Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Part One : The Mentor

“I climbed across the mountain tops
Swam all across the ocean blue
I crossed all the lines and I broke all the rules
But baby, I broke them all for you.”

/

I stare out into the sky, introspective, as I wait for familiar footsteps to approach. The footfalls of my hunting partner, my friend even, Gale, still remain absent, despite our longstanding agreement to hunt on Reaping Day, no matter how hot it is, or how scarce the game, or how worried we may be deep inside.

Of course, how could a couple kids from the Seam not worry about Reaping Day? At least a slight bit, deep down?

Reaping Day. The day that decides the almost absolute fate of a lucky—as our assigned escort, straight from the Capitol itself, so proudly proclaims—boy and girl.

We're District Twelve. The smallest and one of the poorest districts in the country of Panem. There's an almost guarantee that whoever gets their name picked from the reaping bowl, even the strongest eighteen-year-old boy in the district, will have an almost sure fate of death. Likely before the number of tributes drops below twenty.

Tributes from our district almost never fare well inside the arena.

Almost never.

We have had a few winners in history, two of which are still around, but a few out of seventy-three games isn't inspiring much hope in anyone today.

The wind breezes against my arms, prickling the hair at the back of my neck, and I'm struck by the memory of being out here, in the forbidden territory of the woods, outside our district limits, when I was just a kid. When my dad was the one hunting and I was just along for the ride. Just along because I wanted to be with him. When I used to blindly trust him and my mother, when I thought he'd live forever, when I was too young to truly grasp the concept of the Hunger Games. When I was too young to truly grasp the concept of the world in which we live.

When I was eleven my every illusion was shattered violently. Almost as violently as the death in which my father must have endured, underground in those mines, as they exploded.

I remember hearing the alarm at school, blaring so cacophonously over the speakers that it shook the schoolrooms themselves. I remember blindly grappling through the scurrying bodies of my classmates, until I found my way to my little sister, Primrose. Her room was completely empty, but she still remained, sitting behind her desk with small folded hands, waiting for my arrival with excessive patience.

I'd always coached her on what we'd do, if there ever should be a mine accident. I made sure she knew the drill, just as I knew it. Like the back of my hand. Like a prayer or a lullaby. I could recite it in my sleep. Because my father had just as sternly instilled it into me.

I wove my way through the chaos of bodies and white-hot panic, towing Prim only inches behind me by the hand, as the kids from town lingered in the hallways, their classic, bright blue eyes large and their voices all quivering, and as the kids from the Seam dutifully made their way to the nearest exits, hoping and praying and begging silently that it wasn't their parent who had been hurt. Hoping the accident hadn't taken what was typically the sole provider in most households, here in the poorest section, in the most impoverished district.

Prim and I must have not hoped hard enough, because we learned almost immediately upon finding our mother, who was now immobilized with grief, her characteristic gentle smile eviscerated and in it's place, a blank stare, void of any life at all, that our every fear from hearing that alarm were coming true.

My mom was supposed to get a job. She was supposed to find a way to provide for us, to take care of her two daughters, who were grieving her husband just as much as she was.

But instead she lay in bed day after day. On the good mornings, maybe if Prim begged and pleaded, she'd move to a chair, in front of the fireplace and stare at the flames with the same vacant expression that had replaced the loving, kind woman who'd raised us.

The money from the government, the minuscule amount of money given to keep us afloat until our mother found work, ran out. The meat our father had hunted, the plants he'd saved, ran out. The food we had the small luxury of sometimes buying—or more times than not, trading for—quickly ran out.

And our mother still did absolutely nothing.

I take a deep breath now and try to force myself to forgive her. Forgive her for not being strong enough to keep going, forgive her for not caring enough about her own children to keep them alive in the face of her grief, forgive her for being so in love that losing my father had almost killed her too.

I know it's what my father would want. And I know it's something I can't let myself do. Because if I let her off the hook, it's like saying it's okay that she almost let Prim wither away to nothing. Forget me. I will never forgive her for almost taking my little sister away from me.

Our mother did absolutely nothing until Prim's ribs were prominent, until my stomach was nearly hallow, until our cheekbones were so blatantly obvious you could count them from down the road.

And all my fears, all my resolve, to keep the three of us together as a family, went out the window. There was nothing left to do, but wait for me and Prim to be taken to the Community Home, with the other orphans or kids from unsafe families. Kids who still remained too thin, who's eyes told stories no ear wanted to hear, who still wore bruises upon their skin like freckles from the sun, who looked nearly worse than the corpses I encountered every winter, while walking from the Seam to town. Those corpses were the unlucky ones who'd actually starved to death, who had sat down to merely rest, because they had no substance to carry them any further, and somehow never got back up.

On that day, at eleven years old, living in the Community Home sounded no worse than living with the immobilized shell that had once been my mother. My resolve to hold out until my birthday, until I could get the tesserae that would feed my family for an entire year, was shattered by the harsh raindrops pelting me from the grey, unforgiving sky.

I vaguely heard the baker's wife, the mean-spirited woman, with her deeply embittered, hostile blue eyes that somehow seemed black, scream at me, calling me names, shooing me from her property.

I'd simply wanted to rummage her trashcan, so desperate for any small morsel to take back to Prim, any motivation to take even another step forward, when I felt her rough and calloused hands shove me away.

I toppled over, my legs already weak and shaky from lack of nutrition and substance. My depleted form laid on the ground, my eyes bleary from exhaustion and the shivering wind and rain.

The witch went back inside the bakery as I scarcely conjured up the will to sit upright. I was beyond done. The fighting to even gain a fraction of my mother's awareness, to get something, anything, to feed myself and my starving sister, to even stand up, became overwhelming and I felt the last bit of my resolve crumble from deep inside.

Let them come and take me and Prim to the Community Home. I don't care any longer. Let them come.
Out of the corner of my eye, a boy exited out the same backdoor the witch had gone through. He was carrying a bag of trash in his hands and my famished mind focused on that first, focused on what could be inside the contents of that bag, on what a baker could potentially be throwing away, before I realized the boy was in my year at school. I knew him, or at least, I knew his face. But he stuck with the other blonde-haired, fair-skinned town kids and I didn't even remember his name in that moment.

In hindsight, that's absolutely hysterical now.

But he evaporated as soon as he'd appeared and I closed my eyes and let the rain drown me, hoping perhaps I could be swallowed up within the downpour itself. Hoping that perhaps I'd never have to face the reality that I was out of options and I had nothing of subsidence to take home.

But then I heard a clatter and a clang and the sound of a scream. It was her, the witch. She was screaming and calling someone names my own mother had never even uttered in my lifetime.

I mentally prepared myself for her to come back outside, to drive me away with a stick or a knife. Or possibly even a hot, scorching prong.

But it wasn't the witch. It was the boy, the one from my year. The one I thought went back inside after taking out the trash, that I believed didn't even notice me before.

He was carrying bread. Two loaves, in fact. The crusts were black and burned and the welt across his face told me, without a doubt, that he was the target of the witch's insults. That he was the victim of whatever clanging noise I heard.

And though I was the one starving to death, I didn't envy him having her for a mother.

I remember vividly, the most crystal clear image I have of this day, the boy checking and making sure the witch's attention had been claimed elsewhere. And then, without even glancing in my direction, he tossed one loaf of bread to my feet. Seconds later, the other followed.

He didn't hesitate to head back inside after that, and I've spent more time in these last four years than I'd more than likely care to admit, wondering what possessed him to commit such an act of kindness. No one was kind for free, I'd learned by that point.

And yet, as I shook myself forcefully out of my stupor, and carried the loaves back to my house at the edge of the Seam, I had no explanation for his simple act. I had no basis to explain why he would help me, when no one else ever had.

The next day, I saw him at school. I passed by him in the hallway, and saw his eye had now blackened, his cheek welted, but somehow he still managed a joyous smile. He didn't notice me then. He was surrounded by his friends. Like always, he was surrounded by a constant crowd.

He is, after all, one of the most charming and sweet people Panem's ever known.

Later that day, when I was about to walk home with Prim, who was excitedly chattering about the leftover bread awaiting us on the kitchen table, the bread I'd brought home the night prior that had filled our stomachs for the first time in months, I caught the boy looking in our direction. My grey Seam eyes met his baby blues for a microsecond, before he looked away. I snapped my gaze downwards too, embarrassed, when I caught sight of a dandelion.

It was that moment that a bell went off in my head. That I saw how I could survive, how Prim could survive. How, through the things my dad had taught me, I could keep me and my sister alive.

After that day, I could never stop associating the boy with the bread, the one who gave me hope, with the dandelion that reminded me I wasn't doomed.

I never stopped associating him with his simple act of kindness, even when he became famous for some much less appreciable acts.

And I never stopped kicking myself for failing to thank him, for saving my life and my family's life, before he was whisked away, to a land far from Twelve, called the Capitol. When he later returned, now a part of a much more elite social class, thanking him for his kindness became even less of a possibility.

A girl from the Seam had no business seeking out a boy from Victor's Village. Even if I did have the guts.

Though he isn't exactly in good company here in Twelve, seeing as the only other person who holds the same title is a drunken, middle-aged man who can barely form a coherent sentence most days and lives like a hermit by his own volition.

My thoughts are interrupted by the quiet—almost as quiet as mine, but not quite—steps of Gale.

"You're late," I state without turning around, pulling the cheese from my pocket. "You're lucky Prim's cheese held up under the sun."

But Gale pulls something even more impressive from behind his back. "This will probably go nice with it," he says and I almost gasp.

Fresh bread is so rare in our district, generally reserved for the Peacekeepers and perhaps a merchant who is having a good day. Here in the Seam, fresh bread from the bakery is as common as new school shoes.

Gale updates me on his day as we split the bread and cheese and have our own version of a small feast. He'd gotten to the woods early, while I had been still at home, and shot a squirrel to which he traded for the bread.

"The baker really went for that?" I ask in disbelief. The baker was a subdued, large man, who resembled all three of his sons quietly strongly, and was one of my dad's best customers. Sometimes I think he still trades with me and Gale out of respect to my dad's memory, but a simple squirrel for a loaf of fresh bread isn't common.

"I think he was feeling generous this morning," Gale suggests a little snidely, his bitterness leaking through. "Besides. It's not like the Mellark's need the money they ask for bread. They could easily skim off their precious son and he'd probably never notice."

Gale has a special affinity for hating anyone and anything associated even minimally with the Capitol. He was lost his father in the same mine explosion I lost mine in. But whereas I don't let myself get too worked up over the inequities between the town and the Seam, and especially between us all and the victors, Gale takes a special pride in fuming over the things he cannot change.

I don't mind listening usually, since neither of us can speak our minds in public or even within our own homes, out of fear small ears will pick up on our words and repeat them elsewhere. But today, I just don't have the energy to be a sounding board.

Instead I take a segue towards a slightly different topic, but one, without a doubt, weighing on both our minds. "Prim has been having nightmares of the reaping," I murmur solemnly. "She's convinced they're going to call her name."

Gale shook his head, his demeanor becoming more subdued now. "Least Prim's name is only in there once, Catnip. Rory had to take tesserae this year."

I nod silently at that admission, knowing what it must have cost him to even allow his little brother to take additional risks of being called. Knowing it meant his family of five must be even more hungry than he leads on.

We don't say much more after that, only lingering in the woods long enough to catch some additional game from what I've already collected, and hurry back to town to trade.

As we walk back to the Seam, having divided up our goods evenly, Gale murmurs suddenly, "I might be able to stomach the idea of Rory's name being in that bowl six times if we were still allowed to volunteer."

I bypass his words the best I can. I don't want to think about what Gale must be going through, making himself sick with worry, not for himself but for a sibling in which he considers himself responsible for. And, as it happens once in a lucky moon, I feel grateful that my tesserae is still sufficient for a family of three, and I don't have to worry about Prim the same way. Her one entry pales in comparison to the thousands that are piled in that bowl.

Still, the silence between us as we walk is deafening and I can't take it any longer as we come closer to my house. "At least then, you'd get to see the Capitol," I say lightly, as a means to brighten his mood, even just a little.

At that, Gale rewards me with a humorless smirk. "Generous of the president, isn't it? To allow us district people to experience the great Capitol firsthand while they slaughter our family."

And it's true. Just a few years ago, it was allowed to volunteer as tribute in the place of whoever's name got chosen, as long as you were the same gender and between twelve and eighteen on Reaping Day.

But four years ago, when a twelve-year-old boy volunteered for his seventeen-year-old brother, an outrage sparked across the entire country. People are never happy, in any district, to see a twelve-year-old be chosen for the games. They're the youngest, the smallest, the most innocent, and never in history had a single one made it past the Final Fifteen in the games.

So when one volunteered, the country wasn't pleased in the slightest. However, like always, the anger was contained by Peacekeepers in a matter of weeks, and promises came pouring out from the Capitol that a change would be made after the games that year to ensure never again would this situation occur.

And it never again could. Because three days after the Seventieth Hunger Games, President Snow announced that all volunteering, from that point forward, was officially banned.

This new law is even more ironic when you realize that the twelve-year-old volunteer from that year became the youngest victor in the entire history of the games.

Still, I suppose the president was feeling generous that day, and he threw in a bonus treat for us in the districts. Now when someone is chosen from the reaping bowl, though their fate is sealed definitively when their name is uttered, they get to choose one family member to take on the train ride to the Capitol with them, to get a special viewing of the games with the mentors and the sponsors and the past victors, to get to experience the wonder that is the mysterious Candy Capitol firsthand.

However, when all is said and done, twenty-three family members must ride the train home alone to their districts, with their loved one in a casket beside them. The thought chills me to the bone and I shiver as me and Gale wish each other good luck. We probably won't see each other again until it's time for the customary dinner we all try to put on with our neighbors to celebrate, even minimally, that we've survived another year unchosen.

Prim is already wearing my first reaping outfit when I enter the house, though it is a bit large on her. She's slimmer than even I was at Twelve, despite her having months on me when I attended my first reaping.

I get ready quickly, if only because I want to spend time with her before we have to go. I protect Prim in every way I can but I'm powerless against the reaping.

Still, she's only entered once and that's as safe as anyone can get from being chosen. It's almost unheard in the Seam to be that safe from the games.

But my sister never did appear like she fit in here anyway. Her golden blonde hair and sky blue eyes resemble the merchants, not the Seam, and her and our mother stick out like sore thumbs next to our neighbors.

Our mom is restless now, busying herself with preparing the food for our small feast tonight and braiding Prim's hair and then mine.

I still haven't fully forgiven her for leaving us when we needed her most, but I also can't imagine how difficult it must be to have to send both your children off to be potentially chosen for an absolute death. And I let her hug me as I guide Prim out the door.

Attendance is mandatory for all in the district, but the ones viable for being chosen and those just watching don't typically enter together.

I guide Prim by hand into town, the walk feeling longer than it did with Gale. Perhaps it's the trembling twelve-year-old I'm towing, or perhaps I'm more afraid than I'm even admitting to myself.

After all, unlike my sister, I have twenty slips with my name splayed across this year. It's not as a bad as someone like Gale, who has forty-four chances of being called. But it's not as safe as the kids from town, who likely only have to worry about a handful of slips with their names.

Its not that they're rich by any standard, but they get by better than those in the Seam. Even if they're hungry, they're not at risk of starving, and no one is going to sign up for tesserae unless there is no alternative.

A year ago, my mother let it slip once over dinner, just out of the blue really, that my father had always sworn no child of his would be in need of tesserae.

I shake my head, as if to physically rid myself of the reminder. I don't want to dwell on what my father would feel if he were here. I don't want to be reminded how different things would be if he hadn't died.

I help Prim sign in and then drop her off, as gently as I can, with the other girls her age. At the last minute, she pulls on my hand, yanking me back to her with surprising force.

"Prim, I have to go stand with the sixteens," I say as she leans up and kisses my cheek.

"I just wanted to say I love you," she whispers softly, her big blue eyes so terrified, and then she steps back into the crowd of twelves surrounding her.

I sigh softly and give her what I hope is a reassuring smile. She truly is the best of our parents. Kind, smart, level-headed. She's funny and resourceful too, even if she can't take hunting animals herself.

She is the only person I'm certain that I love. And just about the only thing that keeps me going most days.

As I make my way to the sixteens, straightening my mother's dress on my hips, I check the clock. Only five minutes before we start. Before our lovely Capitol escort, Effie Trinket, reads off two names in her distinctive, afflicted accent. Before two kids know they're never coming home again.

This place isn't much. But it is all we've ever known, and no one wishes to leave it.

As more people crowd in, I begin to pick up an excited buzz in the girls surrounding me. Already knowing what I'll see, I crane my neck just the same, to peer up at the stage ahead.

Sure enough, I see exactly what I knew I would.

There's four chairs set up on the stage. One for Effie Trinket, because no one from the Capitol could ever bear to stand for more than three minutes at a time and she must have a seat to relax in before she calls out the names and sends two of us—a lucky boy and girl, as she says it—to the slaughter.

One of the other chairs is occupied by Mayor Undersee. A man who looks like he's been beaten down by life too many times as it is and would rather be anywhere but here. His daughter is my age. She sits with me at lunch, since Gale is two grades ahead of me and we rarely see each other at school. We make polite small talk but other than that, I barely know anything about her, and by association, her father.

However, it's neither of them that's stirring up the buzz within the crowd—admittedly, more so with the female portion of the crowd—and it's definitely not Haymitch Abernathy, who's stumbling on stage right at this moment. He managed to win the Fiftieth Hunger Games and I still can't imagine how. He's a paunchy man my mother's age and he's never sober, on the rare time he's even seen in public. Today is no exception, as he flops onto a chair gruffly, and murmurs something unintelligible with his eyes closed.

No, the murmuring, the now batting eyes and coy smiles, the soft vibrato still traveling within the crowd, are all because of the last guest of honor, walking upon the stage right behind his old mentor.

Peeta Mellark.

Winner of the Seventieth Hunger Games. Youngest ever. District Twelve's first and last volunteer. The twelve-year-old that changed the rules for the entire country.

The youngest mass murderer in history of Panem.

And now one of it's most beloved celebrities.

Peeta is smart—brilliantly smart—and he's always been charismatic. Even at twelve, he had the Capitol audience, as well as every single soul watching on television at home, eating out of the palm of his hand.

It doesn't hurt that at sixteen, he's become quite a looker. His blonde curls, his blue eyes, those long lashes and bubblegum pink lips. His fair, perfect skin that has not a blemish in sight. His toned, muscular body and devastatingly genuine smile that no one can help but fall in love with.

