. There was more than he needed her.

“Peeta,” Katniss whispered after a long spout of silence between the two. Peeta’s arms were wrapped around her, shielding her from the world around him. She could hear his breathing; it was slow and calm. It was steady. Just the way he made her feel. They had been like this for at least an hour. Katniss knew she should try to sleep, but she wanted to remember this moment. There was a stillness around them, and Katniss didn’t feel the pain, the sadness, the guilt she had felt so strongly since she had arrived home. Peeta had stopped that. The feelings she had for him had overwhelmed everything else completely. She still didn’t know how he did it. He probably didn’t even know the effect he had. Katniss wished she could tell him, but maybe she didn’t need to use words. 

“Hm?” Peeta’s eyes were closed, but he nuzzled his head closer towards Katniss. She could feel his nose against the top of her head. This was a feeling, a moment, that she didn’t want to end. Nothing else mattered at that moment. Peeta Mellark was next to her, and he wasn’t leaving. 

“What you said before, about not being that boy anymore. It doesn’t matter.” This was when Katniss realised. Peeta was not the same person he was before the Games. But she wasn’t either. Katniss had become an entirely different person, and it didn’t matter. It couldn’t. There was nothing they could do about it. She had changed. And Peeta had. But he was still Peeta. She hadn’t lost him. Not to the Games. Not to the Capitol. Not to Snow. Or the hijacking. Katniss didn’t need him to be who he was before. She had him as he was, and that was perfect. Her feelings weren’t going to go away, only grow stronger. They would escape eventually, and Katniss would let them. 

“I know.” Peeta opened his eyes, his eyebrows furrowed as he listened to Katniss. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking at that moment. Katniss wanted to tell how she didn’t care about it, she just needed him there, as he was. But the words wouldn’t form in her mouth. She was never good at her words. She was never good with the deep stuff. She said what needed to be said. And that was it. 

“No, no one’s the same. Not me, not you, not Haymitch. We all changed. I wish…sometimes wish we hadn’t.” 

“We had to.”

“Right.” Katniss nodded, surely Peeta understood what she was saying. He was clever, he knew Katniss. He had changed so much since District 13, even since the last time they saw each other at the Capitol. Katniss had accepted things couldn’t be as they were, but she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to feel that way. She only wanted what she felt in the moment. And what she felt for Peeta, was something good. It was something that made everything else seem bearable. He was the light that Katniss needed. She only wondered if he felt the same. 

“Katniss,” Peeta spoke her name so softly, in a way Katniss couldn’t remember. She moved her head from his chest and looked at him directly. Their noses were only inches apart. Peeta’s eyes looked tired, but not unhappy. There was a certain glow about them, something Katniss hadn’t noticed before. 

“Yes?”

“Go to sleep, OK?”

“OK. You too. Your dark circles are becoming a little unbearable.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. How could it have gone? Thomas had only been at breakfast for mere minutes. Yes, he was the last to arrive. But everyone else was already waiting for him; how could someone have taken it? No, no. Thomas couldn’t start blaming other people. He may have just misplaced it. Yes, that’s what had happened. Checking his surroundings, Thomas quickly searched through the desk drawers. Nothing. Perhaps he’d dropped it? Maybe on his way out of the pantry and along to breakfast? Retracing his steps, Thomas made sure to be quiet so he wouldn’t stir anyone at breakfast. But it was no use, the letter was nowhere to be found. Shit.

“Mr Barrow, is everything all right?” Mrs Hughes had suddenly appeared, a curious look surrounding her face. Thomas realised how strange he probably looked in this moment. Luckily, he had just stopped crouching by the ground, searching for the letter and had moved back towards the pantry.

“Perfectly fine, Mrs Hughes.” Thomas answered the woman rather abruptly, realising this too could cause Mrs Hughes to wonder more than he wanted her too. “Thank you.” A forced smile appeared from Thomas’ lips which didn’t seem to help Mrs Hughes seem any less suspicious.

“Lady Mary’s called; the others won’t be long now.” Mrs Hughes face was blank, as if she hadn’t realised how flustered Thomas looked in that moment.

“Of course, Mrs Hughes.”

Breakfast was a pretty boring affair. Lord Grantham spent most of the morning reading through his paper, whilst Lady Mary spouted on about a trip her husband was still on. It was funny, Mr Talbot seemed to spend more time away from Downton than he did at the house. Lady Grantham didn’t make an appearance for breakfast, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary. It was funny, really. The only participants were Lady Mary and Lord Grantham. Master George and Miss Caroline were still too young to eat breakfast with their family, but Thomas could really see how empty the table looked on that morning. There was a time when it was almost filled to the brim. Mr Branson was now married living at Brampton. with his wife and Miss Sybbie. Lady Rose had lived in America for almost five years now. Lady Edith, or, the Marchioness of Hexam, was at Brancaster with her family. Mr Matthew and Lady Sybil were long gone. The Dowager, she was gone too. Downton almost seemed empty.

It was strange, really. How much had changed since Thomas had been at Downton. Of course, it was coming up to 20 years, which wasn’t something Thomas really wanted to think about. He didn’t think he’d make it past two. Carson didn’t taken to Thomas very well, though he must have hired him for a reason. But those first few years were hard. It wasn’t until Thomas became first footman that things started to look up. He had a bit more power, a bit more freedom, which thinking now, maybe that wasn’t such a good thing.

It wasn’t until after luncheon did Thomas find the time to go to the village to deliver his letter. Lord Grantham had gone for a walk, Lady Mary had taken Master George and Miss Caroline to visit Mrs Crawley, whilst Lady Grantham had a meeting at the hospital. Finding time for himself was trickier as Butler, but he supposed that came with the job.

“Andy? Shall we go?”

“’Course, Mr Barrow. I’ll just tell Daisy.”

“Course.” Thomas couldn’t help but smile to himself. The two of them seemed happy, happier than Daisy had been in a long time. It was odd to think that she was sweet on him so long ago. In a way, Thomas had regretted being so cruel to William. It was futile now, Thomas knew that. But using Daisy, tormenting William and being so angry with Mr Bates, Thomas wondered, what was the point? He wasted so much time, time when things could have been different. But there was no point now. He couldn’t change the past, even if he wanted to.

The two men made their way towards the village, talking idly about what they’d read in the newspaper, heard on the radio or in the drawing room.

“Oh, I forgot to ask,” Andy started speaking, as they wandered past Crawley House “Who was that letter from?”

Oh, of course Andy had noticed, not that it should have mattered, unless he had taken it, of course. It was true that Thomas didn’t receive many letters, at least not regularly. He had some friends up in London, but he hadn’t had the time to write to them recently. He didn’t speak to his family very often but was glad of it if he was honest. Thinking of that, Thomas did seem a little lonely, but he wasn’t alone, that was different. Or maybe it was the other way around. “Just a friend.”

“A friend?” Andy’s head turned to face Thomas and a small smile appeared, eagerly waiting for Thomas to explain himself. Thomas wasn’t going to let Andy catch him out, no matter how much he tried.

“Yes, Andy. A friend. Just because Mr Carson didn’t have any, doesn’t mean I can’t.” Thomas knew Andy would laugh at that, and Thomas liked to find any reason to take a swipe at his predecessor.

“Aren’t we friends?”

“I suppose so.” Thomas realised how interested Andy seemed in his letter, which most likely meant he had no real idea what it contained. Or maybe he was just double-bluffing. Regardless of that, Thomas didn’t think it the best idea to interrogate Andy. Any time Andy was in the slightest mood, it made serving dinner hell, and Thomas was far too tired to deal with that. If it did come to it, Thomas would just have to ask, but he hoped it wouldn’t.

“Well-“

Before Andy could ask any more questions, Thomas changed the subject, something he had become quite skilled at in his old age. “And what about you? How’s the farm coming along?”

“It’s fine…just…fine.” Andy’s face fell as soon as Thomas mentioned the farm, which was a tad surprising. From what Thomas had heard from Daisy, living at Mr Mason’s farm was far superior to being stuck at Downton. But appearances could be deceptive, as Thomas knew.

“But?”

“Taking over…it’s a lot.”

“But it’s what you want? Both of you?”

“Of course, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t hard.”

“Sometimes the hardest thing, is the best thing.” Speaking from experience, which Thomas had quite a lot of, doing the hardest thing was not enjoyable, but that didn’t it was right. If Thomas was completely honest, he didn’t care too much about whether Andy was enjoying the farm or not. He was in a better position than most. But then again, Andy was Thomas’ friend, so pretending to care about the farm for a moment or so wouldn’t do too much harm. And regardless of how he felt, Thomas knew he was good at giving advice. It was a shame really, that he couldn’t follow his own.

“Oh, very wise, Mr Barrow.” Andy raised his eyebrows as he opened the door to the post office. It wasn’t particularly busy, only a few people stood in the queue waiting. Thomas knew they’d be in and out in a flash, meaning his letter would start it’s journey to Richard. This thought made Thomas uneasy. He wasn’t completely sure why that was exactly. The thought that Richard would receive a reply from Thomas, that meant something. But Thomas couldn’t ignore his letter, and didn’t want to. He didn’t know if he would receive a reply, or if he even wanted to write again. But Thomas had to do this, for his own sake.

“I like to think so.” Thomas smirked, putting his hand in his coat pocket to find his letter. Gripping it tightly, he moved into the queue, watching as Andy mused over the notices. “Has Daisy said anything?”

“No, no. I know she wants to hurry everything along but…”

“I understand.” Thomas nodded. That seemed to end the conversation there, Thomas didn’t quite understand why Andy was so reluctant about the farm. The two were married, Mr Mason had moved out himself, it just seemed the next natural step. But then again, Thomas realised it was really none of his business.

*

It was only later in the afternoon, not long before it was time for dinner, did Thomas remember he needed to find that letter. And more importantly perhaps, who took it. He wasn’t going to accuse anyone, that wouldn’t do any good. But there was no harm in trying, to at least ask a few questions without arousing too much suspicion. He’d had no hope with Andy, but he hadn’t really tired. The rest of the day’s work had occupied Thomas, but he a bit of free time, so knew he may as well make use of it.

After finishing his routine afternoon smoke in the courtyard, he made his way towards the kitchen. There wasn’t any real purpose for this, Thomas had just found himself there.

Huffing and puffing, Daisy was slicing the peeled potatoes so quickly, Thomas was surprised she hadn’t cut her fingers off yet. But then again, she had been doing it for a long time. Thomas wondered whether the noises escaping from Daisy was intentional, trying to get a reaction from someone or attention. Thomas thought he might as well bite.

“Daisy?” As if Daisy was expecting Thomas to speak, she looked up, her fingers still tightly wrapped around the knife. His eyes gestured towards the potatoes, that all seemed a little ragged, as if they’ve been involved in a fight. She watched Thomas for a moment, frowning, before speaking up.

“I think…Mrs Patmore’s thinking of moving on.” Thomas frowned as she said those words. Moving on made it seem as if Mrs Patmore’s ghost would no longer haunt the kitchens. Which was a stupid thought to have considering Mrs Patmore was very much alive.

“What?”

“Leavin’. Downton, I mean.” Oh, yes, that moving on. Obviously.

Thomas nodded, “It’s not a surprise. She’s been here a long while. Seems that everyone we knew when we started has gone.” It was true. William. Rose. Ethel. Miss O’Brien. Alfred. Jimmy. Molesley. Gwen. So many people had left. And yet Thomas was still there, after everything. At one point, possibly even not that long ago, Thomas would have been jealous. There were times when he was so jealous, when he yearned to leave. Maybe there was a part of him that did want to leave. He wasn’t necessarily unhappy at Downton, but he wasn’t sure how happy he could anywhere else. He was contented, which was good enough for the time being. Or at least Thomas had thought. It wasn’t like Thomas hadn’t been wrong before.

“S’pose so.” Daisy frowned, focusing her eyes back onto the finely sliced potatoes. Thomas wasn’t entirely sure what Daisy was getting at. Yes, it was sad, he supposed. Mrs Patmore had been at Downton for as long as Thomas could remember. Thomas had never been one of her favourites, but that wasn’t particularly surprising. He supposed it would be harder for Daisy. Mrs Patmore had been there for her, through almost everything. She had trained her, maybe not in the way Carson trained Thomas, and that meant something. She was there when Daisy arrived. She was there when Daisy had married William. Yearned over Alfred (which was still something Thomas could never understand). And there for her wedding to Andy. Like a real relative. A real parent. Something Thomas had never truly experienced.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, stupid. I don’t want her to go.” Daisy shook her head, as if she was embarrassed to admit that. But Thomas didn’t think that was embarrassing, not at all. Thomas was sure he would feel the same, if he was in Daisy’s position. There was only one departure at Downton where Thomas had been truly sad. He hadn’t thought of him that often, especially recently. But that didn’t mean he didn’t care to think of him. It was easier not to, especially at first. But growing older had changed Thomas.

There had been times when Thomas had allowed his mind to wander, and it would wander to Jimmy. Thomas hoped he was doing well, or as well as he could be. It was unlikely the two would ever meet again. Jimmy had never written to Thomas, but he hadn’t promised to, and Thomas wouldn’t have held him to that anyway. Not now at least. Things were much harder before; Thomas had done some truly foolish things. But looking back now, Thomas could admit he did miss Jimmy at times. Missed having someone to share a cigarette with, someone to give knowing looks to in the drawing room, someone to play cards with, someone who was just his friend and didn’t need to be anything else. But Jimmy was long gone now, living his life, probably not giving one thought to Thomas. And that was how it should be.

