Author's Note: Because Peeta deserves so much more than he got. And we all know the way to Katniss' heart is through Prim. Please review and let me know what you think!
She's alive.
Nothing registers but the sight of her face, the twitch of her hand, the quirk of her strained smile. She's tiny in the distance, separated from me by hundreds of cheering people, but I can see she's moving, she's real, she's alive. I refuse to so much as blink, in case she disappears. She waves shyly, ducks her head, shifts her feet in a tiny, nervous motion.
Dimly I'm aware that the crowd is eating it up, roaring their approval, the applause stretching infinitely. But it sounds far away, a distant, numb buzz in my ear. I feel deaf, focused solely on the sight of her. Something is tight in my chest, holding me together in a vice.
Gale grips my hand, and I clench it back.
She glances around, eyes searching anxiously through the masses, and they finally land on me. It's arresting. Her smile gapes, teeth showing, and even from this far away I can see that her eyes are wet and shining. I raise my empty hand in a wave, shaking.
She doesn't have a microphone—Effie is using it, offering her congratulations—but I can see the movement of her lips as she sobs my name, her chest heaving.
A hand lands on her shoulder, and it's only then that I finally notice the boy—man, really—standing next to her.
Peeta Mellark.
He glances down, looks in my direction for a for a fraction of a second, barely long enough to make eye contact, before sliding his fingers down her arm and holding her hand. Prim looks at him, clenches his hand, and presses herself against his side. She's so tiny that she barely reaches the middle of his chest. He lets go and settles his arm around her shoulders instead, bringing her even closer. She slides hers around his waist in a halfway hug and hides her eyes in his shirt.
"Gale," I whisper, the stranglehold in my chest squeezing tighter.
"I know," he says.
"Would you look at that," trills Effie with delight, watching the two cling to each other. "What a moving return! And now, one last round of applause for our champions before they go inside!"
The crowd claps, cheering for District's Twelve's first victory in years, for our youngest ever champion, for the only ever simultaneous victors. I can hear Prim's friends shouting her name over the thundering applause. Beside me, my mother claps quietly, but I can't find it in myself to do more than clutch Gale's hand like a lifeline.
Prim looks at me again, eyes wide and wet, before smiling tremulously at the crowd and waving with her free hand. Peeta glances down at her, then quirks his lips in what I think was meant to be a smile but looks, from here, more like a grimace.
Then the Peacekeepers are ushering them indoors, and they disappear from sight. I feel a momentary grasp of panic before Gale says my name.
"Katniss," he whispers urgently. "Go. You can go find her now."
I'm terrified.
"Come with me," I say.
He shakes his head. "I can't, you know that. Family only." He squeezes my hand once, then lets go.
"Gale," I say, strangled. My heart is pounding.
"Go," he urges. "It's okay now. She made it, she's fine. Go get her."
I breathe out. It's so hard to believe, so out of the realm of possibility that I'm worried once I reach her I'll find out none of it's real.
"Okay," I whisper. "Okay."
I turn to my mother to find her watching us, silent but sharp. She had come back to herself after Prim's reaping, quiet and despondent but more aware than she had been in years. I couldn't explain it, and worry now—especially with her slow, faint movements and utter silence—that she will disappear on us again.
"Mom, let's go," I say.
I curl my fingers around her elbow and gently walk her towards the doors. She doesn't say a word, but she nods her head and I know she's in there, somewhere.
We pause outside and a Peacekeeper checks his records before wordlessly letting us in. My pulse is racing so hard I feel faint.
The room is quiet and bare, empty except for a single couch in the center and the two occupants sitting on it. It's similar to the one we said goodbye in, but this time the two of them are together rather than separate. They're holding hands again, Prim curled against his broad shoulder, and for a fraction of a second I'm actually jealous of him.
They look up at the sound of our entrance and Prim meets my eyes. I barely have time to draw a breath before she launches forwards, barrels into my waist, and knocks the wind out of me.
"Katniss!" she screeches.
Her spindly arms are so tight they're almost crushing. I don't care. Something inside of me unravels and frays apart, and I feel like I can draw a breath for the first time in weeks. I gasp, kneeling down and pressing her so tight against me nothing could tear us apart. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to let go.
