(A/N: This is a really ambitious story I've started, which pretty much recounts Hunger Games from Peeta's point of view. Although the plot is already known to you guys, I really want to focus on character development and a different perspective. Please let me know what you think!)

e v e r . i n . y o u r . f a v o r
l.c. li

::-::

It's only around four past midnight when the broomstick comes, jabbing me in the arm, accompanied by my mother's shrill wake-up calls.

"Peeta! Peeta Mellark! Up, you lazy boy!"

I force myself to rise and pull on my nearest shirt. My mother smacks me in the arm.

"Not that one! Have you forgotten, Peeta? It's Reaping Day!" She throws open the door of our only closet, rummaging around. "You must wear something at least somewhat decent!"

Decent? For who? The Capitol? As if they would ever care.

She shoves something against my shirt. I take it without looking. "What are you doing? Go! Put it on! Why are you so sluggish?"

I feel resentment burning at the bottom of my stomach, but keep it contained. I couldn't sleep a wink. Today is Reaping Day. Not that she cares. I was just another boy in a household of many, another baker, a mediocre one at that.

My mother finally storms out of the room after fussing over my shoes and hair. I hear my brothers' doors slam against our molding walls as my mother flings them open.

"Up! Up! Up!"

I shrug on the dress shirt she's thrust at me. It makes me look older. Powerful. In control. As if I were actually ready for the Reaping.

I step out my room. My mother's already decorated our place up with well-placed bouquets of wildflowers and small pieces of glittering fabric. It makes me feel sick. She is expecting us to be spared from the Reaping. She has already planned out the celebrations.

Something deep inside me tells me that I won't be around to see the decorations again.

"Peeta! What are you doing?" my mother demands. "Get to the bakery!"

"Yes, mother," I manage to spit from between my teeth, racing out the door. We're lucky enough to own two different buildings-if you could call them that. The bakery was once a dilapidated two-room shack. Now it's a prettified dilapidated two-room shack that my mother dressed up with whitewash and handmade tiles. Our actual house isn't bad, either. Especially not compared to those in the Seam.

Like Katniss.

Katniss Everdeen. No matter how many times I try to block her out, she always comes back in. The girl whose voice makes the birds stop and listen. The fearless, beautiful, unattainable hunter, with dozens of boys groveling for her attention. She doesn't even notice they're there.

She doesn't even notice I'm there.

"Hello, Peeta!" It's Delly Cartwright. She has one of her usual smiles on her pasty face, but it's tight. Forced. She is afraid. Like all of us.

"Delly," I say briefly in greeting. "We haven't opened yet."

"I'm not here to buy anything," Delly says, her voice high and lilting. "I'm here to talk."

I strike the flint, starting the oven. "About what?"

Delly is silent. It takes me a few minutes to realize that something is wrong. When I turn to face her, her smile is gone and her eyes are bright with unshed tears.

"Delly?" I say, rushing around the counter to put a hand on her shoulder.

"I've put my name in for tesserae this year," she whispers. "What if... What if I get chosen?"

I don't know what to say. The tesserae exchange. Another way the Capitol mocks us. A better chance to starve, dehydrate, bleed to death as millions of viewers watch, in exchange for a meager share of oil and grain. It's ironic; the families who can provide the most training for their children don't need tesserae, and the families that need the tesserae are too poor to provide their children with any training.

Delly quickly rubs at her eyes. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to come here to whine." She hurries out of the shop, tattered shoes rubbing against the ceramic tiles of the bakery.

I've never had to put in my name more than the required amount. The bakery makes enough for us to get by, and then some. But I've had friends who had to enter their name in ten times when they were twelve, twenty times when they were thirteen, thirty times when they were fourteen. Four years ago I saw a twelve-year-old girl enter her name in twenty-six times. She was selected to be Tribute that year. She died within the first three minutes. Hacked to death with a knife.

"Peeta." It's my father. "I can take care of things from here. Go and relax."

I understand the implication. It might be your last day here. Take a vacation.

Most of the adults are a little softer, a little more understanding around the Reaping. An extra apple during a deal, a comforting hand on the shoulder, a piece of rice candy inconspicuously slipped into a pocket. Just enough for us to notice. Not enough for it to be fake. We appreciate it more than they know. At least I do.

"Peeta."

I turn. It's Primrose Everdeen, the most innocent and beloved child in the entire district. You can't hate Prim and still call yourself human. She's just that kind of person, with a heart of gold, a passion for helping, a strong sense of loyalty. She's also Katniss's younger sister. My cousin Nathen is crazy about her. Figures. The Everdeen women have a way of holding the Mellark men under their spell.

Prim's dressed in an oversized blouse, the one that Katniss wore when she was Prim's age. She's shaking, fists clenched, face and lips white.

"Hey there, Prim," I say, trying to keep my voice gentle.

"Peeta, I..." She squeezes her eyes shut. "It's Reaping Day."

I place a hand on her shoulder, but it doesn't feel like it's enough. Prim has been crying out of terror almost every day for the past month. She always dries her eyes before Katniss gets home. She doesn't want Katniss to worry. They're both inexplicably strong in that way. Holding their head up, keeping their tears in, working with what they have. Although Prim has listed me as her confidant, I feel like she and Katniss are my heroes.

