A/N: So this chapter starts off with an event that I didn't ever include in Young Blood. It's a scene I envisioned from the very beginning, but just never wrote out. In saying that, I just didn't want you guys to think this chapter didn't fit in with my other story. Anyway, you'll see soon enough. Oh, and I'm on vacation in Colorado until Sunday, so I may not be posting another chapter for the next few days.
The rest of this chapter goes along with chapters 10 and 11 of Young Blood. Spring is turning into summer and Peeta reflects on occurrences during that season. Hope you enjoy!
Thanks, as always, to my readers and reviewers. You guys are the best! I'm just lucky that I have the time and mental energy to be writing my third (who'd have ever thought?) Hunger Games fanfiction, and that I'm getting such a positive response!
"Katniss's birthday is Sunday, and you're coming to dinner," Peeta told Haymitch one day in early May.
They were both at the train station – Haymitch hoping for a shipment of liquor, while Peeta was expecting more flour and sugar and other baking necessities.
Peeta had left Marc back at the bakery that morning and walked down to the station to wait on the supply train. He'd seen Haymitch fidgeting with his pocket watch, constantly checking the time, and shifting his wait from right leg to left to right again. He must be out of alcohol, Peeta mused. The last time he'd even seen Haymitch had been the grand opening of the bakery.
"And who made you King of District Twelve…?" Haymitch asked in response to Peeta's order that he show up for dinner.
"Just say you'll be there…" Peeta said. He could have asked Haymitch nicely, but he just liked giving their former mentor a hard time.
"Ok, I'll be there," Haymitch replied. Peeta quirked an eyebrow in his direction. "Sunday, right?" He asked.
At that moment the train pulled into the station, the wooden platform rumbling under their feet as the speeding assemblage of metal began to slow to a stop.
"How are you going to carry all that back to the bakery?" Haymitch asked once the supplies had been unloaded.
Peeta had been correct – Haymitch had been waiting for the alcohol shipment, looking satisfied when a man hauled a few crates full of the white liquor onto the platform. The older man had pulled out a handful of coins, then baulked when the man standing guard over the bottles told him the price had increased. Of course Haymitch didn't have enough to by a whole crate, and he was fighting mad about it.
"I don't set the price, the officials back in the Capitol do," the man informed Haymitch unapologetically.
"Right, of course you don't set the price." Haymitch responded, his voice seething with sarcasm. "And I'm sure your cut just so happened to increase as well, huh?"
Peeta stepped in before the two men were reduced to blows, handing over the correct amount of coins. Haymitch grabbed a crate almost violently, and the glass bottles clinked loudly as he walked with Peeta back to the other end of the wooden platform. The older man caught sight of the hundred-pound bags of flour, forty-pound bags of sugar, along with a few boxes and other items that were meant for the bakery.
"How are you going to carry all that back to the bakery…?" Haymitch had asked, holding his one small crate.
Peeta looked at the huge pile of supplies. He could carry everything, just not all at once. He didn't have a cart or horse. Perhaps he should have borrowed Haymitch's wheelbarrow and brought it to town. He and Marc both might have been able to manage the load, but Peeta didn't want to leave the bakery unmanned. Maybe Haymitch would watch the items while Peeta made a few trips to the bakery and back.
Haymitch popped open one of the bottles and began to drink. Peeta knew he couldn't rely on the older man to stick around and guard his shipment. But at that moment, a solution presented itself.
"Theo!" Peeta called out to the stocky man from District 11.
"Oh hey, Peeta," Theo replied with a smile, striding over to shake the baker's hand.
"Are you busy?" Peeta asked.
And so with Theo's help, Peeta managed to get all of his shipment to the bakery in one trip. Theo had been out that morning running errands for his wife, but was happy to help. They hauled the heavy bags of flour and sugar back into the storeroom, set the boxes on an unoccupied table to be opened as soon as Peeta had a moment to spare.
"So you said your wife used to be a cook, back in Eleven?" Peeta asked.
