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Chapter Text

I was never disillusioned about the way things worked in District 12. How could I be? I was born to a Merchant mother and Seam father. It may seem cushy, because I grew up in town where my parents ran the apothecary. I wasn’t forced to grow up in the Seam, where children starved their way through adolescence only to be forced into the mines if they lived to see adulthood.

I was lucky. My grandparents died young, leaving the apothecary to their only child. My mother. She fell in love with my father, and because she was really the only doctor in District 12, people put up with their relationship. Put up with me, the daughter with the dark Seam hair, the olive skin, the gray eyes.

There is no putting up with Prim, though. My little sister has managed to steal the heart of anyone she’s ever met, and I believe this quality would exist and thrive in her even if she didn’t have the physical appearance of a Merchant. No, the blonde hair and blue eyes just give her an easier time blending in. But everyone is genuinely fond of Prim.

Still, things were tough. People in town tolerated us, but weren’t overly friendly. It only got worse after my father died.

My father was killed beyond the fence line of District 12. I’d been the one to find him. He was out gathering the usual herbs he provided for the apothecary. It tore my mother apart. One misstep, one confrontation with a bear, one moment of hesitation was all it took for my father to be taken from us.

I was eleven. Prim was seven. My mother was a grown adult. But I was the one who had to take over because she disappeared. She retreated into her head, too far gone to reach. She left me alone to save our shop, save the people who came to us for medical help, save our family. Prim and I had to grow up too fast, though in Panem, most children lose their innocence far before they become adults, even teenagers. I hadn’t wanted that for Prim, though. I tried so hard.

I was granted a leave of absence from school for approximately one year, during which I had to keep up with the teachings on my own time. This was managed by forging my mother’s handwriting, sending an official request to the Justice Building. They took pity because they believed the story we’d had to make up. Suicide. No one could know that it’d been death by the world beyond the fence.

I didn’t have a choice. I needed to run the shop because my mother could do nothing but sit in her rocking chair, staring into space in our apartment above the store.

“She’s with a customer right now. How can I help you?” I would say in my most authoritative voice. People came to believe and trust me. But it wasn’t enough.

I had to keep up with schoolwork, run the books, feed and care for Prim, make sure my mother was still conscious, take care of the customers. I was running myself ragged, growing slimmer every day, giving Prim what little food we’d been able to afford as our supplies dwindled. The books showed that we could barely afford to keep the shop by that winter.

I hadn’t been beyond the fence since I’d found my father. I was too scared. But there came a point when I was desperate, so far gone that I could barely get myself to the point in the fence that allowed a person to shimmy underneath. When I got there, soaked to the bone from the freezing rain, it was like every bit of air in my lungs had disappeared. I could see him, I swear I could. His mangled body, the abandoned roots and herbs soaked in his blood.

I keeled over and tried to breathe. I knew, though, as I knelt down, I couldn’t get back up. I was weak. Too weak.

I prayed this would be a quick death. It seemed that I’d lived every day waiting for the inevitable, this moment in which I could no longer put up a fight. I came to terms with dying, but as the rainwater stroked my cheeks, I heard a noise just beyond where I had collapsed.

He slipped under the fence and almost missed me, a small lump on the ground. His blonde curls were stuck to his forehead, his cheeks ruddy and a little dirty from his traipse in the woods, but I recognized those eyes. Blue, sweet, ocean deep. Peeta Mellark.

He gasped when he noticed me. He had a bag slung over one shoulder, full of whatever he’d been out there to get. I saw his eyes dart behind us, over to the houses in the Seam, presumably where he lived. He knelt down for a moment.

“Wait here,” he said, and I would’ve laughed if I’d had any energy. I was going nowhere.

There was a commotion behind me, a woman shrieking. I couldn’t understand what was happening and I couldn’t turn myself to see. I heard sloshing footsteps and soon saw Peeta’s bright eyes looking over me once more.

“Here,” he said, shoving something into my hands. I noticed a red weal on his cheekbone, and I wondered what he’d done to get it. Before I could say anything, he’d turned away.

It was a bag. I looked inside and thought I might die from shock right there. It was filled with herbs and roots we often used in the apothecary, the kind my father would find for us. There were katniss roots, I could see. Lots of them. Those were only found by the lake, though. Had Peeta ventured that far? I didn’t realize anyone else knew about the lake. My father’s lake.

Above all, Peeta had given me bread. Not just any old bread, but bread from the bakery. I couldn’t imagine how Peeta, the darling of the Seam, had gotten such a thing. It wasn’t fresh by any means, but bread was bread.

Renewed with strength, I made my way back to the apothecary. For the first time in a long time, my mother seemed to stir back to life. She cooked the katniss roots. We ate them with the bread. Prim was delighted. I was weary.

The next day at school, I wanted to thank Peeta, but I could never seem to find a time where he was alone. Peeta was popular, especially amongst the Seam kids, and constantly had companionship. I watched him at lunch. His eye was swollen and bruised. I caught his eye for a second before his gaze flitted away.

While I waited for Prim after school, I saw Peeta heading home. We made eye contact once more, and he broke it once more. I turned away and saw a dandelion. And something shifted inside me. I wasn’t afraid anymore. I felt, for the first time in a long time, hope.

Chapter Text

The loud noises in the hall always manage to annoy me. I think to myself that I only have to deal with this for one more year. One last year of school. Someone jostles my shoulder passing by. I resist the urge to kick the back of their leg.

One more year.

Lunch is the worst. The cafeteria never seems to hit a normal level of volume. Instead, the Merchants seem to make it their mission to be louder than the Seam kids. I don’t enjoy the company of the Merchants, and despite being half-Seam, don’t have friends from that side of the district, so I sit alone with Madge Undersee, the mayor’s daughter. We rarely talk. It works for both of us.

Today, though, Madge speaks without looking up from her lunch.

“Are you going to the wrestling tournament?”

My head snaps up in surprise. “No. Why would I?”

She shrugs. “I just thought because the baker’s son is in it, and the baker keeps trying to set you guys up, that maybe you’d like to see it.”

I feel my face curl into a scowl. I can’t help it. I’d rather eat my hands than date the baker’s son. “Absolutely not. I’ve told my mother I’m never getting married and that’s that. I don’t care what side deals she has going on with the baker.”

“Emmer isn’t so bad, is he?”

I don’t know Emmer Mellark well enough to respond. He’s a popular Merchant boy, known for being a flirt, and seems obnoxious from afar. He could be different once you get to know him, but I don’t care what he’s actually like.

“It’ll be a bit awkward this year, I suppose,” Madge continues. “What with Emmer going up against…”

She trails off and I find my eyes wandering across the cafeteria. He’s there, in his usual seat, surrounded by his friends. It’s not hard to spot his blonde curls amongst the sea of dark heads. I wonder, as I usually do, how he managed to be accepted into the Seam crowd despite his Merchant looks. I assume it has to do with his personality. I can’t imagine anyone hating Peeta Mellark.

Except maybe the baker.

And, so I’ve heard, Peeta’s mother.

I catch his eye briefly before his gaze flits away. We do this often. Sometimes upwards of ten times a day. I’m not counting, though.

Peeta is what some people in town call a “bastard child.” His mother is a Seam woman who had an affair with the baker, of which Peeta was the result. The baker refused to claim Peeta, even though his mother named him a Mellark. He couldn’t really get away with people not figuring it out, though, because Peeta’s mom has dark Seam hair and silver eyes, while Peeta has those blonde curls and big blue eyes. He looks more like the baker than his other sons do. Bannock is two years older than us and helps run the bakery now. Emmer is our age.

It is quite the scandal.

More so these days because this year, for the first time, Emmer and Peeta are competing in the same wrestling tournament. They may not go up against each other, but I think most people secretly hope they will. Maybe it’ll even be rigged so they have to.

I’m contemplating this and don’t notice when someone sits down across from me, next to Madge.

“Katniss,” he says.

“Emmer,” I respond.

“I am required by law to ask you if you have any plans on the eve of the big wrestling tournament.”

Emmer grins and my stomach turns. I was hoping he wasn’t on board with this whole arranged-relationship thing. It may have been too much to hope for, though, since Emmer’s gotten his hands on most of the girls in town. And the Seam. He may be looking for a new challenge.

“I do,” I say. “I plan to not be at the big wrestling tournament.”

He makes a tsk sound. “Is there anything I can say to get you to go?”

I frown. “Yeah. You can tell me you won’t be there.”

This makes him laugh. It’s loud and I frown deeper, if that’s even possible. “I love this little flirting thing we have going on.”

“Perhaps there’s a flirting thing you have going on, but I can assure you I’m not involved in it.”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think you’re going to the wrestling tournament.”

“And how would you know?”

“My father talked to your mother.”

“So what?”

“So she’s giving you that night off.”

“Again, so what?”

“I like a rebel as much as the next guy, but I don’t think you’ll be able to get out of this one.” He smirks before shoving the chair back. “I’ll see you around, Katniss.”

“Yeah, I hope not,” I call to him. He just laughs.

Madge looks at me from under her bangs. “Want to go to the tournament together?”

I sigh and sink back into my seat. “Fine.”

As expected, my mother gives me the evening of the wrestling tournament off and insists I take Prim to see it. Prim couldn’t care less about wrestling, but a bunch of her friends are going and I couldn’t tell her no.

When we walk into the gym, the crowd is already unbearable. I’m sure I’ll have a headache after this. Prim gives my hand a squeeze before rushing up the bleachers to meet her friends. I find Madge where she said she would be, in the top left corner as far away from other people as possible.

“Why’d you come, anyways?” I ask as I settle down beside her.

“For the thrill of the competition,” she says dryly.

The tournament starts out with two Seam boys. I can’t get myself to focus on what’s going on. Instead, I study my nails as though they’re the most interesting thing in the world. Maybe right now, they actually are.

I look up briefly when I hear Emmer’s name called. It’s too much to hope he doesn’t notice me. He finds me in the crowd and gives me a wink. I turn my attention back to my nails.

When Peeta’s name is called, however, I find myself unable to look away. Though he’s thin, his body is strong. You can see his muscles rippling when he pins the Seam boy underneath him. My gaze wanders from his calves up to his thighs, pausing briefly on his round-

No. Nope. I snap my eyes away from him, my cheeks reddening. What was that? I purposefully watch his face now, keeping my eyes from roaming anywhere else. He’s got a look of intense concentration, only easing once he’s declared the winner. He runs a hand through his curls and grins widely as the applause. I can’t help but clap for him as well.

Madge looks over at me, surprised. “Are you finally paying attention to the matches?”

I shrug and look back down at my nails.

When Peeta is called a second time, I watch carefully from under my eyelashes. I don’t want Madge to think anything of that fact that I only pay attention when it’s him. I can’t help it. I find myself rooting for him. If anyone deserves to win, it’s Peeta Mellark. Because he’s kind, and generous, and he saved my life. I don’t feel like explaining that to anyone.

He wins again. And again. And I hope when Emmer goes up against another Merchant kid, Astin, that Astin beats him. I don’t want Peeta to have to either win or lose against his half-brother. It’s too much to ask for, though. Emmer takes Astin down after quite a bit of wrestling. So Peeta is up against Emmer in the final round.

The crowd is roaring at this development. Emmer glances over at me and winks again. Peeta sees him and follows his gaze, meeting my eyes. I look up at the ceiling like the meaning of life is written on the tile.

When the match starts, the two pace around each other. Peeta is thinner but slightly taller and faster than Emmer. Emmer is bigger but doesn’t react as quickly as Peeta. They’re pretty evenly matched, though.

It’s so loud that I can’t really tell who the crowd wants to win. Peeta puts Emmer in a headlock, but Emmer swings him over and flips him onto the mat. Emmer tries to hold Peeta down, but Peeta slides away easily before facing Emmer again. It goes back and forth like this for a while, the intensity of the moment only building with each new move.

There’s a moment, though, when I know. I see it in Peeta’s face. That focused expression. Emmer gets sloppy with time, but Peeta grows more concentrated. More purposeful with each move. And that’s how Peeta wins the match.

Everyone jumps to their feet. The roar is deafening, but for once I don’t mind. Peeta is tired but happy, and people immediately surround him. Up at the top of the bleachers, I see him as he swings his gaze over to me. I smile. A tiny smile, but a smile. His face cracks open into a wide grin and it feels like the sun has come out after a cloudy day.

“Hey. Hey, Katniss?”

I turn my head and notice Madge staring at me. My cheeks flush. “What?”

“Prim is waiting for you over there,” she points. I see Prim’s little blonde head bobbing in between bodies, her hand reaching up in the air to wave to me.

“Right, thanks. See you,” I say before rushing over to Prim, who immediately begins chattering away about the match. Before we leave the gym, I see Emmer and a bunch of Merchant kids standing off to the side. His face looks like he just ate a bunch of sour grapes.

I smile once more before heading home.

Chapter Text

“So,” Madge says when I slide into the seat across from her at our usual lunch table. “Enjoyed the tournament?”

I frown. “Is this your new thing? Talking?”

The corners of her lips quirk up. “I was just wondering.”

“Why?”

She doesn’t answer and I’m relieved that she’s let the conversation go. I don’t want to think about the Mellarks, any of them, though they seem to be all the rest of the school can talk about. Emmer’s been sulking for a few days while Peeta looks rather bashful about all the attention he’s getting. It’s not new attention, per se, but I don’t know that I’ve ever seen so many people constantly surrounding him, and that’s saying something.

Lots of girls, too. More than usual. Even some Merchant girls. I’m not sure what to think about it.

I’ve been busy since the tournament, anyway. I had to go out and forage this weekend, which is always an ordeal for me. Since I was out in the woods I hunted a bit, too, and we had some rabbit stew for dinner that Prim appreciated. I was happy to see her smile; it’s the only thing that can ease the pounding of my heart each time I slide under the fence. Years later and I still get anxious in the spot where my father died. It’s silly.

I usually hunt whatever crosses my path just beyond where anybody could see me from the fence. I’d like to go farther but something keeps me rooted to that invisible line, a little voice in my head that tells me I’ve gone too far. I wish that voice would shut up.

I’m so immersed in my thoughts that I open the leftover stew I packed for lunch a little too enthusiastically. The maroon liquid spurts out and hits me in the chest, right in the middle of my light blue blouse. I jump up and curse, swiping at the stain. It’s one of my better shirts and we don’t often have enough money to spend on new clothes.

“Do you need help?” Madge asks, her face wrinkled in concern. I wave her off and grab my bag, heading out of the lunchroom and into the hall. I’m nearing the bathroom when I hear a melody of strange noises. Boyish voices whispering, some grunting, a laugh here or there. It’s out of place in the otherwise silent hallway.

Ignoring the pressing need to clean myself up, I follow the sounds. They’re leading me to the corridor in the back of the school that’s usually abandoned. Before I can reach them, there’s the sound of scuffling feet and voices urging one another to run. I round the corner and gasp at the sight of blood on the tiled floor.

The boy on the ground is so still, it nearly takes my breath away. I force myself to focus as I approach him.

“Peeta?”

His arm is over his eyes, covering most of his face, but I’d know those blonde waves anywhere. “Oh, my god. Peeta?”

Slowly he moves his arm up and out of his face, squinting at me. I take in the sight of his swollen nose, the blood spurting from it, the rings around his eyes already darkening. I spring into action without thinking about it.

“You need to sit up, Peeta. Here, come on,” I grab his arm and try to help him into a seated position, but he hisses in pain. “What? What’s wrong?”

“It’s my side,” he grits his teeth. “The right side.”

I hesitate with my fingers at the hem of his button-up shirt, but no one else is as qualified as I am in the school to check him out. We don’t have a nurse. My mother is in town. It has to be me.

I unbutton his shirt quickly and pull up the white shirt he’s got on underneath. I run my hands over the injured area gingerly, trying to ignore the faintly defined ab muscles that tense under my touch. He lets out a small noise, so I glance at him. He looks apologetic.

“Your hands are cold,” he explains, though the words are muffled.

“Sorry,” I mutter, pulling his shirt back down. “Your ribs, they seem to be bruised. I don’t think they’re broken. I need to look at your nose. Come on, let’s get you up.”

He allows me to help him up. I try to ignore the moans of pain escaping his lips. He sits back against the wall while I kneel beside him, looking closely at his face. The injured part, that is.

Nothing seems to be out of place, which is good. The bleeding isn’t letting up, though, so I take off my blouse to use in place of gauze. The camisole I wore underneath won’t keep me warm, but it can be worn for the rest of the day. The blouse is ruined, anyway, since I didn’t get a chance to clean the stew off before the stain set. His eyes widen when he sees what I’m doing.

“Katniss-”

“Relax,” I interrupt, a flush creeping up my cheeks. “It’s to use for your nose. It’s already stained, I wasn’t going to be able to wear it again.”

“Use my shirt, please. Don’t ruin yours.”

I silence him by gently pressing my shirt to his nose. “Too late.”

We’re quiet for a moment. I steal a glance at his eyes, which look even bluer than normal. It’s interesting, I think, the color of his eyes. Not light blue, like most Merchants. Deeper, I guess. Another thing that sets him apart from everyone else in District 12. He looks at me and, for once, doesn’t look away.

“What happened?” I ask softly.

He takes a moment to respond. “I tripped.”

I adjust the position of my shirt and sigh. “Tripped into someone’s fist?”

“Just tripped.”

Thinking of the crowd that’s been surrounding him since he won the tournament, I ask, “Where were your friends?”

His shoulders slump, so slight I might’ve missed it if I hadn’t been watching him so closely. “I just wanted a second to myself.”

“Why didn’t you fight back?”

His gaze becomes more intense and I tear my eyes from his. “It wouldn’t have done any good.”

“So you just let them hit you?”

“No,” he says patiently. “They kicked me as well.”

“Peeta-”

“You know my name.”

I meet his eyes again. “What?”

“You- well, we’ve never really spoken before. I didn’t know you knew who I am.” He tries to smile, but it looks lopsided with the swelling of his face.

It’s getting hard to swallow. How could he think I didn’t know who he was? The boy who saved my life, Prim’s life. The boy who gave me something when he must’ve had nothing. The boy with the bread.

“Of course I know who you are,” is all I can say.

I realize that it must be about time for classes to begin again. I’m also aware that I’m sitting incredibly close to Peeta Mellark, so close that I can see his eyelashes. I’ve never seen them before, but up close they’re impossibly long. I don’t see how they keep from getting tangled each time he blinks.

“You need ice,” I say. “For your ribs and your nose. I don’t think anything is broken. The bleeding stopped, so that’s good. You should sleep with your head elevated for a few days.”

He reaches up and I think for a brief second he means to grab my hand. Instead, he gingerly pulls my shirt away from his nose and touches the skin above his lip, testing whether or not the blood has dried. I drop the blouse in his lap.

“Keep it,” I tell him. “Can you stand?”

He does, slowly, and I’m surprised at how well he hides the pain. “I should go clean myself up.”

“How will you get away with not telling people what happened?” I ask. “You look…”

The right side of his lips form the lopsided grin again. “I look…devastatingly handsome?”

My eyes widen and he laughs. “I just mean- your face-”

He shrugs. “I know. Once I wash up it’ll look better. I’ll figure something out.”

I nod and take a step away from him. “You should come by the apothecary. If you need anything. We have stuff, we can- we can help.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Maybe. Thank you, Katniss.”

I watch as he walks away. You wouldn’t know, if not for the state of his face, that he had any injuries. I curse myself for not doing more for him. For ignoring him all these years. I just didn’t know how to thank him, and it always seemed too late. Self-loathing drips over me as I walk to my next class, my thoughts occupied by Peeta when I feel a hand slide over my shoulder.

I jump and there he is. Emmer. He smirks at the expression on my face.

“What happened to your shirt, Everdeen? Though, I’m not complaining. I’m enjoying the view.”

He’s ridiculous, because this camisole is far from revealing. I turn back, shrugging off his hand.

“Touch me again and I’ll break your fingers.”

“Aw, come on, Katniss-” He stops me, jumping in front of me and cutting off my path to class. I try to push past him, but he blocks my every move.

“You must have the thickest skull known to man because you don’t seem to get it through your head that I don’t want to talk to you.”

He leans close to me, flicking my braid over my shoulder. “The thickest.”

Disgusted, I smack his hand away from me. Hard. His grunt of pain surprises me until I see the state of his knuckles. Bruised, remnants of blood stuck between his fingers. Not just anybody’s blood. Peeta’s blood.

Peeta’s blood. Heat rises up in me, the anger coursing through my body ridding my mind of any coherent thoughts. I curl my fingers and smack the middle of his face with the heel of my hand. He yelps and it only spurs me on more. I lunge at him and rake my fingernails down the sides of his cheeks. It occurs to me that I could get in trouble for this, but that doesn’t stop me from clawing at him until someone pulls me away. It’s Mr. Boone, our math teacher, and he doesn’t look happy.

Me, though? I feel very, very satisfied.

Chapter Text

“What were you thinking?”

“I don’t know, I just got mad,” I say defensively.

“Why?”

The principal of our school, Mr. Atlas, and my mother are both staring at me. I can’t tell them the real reason that I attacked Emmer, because Peeta clearly didn’t want anyone to know. Also, I don’t think either adults in the room would understand my reasoning, how it goes beyond defending Peeta because he’s a good person. I’ve never told anyone what Peeta did so nobody knows the debt I owe him.

And what if I tell them I did it for Peeta and they take it to mean more than it does? I don’t want people to think I have a crush on Peeta or want to date him. I don’t even care to be his friend. I bite down on my lip, trying to think.

“He- he wouldn’t leave me alone.”

My mother furrows her brow. “So you physically hit him?”

“He kept touching me! He’s always at my locker, always trying to talk to me, and all I wanted was for him to stop.”

Maybe if I was more eloquent or had better people skills, this reasoning would sound completely valid, but I can hear myself and it all falls flat. Mr. Atlas is unimpressed and it’s only at this moment that I wonder what punishment I’m going to receive. Suspended? Expelled? Forced to go work in the mines?

The door to Mr. Atlas’ office opens behind us and the baker stalks in, practically carrying Emmer by the scruff of his neck. The scratches I left down his cheeks have turned bright red, though I don’t think I drew blood. His nose is in even worse shape than Peeta’s. It looks slightly crooked, and I wonder if it’s broken. The thought isn’t entirely unpleasant.

“Danny, what are you doing here?” My mother asks, looking from Emmer to the baker.

He gives Emmer a small shove and gestures to me. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Emmer looks like he’s about two feet tall. His shoulders are hunched and he can’t meet my eye when he apologizes. “I’m sorry for bothering you, Katniss.”

The baker, whose name I suppose is Danny, gives me a kind smile. His expression looks so much like Peeta that I have to turn my head away. I don’t know how to reconcile this image of the baker with the one I’ve conjured in my head from the stories I’ve heard, the one who shuns his own son because he’s half-Seam. He couldn’t possibly be a good man if he would do that to his own flesh and blood.

“I apologize for my son’s behavior, Miss Everdeen. He will not be going unpunished, I can assure you. Please, Mr. Atlas,” The baker turns to the principal. “Don’t punish Katniss. Whatever you were going to give her, double it and give it to Emmer.”

Emmer’s head snaps up and he’s about to protest when the look on his father’s face stops him. Mr. Atlas sits back in his seat, contemplating the scene in front of him.

“Fine,” he says eventually. “Miss Everdeen, you are free to go. I’d like to speak to Emmer and Mr. Mellark now.”

I don’t release my sigh of relief until we’re out of the office and in the front hall of the school. My mother looks over my hands while shaking her head slowly.

“Katniss-”

“I don’t need a lecture.”

She purses her lips but doesn’t say anything else. It may be unfair, but the anger I felt earlier has come back at the expression on her face. Now she wants to act like a mother. Now she wants to take care of her daughters. Well, it’s too late. I’ve been raising myself, and Prim, since I was eleven. I don’t need her. I yank my hands from her grasp and mutter something about picking up Prim after school. I don’t look back as I head to class.

