The Storm
Katniss
Rain sounds slowly draw Katniss back to consciousness. She feels well-rested for the first time in the Arena. She’s safe, and warm, and Harry is pressed up against her back.
All of Harry is pressed up against her back. She jolts away from him and sits upright. He startles awake and realizes the problem immediately. “Fuck. I’m s–” She slaps a hand over his mouth and shakes her head.
“It’s fine,” she says firmly. They are not talking about this on national television. She ignores his red face and changes the subject. “It’s raining.”
He lets out a long breath, then composes himself. “Yeah. We should probably check the tarp, make sure it’s letting the rain run off and not into the cave.”
The tarp is functioning perfectly; tiny trickles of rain seep around the edge in a couple of places, but not enough to soak or flood them, or even make the cave particularly damp. There’s moisture in the air, but it’s reasonably warm and dry even outside the tent.
Their inspection does yield a surprise – another camera knot, perfectly positioned to watch both the mouth of the tent and the small open space where they’re now sitting, nibbling the remainder of Katniss’s game and Rue’s roots. Either someone snuck in here last night, or the two of them missed it before. Who can tell when it comes to Gamemakers?
There’s less space outside the tent than inside, but Katniss is not in any rush to climb back in and leave the visual up to the Capitol’s imagination. Until it stops raining, she’s determined to spend as much time in front of that camera as possible. Hopefully, Harry agrees.
Speaking of the camera – her braid is an absolute mess. She blushes a little, remembering how Harry’s fingers digging into her scalp set her soul on fire. She starts the slow process of unbraiding, detangling, and re-braiding her hair. Harry watches her hands closely until she’s about to start the new braid. Then he leans forward.
“Can I help?” he asks earnestly. Katniss freezes. Does he want to braid her hair? Isn’t that a little… girly? If it were any other boy, she’d be wondering about their private preferences, but she chalks it up to Harry being Harry and turns her back to him.
His fingers are gentle, deft, and quick. He reminds her a bit of her mother on Reaping Day. Katniss usually just does a simple braid down her back, but Harry starts a complicated weave at her left temple, bringing more hair in as he curves it around the back of her head and over her right shoulder where she sometimes tosses it.
He ties it off and she strokes her fingers along it. “Where did you learn to do this?” she asks, turning around to face him.
He shrugs. “Some bread loaves are braided.” For some reason, it doesn’t ring entirely true. She lets it slide.
The rain is still coming down while they take stock of their supplies. They have enough food to last at least three days now, but they’re getting low on water. Harry volunteers to climb outside the safety of the tarp to secure his 2-liter as a rain collector. They sip from what remains in the hydration pack and her canteen.
“Tell me about the Feast,” Harry breaks the comfortable silence. She steels herself, anticipating his disapproval, and gives him the rundown of what he missed after the basilisk bite. Her voice breaks when she gets to the part where Blaise let her go.
“He didn’t want to owe you, so he let you go?” he asks, like he can’t understand why Blaise would do that.
“It’s like with the bread,” she explains, “how I never seem to stop owing you for that.”
He blinks at her. “The– the bread? You mean when we were kids? Katniss, you saved my life yesterday, I think I owe you a hell of a lot more than you owe me.” She shakes her head.
“I saved your life yesterday because I care about you. You didn’t even know me back then. We’d never even talked to each other, still didn’t talk to each other until the Reaping. I was a complete stranger, and you saved my life.” She takes his hand in hers. “I– I’ve always wanted to ask you why,” she admits, looking down at her lap.
His fingers tuck under her chin, tilting her head up to look at him. “You know why,” he breathes, leaning in.
This kiss is much softer, more sensual than the ones they shared last night. It’s an excellent distraction from wondering how long Harry Potter has carried a torch for her. When a roll of thunder startles them into pulling apart, she asks without thinking. “When did this start for you?”
Before he answers, he shifts around so he can lean against the bark of the tree next to her, on her hearing side, his arm around her shoulders. He speaks softly, not looking at her.
“My Aunt Petunia always complained about your family, because your mother ‘ran off with Seam trash’ like mine did.” He uses a screechy, uncomfortable voice when he’s quoting his aunt. “I guess that’s why I first started paying attention to you. Then… then on the first day of school, we were in the music assembly. The teacher asked if anyone knew the Valley Song and your hand shot right up.
“I swear, when you sang… even the birds outside stopped to listen. I thought you sounded like… like I don’t even know what. Something magical, ethereal. I thought, no matter how much we had in common, I could never be good enough to deserve a friend with a voice like that.”
Katniss gulps, reaching over to squeeze his knee. She remembers singing on the first day of school. Maybe the birds did stop to listen; they always did for her father. She hasn’t sung since he died. “You deserve all the friends you can make, Harry,” she tells him softly. He just smiles sadly at her.
“Kind of hard to make friends when everyone knows I’m Dudley’s favorite punching bag,” he says. “My friends would’ve been targets, and everyone knows it, so all the kids have always avoided me.”
That’s true enough, unfortunately. If she makes it home, the Dursleys have a reckoning coming. She slides her arm behind him around his waist and lays her head on his shoulder.
“Who do you think’s the target for this storm?” he asks in a wildly transparent subject change that she’s happy to allow.
“Draco and Blaise,” she’s almost certain. She’s torn on who she wants to win – she doesn’t want Blaise to die, but she doesn’t want her or Harry to have to kill him, either. “Blaise killed Pansy, so Draco is undoubtedly out for his blood. Foxface is the only other one left, and she’ll be holed up somewhere.”
“Foxface?” Harry asks, sounding amused. Katniss chuckles.
“That’s what I’ve been calling the girl from 5. Can’t remember her name,” she admits.
