I do not own the Hunger Games. All rights reserved.
This is such a strange pairing. Thank you to the person who suggested it!
-x-
"And the male tribute is Peeta Mellark."
Peeta Mellark.Peeta Mellark.
With those two words – that name that had haunted me for so long, that I had written on the inside of my books when I was a kid, and loved almost as much as life itself – my world came crashing down.
"No!" I let out, almost without thinking, as waves of confusion, of bitterness, of helplessness, came crashing down on me. "He can't!"
My brain was overcome with panic, with fear, with the idea that this had to be some huge mistake.
I was flailing, screaming almost, yet those surrounding me were still caught up discussing Katniss Everdeen's valiant stand for her sister.
I was falling deeper and deeper into a black hole.
I was falling.
I was falling.
I was done.
I looked up at the stage and locked eyes with him.
Those beautiful blue eyes. Doomed to be thrown into the arena. The odds were against him, 23 to 1.
I couldn't think. I couldn't breathe.
"Here," I said reluctantly, handing him a tube of paint. "You can play, too."
Chubby, adorable, and a little shy, Peeta reached for it with his small fingers. "Thank you." He began to squirt the orange paint all over his fingers and smear it on the piece of paper.
I bossily marched over to him, peeking over his shoulder. Even at four years old, he was still the tallest one in the class. "Whatcha doing"
He attempted to rub the orange all over, then snatched another kid's yellow paint and added it to his picture.
"There," he said, satisfied. "It's a sunset."
I looked at it critically. "I like it," I announced.
"Good." He smiled, a lopsided grin that was missing two teeth greeted me. "Because it's for you."
My sobs began to rack my body.
"What happened?" Marissa, a girl in my class, asked another one of my classmates.
"Oh. Madge was friends with Katniss Everdeen," my classmate said in a superior, hushed tone.
I wanted to keep crying for the sheer absurdity of it. These girls thought I was crying for Katniss. I needed to see Peeta. I needed to find him. As the crowd dispersed, I caught a glimpse of Primrose, Katniss's sister, looking dumbstruck and frightened. I swallowed a lump in my throat and leapt on stage with my father.
"I need to say good-bye to the," I coughed, trying to keep back tears, "tributes."
My father, seeing my face, quickly led me to the room where they were holding them, like dogs. We rushed throughout the crowd.
"Why are you going to go sit with Mayor Undersee's daughter?" John, the smith's son, asked Peeta accusingly during lunch.
"Because," Peeta said, confident. "I like her."
"Ewwww," the boys chorused. "Do you like-like her?"
"Well," Peeta said, slamming a tray down on my table, where I sat alone and timid, staring at a sandwich. "Maybe I do."
The boys had no comeback.
"Is this seat taken?" Peeta asked me expectantly.
"By my imaginary friends, only," I responded, horrified that he'd leave now that I had been sarcastic.
But he laughed and sat down.
"Your sandwich doesn't look very appetizing," he said frankly. "Here. Take mine."
He tossed me his sandwich, made of bakery bread and some meat. It looked far better than mine, which I had had to make myself, considering that my mother was in bed for headaches all day and my father was too busy being important.
"If you sit with her," John mustered up some courage, "You can never come back! You can sit with your girlfriend!" He made kissy noises.
Without missing a beat, Peeta suddenly leaned across the table to a chaste, but obvious kiss on the mouth. The boys started screaming and yelling and having a field day. Peeta smiled shyly.
"Sorry about that," he said politely.
"It's fine," I replied stupidly. "More than fine."
We had finally reached the room where Peeta was. My father gave me a courteous nod and left immediately.
Reaching out to him, I was enveloped in the familiar smell of flour.
"Peeta," I cried out, pummeling his back with emotion. "Peeta. I-I-I," I felt like I was going to throw up.
"Madge," he said with a cracked voice that broke my heart. "It's okay," he smoothed down the back of my hair.