She immediately bursts into tears, hiccupping in my ear, her fingers digging almost painfully into my skin. Her sobs are hard and choked, as if she can't finish one before another takes over. Her tears are hot against my neck, and the skin around my eyes feel tight and prickly.
"Shh, Prim, it's okay," I soothe quietly. "You're okay now. Everything's going to be okay, little duck."
She cries louder at the nickname and I bury my face in her hair, closing my eyes. She smells sweet and flowery, and nothing at all like the Prim I know.
Our mother places a hand each on the crowns of our heads, strokes our hair softly. Prim unwinds herself from me and clasps her arms around my mother's waist, pressing her face into her stomach.
"Mom," she hiccups.
I watch them from where I'm crouched on the floor. Part of me is worried about the interaction, though I am mostly buzzing with my own emotions. But our mother is here, fully here, and in one piece.
"Oh, Prim," she murmurs, and continues to stroke her hair, fingers deftly splaying through the strands.
Prim's sobs grow quiet, her breaths slow, until she stops crying altogether. She turns her face to me, her eyes red and swollen, snot running down her nose, cheeks shiny and wet. Nothing has ever seemed so beautiful.
She hugs me again, breathing slow and deep against my neck. I rub my hands in firm circles on her skinny back and whisper nonsense in her ear.
Over her shoulder, my gaze lands on Peeta to find him watching us. I've never seen his face so blank. His eyes are much darker than I realized. His hair looks clean, his pale skin fresh, his pressed clothes straight from the Capitol. The longer we maintain eye contact the more charged the air around me feels, heavy and dense and vibrating like the air before lightning. I find I can't blink, and I'm holding my breath.
The door opens, and Peeta looks away.
Heavy footsteps fall, and I watch over Prim's shoulder as Mr. Mellark embraces his son. Peeta's hands wrap around his father's shoulders and he bows his head, the first sign of exhaustion—of any emotion at all, really—that I've seen from him since his return.
"Oh, my boy," says Mr. Mellark heavily.
"Dad." Peeta's voice sounds strangled.
I watch as Mr. Mellark clasps a hand against the side of Peeta's face, drinks him in, then slides his hand to the back of Peeta's head and pulls it down against his shoulder. Peeta's eyes close and he sags, until I'm convinced Mr. Mellark must be holding up all of their combined weight.
More heavy footfalls signal the arrival of Peeta's brothers. They crowd him in a group hug that he doesn't seem entirely able to face, though I watch the play of emotions over his expression as he attempts to smile.
Peeta's mother stands near them, her hands clasping her own elbows.
"Congratulations," she says.
I feel Prim sigh against me, sagging with weeks of fear, and I give the Mellarks as much privacy as I can.
"Shh," I whisper to Prim. "You're here. You're safe."
"I thought I was going to die, Katniss," she chokes, her voice small. "I thought I was going to die."
"I know," I tell her. Her admission causes a terrible pang in my chest. "But you want to know something?"
"What?" she asks.
"I didn't. I knew you would come back to me," I lie. "Because I had faith in you. You're tougher than you look, little duck."
Her eyes are huge, her smile shaky. She's quivering uncontrollably. I run my hand briskly up and down her arm, then use my sleeve to wipe away the snot under her nose.
"There," I say. "All fixed up. You want to go home now?"
"Yes, please," she whispers.
I stand up, and she clamps her clammy fingers around my own. But then she bites her lip and, curiously, looks back at Peeta. He's already watching her over his brother's shoulder, his gaze sharp and intense and entirely focused on her. Something passes wordlessly between them, and I'm still so startled by their newfound connection that I can't even begin to interpret it.
Peeta lets go of his brother and steps around him towards us. His family watches, looking as confused as I feel. Peeta crouches down next to her and gives her a tiny smile.
"It's okay, Prim," he says. I've never noticed how gentle his voice is.
She looks at him for a long moment, and she seems so much older than when she left. She lets go of me to wind her arms around his shoulders, her expression so very grave for someone so young. Peeta strokes her hair, his hand so large it covers the back of her head.
"You were really brave," he says quietly. "You should be proud of yourself."
His voice sounds tight and I realize, startled, that this isn't just for her. He seems to need this embrace as much as she does.