He and Theo had been talking on their short trek from the train station to the bakery, and Peeta had asked him some general questions – how were he and his wife were liking District 12, if they'd found work anywhere or had plans for their own endeavors.
"Oh, we both were," Theo replied, helping Peeta arrange the bags of flour in the storeroom. "We worked for the Mayor and his family. Until the uprising, that is…" He trailed off.
"Any good at baking…?" Peeta asked with a light-hearted chuckle.
Since the bakery had opened, he and Marc had been swamped, barely able to keep up with demand and also stay sane. Peeta had the supplies, had the equipment. He just didn't have enough hands, enough manpower.
"Oh, I can whip up a thing or two," Theo laughed, his white teeth gleaming against his coal-dark skin when he smiled. "And my wife, she loves to bake cookies."
"Well, how would you – the both of you – feel about working here, for me?" Peeta offered.
So it was settled – Peeta hired Theo and his wife Edda to work at the bakery along with himself and Marc. And Peeta hoped that with two others to help out, he could actually take off one day a week to rest or paint or spend time with Katniss.
Edda proved to be a skilled pastry chef – her mother and grandmother and great-grandmother had all worked as cooks for the mayor of District 11. But Edda's specialty had been sweets, which worked to Peeta's advantage. She could bake any kind of cookie or cupcake he asked for, frost them with skill. But she was also able to show him a few new techniques, teach him how to make pastries he'd never even heard of. Theo knew the basics of baking breads and other treats, and proved valuable for his considerable strength, helping Peeta with all the heavy lifting and hauling.
And Edda helped Peeta decorate a few cupcakes for Katniss's birthday. She would be eighteen on Sunday. Eighteen was a big year in the outlying districts, for it was the last year a child was eligible to be reaped for the Hunger Games. In his family, they'd celebrated birthdays with a simple treat – an extra cookie or a cupcake. Maybe a new shirt or pair of trousers or in a good year, a new pair of shoes. But birthdays between the ages of 12 and 18 were always subdued, no matter how few times a name had been put in. Most families waited until after Reaping Day to celebrate a child's eighteenth birthday. Peeta remembered how the wealthier townsfolk would inundate the bakery in the days and weeks after the Reaping in May, buying treats or even the cakes he had frosted himself not only to mark another birthday, but also to revel in the freedom from the shadow of the games.
Of course that didn't matter now, but Peeta still wanted to show Katniss that he cared. That he remembered her birthday.
There were times when Peeta imagined what his life would be like had he never known Katniss Everdeen. If he'd never seen her on that first day of school, her dark hair in two plaits. He thought about what might have happened had his father never pointed her out, if he'd never seen her hand shoot straight up in music assembly when the teacher asked if anyone knew the Valley Song. If he'd never heard her sing.
He wouldn't have spent each day at school trying to pluck up enough courage to talk to her. He wouldn't have watched her go home every afternoon, not having said two words to her. He wouldn't have seen how terribly thin she became after her father's death, how she never smiled. There would have been no burnt loaves of bread tossed out into the rain, her gray eyes meeting his, then moving to the bruise on his cheek. There would have been no soaring sense of hope when she cared for him during the games, no heart-wrenching pain when she rejected him on the train ride home.
He would have courted some other girl – Cecily Betford, Hester Shows, Nan Prichett, perhaps even the mayor's daughter, Madge Undersee. He would have finished school and gotten married, moving into a small house in town with his new wife. And they would have struggled at first, he knew. He was the youngest of three brothers, and there was no way his parents' small bakery could have supported three families. He would have found a job somewhere else in town, perhaps with his wife's family – at the general store, the butcher's shop, the train station, or the post office.
His life would have been simple, straightforward, and altogether boring.
And even though he'd experienced pain and suffering, sorrow and betrayal, been tortured by the Capitol to get to Katniss, he wouldn't trade a single minute of it for a life that might have been easier without her.
