Chapter 1: Middle-Age Attraction
I rise with the dawn from my empty bed, as I do most every morning when I steal beyond the fence to go hunting. Only, there will be no hunting today. Too much risk with the district swarming with Peacekeepers. For today is the Reaping for the 100th Hunger Games, or Fourth Quarter Quell. A century of fights to the death, punctuated by the sickening twist that it won't be children murdering each other. It will be adults.
Even if the twist were different, even if this year was not a Quell, my babies are mercifully too young for the Reaping Bowl, as I rouse them from their beds to get them washed and dressed. Teddy is 3 and Daisy is 5. I married my hunting partner, Gale Hawthorne, when I turned 18 and aged out of my last Reaping. For years afterward, I resisted my husband's pleas to have children, for fear of their names inevitably gracing the Bowl one day. I only acquiesced because Gale wanted them so badly. He was killed in the mines not long after Teddy was born. I have his memorial medal stashed in a drawer somewhere; his uniform and hard hat I burned.
After washing and dressing Teddy and Daisy in their best, I hear a knock at the door. Right on time. I usher my little ones downstairs where they can play with my sister, Primrose, and her husband, Rory Hawthorne (Gale's younger brother). Their arrival allows me time to prepare myself. After all, for the first time in nearly twenty-five years, it is I who is eligible to be Reaped.
My old blue Reaping dress is still the nicest article of clothing that I own, after my wedding dress. The frock was a hand-me-down from my Mother's merchant days, and remarkably still fits. Gale always marveled at how quickly I got my figure back from my pregnancy with Daisy; then again, I did grow up barely nourished and even sometimes malnourished, despite my best efforts. Even with our hunting, Gale and I lived as poor as church mice for all the years we were married. Checking myself in the mirror once, I head downstairs and greet my relatives. Rory leads the way out of the Seam and down the dirt roads towards the cobble-stoned square in front of the Justice Building. None of us speak - even my kids are quiet and reserved, old enough by now to at least sense the gravity of the tradition - except for Rory to breathe out, "A hundred years. I can't believe it." I stare at him blankly, wanly.
"Neither can I."
Being all adults and eligible per the twist, Prim, Rory and I all have to check in via a pinprick of blood. My little girl is frightened that I have to do this, and I have to talk her off the ledge. "It doesn't hurt much," I say. Thank heavens small children like my little ones are not required to register.
At precisely 10 AM, the Mayor of District 12 steps forward to begin his speech. Sequestered off in the women's pen with my sister, I glance about to see most people ignoring the lofty words, picking at the lint on their shirts, scuffing the dirt at their feet. I barely clue in when Haymitch Abernathy's name is announced. He won the Quell before the previous one, and is an embarrassing drunk - one of only two people in a century from District 12 to make it out of the arena alive. Some might say that 1 out of 50 isn't bad for a track record, especially for a contest as privately loathed as this one. But bad odds are still bad odds - numbers don't lie.
All too soon, it is time for the selections from the Reaping Bowl. I barely have time to squeeze my sister's hand before we both realize the doomed name isn't either of ours. I don't even know the woman taking the stage, though she looks to be my mother-in-law's age and is clearly Seam. Wrinkles are set into her face.
"And now for the men!" our escort chirps. I quickly pick out my brother-in-law in the crowd, and he makes a silly face at us, to ease our nerves. I pray he isn't picked.
But the name called out is not Rory's. It is someone whose name still sends my stomach roiling.
"Peeta Mellark!"
Peeta Mellark! Oh no, I think, not him. But it is. And I watch as a muscular man with ashy blond hair takes the stage. Peeta Mellark is the Baker in the Merchant section of Twelve. Though we were in the same grade in school, we didn't speak at all. It wasn't until after I married and escaped the Reaping that I began trading with him at the back loading dock of his bakery - bread for squirrels. Peeta always gave me the finer breads, differentiating from the stale ones I was accustomed to. I resisted at first, then eventually gave up. He seemed to appreciate the company, especially after his entire family was accused of participating in a riot against the Capitol and were executed. The years around the time of the Third Quarter Quell were fraught with tensions, and uprisings popped up across the nation of Panem, but were quickly stamped out. At least that's what the rumors say. I don't know what lack of evidence exonerated Peeta from the rest of his family's fate. It might have been his kind and honest reputation. He has never been a troublemaker or made waves. Or maybe the Capitol needed someone alive to manage the bakery.
Either way, there won't be a successor to take over the bakery now, as Peeta shakes hands with his district partner. The man never married, nor had children, at least not to my knowledge.
And then, there is that other memory - from decades before... of sitting in the rain, and being tossed food...
"Prim," I say, as Peeta and the Seam woman are escorted into the Justice Building and the crowds begin to disperse. "Take the children home. Watch them until I return."
My sister stares. "You're going to visit the tributes?" I nod. She looks at me with something that resembles sympathy. "Rory and I will be happy to. But hurry back." And she corrals Daisy and Teddy, finds Rory in the crowd and they begin the journey home.
Meanwhile, I will my feet to move towards the doors...
The line out in the hallway to see the Baker isn't very long, and after a time, it becomes clear that I am at the very back of it. Most people outside of family and a few close friends brave the doors for the condemned on Reaping Day. Our tributes are always seen as good as dead.
Only three folks are ahead of me in line, and after ten minutes of waiting, I am left in the hallway by myself. Five minutes later, the previous visitor is escorted out, and a Peacekeeper beckons me forward.
"Last visitor of the day. You have ten minutes, Mellark, then it's the train with you." The Peacekeeper more or less shoves me inside and slams the door behind me.