Prim is bouncing on her toes when I meet her that afternoon. At first I think she’s excited about something, but then I see the expression on her face. Of course she’s heard what happened.

“You beat up Emmer Mellark?”

I sigh. “Not really.”

“What happened?”

It’s chillier than I expected and I’m shivering without my blouse. Why didn’t I bring a jacket today? “Prim, can we go home? I’m freezing.”

“What happened to your shirt?”

“I ruined it.”

Prim studies me for a minute before looping her arm through mine to pull my body close. I relax as she begins to tell me about something her friend said during history class that made another friend mad. We’ve almost hit the path that leads into town when I hear my name called.

“Katniss!”

Prim whips around quicker than I do, her long blonde braid smacking my arm. People don’t often stop to talk to me after school so I know that she thinks something is wrong. In reality, the only thing that’s wrong is that Peeta Mellark and I can’t seem to leave each other alone.

“Hey,” Peeta says once he’s caught up to us. I’m praying he doesn’t bring up the fight, or Emmer, or anything, because I don’t know what to say about any of it. Prim beats him to it.

“Oh, my gosh. What happened to you?”

The bruising around his eyes has gotten worse since I last saw him, but I expected that. Really, he doesn’t look too bad given the circumstances.

He grimaces. “I walked right into a door as someone was opening it. Got smacked pretty hard.”

“Oh, good. I was worried Katniss got to you,” Prim jokes. “She beat up Emmer Mellark, did you hear?”

My cheeks must be crimson. I feel them flaming with embarrassment, though I’m not totally sure why. Peeta could think I just hit Emmer for the same reason everyone else thinks- that he wouldn’t leave me alone. But there’s something in Peeta’s expression that tells me he knows the real reason. Still, though. I owed him for all those years ago. This could make us even.

“No, if Katniss had gotten to me, I’m sure I’d look much worse than this,” Peeta chuckles.

Like a broken record, Prim repeats what I told Peeta earlier. “You should come by the apothecary. We can help take care of your nose.”

His smile at her is so warm and genuine that Prim blushes, something that I don’t think I’ve ever seen her do. “Thank you. I’m Peeta, by the way.”

“I know. I saw you wrestle. We both did.” Prim gestures to us. “You’re really good. I’m Primrose Everdeen. I assume you know Katniss.”

“Yes, actually,” says Peeta, turning towards me. “I wanted to give you this.”

He holds out a forest green jacket. It’s not very heavy but it looks warm, much warmer than what I’ve got on.

“No, Peeta, I can’t.”

“I wasn’t going to wear it home anyways,” he shrugs. “You look cold.”

“She is,” Prim butts in. “And she’ll return it, of course. Thank you, Peeta.”

Prim grabs the jacket and shoves it at me. I sigh before handing her my bag and putting it on. She looks satisfied as she passes my bag back to me.

“What do you say?”

I make a face at her. “Thank you, Peeta.”

He grins. “No problem, Katniss. It looks good on you. Green suits you.”

I turn away and Prim scoffs as I pull her along. “Bye, Peeta! See you later!”

“You’re a ham, you know that?”

“And you’re acting silly. Peeta is so nice!”

I don’t respond. Peeta is nice, obviously. But if he keeps doing me favors like this, I’ll never be able to even the score between us. Will I never stop owing him?

Not only is his jacket warm, but it smells so good. It’s annoying. I don’t want to like the scent that seems to emanate off his clothing but there’s something about it that’s enticing. It’s outdoorsy, woodsy, but with a hint of cinnamon, maybe yeast. Warm flavors that mingle wonderfully and irritate me.

“So are you friends?”

“What?” I ask, pulled from my thoughts. Prim looks at me expectantly.

“Peeta. Is he your friend?”

“Oh. No.”

“Why not?”

“Prim, you know how things work around here,” I say. “The Merchants, the Seam kids. He wouldn’t want to be my friend.”

She brushes my concerns off. “I think he does want to be your friend. Plus, both of you have one parent from town and one parent from the Seam.”

“So?”

“So you both know what it’s like to live in a place where you feel like an outsider,” she says, as though it is the most simple concept in the world.

“Peeta Mellark fits in just fine wherever he goes. I doubt he has that problem.”

“I think it would be good for you to have a friend.”

I roll my eyes. “I have a friend.”

“You never hang out with anyone outside of school,” Prim explains, her blue eyes shining with worry. “I just want you to be happy.”

I don’t tell her what I think, which is that it’s a lot to ask of someone to be happy. Instead I kiss the top of her head, which is now nearly level with my own, and challenge her to a race back to the apothecary. Her legs have grown longer than mine, but I still beat her by a few seconds. We’re giggling when we start work for the afternoon and I think that the closest I get to happiness is when I’m with her. My baby sister, though not much of a baby anymore.

Later, when we’re laying in bed and Prim is curled up beside me, it hits me that Prim really is getting older. She needs me less than she used to. I still provide for us, bringing home fresh meat and extra coins from the occasional trade. Many people, mostly from the Seam, assume the families in town are as close to rich as you can get in District 12. That may be true for people like Madge, whose father is the mayor, but it’s never been the case for our family. Most of our money ends up going to the Capitol, from which we purchase the majority of our medical supplies. We don’t have the heart to turn away anyone who comes to us for help, and we ask for as little compensation in return as we can. Seam folks are particularly proud about repaying us, but my mother is always good to request what she knows they can manage. Not always money. Sometimes help with physical labor, or a trade for something she knows they can spare.

Prim is growing up, becoming smarter and handier, and even if she relies on me to bring home sustenance, she’s not the little girl she once was. She’s far better at healing than I am; I’m the one who vomited when a little boy was brought in with his bone poking through his leg, not Prim. She helps with the births in the district. I’m not allowed to since I bolted after seeing a baby crown for the first time. My mother says healers are born, not made, and Prim is proof of that. She’s clever, she’s funny, and judging by what she’s told me so far this school year, she’s pretty boy-crazy.

I’ve never given much thought to what I’d do once Prim is all grown up. I suppose I had some vague idea that I’d take care of apothecary logistics and Prim would do the healing. Beyond that, I can’t think of anything. When you have to live day-by-day, it’s hard to look ahead and see the big picture. I know Prim will fall in love, get married, have babies, and live happily ever after. But when she doesn’t need me, what will I be? I’ve only ever thought of what it means to be Katniss Everdeen, Prim’s sister. What if that goes away?

I don’t want to get married, not after seeing what happened with my parents. I’m still firm on that. No children, not when the world I’d be bringing them into is so cruel and unforgiving.

To be honest, I don’t want to be a healer. I hate it. I’m not very good at it. It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to turn and run every time I have to help someone with their medical problems. Even Peeta today.

Great, Katniss. You know everything you don’t want to do. That’s wonderful, until you have to decide what you do want to do.

“Katniss?” Prim whispers. I must’ve been fidgeting because she pokes me lightly in the side. “I can practically feel you overthinking.”

I laugh lightly. She wraps her hand in mine and squeezes. “Go to sleep. It’ll be okay. I love you.”

I squeeze her hand in response.

“I love you.”

Chapter Text

Emmer Mellark’s nose is broken. Everyone is talking about it. Which means everyone is talking about me.

I’ve lived the majority of my life staying out of the gossip mill, aside from when my father died. I don’t do anything worth discussing. That is, I didn’t do anything worth discussing until I hit Emmer. The rumors swirling around are getting ridiculous, and the most popular theory about why I hit him is one that puts me in an unfortunate light. Most people seem to believe that Emmer and I had some sort of relationship going on, but I found out that Emmer had taken some other girl to the slag heap and that’s why I attacked him.

The slag heap is a classy little area in the district that young people go to in order to engage in sordid activities that we’re told should not occur until after marriage. I’ve never been, nor do I have any desire to go. That’s another part of the rumor. Apparently, I was holding out on Emmer. That’s why he had to take a different girl to the slag heap, to fulfill his needs.

Hearing about yourself in third person is odd. I know they’re talking about me, but the story is so outlandish it may as well be about some other Katniss, though there is no other Katniss. I feel very detached from the rumors, but that doesn’t mean I like having people in my business. At school, I can practically feel everyone watching me all day long. That bothers me. Emmer isn’t here to straighten it all out since he’s been suspended for the remainder of the week, and I’m not sure he’d tell people the truth, anyway. He might like having people think that he and I were together in some way or another. He might be amused at the nicknames I’ve been given, like Ice Queen. He might even have joined in if he heard what they’re calling me. Frigid, prudish, a tease.

I don’t get the big deal about sex. I know how it works. I know the general logistics of what to do. I know what it’s for. You have sex if you want to have a baby. I don’t want a baby, therefore I don’t want to have sex. I’ve seen the frightened girls who come to my mother asking for help, their fingers clutching their abdomens. A few moments of pleasure is not enough of a reason to risk getting pregnant, at least not for me. So maybe in that sense, the rumors aren’t too far off, at least about my character.

But I wouldn’t date Emmer, and I couldn’t care less who he takes to the slag heap.

Peeta Mellark’s nose is not broken. Not as many people are talking about it. I don’t know exactly how Peeta did it, but he managed to make people think that his injury was inflicted upon him by his mother. I mean, it’s nothing new. Peeta’s been coming to school with bruises for ages. No one has ever done anything about it, not any of the adults. It's happened less often as he’s gotten older, presumably because he’s taller and stronger than his mother now, but there have been times where I’ve seen the damage she continues to do. A bruise under his jawline or a long cut down his forehead that his curls can’t hide.

I hate his mother.

I spent all last night wondering if I’d ever be able to pay off the debt I owe him. I hardly did anything to help him yesterday, and to top it off, he gave me his jacket afterwards. A jacket that is currently burning a hole in the bottom of my bag. I shoved some ointment that soothes bruising and a cold compress into one of the pockets, hoping that it could help make us even. I’m starting to doubt we’ll ever be even, though.

The opportunity to get Peeta alone doesn’t happen until after school. I loiter by my locker longer than usual, watching him out of the corner of my eye. He’s shoving his books into his bag, laughing at something his friends are saying. I turn my gaze towards him and scan the half of his face I can see. It looks about the same as yesterday, so I know the cold compress and bruise ointment will help. But how to get it to him?

He looks at me and we make brief eye contact, only for a second because I duck my head as my cheeks redden, embarrassed about having been caught staring at him. It was just medical.

I steal a glance at him once more and see him wave his friends off, telling them he’ll meet them at the soccer field in a few minutes. He remains at his locker and I know this is my opportunity. Except I can’t get my feet to move. I’m not good at approaching people, not good at talking to them. I don’t initiate conversations. Ever. Suddenly, I’m incredibly insecure about this quality of mine. It shouldn’t be this hard to give a boy his jacket. I’m considering tossing it to him and running off when I sense movement. A few seconds later, there he is, leaning against the locker beside me.

“Hey.”

So I didn’t even have to start the conversation. I’m unsure of where to look as I shut my locker, my hands finding my braid to fidget with it nervously. My tongue seems incapable of letting any words slip past it. I practically choke out a greeting in return.

“Hi.”

“I wanted to say thank you for yesterday,” says Peeta. He’s speaking so gently that I decide it’s safe to meet his eyes. They look bluer than usual, if that’s possible. “For helping me. For not telling anyone about it. And to, um, give you this.”

He reaches into his bag and hands me a piece of cloth. No, not just any piece of cloth. My blouse that had blood and stew all over it yesterday. But how can this be the same shirt? It’s spotless. It’s a bit lighter than it had been before, but that hardly matters. It could be brand new, for all anyone else knows. That’s how nice it looks.

Peeta must take my silence for apprehension, because he starts speaking quickly. “I understand if you don’t want it back, because it had my blood all over it, which I’m sorry about, but I promise it’s clean, I had help from Hazelle Hawthorne, she does laundry in the Seam, and she showed me how to wash it, which is a good thing because if I’d done it on my own, it probably would’ve come out with more stains than it had on it before-”

“Peeta,” I say, stopping him with a light touch on his arm. It’s warm and solid and I pull away as soon as I’ve done it. “Thank you. I appreciate this very much.”

He blushes and I find it incredibly endearing. Maybe Peeta Mellark is my friend.

But then I think, why would he want to be my friend? I’m not friendly. I don’t go out of my way to speak to anyone. The only person I’ve ever managed to forge a friendship with is Madge. It took me a long time to even consider us friends in the first place. I thought she was just bored with sitting alone at lunch. I don’t know what Peeta would get out of being my friend. Besides, doesn’t he have plenty of his own already? Why would he want another?

“I’m sorry about Emmer, too.”

I stiffen. “What about him?”

Peeta shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looking slightly uncomfortable. It dawns on me suddenly. He’s heard all the rumors. He’s not just heard them. He believes them. He believes I’m that person.

Peeta Mellark is not my friend.

He doesn’t know the first thing about me. We don’t know each other at all. Maybe he is kind and maybe he is generous but kind and generous people can also be stupid and presumptuous. Whatever thin connection we had prior to this moment is severed.

“I thought he was-”

“My boyfriend?” I snap. “Because of the rumors?”

He looks stricken but I’m too angry to care. “No, no! I didn’t mean-”

“Of course you did. It’s what everyone else believes, so why wouldn’t you? I’m just some silly, lovesick girl pining after Emmer Mellark. I broke his nose because he cheated on me, not because I saw his knuckles that had your blood on it!”

“Katniss, please, listen-”

“Here,” I say roughly, grabbing his jacket from my bag and shoving it at him. I feel bad when I see him wince, knowing his ribs must still be hurting, but I don't apologize. “I have to go.”

He calls after me but I don’t stop, rushing out the door towards the spot where I pick up Prim. She’s waiting patiently, her face dropping when she sees my expression.

“What’s wrong?”

Seeing Prim is a soothing antidote to whatever I’m feeling. My emotions are still raw, but I soften at her concerned look. I hate when she worries about me.

“Let’s go home,” I say.

“What’s that?” She asks, stopping me before I can walk off. “Your shirt? I thought you said it was ruined.”

I curse myself for not putting the blouse in my bag before Prim could see it. My fist is curled tight around it, but it’s obvious what it is. I don’t know how to explain.

“Prim,” I say, my voice coming out low and exhausted. “Can we just go home?”

She doesn’t press me for more information, following me as I head home. It’s a relief to get some distance from the school.

I feel betrayed and I don’t understand why. If Peeta and I aren’t friends, why does it matter what he thinks? I suppose I thought he was different from everyone else. He gave me food when he had none. He’s the first to offer a seat, a pencil, or a sound word of advice to anyone who needs it. He stands up for the smaller Seam kids when the Merchants get aggressive. He’s been living in a terrible home with a terrible mother in the same district as his father and half-brothers who are far better off than he is and he still comes to school every day with that silly grin of his. I thought he would get it, I guess. That he’d see through the rumors because he’s been the subject of many over the years.

It doesn’t matter now. Peeta Mellark and I have no reason to interact again. I try to convince myself that we’re even now, though I know that what I did for him is nothing compared to the actions of the boy with the bread. Fine. I can figure out a way to try and pay him back without having to speak to him.

And I don’t need another friend. One is plenty.

Chapter Text

The rumors about Emmer and me die down after a few days. He returns to school the following Monday and has very little to say about our situation. In fact, he leaves me alone entirely. As does Peeta. And that is all fine with me.

Fall arrives in full swing and warns me of the cold days ahead. I spend some extra time out in the woods, trying to put some meat on Prim’s bones before the freezing weather arrives. On a Saturday towards the end of October, I bring home far more in my hunting bag than we have the capacity to keep, which means I’ve got plenty to trade.

I take stock in the backyard, laying out the rabbit and squirrel carcasses to count before deciding where to take them. Though she hates seeing the game I kill, I have to get Prim’s help to take the ones we’ll keep into the room designated for skinning. Her eyes widen at the piles in front of her, immediate displeasure spreading across her face.

“Oh, Katniss, you know I’m grateful, but it makes me so sad to see your dead animals.”

I can’t help but let out a light laugh at her description of the animals as my own, the kind of laugh only Prim can get out of me.

“I’m sorry. Why don’t you take three of the squirrels and two of the rabbits in? You can put four of them on the ice and save whichever one you’d like for dinner.”

She purses her lips but doesn’t complain as she gently picks up the animals, heading in towards the house. I can take half of the leftover rabbits to Greasy Sae, the bony old woman in the Hob who sells soup from a large kettle. Rooba, the butcher, also likes rabbits, so I’ll take the rest to her. But the squirrels. There’s so many, and I know exactly where they have to go.

I’ve avoided trading with the baker for weeks. It’s not gone unnoticed in our house, either, because we haven’t had bread in just as long. I know it’s selfish of me to avoid the bakery when Prim so thoroughly enjoys the fresh loaves we get. To be honest, I miss eating their bread as well.

I decide on my way to the Hob that I’ll take the squirrels over to the bakery tomorrow morning, as early as possible. That way I can avoid the Mellark boys, since the baker is usually the only one in the shop on Sunday mornings. I’ve traded with him enough times in the past to know a bit about the inner workings of their business. Sunday is a prep day, and as far as I can tell, Emmer and Bannock avoid prep day like the plague. Going extra early will ensure there is absolutely no cause for interaction between me and the baker’s sons.

The Hob is lively this evening, unsurprising for a Saturday night. I trade quickly with Rooba. You don’t haggle with her. She gives you one price, take it or leave it. It’s always a fair price, though, so I’m not complaining. When I head over to Greasy Sae’s booth, I slide into a seat beside one of the peacekeepers. Darius is not much older than me, with bright red hair and an easy smile. Hunting is technically illegal, but the peacekeepers in District 12 always look the other way. They enjoy fresh meat as much as anyone else and it’s hard to come by out here. Darius in particular is pretty lax about rule breaking.

“Haven’t seen you around in awhile, Townie,” he jokes, digging into his soup. Sae places a bowl in front of me and winks as she looks over the rabbits I’ve brought.

“Been busy,” I say, relishing the warm feeling that slides from my throat to my stomach as I swallow the hot broth.

“Oh, sure. I bet it takes up most of your time to terrorize the boys in school,” he says. I roll my eyes, which makes him laugh. “Hey, I’m not saying they don’t deserve it!”

Sae passes some coins my way, just as much as I expected, and I shove them into the pocket of my coat, leaving one out on the counter for my soup when she’s not looking.

“So,” says Darius. “That Mellark boy got a pretty good bruising.”

I shrug.

“Does that mean the toasting is off?”

I narrow my eyes. “Toasting was never on. The baker started all that.”

Darius grins. “Ah, he’s a good man. Thinks highly of you.”

“I don’t care,” I snap. “And I don’t know how good of a man he could be considering what he did to P-”

My eyes widen and I shut my mouth quickly. I’m surprised at the venom in my voice, the pure hatred that I feel for the baker’s treatment of his bastard son, especially since I wasn’t exactly kind to Peeta the last time I saw him. Darius gives me a look, conflicting emotions running across his face. We eat in silence for a moment before he speaks again.

“There’s always more to the story than there seems.”

What does that mean? The story seems pretty cut and dry to me. Townie gets Seam girl pregnant while cheating on his wife. Townie abandons Seam girl and child. How could there be more? I bet Darius just likes the baker. I bet they’re friendly.

I gulp down the rest of my soup quickly and say goodbye to Darius, who smiles at me softly before returning to his own meal and whatever gossip is being spread on his other side by the patrons of Sae’s.

The next morning, I wake before the sun has begun to rise. It’s still dark as I make the trek through town, my arms wrapped tightly around my waist in an effort to conserve heat. My full game bag swings against my hip and I wonder what bread I’ll be able to trade for it all. It’s a good-sized haul, that’s for sure.

I use the backdoor of the bakery when I trade, so today is no different. It’s silent in the alleyway aside from the sounds of my footsteps, which are pretty quiet anyway. I’ve learned from years of hunting how to sneak up on prey and those movements have made their way into my daily repertoire. I reach up to knock on the door and nearly punch the chest of someone as it flies open. I’m fuming internally at the fact that I’ve not only not avoided the Mellark boys, but I’ve walked directly into an encounter with them. Then I realize which Mellark boy is standing in front of me.

Peeta.

Peeta?

He seems to be just as shocked as I am. We stare at each other for what feels like ages, but has to only be a few moments. What is Peeta doing here?

“Peet, you’re letting all the good air out! I’ll see you next Sunday, okay?”

The baker comes into view and I snap my attention from Peeta to his father. I don’t understand. I thought the baker hated Peeta, shunned him for being half-Seam, ignored his existence. How could that be if they’re here, together? They’re clearly very familiar with one another, since the baker just called him “Peet.” It doesn’t make sense. Then I remember what Darius said last night. There’s always more to the story. Is this what he meant?

“Katniss,” says the baker, his voice strangled. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

I shuffle my feet awkwardly, unsure of what to say. I settle with the only word that I seem to be able to choke out. “Squirrel.”

The baker notices my game bag and I hand it over to him, avoiding Peeta’s eyes.

“Right,” he says. “The usual trade? Peeta, do you mind helping me for a moment?”

Peeta follows his father back inside, letting the door shut behind them as he goes. I hadn’t realized how warm the bakery air had been until it was gone. My cheeks flush, but I can’t tell if it’s from the temperature change or something else.

When they return, Peeta has two paper bags in his arms. I wait for him to hand one over to me, but he doesn’t.

“Katniss, I’ve asked Peeta to walk you home since you’re heading the same way,” explains the baker, his face tight with anxiety. “Thanks for the meat.” He shuts the door once more and then it’s just Peeta and me, staring at each other.

“You don’t have to walk me home,” I say. Peeta shakes his head and I realize he’s wearing a dark knit cap, covering up his blonde locks. Normally when he moves like that the waves fall over his forehead, but I can’t see them beneath the hat. It disappoints me for some reason.

“I think- maybe- it would be best if I explained this to you. My fath- Mr. Mellark was hoping you’d give me the chance.”

I chew on my bottom lip. “You don’t need to. I promise not to tell anyone.”

“Please?” Peeta looks nervous, like he did last time we talked, shifting from one foot to the other. I can’t say no to him.

“Okay,” I agree. Though he still seems uncomfortable, his face lights up with a small smile. It amazes me how just the tiniest quirk of his lips transforms his expression into something akin to the afternoon sun, bright and warm.

We begin to walk back to the apothecary when Peeta pauses. The sun has just begun to rise and though the street is empty, I can feel his apprehension. Does he not want to be seen with me? Or maybe he doesn’t want to be seen at all. I can understand either way.

“Peeta,” I say before my brain can stop the word vomit spewing from my mouth. “Have you ever been to the meadow?”

I tell him to meet me at a specific tree near the fence before stopping at my house to drop off the bread and grab a blanket. My mother is in the middle of making tea, so I grab a tumbler and add some hot water and a packet of mint leaves to it. She doesn’t question me, though I can tell she wants to. I run out with a quick goodbye, hustling to avoid interacting with any other early morning risers.

The meadow isn't as private as I'd initially believed. I can tell Peeta is hesitant to sit out here in the open where anyone could find us. Not that many people come out to the meadow, especially in the colder months, but I suppose anything could happen. When he suggests moving to a field beyond the fence, it takes me a moment to agree. I've never gone out into the woods with anyone but my father. That feels silly to dwell on, though, so I force myself to tamp down any lingering emotions about it and tell Peeta to lead the way. He gives me a small smile and holds up the wire for me to crawl beneath.

Peeta shows me to an area covered by trees and overlooking the mountains before helping me put down the blanket I brought. I sit beside him and watch carefully as he picks at a loose thread on his coat. It’s silent aside from the sounds of the woods, noises I find to be comforting, like birds chirping and the wind rustling the dry leaves on the ground.

“You’ve been out here before?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says after a few moments. “I like to come out to this spot and draw sometimes.”

“You draw?”

I don’t mean to sound so surprised, but I’d assumed if he came out this way it was to forage. Some sort of activity that would help keep him alive. Not something like art.