Life had a funny way of turning things around, for his life back in District 12 fell into a quiet routine. He worked at the bakery six days out of seven, waking up in the pitch-black, pre-dawn hours to walk to town and get the first batch of breads and pastries started. He closed up shop sometime in the early evening and headed back to the Victor's Village, his heart thrumming at the thought of spending the next few hours with Katniss. They would eat dinner at her house – he liked to keep his kitchen reserved for any baking he did in his spare time – Sae preparing a warm meal each night and staying just long enough to send Katniss and Peeta knowing looks, her mouth curved into a mischievous half-smile.
Peeta would eat his dinner on a stool next to Katniss at the kitchen counter – they only sat at the table if Haymitch came over. It wasn't the easiest set up, what with his prosthetic leg, and there had been a few times where he moved to stand and knocked the tall stool over, nearly ending up on the floor himself. Every now and then Katniss would react with her rapid hunter's reflexes, hopping off her seat and grabbing his forearm or wrapping an arm around his waist to steady him. On some of those occasions, Peeta had worried that he would end up hauling her down with him – if he was falling and couldn't stop himself, there was no way Katniss's thin frame could hold him up. But Peeta was usually able to catch himself with a few steps, laugh as Sae tutted, and place a hand over Katniss's where she'd moved in close to steady him. They hadn't ended up in a heap on the floor as of yet.
One of the things he enjoyed most was when he got Katniss talking about her own day. Many evenings she was quiet as they sat together, letting him chatter on about various happenings in town or at the bakery – who he'd seen that day, news about more folks moving in, plans for further rebuilding.
But on the nights when she would open up about being back out in the woods hunting, he let his thoughts follow her there.
He imagined her moving softly through the undergrowth, her bow in one hand, her quiver of arrows and the pack she took slung over a shoulder. He envisioned the sunlight – filtered through thousands of leaves – as it hit her face, bringing out the almost-auburn streaks in her hair, giving a warm glint to her gray eyes. She would tell him about the game she shot or found in her snares that day, the wild greens she had picked. And he could see it all – the string of her bow pulled taut against her cheek, the twang of the arrow as she let it fly, the dull thud as her prey hit the ground.
He supposed some of it had to do with how many times he'd watched the tapes from the 74th games. How many times he'd seen her running through the thick forest of that arena, searching for water and game. How many times he'd watched as she loosed arrow after arrow. Though not all of her targets had been for food.
But he'd always had a vivid imagination – and it was both a blessing and a curse, responsible for both amusing daydreams and horrid nightmares.
After dinner, they would work on the book of memories. And every few nights Peeta would slip in a few questions, play Real or Not Real.
"Real or not real – You and Finnick never…?" Peeta asked one evening, trailing off. He hoped he didn't have to spell it out for her. The Capitol had fed him some pretty graphic lies.
"Me and Finnick…?" Katniss replied incredulously, her gray eyes wide. "Oh no. No, no, no…" She added and began to laugh. Peeta took her laughter for a good sign.
Peeta had known that little scenario was most likely false very early on. Of course Finnick Odair had been a tireless flirt, and impossibly good-looking. But Peeta had baked his wedding cake in District 13. He'd seen the love Finnick had for Annie, although the former victor was quite altered compared to how Peeta could remember him – and based on the recordings from the Quarter Quell. But Peeta still had to ask, even if it was just to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Katniss's laughter tapered off and she grew quiet and thoughtful.
"I'm sorry," Peeta apologized. "Some of the stuff they wanted me to believe…" He exhaled in a loud breath and shook his head.
"No, it's ok." She offered. "I've only ever kissed – or been kissed – by two people…" She said, her voice soft. "Well, I guess three – there was Chaff," she added in a light-hearted tone.
"Haha, I remember that," Peeta laughed.
It had been before the Quarter Quell, some of the victors from other districts giving Katniss a hard time because of her "innocence." Finnick had been overly flirtatious, Johanna Mason had stripped down to her bare skin, and Chaff had grabbed Katniss and kissed her right on the mouth. The thought of Katniss giving Peeta a lethal scowl when she saw him gazing at a completely nude Johanna Mason flickered through his mind. But he couldn't help it, he'd been a seventeen-year-old boy who'd never been that close to a naked girl.
He saw the look Katniss was giving him then, and he chuckled again.
