Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

... Then he reads the list of past District 12 victors.

In seventy-four years, we have had exactly two. Only one is still alive.

Haymitch Abernathy, a paunchy, middle-aged man, who at this moment appears hollering something unintelligible, staggers onto the stage, and falls into the third chair. He’s drunk. Very.

The crowd responds with its token applause, but he’s confused and tries to give Effie Trinket a big hug, which she barely manages to fend off.

The mayor looks distressed. Since all of this is being televised, right now District 12 is the laughingstock of Panem, and he knows it.

He quickly tries to pull the attention back to the reaping by introducing Effie Trinket. Bright and bubbly as ever, Effie Trinket trots to the podium and gives her signature, “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!”

Her pink hair must be a wig because her curls have shifted slightly off-center since her encounter with Haymitch. She goes on a bit about what an honor it is to be here, although everyone knows she’s just aching to get bumped up to a better district where they have proper victors, not drunks who molest you in front of the entire nation.

Through the crowd, I spot Gale looking back at me with a ghost of a smile. As reapings go, this one at least has a slight entertainment factor. But suddenly I am thinking of Gale and his forty-two names in that big glass ball and how the odds are not in his favor. Not compared to a lot of the boys. And maybe he’s thinking the same thing about me because his face darkens and he turns away.

“But there are still thousands of slips,”

I wish I could whisper to him.

It’s time for the drawing. Effie Trinket says as she always does, “Ladies first!” and crosses to the glass ball with the girls’ names.

She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper.

Her fuscia claws don't seem much good for anything, and the piece of paper falls from her manicured clutches.

She huffs, this is not going to plan.

But she recovers herself and practically skewers another slip on one of her candy coloured talons.

The crowd draws in a collective breath and then you can hear a pin drop, and I’m feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it’s not me, that it’s not me, that it’s not me. Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice.

And it’s not me.

It’s Madge.

Chapter Text

My eyes dart around, quickly finding Madge's golden hair and white dress amongst the coal-dusted hand-me-downs of the Seam.

I can't see her face, but she seems frozen in her spot. The eyes of the entire district are turned towards her.

It's like this every year, I guess. I can't seem to clearly recall all the details of the past sixteen reapings I have attended. Before I turned eleven, I didn't pay attention. My father would hum a short melody on our way to the square. I would murmur it to myself quietly until the whole thing was over. After, I can only think of the hot flush in my cheeks, the deafening sound of my heartbeat, and the sickly sweat collecting on the back of my neck.

How could this have happened? I think.

She only had five slips. But no lack of tessarae, no blonde ringlets or golden mockingjays could have put the odds in her favour. 

I hear a commotion and my eyes dart back up to the stage where Mayor Undersee is standing, chair toppled behind him, his face drained of colour. 

His body leans towards Effie, as if to accost her, or take the slip from her hand and throw it back into the bowl. 

There's a reason why they keep the parents penned safely at the furthest edge of the square. Well behind the children and the stage.

One of the few reapings I do remember was a couple years back when a sickly eleven-year-old boy from the Seam was reaped. My mother had treated him, although there was not much she could do for him. His spine curved like the bent crabapple tree on the schoolyard. 

Despite the best efforts of the crowd, the boy's father jumped the flimsy barricade and pulled a knife from his coveralls. Maybe he wanted to save his son, maybe he just hoped to kill the boy before he could be taken. The peacekeepers shot him down before he had a chance.

A week later, his son was eviscerated in the opening blood bath of the games. 

Surprisingly, Haymich staggers to his feet and some of the stupor seems to drop from his grey eyes, which are suddenly serious. He puts a hand on Mayor Undersee's shoulder. It seems to bring the Mayor back to himself. There's nothing anyone can do, not even him.

Effie turns back to the crowd, clearly uncomfortable with her unexpected proximity to the Mayor's despair.

Madge has slowly moved through the crowd, towards the stage and stumbles on her way up the three plywood steps.

I think of Gale's anger this morning and start to feel sick because Madge does look beautiful in her white dress and gold pin. And she's going to die.

My eyes can't help but dart to Gale's face, expecting shock, maybe guilt? 

What I find instead is startling. I see his jaw is set hard as stone and his gaze is filled with the blank-eyed rage that usually only appears when we are deep in the woods. 

Suddenly, I am very scared about what he might do. Here, inside the fence, in a crowded square filled with children and swarming with peacekeepers.

Before I can think of a way to catch his attention, to distract or diffuse him, a high-pitched whine comes from the microphone on the stage, drawing my eyes yet again back to the front.

"Well," chirps Effie "We have a very special tribute I presume! Is this your daughter um... Mayor?" She asks. 

The Mayor is suspended. One arm grips Madge's shoulder while Haymitch restrains his other. It's a strange tableau. 

The Mayor is still stricken. Silent tears stream down Madge's face. But strangest of all is the intense look that Haymich has fixed on Madge. 

Usually, he seems too drunk to notice which of the district's children he will be accompanying to their death, but today he is transfixed. 

I can't blame him. 

If I can't stand to recall sixteen reapings, I can't imagine how he could handle forty, especially as a Mentor. 

Suddenly, Madge straightens herself, gently clasps her father's hand in hers and brings it to rest on his side. She wipes her tears and straightens her pin and looks at Effie with loathing.

"Yes." She almost spits, "I'm the Mayor's Daughter." 

"How lovely!" Effie says with a maniacal grin "Anyways, onto the boys!" 

Her stupid, hateful, yellow heels patter over to the second bowl while I try to catch Madge's eye.

And suddenly, before I even have a chance to wish for Gale's safety, Effie's reading the name.

Peeta Mellark 

Chapter Text

Oh no, I think. Not him.

Because I recognize this name, although I have never spoken directly to its owner. Peeta Mellark.

I watch him as he makes his way toward the stage. Medium height, stocky build, ashy blond hair that falls in waves over his forehead. The shock of the moment is registering on his face, you can see his struggle to remain emotionless, but his blue eyes show the alarm I’ve seen so often in prey.

Yet he climbs steadily onto the stage and takes his place. Why him? I think. Then I try to convince myself it doesn’t matter. Peeta Mellark and I are not friends. Not even neighbors. We don’t speak. Our only real interaction happened years ago.

He’s probably forgotten it. But I haven’t and I know I never will. . . . It was during the worst time.

My father had been killed in the mine accident three months earlier in the bitterest January anyone could remember.The district had given us a small amount of money as compensation for his death, enough to cover one month of grieving at which time my mother would be expected to get a job.

Only she didn’t.

