#dandeliononfire

She can’t sleep.

It’s been two days since Katniss arrived at the Mountain Music summer retreat, and she still isn’t used to the feel of the heavy quilt or the quiet of her room in the large mountain house. She counts the whorls in the wooden beams running the length of the ceiling, but it’s no use, sleep eludes her. She kicks off her overly warm bedsheets and steps onto the soft rug, shrugging out of her over shirt but leaving her camisole. She’s still too warm however, and steps onto her balcony that overlooks the first floor deck. The deck gives way to a lawn framed by woods and beyond that, mountains that she’s never explored.  

From the balcony she can hear music drifting up from the porch below: a guitar chord welcoming her into the warm summer night. She can’t see the player, but the music floats and twists around her. She can hear crickets chirping but the rest of the retreat must be asleep. It’s just her, the moonlight shining on the lawn, and music lilting through the air.

She recognizes the song, an old one, a classic standard she learned to sing while listening to the radio on long drives. She hums the melody, placing her hand on her stomach to feel it expand with air. The guitar glides into the chorus, and this part she can remember, so she begins to sing softly:

One night, one night

Together again

It’s you, it’s me,

I’ve missed you, dear friend

She lifts her voice as the music continues. A breeze whisks the sweat off her skin, and her toes dig into the wooden balcony.

She’s on the second chorus when the guitar music stops.

“Hello?”

She jumps back from the railing, and hears the rhythm of footsteps on the deck below.

The footsteps stop, and the voice is closer now. “Anyone there?”

She probably shouldn’t feel so embarrassed for being heard; it is a music camp after all. She steps lightly to the railing and peeks over.

Moonlight sketches the outline of a man: guitar in one hand, tilted head, a flash of a smile when he sees her. There’s fifty people at this camp but she hasn’t met everyone yet, and she doesn’t recognize him. She’d remember if she’d heard someone play that well.

“Where did you learn that song?” she asks.

“My father used to sing it.” His voice is warm. 

“Did he play, too?” She leans her forearms on the railing.

The man shakes his head, moonlight glinting silver off his hair.

“Were you singing before coming out here?” he asks.

“No. I just needed some air.”

“So you just came out and sounded like that?” She can’t make out the color of his eyes, but she can see that they’re wide, staring up at her.

“Lots of practice.” She shrugs, and adjusts one of the thin straps of her shirt.

“You could come down, if you want. To sing.”

“I should go to bed,” she finds herself saying, although she isn’t tired in the least.

The man glances down at his guitar, and then looks up at her, searching her face but not seeming to find whatever he’s looking for.

“I’ll play more quietly.”

“No,” she protests, shaking her head. “Don’t.”

He steps back in the shadows of the porch. She turns to go inside, but the guitar begins again, softer this time.

She doesn’t recognize this one, but she sinks down on the floor to listen, leaning her head against the railing. She picks up part of the melody and hums along, but it changes into something else and she’s lost again.

Ampersand Everything You Are In the Waiting Dark It Started with a (Fake) Kiss One Last Hope Outside Chance Universe Secret Kisses, Secret Wishes Septimus Spellbound The Art of Peeling Pearls Caught in the Net of the World Ellipses & Ignition In the Waiting Dark Spiral & Collision Bound to Get Burned Kiss Me in the Dark Graffiti Nights Half the Time It Takes to Blink Love is Not Love... Portrait, Undone The Touch of Time Rebound Shattered Into Ash Snowed In Fic Custody Arrangement Traffic Jams Twelve by Twelve Scrawled Upon My Skin Seeds of Love Ten Minute Parasite The Baker & The Hunter The Pearls of Panem Holiday fluff Finish Me, Beyotch* Inbox Prompts* Five Year Anniversary

When he arrived at the train station, or what was left of it, he’d left his bag behind, needing to walk unencumbered. To see the damage done to his home. To learn just how much work needs to be done. He hadn’t gotten far before the destruction and the evidence of mass murder got to him and his feet carried him someplace where freedom and peace could be found. The borders. The woods.

He shakes his head to free himself of the strange thoughts. He’s been standing here awhile, fingers laced through the diamond pattern of the new wire fence. His leg aching where flesh meets prosthetic. When he turns to leave, to face the real reason he returned home, he sees it. A patch of yellow.

Curiosity wins and he slips through the gate, carefully closing it behind him. He’s breathing hard by the time he reaches it, but he’s almost certain. The memory is hazy and difficult to grasp, but a pair of blonde braids and a comforting smile swims to the surface and helps it along as he touches the fragile petals. He smiles, too.

Primrose.

It takes longer than he’d like to return to the heart of the District and locate a wheelbarrow not in use to cart the dead to the mass grave in what used to be a meadow, but eventually, he covers the bottom with a layer of soil before carefully digging out the roots, leaving clumps of soil to protect them during the journey, short though it may be.

He’s in the midst of digging a trench to plant them in front of her house when she comes running out and halts abruptly when she sees him. Her response leaves him curious and a little hurt, although he figures he should be used to that by now. What strikes him as far more important is her state of neglect.

