A/N: Written for catieness' prompt: The Hunger Games, any, reaping day. (comment-fic livejournal)
I arrive first.
Dawn approaches as I silently enter the square. It's not entirely finished, but only so much can be rebuilt in less than a year. In a district that was bombed to ruins, the place where 146 children were sent to their deaths isn't given a priority. Too many other bodies had to come first.
They're buried in the Meadow now, not far from where the tributes were put to rest.
The square is quiet, empty of people. That will change soon. It's Reaping Day, only not anymore. A year has passed since that last fateful day, when Peeta, Haymitch and I stood on the steps of the courthouse, waiting for Effie to call our names to face death once again.
I sit on a step across from the half-finished new Justice Building, lost in thought. Later today a memorial will be unveiled, not only for the tributes, but also for the lives lost in the bombings. A ceremony will be held. Words will be spoken. Tears will be shed. For my part, I've decided to leave the words to Peeta.
I have no words or tears left.
"You should have woken me," he gently chides as he sits beside me, not bothering to sneak up. He knows his heavy footsteps give him away; a price he will always pay from losing a leg in the Games.
"I didn't want to wake you again," I admit. My loud nightmares already disturb him three or four times a night. I have no idea how often his own silent ones join them as well.
"I'd rather you wake me," he says quietly, "than to wake up wondering where you are." Given the violence of my flashback tendencies lately, the "and if you are okay" goes unspoken.
We sit in silence for awhile, hands locked loosely together. I relax my head against Peeta's shoulder. As always, his strength comforts me. It promises to be a warm day, but right now there's still a chill in the air. For once, it isn't foreboding.
To our surprise, a third party soon walks past us.
Haymitch arrives, a bottle lightly gripped in his hand. He's not drunk, but he's not entirely sober either. Peeta and I stay seated as we watch him walk to the middle of the square and look around. Much like us, Haymitch appears to be seeing the past, not the current empty square surrounding him.
Finally he stops, eyes on the rebuilt platform in front of the Justice Building, already decorated with banners for the memorial later this afternoon.
His shoulders slump. "I really tried to help at first, you know." He says this so quietly, I have to strain to hear.
Sometimes I forget, what it would be like if the war hadn't started. If we hadn't won. If the Reapings still continued. I'd be a Mentor then. Watching year after year as tribute after tribute was chosen, knowing in my heart that I could do nothing to save any of them.
Like Haymitch was forced to endure, for twenty-five years.
"I'm thinking of rebuilding the bakery," Peeta announces suddenly. This surprises me and I turn to look at him. He smiles back and gently kisses my cheek. "I need a reason to get up in the morning other than to follow you."
Haymitch tops Peeta's declaration though. "I cleaned last night."
I raise an eyebrow. He shrugs. "Didn't say I got far."
"It's a start," Peeta encourages.
"Yes," I agree, looking back at the place where no one will ever again get sent to their death. "It is."