...Well, my last author's note was a bit ironic, wasn't it? How I said I had no excuse, then went a month without updating. Sorry about that! Hopefully this chapter will make up for it :)

As always, thanks very much for your patience, favorites, follows, and reviews. Special thanks to Thynerdgurl, Chanceawakening, Emma, MaidenAlice, GryffindorNay, JJK38, Jacking. Peetas. Style (fanfic made me put the spaces to type your full username. What.), rayleen14, the Guest, AVG18, mommatime, and MusicIsJustMe. Also, you guys might want to thank ignite. the. balloon, whose PM (which was super nice and polite) single-handedly kicked my ass into gear with this chapter.

Trigger: More child abuse talk.

Suzanne Collins still owns.

XXX

No one spares Peeta a second glance as we walk. Not leaving campus, or passing Taftan's apartment complex, or entering the bowling alley. By the way he walks, hunched over slightly with his head down, I suspect he thinks people pay him more attention than they do. I understand. I used to walk around with my arm tucked into my side, convinced every person I passed knew my secret.

The alley is old, with pictures on the wall and dated machines in the arcade. It has a disco ball near the center, and it's small and fairly empty. A jukebox rests in one corner, while another has a small restaurant-if you can call it that. It's really just a few tables in front of a counter. Its menu is written in chalk on a blackboard nailed to the wall, and the place serves beer, soda, and a few deep-fat-fried basics.

Peeta pays, and the only reason I let him is because I didn't think to grab any money from my dorm room before I ran back to him with the make-up.

"I'll pay you back next time I see you," I say, placing my foot on top of a plastic seat in our area to tie my bowling shoes. "Do you work tomorrow?"

His gaze settles on his own shoes, and the skin around his eyes crinkles in a slight frown. "I don't know if my mom will want me to. But I'm supposed to. I'm on the schedule."

I concentrate on the other shoe, thinking. "Maybe you shouldn't be. Have you ever thought about quitting?"

He shakes his head, then turns to the keyboard-like machine that allows him to type in our names.

"You have plenty of experience to get yourself a different job," I say. "Just as much as any other college student, probably more. And you'll be good at the interviews. You're good with people."

His cheeks flush pink, lips twisting to the side as he bites back a tiny grin. Deciding I like the way he looks smiling like that, I continue, "And your grades would help, too. You're a lot smarter than I am, and I never really had a hard time finding jobs back in high school."

His fingers freeze on the keyboard before he can finish typing my name. "Don't do that." I look up at him, eyebrows furled, and he stares back at me. "We both know you're smart, so why put yourself down?"

I ignore him, crossing to the wooden shelves as I look for a bowling ball. He moves in next to me and opens his mouth to say something else, so I snatch up the ball closest to me. It's heavy, probably too heavy for me to bowl decently, but I'll switch it out later.

I'm up first, and the ball slips from my hand because the thumb hole is too big. After an agonizingly slow roll towards the pins, it falls into the gutter. I manage two pins on the next turn.

He leaves me alone when I return, probably because he's focusing all his energy into keeping a straight face. Whether he's amused by my poor bowling or my expression, I can't say.

His turn doesn't go much better than mine did. Or the next. He gutters just about as often as I do, and I start to wonder if he's doing it on purpose.

When he returns from another suspicious gutter ball, I stand up from my seat and scowl at him. "You aimed for the gutter. I saw you."

"I've only gone bowling twice in my life!" he retorts, his voice catching as he laughs. "Cut me some slack."

I roll my eyes. "Why would you throw a bowling game? I really don't care if I lose." That's not completely true, but I'd rather that than have him pity me so much that he doesn't try to play.

He starts to brush a hand through his hair, but his palm hits his cheek and he winces. Deflating a little, he answers, "If you're not playing your best, I figured I shouldn't either."

"I am playing my best."

"No, you're not. I may be new to bowling, but I can tell you picked the wrong ball." He lifts mine, feeling how heavy it is, then raises an amused eyebrow. "I wasn't going to say anything bad when we were over there picking them out. You didn't have to run away like that."

Frowning, I take the ball away from him. "I didn't run anywhere."

He shakes his head, and his eyes dart towards the shelves again. "Okay. Well, if you want to go get another one, you can."

Walking past him towards the lane, I say, "I don't need it."

To his credit, he doesn't say anything else about it. And he actually tries, but by then, it's so late in the game that it doesn't make a big difference. He wins, but not by much.

Noticing the sour look on my face, he asks, "Are you hungry?"

Between studying for my finals and hunting him down in his room, I haven't had any time to eat. Up until now, I didn't really notice. But I'm not about to have him pay for that, too. "Not really."