She didn’t do anything but sit propped up in a chair or, more often, huddled under the blankets on her bed, eyes fixed on some point in the distance. No amount of pleading from Prim seemed to affect her. I was terrified. I suppose now that my mother was locked in some dark world of sadness, but at the time, all I knew was that I had lost not only a father, but a mother as well.

At eleven years old, with Prim just seven, I took over as head of the family. 

On the afternoon of my encounter with Peeta Mellark, the rain was falling in relentless icy sheets. I had been in town, trying to trade some threadbare old baby clothes of Prim’s in the public market, but there were no takers. For three days, we’d had nothing but boiled water with some old dried mint leaves I’d found in the back of a cupboard.

When I passed the baker’s, the smell of fresh bread was so overwhelming I felt dizzy. I stood mesmerized by the heat and the luscious scent until the rain interfered, running its icy fingers down my back, forcing me back to life. I lifted the lid to the baker’s trash bin and found it spotlessly, heartlessly bare.

Suddenly, a voice was screaming at me and I looked up to see the baker’s wife, telling me to move on and did I want her to call the Peacekeepers and how sick she was of having those brats from the Seam pawing through her trash. The words were ugly and I had no defense.

As I carefully replaced the lid and backed away, I noticed him, a boy with blond hair peering out from behind his mother’s back. I’d seen him at school. He was in my year, but I didn’t know his name. He stuck with the town kids, so how would I? His mother went back into the bakery, grumbling, but he must have been watching me as I made my way behind the pen that held their pig and leaned against the far side of an old apple tree. The realization that I’d have nothing to take home had finally sunk in.

My knees buckled and I slid down the tree trunk to its roots. It was too much. I was too sick and weak and tired, oh, so tired. Let them call the Peacekeepers and take us to the community home, I thought. Or better yet, let me die right here in the rain.

There was a clatter in the bakery and I heard the woman screaming again and the sound of a blow, and I vaguely wondered what was going on. Feet sloshed toward me through the mud and I thought, It’s her. She’s coming to drive me away with a stick.

But it wasn’t her.

It was the boy.

In his arms, he carried two large loaves of bread that must have fallen into the fire because the crusts were scorched black.

His mother was yelling, “Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!”

The boy never even glanced my way, but I was watching him. Because of the bread, because of the red weal that stood out on his cheekbone. What had she hit him with?

The boy took one look back to the bakery as if checking that the coast was clear, then, his attention back on the pig, he threw a loaf of bread in my direction. The second quickly followed, and he sloshed back to the bakery, closing the kitchen door tightly behind him. I stared at the loaves in disbelief.

They were fine, perfect really, except for the burned areas.

Did he mean for me to have them? He must have. Because there they were at my feet.

It didn’t occur to me until the next morning that the boy might have burned the bread on purpose. Might have dropped the loaves into the flames, knowing it meant being punished, and then delivered them to me.

At school, I passed the boy in the hall, his cheek had swelled up and his eye had blackened. He was with his friends and didn’t acknowledge me in any way. But as I collected Prim and started for home that afternoon, I found him staring at me from across the school yard.

Our eyes met for only a second, then he turned his head away. I dropped my gaze, embarrassed, and that’s when I saw it. The first dandelion of the year. A bell went off in my head. I thought of the hours spent in the woods with my father and I knew how we were going to survive. 

To this day, I can never shake the connection between this boy, Peeta Mellark, and the bread that gave me hope, and the dandelion that reminded me that I was not doomed. And more than once, I have turned in the school hallway and caught his eyes trained on me, only to quickly flit away.

I feel like I owe him something, and I hate owing people. Maybe if I had thanked him at some point, I’d be feeling less conflicted now. I thought about it a couple of times, but the opportunity never seemed to present itself. And now it never will. Because he's going to be thrown into an arena to fight to the death. 

Chapter Text

I shake the weight of the memories of bread and dandelions from my mind and try to focus.

Because there seems to be something happening on the boy's side. People are parting not just for Peeta but for another figure. 

My stomach drops and my breath catches because I know who it is. 

Gale moves through the crowd with clenched fists, tracking a path straight towards Peeta.

I can't stop my lips from forming his name, because the look on his face is all too familiar. It is reserved for the deepest of his rages.

After a particularly bad reaping, one where a seam kid from our street is chosen. Or a particularly gruesome broadcast of the games. Or after tessarae sign-up. 

In the woods, I would just let him vent while I pick at clumps of dirt, braid grass, or sharpen the tips of our arrows. But this time, we are not safely in the woods. This time, Gale's rebellious talk seems to be calcifying into real irrevocable action. 

The peacekeepers snap their guns to attention and train them on Gale, but before they can fire, Gale shoves Peeta aside without even looking at him. 

"I volunteer," he growls. 

I think I start to fall because someone behind me presses my shoulders, and I try to quell the panic that is rising in me. I let out a strangled sound at the back of my throat, watching as Gale mounts the stage and takes his place next to Madge.

"Lovely," says Effie nervously, "But I think there's a protocol ..."

"What does it matter?" barks Hayitch. "Let him up." 

"Well, well, well," trills Effie, "Isn't this exciting! Let's give a round of applause for this year's tributes!"

To the everlasting credit of the people of District Twelve, nobody claps. 

The Mayor begins the Treaty of Treason in a tremulous voice, and I gaze up at Gale and Madge, realizing that the only two friends I have ever had are going to die. I kick myself for coming to rely on Gale's friendship so much, and I kick myself for not realizing Madge's before this moment. 

I try to catch Gale's eye, but he stares icily forward, eyes glaring above the crowd. The fire behind his eyes is unmistakable, and I try to grasp what would make him do this. Why would he leave his family, leave me, to volunteer for Peeta Mellark of all people? 

Then suddenly the anthem is playing, and Gale and Madge are being ushered off the stage into the Justice Building by peacekeepers. The crowd begins to empty. A couple of people cast pitying glances my way as they leave. Leevy touches my arm as she passes and gives it a reassuring squeeze. Delly gives me a teary nod. Girls I recognize from school whisper to each other as they pass me. Prim has found me in the crowd, and I envelop her in a crushing hug. Her first reaping has been terrible. 

"Let's go," I say, and we bound off towards the steps of the Justice Building, where a small crowd of the tributes' friends and family are gathering. Hazelle looks shocked, her arms curled around a screaming Posy. Greasy Sae has an arm around each of Gale's brothers. She knew Gale, and I'm thankful she stuck around. My mother hovered beside them, looking pale and nervous. 

Vick twists himself out of Sae's arm and takes off at a sprint towards us. 

