Whatever It Takes

by justin.jossart

The Hunger Games are brutal, violent and unforgiving. Only the strongest and smartest can call themselves Victors. When Peeta Mellark is reaped for the 74th Hunger Games, he has no intention of playing along with the Capitol's Game. However, a promise to his grey eyed girlfriend might change his mind. Is Peeta ready to be a killer? Will he do Whatever It Takes? Eventual Everlark.

1. Chapter 1

Whatever It Takes

by

Justin Jossart

DISCLAIMER: I DON'T OWN THE HUNGER GAMES TRILOGY. THIS IS A NON-PROFIT FANFICTION.

Chapter One: The Promise

Peeta

Her light tapping on the glass pane of my window brings a soft smile to my lips. I slide the sketch I'm working on across the desk, hiding it beneath one of my sketch pads. As much as I care about her, she sometimes gets a little weird about open displays of affection, even in private. After three years of these 'visits,' I know to let her set the tone. If she's feeling flirty, I flirt back. If she needs to talk, I give her a shoulder to lay her problems on. If she just needs physical contact, I'm more than willing to give her that, too.

Over the years, I've learned that she's more skittish than the animals she hunts, likely to bolt through the window at the slightest misstep on my part. She comes and goes as she pleases, never letting things go too far, but I'm alright with that. I love her, I've always loved her, though I know better than to tell her that. It was only a couple of months ago that she slipped and called me her 'boyfriend' for the first time.

I slide the window open, stepping back to allow her entrance. Her elegant movements remind me of a jungle cat as her long, supple limbs climb through. She's grace personified, not like the tittering girls from town. Katniss Everdeen is a huntress, a predator, even when she's not in the woods.

"Hey." Her soft, husky voice is music to my ears. She's looking everywhere but my eyes as a pretty blush paints her dusky cheeks.

"Hey," I reply, brushing my knuckles across her cheekbone. She leans into my touch, her gray eyes fluttering closed. My lips brush across hers. She responds eagerly, fisting my shirt in her small hands, pressing her petite frame against my body and deepening the kiss. I guess tonight is a 'physical' night.

"I missed you," she whispers as her blush deepens. I can barely hear the words, but they make me smile all the same. I've missed her, too. Prim's been having nightmares as the Reaping approaches, and the adorable twelve year old always comes first.

Her hands slide up my chest, clutching at my hair, tugging on the golden locks almost painfully. I don't know what her obsession is with my hair, but hardly a visit goes by without her fingers combing through it at least once. She's kissing me forcefully now, bruising my lips in her fervor. My heart starts beating rapidly in my chest. Maybe tonight's the night...

I grasp her thighs, barely feeling her weight as I lift her easily. She moans into my mouth, and I can't help but smile against her lips as she wraps her toned thighs around my waist. Her silvery gaze darkens as I lay her gently on the bed. The space between us is warm and electrified, reminding me of the air before a summer storm. Her lips are lightning, her soft moans the thunder, her light touches falling like rain drops on my back, shoulders and neck.

We stay like that for a while. I lose myself in the moment, my hands sliding beneath her shirt. Her back is smooth and soft, her muscles rippling beneath my palms. She's so small that I can almost cover the entire plane of her back. My lips travel to the vulnerable skin at the base of her neck, nipping lightly at the spot that I know drives her crazy. Her hips buck against mine, grinding her core against me. I move my own hips to match, eliciting an adorable squeal from the goddess beneath me.

"We should stop," she gasps. I can hear the reluctance in her voice, but I comply with her request, placing a final kiss on her swollen lips before giving her room to sit up. Her braid has loosened but still holds, though a few rebellious strands frame her face. I can't keep myself from staring. She's so beautiful it hurts. "Are you nervous about tomorrow?"

Her question surprises me. This is... new. Most of her visits encompass a single activity. On a 'physical' night, she's normally gone by now, fading like a dream as swiftly as she arrived. "I guess," I say, nodding. "I'm trying not to think about it. How's Prim holding up?"

Her glare comes as no surprise. I've breached one of the forbidden topics. I'm not allowed to discuss our families, Hawthorne, feelings, the future or her hunting unless she does so first. So really, nothing less superficial than the weather or school. It's one of the few things that annoys me about our relationship. "She's fine. It's her first Reaping. She's had some nightmares this week, but she'll be okay. She's only got the one slip; the odds are in her favor."

"How many do you have?" I don't want to know the answer, but I can't help myself.