“Aren’t you going to go too at some point?”

“Yes.” Daisy frowned and placed the knife on the table. “That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Just is.” Right, well that was useful. Sometimes Thomas did wonder about Daisy. The two of them had both grown and changed whilst being at Downton, but old habits die hard, Thomas supposed.

“Alright, then. I better go-“

“Wait. I..wanted to ask you somethin’.”

“Go on.”

“You remember, years ago, before Andy, before Alfred and Jimmy, before William even…when I was soft on you?”

“I do.”

“And you made me think…or you ‘entertained’ it as Mrs Patmore use to say.” Entertained it? How charming, but not far from the truth actually.

“I remember.”

“You know, I never really understood why. Why you did it…I knew how I felt but…”

“Well, I don’t know if you heard, but I wasn’t very nice.” Thomas gave Daisy an awkward smile. It was true he was ashamed of how he’d acted then. It was stupid, really. Maybe if he could go back, things would have been different. Thomas doubted he and William could have ever been friends, but maybe he could have made peace with him. Maybe that was a regret, one of many Thomas had. As for Daisy… well, that was definitely stupid, but Thomas couldn’t help himself, not then. Thomas knew he was good looking. He knew that Daisy liked him. And he liked the attention. It wasn’t bad attention, in a way, it was quite nice. But no, Mrs Patmore was right. He shouldn’t have ‘entertained’ it.

“You were nice to me.”

Thomas shrugged, “Not for the right reasons.”

“No. Whatever they could be.” Thomas wondered what had brought this on. It was true that Daisy had never mentioned this to Thomas before. He was sure she had confined in Mrs Patmore, maybe Andy but never Thomas. It was an unspoken agreement between the two, one that meant they wouldn’t mention what transpired between them all those years ago. In a way, it made Thomas ashamed. Ashamed that he’d used Daisy, ashamed that he’d taunted William, ashamed he gloated to Mr Bates. But he was still a smug so-and-so.

“You wanted to ask…why?”

“No, not why. I think…I understand why, now.”

Thomas thought for a moment. Oh. “Right.” This wasn’t a surprise to Thomas. Though Daisy never mentioned it, no one downstairs mentioned it, but Thomas knew. Thomas wasn’t sure how he felt about it, a younger version of himself would have felt uneasy. That everyone knew the one thing that made him so vulnerable. But Thomas wasn’t his younger version of himself, whether that was a good thing or not, Thomas wasn’t so sure. He wondered when Daisy found out, who had told her. Did she know during the whole kiss debacle? Or when Thomas had seen no way out? Maybe it was during the Royal visit. Thomas had been such an idiot those few days, had let his feelings get the better of him. But he was happy, really happy, for the first time in a long time. And he didn’t want to let that go, didn’t want to spoil it. What could have happened if Andy hadn’t interrupt Thomas that morning? This was something Thomas had thought of often. Whatever could have happened, it didn’t. Andy interrupted, and whatever he did see, he didn’t mention it to Thomas. Just as Daisy hadn’t before now.

“I’m a married woman now, Mr Barrow.” Daisy chimed, who could clearly see Thomas’ thoughts swirling around.

“Enough said.” Yes, Thomas definitely didn’t need any details. Particularly from Daisy.

“But…it’s odd, isn’t it?

“Is it?”

“Yes, just odd.”

Thomas realised what a waste of his time that conversation had been. Thomas was no closer to finding his letter or finding who had taken it. It was unlikely that it was Daisy had taken his letter, and even if she had, it would most likely be a mistake. But Thomas had wasted a good 20 minutes speaking to her about too much of the past.

*

It was only a week later when Thomas had received the next letter from Richard, although he wasn’t going to deny there was a hint of happiness when opening the letter, he was worried too. Thomas still hadn’t found his letter, which could only mean one thing. Someone had taken it. Maybe it was an accident. It could have been thrown away, perhaps. But there a little niggling feeling that made Thomas think that wasn’t true. Maybe there wasn’t any malicious intent, but someone had taken the letter. And Thomas wanted to know who, why and to get it back.

This time, Thomas wasn’t going to be so foolish to read the letter so open, so public. That was his first mistake. Only the safety of his room would allow him so privacy. The wait until the end of the day was almost excruciating. Almost. 

Dear Mr Barrow,

You can’t know how please I was to hear back from you. As mentioned in my previous letter, I didn’t expect to, so I am grateful. 

I’m glad to hear life is treating you well, it’s what you deserve. 

I heard a film crew visited Downton not too long ago. I have to say I’m jealous. Spending time with film stars sounds quite special. Although I must say I can’t imagine my house would have dealt with it too well.

A radio at Downton? I bet that’s a real sight, but a treat too. Lord Hessian isn’t the biggest fan of the wireless, but the Housekeeper managed to persuade. Something tells me the two of them know something the rest of us don’t. 

I suppose it’s only you that can decide where you’ll end up. I’m guessing it wasn’t a childhood dream of yours to be a Butler.  My parents’ thought service was the way to go for me and wanted me to get into a good house. You can imagine their faces when I got a job with the Royal household. Although that wasn’t all it was cracked to be. It seemed both hard work and a game of waiting. In a way, I’m glad to be out of there. The pressure has lessened now with my new job. Lord Hessian is a decent employer, doesn’t care too much for tradition and as long as the job gets done, he’s happy. 

I hope your reply means I’ll be hearing from you more often, that would make my day. Though please don’t feel like you need to. It makes me happy to know you’re well and that you don’t hate me, or maybe you’re just good at hiding it. It’s always difficult to scope how someone is feeling through a letter or note. 

I shall finish this letter now but hope to hear from you soon.

You dear friend, 

Richard. 

P.S.  Do you still have the pocket watch? 

The pocket watch. Why was Richard asking about the stupid pocket watch? Maybe that wasn’t what Thomas should have taken from the letter, but it was a lot of information to process. Richard wanted to continue writing but would only do that with Thomas’ say so. Great. The problem was that Thomas didn’t know how he felt about that. There was a part of him that of course wanted to write to Richard, why wouldn’t he? But that other part of Thomas, the part that had to think logical, knew what was at stake.

Ian Gallagher was an eighteen-year-old, bipolar, high-school dropout who spent most of his days wiping down greasy tables, wishing for something else. Ian had also just broken up with his criminal boyfriend, the boyfriend who was now facing 15 years in prison. Maybe criminal wasn’t the best way to describe Mickey, but you attempt to murder someone, you get called a criminal. Or at least that’s what Ian thought. The ex-boyfriend in question didn’t feel the same way. But fuck, this wasn’t about him.

It was early morning. The sun had started to flicker through the 10-year-old, dusty curtains covering the window. Ian could hear the commotion of his siblings ongoing downstairs. Debbie was arguing about something, was it with Fiona? Maybe Liam. Ian couldn’t be sure what exactly, their voices weren’t clear enough for Ian to make out. The sound of quick footsteps started to come up the stairs and Ian knew what was coming. Fiona. Wishing he could be swallowed up whole, Ian’s body pulled him further and further under his bedsheets until the heat started to rise. This wasn’t going to stop Fiona pulling the bedsheets off and forcing Ian out of bed. Not that she would do this, but still.

“Hey, sweetface. Time to get up.” Fiona’s voice was almost a whisper, but she must have heard Ian’s alarm go off and then quickly be shut down. Ian was awake, he was just not getting up. This was a regular thing. Fiona must have grown tired of the routine, but she didn’t show it. She was delicate, kind. But Ian knew. She was tiptoeing around him, like they all were. Have you taken your meds, Ian? How much sleep did you get last night? Why aren’t you eating? Better not be late for work! Ian couldn’t escape it. He got it, he knew they cared about him, but, Jesus, it was just constant.

Though her voice was quiet, it was fucking grating too. Fiona’s voice meant getting up. Getting up meant going to work. Going to work meant the never-ending cycle starting again. Was this it? Was this Ian’s life now? “Hm.” Ian pulled his covers further over his head, trying to block out the noise. He knew he’d have to get up eventually but was trying to prolong that for as long as possible.

“Ian, now. Come on.” Fiona’s voice was firmer now, like she wasn’t going to take no for an answer. And she never did, not once in her entirety of looking after her siblings. She was fucking stubborn; Ian knew that much. Ian thought he was stubborn too once. Maybe he still was, but everything just felt so different now. It was always a losing battle for Ian, every single day. He just didn’t have the energy to fight, he didn’t have the energy for anything anymore. How sad was that.

“I’m-I’m coming.” Ian’s muffled voice escaped from the covers, he slowly pushed them away and stared at the ceiling. He knew he had to get up, try to move, but he just couldn’t do it. His body just wouldn’t let him, even if he wanted to. This happened almost every morning. He was much slower now; his meds had fucked him up. They seemed to fuck everything up. His brain. His body. Mickey. Shit, no. Ian wasn’t going to do that, wasn’t going to go down that road. Nope. The thought of those baby blue eyes gave Ian the kick up the ass he needed, and he managed to sit up, rubbing the excess from his eyes.

Fiona sighed, moving closer to Ian’s bed. He could smell her perfume, it was ripe this morning, like everything else. “Leave in 20, okay?” Fiona’s voice was softer again, she lingered for a moment, as if she wanted to say something else but decided against it. Ian knew what she was doing, she did it almost every time he walked into a room. Every time Ian was slacking at the diner, every time he spent too long in the bathroom, every time he was taking his meds. God, it was insufferable, he couldn’t fucking breathe. It was bad enough feeling like a zombie every minute of the day; Ian didn’t need Fiona’s worried eyes on him whenever she thought Ian wasn’t paying attention. Fiona cared, Ian knew that, but he didn’t need her to keep surveillance on him. He was an adult, he was taking his meds, he was going to work. He wasn’t running away, he wasn’t stealing babies, flushing his meds. Ian was being a fucking constructive member of society, just like she wanted.

Every day was the same. Ian would wake. He’d take his meds. Go to work. Come home. Shower. Bed. And repeat. It was endless, a never-ending cycle. Ian saw no way out. This was his life now, what he had to live with. It wouldn’t get better than this and he knew it. He’d come to accept it. The way the Gallaghers always accepted it. There was fuck all they could do about it. And there was fuck all Ian could do. After everything, there was a part of Ian that believed he deserved it. This was as good as it was gonna get for Ian. No point even trying, Ian knew that.

Ian didn’t hate his job, and as Fiona so kindly loved to remind him, he should be grateful. But working at Patsy’s wasn’t the dream. Ian wasn’t so sure what that dream was exactly, but it sure wasn’t busting tables at some diner. Ian didn’t have those feelings of aspiration anymore. That kid that was stupid enough to believe he’d get in West Point and have a great fucking life, that kid was long gone. It was tedious, but Ian didn’t think he could truly handle anymore excitement. His meds made him drowsy, made him weak, tired. This was just how he felt now. Like a robot. Ian was like a zombified robot. Shit.

Svetlana hadn’t been to see Ian at work, or bribe him, for a good few weeks. It wasn’t that Ian wanted her to, in truth, Ian couldn’t think of anything worse. It was a reminder, a constant one. Yev was one too. He looked so much like him, too much. The way he furrowed his dark eyebrows, the little quirk in his smile, the chubbiness in his face. At one point, no one knew exactly whether Yev was even his. But there was no doubt now. He was growing up so fast, and Mickey, he was missing it. He was missing so much, all because of Ian. Shit.

Ian didn’t want to think about it. It was done. It was better this way, much better. Ian had meant what he said. Ian could just about deal with Fiona’s constant worrying, his younger siblings watching his every move, but something he couldn’t bare was Mickey. He couldn’t bare how sad Mickey’s eyes turned when he found him that day waiting for him. Couldn’t bare how his voiced cracked when he realised what Ian was doing. Couldn’t bare seeing the back of Mickey’s dark head, turning away from Ian.

That didn’t stop Ian from thinking about him though. About that smile, the one where his teeth would shine through. About those stupid jokes he would make, knowing they’d make Ian howl. About how soft he was with Ian; about the way his finger would caress from Ian’s fingertips up until his collarbone. About how much he-No. Ian wasn’t thinking about Mickey, not at all.

Ian spent most of his day washing the dishes, which was fine by him. Not talking to anyone was bliss. The rest of his co-workers just seemed to ignore him, they only spoke to him if he needed to pick up some plates or if they asked about Fiona. The rest of the time, it was just him. Fiona was usually too busy for a long chat, not that she’d get anything out of Ian. This was how Ian liked it. He didn’t believe he actually had the capacity to do anything more. His head always felt so fried, frazzled. He moved slow, sometimes too slow.

It was later in the day. Ian had been on an early shift, but had spent the rest of the afternoon sleeping, or at least trying to sleep. He probably only got an hour or so in but couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed. It wasn’t that his bed was super comfortable, or that he was too sleepy, he just couldn’t move. There was no point even trying once Debbie got home, making racket downstairs, Ian wondered how anyone ever got any sleep. Deciding he couldn’t stare at the ceiling for the rest of the evening, Ian climbed out of bed and grabbed his phone.

Ian started to aimlessly flick through his phone, something he often did to occupy himself in the late evenings after a shift. He was tired, he could feel the heaviness of his eyes but that didn’t stop him staring at the bright screen. Leaning against the bedframe, Ian had managed to get round to looking at some photos on the phone. And oh, there it was. Ian had forgotten it even exist, being buried far away in his phone memories.

