The Last Words
Summary: Peeta and his father say goodbye after Peeta is selected at the reaping. Just a small conversation between a father and a son.
Author's Note: I've said before how much I love Mr. Mellark, so here he is once again, in a much sadder state than he was for Like My Own. This story can be seen as a continuation of Like My Own (and I wrote it in that mindset), but it can be read completely stand-alone.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or the Mellark family. I did name Peeta's brothers, but I know Rhye is a popular name given in the fandom in general. And since the family seems to like bread-themed names, I named the other son "Nick". . . as in pumpernickel.
I urge my hands to be calm. I keep the clenched down by my side, where I hope they will not betray me with a quiver. My wife and oldest sons come out of the holding room. My wife's face is as stoic as ever, but pale and she suddenly looks very old to me. Rhye's shoulders are shaking slightly and I know, even if he'll never admit it, how much this will hurt him to lose his brother. Nick glances at the ground. He's a year older than Peeta, and this year was his last year of eligibility for the reaping. He avoids our eyes, and I know that he's feeling slightly guilty for not volunteering.
My son might not be as brave as the girl is, but they love their brother all the same. It's for the best, I think, that Nick didn't step forward and raise his hand. He can have a life now, a real life, without the cloud of the games hanging over hi every year. Perhaps he'll get married, take over the bakery, and have his own children.
I always thought Peeta would take over the family business.
No matter how much I may look at myself when I look at Peeta, I wouldn't wish for any of my sons to sacrifice themselves for each other. More than that, I wish they would never be in the position in which they would even have the opportunity to do so.
I could have gone in with them, of course, to say goodbye, but it's better to do it on my own. I know my sons accuse me of favoritism, even when they say it playfully, and this won't help. I hope, though, that they'll give me a pass today, considering the circumstances. It's not that Peeta is my favorite; it is that he is so like me that I know what I would want had I been selected at the reaping.
There's not a whole lot of time to say goodbye to begin with, and I'm wasting the last precious moments I will ever have with my son by trying to mentally prepare myself. I try to hold back the anxious twitches I feel and vow to put on a brave face. It is, after all, my son who is going to his death, not me. I square my shoulders and walk through those doors, afraid of what will come out.
I walk in and embrace my youngest son.
"Dad," He whispers, sounding much younger than his sixteen years.
"Shhh," I try and comfort, knowing it is no use. What comfort can you give someone who's just been picked to fight to the death while the whole world looks on, partially in agony and partially in gratitude that it's not them or their families?
I know the worst part, of course. Even more so than any other year, the girl tribute from District 12 just has to be Katniss Everdeen, the miner's daughter. I know Peeta tries to hide it, but he looks at her every time her and her little sister walk by the bakery, and I know about the burnt bread. He might have done it for anyone, but it was Katniss, and it makes it special.
I feel his grip on me tighten suddenly, and then he releases me completely. He steps back, still scared and frightened but also determined with a fierce, if yet kind, look in his eyes.
"You'll look after the family?" He asks. I nod and know he doesn't mean our own.
"I'm not coming back." He states. It's just a statement at this point, not yet a reality. Something we both know to be true, but not voiced. I know even if he does survive the arena, he, the Peeta I'm looking at now, will never be back.
But I don't think that will happen either, because it's clear my son has no notion that he'll ever see District 12, or myself again.
"I know, Peeta." The words sound so harsh, but they all I have: I know. It's not fair. This wasn't what I wanted for your life.
"I won't let them change me," This time his voice sounds harsh, unyielding. It's not a statement, it's a declaration, one of death, and I know this to be true as well.
I smile, though it's a sad smile, because I have no doubt of the truth of his words. I think of my son, not as he is now, scared and alone even as I'm with him, but as a child, growing. I think of his gentleness, his kindness, despite the world he's been born into. Despite how his mother treats him. I think of all this, and I know, that nothing could ever change my dear son.
"I know," I say, and once again he's a young boy, launched into my arms. His tears are silent this time, but they're there, and mine are too.
I know we don't have much longer left, and I know I still have one more stop to make before the train taking the two District 12 tributes away departs.
"Goodbye, Dad," He sobs. I know from here on, the Peeta I see on the screen will not be this son of mine, not completely. He'll be charming and witty and will make everyone like him, but it won't be just Peeta.
"I won't let them change me," He says again, grinding out the words. I know he's trying to convince himself, but he doesn't have to convince me. The strength and inherent will in his words could convince anyone of the truth he speaks.
"I love you, Peeta. This wasn't what I wanted for your life," I reply, finally verbalizing the confession that has been tumbling around in my head. I let go of his embrace once more and the guard beckons me. With no other choice available to me, I leave.
The guards close the door behind me, letting me see just one more glimpse of my son, gentle and frightened still, but more than anything, broken before he's even reached the arena. I vow, at this moment, to remember this, no matter how much it may hurt. I will remember my son's last words.