Winter gnaws with icy teeth, sending a barrage of blizzards to force the denizens of District 12 even further into their cages. Prim and Mother are kept busy with an epidemic of pneumonia and frostbite. They alternate nights of frantic knocking with long evenings planning and sewing by the fire, slowly reworking a dress that Madge has handed down, fancy fabric from the Capitol. Mother's teaching Prim to make the alterations herself, as her hands shake too badly now and not just from the cold.
Katniss struggles to pass the hours, her slowest months, shivering alone in Sae's flimsy booth in the Seam, wearing every layer she owns, her father's jacket on top. Few patrons brave the weather. The ones who do are desperate for essentials, bringing anything and everything to trade. She chances the woods on a few days when the sun warbles out. But she's reluctant to forage too deep, her first winter without Gale. He never did show her how to recast those snares, can't have it both ways. His handiwork languishes now under a wintry blanket, rabbits growing fat and slow, tantalizingly out of reach.
She sees Peeta only twice, at a distance in the Town, coming or going for supplies. He hasn't taken Sae's stew, not since the Tour.
"He gets this way," Sae says, when Katniss makes some offhand comment about how long it's been, even since before the storms.
The answer hints at hidden history. The most obvious question: "How long have you been taking it?"
"Since the beginning," Sae says, with a sad smile. Katniss thinks back, to what could be considered the beginning. His Games, perhaps, or his Victory Tour.
"Did he ask?"
Sae chuckles, stirring her stew, forever stirring her stew. "No, quite the opposite. But I needed the money, after Haymitch." A name Katniss hasn't heard in years. She recalls something about geese, him needing someone to tend them because he couldn't even tend himself.
But she follows the other thread, still focused on Peeta. "So, what did you do?"
"I just took it." And yes, Katniss can see it, Sae doddering past a bristling Peeta, an old woman even back then, too frail for him to do anything but let her have her way, his door never locked. Sae adds, "My soup is good for what ails ye."
Katniss steps in to the Victor's Village for the first time in months. In her hand, she clutches a sack of stew. Peeta hasn't asked, but Peeta's going to get.
He doesn't come to the door at her knock, off somewhere in the bowels of the house, perhaps, doing whatever it is he does all day. She should leave it and go, as she always has before. But then she thinks of Sae, at the approach that worked, the only way to breach his walls. So instead, Katniss palms the door handle, finds that it opens soundlessly, spilling her into the kitchen beyond.
She steps in, hesitant, not wanting to alarm him. Warmth bathes her face, and she's reassured by the gleaming countdown on the oven, a sign that he's probably here somewhere or back soon.
She's unloading the sack that Sae packed when she hears footsteps on the stairs.
"Hey, Sae, how…" Peeta's mouth snaps shuts when he sees who has braved his inner sanctuary. It's telling, that he expected Sae. But it's not Sae, not like he was expecting, not at all. Katniss turns to find him watching her, his hair dark and disheveled from a recent shower, the collar of his shirt askew, as though he'd thrown it on in a hurry. His feet are bare.
She feels like a voyeur, like she's here in this place where she has no right to be. The stew is unpacked now, she doesn't have anything else to do with her hands, and so she turns to leave.
"Wait," Peeta says, and she hovers with the screen door half open. He strides over to the counter, to a device, touches a button. It hums to life, the drone of a mosquito.
"What's that?" She's wary, as though it's a snake. They don't have many machines in the Seam, the projectors being their most fancy equipment.
"Heater. Bit chilly in here." She inadvertently brought the cold in with her. "You don't need to bring me more stew." He's gruff, doing that thing again where he tries to push her away.
She raises her chin. "I know."
He snorts a laugh, amused at something. Then he says, "Would you like some? There's more than enough."
Her thoughts are a myriad of colorful butterflies, fluttering, cluttering too fast. Curiosity rears, instinct warns, Gale's disapproval flares. She thinks of the other Seam woman. Is this how Peeta does it, wines and dines? Entices, woos with the promise of food? But then she remembers him with Finnick, with Johanna. She thinks about how he eats alone, on a table meant for twelve.
He's had the opportunity to entice her before. If anything, she's surprised he's offering at all.
Before she can speak, the timer on the oven dings, as if in emphatic yes. The sound cuts the tension, and they both smile at the coincidental timing.
"The oven has spoken," Peeta says.
That does it. "Okay," she agrees. Something unclenches in her gut.