It was a photo, an old one. Ian’s hair was much shorter, his freckles more visible, but he looked healthy, broader. Not the skinny lump that was currently occupying his bed. He was smiling too, a big, wide, bright smile. A smile he hadn’t seen in a long time. And there he was. Mickey. His shoulder was pushed against Ian’s, all slouched, as if he didn’t care they were skin to skin. He was frowning, his eyebrows furrowed, but his mouth wasn’t, there was a hint of a smile. Only a hint, though. The edge of his mouth quirked. It was one his things, the things Mickey did that drove Ian absolutely insane back then. The way his mouth formed, into not quite a smile, something he only saved for Ian. Or at least he had.

Ian remembered that day, it was…special, he guessed. It was after Mickey had decided to headbutt Jimmy’s dad. Ian just remembered them running, running, and running. And then laughing, like they couldn’t control themselves. Mickey had touched Ian, in public. He’d touched him the way teenage boys did, playfully, with no fear, no anguish. Ian felt like something changed between the two of them that day, he could feel it in his brain, in his bones, in his heart. God, Ian replayed those moments over and over in his head. He thought about the way Mickey’s laughter echoed the alleyway, the way their arms bumped into each other, the way Ian couldn’t help but grin at the dark-haired idiot running in front of him.

Fuck. Ian didn’t know why he still had the photo. It was old, it was an Ian and Mickey that didn’t exist anymore. Ian couldn’t remember the last time he felt that happy, that elated, that hopeful. Ian didn’t make a big thing of deleting any memories of Mickey, he just hadn’t thought about it. He didn’t like how it made him feel. Like an asshole. Like the pile of shit that he was. Shit. Why was he doing this to himself? Tormenting himself like this? It was pointless. It didn’t change anything.

Ian’s finger hovered over the little trash can at the bottom of the screen. It hovered for way too long. But no. Ian couldn’t do it. He wasn’t going to do it. He wasn’t going to think about it. Backing out of his photos, Ian tapped onto his messages app. There was one person who could make some of these unwanted feelings go away. One person who always knew how to make him feel better, boost him up, telling him to stop being a prick. Lip was at college, actually doing something with his life. The complete opposite to Ian. He’d actually made it out, he was going somewhere. Ian didn’t like to bother him, pull him back into the Gallagher madness but…shit, he needed him. He needed his big brother. What a baby he was.

*

Mickey Milkovich was exactly where everyone had always thought he would be. Where they all predicted he’d end up. He never was going to exceed any of their expectations. Mickey had done exactly what he was always going to do. Mickey Milkovich was in prison. He was going to be in prison for a good few years. All of because of Ian-fucking-Gallagher.

It was true that technically it wasn’t Ian’s fault. Ian hadn’t asked Mickey to drug Sammie and chuck her in that crate. But Ian hadn’t asked Mickey to punch that cop. He hadn’t asked Mickey to fuck with Kash. But Mickey had done it anyway. For Ian? Maybe. Yes, for Ian. That was why Mickey was sitting in the mould-ridden cell with the quiet roommate and realising how fucked he was. Mickey was always going to do it for Ian, even now, knowing Ian didn’t want anything to do with Mickey. Mickey was a fuck-up. A criminal. Worthless. Mickey always knew this was true. He was stupid enough to believe for a while that maybe it didn’t have to be that way. But now? Well, now even Ian believed it. So, what was the fucking point?

The bright orange jumpsuit didn’t fit his body right, there was just something that felt off. Mickey didn’t like it, the way it gapped over his legs. But whatever. It didn’t matter how it looked or how it felt. Time had slowed down for Mickey, more this time than ever. This wasn’t his first rodeo; he knew how it went. All those years spent in juvie taught Mickey there were certain ways of doing things. Ways to not get your ass beat every single day. Ways to make the time go quicker. Ways to stay under the radar. Ways to make life easier for yourself. Mickey knew

Ian was Mickey’s last visitor. Of course, it had to be, it just had to be him. Mickey was hopeful, at least for a while, that Ian hadn’t meant what he said. That one day, he’d go and see Ian sitting there, waiting for him. But that didn’t happen. There wasn’t a happy ending, not for Mickey. There never was going to be a happy ending, after everything, Mickey should have known that. Someone like Mickey, someone who had grown up beaten and bruised, who never thought he’d ever have anything good; he was always going to end up there.

But Ian was good. Ian was so good. Too good. Ian had loved Mickey before Mickey even knew what that meant. Ian had waited for Mickey. Ian had held Mickey in a way Mickey didn’t think even existed. Looked at him in a way you only saw in the movies. But Mickey had fucked that up. He’d ruined it. He’d ruined them.

The first time Ian had left, Mickey hadn’t gone after him. He hadn’t told him what he really felt, whatever the fuck that actually was. It was hard for Mickey, trying to put that into words. But he’d done, he’d actually done it. Mickey was never truly sure what love was, or how it was supposed to feel. Growing up around an asshole of a dad like Terry does that to you. But the way Ian made him feel, how could it be anything else? He made him feel free. Ian was the first person, the first time Mickey actually felt that he actually loved something that didn’t make him feel guilty, didn’t make him feel worthless or sad.

But that didn’t matter, not anymore. That love had been snatched away from him. He couldn’t love Ian now; he wasn’t allowed to. Ian didn’t want him. Ian didn’t love Mickey back. Ian didn’t wanna visit Mickey. Couldn’t stand the sight of him. Didn’t care about it. Had to be paid to even visit him. When Mickey asked if he’d wait for him, Ian had said yes. But that ‘yes’ had an entirely different meaning. Mickey knew he didn’t mean it, just as Ian knew. Mickey knew even asking that question was fucking desperate. The only time Ian had actually wanted to visit was the first, but that seemed so long ago. He must have been feeling guilty, that was the only real reason he would visit. It was awkward but lasted longer than his last visit. There was no Svet or Yev as a buffer. Just the two of them, as it should have been. Ian was far skinnier than Mickey remembered him being. His hair was a mess too. Bags under his eyes. And he seemed so dazed. At least this confirmed he was taking his meds, doing what he was supposed to do. But this didn’t make anything any easier.

The next time Ian visited; it was different. Like he’d remembered what happened between the two, remembered what he’d said. He couldn’t look Mickey in the eye, didn’t seem to listen to anything he said and just seemed to be generally somewhere else. Ian had been there at the sentencing too. Mickey had asked him to come, and he did. Mickey could spot that red hair a mile away. He couldn’t help himself, couldn’t help sneaking glances to the boy sat at the back of the room. Ian didn’t look in Mickey’s direction. Not once. Too painful. Well, shit, it was painful for Mickey too. 15 years, that’s a long fucking time. The realisation finally hit Mickey afterwards, back in his cell, knowing that this was his fate. He’d be in his thirties by the time he’d get out, if that day ever came. Mandy was gone. His brothers, his cousins, they’d be gone too. And Ian? Asking him to wait was a dumb fucking idea. Ian was going to have a life of his own, without Mickey and there was nothing he could do about it.

Regardless of everything, Ian Gallagher was a fucking asshole. He was a giant prick. A dickhead.

It was him, who supposedly fucked with Mandy. Him, who came searching for the gun. Him, who ran to Mickey when he had nowhere else to go. Him, who visited him in juvie. Him, who waited with Mandy when he got out. Him, who didn’t want him to go back for Frank. Him, who spent all summer looking at Mickey in a way Mickey never could have imagined. Him, who waited for Mickey. Him, who left because of Mickey. Him, who had kissed Mickey like he’d never kissed him before in that club. Him, who had teased him in ways that made Mickey’s lip curl. Him, who gave him that ultimatum at Yev’s christening. Him, who had fought against his homophobic piece of trash of a father. Him, who had come back to Mickey, only to be taken away again. Him, who made their little family complete. Him, who thought Mickey wouldn’t come back to him. Him, who made Mickey fall in love with him. Him, who’d taken that all away.

Mickey hadn’t thought about it before, but it seemed almost every memory Mickey had growing up, Ian-fucking-Gallagher was there. It hadn’t started like that. Before Ian, those memories Mickey had existed, but they were filled with anger, hatred, red. They were filled with a woman, dark hair, a small smile and loving hands. Then Terry. Just Terry. But now? He couldn’t escape him. Little league. 5th grade. His older brother. The essays. Mandy. The Kash ‘n’ Grab. The gun. Pizza Bagels. The summer air. High school bleachers. The alleyway. The gunshot wound. The movie. Terry. That stupid fucking suit. The club. That tank top. The alibi. Fuck, the list went on. Mickey could spend all night thinking about it. Not that he was going to do that, definitely not going to do that. Not after that last visit. Ian had made it pretty fucking clear, and Mickey wasn’t going to embarrass himself anymore. He wasn’t gonna pine over Ian. He wasn’t pathetic. Wasn’t desperate. No matter how much it hurt.

It was late, and for where he was, Mickey thought it seemed pretty quiet. His cellmate kept himself to himself, which suited Mickey fine. He didn’t want any hassle, couldn’t handle it. Not today. He was tired, his brain was wired, all these thoughts kept circling around and around. He kept seeing him, he just wouldn’t go away. Mickey didn’t want him to. Watching him leave the last time, fuck, it hurt. Mickey knew it would, but he didn’t imagine he would ever feel this way. After the buzzer, after everyone had left, visitors, the rest of the fuckers locked up, he had just sat there. The fat fuck of a guard had wobbled over to him, howling abuse, forcing him out of his seat. But all Mickey saw was the back of Ian, walking away from him. Likely forever. Jesus, he was being dramatic. He had to snap out of it. It was just…stupid. It was done. Ian didn’t love him. Didn’t want him. And nothing Mickey could do would change that.

It still hurt, though. Thinking back to that day, the day when his name finally popped up on the screen. When he heard his voice for the first time in days. Hey, Mick. Mickey had fucking ran, sprinted over there. He had no clue what Ian was going to do, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to see him, he missed him so much. Felt like he fucked it. There wasn’t an expectation that he had actually fucked it. Those few days apart, they’d changed everything. Ian couldn’t look at Mickey the same, and he didn’t want to. Those bullshit excuses he came up with, they broke Mickey’s heart. And then the fucking realisation hit him. Ian didn’t want Mickey anymore. He didn’t want him there looking out for him, looking after him, loving him. The one thing Mickey thought he might actually be good at, the thing he tried so hard to do. And it was fucking pointless. It was over, he’d lost the one good thing in his life. And Ian wasn’t going to let him back in. That was it.

Mickey was lying flat on this piece of shit they called a bed. His head was tucked by the pillow, and he was staring up at the bottom of his cellmate’s mattress. Mickey knew Ian was bound to be at home. He was bound to be with the rest of the Gallaghers. Maybe he was tired, too. Hard day at work. Mickey knew he was still working at Patsy’s, and probably still hating it. Mickey could see why. He couldn’t think of anything worse than washing down tables and having to take orders from the oldest Gallagher sibling. Well, there were worse things. But those things only happened to people like Mickey, people who deserved it. Not Ian. Ian had to have something good. He may be a gigantic asshole, may have fucking destroyed Mickey, but Mickey couldn’t hate him. He just couldn’t. It was late, and the past few times he had actually visited, Ian had seemed so tired, sleepy. Maybe he was in bed too. Waiting for the world to turn dark so he could sleep. Waiting for the new day, just not waiting for Mickey.

Mickey’s fingers moved from the side of his until they found his chest. Pulling the jumpsuit away from his body, his index finger trailed across the writing tattooed on his chest. It fucking hurt. The tattoo did too. There was some dried blood that had stained the white tank Mickey wore under the jumpsuit. He dragged his finger across the words over and over again, until he had to close his eyes.

His mind kept falling into that trap, kept following where Mickey didn’t want it to go. Mickey couldn’t do it, couldn’t even attempt to sleep. He knew as soon as he closed his eyes, all he would see was that fucking redhead. More out of frustration than anything else, Mickey’s fist hit the wall. Nothing. He hit it again. And again. And again. The usual shouts from the cells down the block started up, but Mickey carried on. His cellmate didn’t make a peep, only rolled over, making the mattress creak. Mickey didn’t stop until the blood started to trickle down his arm. He watched it go, until a drip landed on his thigh. The ‘fuck’ on his fingers was barely visible, now covered in pure red. There was a slight crack in the wall, a tiny dent if anything. Mickey had hardly made a scratch. Fucking wall. Some of his blood had fallen into the small crack. Mickey moved his hand to try and grab it, but it just slipped away. Trying to wipe the colour off, he just smudge it. It was all red.

Red, it was all red. That’s all Mickey saw. It was all he was going to see. Red.

*

Somehow, Lip’s doom room seemed bigger than the room he had once shared with his younger brothers, the room Ian now alone shared with his two youngest siblings. Maybe it was the lack of bed’s squashed in, lack of overcrowding, the lack of any reminders of the South Side. But whatever, Ian didn’t care about that. He didn’t care about the size of his room, didn’t care about the fact that Ian would never be sitting where Lip sat, didn’t care that his brother felt so distance now, so different. Ian didn’t seem to care about anything now, couldn’t bring himself to do it. Nothing mattered that much, Ian didn’t matter.

Lip was sat by his desk, his eyes focused on the $150 laptop he’d managed to find. The screen’s brightness reflected on his face, but that didn’t seem to matter. Lip was tapping away, even with his brother sitting across from him on his bed. Ian was leaning back, his head against the wall and his eyes unfocused. He could see the blurry figure of his older brother, but everything else was dazed. Nothing seemed to occupy his mind, but for the first time in weeks, Ian didn’t mind that. He didn’t mind feeling exhausted. Didn’t mind that he struggled to move any quicker. He actually felt calm. Even if this moment of bliss was interrupted by Lip turning around, Ian didn’t care.