He flushes. “I know it sounds silly. It is, a bit.”

“No,” I say, my voice firm. “It sounds nice.”

I think this makes him warm up a bit, because he focuses his attention on me. It looks like he’s finally going to tell me about his father when he pulls something out of the second paper bag he’d been holding at the bakery. It’s a small cake with frosting on top, and it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. The frosting is shaped into little flowers, roses and daffodils and daisies. My jaw drops open.

“Did the baker make this for you?”

Peeta grins sheepishly. “Actually, I made it. Would you like to try some?”

I immediately shake my head. “You can’t eat something this pretty. It should be on display. You- you made all of it?”

“Yeah,” says Peeta. “On Sundays I help Mr. Mellark prep in the bakery for the week. He’s been letting me learn the trade. I think decorating the baked goods is my favorite part. It’s sort of like drawing. More like painting. But I really enjoy it.”

“If your drawings look anything like this, you must be an amazing artist.”

He blushes even deeper before splitting the cake in half, handing one piece to me. “Please try it. I need an objective audience to tell me if I’m any good at baking or if I should stick to non-edible arts.”

I hesitate, but after some coaxing, agree. And I don’t regret it at all once it’s in my mouth. “Oh, my god, Peeta. This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

It’s a plain white cake, not too sweet, and the icing is flavored with something I can’t quite identify, but it’s good. Better than good. Perfect. I’ve never spent money on the cakes or cookies at the bakery. They seem like an extravagance when all we really need is bread. Now I wish I had a whole dozen. I wish I could give them to Prim, to see the look on her face after eating them. Peeta must sense this, because he doesn’t take a bite out of his. Instead he wraps it back up and hands it to me.

“What are you doing?” I ask, pushing his hand away. “That’s yours.”

He’s undeterred. “Take it home with you. I don’t want it.”

“Absolutely not. I can’t take it from you.”

“It’s a gift, Katniss. I want you to have it.”

“And I want you to have it.”

“Katniss.”

“Peeta.”

“Just take it, please.”

“No, I already owe you enough,” I say. This gives him pause, and he looks genuinely confused.

“What do you mean?”

My cheeks are hot and I wish I could take back the words I’ve said. We’ve never talked about this. I’ve never thanked him for it. That’s not what we came out here for. But it’s too late. I’ve wandered into uncharted territory and I can’t go back.

It takes me a moment to work up the courage to respond. When I do, my voice comes out like a whisper. “I never thanked you. For the bread. For the roots, the herbs.”

He wrinkles his nose. “What, from when we were kids? I think we can let that go. I mean, you helped me after that fight. You punched Emmer in my defense. You gave me that medicine.”

I shake my head. “You don’t understand. You didn’t know me but you saved my life. You saved Prim’s life. We would have starved to death if you hadn’t helped us. You got hurt because of it. And I never thanked you. I never said anything to you about it. I owe you everything and I’ve given you nothing.”

Peeta looks genuinely distressed. “Katniss, you’re making me out to be some kind of savior and I’m not. I should’ve done more, I should’ve helped you home. I just left you there in the freezing rain. I should’ve-”

“No,” I interrupt him. “You did more than enough. Thank you.”

He’s quiet for a few moments. “I’m sorry about what I said a few weeks ago.”

“What?”

“With Emmer,” he continues. “I’d heard the rumors but I didn’t believe what people were saying about you. I was confused because I’d heard my- Mr. Mellark talking about you and Emmer, so I thought you were dating. That’s why I said what I said. Not because of anything anyone said about you.”

I let out a heavy sigh. “Peeta, you don’t need to apologize for that. I was just annoyed with everything. I was never dating Emmer. I don’t like him as a friend or anything else. I shouldn’t have run off like that.”

His lip turns up on the right side into that lopsided grin of his. “We’re really laying it all out, aren’t we?”

This makes me laugh. I realize that even with this heavy conversation, I feel comfortable with Peeta. He makes talking easy. I’ve never talked this much to anyone who isn’t Prim.

We fall into a companionable silence and take sips of the mint tea that we pass back and forth. The sun has risen now, spreading its rays across the grass of the meadow and melting the frost that accumulated overnight. I see Peeta sneak the rest of the cake in my coat pocket and this time I don’t stop him.

“You don’t have to explain your family situation to me,” I say suddenly. “I meant what I said. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thank you,” says Peeta quietly. “No one else knows about it. Not even Emmer or Bannock.”

I absorb this information. Peeta, his father, and I are the only ones who are aware of this situation. And maybe Darius, who hinted at it and might’ve seen Peeta sneaking home in the early hours of a Sunday morning. Not any of Peeta’s friends? I can’t understand why. He has so many. Could it be because he doesn’t have anyone he trusts with this information? I suppose that having a large quantity of friends doesn’t mean they’re all high quality. The thought that Peeta doesn’t have a confidante makes my heart contract.

“I can keep a secret,” I say.

We sit and watch the meadow as the early morning sun crawls over the blue sky. Once it is clear that late morning has hit, I stretch out my legs and sigh.

“I should go home and help at the apothecary,” I explain. Peeta nods and stands before offering me his hand, which I accept. It’s warm and calloused and I find I like the feeling of it against my own. I let go quickly.

We walk back towards the fence quietly, my mind whirling with thoughts. What harm could come out of being Peeta Mellark’s friend? Peeta clearly isn’t trying to take advantage of me in any way. He seems to trust me. He might be growing on me. Plus, we don’t have to be best friends. We don’t have to hang out at school. But this, being out with him in the meadow, enjoying his company, was nice. I think I’d like to do it again.

“Peeta,” I stop him just after we crawl back under the fence. “You said you do this every Sunday? You’re not busy doing other things?”

“Yeah, every Sunday. I normally go out to the woods in the afternoon, but that’s about it. Why?”

I have to push the words out of my mouth before I think about it too hard and ruin everything. “Would you like to do this again, maybe next Sunday? You know, as friends?”

The smile that takes over his face is nothing short of spectacular. If I’d known this was the reaction I’d get, I might’ve done it sooner just to see that expression. “Friends. I’d like that a lot, Katniss.”

I can’t help but return his smile. His joy is infectious. How does he do that? “Okay. Next Sunday it is.”

When we part, the stupid grin won’t leave my face. But it’s nice. I wonder which will excite Prim more- the cake in my pocket or the confirmation that I do indeed have a friend in Peeta Mellark.

She loves pretty things, but I have a feeling it’ll be the latter.

Chapter Text

I might have messed up my friendship with Peeta before it even truly began.

I didn’t think about the implications of giving Prim the cake with the flowers on it. I tried to lie when I realized what I’d done but I’m a terrible liar. It took her all of three minutes to get the truth out of me.

“Katniss, you know I won’t tell anyone Peeta’s secret. I liked him before you did,” Prim insists.

I slam my head down on top of my arms, leaning against the wooden counter of the apothecary. I don’t even react to her saying that I like Peeta, that’s how bad I feel. “I told him I could keep a secret. He’ll hate me.”

“Peeta? Hate you? I don’t think Peeta hates a single, solitary soul.”

“Well, I’m apparently trying my hardest to be the first,” I grumble. Prim laughs.

“Katniss, Peeta will understand. Just reassure him that I won’t tell anyone,” She says. I grab her arm as she moves to leave.

“Anyone, Prim. Anyone.”

She looks at me solemnly. “I promise.”

It does little to reassure me. I don’t think Prim would understand why. She has lots of friends. Everyone likes her. I might be the exact opposite of that. I’m surly, aloof. I’ve never had a friendship that’s gone beyond occasionally speaking at school. I’m not convinced anyone actually likes me. With Peeta, I initiated the friendship. At least the label of it. I don’t want to screw it up because I don’t always think before I act.

As I expected, Peeta and I don’t talk at school. For at least half of Monday, I’m convinced he’s furious with me, that he already knows what I’ve done. It’s completely irrational but the only thing that eases the pressure from my chest is the smile he sends my way across the lunch room. I’ve never been so grateful for our awkward habit of making eye contact. Every day after that, he smiles at me during lunch. So he probably doesn’t hate me.

That Sunday I pace by the fence, dreading what I have to tell him. I know I’m not being logical but I’m beginning to understand that feelings rarely ever make total sense. At least, my feelings don’t make sense. I hoist my backpack up higher on my shoulders, shivering in the chill of the early morning. What if he gets mad at me and abandons me and I’ve brought this blanket and tumbler of tea out here for no reason? Am I going to grow old and lonely with only Prim being able to tolerate me? Maybe Madge, on occasion?

When he appears just as the sun has started to rise, I immediately scan his face for any sign of anger. There is none. In fact, he looks normal. No. He looks happier than he usually does. Is that even possible?

“Hi, Katniss,” he says brightly, heading straight for the fence to hold it up. I crawl under quickly, barely giving him a second to get up off the ground before I blurt it out.

“Prim knows.”

He stops, staring at me blankly. “Knows what?”

“Knows you go to the bakery, that you made the cake, I’m so sorry, she won’t tell anyone, I swear, I didn’t mean to let it slip after I told you I could keep a secret, I just-”

“Katniss!”

I pause as he grabs my shoulders gently, an amused expression on his face. “It’s okay. I kinda figured you and Prim are a package deal.”

I literally deflate. All the tension I’ve been holding in my body for the past week dissipates. I’ve never been so relieved. “You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?” He asks, letting me go and heading towards the spot in the meadow where we last sat. I jog to catch up with his quick strides.

“I told you I can keep a secret and then I go and immediately blab about it.”

“Is Prim going to tell anyone?”

“Well, no-”

“Then there’s no reason to worry about it. She’s your sister, Katniss. I trust you, and by extension, her. Does anyone else know?”

“No, but-”

“Then it’s fine,” he says, gesturing for me to give him the blanket. I take it from my bag and hand it to him.

“So you’re really not mad at me?” I ask as we lay it out flat and sit.

Peeta raises his eyebrows. “Do you want me to be mad at you?”

“No! No, I just- ugh,” I collapse on the blanket and stare up at the sky. “I’m not really good at the whole ‘friend’ thing. I don’t understand why you'd even want to be my friend.”

He falls back beside me. “I want to be your friend because I enjoy your company. I think you’re overthinking the whole concept of friendship. It can be or mean anything we want. You should be kinder to yourself. I think you’re a good friend. You’ll never be perfect like me, of course, but you’re not too bad.”

I smack his chest lightly, the material of his coat letting out a small puff at the contact. “We hardly know each other. You don’t know that I’m a good friend.”

“Well, we can fix that, you know,” he says, leaning up on one arm to gaze down at me. “What’s your favorite color?”

I look at him. “Slow down, Peeta. That’s much too personal for a budding friendship.”

He laughs and the sound of it warms me. “Seriously, though, what is it?”

“Green,” I answer. “What’s yours?”

“Orange,” he says. I must make a face because he chuckles. “Not bright orange. More like a sunset kind of orange.”

I picture the shade he’s talking about. “I like that color, too.”

“Well, too bad. I already claimed it as my favorite. You’re stuck with green,” he says. I try to scowl at him but I can't stop the grin that spreads across my face. “Do you have a favorite food?”

This makes me pause. Normally when I think of food, I think of it as sustenance. Not that I don’t appreciate a tasty meal, but it’s more important to me to have something to fill my belly. There is one thing that sticks out, though. I’m surprised to remember it, it’s been so long.

“There was a month, years ago, when the apothecary did really well, better than usual. My mother decided it would be a good time to stock up on some food that could last us a while, not like fresh meat or anything. The Capitol sells these little cans of food, and since she sometimes orders medical supplies from them, she knew how to purchase cans of soup. We ended up with something like ten little cans, a variety pack. But there was one of them, a lamb stew, and it had dried plums in it,” My mouth waters just thinking about it. “That was the best thing I’ve ever had. They only gave us one can of it, though, and we’ve not been able to afford it since then. But if I had to pick a favorite food, it would be that.”

Peeta is watching me, his eyes animated while I describe the stew. I flush when I realize how long I've been talking, quickly asking what he considers to be his favorite food.

“Mellark’s Bakery has this tart that’s really expensive. Only the richest people in the district seem to be able to afford it. About three months ago, my father- Mr. Mellark- let me help him make them since they were in season. It’s a pastry with goat cheese and apples,” His face takes on a dreamy expression. “He gave me one to take home and I’ve not been able to stop thinking about it since then.”

There’s a sort of melancholy around this topic, the idea that our favorite foods are luxuries we can’t afford. Peeta senses this and asks a lighter question.

“What’s your favorite thing to do when you aren’t at school or working in the apothecary?”

I drum my fingers against my stomach. I like to hunt, usually, but that’s to survive. Would I like it if I didn’t have to do it? I think I’d still like the outdoors. Being in nature, even when it’s cold. There’s something about it that makes me feel alive. “I like being outside. Here. I like being surrounded by plants and trees and fresh air. What about you?”

Peeta thinks for a moment, moving to run his hands through his curls before remembering he’s got his knit cap on. Instead, he fiddles with the loose threads on his coat. “I like drawing.”

“You mentioned that last time,” I say, tilting my head to look at him. “What do you draw?”

“Everything. People. Nature. Places.”

“Do you think…would you show me sometime? The stuff you draw?” He hesitates. “Unless you’re so terrible at it that it would be best to never show anyone what you do.”

This makes him smile. “Sure. I’ll show you sometime.”

I bite my lip, unsure if I should ask the next question. I do anyway. “Do you like helping out at the bakery?” When he stays quiet, I rush to assure him he doesn’t have to answer if he doesn’t want to. It takes a few minutes, but he finally responds.

“Yes, I do. At the same time, I don’t.”

I frown. “Why not?”

He avoids my gaze, staring up at the morning sun instead. “It’s a reminder of a life I’ll never be able to live.”

We don’t talk about it after that. For the rest of the time we’re together, we enjoy the tea I brought and some fresh rolls Peeta made that morning. It takes him a while to convince me to eat one, and we go back and forth so much on it that I think he may regret his decision to befriend me, but I finally relent. They’re slightly sweet and buttery and when he offers me another one, I have to use all my self-control to take small bites rather than shove the whole thing in my mouth at once. He insists I take some home for Prim, but I only let him give me two more from his original dozen. I decide that I need to figure out something to bring him, something more substantial than hot tea.

It’s around noon when we head back to the fence. He stops me just inside the district, not unlike the way I’d stopped him when we’d entered the meadow earlier. “Same time next week?”

The hope in Peeta’s eyes surprises me. I fiddle with the end of my braid. If he’s feeling unsure about it, my fear of losing this new friendship isn’t entirely unfounded. I wonder if it would be better to put a stop to it before we get any deeper, before I grow attached to having him around. I’m suddenly overwhelmed at the thought of not speaking to Peeta ever again, not seeing his smile across the lunch room, and realize I might already be there. That terrifies me, because I’m sure it can be taken away from me in an instant. Maybe I should run away and not look back, cut Peeta out and get it over with. Shove the rolls back at him, try to forget the friendship we’ve forged. But there’s a part of me that’s selfish, so selfish, because I like having Peeta around, and I like having a friend.

So all I can manage to say is, “Same time next week.”

Chapter Text

I try not to, but I begin to enjoy Sunday mornings better than any other time or day of the week. Peeta brings me food from the bakery, plus extra for Prim. He thinks it’s hilarious when I take a bite of a cheese bun for the first time and nearly collapse at how delicious it is. I ask Prim to teach me how to knit and make Peeta a light orange cap that is sort of lopsided and slightly too big for his head. I model it for him, which he laughs about for what feels like our entire outing. It slips over my eyes and bunches up at the top, making my head look vaguely like a smashed cone. The next cap I bring him, a muted brown one that’s less ostentatious, fits him better.

We still don’t talk in school. I assume it’s because Peeta doesn’t want people to know that we’re friends, because of the Merchant/Seam divide, though I haven’t asked him. I’ve started to like lunchtime the best, because even though Peeta is surrounded by people and often the center of attention at his table, he always finds a moment to send me a secret smile across the cafeteria.

“Why are you staring at that table of Seam kids?”

I tear my gaze away from Peeta, who is talking animatedly to one of his friends, and look at Madge. She’s twirling one of her blonde curls around her index finger and looking at me with a mixture of amusement and suspicion.

“They’re just in my eyeline,” I say defensively. “I’m not staring at them on purpose.”

“You’ve not been scowling as much as you usually do,” she says. This makes me scowl, of course, and she raises an eyebrow at me.

We’re quiet for a while. I refuse to glance over at Peeta again, even though he hasn’t yet smiled at me today, and pick at a chip in the wooden table. When Madge speaks again, it’s so soft I almost don’t hear it.

“You can talk to me. If you ever want to. About anything.”

I tilt my head up and am surprised to see how genuine and open she looks. We’ve never been the kind of friends who talk about things. I wonder what’s changed between us. I wonder if it’s a good thing.

“Thank you,” I say. “Same goes for you.”

My eyes flick behind her left shoulder, locking with Peeta’s. His gaze sweeps his table, making sure no one is paying attention to him before he gives me that lopsided smile. I don’t return it, I never do, but my lips twitch up slightly and I think that’s good enough for him.

Prim asks about Peeta every day. She’s been smitten with him since he first sent that cake home with me, so much so that I wonder if she doesn’t have a little crush on him. That Sunday, I carefully watch Peeta as he explains the process of making royal icing to me. Do lots of girls have crushes on him? He’s kind to everyone. He’s funny and smart. I see how that is appealing.

And Peeta is attractive. I can tell now that I’m really looking at him. His blonde curls are a little unruly, and it’s especially funny when he runs his hands through them because they stick out everywhere. He’s got a strong nose, not too big and not too small, and the tip is a bit like a little button, soft and round. I’ve never noticed before, but he’s got a small spattering of freckles across the apples of his cheeks and bridge of his nose. His lips are a shade of rosy pink, full with a prominent cupid’s bow. Sometimes when he’s listening to me, his lips part and his tongue rests on the side of his mouth, indicating deep focus. And when he smiles, a little dimple appears on his left cheek.

Does Peeta have a girlfriend? I realize we’ve never talked about it. I don’t think a girlfriend would be crazy about their boyfriend spending time alone with another girl, but I don’t really know how relationships work. If Peeta doesn’t have a girlfriend, does he want one? Probably. Probably some Seam girl. But if he gets a girlfriend, would she be okay with our friendship? My stomach twists at the thought of Peeta dumping our friendship for some girl. I don’t want him to do that. Would he do that? I think he might. Peeta seems like the kind of guy who would do anything for his girlfriend, or wife. It makes my heart ache a little bit, though I’m not totally sure why.

“Katniss?”

He’s looking at me expectantly. My cheeks flush at being caught staring at him like that. I don’t know what he was saying, I was so deep in thought. “What?”

His mouth quirks up. “Sorry. Was I boring you?”

“No! No, I’m sorry. I was just distracted. What were you saying?”

“Just that I won’t be at the bakery next Sunday morning. Bannock is helping with prep that day.”

“Oh,” I deflate a little. “So, you don’t want to see me that day?”

His eyebrows raise in surprise. “That is definitely not what I meant. Of course I want to see you. All I meant was that I won’t have any baked goods to bring next week.”

My mood lifts at his words. “Well, you’re useless to me without the baked goods.”

“I like to think the baked goods just add to my stellar companionship,” he laughs.

“The cheese buns definitely win over you, sorry,” I giggle. He shakes his head.

“I knew I never should’ve introduced you to cheese buns. I could never compete with them, could I?”

“You can try, but I don’t think you’ll succeed.”

Peeta mimes being shot in the heart, clutching his chest and falling backwards onto the blanket dramatically. He’s wearing the pair of gloves I knitted for him, orange ones that match the silly hat I made, and it makes me feel warm to see him using them. I like giving gifts, I’ve discovered. Gifts make showing my appreciation much easier than trying to use words.

I take a sip of the tea and pass the tumbler to Peeta, who sits back up to have a drink. Once, I’d put some sugar in the tea and Peeta, though he tried not to, made a face so funny when he tasted it that I actually snorted. Since then, I’ve kept it sugar-free. He’s been bringing cheese buns every week since that first time I tried them, though he usually brings cookies or those little cakes for me to take home as well. Prim has the biggest sweet-tooth and Peeta panders to her for it. Maybe that is what’s feeding her crush.

“Does your girlfriend not mind you spending this time with me?” I ask suddenly. Peeta chokes on the tea and coughs a few times before he can answer.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he says, his voice raspy. “Does your boyfriend not mind you spending time with me?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I respond. “I don’t date.”

Peeta looks at me carefully. “You don’t date?”

I fiddle with the end of my braid. “No.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Why not?”

My heart begins to pound and I wonder if maybe this conversation is too much for a friendship that’s only a month or so old. I’ve never talked to anyone about this; only my mother and Prim are well aware of my feelings on the matter. I don’t have to explain it to them, though. They just know. I look into Peeta’s eyes and am annoyed when his gaze melts my insides. Friends, or so Peeta has told me, talk about the deep stuff. I know one of his secrets. Maybe I owe him one in return.

“My parents,” I say softly. He focuses on me, his expression encouraging me to go on. I sigh and explain their story, their deep love for one another, her neglect once my father died, everything I had to do to ensure Prim was taken care of, how long it took her to come back to us.

“I still don’t- can’t trust her. And all of that happened because she loved my father so much. It destroyed her. If we hadn’t had help…” I trail off for a moment, unable to look at Peeta. “So I’ve seen what love does to people. I never want to experience that. I never want to become my mother.”

Peeta is quiet for a long time. I can see him from the corner of my eye, studying me. I wonder if he’s going to try and convince me love isn’t all that bad. I don’t want him to. I don’t want to hear it.

“Katniss,” he says, so soft that I almost miss it. “Thank you.”

Of all the things I thought he might say, this wasn’t it. “What?”

“Thank you for telling me. I know it’s not easy for you to open up and it means a lot to me that you trust me.”

I blink in surprise. I do trust Peeta. I didn’t realize until he said it. In a few short weeks, I’ve grown so close to Peeta that I tell him things I never dreamed of speaking about to another human being. There’s an uncomfortable feeling rising in my chest. I try to ignore it.

“Do you?” I ask abruptly. “Trust me?”

He tilts his head at me, amused. “I trust you more than anyone else I know.”

His dimple is popping out, and before I can stop myself, I reach out and poke it gently with the pad of my finger. “Does that mean I’m your favorite friend?”

My actions and words elicit a grin far wider than I thought Peeta’s facial muscles were capable of. “Only if it means I’m your favorite friend.”

“Fine,” I say, holding out my hand. “Shall we shake on it? Make it official?”

Peeta removes his gloves. “Do you know the proper way that friends shake on it, Everdeen?”

I narrow my eyes. “There are only so many ways to shake a hand, Mellark.”

He surprises me by reaching his palm up to his mouth and spitting in it. “Now you do it.”

“Spit in your hand? Absolutely not.”

He laughs. “Not my hand. Your hand.”

I realize where he’s going with this and gasp. “I’m not shaking spit with you, Peeta. No way. That’s so gross.”

“It’s an ancient ritual, Katniss. A sacred bond that, once forged, may never be broken,” he says dramatically. “With the shake of our spit, we will be tethered together by our promise that we are each other’s favorite friend. And the sun and the moon will bless us with their divine powers-”

“Stop! Peeta, stop,” I groan. “Will you never speak like that again if I do it?”

He holds his arm out and wiggles his eyebrows. “Sure. Shake on it?”

Sighing, I bring my hand to my mouth and spit, and Peeta doesn’t hesitate to take my hand in his. It’s not like we hocked loogies into our palms, so it doesn’t feel gross like I thought it would. In fact, his hand is warm, the heat spreading from the tips of my fingers all the way up to the top of my head and the tips of my toes. It’s like his touch is electrifying me. Is this normal?

“Do you feel that?” Peeta whispers, and my eyes widen. Is he experiencing the same thing? I’m about to respond when he leans in closer, his face deadly serious. “It’s the power of the universe, accepting the terms of our spit shake.”