"Grab yourself a bowl." He pats a cabinet as he slips on an oven mitt, rusty from years of use. She cracks the door he's indicated, scanning hesitantly for a bowl that looks to be the right size. There are so many, all shapes and sizes. Too many, for just one person. This house was originally stocked for a family.
As she's pulling a small bowl from the bottom shelf, Peeta creaks the oven open. Heat and scent hit her like a branch to the face. Bread. He's baking bread. She's taken back many years, to the last time she and Prim were in the old Mellark Bakery, Prim's face against the glass.
"Oh, and can you grab the salt? It's in the pantry."
She guesses correctly that the slim door next to the gleaming icebox is the pantry. When she opens it, she almost drops her bowl. For despite its small outward appearance, the pantry is as big as her bedroom, maybe bigger. She steps in (there's room to step in) and sees shelves heavy with rows upon rows of supplies, plump sacks of flours, sugars, spices, dried meat, fruit, and a hundred other things she can't name. This sight, combined with the smell of his heavenly bread, makes her head light. What he has in here could feed two or three Seam families for a month.
She tarries too long, looking for the salt, because he comes to check on her, clearing his throat. When he meets her eyes, his mouth is turned down, guilty. He reaches around her, almost brushing her arm, and grabs a jug the size of a water pitcher.
"It's overkill, I know," he says apologetically, hefting the salt. She looks away from his bicep, which shifts beneath his thin shirt. "Everything the Capitol sends is just so…big."
Everyone has seen the wagon, laden with supplies, that lumbers from the train to his house, once a month. His Victor's winnings, bought with blood.
Katniss follows him back into the main kitchen and eases herself to sit quietly at the table, caddy-corner from him, as he pours them milk, cuts bread so soft it slices like a pat of butter. For a moment, she feels guilt about her family's own meager fare, them waiting for her back at the house. But then she forgets everything when she takes the first bite.
"Oh," she moans around a mouthful. She's forgotten how good it is. Better than she remembers, even, so fresh it melts in her mouth. Peeta seems pleased. She eats two whole pieces before she remembers the stew, which Peeta has ladled into her bowl.
"Sae spoils me. She, too, gives me more than I need." His thoughts are still on his pantry, at the look on her face when she saw it. "It's all more than I can even use."
Katniss had been thinking the same thing. "Then why don't you sell it?" she asks, her tone more blunt than she'd intended.
Peeta's eyes shoot up, brows raised. He says, simply, "I tried."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I tried to sell it. I tried to give it away." He's looking at her, something in his face.
"To who?" This can't be right. From what she's always heard, he refuses to barter with his Capitol goods. She's even heard Gale grump about it sometimes, on days when they still have to go without so that Prim and Posy can get their fill.
"To anyone," he says. "At the General Store. At the Hob. I tried everywhere, for years. I still try." She's never seen it, can't believe it. It can't be true, that this cornucopia of food sits, untouched, in this expansive pantry, slowly rotting. "They won't take anything from me. None of them, Town or Seam. Believe me, I've tried."
It can't be true. But the more she thinks about it, the more she can see it. The District folk are proud, particularly in the Seam. They'd think the price of blood paid for these goods is too high. Even if they starve. She's done it herself, when she refused to stand in line with the other women at Cray's.
She remembers the day Peeta's train arrived back at District 12, the final stop on his victorious procession. Everyone was lined up to greet him, like cattle.
He smiled and waved…
…and no one waved back. No one smiled. No one from the Town, no one from the Seam, not even his family. Such a thing had never happened before; the Peacekeeper protocol didn't account for this.
But he just kept smiling, kept waving, smiling so hard that she could feel his smile etched into her own cheeks. If it bothered him, the silence of his fellow citizens, even his family (they wouldn't look at him), he didn't show it. You would have thought he was still in the Capitol, waving to his legions of female fans, who fell all over themselves, reaching for whatever piece of him they could get.
Psychopath, they whispered, Townie and Seam alike. Murderer.
He just smiled and smiled and smiled.
Then he retreated to his fancy new house, rarely to be seen or heard from again.
Six months later, only a few weeks after his first Victory Tour, the oven at the Mellark bakery exploded (gas leak), killing everyone inside, including his entire family and a handful of early-morning customers. Such a tragedy, the town cooed, but Katniss sometimes wondered if they missed the people or the bread. They'd had to wait several months before the Capital could arrange for another baker to relocate from District 4. His bread was coarse and heavy and nowhere near as good.