"Twenty." She notices my wince. "It's not that bad. I know someone with over forty." We both know that she's talking about Gale Hawthorne, her best friend. He's her hunting partner, providing for a family of five, and is eighteen. I'm honestly surprised he doesn't have fifty.

I'm a little leery about Katniss spending so much time with him, though I've never voiced my concerns. He's older, good looking, and impossibly tall. I know he's into Katniss, and I'm pretty sure that he doesn't know that Katniss and I are... doing whatever we're doing. Sometimes it crosses my mind that she's just using me, playing the field a bit before settling down with Hawthorne, but this is an uncomfortable thought, used to being pushed away.

"I should go. Prim's going to get worried soon. I wasn't planning on coming tonight, but I just..." She shakes her head. She's already edging towards the window. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow." I'd ask her to stay, but I know she won't. She never does. She's gone before I finish speaking, disappearing through the open window as silently as one of the child stealing fairies in the old stories. My tingling lips and mussed hair are the only clues she was ever here.

I flop down on my bed, simultaneously rejoicing and hating myself. I'm too much of a coward to ask her for something more serious, but I know that I can't keep going like this. If I push her for more than she's willing to give she'll leave me without a second thought, but if I don't I'll never be satisfied. As much as I enjoy the time we spend together, I can't help but want more. I want to hold her hand as I walk her home from school. I want to sit with her at lunch. I want inside her carefully constructed walls so damn bad, but she's an expert at keeping me at bay.

I spend so long thinking about olive skin and grey eyes that I don't even notice I'm falling asleep.

I'd like to say that the day of the Reaping starts like any other, that I wake up calm and collected. I'd like to say that I don't shake and shiver in my bed uncontrollably, my hands grasping and clawing at my scratchy, threadbare bedspread in silent terror, but I'd be lying. A small whimper escapes my lips as I stare up at the ceiling, all too aware of Rye's heavy snores in the bedroom across the hall. It's early, much too early to get up for the day, even for a baker's son. Instead, I just lay there with my eyes wide as my heart pounds in my chest.

I only have five slips in the Reaping bowl this year. It's much less than a lot of kids my age, especially those in the Seam. One of the many advantages of growing up in the merchant class is that I never had to take out any tesserae to keep my family fed. I know that I'm lucky to have been born in the family I did, even though I won't inherit the family business. No, that honor will probably go to Rye. Barley, my eldest brother, has already apprenticed with the carpenter after marrying old Gaunt's only grand-daughter a few years ago. He'll be crafting everything from doors to tables to storage sheds for the rest of his life.

Rye, on the other hand, is engaged to Sienna Rawlins. He's been head over heels with her for years now. She led him on a merry chase, always staying just out of his reach, which is probably why he was so interested. Most of the girls at school, both Seam and Merchant, fell all over themselves for his attention, especially after it became apparent that he would be inheriting the bakery, but he only had eyes for Sienna. They finally got together at one of the dances this last year, and I've never seen him so happy. No one's supposed to know, but she's already pregnant. They'll sign their documents at the Justice Building after the Reaping is over, assuming Effie doesn't pluck their names from the Reaping bowls. It'll be a bit of a scandal when the kid comes only a few months after their toasting, but my future niece or nephew won't be the first 'premature' baby in District 12.

Unlike my brothers, my future doesn't look so bright. The merchant class is rather small. There are only so many businesses to inherit, and the only one without a male in the line is the grocer's, and I'll be damned if I'm going to marry Delly Cartwright. No, my girlfriend isn't going to bring anything more to the marriage than a bow and a hunting jacket, assuming she'd be willing to marry me in the first place. I'm probably going to end up in the mines like her father and Hawthorne. Besides, any marriage between me and Katniss would have to wait until Prim had graduated and could take over her mother's healing trade.

I can't help but think that she'd probably be more accepting towards a real relationship if I'm already living and working in the Seam. I'm fully aware of her and Hawthorne's opinions about us 'Townies.'

Class divide runs deep here in 12, though it wouldn't be that big of a scandal if a third son was caught with a Seam girl. Everyone knows that I'm destined for the mines, which is why the merchant girls avoid me like the plague. The miner's daughters aren't any better, only looking for a quick flash in the pan before finding a good Seam boy like Hawthorne to settle down with. I didn't grow up like them. I don't belong anywhere. I have too few prospects for any self-respecting merchant girl, but I'm too 'pampered' for any self-respecting Seam one. No one wants to end up being a baker-turned-miner's wife.