"Is Katniss hunting again?" I ask.

She nods and wraps her skinny arms around my waist, burying her head in my chest. Her tiny body is shaking.

I try to make soothing sounds as I lead her to the closest bench and sit. I start stroking her hair, like I've seen Katniss do sometimes. It seems to calm her down.

She breaks away. "I'm sorry, Peeta. I don't mean to burden you so much."

"It's fine, Prim. You come to me whenever you have any problems," I say, giving her a smile. She's far too selfless. Like Katniss. They're always giving themselves away and never expecting anything in return. Always feeling like they're in debt and need to repay.

"Katniss didn't let me enter for tesserae," Prim whispers, rubbing at her eyes.

"Good for her," I say, feeling something sinking in my stomach. Katniss didn't let Prim enter for tesserae. That was a good thing, but it also meant Katniss entered her own name for tesserae. What if she's chosen? What would Prim do? What would I do?

"Would you like a piece of candy?" I ask spontaneously. Everyone I know likes sweets, when they can afford it. Maybe some sugar can help Prim.

Prim gives a shy nod. We walk down the street, headed towards the sweet shop. It's now morning, with the sun lighting the grey clouds, the shops opening their doors, the first trace of citizens on the streets, most of them Prim's age. Nervous for the Reaping, unable to sleep. I catch Nathen walking right past us, so distracted that he doesn't even notice Prim.

"Nathen," I call.

He stops and turns, eyes widening at the sight of Prim. "Peeta. Prim..."

Prim turns her face quickly, rubbing at her eyes again, before facing Nathen with a shy smile. "Hello."

Nathen looks speechless. Dumbstruck. I nudge him with my elbow. He clears his throat. "H-hi. How're you doing, Prim."

"Alright. And you?"

"Alright, I guess." His eyes fall to the ground. "Best of luck. For later today, you know."

"O-oh." Her face pales. "Th-thank you."

I glare at Nathen. He grimaces. "I mean, uh, you know. It's not so bad. I had my first Reaping last year. At first it seems all, you know... scary. But then they select the name and it's all over real quick."

Prim's eyes brighten. "Really?"

"'C-course." As I begin to silently creep away, Nathen steps forward and puts his hands on Prim'a shoulders. "I'll be there to protect you, okay? Here, you wanna go to the sweet shop?"

That's the last I hear of Nathen and Prim together for a long, long time.

::-::

Before long, it's two o' clock. The square is packed with six thousand some people. The other two thousand are directed to adjoining streets where they can watch the proceedings on screens.

The mayor is mumbling through his usual speech. The one he gave last year. And the year before that. And the year before that. The speech the mayor before and the mayor before him and all the mayors in the past seventy-three years have given. How the Hunger Games encourage unity and whatever else. How it's forgivable to thrust a twelve, thirteen, fourteen-year-old into a brutal arena and watch them starve, dehydrate, mutilate each other.

"Peeta."

It's Nathen. He's somehow wormed his way to where I am.

"Hey," I say. "What is it?"

"I... I have a really bad feeling," Nathen whispers as the mayor wraps up his speech. "Like... like someone's gonna get chosen. Someone who I know."

"It's District 12. Almost everyone knows each other," I say.

"No, not that," Nathen says urgently, watching as the mayor walks down the stage. "I think... I think it's gonna be Prim."

I feel like the wind has been knocked out of my lungs.

Prim? The worst candidate for a Tribute. Too kind to kill. Too innocent to handle the circumstances. Too gentle to hunt, too meek to assert herself, too young. Just too young.

"You just think that because you like her," I say. It's not true. We both know it's not true. Mellark intuition is somewhat infamous among those who know us well. If we feel something's gonna happen, something in the very depths of our gut, in the dark of our soul... it happens. It always happens.

Effie Trinket, the Capitol lady with freakish hair dressed in freakish clothes, bounces up to the stage on her impossibly high heels. When she speaks, her voice is high and grating.

"Happy Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor!" She clears her throat and daintily arranges a curled hair that has fallen out of place. "I must say, what an honor it is to be here! Such a very, er, quaint place this is! Very, ah, very... Well! You have at least one victor, do you not?"

Apparently I missed Haymitch Abernathy's drunken appearance while talking with Nathen.

"At any rate, I believe it is time for the drawing!" She gives a high, false laugh and crosses over to the glass ball for the girls. "Ladies first!"

Nathen's hand grips my arm so tight that it cuts off all circulation to my arm. "It's Prim," he whispers frantically. "It's Prim, it's Prim."

I try to say something. Prim's just twelve, she didn't enter for tesserae, her name is on one slip in thousands. But my throat's gone as dry as a desert.

Effie Trinket worms her hand inside the ball and pulls forth a single slip. It's dead silent. Not a cough, a sneeze, a clearing of the throat. She unrolls the slip and reads the name in her clear, high voice:

Primrose Everdeen.

(A/N: MUAHAHAHA. Okay, well, you knew that was coming. Anyways, what do you think? Review, please? :D)