He's also the boy who saved my life. The one who committed the simple act of kindness, knowing it would cost him, to help me.

I never thanked him. And now I never can, as I'm sure he has zero memory of me. After everything else that's happened to him since, after the last four years of living as a Capitol darling, as one of the country's most cherished victors, he'd never remember the starving eleven-year-old he threw some burned bread to in a rainstorm.

But I remember him. I don't know if it's what he did for me that day or what he did for his brother only a matter of weeks later, but something about Peeta Mellark crawled under my skin four years ago and ever since, I've never been able to completely shake the feeling I get inside upon seeing him.

I break my gaze away, refusing to stare at the boy, who I will always accredit as the one who saved my life. I venomously refuse to gawk at him, like every other girl in the district.

He rarely comes out of his house when he's home here in Twelve, and I know the overzealous amount of attention he receives just by going to his parents' bakery has to be at least a part of the reason. Unlike Haymitch, who has lost his clout and his appeal with age and with deterioration, Peeta has only gained more and more notoriety as the years pass by.

You'd be hard pressed to find anyone in Twelve, outside of a few outliers like Gale perhaps, who'd say a negative word about Peeta Mellark.

Of course, rumors about his random and long stretches spent in the Capitol itself are always floating around, no matter what time of year it is, but they don't affect his public persona or anyone's opinion of him. He is, after all, the most valuable figure Twelve has and perhaps the only thing we can take any pride in.

Effie Trinket steps up to the microphone just as I turn my head away from the stage. "Welcome!" She greets, so vivaciously, so brightly, I can't imagine it even resonates in her head that she's just moments away from announcing two of our impending funerals. "Welcome, everyone! To the reaping for the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games!"

I can't even bear to listen as she prattles on, with too much confidence and dignity for someone dressed in every neon color known to man, speaking in such a peculiar accent, with a thickly painted face that is so blatantly visible to the every eye here today, even in the back row. Doesn't she realize how ridiculous she is to us? Doesn't she realize how wrong it is to preach about the morals and disciplines of the Capitol, in such a prideful voice, when they're the ones about to murder us for entertainment, and in repentance for a long over war that only a few elders can still remember?

As I advert my eyes, my gaze travels once again to the back of the stage, and I'm more than a little surprised to see Peeta Mellark with a similar expression as mine. He, too, is shifting his eyes elsewhere, away from his own escort, looking sick to his stomach.

Of course, it still can't be easy for him, even with his own games four years in the past. He was a literal child when he volunteered and it's fact that he didn't understand what he was getting himself into when he took his brother's place that fateful day. His innocence was stolen as soon as the countdown ended and talk still circulates, even in the Hob, that he wakes up screaming most nights, calling out the names of fallen tributes. Though those words are not given much weight in the Seam, as we all know, people get bored in this tiny district and bored people begin to spew lies whenever encouraged.

Effie continues, in a long overdone mantra, one I could recite in my sleep, the same one she spews every year, that two kids from every district must be chosen to battle to the death in a new and invigorating—one of her favorite words—arena, in order to pay for the blood shed during the rebellion and war, in order to ensure we'll never again even think to rebel.

It would almost be easier to swallow, this whole charade, if the people sent from the strange land of the Capitol would just be honest and blunt with us. If they'd just admit that they see us as lesser than, as animals or beasts of some sort, as less than human beings. It'd be easier if the Capitol spokespeople would just outright say, "we'll take your children, we'll starve your district, we'll ruin your homes, we'll broadcast the deaths of those you love most, all to keep you too powerless to fight. In order to make sure you never are able to stand strong, we have to kick your legs out from under you first."

Instead of being honest though, Effie Trinket is reiterating the Treaty Of Treason, in a tone so serious that it takes all the self-control possible to stop several boys standing in the fourteens from bursting out laughing. Her accent and a serious tone do not mesh well together.

Once she's done though, my heart automatically skips a beat. Because, after four years of standing in this square, I know exactly what's coming. "Ladies first!" Effie announces and I feel a bead of sweat glide down my forehead, both from anxiety and from the overload of heat. Reapings always take place in the start of the hottest month of the year.

Standing in my mother's well-crafted dress, one of the most luxurious pieces of clothing we own, only makes my perspiration worsen, as the dress was clearly made to keep the wearer as warm as possible.

Our district escort makes her way over the bowl containing the names of every girl eligible to be picked in the entire district and I feel myself take in a breath involuntarily.

There's twenty chances she's going to call out my name. Twenty chances I'll be sent to an almost imminent death. Twenty chances Prim will grow into her teen years, and later adulthood, without a sister.

The gut-churning fear I'd repressed all morning, in that moment, overtakes my entire being, curling up like a ball in the pit of my stomach, as I do my best to listen on baited breath, somehow expecting to hear my own name spoken through the raucous microphone for all to hear.

Don't be me, I whisper inside my head, more fearful than I'd ever admit out loud. Don't be me. Please, don't be me.

And, as it turns out, it's not me.

Instead it's the name I never in a million years thought I'd hear. The name I believed to be so safe I didn't even allow myself to worry about her.

"Primrose Everdeen!"

Chapter Text

“Primrose Everdeen!” Effie Trinket announces, her voice full of pride for some odd reason. Maybe she’s this way every year, maybe she always says the names like she’s announcing a contest winner and not the promise of a child’s coffin, and maybe I’m typically so relieved to hear any name but mine that I’ve never registered her cavalier tone before but I do now and my blood boils hot at this small detail. At the small notice of our district escort’s tone of voice.

The sixteens surrounding me all turn to glance at my face, to gauge my reaction to the announcement. To my sister’s almost definitive death sentence.

I feel Madge Undersee, the mayor’s daughter, reach out and steady me and it’s then I realize I must have toppled over slightly, out of shock and horror.

I raise my head, instinctively trying to find my sister, every atom of my body screaming to grab her hand and run towards the woods, to keep running and never look back. Thoughts of laws and punishment and the threat of a bullet to the skull so far from my concerns now.

But I can’t find Prim, not buried inside the crowd. Effie Trinket taps the microphone impatiently, her false smile wavering as she uncomfortably calls for my sister again, wondering why she remains invisible.

When I was six, my father and I tried taking Prim with us to the woods. She was two, and could walk easily on her own, but my father thought it was best to carry her, until we got to the lake.

He’d told me to dig up katniss roots, like I always did, while he hunted for a bit. This was our routine. It was what we did, our special bonding time. However, my two-year-old sister wasn’t typically part of the equation, and when my father left me in charge I believed it would be simple.

Prim was an easy baby, never fussed much, always cooed and smiled and stared lovingly at people with her large blue eyes. While people might have thought I was alright when I was young, they genuinely adored Prim, as she was one of the sweetest babies most could come across.

But she’d never been to the lake before and she was reaching an age of experimentation. I didn’t expect it to be necessary to watch her every moment my father was gone, and when I turned away to collect the roots, my sister went headfirst into the water.

There was a moment of blind panic, a thousand thoughts coursing through my mind. The most prevalent one being that I wasn’t going to get to her in time, that I wasn’t going to be able to save her, that I was going to lose my little sister.

It was only one moment before my father came rushing back, before he yanked her out of the lake and checked her airway, before he assured me that everything was alright. But it was a moment that took my breath away.

A moment replicated now.

Just as Prim shuffles her way through the crowd—her eyes wide and petrified—the feeling of a hand splayed across my throat, squeezing ruthlessly until I can no longer breathe, paralyzes me into place. 

I want to reach out to touch her. I want to grab her hand and push her behind me and scream that I will not let them do this. I will not let them or anyone else take her from me.

But realistically—logically—I know it’s impossible for me to do anything now. Prim has been chosen; she’s appeared, been caught by the cameras, and is currently making her way towards the stage.

From this moment on, she will be locked and guarded, held hostage in a building the Capitol claims is a luxury, then tossed carelessly into a vicious death pit, like a chess piece being thrown across the checkerboard.

Still, I can’t force my brain to logically accept this. I’d grown up with the notion that volunteering is allowed, that another eligible person can take the chosen one’s place, that there are kids who volunteer every year to get honor from their district. It wasn’t until after my first reaping, until Peeta Mellark volunteered, that the rules changed, and two kids were chosen with finality.

How did Prim even get her name picked? She’s twelve, it’s her first year, and she took no tesserae. She had so little chance of being chosen. The odds were entirely in her favor.

But somehow, by some unimaginable stroke of bad luck, her one slip in the sea of thousands was the one Effie Trinket chose and this astonishing concept, that someone with one entry could be reaped when others have dozens inside that bowl, is what suddenly propels me forward.

“Prim!” I scream like a complete lunatic, just as she’s about to mount the stairs. “Prim!”

But she doesn’t turn back to look at me, doesn’t even acknowledge that I’m yelling. Instead she squares her tiny shoulders, braces herself as gracefully as she can, and then takes one step and then another, until she’s positioned in the center of the stage.

She’s playing to the cameras now, I’m shocked to realize. Somehow, my sister has the foresight to know whatever she does in this moment, however she comes across on film, will affect her chances of survival. How she behaves here will help decide how she’s viewed by sponsors and opponents. 

I don’t have the same vigilance. I feel like I’m in the middle of an awful dream and the world is blurring at the edges and it’s soon going to come to an abrupt end.

But Prim knows that whatever she does here, today, in this second, and for every second going forward, will dictate how the audience sees her. And more importantly, it will dictate how her competition will rank her.

Still, I can’t give up. Still, my legs push me forward and I cry out her name again just as I reach the stage myself.

“Primrose!”

Suddenly, just as I’m about to climb the first step, ready to knock my sister off that platform myself and stand in her place, an abundant hand takes hold of my shoulder tightly.

A Peacekeeper, I realize, without even needing to turn and look. I attempt viciously to shake the hand off, to move forward, to get to Prim, when a second palm grips my arm as well.

Outnumbered and overpowered, I do the only thing I can think of to do. “I volunteer,” I yelp, my voice breaking as the two law enforcers pull me backwards, further away from the stage and further from Prim herself. “I volunteer!”

Though my sister doesn’t turn in my direction, though she keeps staring straight ahead, as if looking towards me means she’ll break down and cry, I have gained Effie Trinket’s attention.

“I bet my marbles that’s your sister,” she says brightly to Prim, keeping the microphone in range of her mouth, so the entire country will still be able to hear what she’s saying. Always playing to the masses. “Though someone should tell her that volunteering in place of a chosen tribute is illegal,” she reminds, shooting an unsettling smile towards the cameras.

Prim looks like she can’t even hear Effie speak, like she’s gone deaf or blind in a matter of seconds. Like she’s not even here in the Town Square right now. 

Her large, sky-blue eyes stare out blankly towards the crowd, not even glancing into the cameras, her expression as stoic as I’ve ever seen it.

She’s already imagining how people will perceive her, only a matter of minutes after being called to a death match.

If she looks like an easy target, there’s a slim chance she might get by for the first quarter of the games. Though that technique has been worn out by two past victors already—one of whom is standing on the stage behind Prim at this very second—so it’s doubtful she’d successfully pull off the weakling strategy as well. That’s the point of the district mentors though. To find a way to strategize each tribute, to somehow give each a fighting chance, no matter how incapable they seem when chosen.

And then it hits me, like a pile of blazing hot coal, that I’m already thinking of my sister, my little sister who can’t even reach the plates on the second shelf on her own, inside an arena. I’m already trying to figure out a way she can win. She herself already has her mind on what the cameras filming her could be capturing. On how she will be portrayed to all of Panem.

And my hands involuntarily quiver, the shock causing my knees to buckle. This is too much for me to accept, it’s too much for me to rationalize, and it’s definitely too much for my sister to have to live with. There is no acceptable possibility, in my mind, that includes Prim going into the Hunger Games.

And yet, there is no alternative either. Not since the seventieth games—Peeta Mellark’s year—is there any way to get out of the contest once you’ve been drawn.

Unless you die before the Games start.

Apparently the Peacekeepers restraining me have taken my inability to even stay upright as resistance, because as soon as I feel my legs give out from under me, I hear a sharp growl and a furious grunt before the impact of a steel-toed boot—the kind only distributed to Peacekeepers—hits the center of my spine, causing me to go face down onto the hot, black concrete. Moments later, the feeling of the boot is accompanied by the feeling of a baton—a metal baton—pressing directly into my shoulder.

“Let her go,” I hear someone demand. My blood turns cold, immediately recognizing the voice. Immediately recognizing that he’s speaking to the Peacekeepers. That he’s defending me.

Maybe if this were the Hob, maybe if we were all in a different setting, on a different day, maybe then the Peacekeepers would ignore Peeta Mellark’s demands.

Peacekeepers don’t generally have a lot of love for victors. I don’t know why, as I’ve never been in the presence of the two occupations—and in Panem, being a victor is an occupation—at the same time. Just that the majority of Peacekeepers I sell game to turn their noses up at all things Capitol. And that includes their darlings.

Maybe on another day I too would huff internally and roll my eyes at the thought of the rich and powerful killers, who the country idolize and treat like absolute royalty, giving out orders. But in this moment now, it’s a victor who’s defending me. A rich and powerful killer is coming to my rescue. 

Peeta Mellark is once again giving me something I cannot reciprocate. He’s once again adding to a debt I have no means to pay.

The Peacekeepers move away from me, without even so much as apologizing for the unnecessary brutality. I refuse to even glance in their direction, refuse to even acknowledge them. Their eyes remain locked on Peeta Mellark though, as I stand up and brush off my mother’s dress, fix my braid into place again, and train my gaze on the tiny blonde still standing on stage, next to the prattling Capitol escort, who’s doing her very best to draw all attention away from me and the distracting altercation. Same way she does with Haymitch Abernathy every year.

I couldn’t care less what I look like on television or if I anger Effie Trinket. I already know the recaps that will air all over the country tonight are going to cut me out entirely. It’s not interesting to watch someone try to volunteer anymore, when they’re irrelevant to the competition as a whole, when you’ll never see that particular person’s face ever again.

No, my only focus is on my little sister. I stare at her, in my hand-me-down skirt and blouse, her small braids and ducktail sticking out. I stare at her and for a long moment, even against my own wishes, I force myself to size her up. Force myself to view her as an enemy, as a target, an obstacle for a prize. 

I feel my stomach retch at the thought, not even a tinge of remorse crosses my mind as my lips release vomit all over the Peacekeepers’ shoes. 

There’s more commotion happening around the square, more kids moving aside, and Effie Trinket is doing her obnoxious prattling all over again. Only this time it doesn’t seem to be directed at my sister, Prim’s voice isn’t being projected out through the large overhead speakers the Capitol crew sets up yearly here, so I know the reaping has moved on. Effie has chosen a male tribute from the bowl now and the focus of the day has already shifted. 

The focus has already shifted onto someone else. The crowd’s attention is diverted away at the drop of a hat, at the grasp of a new paper slip. Everyone’s all but forgotten about my little sister already.

How easily she will be forgotten in the arena. 

I almost physically smack myself, using all my willpower to push such thoughts off into a dark pocket, shoved away in the back of my mind. 

I can’t afford to think like that. I can’t afford to be so pessimistic—so realistic, perhaps—about Prim’s chances so soon. 

After all, if I don’t believe in her, who will? 

No one in Twelve evidently. It feels like I blink, like all I do is take a shallow, unsteady breath, my lungs still on fire and my head swimming on air, and Prim is being yanked away. Like a prisoner, like a criminal who did something wrong, Prim is pulled by Peacekeepers towards the Justice Building. 

And I’m not tall enough to see over the stage, to see what direction they took her in, to see if they dragged the boy away just as violently. In the flash of a second, Prim evaporates and I’m still standing in place, frozen like an icicle on the edge of our home in winter, and everyone around me is flying by, passing where I stand in blurs of color. Everyone else is flashing by. And I’m standing still. Paralyzed. Soldered into place. 

Not by the men who’d pinned me down and restrained me from the stage. No they were long gone with the crowd and the wind and my only grip on reality, it would seem. 

The men holding me prisoner were long gone. But I still can’t move from my spot, not until I know where Prim is, not until I can find my little sister and run away, as far away from here as we can possibly go.

They’d kill us. I know it for sure. We’d be caught in a day— if we were lucky—and they’d have no hesitation in taking us out. 

But that option actually seems preferable. A twelve-year-old in the games is a death sentence in and of itself, and at least if Peacekeepers shot us, it wouldn’t be so painful. 

And I’d rather take a bullet in the head myself, than allow Prim into an arena. 

I’m so caught up in my own thoughts, in my visions of the worst possible scenarios my sister could be forced to endure on national television, that I don’t even recognize the hand in front of my face at first. 

The hand in front of my face that doesn’t belong to me, that is. The one being proffered from the very top of the stage. 

I turn my neck upwards, almost in slow motion, completely unprepared for the person staring back at me. The person with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, with the blonde curls and strong jawline that no grainy television set could ever do justice, with the muscular arms that came only in the years since his victory. I come face to face with Peeta Mellark. 

The Peeta Mellark. 

But he’s not one for introductions it would seem. Just like me, he seems to grasp the seriousness of my sister’s situation. 

He may be the only one who can fully understand the severity of my sister’s predicament. 

“Come on,” he urges quietly, his voice remaining calm and collected. Even when all he receives in response is a look of panic splayed across my face, he keeps his composure. 

His hand clasps mine, sending the strangest sensation up my arm. I try to shake off the feeling, not having time to contemplate what it could or should mean. I let Peeta Mellark pull me onto the stage and lead me down the back, over a threshold, and out the entire rest of the way to the Justice Building. By hand. 

I barely even recognize that I’m clutching his hand like a vise until we’ve arrived at our destination and I struggle to pry my fingers from his. 

He doesn’t seem to notice though. Or perhaps he’s seen this type of reaction occur often enough in the last four years he’s served as mentor that he’s truly unfazed. 

After all, he’s been the rock for at least one of Twelve’s tributes and their family member since he was only thirteen-years-old. He’s been treated as an adult since he won his own games. I doubt he’s going to even remember my frenzy in an hour. 

I shove the door open as fast as humanly possible, my eyes finding my little sister instantly as I take in the room. 

There’s a couch made of velvet and a wooden chair, a coffee table, some windows and a flickering light fixture. I don’t know if this room was meant to exude comfort to the tributes, but it smells of desolation more than anything else, and my eyes physically water a little at the sight.   

But they fill up and pour entirely at the vision of Prim—my sweet, soft-spoken, tender little sister—sobbing in our mother’s arms. 

