Chapter Text
Peeta stretched and rubbed his eyes as he rose from his bed; the sun had not yet started to rise. It was five in the morning, but it was his turn to get up and tend the farm. He yanked the muddied galoshes that he told his mother he would clean before coming inside, which he didn’t do, and carefully walked downstairs in the dark.
He heard murmured chatter coming from the bakery, and once on the landing, he saw Gale Hawthorn standing at the counter talking with his father, who was holding a burlap sack with something heavy-looking inside. Peeta didn’t know what animal would be in it this time, probably a squirrel, but whatever it was would be his next dinner.
“Morning.” Peeta’s father said to him when he saw him, gesturing for him to come in.
“Hey, Peeta,” Gale said as Peeta marched his dirty boots into the bakery.
Peeta nodded at Gale. Peeta didn’t mind Gale; he had seen him in the bakery a few times, never to make a purchase, always a trade. His father would give Gale some bread in exchange for something he and Katniss had caught. Katniss. There were rumors that Gale and Katniss were dating, or they were cousins, nobody seemed to be sure. Either way, he tried to keep his interactions with Gale short and neutral. Not that he ever saw Gale in any social setting.
“Katniss got those ones, fresh this morning, best we scavenged.”
“Thank you, boy. Peeta, go grab a loaf for Gale.” Peeta turned to head into the kitchen, “I thought your mother told you to wash your galoshes?”
Peeta looked down at his shoes and then up at his father, mumbling a quick, “Sorry, Pa,” Before turning back into the kitchen. He heard Gale chuckle at him and felt his face turn red.
He fetched the bread. It was still warm. He wrapped it in wax paper for Gale and placed it on the counter when he had reentered the store.
“The cakes in the window look real nice,” Gale commented.
His father ruffled Peeta’s mussed hair fondly, “All this one here.”
“Really?” Gale smirked, “I wouldn’t have guessed.” Something about the way Gale said that sounded condescending, Peeta forced himself not to roll his eyes. Maybe he didn’t like Gale after all.
When Gale left, Peeta eyed him as he walked out the door. His father turned to him, “What’s with the face?”
“Why do you trade with him?” Peeta crossed his arms.
“What, you think he should pay?”
“I just don’t get why with him, trade with the butcher, get real meat.”
“This is real meat, straight from the wild. And the girl, Katniss, she is the only person I’ve seen get them right through the eye every time.”
Peeta didn’t know what about murder was admirable, shooting it through the eye compared to somewhere else. He never understood the appeal of hunting. Peeta always cried when they had to kill a pig before winter; he viewed it as life, not something to boast about.
“I have work to do,” Peeta slunk outside, picking up the slop for the pigs and cows.
As he poured the grub into the trough for them to eat, he patted the head of the heifer. She was pretty far along now and would be ready to give birth any day now. Usually, he and Ryen were the ones who delivered the calves these days; his father said he was too old for that kind of work. He then fed the chickens their seed and collected their eggs. Not all of them had laid eggs, which wasn’t unusual, but there seemed to be fewer and fewer every time.
It was a pleasant morning, and Peeta watched the horizon as the sun rose over the roof of his house. He wished he had his paint; it would make for a lovely drawing.
Peeta sat outside the chicken coop with the basket of eggs in his lap, as a few of the hens pecked about the soil for their grains, a few nipped at Peeta’s clothes, and he shooed them away.
Peeta always had a horrible nervousness on Reaping Day ever since he was able to grasp the concept. He remembers being seven at Deric’s first Reaping and crying in his father's arms as he was separated from his brother. His father had rocked him side to side the whole ceremony, but not much could be done to calm him.
It was Ryen’s last Reaping today; he would finally be free. Peeta should be happy, but he is too preoccupied being nervous that Ryen may make a break for it now that he isn’t bound by his life to anything in the district.
Peeta only realized he had begun to doze off by the chickens when his mother called to him from the second-floor window, “Peeta!” Her shrill voice jolted him awake, “What are you doing? I’ve drawn your bath!” She then slammed the window shut.
Peeta carried his basket inside and placed the sorry lot of eggs in the ice box. He made sure to take off his galoshes and put them in the basin so his mother wouldn’t see them.