Has no one been taking care of her these past months? Have they just left her to stew in her memories and live the nightmares over and over until she dies of exhaustion or grief?

He keeps an eye on the house, telling himself that it’s not spying. They protect each other. But she won’t let him protect her if she feels crowded or rushed. He watches because he can’t remember how he knew before. How he just seemed to know what she needed. That was lost to the venom along with the memories.

So he watches. Watches her leave for the woods. Sees her return, carried in a wheelbarrow similar to the one he used for the Primroses.

When he works up the courage to approach, he hears wailing and screaming through an open window. He can’t bring himself to intrude on her grief, so he sits on the porch and cries with her, his head buried in his hands. He cries for everything they lost and everything that they never had. Eventually, she falls silent.

He waits a little longer before letting himself into her house. When he finds her asleep on the couch with the cat curled up on top of her, he lifts them both into his arms. The months of abuse followed by months of inactivity during his therapy have weakened him, and yet she’s still light as rain in his arms. It startles and frightens him.

Carrying her up the stairs strikes a chord deep inside him. He focuses on laying her in her bed, removing her boots. A quick glance around the space and he finds it, sitting on her dresser. Carefully, he opens the cover, allows himself this one intrusion because he’s certain that it’s not really an intrusion. The fourth page convinces him.

‘You’re a painter.’

He traces the painted lines with a shaking finger. He painted this. With his eyes closed, he can see afternoon sunlight and her sprawled on her belly on the bed, her wrapped ankle lifted as she watches him. A smile? Maybe. The scent of cheese buns and tea. Laughter from downstairs. A breeze from the open window.

Opening his eyes, he stares at the broken girl in the bed. They were happy together once. He already knew that, but the venom poisoned everything. Or maybe not. Another glance at the book and he thinks he knows a way. They should finish what they started in these pages. It will take time, but one day, he’ll ask her to take him past the fence to see the woods and the plants in all their living glory.

He never gets the chance. She suggests it herself nearly two months later, her body still recovering, although the progress is visible. He rises early the next day, packs a lunch in a sack that will be easy to carry on his back. He considers bringing his pencils and paints, but decides against it. He’ll bring them next time. This time, he just wants to look.

She’s waiting for him when he reaches her house, sitting on the steps of her porch and biting her nails. Without a word to him, she stands and starts walking towards the fence. He follows a few paces behind until she slows her step and looks over her shoulder, a clear invite to walk at her side.

Through the gate and into the treeline. His palms begin to sweat as the trees close in around him. He glances around, searching for the monsters that live in the shadows. He hasn’t been in here since he found the primroses, and never this deep before.

Something brushes his hand and he jumps, his pulse pounding until he looks down and sees her hand close to his. Did she--?

As he stares, she slowly moves their hands closer again, murmuring soothing words he doesn’t hear. But it’s the tone that matters, not the words. She’s the broken one and yet he’s the one falling apart. Or maybe they’re both broken. She continues to soothe until her fingers brush his. Without a thought, his hand turns and welcomes her until their palms meet and their fingers thread together.

He thinks of cool waters surrounding him, rushing over his skin, washing away fear and filth and doubt. When he looks back up at her, she smiles. He sees the waters in her eyes, clear and catching fragments of sunlight as they scatter through the trees. Her already olive toned skin alive with shades of the earth. The dark soil that nurtures growth in the strands of her loose hair.

Squeezing her hand, he nods to let her know that he’s okay. They keep walking, their hands joined. Slowly, he breathes easier and his eyes dart around, unable to take in all the details quickly enough. The scatter of leafy plants and dead leaves on the floor. The loamy scent of the earth awakened from beneath its winter blanket of snow. The ridges of the bark on the trees. The burst of new life from buds on trees and shrubs alike. Sponges of moss over trees and rocks. Fractals of light and shadow. The colors. Vibrant greens bright as day, fresh browns richer than chocolate, pale blues and deep grays in comforting shades of warmth. Splashes of red, yellow, purple bursting to life in crevices and strange places, wherever they can break through the shadows to reach for the light. All of it familiar and all of it new.

They walk until she sits on a fallen log, gently pulling him down to sit next to her. He begins to pull the food from his pack and offer it to her. It isn’t until they’re both occupied with eating that he realizes that other than her chasing away his fears, they’ve barely said a single word to one another all day.

He’s deep in the forbidden woods with the girl he was onced convinced wanted him dead. At this moment, she sits with her half eaten slice of bread spread with goat cheese in her lap, her head tilted back as she listens to the sounds of the wind and the birds through the trees. She looks...happy.

With a deep breath, she looks over at him. For a moment, sadness flickers in her eyes and he leans towards her at the same time she leans towards him. They naturally come to rest with her head on his shoulder and his cheek rubbing her hair. She hasn’t touched him in months. His hand still bears the crescent scars from it. As they sit there, her hand finds his again. Her thumb traces over those same scars and she sniffles a little. He lets her cry. Because even that is part of the healing. He closes his eyes and cries with her, silently, as they listen to the life of the woods around them.