Our mother, the woman who checked out on us after my father’s death, the woman who nearly let us starve until there was nothing left on our bones, nothing left to sustain us, is currently trying to appear strong. Is currently trying to calm Prim down, murmuring hushed phrases into her ear, petting down her now frizzy blonde braided hair. 

This is the place intended for permanent goodbyes. The place where you say all the things you wish you had told your loved ones before now. Where you take back all the awful things you did say. 

Prim isn’t going to have any of those sentiments. She never had a harsh word for our mother, not even when I was ready to scream and shout in the woman’s face. Prim never felt the same anger I did in wake of her abandonment. 

And Prim isn’t one for grudges. 

No, that title belongs to me, without a doubt. 

It’s only a few moments upon my arrival, only a tender pause of ten seconds, before both my mother and sister make space for me in their embrace. And though I don’t have the most warm feelings towards the woman who gave me life, though I don’t have any amount of trust in her still four years after her abandonment, I rush to join their hug without hesitation. 

Because this isn’t about me now. This is about Prim. 

I’m not going into the games. She is. I wasn’t allowed to volunteer and I’m not the tribute and nothing is right in the world suddenly. Nothing will ever be right again. 

Because I’m not allowed, by law, to protect my sister. The sister I kept alive in whatever way I could, that I did everything in my power to make happy, that I’ve cared for in any way foreseeable in the last four years. I’m not allowed to protect her anymore and that fact stops me cold to accept. It stings my throat like acid trickling down the pathway. 

I’m going to be forced to watch my sister die—potentially in the most gruesome and vicious ways known to man—and there’s nothing I can do to stop it, as the crowds cheer on her murderers. 

We sit like that, in a three-way embrace, until a knock sounds at the door and a Peacekeeper with a gruff voice tells us that we only have one minute left. 

One minute? That’s all they can give us? One minute until my sister is whisked away, until life as we know it is over forever, until I’m forced to sit at home, as paralyzed as my mother after my father died in the mines, and imagine all the atrocities that will befall my sister? 

Only that isn’t going to happen. 

It didn’t even occur to me that the rule change that came when volunteering was outlawed, the rule change that Peeta Mellark elicited four years ago, came with an added treat for the families of tributes. That’s how President Snow phrased it. An added treat , to come visit the Capitol, to watch the games with the mentors, to be there, watching your family member up close as they faced almost certain death. 

It didn’t even register in my brain that the person going with Prim would be me. 

But I suppose my mother knows I’m more equipped to handle the world of luxury and danger, that I'm better at putting on a brave face than her, that I’d be of more comfort to Prim in the moments before her inevitable descent into the arena. 

My mother squeezes my hand, willing me to meet her gaze. And I see, in her wet, puffy eyes, the resignation, the desire for me to go in her place. 

Naturally, most tributes bring their parents with them. Aside from the Careers, who a lot of times bring their siblings to watch the games up close, the majority of kids want their mother with them before they’re sent into a fight to the death.

I know that if I’d been chosen for the Games before my father died, I’d have brought him along. 

But it would seem I’m the chosen guardian of my sister. That even without my sister herself formally requesting, my mother is giving up the chance and imploring me to take the place most outsiders would assume is rightfully hers. 

There isn’t much more time left to exchange words. A Peacekeeper opens the door moments later and says time’s up. My mother scrambles out of the room, tears still flowing freely down her cheeks, and I feel a pang of regret that I haven’t offered her any words of kindness in a long time. That every moment I’ve spent with my mother in the last four years—and more importantly, every moment she has spent with both her daughters—has been jaded by my underlying wariness. By my thinly-veiled animosity towards her, for her inability to keep us alive when we needed her most. 

There’s only a brief pause before the next visitor appears. The interlude isn’t long enough for me to say much, isn’t long enough for me to think of a way to console my sister, isn’t even long enough for me to clutch her close. I’m just barely wrapping my arm deftly around her when Gale crosses the threshold. 

He’s known Prim for years really, since he and I stopped haggling each other for equal shares of our hunting escapades and became first acquaintances, and then later friends. So it shouldn’t be surprising to me that he’s visiting the little girl he promised to keep alive if I were to be called today.

Still though, it doesn’t click to me right away why he’s here. Why he’s standing in this room right now, with forlorn eyes and a voice softer than I even knew he was capable of. 

It doesn’t hit me until Prim flies to her feet, shooting herself like a train car into his embrace, and hugs herself to Gale with reckless abandon. And the sight causes my throat to close up. My stomach flips and my vision swirls for just a moment, as the sheer panic hits me full-force all over again.

Prim can’t die , I chant inside my head. Prim can’t die. She cannot die. No matter what happens, Prim can’t die. 

Even if I have to beg, bargain or cheat, I will keep my sister alive. 

Even if it kills me. 

/

Gale is still holding Prim in his arms, fully lifted into his embrace, when the Peacekeepers knock on the door, signaling the visit is about to end. She looks so tiny to me, in my view from across the room. She’s small for her age as it is—a direct result of the malnutrition she’s suffered through, even with my hunting doing it’s best to combat it—and when held up to Gale, who’s more than a foot taller than me, she looks exactly like what she is. 

A child. 

A child who will be facing people Gale’s size and more in a few weeks time. 

Gale is speaking to Prim when the Peacekeepers enter again. I’m barely beginning to absorb his words when the door flies open. 

“You’re a healer, Prim. You have a better shot than most of the kids in that place.” His voice is full of false confidence, full of a positivity I’ve never once heard from him before. 

And I appreciate it immensely. Though I can’t seem to form the words of gratitude now, I am thankful beyond measure that Gale is saying the things to my sister that I should have already told her. 

“I’m too small,” she murmurs though, not taking Gale’s optimism as genuine. “I’ll be an easy target.” 

But he shakes his head, kneeling down to her height. “You can use that to your advantage,” he implores. “Let the big kids pick each other off and in the meantime, you just hide. You just hide in a tree and keep yourself alive. You know plants and you know how to heal. You can do this, Prim.” 

She opens her mouth to say more, to perhaps poke another hole in his suggestions, but the Peacekeepers are getting impatient and force Gale out of the room before Prim can even whisper goodbye. 

It isn’t long after Gale’s departure that Prim makes her way over to me, that she silently climbs up into my lap, just as she did when she was a toddler, and begins to weep into my neck. 

My arms go around her, cradling her to me like the small child I’ll always see her as, and we begin to rock. 

No other visitors come. We both knew there wouldn’t be any more. In a district so impoverished, so beaten down by its own government, death is far too common among us. Too many of our neighbors, of Prim’s classmates and even her friends, have witnessed death many times already. 

To many people, it’s better to just not say goodbye. It’s better to let go, to create a wall between them and their doomed friend. 

And saying goodbye at the Justice Building would definitively tear down that wall. 

When the time comes to head towards the train station, to board the vehicle that will take us from the only home we’ve ever known to the strange faraway land of the Capitol, Prim grasps my hand in an iron grip, as if she’s afraid letting go of me means they’ll be able to separate me from her.

Not likely, little duck, I want to tell her. But I can’t. I can’t make her any more promises. Not after what happened today. Not after I swore up and down for weeks her worst fears wouldn’t transpire, and then they did exactly that this afternoon in the town square.

We board the train in an obedient silence, following the Peacekeepers whose faces we don’t recognize, who surely don’t spend their evenings trading in the Hob, who definitely don’t know or care about my sister any more than the other faceless, nameless girls every year.

Once you’re reaped, even if you’re the youngest in the competition, even if you’re too sweet and too soft, like Prim, to most people in the country, you’re just another face in the crowd. Just another player for the elite to decide if they should bet money on or not.

The Peacekeepers leave the train quickly, once Prim and I situate ourselves in the dining car, though neither of us are interested in food. We share a moderately sized chair, cramped and squished, but together just the same.

There’s a cushion on the seat of the chair, and a soft fabric trim across the back. My sister seems to find a small comfort in stroking the material absently, while we sit in silence, waiting for the rest of our entourage to come aboard.

It takes me only a few seconds to recognize the fabric Prim is stroking is velvet. Our mother, once a merchant from town, still has a dress made of velvet collecting dust in the back of her closet.

I wonder for a moment if touching the material makes her feel closer to our mother. I wonder if it feels like the maternal touch Prim surely must be missing already.

I open my mouth to ask as much, to ask if Prim is thinking of the woman who, unlike me, she still loves openly, unabashed, and without reservation, when I realize the absurdity of the inquiry.

The answer is as obvious as a neon light. Of course my sister is seeking any reminder she can find of our mother. Because she may never see her again. Because, despite the hope that I’m doing every single thing I can to conjure up inside, the likelihood of Prim ever returning home is almost absurd.

And because she’s only twelve. She’s as nurtured, as sweet and protected, and as tender as I’ve been able to keep her all these years.

She’s only a couple months past the age I was when our father died. Only a few months forward from where I was when our mother checked out, when I became the supplier of the family, when I learned to hunt and haggle for our survival.

A bleak thought crosses my mind then, as the train car opens and the male tribute steps inside.

In a few weeks time, our mother will probably have lost both her children at age twelve.

The realization makes me ache for her, but not enough to erase the resentment built up from years and years of unaddressed anger.

The boy—it dawns on me that, in my shock and desolation from Prim being chosen, I completely ignored the male tribute before—plops down unceremoniously in the chair across from us. His mother follows a beat behind, with a similar gracelessness.

I’ve never been a social person, not even when my father was alive and took me into town with him. Not even when I was protected by his strength, when I never had to worry about food or money because he was there to take care of it all. Not even then did I strike up a conversation with strangers.

No, that’s more up Prim and our mother’s alley. As proven by the sight of my sister wiping her large, swollen blue eyes and tentatively holding out a hand towards the boy.

“I’m Primrose,” she introduces in an angelic soprano.

He must be at least seventeen. Surely he’s got at least a year on me. Maybe not on Gale though.

His face is caked in coal dust, even though we’re not allowed down into the mines until we finish school, and not even the air is polluted enough to cast that dark of a shadow on our residents skin. He has a perpetual frown splayed across his face, and his gray eyes are hard and tired.

He’s tall too. If he’d been fed better in his life, he could have been a potential Career tribute. One of the anomalies from a richer district, where they train their entire lives for the Games, where winning the competition means more than winning the mayoral election.

But he clearly has never seen a full buffet before, and his patience has clearly run thin. I can’t imagine his day has been much better than my sister’s, and so when she holds out her hand in a kind gesture, he merely shakes his head at it, and stands to grab something to eat from the buffet residing to our right.

There’s an awkward silence that falls over us and the boy’s mother as we sit there, listening to him shuffle around, listening to him plop things onto his plate, listening to him loudly inhale the scent of fresh, hot food — perhaps for the first time in his life.

It’s only when he clinks the glass bottles together the older woman speaks. “Birch,” she chides lightly. “Do not start taking Mr. Abernathy’s alcohol.”

“He doesn’t need it all,” her son states plainly, and she doesn’t argue. I suppose I cannot judge her for that. I don’t know if I could deny Prim anything right now either. Even if she were more willful and pushed for things she wasn’t old enough to indulge in. I’d still probably give in to her, no matter what.

I find my eyes falling upon my sister’s hand, latched in an iron tight grip with mine. My gaze stays there, out of sheer awkwardness. I don’t know why no one ever warns you about how incredibly uncomfortable it is, for the tributes and their families to sit together. To be forced into either deafening silence or  dull small talk.

Because at the end of the day, I’m still hoping for Birch’s death. I’m still hoping he doesn’t make it out of the arena so Prim can. My sister’s survival depends on his fatality.

And I’m fully aware that his mother is hoping for the reversal and I can’t blame her for that fact, but I like her less because of it.

I don’t think she’s aware of my unintentional resentment. I don’t believe it’s that apparent, as I’m keeping my eyes trained far from her and her son. I don’t believe either Prim or I are the reason she so suddenly flies up, nearly knocking over her chair, and flees from the room without a single word uttered.

But I’ll never know because by the time I glance in her direction, she’s already evaporated from sight, settling into a different train car.

Her son doesn’t seem too disturbed by her abrupt exit though. He just carries on indulging in the copious amount of food, lost in his own world, oblivious to anyone living in the real one.

Only one beat passes before we’re joined by a new face. By a face we’ve all come so accustomed to seeing upon the television, upon posters and banners and billboards. For the last four years, all citizens of 12 have come to recognize the face of the acclaimed victor, the little boy who defied all odds and won the games, who went on to become one of the most universally adored people in the entire country.

Of course, he’s also joined by Effie Trinket. His prattling escort, who barely paid him a sideways glance the day he volunteered in place of the stocky seventeen-year-old he calls his brother.

I cringe involuntarily at the very notion of Prim volunteering for me, of the idea of her tiny, frail voice ringing above the noisy town square and demanding to take my place in the arena.

To me, it’s an awful, gruesome vision. But I distinctly remember Graham Mellark sighing in relief when his blonde haired, blue-eyed, chubby-cheeked brother stepped away from the crowd.

How an older sibling could feel relief—how he could feel anything other than the paralyzing despair overcoming me right now—is beyond belief.

Effie may have only offered Peeta a slight mention at his own reaping but ever since he won, he’s been the apple of her eye. Evidently, to his own dismay, as he moves out of her hand’s reach, just as she tries to fix a single wrinkle in his silk shirt.

“My, my,” she greets, her accent even more affected up close. “Are you two excited?”

At once, the strange woman is met with four pairs of horrified eyes. Birch evidently is the first one to regain his ability to speak. “Excited?”

He says the word with such disdain even Effie Trinket immediately recognizes his displeasure. “To see the Capitol for the first time!” She reiterates, like there’s something wrong with us for not understanding her meaning. She seemingly spots me abruptly, as if I only now appeared. “Of course, I’m being rude. Are you excited, Miss… Miss…” I let her struggle for a long moment, finding sadistic satisfaction in watching her grow more and more uncomfortable.

“Everdeen,” Peeta Mellark finally says, his voice patient and even as he speaks to his escort. But there’s something almost mirthful behind his blue eyes and I wonder for a moment if he doesn’t see the same small humor I do in making Effie feel uncomfortable.

“Everdeen!” Effie repeats, feeling clearly eased now. Her eyes, that seem too bright and too intense in my personal opinion, set on me again, expectantly waiting for an answer, when Birch speaks up again.

It’s quite apparent that no one is wanting to converse about the Capitol, especially not in a positive context. As evidenced by Birch’s subject change. “Weren’t we supposed to get our photo taken at the station?”

Prim’s eyes light up with realization too, for the first time since we’ve arrived on the train. “Yeah, why weren’t there any cameras?”

I look to Effie as well, confusion spreading through me as well. There’s always tons of cameras at the station, taking photos of all the tributes, capturing video to be played on repeat for the next few weeks.

Until the tribute in the footage dies. Until the footage is irrelevant because the person in it will not be the acclaimed victor.

But apparently this question is nothing of concern to the typically uptight Capitol woman. “Oh, I had to reschedule the cameras,” she assures flippantly. “Peeta’s outfit got a bit dirty in the scuffle after the reaping. I couldn’t allow there to be footage of him looking a mess.” Her tone is so chirpy, so blithe, I can barely even comprehend the words. “The cameras will be there to meet us getting off the train. And hopefully by then, Mr. Mellark will have cleaned up.” She gives him a stern look, to which he ignores.

Prim eyes Peeta just a second before I do, both our glances moving up and down to pinpoint this mess Effie described.

All I can find is a minor smudge of coal dust on the leg of his pants. It’s so minimal I hardly can buy it as the reasoning behind postponing the cameras, especially because the filming is for the tributes, not the mentors. But it’s all that appears to be out of place for the usually pristine Peeta Mellark and I have to break my eyes away, before he catches onto my lingering gaze.

“Have you eaten, dear?” Effie asks Prim.

“No,” Prim murmurs after a moment, and I squeeze her hand, trying to comfort her somehow. My hand is trailing into her hair, to massage her doubtlessly sore head, when the escort speaks again.

“Well, you should get right on it,” she says, in a voice I’m sure is meant to be encouraging. After all, this is the woman who expects her tone deaf speeches, praising the Capitol and President Snow, to have some kind of positive effect on us. “You won’t survive very long in an arena if you don’t put some meat on those bones.”

The comment is so senseless, so offhanded, that I’m stunned speechless for a moment. But when the words settle, the blatant reminder of the fact that not only will Prim be heading into a death match soon, but she’s also small and unequipped and entirely too meek to be much of a competitor, smacks me with the same force of the train we’re currently residing upon.

It doesn’t take as long to register with Prim though. Almost as soon as the words leave Effie Trinket’s mouth, I hear the sound of quiet sobs, of uncontainable cries, suddenly bursting from my sister’s mouth.

“What’s wrong?” Effie inquires, both her voice and features perplexed by Prim’s upset.

And I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take all the pain, all the agony and torment and fear, being placed upon my little sister. I can’t take the fact that there’s absolutely nothing I can do to stop this, that I’m entirely powerless to help Prim through the worst situation of her life.

That for the first time ever, I’m incapable of protecting Prim from whatever forces are trying to hurt her.

And I lose it. Unexpectedly and without warning—or remorse—I lose it on the Capitolite. “ You’re what’s wrong!” I exclaim, dropping Prim’s hand to smack my palm on the table, making a loud, cacophonous noise resonate across the entire train car. My hand burns from the impact but I’m too furious to care. “You walk in here, chipper and irritating and say completely stupid things--”

Prim tugs on my arm, tugging me back to be closer to her, and I realize I’ve leaned forward in my tirade. I barely have time to even register what I’ve said when Effie Trinket starts shrieking about my manners.

“I cannot believe the disrespect! It’s uncanny- -”

I’m not even listening, more focused on Prim’s desolate eyes, on trying to rid her of the tears and the trembling lip, when Peeta Mellark captures the attention back towards himself.

“Just put a sock in it, Effie,” he says and brushes right past her, bumping her shoulder with seemingly purposeful intention.

For a moment he seems to be heading in the direction of Birch, who has fallen silent now, sitting across from me and Prim at the dining table. But he stands with the same flighty nature his mother exhibited only minutes prior, just as Peeta reaches him.

He doesn’t even bother with an exit line, with so much as acknowledging any one of us, as we watch him flee. But then again, why should he? In a matter of weeks he’ll either be victor—unlikely though, despite his height—or he’ll be dead. And then he’ll owe all of us nothing. And we probably won’t even remember how he stormed from the room with a rudeness, with a hostility to his gait.

Of course, I’ll probably remember. I’ll probably remember how he made her frown turn into a full-on scowl, how he stormed from the room without apology. I’ll probably look back on that moment fondly one day.