She whispers something in his ear and he nods his head.
"I will," he says. He draws back and slides his fingers to cup her chin instead. "Go home. You deserve it. You'll be okay now."
"You will too, right?" she questions worriedly.
He gives a wry smile, so focused on her that he doesn't seem to notice the rest of us blatantly staring.
"Of course," he says. He stands up and ruffles her hair. "Alright, get going."
She hugs him again, too briefly for him to reciprocate, then whispers goodbye and comes to clasp my hand. I glance down at our joined fingers before looking back at Peeta. He meets my gaze for a second, says nothing, then turns to rejoin his family.
And suddenly, I can't leave it like that.
"Peeta," I say.
He turns back to me.
There are so many things I could say. So many things I should say. But my throat is too tight to force the words out, so in the end I say nothing.
He nods. I don't know whether he has understood everything I wanted to say or understood nothing.
I swallow convulsively, and watch as he turns around again.
"Come on," says my mother, and I feel the pressure of her palm against my arm.
"Let's go home, little duck," I manage to get out.
It's time for the drawing.
"As usual, ladies first!" trills Effie.
She crosses the stage to the glass ball and reaches inside. Her fingers hover over the slips of paper, swiveling left and right, feeling the air. She finally decides on a placement, and reaches deeper, curling her fingers around the top piece of paper and plucking it out. She holds it up for the crowd to see.
The entire district collectively holds its breath. It's so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat.
Please, I pray to no one. Please.
Effie unfolds the piece of paper, clean fingers smoothing it out, and reads the name to herself. She clears her throat delicately, stalling to heighten the drama. I grit my teeth with disgust.
Then she reads out the name in a clear voice.
"Primrose Everdeen."
I blink, certain I heard her wrong.
There's no way.
There's no way.
But I replay the last few seconds in my mind, and there's only one name I keep hearing, enunciated in Effie's bell-like accent.
Primrose Everdeen.
I can hear the crowd murmuring like angry bees, quiet but buzzing in my ears. I can't make out their words through the fog in my head, but I can tell they are unhappy, the way they always are when someone so young is chosen.
It's this, more than anything else, that makes me realize I heard right. It's really her. I can't breathe. I feel winded, the impact of unpleasant shock knocking every wisp of breath out of my lungs. I struggle to inhale, to exhale, to do anything.
"Where are you, dear?" I hear Effie call through the roaring in my head. "Come on up!"
I can see the crowd shifting, parting to make way for her, though I'm too far away to see more than the top of a tiny blonde head moving towards the stage.
The camera finds her, and suddenly her face is huge and close on the large screen, eyes darting widely here and there, lips in a small O. My mother, standing next to me, huffs out a breath at the sight. The camera zooms out to watch her walk towards the platform, her steps small and stilted, stiff with fear and shock. The back of her blouse has become untucked and hangs out over her skirt, and I watch the screen as she nervously tucks it back in.
Prim.
This detail, her tiny fingers tucking in her too-large shirt, breaks me out of my paralysis and I choke in a breath.
"Prim!" I gasp.
My voice is too hoarse, too faint with shock.
"Prim!"
The strangled cry forces out of my throat, and I push through the murmuring crowd.
"Prim!" I yell.
She whirls around at the sound of her name, her pigtails swinging in a wide arc, her entire body trembling. Two Peacekeepers step closer to her, a clear warning for her to keep moving towards the stage, and I panic.
I shove people aside, breathing harshly, my mind racing as fast as my blood. I'm making a racket, screaming her name as loud as I can, rushing forwards as fast I as I can.
Two Peacekeepers block me out of nowhere. They each place one hand on their gun and one on my shoulder, their grip tight and bruising, their stance firm and unyielding. No matter how hard I push, how violently I struggle, I can't get past them.
"N—" I choke. "No! Prim!"
I'm so panicked I can't even think. My mind is white with shock and fear.
"I volunteer!" I screech hysterically. "I volunteer as tribute!"
Confusion spreads from the crowd to the stage. The Peacekeepers, who suddenly don't know what to do, relax their hold and glance at Effie for instructions. I manage to plant my feet firmly, my stance as strong as I can make it, my face set in stone. Inside I'm quaking.
"I volunteer as tribute," I repeat, as determined and calm as I can.
