What if the Hunger Games were in Gale and Peeta's point of view?

What if we saw Katniss through their eyes?

What if every kiss, kill, and breath they saw?

Let the Games begin.

Part One

Peeta

I wake up as the sun's warm rays touch my eyelids. It's so peaceful, in this cot, I could lie here forever. I open my eyes and remember: The day of the reaping. One child of District 12 will be chosen to die today. 11 more in faraway places. One more District 12 death to add to the book. I briefly lie there, thinking of nothing but dead children and the Capitol and how much pain they cause. Then I sit up, brush the thought of death from my mind, and quietly start the day.

I walk quietly toward the kitchen, then I pause for a moment and open my closet. You might not have time to finish your daily bread before Mother gets up, a sensible voice in my head warns. I ignore it and throw open the doors. Digging through the clothes, neatly stacked cookbooks, and junk, I find what I am looking for. Covered in flour and lint, an old maroon leather scrapbook. I remember the day I bought it. All shiny and polished to its spiffiest in the glazed windows of the store. The clerk said it was vintage, imported from both District 7 and 8. Cost a fortune, I had to skip lunch for the next month to make up for it.

Running my hands along the spine, I open it and examine the contents as if seeing them afresh.

The first entry is labeled Maylie, and it is written in my rounded five year old handwriting. A haphazard sketch of her bright face is printed in the top left corner of the ivory paper. Under that, I have written, Timid, is good with a knife, and would do anything to protect her baby brother. I remember, she barely made it through the blood bath, then died a day later because an arrow had punctured her stomach, and her stomach acid boiled out and fried her from the inside. I feel so bad, I'm glad I at least made this tribute to her.

I flip through all 24 pages-I've had this for twelve years, two kids for each year- and remember their names. Jascon, who died in the bloodbath of a quick arrow to the heart. Doon, who starved. Aunumn, who got the farthest anyone had- since 20 years before her, when Haymitch won the Quarter Quell- was in the final two. Her ally, from District 11, had shot the third tribute the morning before, and Aunumn was preparing to break the alliance, when she got a knife in the head. My eyes well up for all of them. How I wish I could help them. But I can't. They're dead, and anyway, the Capitol wouldn't allow it.

I toss the book back under the clothes and know I will soon be taking it back out of its dusty pile. Mother might be getting up soon, and I want to bake the morning batch before she can reprimand me.

I walk to the kitchen, pull out a slab of wood, and start throwing together the ingredients for classic bread. I've done this hundreds, if not thousands of times, and it no longer requires thought. I knead, fold and push in a practiced, smooth motion. The continuous slap of the bread hitting the slab clears the thoughts from my mind until the only thing is dough on the wood. I knead until the sun clears the bottom leaf of our scraggly apple tree. Then I add nuts and knead some more. When the sun has inched higher, I split and shape the dough into four loaves, then, pulling the heavy wooden slab off the table with ease, I place it into the rising area.

I hear the creaking of bedsprings, and I wince. Mother is up. I know she means well, but-

"Get UP, you lazy slob, get UP!"

The yelling from the next room finishes my thought. She'll be here in half an hour. I hear my brother Daymen mutter something in response. She has always hated him the most, I don't know why. Maybe because he reminds her of her first husband too much.

I pull a rack of bread -from the previous day- out of the oven. Six perfect, nutty loaves. I turn around with the loaves in my arms. "Oh!" Father has materialized in front of me. He smiles. "Careful. Don't want to lose the day's bread." He is like that, thinking of others and never himself. Not the burn he could have gotten. Just the lack of another's bread.

Father turns to the storefront. "Good morning," I hear him say. "What would you like?" A low, grunty reply reaches my ears. I would know it anywhere. Gale. The ladies man. I don't particularly like him. I back away into the kitchen, busying myself making a new batch of bread. He spends too much time with Katniss. Katniss. I smile slightly just thinking about her. The dough I am kneading sags in my hands. She provides my family food, and has for years. She sings like an angel. She's so self-assured, so pure…

"Peeta. PEETA." My father waves his hand in my face. I snap back to reality.

"Yes?" I say innocently.

"Just...keep your head in the bread." It's a phrase he uses, about focusing on the bakery and not other things. Judging by the tiny smile on Father's face, I think he has a hunch about what was on my mind.

Gale

I'm hurtling through the air, swooping over trees and houses, over the Hob, and into Katniss's house. I fly through it, but there's no Katniss. Only Prim and her mother, heads down on the table in grievance. Frantic, I check the woods, the Hob everywhere she could be. Then it's like my strings are cut, and I'm falling, falling out of the sky. The ground rushes toward me as I look for Katniss one more time. Finally I see her! But something is wrong. She is speeding away on a train with the Capitol's emblem. In my head, I hear her voice. "It's the only way Gale….." Her voice fades and the ground rushes up to meet me-

I wake up drowning in my own sweat, breathing hard like I have run a long distance. Katniss. I need to see her. Even though is Reaping Day, she'll be up. In the woods. I slide off the bed, grab a towel from the floor, and start to brush the cold sweat coating my body. This recurring nightmare plagues me. I don't know why it's here, there's no reason for me to be afraid, she would never leave District 12.

I tread through the silent houses, and into the market. Looking left and right, I find what I am looking for. The baker's. I skid to a stop and casually walk up to the window and open the door. The bell jingles sweetly, oblivious to the darkness of today. The kind faced baker is there, waiting. "Good morning," he says. "What would you like?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a blond haired boy walking away. Peeta Mellark. Ever the popular one. I shift so I don't have to look at him and say, "Some nutty bread, please." I say stiffly. I don't like it in the market, with the uppity residents. I much prefer the Hob, with its laughter and overall friendly imposingness. "You're in luck," says the baker warmly. "We just baked a fresh batch today. I'll have it for you in a moment."

As he walks to the back of the bakery, I lean against the glass counter and inspect the cakes I'll never eat. Prim always admires these. The eloquent designs with some incredible detail. I would be jealous if I cared. But my thing is hunting.

The baker comes back with the nutty loaf. "Two squirrels?" I say. That's his standard. But today he shakes his head. "One today." Instinctively, I know it is because of the reaping. This is very gracious. I pull a squirrel out of my game bag, shot last night, but kept in a cool place. Katniss shot it. You can tell because the arrow hole is right through the eye.

I hand him the squirrel, nod, and depart quickly. Katniss. I need to see her. Feel the ground under my feet. Know that my dream was a dream and nothing more.

The houses blur by me. I'm fast. It's the hunting. I can positively fly when on adrenalin.

And I am definitely on adrenalin.