"Katniss!" He yells, "Katniss, can you get your bow? We can save him, I know we can save him, maybe we can get him to the woods-" I whip my head around to see who heard this desperate, but no less treasonous, outburst, but the only peacekeeper in earshot is Darius. He's a local one, not one of the many who arrive just for reaping day from District Two. He frequents the Hob, and Gale and I have an easy rapport with him. He shoots me a sympathetic look and turns away.

"Vick," I say, "We can't. I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do." I try to sound as comforting as I can, but my voice cracks and betrayal blooms in Vick's eyes. Before I can stop him, he's running around me. I snap around, ready to chase him before he can get himself killed like his reckless, stupid, selfish, older brother, but Vick smacks straight into the stocky frame of Peeta Mellark. 

My eyes dart up to meet his, and it's immediately clear he's been crying. He scoops up Vick easily and silently carries his kicking, desperate body back to Hazelle. Prim and I follow close behind. The peacekeepers still patrol around the square but none of them seem too concerned about this commotion. I guess it must be normal for friends and family to have some sort of reaction after the reaping. I've never stayed in the square long enough to find out.

Hazelle hands Posy to Shae and seizes Vick by his heaving shoulders. "Stop it now," she hisses at him. "The peacekeepers will kill you. They will kill you, and kill me, and kill Posy and Rory. Do you understand?" Vick continues to cry, but his anger is deflating. "Do you understand?" she says, shaking his shoulders, and he nods. Hazelle embraces Vick, her eyes still trained on the door to the Justice building. 

I see now how Hazelle was able to keep not two but four kids alive. She's strong and determined to stay alive. 

I can't help but glance at my own mother. Prim goes over to her and embraces her, and when she doesn't immediately reciprocate, I realize the look on her face is an all-too-familiar distant stare. She looks a million miles away and I can't shake the feeling that she's somewhere far in the past. Maybe it's just because we're about to go into the Justice Building for the first time since our family, Gale's, and a handful of others accepted medals for our fathers' sacrifice in the mines. 

"Mom." I snap at her, and she starts. She looks from me to Prim and wraps one arm around her, opening the other towards me. I shrug away from her touch. "We have to go," I say. 

Our small flock makes the short journey up the stairs to the Justice Building. The peacekeepers open the heavy wooden doors, their rusty hinges creaking in protest, and I can smell the musty wallpapered interior. I am about to step over the threshold of the doors when the panic of being back in this place wells up inside me, crushing me from the inside. I take a step back, tempted to make a run for the woods, and bump into Peeta. What is he still doing here, I think. 

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, not meeting my eye.

"You should go home," I tell him. If I could, I would. He's escaped the noose of the Games by the skin of his teeth. He should be with his family, celebrating his miraculous turn of fate. 

"I can't," he says in a choked voice, "I have to thank him."

I simply nod as the boy with the bread adds another knot to my stomach. Because I know what it is to owe someone your life, and unlike Peeta, I was too much of a coward to even say thank you.

I swallow my guilt, deciding I will have time after I say my goodbyes to deal with how I feel about Peeta Mellark. 

Chapter Text

The peacekeepers direct us to two doors.

Each door has two guards on either side.

Hazelle and the kids rush to the door they are directed to and are let inside after being told sternly that they will have only ten minutes with Gale.

Prim, my mother, Sae, Peeta and I all wait outside.

Now that the panic of being here is subsiding, my mind starts to race. Gale and made a pact that if one of us were to get reaped for the Games, the other would continue hunting for both our families.

I realize that while Gale may have been able to do so if I had been reaped, it won't be so simple for me. Being 18 and male, he's big and strong enough to haul larger game out of the woods by himself. But despite building years of wiry strength, my frame is still too small to carry the weight of a deer on my own. How am I going to feed not three but eight people? Even with my mother's healing work, Prim's goat, and Hazelle's washing it will be a struggle. 

If I have to rely on small game, it will be even harder. I might be able to bring Rory out with me into the woods. It might be the only way both our families will survive Gale's death.

Before I can fully contemplate the fact that I am preparing for my best friend's demise, the peacekeepers open Madge's door and the hallway is filled with piercing wails.

A blonde woman, who I assume must be Madge's mother, is hauled from the room. Her screams are guttural, and she claws and the peacekeepers who are pulling her away from her daughter. 

Despite being the Mayor's wife, and presumably having more than enough to eat, she is almost as skinny as some of the poorest women from the Seam. Her temples and cheeks are hollow, and her eyes seem too large. Madge mentioned her horrible headaches, and the medicine her father is sometimes able to get from the Capitol, but I didn't realize how sick her mother has been.  

The Mayor emerges from the room after his wife, looking more tired than I have ever seen him. Mrs. Undersee collapses in the middle of the hall in a cacophony of sobs.

My mother makes a noise, and I see the gauzy look of grief in her eyes again. She shakes herself out of it, and to my surprise, swiftly kneels beside the crumpled woman. 

"Marilee," she says gently, "Marilee, it's me, Asterid." 

Mrs. Undersee looks up. Her large eyes gleam with tears and an unnatural light, like someone with a terrible fever. She grasps my mother's outstretched hands like a vice and groans.

"It's happening again," she slurs, then she clutches her head as if in terrible agony and flops into my mother's lap, unconscious. 

The mayor slips something into the hand of one of the peacekeepers who pulled his wife into the hall, and the man helps him scoop her up and carry her towards the doors.

My mother looks back at Prim and me. "I'm going to go with her," she says. I never realized my mother knew Madge's. Now that I think of it, they must be around the same age, and my mother did live in town after all. 

"Prim, why don't you go with her?" I say, "You can run home and get mother what she needs." 

"It's okay, Katniss," she protests, "I can wait for you."

"I'm fine, little duck," I reassure her. "It's been a hard day, and Sae and I will walk the Hawthornes home."

Greasy Sae grumbles her assent, and Prim narrows her blue eyes at me.

"You sure?" she asks.

"Absolutely," I say. 

If there's one thing I know how to do, it's putting on a brave face for my sister.

My mother and Prim walk out with the Mayor, and I sigh. At least now I can focus on Madge and Gale without worrying about Prim. 

Gale's family is still inside with him, so I decide I'll go to Madge first.  

Surprisingly, for a girl whose family is so important in the district, she has nobody else waiting to say their goodbyes.

I look at the remaining peacekeeper by the door and gesture my intent to go inside.

"Ten minutes," he barks.

I nod and push open the door. 

Madge is sitting on a small velvet couch with her head hung. This is the only place in District Twelve that even approaches luxury, and it's still grimy. The carpet is frayed, the windows clouded with coal dust, and the wallpaper faded to a yellowish-brown.