"Don't even start," she warned, but he could tell she was trying to hold back a smile.
During the past few weeks, Peeta had heard Katniss laugh and joke and tease him more times than he could count. He didn't remember her being quite so carefree, so happy. There were still serious moments – oftentimes when he'd ask a particularly difficult question, or when they worked on the book of memories, jotting down sad or painful reflections. But there was no end to her soft smiles, her playful jests, and her lilting laugh. He supposed that it had something to do with the fact that there were no more games to worry about, no more hulking shadow of the Capitol, no more part to play for President Snow. But then he thought of Haymitch pointing out the change in Katniss's behavior and mood weeks ago, how it might have something to do with Peeta's return. He had almost argued with the older man, but now he saw it – the difference in her demeanor was as distinct as the transition from winter to spring, the whole district clothed in resplendent green, bright blossoms bursting forth in vermillion and yellow, pink and violet, pure white.
Whether or not Peeta had anything to do with Katniss's cheerful disposition, he couldn't be sure – he knew what he wanted to believe, but the truth was more difficult to discern.
And there were as many tears as there were smiles. Especially when they were working on the entries in the book of memories. Some of the words written were so tear-stained now that they were barely legible. Katniss would find something to add – a piece of ribbon that had been Prim's, a sketch of Cinna's, a photo to paste in – and Peeta would watch as her fingers would stroke the parchment as she read the entries once more, flipped the thick pages and cried all over again. But he was always there, sitting close beside her. He would wrap an arm around her shoulders as she leaned into him and sobbed. He would stroke her long hair – if she didn't have it in a plait – and oftentimes he would cry as well, the heartache he felt not only due to those he had lost, but also the deep sense of injustice in it all. That he couldn't remember every cherished detail of the friends and loved ones who were now gone forever.
And there were kisses too, but none of them like the one weeks ago, when Katniss had been so upset. Katniss would move close and give Peeta a peck on the cheek after he drew a particularly skillful sketch for the book of memories, or brought her a treat – cheese buns or cookies from the bakery. And he would press his lips to her brow, his hands on her shoulders or face, as a gesture of comfort, often when they'd both been crying or had stayed up late into the night playing the question game. He couldn't help but smile as he would pull back, his heart full to bursting.
He surprised her that Sunday in early May – on her birthday. He ordered lamb stew straight from the Capitol – the kind he remembered she liked, with wild rice and dried plums. He baked a few loaves of bread, wheat rolls, and plenty of cheese buns to accompany the hearty meal. And he brought the few cupcakes Edda had decorated for her – knowing that she preferred the cheese buns to any sweet treat he baked.
Haymitch showed up, and Sae was there was well, though Peeta heated the meal himself in his own kitchen, roping Haymitch into helping him carry the pans and tureens of stew over to Katniss's house.
"What is this…?" Katniss asked when Sae served the meal that night. Her gray eyes looked to the older woman first, but Sae nodded toward Peeta. Peeta smiled softly at Katniss from across the table.
"Lamb stew…?" She said, staring at Peeta incredulously.
"Yeah, I thought it would be nice to do something different." Peeta explained, grinning. "And since it's your birthday…"
Katniss glanced back up from where she'd been ladling a dried plum into her spoon and narrowed her gaze. Peeta was worried for a moment that he'd gotten the date wrong – what if May 8th wasn't Katniss's birthday? But then her features softened and realization dawned across her face.
"I didn't even know it was May…" Katniss confessed, her voice soft.
"It's May 8th," Sae quipped as she took a seat at the kitchen table – something that she rarely did.
As far as Peeta could tell, Katniss seemed to enjoy the meal, though she wasn't overly enthusiastic about anything in particular. She ate her fair share of cheese buns and her serving of lamb stew, sopping up the remaining broth with a few rolls. She smiled when he brought out the cupcakes, frosted in bright colors and topped with crystalline flowers.
But something was off. Had he made a mistake in pointing out her birthday? Had it dredged up painful memories or past sorrows? Peeta wanted to make sure he hadn't done something to upset her.