Just thinking of spending seventy hours a week toiling in those dark, dusty caves sends my heart racing. I can already feel the coal dust settling in my lungs, the rumbling in my stomach from not having enough food. I know that it won't happen for a good few years, but it's been on my mind a lot lately. It's my parent's fault, really, for having three sons. The bakery won't support two families; it barely supports just one during the lean winter months. My father and brother will do everything they can to keep me out of the mines, but when (if) I survive my final Reaping, there really isn't a choice. The law says they'd have to pay me a real, apprenticeship wage once I'm out of school and the bakery just can't afford it.

It hasn't escaped my notice that all of my problems would be solved if Rye ended up getting Reaped today. Win or lose, he'd be out of the line for inheritance and I could take over the business that I love so dearly. I hate myself a little every time this thought crosses my mind. I shouldn't wish the Hunger Games on anyone, much less my own brother. It's not his fault he's older, but he doesn't love the bakery like I do. Of all my father's sons, I'm by far the best baker, and I can't help but feel the injustice of it all. I'll inherit nothing, just because I'm the youngest son. Maybe it would be better if I was reaped instead. It'd be better to die a quick death than the painful, drawn out one of a miner.

I lay there for an hour, images of coal dust and lethal tributes dancing through my troubled mind before I finally give up any hope of further sleep. I'm wide awake now, might as well put myself to work. Tossing on a random set of clothes, I head downstairs and make my way to the kitchen. I can see the faint, grey light of pre-dawn peaking through the windows as I busy myself with my normal routine. There's no school or work today, but the ovens still need to be cleaned and it's almost guaranteed that Katniss and Hawthorne will show up this morning looking to trade whatever they managed to hunt this morning.

I'm covered in charcoal and flour by the time I clean the ovens and get them lit for this morning's baking. I hear movement upstairs, most likely my father getting ready for the day. My mom is going through one of her bad spells, and I can't help but be thankful that I won't have to listen to her vicious monologue today. I wish that I could hate her, but she's still my mom. It's a well-known secret that she used to beat us before the cancer hit. Even on her death bed she plagues us; her medicine is expensive, spending every coin of profit that passes through the bakery.

The rest of the morning passes fairly quickly. My dad is the first one up, helping me with today's bread. Eventually Rye graces us with his presence. Dad sets him working on the books, a job he's done pretty well since my mom got sick. It's a skill he'll need once he finally gets married. Sienna will probably take it over eventually, but for now it's Rye's duty. My dad and I do the majority of the baking, while Rye works the front counter, the books, picking up shipments and making deliveries.

Katniss and Hawthorne show up a couple hours before the Reaping, knocking on the small back door that leads to the dingy, muddy yard out back. They don't have to anymore. It's been more than a year since my mom actually worked the bakery, but District 12's resident poachers have been using the back door for so long that it would be weird for everyone involved if they came in through the front. I can't imagine Katniss or Hawthorne slinging dead animals onto the front counter. My dad gives them two loaves of bread for a squirrel and a pouch of blueberries. I'll probably bake the berries into muffins tomorrow.

It hurts a little that she won't meet my gaze, letting Hawthorne do all the talking, but it's nothing out of the ordinary. She never even looks at me outside of the three or four nights a week that she climbs the tree outside my bedroom window. I tried talking to her in school once, but her harsh glare sent me away before I could even open my mouth. She didn't show up for our evening encounters for a week after that. I understand her need for privacy, but it hurts that she reacts so strongly to being seen with me.

About an hour before the Reaping, my dad shuts down the ovens and we all get dressed in our best clothes. My crisp, snow white shirt is tight across my chest and shoulders. I have to roll up the sleeves because they're a little short, but it looks nice enough tucked into my khaki trousers. I pull on a pair of slightly scuffed dress shoes, double knotting the frayed laces. If I get reaped, the last thing I want to do is trip over an untied shoe lace on my way to the stage.

As an afterthought, I walk over to my desk, rifling through my sketch books. After a moment of searching, I find the drawing I want. It's my favorite picture of Katniss. Her legs are crossed as she sits on my windowsill, looking up at me through her long lashes. She's wearing a soft smile, her eyes filled with emotion as one hand plays with the long braid draped over one shoulder. It's the picture I look at whenever I feel insecure about our relationship and her feelings towards me. Anyone who can look at me like that has to have deeper feelings for me... right? I carefully tear it from the sketch book, making sure I don't rip it. If I end up in the arena, I want this picture of her to be my District token. I fold it and slide it into my back pocket, just in case, before hustling down the stairs to join Rye and my dad.