No one asked Peeta to take on his family's mantel. He didn't volunteer.
Sitting here now, Katniss remembers the painted-on smile on Peeta's face as he'd stood before his district. She remembers the pack he'd dropped in the mud the day that Bo attacked him, how it was likely as full as when he'd started.
"They took your coin," she says.
Peeta's spoon clinks. "What?"
"The other day, in the store. They let you pay for their purchases."
"Oh that." He waves the thought away. "A fluke. It could have gone either way. You tipped the scales, putting your rope down like that."
This is the moment where she should ask why he ignored her. But she's beginning to understand, this stigma he has. How he of course wouldn't want it to transfer to her.
"Then I'll help you again."
"Help me how?"
"With your extra food. I'll sell it. Or trade it."
Peeta's face goes really blank, a vast ocean. "You would do that?"
"It's what I do."
He's quiet for a long time, considering, thoughts flitting as they sip their stew. "I don't think that's a good idea," he says at last. He won't look at her. She can sense him closing off, getting ready to walk away, don't do him any favors.
"Why not?" She reaches for something, anything.
"We shouldn't…" Peeta mumbles, and he's staring down at his bowl, spoon clenched tightly. He's not going to say more, this wall they always reach. But this time, it's not good enough. Katniss knows what it's like to go without.
"People in this district are starving. They're starving, and you have more than enough food. You have to do something."
"So I'll try again. Maybe if I—"
"No," she blazes. "This is the only way. You said it yourself. You've tried. They won't take it from you. But they'll take it from me."
Peeta's staring at her now, his eyes intense. There's a spark of something in them. It almost looks like hope. "You think so?"
"Yes," she says. No one has to know where it comes from. Katniss trades with all walks of life. This will be no different.
He frowns. "But when they realize the food is from me…"
"We won't tell them. Greasy Sae has family in District 7. We can say that we've established a new trade route with them."
He's looking at her closely, measuring her face. "Are you sure? If you get caught…" He doesn't have to say it. She knows what the penalty is when it comes to Victor's winnings.
"I won't. I've been trading at the Hob for years."
"I…don't know what to say." She can tell he's weakening, the wall almost breached.
"Say you'll do this. I know we can do this." She likes how the we sounds. "We just need to figure out how to…" Katniss trails off, not sure what she's asking.
Peeta seems to understand. "I can bring it to you, bits at a time. Your booth at the Hob, right?"
She feels a brief dash of surprise that he would offer this, that he's aware of her second job. For a moment, she considers it. Then she thinks about Peeta stepping into the Hob, how everyone would go quiet, faces turned to him in distrust or—worse—refusing to acknowledge him at all, gazes that pass right through him. She knows what people would think if he approached her booth. What Gale would think, if he ever saw. If he ever heard. People talk.
"No," she says, shaking her head. "How about I pick it up here, when I come with the stew?"
He's quiet, processing her answer, understanding the implications. "How about a compromise? I'll walk you to the creek, help you carry the bags. They'll be heavy." He's warming to the idea now, leaning forward in his chair, more eager and interested than she's seen him in years, ever since that day he presented in school about his cake.
Her turn to consider. His idea is a good one. The creek is only a few minutes from the Hob. And from this direction, there's no path, so they'll be hidden from prying eyes by one of the few offshoots of the forest within the fence. It's unlikely they'll encounter another living soul, much less a Peacekeeper.
"Okay. We can try it."
"Good. Then it's settled. How about tomorrow?" It's almost disconcerting, how quickly his mood has swung, a far cry from their previous interactions. He practically bounces on his toes as he gets up to collect their plates. He's distracted as she helps him clean the table, load their bowls and spoons into the sink, where he shoos her away.
"Flour," he says, disappearing into the pantry, "salt, corn. We can parcel it up into smaller bags…" She hears things thumping and sliding, as he starts digging out stuff he can give away.
She feels out of place, their brief bubble of conspiracy having popped. "I need to be getting home," she calls. When he doesn't immediately answer, she steps back to the door, thinking of slipping out.
"Katniss, wait," he says, emerging back into the kitchen. "In the spirit of sharing wealth…" She watches as he wraps one of the extra loaves (a perfect, honey brown) in a paper towel and nestles it in his outstretched palm.
She recoils immediately. "I can't take that."