"Well, I'm starving," he says, fishing out his wallet from underneath the bowling seat. "Do you want to set up another game while I go buy some food? Or are you done?"

I sit down, thinking it over. If I say yes, does that mean we'll just go back to our dorms? Will I see him again before break?

Even though I didn't plan tonight, and I fully intended to study until I'm ready for my tests, a hollow feeling settles in my stomach at the thought of leaving. I imagine myself back in the room, pouring over equations and vocabulary terms and everything else, and it seems so empty.

"You don't have any tests to study for?" The question is mostly to buy myself time because I don't want to seem too desperate and lonely, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"I have work tomorrow morning, but that's about it. I'm not too worried about my Psych final."

I stiffen, ignoring the last part of what he said. "You really aren't going to quit," I say, so flat it sounds like a statement. "You're going to stay at Bon."

"For now." His voice is airy and light, but it doesn't fit the dark, foreign look on his face. It seems like he's as frustrated by the prospect as I am, but he keeps working anyway.

Sitting down in one of the plastic chairs, I start to undo my bowling shoes. "I'm done."

He buys a hamburger and offers to share it, then ends up throwing most of it away. I guess he got tired of the stony silence as I waited for him to finish.

The thoughts of Bon Café and the bruise on his cheek pick at me. I remember the injuries on his hip, the way his mother had chased us both out of the back room, telling him to hurry up and get his brother from the hospital.

With a start, I forget all about my anger with Peeta and ask, "Was Taftan lying about how he got hurt?"

I feel him shift next to me, and my eyes flit to his before pinning to the ground with a new determination. "No. He's just…angry," he answers slowly, then he hesitates. "I think he likes fighting because it's someone he can hit back."

I shiver. It's hard to imagine patient, gentle Peeta fighting and swearing like his brother, or hurting anyone at all. While I battle the ugly thoughts, blades, and overwhelming desire for peace—and my father and Prim. Maybe he fights off something else. The anger, the hate, the storm I saw brewing behind Taftan's eyes.

Swallowing, I watch him out of the corner of my eye, taking him in. His laid back, clean clothes, the way his hands clench at his sides. Something clicks, and I understand. He's afraid. Not of being physically hurt, but that things could get worse if he tries to change them.

An urge rises up from somewhere inside me to take his hand, feel the calloused skin on his palms. Because that's probably the last thing he needs or wants today, I let the back of my hand brush against his.

He glances at me and I feel my cheeks burn pink. I speed up so I'm a little bit ahead of him.

I think my version of giving up came in the form of literal, physical death. His, the more obscure loss of whatever makes him strong now, almost seems worse.

What makes you different, then? I think, furling my eyebrows and forcing myself not to turn back and check on him. Different than me, different than Taftan. Gale, too, probably.

The only person he really reminds me of with his untouchable faith is Prim.

It's as if Peeta heard the thoughts from a moment ago. "She loves me."

I frown, trying to keep the skepticism off my face when I understand who he's referring to. His mom.

"She does," he insists, forceful as I've heard him. Stopping in front of an old tree near the sidewalk, he props himself against the trunk and presses his hand against the bark.

Absently, he continues. "She doesn't schedule me on Mondays anymore. I asked her not to, and she never gave me a hard time about it. And she usually went to those parent-teacher conferences in school, especially when Dad couldn't make it." A tiny, weak smile crosses his lips. "She helped me mail all my birthday party invites when I was a kid, and she made sure everyone got a thank-you note."

I take a deep breath, unsure what to think. It's impossible for me to imagine the memories he described, particularly when I can still see a trace of the bruise on his cheek. From her.

Finally, I say, "That's no reason to forgive her."

"It's not about that." He gives me a long look, then starts to walk again. "If I wanted, I could spend all my time trying to make sense of what she does and what she thinks of me, but it wouldn't help anything. So I think about the good things, otherwise she'd ruin every day if I let her."

Guilt tugs at my chest as my own mother comes to mind. Her dead eyes, half-hearted remark, the way she left me all alone. I grit my teeth. "How? How do you just decide to be happy?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. The pictures help."

"The ones in your notebook?"

"Yeah. It's easier letting go of things if I get them out of my head and onto paper."

Intrigued, I ask, "Are they all like the ones you show me? Of your house and nature and everything?"

He stops and faces me, noticing the genuine interest on my face. "Some of them. I draw a lot of people, too. Anything that comes to mind."

I've spent entire class periods pouring over his doodles, and I'm still convinced I haven't seen enough. His other pictures, the ones he drew when he was off somewhere by himself, must be so beautiful.

"Can I—?" I break off, hoping I won't sound as nosy as the question seems. "Can I see them? The other pictures?"

