Here it is, as promised. The sequel to Growing Together.

Growing Stronger!

Katniss and Peeta are going into the Games together... as a couple. What will this mean for our favorite tributes?

I hope you guys enjoy. :D

Disclaimer: Anthing you recognize, such as characters, I do not own. I don't own the images used in the cover, either, though I did put it together to make the overall cover image. So no suing, please. :) This disclaimer pretains to all the chapters in this story.

~Peeta POV~

The feeling hits me before I even open my eyes. The shiver of foreboding crawls up my spine, seeping through my skin. I don't need a single second to orient myself, because I know exactly where I am- and when. After all, that's all I've thought about for the past week. The past month, really. And, when your mind plagues you with nightmares about what may or may not happen to you the next day, it takes no time at all to know what day it is when you wake up.

Today is the day of the reaping.

When I do open my eyes, I glance over at the bed beside the wall opposite me, but I don't need to. Rye never gets up later than dawn, especially on reaping day. One year, he rose three hours before the sun, when the stars were still glittering in the sky. Not me. I figure, every hour spent asleep is an hour spent not agonizing over what this year's Games will bring. That is, if you can evade the nightmares. This year, I managed to sleep an extra hour or two after sunrise, judging by the quality of light filtering through the curtains.

I throw on normal working clothes- the reaping is at two, so there's no sense getting dressed up before then- and descend the stairs. My father greets me with a tight smile and pushes forward a plate of last week's pastries. I brighten at this. They may be stale, but we rarely ever get to eat anything as expensive as pastries. They sell so fast that they don't usually go stale, and so we're left to eat tough loaves of sourdough bread and crumbling muffins for breakfast. But today is special, as no one in Twelve- in any district- is likely to forget.

I accompany one of the pastries with a lukewarm cup of tea that Rye must have set out at least an hour ago, and then pull on an apron and go straight to the ovens. Even today, there's work to do. Especially today. Families will be coming in later in the afternoon and evening, to celebrate one more year of safety. The evening meal on reaping day is tradition, by now, and so is the accompanying dessert. Merchant families almost always buy a couple cupcakes, or a tart, or sometimes even a cake. Thankfully, cakes happen to be my specialty. Decorating them is almost like painting. I console myself with this as I stand over the counter with a frosting tube, shaping violet petals on an ivory icing base. It's not quite as good as having real paints, but it's better than charcoal pencils, which invariably crumble or leave smears on paper.

There's a knock on the back door, and I look up hopefully. There's a good chance it's Katniss, stopping by to trade with my father. And if it is, I can snag her before she leaves and steal a kiss. For good luck. But it's not Katniss, it's Gale. He talks quietly with my father, casting a glance over his shoulder before they start to discuss the trade. He leaves with a loaf of light bread tucked under his arm, and my father slips off to place the squirrel he recieved somewhere my mother won't find it. I have a feeling that lunch will be squirrel meat in a stew, or maybe just cooked and lightly seasoned- none of our stomachs can handle anything heavy right now.

The morning crawls by slowly, as it always does on this day. I spend the time in the back, kneading next to my brothers, and behind the counter. Customers are minimal, most only buying what they need for lunch. After all, why waste money on food you might be there to eat? Better to wait until after the reaping, when you know your whole family will be at home and safe. The mayor seems to have no such concern. He strides in around noon, his daughter, Madge, trailing after him. Madge wears a dainty, white dress with lace sleeves, and a shiny, pink ribbon holds her hair back in a side-ponytail. She keeps her eyes downcast, as if she's uncomfortable, and I can see why. Her father makes a point of walking straight to the cakes in the front of the shop, examining the prices for the most expensive one and pointing it out with a flourish. My mother, suddenly all smiles and little, bobbing curtseys and friendly handshakes, rushes about with fabricated zeal to personally lift it off the shelf and box it up, adding a handwritten note to the top.