Madge looks almost as white as her dress, and I realize I have no idea what I came in here to say. Thanks for sitting with me at lunch. I'm sorry you're going to die. That's awful. I've never been any good with my words, but I'm not going to let another person go without thanks from me ever again. 

I hear Madge's breath hitch, her shoulders shake, and I take a step forward, ready to comfort her. But when she looks up at me, I see that she's heaving with silent, manic laughter. 

"I guess the odds really aren't in my favour," she manages to say. 

And for some reason, the tension, maybe, I start to laugh too. "At least you look your best," I say.

I sit next to her on the couch, and we stare at the door.

Her breath calms, and she turns to me and asks, "How's my mother?"  

"She's ... upset," I say, "But my mother's with her now. She and Prim will take good care of her."

Madge nods, "They were friends, you know."

But I don't know. My mother has never mentioned the Mayor, or his wife, or anything much about her life before she left her family's apothecary for the Seam.

Madge continues, "They all were. My mother, my aunt Maysilee, and your mom. My aunt was reaped too. The same year that Haymitch won. This was her's"

And she gestures to the gold pin that Gale sneered at this morning. 

"I didn't know that," I say finally. 

"I guess my family is just unlucky," She says.

Now she is crying. Tears stream down her face, landing on the white lace in her lap. 

"Katniss?" she says.

"Yeah?" I say.

"Got any advice?" she asks, her voice thin.

My mind flips through years of experience in the woods. Flitting through information on edible roots, poisonous berries, snares, dangerous animals, and water sources.  But there's nothing I can teach her in five minutes. Nothing that I can give to her without months of practice. 

All I can think to say is, "You're smart. You have to be smarter than them." 

Madge nods. Impulsively, I take her hand in mine and she clings to it. We spend the rest of our time as we do at school, seated next to each other in silence. 

The peacekeeper raps harshly on the door, letting us know our time is almost finished.

Madge and I turn to each other, and I say, without thinking, "Thank you. Thank you for being my friend."

The door is opening.

Madge gives me a quick kiss on the cheek before I am ushered from the room. 

Chapter Text

I stand in the hall as Madge's door closes with finality behind me.

Suddenly, I regret telling Prim to go with our mother because the thought of waiting to say another wrenching goodbye without anyone to steady me seems impossible.

I remind myself that I am not the tribute. I have been spared, at least for another year, and I have to be there for Gale. 

Hazelle and the kids are already back in the hall. Posy is fussing, the boys look exhausted, and Hazelle is pale, but calm. I guess with 42 slips she may have secretly been preparing for this for years. 

Still, being reaped is one thing. Nothing anyone can do about that. Nobody ever volunteers in Twelve. 

Only careers from Districts One, Two, and Four regularly volunteer for the Games.

For kids who are not starving, who are fit, strong, and well-fed, the Games is the ultimate opportunity for fame and fortune. A life outside of the district must be tantalizing if you actually have a chance in hell at winning.

But not for us, not for poor kids from the poorest part of the poorest district. What was he thinking? 

My stomach churns with rage. Rage at the Games. Rage at the Capitol. Rage at Gale. Because I can’t understand why he would volunteer.

I don’t think I could do it, not for anyone. Well, except maybe Prim. 

I force my mind to abandon this line of thinking before I start screaming and force myself to walk towards the others. 

"Can I go in now?" I ask Sae, grateful she’s stuck around. 

She shakes her head, "The baker's boy is in with him now.” 

And again, I am in Peeta Mellark’s debt, because he has given me a couple extra minutes to consider what I am going to say to Gale. 

In many ways, what Gale and I have is more fundamental than friendship. We are partners. We are essential to each other’s survival and sanity. 

My mind flips rapidly between memories of us, mostly in the woods, but I cannot coalesce the past four years into words.

Even if I could, Gale’s door is opening and Peeta emerges. I freeze before commanding my legs to carry me forward. When we cross paths, his blue eyes do not meet mine.

Before I’m ready, I’m stepping inside. And suddenly, I’m in Gale’s arms. There’s never been anything romantic between us, but nonetheless his body is as familiar to me as my own.

“Hey Catnip,” he mumbles into my hair.

I hold on tight, trying to squeeze into him all the things I will never be able to say. 

We stay there for a moment before Gale pulls away, holding me by my shoulders.

My eyes must ask the only question that there is to ask. 

“Katniss.” His tone is pleading, “You have to understand. Nobody else will.” 

“I’m trying to, Gale, but … I just can’t” I say. 

“I am so angry, Katniss.”

He releases me from his grasp and starts to pace the small carpeted room like a cornered animal. 

“You were right this morning when you said that we can’t have kids, not here. There’s no future for us, for anyone. I’m almost eighteen and what then? I work like a dog in the mines until I get injured, or my lungs give out, or I get blown up like our fathers.” 

He’s yelling now, his grey eyes almost electric with rage and panic. 

“And no matter what we do, our families will never be safe. Nobody is safe, Katniss. I realized that if Madge can get reaped there’s no thing as safety in this godforsaken district. Five slips? Five slips! It could have been anyone, it could have been Prim.” 

I wince, even the thought of Prim’s name coming out of Effie Trinket’s mouth hits me like a blow. 

“Don’t you see, the Careers might be onto something.It won’t be hard to get my hands on a a knife, or better yet, a bow.” 

Now I fear he may have gone completely insane because the only people Gale hates almost as much as the Capitol are the Careers. 

His hurried rant drops to a husky whisper.

”I might win. But even if I can’t, I can do something else. Something to really change things. Start something bigger, make them see we need to fight back. If I stay here, all I will ever do is scream in the woods where nobody’s listening.”

“Gale,” I say, warningly, “I was listening.”

“We can’t let them keep killing us, Katniss. This is my chance.”

I don’t know what his volunteering is going to do about that, but I guess he’s going to try something. I never understood his snares but he’s got himself tangled in one right now by the looks of it and there’s no going back. 

”I understand,” I say. “If anyone can do it, Gale, it’s you. But how - “

And too soon the Peacekeepers are here. For a sickening second Gale grabs my arm. All the flames have drained from his eyes and he no longer looks like an impassioned rebel, or even a confident hunter, he’s a terrified teenage boy who has sealed his own fate. 

“Don’t let them starve!” he cries.

”I won’t, Gale you know I won’t.” I reply. 

And then the Peacekeepers are wrenching us apart 

“Katniss remember I - “ is all Gale can say before the door slams between us.

And I will never know what he wanted me to remember. 

Chapter Text

Back in our home in the Seam, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. Could it be that just this morning Gale and I were eating blackberries in the woods? It seems impossible.

Sae and I walked Hazelle and the kids back from the Justice Building. Peeta was already gone. 

