There are more days than not when Peeta has trouble getting to sleep, so that finally when he does manage it, time becomes a disorienting mess and his entire body is unsure what is being awake and what is being asleep, what is a dream, a nightmare, reality.
It's all a part of being a survivor of the Hunger Games, sure, and he never complains about it, because it's just not a thing Peeta does. Complaining is for those who have everything, and despite being a victor, Peeta feels like he doesn't have anything, feels emptier than he had even before his name was picked out of the lot that day at the reaping.
But at the very least, the little house he keeps as part of the 'perks' of being a Hunger Games victor is familiar. Because when he does wake up, jolted from his sleep, he's lying on the cold, sterile ground of an unrecognizable environment and it feels all too much like many of his nightmares, and before that, his reality.
( No, no, no. This isn't - this can't be - he isn't back, he can't be back, he won the games, he and Katniss -
Katniss. )
He gets to his feet, a cold wash of fear keeping his entire body taut and tense, eyes scanning the entire space, hands clenched into tight fists and making tiny little half-moon indents into the calloused skin of his palms, fear and paranoia coursing through his veins, rendering him silent.
Someone's left a butter knife on the table near him, and he shifts to pick it up. It's something, at least, until he can figure out just what the hell is going on.
hands!!11 fine ... pizza mellark | the hungry games | 01
It's all a part of being a survivor of the Hunger Games, sure, and he never complains about it, because it's just not a thing Peeta does. Complaining is for those who have everything, and despite being a victor, Peeta feels like he doesn't have anything, feels emptier than he had even before his name was picked out of the lot that day at the reaping.
But at the very least, the little house he keeps as part of the 'perks' of being a Hunger Games victor is familiar. Because when he does wake up, jolted from his sleep, he's lying on the cold, sterile ground of an unrecognizable environment and it feels all too much like many of his nightmares, and before that, his reality.
( No, no, no. This isn't - this can't be - he isn't back, he can't be back, he won the games, he and Katniss -
Katniss. )
He gets to his feet, a cold wash of fear keeping his entire body taut and tense, eyes scanning the entire space, hands clenched into tight fists and making tiny little half-moon indents into the calloused skin of his palms, fear and paranoia coursing through his veins, rendering him silent.
Someone's left a butter knife on the table near him, and he shifts to pick it up. It's something, at least, until he can figure out just what the hell is going on.