Chapter Two – Peeta
This might be the first time I've ever actually touched Katniss Everdeen.
Mayor Undersee had us shake hands after he finished reading the Treaty of Treason. Katniss' hand is small but calloused. Her grip is very strong. I wonder what she thinks about mine? My hands are covered with burn scars from hours with the ovens when I was first learning to bake, and my fingers are thick, clumsy, against her agile touch.
For a second, I can almost forget I've just been Reaped...
Almost.
I feel steady as long as I'm touching her, but she lets go of me when Panem's anthem starts to play, and shock sets in. Sweeping cold shudders me from the inside out, and it's all I can do to keep my teeth from chattering. I clench my jaw. I'm going to the Hunger Games.
In the crowd, my oldest brother stands with my father and mother; they are staring at me, faces white, even my mother. My other brother is with the group of eighteen year old boys. Rotee won't even look at me. His shoulders are hunched like they always do when he feels ashamed. Part of me wants to assure him that I would never expect him to take my place, wouldn't ask or assume, no one would – but Katniss just did for her little sister.
Katniss. She's standing next to me. Her expression is set, unsmiling.
Her eyes are blazing.
The anthem ends, and we're immediately surrounded by Peacekeepers who escort us to the Justice Building. They put us into separate rooms, where we'll say goodbye to the people we'll leave behind. I don't know who will come aside from my family – which of my friends, if any, will dare; how long my family will stay. If they'll stay until I go. If I want them to.
They don't come in all at once. Chall enters first. I don't even blink before he has me gripped in his arms, fierce and strong. He holds me. His arms are like iron, and his grip is desperate, and I clutch back at him, wanting always to feel this safe. "You can win this, Peeta," Chall says. "You can come home."
I know he's not saying this for me, but himself. He needs the hope the words give him. But I nod anyway, because I want to believe. I want to think that if he were able Chall would volunteer for me: I want to believe he loves me that much. I'll never know for sure.
Rotee and my mother and father come in before Chall has let me go, and even when my mother clears her throat, Chall's grip only lessens; it doesn't fall away.
"Let him go, Chall," my mother says, her voice sharp. She is always sharp. Her voice, her words, her hand. Chall holds me closer, instead.
He makes a choking noise, and his arms impossibly tighten their hold until it's me who's choking, and then he lets me go, all at once. "I can't –" he says, backing away, turning his head, but not before I see his eyes unashamedly streaming tears. "Come home," he tells me, and then wheels away and slams out the door.
I stand there feeling bereft before my father steps forward and embraces me. His broad hands cradle the back of my head, wrap around my shoulders. He says nothing. He holds me, and then he lets me go. He steps back. What can he say in an hour that hasn't already been said? Nothing that matters. Nothing I don't already know.
We stare at each other and, like Chall, I see my father start to cry. The sight almost undoes me. He knows that, I think, the pain his tears give me, because he cups my face with his palms and looks at me, intently, before letting go and walking out the door.
It's just me, my mother, and Rotee now. Rotee still can't look at me. He shifts nervously, twisting his hands. He's my big brother – he's bigger, he's stronger. In this moment I feel older. I know he blames himself for not volunteering for me. Part of me blames him, too. Part of me is angry, part of me is hurt. None of me is surprised. I didn't expect him to volunteer. Who could? What Katniss did is the exception to the rule. It's by no means the expected thing.
Rotee is my brother. If he can't hug me goodbye, I'll hug him.
Brutally hard, I yank him to me and hold him. I think he hugs me back on reflex, arms going up before his brain can engage. I can feel the instant it clicks with him. That I chose to hug him. That I – forgive him. Maybe it's impossible and unrealistic to expect him to have volunteered for me, maybe I should think that there's nothing to forgive; but we're family. There is.
The hug lasts for a long time. Finally we let go. Rotee's face is downturned; I know he's crying. I felt his tears. They're wet on my shoulder. He still won't look up. He still won't look at me. He, like my father, says nothing. He just leaves.
It's just my mother and me now. She sits on the velvet cushioned couch. I sit next to her. Neither of us makes a move toward the other. Finally she says, a bit grimly, "Well, we're probably going to get a victor this year. She's done it once before, after all."
I flinch.
She shrugs, as if to say, I'm just saying what we're both thinking.
The rest of the allotted hour passes mostly silently. Some of my friends have come; each time the Peacekeepers escort them in, my mother steps out until they leave, but she always comes back. I don't know what to make of this. The last twenty minutes we're left alone.