He’s joking. I yank my hand from his, rolling my eyes and trying not to show how flustered I am. I must be getting sick or something. That's why I feel so warm all over. “Okay. It’s definitely time for me to get back to the shop.”

We’ve just hit the path where we normally split when a man comes jogging over, calling Peeta’s name. He’s tall with scruffy dark hair and gray eyes that dart between us. I can tell that he’s Seam and probably works in the mines, judging by the coal dust under his nails, but he can’t be much older than us.

“Hey, Gale. I thought we were meeting out in the usual spot,” Peeta says, sounding strange. I give him a side glance. He looks annoyed, which is new. I’ve never seen Peeta make an expression like that.

Gale doesn’t give me a second glance. “Peacekeeper on that side. It’s best if we take this way around.”

They must go out in the woods together. I’ve occasionally seen Gale trade with the people in town, and I’ve come across his snares beyond the fence every once in a while.

“Gale, this is Katniss Everdeen. Katniss, this is Gale Hawthorne,” Peeta says.

Peeta’s friend makes no move to acknowledge my existence. “This is why you’ve been late every weekend?”

I look over at Peeta, who flushes. I knew we were keeping this a secret, but I had no idea he was blowing off his other friends to hang out with me. And clearly, Gale doesn’t appreciate it.

“I should go,” I say awkwardly. “Bye, Peeta.”

I don’t bother saying anything to Gale. It was not a pleasure to meet him so why lie? I hear the two of them arguing in hushed whispers as I head back towards the apothecary. I’m just on the outskirts of town when he calls my name.

“Katniss! Wait!”

My feet stop immediately, though my brain wonders if this is a good idea. I’m not mad at Peeta, not really, but I feel weird about the whole situation. Why would he ditch his other friends to hang out with me? There’s no way I’m that much fun to be around.

“Katniss,” says Peeta, huffing from running to catch up with me. “Katniss, I’m sorry. Gale was so rude to you back there, I shouldn’t have let him treat you like that.”

I shrug. “It’s okay.”

“No, no, it’s not. I’m really sorry. And he was exaggerating. I’m not usually late to meet him. He’s just-” Peeta hesitates. “Skeptical, I suppose.”

“Skeptical?”

I see his hand twitch and I know he wants to run his fingers through his curls, but since he’s got his hat on, he has to settle with rubbing the back of his neck. “I should’ve explained sooner. About my parents. Um,” he glances around us. “Can I- I mean, I really want to explain to you- I’ve been putting it off, but-”

Peeta’s stammering is so unlike himself, it jolts me. I realize whatever he wants to tell me about his parents, it’s important to him, so I cut him off. “I live in an apartment above the apothecary. At five o’clock tonight, after the sun goes down, Prim and my mother do inventory checks for the week in the shop. It takes them a while, so I’ll be alone for at least thirty minutes. There’s a really big tree just outside the window of the bedroom Prim and I share. It’s easy to climb. I’ll see you then.”

Before he can answer, I spin on my heel and finish the walk back into town. My head is reeling. Did I just ask Peeta to sneak into my bedroom? Why did I do that? I knew he wanted to talk to me, but was there not another solution? At nighttime, no less? But I figured that way it would be harder for anyone in town to spot him. Oh, my god. I hope Peeta doesn’t misunderstand my invitation.

Prim notices immediately how distracted I am. While my mother is in the back helping a patient, I pass her the cookie Peeta made her this week.

“Primroses!” She squeals. When I don’t react at all, she sighs. “Alright, Katniss. What’s going on?”

I spill the entire story. To my surprise, Prim doesn’t make any jokes or tease me. Instead, she looks solemn as she promises me that she’ll keep our mother occupied so Peeta and I can have some privacy. It’s a weight off my shoulders, knowing that Prim is going to have my back, and I feel much better. Until she shoves me towards the staircase and tells me to bathe and change.

“What for?” I grumble. Her blue eyes sparkle.

“You smell!”

I know she’s lying, or at least, I think she’s lying, but I do what she says. A little after four, I head upstairs and take my bath, soaking in the warm water. I wash my hair and even slather on some of the lavender lotion my mother makes. Prim would be so proud.

As I shove on a pair of black pants and a gray sweater, I try not to think about how I’ll have a boy in my bedroom alone for the first time ever in a few minutes. No, not a boy. Peeta. Just Peeta. And Peeta is only coming here to talk to me about his parents. A decidedly depressing topic.

I wonder what he’ll think of the bedroom. Prim and I share the small space, with only enough room for our bed, our dresser, and a sparsely-filled bookshelf. It’s pretty neat at the moment, since I took the time to clean it as best I could. It doesn’t look much better than when I started, but I don’t think Peeta will mind.

I’m putting on a pair of woolen socks when I hear the soft knock at the window. The curtains are closed but I know who it is.

After throwing open the window, Peeta climbs rather ungracefully into the room. His eyes are wide and his cheeks a deep red from the chill of the evening. He’s not wearing a hat, so I can see his blonde waves bounce back and forth as he finds his footing. Once he’s steady, he looks at me and his lips part just slightly. I expect him to say something, or do something, but he just stares.

“What?” I ask defensively. He shakes his head as if to clear it.

“Sorry, I’ve just…never seen you with your hair down,” he says.

I reach up and realize I never put my hair back in a braid. I’m self conscious for a moment, but it doesn’t seem like Peeta means it in a bad way. “Oh. Um, okay. You can take your coat off, if you like. Do you want to sit? And don’t worry about anyone listening in or anything. Prim is covering for me.”

I shut up and perch on the edge of my bed, motioning for Peeta to join me. He removes his coat, revealing a worn blue sweater that almost matches his eyes. It’s a little big on him, and as he sits down beside me, he pushes the sleeves up to his elbows. I can see the veins in his forearms, mesmerizing me as he rubs his hands on his jeans.

“I didn’t mean to take up more of your time today.”

“I wouldn’t spend time with you if I didn’t want to,” I say, immediately regretting it. It’s true, but I mentally curse myself for being so forward about it. Nobody makes me word-vomit more than Peeta Mellark. Before he can respond, I speak again. “What did you want to talk about?”

He clears his throat, his gaze avoiding mine. “I just wanted to explain Gale’s rude behavior, to explain about my…family. I don’t know what you’ve heard about my parents, if anything at all.”

I bite my lip. “Um, mostly just gossip. I know your mother works in the mines. Your father is the baker. That’s about it.”

“Okay,” Peeta nods slowly. “Well, my parents met in school. They fell in love, but he was a Merchant, and he was expected to marry another Merchant. So once they graduated, he did. And he stayed away from my mother for a while. I don’t know exactly what happened. Somehow they found their way back to each other. My father wasn’t happy in his marriage. I think my mother thought he would finally leave his wife for her. They had a huge fight over it and didn’t speak for a while, but a few weeks later she found out she was pregnant with me. She was sure this was the excuse he needed to finally be hers.

“She made him dinner one night and told him. That’s when he told her that Mrs. Mellark was pregnant again and he was going to try and be a good father and husband to his family. She told me- she said she begged him to be a father to me, to help raise me however he could, but he didn’t want us. He didn’t want me. Even if he was my father, I was still the son of a coal miner. A Seam girl. But I was born with his blonde hair and blue eyes and looked anything but Seam. I constantly reminded her of him, of his rejection.” His voice grows softer, almost a whisper. “I think that’s why she started drinking. And- and hitting me.”

His expression is so heartbreaking that I don’t even think about what I do next. I just feel the need to comfort him, in any way that I can, so I scoot closer to him, reach out my hand, and take one of his. I’ve never held hands with anyone like this. It’s different than just shaking hands. I’m not used to touching people or having people touch me, but it doesn’t feel weird with Peeta. In fact, it feels entirely normal. I realize that when I’m with Peeta, I feel safe. He makes me feel safe. I want to be able to give him that, as well. He doesn’t respond for a few seconds, but then his fingers intertwine with my own.

“She hit you that night,” I murmur. “When you saved me.”

Peeta nods. “My father would leave me bread every week in the mailbox. I was the only one who ever checked it, and he must’ve found that out somehow. I suppose it helped ease his guilt for not being a parent to me. He wasn’t raising me, but he wasn’t letting me waste away into nothing. She didn’t know about it for a long time. I didn’t want to find out how she’d react. When I saw you, it scared me. You were dying. I’d seen it before in the Seam. Starving children who just stopped living. I couldn’t let that happen to you. So I was careless when I packed that bag. My mother saw the bread. She knew we couldn’t afford anything like that. She forbade me from ever taking bread from him again. But we couldn’t live off of her salary, not with her spending most of her money on liquor. So I didn’t stop taking the bread. I just made sure she never saw it.

“And one day, a few years ago, I saw him dropping it off. My father. I think I startled him. We talked, just a little bit, but he showed up again and again to talk. I wanted to hate him, but I couldn’t. And when he invited me to the bakery on Sundays,” He breathes out heavily. “I just wanted to know what it was like to have a real father. But I genuinely enjoy baking. He’s always telling me how Bannock and Emmer hate working at the bakery. If I’d just been born to him and Mrs. Mellark, I could’ve inherited the business. I think I would’ve really loved it.”

Mrs. Mellark. I never hear about her. She has health problems, apparently since Emmer was born, and is rarely seen around town. If she needs medicine, the baker comes to the apothecary to get it.

I heard she was kind. Popular. A genuinely good, understanding person. How could the baker do that to her? I don’t understand love. I don’t know why you’d subject yourself to all the pain and torture it can bring.

Peeta brings me out of my thoughts when he speaks again. “That’s why Gale was angry with me. For being your friend. He was worried…”

He trails off, leaving me a little confused. I understand hating Merchants, but I’m not dating Peeta, or doing anything inappropriate with him. How could I break Peeta’s heart like his father did to his mother? It doesn’t make sense.

“Are you- should we not be friends anymore?” I ask softly.

“No! I mean, yes- no, I mean-” Peeta stops himself with a little chuckle. “I don’t want to stop being your friend.”

I nod. “Okay. Because, we did do a spit shake and it seems pretty silly to break the bond that the sun and moon blessed, or whatever you said.”

He smiles. We sit in the quiet room for a while longer, until I’m pretty sure Prim and my mother must be close to finishing up. I hate to send Peeta away, back to the house he shares with his witch of a mother, and anxiety begins to race up my chest and into my cheeks. Impulsively, I unlink our hands and throw my arms around his neck. He’s surprised as much as I am with all this physical affection I’m giving him, but he hugs back tightly.

“Does she still hurt you?” I whisper.

His muscles stiffen slightly. “Physically? Not much anymore.”

I hate this answer. I hate his mother. I hate everything about the hurt that Peeta has to deal with. I don’t know what I can do to help him, though. I have to let him go before anyone finds him here. Curfew is soon. I can’t protect him.

It's a silly thought. To think that Peeta needs protection. He's strong, smart, capable. But there's something so gentle, so kind about him. It tugs at my heart and I can't stop the feelings that arise, the ones that tell me I want to take care of Peeta.

He puts his coat back on and gives me his little lopsided grin. “Same time next week?”

I return the smile. “You mean Sunday morning? I can’t imagine what we’d be doing in my bedroom in the evening next week.”

He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and I almost shove him out of the window. “You know what I mean! Get out of here.”

I watch him carefully climb out onto the thickest tree branch near the opening and stop him just as he goes to maneuver down. “Peeta?”

“Yeah?” He says, pausing his efforts to look at me.

“Thank you,” I say. “For trusting me. For being my friend.”

He tilts his head slightly, a sweet smile perched on his lips.

“Always.”

Chapter Text

Madge is out sick on Friday. It’s that time of the year when people spread the flu around and the apothecary is full of customers looking for anything to soothe their sore throats and runny noses. It always hits the hardest in the Seam and I find myself worrying about Peeta. It’s not uncommon for people in District 12 to die from the flu. When I see him at lunch, he looks paler than usual. Or am I projecting that onto him? I don’t think I’m imagining the dark circles under his eyes. I’m trying to figure out how to ask him if he’s alright when another blonde slides into my eyeline.

“Hey, Katniss.”

Emmer has left me alone since the incident. He’s mostly recovered. The marks I left from scratching my nails down his face have disappeared, the bruises under his eyes are gone, and his nose is back to normal. It’s been nice to have some space from him these past few weeks, so I’m not thrilled by his presence at my lunch table.

“What do you want?”

“I was wondering if I could speak with you? Just for a second.”

I’ve never heard Emmer speak so softly. He’s much bigger than I am, and has the advantage of being the one standing up, but he seems so timid in my presence. It’s unnerving to see him behave like this. I almost feel I have to agree.

“Alright.”

He hesitates before sitting down in Madge’s usual seat. “I wanted to apologize for how I treated you. I should’ve said it ages ago, but I wanted to give you space and wasn’t sure how to approach you. I was a jerk and I’m sorry for how I acted.”

I wait for Emmer to crack a joke, to make some dumb comment he calls flirting, but nothing comes. He just looks at me, his eyes pleading with me to believe him. Alarm bells start ringing in my head.

“What do you want?” I repeat. “Why bother apologizing?”

He shifts uncomfortably. “I guess I’ve had some time to grow up. I don’t want you to think so poorly of me.”

I scoff. What a joke. Emmer Mellark suddenly cares if I like him? Something else has to be going on. He must want something from me. My eyes drift over his shoulder and meet Peeta’s gaze. He looks confused, his crooked smile hesitant. I wish I could give him a signal, a sign, anything to let him know that I do not want Emmer here. Peeta wouldn’t hold it against me either way, I know that, but he just told me about his familial situation. How must it look to him that right after he opens up to me I’m hanging out with his half-brother? I don’t think that’s something a good friend would do.

“Katniss,” says Emmer, and I snap my attention back towards him. “I think you’re- you know, you’re special. You deserve better than what I was offering.”

I have no idea what he’s referring to, so all I say is, “Okay.”

He’s not finished, though. “What I mean is that, I, uh, I sort of- well, no, I really do- um, I guess I was wondering if we could try and be friends.”

Pity. That’s the first emotion I feel once Emmer’s words make their way into my brain. Because he looks so unlike himself, so open and vulnerable, and with that expression, I can see his resemblance to Peeta. But Emmer will never be Peeta, or anything like Peeta. Whereas those words coming from Peeta would sound sincere and kind, from Emmer, they sound phony and unsure, like there’s an ulterior motive behind them. Is it that he wants to continue his quest to fondle every girl in school and he’s frustrated that I’m one of the only ones holding out on him? I can’t imagine what Emmer thinks a friendship between the two of us would bring.

I don’t trust him. I don’t think that being his friend would come without a price. So it is this, not maliciousness, that makes me tell him, “No.”

He looks surprised and hurt. “No?”

“No,” I repeat. “I have enough friends.”

“Isn’t it just the one? Madge?”

I shrug. “Like I said, I have enough.”

He leans back in the chair and drums his fingers on the table. “Alright. But I want you to know that I’m serious about this. I’ll prove it to you. See you around, Katniss.”

I’m about to tell him not to bother but he rushes back to his usual lunch table before I get the chance. The way he said that almost sounded like a threat, like he’s not going to leave me alone until we’re friends. The thought makes me want to bash my head against the wooden table. Instead, I look up and catch Peeta’s eye again. He smiles once more but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He looks exhausted. I can’t stop the wave of worry that washes over me.

If he’s sick, it’s not the best idea to hang out in the freezing weather on Sunday. I don’t want to skip out on seeing Peeta, especially since he seems like he would benefit from some of the apothecary’s medicine, but I’m not sure where else we can meet. Unless…unless, I sneak him into my bedroom once again.

It won’t be as easy as it was in the dark. Getting him in won’t be a problem; the sun has always barely started to rise when we meet up. The problem will be when he leaves. But, if he brings a bag that looks like he’s in town for trading business, that would give him a good cover story. I can pretend to be sick, which would explain why I would stay in bed over being in the woods. Prim can keep shop with my mother and make sure she doesn’t bother us.

But how to tell Peeta all this? We don’t get a chance to talk during school. Sometimes after school works, but he has wrestling on Fridays. I’m standing at my locker and contemplating this when I get an idea. I tear out a piece of notebook paper and grab a pencil from my bag to scrawl out a note.

Too cold for our spot on Sunday. Meet at my place at the usual time? Same window, same tree. Bring a bag you’d use when you trade as a cover story.

I don’t want to leave my name or initials in case anyone else sees it, and it takes me a moment to think of something that will let Peeta know this note is definitely from me. The context should do it, but as an extra precaution, I sketch a little picture of the sun and moon beneath my writing. I hope he remembers our silly spit shake when he sees it.

Once the hall has cleared, I walk over to his locker and shove it in the vents. I’m pleasantly surprised when I find it sitting on top of my books at the end of history class, Peeta’s neat handwriting much nicer than my own loopy letters that seem to blend together.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think you have an ulterior motive behind inviting me to your room again. Are you trying to take advantage of my stunning intellect, smoking hot body, or fantastic sense of humor?

I can barely hold back the grin that his words elicit. Though I wouldn’t admit it to him, Peeta does have a good sense of humor. And he’s smart. And talented. I can tell from his drawing beneath his response of the sun and moon, which is so much better than the one I made. We have two more periods before the school day is over, so I quickly write back and return it to his locker.

None of the above. Your enormous ego eclipses all of them. How do you manage to get through the doorway with that giant head of yours?

At the end of the day, the note is once again in my locker, and I open it to reveal a self-portrait of Peeta, his head three times the size of his body. This time, I can’t hold back a smile and look around quickly to make sure no one is watching me. Most everybody is ready to get home, so nobody is paying attention to what I’m doing. Underneath the picture, Peeta has written:

With great difficulty. I’ll be at your place, usual time, but please crack the window open a little more than last time, otherwise I fear my huge head will be unable to squeeze through.

I’m in a good mood when I pick up Prim after school, a fact that isn’t lost on her.

“Did you have a nice day?” She asks, twirling her wool scarf around her hand.

I feel the note in my coat pocket, running my fingers over it as I lead us back home. “It was okay. How was yours?”

She eyes me suspiciously but doesn’t push for details. Instead, she begins telling me about her friends and their sordid drama.

“Lucy was mad because Tallulah wasn’t taking the project seriously, or so she said, but Tallulah says that Lucy was actually upset because Rita and Elizabeth paired up, but Elizabeth told Lucy she’d pair up with her, and so Lucy went and asked Richie out on a date, which made Elizabeth really mad, because she likes Richie, but everyone knows that Lucy doesn’t like Richie at all. Richie said yes, anyways, because he thought it would be funny to make Elizabeth all mad, and apparently he likes it when she gets jealous over him, but Elizabeth found out through Tallulah, so now Richie and Lucy are stuck going on this date while Elizabeth pretends she couldn’t care less.”

I furrow my brow at her. “Prim, you’re thirteen. Aren’t you too young to be behaving like this? Or…too old?”

Prim rolls her eyes. “Katniss, this is normal behavior for thirteen year olds. I’m sure it happens all the time with people your age, as well. You just don’t pay attention. Remember that month where the butcher’s son kept talking to you every day after school? He was flirting with you, but you were totally oblivious to it. Actually, I thought it was a little funny.”

“Marx wasn’t flirting with me. He never paid attention in science class and said I had the best notes to borrow.” Even as I say it, I realize how naive that sounds, especially since Marx just stopped coming around one day. I’d been relieved that he didn't need my help anymore. Am I really so ignorant?

“You’re gorgeous, and funny, and so smart. Why wouldn’t he flirt with you?” Prim asks.

I frown. Guys don’t flirt with me. Not the girl who is cold and aloof. They flirt with the pretty girls, the ones with bouncy blonde hair and big eyes and fun personalities. They flirt with girls like Delly Cartwright, who always has a smile for everyone, who is curvy and womanly. They don’t flirt with me.

“I wish I looked like you,” says Prim, her mouth downturned slightly.

“I wish I looked like you,” I say. “I’m sure all the boys are falling at your feet.”

I move to wrap my arm around her shoulders, but I forgot that my fingers were curled around the note from Peeta and it falls on the ground between us. I quickly stoop to grab it but Prim beats me to it.

“What’s this?” She asks.

“Nothing,” I say, plucking it from her fingers and shoving it back into my pocket.

“Is it from Peeta?”

My braid smacks my cheek from how fast I whip my head to look at her. I tell her no, but I’m a lousy liar, and I can’t say a single word without Prim picking up on my false tone.

“You’re different now that you’re friends with him, you know. Nicer. Happier. I like seeing you like this.”

I shrug my shoulders. There’s no way there is a big difference between who I am with Peeta and who I am without Peeta, but if anyone would be able to tell, it’s Prim. Still, I think she might be saying it to encourage me to keep a friend, especially a friend like Peeta, who brings her treats.

Sighing, I tell Prim about the contents of the note. I’d have to explain anyway, because I need her to cover for me on Sunday. She grins and agrees readily, as I knew she would.

Back home, my mother is tending to a patient in the backroom. Prim walks around the store, taking bits of herbs and medicine from their places on the shelves, and hands them to me. I look at her, puzzled, and she gives me a small smile.

“You mentioned there are a lot of sick kids in the Seam this time of year. I thought you could give these to him. They’ll help Peeta and the others.”

My heart melts and I put the pile of medicine in my bag before wrapping Prim in a hug. I could burst at how thoughtful, kind, and sweet she is. Sometimes I think my love for her has reached a finite point, where it can’t expand within me anymore. She always proves me wrong. Every day my love for her grows and consumes my entire being. There might not be room in my heart for anyone else to be loved. Just Prim. I give her a kiss on the cheek and head upstairs to hide the stash.

The next day comes and goes with little activity, but I can tell Prim is excited about Peeta coming over. On Sunday, I wake to her dressed and ready to go earlier than I’ve ever seen her up before. She’s taking this very seriously.

“Don’t worry, I know the plan. You’re not feeling well, I’ll check on you every once in a while, no one else allowed.”

I smile at her gratefully and squeeze her hand before heading to the bathroom. Our mother is already downstairs, no doubt getting the apothecary ready for the day. Prim winks at me as she passes me in the hall and rushes down towards the shop.

Peeta should arrive soon, so all I do is wash my face and brush out my hair. I debate whether or not to braid it. I remember Peeta’s face when he saw my hair down for the first time. I think I might like to see that expression again, so I leave it alone.

Dressing is much easier this morning since I’m not going outside. I don't have to bundle up in layer after layer. I pick out a dark purple turtleneck sweater and a clean pair of jeans, plus a pair of socks to keep my feet warm. It’s not freezing in our apartment, but in the winter it’s never so warm to keep us from getting chilly without the right clothes. I make our bed and note where the paper bag full of medicine and herbs is. Right by the window, so I don’t forget to have Peeta take it with him.

I feel a little nervous. I’m not sure why. This isn’t any different than meeting Peeta every other Sunday. He’s just going to be in my room, which is a better alternative to our usual spot because of how frigid it is outside. And Peeta’s been in my room before. Just last week, in fact. And Prim will make sure our mother stays away from the apartment. So why am I nervous?

A knock on the window interrupts my thoughts, and I pull back the curtains and open it wide enough so Peeta can step inside. He’s still clumsy getting in, but not as much as last time. Once he straightens up, he shuts the window and turns to me. It must be snowing or something, because I see little droplets of moisture on his curls and eyelashes. He looks angelic from the cold, his pale cheeks tinged pink, his blue eyes bright, his blonde hair falling in waves perfectly over his forehead. For a moment I’m inexplicably envious that others get to look at Peeta just as I do. That the sight of him isn’t exclusively for my eyes.

“Hi,” says Peeta softly. His pink lips are quirked up on one side, forming that lopsided grin. I poke his dimple and give him a tiny smile.

“Hi,” I respond. “You can take your coat off. Oh, and your bag. And gloves.”

He raises an eyebrow at me. “Anything else?”

“No!” I exclaim, but I can’t help but laugh at his innocent expression. “No.”