My face is large on the screen, broadcasted for all of District Twelve—all of Panem—to see. Effie looks as flustered as I've ever seen her. Murmurs of surprise and confusion flitter above the crowd.
"Well, this is a surprise," says Effie after a moment, trying to laugh it off. "But there's the small matter of your age. How old are you, dear? Not within reaping age, I'm sure! We have to let someone else get a chance at the glory now, don't we!"
I'm breathing so fast I'm starting to hyperventilate. I can feel my body thrumming.
No.
No.
"No," I whisper, then gather my voice. "No, I—I volunteer! Please!" My voice cracks. "Let me volunteer in her place!"
"I'm sorry, dear, but the rules are the rules!"
She laughs high and shrill in the face of my disbelief.
That's the final straw. I break down, struggling hysterically. The guards restrain me with grips like iron and forcefully drag me away from the crowd. I dig my heels in, I kick at them, stumbling as I lose my balance and fall, striking whatever parts of their bodies I can reach with my fists.
"No!" I screech, my voice ripping. "No! Prim!"
"Katniss!" I can hear her cry back tearfully.
"No!"
My voice is grating by now, hoarse and shrill and broken. I wrench backwards, but the Peacekeepers don't even stumble. Their faces are hard as rocks, expressionless. We reach the edge of the crowd and I feel a final flash of fear dart through me. This is it.
"No, let me go! Prim!"
I strike out and manage to rake my nails across the jaw of one of them, drawing blood. He yelps in surprise, then glares at me so venomously if I wasn't half insane I would have drawn back.
"Let go!" I yell.
He backhands me across the cheek, and my face snaps to the side, my neck cracking. I barely even feel it. I shriek with rage and fear, clawing at him, trying to get back. Not even the sight of the Peacekeepers drawing their guns can bring me to my senses.
Then two hands unexpectedly wrench my arms behind my back. I twist, wriggle, and wrench, crying hoarsely, but can't escape them.
"No!" says a voice I recognize through the haze. "I've got her. She's fine. She'll listen to me."
Gale.
They exchange words, but I'm struggling too vigorously against Gale's hold to pay any attention. I need to get back to Prim. I need to stop her. I need to save her.
"I've got her," Gale continues. "She won't do anything stupid."
The Peacekeepers hesitate, but they clearly want to get back the reaping to watch the unexpected drama unfold. Gale manages to convince them by tightening his hold even more, forcing my shoulders back painfully. He's stronger than even I had realized, and his brute strength that convinces the Peacekeepers they can afford to leave me here.
I snarl at Gale, and slam my head backwards against his. I feel it collide with his face, the ache that spreads surely nothing compared to crack of his nose. He howls and lets go, but I only have time to dart forward two steps before he's grabbed me again.
The sound I make is almost inhuman with terror.
"Let me go!" I scream.
"Katniss," he pants, trying to restrain my flailing wrists. "Katniss, stop!"
He wraps both arms around me from behind, tight and constricting like a steel trap. He forces my arms to my sides, keeps me clenched straight as a pin, and squeezes until I can feel my muscles bruising with pain.
And all of a sudden, I collapse. I go limp against him, destroyed from within. His arms, locked around me, are all that hold me up.
"Gale," I sob.
I gasp in lungfuls of air, but no matter how much I inhale I can't seem to breathe. My chest is tight as a steel drum, my lungs full of so much pressure I'm sure they're going to explode.
His arms loosen at my acquiescence, and I cave in, doubling forward. He immediately tightens them and jerks me back upright. I lean against his grip, trembling, choking in air.
"Gale, I can't—"
"I know," he says quietly. "Katniss, I know."
"I can't—"
One hand locked around my waist, he raises the other and runs it down my braid, then spins me gently until I'm facing him.
"Breathe, Katniss," he say.
I don't feel entirely human as I look at him. I'm not even sure I see him properly. I clench his arms, my short, brittle nails digging in deep enough that I leave marks, little puckered crescent moons. He doesn't even wince. I stare at them for a long, blank moment, then raise my eyes to his.
"Gale, it's Prim," I whisper, horrified. "She's going to—"
I can't say it, but I don't have to. He knows, as well as I do.
She's going to die.