Chapter Text
The smell of burning bread alerts his brain that something’s wrong before he’s even fully awake. His stomach curls as he sits up and breathes deeply. Peeta knows the type of bread that’s burning just by the scent and the texture of the air. Sourdough biscuits… and baguettes.
He throws off the covers and slips silent from the tiny room on the top floor and down the stairs. The door to one of his brother’s rooms is half open. Nickel is asleep on his bed. A flour covered apron still tied around his waist.
But there’s no time to admonish him for his carelessness now. “Nickel—“ Peeta whispers harshly, but leaves and dashes down the last flight of stairs. There’s no time. She’ll be back any minute.
Without hesitation, he’s slipping on mitts and yanking out blistering hot trays with now scorched bread.
He drops them on the metal cooling racks and starts grabbing the burnt biscuits to get rid of the evidence. Tossing a few to the pig who squeals at them because they’re still too hot to consume. Then he leaves the door open and grabs a flat metal cookie sheet to start batting away the smoky air.
He’s just gotten the majority cleared when the front door to the bakery opens and closes. Panic floods him as he grabs the rest of the scorched bread and tries to figure out the best way to hide it.
But that’s where she catches him.
“Peeta Mellark—“ his mom hisses. “What in the name of Panem have you done!”
He sets the hot trays down and says nothing. Speaking will not win any fights. He knows this all too well by now.
His mother is still glaring at him, when Nickel appears at the top of the stairs, hair mused from waking suddenly and face flushed.
Her eyes flit to Nickel and his askew apron. “Weren’t you on shift this morning?”
His brother, not even two years his senior, stands staring at the burnt bread in guilt and fear.
“I switched with him this morning,” Peeta says quickly. He doesn’t know why. Why he feels the need, the crushing desire to protect him. He’s older. Nickel should be protecting him. But something grips his insides and makes it impossible for Peeta to let him take the blame. Even if it’s rightly deserved.
Their mother is no fool. She eyes Peeta, in my bed clothes, and his brother in his shop uniform and apron. “Is that true?” She asks Nickel. “Did Peeta burn the bread this morning?”
He looks at him and wonders, if just this once… Nickel will stand up to her. But he looks down at his feet instead and nods.
And even though he offered, even though he volunteered the lie, Peeta is somehow still disappointed he took him up on it.
“Come here.”
Peeta walks over and turns his back to her, knowing what’s to come. Their mother has already removed a large metal stirring spoon from the hook that holds them and he hears the sound of it whistling through the air before — thwackI
The metal stings the back of his right arm. He goes rigid, and hears it raise again. Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack.
Two on each arm and one on the back of the neck.
“Remake them. Before you leave for school. And with how much you burned, you’ll be out of lunches for almost a week. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Peeta keeps any emotion out of his voice. Crying, pleading, anger, or even joy are useless on his mother. As a child, he remembered thinking something was wrong with his mother. She didn’t laugh or sing or play like he saw most other town moms, she only yelled or hit or seethed. He’d asked his father if she was broken once and he’d just smiled sadly and said that “our way of life had a way of doing that to people”. To a 6 year old that didn’t make a lot of sense.
He understood it better now, but not fully. No one would admit it, but… there was something wrong with her. And Peeta knew he just had to grow up and get out. That was the goal. Enough money to rent a room from someone else, anyone else. He wanted to work in the bakery… but would be willing to work for the mines if it meant getting out of this house.
His eldest brother, Brio, had left the day after he’d hit 18. He’s been working at the factory fixing machines and coal processing equipment. But soon he fell into gambling and had to move back home. Now he works nights clearing caves in mine shafts.
Peeta knows what he’d find if he walked into his room right now. He’d be dead asleep, three empty liquor bottles sitting on the wooden nightstand with the wobbly leg, and a pile of papers, listing who he owes what debt to and when.
That won’t be him.
Once he gets out, he’s staying out.
He can already feel bruises forming which infuriates him but he says nothing. It’s hot, almost summer, and wearing a long sleeved shirt means being miserable all day.