Hary huffs. “It’s Romilda Vane,” he says. Of course, he knows that. Harry seems to have a limitless capacity for noticing and remembering tiny details. Katniss just doesn’t care enough to hold on to information that isn’t immediately helpful to her survival.
It’s truly amazing how comfortable the silences are with Harry. She’s never met anyone before who’s as content with stillness as she is. The Weasley twins are quiet enough when they need to be, but the moment it won’t scare away game, they’re always trying to make her laugh. Sometimes it’s exhausting.
The patter of rain on the tarp is soothing. Harry is warm. His shoulder is surprisingly comfortable. She drifts off to sleep.
Harry
A sharp crack of thunder jolts Harry awake. Katniss slides off his shoulder a little then bolts upright herself. There’s no way of telling for sure how long they’ve been asleep with the storm hiding the sun, but he isn’t stiff from the awkward sleeping position, so it can’t have been too long.
“How long do you think they’ll keep this up?” Harry wonders aloud.
“Probably until someone else dies,” Katniss says logically.
A pressing need takes Harry out into the rain. Bathroom breaks are awkward enough in a tree without a storm to contend with. He has to be extra careful not to slip and fall to his death. Katniss takes her turn after him.
Back under the cover of the tarp, they make a lunch – or quite possibly a dinner, who knows – out of last night’s leftovers. The strange molasses pie is just as good cold as it was fresh-baked. The stew, on the other hand, is a bit congealed.
“I wonder if the Capitol food safety inspectors ever watch the Games,” Harry ponders after they’re finished.
Katniss gives him a confused look. “The Capitol has food safety inspectors?”
“Yeah, they’re always making surprise visits to the bakery, it drives Uncle Vernon mad.” Vernon usually takes it out on Harry. “I just wonder if the way everyone eats in the Hunger Games is like a horror show for them.”
Katniss laughs. “Yeah, the only thing scarier than kids dying is when they’re eating days-old food, right?” They keep up the idle conversation for a few minutes before lapsing into restful silence. Harry’s never really experienced boredom. Spending days at a time locked in a cupboard conditioned him to be content with his own thoughts.
Their mystery meal turns out to have been dinner after all when they hear the anthem playing a couple of hours later. Katniss is the one to poke her head out. “No deaths,” she informs him once she re-seals the tarp. Every egress is letting a little more water into their shelter. The accumulated detritus that makes up the floor is starting to smell musty.
“We should stay in the tent, it’s getting gross in here,” Harry says. Katniss seems reluctant, even tries to stop him from zipping the tent closed after they climb in. He raises a brow at her and she concedes without explanation. He thought she’d be eager to get out of the camera’s view, so he has no idea why she’s fidgeting more in here than out there, but doesn’t ask.
The humidity is no better in here, but at least it smells like sweat instead of rot. They stretch out on top of the two sleeping bags, more comfortable laying down than sitting with their heads brushing the top of the tent.
They should probably go back to sleep, but their nap earlier is throwing him off a bit. He pulls out his mother’s fleur-de-lis for something to do with his hands. Katniss notices. “Is that your token?” she asks softly.
Harry nods. For some reason, the question has tears pricking the corners of his eyes. “It was my mother’s,” he tells her.
She runs a finger over her mockingjay pin. “Susan gave me mine, after the Reaping,” she says.
“Susan Bones? The Mayor’s daughter?” Harry’s seen her sitting with Katniss at lunch on occasion. They never seemed like particularly close friends, but maybe he underestimated their bond if Susan gave Katniss her token.
“Yeah,” says Katniss. She doesn’t seem inclined to expand on it.
“Dudley gave me mine,” Harry says softly. “It’s probably the only nice thing he’s ever done for me. Maybe for anyone,” he smirks. She chuckles.
“Your cousin’s a right bastard,” says Katniss, “and your aunt and uncle are cunts for making you volunteer for him.”
Harry thinks about that for a moment. She’s not wrong, but… “I’m sort of glad they did. I never would’ve gotten the chance to talk to you otherwise.”
She turns on her side and props her head on her hand to look at him. “You think so?”
Harry copies her position. “I either would’ve lost my chance to keep you safe in the Games, and had to watch you die, or you would’ve come home a Victor and I really wouldn’t deserve you then.”
Katniss’s gray eyes are filled with sympathy. “You deserve everything,” she says, and leans in.
Harry never knew there were so many different ways to kiss. They’ve had passionate kisses, soft kisses, sensuous kisses, and now… this one is hard to describe. It’s packed with raw emotion. It’s desperate. It’s life-giving.
<SMUT WARNING STARTS>
Harry tries to keep his hips away from her, remembering his humiliation that morning, but Katniss is having none of it. She pushes him on his back and rolls on top of him. Her legs straddle his waist. Her warmth presses against him and he groans. She stills and pulls away.
“We should probably stop,” she says, her husky voice doing nothing to help his situation. She’s right though. They may not be on camera, but they’re definitely mic’d.
Still… “Do you want to stop?” he breathes. The intensity of her gaze is threatening to melt him through the floor.
“No,” she whispers, and starts kissing him again. And then rocking her hips. His rock up into hers automatically. The friction and the heat are making him dizzy. She’s panting into his mouth.
Her hips shift and she gasps, throwing her head back, pressing down harder. He moans and his lips find her neck, trailing kisses down to her clavicle, letting his tongue flick out to taste her sweat. It’s deliciously salty.
His hands slide to her hips, guiding her movements, and she lets out a low, breathy sound that he’s pretty sure is a good sign. She grips his shoulders and turns her face into his hair. He feels her lips graze his ear and his heart skips.
Her pace increases. He’s close. Too close. “Katniss, I–” he tries to warn her, but suddenly she’s shaking above him, her thighs gripping his hips, the most glorious expression of pleasure on her face, and he follows her over the edge.