But today it doesn’t even elicit a smile and all I can truly focus on is Prim, and her shaking shoulders and defeated posture and the overwhelming desperation I feel to somehow bring her home.

“Prim?” I hear Peeta Mellark murmur gently, making his way around the table and kneeling before my little sister’s trembling knees. She smooths her skirt anxiously, as if being approached by the handsome victor with a wrinkled skirt is an embarrassment.

And he is handsome. That’s completely undeniable. Peeta Mellark’s curls fall perfectly into soft waves across his forehead, his long lashes gleam in the sunlight, his skin looks smooth to the touch and his shoulder muscles appear as sturdy and broad in person as they do on Caesar Flickerman’s talkshow.

It’s outright irritating how pleasing he is to the eye, I decide. Because I’m not in any way interested in looking at him, in staring at him like the girls at school who fawn over his every move, who scrounge together the little money they can to buy every magazine with his face splashed across the cover.

His mother sells them in the bakery, I remember. It’s an idle, disconnected thought and I can’t decipher what makes me think of it. I typically pawn off trading with the baker onto Gale, as the witch hates the sight of me and the reminder of what took place behind the business four years ago still weighs heavily upon me.

I rarely have ever even walked through the front doors of the bakery, but even I can see in the times I pass by, large posters of Peeta on display behind the counter, new editions of Capitol Weekly with him posed across the cover sitting next to the frosted cakes in the windows, even photos taken without Peeta’s knowledge sometimes sitting by the cash register.

I don’t know if Peeta gives his mother permission to use him as a sales tactic, but I know from the rare trade I make with his father that it isn’t the baker’s idea.

Nor is it Graham Mellark’s. Since Peeta volunteered in his place, the eldest Mellark has had little to say or do with his brother. At least publicly. If anything he’s done just about everything to make himself less visible, less personable and less attached to the family name and business.

“Hi,” Peeta whispers to my sister, bringing me back into reality. “I’m Peeta Mellark.”

She laughs a little through her tears and I find myself deftly rubbing her small back, trying to calm her down. “I know,” she says, a bit ironically.

He chuckles as well, showing his pearly white teeth, and I feel a ghost of a smile spread across my lips now too. “Here, take this,” he murmurs and pulls from the side of his jacket an embroidered handkerchief. It’s thick and cotton and intricately designed and outright beautiful. Without a doubt, one of the prettiest pieces of fabric I’ve ever laid my eyes on.

Prim clearly feels the same as I do. “It’s too nice,” she insists, eyeing the proffered handkerchief longingly. Unlike me, Prim has always had an eye for the aesthetically pleasing. Not even after nearly being starved to death did my sister lose her ability to appreciate beauty.

But Peeta isn’t deterred at all. “I have hundreds of them,” he insists and places the cloth in her small hand. “And you can have as many as you’d like, Prim.”

I don’t know if it’s the simple gesture of receiving a gift—something Prim surely has never experienced from a stranger—or if it’s the fact that the gift is so luxurious, but her tears start up again and this time they won’t stop.

“Prim,” I whisper gently, pulling her towards me with one arm and picking up the handkerchief with the opposite hand and wiping the waterworks as they fall. “Shh, it’s okay,” I try to console but I doubt she can hear me over her own cries.

To my surprise, Peeta’s hand moves upwards as well. He brushes whatever hair has fallen out from her braid back behind her ear, helping me to gently soothe my sister into a more tranquil state.

For a split second his blue eyes find mine, making brief contact, before quickly flitting away. Just like when we were young, when we sat across the room from each other in class. His eyes used to find me then too, I remember. And just as swiftly, they’d always turn away.

Prim pulls away from my embrace after a long stretch of silence, the angry, pink skin around her eyes making her look even younger than she is. Which is not a feat, in her current predicament.

“Do I even stand a chance?” she whispers to Peeta thickly and I involuntarily gulp, trying hard to swallow down the lump in my own throat.

Her words just verbalized my worst fears. The repeated thought in the back of my mind I’m doing everything I can snuff out.

The idea that Prim is already dead. That she has no chance of survival, no shot at winning and being crowned victor. That there’s no miracle for my sister, that she’ll never come home again.

I think of all the times Gale has mentioned running. And deep down, I berate myself numbly for never giving the idea any serious consideration.

Because I never let myself believe my sister would be chosen. I never even let myself worry for her. She didn’t take tesserae, she had no additional entries, she had the best odds humanly possible in the town square today.

And it didn’t matter. Because one slip is all it took for her to be chosen and for her life to abruptly change. One way or another, Primrose Everdeen will never be the same.

I just hope she’s alive. No matter what, even if she loses her hand like a victor from decades ago or her legs or an eye, I just want her to live. No matter the cost, I need Prim to live.

Peeta though has his wits about him far more than I do today and he’s speaking to my sister in a compelling voice. One I so rarely have heard before, from the boy who sits on Capitol talk-shows and makes jokes, captivates entire audiences and gives people a reason to laugh.

“Of course you stand a chance,” he says fiercely, his eyes boring into hers now. His demeanor is so sure, so certain, that it’s almost impossible to question. Even for me, who isn’t a frightened, naive twelve-year-old, the slightest bit of relief seeps into my body, hearing him proclaim my sister a contender. No matter how unlikely her chances are, if someone besides me believes in her, her odds cannot be as awful as they seem.

It appears that just as it was during his own time as a tribute, Peeta Mellark can still make anyone believe anything.

“No one believed I stood a chance,” he says gently, his gaze still holding onto Prim’s. The smallest hint of a smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. “And look how wrong they were about me.”

Prim laughs, her throat clogged by snot and trepidation, causing the sound to come out choked and clunky. “What if no one will sponsor me?” She asks earnestly, peering up at Peeta Mellark, like he’s a gamemaker and not a sixteen-year-old trying to keep kids alive that he should be eating lunch in a school cafeteria with.

And I feel my chest physically ache, the way it always does when I see Prim in pain. Because I hate that her mind has already gone this route, that she’s already considered how low her chances of survival are before we’ve even reached the Capitol.

“Let me worry about the sponsors,” Peeta insists, with a real intensity in his eyes. “The most important thing you can do right now is not give up on yourself. Most of Twelve’s tributes deaths are because they give up too easily on themselves. You can’t do that, okay?”

Prim nods and then looks towards me, as if to ask for my approval. I cup the back of her head, hoping she feels the silent confidence I wish to convey and not the debilitating dread building in the pit of my stomach.

“Okay,” she finally agrees, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. I pick up the beautiful handkerchief again and begin to decimate the evidence of Prim’s tears as Peeta Mellark replies.

“Because I can’t convince a bunch of rich Capitol citizens to believe in a girl who doesn’t believe in herself,” he explains plainly, and something in Prim’s expression clicks with understanding.

And abruptly, perhaps invisible to anyone besides me, something in my sister’s body language shifts. Her shoulders, her thin, narrow shoulders, sag down a bit in something akin to relief. As if she were carrying a coal shipment all on her own and someone finally lifted the weight off her back.

I feel a trickle of something new, of something I typically refuse to allow myself to accept, of something I’ve been desperately trying to conjure up since Prim’s name was called over the microphone. 

Hope. The only thing stronger than fear.

Hope that my sister isn’t doomed, that Gale is right and her ability to heal will prove more valuable in the arena than brute force or practice with a knife, that a few sponsors will see her potential and send gifts her way, that she can find shelter and hide away until everyone else is picked off, bleeding or infected, that somehow I won’t lose her forever through this entire horrific debacle.

Hope that Peeta Mellark can do the impossible and replicate his own win again. That he can bring my sister home, that he can help me keep Prim alive again, just as he unknowingly did only weeks before volunteering for his eldest sibling.

As his eyes meet mine once more, I wonder if he even remembers that day he threw me the bread. I wonder if it stands out at all in his memory or if it’s just another moment he categorized in the before section of his life.

And for some inexplicable reason, I hope to myself that he does remember. That he knows who I am, that he knows he saved us once before and that he’ll be even more motivated by that fact to do it again.

Because if anyone can save my sister, it’s him. If anyone can bring Prim home, it’s Peeta Mellark.

Chapter Text

It’s only minutes after Peeta Mellark’s encouraging words that we’re interrupted. Effie Trinket’s clicking heels and piercing, obnoxious voice can be heard from a mile away but after an afternoon like today, I’m not prepared for her dinner invitation.

More like dinner summon. I’m not at all hungry and I can tell just by looking at her ashen face that neither is Prim, but it doesn’t seem that we have much of an option. Effie announces to all three of us that there’s only twenty minutes before the meal is served so we best clean ourselves up before the affair.

It’s apparent to us all that the escort’s comment is a dig mainly aimed at Peeta. Whatever invisible damage he obtained in midst of the chaos in the town square today is evidently still weighing heavily upon the Effie and Peeta himself seems to have given up trying to fight her on it.

He still makes a point in rolling his eyes in her direction—to which I hear “manners!” hissed underneath the escort’s breath—but takes off in an unfamiliar direction without further comment. Effectively leaving me and Prim behind, both still reeling, unsure of what our next step should be.

For the first time though, Effie Trinket has something valuable to share. We follow her slowly, heading down several halls and through three separate train cars until we reach a dead end, with nothing left before us but a singular door.

Effie presses a button on the wall, holding her finger there expectantly for a long beat of time. I don’t understand what she’s doing until the door before us slides open, revealing a lavish bedroom on the other side.

Prim audibly gasps at the sight, having never seen a vision so luxurious in person before. “Is-is this for me?” She squeaks, peering up at Effie hopefully.

And my heart warms at the unexpected excitement palpable in her tone. She’s never experienced anything so lush in her life and, even in these horrendous circumstances, I try to appreciate her naive thrill. I try to take in and absorb her love for beautiful things, as a nagging voice in the back of my mind reminds me these moments may soon be all I have left to remember her.

I almost physically smack myself upside the head, in attempt to force all these thoughts away, to rid myself of even the slightest bit of doubt that my sister will survive.

Prim will live, I chant silently. She will win. There’s every reason to hope Prim will be this year’s victor.

If Peeta Mellark can win, with just Haymitch Abernathy’s tutelage as a guide, then surely Prim stands a chance.

I repeat that sentiment over and over again inside my head, clinging to it like a warm blanket in front of the hearth during a snowstorm.

I have to believe it. I have to believe Prim can win. I have to believe it to be true or else my sister will know. And then she’ll give up on herself.

Because, just as Peeta said, if Prim doesn’t believe she can win, her chances go from unlikely to absolutely nonexistent.

I’m so caught up in my head, in coaching myself to appear optimistic and upbeat, that I only half realize I’m blindly following Prim into the fancy bedroom.

“Excuse me?” Effie calls, sounding somewhat offended as I pass her by.

I spin on my heels, caught off-guard by the irritation in her tone. “Yes?” I manage to say politely. My mother grew up in town as a merchant. She instilled manners in both me and Prim from a young age.

“This isn’t your room, Miss Everdeen,” she informs, and by the way she raises up her thin eyebrow I can only assume she already said this while I was lost in my head.

Still, her words leave me confused. “Oh? This isn’t my room too?”

I’ve always shared a room with Prim. My entire life, for longer than I can remember, Prim and I shared a room, a dresser, a bathroom and even a bed most nights. The notion that we were to be separated now, on perhaps the most frightful day of both our lives—although I’d never let on to Prim just how terrified I am—shocks me entirely.

Prim is on the same wavelength as me, it would seem. She reaches out and desperately grasps my hand, in a fruitless effort to prevent me from leaving her side.

But Effie already appears to be on edge and she starts prattling on about the importance of maintaining a schedule and being considerate of other people’s time and I decide to put an end to this before Prim has to witness any more conflict today.

I gently slide my hand from her’s and plaster the most convincing smile on my face I can manage, telling her that it’s okay, we should be excited about this actually. We both get our own bed now and they’re so much bigger than the one we share at home.

She doesn’t look like she buys my enthusiasm as genuine—I may not be the greatest actress this country has ever seen—but, just as she did at the reaping when her name was called, she squares her shoulders, holds her head high and forces a quick nod. My stomach flips as a look of resignation washes over her features, the little girl I love so dearly already slipping from my grasp.

We don’t have much more of a conversation though. Effie is tapping her foot, still in a hurry and I obediently follow her out of the room and into a completely new train car, doing my best to look gracious and cordial. I refuse to make things any more complicated for Prim than they already are. Especially over a stupid room assignment.

Although I wish I wasn’t so far from her, as she will definitely need me with her to fall asleep tonight. I wish I had the guts to ask Effie Trinket to move me closer than a whole train car away.

But I don’t have the guts and the woman is already gone by the time I even think to look for her, before I even consider asking for the favor.

With no one else around, and seemingly a couple minutes to spare, I take a moment to inspect the room given to me.

The walls are a pretty shade of beige but clearly haven’t been painted in the last few years. The curtains on the window have the smallest snag on the bottom, a blemish I never imagined finding on a Capitol Train. The carpet is clean and smells nice but doesn’t seem to be as soft, as well maintained or as fluffy as the one in Prim’s room.

And I’m glad. I’m glad that my room isn’t as luxurious and that I don’t appear to have as many blankets as my sister and that my pillows are just a little lumpy. I’m glad my dresser has one broken knob and the overhead light flickers every so often.

Because I want Prim to be treated special. I want her to get the best treatment of everyone, to get spoiled rotten and be made to feel like royalty. I want her to be treated above me, to be treated better than me, and I want Birch to get special accommodations too.

Because they’re the ones who are headed into a death pit, not me. They’re the ones chosen to die and I wouldn’t feel right if I received the same privileges as them.

Besides, the room is much nicer than anything I’ve ever known anyways. Our house in the Seam isn’t spacious by any stretch of the imagination, the ceiling regularly leaks and it’s alternates between chilly and frigid all through the winter. If we want hot water we have to boil it over the stove, if we want more blankets or curtains we have to trade game for copious amounts of fabric and sew them with our own two hands, if the light fixtures go out it’s up to us to figure out a way to fix it without getting electrocuted.

The room before me is likely the nicest room I’ll ever board in and I don’t take that fact for granted.

There’s unfamiliar equipment all around the room that I barely take the time to acquaint myself with. Buttons that seem to turn on heat, walls that are insulated with fans, multiple screens and telephones. Some that offer a menu of Capitol dishes, to be sent directly to my room and others that merely play the same propaganda we watch in the districts, only now in higher quality and more vivid colors.

I wonder for a small moment what my mother is doing. How she’s doing. Is she sitting alone at the kitchen table tonight, with a meal intended for us all before her, reveling in the notion that somehow her household went from three to one in a matter of hours? Or has she been taken in by one of the few families we can count on? Surely Hazelle Hawthorne, Gale’s mother, wouldn’t allow her to wallow in her grief, to dip back into the dark depths of her mind that once held her captive. And Greasy Sae from down at the Hob too. She’ll make my mother eat stew and take her medicine on time. She’ll check in with her every so often, probably bring her grandchildren around, help clean if my mother isn’t up to it.

At least that’s what I tell myself, as I strip off the dress she gave me today. That’s what I have to believe. That someone in 12 is looking after my mother, that someone back there is bound to stop her from falling back into the great depression that nearly killed me and Prim years ago.

If no one else, Gale has at least swore to keep my family fed if I were to be reaped. We made a pact over a year ago that if one of us should be chosen, the other would provide for their family. Surely Gale will hold up this promise now, even though it was my sister called today and not me. Surely he will keep my mother from starving and maybe even offer her the hope he somehow managed to conjure up for Prim.

Has it really only been a few hours since my sister was reaped? It feels already like days have passed, like time is flying and lagging on by simultaneously.

I inspect the contents of the wardrobe against the wall, expecting to find it empty. Instead though, piles and piles of clothing overflows from each compartment, making it difficult to even pry each drawer open.

I guess they do plan for an additional guest to come with every tribute. It shouldn’t be too astonishing to me that they have accommodations for the family members ready as well.

But still I can’t help wondering, if the people of the Capitol can afford to give this exuberant amount of clothing to a stranger from the districts, then how much must they have themselves? How much must these people have if they can toss away so much to people they think of as animals, only good for entertainment.

I pull on a green shirt and black stretchy pants without much thought, wanting to hurry back to Prim.

But I’m not quick enough seemingly, because just as I turn down her hall, Prim is already meeting me halfway.

“Effie doesn’t seem to enjoy waiting,” she says without preamble and I roll my eyes in disgust towards the high-strung escort.

“Did she come by your room to hurry you along?” I ask as Prim takes my hand and guides us towards the dining car. Evidently she remembers the way better than I do.

“Only three or four times,” she jokes and the smallest of smiles plays on her lips.

It isn’t enough to calm me though. The thought of the intolerable woman pressuring my sister in any way has my blood boiling. “I swear, if she makes one more comment-“

“Katniss, please,” Prim says, suddenly bringing us to a halt. “Please be nice. I don’t want to make anyone mad.”

But being nice isn’t my strong suit and she knows that better than anyone. That’s Prim’s department. People pleasing. Endearing herself to strangers. Acting kind in the face of hostility. That’s not me and it never will be.

But I know it’s what she wants and I know it will make her happy if I can just put on a good face and suck up to the Capitol people. For her sake, if for no other reason. So I nod and force a smile and pretend for a moment that it will be easy for me to be as personable and as delightful and mild-mannered as her. That it won’t take extensive effort for me to not just scowl silently at anyone who tries to approach either of us, to not try to scare people away because no one here is trustworthy in my eyes and I feel out of control and distressed just by allowing Prim onto this train. Despite the fact that I had no other choice in the matter.

Prim takes my hand again, holding it tightly in her’s. “Thank you,” she murmurs and I give her palm a squeeze.

I can do this for her. I can be pleasant and friendly and mild, if it helps her.

If being nice to Effie Trinket and the other Capitolites will help bring Prim home to 12, I can be as sweet as a chocolate frosted bakery cake. If that’s what it takes.

/

Dinner is an unbelievably awkward affair. To say the least.

Effie Trinket sits at one end of the table, her elbows never touching the mahogany wood, her every bite small, dainty and precise. Peeta sits on the other end, appearing as happy to be eating dinner right now as he looks when visiting his family bakery back home. I don’t even think he takes a single bite of the creamy potato, garlic and pork mixture on his platter. But I can’t say for sure, because I’m more intent on watching Prim, making sure she eats as much of the hearty food as her small stomach can hold.

Birch sits across from Prim and me, doing the polar opposite of Peeta. He shovels food into his mouth like the pigs the baker and his wife keep behind their business. I don’t think he even stops to breathe, his fingers wiping his plate clean in only a matter of minutes after we all sit down.