So after Sae packed up and Haymitch left, stealing off with a cupcake, Peeta lingered.
"Which entry do you want to work on tonight?" He asked, standing in the threshold between the kitchen and living room. Katniss was already sitting on the couch, and so she turned and looked up at Peeta. She shook her head.
"Not tonight…" Her words were barely audible. He walked to where she sat.
"Are you alright…?" Peeta asked, sending a concerned look her way. Katniss was gazing off, but after a moment turned and offered him a faint smile.
"I'm fine," she assured him, making a show of standing up from the couch and stretching her arms and back. He wondered if her own mother had called to wish her a happy eighteenth birthday. And then it hit him, why she wasn't more joyous on her birthday.
"Well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow then." He said as cheerfully as he could manage.
He didn't know what he had expected, what he'd been hoping for. He cursed himself for thinking that she'd be jubilant at the little birthday dinner he'd planned – lamb stew, cheese buns, cupcakes. That suddenly she might realize her own love for him, confess it with a passionate kiss – and then he wouldn't feel guilty for kissing her back. Of course he should have known that it would conjure up painful memories, just as something like that might trigger a flashback in him. This was her first birthday without Prim, without her own mother there to celebrate – as if they'd ever celebrated birthdays in the Seam.
She stopped him near the back door, her hand on his forearm.
"Thanks for everything, Peeta," she managed with a smile.
"Happy Birthday, Katniss," he replied. If the circumstances had been different, he might have leaned down and kissed her, gently. Instead, he retreated into the night.
And she didn't say anymore about the matter. They continued their daily routine as spring gave way to summer, as pleasant warmth turned into humid heat. They went on as if nothing had happened, adding line after line of memories, pasting in photos and Peeta's sketches and other trinkets.
The evening primrose bushes that Peeta so diligently watered two or three times a week finally bloomed in early June. They picked a few blooms and Katniss showed him how to press flowers between wax paper, preserving the flattened blossoms for their book.
That summer led to many things, but what came to mind when Peeta looked back was that it was the summer he first learned how to swim.
Katniss ordered swimming suits from the Capitol and was thrilled when they arrived – a red unitard-looking garment for herself and a pair of blue shorts for him. On his next day off, she led him deep into the forest, Peeta clomping behind her with his artificial leg as she moved swiftly and silently ahead. He cursed the contraption, but then had to remind himself that they weren't hunting or in the games, so stealth wasn't of necessity.
He had just been contemplating whether or not he would need to remove his prosthetic leg to swim when they came upon the lake.
The water was still and clear, reflecting every tree, every cloud in the bright summer sky. There were a few ducks on the opposite bank, nesting in the tall reeds. Around the lake there were several large boulders and flat shelves of rock. The air was still and the place seemed to hum with a distinct energy. Altogether, it was quite surreal.
Katniss taught him first how to tread water, which was more of a challenge than he had imagined, due to his prosthetic leg weighing him down. But once he was able to get his legs moving in a reasonable pattern, he was able to stay above water. Then she taught him how to bury his head in the lake without breathing in lungfuls of water. She showed him a basic stroke – one arm after the other, feet kicking up and down – and after a few laps around the circumference of the lake, he fell into an easy rhythm. He even lapped her at one point, his more muscular frame zipping past her.
They enjoyed a packed lunch on the lakeshore, Katniss running off with the cookies he had brought. He could only laugh at her childish antics, and resist the urge to grapple with her, pulll her close or pin her down and kiss her.
It was also the summer of horrible flashbacks. Peeta had done so well since moving back to District 12, had only suffered through two mild hijacking episodes and one more serious one – when Sae had found him in his yard and had to fetch Haymitch to help. But Dr. Aurelius had decreased the dosages on several of Peeta's medications in order to eventually wean him off of the powerful drugs completely. So it should have been no surprise to Peeta when Haymitch shattered a whole bottle of wine that evening – the day they'd gone to the lake for the first time – and the whole world went black.