And— he groans —wrestling practice. The look the coach gives him when he comes in with bruises... But it can’t be helped. No one is going to do anything about it anyways. It’s just another day in the Mellark household.
Nickel slides back up the stairs without a word and Peeta gets to work. He’s going to be late for school. There’s no doubt about that. But if he doesn’t do as she asks, worse consequences will arise. So he grabs the already proofed dough and starts weighing.
After forming the baguettes, he cuts out the biscuits and gets them into the oven.
“I’ll take it from here,” his dad says softly, resting a hand on my shoulder. The rest of the shop is ready for the day and he’s very late for school, so he nods his appreciation and heads up to his room to change.
Attendance is technically required in District 12 for children ages 7-17. But they’re not super strict about it. Kids are missing all the time, for a myriad of reasons. So when he passes through the dilapidated doors and into the dimly lit hallway, no one stops and asks him where he’s been.
No one cares.
Peeta spots a student or two moving from one place to another as he heads to his history class. It’s where they learn how amazing the capitol is and how evil the districts are. Good stuff to know, you know, in case he ever doubted this incredibly obvious fact. The evil districts just starve and work to the bone for the hell of it. That will teach those poor capitol innocents.
Peeta reins in the biting sarcastic tone in my mind and takes a deep breath. There is no point in getting himself riled up. He’d do what he did in every class, half pay attention and half practice his sketches. If he dreamt hard enough, maybe he could make a living doing what he really wanted to. But it’s just that. A dream. A pipe one if he’s honest. No one in District 12 can afford to spare precious coins on drawings and paintings. His biggest dream is considered frivolous just about everywhere.
Rounding the last corner to get to the classroom, Peeta spots a tall guy pressing a girl against the wall where there used to be lockers but now just hosts empty metal spaces. Students weren’t allowed to hide things from the school.
He knows the guy. Everyone knows the guy. Gale Hawthorne. Almost “graduated” and way too cool to be caught dead paying attention in class. The girl is giggling and he kisses her once, twice, a third time.
Peeta looks away as Gale looks over. He continues walking past, ignoring the two and Gale goes back to paying attention to the giggling girl.
People know Gale for a lot of reasons. Girls know him because he’s apparently suave and charming. They like him for his looks and boldness. Guys admire him for his bravery in hunting outside the fence. It’s an open secret. Peeta’s eaten many a kill from him and—
And her.
The girl who used to have two braids and now just has one. The girl with the singing voice and the little sister that Peeta’s relatively familiar with.
Gale’s best friends with her. They hunt and fish and do everything together. Peeta’d think they were together except Gale’s kissing some other girl right now. But what does he know?
The thought plants a root of hope he’d be better off ripping out and burning. And yet he lets it grow in his chest like he has since that fateful day all those years ago.
He’s never told anyone. Not his brothers, not his friends, definitely not his mom and not even his dad. No one knows about the object of his fascination except him and his sketchbooks. Which are carefully hidden in a bag that’s tied to the bands that hold up my mattress.
They’ve never spoken a word to each other. He doesn’t even know if she remembers that day in the rain a few years back. But he hasn’t forgotten. Not the drawn skinny face. Not the rain soaked braid or the muddy baby clothes gripped in her hands.
Burning the bread that day was not even a hesitation. He’d just turned 13 and knew it would equal consequences. That had been a lean year and every loaf was precious.
But never did he regret those two burnt loaves tossed into the rain in her general direction. He didn’t regret them for the beating he got or the subsequent ones.
Peeta only regretted not walking them out to her. He should have handed them to her.
But when his back was to his ma, a hot ladle being slapped between his shoulder blades as punishment, he’d watched her stuff those loaves into her shirt and race away.
And he’d smiled.
—————————-
“Hold that core.“ Peeta does as he’s told, holding his muscles taught as he’s crouched, ready to spring.
The whistle blows and they begin to circle. Nickel’s eyes are narrowed, watching him, but there’s no fear in Peeta’s gut. He studies his brother with an even gaze.
When Nickel moves Peeta adjusts, throwing him off before twisting and grasping his arms, yanking him down to the ground and pinning him there.