I keep seeing them crying. Chall, my father, Rotee.
This is the end. The last hour I have in District Twelve. I may not have liked it much here, but it's my home. It's my home, and I'm going to die. I'm going to die in an Arena like an animal, televised for the bored viewers of the Capitol and the cowed ones of the Districts. I'm going to die violently, away from home, and everyone is going to watch it happen, and no one is going to save me, and I won't be able to save myself – I'm no Career, I have no skill other than baking bread and frosting cakes, I'm not like Katniss who everyone knows is the cleanest shot of all the illegal poachers in the district.
I've been on the cusp of it since my name was called – since before, honestly, when Katniss went up for her sister – and now it happens: I bend my head, hide it in my hands. Try to cover the tears.
It's violent, crying. It shakes me.
My mother makes no move to comfort me. I don't expect her to. Her hands are not soft for me, her words are not sweet, her touch is not loving. But she's here. Until the Peacekeepers come to lead me out, she's here: her face like granite, her hands stiffly folded. We don't hug or say goodbye.
She stays and I go.
oOoOoOo
It's a short ride to the train station from the Justice Building. I sit in the back of the car with Katniss. It's painfully obvious that I've been crying, and just as obvious that she hasn't. Her expression is flawlessly composed, making her look less like a person and more like a statue. Everything about her is very still. Our mentor, Haymitch Abernathy, is in the front of the vehicle next to the driver; in the enclosed space, the alcohol fumes he exudes are sickening.
We have to walk past a gauntlet of cameras on our way to the train. We're being filmed live across Panem. I know none of the cameras will be paying attention to me – I'm not the celebrity, the past Victor returning to the Arena. Some of the cameramen and reporters are shouting questions at Katniss, but she just walks on, serenely above it all.
When we're finally in our train, we actually have to stand still by the entrance and pose for a few minutes, letting the cameras get good looks at our faces. Haymitch stands behind us. His hands are on both our shoulders, strangely steady for someone as drunk as he must be. I hear him murmur, "Keep it together, sweetheart," and I glance sideways.
No one can tell unless they know Katniss very well – and maybe I don't know her all that well, but I've been watching her since I was five, and observation makes up for a lot – but she's too still, too contained. She's about to crack. The few times I'd seen this before, she'd flown into a rage. I don't think anger is what is overwhelming her right now, though.
Finally the doors close. Almost immediately, the train starts moving, and I'm startled by how fast it is. Katniss must be used to it, or just not care, because she pushes past Haymitch and walks so fast it's almost a run to a door I assume must open to her room. She slams it behind her. Beside me, Haymitch sighs. "I need a drink," he mutters.
Looking at him, it seems obvious that he's already pretty well inebriated. But he's pale, his hands are shaking, and his eyes are all too aware. He was Katniss' mentor years ago – and since she won her games, they've mentored together. They've known each other for years, in a way have trusted each other for years. Haymitch is a joke in our district, but he's not laughing, and neither am I.
A trio of the strangest people I've ever seen, stranger even than Effie Trinket's hair, burst out of another room further down the hall. One is pale-green skinned, one is orange haired and purple-lipped, and one has elaborate golden tattoos all over her face. They're all wide-eyed and panicked. "Haymitch!" the green skinned one says, voice ridiculous with the high-pitched Capitol accent. "Say it's not true. Say Katniss didn't volunteer!"
"Her sister was Reaped," Haymitch snaps. "Of course she volunteered."
A fourth man steps out behind the strange trio. He looks reassuringly normal aside from the golden eyeliner. "Prim's name was drawn?" he asks, grim. He, too, has the Capitol accent, but softer, less affected. Haymitch nods. The man's face twists, fatigue and disgust transfiguring his expression. He and Haymitch trade glances, and then he says, "I'll go," and he sweeps past the strange trio – which has collapsed, each person clutching at one another, shell-shocked – to the door Katniss disappeared behind. He knocks on it and says, low, "It's Cinna. Can I come in?"
A low murmur answers him, and he opens the door, and closes it behind him.
The three strangers fall back into their own room, and Haymitch snorts. "Useless," he mutters. He looks at me, then gestures. "Your rooms are down that way. Dinner's in an hour. I'm too sober to deal with you right now." With that, he stumbles away.