Dad slices up a fresh loaf of hearty bread and a quarter wheel of cheese. On a normal day, we only eat the stale stuff that hasn't sold, but Reaping Day isn't a normal day. After our light meal we leave and join the solemn throng heading towards the square.

Despite the small size of our town, the square is positively massive, able to hold the majority of the eight thousand people living in the district. Most of them bare the olive coloring and raven hair so easily found in the Seam. My mother used to say that they've spent so long wallowing in coal dust that it seeped into their skin, but my genetics class taught me better. Darker colors were more dominant traits than lighter ones, and the small stream of 'Townies' like myself that found themselves working the mines were too few to change the overall makeup of the Seam.

"Good luck, boys," my dad says, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. He pulls each of us in for a crushing hug. I dodge out of the way when he tries to ruffle my hair. He goes off to join Barley in the crowds surrounding the potential tributes. No one in my class makes too much of an effort to greet me. I don't blame them; there's no point in getting too close to someone with no prospects.

After checking in, I wish Rye a half-hearted 'good luck' and make my way towards the rest of the sixteen year old boys. We're roped off by age, everyone facing the stage erected by the side of the Justice Building. Two glass bowls sit prominently at the fore of the structure, each filled with thousands of white, folded slips of paper. My gaze is immediately drawn to the one on the left. My girlfriend's name is printed neatly on twenty of the slips filling the massive glass bowl. I don't know what I'd do if she was Reaped. Just thinking about it sends my heart racing.

I take my place, trying to ignore the fretful whispers around me and fighting the urge to look for Katniss. She wouldn't appreciate me staring at her in public. I do see Hawthorne's large frame a couple rows ahead of me. He's with the eighteens, and ,surprisingly enough, joking with Rye. I had no idea that the two of them were friendly.

Eventually, after what seems like an age, Mayor Undersee steps up onto the stage, joined by District 12's escort, Effie Trinket, the quintessential Capitolite. Her wig, makeup, and accessories are all a putrid shade of orange that clashes horribly with her maroon dress. She looks even more ridiculous than last year, when she outfitted herself in a horrible bloody crimson. She smiles brightly at us, and her excited gaze meets mine for a moment. I wonder if she knows that she's arguably the second most despised person in the District, second only to President Snow. It's her job to reap the kids here in 12, but does she have to be so damn happy about it?

Haymitch Abernathy, our only living victor, stumbles along behind the rest of the officials, half supported by a white uniformed Peace Keeper. His dark hair is matted, uncut and greasy, hanging limply and falling into his unshaven face. He brings a half empty bottle of liquor to his lips, his throat bobbing several times. I can't help but be impressed by his ability to chug the swill they make down in the Hob, District 12's black market. He hides the bottle behind his chair as the cameras start to roll. Haymitch's drinking is as well-kept a secret as Katniss's hunting, which means not at all, but technically alcohol is banned here in 12. While no one in 12 cares, the Capitol definitely would. Abernathy wouldn't get in trouble, since he's a former Victor, but his supplier would probably find themselves whipped, at the very least.

I tune out the Mayor's opening speech; it's the same every year and I could probably recite it myself. Afterwards, Effie prances forward in her ridiculous high heels. "Welcome, welcome, to the 74th Hunger Games!" She clasps her hands together tightly, as if she's unable to contain her anticipation. "It's so exciting to see you all!"

She's undeterred by the crowd's silence, mincing her way towards the left side of the stage with a bubbly "Ladies first!" My chest constricts as I watch her too-long, orange lacquered nails digging through the bowl. I wonder if she's taking her time just to torture us. Finally, she finds the slip she wants and prances back to center stage. She unfolds the small strip of paper, her nails making the job more difficult than it should be, before leaning towards the microphone.

"Lillian Evans," she states clearly, and I let out a sigh of relief, and I'd feel guilty if I was the only one. Everyone here has family, friends, or loved ones in that bowl. Surprisingly, no one steps forward after the name is called. I have no idea who Lillian Evans is, so she must be younger than me. Most of the girls my age and older had spent time trying to capture Rye's attention.

Eventually, the Peace Keepers drag a small wisp of a girl forward from the twelves section. She's sobbing uncontrollably. As I get a better look at her I can't help but feel sorry for the girl. She looks a lot like Katniss did at that age, her dark hair in twin braids down her back. She doesn't look twelve, and is obviously malnourished. If I had to guess, I would say she's no older than ten. The Peace Keepers drag her kicking and screaming to the stage. As I see her olive skin and grey eyes I'm forcibly reminded of a night five years ago.