He carefully removes his gloves and I creep closer to him, taking in his appearance. I can’t tell beneath the effects of the weather if he’s feeling sick or not. He moves to unbutton his coat but stops when he sees me right in front of him, staring.

“Something wrong?”

I blush and take a small step back. “I just- are you feeling okay? You’re looking pale.”

He gives me a dubious look. “Katniss, I am pale. Some people just look like this naturally.”

“I mean, you look paler than usual. Are you eating enough? Sleeping enough? Does anything hurt? Is your nose runny? Throat sore?”

Peeta holds up his hands. “Whoa, Doctor Everdeen. One question at a time. I didn’t realize I was coming here for a check up.”

“Fine,” I say, standing tall. “Take off your coat and sit on the bed.”

He listens dutifully, carefully placing his coat on the ground. Today he’s wearing a black sweater, a collared shirt underneath it, with dark jeans. He sits down and I stand in front of him, a little distracted by his proximity. He smells so good. Always the perfect mix of the outdoors, woodsy and masculine, with scents lingering from the bakery, like cinnamon and vanilla.

“Okay,” I say, trying to clear my head of any thoughts but Peeta’s health. “Do you have a stuffy nose?”

He shakes his head.

“Sore throat?”

“Nope.”

“Does anything hurt?”

“No.”

“How are your eating habits?”

“Normal.”

“How are you sleeping?”

At this, he looks away from me for the first time. It’s subtle, just a flick of his eyes up to the ceiling, but I can tell he’s lying when he says, “Fine.”

I purse my lips. We’ll have to come back to that one. “I’m going to check your lymph nodes and see if they’re swollen.”

He raises his eyebrows until they disappear under his curls. “My what?”

“I’ll show you.” Gently, I take my hand and cup his chin, tilting it up. I slide my fingers down his jaw and onto his lymph node, pressing a circle into the space lightly. His breath hitches for a moment, but I’m not sure why. I lean down and grab one of his hands resting on his thigh, showing him where the lymph nodes are with my hand pressed on top of his.

“Here,” I whisper. Peeta nods, his intense gaze never moving from mine. I move my free hand behind his ear, almost cradling his head. I’ve imagined how his curls would feel beneath my touch, but they’re even thicker and softer than I thought. It distracts me so much that I nearly forget what I’m doing. I run my fingers in the space behind his ear, then take my other hand and show him on the opposite side.

“And here.”

I feel a strange buzzing, like my entire body is vibrating. It hits me all at once, how intimate this is, and I spring away from him like his touch burned me. We look away from one another and he clears his throat.

“So, those are lymph nodes.”

I nod. My face feels like it’s on fire. “They swell sometimes when you’re sick. Which I don’t think you are.”

He lets out a breath. “Oh. Good.”

“Um,” I say, trying to get my mind in order. “You- you’re not sleeping well, though. Why?”

“I told you, I’m sleeping fine.”

“Peeta-”

There’s a knock on the door and I jump at the sound. Peeta stands, ready to make a quick escape, and I rush to reassure him.

“It’s just Prim,” I say. “Don’t worry.”

Prim slowly opens the door and her face lights up at the sight of Peeta. She’s got a tray in her hands, holding two steaming mugs and tiny jars of milk and sugar. She sets it down on the dresser and rushes over to Peeta, hugging him tightly. He lets out a little breath of air before recovering and wrapping his arms around her. Her eyes are sparkling when she looks up at him.

“It’s nice to see you, Peeta. I love the cookies and cakes you send home with Katniss. Especially the Primrose ones!”

“I’m happy you like them, Prim,” he says warmly. Prim beams at him before turning to me.

“I brought up some tea for you both. I’ve got to get back downstairs, but enjoy!”

She gives Peeta one last hug and rushes out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

“Sorry,” I say. “Prim’s a hugger.”

He shrugs, looking amused. “I don’t mind.”

I grab the tray and bring it over to the bed, propping it up at the end where it won’t tip or spill. Peeta picks up one of the mugs and pours a bit of milk and sugar in it before handing it to me. I stare at him.

“How did you know that I like milk and sugar in my tea?”

He settles down beside me with his own mug, not too close, but close enough to feel his warmth radiating towards me. “You told me once, after that time you put sugar in the tea and I made a face.”

“And you remembered?” I ask.

His blue eyes lock onto mine. “I remember everything about you.”

The air in the room suddenly feels thick, and my cheeks flush under Peeta’s gaze. I don’t get an opportunity to overthink about what he said, because he places his mug on the windowsill beside him and grabs his bag.

“I thought I could give you something else today, instead of baked goods.”

I frown, unsure as to what he’s implying, until he reveals a tattered notebook and some small lead pencils, the kind we get at school. Is he going to give me answers to our homework or something? He looks at me shyly before opening the notebook and handing it to me. My jaw drops. It’s not words, graphs, or calculations. It’s art, and it’s incredible. I’d forgotten he’d said he would show me his work.

There’s a picture of a house in the Seam. I can tell because he’s drawn it in incredible detail, showing every crack in the facade, the layer of coal dust on the porch, the broken window with the glass scattered in the dirt. Then there’s a picture of a tree from the perspective of someone laying underneath it, one of the leaves falling towards them. There’s our math teacher, Mr. Boone, and it is so lifelike I swear I can hear him yelling about fractions from the page. A lot of the pictures are easily identifiable to anybody, but as I flip through, I see things that only Peeta or I would recognize. Our boots against the pattern of the blanket. A crumpled paper bag, damp from the frost on the grass of the meadow. My hands fiddling with the end of my braid. Our fingers intertwined. I gasp at the next page. Peeta’s drawn me. I’ve got the orange cap on my head, looking up at it from under my eyelashes with a scowl on my face that seems to be hiding a smile. But in this picture, I’m so…beautiful.

“That’s my favorite,” he says softly. I shake my head.

“Is this what you think I look like?”

He’s taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“Her- she’s- this is far too pretty to be- me,” I stutter. “I’m not-”

“Not what?” He asks, his voice harder than I expected to be. “Not pretty?”

The way he says it makes me think that he thinks I’m pretty. And I don’t know how I feel about that. I look in a mirror and just see plain Katniss. I don’t think I’m ugly, per se, but I’m nothing special. I’m short. My breasts are too small. My ribs protrude more than I’d like. My nose upturns in a way that’s not attractive. Why would Peeta think I’m pretty? There are so many girls at school who are far better looking than me. Ones who are more shapely, who have cute button noses and put effort into their appearance. Ones that boys want. Maybe Peeta is just being a good friend, trying to make me feel good about myself. I don’t know.

I change the subject, holding the notebook back to him. “Would you draw something for me right now?”

He takes it silently before opening to a new page, chewing on his lower lip. Then he places the pencil to the paper and begins sketching.

I’m mesmerized by this. He takes on a look of intense concentration, one I don’t think I’ve seen before. It’s not his usual easy expression and I find the only way I can look away from it is if I stare at his hands. They move gracefully, the veins shifting with each stroke of the pencil. I swallow hard as I feel heat crawling up from my chest to my neck. The heat from my mug of tea must be getting to me. I set it down on the tray and push my hair off of my shoulder, hoping the cool air on my throat will make me feel better.

All too soon he stills, his eyes raking over the picture he’s created. I don’t think I’ll ever get over how long his eyelashes are. I wonder if they tickle his cheek when he blinks.

His gaze meets mine and I realize he’s said something to me that I hadn’t heard.

“What?”

“I was asking what you think,” says Peeta gently, tearing the sketch from the notebook and handing it over. I finally look at it and I can’t help the gasp that escapes from my lips.

He’s drawn me again, but this time I’m sitting on my bed, cross legged, playing with a strand of my hair and looking up with a small smile. This must be from an image in his mind of last Sunday, because I’m wearing the gray sweater, not the turtleneck I have on today. Something squeezes at my heart and I can’t stop my fingers from running over the sketch, amazed at how lifelike he’s made this drawing.

“I really look like this to you?” I ask softly.

“No,” He says, and when I look at him, he’s wearing an expression I can’t read. “I can’t seem to get your eyes quite right. The way your entire face can stay blank but your eyes always say what you’re feeling. And your smile, how your lips turn up just slightly but it lights up your whole face. I don’t think I’m able to capture how truly beautiful you are.”

My heart is pounding in my chest, so hard I’m sure Peeta can hear it. There’s a tight feeling in my stomach like there is some release I need and I don’t know what it is. Peeta is too close and too far away all at once and I want something from him but I can’t ask. I can’t say anything. My entire body is too light, as if I might float away at any second, but I’m weighed down on this bed. I’ve never felt anything like this before and giving it a name, identifying any of these emotions, is too much for me.

Peeta hasn’t moved. He just sits there, observing me gently like I’m a skittish creature that could bolt at any second. And maybe I am, because I feel myself wanting to lean closer to him, to wrap myself around his body and live in his warmth, and all of a sudden I’m terrified. What if this is like Marx? Prim said Marx had been flirting with me and I didn’t notice. What if Peeta is doing that with me and I’m missing it? I shouldn’t want anything like that. It can’t happen. We’re friends, just friends. So why can’t I stop thinking about Peeta, what it would be like to be with Peeta, how Peeta’s chest must look under that sweater?

I scramble off the bed and nearly trip over my own feet. “Are you flirting with me?”

It comes out like a squeak. I should be embarrassed by that, but I’m so mortified by the thoughts running through my head about Peeta and being close to Peeta and feeling Peeta that there isn’t room for anything else.

“Katniss,” he says quietly, easing himself up off the bed.

Before he can finish his thought, I interrupt him. “Because you can’t. You shouldn’t. It would never work.”

There’s a flash in his eyes, something that looks like hurt, but it’s gone quickly. “I’m sorry-”

“Plus,” I say, my voice much higher than usual. “It’s just more realistic for you to find another girl, you know? One from the Seam, one like you.”

Oh. Oh, no. I hear it the way it must sound to him and cringe. All I wanted to do was tell him there’s no future with me, that no one has a future with me, because I’m not going to get married. I’m not going to have kids. Peeta deserves someone who will give him all of those things. Someone better than me. I would tell him that, I need to tell him that. If only my voice would start working again.

He closes his eyes briefly, his hand clenched around his notebook. When I can see his eyes again, there is no warmth in them. There is disappointment. Sadness. Hurt. So much hurt.

“Right,” he says, and his voice is so hollow that it physically pains me. “Someone from the Seam. Not a Merchant.”

I move to touch him, maybe grab his arm, but he steps back. “I just mean-”

“I know what you mean, Katniss. And you’re right. Even as friends, this wouldn’t work, would it? I’m just a bastard, a Seam boy, and you can’t be seen with someone like that. I didn’t mean to overstep. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

Peeta turns to gather his things and panic rises up inside me, because he can’t possibly leave right now, not while he’s so mad at me, not in the middle of this misunderstanding. But I can’t spit out the words I need to so he doesn’t go. It’s like they’re jammed in my throat and there’s no way to get them out.

“Was this some kind of joke?” He asks, so softly I almost miss it. “You and Emmer…did you guys plan this or something? He wanted to get back at me again, and you helped?”

My mind is racing and his bringing up Emmer confuses me more. “Emmer? No. No, I’m not- we’re not- I don’t like Emmer, not like- I mean, not at all- I made him go away, that day at lunch- I didn’t-”

Peeta cuts me off. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. I have to go.”

I feel bile rising up in my throat and I don’t know what to do. He’s leaving and I’m stuck in this spot, unable to speak for fear that the contents of my stomach will spill everywhere. How did I mess this up so badly? How did it go so wrong so quickly? I’m a coward and I just stand there until he’s gone with my arms wrapped around my waist, and soon I can’t take it anymore. I run to the bathroom and make it just in time to vomit up the tea. It’s acidic and burns my throat and nose and causes tears to pour out of my eyes.

The door to the bathroom opens gently and for one second I think it’s Peeta, he’s come back and he’s not mad at me, he knows I didn’t mean what I said, but I turn my head and see Prim. She drops to her knees beside me and gathers up my hair, rubbing a hand over my back. I hate that her touch is soothing because I don’t deserve to be comforted right now.

When I shut my eyes, I see Peeta’s face. Not happy Peeta. A side of Peeta I’d never imagined. Hurt, upset, defeated. I did that to him. I made him feel that way. My stomach clenches and I vomit again until there is nothing left. Prim whispers in my ear, telling me it’ll be okay, but I know the truth. I know it won’t be okay.

“What happened?” She asks after I’ve calmed down. “Where’s Peeta?”

Hearing his name right now feels like I’ve shoved one of my arrows through my chest. I shake my head and stand up, trying to pull myself together. I still can’t speak, and Prim seems to understand that. She helps me clean myself up, combing out my hair and looping it into my usual braid while I brush my teeth. I splash cold water on my face and towel off before heading back to the bedroom. I put the near-empty mugs back on the tray and Prim, who had followed me silently, takes it from me and leaves the room.

It feels cold in here without Peeta, though he closed the window when he left. There’s a dull ache in my heart that grows stronger when I notice the orange gloves on the floor, as well as the bag of medicine I meant to give him. I feel worse than ever, knowing he’s mad at me, that I hurt him, that he’s walking through this terrible winter weather without anything to keep his hands warm, that I had something to help the Seam kids and I didn’t give it to him.

I’d thought there was only room for Prim in my heart, but clearly Peeta had weaseled his way in there.

Suddenly, I’m so mad at myself, for doing what I said I wouldn’t do. For letting someone in. For caring about them. This is exactly what I had been avoiding. Friend or otherwise. It’s why my friendship with Madge, which is about as deep as a rain puddle on the sidewalk, works so well for me. It’s low stakes. I’d be sad if we never spoke again, but it wouldn’t be the same as it is with Peeta. It feels like Peeta took a piece of me with him, that there’s something missing now that he’s gone. And I hate myself for it.

His drawing is still on the bed, the one of me. I can’t bear to keep it, but it would be worse to part with it. Instead, I shove it under my pillow where I can’t see it. Still, knowing it’s there soothes me somehow.

I curl up on the bed, pulling the covers over me, and stare at the window. I wait like if I think about it hard enough, he might reappear. I don’t get up for the rest of the day, though Prim tries to get me to eat every once in awhile. By the time the sky is dark and she slides in beside me and wraps me in a hug, it’s obvious that he isn’t coming back.

Peeta’s gone, and it’s better for both of us if I let him go.

Chapter Text

The sky is still dark, but I know that morning is nearly here. The moon has shifted away from my window and I can see the beginning colors of the sun’s arrival start to leak into the black. I’ve not slept a wink. My eyes are heavy with exhaustion but they won’t stay closed for longer than a few seconds. I don’t know how I’m going to get through the school day.

Especially because of Peeta.

When he left yesterday, the swirl of emotions in my body had been too muddled and confusing for me to understand. I couldn’t pick out one from another. Since then, I think I’ve gotten a handle on two of my feelings. The first is anger. The second is unrelenting guilt. Surprisingly, they work together very well to render me incapable of thinking about anything but Peeta Mellark.

He might not have been flirting with me. I might have misread the entire situation. I didn’t let him explain, after all. I ruined a perfectly nice friendship for potentially no reason. I lashed out because I was nervous about the way I felt around Peeta, and now he surely hates me.

That somehow makes it worse, because the whole thing was my problem and Peeta had nothing to do with it aside from being the unwitting victim of my- I don’t know. Overactive imagination? I think the heat got to me. From the tea, or whatever. I’ve never had thoughts like that before, not about anyone. I’ve never been so drawn to a person, to their hands, the veins in their arms, their strong biceps. Peeta’s biceps aren’t unattractive in that overly muscular way. He’s got those nice, solid curves on his arms and-

What am I doing?

I groan inwardly and cover my eyes with my arm. I need to calm down. Maybe I’m getting sick or something. Why else would I be thinking like this? I shake my head to clear it and sigh. I hate Peeta for the way he makes me feel and I hate myself for hurting him. I can’t be around him anymore. It was the right choice on his part to walk away. Maybe now he’ll be able to find a new friend, a better friend, someone worth his time. And I’ll go back to normal, back to life the way it was before any of this happened. Normal sounds good.

So, that’s that. Peeta and I will leave each other alone. Forever. Our friendship is no more.

It couldn’t have lasted much longer, anyway. Peeta would’ve gotten sick of me eventually, or I’d have found another way to hurt him, or he would’ve started his work in the mines and wouldn’t have wanted to spend his only morning off with me. There’s a deep pain in my stomach when I think of him underground every day for hours. When I picture the coal dust settling on his blonde locks and the hardening of his gentle smile with each elevator ride that takes him to the dark, hopeless depths of the earth.

He doesn’t belong down there. Peeta is the embodiment of sunshine. With those golden curls, the way his grin can light up a room. Can light up something inside of me, something warm and curious.

“Good morning.”

Prim startles me out of my straying thoughts. I turn towards her, take in her tousled blonde locks, her sapphire eyes swimming with sleep, and give her a tiny grin. “Good morning.”

She yawns and stretches her arm out from under the covers. “Is it time to get up?”

“Just about,” I murmur, looking out the window once more. The horizon is lined with pink and yellow, our cue to prepare for school.

“We have time to talk, if you want.”

I purse my lips and shake my head before rising. “We do not, actually, because I am going to get the bath going. I didn’t take one yesterday and it shows.”

She giggles. “You mean it smells.”

I poke her stomach and head to the kitchen to put some water on the stove. I mix the boiling water from the pot with the cold water from the tub faucet and it creates a tepid bath that is far nicer than an ice bath. After laying in bed in my day clothes all night, it feels good to stretch out in the water. I scrub myself raw and wash my hair quickly, empty the tub, and head back to the bedroom. Prim is already dressed, her fingers weaving strands of her hair together.

“What are you going to do?”

Her question could mean a lot of things. What am I going to do with Peeta? What am I going to do with his gloves? What am I going to do with the medicine for the Seam kids? I answer the only way I know how.

“I’ll figure something out.”

And I will. I’ll get the medicine to the Seam. I’m not sure what to do with Peeta’s gloves. He might not want them anymore, even if he could really use them. The thought of him going cold because he hates me makes me even angrier with myself. Ugh. For now, I shove it all at the bottom of my bag. Maybe inspiration will strike at some point throughout the day.

When I arrive at school, I open my locker to find a paper bag that smells delicious. Bread rolls. Peeta. Is he not mad at me? Is this some sort of peace offering? How could he forgive me so quickly, and be the first to apologize? There’s a note nestled under the bag and I unfold it, expecting to see Peeta’s neat scrawl. Instead, I see sharp, small letters that I don’t recognize.

I meant what I said on Friday. I’m going to prove it to you. Enjoy. - Emmer

Oh. My sleep deprived mind assumed baked goods meant Peeta was involved, but I shouldn’t have been so presumptuous. Of course he wouldn’t apologize to me. Why should he? This is all on me. I push away the disappointed feelings swirling in my chest and instead focus on my frustration. Why won’t Emmer leave me alone? What do I have to do to make him understand I’m serious? I already broke his nose!

I glance around the hall and see Emmer laughing with two other merchants. With the bag of rolls in one hand and the crumpled note in the other, I stalk over to him and shove my fists at his chest.

“Why do you insist on ignoring everything I say?”

The merchants whistle and grin at one another, but Emmer waves them off. When they’re gone and everyone else in the hall has returned to their own business, he looks at me.

“Something wrong with the rolls?”

“I don’t want them. I don’t want anything from you,” I hiss. “Actually, I want exactly one thing from you. I want you to leave me alone.”

He sighs. “I really do want to earn your trust. I’m very persistent.”

“Why? Why does it matter if I trust you?”

“Trust is the foundation of any relationship,” Emmer recites, as though he’s reading from an ancient scroll.

“We don’t have a relationship!” I shriek, ignoring the looks people are sending our way. They must be loving this. Emmer and Katniss, back at it again. Fueling the gossip mill.

“I want one, though. Between us. Friendship. I’ll prove it to you. So, cookies tomorrow?”

What is with people wanting to be my friend lately? I’m not even a good one! I can think of nothing else to do but offer him my deepest scowl and turn to head to first period. Behind me, he says, “Okay, cookies. You got it, Katniss!”

Glancing over my shoulder, I toss up my middle finger. He blows a kiss at me, and I look back in front of me just in time to see Peeta. He’s standing near the doorway to our coal mining class, staring at us with a blank expression. Something deep in my chest stirs. I open my mouth to speak, though I’m not sure why. He ducks into the classroom and leaves me alone in the hall before I can utter a peep.

This is how it’s going to be from now on, so I need to get over it. I try to ignore the pangs in my chest, little prickles of hurt that heat my cheeks. Why does Peeta make me feel this way? Why do I let myself feel this way? I shouldn’t. Peeta was my friend, but that was it. And now he isn’t my friend, and that is it. I'm supposed to leave him alone, just like he's leaving me alone. Why is that so hard?

By the time language arts class rolls around, my mind is bogged down with confusing thoughts and my eyes are so heavy with sleep that I don’t even hear Mrs. Hubris discussing our new project. She never comes up with anything interesting, anyway. The last unit covered persuasive essays. I’d partnered with Madge for the project, as usual, and we worked our way through the assignments with ease. Madge is always at the top of this class. Me, not so much. I hope she doesn’t mind that I’ll once again be the weak link in our partnership.

I lay my head down on my forearms, resting on my desk. With my eyes closed, it’s almost like I could be anywhere else. The woods. In a tree. Far from here, far from any of my problems. If only everyone would be quiet. I’m so tired. I just want a few minutes of sleep.

I let Mrs. Hubris’s voice melt away in the background, only vaguely catching some of her words. Poetry. Project. Partner.

I’m sure Madge is good at writing poetry.

Consciousness slips away for a moment. Someone is calling my name, but I don’t want to talk right now. I’m too comfortable where I am, in the vast darkness.

“Miss Everdeen!”

I feel a poke on my shoulder. My head snaps up and I open my bleary eyes. The class is whispering and giggling as Mrs. Hubris glares at me disapprovingly.

“Go sit with your partner, please.”

Confused, I glance at the seat next to me. Just like always, Madge is sitting there, looking at me expectantly. “She’s right here,” I say.

More whispers and giggles. Mrs. Hubris sighs. “You weren’t listening, Miss Everdeen. I’m assigning partners for this unit. You’re paired with Mr. Mellark.”

Peeta and Emmer are both in this class. Either way, I’m not going to like the answer, but I have to ask, “Which one?”

Mrs. Hubris looks ready to explode. I’m sure I’m in for a lecture, but a soft voice calls from across the classroom. “Over here, Katniss.”

Relief floods through my body before my muscles tense up. Peeta. Am I still sleeping? This seems like a specific kind of nightmare, like when you’re anxious for a test and dream that you oversleep and fail it. But no, I’m awake, and I have to force myself to stand and take the seat beside Peeta towards the front of the class. The desks are pushed together, so it takes a lot of effort to stay as far away from him as possible. He doesn’t look at me as I slouch down.

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Miss Everdeen,” warns Mrs. Hubris, and I don’t doubt she’s telling the truth. She’s a mean old witch and looks it, too, with her long gray hair, beady little eyes, and ever-present scowl. I just sigh and sink lower into my new seat.

I see Peeta from the corner of my eye. He’s huddled over his desk, his curls hanging off his forehead as he scrawls in his notebook. I can’t tell what he’s doing. Maybe writing down information about the new unit. How am I going to handle doing this with him? Units usually last anywhere from four to eight weeks, and I have a feeling that since poetry is such a broad subject, Mrs. Hubris will stretch it out as long as possible. My plan for never interacting with him again is going swimmingly.

Mrs. Hubris finishes listing off the pairings, and I feel incredibly jealous of Delly Cartwright, who ended up partnered with Madge. She won’t have to spend the next however many weeks dreading this class. Delly is nice and easy to get along with, if a little too peppy for my taste. Still. It’ll be easier for her than for me, sitting here every day with Peeta, who is clearly not much happier about this arrangement than I am.