The last five minutes have been surreal. The whole day has been surreal. I find the rooms that must be mine, and lie back on the bed.
The train is mostly soundless but I can feel how it moves on the tracks. I can feel the acceleration. We're hurtling forward at a speed too fast to stop to a standstill. Momentum is gathering.
I curl up on my side and hide my face against my knees.
oOoOoOo
An hour later, I'm sitting in the dining compartment around a table with Effie and Haymitch – who, surprisingly, looks more sober now than before – with plates of food being placed in front of us by Capitol attendants. The three strange looking people from earlier haven't left their room, and I'm not sure that Katniss and that man, Cinna, will either, until they appear.
Katniss has changed out of her dress into a plain tunic and pants. Her face is washed clean of all traces of makeup, though her hair is still in its braids. She's holding Cinna's hand, almost absentmindedly. Effie sees them and beams. "Excellent!" she says. "I was afraid you were going to be late to dinner."
"Heaven forbid," Cinna says dryly, and I see Katniss' lips twitch up in a half smile. They settle into the empty seats. Katniss is next to me.
Is it strange that, even on the worst day of my life, my chest still thrills at being so close to her? It's like there's a whole separate part of my brain, my heart, my body that responds only to her. Nothing else registers to it, but her. I've always been like this. I've been like this since before I can remember – even when I didn't know her yet, I think these parts of me existed just to respond to her.
The food is indescribable. It's literally a struggle to eat slowly enough to preserve the manners my mother beat into me. I'm the only one who has this problem. Haymitch picks at his dishes with a sour expression, and Effie eats only the choicest bits of her dishes. "Need to save room for the rest," she says, and mutters something about there being no convenient emetic, which makes Katniss glare at her. Katniss doesn't eat, unless Cinna – who has very elegant, refined dinner manners – makes her. He's like a mother hen brooding over one chick, placing food in front of her and chiding her to eat more, telling her she's too thin.
She is thin. Strange how I'd never noticed before. Everything about her is overwhelming. Maybe that's why.
Cinna introduces himself to me partway through the first course, a type of creamy orange coloured soup, as Katniss' stylist.
"You won't be anymore, though," Katniss interrupts. "They'll have someone new for me at the Capitol."
Cinna smiles. "Actually," he says, "I got the commission this year. Portia and I – Portia's my partner," he explains to me, "Petitioned to style Tributes this year. We made an impression with last year's designs for President Snow's winter gala, and they gave us the choice between several Districts. We picked Twelve, of course."
Katniss blinks at him. "But then why'd you come all the way out here just to style me?" she asks. "You must still be incredibly busy back at the Capitol."
"Not too busy," Cinna says, lightly. "I had everything ready before we got on the train. Aren't you going to congratulate me?"
Katniss blushes. It's fascinating. I don't think I've ever seen her blush. "Congratulations, Cinna," she says, very sincere.
"It's quite an achievement," Effie says brightly. Haymitch grunts. I don't know why it's an achievement, but I echo the congratulations nevertheless.
By the time we get through dessert (chocolate cake), all the rich food is clumping in my stomach, and I feel more than a little queasy. No one notices except for Katniss, who looks at me for maybe the first time that night. There's something sympathetic in her expression.
We relocate as a group to watch the recap of today's Reapings. They've all been broadcast live, staggered throughout the day so the truly devoted Capitol fans can watch them in real-time, but no one in the Districts has the time or the stomach for that. I sit alone in one of the armchairs, with Effie in the other; Katniss sits between Haymitch and Cinna on the couch. She and Cinna are still holding hands, sort of how my father held my hand when I was little. Haymitch has his arm spread across the back of the couch, his hand settling on Katniss' shoulder. It's a casual gesture, but there's weight behind it, too. Like it means something.
There are the usual Careers drawn – and, memorably in the case of District Two's male tribute, volunteered – from the first two districts. Both of District Three's tributes are young and terrified looking, wan faces looking around in bewilderment as they're ushered to the fore of the crowd. District Four's tributes are both Career, or at least look it. I don't notice much about the tributes from Districts Five through Ten, though Ten's male tribute has a crippled foot which makes me wince. Nothing about the Hunger Games is fair, but...
District Eleven draws a twelve year old girl. No one in the crowd likes this, but no one steps forward to volunteer for her either. Katniss flinches. "She's so little," Katniss murmurs.