“So, you, uh, ended it? With Mickey, right?” Lip asked as he began to light a cigarette. Ian watched his older brother as he puffed out the smoke and moved across to offer it to him. Ian stared at it for a minute, before slowly nodding and taking the cigarette from his brother’s hand. He took a drag, inhaled the smoke and watched as the rest escaped from his mouth. Ian watched as the smoke glided up and up, until it had disappeared completely. He knew what he must have looked like in that moment. Knew Lip was closely watching him, eyebrows frowned.

“Yeah, I mean…it was before…” Ian tried to shrug it off. He didn’t want to talk about Mickey, not with Lip, not with anyone. Those moments when Mickey filled his brain, his mind, his head, those were for him and only for him.

“Yeah. But you, uh, visited him again?”

“Yeah…”

“Why?”

“Svetlana paid me.” Just saying it made Ian feel guilty, maybe not as guilty as he should be. But why else would he realistically visit Mickey? It just made things harder. He didn’t have anything to say to Mickey, nothing he could say would ever make things better. He knew that, and Mickey must know that too, at least now. Ian thought he’d made that clear. Drawn a line under it. But could he ever do that with Mickey?

“How much?”

Ian rolled his eyes, of course, Lip just cared about the fucking money, like that even mattered. It didn’t. Well, maybe, a little. Svetlana knew it was the only way she could get Mickey to see her. Wouldn’t without Ian. But Ian didn’t want to be involved in their shit, he had his own Mickey shit to deal with. “Don’t judge me.”

“I’m not. What happened?”

“Uh, he asked me to wait for him.” Ian scoffed; he couldn’t help himself. Ian didn’t think he’d actually ask him that, have the balls to. But of course, he did. It never crossed his mind, at least not that the time, that Mickey was desperate. He was desperate for any sign, even the smallest thing, from Ian that he hadn’t meant what he said before. That he was willing to try.

“What’d you say?”

“Yeah.” Ian shrugged, though not very convincingly. Ian knew he that, and Ian knew that Mickey did too. Ian saw how the shield had dropped and that vulnerable, softer side of Mickey came out when he asked if he’d wait. He saw the longing in Mickey’s eyes waiting for the answer. He saw how his eyes avoided Ian’s, became glossier, and distant when Ian answered. Ian saw how Mickey’s eyes took one last look at Ian before going back to his cell, and then disappeared forever. Ian saw what he had done to Mickey.

Lip saw it, knew it too. Lip knew what Ian was saying without having to speak the words. It was this thing they had; Lip wasn’t sure when it started. It just always seemed to be there. They had almost nine years just the three of them. Fiona, Lip and Ian. The three oldest Gallagher siblings grew closer, it was the only thing they could do. Fiona took charge, like she always did, which left Lip and Ian.

It was something unspoken, a little connection. Lip could always tell when something was up with Ian, when he was keeping something from him, when he was faltering. Which was why Lip hated himself so much after Ian’s diagnosis. Lip knew, deep down, he did, the moment he and Debbie found Ian in that club. He knew when Ian was staying up until crazy hours, going on runs for miles and miles, shouting all these ridiculous ideas. He knew when he stayed in Mickey’s bed for four days straight. He knew when Ian refused to go to the clinic. He knew all that time and didn’t make any real effort to help his baby brother. Ian, who Lip always looked out for. Ian, who Lip shared so much with. Ian, who Lip told everything.  

But there were some things Lip didn’t understand about Ian, even now. He was fucking confusing, particularly about Mickey. “Why’d you go see him, Ian? Even with Svetlana paying you…”

“We broke up. I didn’t…couldn’t deal with the way he looked at me. Like I was so…broken. I’m not, okay? Things changed. And I…all he wanted was to take care of me. Like I’m so sick I can’t do anything myself. Like I need to be fixed. That’s not…I didn’t want that..for me or him.” Hearing those words escape his lips, Ian wasn’t sure how that made him feel. It was more or less what Ian had told Mickey. I don’t want you sitting around, worrying, watching me, waiting for me… Too much is wrong with me, and you can’t do anything about that…You can’t fix me….I don’t need to be fixed… That self-loathing Ian felt, it was fucking with everything. But Ian had meant what he’d said. Him and Mickey…they didn’t work anymore. It had nothing to do with anyone else. Just Ian. Nothing Monica said. Nothing she did. Things had changed too much between them. And Ian, he didn’t need Mickey anymore. He had to let him go. He could survive without him. Ian had to think like this, otherwise what was the point?

“Serious? You dumped him ‘cos of that?” Lip frowned, putting out the cigarette and closing down the laptop.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lip tapped his finger on his desk before turning around to face his brother, like he was thinking about what he was about to say. Lip was always more of a talk shit, think later kinda guy. Ian thought he must actually want Ian to listen this time, follow his words and understand. “Own your shit, Ian.”  Oh, Ian didn’t expect that. God, he’d got so use to everyone being so quiet, so delicate with him, that he’d forgotten how cut-throat the Gallagher’s could be. How cut-throat his brother was. He’d actually missed this, being treated like a fucking normal person. Lip was watching all of these thoughts process through Ian’s mind, saw how he almost lit up, saw how his brother, Ian, was back, even for just a minute. “You think Mick wanted to end it?”

“No.” Ian answered, his voice so small, it almost didn’t exist.

“So, you did it for you.” Lip raised his eyebrow, and gave his younger brother a small smile, as if he knew. Of course he fucking did, fucking Lip.

“Asshole.”

Lip sighed, “You’re allowed to be selfish, okay?” Ian was misunderstanding. Lip wasn’t berating him, wasn’t giving him a telling off, wasn’t telling him what he did was wrong. That was Ian’s business, whether Lip agreed or not. Shit, Lip had made so majorly fucked up decisions in past week, let alone past few years. And Ian had been there for all of them. And didn’t give a fuck, mostly. The topic of Karen could still be a little bit touchy on a bad day. All Lip wanted was for Ian to admit why. He was allowed to be selfish. He was having a bitch of a time, but maybe, just maybe, he’d come out of it, eventually. And he’d realise.

“I was an asshole, but it was the right thing to do.”

“OK.”

“I don’t know why I went, to get it over with, I guess.” Ian said this, as if it was nothing. As if he was getting rid of something like an old pair of pants or an empty cartoon or juice. No emotion. Nonchalant. Lip knew Ian was being completely truthful, not his brother and certainly not to himself. It was like his thoughts and feelings were still there, but there was some kind of wall blocking them from coming out. Lip knew the meds Ian was taking would fuck with him for a bit, but it would have to get better eventually. His brother would have to come back to him eventually. Surely? But maybe not. Lip wasn’t stupid. Fuck, he hated seeing his brother like this. That cheesy grin, the glow he seemed to exude, it didn’t exist anymore. Ian was just grey. All the time.

“I..just…don’t get it.”

“What d’you mean?” Ian sighed, Lip wasn’t going to stop, that much was clear. Ian didn’t know what he was trying to say. Was Ian such an asshole that Lip Gallagher, who at one time, fucking despised Mickey, was on his side? They didn’t hate each other now, maybe. The Gallaghers, they’d all got use to have Mickey around. Like family. And then Ian took that away from them. Away from himself. Away from Mickey. Yeah, he was an asshole.

“Look, I never really got you two together…but, you know, he tried…when shit hit the fan.” Shit hit the fan. Yeah, it did a whole lot more than that, Lip. Fuck’s sake.

“Sometimes that’s not enough.” Ian said, his voice almost a whisper. Mickey tried. Yes, Ian knew that. But that didn’t change anything. It didn’t change the way Mickey looked at him, the shift between them, how everything seemed to feel so different. It wasn’t just Mickey who looked at him like that, it was everyone. Every single one of his siblings, even Liam. But it was Mickey who hurt the most. Mickey who Ian thought could look past that. But he couldn’t, no one could. Breaking up with Mickey, that was the only way Ian could gain back some control. But fuck, was it worth it?

“Guess not.”

“Yeah.”

“Gonna visit him again?”

“Should I?” Ian asked, almost laughing. Why would Lip want him to visit Mickey? Shit, he never liked him.

“Not up to me, little brother.”

Ian didn’t know what Lip was getting at. Did he want him to visit Mickey? Hammer the final nail in the coffin? It wasn’t as if Ian hadn’t thought about Mickey, like there was something unfinished. He wished he didn’t. Not much filled Ian’s brain these days, he couldn’t let anything even if he wanted to. But Mickey…sometimes he’d creep in when Ian would least expect it. Ian would be washing some dirty dishes and he’d just randomly pop into Ian’s mind. Or just before bed, something would remind Ian of him, and then he wouldn’t leave, not until Ian woke up in the morning. This wasn’t all the time; Ian didn’t think he’d be able to handle that. But when Mickey did appear in his thoughts, he lingered. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, the hole that Ian felt constantly, the tiredness, the nothingness, it would slip away. Sometimes it would be quick and appear almost immediately again. But it would go. Ian knew this wasn’t healthy and he knew this wasn’t going to fix anything. But he couldn’t help it. Damn that blue-eyed, dark-haired, short-ass fucker. And yet, he had no idea. No idea what the single thought of him was doing to Ian. Ian knew there was no point overthinking it, he knew this wouldn’t and couldn’t change anything. But…maybe Lip was right. He had to put an end to it.

It had been a few weeks since their last meeting. Sansa had wanted to visit. She wanted to be by his side, she would have been, every single day. But there was a part of her that knew she couldn’t. Knew that she had to give Theon some space. As Lady of Winterfell, she had many duties that she couldn’t ignore. She couldn’t let down the people of Winterfell or the northerners, not after everything they had done for her. So, Sansa had busied herself with the plans for the future. Winterfell had started to rebuild. Many of the northerners who came to fight had made their way home. Winter had come, it was still cold, people needed to eat, people needed shelter. They looked to Sansa for that. Though tiring and never-ending, Sansa enjoyed it. She enjoyed helping people, knowing that people would come to her. But this didn’t stop her mind wandering. It only wandered to one place, one person. No matter how much she tried to distract herself, it never seemed to work.

Knowing she would have to visit those chambers again, if only to settle those feelings of anxiety, one late afternoon, Sansa once again made her way up to that quiet corridor. Maester Wolkan had kept Sansa informed of Theon’s injuries, of his progress. Sansa didn’t quite understand the length of it all. Only that he was awake, still. He was going to live, still. The injuries around his body had healed, almost, and soon enough the Maester was going to suggest he start or try to walk again. This was positive, Sansa thought. A good thing. But that little voice in the back of her mind, that voice didn’t seem to think so. If Theon was getting better, if he was able to walk and talk and do everything as he once could, that could only mean one thing. He would go home. He would leave. Leave Winterfell, the North and more importantly, leave Sansa. She didn’t want that, she could freely admit that, at least to herself. But it seemed as if she wasn’t going to get what she wanted. He would leave, drift away and there was nothing Sansa could do about it.

Knocking on the wooden door, Sansa waited this time for a response. She received none so opened it slowly. Sansa was met by Theon. He was sitting up in the bed, the bedsheet loosing covering the lower part of his body. He looked almost brighter; Sansa noted. Theon’s tight curls seemed a little ruffled, but cleaner, much cleaner than last time. His shirt was loose, but again, clean. The cuts, the scars, the bruises, they had clearly stopped dripping into the fabric. He was healing. A small smile appeared as he noticed Sansa entering the room, but it disappeared almost immediately, as if he didn’t want her to see. As if he couldn’t smile for too long.

“Am I alright to...” Sansa motioned towards the room, not being sure what she was trying to signal. It was hard to understand what was going through Theon’s mind. He seemed a little distance, but that was understandable. Sansa didn’t pretend to understand Theon completely. But she could see the conflict in his eyes. He had volunteered to protect Bran, and Sansa knew what that meant. Theon believed he wouldn’t make it. He believed he would die in the Godswood. That he should have died. It would have been poetic. But that wasn’t how it was going to be. Sansa was glad of that, of course, she was. But she supposed it would take a little getting used to.

“Of course, you don’t have to ask.” Theon shook his head, as if what Sansa was asking was ridiculous. That gave Sansa some hope. Hope that she wasn’t intruding, that he wanted her there, just as she wanted to be there.

“How are you feeling?” Sansa asked, her voice sounding rather timid. She wasn’t sure why that was, but it was noticeable, she was sure Theon noticed too. Sansa didn’t like feeling the way she was, she didn’t like how she acted when she was in Theon’s company, but she couldn’t help herself. It was as if she was a young girl once again. As if she was in the company of her mother and father, growing up at Winterfell, watching Theon and Robb. But Sansa knew that wasn’t true. She wasn’t there, but here.

Moving himself to sit more forward, Sansa could see Theon’s arms struggling to keep himself upright. “Tired, but better, thank you.” Tired. Theon did look tired, he looked exhausted. Sansa couldn’t imagine. The road to recovery would have many bumps and uphill battles. He was still weak; it wasn’t the weakest Sansa had seen Theon. Those memories had clouded her more recently. The way he would avoid her eye. Bow down to him. The sadness that eclipse him. But that time had gone. Theon was no longer Reek, but Theon. He was whole again. He was here. But he wasn’t Sansa’s, and she wasn’t his. No matter how often she would think of that. But she couldn’t allow herself, she wouldn’t.