It’s only after he gets up for seconds that I realize there’s an empty chair to his left. That I recognize his mother isn’t here and that she hasn’t made an appearance since she stormed out earlier.

I wonder what happened to her, where she even went on this train that provided her an escape from Effie Trinket’s never-ending schedule, but it seems rude to ask for some reason. It seems rude to pry about her whereabouts, when it’s likely the woman just wants privacy. It’s likely she’s falling into the same deep despair my own mother could be diving into right now as well.

Thoughts of my mother immediately cause my appetite to dissipate and I’m gently setting my fork down and turning to focus on Prim once again when Effie decides to speak.

“My dear, do you always eat like a wild bear?” She asks, the horrified glint in her too shiny eyes obvious in her tone.

Birch’s hands abruptly go still at her comment, like he was unaware until now that he was using his fingers as silverware.

I don’t expect him to respond back to her, least of all in the quiet tone in which he does. “Sorry,” he mumbles under his breath, looking down at the table for an uncomfortable moment, while the rest of us try to continue on with our own meal. But his words make it difficult to just ignore him. “I’ve never in my life had this much food to eat.”

My chest aches with the sincerity in his tone, with the raw truth prevalent in the admission. Because it’s so honest. He probably never has had this much to eat before. He’s probably never had enough to eat in his life.

Very few people in Twelve have. And there’s even fewer people who wouldn’t eat the same way Birch just did, without shame or remorse.

Because when you’re starving, when you’re just scraping by meal to meal, there’s so little you care about in terms of appearance. In terms of politeness.

Prim and I are the anomalies. Our mother was a merchant growing up, must like Peeta. Her parents ran the apothecary shop and she was among the wealthiest in the district. Not that the wealthiest in Twelve is saying much when you look at the Capitol and even some of the other districts like One or Two, but it feels like an extreme juxtaposition from the Seam.

As a result of her early life, the life she had before falling in love with our coal mining father and moving away from her family, she instilled in me and Prim table manners. Basic refinement. Standard social cues.

And yet, even if she were sitting here now, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt my mother would never look down or shame the boy before us. She’d be the last person to act superior to a child who has been practically starving his entire life. Despite all my lingering resentments towards her abandonment, I know she would never even think to behave as Effie Trinket is right now.

The escort is still staring, completely appalled, at Birch’s filthy hands and food covered face. She’s still looking expectantly at the boy, as if he should know the right words to excuse a behavior he was unaware was even wrong to start with.

Evidently he’s had enough of her glares and had just about enough of this whole gathering and with a loud stumble of a chair, Birch is standing up and mumbling something about getting out of here. But before he can make his leave, before he can even reach the door to the next train car, something unexpected happens.

Peeta picks his fork up off his plate, only to carelessly toss it onto the ground, making potatoes splatter everywhere. Effie’s stern gaze snaps to him, stunned speechless for a moment, just as he digs his fingers straight into his dinner and propels the food straight into his mouth, with not a single thought of being careful or tidy or courteous.

In fact, it appears Peeta is attempting to do just the opposite, doubtlessly to resemble Birch’s eating habits, and ends up spilling food all over the front of his silky orange shirt.

Needless to say Effie is absolutely dismayed by the sight, her accent crossing over into unintelligible.

But the spectacle has its desired effect and it eases Birch significantly and before I even think twice, I drop my fork to the side as well—with the added satisfaction of flinging potatoes and garlic into Effie’s wig—and dig straight in with my hands. It takes only about half a second for Prim to follow my lead, for her to realize it’s okay to do if her older sister does it first, and for Birch to rejoin the table with a smirk.

And then Effie is yelling at us, calling us all savages, raving about how she’s going to tell all her colleagues about this act of barbarism, but all I can do is marvel at the fact that Peeta—the perfect Peeta Mellark—instigated this. How the boy regularly plastered on every magazine, billboard and television screen across the country just stood up for the lesser man.

It was in a completely minuscule way. But the act still means something nonetheless.

It means he’s kind,  I realize. Like a ton of bricks falling on me, landing square on the top of my head, the revelation that the boy with the bread, who saved my life four years ago, still exists inside the Capitol’s creation hits me unexpectedly.

And I don’t know how to feel about the idea. I don’t know if I’m comfortable with the fact that someone as affluent, as mysterious and as powerful as him could also maintain his gentle heart, his honorable character, even as everything else around him has changed in unbelievable ways.

I don’t know how I feel about that, but I don’t get the chance to ponder it any deeper, as we’re quickly interrupted by the arrival of the other mentor on the train.

Haymitch Abernathy. Stumbling into the dining car, in an all too characteristic and sloppy way. Very blatantly drunk. Drunk as a skunk. Blackout drunk, in fact.

The shift in the atmosphere is automatic. As if someone magically snapped their fingers and transformed Peeta away from a silly sixteen-year-old boy eating with his hands and back into the Capitol poster child, he quickly grabs the cloth napkin to his left and swiftly cleans his fingers and face. The rest of us quickly take a cue from him and stop eating at once.

We watch on, almost dumbfounded—even Effie doesn’t make a single sound—as Peeta moves towards Haymitch with a familiarity, with a sense of certainty and urgency that I’ve never seen between the two victors before. Not that I’ve often hung around the two but still. I’ve never noticed their camaraderie before.

Peeta quickly grasps Haymitch’s arm and guides him back towards the door he just came through. He’s murmuring something and seems to already know what’s about to occur—or maybe he’s just lived this scene so many times already—but either way he doesn’t get the older, paunchy man away in time and Haymitch suddenly bends at the waist, only hesitating for a second before puking all over the floor.

All our eyes automatically fall on the mess before collectively thinking better of it and adverting our gazes back onto the meal.

“Sorry,” Haymitch murmurs as Peeta guides him away from us once again. But the apology doesn’t seem too legitimate. Or even coherent.

I don’t know if it’s the hearty laugh he punctuates with or the way he slaps Peeta on the back like he just said the most hilarious joke, but either way, my opinion of Haymitch Abernathy plummets further than I thought possible.

I just have to hope Prim doesn’t get stuck with him as a mentor.

/

Peeta must have made it back to Haymitch’s quarters without another incident, as we don’t hear them again. Effie quickly excuses herself and makes a point in delicately sidestepping the vomit still swirling in a puddle on the floor.

I hear her call in that grating high-pitched voice for the Avoxes to come clean the mess up but, to my complete and utter puzzlement, when they do arrive, Birch rises from his seat like a bolt of lightning and immediately dismisses them.

They both share a silent look—as that’s all they’re capable of—before picking up our dishes and heading towards the kitchen.

I already lost my appetite the moment Haymitch let whatever was inside his stomach explode out onto the floor, but Prim seems a little upset that the Avoxes made off with her plate.

Of course that shouldn’t surprise me. She’s a healer already, having become our mother’s assistant more than a year ago. Whereas I run for the woods, for any escape and solitude I can find, as soon as there’s a sick or bleeding patient on our kitchen table, Prim only thinks of solutions to fix their problems, to renew their health. Prim isn’t phased by body fluids or blood or pus. She’s inherited more from our mother than just blonde hair and blue eyes. And stunning beauty.

Both my mother and sister could stop traffic if we ever had any in the Seam. If they were born into a different life.

“Prim,” I say under my breath, grasping her hand beneath the table. “If you want more food, just ask.”

Apparently I’m not as on target as I thought though. My encouragement seems to only confuse her and she peers at me for a long moment, perplexed, before nodding subtly to the now fading sight of the Avoxes. “What are they?” She asks innocently, as if she’s never seen the tongueless Capitol servants before.

And then it dawns on me, she hasn’t. She isn’t aware of the punishment administered to traitors of the Capitol, she’s naively unaware of those who suffer a fate some would call worse than death.

Because it’s one of those things I kept from her. Because I thought it would frighten or dishearten her too much.

My father told me about them when I was even younger, years before he died. But I still imagine my sister taking the explanation worse now than I did at nine.

“Prim,” I murmur, unsure what to say. And feeling uncomfortable, having to explain to my tender-hearted sister that the place she’s headed cuts people’s tongues out and enslave them for life. For being defiant. For being rebellious. Or plainly non-complicit.

Birch though, the only other person still in the room, jumps in unexpectedly. “They’re servants of the Capitol. They committed some kind of crime and are now forced to work as punishment,” he says breezily, still kneeling on the floor before Haymitch’s mess. It takes me a moment to realize he’s cleaning up the vomit. That’s why he sent the Avoxes away. So he could clean up the vomit himself.

I’m barely opening my mouth to question him when a worker—probably from the kitchen—appears to ask if we want any more food.

For some inexplicable reason, I order more for Prim. This time vegetables and chicken. And milk. Whatever I know will put as much muscle and fat on her bones as humanly possible before entering the arena.

“I’m not hungry anymore, Katniss,” she hisses as soon as the man leaves.

“Just try it,” I whisper back, cupping her chin in my hand gently. “You’ll like it. They have such rich food on this train.”

“I know ,” she murmurs with infliction. “I feel queasy from it already.”

But I’m barely listening to her. It’s rare that Prim gets even slightly annoyed with me but I’m unfazed. My focus is on Birch now, who’s finished cleaning up the puke puddle with a handful of rags and is seemingly headed towards the same exit Peeta guided Haymitch through.

“Prim, stay here,” I command abruptly, working hard to keep my voice controlled as I stand from my seat and quietly follow Birch’s path.

“But-“

“Please, just stay here,” I plead, turning around and staring her down until she sighs in resignation and slouches back into her chair.

I tiptoe down the hall, keeping a far enough distance from the male tribute, as if I’m in the woods and he’s the prey I’m preparing to shoot. I don’t want to let him know I’m tracking him, that I’m prying into his business right now. That I’m trying to spy on my little sister’s competition.

I stay back for a few seconds as he rounds a corner and enters into a room. A bedroom.

Apparently the bedroom where our mentors are commencing right now.

My hunting experience really comes in handy here, as my feet make little to absolutely no sound as I walk across the floor, as I silently peer into the room in question and observe the action, unbeknownst to all them.

Peeta has Haymitch sitting in a cushy chair, a large bucket lolled crookedly across his lap. Birch is saying something, his eyebrows raised up for whatever reason, and then Peeta slowly nods. Looking a bit apprehensive.

“You really don’t have to help,” he insists, still appearing surprised and maybe a bit quizzical.

“No, I want to help. After all, I’m going to be relying on a lot of help from you guys during the games. I figure I should do something to pull my weight,” Birch says, his tone far more amiable than the distant, standoffish boy who dodged Peeta’s introduction yesterday.

Is he taking a dig at Prim? For not offering to help them do who knows what?

What are they even doing , I wonder. I hear water running distantly and it occurs to me only then that Haymitch is covered in his own filth.

Prim’s a little kid. How would she help them haul big ol’ Haymitch into the tub and scrub his hairy chest? Is Birch really trying to make a twelve-year-old look bad? Is he truly that desperate?

It may not even be about Prim though. Birch might have not even meant anything with his remark. It might not be personal on his part. It might just be about getting in good with the mentors, to make himself the favorite and get a better chance of survival.

But there is only one mentor per tribute. Every contestant in the games is given one victor to get them sponsors and try to keep them alive. Unless they’re an unfortunate district with only one singular mentor, every tribute is assigned one person to belong to them. So it doesn’t make any sense for Birch to kiss up to both mentors, to try and be the favorite since he’s going to get one solely dedicated to his survival no matter what.

And he wants it to be Peeta, I realize, as Birch tells a bad, hokey joke, with the sole intention of getting the young victor to laugh. He’s vying for Peeta to choose him, to mentor him, to be the one collecting money for his lifesaving gifts.

My blood boils suddenly, though I should have seen this whole thing coming. Of course he wouldn’t even wait until we got into the Capitol, until the sun set on Reaping Day. Of course he’s already trying to butter up Twelve’s best victor, in hopes of passing my sister off onto Haymitch, the notorious drunk.

I wish I had my bow and arrows with me now as Birch makes a second joke, unsuccessful this time at making Peeta so much as chuckle, the strain as they drag a fully unconscious Haymitch towards the bathroom taking it’s toll. I wish I could take my aim and knock out Prim’s competition before the games even start, before she gets left with the lazy, uncaring man who none of the sponsors wish to deal with.

I know he managed to bring Peeta home almost half a decade ago but I still can’t take the idea of Prim, helpless and scared and potentially hurt, with nothing and no one who can help her but Haymitch Abernathy.

But Peeta can’t mentor them both and pretty soon he’ll have to choose.

Birch apparently is trying to make that choice real easy. To make himself the obvious pick.

And even though I know it’s not fair, and that he’s only a kid trying to survive, and that it is already a competition so why even pretend—and that Peeta himself technically hasn’t done anything yet to earn my ire—I decidedly hate them both.

Actually, I decide. I hate all three men in that bathroom, who could potentially stand in the way of bringing my little sister home.

/

I sneak into Prim’s room later that night, when everyone else has already gone off to bed. It isn’t easy to find my way through strange, unfamiliar halls but somehow the Capitol workers don’t seem to notice me and the Avoxes don’t acknowledge my presence if they do see me stumbling around like a blind bird, lost in the wild.

My sister seemed to be expecting me, already waiting at the end of her bed with a hairbrush in hand and dressed in warm, cotton, pink pajamas. I notice now just how grand her room is compared to mine. There’s machinery that you only have to so much as whisper into to receive whatever your hearts desire in seconds time.

Except a ride home. Apparently that’s off-limits.

I can tell something is on Prim’s mind as I sit behind her, brushing out all the tangles from her champagne locks and plaiting it carefully. I wait for her to confide her worries in me, as she always does. But the clock ticks on and she doesn’t offer any insight to what she could possibly be fretting over.

“Prim, what’s wrong?” I finally ask, when I’m done with her hair and she still is frozen like a statue in front of me.

She lets out a huge exhale and then shakes her head. Already trying to be stronger than she is, already trying to grow up in a matter of days, to hopefully improve her chances of survival in the arena.

I hate this so much. This whole entire scenario is worst than my wildest nightmares.

“Prim,” I start again but she cuts me off.

“What do you think our mother is doing right now?” She asks, peering up at me with genuine desolation in her gaze.

I feel my heart tear in two. Because the fact of the matter is, our mother probably is doing awful right now and I wish Prim wouldn’t worry herself about it.

I don’t want Prim to be so distracted with the pain of others that she neglects herself. She needs to focus only on herself now. She needs to push all concerns of our mother and me and everyone else she’s ever cared for—be it her classmates or her goat, Lady or that stupid cat, Buttercup—from her mind.

Instead of telling her this, as I know she’ll only ignore the notion of putting herself above others, or telling her the truth—that I would imagine our mother sobbing herself to sleep, perhaps snuggled up with that ugly, one-eyed cat, in the bed Prim occasionally crawls in to share with her—I murmur, as evenly and soothingly as I can manage, “What’s your favorite dish that you’ve tried so far?”

She doesn’t even humor me though. When I change the subject, she lets out an uncharacteristic sigh and pushes herself from the bed. “I’m tired,” she simply says as way of dismissal to the conversation and makes her way to climb under the covers.

I follow her, with the intention of merely tucking her in and saying goodnight. But my l sister evidently has other ideas and she tugs on my arm until I climb in bed beside her.

I settle in without a fight. After all, how much longer will I have the option to sleep beside my sister? What if this is one of my last chances? What if these nights are numbered-

I have to consciously turn those thoughts away, shaking my head slightly, as if I can physically pry them from my mind.

Prim will live, I chant to myself silently. She will live and become a victor and be as successful as Peeta and Haymitch.

Okay, she’ll be as successful as Peeta . By no stretch of the imagination do I ever want to acquaint my sister to the likes of Haymitch Abernathy.

Who will likely become her mentor, if Birch’s kissing up to Peeta is at all successful.

I close my eyes as Prim snuggles in closer, trying to lay her head on me as she did when we were little. My brain, surprisingly after the day we had, is halfway to sleep when I hear a quiet whisper break through the blackness of the night and the gentle hum of the train.

“Katniss?”

“Yeah?” I rasp out, nervous for some reason that Prim has something awful to tell me.

“Will you sing?”

The request is so unexpected. It’s honestly one of the last things I imagined her asking. Our father was a fantastic singer, he could render just about anyone speechless with his voice alone if he tried and once upon a time, we used to sing together to Prim. We used to sing old songs his mother taught him to quiet a fussy Prim until she fell asleep in her crib.

It’s been so long since I sang that I don’t even feel like I know how anymore.

“Prim,” I whisper, getting ready to deny the request, when I stop myself. Prim is headed to an arena soon. In only a matter of days, she will no longer be here to ask me to sing, even if it is off-tune or discordant.

That reminder has me quietly murmuring, “What song?” before I can think better of it.

“The Meadow Song. From when I had the fever two winters ago,” she says sleepily and waits patiently as I struggle to conjure up the lyrics.

“ Deep in the meadow, under the willow. A bed of grass, a soft green pillow. Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes. And when again they open, the sun will rise. Here it's safe, here it's warm. Here the daisies guard you from every harm. Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true. Here is the place where I love you .”

She’s unconscious before I can even finish the last stanza. I feel immensely satisfied that after all the trauma of today, I managed to still put her to bed. It’s a small thing, I know. But after failing to protect her from the reaping and with the very vague knowledge of what’s headed her way, I have to take comfort in the small, minuscule things. In the tiny victories.

I kiss her head and snuggle in tighter to her, whispering, “I love you, little duck,” as I fall fast asleep as well.

/

When I wake it’s already passed noon. I can’t decide if it was the anxiety of yesterday that drained me entirely or if it was the soft, plush bed provided for the tributes but either way, I must have been out for at least fourteen hours if not more.

Prim is still asleep when I rouse, grumbling quietly when I shake her slightly. “Prim, we’re supposed to meet the others for breakfast. And to watch the recap after,” I remind, causing her eyes to open abruptly. My sister is nothing if not a people-pleaser. She hates to let others down, even in the smallest of ways.

We both quickly ready ourselves. I use her shower, not wanting to waste the amount of time it would take to walk back to my own room. Prim even lends me some of her clothes from the Capitol that were packed for her on the train. Evidently they anticipated someone larger than a frail twelve-year-old and though we’re not the most different in terms of clothing size, her outfits actually fit me better than her.

If only they’d just made an exception and let me volunteer in her place , I think snidely to myself. It would seem they were more prepared for someone like me than sweeter-than-sugar Prim.

We pass by the living area on our way to the dining car and find almost our entire company waiting there.

“I’m sorry I missed breakfast!” Prim immediately blurts out, her voice raising two octaves with guilt.

