A/N: Just a short little drabble I did over on Tumblr for the Prompts in Panem 7 Day Challenge. The prompt was 'Victory Tour'. Let me know what you think and go follow me over on Tumblr at at "love is all we really need to survive" (remove spaces) and then put in dot-tumblr-dot-c0m.
It happens when I am cleaning out one of the spare rooms.
The room we're going to turn into a nursery.
Moving into my third trimester has made me antsy and unable to spend my days out in the woods like I would like to. My feet swell, my back hurts, and I can barely make it past the fence before I realize I should have just stayed home, eating Peeta's cheese buns.
Spending days at home has not been easy. I get swept up in my thoughts, sometimes turning to dark places I try to avoid.
So to avoid this as much as possible I try and keep busy.
I picked the room across from our own, the one with a window that overlooks the side of the house, where Haymitch's geese usually wander about. I opened the closet to find it completely bare. Empty, except for a dress in the far corner, pushed to the side so you could see how it was easily missed.
At first it takes me a while to place it. I thought we had gotten rid of all of these old dresses, the beautiful creations Cinna had made for the Victory Tour. We gave them all to the women who returned to District 12 with nothing more than the ragged clothes on their backs.
I pull the dress from the closet and just look at it for a long time.
A hundred memories fill me at once.
Maybe it's the hormones, maybe it's just because lately I've been feeling less afraid and just…grateful…grateful and happy to have this life inside me, to be carrying Peeta's first born child, but I don't dwell on the negative. Instead of remembering the nightmares and the looks from the families of those children who died so we could live, I remember how Peeta held me together.
I think of the warm, strong arms that held me through the night.
I think of the calm, soothing words he used to coax me from the nightmares.
I think of how he never pressured me for more, even though he so clearly wanted it.
I think of the sadness I could see in his eyes when he thought I wasn't looking.
I think of how he would wake up hard, pressing into my back, and then quietly slip into the bathroom.
When he gets home that night I can't stop touching him. I hug him tightly when he walks in the door, pressing my body as close as my belly will allow. I grab onto his arm, rest my chin on his shoulder, pepper kisses along the stubble of his jaw.
"You okay?" He asks later, after we've eaten and are curled up in front of the fire together.
"Better than okay," I assure him, snuggling into his side.
A while passes as we stare into the fire, not saying anything, sharing the comfortable silence we've come to master over the years.
"Peeta…" I begin, reaching over to interlace his fingers with mine.
I mean to tell him thank you. And sorry. And I that I can't imagine how I would have survived that tour without him. I mean to tell him that he was too good to me, too patient, too understanding, too much of a gentleman. I mean to say that those overt displays of affection may have been exaggerated for the cameras, but that I did truly care for him. I mean to say that I know it wasn't fair to him, letting him comfort me and stealing kisses in the night, but not being honest about how I felt.
But I have never been good with words.
As I sort through the jumble of thoughts in my head Peeta reaches over to caress my stomach. He makes that sigh of contentment whenever he does this and relaxes back into the couch, a smile tugging on his lip. It never fails to make my heart ache from joy when I see him like this, when I see just what it means to him that our baby will be here soon.
I lean in to kiss his throat and his jaw, and my hands find their way to the zipper of his pants. I release him from his boxers and wrap my hand around the warm flesh, working to get him hard.
He catches my lips in a kiss and pushes his tongue against my own. He takes a sharp breath when my hand starts to speed up.
I watch in appreciation as he grows in my hand.
I can feel myself getting wet in anticipation.
Peeta slips his hand under my dress and rubs me over my underwear.
I moan and know that I need him inside me now.
I tug my underwear to the floor and move to straddle his lap, easing myself down on his length.
"Katniss…" he breathes, grasping onto my hips and starting to drive into me.
"I love you," I pant, moving my hips in a circular motion so he hits all the right spots.
"I love you," I repeat, grasping onto his shoulders to keep me steady.
"I love you," I cry out when I come.
And I know I don't have to say anything. I know I don't have to apologize. I know what Peeta did on that tour is why I love him. And I know he loves me.