“Good. A raven was sent to Yara. I’m not sure when she’ll arrive.”

“If she’ll arrive.” Theon thought out loud, and this saddened Sansa. To think his own sister wouldn’t come to his aid, as he had to hers. But maybe it was different for Theon. He had spent so much time away from his family, away from his sister. Sansa realised they all had, even the Starks. Arya, Bran and Jon. They were the only people left for Sansa, the ones who knew her father, her mother. They remembered the way they would look at each other over dinner. How father would stand above the courtyard, watching his children. They remembered Winterfell as it was. How Maester Luwin would fix them whenever he could. How Septa would berate Arya with her needlework and Sansa with her rudeness. How Ser Rodrik would watch the older boys spar in the courtyard day and night. And Old Nan, they would all tire of her stories about the White Walkers. How ironic. Did Theon share those memories? Those feelings? Maybe not.

“I’m sure she will. I would, if it were Jon or Bran.”

“Arya?” Theon gave Sansa a smile again, but this one felt different. It wasn’t small or quick. It was one that held so much more than Sansa realised. Those memories the two of them of shared of Winterfell, where they had grown up, together, it meant something. No one could really understand, only the Starks. And after…Ramsey… Theon was only one who knew, who understood. They had something shared, something they would share for the rest of their lives. Sansa knew this, she thought about it often. She wondered if Theon did too. She hoped so, she wished. but perhaps not. Theon had suffered something else at the hands at Ramsey. To change yourself completely, become a shell of the person you were, that must do something to you. And that, Sansa could never understand, not truly.

“Even Arya.” Sansa mused, giving Theon a wry smile.

Theon waited before speaking again. He was thinking, deeply. “It’s different. We’re the last two Greyjoys. Us growing up...it wasn’t like here at Winterfell.” Sansa never paid much attention to Theon’s extravagant tales of Pyke and The Iron Islands. She had no real idea what it was like for Theon before he came to Winterfell. She had never met Yara but had heard tales of the Iron Born Queen. It was true it would have been very different to growing up with the Starks. Sansa couldn’t quite imagine how.

“Do you remember much?” Sansa asked, realising this may have been the first time she had even thought about asking Theon about his childhood. The topic of conversation had never been brought up before. It was hard to imagine what it was like in the Iron Islands, what it was like for Theon before he had arrived at Winterfell. Sansa was lucky, in a way. Her time in King’s Landing made her realise just how much. Her childhood was filled with love and laughter, something so many never had. Something she hadn’t experienced in a long time. Something she wondered if Theon had.

“I remember everything.”

“I don’t...I mean, before you were here. It was always you and Robb.” Theon and Robb in the courtyard. Theon and Robb in the main hall. Theon and Robb riding. Theon and Robb sparring. Theon and Robb. Always. Until it wasn’t. Until they were both gone.  

“It was, wasn’t it?” Theon’s eyes glazed over for a moment, as if he had gotten lost in an old memory. Sansa wondered what memory that was. She wondered how it made him feel. By the look on Theon’s face once he had stopped visiting the past told Sansa everything she needed to know. Those once happy memories, they were still overshadowed by an immense sense and feeling of sadness, of regret, of guilt.

“I think...I think he’d be proud. To know what you did. For Winterfell, for the North, for us.” Sansa had wanted to say for me but stopped herself. She wasn’t going to do herself or Theon any favours by delving deep into those feelings. Those feelings were ones Sansa was still unsure of herself. She wasn’t going to let herself do something stupid, no matter how much she truly wanted to.

“It doesn’t-” Theon shook his head, he started to argue but Sansa wouldn’t let him. She could tell that Theon would never believe it. There was that place in Theon’s heart that would never let go of the guilt. He would hold onto that forever, no matter what Sansa would say. No matter how much Sansa would praise Theon’s actions, would plead with him to accept it, she knew that she could not change his mind. This was not something Sansa wanted to argue over, and with Theon still recovering, she would not put him through that. But that wouldn’t stop Sansa from giving Theon her truth. Maybe he would grow tired of hearing it, but Sansa forgave Theon, for as much as she could. Everything he had done; it was in the past. It was important to look to the future, to build something better. As Lady of Winterfell, that was one of Sansa’s main responsibilities.

“It does, Theon. There’s no point arguing because I’m right.”

“Of course, m’lady.” There it was. The formality once again. Sansa forced herself to smile, though she wasn’t sure it was particularly convincing. She also wasn’t entirely sure why this vexed her so. It was proper for Sansa to be called this; she was the Lady of Winterfell. But with Theon, it felt different, it felt wrong. She didn’t want him to call her this. Call her by her name. Say the word. When her name did escape Theon’s lips, when he spoke it so softly, Sansa did everything in her power to not brush profusely in front of him. But this was not happening. There was some distance in his words and Sansa didn’t like it. She wished she had the courage to speak up, voice how she was feeling, but she did not think she could handle to aftermath. The embarrassment, awkwardness, humiliation. No, she would not allow that. Instead, she would just wait, in secret, for Theon to say her name once again.

“He would have been angry at first, hurt. But...a lot of a time has passed.” That it had.

Theon needed to hear this; Sansa wanted it to be her who told him. She wasn’t sure whether her words would have any weight, whether he would listen and accept. But it was important for her and for Theon. It was important that she had tried to bring Theon back when he was so lost. It was important that she promised to tell Jon the truth about what he had done. It was important for Sansa that Theon had come with her to the Wall. But that hadn’t happened. There was so much Sansa hadn’t had control over. But that was going to change. Sansa was sure of that.

“Yes.” Theon nodded, not in agreement exactly, Sansa was sure he would never quite agree with what Sansa had said. He would always feel that guilt, feel that remorse, that regret. But he had to let go eventually, had to move on. He couldn’t repent forever. Sansa wouldn’t let him.

Realising she needed to move the conversation along, Sansa took a deep breath and turned to look out of the window. The snow had stopped falling from early that morning, but she could still feel the cold winter breeze. She couldn’t let her feelings take control, not now. She couldn’t falter, no matter how much she wanted to. No matter how much she wanted to let them take over, those feelings wouldn’t. To let Theon see them. She forced a quick smile, moving slightly closer to him. “Do you need anything?” Her voice cracked, but she made sure to recover. One of many things she had learned during her time in the capital.

Surprised by the suggestion, Theon started to speak but couldn’t manage to finish the sentence. “Uh, I’m not-” What did he need exactly? Theon was not so sure. He had barely been awake the past few weeks, he had not left the chambers, he had only seen Sansa and the Maester. But Theon was not complaining. The thought of any luxury had not crossed his mind and he didn’t believe he could conjure up any request. What would he ask for? In truth, Theon had everything he needed. He only had the clothes on his back, and that was enough for him. But Sansa clearly wanted to help, wanted to do something useful. Her visits enough were reason for Theon to look forward to the day, a feeling he had not truly felt in a long time. Theon was unsure if it was eagerness he felt before Sansa’s visits, especially as there didn’t seem to be a set routine. Today’s visit for example, was not what Theon had expected. Theon understood how important Sansa was, though the past few weeks were a little trickier without seeing her warm smile.

Not that Theon needed that or even wanted it. But Theon had thought about Sansa’s smile more often since waking up. Her trembling lip, tired, sad eyes, sniffles that escape from her nose – those were the things Theon would remember, those were the things that would plague his thoughts and meet him in his nightmares. But her smile, it was so much brighter than Theon could imagine. Theon doubted she reserved it only for him, but it was good to see, nonetheless. It was good to have company, good to feel something once again. Though dubious, Theon wondered how long that would last.

“Books? Or something to eat? Or...” Sansa was frantically trying to think what else Theon may need. Need, not want. Only the gods truly knew what Theon wanted, and though deep into Sansa’s most private thoughts did she urge from him to share her wants, Sansa would not make these known and she certainly wouldn’t ask Theon. All she could truly do was to make him as comfortable as possible, for the time being at least. Winterfell was his home. It had always been his home, even if Theon hadn’t looked at it in that way.

This was important to Sansa; Theon could sense that. But no matter how vigorously he searched his mind for something to please Sansa, he could think of nothing. His mind seemed blank. “I’m fine, but thank you, Sansa.”  

Sansa nodded, embarrassed at how forceful she seemed and gave Theon a small smile. She turned her head for a moment, her eyes finding the window. once again. An easy excuse to look away from Theon, to regain her thoughts. It was snowing once again, not too hard today, however, it was much slower and softer. Sansa made a mental note to visit the Godswood before supper, wanting to take advantage of the seemingly good weather. But even the thoughts of the Godswood couldn’t completely distract Sansa. “I’m not sure...what you want to do.” Sansa didn’t turn when she spoke, she couldn’t bring herself to look at Theon. This was something she had pondered over whenever she had a spare moment. Theon was injured, but he was healing. Maester Wolkan suggested at a good rate. Eventually, the healing would stop, and Theon would be fully healed, or as much as he could be. The Maester had tried to explain to Sansa that there may be a possibility that some things may never heal, though Sansa still struggled to completely understand. Theon healing would mean only one thing, his sister would come back for him.

Yara Greyjoy would take Theon away from Sansa, take him away from Winterfell, from the place he spent so many years, from his home. Logically, Sansa knew Theon’s sister had every right to. They were brother and sister. They were the last Greyjoys. She was Queen of the Iron Islands, and Theon had sworn allegiance to her. But Theon had sworn to fight for Winterfell. He had come back, back to Sansa. He had intended on sacrificing himself. He had born so much, so many scars. Sansa didn’t want to let him go. But as Lady of Winterfell, she had many responsibilities and was required to make many decisions and even sacrifices. She just didn’t believe Theon would be one of them.

“About?”

Sansa sighed, not wanting to convey her irritation at what she was about to say. She wasn’t angry or annoyed at Theon, but at herself. She was angry that she could even allow herself to speak those words, allow it to happen. But she was powerless, she could think of no other alternative. Winterfell was Theon’s home, or at least that was how Sansa saw it. But she couldn’t keep him forever.

“Well, you’re welcome to stay here, at Winterfell, for as long as you need, as long as you’d like. Healing takes time, but...”

“But?”

“The war is over, there’s peace again. Your sister has the Iron Islands...”

“She’ll want me by her side.” There. The realisation had hit. Sansa couldn’t bring herself to say it and thanked the gods Theon managed to work it out himself.

“Yes.” Nodding to herself, Sansa’s eyes glossed over Theon. His figure was sat upright, but any emotion he may have had previously was now drained. “You don’t have to decide now, but...”

“Eventually.” Theon sighed, moving his bedclothes further away from him. Clearly, Theon was not best pleased about this decision either. It seemed that even after everything, Theon was still not in control. Decisions were being made for him. His life was not his own, and perhaps it never would be. The thought of what would happen after hadn’t crossed Theon’s mind. Theon had never expected his life to end up in this way, to be sitting in front of Sansa in this moment. Theon had accepted his fate and hoped for it. But that was not to be. Knowing that Theon had a life to live, had been given that second chance, it had changed something in him. The regret, the guilt, the sadness he had felt for so long was still there, it would always be there. But there were other feelings too, which occupied that once sombre space. Hope.

But that was being taken away. The hope that Theon could lead his own life, making his own choices, the right choices, that was slowly slipping away from him. Theon would go back to Pyke, the place he thought he would never see again. He would leave Winterfell, the place he thought he would never leave. But Winterfell wasn’t all he would leave behind. There was something else, someone.

No.

“Yes, eventually.” Sansa spoke this almost silently, as if she didn’t want to admit it out loud for the gods to hear. She could admit she did not want Theon to leave. Not so soon after everything. It had been so little time since the Long Night. The war was over, as she had said, there was no need to rush, or to curse time. But she seemed to be doing exactly that. It wouldn’t be long before Theon would be gone, the very room Sansa sat in would be empty, and so would she.

Theon did not look at Sansa for a while, but Sansa kept her eyes on him for as long as she could bare. He didn’t look angry, but Sansa could feel something there. Something strong. Something present. The Theon Sansa had been faced with upon her arrival at Winterfell was not the one who sat in front of her. That Theon was weak, was scared, was little. That Theon was Reek. Reek never seemed to feel anything. His master would not let it. Ramsey would not let it. He had complete control over him, like a little puppet. He was his puppet, his dog, his toy, his thing. He didn’t feel anything for himself. For Ramsey. Or for Sansa. He was empty, completely. Even after, when the two escaped, when Sansa and Theon reunited and for a split moment Sansa felt complete happiness, there was still something missing. Theon was not whole. Perhaps he would never truly be whole, never truly be himself, not in the way he once was. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t change, become something else entirely. Sansa wished and urged for Theon to feel something stronger, stronger than he had ever before. It didn’t need to be for Sansa, she could be entirely irrelevant. This meant something.

It meant something that the thought of leaving Winterfell conjured up something in Theon. Was it anger? Annoyance? Sadness? Sansa could not be so sure, but it was something. It certainly was not happiness or joy. Theon did not feel that knowing he would soon leave Winterfell and journey home to Pyke. And why was that? Why did Theon feel that emptiness at the prospect of going home? After realising the truth about the Lannisters and Kings Landing, all Sansa wanted was to go home. All she wanted was to be with her family again. She dreamt of it almost every night. But that dream soon became a nightmare. But for Theon, things were different. He had been home since leaving all those years again, he had seen the one place he was supposed to belong to. So, why? Sansa tried to not hope, she tried not to imagine why Theon would want to stay in Winterfell. She knew if she did, she would only be disappointed. And she didn’t want to feel that way about Theon. Not ever.