When we got to their house I cleared my throat.

“Hazelle, Gale and I had a pact. I’ll bring game, same as usual, ok?” 

She squeezes my hand. And smiles ruefully. “Thank you Katniss.”

And now, here I am, thinking about exactly how I’m going to keep this promise.

I feel like I am eleven again. My father, dead, my mother, unreachable. The entire weight of the survival of everyone I love placed straight on my shoulders. 

Now, if I fail my mother, and Prim will starve to death and Hazelle, Vick, Rory, and little Posy along with us. 

I remind myself that Gale and Madge are on a Capitol train flying towards a deadly arena filled with horrors.

I will not fail. 

“Katniss?” Prim calls from the other side of the door, “Stew’s ready.” I take a deep breath, but before I can answer, she slips softly into the room.

She approaches me like she would a wounded animal, slowly, until she’s perched by the bed.

I think of her fear this morning and push myself up to sitting. I can’t afford to wallow in this feeling. 

”Hi little duck.” I say in the warmest tone I can imaging.

“I’m sorry about Gale,” she murmurs, “and Madge.”

”I know,” I say, my tone grim. 

“He can win,” she says, feigning confidence, “I know he can. He’s strong, he can hunt…” I smile like I believe her.

”If anyone could, it would be Gale.” she continues, but if she keeps going like this I might cry. So, instead I just say, “Let’s go eat.” and heave myself off the bed.

The three of us gather solemnly around the small kitchen table.

Silently, I break tough pieces of tessarae bread, dunking them into the stew slowly.

I hope the small bites might allow my appetite to overcome my nausea. I will not let a good stew go to waste, not now. 

I think of Gale again, somewhere on a train. I hope he can at least enjoy the food.

Rap, Rap, Rap.

The gentle knock brings me back to myself. 

”Who could that be?” my mother mumbles, as Prim rises to answer the door. 

I think it must be Vic or Rory, but I am surprised to find Peeta on the other side of the door.

He’s carrying a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth.

My mind springs back to the smell of rain, the feeling of emptiness.

”Hello, Prim, right?” She nods.

”I’m Peeta Mellark, my family runs the Bakery. His voice is steady, but it lacks the jovial quality that makes him so popular at school.

”I brought some bread to the Hawthornes. I wanted to bring some to you, too.”

He looks down at his feet, but I know his next comment is directed at me.

”I know you and Gale were close, and I want you to know, I’ll do everything I can to take care of the people he loves.”

His eyes flit up to my face, then dart away just as fast, as they have many times on the schoolyard. ”Including you.”

I don’t know why, but my cheeks burn. All I can manage to say is, “Thanks.” 

“That was very kind of you.” My mother adds.

Prim, ever the kindest one in the room, asks “Do you want to come in for some stew Peeta?” 

The ghost of a smile flashes on his lips. ”Thank you, but I should be going.” 

He nods to my mother, and quickly ducks back out of our shabby home. 

My eyes go back to my stew. I don’t want Peeta’s charity, and what did he mean about taking care of us? I know Gale and I are close but I’m not sure love is the right word to describe how we feel about each other. 

I can feel the weight of my family’s eyes on me, and know they have questions. “Why did Gale want to save that boy?” Prim asks haltingly. 

“He didn’t.” I reply, “It wasn’t about Peeta. He thinks he can change something.” I say with more venom than I intended.

My mother’s face contorts in worry. “That won’t go well for him,” she says, “or his family back here in Twelve.” 

Now that Madge has told me about her aunt, I realize that my mother probably knows exactly what I’m going through. And maybe even a little of what Gale is about to go through. 

For the very first time I consider that my father’s death may not have been the only tragedy that left my mother immobile for months while we starved. 

Then, an even scarier thought, perhaps Gale’s volunteering is the first step in me becoming like her. 

I think of Darius’ look in the square, The way Leevy and Delly acted, and now Peeta bringing the bread. Even the way my mother and Prim are treating me. They are all waiting for me to fall apart like my mother did when my father died. 

Gale and I were so close a lot of the others in school assumed we must be going steady. Apparently hunting and keeping our families alive was not a good enough reason for the amount of time we spent together. 

I decide to prove everyone’s assumptions wrong. I will throw myself into my Hunting duties with a vengeance and keep two families alive. I will not betray my friends and wallow in a world of shadow. 

I abandon my tiny bites of tessarae, instead downing the stew in my bowl with gusto.

I must do what I always have, survive. 

Chapter Text

The next day, I wake up well before dawn. I couldn’t sleep much anyways, and I might as well get a head start on hunting.

I kept dreaming of pink polished hands skimming through the slips in the reaping bowl. All of them read Katniss, Primrose, or Madge. Each time, I would wake with a start just as Effie’s lips started to form a name. 

I creep out of the house as silently as possible, taking a slice of the rich bakery bread along with me for my pitch black march to the woods. It’s aa good as I rember it being the very first time Peeta gave us some. I decide not to think about it, not now. 

The snares Gale set yesterday are flush with rabbits, as usual. I do my best to try to replicate his handiwork as I reset them but I know it won’t be quite as good. I haven’t even attempted to set our snares since one particularly cold winter when Gale caught pneumonia. In the two and a half weeks it took him to recover from a painful crackling cough I tried unsuccessfully to manage the snare lines myself. 

I was so proud when I got my first full belt of squirrels I ran straight back to Gale’s to show him. When I pulled them out of the game bag he tried to set his features into a scowl, but I could see he was suppressing a laugh. 

“What?” I spat at him. “You’re just mad that I can make it just fine without a partner.” I said, chin high. 

I huffed out of his house dramatically, but not without leaving his share of the squirrels. 

Rory told me the next day at school that Gale snuck out of the house one night to reset my terrible snares and that he bribed him not to tell. 

When I confronted Gale he could not stop laughing. “Just stick to shooting, Catnip” he told me. 

Then it was my turn to try to scowl, but it really was funny. For his trouble, he spent an extra couple days stuck in bed, so he got what was coming to him. 

I curse myself for growing so complacent with our arrangement, but I have little time to waste on regret. I learned to hunt without Gale’s help, I’m sure my snares will improve in his absence. Now, I must focus on what I’m best at - shooting. 

In the stillness that comes just before dawn, the forest begins to come alive. I take my shot of squirrels and even manage to get a wild turkey that seemed too sleepy to care. Like always, my arrow has pierced them right in the eye. 

I stay in the woods until the sun has fully risen and I absolutely must leave. Hastily stashing my bow before scurrying back under the fence. I drop off a couple of rabbits with Hazelle, who is already awake and washing.