It was just after sunset, a little after curfew, when I'd first spoken to Katniss. I'd noticed her long before that, but I'd been too much of a coward to talk to her. I'd just finished a custom order for the mayor. He'd requested two of our most expensive loaves and a dozen strawberry muffins. I'd just placed them on the counter by the oven when I heard my mother screaming at someone on the back porch, though I couldn't tell who by her deranged shouts. Standing on my tiptoes, I'd peeked through the window above the sink to see Katniss Everdeen trudging away despondently from our trash cans.

I had known that she'd been having a rough time of it since her dad was killed in the mines, but if she was rooting through our garbage she must be pretty bad off. I saw her every day; how had I missed how thin she was? She crumpled to a heap beneath our apple tree, unwilling or unable to stand. In that moment, I made a decision that would change my life forever. I hastily grabbed the mayor's bread from the pan beside the oven, scorching them on one side. I was careful only to burn the outside while leaving the hearty, nut-filled bread in the middle untouched.

When my mother saw the expensive bread ruined, she really lost it. Already irritated from her encounter with the 'Seam brat,' she didn't say anything, just backhanded me upside the head as hard as she could. I fell into the still hot pan on the counter, burning my left hand and forehead. I tripped to the ground, but my mother heaved me up by the collar and started shouting at me. I was in too much pain to understand more than, "Feed it to the pigs, you useless whelp!" My plan was successful, though I'd paid for it dearly.

The cool rain soothed my burns as I stepped outside and made a deliberate show of tearing the burnt section from one of the loaves. My mother stomped up the stairs, no doubt to complain to my father about the worthless trash he'd raised, but I looked over my shoulder just in case. The coast clear, I sprinted towards the tree that still sheltered the broken, starving girl that I'd loved for as long as I could remember. I huddled over the bread as I ran, protecting it from the pouring rain.

She looked up as I approached, and my heart shattered at the sadness in those gray eyes. She'd given up hope. I knelt beside her, ignoring the mud and water, pressing the bread into her hands. It was worth the beating and the burns to see hope find its way back into her features. "I'm... I'm sorry it's not more."

She didn't say anything for a long moment, just stared at me like I was some prince in a fairy tale. Her gaze ghosted over the burns and bruise forming on my face before croaking out a single word. "Why?"

"It was the right thing to do," I lied, though looking back, it was probably more true than I thought then. I don't think that I would have let anyone starve if I could have helped it, even if I hadn't been desperately in love with them.

She didn't say anything more. My mother was shouting her way down the stairs, telling me that I'd better be back to work. I ran back to the bakery, anticipating a second beating for dirtying her floors. I couldn't help but look back at Katniss before stepping inside, but she was already gone.

The click of Effie's impossibly high heels bring me forcibly to the present. I focus on the stage, and I take a deep breath when she starts digging through the boys' bowl. After a moment of searching, she brandishes a small slip of paper and walks back towards the microphone. I've already got a sinking feeling; my gut's telling me that I won't like the name on written on the slip in her carefully manicured fingers.

"Rye Mellark."

My heart leaps into my throat, blocking the shout of disbelief that threatens to rip its way out of my mouth. A myriad of feelings rush through me. Shock, that a boy with only seven slips would get chosen. Sadness, as I'm reminded that he's going to die before marrying his sweetheart and seeing his child. Anger, that the Capitol is going to rip Rye and Sienna from each other just as they'd found happiness. But most of all, I feel guilty. As irrational as it is, I can't help but think about the small thoughts that had circled my mind since I'd realized that I would have to work the mines. I can't help but feel like this is my fault, that my uncharitable feelings toward my brother led to Effie Trinket sentencing my brother to die.

I watch Rye walk towards the stage, stumbling slightly on the first step. No one laughs. His face is twisted in shock and grief. He knows that he's going to die. He knows that he's leaving Sienna unwed with a child. I glance towards her now, though I don't want to witness her anguish. To my surprise, she's not looking at my brother, but at me. Tears stream from her cerulean eyes as her hopeful gaze rests firmly on mine, and it only takes a moment for me to realize what she's asking me to do.