This Reaping Peeta did everything himself. He remembered his first Reaping when his mother had washed his hair. Rough fingers scratching on his scalp, water poured over his head and into his eyes.
Now Peeta took his sweet time, even when the water cooled. He submerged himself in the bath until he couldn’t hold his breath anymore and resurfaced, shaking his hair out from his eyes.
Once he had finished his bath, he stood in the bathroom with just his towel while he waited for his mother to bring him his fresh clothes. His mother cut the boys' hair before each ceremony. It was shorter than he preferred, but not as awful as Ryen’s buzz cut, which had grown back in the past year, but not enough to where his mother needed to trim it.
Peeta’s hair was always a point of frustration for his mother; it grew oddly quickly, and she always had to give him multiple haircuts a year. Before she cut it yesterday, it was so long it passed his ears and would cover his eyes.
But now it was short and prudish-looking as he slicked it back. When he finished, he went to his room to put on his freshly pressed dress clothes. Ryen, who had gotten a new set of clothes for his final ceremony, looked miserably uncomfortable when his mother refused to let him sit in case he wrinkled them.
Now fully ready, Peeta stared at his reflection in the mirror. He had grown significantly since his first Reaping, not that any of the Mellark boys were tall. He had gained muscle as a replacement for his lack of height. All the hours of wrestling practice his mother forced him to do had paid off, though he still couldn’t beat Ryen. Well, now that Ryen had completed school, Peeta would surely win this year.
Deric had said he and Cinndi would meet them at the Justice Building, so they left without him. Once there, their parents wished them good luck, and the boys were on their way.
Ryen spotted a few of his friends and slapped him good-naturedly on the back before jogging towards them. Peeta made his way to the sixteen-year-old group and waded through the sea of boys toward the middle of the cluster to stand with his friends.
“Peeta, we're having a party tonight, you know where, around twelve after Miss Ness’s. Tell your brother, too,” Lennox whispered, eyeing the nearest peacekeeper.
Last year, Lennox had been delivering a package to Haymitch Abernathy’s house; the old victor preferred never to leave his house and opted to have his goods delivered.
Lennox arrived at Haymitch’s door to find him, unsurprisingly, wasted. Haymitch had then offered Lennox a bottle of spirits, to which Lennox, being the delinquent, asked Haymitch for a whole pack.
“I can’t believe you asked a Victor of all people.” Peeta had remarked when Lennox was rehashing the story.
“I mean, he’s the one who offered in the first place.” Lennox said, then slurring his words in an impression of Haymitch, “I’ve got more money than I know what to do with, I may as well help the struggling youth of society.”
Either Haymitch hadn’t remembered giving Lennox the booze, or he liked helping the poor and vulnerable, but every time Lennox asked, Haymitch delivered.
The mayor stepped forward to address the crowd with the history of Panem. Peeta was fairly certain he could recite this speech word for word. The mayor himself looks disgusted with what he is saying, though he tries to mask the pain the words evoke.
Haymitch clamors to the front in utter shambles. Peeta thinks about how they will all cheer that man tonight at their party. District Twelve must be an eyesore when looked at from any other district's perspective, but they were all so used to it by now.
Effie Trinket, as whitetoothed as ever approaches the microphone, smiling wide and unnaturally as she says, “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!” Peeta tunes out her opening speech as it is more or less the same as the previous years.
He feels his hands clam up as she makes her way to the girls' bowl. Every year, Peeta is more and more on edge about Katniss being selected. He is not stupid, he knows she must take out Tessera to support her family, but just how much he doesn’t know which is most frightening.
But the name Effie calls out is not Katniss, but a different Everdeen. Peeta gasps reflexively as he hears the name.
“Primrose Everdeen!”
How? Anything is possible, of course, but someone whose name must only be in the bowl once seems so impossible. Maybe she also took out Tessera, but her numbers outweigh the odds of people like Gale and Katniss, whose names must be in that bowl more than twenty times, seems so unfair.
It's not fair. Peeta hears his twelve-year-old self wail in his mind. It’s not fair. He supposed he’d never stop saying that sentence.