I put my hand on her back, opening my mouth to gently reassure her but Haymitch, now conscious and aware and eating some kind of chocolate pastry, beats me to the punch.

“You’re golden, honey.” He waves us over to sit beside him on the sofa. “I just got up an hour ago myself. Order some breakfast while we watch the recaps, girls.”

A Capitol kitchen attendant takes our meal requests—thankfully not an Avox, since they seem to scare and fascinate Prim for some reason—and disappears about the same time Effie opens her mouth to scold Haymitch for spilling crumbs on the “freshly upholstered” couch.

He doesn’t seem to care though and merely chuckles as more of his breakfast gets on the cushion.

“This is why we can’t eat in here, Haymitch,” Effie complains, getting a frantic look on her face as she stares at the spot where the chocolate might stain. “You have no sense of cleanliness. No appreciation for suede-“

“Can you spare me the lecture,” he interrupts, his voice becoming sullen now. “I already have a headache without your help, Effie. I don’t need your voice making it worse.”

That only infuriates her further though and I share the slightest look of alliance with Birch before I remember he is no friend to me nor to Prim. He’s already planning how he can beat her. I can’t say I blame him for wanting to win, but I’m still going to put as much distance between us and him as humanly possible.

I’m definitely not going to tip him off on my sister’s strengths. I won’t mention in his vicinity that she’s a healer, that she knows plants and trees as well as I do almost, that she’s never queasy around nasty or disgusting things.

Almost as if Prim heard my thought process and decided to do the exact opposite of my intentions, she looks up at Haymitch and murmurs kindly, “You should ask the kitchen if they have any aloe? Or maybe chamomile? If they can put it in some tea, it’ll help your headache.”

The older man just stares at her, a little dumbfounded. “You know plants and herbs, girl?” I open my mouth, completely lost at how to turn this whole spectacle around, before Birch knows Prim’s a healer and has more time to configure how to use this information against her in the arena.

But Haymitch is already answering his own question aloud before my brain can find a decent segue. “Oh. You’re Lily-Rose’s daughter. Of course you know plants.”

Apparently having a healer for a mother is sort of a giveaway. I peer subtly at Birch, to see if this information is of any value to him, but surprisingly, I find him staring at me instead of Haymitch.

“Yeah, and she’s her sister.” He points somewhat accusingly in my direction before going back to consuming the toast on his plate. “So she’s probably good with a bow.”

Now that shocks me. My face visibly shifts to confusion and then outright, unmasked surprise as I realize Birch knows all about my hunting. I try to place how he’d know, if I sell to his father in the Hob, who his father even is, if he has older brothers perhaps, but in the end I come up entirely blank.

It would appear Birch already knows more about me and Prim than we do him. And that fact unsettles me to no end.

But I decide against correcting him, against letting him in on the truth that Prim cannot stand to hurt any living creature—she’s going to really have fun in the games—and that the few times I took her out to the woods, so she could learn to hunt, ended with her weeping and pleading to save the dying animal I intended for our dinner.

Because if Birch thinks Prim has an edge, that she has two skills—both healing and hunting—than that’s at least one person who may steer clear of my sister in the arena. That’s one person who might warn a few others that Prim is deadly in some kind of way.

Even if her edge is based on a thinly-veiled lie, I’ll take it. If it brings her one step closer to coming home, I’ll do anything. I’ll tell whatever lies people will believe.

My thoughts are quickly interrupted by the appearance of Twelve’s other victor. Peeta comes rolling in, looking like he just flopped out of bed and came straight here. There’s no hurry to his step though, like there was with me and Prim, and he casually takes a bowl of some kind of egg and meat concoction from a worker before sitting down on the couch.

Right between Birch and me.

I catch myself staring at him far longer than I should, without even realizing I’m doing it. To the point that it could be considered gawking, I suppose.

Because if he really just climbed out of bed and came here, why does he still look posed for the camera? Why is he still in mint condition, even when his hair is disheveled and his baby blues are only half-awake? Why is he so attractive that I’m actually annoyed just by looking at him sometimes?

His elbow bumps mine and I jump a mile at the contact. A subtle shiver runs up my arm as he says, “Sorry,” with all the genuineness in the world and I quickly shake my head to signify that I’m not put out.

At least, not about that.

Birch makes some stupid kind of joke then, just the same as last night in Haymitch’s room, and I don’t even try to hold back my eye-roll. Prim nudges me, clearly having seen my expression and willing me to be kinder to her district partner, but I notice the way Peeta only half-chuckles at Birch’s attempt and feel somewhat vindicated that he’s not as amused as the boy would wish.

“Children, please,” Effie scolds, having noticed the lack of attention we’ve all allotted to the large screen before us. “The program is beginning.”

I notice only then that Birch’s mother has also joined us this morning. After her disappearing act yesterday, I didn’t know if I should expect to see her again until we arrived in the Capitol.

She’s no more talkative today though and I anticipate a lot of heavy silences in the future between us. After all, I’m probably going to be spending copious amounts of time with her. The families of tributes are generally segregated by district, each district allocated a specific time and day to receive a tour of the great city during the games. Always scheduled for early on.

That way, only the families of the tributes dead at the Cornucopia have to ride around the city at the same time their loved one is being fit for a coffin. And that way, the tour guides only have to endure a few people sobbing while they point out superficial landmarks and aesthetic scenery that no one asked about.

The reapings from yesterday play on the screen just as mine and Prim’s breakfast arrives. The pancakes are so fluffy and buttery that my mouth practically drools with each bite and I almost miss half the tributes chosen.

A surprisingly plain girl from District One, the luxury district. A monstrous boy from District Two that I can’t believe was chosen at random. An allusive redhead from District Five that reminds me more of a fox than a girl. Two tall but skinny, gaunt faced kids from Seven. A fourteen-year-old girl from eight. A boy with a crippled foot from Ten.

And then District Eleven rolls on by. And perhaps the biggest surprise possible rolls across the screen.

A little girl with dark skin and black hair is called to the stage. She can’t be any more than twelve-years-old. She looks like she’s about to cry as she mounts the platform, glancing back at one of the victors seated behind her. Her name is Rue.

Rue Taylor.

Sister of Thresh Taylor. The victor from two years ago.

There’s a silence that falls over the room now, that no one is willing to penetrate for a long moment. Finally, Effie cries out, “Oh my, a victor’s little sister?”

As if the television heard her, the cameras pan to Thresh, hoping for a reaction. They don’t linger long, as the tall, enormous boy was never the kind of tribute to play to the cameras and his games weren’t the most fascinating. He won the Seventy-Second Hunger Games by sheer physically force, as he’s naturally built like an ox and being from Eleven, he could survive in the wild and wasn’t afraid of confrontation. His games were, at the very least, over quickly.

The thing I remember most from Thresh’s games though is actually the family member who came to the Capitol with him. His grandmother. Because his mother had to stay home, with her very young children.

It would appear one of which is now selected to participate in the games, like her big brother.

I can barely keep my focus on the screen now, even as the recap moves on to District Twelve. And for once our reaping is one of the most interesting to watch.

For reasons I don’t understand, they chose to keep my attempt at volunteering in the broadcast. I know I should mull over why that could be but I’m still too stuck on Rue Taylor’s reaping.

And not for the reasons I should be. Not because she’s a literal child, because like Prim she’s short for her age, or even because of the grief, the sheer look of shock and despair in her large brown eyes. But because I recognize how much harder this makes things for Prim.

Because I understand that there’s little chance sponsors are going to forge their money and gifts to two twelve-year-olds. Girls, nonetheless.

And Rue being the little sister to a victor—a recent victor, who’s still young and attractive and fresh in the Capitol people’s minds—clearly gives her the upper-hand. Clearly makes her the obvious choice between the two for sponsors.

Rue pushes Prim’s chances down from unlikely to almost impossible now.

And I feel wretched for even thinking this way, for thinking of a little girl as nothing but an obstacle for my sister to somehow climb over. I feel almost like I’m about to vomit all over the floor, akin to Haymitch last night.

But instead, my eyes instinctively glance at Peeta beside me. He almost immediately meets my gaze. And for a small moment I see the same alarm, the same trepidation, splayed across his face as I know is entirely apparent on mine.

So he’s in the same line of thinking then. He knows Prim’s chances just got exponentially lower.

But he recovers remarkably faster than I do and says in a pleasant voice, “Prim, we’re about to pull into the Capitol station. And there’s always people on the platform waiting for tributes.” He gestures to Effie to hand something over to Prim. I watch in mild curiosity as the escort gives my sister a red lollipop. “Go wave to them,” he encourages. “Maybe charm a few people with your smile. You never know, one of them might be rich.”

His words, although well-meaning, just serves as another reminder that we’re already in a show. That Prim is already having to perform for the people of this cruel city, just for the slimmest chance of survival.

But she giggles quietly and takes the candy and heads off towards the window without complaint. Because she’s sweet and obedient and trusting.

And I just don’t know how I’m supposed to protect her anymore. I don’t know if I can anymore.

Peeta’s face falls as soon as she’s out of earshot. Taking a deep breath and running his hands over his soft curls, he whispers to me, “All hope is not lost, okay? But you have to stop scowling or Prim’s going to think she’s already as good as dead.”

I didn’t even know I was scowling. I do my best to contort my face into something unreadable but it feels useless and exhausting. It feels impossible to morph my face into something cheerful when all I can think about is Prim dehydrating in a desert because sponsors couldn’t be convinced to send gifts to two twelve-year-olds.

But as we pull into the station, as a bell signifying our arrival goes off, as Effie starts prattling on again about a tight schedule and cameras and appearances, I realize I have no choice.

Because the show is about to start and Prim needs me to get her through it alive. Home and alive and a victor. No matter what that takes.

Chapter Text

Haymitch evidently cannot leave the train without alcohol in hand. The bell finishes ringing and I hear Effie Trinket command Prim to gather herself because there’s going to be a crowd waiting when they steps off the train and oh my, how could she have wrinkled her skirt by just sitting on the couch , all the while Haymitch is making a cacophony, clanging glass bottles together, tucking them underneath his arms before hobbling towards the exit.

I lag behind as it dawns on me that now is the moment Prim is to be taken away from me, to be escorted by Effie — I suppose her job title does have a purpose behind it — to the stylists. Prim is going to be assigned a stylist and an entire prep team to assist on the task of making her presentable to the Capitol standards and I cannot follow. We are officially at the point I’ve been dreading the entire train ride.

The point beyond which I can no longer tag along.

I don’t know what they do that is so secretive, and if I’m being honest it absolutely terrifies me to imagine what a bunch of Capitol born and bred morons might do to my little sister, but it’s out of my hands. I’m definitively banned from wherever Prim’s going. No one has ever publicly laid out the schedule for all the tributes’ family members but it’s common knowledge that what happens between the stylists and the contestants is to remain confidential. Even from blood relatives, it’s classified.

At least Effie Trinket has the good sense to grasp tightly to my sister’s hand. She wasn’t joking at all when she said there was a buzzing crowd waiting at the train station. As I step off the car and onto the platform, I see more people walking, running, shoving on past each other than I even see on the rare occasion the entirety of Twelve gathers for a festival in the town square.

Or a reaping , I remind myself. The entire district gathers for that too.

And yet even when our children, our siblings, our friends and our loved ones, are sentenced to an almost certain death, we still behave with more dignity and offer one another more consideration than these brightly colored monsters do.

They look like animals with peculiar feathers , is there first thing that comes to mind while taking in the appearance of the citizens who will soon be betting money on Prim’s future. It’s not even just the way they look, with their hair all dyed varying shades of the rainbow, their skin tattoo into oblivion and embedded with jewels, spikes or metals, their faces caked with so much makeup I cringe imagining how difficult it must be to remove, if they ever even do.

It’s the way they act . I watch on as two girls intentionally knock into a short, heavyset man in front of them, as if he is just an inconsequential roadblock and not even a real person. As if he doesn’t matter, as if nothing else matters in the world but themselves and their fun and their games, in this moment right here, right now.

But then again, why should I find this surprising? Of course that’s how these people behave. They find actual enjoyment in watching kids fight to the death annually. In the face of that, does shoving a man to the ground and stepping on his hand with the razor sharp point of their heel — as one of those girls just did heedlessly — even compare?

Prim quickly disappears with Effie in the sea of people, too overwhelmed to even search for me. I have faith at least that Effie won’t lose her. She’s too efficient and prideful to ever make such an error.

Birch trails behind them almost begrudgingly, easily blending into the mob of headache inducing colors.

I don’t know where Peeta Mellark went to, as I seemed to have lost track of him too, when exiting the train car. Haymitch already ditched in the opposite direction of Effie and the tributes. It would seem he had something pressing to do, probably in regards to the alcohol he just swiped.

And I hope in the back of my mind, as hard as I can possibly muster, that Prim won’t get paired with Haymitch as a mentor. If we were another district it would already be known which mentor was paired to which tribute. Generally mentors take on the contestants of their gender but since we only have two still living victors in District Twelve and they both happen to be male…

I shake my head, physically trying to rid myself of this debilitating anxiety, even just temporarily. Peeta was right when we watched the reapings, it won’t solve anything to panic now. Prim will just pick up on it and it will only be more dire to her if she took on my fears alongside her own.

I glance at my surroundings as the train I just stepped off begins to move slowly down the tracks, where all the other tribute trains are kept. The only person left in my vicinity that I know is Birch’s mother. I feel a sudden rush of guilt as I realize I don’t even know her name.

And it isn’t a great moment to ask. She doesn’t even look at me, doesn’t even give me the impression she realizes I’m still here. She just stands still, as the crowd continues to pass — and shove — on by.

The woman just stands there and stares straight ahead blankly and suddenly it hit me who exactly she reminds me of. It hits me so plainly I almost feel like the train somehow went off the tracks and ran right over me.

My mother. For months after my father died she did nothing, absolutely nothing , but sit there in a chair, but take a small bite of food and push the plate away, but lay in bed, all with a completely empty expression on her face.

It hurts to see that same vacant look again, even on another person now. It hurts to the point that I can’t stand it and I spin on my heels without saying a word, my head swarming and my chest feeling hot and wanting to be as far away from Birch’s mother as humanly possible.

As I push through the bunches and bunches of people, I begin to see others like me. Definitely older, most of them obviously the parents to tributes, but lost just the same as me. Lost and dazed and overwhelmed by the sheer size and vibrancy of the city most of us have only ever seen in pictures or television.

I make the wild guess that the Career districts arrived yesterday, as I can place all the beings around me — who don’t seem to belong to this strange life — as outer district people. Nine, ten, eleven. We seem to have arrived all together.

And I silently wish I was bolder, that I was outspoken enough to ask for directions, to ask if anyone else knows where we’re supposed to go. It would seem that all our mentors and escorts have forgotten the families of the tributes and no one looks like they have a clue what to do in a city that was designed to hold no place for us.

But I can’t ask, because their family is planning to kill mine and I just don’t feel comfortable with even the slightest camaraderie made under those circumstances.

I wish Gale was here , I think to myself. He’s tall and intimidating and rather brazen. He wouldn’t be afraid to demand further instruction. And I shouldn’t be , I tell myself. But I don’t even know who to pester and I’m still stumbling blindly when I bump right into another person, head on.

“Sorry!” I exclaim instantly, as three girls with blue hair and various face and neck piercings — Ugh, how painful? Why would anyone ever pierce their neck? What is wrong with these people? — filter around us, looking disgusted that we’re taking up precious space on their ground.

“It’s okay,” the woman I bumped into murmurs, a little too demure to be from here.

Well, it is a slight stroke of luck that I just unintentionally found someone to ask for instruction. Because if this woman isn’t from the Capitol — and I would bet money she isn’t. Her hair is brown and mousy and her skin is a golden tan. Way too normal to be from here — then she has to be with a tribute. Sister, I would venture. She’s early twenties, at the oldest. Nowhere near old enough to be a mother to a kid that’s twelve or older. She could be a cousin, I guess, but I’ve never heard of those attending the games.

“Hey, do you know where we’re supposed to go?” I hurriedly ask, my eyes falling on a huge man with green skin and unnaturally large arms, heading our way.

“Go?” She repeats so softly I can barely make out her words and am instead forced to read her lips.

“Yeah,” I repeat, wondering if she’s hard of hearing. “My district’s mentors didn’t tell me where I should go, they just disappeared and —“ I realize mid-sentence who I’m speaking to. I realize it with such a start that I barely notice getting kicked harshly in the shin by a careless man passing on by.

Before me sits Annie Cresta, the girl who won the Hunger Games one year before Peeta. My father was still alive, it was before I was the sole provider for keeping my family fed, but I still can barely conjure up any recollection of her games. I just remember water. Water flooding everywhere. Shots of kids drowning violently. My father covering my eyes and my mother taking a crying Prim into the other room because evidently drowning is a very painful death and kids trained at an academy their whole lives for the singular purpose of participating in these games refuse to go down without a fight.

I still have yet to finish my sentence when another presence abruptly joins the party. “Hey, excuse me,” Peeta yells at the person who’d just kicked me. His hands grasp underneath my arms, pulling me upright. “Don’t you want to apologize to the person you just injured?”

I’m not injured in the least but I don’t say anything, my focus rapidly shifting to the unexpected sensation Peeta’s lingering touch has on my arms. My skin prickles with goose flesh, in a way I know has nothing to do with the nonexistent wind.

The man who kicked me shrugs sheepishly before continuing to walk north from us and a third voice raises above the humming crowd.

“Let it go, Peeta,” Finnick Odair — who is as sensational in person as he is on screen — wills the young victor. “No one here actually cares about decency.”

“Well they should,” Peeta murmur back, his hands now absently rubbing up and down my arms. I don’t know why but the touch, no matter how casual and simple it may seem, catches me so unprepared for the affection that a rush of warmth heads right to my cheeks.

No one else seems to notice my flushing face but I avoid eye contact anyway, out of propriety if nothing else.

Clearing my throat a little too conspicuously, I quietly ask, “What place did Effie take Prim anyway?”

Peeta doesn’t answer me at first — which irritates me a little. Instead he watches as Finnick takes Annie’s purse for her and guides her in direction of some grand building with dark tinted windows.

Gesturing with his head, Peeta indicates for me to follow him as he trails behind the other two. “Where are we going now?” I ask as Peeta holds open a silver glass door for me to head in before him. My father used to do that for my mother , I realize in the back of my mind. He used to always hold the door open for her when we would head into town, me on his shoulders, Prim in her arms.