Theon was unsure as how he supposed to feel about this sudden decision. He was angry, yes, that he still was unable to decide for himself. But there was a sense of feeling hurt too, and Theon couldn’t pinpoint as to why that was. Or perhaps he could, truly he knew why, but did not want to admit that. He couldn’t, not now. After everything, he couldn’t let himself. He didn’t deserve to.  But those feelings, they were all consuming.

These feelings were not new ones. These feelings were ones that Theon had felt for a long time, ones that had been buried for such a long time. Theon spent all day, every day in his bedchambers, waiting. This, in turn, allowed himself to think, to ponder, to realise. Feelings he had not given a second thought of for so long. But now, Theon had time, too much time. His mind would often find its way back to old memories, ones that before he would be too scared to visit. Those memories would be filled with Robb, those memories would be filled with Winterfell, his sister, Ramsey and her. They would always end with her.

Reek didn’t have these feelings, Reek couldn’t. His master wouldn’t let him, he would punish him for thinking of anything else but his master. But Reek did not exist anymore, which was something, particularly late at night when Theon was alone, Theon needed to remind himself. He was not Reek, he would never be Reek again. He was only Theon. And that was enough. Surely, it was enough? To have those feelings, to keep them close to his heart, to ponder over them – it was enough to do that alone. Theon could not let them escape, he just couldn’t. He was not Reek, but Theon wasn’t sure he was worthy of them. Not yet.

“Can I ask you a question?” Theon finally spoke, which made Sansa jump a little. He was looking directly at Sansa, his eyes piercing and ready. Only now did Sansa realise a shift in the way he was looking at her. There was a softness there, it was present, it was forward, more than it had been before. But there was a sense of determination too. It was Theon looking at Sansa, not Reek, not her father’s ward, not Yara Greyjoy’s brother, but Theon. Sansa wished he would never look away, that he would keep his eyes only for her. But this was just a fantasy, a silly, childish one, at that. A fantasy that would never become her reality, Sansa realised that now. Theon was slipping away, away from Sansa and there was nothing she could do to catch him.

“Yes.” Sansa whispered, as if she was scared about what he would ask. Surely not what Sansa had been avoiding the past few weeks? Surely not what Sansa truly felt about Theon? What Theon felt about Sansa?

“Did he suffer?” He. Sansa didn’t need any explanation; she knew exactly who Theon was referring to. This conversation was bound to arise. They hadn’t spoken of Ramsey, not how he had met his end. Sansa wondered how Theon had found out. Who had told him? What did he think? Feel? Relief, Sansa assumed. Just as she had. Happiness…not quite. It hard to surmise how Sansa had felt in that moment. After everything Ramsey had done, not just to Sansa, not just to Theon, but so many. The suffering would end. Her suffering would end. At least Sansa had thought. Ramsey’s death…that wouldn’t change what had happened. Those moments, the ones that visited Sansa almost every night, they would never leave her.

“He did. I watched him suffer. I watched him until he drew his last breath.” Sansa said nonchalantly, as if she was listing off her duties for the day. She didn’t like the way her voice sounded, cold, almost distant. But there was no difference to how Sansa felt in that moment, when she watched Ramsey, heard his screams, and knew it would all end eventually. There was no point pretending, not to Theon. Sansa imagined Theon would see right through it all, he would see Sansa.

Theon watched Sansa for a moment before commenting. She could tell he was trying to gauge how to respond. How would anyone respond to that? “I’m not sure if that makes me feel any better.” To know Ramsey suffered, to know after everything he did to so many, his last moments were filled with pain and misery, Theon thought he should have been contented with that. But he wasn’t. To know Sansa was there, that Sansa inflicted that pain upon him, that did not make matters any better. It was an odd feeling, really. Was there a particular way Theon should have felt? Empty, hollow, dark. That was how Theon felt. Nothing would ever change what Ramsey did to him. Nothing would ever take away the torture Theon experienced at the hands of Ramsey. Not even knowing how he met his own gruesome end.

“It made me feel better.” Sansa answered, rather defensively. Sansa hadn’t meant for it to come out of that way, but she felt as if she was being transported back to that moment. Sansa hated to admit that she had not thought of Theon’s suffering as much as her own. Selfishly, what Ramsey had done to her was at the forefront of her mind when she released the hounds. Theon was an afterthought. She hated that, just hated it. But she couldn’t lie, it did make her feel better. A sense of relief, to know that Ramsey could hurt no more, the suffering would end. To know she was the one who ended it, closed the door, buried it all. Of course, it was going to make Sansa feel better. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t understand Theon’s thinking. The act didn’t bring Sansa joy, it didn’t bring her happiness, or any positive feeling. All she knew is that he had to die. And she was glad it was her.

“That’s something.” Theon was now avoiding Sansa’s eye, though it didn’t seem intentional. Sansa imagined he had become lost in something else. Perhaps the moment he found out himself what had happened to Ramsey. Sansa felt a twinge of guilt. For her thoughts ignoring Theon’s suffering both before and after the fact. She wondered how he had responded to the news, what he thought, did he cry out? Was there a sense of relief? Reprieve? Sansa wished he would tell her, be more open. They had something shared, the two of them. Maybe at times Sansa wished they didn’t sometimes, wished they were connected by something else, something less traumatic. But that wasn’t the way it was. And there was nothing to change that.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t send word, but I had no way-”

“No, don’t apologise to me.”

“It had to be done, Theon. He couldn’t go on hurting anyone else.”

“I know. I’m glad it was. I didn’t mean...”

“Of course, not.”  Sansa moved her hand and rested it upon the bedclothes, only inches away from Theon’s hand. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t directly touched his, perhaps it just didn’t feel quite right. Sansa didn’t want to push the boundaries of what she could and couldn’t do with Theon. Sansa wanted him to feel comfortable, at ease, but everything she seemed to do just escalated everything. It wasn’t what Sansa had wanted. Not one bit. Not at all.

Sansa was unsure why Theon had decided to speak of Ramsey. She imagined that he plagued Theon’s thoughts as much as he did hers. Perhaps even more so. It was inevitable that the two would speak of him, would speak of his end. They couldn’t avoid it forever. That unspoken connection between the two was something both felt, so strongly. Sansa could sense that.  But what had made Theon conjure up the courage to ask? Perhaps it was that he too realised the two of them had a limited amount of time left with one another. Anything they wanted to ask or say, they would have to speak sooner rather than later. Sansa hoped that, anyway.

Leaving Theon soon after that, Sansa realised any conversation that included Ramsey was doomed to fail. She promised they would speak more about his sister, but Sansa doubted that brought Theon any reassurance. Sansa herself didn’t feel too confident about it either. The look on Theon’s face, the realisation that he would soon be leaving Winterfell, that told Sansa everything she needed to know. She knew she should have been sorrowful; she knew she shouldn’t have filled with glee upon realising how little Theon wanted that. But she couldn’t help herself, it brought her some comfort to know Theon didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to leave Winterfell, to leave the North, to leave her.

*

Theon did not see Sansa for a long while after their previous meeting. He felt he must have said something to upset her. Her visits were not very regular, but Theon knew eventually she would always come, he would just have to wait. But time was passing, and Theon was healing. He felt much better than he had in months, and yet there was still no sign of her. Maester Wolkan was Theon’s only visitor. His visits were regular, though this didn’t make them any more enjoyable. They were short, usually to check on his injuries. The two didn’t take part in much conversation, only passing comments about Theon’s recovery or the weather. That was perfectly fine with Theon, he didn’t have much to say to the man. And doubted the Maester would find anything Theon had to say particularly interesting. It was odd, still, even now, after everything, to see Maester Wolkan standing above him. The Maester’s robes were dark, dull, far darker and far duller than his predecessor. Theon’s mind couldn’t help but wander towards thinking of Maester Luwin.

Theon didn’t like to categorise the things he had done, particularly to the Starks. But one thing he felt the most remorse for was Maester Luwin’s fate. A good man, a decent, kind man. Well, maybe not always kind, not to Theon. He didn’t always deserve that kindness, Theon realised that now. He realised that the person he was didn’t deserve so many things. If Theon could go back, there was so much he would change. But deep down, far from the surface, Theon knew that would mean his story would have ended long ago. He would not be sat in his bedchambers at Winterfell. He would not have been afforded the luxury of surviving. Things would be different, and maybe that would have been better. But that wasn’t the way, it wasn’t how Theon’s life had unraveled and Theon knew eventually he would have to accept that. That didn’t stop those feelings about the previous Maester surrounding Theon. Theon knew he killed Maester Luwin. He could have saved him, but he hadn’t. The Maester had known the Starks all their lives, he had seen Theon grow into the young, selfish, arrogant man he was when he took Winterfell. He had lived and died in the Starks home.  And Theon didn’t do anything to stop that.

It was a late afternoon, when Theon received a visit. He hadn’t seen another person for some time, or at least it seemed that way. Though his injuries were slowly disappearing, Theon found himself finding solace in his sleep. He believed he was sleeping more often than not. Perhaps it was the absence of a certain lady, or perhaps everything that had happened was finally catching up to him. As they always seemed to do.

It was the Maester who greeted Theon at the door, not the Lady of Winterfell. Of course, it wasn’t going to be her. It was silly of Theon to even expect that. It wasn’t that he needed to see her, or even wished to, not particularly. But he had grown fond of her visits, of her company and imagined she felt the same. Or he liked to think she felt the same. There was no real way of knowing how Sansa felt. She was the Lady of Winterfell now; things had changed since they were both at their childhood home. It was strange, some visits Sansa exude warmth and kindness, others she felt distant and maybe even cold. Theon doubted it was intentionally, and perhaps was just from his own imagination. But things felt odd between the two. Perhaps it was the unfamiliarity. The two of them had never been in their current position before. Throughout their childhood, Sansa and Theon hadn’t spent too much time together, but they had always been there, lurking. During the wrath of Ramsey, Theon had concerned himself with Sansa’s safety more than anything else. And now…they had time, there was no threat, nothing to hold them back. And yet…nothing.

“I’m not who you were expecting.” The Maester spoke without even looking in Theon’s direction, closing the door behind him. Yes, this was true, Maester Wolkan was not who Theon was expecting. Not that he was expecting anyone in particular. Of course, not. Theon wasn’t going to admit that. But Theon didn’t think he was being particularly obvious, or at least he was trying not to. And why would the Maester pay any attention to that? Surely, he had more important matters to concern himself with, or at least Theon hoped. He hoped he was able to hide how he was feeling just that little bit longer, hold onto that hope.

Knowing there was no point denying what was clearly painfully obvious, Theon spoke, still watching the Maester gathering himself to check on Theon’s injuries. “No, you’re not. Is she here?” She. Good gods, Theon couldn’t even muster to speak her name. How pathetic. But the Maester knew exactly who Theon meant. He knew how often the Lady of Winterfell would visit Theon’s bedchambers. How often Sansa would ask after Theon, concern herself with his progress. Theon did not know this, however, not truly. He had some idea of what the Maester knew, what he saw, but did not know the whole story. And Theon felt he never truly would.

“Lady Stark is in King’s Landing, along with the rest of the family.” The Maester looked up at Theon as he spoke, as if he was trying to gauge his reaction.

“Why?”

“They’re making history. All the rulers are. Deciding the realm’s fate.” Oh, of course. How could Theon be so ignorant? While he was spending his days watching the snow fall from the window, counting down the minutes until he was visited by a certain red-haired Stark and feeling sorry for himself, everyone else was moving on. This was something Theon could only dream of doing, he wasn’t sure he could ever bring himself to do that completely.

“My sister?”

“I believe so. It’s likely she’ll make her way here with the family afterwards.”

“I see, thank you.” Theon tried to imagine Yara travelling with the Starks, but nothing came to mind. It would be an odd sight indeed. Theon couldn’t believe Yara would be too happy having a travel companion in Jon, after everything.  

The two men didn’t speak as the Maester checked Theon’s injuries. He bandaged up his arm once more, but the rest of his body didn’t need any adjusting. Theon knew this could only mean one thing; he would be going home soon. Back to the Iron Islands, back to Pyke, to the Ironborn, to his sister. He should have felt happy at that notion, maybe not excited exactly, but hopeful. Theon did not feel any of those ways, he couldn’t even force it. He just felt an immense feeling of dread. Theon knew he should not be feeling that way, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to leave; he would admit that. Though why he felt that way, Theon could not bring himself to think of that, let alone speak it.

“Your injuries have seemed to heal up nicely. It shouldn’t be too long before you can try to walk again.”

“My legs, they weren’t…”

“No, but certain injuries can have odd effects on the body.”

“Yes, I suppose they can.” Theon frowned; he could feel his face tensing up. Unsure as to why he was becoming frustrated, Theon watched the Maester gather the supplies he had brought to his bedchambers. There was a part of Theon, a part he knew he couldn’t and wouldn’t admit to anyone else, that almost hoped he would never heal. Hoped he would never be as he was. Theon believed that partly to be true. It was unlikely that Theon would be who he was, physically and mentally. Things had changed, as he had. But Theon didn’t believe he deserved to heal, deserved to be as he was. He had caused too much pain, too much damage. “How long?”

“Well, if you keep the healing up at this rate, it should only be a few weeks or so.”

“And then?”

“Well, I don’t believe it’s my place to say, m’lord.”