Prim, looking unbearably small as she walks up to the front, the horrible silence as hundreds of eyes follow her is suddenly broken by a horrible, desperate scream.
“Prim!” It’s Katniss running forward toward her sister, “Prim!”
Prim turns around, petrified as her sister races up to her. The peacekeepers raise their weapons at her and Peeta feels sick.
She is saying something, but screaming so erratically that Peeta can hardly understand her. She stops for a moment to collect herself, “I volunteer as tribute.”
Silence.
His ears start ringing; in all his life, he has never heard such silence. Well, he didn't hear anything; it was the complete absence of sound, it was so terrifyingly quiet. He felt lightheaded and unbearably unsteady, like the floor might crumble at his feet.
Gale comes forward and rips Prim away from Katniss as she attempts to claw at Katniss’s arms to beg her to stop.
Katniss, strangely calm, continues forward, climbing the stone steps until she is facing the crowd. She looks shocked. He wonders if she is starting to regret her decision, but it’s too late now.
“What’s your name?” Effie asked, shoving the microphone in Katniss’s face.
“…Katniss Everdeen.” She mumbled.
“I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let’s give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!”
Nobody claps.
Then someone in the crowd raises their hand in the air, then another, then another. Soon, every member of the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out to Katniss, and so does Peeta. It's an old district twelve traditional gesture; it means admiration, it means goodbye to someone you love.
Haymitch, despite the crowd's reaction, comes forward, “Look at her. Look at this one!” He hollers, throwing an arm around Katniss’s shoulders. “I like her. Lots of … Spunk!” he conjures the word. “More than you!” he shouts, pointing directly into a camera. Is it the rambling of a true madman, or is he really making a serious point?
Probably a madman, Peeta concludes as Haymitch stumbles and dives headfirst off the stage. He doesn’t get up; maybe he’s dead. No more parties then, but Peeta doesn’t feel up to caring about that right now.
“What an exciting day!” Effie Trinket straightens her wig as Haymitch is carried off in a stretcher, “But more excitement to come! It’s time to choose our boy tribute!”
Effie walks over to the male bowl. Peeta is so preoccupied with everything that has just transpired in the past few minutes that he momentarily forgets why he is here and that the ceremony wasn’t just a big theatrical production. So when the boy's name is called. His name. It startles him like someone has jumped out from behind a door to scare him.
“Peeta Mellark!”
His own name is so shocking, he feels his knees buckle beneath him. Surely that can’t be right. He turns to Lennox, half expecting him to laugh like it’s all some elaborate trick.
But Lennox is only staring at him in disbelief. So is everyone else in his general vicinity. This is actually happening.
The crowd parts for him as he slowly takes one laboring step after the other. As he passes the eighteen-year-olds he makes eye contact with Ryen. His face is pale white, and his eyes look like they did last year when Blanche was picked. Two years in a row, Ryen would lose some he loved to the game. It’s not fair.
It’s not fair. Peeta thought as he miraculously made it to the stage. It’s not fair. He was going to die.
He was going to die.
He wants to cry. He thinks maybe he is crying, it’s hard to tell since he can’t feel anything except fear.
The mayor begins the Treaty of Treason. Peeta found Ryen in the crowd again. He won’t volunteer for him, not that Peeta wanted him or expected him to. Nobody should have to do what Katniss did, she is a very special case.
The mayor finished, and the two tributes shook hands. The feeling of Katniss’s hand in Peeta's sends a shiver down his spine. He berates himself for acting so foolish in a time like this.
He could never hurt Katniss, he didn’t think he’d be able to hurt anyone in that arena. The thought of the act of murder made his stomach churn and his hand tremble in Katniss’s.
The anthem comes to a close, and the two of them are ushered inside the Capitol building. He and Katniss are separated into their own rooms. Peeta sits and waits for a long time, he doesn’t know what could possibly be taking so long. When the door opens and he understands.
His brothers, father, and mother are escorted into the room. Ryen and Deric both crush him in a hug as soon as they see him, and the three stand in the center of the room together.