”I’m going to keep the boys back from school today,” she says quietly. “None of us slept well … and I’m not sure what Vick might say.” 

I nod and ask her to make a list of things she’ll need me to trade for. I’ll come back to get it after school. There’s mandatory viewing tonight, so I probably won’t be able to get to the Hob until tomorrow, but I promise to get her everything she needs soon. 

I end up running the rest of the way to our house. I’m there just long enough to hand my mother the rest of the game, peel off my hunting jacket, and grab my lunchpail and books from Prim, before we hurry to the schoolyard.

In class, Madge’s absence is immediate and painful. I take my seat at the scratched wood veneer desk we share and place my books on her side so it doesn’t seem so horribly empty. 

I can sense the class taking me in, looking out of the corners of their eyes. Usually people ignore me, and the increased scrutiny makes me feel uncomfortable, so I force my face into its usual neutral scowl and wait for our teacher to start the day’s mind numbing lessons. 

She begins droning on about coal byproducts. I try to focus, I try to take notes, but I am strangely aware of Peeta’s presence in the classroom. His seat next to another boy from town is in my far periphery. I keep my eyes glued forward and convince myself I am imagining the weight of his gaze on my neck. 

Mercifully, when I am just about to lose my mind, the bell rings. Break time. 

I grab my lunchpail and dart out of the classroom before anyone can stop me. When I get onto the schoolyard, I realize the next problem. I once again have nobody to sit with. 

Instead of waiting around the picnic tables where we usually gather in the warmer months, I march to the edge of the yard and sit beneath a scraggly tree hoping the shade and the distance will dissuade any of the well meaning Delly-types from coming to comfort me. 

I take a deep breath and focus on the clumps of dirt at my feet. The next couple of weeks are going to be torturous. Not only the mandatory viewing of my friends fighting for their lives every night but the constant surveillance from my classmates at school.

I look back up at the group and find Peeta looking over. His eyes hold longer on me this time than they usually do, so I look away quickly. Heat rising to my face.

What does he want? I think angrily. What sort of game is he playing at? 

He didn’t know Gale and he doesn’t know me. He should be as happy as a pig saved from the slaughterhouse, not casting furtive glances and acting contrite. Maybe he just likes the attention, or the sympathy from the others for having been reaped. Maybe this is all a ploy to make me feel guilty for the bread. I know I’m being ugly and uncharitable, but nonetheless, in this moment I despise Peeta Mellark.

But why? I think.

Does some gnarled part of me wish it was him in the games instead of Gale? No, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, certainly not Peeta. Do I blame him for Gale’s going to the games? How could I? Once Gale had volunteered there was nothing anyone, not even Peeta, could do. 

Besides, without Peeta, I would be dead. My mother and Prim would be dead. If Peeta had not thrown me that bread I would have died in the rain. If Peeta had never picked that dandelion, I would never have gone to the woods. If I hadn’t gone to the woods I would never have retrieved my father’s bows. I would never have learned how to hunt. I would never had met Gale, or given him one of my precious weapons. If Gale and I had not joined our efforts all it would have taken was one bout of pneumonia for one of our families to starve.  In all likelihood, Peeta’s actions didn’t just save me and my family but Gale and his as well. 

And Peeta, not knowing that in many ways Gale’s actions had actually settled a debt, made sure to thank him. To bring bread to Hazelle, to bring bread to me. 

That’s when I realize I’m not really mad at Peeta at all. I’m mad at myself for being such a disgusting coward. Peeta was only eleven when he took a beating for me. And half a decade later I still haven’t thanked him. No wonder I often look up and find him staring. He’s probably looking at me wondering how horrible I must be for not even having the courage to speak to him after he saved my life. 

Shame is not a strong enough word for the feeling that washes over me now. I stand up, certain that I must go over and thank him right then and there in front of everyone. But the bell rings again, signalling the end of lunch, and my bout of courage. 

Chapter Text

After school, I race back to the Seam. I trade my books for my game bag and pack it full of the extra game, some herbs from the woods my mother has dried, and one of Prim’s goat cheeses. 

On the way to the Hob, I swing by Hazelle’s again to get her list. She presses a couple coins in my hand and smiles sadly. This time, Rory and Vick are awake and I wave to them through the open window. The list isn’t long, the usual stuff Gale trades for; Lye for the washing, tallow for Hazelle’s hands, clothespins, and thread. I’m not sure how I’ll be able to afford all of this, plus the bandages, paraffin, and salt my mother needs, but I’l try.

I try to focus on the task at hand. I need to get to the Hob, make my trades, and get home before tonight’s mandatory viewing of the opening ceremony. But I can’t help the anxiety that thrums through me at the thought of seeing Gale and Madge on the television screen.

Focus. I take a breath and walk into the bustling market.

Back when my father first died I was terrified of this place, now its familiar coal-streaked frame is a comfort. I know the people inside and they know me. After years of making my own trades I know how to drive a bargain and when to cut someone a break. 

My first stop is Greasy Sae’s stall. I may not have the nerve to thank Peeta but I can thank Sae. I slide up to her counter and pass her a squirrel, on the house. In the Hob, saying thanks is that easy. 

“How’s Hazelle?” she asks me.

”Holding up,” I say. 

Sae nods, “She’s a tough one.”

Sae stirs her large bubbling vat of “venison” stew and adds, “What about you, girl? Holdin’ up?”

I swallow hard. I don’t know exactly what to say. I don’t know exactly how I feel. So I just say, “I’m holding up too.”

And there’s not much more for us to say. I bid Sae goodbye, and I promise to bring her some wild turkey next time I shoot some. Now I have to get to my trades. 

Rooba takes the spiced herbs off my hands in exchange for some tallow. I see Darius and he buys two of my fattest squirrels. I use the coins to buy the lye and clothespins from a wrinkled old woman’s stall. Leevy’s mother sells odds and ends her husband manages to smuggle up from the mines. I trade her one of Prim’s cheeses for Capitol-issue bandages and some paraffin. I’ll have to get the thread later

All considered, I made excellent trades today. Perhaps too excellent. I start to wonder if the Hob regulars were cutting me deals out of pity. I look at my meager haul and think, better not get used to it. Charity only goes so far in Twelve, and I can’t start to rely on it.

I’m taking my time wandering back home. I know I need to be back soon, but my legs feel like lead. The thought of actually seeing Madge and Gale all dressed up in the Capitol makes my stomach turn. For the opening ceremonies tributes are forced into humiliating costumes meant to represent their district and pulled around in chariots. 

One year our tributes were paraded around the Capitol stark naked and covered in coal dust. For my friends’ sake, and my own, I hope this year’s stylist doesn’t think nudity is the final word in fashion.