His eyes widen, and he opens and closes his mouth, trying to answer me. Maybe the memories are even worse than I thought if he's so afraid of sharing them.

"Never mind," I add, embarrassed that I asked. "I wasn't trying to—"

His response takes me completely by surprise. "Do you promise not to laugh?"

I scowl, offended. "Why would I laugh?"

Peeta shakes his head as if I've done something stupid, and I feel my temper start to flare up again. Before I can say anything else, he cuts me off. "Come on. They're in my dorm room."

XXX

His roommate is gone, probably off studying somewhere like we should be doing. The cover-up is still haphazardly lying on top of Peeta's sheets, the opened water bottle next to it.

"Does your roommate know?" I ask, looking at the messier bed and side of the room. "About your mom?"

Peeta crouches down to rummage around in the bottom drawer of his desk. "I haven't told him anything, but I think he can guess...What pictures did you want to see?"

"It's up to you." I pause, specifying, "Your favorite."

He tenses, fingers stilling. His head drops, eyes dipping to stare at the drawer. Swallowing, he answers in an uneven, almost frightened voice. "If that's what you want."

I move to stand next to him, watching with awe as Peeta shuffles through what has to be nearly a hundred-if not more-sheets of paper. Some are face-up, and I catch a glimpse of animals and houses, pictures of people who must have been his friends in high school. I even spot one of Delly.

Leaning over him to pluck it out of the pile, I take the drawing in. I'm surprised at the unpleasant feeling that settles in my stomach, and I quickly put it in its place, backing away. "How do you know Delly again?"

"We were neighbors in elementary school," he answers, pushing the picture to the side as he continues sifting through the images. "She moved after that, but we met up again in high school."

"Oh."

He reaches inside and plucks out one of the sheets, handing it to me. "The one on the left is my younger brother. He's still in high school."

I instantly seek out the boy's eyes, looking for the anger I found in Taftan's. To my relief, it isn't there. But I know that Peeta didn't just miss it as an artist because Taftan's in the picture, too. I feel like I know him better from the single picture than I did meeting him in-person. "You're really good."

Peeta smiles, a shy, humble one that disappears before long. He reaches back to take the picture from me, but I pull it away. "I'm still looking," I say.

He turns back to the work at hand. As he flips and turns and organizes the pictures, I can't tear my eyes away from the one in my hands. It's really just the two of them standing side-by-side, and Taftan has an arm slung around his brother's shoulder. The younger one looks like he's laughing at something off to the side, his face turned away slightly. Taftan's smiling too, but it's not happy. Bitter and passive more than anything.

"I drew that right after Mattzo dyed Taff's birthday cake pink," Peeta explains, facing the desk. "Last year."

I look at their faces again, feeling a little better. "I can see why it's your favorite."

"What?" He turns to look at me. "It's-oh. No, I just wanted you to see Matt."

My cheeks turn pink, and I give it back to him. "Right."

"But you like it?" he asks, and I know he's not fishing for compliments. He genuinely seems nervous.

Leaning back against his bed, I answer, "It made me feel like I know your brothers as well as you do."

The smile returns, and it doesn't leave this time. At least until he finds another picture, one that makes his shoulders hunch as he sucks in a deep, shaky breath.

"Is it your mom?" I ask, wondering if I can stomach an image of her after he's done such a wonderful job capturing his brothers.

"No." He rubs a hand over his mouth and chin. "The one you asked for."

"Your favorite?"

He nods, and I wonder how it could possibly be his favorite if it makes him act this way. Before can I ask, he gingerly gives it to me, then faces the drawer again even though he's already found what I asked him for.

My fingers curl around the white paper that doesn't have a single bent corner, rip, or wrinkle. It takes place in an office I've visited multiple times, especially during the more recent weeks. There's a poster in the corner, up against the wall, that I hadn't noticed when I visited the place myself.

I pull back, taking in the picture as a whole. I'd caught a glimpse of the rest of it when he first gave it to me, but I'd instantly re-directed my attention to the walls and other details. I don't know why.

Finally placing the main subject of the drawing, I manage a reply. "Me?"

He sneaks a glance at me over his shoulder. "Yeah. You."

I stare at the picture, realizing it's from the first time I met him, inside the waiting room for the counseling offices. Witt's even there, and his daughter. "Why me?"

He stands up, coming to stand next to me and lean his back against the bed, too. "It's one of my best memories."

"I'm not even smiling!" I say, doubtful. "I look like a...an asshole."

Peeta gawks at me, seemingly as baffled by my response as I am about the picture. Then, he laughs. An uncomfortable, disbelieving laugh that I'm not sure I like. "No you don't."

