A/N: Possible eating disorder triggers. Written using the prompt "phobia".
The steps were still a challenge. His weren't too bad, since they'd installed smooth, short steps perfect for his prosthetic leg, but Haymitch's had been warped by a quarter-century without maintenance or repairs, and he worried with every step that he was about to tumble backwards.
No use in knocking. The house's sole resident wouldn't be up this early in the morning, and he usually didn't collapse near enough the door to hear people knocking anyway. Peeta let himself in, sidestepping the heap of dirty clothes just inside the door as he made his way towards the kitchen, careful not to drop the bread he held in one hand. Leave it on the table, find Haymitch and check he was still breathing, and his morning ritual was over. He wanted to finish the background of that painting of the cave by noon, and if he managed to keep on schedule, he might manage to get a bit more done.
"Damn, boy, this is the time you show up here? And I thought I was going to be to waiting a while." Peeta found Haymitch sitting at his kitchen table, which for once had been mostly cleared of the empty bottles and food containers that usually littered it. "Come on, sit down. I've been wanting to talk to you."
Peeta's stomach dropped. "I was just gonna drop this off. I've got some stuff to finish up today, and –"
"It can wait a while. Come on, the sooner you sit down, the sooner I'll let you get out of here." Haymitch's voice sounded steadier than usual, the sounds more distinct than his normal slur. Peeta sat down in the opposite chair. "You see, I've been noticing something recently. You keep baking shit for me and Katniss's family and probably twenty other people I don't really care about, but you don't get any bigger. Doesn't look like you've been eating at all, really."
It wasn't technically a question, so he didn't have to answer. Peeta tried to look confused.
"Don't try to pull that one on me. I'm smarter than that."
It seemed a different strategy was needed. "It's my leg. When it bothers me, I have a hard time eating enough, but it's getting better."
"Last time I checked, your stomach isn't attached to your leg."
"I – I just can't."
His former mentor groaned and brought his hand to his head for a moment, thinking. When he dropped his hand a few moments later, Peeta could see a new resolve in Haymitch's features. "Look, kid, I can't tell you how to be a good Victor, but I know a million ways to be a bad one. What you've been doing is definitely on the list. You see it a lot with kids who come out of those Arenas where everything's poisonous. And you know what? They work their way through it or they die. Nothing in between."
It took a moment for him to gather up the courage to reply to that. "I don't want to be a Victor," Peeta said, his voice just louder than a whisper. For once, he was grateful for Haymitch's clutter. In his own, tidy kitchen, even the softest sounds echoed back at him, and he wanted these words to die as soon as possible. He looked down at his hands and waited, hoping Haymitch would take mercy and allow him to slink away. Then, they could pretend none of this ever happened, and maybe things would get better by themselves. Maybe they wouldn't, but Peeta was willing to take that chance.
"Look, Peeta, this isn't just about you. It's about me and your family and your friends and everyone else who's gonna be hurt when they find you not breathing someday. Katniss too, and probably more directly. You think the Capitol will put up with her after you're gone?"
"The Capitol loves Katniss."
"People don't like Katniss. They admire her, respect her even, but eventually, they're going to get sick of it. Everything they like about her – courage, defiance, she's the whole package of things that threatens the folks on top – will eventually get her on the bad side of some powerful people." Haymitch waited, and Peeta could tell he was supposed to understand. He racked his brain for possibilities, but nothing came to him. Eventually, Haymitch took pity. He leaned in closer until his elbows rested on his knees. "But when the two of you are together, the audience loves you, both of you, and they really care what happens to you. You die, kid, and she dies too."
"She'll find someone else that makes them care." It was so easy these days to think of excuses and reasons for everything. Made him wonder sometimes if he really believed anything at all.
"Y'know how I said people don't like Katniss?" Peeta nodded. "You're different. When you talk to people, they know that you see the very best pieces of them, and they love you for it. You can even make Katniss and me, nasty fucks that we are, seem decent."
"Thanks." His mother might not have been the best, or even decent, but she had instilled in all of her boys the need for good manners.
"I'm not trying to compliment you. I'm trying to get a point across. You die, and everything that keeps Katniss safe dies with you. You understand that?"
He couldn't find the energy to do anything more than nod. Peeta hoped that would be enough.
Haymitch finally leaned back in his chair. "So, what are you going to do about it?"
"Eat." There wasn't much he would do for himself, but there was even less that he wouldn't do for Katniss.
"Damn right, and you're gonna start now." The man grabbed the bread from where it sat on the table and, not bothering with a knife, ripped a chunk off. "Eat it."
He gulped. Already, he could feel his stomach roiling, not sure it wanted to take anything, much less bread. He usually kept to the simple things, where he could plainly see each of the ingredients, could persuade himself that nothing in there was going to kill him. Still, he accepted the chunk of bread. As he turned it over in his hand, studying its every feature, Peeta could feel Haymitch's eyes on him, and the pressure grew and grew, but he couldn't do it yet, not until he convinced himself that he'd prepared it himself, that nothing bad had ever happened to anyone because of his bread, that it would all be fine. He couldn't, but all the same, Peeta tore off a small piece and lifted it towards his lips. "That's it. Don't worry, I'm here, and nothing's going to go wrong. I can call if we end up needing someone." Those words were enough. His mouth went terribly dry when the bread touched his tongue, and his throat clenched too tightly to swallow, the bread stuck. Peeta's eyes snapped open before he realized he'd shut them, and he could feel his heart skyrocketing. He tried to swallow, wretch, and scream all at the same time, but nothing would move.
Haymitch jumped up and filled a glass with water. "Come on, drink this." He held it to Peeta's mouth, and he was too panicked to think before he drank several swallows. Finally, his muscles loosened, and the bread finally slipped down his throat. He took several long, shuddering breaths as he struggled to compose himself. Haymitch watched him for a moment, then reached out to pat his arm. Such a gesture felt strange coming from his normally distant mentor, but Peeta appreciated it all the same. "You need a break, kid?" Haymitch asked, voice back to its usual gruff tone.
He shook his head. "No, that first bite's always the worst. I can do some more."
"Good to hear."
With Haymitch watching him, he felt almost safe as he finished the rest of the bread with small, hesitant bites, being sure to chew more than was necessary before he swallowed. After weeks of eating as little as he needed to get by, the sensation of an almost full stomach felt foreign. When he was done, Peeta looked to Haymitch, hoping he'd find approval there. "Well?" he asked.
Haymitch's emotions rarely took an obvious form. "I want you to come back here and eat some more this afternoon, you hear?"
"I hear." He knew he'd been dismissed, but with Haymitch, Peeta didn't feel unwanted as he escorted himself out and made sure the door slammed shut behind him.