I am so preoccupied with thoughts of horses, lit headlamps, and tributes past that I almost don’t hear Peeta coming. His tread is heavy, so I notice him before he sees me. He’s leaving my neighbourhood headed back towards the square. I side-step into a scraggly bunch of trees that completely obscure my presence in the twilight. 

A blonde town kid in the Seam twice in two days? It must be some kind of record, perhaps one currently held by my mother. I have exactly two guesses as to where he’s coming from. 

I’m very tempted to stay hidden, but this is too perfect of a chance to pass up. I grit my teeth, step into the fading light, and clear my throat. 

Peeta whips around, startled. His posture softens when he see’s it’s just me. “Katniss,” he says. “Jeez, you’re quiet.” he shakes his head with an awkward chuckle. 

“Sorry,” I say, “Gotta surprise the deer somehow.” He looks at me like he’s debating saying something else, but I have to get this out before I lose the nerve. 

“Thank you, Peeta.” He looks as surprised as when I snuck up on him. “Thank you for the bread.”

”Oh, It was nothing, I was bringing some to Gale’s family and well, I just …”

”No,” I say, “Not that bread.”

”The bread? What? You mean the one from when we were kids?” he says. 

“Yes. I’m sorry I never thanked you. I’m so sorry.” It’s probably just the pent up emotions of the past couple of days but my voice breaks and I am in real danger of crying. 

It only takes Peeta one step to cross the distance between us. His hand hovers above my shoulder, like a bird scared to land. He just pats my arm gently. My eyes meet his kind blue ones and I really can’t believe how much I hated him just this morning. 

”There’s nothing to thank me for Katniss, and there’s nothing to apologize for either.” 

I don’t trust myself to speak, but I manage a curt nod. Peeta smiles at me and I find myself smiling back. Before I can revel in the weightless feeling of relief I feel, Peeta’s expression darkens. The mandatory viewing! 

“We need to go,” he says “Or else we’ll be late.” We turn and rush our separate ways home.



 

Chapter Text

I’m barely in the door before I hear the anthem begin. 

“Katnisssss,” Prim hisses, “you’re almost late!” She takes my game bag from me and rushes back into the kitchen. My mother shoots me a look, she invited Hazelle and the kids over to watch with us so they wouldn’t have to be alone, and I am cutting it precariously close. 

“I’m sorry.” I say to nobody in particular. Hazelle, Rory and Vick are glued to the small staticky district-issue television that my mother has pulled out from a cupboard. Prim is clearly on Posy duty, the little rascal is terrorizing Buttercup, which I approve of immensely.

I go to wash my hands in the sink, where my mother is filling the kettle for tea. Her normally steady hands are shaky and I can tell she’s trying to keep them busy. The games are never pleasant, but this year is sure to be especially heinous for all of us. 

Claudius Templesmith and Caesar Flickerman’s babbling commentary that precedes the ceremony is interrupted by two sharp cracks at the door. This time, I answer it to find that Head Peacekeeper Cray has made a house call. 

“Hello folks,” he says with false friendliness, “Just doin’ our rounds for the mandatory viewing.” he drawls in his District Two cadence. Cray’s overall permissiveness does not stop him from being universally reviled in the District, not only because of his uniform, but because of his habit of luring starving women from the Seam into his bed for money. 

I open the door wide so he can see everyone inside, the television clearly on, and everyone gathered appropriately around it. Most years you’ll get one or two random check-ins per games. But considering we’re one of the tribute’s nearest and dearest we must be first on the list. I anticipate we’ll be getting a lot more visits than usual from the Peacekeeping squad this year. 

“All accounted for,” he says with a grin, eyes lingering over my chest in a way that makes my skin crawl. I thank my lucky stars I was too young for Cray’s tastes when my father died. 

We say nothing, waiting for him to dismiss us which he does with a magnanimous wave. Once the door is closed behind me I roll my eyes so hard they hurt. 

We all turn our attention back to the television. I sit on the floor, tucking my knees under my chin, waiting for the moment my best friends will appear on the screen, praying they won’t be indecent.

Posy’s escaped from Prim’s arms and has crawled over to me. I untuck my knees and let her plop herself into my lap. I stroke her dark curls while we watch all the other district’s tributes enter. They start with district one and my stomach sinks realizing how strong and well fed the tributes from the Career districts look.

Only a few of the tributes in the chariots stick out in my mind. A monstrous blonde boy from District One with a cocky smile, his tunic looks like it’s made of foil and dripping with gemstones. A fox-faced girl with sleek red hair from District Five in a glittering silver suit with a large headpiece. A boy with a twisted foot from District Ten in a wide brimmed hat and plaid. And most hauntingly, an eleven year old girl in overalls whose dark curls are ringed with wheat flowers. 

And then, it’s time. The sun has dipped below the city line and when the doors open one last time for our tributes. Hazelle lets out a small yelp and I think my heart stops for a second because Gale and Madge are on fire.

They are stunning, the light from the flames licking their headpieces and capes illuminate their faces which are smoked lightly with makeup. Madge’s soft features have been transformed into something more ethereal and striking. Gale is breathtaking. I know the girls here in twelve think he’s handsome, but this is something beyond.

He looks at least ten years older, his strong cheekbones and stoic expression make seem sculpted out of marble. He looks fierce. Rory and Vick are cheering, and for the first time I imagine someone might actually want to sponsor our tributes.

The cameras cannot get enough of them. I realize they have been on the screen for several minutes, the camera pulling into a tighter and tighter close up.

This is when I see that Gale’s eyes are not merely reflecting the fire from his suit, his rage is almost palpable through the television screen. More unexpected, is that Madge’s face is set in a similar mask of anger. I realize that Gale and Madge are holding hands, unmoving and upright, unlike the other tributes that wave to the audience, pump their fists, or catch kisses. 

When their chariot pulls around in front of the President’s portico, in perfect unison, Gale and Madge raise their joined hands up in the air and place three fingers of their free hands on their lips before raising them to the sky. 

It’s an old and rarely used symbol from here in twelve, typically seen only at funerals. It’s a sign of respect. It’s a goodbye to someone you love. But it means something else too. It was one of the things my mother yelled at my father for teaching me when I was small.

She must have been right about it being dangerous, because the cameras suddenly flip back to the tributes from District Four and we do not see Gale or Madge again. The feed ends and the seal of Panem flashes on the screen. 

Despite the commotion, Posy has fallen asleep in my arms. Immobilized by her little body, I look between my mother and Hazelle trying to figure out what exactly we just witnessed. 

“Why did they do that,” I ask “What does it mean?”

”Nothing good,” says my mother grimly.