As soon as the mayor leaves, hefting the white cake box and calling for Madge to follow, my mother looks to me. "Was that one of yours?" she asks sharply. Now that the most powerful man in District Twelve is gone, her smile had disappeared entirely, leaving no hint that it was ever there in the first place.

"Yes, Ma'am," I answer.

She counts out the coins slowly, making sure to touch each one before placing it in its pile. I wait silently for her verdict. At last she sorts the coins into the cash register on the counter, seeming pleased with the amount. Then she looks up at me, gives a single nod of approval, and vanishes into the back once again. I suppose that's her way of saying, "Good job." Or maybe just, "Not as bad as usual." Either way, I escaped a lecture about working hard to contribute to the family's earnings. That's one more small thing to cheer me up.

It's been this way since I was small. Maybe seven or eight. Be useful to the family, make money, and don't get in the way. If you don't, you've earned yourself a cuff on the ear and a tongue-lashing. Since the time I grew taller than her, that rule has been edited to exclude the strike (usually), but that just means her rants are longer and more vehement.

It's one o'clock. In sixty minutes, I will be standing in the square. The thought makes my stomach churn, but I force down lunch anyway. Going with an empty stomach will just make it harder. Rye shares my drawn, pale face, but Sand seems unconcerned. He already attended his last reaping. He's done. I envy him.

At one thirty we put on our reaping clothes. I wear one of Sand's old outfits, since he doesn't have to dress nicely. It's just a crisply ironed pair of trousers and a nice button-up shirt, paired with a clean pair of shoes, but still much nicer than the clothes I usually wear. My mother combs and shapes my hair with gel and an unnecessary amount of force. Rye dresses in an almost identical outfit, complete with gelled-back hair. We could be twins, if he wasn't an inch taller than me and wider in the shoulders. We exchange small, tense smiles.

At one forty five, we leave the bakery. The crowd of people we join as we trudge towards the square gives the streets an ominous feel. So many bodies in one place, so many people, should make a lot of noise. But the only sound is the tramp of feet. As we near the square, we hear a very faint buzzing from the cameras stationed on roofs and the earpieces that the Peacekeepers wear. It's barely audible, but it worms its way into my skull like a siren, triggering a headache that builds in my temples. I distract myself by looking for Katniss. She would be coming from the other side of the square, but we all have to sign in at the same place. Rye and I get in line while our parents and Sand go to stand along the edge of the square, to watch, as is the rule. Everyone watches the reaping in person, unless it's too crowded to fit into the square, and then, you watch on televisions from side streets. Even if you were somehow allowed to stay home with a serious illness, you'd have to watch it later in the recaps. There's no escaping it.

I spot Katniss just as I'm getting signed in by the nearest Peacekeeper. She's with Prim, of course, but I barely recognize the blonde braids of her little sister before I'm completely focused on Katniss herself. She looks beautiful. The first thing I notice about her is her dress, which is a rich, sky blue. It falls just below her knees, and the collar dips down slightly in the front, forming a shallow V. The next thing I notice is her hair, which has been coiled elegantly into a braided knot against her head. She doesn't see me, but she cranes her neck and gazes into the crowd, as if she's searching for something. She leads Prim through the line and they both sign in. Meanwhile, I'm fighting through the crowd, trying to reach them. I want to see Katniss up close, kiss her, tell her it's going to be okay, before Effie Trinket reaches into the reaping bowl. But then Katniss leaves Prim in the area marked for twelve-year-olds and slips off into the crowd, and I lose sight of her.

Rye has already gone to stand with his own age group, and I decide it's as good a plan as any. Katniss will be with the sixteens, anyway. I find my way to the square of roped-off pavement designated for sixteen-year-olds and scan the sea of mixed light and dark heads for Katniss's dark, chocolaty, almost-black one. I can't find her. I'm just about to start moving, because she might be closer to the center, when the clock strikes two and the mayor steps forward to start his speech. The crowd settles and fixes its gaze on him grimly, readying itself to, once again, hear the story of Panem, the mighty Capitol surrounded by thirteen- now twelve- districts. Most of us have it almost memorized by now. I see one boy mouth along sarcastically as the Mayor finishes with, "It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks."