When everyone is settled down, Mrs. Hubris goes through the first type of poetry we’re going to learn, called haikus. We have to write two haikus; one on our own, and one with our partner, so every pairing has three. Before turning them in, we have to discuss our poems with our partner and delve into the deeper meaning behind our words.

Peeta and I start on our individual poems in silence. I can’t think of anything to write about. I’m so mad about this whole situation. I put my pencil to paper and just start scribbling little phrases until I find some that work.

Writing is stupid.
I don’t see the point in this.
I hate poetry.

At some point, Mrs. Hubris tells us it’s time to exchange our haikus and discuss them before writing one together. I can no longer avoid talking to him, and I want to discuss mine first, because with Peeta’s creativity, I have no doubt whatever he wrote is actually good. It would be painful to read mine after his.

I turn in my chair just enough to sit towards the front and stiffly place my piece of paper in the middle of our desks. “We can go over mine first.”

He shrugs. “Fine.”

It doesn’t take him long to read it. I watch him carefully. His eyes flicker up to mine and I stare back defiantly, waiting for his response. He can go ahead and tell me how awful it is. I don’t care. I don't care how much better he is at this than me. Stupid Peeta Mellark with his golden tongue.

“You’re going to turn this in?” He asks quietly. I snatch the paper back from him.

“Yes,” I snap. “I don’t care that it’s bad.”

Peeta waits a beat before responding. “It’s not bad. But I think it’ll get you into more trouble with her.”

I frown, confused. He’s definitely lying. My poem is terrible. And why is he so concerned about my getting in trouble? Doesn’t he hate me now? It must be some kind of trick. Peeta’s smart. Whatever he’s planning, I bet he’s two steps ahead of me. Well, I won’t give him the satisfaction. I’ll figure out his game.

“Let me see yours,” I say sharply. He hands it over without another word.

The flames are colored,
Crimson, orange, so golden,
As bright as the sun.

I was right. It sounds more poetic than anything I’d ever come up with. It blows mine out of the water. This isn't a competition, but I'm frustrated. I don't know how to respond to his haiku without praising it or lying.

“It’s… nice,” I say.

Peeta snorts. “Yeah. Sure.”

I bristle at his tone. The anger I’ve been trying to tamp down is rising, my attitude worsening with each passing second. “What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing,” he says flatly. “I want nothing from you, Katniss.”

Oh. Ouch. Something about the way he says that hurts more than anything else he could’ve said to me. I find myself wishing he’d just told me he hates me. We sit in silence for a moment and I make no move to end it. Unfortunately, Peeta is right. About my haiku. I can’t turn that in to Mrs. Hubris, but I have no idea what to write about. Plus, we’re supposed to write one together, a task made a little harder by the fact that neither of us can stand to look at each other.

I erase my original haiku as best I can. Peeta’s eyes are on the ceiling while I write.

“Here,” I say when I’m finished. “Better?”

Peeta takes the paper and skims. I’ve written:

The snow on the grass,
Might be considered pretty,
Without the coal dust.

It’s not good by any means, but I managed to keep any insults about this class or Mrs. Hubris out of it. Peeta sounds a little softer when he speaks again.

“It’s nice.”

I sneak a look at him and our eyes meet briefly before flitting away, just like they used to. He clears his throat and gets back to business.

“We have to write one together.”

“Okay,” I say. “What do you want to write about?”

He shrugs. “What’s something you like?”

The words are out of my mouth before I think about it. “Cheese buns.”

I feel his body tense beside me and I curse myself. Of all the things I could’ve said, I had to say that. One of the things we associate so strongly with one another, with our dead friendship.

“Or something else. Anything,” I say quickly. He swallows and feigns indifference, but I know better. He’s uncomfortable. Still, he doesn’t offer a different subject.

“Cheese buns will work fine,” he responds. “So, five syllables.”

I count on my fingers. “‘Delicious cheese buns.’”

He writes it down, tapping his pencil sporadically. “Seven syllables. ‘The best thing I’ve ever had’ fits.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “That’s presumptuous.”

The corner of his lips almost lift, but he catches himself. “Just repeating what you’ve told me.”

Oh. Right. “I want one right now.”

He meets my eyes. “Is that a statement, or the last line?”

“I mean, it’s always true. But it works for the last line,” I say, my mouth suddenly dry. I can’t seem to tear my gaze from his. We’re sitting a little closer than before, our bodies turned towards one another. When Peeta realizes this, he looks away and scoots his chair to the opposite side from me.

Embarrassed, I glance down at the ground. My bag is on the floor, inches from my foot, and it reminds me of one thing I have to do. Might as well get it over with. “I have something for you.”

He turns his head to look at me once more. I fight the urge to push his curls off his forehead, away from his eyes. Making sure everyone else in the room is occupied, I pull out the bag of medicine and his gloves, handing them to him. “It’s- for the kids. In the Seam. I know the flu is bad this time of year… and if you get sick, too…”

Shaking his head, he tries to push everything back to me. “I can’t accept this, Katniss. It’s too much. I can’t- we can’t afford it. And the gloves…”

I surprise myself when I hear how desperate my voice sounds. “Please, Peeta. It’s a gift.”

“Thank you,” he says eventually, his voice gentle.

I take a deep breath. “Peeta-”

I’m not sure what I want to say. Maybe I can give him the apology that I know he deserves. However, I don’t get a chance to speak. He stands abruptly, gathering his things and grabbing our haikus to turn in to Mrs. Hubris. I hear the bell ring and watch him while he walks away. I’m left there alone, confused, unclear about what I want from Peeta, but certain that it isn’t this.

Chapter Text

“Who are you glaring at?”

Madge’s voice startles me. I’d forgotten she was there, to be honest. “Nobody.”

She rolls her eyes. “Katniss, you look like you’re trying to set someone on fire.”

I scoff, though she’s not too far off. Peeta is at his usual lunch table and he’s having fun. Like, smiling and laughing and telling animated stories that have his friends hanging on his every word. I don’t know why I’m so mad about it. Maybe I thought he’d be a little upset over our decimated friendship, or forlorn with how we’ve been interacting in language arts over the last few days, but he seems to be absolutely fine.

Well. Me, too.

Well. Not exactly.

Peeta and I have been friendly enough to work out some basic interpretations of the sonnets Mrs. Hubris has been making us look over. Every once in a while, I’ll say something that makes him almost crack a smile. He’s kind about my ideas of what the authors were trying to say, though they’re usually pretty off base. In those moments I almost find myself putting my guard down, and in those moments I have to remind myself that Peeta hates me now and I’d be foolish to think otherwise. I don’t think he’s plotting against me anymore, but I do think that he’s just trying to get through this project as smoothly as possible, and that means being nice and appeasing me.

Despite my best attempts, I’ve not slept recently. Since finding my father in the woods that fateful day, it’s shown up in my subconscious as a recurring nightmare. It’s morphed so that sometimes I don’t just find my father. Sometimes it’s Prim. Sometimes my mother. I’m always too late to save them, and I have to watch as they take their dying breaths. Monday night, I’d been sobbing in my nightmare over my father’s dead body. When I woke up with tears streaming down my face, Prim cried. I had to sing to her, an old song about a willow in a meadow, for a long time before she fell back asleep. Tuesday night, it was Prim that I found in the woods and it took her an hour to calm me down and assure me she was fine. Tonight, she’s sleeping with our mother.

So Peeta is doing fine, just like I thought he would be if our friendship ended, and I’m a mess. I want him to be happy. Why am I angry over it? It’s stupid. I don’t want him to be miserable, or even just okay. I want him to have the best life possible.

At least all of this angst has meant my borderline inappropriate thoughts about Peeta have subsided. For the most part. I hardly ever think about the way his hair curls at the nape of his neck, how his hand flexes when he writes, the look he gets when he’s focused on a particularly difficult line of poetry. Hardly ever.

“It’s nothing,” I say to Madge. “I just haven’t slept well lately.”

Madge looks sympathetic. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I sigh, swirling a spoon around in my stew. “Just have a lot going on. And this poetry project is tough.”

“Right. Well, the good news is you’re partnered with Peeta, right?”

My head shoots up. “What do you mean?”

“Isn’t that better than being partnered with Emmer? He’s the only other Mr. Mellark,” She says, eyeing me curiously. My reaction definitely seemed odd to her. I try to act casual, shrugging indifferently.

“Oh. Yeah, I guess.”

“Isn’t he nice?”

“I guess.”

“Hm,” says Madge thoughtfully. “Well, Delly is really nice. She’s funny. I might not mind this project. I hope you eventually learn to enjoy it, too.”

I grumble. Somehow, I doubt I will. Then I realize Madge has just expressed interest in another human being, something I’ve never heard her do before. “You like Delly?”

She shrugs. “What’s not to like?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know her very well,” I say. “She’s pretty talkative.”

“Well, sure. Compared to us, she’s a chatterbox and a half. You know, I shared the cookie and cupcake you gave me with her and she was very excited about it. Any reason you have baked goods that you keep sending my way?”

Emmer hasn’t given up. Every morning I’ve found something new in my locker, and since yelling at him didn’t work, I decided to try ignoring him. I make sure he can see me, and then I give the treat to Madge. His disappointment is bewildering.

“I just don’t have a taste for them,” I mutter.

Madge eyes me for a moment before moving on. “Well, I liked the cookie, and Delly especially loved the cupcake. She said something hilarious in class today-”

She proceeds to tell me a long story about her experience in language arts this morning, and I try to listen. It’s interesting that she’s never hung out with Delly before like this. Madge doesn’t hang out with anyone, though. Besides me. I wonder if I have some competition for being her favorite friend. I only won by default. Does this mean Delly will join us for lunch? I don’t know if I can handle her cheeriness for an entire meal, especially one I usually spend in silence.

My gaze shifts back to the space over Madge’s shoulder and I catch Peeta’s eye. He looks away. I keep my head down for the rest of lunch. It shouldn’t bother me. It shouldn’t be so hard for me to let him go. I have to remind myself that he hates me now. With good reason. I was awful to him, and did I think giving him that medicine and his gloves would suddenly repair the damage I’d done? How ridiculous.

After school, I hunt until the sun goes down. I'd hoped that if I spent some time the woods, I’d confront the source of my nightmare and be able to sleep through the night. I get a decent sized haul and trade most of it for coins with Rooba and Sae, save for a few rabbits and squirrels. I cook the rabbits into a stew and put the squirrels on ice. I’m hoping to trade with the baker, because I’d like to get some fresh bread, but I don’t want to run into Emmer, so I have to carefully plan my outing.

That night, though I'd tried hard to ensure it wouldn’t, my nightmare returns. I’m moving along the familiar and comfortable path in the woods, one I’ve had memorized for years. The one good thing about the heavy snow that has fallen is how it reveals every little animal track. I should see the imprints of a rabbit or a deer eventually. But I walk for a long time and nothing appears. It feels like a bad omen.

I’m considering turning back and calling it a day when I catch sight of something in the snow ahead. It’s dark and almost hidden in the shade of the oak tree. Years of hunting have fine-tuned my senses, though, so I see it. Cautiously, I approach the area, expecting to find a bit of dirt or a stick. Instead, I see blood.

I follow it without thinking. My breathing makes little puffs of clouds appear beyond my lips in the cold. A shiver runs down my back, but I don’t think it’s from the temperature. I continue to move, unwilling to let the blood go without discovering the source. The crimson on the white of the snow seems to be increasing, and it’s with heavy dread that I realize I’m getting closer. I see a form up ahead, sprawled out on the forest floor, and it feels like it takes an eternity to rush to their side.

My father’s blood coats the snow around him. His chest is mangled, the fabric of his coat ripped through violently, and the inner workings of his body spilled all over. I hold in a sob and try to keep calm, to think of what I can do to save him. What is there to be done?

“Katniss,” he whispers, his hand grappling blindly for mine. I hold tight, looking at the damage, knowing anything I could do would be futile. I can’t save him. His silver eyes lock on mine and he takes a deep shuddering breath, one that rattles in his throat. He’s leaving me and he can’t. He can’t do this. We need him, I need him. We can’t go on without him. It’s my fault. I took too long to find him. I want to apologize, to tell him how much I love him, but the words get stuck and his eyes go blank and it’s too late. I look to the desolate gray sky, close my eyes, and scream.

I wake up thrashing around, the blanket swallowing me and sticking to the sweat that drenches my body. I feel too hot and too cold all at once and it takes a long time for me to settle down. I’m glad Prim isn’t here, but I’m suddenly so lonely that the feeling weighs down heavily, threatening to crush my chest. Back when I was younger, before my father died, I’d had nightmares, though very infrequently. Usually they were silly and childlike with things like scary glowing monsters. When I’d wake, frightened and in tears, my parents would scoop me up into their bed and cuddle me until I fell back asleep, their arms snug around me.

There is no one to hold me like that anymore. I have no one to lean on. That’s the thing about growing up at such a young age, being forced to be the one to take care of your family. Everyone relies on you. But who can you rely on?

I can’t afford to be weak. I have to be the one who keeps it together. And lately, I feel like I’m doing anything but keeping it together.

It must be the lack of sleep. I can’t close my eyes, because I see him in the darkness. I see my hands covered in his blood. I see his heart ripped from his chest, much like my mother’s had been when she found out he died. The rest of the night passes as I stare out the window, watching the stars fade into oblivion with the rising of the sun.

Prim gets up first, bouncing into the room with a smile on her face. She’s not normally a morning person, so I assume that means she got a good, long, uninterrupted rest last night.

“Did it help to sleep alone?” She asks, looking through her winter dresses. Though I always wear jeans and a sweater during the colder seasons, Prim is partial to skirts and woolen tights, like most of the girls in school.

“Yes, I think it might have. I slept well. I hope you didn’t mind,” I say. I’m lying, but I don’t want Prim to suffer because I can’t get my nightmares under control.

“No, of course not!” says Prim. “I just want you to get better.”

I shut my eyes briefly and will myself to get up and out of bed. Prim picks out a dark blue dress and some gray tights while I shove on a black sweater and a pair of jeans. It’s only when I see my reflection in the mirror that I realize I can’t get away with lying to Prim much longer. It’s showing up on my face. My eyes are red and puffy, and I can see the beginnings of dark circles under them.

I wonder if she was even fooled to begin with. Prim is very clever. If she has any concerns, she doesn’t voice them during breakfast or our morning walk. Instead, I listen to her prattle on about Tallulah and Lucy’s latest fight until we part at school. When I open my locker, there’s a slice of bread and a note. I throw away the note without reading it and give the bread to Madge. I don’t even bother to look at Emmer this time.

I expect language arts to go the same way it has been for the past few days. I’ll be polite, give Peeta some wrong answers, and he’ll write the correct interpretation of whatever insipid sonnet she gives us today and sign both of our names to the paper. But when I walk in, I notice something is off with him immediately.

He’s wearing a t-shirt, loose with short sleeves. It’s winter, and as warm as I know Peeta runs, he can’t be warm enough for that. I sit down and he flicks his eyes over to me but doesn’t shift in his seat. His posture is so rigid, it looks like he’s afraid to move. He picks up his pencil and I see him wince almost imperceptibly.

Mrs. Hubris hands us a sonnet, Whoso List to Hunt, and I wait for Peeta to grab it like he normally does. When he doesn’t, I take it and place it in between our desks. His head swivels so slowly, I’d miss it if I wasn’t watching.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replies immediately.

“Nothing? You look like you- like-” I pause, thinking about his behavior. He’s acting like he’s hurt. His eyes meet mine and it looks as though he’s begging me to let it go, but I can’t. Because he’s not acting like he’s hurt. He is hurt. Wincing, afraid to move, loose clothing. Someone hurt him.

“Who?” I hiss, a small fire beginning to rage in my chest.

“Katniss-”

“Who?”

“Don’t.” He looks both pained and angry. “Don’t do this.”

I’m glad everyone in the room is occupied with their own partners because the noise is blocking out the conversation we’re having from prying ears, but I still lower my voice just in case. “Don’t do what, Peeta?”

“This! Act like you care. Act like it matters who did what to me. It doesn’t. You don’t need to pretend because you pity me.”

I gape at him. “Is that what you think? That I pity you?”

His blue eyes have never looked darker when they meet mine. “Why else would you be asking? You’ve made your opinion of me very clear.”

“Because-” Because I do care about you. Because I’m an idiot. Because what I said was wrong. The words almost slip from my mouth before I remember I’m not allowed to say things like that to him. And that’s too much, anyway. I can’t feel things like that. We’re not friends anymore. Why can’t I just stop caring about him? It’d be so easy if I could turn it off, like a faucet. “Because I’m a healer,” I finish lamely.

“I’m fine. Anything else you want to say, or can we just get on with our work?”

Yes, actually. There are lots of things I want to say, but I’m too confused to sort them out. I don’t understand any of our interactions. This whole thing is so complicated and entirely my fault. I don’t know what to do. If Peeta wanted to be my friend, he’d tell me. Or act like it. Wouldn’t he? And after what I said, there’s no chance he’d want any sort of relationship with me.

I’m so frustrated with everything, I’m about to tell him to do the damn assignment by himself when I notice the edges of his fingertips. They’re bright red, unnaturally so. It reminds me of the kind of burn you’d get if you grabbed something really hot. He could get that from baking. But I know his schedule, and he doesn’t see the baker until Sunday.

“Are you seeing your father more often?” I ask quietly. He snaps his head towards me and a flash of pain crosses his face.

“What?”

“Your fingertips. They’re burnt, aren’t they? From what? Baking?”

A blush creeps up his neck and turns the tips of his ears pink. I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed or angry. He answers in a low whisper. “It was an accident.”

“Okay,” I say slowly. “What was an accident?”

“It isn’t a big deal,” he says, his eyes avoiding mine. “We needed kindling for a fire and my mother accidentally threw my sketchbook in the flames. I tried to grab it, but it was too late.”

The way he says it, so flat and monotonous, like he feels no emotion, tells me it wasn’t an accident. This is Peeta controlling his response to the situation, to hide what his mother does to him. She did that to hurt him, I know it. And that makes me feel like I’m ablaze in fury.

“She burned your sketchbook?” I fight to keep my voice steady. Peeta shrugs.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Can we do the assignment now?”

It’s torturous to act casual when I feel anything but. I get through the assignment, Peeta giving me his interpretation of the sonnet to write down. The only way I can relieve any of the tension I’m feeling is to push the pencil onto the paper as hard as possible. I break the lead more than a few times and end up spending a lot of the class at Mrs. Hubris’s pencil sharpener, but Peeta says nothing. Not even when I turn the crank so aggressively the handle nearly snaps off. Mrs. Hubris has a lot to say about that, though.

“How would you feel, Miss Everdeen, if someone took something of yours and broke it? Hm?”

I glance at Peeta, who refuses to meet my eye. “I’d be very upset, Mrs. Hubris.”

I think she’s surprised by my lack of attitude because she lets me go with a warning. At the end of class, I scrawl our names on the top of the paper and turn it in. I’m not quick enough to stop Peeta, which is probably for the best, because I don’t know what to say to him.

The cafeteria is full and as loud as ever by the time I join Madge at our usual table. I’m preoccupied and she can tell. It’s Peeta. I can’t stop thinking about him, about how he suffers, about how powerless I am to help. About how I hurt him when he already has more than enough people in his life who do that.

I feel someone slide into the seat beside me. I know before even looking that it is Emmer. I scowl at his smile.

“That seat is taken,” I snap.

“By who?” he asks innocently.

“Anyone but you. Go away.”

“Come on, Everdeen. Look, I just wanted to ask you a question. I saw you arguing with Peeta during language arts.”

At his mention of Peeta, I sit up straight. Why was he watching us? Did he hear anything? He continues.

“Anyway, I got stuck with this Seam girl for this project, Lorelai. I was thinking we could switch partners and work together. Mrs. Hubris wouldn’t mind, I’m sure,” he says confidently. “Lorelai’s super into Peeta, so we’d be doing them a favor. And then we can work with each other.”

“Why,” I say through gritted teeth. “Would I ever want to work with you?”

Emmer shrugs. “Surely I’ve got to be a better option than Peeta. What could he possibly be contributing to your project?”

Upon hearing those words, something in me snaps. Without thinking about it, I take the large tumbler of water that I carry with me for lunch and tip the entire thing into his lap. He jumps up with a yelp, catching the attention of the cafeteria.

“Oh, Emmer,” I say loudly. “The bathroom is just down the hall. You couldn’t make it in time?”

People begin to point out Emmer to one another and giggle loudly. Even his friends are howling with laughter, shrieking over Emmer and his loose bowels. His face turns a shade of red I don’t think I’ve seen before on another human being. I stand, grab my bag, and lean on my toes to murmur in his ear.

“If you ever say another word against Peeta, it will be my personal mission to make sure you regret it. Stay away from him, and stay away from me.”

I stomp out of the cafeteria and go to the only place I know will be deserted right now. The hall where I found Peeta after Emmer jumped him. I slide down against the wall and put my head in my hands, the realization of what I’ve done washing over me. Will Emmer suspect something? Have I made things worse? I feel worse. I thought I’d be satisfied, but that feeling is minuscule compared to the others raging inside me. Exhaustion. Irritation. Fury. Despondency.

I’m considering skipping out on the rest of the school day when I hear a heavy tread moving towards me. If I’m in trouble, I don’t think I can get away with it this time, and I really don’t want to explain myself to Mr. Atlas or my mother. I peek out from behind my hands hesitantly to see Peeta heading my way.

I scramble to my feet, ready to bolt. Peeta’s one of the last people I want to see right now, considering how I just defended his honor and we aren’t even friends. He has no idea, of course, but it’s embarrassing to think about and I feel my cheeks reddening as he approaches. I begin to move around him but he holds his hands out, urging me to stay.

“I thought you might be here,” he says softly. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to keep my thoughts under control. I shouldn’t feel hope rise within me from the fact that he’s come to see me. I shouldn’t read into this. He’s Peeta. He’s nice. This is something he’d do for anyone, I’m sure.

“Why’d you come?” I ask after a few moments.

“I don’t know.” He looks at his feet. “It’s silly.”

“What is?”

“That after everything that’s happened, everything you’ve said,” he hesitates slightly. “I still want to be here for you.”

I lean my head back against the wall, trying to absorb his words. He could mean anything, really, but it seems like he still wants to be my friend. I shove that thought down quickly. There’s no way that’s the case. I don’t want to look foolish and assume that Peeta enjoyed my companionship enough to put aside the things I’ve said.

“You hate me,” I say plainly. “Why would you want to be here for me?”

He scoffs, looking incredulous. “I could never hate you, Katniss.”

“You should,” I mutter. The words get stuck in my throat for a moment, but I force them out. “What I said to you… it was awful, Peeta. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

“It was awful,” he says, carefully putting his hands in his pockets. “Why’d you say it?”

“It’s not what I meant. I just- I’m not good at saying things.”

“Well, can you try and explain what you meant to me?”

I swallow. “I just… when I said the thing about finding someone like you, I- I meant someone worth your time. Someone who is kind and generous, like you are. Someone better. That’s all.”

Peeta is silent for what feels like ages. “I wish you saw yourself the way other people do. You have no idea, the effect you can have.”

I think that’s a compliment. I don’t ask. Instead, I search Peeta’s eyes, looking for some indication of what’s happening here. Has he forgiven me? Does he want to be my friend again? There are so many unanswered questions, but the bell rings, signaling that it’s time for us to go to our afternoon classes. I can’t find the right words. There’s too much to say and I don’t know where to start. We stand frozen for a moment before we hear the stampede of students rushing to class. Peeta breaks eye contact first, taking care to walk with his back straight. It reminds me of how much pain he must be in.

“Peeta!” I call. He stops. “Please come to the apothecary tonight. Please. I don’t know what happened to you, but we can help. You don’t have to pay with money, my mother barters and trades. Just, please come.”

“I’ll think about it,” he says after a moment. I hope he means it.