"You were smaller," Cinna murmurs back, and I look down to their joined hands, see them clenched together. I see Haymitch's hand squeeze Katniss' shoulder, and she leans into him, just a little.
The boy for Eleven is the complete opposite of the girl, eighteen and huge. He could challenge even the Careers with size alone.
And then it's Twelve.
The cameras focus in on Katniss right at the start, before any name has been drawn, because she's District Twelve's best known face. All of Panem calls her Songbird. After she won the Hunger Games, her Talent – what you're supposed to spend all your time on, since you don't have to go to school or work – was singing; starting from when she went on her Victory Tour and every year after, Katniss was expected to, and did, give regular concerts and recitals. Most of them were televised.
The announcers like to commentate on Katniss every year at Twelve's Reaping. They make a point of showcasing her whenever possible, which is why I think she probably had to have a stylist come out to prepare her. She does look beautiful on screen, but reserved, remote and cold, in her dark red dress. She doesn't look like herself.
When Effie draws Primrose Everdeen for the female tribute, even the announcers are shocked. The cameras switch from tracking Primrose slowly, but steadily, making her way to the stage, and Katniss' face. She looks so stricken: her eyes are huge. The camera's close-up captures everything. When I was watching this in real-time, just a few hours ago, really, though it feels like a lifetime now, I remember knowing before Katniss did it what would happen next – because it was Katniss. Because doing anything else would be unacceptable to her.
The announcers obviously don't anticipate it, though, when Katniss throws herself violently forward and bars Primrose from the stage. They're exclaiming in shock as Katniss volunteers herself, and one is insistently denying that it's even legal for Katniss as a past Victor to be Reaped again. It's – hard, painful, watching Katniss volunteer. The desperation in how she shouts it. She's so raw and honest, her facade cracked and fallen: this is the girl I love. Not the distant statue who poses, expression bored, for the cameras, but this one, here, half-wild and beyond thought.
Haymitch-on-screen supports Katniss' petition to volunteer; I see, out of the corner of my eye, Katniss-on-the-couch whisper Thank you to Haymitch next to her. The announcers are going crazy talking about it. One of them is jubilant, talking about the early upset in this year's Hunger Games and what it might mean; one of them is clearly upset, saying that it's unthinkable to send one of Panem's irreplaceable gems into the Arena. They're so busy debating this that District Twelve's refusal to applaud, and its odd, silent salute, is ignored – even Haymitch's public drunkenness, always good for a laugh, has no attention paid to it.
My own Reaping goes largely unnoticed and unremarked upon, and I'm oddly grateful that no one is talking about the expression on my face, how I look like I'm going to shatter right there, fall apart. When the cameras show Katniss and I shaking hands, I'm surprised – at how I look at her, at how obvious I am, at how much taller and broader than her I am. Katniss doesn't notice any of this, I don't think, but both Cinna and Haymitch do, I know, because of the looks each man casts me from the couch. I carefully avoid their eyes.
Effie clicks the television off after, and brightly suggests we all get our rest because tomorrow is going to be, "Busy, busy, busy!"
I take the opportunity she's given me to escape to my room before either of what I'm starting to think are Katniss' father figures corners me. Getting clean and going to sleep. That's all I want right now. And that's what I get, at least for a few hours.
oOoOoOo
The screams wake me.
I think they wake everyone on the train.
The sound is raw and panicked, shrieking. It makes me jump out of bed, stumbling to the door, trying to find out what's wrong so I can make that sound stop. I look out into the hall just as Haymitch barrels past, throws himself at Katniss' door, and forces it open. Seconds later, the screaming stops.
It's like a magnet is drawing me forward. I couldn't stop myself if I tried from going down the hall and peering into Katniss' room. From the doorway I can just see Katniss' bed, Katniss sitting up in it, hair wild and eyes wilder. Haymitch leans over her, holding her by the shoulders and shaking her lightly, speaking to her in an insistent voice low enough that I can't make out the individual words. Katniss is nodding along to whatever it is he's saying.
A hand on my own shoulder makes me jump, and I whirl around to see Cinna staring at me. "You should go back to bed," he says, not unkindly. I manage a nod, and I do go back to bed, but it's a while before I get back to sleep.
In the morning, everyone pretends that nothing happened the night before.
o.o.o AN: Thank you for the reviews! I really appreciate the support. This chapter was from Peeta's perspective; the next chapter might also be from Peeta's POV. I'm still debating that.
