IC Contact

[peeta_bread]

Hey. This is Peeta Mellark. Leave me a message and I'll get back to you. Thanks.

[Action ✖ Voice ✖ Text ✖ Video]

Comments

[accidentalrebellion]

["Every time I close my eyes, you disappear."

...

"My nightmares are usually about losing you. I'm okay once I realize you're here."

Before the chaos, before the Quell, there were those words. They come back to her in a flash. Predictably, like clockwork (tick, tock, tick, tock), the stab of guilt from before grows into something much stronger, hits her with a force that trumps the lash she took to her face and effectively overrides the horrific afterimages of her nightmare, at least for the moment. She sucks in a breath and winces, but that's all she has the energy to do.

The words, though, continue to linger. Continue to preoccupy her.

She barely registers anything outside of them, only being guided, the quick motion that Peeta makes to close his sketchbook(though anything that might've been on the page slips past her notice), until she finally has to say something. Whatever was in her throat won't swallow down, so it's hard to get anything out. Her voice hardly makes it to the volume of audibility.]

You should've come and found me.

[peeta_bread]

I was trying to ooze the nightmares out of my brain and onto paper. [He taps the closed notebook.] Didn't really help.

[He slowly wraps an arm around her and cuddles up to her. It feels good, safe.]

This place... makes you feel at home, doesn't it?

[He wonders if she'll catch on to what he's saying. He's still not sure if they need to be so careful, but it's always a good idea after what they've been through. It feels just like Panem, wondering if there are eyes on you, being thrown into battle with no choice.]

[accidentalrebellion]

[It does feel safe like this, being held so close. Truly good and safe. It's a pull, almost magnetic, warm and inviting, that draws her in. Maybe it's just another force to contend with, just another confusion to add to the mess of emotions continuing to wage a war inside of her, but at the very least, the lump in her throat dissipates enough to allow her to exhale.

Relief washes through her in response to the change in subject. Her eyes close, partially as a result of that, and partially as a result of wanting to ensure she sees nothing. If his paintings had been anything to go by, she's better off not knowing what was inside that sketchbook. Especially not now, not when so much is still so fresh. Not when volatility could still tip a delicate balance of superficial ease in any direction; not when she's still an effective time bomb.

Tick, tock.

"Home" is a word that's still charged, one that has the potential to set her off without much warning, when the concept of it is gone and that inexistence is a ghost that haunts her ceaselessly. But it's a charge that dies before it sparks, lost in the oblivion of her own personal battle. She knows what he means; it's an expression of a thought that's crossed her mind more than several times in all these months. How, at its core, a lot of it isn't much different. Different game, different players, but, in fact, still a game...--

Still quietly, though with more volume than before:]

Sometimes.