Everyone in school is talking about Emmer and his “accident.” I’m sure most everybody knows he didn’t actually pee his pants, but it’s entertaining to pretend otherwise. I wait for it throughout the rest of the day, but I never get called to Mr. Atlas’s office, which is nice. A few of the merchant girls who are big fans of Emmer’s give me dirty looks. It doesn’t bother me.

After school, I end up taking the rest of the squirrels to the Hob. As much as I want to, I can’t face trading with the baker right now. I decide to give Prim some coins instead to buy the bread. Since it’s early afternoon, the Hob isn’t too crowded. After I sell to Greasy Sae, I order a bowl of soup and sit at her stand.

Peeta doesn’t leave my thoughts once. I hate his witch of a mother, possibly more than I’ve ever hated anyone. How could she do that to her own son? How could she burn his sketchbook, something he loves so dearly? It must've had years worth of drawings in it, and I doubt he can afford a new one. I absentmindedly play with the coins in my pocket while staring down at the wood of the counter. If only there was something here I could get him.

Wait. What if there is something here I can get him?

When Sae makes her way back to me to gather my empty bowl, I stop her.

“Hey, Sae? Do you know anyone around here who sells anything like scrap paper or colored pencils?”

“Hm,” she murmurs, thinking. “I’d say try Abernathy’s booth over there. I’ve seen him sell art supplies once or twice. Not anything fancy, mind you, but he might have what you’re looking for.”

I thank her and head to the stand she was talking about, back in the right corner of the warehouse. The only occupant is the man I assume is Mr. Abernathy. He’s Seam, paunchy and middle-aged, and I think his features would’ve been considered handsome in his youth, but years of drinking too much has faded any good looks he may have had. When I approach him, he looks up and sighs.

“Damn kids,” he mutters, grabbing something from under his counter. I jump as he tosses a long, foil-wrapped package at me. When I roll it over in my hands, I realize he’s given me condoms. A lot of them. I drop them as though they’ve burned me.

“Wha- I didn’t- I don’t need these!” I sputter. I’m blushing furiously while the man just watches me, vaguely amused.

“Then what do you want?” He asks, his voice mocking.

My hands curl into fists and I try to keep my voice even, but he’s already annoyed me and I can’t stop my biting tone. “Shouldn’t you treat your customers a little nicer?”

“Eh.” He takes a swig from the metal flask he’s holding. “Nice isn’t my thing, sweetheart.”

Coming from him, that term of endearment sounds anything but endearing. I stoop to grab the condoms and shove them at him harshly. “Nice isn’t my thing, either.”

He puts the condoms under his booth once more and surveys me. “Well, let’s get to it then. What do you want?”

“Art supplies,” I snap, still frustrated with his behavior. “What do you have?”

Something in Mr. Abernathy’s face changes, so subtle I almost miss it. It’s almost like he softens.

“You an artist?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “My friend is.”

“How good? We talking fun little doodles or serious talent?”

“Serious talent. He-” I flush and make my statement more gender-neutral. “They’re really talented.”

“I see,” he says. “And what kind of artwork might they do?”

I can tell my attempt to hide the fact that my friend is a boy didn’t work, so I don’t pretend it did. “He draws, sketches, I guess, and he’s really good at it. He makes it all look so lifelike. And he- um, he can… frost things really well. Like… cookies, I guess. He doesn’t get to do it often, but he makes that look like art, too.”

I’m praying Mr. Abernathy doesn’t put two and two together and figure out who I’m referring to. He seems to be thinking, and it takes a minute before he reaches under his booth and pulls out a rectangular wooden box. It’s plain, the kind of wooden box you could get anywhere in the district. He gestures for me to open it, so I flip the gold latch and my jaw drops. It’s got at least twelve different paints, tiny circular tins that are all labeled with the name of the color they hold. There’s also a compartment that holds brushes of different sizes and a little plastic slate with a circle cut out of it.

“Well?” says Mr. Abernathy.

“I- I can’t possibly afford this,” I say. “Plus, he needs paper, and-”

“Whatcha got?”

I stare at him a moment before revealing the coins I’d brought with me, plus what I’d gotten from Sae today. He shrugs and takes the small pile, then reaches under the booth and pulls out a book. It looks like a regular notebook, but when I open it, the pages are white, empty, and waiting for Peeta’s strokes of genius.

“This is not an even trade,” I start to argue. He puts up a hand to stop me.

“Have your boy make me something and I’ll decide if it’s an even trade.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “I like art. We don’t have too many good artists ‘round here.”

I feel like he’s tricking me. He can tell what I’m thinking, though, because he rolls his eyes. “If you don’t grab this and skedaddle in the next ten seconds, I’m taking it all back and the deal’s off.”

My eyes widen. Even if it might be a bad idea, I decide to trust Mr. Abernathy. After all, Peeta will surely be over the moon when I give this to him. I gather it in my arms quickly.

“I’ll be back with your art, Mr. Abernathy. Just give me some time.”

He snorts. “Call me Haymitch. And sure thing, sweetheart. Bring your boy, too!”

I flush at him calling Peeta “my boy” for the second time, but my back is turned so he can’t see. I shove the supplies in my bag and head back home, praying that Peeta will show up sometime this afternoon. Prim and my mother work with the patients while I take stock and occasionally check out customers. With each minute that passes, my hope dwindles. Eventually, my mother tells me to close up the shop, and I know he’s not coming. Our store is never really closed, because if there’s a medical emergency, people know they can come get us at any time of day. But we do have traditional hours, and I’m sure Peeta knows that, and he won’t come after curfew. It’s too late.

Prim sleeps with my mother again that night. My eyelids are so heavy and my body is so exhausted, but I can’t fall asleep. I’m worried about what will show up in my nightmares tonight. I’m worried about waking everyone in the apartment with my screams. I’m worried about Peeta. I’m worried that I’ve made a big mistake in buying him the art supplies and that he’ll think I pity him again.

I stare out my window like I have the past few nights, but it’s cloudy tonight and there are no stars to be seen. I’m deep in thought when I hear something hit the glass. I sit up straight, wondering if I’m hallucinating. But no, something hits the glass again. I walk to the window, but I can’t see anything. I slide it open and narrowly miss being hit by a tiny pebble.

“What the-”

“Katniss!”

I stick my head out into the night and look down, past the tree branches, to see Peeta standing in my yard. My eyes widen. He’s bundled up in a coat and his face is contorted in determination and pain.

“Peeta? What are you doing here? It’s way past curfew!”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he says, just loud enough for me to hear. “I couldn't get away from my mother sooner. Can I- may I come in?”

“Alright,” I say. “Come to the back door. I’ll be there in a minute.”

My heart is racing. I’d felt so tired just a minute ago, but that disappeared as soon as I saw Peeta. I almost run out of my room before I realize I’m only wearing an old, oversized t-shirt of my father’s. I pull on a pair of pajama pants and quietly tiptoe down the hall, careful to make sure that I don’t wake up Prim or my mother. I can hear the soft sounds of sleep coming from behind their door, so I move along and head down the stairs.

I don’t bother flipping on any of the lights in the apothecary, afraid to call attention to us in the middle of the night. Since I have the layout memorized, it’s easy for me to maneuver around the store and find my way to the back door. I unlock it and catch my breath when I come face to face with Peeta, as if talking to him a minute ago had been a figment of my imagination and I hadn’t expected to see him behind the door.

“Come in,” I whisper, giving him space to move inside. He walks carefully just as he did earlier, sliding into the darkness behind me. I shut the door and relock it, nearly running into him as I turn around.

“Uh, Katniss?” he says quietly. “I can’t see anything.”

“Oh, right. You can follow me. Um,” I debate it for a moment, but there isn’t really a better way to get him to the backroom, so I slide my hand down his forearm and twine my fingers through his. “Here, so I can guide you.”

I think he nods, but I can’t tell for sure as I move us towards the backroom. His hand is freezing, but the touch itself is comforting. Soft and gentle. I go slowly and eventually pull us into the room, shutting the door behind me.

“I’m going to turn the light on,” I warn, and flip the switch. I squint at the sudden change, blinking a couple times before I realize just how close I am to Peeta. He’s got a paper bag in one hand, the other still grasping mine. I relinquish my hold on him and take a step back.

“What’s that?”

His cheeks are already red from the cold, but they seem to turn a darker shade. “I don’t have any money right now, but you said your mother trades, so I went out and got some herbs I know you guys use.”

He hands me the bag and I peek inside, surprised at how much he’s brought. Some of it is stuff I can never find in the woods because of my inability to move beyond a certain point, and I know my mother will be pleased.

“I’ll bring more,” he says quickly. “For the payment.”

“It’s great, Peeta, really. You don’t need to bring more, this is definitely worth your treatment. My mother is going to be so thankful.”

“I’d wait to say that until you see my injuries, Doctor Everdeen,” he jokes, but there’s an undercurrent of seriousness.

“Let’s get started then, Patient Mellark,” I respond, attempting to keep the tension from my voice. He winces as he takes off his coat and reveals the same outfit he wore to school today. I guide him towards the patient table, which is really a wooden board with a cushion covered in plastic to try and offer comfort to the people who have to lay on it for long periods of time. I help him take off his shirt and try to keep from reacting when I see his back.

I feel like someone has drained the blood from my body. I’ve seen incredibly gruesome scenes working at the apothecary. People who were caught in mining accidents missing limbs or burned to a crisp. Kids who need their bones set after playing too rough. A baby, the umbilical cord wrapped around their blue neck. With all that experience, I should be fine to look at a few burns and bruises. But I’m not.

I don’t know what she hit him with, but it was long and thin. I can tell by the shapes of the bruises, which are a light shade of plum and are scattered all over his back. The worst part is a burn, probably categorized as second-degree, just beneath his shoulder blade. It’s not too big, which is good, but it’s peach colored with small blisters. It’s all too much. My heart rate is steadily climbing and I feel nauseous. What’s wrong with me? Peeta’s in pain and I’m the one losing it. I force myself to push aside my emotions and keep my voice steady.

“Peeta,” I say gently, moving in front of him. “What happened?”

I’ve never seen his normally bright eyes look so dead. It unnerves me. When he speaks, it’s that flat, monotonous tone I’d heard earlier. “She didn’t just throw the sketchbook in the fire. She grabbed the hot fire poker and hit me with it a few times. Then she put the end of the poker in the flames and pressed it against my skin.”

When my mother or Prim confront a patient and look them over, no matter how awful the situation is, they never lose their cool. They always manage to keep their faces and words calm, their demeanor steady and soothing. I have never been like that. And clearly I’m not starting now, because my nose is burning, a sure sign that tears are coming, and the blank expression I’d fought so hard to keep on my face has fallen. To keep myself from crying, I move to the small chest of supplies we leave in the backroom and search for the bruise and burn treatments. I feel Peeta’s eyes on me, studying my movements.

When I’m sure that I’ve got the lump in my throat and the threat of tears under control, I turn back to him. I refuse to look at his face, instead going straight to his back and preparing to treat the wounds. It’s easier to do this when I make a list in my head of what I need to do and think of executing each small task separately rather than everything at once.

Wash your hands.

Dry them on a clean towel.

Make sure the treatments aren’t expired.

Apply the first ointment gently with your fingers.

Ignore the weird thoughts that come up when Peeta sighs in relief.

Wash your hands again.

Dry them on a clean towel.

Apply the second ointment gently with your fingers.

Seriously, Katniss, keep your thoughts in check.

Done. Because we get the burn treatment from the Capitol, all we have to do is apply it rather than clean the wound and dress it after. Their medicine is incredibly advanced, and if there is one product we try to keep in stock, it’s the burn treatment. In leaner months, we can’t afford it and try to do our best with the burns that come in, but it’s not half as effective as the medicine from the Capitol.

I move in front of him, putting some burn ointment on his fingertips and carefully looking over his arms. “Did she hurt you anywhere else?”

“No, that was all,” says Peeta. “Thank you, Katniss. It already feels so much better.”

“Everything should be faded by the morning,” I explain. “The medicine works quickly.”

He sighs. “I really appreciate it. It was tough getting here and tougher throwing those pebbles.”

I bite down on my lip. There’s something bothering me. Something that doesn’t seem quite right. Then I realize what it is.

“You told me she doesn’t do this as much anymore.”

It comes out quickly, sounding like an accusation. I regret my tone as soon as I hear it, because none of this is Peeta’s fault. His jaw clenches briefly and he rolls his eyes up towards the ceiling.

“She doesn’t. Anyway, thank you. I should get going.” He starts to slide off the table but I stop him immediately.

“What? No! No way. You can’t go out there. I don’t know how you got here after curfew, but it’s not safe with the peacekeepers.”

“I’ll take my chances. I’ve burdened you enough, waking you and making you take care of me in the middle of the night-”

“You’re not a burden,” I say firmly. “I invited you here and that extended beyond normal business hours, just like it would for anyone who needs help. I wasn’t asleep, anyway.”

He looks doubtfully at me, motioning towards my attire. “Could’ve fooled me.”

I cross my arms and scowl, realizing how silly I must look in my father’s t-shirt, which could pass as a dress on me, and my pajama pants that pool at my ankle because they’re far too long. I don't know why, but Peeta’s face morphs into a grin and suddenly he’s laughing. Though I enjoy the sound of Peeta’s laughter, I’m annoyed because it seems like it’s directed at me, and my scowl grows deeper. This only makes him laugh harder.

“What?” I snap. It takes a minute for Peeta to get his giggles under control.

“You look so threatening when you make that face, but it’s so hard to take you seriously when you’re wearing pajama pants with little pink cartoon bunnies on them.”

I glance down and groan, because I am wearing pajama pants with little pink cartoon bunnies on them. They’re an old pair of my mother’s, a hand-me-down we never bothered to hem even though she’s quite a few inches taller than me since I figured no one would ever see me wearing them. And now here I am, standing in the backroom with a shirtless Peeta Mellark, wearing those pajama pants with stupid little pink cartoon bunnies on them.

The situation is so ridiculous, and maybe I’m even more exhausted than I thought, because I begin to laugh. And not the light chuckles that Prim pulls out of me, not even the giggles that Peeta earns, but real, belly-aching laughter. This gets Peeta started all over again and I’ve never been so glad that you can’t hear the noise from the apothecary when you’re upstairs in the apartment, because we’re making a racket.

After several long minutes of trying to pull ourselves together, we finally calm down. I lean against the patient table, catching my breath, while Peeta swipes the tears from his eyes.

“I haven’t laughed that much in a really long time,” he admits, still sporting a goofy grin.

“I don’t think I’ve ever laughed that much,” I say, rubbing my stomach. I didn’t know your abdominal muscles could actually get sore from too much laughter.

“Oh, god,” he says suddenly. “We didn’t wake up your family, did we? Did I wake Prim earlier when I came to your window? That was so careless of me, I’m so sorry-”

“No,” I interrupt. “We didn’t, and you didn’t wake Prim earlier. She’s not been sleeping in our room, so it’s fine.”

I realize about two seconds after I say it that Prim not staying in our bedroom is a big red flag indicating something is wrong. Peeta knows immediately. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“What? Nothing,” I lie. I move to turn away from him and he grabs me by the shoulder, gentle as ever.

“Katniss, what’s wrong?”

I shake my head, avoiding his eyes. “You told me not to do that, so you shouldn’t either.”

“Do what?” He frowns.

“Act like you care. Act like what happens to me matters.”

Peeta sighs. “I shouldn’t have said that. I was wrong. It’s just… confusing. We’re confusing. I can’t tell… how you really feel.”

I press my lips together. I don’t know what to say. I’d like to be Peeta’s friend again. I know that much. And he doesn’t hate me. He said so. But I’m afraid I've lost the right to ask him to be my friend.

Luckily, he steps in again before I can say anything. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable on Sunday. That wasn’t my intention. I’m happy just being your friend, Katniss. I enjoy spending time with you. If you don’t want that, I completely understand. I’ll leave you alone. Just say the word.”

“No,” I blurt out. “Um, no. You, um, didn’t make me… uncomfortable on Sunday. I- it was just- I was being an idiot. And after that, I was sure you’d, um, you’d never forgive me for what I said. So I didn’t think being friends was still… you know… an option.”

He gives me his lopsided smile, but it’s a little sad. “You’re not an idiot, Katniss. I am.” I begin to protest, but he stops me. “I know you struggle with saying what you mean, and that you don’t look down on people from the Seam, and I get that you and Emmer aren’t friends. I shouldn’t have stormed out on you. I’m sorry.”

“No. You're not an idiot. And I’m sorry. So, so sorry. For everything. Especially about your sketchbook,” I say softly. Mentioning his sketchbook reminds me of the other reason I wanted to see Peeta this evening, and I’m lucky that I left my bag under the front counter in the store. “Also, um, I got you something.”

He watches in mild confusion as I slide out of the backroom. I creep through the dark and crouch under the counter to grab his gift, hiding it behind my back when I return. After a moment of hesitation, I hand over the art supplies and step back to watch his reaction.

He takes the gift carefully, as though it might break. His face is inscrutable while he runs his hand over the cover of the sketchbook. He flips open the box and stares at it. He doesn’t stop staring. For a long moment, he just looks at the gift in his hands like he doesn’t understand what he’s looking at.

“It’s, um, it’s paper,” I explain, surely sounding idiotic. “And the box is, um, paints. And brushes. If you- I mean, since you draw, I thought you might like to paint.”

He doesn’t say a word, his expression blank. He hates it, I think. My face flushes red. We just became friends again and I’ve already messed it up. I never should’ve gotten him this.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “It’s awful, I can take it back, I didn’t mean- oof-”

The air from my lungs releases in a huff as a force steals my breath with bone-crushing pressure. I realize Peeta’s arms are wrapped tightly around my waist, his face buried in my neck. He’s lifted me into a hug, holding me so my toes dangle above the ground. Once I understand what’s going on, I only hesitate a moment before sliding my arms gently over his bare shoulders and hugging him back, taking care to make sure I don't touch any sensitive spots.

“Katniss,” he whispers, and though being so close to him is keeping me warm, I feel a shiver run down my spine. “No one has ever given me anything like this before. No one has ever…”

His body stiffens slightly, as though he just realized what he’s doing. He sets me down and I release my hold on him, pulling back.

“So…you don’t hate it?” I ask timidly. The smile on his face is so bright and genuine that I feel my doubts melt away. His laugh rushes through me, warming me to my core.

“Katniss, this is- it’s the best thing I’ve ever received in my whole life. I could never repay you for all of this.” He shakes his head. “It’s too much. It must’ve cost you too much. You don’t need to-”

“No, don’t do that. It really wasn’t too much. In fact, part of the trading deal is something you have to deliver.”

His eyes sparkle with amusement as I tell him about our new best friend Haymitch and the deal we made. I leave out the part about the condoms, though. That can be a story for another time. Or maybe never. He seems excited about the prospect of offering up a painting to Haymitch, though he insists he needs to practice a lot first.

“Maybe on Sunday you can show me what you’ve worked on,” I say casually. “Or you can work on it out in the meadow with me.”

He grins impishly. “If that’s your way of asking whether or not I’ll meet you at our spot on Sunday, the answer is yes.”

I try to bite back my smile but I can’t help it. “So… friends?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he spits in his hand. I don’t hesitate to do the same. We shake, and I feel that thing again, the thing that seems to emanate from within Peeta and extend into everything he touches. The warmth he spreads, the compassion he brings, it all melts down into one, all-encompassing emotion, and it’s wonderful and joyful and so utterly Peeta.

It’s hope.

Chapter Text

The morning comes too quickly. I feel it as I begin to wake, my heavy eyelids refusing to budge. My ears catch on a scratching sound, further pulling me into consciousness. It must be mice, the ones that burrow down in our walls during the cold weather. I inhale deeply and rub my cheek against my pillow. It feels much harder than usual. Groaning, I lift my fist and punch it, but instead of softening, it shifts. And yelps.

I shoot up and nearly smack Peeta’s head with my own. Peeta!

“Good morning,” he grumbles, rubbing his thigh with the heel of his hand. He’s sitting up, his sketchbook on one of his legs. The one I hadn’t slept on. My cheeks are burning and I can barely look him in the eyes. How did this happen? I remember lounging beside him on the patient bed. We each scribbled little pictures in his new sketchbook, making the other guess what we’d drawn. Peeta was much better at it than I was. The last thing I can recall is watching his hands glide over the paper, creating a leaf that was so lifelike it seemed it could be plucked from the page. I must’ve dozed off after that. How embarrassing!

“Why didn’t you wake me?” I say, a little harsher than I intended.

Peeta looks puzzled. “I didn’t need to. You’re awake now.”

“I mean, why didn’t you wake me when- when I fell asleep? Last night?”

“Oh. You just fell asleep so quickly, and it seemed like you were so tired,” he says. And because he’s Peeta, he adds, “Besides, I like watching you sleep. You don’t scowl. Improves your looks a lot.”

Of course, this remark makes me scowl, and he grins. I still feel awkward, but it’s nice to hear him tease me affectionately. I missed it.

“I should head out. Get ready for school,” he says. I chew on my lip, watching as he carefully slides off the bed. 

“Are you still in pain?” 

He shakes his head, blonde curls swishing back and forth. I’m not sure if he’s telling the truth, so I step towards his back and gently tug at the hem of his shirt.

“Do you mind if I just look things over one more time?”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you keep trying to get me out of my clothes.” Peeta smirks as he glances over his shoulder at me. I roll my eyes, furious that my cheeks start burning once again. He seems to know just what to say to get that reaction from me. I wish I could do the same to him, but he seems impossible to frazzle. Even as he stands in front of me, shirtless and exposed, he’s cool as a cucumber. The only time I get a reaction from him is when I place my fingers against his shoulder blade and he shivers.

“Your hands are cold,” he says, and it takes me back to the first time we spoke in the hall. I wonder if he remembers. I’ve dealt with so many changes since that moment, more than I could have fathomed, but I find that I don’t mind. Not if the changes led me here.

The medicine from the Capitol works wonders. Against the pale skin of Peeta’s back, the wounds from last night look like pink specks. They’re far from noticeable, not like the smattering of freckles across his shoulders, or the muscles that bulge and shift with each breath he takes, or the small birthmark near his right hip that almost looks like a heart.

“Is everything okay?”

Peeta’s voice cuts through my thoughts and brings me back to the present. I clear my throat and step away, gesturing for him to put his shirt back on.

“Everything looks great. You’re good to go.”

I clear the room of any signs of our presence while he redresses. I grab the last thing to take care of, the blanket, and watch as he throws on his coat. Before he zips it, he places the sketchbook and paint box against his chest. I wonder if he’s worried that his mother will find them. 

“You can always keep your supplies here,” I say. 

“Oh, that’s alright,” says Peeta. “I’ve got a friend in the Seam who offered to keep it at their place. I spend most of my time there, anyway.”

A friend in the Seam. He must mean Gale, surely. But Peeta has lots of friends. Maybe he’s referencing another. A girl friend. A girlfriend? I shake my head to rid it of my musings, ridiculous as they are. Peeta told me he’s not dating anyone. Even if he was, it wouldn’t matter.

I don’t need to hold Peeta’s hand to direct him to the back of the apothecary like last night. The sun hasn’t yet peeked out from over the horizon, but the sky has started to wake. The light streaming in brightens the old wooden floors, guiding us to the door. I move to unlock it, but Peeta stops me with a gentle touch to my wrist.

“Wait,” Peeta whispers. “I- I really don’t know how to thank you.”

I shake my head. “You already did. And you paid, so there’s no debt.”

“But, this.” He pats his chest where the gift I gave him sits. “I can’t thank you enough for this. Katniss, really-”

The sound of people yelling across the square interrupts his train of thought. We listen carefully, trying to decipher the source. Peacekeepers? No. It must have been some shop owners greeting one another. Still, it’s a reminder of how late it is getting. I run my hand along his arm and give his bicep a small squeeze. 