As much as I want to hate her for asking this of me, I know she's right. Rye has a family, someone who loves him and a child that's counting on him. He's been groomed to take over the bakery. He has friends who care about him. He's needed. I'm not. No one will miss me if I die, except maybe my dad and Katniss. My dad has two other sons to keep him company, and Katniss has Hawthorne and Prim. There's only one real option here. I step forward, clearing my throat as I raise my hand. Sienna's eyes flash with gratitude, and I don't think I've hated anyone as much as I hate her in this moment. She shouldn't thank me, not for this.

"I volunteer as Tribute!" My voice comes out crisp and clear, just I'd hoped.

You could hear a pin drop. Even Effie Trinket is stunned into silence. The rest of the sixteens edge away from me, as if I'm carrying some disease. I ignore them, keeping my gaze firmly on my brother, who hasn't seemed to recover from the initial shock of being reaped. The crowd parts as I walk calmly towards the center aisle and stride as confidently as I can towards the stage. If I'm going to die, I'm not going to do it with my tail between my legs. I won't let the Capitol see how terrified I am, how much I'm already regretting my impulsive decision.

Sienna tries to tell me 'Thank you' as I pass, but I didn't do it for her. I did it for my brother. I did it for my niece or nephew. I did it for the bakery. I take the steps one at a time, paying close attention so I don't trip like Rye. As I mount the stage, I can see Abernathy's dark eyes boring into mine, as if I'm some sort of puzzle he can't quite understand. He doesn't seem nearly as intoxicated as he did minutes ago. Effie's mouth is still wide open. She'd better close it before she swallows too much of the polluted District 12 air. My brother takes an unconscious step backwards as I walk past him, our eyes meeting for the briefest of moments before I position myself next to Effie and the microphone.

I clear my throat, and Effie finally seems to collect herself. Her face immediately splits into a wide grin. "We've never had a volunteer from District 12! What's your name?"

"Peeta. Peeta Mellark," I reply, and I'm glad that my voice doesn't crack. I'm carefully avoiding looking at the female sixteens, at Katniss, mostly because I don't know what I her reaction will be. It would hurt to see her beautiful face stricken with grief, but it'd also hurt if she didn't have any reaction at all. I don't know which one would be worse, and I'm too much of a coward to find out.

"I'd bet my buttons that that's your brother," Effie says smugly, and I feel like choking her. No shit. We look exactly alike and share the same last name. Instead of throttling the life out of the annoying woman, I nod my head just a fraction of an inch. "Didn't want your big brother to hog all the glory? Did you want to step out of his shadow?"

Unwillingly, my eyes find Katniss in the crowd, and she's not sad or impassive. She's furious, angrier than I've ever seen her. She's glaring daggers at Effie, Rye and Sienna in turn. If looks could kill, they would be bleeding out in front of the entire nation. As her fiery gaze finally meets mine, I give her my best apologetic look.

"It was the right thing to do," I say firmly, hoping that she understands. I know that I've mentioned Rye's upcoming nuptials in a feeble attempt to get her to agree to accompany me to the toasting. She quickly shot that hope down before I'd even voiced it. Hopefully she still remembers. After a moment, her steely eyes soften.

"Well, let's hear it for Peeta Mellark, the male Tribute for District 12!" Effie squeals, clapping her hands like a child. No one else claps. Katniss, her grey eyes still firmly resting on me, lifts three fingers to her lips then raises them high above her head. Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Her action means more to me than anything she could have possibly said. It's an old symbol, seldom used in our District anymore. It's a sign of admiration. It's for honoring a fallen loved one. It means goodbye.

The rest of the crowd slowly follows her example, and before I know it the entire district is honoring me. The tears that I've been fighting are welling on my eyelids. If I let myself blink, they'd start coursing down my cheeks and I don't think that I could stop crying if started now.

Thankfully, Haymitch Abernathy provides a much needed distraction, stumbling his way towards me and throwing his arm over my shoulder. It's difficult not to gag at the cloud of liquor that surrounds his wiry frame. "I like this one! He's got... spunk! More than you! More than any of you!" For a moment, he starts teetering off the stage, but I have the presence of mind to grab the back of his shirt and keep him to his feet. His eyes, suddenly lucid, flash with annoyance for the slightest of seconds before dimming again into his drunken haze. He stumbles back, comically landing on his rear.

He's faking it, I realize. If I hadn't seen that brief moment of clarity in his grey eyes, I would have never believed it, but the 'town drunk' show is just an act. My mind starts whirring at a million miles a second as I try to figure out why. Effie instructs me to shake Lillian Evans's hand, and it breaks my heart how tiny her dainty fingers are and how easily it fits into mine. There's no way that this little girl is twelve years old.