Something was ripping, clawing at him from the inside, desperate to escape. He was asleep next to Katniss the night before the Quarter Quell, and suddenly he couldn't breathe. It took him only a moment to realize that she was holding a pillow over his face, smothering him. He tried to thrash, to throw her off of him, and he should have been able to. But the sharp pain he felt wasn't from the lack of oxygen – it was from something deep within trying to get out. His hands became long claws, and when he grabbed Katniss again, she screamed.
And then he could breathe again. No one was suffocating him. He wasn't in the Capitol about to face the quell, but back in her house in the Victor's Village, at dinner. His head throbbed and he felt all energy leave his body. But Katniss was there, standing behind him. He didn't even have to open his eyes. She had wrapped her arms around his shoulders and was whispering calmly in his ear.
"It's ok, Peeta. Haymitch just dropped a bottle of wine…" She repeated.
He sighed, his whole body aching. He knew he should probably get up, go to his house and take his medicine. But instead, he turned in his chair and buried his face in her shirt. His arms went 'round her waist and he didn't want to let go, ever.
"Sorry I wasted a good bottle of wine," Peeta heard Haymitch mutter from the end of the table.
"Sorry," Peeta said himself, his face still buried in Katniss's stomach.
When he finally pulled back and looked up at Katniss, she met his gaze and surprised him by leaning over and pressing her mouth to his.
His mind went quiet when she kissed him. There was no pain or fear or terror, only the feel of her lips on his.
If Sae and Haymitch hadn't been present, if he hadn't been so exhausted from the hijacking episode, he would have been compelled to tighten his hold on her, perhaps even pull her into his lap and lengthen the kiss. But he made no such move. She kissed him gently for a few seconds, then pulled away.
When he went home a little while later, feeling drained, he was just grateful that he hadn't hurt her, and that she had been there to call him back from that painful place. He slipped into bed that night and his hand went reflexively to his mouth, his thoughts on that kiss. He closed his eyes and prayed that for once he would only be visited by pleasant dreams of her.
At some point that summer, Haymitch started contributing to their book of memories. And Peeta would stay up late into the night watching the recordings of those old games long enough to sketch out pictures of each tribute from District 12. Some of them Haymitch remembered enough to fill a whole page. Maysilee Donner was the first entry he worked on.
"Bree Mayweather and the Jenkins boy – oh, what was his name…? Those were the tributes the year after my games," Haymitch said. "Bree had been in my class in school, I remember. She won the spelling bee when we were nine-years-old…" he trailed off.
"The Jenkins boy, he had just turned twelve, I think." Haymitch continued. "Scrawny little thing. He ate so much on the train ride to the Capitol that he vomited for the first whole day we were there…"
The boy's name had been Dugg. Dugg Jenkins, Peeta later learned from the videos of the 51st Hunger Games. The child had been scrawny, his wide gray eyes and short black hair giving him away as Seam-born. Bree was older, with long brown hair and soft green eyes.
"Those two actually had hope," Haymitch's voice was quiet, a distant look in his eyes. "I had won the year before, so maybe they had a chance of winning…"
The list of tributes went on and on. Twenty-three years of them, before Katniss and Peeta.
And on his days off, Peeta went back to the lake to swim with Katniss. They picked blueberries and blackberries, which he used in muffins and pies and other dishes. They played the question game until Peeta's head spun and he had to stop.
A crew from the Capitol came in that summer with orders to bulldoze the mines. Peeta saw them unload the large machines – bulldozers and dump trucks and other construction equipment – from the train as the men themselves spilled out. They were going to flatten everything, fill in the mineshafts and use the land for other purposes. There was quite a bit of speculation as to what exactly would become of the area.
Peeta heard all the gossip, all the rumors from the townsfolk, but he tried to only bring home actual news to share with Katniss. He wasn't quite sure how she would react to the mines being bulldozed over – the mines where her father spent much of his adult life; mines where her father died. He had figured she would want to see it for herself, and so he wasn't surprised when she came into the bakery afterward. Katniss leaned close as they talked, giving him a quick peck on the cheek.
And when she left, he felt his heart would break if it turned out she didn't love him back.