I ignore him. "How can this be-?"

"Because I thought you'd died," he interrupts, his voice low, every ounce of amusement gone. "I thought the last time I'd see you was walking away from that party, when everything about you should've warned me what you were planning to do. It did warn me, but I didn't believe it."

"It's not up to you to-"

"Then I heard that you were in the hospital, which meant that you'd probably be okay, but I couldn't let myself believe-"

"It's not up to you to you to make me better. It wasn't then, either."

"No, it's not," he agrees. "But if I saw someone who needed help, I should've done something."

"Well I think you've made up for it by now, haven't you?"

"That's what you think this?" he shoots back, louder without warning. Everything feels like it's suddenly moving too fast. "You think I'm trying to make up for not going after you?"

I push off from the bed so I can stand in front of him. "Why else would you throw away hours of your life trying to fix someone who didn't want your help?"

He fumbles for an answer, and I let him. As far as I can tell, I've won this argument. Not that I'm exactly sure what it was about.

While he's thinking of something to say, I move to put the picture back where it was. This seems to give him an idea, because he steps in front of me, speaking feverishly. "That picture's my favorite because it's the first time I saw you after everything and knew that you really were still alive."

"So?" I reach around him to toss the picture towards the desk, but his hand stops me, wrapping around mine before I can let go of the sheet.

"You had no idea-" He stops to breathe. "I didn't..." He lets go of me, getting out of the way and pacing the room that suddenly seems too small and claustrophobic.

I glance at the picture again because it's easier than watching him stumble around looking so lost. "You didn't what?" I prompt, just so he knows I'm not angry anymore.

"I wanted to be with you." He visibly relaxes as the confession leaves him, calming down. "I wanted to be with you, and I think I might have spent the rest of my life thinking about it and knowing I never even got the chance to talk to you. Let alone tell you."

He seems to think he's said something monumental, that I might go sprinting from the room any second, but I know my legs wouldn't move if I tried. "What? You..."

"That's why it's my favorite," he says, standing still. "Because as soon as I saw you, I knew there was still a chance. And even if there wasn't, it would still be one of the best days of my life because you were already starting to get better. Just by being there, coming back to Bohm, you were ready to try. You just didn't know it."

I drop the drawing, watching it float back to its place inside the drawer. "You wanted to be with me," I state, trying to decide if I like the way the words sound in my mouth.

"Yes."

"Wanted."

Not understanding, he repeats, "Yes."

"In the past."

"No."

"No?"

"I'd spend every day with you if I could," he says, watching intently for a reaction I'm not sure I know how to give. I can't draw pictures to show him what I think, or tell him things will make him melt the way he sometimes does to me.

I look around the room, searching for the words. Instead, I echo his. "Me too."

It's his turn to be dumbfounded. Slack-jawed, he looks at me with narrowed eyes. "You would?"

"If you'd let me."

"Of course."

He takes another second, trying to wrap his head around what I've said. Then, in a flash, his arms envelop me. His cheek presses against my temple. I feel his hot breath against my hair, the way his heart pounds in his chest.

I've never done anything like this before, but instinctively, my fingers brush along the hairline on the back of his neck. A tremor passes through him at my touch, and he tightens his hold. I don't know where it stems from, but I place a soft kiss at his jawline and immediately wonder if that was the right thing to do. I'm not sure if it's possible to ruin this moment, but if someone could, it'd be me.

He pulls back, and I'm sure I was wrong after all. I disentangle my arms, letting them drop to my sides like something dead. The way I suddenly halt stops him. I'm not sure what he was going to do, but he takes my hand, leading me over to sit on top of his bed. From there, we talk. About everything, really. Mostly basic, normal things.

After the conversation we just had, everything else seems easy.

Except the nagging thought in the back of my mind that we'll both be leaving again soon, moving back to our houses for Christmas. Where his mother might be harsher than ever, mine more lonely and broken. Gale's semester abroad is ending, which might normally have brought me comfort, but it's my first Christmas without the Hawthornes since we moved.

But I push those thoughts aside, deciding to take Peeta's advice from earlier and decide to think about the good things. At least for now.

XXX

A/N AS OF 7/24: Hey guys! So, or those of you I've talked with directly, you already know that I've been planning on updating forever now. And I did completely intend to do that. However, at this time, I'm going to go ahead and mark this story complete. You guys have been really amazing and encouraging to me, and I want you to know that it wasn't pure negligence that kept me away. The truth is that I've seen a rather nasty side of the Hunger Games fandom and I can't bring myself to write about it anymore. But I do wish you guys all the best, and I genuinely mean it when I say your support and enthusiasm has blown me away.

-Tay :)