sorry, you used to be able to dance here

~~~

The first time he saw her was at this very bench on a Tuesday back in March, donned in lavender and gray. If her dress hadn't been sufficient, the vacant looking her eyes told him she was in mourning.

It had caught him off guard; the tableau so achingly familiar. Bringing him back to his grief the previous spring, when he'd arrived in London, having been injured in battle and discharged of his duties, only to return to the news of his brother's death and the Viscount title to fill— had it really been a year? It felt like a fortnight and a century all at once.

He'd sat at the far end of her bench, uncertain whether more for her benefit or his own. They hadn't spoken, but he'd pulled the stale bread from his pocket that he'd brought for the birds, pinching off a piece at a time and tossing it towards a group of geese, if only for something to keep his hands busy.

After a while, he realized he'd caught the woman's attention, so he'd ripped of a chunk, wordlessly extending it towards her and they sat apart, but together, feeding the geese in silence.

When he woke the next day, it was as if Spring had come overnight. Warm sweet air. Fluffy clouds. Yellow crocus heads poking up through the receding snow. He'd returned to Hyde Park, curious to see if the woman would as well, a roll secured in his pocket. But she wasn't there that day— at least not at their bench or at the same time, and he decided that maybe that was a good thing for her— or at least a better thing than sitting with a stranger alone in the park.

But then on Thursday she'd returned, looking slightly less stricken (at least so he hoped) and with bread that she extended in his direction this time.

And thus began their tradition.

They didn't talk much at first: Peeta hadn't minded. He liked watching her methodically rotate and tear her rolls, piece by piece, flicking her wrist at measured intervals, in various patterns. It was mesmerizing; somewhere between a clock mechanism and dance.

And between fallen crumbs, she'd slowly begun opening up. He learned that she was Miss Katniss Everdeen, ward of Lord Abernathy for the last seven years. Her favorite color was green and she preferred the country to town. They'd only come for her debut, an event abandoned in wake of her beloved sister's death.

But despite the recent tragedy, Katniss seemed to revive with the spring and with each passing week and bit of stale bread it became more and more apparent that Peeta was a goner.

Nothing felt more right than simply sitting on a bench with her in Hyde Park, feeding the geese.

But today she wears green, and while he is glad she's shrugged her mourning attire, he fears that he too will be shrugged upon her entrance into society.

~~~

"The Flickerman's ball," she says, catching his wrist as he reluctantly moves to depart after all the bread has been scattered. He peers down at the small hand that quickly flits back to lap, squeezing the fabric of her skirt.

She's not looking at him when she speaks again, but he can still see the flush on her cheeks, "I'll be preparing for the evening this Thursday and will be unable to take my usual stroll through the park."

"I see," he says, tempering his disappointment, his suspicions confirmed. "Then you will be missed—by more than the birds, though I am sure they'll forgive you your absence— granted you bring an extra portion on your next visit."

"And you?"

"I'll admit, I too could be bribed with stale bread, though there's nothing to forgive."

She's looking at him now, a shy smile on her lips "a relief, I am sure, though I was rather hoping I would still see you on Thursday… Will you not be in attendance?"

"Hey," the voice says, ignoring her question. "Good to see your eyes again." Ashy blond waves and a pair of blue eyes hover over her.

She squints and then gasps at the sharp pain in her temple.

"Hey, hey, hey, take it easy. You had an accident and banged your head pretty good. Lay back down." He eases her head into his lap, before handing her a dainty china tea cup, out of place in this setting, wherever it is. "Here, drink this." She’s desperately thirsty and doesn't think twice, gulping it down. It's lukewarm mint tea sweetened with something too saccharine for her taste but it does the trick.

"Where are we?" she tries again. Sitting up a bit to scan her surroundings. The large hands maneuver her back down and her head swims.

"Somewhere safe."

Safe from what?… Or who? The floor is dirt beneath her. Are they in a cave?

“Do you remember me?" The voice asks. "Peeta Mellark."

Oh, no, she thinks. Not him.

"We went to school together," he adds.

That wasn't quite true. The Mellarks were homeschooled though they did attend for specials and extracurriculars. Their mother was a religious fanatic and for all that, a notorious witch. But owning the only bakery in town the Mellarks were a necessary evil… at least until the fire… now there were no Mellarks left… except this one.

Katniss understood being an outcast. She had never begrudged him his family, as off-putting as they were, but he'd made her uneasy. She'd often turn to catch his eyes trained on her, only to quickly flit away.

"You don't remember," he says, misinterpreting her silence. "But I do. I remember everything about you."

Her mind is muddled, she could have a concussion, maybe that explains why she can't remember how she got here.

"Like the first time I saw you; It was music assembly in Kindergarten. You had on a red plaid dress and your hair ... it was in two braids instead of one." He says, stroking his hand along her single plait. A shiver runs down her spine, but her limbs are too heavy any longer for her to try to get up.

"The teacher asked who knew the valley song and your hand shot right up in the air. She stood you up on a stool and had you sing it for us. And I swear, every bird outside the windows fell silent." He sighs wistfully. "I was a goner.

"I gave you a valentine that year. Made from supplies from the bakery counter. My mother caught me returning the scissors and glue and accused me of theft, but she didn't know about the valentine and I still got it to you. I think about it all the time. Do you remember?"

She blinks up at him, the only motion her body seems capable of. They all gave paper Valentine's in Kindergarten, it would be impossible to remember one in particular.

"You never thanked me."

There’s a pain in her ankle: broken, maybe? More likely twisted. But her mother would be more concerned over the head inj—

"Say something," Peeta snaps.

"Sorry?" she says, or at least that's what she means to say. She's never been good at saying something, even less so with a tongue that feels like lead in her mouth.

He chuckles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Nothing to be sorry about. But there’s a debt to be paid.”

The word ‘debt’ echoes in her mind as she tries to catch up to what he is saying.

“I bet you didn’t know I’d moved out here after the fire. I've watched you run by here every day— Every day.”

She’d been out on her daily jog, she remembers now. She’d fallen. A tripwire. She’s seen enough snares in her life to recognize a man made design. Leaves had crumbled behind her, the smell of cinnamon and dill, a branch swinging for her head, then darkness.

“You were the one not paying attention.”

It’s a basement, she realizes in terror as the tendrils of sleep drag her under. Not a cave, but a cellar, with the rain pinging off the metal storm doors.