“I don’t belong in the North.”

Prince Aemond Targaryen had a black heart. It was what had been said so many times, over so many years. He had been told so often that he believed it to be true. And it was true. His heart was as black as the hole left in his face, the constant reminder of what was taken from him. He had rectified that however, he had made himself whole again, in the only way he could. The sapphire would often glimmer in the moonlight, one of the only times it was ever allowed to be free from the eye-patch that kept it hidden so often. Aemond wasn’t ashamed of it, no other Targaryen sported something so thrilling. It made him different. Made him who he was. Aemond ‘One-Eye’, that was what they called him. Better than his half-sister, ‘The Realm’s Delight’, he would sometimes smirk at the thought of that.  

But in the darkness, when it was just Aemond and Aemond alone, the smirking would stop. The sniggering. The arrogance. The entitlement. It would all disappear. Aemond made a choice to keep his eye hidden, not wanting to present himself in any way that would appear unseemly. His mother wouldn’t approve, and she only wanted what was best for her children. But alone in his bedchambers, with no one there to scold him, to stare, to whisper, Aemond would remove the eye-patch. It wasn’t uncomfortable to wear, and after so many years, Aemond had become accustomed to it. But it wasn’t natural. He couldn’t hide, not from himself.  

After bathing, Aemond would find himself wandering over to the looking glass. He didn’t mind admitting during the daylight he would often glimpse at his own appearance. But once the darkness found him, it was different. The shadows wouldn’t hide what was clear to see, the Gods never lied and even Aemond Targaryen couldn’t hide from the truth. It was ugly, the scar that sat across Aemond’s face. Trailing from above his eyebrow down to his dense cheek. The Maester was correct that night, the scar would heal but the damage to his eye…gone. It was gone. Aemond couldn’t look at himself for almost a year after that night. His 10-year-old self would gloat about his dragon, about Vhagar. The smugness was almost too much, even for himself. But deep down, further than even Aemond could go, there was only sadness. His face would never be the same. He would live with a giant reminder of how he had been beaten by a child. A younger child. The stitches in his face ached, the cut would often bleed, dripping down Aemond’s cheek during the night, the healing seemed to go on for an eternity.  

But that wasn’t just it. He had lost an eye. Blinking, winking, seeing, all had to be learned again. He had to take more care with things, he had to go a little slower, which was not what Aemond wanted to do. There never seemed to be too much rivalry between Aemond and his older brother, they made sure to keep that for their blessed nephews. But any competition that did exist between the two seemed to disappear after that night. Aegon never saw his younger brother as anything else but just that. He may have claimed the dragon, he may have claimed Vhagar, but he couldn’t compete with Aegon. Not with anything that mattered. Things altered that night, in more ways than one. It just took Aemond some time to realise it.  

After that night, Aemond took more interest in the young prince’s training with Ser Criston. He would make sure to practice twice as much as his brother, work twice as hard, use twice as much force. This was one of the only ways Aemond could stop that night from engulfing him. The only way he could become free of those shackles. Free of that torture of reliving that night every single day. He would practice in the yard with Ser Criston during the daylight. He would sneak off after dinner. He would eventually be given his very own sword, one that wasn’t wooden! That was a fine day, one Aemond would even allow himself a small smile at. Soon after, still young in his years, Aemond was proud to boast himself as one of the best swordsmen in the capitol.  

His face had grown around the scar, and even though it had grown small, it still haunted him. The eye-patch he would sport every day couldn’t hide it. It would always be there. A constant reminder of that night, of what his nephew had done to him. Oh, the embarrassment! Aemond would never admit that to another soul, not for all of his days, not even on his deathbed. But it wasn’t just anger Aemond felt, or even humiliation but sadness, there was sadness too. There was more sadness than Aemond cared to admit, even to himself. Watching his appearance in the looking glass, the sadness became clearer to him.  

Aemond’s index finger would drag alongside the skin, trying to find the roughness. This had disappeared years ago, the scar seemed to become part of his face now. He didn’t flinch at the touch; not like he had that night at the hands of the Maester as he had finished the stitches. Not like he had when Aegon had treated a 13-year-old Aemond to a night far from the Red Keep, down in the depths of Flea Bottom, somewhere Aemond would never want to venture down again. But that was different. Aemond knew how to touch it without aggravating it. Those women did not. If those memories ever appeared to Aemond during these late nights, he would often try to be rid of them, not wanting to relive the confusion, the rough hands, the giggles. No. Aemond would not visit those tonight. Tonight, another memory would surround him.  

The night he had lost his eye, Aemond hadn’t realised what that truly meant. An eye for an eye, that was what his mother had wanted. That was never to be, but that no longer mattered. He had something far more important. Yes, he had a dragon. Vhagar, the biggest of them all. At only 10 years old, he rode the dragon for the first time, claiming it as his own. He was a natural now, spending hours upon hours as a young boy riding the dragon. He was so skilled now it was as easy as walking or falling asleep. But that wasn’t all. A dragon was something, yes. But Aemond had something no one else did, not even his siblings. He had a reason.  

Aemond was never going to be a kind young boy, never gentle or sweet. Fierce, bold, hot-tempered. That was who he was, through and through. And that night had only exemplified it. When his younger nephew had maimed him, he was shocked, hurt, in pain. There was a sense of anger, that somehow Aemond had been bested by his younger. But as he had told his mother, Vhagar was now his. His eye would not heal, but that didn’t matter. He had won, in a way. But Aemond had time to think over the years, the mull things over. Things had changed. Seeing the Strong bastards after so much time apart seemed to evoke this. The way they stood alongside their whor-, no, alongside their mother. His half-sister may have committed many acts, but she was still his sister, still their sister. But those dark-haired bastards…Aemond couldn’t stomach them, not for much longer. Their entitlement, how superior they seemed, the way they would smile at each other in a way Aemond never smiled at Aegon. In a way Helaena would never look at Aemond. Why that was, Aemond did not know. It was as if they were flaunting their mother’s sin for all to see. As if it was some joke, that they had managed to trick the realm. Trick the King, their grand sire. But they couldn’t trick Aemond.  

From a young age, Aemond, along with his siblings had been instilled by their mother that Rhaenyra was no better than them. That they too were true-born children of Viserys, of the King. They deserved respect. They were important. This seemed to make both Aemond and his brother, Aegon, believe they were better. Not just better than their half-sister, but than anyone else. Confidence, not arrogance, that was what Aemond believed it to be. They knew their worth, and there was nothing wrong with that. Alicent Hightower had doted on her sons, more so than her daughter, Helaena. Aemond had noticed that growing up, the way she would watch him and his brother. She wouldn’t ignore his sister, but there was something different. Swee t Helaena , she would call her. Sweet Helaena who would play with her bugs, speak in riddles, and avoid Aegon’s eye. Helaena certainly wasn’t arrogant, not in the way her brothers had to be. The whole notion of their half-sister seemed to undermine them. The female heir. Her bastard sons. All of it was completely insufferable. Aemond could see how it vexed his mother. How his father was entirely oblivious. How his grandfather plotted. Aemond could see it all.  

Aemond loved his family, he would do anything for them, kill for them, die for them. He loved his mother, though her tired eyes she would often wear never seemed to flicker over to his. Since his father’s illness, which seemed to become quicker and quicker each day, Aemond became a confidant of his mother. She would ask for his counsel, which he would of course gladly give. He would gladly do anything for her. Both knew that asking or even involving Aegon was not a good idea, no good could ever come from it. Aemond never attended any of the Small Council meetings but could rely on his weekly visits to his mother’s chambers to hear the news of the day. He would listen, he would advise, he would muse, all for his mother. However, it was only recently that Aemond had realised how little he had asked of her, how little she had taken interest in what he had to say. This thought seemed to cloud every other of his mother.  

He loved his sister, Helaena, wanted to protect her from harm’s way. Wanted to make sure her children were safe. Though he knew the type of husband his brother was, he seemed powerless to stop it. If his mother had betrothed them instead of Aegon, things may have been different. He would have done his duty to both his mother and his sister. Perhaps Helaena wouldn’t seem so lost, perhaps she would spend more time in the present. Perhaps she would be happy. But that wasn’t to be, and Aemond hadn’t thought of it often. He would think of his brother’s children, the twins, the way they would latch onto Aemond when he would visit his sister in the mornings. He would think of how he had only seen his older brother visit his children once and the wine escaping from Aegon’s breath would fill up the room. He would think of how Helaena’s face would light up when Aemond would play the same little game with her children. That was what was important, more than anything.  

There only seemed to be two women in Westeros that Aemond would admit a care for. No other deserved it. Though it seemed those two women who Aemond could let his guard down with, could let that face he would wear so often disappear, were faltering. Helaena grew more distance by the day, speaking in riddles that not even Aemond could understand. And his mother…his mother, she was not herself, not who Aemond remembered when he was a child. She doted on Aemond as a young boy, would do anything for him. But she seemed so drained, so exhausted. Her days were filled with visiting her husband's chambers, listening to the Small Council bore her and worrying about Aegon. Things had changed.  

And his father, Viserys. Aemond loved his father the way any son would. But Aemond had often wondered whether Viserys I had loved his children by his mother the way he had loved his first-born. Viserys didn’t look like Aemond remembered as a boy. His face was gaunt, slowly drooping more every single day. Aemond had only visited Viserys a few times, it being requested by his mother and dutifully obeying her. But Aemond couldn’t stomach it for more than a few moments. There was a sense of poetic justice, as if all of those years of favouring his eldest daughter, of ignoring his other children, berating Aemond, had finally caught him and were punishing him for it. These thoughts were not clean, they were not thoughts that the Gods would want Aemond to have. Whenever these thoughts arose in his mind, he would be sure to visit the Sept later that night and pray profusely for their forgiveness.  

But that love he felt for his family, it seemed futile in comparison to his half-sister and the way her little gang of bastards would hang onto her and Aemond’s uncle. Daemon Targaryen. Quite possibly the only man Aemond would ever cower down too. Aemond thought of his grandfather, his mother’s father, the Hand of the King. Aemond knew he could so easily beat him in a sword fight, though he believed that was not his grandfather’s idea of fighting. His words were his venom. Something Aemond had picked up on, but still hadn’t exactly mastered as of yet.  

These two men…Aemond wasn’t afraid , no, that was not it. He knew the power they held, particularly his grandfather. He could see the way Otto Hightower lorded it over his daughter, something that made Aemond uneasy. He was his mother’s son after all. Even as a parent in her own right, a mother, the Queen , Aemond could see the way she would still look for her father’s guidance. Aemond did not have the same privilege. His own father had scarcely recognised him the last time he had visited his chambers. Perhaps it was the milk of the poppy he would so diligently drink. Or perhaps it was his truth. His truth that he never truly cared about Aemond, never saw him for who he was, never saw his son. Viserys had mistaken Aemond for his younger brother, Daemon, more than once. Oh, how that vexed Aemond! To be compared to someone so snide.  

There was a time, a very short period of time, when Aemond looked up to his uncle. Daemon Targaryen, a ruthless man. Aemond had heard of the stories, from his father mostly, the Hightowers did not have a high opinion of the man, particularly Aemon’s grandfather. He truly despised him, perhaps in the same way Aemond despised his nephews. But Daemon, he was a true warrior, a fighter. Aemond heard of how daring and dangerous his uncle could be during his youth. Heard of his skills in the joust, hunting, and swordplay, something a young Aemond could only dream of. He heard of The Stepstones, and of Dark Sister. These feelings of admiration were quickly squashed by his grandfather. And then his mother. Aegon. And finally, Aemond himself. He wished to no longer feel anything but hatred for his uncle. It was what he deserved.  

But it was not his uncle that plagued Aemond’s thoughts. During these dark, long nights, the ones that Aemond would have all to himself, there were certain things he would try to admit to himself. These were things he could never in the daylight, never with his mother, not even with the Gods in the Sept. The darkness would allow it; however, the darkness would even welcome it. It would take some time, but when the admittance came, Aemond would feel a sense of relief.  

Some nights were easier than others. Some nights Aemond would toss and turn in his bed clothes but couldn’t force himself to walk over to the looking glass. Some nights Aemond would remove his eye-patch and allow his working eye to gaze over at the ceiling, following the markings that surrounded the room. Some nights he would remove the sapphire that he so proudly bore during the day to just feel some release. But the other nights, the nights when Aemond was not strapped down to his bed, the nights when with all his might Aemond would force himself up, the nights when Aemond could be brave, he would face it. Face them , even. These feelings, these thoughts, they circled his mind, they spoke to him whenever he was alone, they would always find him. Practising in the yard. Eating dinner with his family. Reading in the library. Watching his sister’s children play. Watching his mother drift off to sleep after a long day. They were always there, always watching.  

What were they exactly? Aemond found it hard to pinpoint that. Sometimes it was anger. Sometimes sadness. Sometimes a sense of not belonging. Sometimes disruption. But there was one that always seemed to linger far longer than any other. Jealousy. That was what it was. Such an awful word. Such an awful feeling. He was jealous. Aemond. Yes, he was jealous. Of what? So many things, too many things. Of his brother, Aegon, how every little mistake he made was seemingly forgotten. Of how it was expected for Aemond to pick up the pieces, to make sure it wouldn’t happen again. Of how his mother would endure so much with little reward, and yet his half-sister could do no wrong in the eyes of Aemond’s father. Of how Helaena could live so freely, without worry. Of his bastard nephews. Of Jacaerys. Of Joffrey. And of Lucerys, damn Lucerys. It was more than jealousy that Aemond felt for the middle child of his half-sister. He had taken, stolen from Aemond. Aemond was hurt at the time, but the anger he felt now for his young nephew was all-consuming.  