One, two, three— Nickel’s palm slams against the mat and Peeta releases, standing and stepping away.
Nickel glares up at him, and he looks away. I shouldn’t have let my temper get the best of me. Peeta thinks.
It was a replay of the wrestling competition just a few months back. Except this time Peeta didn’t play it easy like coach had asked him to. Maybe he’s not so unaffected by Nickel not stepping up this morning.
“Mellark!” They both turn and the coach points to Peeta. “Grab the weights and rerack.”
He moves, annoyance growing in his chest. He shouldn’t have done that. It was petty and a pitiful show of his pride being pierced. Nickel is throwing daggers with his stare and he ignores it as he lifts the 25, 50, 75, and 100lb weights back onto the racks. Let him think what he wants. Maybe he let Nickel win back then, maybe he didn’t. Who cares. Nickel’ll be finished with school in just a few weeks and it won’t matter. He’ll have another year to wrestle and not be told to “go easy” on those he could beat.
————————————
When school lets out for the summer, most of his town friends get to enjoy their days off. But Peeta is stuck sweltering by the hot ovens. Batch after batch. Mostly drop biscuits and cheap items that everyone in District 12 can afford.
It is monotonous but he doesn’t really mind. He does get to pocket a few coins here or there when they have a really good day.
His favorite part of working in the bakery is when they get a cake order. It’s rare, but it means he gets to spend hours frosting in the side room that has a fan blowing constantly. Sometimes his father will even splurge for a bowl of ice and place that in front of the fan to simulate air conditioning. No one in his family can frost the way I can. Artistry is one thing of his that no one can touch. Ever since he was a kid, colors, letters, and shapes just made sense to him. It’s his designated responsibility whenever they do get a cake or special event order.
On cooler days, when the sun won’t melt it, and when they have the sugar to spare, his father will allow him to frost something to display. It catches eyes and usually gets someone to drop in the shop. They can’t afford it, of course. Barely anyone can, that’s why sometimes the cakes are fake, just little wooden rounds stacked and frosted, but those who are drawn in by the display sometimes end up spending a coin on something cheaper.
Blond hair similar to his catches his eye out the front window. He leans over the wooden slab and try to see if-- he grins. It is.
Primrose Everdeen. The youngest of the two sisters. Peeta walks forward and catches her eye. She smiles and waves, pointing enthusiastically to the designs he cut into the tops of the loaves of bread. His mother says it’s a waste of time. He says it gives people something extra. Something beautiful out of something needed. Thankfully it doesn't cost anything to do or she’d have his hide over it.
Since he can’t always have a pretty cake to display. Designed bread crusts are his other specialty.
He smiles back at the girl, nodding his head in thanks.
“Any cakes?” She asks hopefully, stepping past the display glass and to the open door, her goat playfully nipping at her threadbare dress.
Peeta wrinkles his nose in apology. “Sorry, not today. But usually after Reaping Day we get an order or two.”
The girl matches my grimaces but nods. “Right. Well, these are beautiful too.” She points to the bread and he can almost hear the saliva in the statement. Fresh hot bread is a luxury most can’t afford.
Even his family. Just yesterday he’d cut off a moldy section before toasting it to have.
“You’re one of the few who enjoy the beauty in them,” Peeta admits. “Most just see bread.”
“Then they’re missing out,” she responds with a quick wit and a smile, pulling the lead on her goat to keep it from nibbling at the edge of the door. She waves and is about to disappear, probably collecting empty bottles from customers who’ve purchased her goat’s milk when he opens his mouth to call her back.
A loaf. A single loaf. He’s spared two before. He could-- The back door opens and he hears his mother complaining about something.
He shuts his mouth and gets back to work.
___________________________
The comb glides smoothly through his hair. The sun is intermittently shining through the clouds, making his small room grow warm and cold in alternating fashion. The blue shirt is Nickel’s, but it doesn’t fit him anymore. So it was Peeta’s now.
His nicest pants, shoes that have been shined, and belt that’s been carefully repaired. It’s stupid to dress up for Reaping Day.
It’s required.