After the mayor reads the Treaty of Treason, the ceremony is over and I'm forcibly taken inside the Justice Building and shoved roughly into a small room. The only furniture inside is a small table and a single chair, both cheaply made and unpainted. The Capitol, in all its bountiful mercy, has granted me an entire hour to say goodbye to my loved ones.

Almost right away, a Peace Keeper leads my dad, Rye and Sienna into the room, shouting "Five minutes!" before slamming the door behind them. My dad immediately crushes me into a tight hug.

"Peet... I'm so sorry," Rye is sobbing uncontrollably into Sienna's shoulder.

"It was the right thing to do," I repeat numbly. I don't really want to talk to either of them right now. Why is he crying? He gets to live! Can't he put me first for once in his life and tell me that he believes in me? Can't he at least pretend that I'm not going to be dead in little more than a week? I try to quell the anger burning in my chest.

My dad steps away from me, his cheeks stained with tears. "I love you, son."

"I love you too, Dad."

Sienna seems out of place as she holds my brother. She keeps casting me fearful glances, one hand playing with her long, golden hair. I think that she's afraid that I'll tell Rye that she practically begged me to volunteer, which only raises my ire even further. I'm sacrificing my life for their marriage. Does she really think I'll put that same marriage in jeopardy by over shadowing it with my death? Maybe she's not as bright as I thought she was.

She looks like she wants to say something, but I cut her off with a glare. If she actually thanks me for this, I probably won't be able to keep myself from shouting. "I love you guys. Don't put off your toasting for me, okay?" I try to keep my voice level by reminding myself that none of this is their fault. The Capitol and its peoples' blood lust are the only things to blame. I chose this of my own free will. I could have let Rye get reaped and gone back to my normal life without the death sentence of the mines hanging over my head.

"That's time!" The Peace Keeper shouts through the door, pounding on the hard wood.

Dad clears his throat. "I'll tell your mother-"

"Don't bother," I snarl. My dad looks surprised at my tone; I've never raised my voice to him before, and I've certainly never bad mouthed my mother to anyone but Katniss. "She never loved me, and I certainly never loved her. I should thank her: She taught me how to endure pain. I'm sure that'll come in handy in the arena."

Before he can reply, the Peace Keepers are dragging them back through the door. It's only closed a moment before Madge Undersee comes striding in, her stylish blonde hair bouncing behind her. I'm surprised to see her; Madge and I have never been that close. She's more Katniss's friend than mine. I can't help but notice that the Peace Keepers aren't shoving her around. Privileges of being the mayor's daughter, I suppose.

"Oh, Peeta," she exclaims, throwing her arms around me.

"What are you doing here?" I blurt, unable to contain myself. "Not that it's not nice to see you..."

"I wanted to give you this," she says, pulling something from her pocket. She uncurls her fingers to reveal a solid gold pin. It's beautiful, a little smaller than my palm, featuring some type of bird with an arrow clasped in its beak. Clearing her throat, she clarifies. "It's a mockingjay. You're allowed to take a token to remind you of home..."

"I already have one," I say quietly, remembering the sketch weighing heavily in my pocket. I slip it out, cringing at the creases that somehow crinkled the page. After a moment's hesitation, I hand it to Madge. She unfolds it carefully, her blue eyes welling with sadness as she takes in the picture.

"You were Mystery Guy?" she asks quietly, her melodic voice barely above a whisper.

"Mystery Guy?"

She blushes prettily. "Well, when she started asking me about makeup tips I just assumed... She refused to talk about it, so I just started calling you Mystery Guy in my head."

"Makeup tips?" I laugh. Katniss and makeup are two things that I've never associated with each other. She doesn't need it, but I find it strangely comforting that she cared enough about my opinion of her to consider wearing it.

"I thought she was asking because of-" cuts herself off sharply.

"Hawthorne?" She nods solemnly, almost fearful at my reaction. "Don't be sure that she wasn't. I'm still not sure that she wasn't just using me for practice."

Madge gives me a severe look, her blue eyes flashing. "Katniss isn't like that. She wouldn't date you if she didn't care about you." She looks towards the door, and I wonder how much time we have.

Guilt twinges in my chest before sitting heavily in my gut. "I know," I say softly. "It's just... she's so hard to read. She's so closed off and I never have any idea what she's thinking." Madge places a hand on my cheek, trying to comfort me. It doesn't work. "If..." my voice cracks, but I clear my throat. "If I don't make it... will you tell her I love her?"

