A/N I do not own the Hunger Games
I bring three fingers to my lips and raise them high in the air. Good luck Katniss Everdeen I know my little brother will be rooting for you. I sigh when I think about how Peeta is probably going to behave in the coming weeks. Heck, getting him through today is going to be horrible. He'll probably start weeping like a girl while drawing a million sketches of her. It's a shame really, boy's been in love with her for as long as he can remember and yet has never even talked to her. Now he never will.
"And now for the boys," Effie's voice pulls me from my thoughts. Do they really find that voice appealing in the Capitol?
I feel a familiar trepidation. It's ridiculous really, when you think about it. I'm as safe as can be for a boy my age. My name's only in there 7 times, an almost irrelevant amount when you think about the amount of times the Seam boys have their names in there. Besides, it's my last year, after this I'm free. Peeta decorated a special cake and everything. He wouldn't tell me the flavor though, maybe it's something gross. Then again Peeta might put mud in my bed later just to show exactly how much he's looking forward to having his own room when I move out this summer; but his cake are labors of love, he could never purposely mess one up. He probably made my favorite, a dark chocolate cake (something we rarely have the ingredients to make) with dar-
"PEETA MELLARK"
What! No, I couldn't have heard that correctly. He can't be the one. I can't breathe as I watch him walk towards the stage. Peeta, my little brother, the boy who I got into flour fights with when mom wasn't looking. The boy I taught how to wrestle, so strong yet so gentle. The boy who could always bring a smile to anyone's face, especially mine. Now he's going to die.
Well at least he'll get to talk to her. The thought crosses my mind without my consent. Have I really already accepted my brother's death? Am I really that callous?
No. NO! I refuse to accept this. Although I may tease him, I've always made it my job to protect him. I protected him from Seam boys' bullying and have tried to keep him as safe as possible. Now, I will protect him from the Hunger Games.
Yet, when I open my mouth to scream the words that will seal my fate nothing comes out. The fear that has always boiled in the pit of my stomach when it came to the Games now chokes me. I try to push past it, but I can't. I am not brave like Katniss Everdeen. I am a coward and now my sweet, gentle baby brother is going to die for it.
I collapse on the pavement as Peeta is taken away. A few people lay a consoling hand on my shoulder as they pass by, but I barely feel them. I barely feel anything. It is an eternity before I'm finally hauled off the ground by Wheaton.
"Come on," he says with a somber voice, "We need to say good bye." His voice cracks a little at the end. He loves Peeta as much as I do. I look in his eyes. Although they only hold grief, I can't help wondering if he's thinking 'why didn't you save him'. It was a pact that we had made soon after he started school, always protect Peeta even at your own expense. I have failed in that. It was always the one thing I prided myself on, my ability to stop Peeta from getting hurt. And when I failed, Wheaton was always there to comfort both of us. He always knows how to make Peeta laugh. It's one of the most uplifting and hopeful sounds in the world. A sound that I will never hear again. Just like that, the sun is no more.
I have never been in the Justice Building before, I've never had a reason. I had hoped that when I first walked up these steps, it would be with Callie, the girl I hope to marry soon. The minute my family and I step foot in the door, peacekeeper rush us down the hall to a door that is guarded by another peacekeeper.
Before we go in Wheaton slips something into my hand and whispers for me to put it on. I look down and see a bracelet made of three braded pieces of yarn, one blue, one red, and one orange. Wheaton has the same one on his wrist. There are three such bracelets. The three of us made them a few years ago when Wheaton moved out. So that we always remember each other. I had forgotten it until now. It has just become my most prized possession.
Inside the room, Peeta is sitting on the sofa looking broken. When we walk in he looks up at me and Wheaton with the same face he wears right after one of the Seam boys decides to shove him a little harder than usual or says something that hurts more than it should. It's a face that's begging us to make it better, to take the pain away. I am frozen again. Wheaton's not though, immediately he is at Peeta's side. He hugs him and whispers in his ear just like he used to do. Dad stands there with tears threatening to fall. He loves all of us, but he's closes to Peeta. He's the son that actually likes baking. Mom on the other hand has turned to stone.
"Well District 12 may finally have a victor this year," Mom says, "She, a fighter that one."
It take a second to register what she means and my shock turns to rage. However, my rage dissipates when I see her face. Mom has always been a believer in tough love and realism. What she's say now is her way of trying to accept what we all are trying to come to terms with, Peeta is going to die.
She gathers him in a tight hug. "Make me proud," she whispers in his ear, "don't let them take away who you are."
Next is Dad. He grabs him with a bone crushing hug and it looks like he never wants to let him go. No words are exchanged and no words have to be. My father has away been more of a man of action.
Finally, it's my turn. I take the bracelet Wheaton and grab Peeta's wrist. "This is so you know that we are always rooting for you. No matter where you go, you will always be our baby brother, we will always care. Remember that." He nods slowly.
I pull him into a hug, "Promise me you'll try to come home. If you do, then we can make your favorite cookies together," remembering a bribe I used to use when he was younger.
"The ones with raspberry jelly," I hear quietly in my ear. I nod, that's his customary response. It means he will do what is asked.
I don't want to let him go. When I do, I will be letting him go forever. So I don't let go. Instead, the rest of the family joins in the hug. We don't let go until the peacekeeper comes in and tells us to leave.
Dinner is quiet that night. Peeta is usually the one to start conversation. Now there's only an empty chair. Next to me, Wheaton begins to weep. Mom comes over and puts her arms around both of us.
"Now," she begins, "We will get through this." She looks at each of us in turn. "Peeta would not want us to just stop living. He would want us to be happy." Her voice cracks on the last word. She leave the room in a hurry. Dad follows her.
Wheaton looks up suddenly, "I need to head home." I nod, his wife is pregnant after all. She need him and honestly, right now, he needs her.
Then I'm alone. So I start to clean up dinner. When I open the ice chest to put the leftovers in and I see the cake. The last cake Peeta will make. The guilt comes rushing back. In the coming weeks I will watch my brother fight and then die in the Hunger Games. It's all my fault. He will never get the bakery, he will never marry Katniss Everdeen, and he will never have kids. I've taken it all away from him. I collapse next to that ice chest and tears roll down my face. Eventually Dad comes and helps me to bed. I have a nightmare in which Peeta is in the Hunger Games. This isn't an unusual nightmare for me; only now, it will never end.