He remembers when the boys were young and the three of them sat on Deric’s bed, lined up like a can of sardines, Deric in the middle, reading a book. Peeta always fell asleep before the story had finished, with his head lying on Deric’s shoulder. Sometimes their father would carry Peeta to his bed, but other times he let the three boys sleep there.
Peeta began to sob, an awful choking, gasping sobs. He pulled away from his brother, wiping his tears on his wrist. Ryen and Deric still had their hands on his back.
“It’s okay, you can cry,” Deric whispered. Both boys’ eyes were shiny and bright.
Ryen looked like he might be sick, but he just patted his back.
“You’ve got to try Peeta, please.” Ryen begged, he knew he was thinking of Blanche, “Just try to stay alive.”
“District twelve might actually have a Victor this year.” He heard his mother say.
The boys parted and let her come up to her youngest son. Peeta lit up for a moment like he always did at his mother's praise.
“She’s a survivor, that one.”
Nevermind.
His mother held Peeta’s face in her hands; he was taller than her, stronger than her, too, yet he still felt inferior and small.
She didn’t say a word, just looked for a moment, looked at the boy she had made. Then kissed his temple just like she did before the Reaping when he was ill.
He was just as shocked now as he was then, his mother was never one for affection, and definitely not a kiss. She nodded at him, then gestured for her husband to say goodbye.
The sight of his father made Peeta cry harder. He was putting on a brave face, but Peeta knew he was doing everything in his power not to cry. He was a man, too old for crying.
His father wrapped him in his strong arms and swayed his son rhythmically like a fussing child. Peeta was not yet as tall as his father, and now he realized he never would be. Pathetically, he rested his head in the crook of his father's neck.
“I’ll think about you every single day.” His father whispered in the embrace, “I love you, do you know how much I love you?”
“Yes, Papa.” Peeta managed to say through sobs.
“This is an awful thing, I wish I could take it away from you, I wish more than anything.”
His father holds out a small white package. Sugar cookies, Peeta smiled when he saw them. As a child, Peeta would always try to sneak one when his parents weren’t looking. They never got to eat them; they were too expensive to waste on any of the boys for anything other than a birthday, and even then, they only got one.
He looked up at his father, "I love you, Pa.”
He smiles, “I love you too, son.”
The Peacekeeper enters and informs his family that their time is up, and Peeta registers fully for the first time that he will never see his family again. His heart is broken when he thinks that the last memory of his family is so somber.
Both his brothers hug him one last time, both grips very strong, trying to make it last as long as possible. He looks at his mother, waiting, hoping she will say something, but she doesn’t.
Then they are gone.
The door closes, then opens again. Peeta thinks that it will be time to leave, but he has more visitors. His friends file in, all looking sorrowful.
All the guys and Delly. He swallows hard when he sees Delly, suddenly feeling very guilty.
The past few years, he had been neglecting Delly quite a bit, they both had. Boys and girls separated into their own groups as they grew into teenagers, it happened to everyone.
But he couldn’t be more relieved to see her. She ran up and wrapped her arms around his neck. Peeta hugged back, remembering how they used to go around the market telling people they were brother and sister; Peeta always wished she really was his sister.
“I can’t believe it, I just can’t believe Peeta.” Delly cried, “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s alright, Delly.”
Delly let go and kissed Peeta’s cheek. It was a bit wet from her tears, but Peeta didn’t mind.
His other friends all took turns giving him hugs and reassuring pats on the back. Peeta managed to hold back the tears he knew were due to come any minute.
Lennox leaned in and whispered in his ear, “We’re drinking to you tonight. It’s not going to be a party, it wouldn’t be right.”
Peeta looked at his friend and nodded. He felt his eyes well u, and he sniffled hard to get them to stop.
The peacekeepers came in just in time to stop Peeta from making a fool of himself. When everyone had gone, Peeta sat on the sofa. It was the nicest room Peeta had ever been in; it would be more beautiful if the day hadn’t been marred by sorrow.
Peeta opened the cookies his father gave him, taking one carefully from the package and took a bite.
Peeta swallows with great difficulty as he lets the sea of suffering sweep him under a wave and come crashing on the shore. He sobs alone, eating, for the last time, from his father's bakery.