"Oh, Peeta," she says again, pulling me into another hug. "You've been mooning over Katniss since our first day of school. You can tell her yourself when you get back."

"But if I don't..."

"Then I'll tell her," she promises, handing back the sketch of her best friend. "Good luck out there, okay?" I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I'll see you soon."

"Thanks, Madge," I croak. "For everything. Sorry I couldn't take your gift."

"It's okay. Yours is better, anyway." Before I can ask her 'Better for what?' she's disappeared back through the door, closing it softly behind her. I realize that she had much more than the traditional five minutes.

I stare at the door, willing for Katniss to walk through, but I'm disappointed when pretty much every merchant kid my age trudges into the room. They're all 'well bred,' as Mom would say, with various shades of blonde hair and blue eyes. I try my best not to get annoyed with them, but they really have no right to be here. I was too toxic to hang out with at school, but now that I'm entering the games it seems like I've suddenly regained the lost popularity of my youth. Delly Cartwright's pretty face almost makes me lose my temper. Delly and I had been best friends throughout our entire childhood. She knew everything about me, every secret fear, but she'd gone with everyone else in the end. As my eventual fate became apparent, and there were magically no longer enough places at my usual lunch table, she'd given me a tearful, apologetic look as I slumped my way to sit by myself. I still remember Katniss's face, her brow furrowed with concern, as she witnessed me exile. It's sitting in one of my sketchbooks in my room.

Now, Delly is openly sobbing like the rest, and the hateful, fiery beast in my chest wants to tell her, to tell all of them, to leave. Taking a deep breath to calm myself, I force a winning smile on my face as I tell them all that I'll see them soon. Thankfully, their five minutes comes and goes and they're trooping away with slumped shoulders. Hypocrites. They're no better than the Capitol. They wouldn't have cared less if I'd died in the mines. Now that my death will be interesting, well that changes everything.

The door opens again, and I can't keep the smile from my face as Katniss Everdeen walks briskly through. The Peace Keeper doesn't manhandle her, either, though I doubt it's for the same reasons as Madge. No one messes with Katniss, even the Peace Keepers. Her angry glare sends my grin fleeing in terror.

"Of all the stupid, ridiculous... volunteering for the Games?" She's enraged. Her grey eyes are flashing heatedly as she paces in front of me. "What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that my brother has a baby on the way with an unwed fiance," I reply, letting my anger tinge my voice. "He has people who will miss him." I can tell from her hurt look that she catches the silent 'and I don't' at the end.

"I'll miss you," she says thickly, like she's trying to force the words from her throat. It's probably the nicest thing she's ever said to me, the closest I'll ever hear her get to saying those other three little words. Her grey eyes focus on mine as she takes one of my large hands in both of hers. "Promise me you'll come back."

"You know I can't promise that," I say, unwilling to lie to her. I'll lie to anyone else, but not her.

"Then promise that you'll try. That you'll do everything you can to come back to me." There's a desperation written on her face that I haven't seen in five years.

I shake my head. "I won't let them change me, Katniss. I won't play their game. You've seen the Games... you have to do some pretty terrible things to win."

"Don't be an idiot," she snarls. "Don't die because of some stupid sense of morality! What good will it do you if you end up bleeding out in the arena?"

"So you don't mind if I murder a bunch of people? You've seen Haymitch! You've seen the victors that roll through here every year! The Games change you, and not for the better!"

"I don't care!" she shouts, fisting my shirt in her hands. Was it only last night that we were in a similar position? "I don't care what you have to do! I don't care if you have to kill all twenty three Tributes yourself! I don't care if you come home different, as long as you come home! Whatever happens after... we'll work through it together."

The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them. "I didn't know you cared that much."

Her face briefly flickers with pain, before she presses her lips to mine. The kiss is so Katniss, all barely restrained heat and carefully contained emotions. "Of course I care. You're my... my Peeta. I'm not... I'm not great with words, but I promise I'll do better. Just, please, come home."

I pull her into a tight hug, unable to look into her eyes as I ask my next question. "And you won't hate me? Even if it means killing twelve year old kids like Lillian?"

After a moment's hesitation, she nods against my chest. "Whatever it takes," she finally says, her voice muffled against my shirt. I can feel the tears soaking through the fabric.

"Okay."

"Promise me, Peeta."

I brush my lips softly against hers, reveling in what I know to be our last kiss. It's salty and sweet, and I pour every emotion that I never got to tell her into it. "I promise. Whatever it takes."