I shake off the thought though — it was a pointless one anyway. Peeta is notorious for being a charming gentlemen across all of Panem. There is nothing significant about him holding open a door for me, other than I must look lost and confused — as soon as Peeta answers my initial inquiry.

“The Remake Center. It’s where the prep teams wait for tributes every year,” he explains. “Can’t waste a single moment,” he adds, a touch of sarcasm coloring his tone suddenly.

I do happen to agree with him though. It is a rushed process. Evidently though that’s how the Gamemakers designed it, with no time margin between the reaping and the parade.

The tribute parade is another humiliating endeavor the chosen kids are subjected to before the games even start. And everyone across the country is forced to sit back and watch. Every tribute shares a cart with their district partner, both dressed up in a ridiculous costume and pulled by a horse. It’s supposedly a way for the sponsors to be introduced to the contestants and a first meeting for the rest of the Capitol to the upcoming players but for Twelve at least, it is typically a very sad affair.

A few years ago, when I was probably no more than ten, a pair from Twelve were stark naked and covered in coal dust. Coal mining is the district industry for us, much to our past stylists’ dismay. It’s not a lot of fun apparently to be limited to rocks and black powder as inspiration when trying to make kids stand out among the likes of District One, Two and Four. The more wealthy districts, who like to align themselves closer to the Capitol itself than us outliers.

“Hey,” Peeta says quietly, bringing me out of my thoughts at once. “Prim’s in good hands. She has Portia as a stylist.”

And suddenly, his attempt at calming me down actually works like a charm. Because Prim being given to Portia is an incredible stroke of luck in my eyes.

Portia was a young girl who was thrown into styling for the games last minute in the seventieth year. The very same year Peeta volunteered. They were one stylist short — I think an older one lost an eye or something in a freak accident — and they decided to toss in Portia, a girl who had yet to graduate from her apprenticeship with a fashion designer.

And despite the fact that her almost white blonde hair was dyed an unnatural shade of baby pink and despite the fact that she wore unnaturally long black eyelashes and whitened her teeth until they matched fresh winter snowflakes, Portia was one of my favorite stylists in any of the games I’d ever seen.

She’d been assigned Twelve her first year, the most inferior district in all of the country and her tribute was Peeta Mellark. The young throw-away stylist for the young throw-away tribute.

But Peeta proved to be a force to be reckoned with and so did Portia. She perfectly balanced the line between age appropriate — after all, he was still a child , for crying out loud — and handsome. She did enough to show the people of the Capitol what an alluring man Peeta would eventually turn into and kept it subdued enough that no one watching at home felt uncomfortable looking at the youngest contestant in the games that year.

If there was anyone I trusted with my little sister, it was her. For the first time since Prim’s name was called at the reaping, I feel like something went right. Like the odds finally lines up in my sister’s favor.

The relief I feel though must not be reflecting outwardly because Finnick Odair and Annie Cresta are both staring at me with concern now, as the four of us awkwardly linger in a luxurious entryway. Right from the first second you step into this building heat blows straight from the ceiling and there’s a dark maroon carpet as far as the eye can see. The walls are painted to match and trimmed gold and I’m too nervous to so much as let my hand graze anything, the entire place seeming too expensive to be touched.

“Is she okay?” Finnick asks Peeta, to which the latter rolls his eyes. Annie Cresta even nudges Finnick and frowns up at him. In a way that very much implies familiarity between the two.

“She can hear,” Peeta shoots back.

“It’s overwhelming here,” I blurt out, crossing my arms, a little self-conscious and defensive now. “There’s a lot to take in and it’s all so… different from what I know-“

I’m not even finished before Annie and Peeta are both ribbing Finnick again. “Good job. You’ve managed to freak her out.”

“You’re making her nervous, Finn.”

“No, he’s not,” I try to rectify but the three of them are already laughing and shaking their heads at each other, and as both Finnick and Annie turn to make their way down some unknown hall, the rest of my defensive words die in my throat.

“Ignore him,” Peeta starts to say, to perhaps try to make me feel more at ease. His attempt is to appease me but instead I lash right out.

“I wasn’t upset by Finnick Odair,” I insist, one more offense away from yelling entirely. “It’s like I said. This place is just a lot to take in all at once and I got lost right from the start because you abandoned me and—“

“I know,” Peeta cuts off, trying to look apologetic, but it’s obvious he’s just trying to mollify me. And I find that the most infuriating thing of all somehow. Being placated infuriates me to no end. “I just had to give Finnick some guff.”

“At my expense,” I correct, my gray eyes turning icy and hard.

“It wasn’t at your expense,” he disagrees gently but I don’t soften my gaze at all.

“You were all laughing at me.”

“We’re a bunch of idiots, Katniss,” he snaps, his tone suddenly completely serious. “We laugh at everything. It’s the only way we can get through this trip.”

For some reason his words dig at something inside of me, filling me up with regret my behavior in the last minute or so. Because this can’t be an easy trip for any victor to make, to go back to the place you were forced to fight to the death, to be paraded around like a public trophy, to relive your games every year while likely watching a new kid die by your own hand now. When I really think about it, the idea of victors returning to this place sounds absolutely torturous.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize after a beat of silence, looking down at my shoes. “I shouldn’t have said any of that, I’m just anxious about my sister.”

Now it’s Peeta’s eyes that melt. “I know,” he says with incredible understanding in his gaze. He offers me a small smile and I take it as a token of forgiveness.

“And this place really is… jarring . To a newcomer,” I add, unsure how to articulate the chaos this place naturally overflows with and how it contrasts with the simple life of Twelve.

But then again, shouldn’t he know that himself? It hasn’t been so long that he’s already forgotten what his first time here must have been like.

But he doesn’t mention that. Instead his response surprises me. “I wouldn’t have expected you of all people to find this place scary. The woods outside Twelve seem way more daunting than a city of lunatics.”

My head snaps towards him so fast my neck hurts. “What do you mean, the woods ?” I ask, my brows furrowing. How could he know about that? Half of Twelve is aware that I illegally hunt but I’ve never imagined Peeta Mellark is one in the know. Did Birch mention this while they were washing up Haymitch and kissing him goodnight?

But Peeta doesn’t elaborate. Instead he just shakes his head and suppresses a chuckle before walking on ahead, waving me to follow behind.

I do, because frankly I don’t know where else to go and I hear footsteps above me so I know this isn’t a private residence we’re at. And the last thing I want is to be caught by some rich freak, wandering around alone and without protection.

Peeta is pressing a long, random combination of numbers into a tiny keypad beside a black steel door when I catch up to him. “What’re you doing?” I ask, almost a little accusatory.

“Entering the code,” he says offhandedly.

“The code? For what?”

He shoots me a sardonic look and I can’t help the way the pit of my stomach does a weird flutter without my permission. “This isn’t a public place, Katniss,” he murmurs, smirking once again.

It’s only a slight smirk, as if he’s trying to hold it back, but it irritates me nonetheless. Because I feel like he’s still laughing at me. And I feel stupid, if I’m being honest. In the woods, in the wild, I’m home. I’m free and I’m knowledgeable and I’m sure of myself.

Not here. Here, in the Capitol, I’m a fish out of water. It feels as if I know absolutely nothing, like every single thing I’ve ever learned about survival is irrelevant here and everyone knows how inept I am just by merely glancing at me.

So when the heavy door makes a loud clicking noise and Peeta Mellark holds it open for me, I glare at him as I walk by.

And he has the audacity to chuckle again .

The door, shockingly, only leads to a singular room. A small, rather simple one, at that.

The modest space consists of a fairly compact table — relatively about the same size as the one we eat at in my home in the Seam — and four chairs. There’s a light overhead that isn’t switched on and a window where the fourth wall should be.

“What is this place?” I ask, as he closes the door and walks around me now.

“A dining room,” he says nonchalantly, sitting down on the chair closest to the gigantic window, overlooking an clearly manufactured rose garden.

The sight doesn’t exactly conjure up the peaceful nature of the woods in Twelve during the first week of spring. But it’s the closest the Capitol will likely ever get.

I take my seat in the empty chair across from Peeta. “What is this building?” I murmur after a long moment of silence, feeling more and more awkward just casually sitting across from Panem’s ultimate sweetheart by the second.

Surprisingly though Peeta just rolls his eyes, entirely unimpressed by our surroundings. “It’s an apartment complex. The man who owns it is a generous sponsor in the games so. Finnick and I have a relationship with him.” He shrugs, as if it’s no big deal that he has friends in high places.

“That’s a… convenient arrangement,” I say, realizing a moment too late that my sentiment came out wrong way. I only meant to imply that he’s lucky to have rich friends with nice materialistic possessions he can share in, but instead I sound condescending, as if I see myself as morally superior to him somehow. I hope for a split second that my words aren’t taken the way I fear.

But, of course, they are. I see how my response registers in Peeta’s bright blue eyes. But before I can scramble to clarify, he looks down and chuckles darkly. “Yeah. Convenient . You could say that.”

It’s evident that he wants to move on but I can’t without trying to apologize for whatever way I’ve managed to offend him. “Peeta-“

He cuts me off swiftly though. “You should try this.” I furrow my brows, unsure what he’s talking about. Until he presses a button on his side of the table and the surface splits open abruptly. I watch in fascination as two steaming hot cups rise from a lower level — that I didn’t know existed — and fill my nostrils with the sweetest scent I’ve ever come across.

“Try it,” he urges, his smile entirely genuine now. I get distracted for a split second, realizing his teeth peak through his lips when he’s excited. Realizing faintly that I’ve never once seen this smile of his photographed.

Without breaking eye contact, I absently pick up my cup and bring it to my lips.

But before I can take a drink, he quickly brings his hand up to cover mine, immediately halting me. “Wait,” he urges. “You need to blow on it first. It’s called hot chocolate for a reason.”

I do as instructed, though the insanity of blowing loudly over a cup while Peeta watches me feels completely surreal.

But that feeling only lasts a moment. As soon as I take a drink, I forget about everything else racing through my mind.

In less than one full sip, hot chocolate easily becomes my favorite beverage of all time. Not that there’s a lot of options back in District Twelve. My family really only have goat’s milk and water that never tastes completely clean. My mother has a proclivity for coffee but we can never afford it and even if we could, I wouldn’t be okay with wasting money on the thin, bitter liquid that would be better put to something of real use.   

Peeta watches, almost with satisfaction as I drain the cup. “You like hot chocolate, I take it?” As if he even has to ask.

I nod, wiping my mouth roughly before remembering all the manners my mother instilled in me when I was younger and instinctively sitting up straighter.

Peeta pushes his cup in my direction now too. “No, I can’t,” I try to refuse but he doesn’t give up easily, it would seem.

Good , I think to myself. Because if he does, Prim is doomed.

“I drink this stuff every year by the gallon. Trust me, I don’t need it.” His smile turns wry now. “Portia claims it seeps out of my pores at this point.”

I stare at him for a long moment before glancing down at the cup he pressed into my hands, feeling suddenly indebted by the tiny gift.

Feeling suddenly reminded of a much more substantial gift he gave me years ago. One that he payed for in a swollen black eye. One that reminded me of how I could survive, of how I could keep my family alive.

“Thank you,” I whisper, knowing very well that he has no idea of the act I’m truly acknowledging.

He shoots me a gentle look. “Don’t mention it.” I do my best to smile up at him, to hide my shame for never having the courage to thank him before for what he did, but I know all that comes across my face is a grimace. “No, really, don’t mention it,” he adds, probably trying to lighten the mood. “I don’t plan on taking Birch’s mother here as well and I don’t like to listen to anyone complain.”

He’s kidding, I know. He’s only trying to bring some levity to an otherwise bleak time. But I still feel a rush of hope — something I apparently will never be able to separate from Peeta Mellark — at the favoritism.

Not towards me, but towards Prim. Because if he’s taking her sister out for hot chocolate at his rich friend’s place, the chances of him picking her as his tribute seem more likely.

Or perhaps I’m just seeing what I want to see. Either way, I finish the second cup of hot chocolate just as the door we entered through clicks open once again.

“Did someone else reserve this room?” I ask nervously. It takes me a moment to pinpoint why I feel a surge of anxiety course through me.

Because I realize how this whole scene looks. Me and my sister’s — potential — mentor, of the same exact age, seated across from each other in a private room, with only natural lighting and nothing else.

Even to me, who’s completely romantically inexperienced, this image would set off all sorts of bells and whistles if I happened across it.

But Peeta isn’t even phased by the new addition joining us and I realize instantly why.

Because it’s his friend interrupting us. As evidenced by the warm hug they share.

“Katniss,” Peeta murmurs as his friend takes the seat to my right. “This is Cinna.”

I turn and smile politely at the man before inspecting him, none too subtly.

He’s not what I would expect from a person brought up in the luxurious city. He’s got short dark hair, cropped close to his scalp and green eyes with flickers of gold close to the iris. His clothing is slightly eccentric, when you compare it to those of us in the districts, but even that’s minimal. The only thing about him that really resembles the Capitol in the slightest is the gold eyeliner he wears, that draw even more attention to his eyes.

“Hi.” My response is a beat too late to be polite.

Neither male comments on it though. “And Cinna, this is Katniss Everdeen. She’s Primrose’s sister.”

“I know,” Cinna says, his gaze fixated intently on me now. “You tried to take your sister’s place. That’s commendable.”

I almost snort and roll my eyes before — thankfully — stopping myself. “I shouldn’t have made a scene,” I mumble, letting myself acknowledge for maybe the first time the way my hysteria probably hurt Prim’s chances at sponsors.

After all, is anyone going to throw money at a little girl when her own sister deemed her too fragile for the games? The Capitol surely knows nothing of family devotion and loyalty. They have to see my act of love as weakness, right?

As if reading my mind, Peeta refutes the very notion. “You trying to take Prim’s place will help her,” he promises, though I don’t understand the logic in his statement.

Apparently Cinna does though. “Of course you helped her,” he insists and I can’t help but feel myself thaw towards him slightly, despite the fact that he’s a literal stranger and by all accounts, no better than anyone else in this place. His voice is so kind, I can’t help but feel myself warm up a little. “Your love for her will make her more attractive to the people here as well.”

As if they rehearsed this spiel, Peeta nods in agreement. “The audience here are suckers for a love story. Of any kind at all. Romantic, platonic-“

“Sexual,” Cinna cuts in, shooting Peeta a knowing look, indicating some kind of inside joke between them.

But the victor ignores him. “You did help Prim. Showing everyone how much you love her will make the people here want to love her too.”

“And that’ll draw in sponsors,” Cinna adds onto the end gently.

“And sponsors will help her win?” I whisper, feeling a lump build in my throat. I can barely allow myself to even ask this, knowing the potential for their answers to crush me. Knowing that one simple glance shared between them, one silent sheepish look will be enough to break my every hope of Prim coming back to District Twelve in anything other than a casket.

But, to my utter astonishment, neither of them even so much as hesitate. “Honey, sponsors are the only way a tribute wins,” Cinna murmurs.

“Katniss, winning the games is less about who’s the strongest and more about making people like you,” Peeta explains. “If a tribute is liked by the audience, especially by the people in this city, the sponsors will follow not far behind.”

I take this in for a long moment, unable to completely digest it. Because it doesn’t compute with what I know of the Hunger Games. It doesn’t make any sense to me. Every year I watch as kids get their skulls crushed, as they get stabbed to death or are starved or blown up. What does being liked have to do with survival? Have I just not been paying close enough attention?

It’s a distinct possibility as, though the games are mandatory viewing, no one — in Twelve at least — enjoys any portion of the events. And I’d be lying if I didn’t say I tried to tune out or forget every moment of  it I could.

Peeta seems to recognize my distant expression. And wisely chooses to change the subject instead of prolonging this one. “Well, why don’t we eat?” He suggests, reaching down and pressing another button on the table.

Once again, the surface splits open and up rises three plates, filled to the edges with fresh and steaming food.

“Prim is getting just as much to eat, right?” Is the first thing out of my mouth, guilt for not having the opportunity to share this meal with her automatically overpowering any excitement I feel at the sight before me.

“Of course,” Peeta promises genuinely, waiting for me to take the first taste before digging into his own portion.

I shovel bite after bite of stemming potatoes smothered in gravy, of crispy biscuits and chewy ham, of peas and carrots and fish and cheese and chicken and brown rice. I try to eat as much as my body will allow.

But I still can’t help the disquieted feeling in the pit of my stomach. And it’s not about Prim’s uncertain fate — at this very moment, at least — and it’s not about wishing I could share this meal with her or my mother back home.

I’m bothered by the notion that food, something I’ve spent four years thinking about day and night, is so easily accessible here. At the tips of a person’s fingertips here lays a countless variety for every meal. They can so easily decide what they wish to eat or drink, with no uncertainty or stress in the decision. They’ve likely never had to decide between dinner or a new coat, new shoes that fit properly, something as simple as hair ties or buttons for pants.

And they never have to think twice before tossing the excess away, before wasting their food the same way our bodies waste away.

I peer down at my half empty plate, already feeling stuffed to the brim and about to vomit, and realize the amount of time and effort it would take me to recreate this meal in Twelve. The amount of trading and planning and substituting I’d have to do to even come close.

And I try not to hate the people here, I try not to look like I resent them for merely having the luck of being born into a life of privilege, but I know my entire thought process must be splayed so plainly across my face.

To my surprise though, it’s Cinna that comments on it, not Peeta.

Somehow, within only five minutes of meeting me, he clocks the underlying disdain in my features.

And I hate it. I don’t know why but I don’t want either of them — or anyone else here in the Capitol — to recognize my discontentment.

“So since I’m not going to be doing anything important,” I murmur, blatantly diverting the entire mood without warning. “Why don’t I make myself more useful to Prim?”

Peeta’s blonde eyebrows pull together. “By doing what?” He asks in a monotone, like he’s unsure what exactly I’m proposing.

“By trying to draw in sponsors for her,” I explain, catching the nervous glance Cinna subtly shoots Peeta.

“ How ?” Peeta says, his tone hardening with every syllable.

“I don’t know!” I exclaim, frustrated that they’re having a silent conversation and I’m left in the dark. “ You’re the mentor. You tell me.”

I realize a beat too late that Peeta may not be the right mentor to be asking for advice to save Prim. Peeta may be mentoring his new buddy, Birch, to victory and it may be the drunken old man I need to seek counsel from.