For the first time since the reaping, Hazelle cries. 

Chapter Text

The following days between the opening ceremonies and the interviews are a surreal blur. I’m either at school, hunting in the woods, at the Hob, at the Hawthorne’s, or asleep. I often have to sneak back into the Seam well after dark to avoid Peacekeeper patrols. 

It’s reckless, I know, especially without Gale to watch my back, but it can’t be helped. He and Madge are somewhere in a Capitol training centre. The tributes get a couple days to train, which is nothing, and the careers get a chance to thoroughly frighten their soon-to-be-victims. 

I wonder if Gale is practicing his shooting, or keeping his skills close to his chest. I wonder if Madge is getting the tips I couldn’t give in our ten minute goodbye. Other than the train ride there, this is the only part of the Hunger Games that is not televised. Our next mandatory viewing will be the scores, a short broadcast, followed by the interviews. After that, it’s mandatory viewing every night for two hours to watch the horrors of the arena live. 

I have no idea how everything is going for our tributes, all I know is it’s not going so well back home. After Gale and Madge’s stunt at the opening ceremonies everyone has been tense. The Mayor seemed close to a nervous breakdown when he gathered the district in the square to welcome an unusually flush new group of Peacekeeper recruits to District Twelve on their first assignment. 

It’s always horrible when a new train-full of them arrives. For most of the recruits, we’re their first stop. They’r fresh from the academy with buzzed hair and ambitions of getting out of Twelve. As a rule, they are punitive, insecure, and cruel. A nasty combo. 

Luckily, this doesn’t happen often, since District Twelve is so small and compact. The ones who stay, stay for good and become part of the scenery. The ones who leave never come back. 

The arrival of this new batch can’t be a coincidence. It must be in response to then opening ceremonies to make it clear we shouldn’t get any ideas from our tributes’ display. Overall we ignore the new recruits, although more eager Peacekeepers mean more eyes on the fence.

We don’t talk about what Gale did in. Neither does Hazelle. I guess she doesn’t want the boys to get any ideas. Besides, the real horrors haven’t even started yet so I’m not sure what there is to say. 

The only thing that manages to break through my pre-games blur is my visit to the bakery. Not much has changed since Peeta and I spoke. I can still feel the strange warmth of his eyes on me in class. Or am I imagining it? I definitely still find him looking at me in the schoolyard, but now his eyes don’t make for the nearest patch of grass. Now, he shoots me a smile. I have not yet manage to smile back, but I nod or wave to make sure he knows I’m not ignoring him.

I’m sure Peeta is only being kind, on account of my only two friends in the world being hauled to their deaths. I don’t want to impose on his goodwill but I can’t help looking forward to his smiles. The slight jolt that goes up my spine when I realize I don’t have to look away is strange but not unpleasant. 

So, one day, instead of the Hob I find myself making excuses to go trade in town. I have a wild turkey for Cray, some rabbits that the cobbler might take off my hands, and of course two of my best squirrels for Mr. Mellark. I hurry through the first two trades and find myself at the back door of the bakery. 

I knock on the back door and Otho Mellark opens the door. “Ah, hi there,” he says, wiping flour from his large burn-scarred hands onto his apron. It’s surprising how much Peeta favours him. Mr. Mellark has the same stocky frame and freckled completion. Other than his greying hair and brown eyes, they are the same person, just a few decades apart. 

I lift the squirrels up so he can inspect them. “Two-for-one deal?” I ask. He smiles mildly in assent and turns back into the bakery to grab something to trade. He comes back to the door with a fresh loaf of bread.

”Thanks,” I say. Out of all the townsfolk my favorite person to trade with is definitely the baker. I think to myself, as I turn to make my way past the pig pen.

“Katniss, wait!”

Peeta’s hurrying out of the door after me with a white paper bag in his hands. “These are for your sister … and you.” I take the bag from his hands and look inside. There are a half dozen flower-shaped cookies with perfect yellow icing. The petals are glazed with tiny details so that they almost look like real wildflowers.

Not only are they gorgeous but the smell of almond and vanilla from the bag makes my mouth water. “They’re so pretty!” I exclaim uncharacteristically, before getting ahold of myself. “Thanks Peeta, Prim will be thrilled.”

This makes his cheeks flush a little, and he brings one hand to the back of his neck nervously. “It’s nothing,” he says “I was practicing my frosting anyways,”

”You made these?” I ask in awe. I don’t know who I thought iced all the gorgeous cakes and cookies in the window of the bakery but I didn’t ever think Peeta’s strong hands could manage such delicate beauty.  

“Yeah, I’ve been doing all the frosting at the bakery for a while now actually.” Peeta remarks casually. 

”So, those cakes in the window? Those are yours too?” I ask, thinking of fondant roses on cupcakes, iced ivy growing on a triple layer cake, and tiny sprinkles that looked like real pearls. 

“Mmhmm.” he says, his chest puffing up a little with pride. “I like when people stop to look at them.” he says with a playful smirk. 

Now it’s my turn to flush, because Prim often drags me to the square to admire them. She’ll up as close as possible to the glass and admire the multicoloured swirls buttercream. 

I would let her, because there are so few things of beauty in the district, but I tried not to look through the glass myself. I didn’t want to see Mrs. Mellark looking back at us with disdain (“those Seam brats are grubbing up the windows again”) or worse find two blue eyes watching me intently.

”Well, I guess wrestling and flour-lifting aren’t your only talents.” I retort without thinking. I instantly wish I could take this comment back, because Peeta looks a little startled by it. My face must be as red as a beet by now. I didn’t know how much I kept track of the boy with the bread until this moment, and now he knows it too. 

Peeta’s more steady than I am and he recovers his composure quickly. “I’ve been meaning to ask you for a hand” he says. “We’ve been having trouble getting dried herbs from the capitol lately. The ones that do come are really expensive, not to mention stale.” 

His voice drops clandestinely, “I know you can get them from the woods. I was hoping you could bring me some dill, maybe some wild garlic, and thyme … to trade of course.” 

I drop mine to match his, mockingly, “I just sold Cray a turkey, I don’t think my being in the woods is a secret.” This elicits a laugh from Peeta that sends a strange sensation through my chest. I have no idea what it is.

“But really, Katniss,” his laugh fading, “With these new Peacekeepers around, you need to be careful.” 

“I will,” I say, sure that Peeta doesn’t want me to get him into trouble. “As for the herbs, do you prefer them fresh or dried? My mother dries her own medicinal herbs as well as any edible ones I find.” 

“Fresh, please,” replies Peeta, “If it’s not too much trouble.” 

“It’s a deal.” I say.