As things are now, this is intended to be a series of unconnected oneshots, all compliant with the three books. These things have either been mentioned or could have happened, but have not been fully explored or explained. They will all deal mainly with the relationship of parents and children.
If you have any ideas or characters that you would like me to write on, please let me know. I will take your suggestion into consideration, but please remember that I am only writing events that could have happened in Collins' world.
I do not own any characters or ideas relating to the Hunger Games series. These all belong to Suzanne Collins and her publishers.
The heat from the fires is comforting, and the smell of warm bread.
It's nice being inside on a day when nobody in the world would want to be outside. The rain falls steadily past the open door, just cold enough to make the kitchen comfortable instead of sweltering.
I'm grateful for the rain.
The rhythm of the bread in my hands is steady, mindless. Press, turn, fold. Press, turn, fold. I look out the window, lost in my thoughts and the steadiness of bread and rain.
A flicker at the corner of my vision. My breath catches. It's her.
Blushing, though nobody saw me looking, I turn back to the bread, placing it carefully in the pan and carrying it over to the warm pocket of air behind the door to rise. I'm so distracted that I almost trip, and my mother glares sharply.
"Sorry, Mother," I say, "It won't happen again."
She just presses her lips together and turns towards the counter again, though there have been few customers on a day like today. I try to tell myself that it is only this lack of business that is making my mother short tempered. I don't quite believe myself.
I reflour the counter and start on kneading a fresh piece of dough, gradually working up the courage to look out of the window again. I don't know why this requires such courage, since she'll never know, but it does. A quick glance up. Yes, she's still there. Another glance. She's… looking through the trash can?
Oh, no. Anything but that. I feel myself stop breathing, and my heart rate doubles. I look back down at the bread quickly, hoping my mother won't have noticed what attracted my gaze outside the window. Move, I feel like shouting, move, move, move…
It's too late. My mother turns to check our progress, my brothers and mine, catches sight of the girl outside of the window, and stalks off out the door. My hands stop moving of their own accord, and I follow her to the door, peering around her.
"Peeta?" My father's voice, soft and concerned. He looks out the window and bites his lip. He recognizes her, too, and I think it's painful for him. In another universe, she could have been his daughter. We can't hear what my mother's shouting, but it sounds vicious. "Why don't you take the bread out of the oven," he says softly, "I'll finish here."
I nod. I can't see out the window from the oven. I catch my eldest brother's eye as I take up the paddle. He presses his lips together and looks down, kneading his own bread much harder than necessary.
Mother comes back into the bakery, grumbling under her breath. I try not to think about how thin the girl outside looks, how desperate. How unnecessary it was for Mother to yell at her, for we all know very well the bins were just cleaned. I take up the paddle and slide it under the first loaf, spinning and placing it on the cooling rack. Another, another. This is what I love about the bakery. The repetition, the comforting routines.
"Peeta!" My mother screeches, "You're meant to be kneading!"
"I told him to tend the ovens," Father says in my defense. Still, my hands tremble. I hate being yelled at. I hate that my own mother hates me. I hate that I can't feed a starving girl. Unless…
A quick glance out the window shows that she's still there, collapsed under the tree. A glance into the oven. The only bread left is the two loaves at the very back, too close to the flames…
I reach the long handled paddle all the way to the back. It touches the first loaf, slides under it. After a slight moment of hesitation, I twitch the paddle. Instead of sliding the loaf out, I slide it back, into the open flames. I push the second one to meet it. Just for a moment, just long enough to scorch without destroying. I pull them out quickly, blackened and unusable. Except to somebody who is starving.
"You idiotic boy!" My mother yells, right in my ear. She snatches the paddle out of my hand, and I brace myself for the blow. It comes, a hard strike across the cheek with the handle. I hear buzzing in my ear, my vision swims. I clutch desperately for something solid, grasp the end of the table. Nobody moves.
"It's ruined!" She shouts finally, defending herself against my father's horrified look and shoving the loaves at me, "you've destroyed perfectly good bread!"
She shoves both loaves into my hands. They burn, but I barely notice. Still yielding the paddle, she swats me with it, driving me out into the rain to escape her blows.
"Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature!" She yells after me, "Why not? No one decent will buy burnt bread!"
I can feel her gaze on my back and I dare not move towards the girl. I stand at the trough, breaking off as little of the bread as I possibly can while removing the black bits.
Leave! I think desperately, Leave, mother, leave!
A tinkling. The bell. She's gone.
I risk a glance back. Sure enough, she no longer stands in the doorway.
Quickly, I lob one loaf of the bread towards the girl, then the other. Then I spin, rushing back to the bakery through the mud, closing the door firmly behind me. Another barrier between her and my mother.
My father and brothers look up when I come in. I'm freezing from the rain, but I don't mind. I feel triumphant.
I catch my father's eye, and he winks. My brothers both shoot me sly smiles.
They won't tell my mother. It's a secret agreement we've had for years, one that has saved us from a multitude of punishments. If it's not crucial for her to know, we don't tell my mother.
"Peeta," says my father, "Why don't you run a bath. You'll catch your death from that rain."
I do, trying not to think about the girl in the rain. The one that, though I've had no interaction with other than this, I know that I'm desperately in love with her.
I sigh. There is no hope for me. Everybody's in love with Katniss Everdeen.