For some reason, my embarrassment causes me to keep talking. “I mean, would it be a good idea to go on Caesar’s talk show and butter the crowd up? Play up on how grateful Prim and me are even be allowed in the Capitol? I could trip and fall off the stage, maybe make them laugh?” The Capitol goes crazy for stupid antics, as exemplified by the bad jokes Caesar and his typical guests perform almost daily. “That works, right?” I add, when neither male says anything at all in reply. The only response I’m given is two looks of disheartenment, that I don’t fully understand. “You said it was about getting people to like you,” I say to Peeta, waiting for him to nod in verification. “Don’t the people here love stupid skits?”

To my surprise though, it’s Cinna who answers first.

“How despicable we must seem to you,” he murmurs quietly, his eyes forlorn and completely disturbed. “How despicable we must seem.”

/

After the meal ended, which wasn’t long after Cinna’s statement, Peeta guides me towards the back door.

“Where’s your friend going?” I ask, looking over my shoulder as we walk further and further away.

“He has an appointment with Finnick,” Peeta assures, opening new doors, typing in codes too fast for me to ever memorize. Not that I have any reason to. I have no desire to explore this city at all, let alone unaccompanied.

The door buzzes loudly and Peeta holds it open for me once again, waiting for me to enter first. “You said this place is a hotel?” I murmur, taking in the room full of food that he’s brought me to. I only vaguely know what a hotel is but I know it isn’t synonymous with bakery.

“An apartment building,” he corrects, chuckling. “It has private dining rooms on the first floor and a kitchen in the back.”

I nod, absorbing this.

Lining the walls are more breads, more flour, sugar, spice, oil or starch than I would ever know what to do with.

I don’t even know why I’m so awed by the sheer amount of food they have here. It’s not like it’s exactly news that the Capitol are well above the rest of the country in privilege. Obviously that means food here is in the plethora.

My expression must give me away again, because Peeta’s tone suddenly changes.

“My first time I didn’t know what to make of all the food and jewelry and… other stuff here either.” I don’t know what he means by other stuff but I don’t press it. The wistful look in his eyes is enough to shut me up. “The contrast between Twelve and here is jarring, like you said. It took me more than two years to finally stop being phased by it.”

I nod again, but if I’m being honest, his words themselves have less of an impact than the sudden realization that this may be the first time I’ve ever heard him allude to the boy he once was. To the twelve-year-old who pulled out the unexpected miraculous win and left the entire country shocked beyond belief.

I mentally berate myself though. Of course Peeta Mellark has never brought up who he was before the games. I don’t even know him. And it’s not like I’ve ever spoken to him, as opportunities for such an occasion have been in short supply.

After a tribute wins the games, they’re officially done with school, done with normal district life and thrust into a moderate stardom, even in places like Twelve.

Peeta and Haymitch both live in a neighborhood called Victor’s Village, excluded from the rest of the population. Their homes are nicer, warmer and much more attractive than the shacks in the Seam. But they reek with loneliness, even from miles away, and I can’t help but wonder how he’s survived for almost four years with limited contact with the world outside the Capitol and Haymitch Abernathy.

Peeta mistakes my silence for fear of being honest. “It’s okay if you find it repulsive here. God knows I do,” he admits sheepishly, giving the ceiling a customary glance as if to check and make sure there’s no one listening in right now.

“I do. I do find this place… awful,” I murmur, uncertainty bleeding all over my tone. At home, any talk against the Capitol is strictly forbidden. The very act of verbalizing anything but love and respect for the city or President Snow is punishable by death to your entire family. I don’t know how it’s more okay to voice these feelings here, practically in the president’s lap, than it was all the way back in Twelve. “Are we allowed to say any of this?” I abruptly mumble, looking around the room as if to spot another presence too.

“There’s no surveillance here,” Peeta whispers, and then shocks me by reaching out and grasping my hand. “I promise, I wouldn’t have even asked if there was a chance we’d be overheard.”

And there he is again. The boy with the bread. The person who at the age of twelve saved my life and his brother, only a matter of weeks apart. The person who showed me kindness when no one else was willing to.

And I can’t help but trust him. I can’t help but believe him, though I know very well he could be tricking me into incriminating myself.

But he has no motive to do so and I don’t have the metal capacity left in my brain between worrying for Prim’s life in the arena and worrying how to get her sponsors. I don’t even have time to be paranoid now.

“So you’re not… happy here either?” I ask after a moment, still feeling the slight pressure of his hand holding onto mine. And, inexplicably, finding that I like the sensation.

“Here in the Capitol?” He repeats incredulously, both his eyebrows shooting up. “No, I hate it here.”

I laugh suddenly, at his quick and blunt answer. “You do?”

“It’s insufferable ,” he says and laughs now too. “The citizens only care about their hair or makeup or plastic surgeries. Or parties. It’s all about parties to these people.” He rolls his eyes, as if the very thought annoys him. “No, trust me. I’d rather be at home painting.”

“Painting?” I repeat, completely thrown by the image of Panem’s golden boy sitting alone in his huge house, painting of all things.

“It’s not that far off from frosting,” he shoots back with a coy smile, apparently enjoying my surprise.

It takes me a full beat to understand his underlying meaning with the frosting comment. But then I remember and I find myself giggling and I have to cover my mouth with my hand to stop from making too much noise.

In Peeta’s victory interview with Caesar Flickerman, the Capitol’s favorite talkshow host, they’d shown highlight reel of his best moments during the games. The video had contained shots of Peeta high up in a tree, camouflaged to blend in with the bark.

And when the reel was done, he’d been asked where he learned his magnificent camouflage skills. The twelve-year-old boy must have still been out of sorts, because for as well-spoken and diplomatic as he’d already been known for, in this particular interview he’d immediately accounted his success at camouflage to frosting. “I frost cakes in my family’s bakery,” he’d told the entirety of Panem, looking wide-eyed and unsuspecting.

Of course everyone had cracked up immediately at the answer and it had since become a running joke across the nation. But when I think back to this moment, all I remember is the way the frightened new victor had jumped nearly a mile at the sudden sound, looking like a baby deer with a light shining bright in it’s eye.

And how no one else seemed to notice his fright. Or maybe they just plain didn’t care.

But Peeta himself is making a joke out of the moment now and so I take it as acceptable to laugh.

His voice though brings my laughter to a halt. “It makes it easier if you think of the people here as pets rather than equals. Very irritating, spoiled pets but..” he trails off now, shrugging his muscular shoulders slightly. “They don’t dress human or act human so it’s not difficult to put them in a separate category.” The corners of my mouth are just barely turning up when his face abruptly falls.

“What’s wrong?” I ask before thinking better of it. Perhaps Peeta doesn’t want to share his personal woes with me.

Or perhaps not. “I just… I don’t know what it says about me. That I’m able to spend all this time with the people here and… immerse myself into this strange world and still think I’m any better.” He sighs deeply and looks down at his feet.

I wish I had the right words to comfort him, to tell him that he saved his brother’s life, that he saved my life, and has now gotten further in three years than Haymitch has in almost twenty-five. That’s not the work of a bad person.

No, that can only be the work of someone who’s genuinely kind, deep into his soul, I realize. And it occurs to me, maybe for the first time ever, why I’ve never been able to completely shake my fascination with Peeta Mellark.

Because his goodness, his grace and integrity, leaks out in every facet of him that he allows the public to see.

But I can’t tell him any of this, because I don’t know him and he doesn’t know me and I don’t even know why he’s entrusted me with as much as he has.

And, it would seem, that neither does he. As evidenced by the rapid change in his demeanor. His entire body language shifts from open and warm to closed-off and stiff, at the same time his eyes glaze over for a moment, as if deep in thought.

“Peeta?” I murmur quietly, unsure what’s going on with him.

“We should go,” he urges, his eyes snapping up quickly towards the clock hanging on the wall above us. “The parade. It’ll start soon.”

The Tribute Parade. Right.

I cringe outwardly at the reminder of the event, thinking of all the ways the costuming for Twelve can go wrong.

But I trust Portia more than most stylists, as she did Peeta well four years ago.

I’m still trying to talk myself off the edge when Peeta grasps my hand again. The contact catches me unsuspecting and I instantly pull away before realizing what I’m doing.

“I’m sor-“ I start but he laughs again and holds up a hand.

“You’re fine,” he promises. He does a good job of acting like I didn’t offend him at all, even if I did. “I just don’t want to lose you in the crowd. It’s still pretty wild out there.” He indicates to the backdoor, on the other end of the kitchen.

“Oh,” I say, dumbfounded. And then, before I can stop myself, I reach over and tightly grip his hand in mine.

He gives my palm a squeeze and then leads me out into the storming city once more.

I don’t realize it until I’m seated in the private section of the stadium, between Peeta and Portia, how much I really didn’t want to let go.

/

When is this stupid parade going to start? I think to myself, feeling even more like a fish out of water now than I did even before.

Thousands of people surround me, all dressed in bright colors — green seems to be a theme this year, for whatever reason — and makeup straight from a paint can smeared across their faces. The only semblance of normalcy in the lot of faces seems to be the family members of the tributes. And like the tributes themselves, there’s twenty-four of us, and countless Capitol citizens.

Twenty-four to thousands. Like fish swimming in a sea of sharks.

Luckily Peeta is always timely and prompt. He got us here a half hour before Haymitch appeared, Birch’s mother trailing reluctantly behind. I don’t blame her. Haymitch reeks of the sour stench of alcohol, just about every second of the day. It’s as if, after all these years of over-consumption, the stuff is secreted from within him, drips from his eyelids, is probably palpable in his saliva.

I’m just glad I don’t have to sit by him or Birch’s mother. I know me and her will likely be paired up for many of the days ahead but until I absolutely have to, I’d like to limit my time spent with the woman fiercely hoping for Prim’s death.

Or maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe I just feel guilty in her presence because I’m hoping for Birch’s death. I have nothing against the boy — if anything I feel sorry for him, as he’s clearly had it even harder than I have — but he must die if my sister is to live.

I’m situated cozily between Peeta and Cinna, with Effie Trinket and two reserved seats spacing me from Haymitch and Birch’s mother. Enough room that I won’t have to look at her once, that I won’t have to feel resentment on the off chance Birch is able to pull out that strangely conversational person who joked with Peeta last night, who wanted to help a filthy drunk to bed, who could win over the crowd if he tried.

I feel the knot in my stomach tighten as Portia and a slightly familiar man slide down the aisle, taking up the two empty seats in the middle of our section.

The man with Portia rings a dim bell in my mind and I wrack my brain quickly, trying to remember his name. The stylists for the games tend to remain generally the same year to year, as much as possible. With the ever changing pool of tributes, the Capitol finds it most beneficial to keep some level of consistency for the audience to form attachments to.

Helicter , I finally remember. He’s typically a stylist for District Nine or Ten. The weaker districts. He’s no Portia, I don’t think he’s ever had a particularly inventive costume outfit, an abundance of screen time or even a victor under his name. But he’s been around forever. That much I know. I’d venture he’s been a stylist since my mother was pregnant with me.

And he’s hard to forget. Appearance-wise, that is. He has bright cobalt hair, curvy lines tattooed across his face in the shape of butterfly wings, white jewels across his forehead and unnaturally puckered up lips. He dressed today to match his hair, a complete monochrome look. Clearly intentional. Clearly a strategic move to match himself all together, to set himself apart from the other stylists, who look like they couldn’t get enough neons in their outfits.

And clearly he’s ready to retire. Even I can tell from feet away that the man is bored out of his mind. That he’s seen too many games, too many failed tributes and too many theatrics to be entertained by this hysteria any longer.

Clearly he’s also tired of Portia, who had success very early in her career — her very first year in the games, to be exact — and has yet to lose her drive to win. She’s still prattling on and on about outfits and fabrics and makeup designs that’ll help draw the audiences’ attention towards Prim and Birch, even as the announcement comes over the speakers that the parade is starting soon.

They don’t seem to mesh well at all, I realize, as Helicter abruptly asks Haymitch where to buy a drink, completely interrupting Portia mid-sentence.

“ I was listening, Portia,” Cinna says with a smile and she returns the expression, both of them acting like Effie is not between them, meticulously studying the program for the parade, as if we don’t know District Twelve is always last to come.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, flipping her hair behind her ear and continuing on for a moment, suggesting the idea of Prim bringing back an older hairstyle from a few years ago, saying it could be considered something called retro .

I give Peeta a weird look and he chuckles. “I think retro means old,” he says but shrugs because he’s not much more certain than I am.

At that though, Portia seems to notice me for the very first time. “Oh! You’re Primrose’s sister!” She exclaims and three people seated in front of us turn to glance our way as well.

“Yes,” I say, with an uncomfortable little smile, waiting for the people before us to turn away.

“She’s the one who tried to volunteer for Prim at the reaping,” Cinna adds and Effie shakes her head at the reminder.

“She nearly ruined the ceremony-“

“She made it better,” Peeta corrects and Portia immediately backs it up.

“The reapings are absolutely awful,” she murmurs, eyeing Effie rather coyly, waiting for a reaction now. “They’re so void of emotion. No one reacts no matter who’s called. If only someone could make it meaningful every year, like Katniss did.”

Effie doesn’t take the bait though and just huffs, shutting her program rather violently for someone who prides herself on etiquette. “You won’t get to me today, Portia,” she asserts and Cinna laughs, loudly and unashamed.

I touch his arm just as the music begins to play, signifying District One should be riding out on their crystal white chariot at any moment now. “Why don’t you become a stylist? You seem to get on better with Portia than Helicter does.”

For some reason both Peeta and Cinna find this funny. “He’s working on it, Katniss,” Peeta whispers in my ear, lifting up my hair and putting his lips right by my lobe. I feel a shiver run down my back but I don’t have time to dissect it before the deafening cheers for District One overpowers every one of my senses.

I watch on in almost stunned fascination as the contestants for districts Two, Three and Four fly on through. Two wears outfits made from stones, noses turned up in effort to come across as mighty and above it all. Three’s outfits — a play on their technological district industry — miss the mark, sparking unattractively and causing their female tribute to jump as it electrocutes her a little bit. Four’s costumes are nothing more than seaweed covering only their most essential areas, a clear attempt to remind the audience of Finnick.

I expect him to find the nod towards him funny but when I crane my neck to find him among the crowd, he looks disgusted more than anything else.

Five, Six and Seven are miserably boring. Eight looks slightly more promising until the boy gives the crowd an inappropriate hand gesture. And Nine and Ten are pathetic, their costumes not even distinctive to their districts, in my humble opinion.

By the time Ten is circling the City Square, I’m feeling like Prim’s chances at sponsors are improving significantly. Sure, every one of those kids are taller than her by a long shot and most are probably double — if not triple — her weight and muscle mass, but they don’t seem to be drawing in the crowd at all. And if Prim can charm people here as easily as she does back at home, then she has a fighting chance.

At least, that’s what I think before I hear Haymitch’s surprised whistle. Before I see him in my peripheral vision turn to face a one-handed man behind him and mutter some kind of compliment.

District Eleven comes storming out the gates to a succession of automatic cheers. The crowd goes insane when they see Rue Taylor. I don’t know what the male tribute for Eleven’s name is because all my ears can hear is thousands of people chanting Rue, over and over and over again.

And I hate myself for it, but in that instant, resentment seeps from every atom of my being. Because Rue, as sweet and as unassuming as she may appear, hurts Prim’s chances more than any other tribute could.

Because if Prim’s odds at winning are already low when placed against the giant, viciously trained contestants, then they’re astronomically small now that there’s already a twelve-year-old in place for the sympathy spot.

My inquiry at lunch feels more relevant than ever. The audience in the last few years have been moved, at least somewhat, by seeing family members cry on Caesar’s talkshow. Or even into a microphone, held by a reporter on the streets.

Apparently, the Gamemakers have discovered, majority of the districts are most affected by seeing someone like them on screen. Apparently it has served the ratings well to have the tributes’ loved ones — the relatable people, as we’re usually called — make tearful pleas on live television rather than tone deaf wealthy people crying about losing money with a tribute’s death.

I’m instantly pulled out of my thoughts though by the sound of another cart flying down the procession. On instinct, I believe, Peeta reaches over and grips my hand in his much larger one, as if he’s just as nervous as me.

And because this time I expect it, I don’t flinch at the contact or pull my hand away.

Instead, without thinking twice, I yank his hand into my lap, holding it tightly between both of mine.

His hand is warm , I note to myself as Prim comes fully into view and my focus entirely shifts onto her. Everything about Peeta evidently radiates warmth. Warmth and steadiness.

And I will him once again to choose Prim as his tribute. I want him to be her mentor even more than Portia to be her stylist.

It’s because I trust him . It’s because he’s kind. I know he’s kind. He’s showed me before, costing himself to keep me alive.

Peeta Mellark is kind and articulate and I feel safe with him and if he isn’t Prim’s mentor, I’m going to lose my mind.

Peeta gives my hand another squeeze as Prim’s face lights up the screen. Her pale skin has been made up enough to extenuate her rosy cheeks, her stunningly large eyes, her upturned nose and plump lips. Her hair hangs in two perfectly symmetrical braids, with two black ribbons at the ends. She’s dressed in black overalls, tailored specifically to her figure.

If I’m being totally honest, my little sister looks closer to my age now than she does her own. But that’s only by my standards. To the Capitol — the people in this equation that actually matter, as they are the ones who will decide to sponsor her or not — twelve is a fine age to get all dolled up. No one here is batting an eye like my mother surely is back home right now.

And she’s beautiful . That much is undeniable. Prim is stunningly attractive, especially under the golden lights of the city circle.

“I guess Portia and Helicter decided to play up on Twelve’s backwoods charm,” Peeta murmurs, but I can tell he’s pleased too.

It’s only then that I spot Birch in the cart next to Prim. He’s wearing an almost identical outfit to her, only his is more similar to the coveralls our miners actually wear. And he doesn’t smile. Birch’s approach must be to look intimidating, because while Prim is smiling and waving to the screaming crowd, like she’s already won, Birch is staring straight ahead. As if he’s already in the arena.

And then a change happens. The people previously screaming Rue’s name begin to shout out Prim’s. I can see hundreds of people picking up their programs and reading until they find Primrose Everdeen.

My hand loses all feeling as Prim’s name is shouted all around me, in a loud, rhythmic chant, until the entire stadium is filled with her name.

And I can’t hear anything over the noise but my eyes find Peeta’s suddenly and I know we’re both thinking the same exact thing.

Prim might actually have a shot.

Chapter Text

-

Chapter Text

-

The next morning, Prim and I venture down early to the dining room for breakfast. She woke up two hours before the alarm Effie Trinket set for us, too jittery after all the events of yesterday. And I barely slept last night at all, the moment on the balcony with Peeta Mellark playing on repeat behind my lids, feeling similar to when our television back home glitches and repeats the same moment over and over again, for hours on end.