“I think you ought to get going before anyone catches you,” I say softly. He presses his lips together and glances out of the nearest window. I’m almost glad the morning is approaching so quickly; the time crunch takes away Peeta’s ability to continue thanking me for the gift. 

I tilt my head to look up at him just as he turns back to me. I become aware of how close we are. Only a few inches separate us, plus the fact that I’d need to stand on my tiptoes for us to be face-to-face. I can barely see the blue of his eyes, their color almost entirely swallowed by his pupils. My eyes must look the same in the dim light. My breath stutters in my chest when I feel his own fan over my face. I lean in slightly before realizing what I’m doing. What am I doing?

I release my hold on his arm and clear my throat, effectively ending our staring contest. “So. Um. I guess I’ll see you at school?”

Peeta waits to respond until I look at him again. Once our eyes meet, his lips tilt into his usual crooked smile.

“See you at school,” he whispers. I open the door for him and watch as he steps out into the cold. He doesn’t look back, but I keep my gaze on him until he’s out of sight. Only then do I shut the door and lean against it, pressing one palm to my chest. My heart is pounding like I’ve just run through the woods to beat an incoming storm. I take a few deep breaths to cool down. I’m sure my mother and Prim will be up any minute, so I don’t have time to dwell on my body’s melodramatic reaction to standing close to a friend. 

I make my way back upstairs as quietly as possible and slip back into my room. The sun has finally risen, bathing the frozen winter day in shades of gold, pink, and orange. As I lay down in bed, I think how much Peeta would like the view.

There’s no hope for me to get any more rest this morning, although I’m not sure I even need it. My blood must be vibrating, the way it is making my entire body buzz. I feel alive, or something close to it. And I realize I didn’t have any nightmares last night. Wow. I’d forgotten what it felt like to wake up refreshed. The dark cloud that has followed me for the past few days seems to have given me a reprieve. Hopefully it takes its time coming back. 

My fingers glide around the blanket as I absentmindedly hum an old tune I learned from my father. I trace patterns and unfollowable paths in the worn fabric throughout the entire song, lost in a world of my own. I’m brought back to reality by Prim, who knocks against the wood of the door once before barging into the room. 

“Morning! Did you sleep well?”

I pause for a moment. “Actually, yes. I did.”

Prim beams at me. “That’s great! You’re looking better. Your cheeks are all rosy. It’s nice to see some color in your face aside from the dark circles under your eyes.”

Pressing my palms to my cheeks, I give Prim a scowl, though there isn't any heat behind it. My cheeks are rosy? Still? I’m glad she can’t read my mind, or else she’d know everything that happened last night. Not that I don’t want to share any updates with her, but…parts of my relationship with Peeta feel private. Like certain things are just for us. So I get dressed without bringing it up and instead listen to Prim’s chatter about her schedule for the day.

“I’m going to Betty’s house after school to work on our project, so don’t worry about waiting for me. I’ll get all the updates on what’s going on with Lucy and Elizabeth and Richie and report back to you,” says Prim. I snort as I pull a deep blue turtleneck over my head and tug my hair from the collar. 

“Oh, good. I was wondering how that’s going.”

“Well, I like to keep you in the loop on the things happening with my friends. You could do the same, you know!”

I grab my brush from the top of the dresser. “I don’t have anything to share.”

“Then maybe you should work on expanding your social life,” says Prim. Though her tone is light, I detect some sincerity behind her words. Is she worried about me? How endearing. And strange. My little sister, concerned about my socialization. 

I hum and try to appease her with a quick, “Maybe I should.” I’m not sure if it works, but she doesn’t bring it up again.

Once I’m dressed, I weave my hair into one of the fancier braids I know. It doesn’t look as neat as if my mother did it, but it’s still nicer than how I usually wear my hair. In fact, when I look at my reflection in the mirror, I almost feel good. Pretty, even. Or something close to it.

That must be why, when I get to school, it feels like all eyes are on me.

Or it could be because of my little spat with Emmer yesterday. Who knows?

I don’t look at anyone in hopes that my indifference will bore people. Well, that’s not exactly true. I don’t consciously seek him out; it’s almost like I have some strange connection to him and can sense his presence. When Peeta walks through the front doors of school, laughing with a few of his friends, my eyes immediately find him. 

He’s wearing a soft gray sweatshirt and dark pants, moving with ease. He looks so healthy, so radiant and handsome. It doesn’t seem like he’s in any pain at all. I wonder if his friends noticed. I wonder if they care. The thought that they may not makes my chest burn.

Peeta catches my eyes briefly and grins. I can’t stop the corners of my mouth from turning up in response. Once he’s turned away, I have to force my facial muscles to relax into my normal resting face. It makes me feel silly, but there’s also this cloudiness to my brain, like nothing can go wrong. Everything is good.

It’s easier to keep the smile off my face when I hear what everyone is saying about me. Emmer didn’t come to school today, further fueling the gossip train. Each time I trek down the hall, I hear some new iteration of what people believe happened between us.

“Emmer is super upset they broke up. That’s why he’s missing school today.”

“No, Emmer broke up with Katniss and now he’s scared of her. She threatened him, I think. Said if he left her she’d shoot him through the eye with her arrows.”

“Either way, she’s totally frigid. What did he even want with her in the first place?”

“Maybe a future with the apothecary. We all know it’s Bannock who’s getting the bakery.”

“Nah, Bannock will let Emmer stay on with him. They’re gonna share it, he told me so.”

It’s annoying and frankly insulting to hear people think I dated Emmer, or did anything of the sort with him. And the idea that he’d use me for a place at the apothecary is laughable. I’m sure most people know the shop will be passed down to Prim, not me. He’s barking up the wrong tree if he’s looking at me for job security.

And he very well could be. I don’t know. Mr. Mellark has never publicly said who will be taking over the bakery when he retires. It could be Bannock by himself, or him and Emmer together, or just Emmer. But I think it should be run by Peeta. Peeta, who was dealt the worst hand of all the Mellark boys, who is forced to live with his witch of a mother, who is so talented and deserving of all the finest things District 12 has to offer. I think of his capable hands, turning icing and paint into beautiful creations, making art out of what little he has. I think if I could do anything to give him a better life, I would.

I endure a few more odd and questioning looks as the day goes by. Thankfully, by the time language arts rolls around, people have started to move on. I enter the classroom without any fanfare. Peeta’s already sitting at his desk, one of his legs bouncing up and down. I slide into the seat beside him, relaxing when I feel his usual warmth radiating towards me. Something about being in his presence is so calming. 

We don’t get a chance to speak because Mrs. Hubris immediately begins to go over some new style of poetry for us to learn. It’s one of those days where we don’t actually do any partner work, we just listen to Mrs. Hubris drone on and on and take notes. I try to pay attention, but every so often I feel Peeta nudge my foot. He never looks at me after doing it, but I peek at him from the corner of my eyes and see the small grin that he tries to suppress whenever I nudge him back.

I wonder if the gossip bothers him. Then I remember that Peeta has been the subject of gossip since he was born. Maybe he’s used to it. Or maybe it’s something you never get used to.

When class ends, Peeta slips me a piece of paper and winks before he heads out the door. I unfold it carefully, revealing a small sketch of a doe. Their graceful neck is stretched out, their face nearly hidden among flowers and long blades of grass. I sigh wistfully, anxious for the kinder months that Peeta replicates so skillfully in his art.

See you on Sunday.

I run my fingertips over the words he’s written until the classroom is empty. My stomach flips at the idea of seeing him once again on Sunday, no matter how cold it might be. I’m so giddy I don’t notice the look Mrs. Hubris is giving me until she clears her throat.

“Sorry,” I mutter, packing up my bag. She doesn’t say anything else, just raises her eyebrows at me until I leave the classroom. It’s hardly a wonder why she’s not many students’ favorite teacher. She can be so odd.

Madge shuts the book she’s reading when I approach our lunch table a few minutes later. “Hi, Katniss.”

“Hi,” I say. 

“Anyone else joining us today?”

I frown. We normally sit alone, so I’m confused. “Um, no. Why?”

“Oh, sorry, I forgot. Emmer is out today,” says Madge. My jaw drops slightly, shocked at her callousness. It takes me a moment to register the twinkle in her eyes. Madge is teasing me. I’m not used to having such camaraderie with her and I can tell she’s a little uncertain as to how I’ll take it, if I’ll let her joke around with me or if I’ll shut her down.

“Very funny,” I say dryly, though my lips tilt up to soften the words.

Madge relaxes and busies herself with her food. I do the same, and while nothing appears to have changed between us on the surface, the atmosphere feels lighter. Like we’ve passed a milestone in our relationship. Maybe it’s gone from familiar to friendly. Or maybe we’re closer than I previously thought; I’m not sure. I consider what it would mean to develop a real friendship with Madge. What would friends do?

“Prim is meeting with some classmates after school,” I tell Madge just before lunch ends. “Would you like to walk home together?”

Madge looks up with wide eyes. I’m beginning to wonder if I miscalculated when she says, “That would be nice.”

Walking home with Madge is very different than walking with Prim. My little sister never stops talking. With Madge, it’s like an extension of lunch. We don’t speak unless it is necessary, but the silent companionship is nice. When we reach the edge of the dirt road into town, Madge stops me with a gloved hand to my arm.

“Thanks, Katniss.”

She looks so sincere in her gratitude that I feel a little guilty. She’s an only child and I don’t think she has much company. It must get lonely. What would friends do?

“You’re welcome to walk with me any time. Prim would love it, too.”

Madge blinks, then slowly beams at me. “That sounds wonderful. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With a quick goodbye, we split up. I’m sure Prim will be over the moon to have Madge join us on our walks. And she’ll be pleased to see the expansion in my social circle. 

I get to the apothecary a few minutes ahead of schedule and glance around for any sign of life, but the store is empty. I shuck off my coat and place my bag on one of the hooks near the front door. My shift technically starts once I return from school, so I move to grab a rag and wipe down the wood. It’s the easiest thing to do and makes me look busier than I am. 

As I round the corner of the counter, I hear murmuring coming from the private patient room. My mother must be in there. I really hope it isn’t one of those intense cases where she requires help. If it is, I might just have to run down to Prim’s friend’s house and drag her back here. 

I walk silently to the door and try to listen in on what is being said. It’s nearly impossible to catch everything, especially since whoever she’s with is speaking in a low tone. 

“Stomach… trying… worried… boys… better,” says the deeper voice. 

“Order… maybe…” says my mother. 

I don’t understand most of what is said, but I make out the owner of the deeper voice after a few minutes. It’s the baker. From what I am able to hear, it sounds like they’re discussing his wife. I’m not familiar with her medical condition but I know it’s something that can only be managed, not cured. The baker comes to the apothecary every so often to grab her medicine. Sometimes, like now, my mother will take him to the private patient room and they’ll discuss her treatment. Prim and I are never included in those conversations. 

They finish up and head towards the door of the room. I rush behind the counter, grateful no customers interrupted my eavesdropping, and begin to wipe invisible dust. 

“Katniss!” My mother is clearly surprised by my presence. She glances over at the clock and gasps. “Oh, look at the time. You’d better get back over to the bakery, Danny. I hope Emmer feels better.”

“Thank you,” says the baker. He has bags under his eyes and walks through the apothecary with slumped shoulders. “Good to see you, Katniss. Take care.”

Once he’s gone, my mother says, “Poor man.” I wait for her to continue. She doesn’t. She just grabs a notepad and begins to take stock of our inventory.

“Oh, Katniss, did you replenish the herbs? When did you get a chance to do that?” 

I’m glad I’m not facing her because my expression would surely give me away. “I just made a good trade. Right after school. That’s all.”

She pauses in her scribbling and I can feel her eyes boring into the back of my head, but all she says is, “Thank you.” 

I picture Peeta moving beyond the invisible barrier I created after my father’s death to find those herbs. My mother never begrudges that I can’t seem to go too deep into the woods but I know those herbs are ones she regularly uses. I try to picture myself stepping over that boundary. It doesn’t work. The anxiety I feel any time I approach it begins to heat up my chest and neck until my cheeks are on fire, and I’m not even anywhere near the woods! 

It’s all in my head. So why can’t I seem to get over it? I’m missing out on so much. There’s a lake out there with an old concrete house at its edge. It’s a long walk from the fence, but my father never minded. He took me there often, especially during the summer months, and taught me how to swim. I could go there now. Swim, fish, gather katniss roots when the time is right. But I can’t. I haven’t returned there since his death. I long for it, though. When it grows unbearably hot and the streams closer to the fence have dried up. When I know the katniss are ready to be eaten. When I miss him terribly.

I wonder if anyone else knows about that place or if it is my secret. I have a crazy thought that maybe Peeta would like it. I have an even crazier thought that maybe I’d like to show it to Peeta personally, not just direct him there. Maybe I’d hunt waterfowl while Peeta collects their eggs. Maybe we’d find that giant patch of blackberries and have a feast. Maybe we’d go for a swim, although it’s likely Peeta doesn’t know how. Maybe I’d teach him. Maybe he’d go shirtless and I’d watch as the sun kisses his bare shoulders and the drops of water from the lake slide down his chest and his muscles ripple underneath the surface and-

I swallow too quickly and accidentally inhale saliva, causing a long, loud coughing fit that concerns my mother. She hurries over to my spot behind the counter and pats my back gently. Normally I’d shrug her off, but my eyes are watering so excessively I can’t do anything but focus on trying to breathe. It takes a minute or so before air travels into my lungs without difficulty. 

“Are you alright?”

“Went down the wrong pipe,” I rasp, waving my hand with feigned nonchalance. “I’m fine.”

Where did those thoughts come from? Yes, taking Peeta to the lake would be nice. It won’t happen, though, so I might as well not even entertain the idea. I refuse to think any more!

Luckily, my mother keeps me busy well into the evening and throughout the entirety of Saturday. I don’t have any time for fanciful thoughts. For the most part. At night, it’s admittedly difficult to think of anything else but Peeta. Only because I wonder what he’s painting for Haymitch and what baked goods he’ll bring me. 

I wake early on Sunday with anticipation rising in my chest. It feels a bit silly to be so excited. After all, I last saw Peeta on Friday. It’s not like I’m starved for his company. But fleeting glances and short whispered words in school aren’t the same thing as spending an entire morning alone with him. It sounds so scandalous to say. If anyone else heard what we’re doing, I know what they’d assume. That’s one reason I like to keep our friendship quiet. It’s ours and ours alone. No outsider speculation. 

I dress in heavy layers, though I try to ensure those layers aren’t dingy or ugly. Peeta always looks nice. I can make an effort with my appearance, too. I have to run down the stairs for all of my outerwear. My mother and Prim are still sleeping, but they know I plan on heading to the woods today. Only Prim knows the actual reason. My mother isn't usually around when I get back, anyway, so she won’t notice that I don’t have any game weighing my bag down. Even if she did, I’m sure she’d assume it’s because I traded before arriving home. It’s easy to deceive someone when they don’t pay much attention to your comings and goings.

I quickly heat some water for our tea, making sure not to add any sugar to the tumbler. Once that’s ready, I lace up my boots and throw on my coat. It’s methodical, a routine I’d grown accustomed to. I’m glad to get back into it. 

It snowed last night. I hadn’t expected the heavy white dusting across the district, but my boots are made to withstand such elements. And it could be worse. There isn’t any biting wind or freezing precipitation. With the sun out like it is, a lot of the snow will probably be gone soon. The thought cheers me. My least favorite condition is ice, which makes walking anywhere dangerous. For now, I just have to deal with the crunch of fresh snow under my feet.

The closer I get to the fence, the quicker my heart rate grows. Must be from my fast pace. I slow down a little, but once I see Peeta’s golden head, I can’t stop my feet from speeding towards him. A part of me worried he might not show today, that he might still be mad. It was irrational, I realize, but it makes his presence now all the sweeter. When he catches sight of me, he smiles and waves shyly. I smile in return, so widely it almost hurts my cheeks. 

“Hi!” I say a little too loud. He chuckles, making clouds appear from his lips.

“Good morning,” he says. We stand in front of one another, awkwardly shifting on our feet before he motions to the fence. “Are you ready?”

The woods are picturesque this morning. Everything is perfectly untouched, the white snow sparkling in the early morning sun. In the distance, I can see the snow-capped mountains framed against the colors of the sunrise. I don’t know how anyone could resist the woods on a day like this. I could take in the view for hours.

We head to our usual spot and shuffle snow around to set up our blanket. Peeta lays out his latest creation, something called a brownie. It’s a small brown square with a shiny top and a gooey middle. I’m salivating by the time he hands one over.

“We don’t usually have so much cocoa powder that we can make them, but my dad says they somehow ended up with double in their last shipment. They didn’t even make him pay for it! Just said he could keep it. He dug out this recipe from the old family book since he has so much right now. I’ll have to do some calculations, maybe if he lets me play around a bit and chocolate isn’t so expensive, but it could be possible not to need the cocoa powder to make the brownies. I guess it depends on- Katniss?”

I pause, one of my fingers still in my mouth. I ingested the entire brownie by the time Peeta brought up the family recipe book and I spent the rest of his tirade trying to get each and every leftover crumb onto my tongue. I must look completely ridiculous. I pull my finger from between my lips as gracefully as I can and wipe my hands on my coat.

“That was pretty good,” I say, attempting to sound casual. I lean back on the heels of my hands, then my elbow, then back up on my hands. Once I’ve settled in the most indifferent pose I can manage, I glance back at Peeta. His mouth is slightly open, his cheeks pinker than I’ve ever seen them. He must be disgusted with me. What happened to the manners my mother tried so hard to instill in me? Ugh. I let out a deep breath and push my upper body up, placing my head in my hands. 

“I’m sorry,” I groan. “That was so gross, wasn’t it?”

It takes a moment for Peeta to respond, his voice a little higher than usual. “Gross? What are you talking about?”

“The way I was eating the brownie. It was gross, right?”

“Katniss.” Now his voice sounds normal. “I’ve seen you eat a hot cheese bun with your mouth half-open the entire time because you didn’t want to wait for it to cool down. You had strings of cheese hanging from your chin. That was definitely worse than this.”

My head snaps up and I scowl at him. “I was hungry! It was breakfast time!”

“I just didn’t expect you to like the brownie so much. That’s all,” says Peeta. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Well, I did,” I say. “You should definitely try to make those more often.”

Peeta throws his head back and laughs. “You say that about everything I make.”

“Try making something bad, then!”

Then we’re both laughing. It’s the kind that makes your belly hurt after a while, but we keep setting each other off. I think I’ve never laughed so much in my life. Being around Peeta seems to do that to me. I just feel so comfortable with him. And it’s never forced. I wonder if he feels the same way.

Our laughter eventually fades, mostly because the chill in the air is burning our throats. I swallow hard and sigh when I feel no relief. “I hate winter.”

Peeta glances at me sideways. “Why?”

“The cold. It makes everything harder. Hunting, walking. Breathing.”

“Living,” he mutters, so low I almost miss it. His features are neutral but I can see the darkness in his eyes. How terrible it must be to live in the Seam during the harshest months. To see people slowly starve and freeze to death. To be unable to help because it is hard enough to take care of yourself and your loved ones. Winter isn’t kind in town; I can only imagine how much worse it is in the poorer side of the district. He doesn’t go into detail. I don’t push him.

“There are some nice things about winter,” he says, surprising me. “It makes drinking hot tea feel cozier than in the other seasons. When the snow is fresh and the sun is out like today, everything is dazzling, surreal. Like you’re living in a work of art. And I appreciate the warmer weather more because I experience the cold. Things like that.”

I tilt my face towards the sun, taking in his words. How does he do that? Find the positive in any situation? 

“But I don’t much like winter either. I think fall might be the best season.”

“No way!” I exclaim. “Spring is the best.”

Peeta hums. “What makes you say that?”

“Everything comes back to life. It’s like a rebirth or something. It makes me feel…I don’t know. Hopeful. Like better days have arrived, and there is more to come.”

“That’s very poetic. It makes my reason for liking fall seem so superficial.” Peeta grins. “I like the colors of fall.”

I giggle. “That is incredibly superficial. And ridiculous. And makes sense coming from you.”

Peeta gasps dramatically, placing one hand on his chest. “Excuse me? Whatever do you mean?”

“I think you know.”

“Woah,” says Peeta, his expression concerned as he points behind me. “What is that?”

I scramble up and turn to look in that direction, but I don’t see anything. “What are you talking ab-”

A loud thump against the back of my coat interrupts me. I have so many layers on I couldn't feel what it was, but I have a good idea.

“Peeta Mellark,” I growl, facing him. “Did you just throw a snowball at me?”

He whistles innocently and glances around, looking at anything and everything but me. His nonchalance doesn’t fool me for a second. As quickly as I can manage, I bend down and scoop up a fistful of snow. He tries to match my pace but it doesn’t work. I lob a snowball at him, hitting right in the middle of his chest. 

“Oh,” he says. “It’s on!”

We become consumed by our snowball fight. Peeta has surprisingly good aim, but I’m faster than him. I use the lower branches of sturdy trees to my advantage and hide just out of range. It surprises him every time I drop snow right on top of his head. He gets this goofy look on his face and tosses snowballs between the branches, which makes me squeal as I try to avoid the mass pelting. 

I can’t remember the last time I felt like a child. Here in the woods with Peeta, dodging snowballs and climbing trees, I revert back to the carefree Katniss I must’ve once been. Melted snow drips down the apples of my cheeks and the cold air makes my teeth ache and I’m not sure how much more my gloves can handle, but I’m having so much fun I can’t make myself care.

The battle doesn’t end until I surprise Peeta by hopping on his back and crushing snow onto his hat.

“I surrender!” he yelps. I slide down and raise my arms in victory.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” I say.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. His eyes are twinkling and his cheeks are pink and his curls are plastered to his forehead, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him look so alive. 

And cold.

I quickly grow worried. If he doesn’t have a fire at his house or warm water to return his body temperature to normal, he could get frostbite.

“You need to warm up,” I say urgently. “We should head out.”

His dimple pops out as he smiles down at me. “Yes, Dr. Everdeen.”

I can’t help myself. I poke his dimple lightly before heading back to our spot. We’d abandoned our bags in the midst of the snowball fight, and I briefly wonder if he had any art to share with me today, but I decide his health is more important than stealing a few more minutes with him. I rush him to the fence as I give him instructions on avoiding frostbite.

“Katniss,” he says, grabbing my shoulders just before we part. “I will be okay. You don’t need to worry.”

I chew on my lip anxiously. “Okay. Promise?”

He spits into his gloved hand and holds it out to me. I roll my eyes but mimic his movements. We hold onto one another for a moment longer, and then I force him to get going.

“Warm water,” I call to him. “Remember!”

“Yes, Dr. Everdeen!” He waves me off. 

I turn back only once to see if he’s gone. We must’ve made the same move at the same time because his body isn’t facing me any longer, but his head is turned in my direction. I flush and motion for him to go on, something that makes him laugh.

“Wow!” says Prim the second I walk into the apothecary. “You look like you went for a swim in the snow.”

I make a face at her and strip off my damp outwear. “Very funny.”

“I take it you didn’t go for a snow swim alone?”

“I’m going to take a bath,” I say casually. Prim looks unsatisfied until I give her a grin, which makes her squeal.

“Okay! No rush.”

I pad upstairs and prepare the tub, wondering if Peeta is able to do the same. I know I promised him I wouldn’t worry, but that seems an impossible request. Peeta is more than capable of caring for himself. I know that. And he clearly has other people looking out for him. Gale, at the very least. I just have to keep reminding myself. He’ll be okay.

I slide into the tub, relishing the feeling of warm water cascading over my frozen limbs. I think back to what Peeta said earlier, about how hot tea is so much cozier in the winter. How the cold weather helps you appreciate the nicer seasons more. As I drop my head beneath the surface of the bath, I think of the better days ahead. And of recent days I’ve experienced and how they’ve been some of the best I ever had.

Maybe winter isn’t so bad, after all.