Peeta Mellark rises off the plush seating area when he sees me, his blue eyes wide in surprise. Evidently, he didn't expect me to pay him a visit, which sends an odd bit of hurt though me.
"Katniss. What are you doing here?"
It's a question I can hardly answer myself either, but I somehow find a way to get my vocal cords to work as I get out the most obvious, "To see you."
He nods once, then dares to step forward and take my hand in his own. He squeezes it. "Thank you," he expresses with a genuine, sad smile. "I will miss those morning trades between us."
So will I, I find myself thinking. Only that it is no way to be thinking at all, it's so morbid, and I shake my head. "Unless you win."
Peeta shakes his head, the smile still on his face. "You don't have to pretend with me, Katniss. It's sweet, but I'm not going to win. You and I both know that."
Yes, we both know that. But someone has to encourage Peeta. After all, he has no one else. His squeezing of my hand again - which I realize for the first time that he has yet to let go of - brings me back to Earth.
"You and the children won't starve. Not on my watch. Which is why after my death, you will all receive my inheritance."
I gape at him. This has to be a dream. Not to mention suspect along economic lines, if not legally dubious. A Merchant or even Victor showing favor towards any Seam family is regarded in Twelve as very, very suspicious. Most of the time, the theory is that a romantic indiscretion or illegitimate child is involved.
But that's never been the case with Peeta and me. We've never... the thought makes me blush, and trying to look anywhere but into Peeta's eyes, I notice the medallion hanging around his neck. "What's this?"
My thumb must slide along something as I reach for it, for the medallion suddenly springs open at my touch. And I realize it isn't a medallion at all - it's a locket.
A locket filled with a picture of me.
Peeta now looks as red as me, though far more mortified. There is only one plausible explanation for why my picture is hanging around the Baker's neck. And lining it up that he has been a lifelong bachelor with no progeny, it makes sense.
"How long?" I ask. I am not demanding or accusatory when I pose the question. In fact, I sound... sad, which is shocking, even to my own ears.
Peeta's gaze is also sad, regretful. "Since we were five. The first day of school, when I heard you sing."
I only vaguely recall that memory. I feel my face grow hot. "Why... why didn't you say anything?"
Peeta blinks, peering at me curiously. "Well, because the stuff between Merchant and Seam... besides, you were always with Gale Hawthorne, then you married him and when he..." He doesn't say the next word, perhaps fearing how I might react. "I didn't want to get close to you just in the hopes to woo you. I truly wanted to know you. And anyway, I had no idea if you would be open to courting or getting married again."
I gaze at him, speechless. It is staggering to ponder just how much Peeta thought of me, that he put off wooing me because he genuinely wanted to know me and help me where he could. And now he has given all his inheritance to a poor Seam widow and her children. Sure, his loving me is part of the reason, but of higher priority is that he genuinely wants to help, societal optics be damned. Once again, he is saving my life, and I have no idea how to repay him. I should hate him for that, as I once did over the bread he tossed to me when we were children. But instead, all I feel is...
Touched. And...
Wordlessly, I drape my arms about Peeta's neck and mash my lips against his in a passionate kiss.
My kiss is wild and clumsy. I am 42 years old, and I have never kissed any man other than my late husband, and certainly none since his death. But something about the Baker's gesture and his pining for me compels me to kiss this man. I even find myself wondering if he will kiss me back, and how if he does, I wouldn't push him away. And when Peeta does kiss me back, his arms hesitantly circling my waist, I don't push him away. Instead, my lips part for his mouth, my throat accepting his plundering tongue as we deepen the kiss.
At long last, I remember myself, and draw away. Peeta looks flabbergasted. "Thank you," I murmur softly.
Before I can step out of his arms, Peeta draws me close and kisses me full on the mouth again. Closing my eyes, I don't fight it, and even return his kiss. My fingers sink into the strands of his blonde hair and I pull, tugging him closer with a low, guttural groan. We quickly become so engrossed that we stagger back into the door of his holding room. Our lips mash and meld together, and I suddenly find myself warming, desiring more, more. Boldly, I raise my leg to Peeta's waist, hitching it around his torso. I wriggle my hips against what I can clearly feel is the blossoming evidence of his desire for me.
There is the clanging of a belt, and the rustling of fabric as pants are dropped, calloused hands surprisingly soft as they alight across my skin, shimmying my underwear down my thighs. The blue hem of my dress is rolled back, and then next moment -
I feel the pinch as a man swiftly enters me, takes me, and I throw back my head with a moan, Peeta peppering kisses into my neck before yanking my lips back to his. I moan, groan, hum, purr and sigh into his open mouth and we begin to work up a rhythm, rocking against each other.
"Hmmmm... Mmmmm... Muhhhh... Uhhhhhh! Guhhhh! God!" I whimper as Peeta thrusts inside me more and more frantically, the wood of the door rattling behind us. Surely the Peacekeepers will hear! Or if they do, they may not be inclined to stop it. Who knows how many tributes in years past have fucked in this room for probably the last time in their life?
At last, Peeta slams into me, and spills all he has inside of me. I writhe against him for a minute more, and then I wail out my orgasm around his crushing lips and his tongue deep in my throat. With that, the Baker and I break apart, gasping, and Peeta pulls out like the gentleman he is. I mewl in lingering pleasure, and he sets me down, so that we can both hurry and redress, both pink in the face.
The ten minutes are surely almost up, and indeed I have barely collected myself and straightened my dress when the Peacekeepers enter.
"Goodbye, Katniss," Peeta tells me. Then, when only I can see, he finally says the words. Or rather, mouths them with his flushed and very kissed lips. I love you.
I nod. "Goodbye," I croak out. But before I can even dare to echo the last part of his farewell, the door slams between us.