Lucerys owed him. A debt hadn’t been paid that night he took his eye. That debt had waited and waited, just as Aemond had. But it seemed that Aemond may not have to wait much longer. The bastard boys, alongside their mother, had arrived back in Kings Landing, after so many years away. They had finally come, after years and years. Aemond knew his father did not have long left. Aemond felt almost vindicated at that thought. He may be his father, but he did not father Aemond the way he would have liked, the way he should have done. Aemond did not care whether he should admit that or not. He did not care if it was sinful, or if the Gods would punish him so. It was the truth; plain and simple.  

But the Strong bastards had come back, right into Aemond’s trap. They had come for their claim to Driftmark, for their claim to his father’s throne. Selfish reasons. It was almost laughable, really. But Aemon would have his chance, he knew that. He would have it, and he would make sure to take it, no matter what.  

Theon Greyjoy had, against all odds, survived the Long Night. He had survived the Godswood. Survived the Night King. He could go home. Wherever home was. Theon was still unsure of that. He had rescued his sister from his uncle, made sure the Iron Islands had its Queen. But then he had left her, for a place he never truly believed he would set foot in again. He had left his sister for Winterfell, to fight for the North, to fight for the Starks. Could Pyke ever be his home again? Would he want it to be? Being back at Winterfell, back at the place that caused so much anger and anguish in Theon, the place where he had destroyed so much, it brought up some strange memories, some strange feelings. Could Winterfell be his home? Could he stay here, a now honorary Northerner? Theon wasn’t so sure.  

Volunteering to protect Bran in the Godswood, Theon knew what that meant. He knew it had to be him. He had to make up for his crimes against Winterfell, against the Starks, against Bran himself. He was sure everyone else who had watched him say those words knew too. Jon, Sansa, Arya, Bran. They all knew what it had meant. Theon didn’t want to be thanked. Didn’t want to be celebrated. It was what he had to do. For all of them. It was the only real way he could ever make it up to them. Not only for betraying them, their family, their brother, their mother, their father. But betraying himself. For believing he was anything but part of them. He was, in truth, he just hadn’t realised it yet.  

As Jon had said, Ned Stark was a part of him. But it wasn’t just him, it was all of the Starks. It was Jon, who had told him he was both a Greyjoy and a Stark. Who had forgiven him for what he had done. It was Sansa, who had embraced him with such kindness and warmth. Who had relied so heavily on him during Ramsey’s reign of terror and had forgiven him. It was even Bran, who didn’t seem like the young boy Theon had once terrorised, who had told Theon he was a good man. Who had thanked him. It was all of these moments, so important and perhaps maybe so insignificant to anyone else, that had made Theon realise something.  

He had done things, truly terrible things, to the Starks, to Winterfell and to the North. He didn’t deserve any kindness, any forgiveness. He just felt regret, remorse and guilt. Every single day. And every single night. But regardless of that, he had been forgiven. He had been rewarded with kindness. With something he never thought he would get. He had been redeemed. Even before he had stayed in the Godswood with the Iron Born. Before he pledged to fight for Winterfell. Before he had saved his sister. But Theon just hadn’t realised that yet. Theon had been given a second chance, more than once. Saving and getting Sansa to safety. Citing Yara as his Queen. Fighting for Winterfell. Theon had been given so much more than he believed he had deserved. The Theon Greyjoy who grew up at Winterfell no longer existed. Nor did the Theon who took Winterfell and betrayed the Starks. The Theon who was tortured by Ramsey, gone. Reek? Gone, gone. Theon Greyjoy had been reborn; he had been redeemed completely. Theon had survived, not just the Long Night. Not just his uncle. But every single thing that had led him to that moment in the Godswood, he had survived. He could do more than that now. He could live.  

It was his sister he’d wanted to see. Wanted to apologise again, although Theon wasn’t sure about what. He had left her, but she had allowed him to do that. He still felt some guilt. He was a Greyjoy, he had pledged to follow her, she was his Queen. But at that moment, going back to Winterfell was the most important thing for Theon. He had to face those ghosts one last time.  

But that wasn’t going to happen, not for Theon. It was late afternoon when Sansa had told him. She looked weary and tired, clearly things had not been going well in King’s Landing. But she didn’t mention that, only of Theon’s news.  

“Yara’s dead.”  

After those two words, everything else seemed to stop. Theon had stopped listening to Sansa, although he wasn’t sure she had said anything else. It was possible she let the news sit with Theon, let it sink in, until Theon finally realised what she had just told him. His vision became blurred, he could only see the red from Sansa’s hair in the distance, the black from her dress. Everything else was gone. His breathing seemed to pitch up and his blinking, could he blink? Theon wasn’t so sure. Theon had not been awake that long after the battle, he was supposed to recover, supposed to heal. But he could only think of one thing. His sister.

Theon was the one who was supposed to die. He was the one who would sacrifice himself, finally atoning for what he had done. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Yara...she couldn’t be dead. It wasn’t right. Everything that had happened had led to her ruling the Iron Islands, the way it was supposed to be. Theon was never sure whether he would be able to stand by her side, but now he never would. No one would. She had been taken, by the waves, by the sea. She had drowned, the gods had taken her. Never to be seen again. She had floated out into the distance, where Theon couldn’t reach her.  

Theon wasn’t going to pretend he and Yara had the best relationship. He didn’t remember much about her growing up. He’d told her she looked like a fat, little boy when he was taken from Pyke. As a baby he would cry and cry and cry. But Theon didn’t remember that. His memories of Pyke, his memories of his father, his mother, his brothers, his sister, even they were never clear enough. Everything was always over-clouded, overshadowed by the North. There were bits and pieces he would remember if he thought about it hard enough. His mother’s smile. His brother’s play fighting by the sea. A fat finger prodding him all over. His father’s angry expression. But nothing concrete. It didn’t matter. Theon wasn’t angry or upset. Those memories were not who he was. They didn’t define him. They never could.  

But the memories of Winterfell always seemed far clearer. Robb’s laughter at any of Theon’s jokes. His anger. Lord and Lady Stark, their stern faces. Arya practicing with Theon’s bow. Sansa and her long, auburn hair. Little Bran and Rickon. The Maester. Ser Rodrik. These memories were now ruined, however, by what Theon had done. Taking Winterfell. Beheading Ser Rodrik. Burning the two little bodies. And then Reek’s memories, they would always come back to him. The ones he thought for long he deserved. Maybe he still did. Ramsey’s strange touch. The scars. The smell. The kennels. The hounds. Sansa. Her wedding dress. That night. Betraying her again. Escaping. Letting her go.  

New memories sometimes found themselves in Theon’s mind. Returning to his sister. Travelling to Mereen. Standing by his sister’s side. Dragonstone. Jon’s kind words. Saving his sister. Winterfell. Sansa. The Godswood. Waking up, realizing he had made it. Theon’s memories had reborn; they had become something else.  He had been given the chance to make new ones. Whether that was on Pyke or somewhere else, Theon did not know. But perhaps he shouldn’t waste it. Yara would not want him to waste it. Even with everything that had happened, he was her brother, and she loved him, in her way.

Meeting her again after so long away, Theon hadn’t given the best impression of her younger brother. Thinking back to how he had acted then, Theon felt ashamed. He felt ashamed about so many things, still now, particularly about that time. He knew that feeling would never leave him. This was the price he must pay to live, the Iron Price. He knew that now, though he wasn’t sure whether he had accepted it. Did he deserve to live? Deserve to want to live? He had hurt so many people, including his sister. But he had come back to her, to the Iron Islands, to Pyke. He had named her as his Queen, supported her and escaped Euron with her. It was something, something Theon could hang onto. He would have to. There were not many happy memories between the two and now there wouldn’t be.

But none of that mattered now, not truly. She was gone, and she wasn’t coming back. Theon was alone in the world. The only Greyjoy left. This wasn’t right. He couldn’t be the last one, it should never have been him. Yara, it was supposed to be Yara. It should always have been Yara. She would have taken great pride in being the last one, she would have made sure all of Westeros remembered the Greyjoys, remembered the name. Theon knew he couldn’t do that. He wasn’t up to that. Yara and Theon were so different. He wasn’t her and she wasn’t him. He couldn’t do anything for her memory. Not one thing.  

It wasn’t until Sansa brought up the subject that Theon realised with both Yara and Euron gone, there was only one person left who could rule the Iron Islands. Theon. But no. Theon couldn’t. He wasn’t fit to rule. He didn’t deserve to rule. He didn’t want to. But he was the last Greyjoy left. He was the last link to his father. His father, Balon Greyjoy. His father, who had shipped him away to the North. His father, who had bent the knee. His father, who never seemed to have any love for Theon. His father, who named Yara as his heir. His father, who died alone. What a father he was. Jon had once told Theon that Ned Stark was more of a father than the Greyjoy Lord ever was. Theon’s real father had lost his head at King’s Landing. Wasn’t that what Theon had told Ramsey once? What connection did Theon have with his father? Not one that mattered. His connection was stronger with the Starks, with Winterfell and the North.  

Theon couldn’t rule, he just couldn’t. He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve to be the reigning Lord over a place he could hardly remember. It was supposed to be Yara. They were supposed to have their Queen. Their first Queen. After everything, how could he go back? He couldn’t go back, not there. He didn’t deserve to go back. Theon spent so much of his life being torn between Winterfell and Pyke. He seemed to belong to neither, floating between the two. The Northerners always saw him as an outsider, a sheep in wolf clothing. And when he went back to Pyke, he didn’t belong there. He didn’t dress like the Iron Born, sound like the Iron Born, didn’t look like the Iron Born. He wasn’t Iron Born.

But how could he desert the Iron Born? The ones who were left. So many died as Theon should have in the Godswood. Yara had taken her remaining ships home or had intended to. She hadn’t made it. And Euron, he was gone too. Killed by Jaime Lannister. How was this possible? This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. Theon knew what had to happen. He had it all planned out in his head. His death, his sacrifice, was one of the first things he would have control over again. How could it have gone so wrong? And what about the Iron Born? The men who had followed Yara with no real idea how it would end for them. They didn’t want Theon as their ruler, they wanted Yara. What could Theon do for them? He wasn’t worthy of it. Wasn’t worthy of anything.  

Yara was sworn by duty to lead her men, the Iron Born to do what had to be done. It was something that Theon admired about her. She seemed to know what the right thing was to do, always. Whether anyone else thought it was right was another thing completely. Theon didn’t share that quality with his sister. There always seemed to be a choice he had to make, an impossible one. But maybe there wasn’t one now. The Iron Islands had been ruled by the Greyjoys for so long, would he really be the last Greyjoy? The one to end that. Yara had a duty. But she was gone. Was that duty now Theon’s?  

Self-doubt and self-hatred were only two feelings that occupied Theon. They had occupied him for so long now, they had become a part of him. These feelings were why Theon couldn’t do it, he couldn’t take his sisters place. He was not like Yara, he never was and never could be. Even when he would pretend, he and everyone else knew it was all a front, knew it was not real. How would Theon even rule? Could he even do it? Could he replace his sister? No, no one could. Theon had spent many years at Winterfell wishing to go home, knowing that when he returned, he would be treated like a King, the heir of the Iron Islands, they had been waiting for him. But that didn’t happen, of course it didn’t. He was a fool. A stupid, fool. But worse men had been a Lord of a great house. This didn’t make Theon feel any better, however. Just worse.

This did mean something, however. Theon could do home. His family home. Where he was born. Where he was supposed to grow up. But Pyke never truly felt like Theon’s home. There was a part of Theon that knew he couldn’t leave the Iron Islands. He couldn’t let the people, the Iron Born fend for themselves. But he didn’t want to leave the North now, not when he had come back. Winterfell didn’t feel like a home growing up, but Theon thought now that his younger self never allowed it to be a home. He didn’t even try. Even though Theon spent so many years wishing it was his home, wishing he was a real Northerner, wishing he was a Stark, he couldn’t let himself wish too much.

Theon had spent so many years at Winterfell. Those years under Ramsey’s belt didn’t make it feel like a home, but a nightmare. Regardless of that, there was someone at Winterfell who understood completely, who was probably dealing with the same feelings of confusion. Sansa. She was here, she was at Winterfell, she was surviving. If she could do it, why not Theon? Sansa had seemingly overcome everything that had happened to her. She had changed, it had made her who she was. She was strong. Stronger than Theon ever could be. She was healing. She had lost people too. She had lost siblings, just as Theon had. But she wasn’t the last Stark, she still had a family. Something Theon could only dream of.

But there was a family who would welcome Theon, maybe not with welcome arms, but still, they would want him. He had seemingly always been a part of this family, even when he didn’t believe it himself. He was part of this family when he first arrived in the North. When he would sit next to Robb in the great hall. When he would practice his archery in the courtyard. When he would tease little Arya. It was unconventional, that was true, but the Starks were more of a family than the Greyjoys ever were. They were not given the chance too. Two brothers dead. A mother dead. A father filled with so much hatred. And a sister…a sister. Gods, Theon didn’t want to think about it. He couldn’t. How could they ever be a family? How could Theon ever have one? Theon wondered if he asked to stay at Winterfell, whether they would let him. Sansa, maybe. The way she hugged him tight when he arrived back, that seemed to signal something.