Everything is required for everyone today. It’s the one day Brio will wake up on time and get dressed. Its the one day his mom is quiet and reserved.
The town people move like cattle into the main square. Those from the Seam filter in, dressed in their best and looking shifty eyed at the Peacekeepers they pass.
Peeta remembers getting his finger pricked at 12 and thinking it was nothing. Other town kids his age had cried. But by that point both the burns from baking and the beatings from his mother meant that any low register pain was unnoticed.
His bloody fingerprint stays neatly in its box and he moves to his row. Listern Messen is to his left and Deven Moriller is to his right. They all nod quietly in acknowledgement and say nothing. Both are Seam kids. Both are skinnier than a fence pole. When he was 13 he’d snuck them drop biscuits and they’d looked at him like a saint.
He did the same thing the next year and the next. Except someone must have snitched that third year because Peacekeepers had come over and made them turn out their pockets. When the bread was discovered, the Peacekeepers accused them of stealing and Peeta had argued back that he worked at the bakery and given them to them.
Well, apparently sharing food was illegal because the keeper had smashed them into the ground with his big ugly boot and he’d received a verbal warning not to do it again.
Then he’d gotten a beating from his mom for causing a ruckus on Reaping day and for stealing bread.
They don’t ask for biscuits today. He doesn’t have them anyway. If he saw them at school… maybe he’d try. But he never does. Maybe they’re in different classes or maybe they skip. He doesn’t know.
His eyes search the girls section for her. It’s more habit than it is intentional. But he doesn’t see her signature braid among the girls. Maybe she’s running late.
“Welcome, welcome—“
_________________________
“Ladies first!” Effie Trinkett says enthusiastically. Peeta and everyone else holds their breath. It’s not even the boy’s turn yet and he already feels the loss. District 12 aren’t winners. Haven’t been for 25 years. So whoever gets chosen… their odds are slim and usually none.
“Primrose Everdeen!”
His heart lurches. No. Not her! His head jilts to the side to see a blond head, hair braided carefully, move slowly through the lines of girls.
Everyone was tense. A 17 year old going was sad, but at least they had some skills. A 12 year old going was almost always a brutal death sentence.
Not her… Peeta’s mind races. Murmurs raise through the crowd and while he can’t make out words he can make out the sentiment.
Will her sister volunteer? The whole district knows how protective Katniss Everdeen is over her little sister. Willing to risk death by treason just to hunt to feed her.
And yet… His eyes scan again and come up empty. She can’t volunteer becuase… she’s not here.
That’s already a mark on her record in the Peacekeepers books. Was she sick maybe? Peeta’s heart aches as the small girl ascends the step and looks out to the crowd with a glazed stricken expression.
What does he do? What can he do? maybe he… Maybe he could—-
“Peeta Mellark!”
His name breaks him out of his thoughts and he glances about. Who called him? The two boys on either side of him look at him mournfully.
And it sinks in very quickly.
He hadn’t even gotten to finish his thought about volunteering. To decide whether he was brave enough.
He’s going anyway.
Unless— His eyes turn to the 17 year olds’ section and find Nickel.
But his brother has the same downcast expression he did all those mornings ago when Peeta had taken the fall for the bread.
“Did Peeta burn the bread this morning?”
Nickel doesn’t look up. And Peeta turns back to face the stage. No one has ever come to save him from his family and his family sure isn’t going to step in and save him now. The crowd parts as he shifts through it and numbly makes his way down the large center aisle and to the side of the stage where the stairs are.
“Your tributes!”
A cry goes up from the left and Peeta doesn't need to look to know a certain blonde healer from the Seam is going to pieces. Where is Katniss?
Prim’s hands are fisted into her dress and she’s got tears running down her face as she looks on at her mother.
And something in Peeta’s chest solidifies into anger. Anger at the capitol for this monstrous act of killing someone so young, so innocent and so deserving of a good life.
So he takes a deep breath as Effie ushers them into the City Hall.
He’s got one priority now. His own life is impossible to keep if he means to make it come true.
But he can give his life doing his best.
Getting Prim back home.
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