"Peeta," I whispered forcefully. "You have to win. You have to come back. You have to…"
I couldn't continue, as the salty tears were slowly trickling into my mouth. I wiped my face with the sleeve of my reaping dress.
Quietly but firmly, he grabbed onto my shoulders and kissed me, tears flowing down his face.
I wanted to stay wrapped in his arms forever.
I was ready to give him my pin, my favorite Mockingjay pin that my mother had given me, so that he could wear it in the arena.
"Alright, alright! It's almost time to go!" The abominable pink-haired beast trilled. "I know you! You're the Mayor's daughter! Now, you can go say good-bye to Katniss, but I need Peeta on the train!" She began dragging Peeta with her with an uncanny amount of strength for her petite frame. A few seconds later, some guards came and hoisted him on the train. At that point, I almost collapsed, but found the strength to go say good-bye to Katniss.
"Here!" I said, without thinking, my face burning red. "Take this!" I fastened the pin onto her. "Wear it in the arena, will you?"
Katniss had a dumbstruck face. "Well, um, thank you, Madge." She hemmed and hawed.
I gave her that pin hoping that if she died, Peeta would see it and remember me. Maybe he'd even take it. Maybe she'd give it to him. I mean, come on, she couldn't be clueless. She had to have known there was something there.
"Good luck," I breathed, giving her a short hug and leaving.
After I left, I completely broke down on the way home. The streets were still half-full, most people were laughing, but I knew two families that would be quiet and solemn for the next few weeks.
My Peeta. How had this happened? Why did it happen?
I wished, for a split second, that I was going with him. Granted, the odds were definitely against me, but at least we would be together. Always, we would be together.
As I entered my room, I looked above me to the framed picture of the sunset that he had given me all those years ago. The memories crashed down again. The sunset. The time we went walking and got lost in the Meadow. Me showing him how to double-knot his shoelaces. Sitting together at lunch. Him carrying my books home. Every hug. Every kiss. Every moment we spent in each other's company. The whispered 'I love you's that entranced me. The secret moments spent when we daydreamed about our future.
For days, I was caught in a limbo between reality and my own dreams. I spent more time crying than I care to admit.
I cried when he and Katniss came out in the Chariots. I narrowed my eyes as I saw their hands together. I cried when they received scores.
And then came that one, fateful interview.
Caesar Flickerman was a legend in Capitol television. His job was to interview the tributes before the Games, so that sponsors would have an idea on what to deal with. After my initial jealousy at the District 1 tributes and their never-ending beauty, I waited anxiously for Peeta's interview.
He was amazing. He was charming. He was witty, sensitive, perfect. He was everything I knew him to be, and gave these special little smiles at the camera that I knew were mine. He was mine.
Caesar began asking Peeta about his life at home, about any relationships he had. My heart involuntarily sped up.
"Well, there is this one girl," Peeta said with a shy smile.
Oh my God, he's going to tell Panem. A thrill ran up my spine. Maybe having a possible near-death experience makes you braver.As Caesar pressured him to tell the crowd and told him to win the games and get back to her, Peeta got a struck look on his face.
"Well," he said, smiling wryly, "That won't be of any use to me, because she came here with me."
Katniss. Katniss. Katniss.
It was Katniss.
Not me.
Never me.
Of course not me.
At that, I threw the remote against the television and rushed back upstairs, ripping the stupid sunset off the wall and crumpling it, kicking the ball under my bed. For weeks, I erased the thoughts of him from my brain. Hearing about the "Star-Crossed Lovers of District 12" made me want to vomit.
I couldn't take it.
I couldn't do it.
I wanted to leave, to escape.
One moment, I'd pray for his victory, and the next moment, I'd ask for his fatal defeat.
When he returned from the Games, a victor with his new leg and new girlfriend, I sent him back his picture to his address in Victor's Village.
Rumor has it that apparently he has become quite the painter.
I don't care- about the paintings, about Peeta Mellark, about anything.