He then reads the laughably short list of past District Twelve victors. As he finishes, the last living victor Twelve has seen appears in a cloud of curses and alcohol fumes. He collapses into a chair, obviously drunk, and lunges toward Effie Trinket as if he's about to hug her. She dodges him, and her pink wig slips slightly. This triggers a few muffled sniggers from the crowd, but, out of respect for our only victor, they suppress them quickly.

The mayor hastily introduces Effie, who bounces up and approaches the reaping bowls, her high heels clicking loudly against the stage. "Happy Hunger Games!" she trills. "And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

She goes on to gush about how exciting this all is, and what an honor it is to be here, but I've finally located Katniss. She's standing a few yards in front of me and to the left, half-obscured by a tall Seam boy. Her hands hang loosely by her sides, but I can see her fingers twitching. She's nervous. Of course she is. Twenty slips inside the girls' reaping bowl say Katniss Everdeen. I'm nervous, too, but suddenly the anxiousness isn't for me.

Effie finishes her monologue and chirps, "Ladies first!"

If the crowd was quiet before, it's deathly silent now. No one even dares to breathe as Effie's pale, pink-clawed hand plunges into the glass bowl. She rummages around unnecessarily before slowly drawing out one folded piece of paper. Then everyone does breathe, as one, pulling air into our lungs and keeping it there as she crosses back to the microphone and slips one long nail under the tiny piece of tape keeping the slip closed. She flicks it open, and I would close my eyes if I could, but my gaze is locked unblinkingly on the slip, and my entire being is consumed by one thought… Not Katniss. Not Katniss.

Effie clears her throat delicately before reading the slip with careful pronunciation.

"Primrose Everdeen."

At first, those syllables in that order don't register in my brain. Primrose Everdeen. Prim-rose Ev-er-deen. Prim. Prim.

Oh, god. Katniss.

I'm wriggling through the crush of bodies towards her, because I know that if this is terrible for me, it's indescribable for Katniss. Sweet Prim, reaped for the Hunger Games. I can see her blonde braids out of the corner of my eye as she steps slowly toward the stage. Katniss is watching her, too, and I see something building in those gray eyes. Just before I reach her, that something snaps.

"Prim!"

Her agonized cry goes straight to my heart, and I walk faster, trying to get to her.

But then she starts to move.

"Prim!"

What is she doing?

The crowd parts for her, giving her a straight shot to her little sister. Katniss dashes forward and thrusts herself between Prim and the stage. And then I know what's happening. I know what that look in her eyes meant. No.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

No! Now I'm moving again, like Katniss moved to Prim, but the crowd is closing up and I'm not fast enough. She's already said it. But if I can get to her, if I can grab her and take her away, then… What? What could I do? Nothing. Something that might be a sob sticks in my throat, coming out as a choked sound that blends, unnoticed, into the other small noises around me.

"Lovely!" Effie is saying. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth, then we, um…"

Winner? Reaping winner? As if going into the Games was a prize and not a death sentence.

The mayor, looking strange, says, "What does it matter?" He repeats it. "What does it matter? Let her come forward."

I see Gale striding up the isle toward the sisters. Prim has locked her arms around Katniss's waist, screaming and sobbing at the same time, and Katniss says something to her. She's obviously trying to push Prim away, but in the end, it takes Gale to gently pry apart her interlocked fingers and pick her up. He murmurs something to Katniss before carrying a shrieking, crying Prim towards her mother. Katniss turns resolutely towards the stage.

Effie asks for Katniss's name, which she speaks into the microphone, and all I can think is, I'm losing her. I'm losing her. She wasn't even reaped and I'm losing her.

"Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!" Effie squeals, clapping her own hands together in excitement, like a child. Her claps echo in the completely silent square, and before long they fade to nothing.

Then something astonishing happens. Someone from the Seam touches three fingers of their left hand to their lips, then lifts them towards Katniss. The gesture is repeated on the other side of the square, and then near the back, and within the space of just a few seconds, everyone is saluting Katniss with the old gesture of respect. I join them, wishing the kiss I press to my fingertips could be delivered straight to her. At the same time, I'm marveling at this occurrence. Nothing like this has ever happened before, to my knowledge. Showing this gesture of respect and goodbye to a tribute is… almost rebellious. It says, We do not agree. And that can be deadly for a district.

Katniss's lips press together, and I know she's about to cry. No, Katniss, I plead. Don't cry. If you do, they'll see. You're strong. You can do this. But then Haymitch, the one and only victor left in District Twelve, hauls himself out of his chair and blunders across the stage. He throws an arm around Katniss's shoulders, nearly knocking her to the ground. Her nose wrinkles.

"Look at her," he slurs. "Look at this one! I like her! Lots of…" He trails off, bleary eyes roaming over the crowd as if the word he's searching for is there. "Spunk! More than you!" He lurches away from her and aims a shaky finger at a camera hovering near the stage. "More than you!"

He obviously has more to say, but his shoe catches on the edge of the stage and he topples off, knocking himself unconscious. A stretcher arrives suspiciously quickly- did they suspect Haymitch would be too drunk to walk? – and he's carried off. I watch Katniss, trying to catch her eye, but she's staring impassively into the distance, hands linked behind her back. Her ability to mask her emotions is impressive, but I know her, and I can see the maelstrom of emotions buried in her eyes.

"What an exciting day," Effie says, "But more excitement to come! It's time to choose the boy tribute!"

Startled, I realize that she's right. I had been so busy sifting through my shock and despair over Katniss volunteering that I had forgotten there even was another tribute. Then I remember that whoever is chosen will be an enemy of Katniss. Him and twenty two other tributes. My mind is racing. Katniss is smart enough to avoid most of the tributes, but the Careers will pose a definite threat. She'll either have to hide from them or fight them. Hiding would be the better option. She's small and quick, which is both an asset and a hindrance when it comes to fighting. The Careers are almost always tall, muscular and altogether lethal. They'll be her biggest obstacle. That, and the arena itself. What will it be this year? A forest would be ideal, but who knows if there will even be wood.

I focus on my immediate surroundings again in time to see that Effie has already pulled a slip from the boys' bowl. She doesn't hesitate for effect this time, but opens the folded piece of paper and unceremoniously reads, "Peeta Mellark."

Heads turn to look at me as I register what she said. Peeta Mellark. Me. I've been reaped. I start towards the stage, because I know I'm supposed to, but my mind isn't connected to my body anymore. My steps are stiff but steady, and I climb the stairs slowly and take my place in front of the glass bowl. Effie asks for volunteers, but I know there won't be any. Sand is too old, and Rye cares about me, but... not that much. I don't blame him.

The mayor taps a small pile of papers and clears his throat before reading, "In penance for their uprising, each district shall offer up a male and a female between the ages of twelve and eighteen…"

He goes on, and I turn my head to look at Katniss, only to find that her eyes are already on me. We stare at each other, not daring to do anything else, and in her eyes I see the numbness that I feel.

The mayor finishes and Effie prompts, "Well, go on, you two. Shake hands."

Shake hands- as if we're just meeting each other. It doesn't feel right. Even so, I take Katniss's bony, scarred hand in mine and give it a firm shake. And then, because this reaping is already a year of firsts for District Twelve, I use my other arm to pull her into a quick hug. She allows it, briefly resting her forehead on my shoulder before stepping away, and the crowd draws a collective breath. Like the volunteer and the silent salute, this is unprecedented.

The anthem plays, Peacekeepers steer us into the Justice Building, and the doors close with chilling finality.