His smile is thin with irony. "Weren't we just discussing the fact that I have more food than I know what to do with?" The tone is light, but some of the warmth has drained out of his eyes. She thinks: This is what everyone does to him. Rejects what he has to offer. In their world, there's no such thing as gifts. Gifts are just a form of payment for something you want. Often something you're not supposed to have.
This bread is almost a message, like he's trying to tell her something he can never say. Maybe it's just I remember. Or maybe he's trying to say something more. The air is heated, charged, her cheeks too warm from the heat of the cooling oven. Or from something else.
He continues, almost a whisper, gazing into the past. "You needed it once. You were starving, and I tossed you a loaf of bread. In the mud. Like you were a pig. I've thought of that day a thousand times. Why didn't I just go to you?"
She's frozen, unable to comprehend these words that he's suddenly saying to her, after all this time.
"I don't need your bread," she repeats, stupidly, stubbornly.
"But I need to give it to you. Don't you understand? Human to human. Man to woman."
Her head spins, the doorknob digs, she's pressing against it so hard. This sounds dangerously close to something they say at toastings. He senses it as well, that he's pushing her too far, too fast, caught up in his euphoria about their shared plan.
"Please," he says again, more softly now. "A gift, for Prim."
She thinks about Prim's face, pressed against the glass. She takes the bread. It's still warm. She cradles it in the crook of her arm, like a child.
That night, the Everdeens dine on the first loaf of Mellark bread the district has seen in years.
When she arrives at Peeta's the next morning, his door is already open, sacks stacked neatly on the porch. Katniss eyes the ambitious heap, which looks to be double what she expected to carry, heavy with flour and cornmeal.
"Don't worry," Peeta says, rounding the corner of the house. "Look what I found." He's procured a miner's wheelbarrow from somewhere, settling it at the bottom of the steps.
Together, they load it, then she takes an experimental lift.
"Think you can you do it?" he asks, dropping in a final sack, double-checking the distribution.
"I think so." She'll make it work, driven by the look on their faces.
Then they're off, Peeta taking the first shift with the wheelbarrow. Despite the weight, she almost can't walk quickly enough to keep up with him. It's infectious, his mood, them motivated by shared purpose. Something feels different, bubbling beneath the surface, a whole world of possibility. For a while, they just walk, the wheelbarrow a reassuring rumble. The day is golden, sky infinity blue, the first tendrils of spring unfurling through fertile earth.
"Did they like the bread?" Peeta asks at last. Her thoughts range elsewhere; it's a moment before she can place what he's asking. They being her family.
"Very much. Prim kept asking if the Baker changed his recipe."
Peeta huffs, shifting his grip. "He uses oats. Healthier, but also a bit more dense. Also, I don't know if he lets the dough rise enough. And the yeast could be a factor." He looks over at her for a second. "Sorry, shop talk."
"Maybe you could show him." Katniss much prefers Peeta's work, like biting into a cloud.
"Maybe." Almost like he's really considering it. Hope has taken root.
She wonders what he'd do, if she asked him something real. Decides to risk it. "Earlier, you called my bow famous. How is it famous?"
"It's not the bow, exactly." They walk. Peeta's quiet for so long that she thinks that will be it, whatever nerve she's struck here. "You just…you seem to always shoot so very straight, right through the eye."
"How do you know that?"
"My…father," he says at last, having some difficulty with the word, the first time Katniss has ever heard him say it. "He was very impressed with your marksmanship. Used to show me your squirrels."
She remembers trading with the Baker, the original Baker. "He was always kind to me. I saved him the best."
Peeta blinks away the past, taking a cleansing breath. She knows how it feels, to talk about someone you've lost. "So, why the eye?"
"It helps kill them quickly, quicker than the heart, even. And also, it's better to put the arrow where it won't matter later. I can't always do it." Her turn to babble, this thing that she knows best.
"Where did you learn all this?"
"My father." It's been longer for her, but it still twinges. She doesn't usually answer these types of questions honestly, even with Gale.
Peeta's quiet for a few steps, considering. "He taught you to hunt?"
"Yes."
"Who taught him?"
She's never thought of it before. "I don't know." She doesn't recall her father mentioning where he'd learned, maybe to protect his source. It's an interesting thought, forbidden skills passed down in secret, year after year, from master to apprentice. Or perhaps he'd taught himself. Gale certainly had.
By this point, they've started to hear the creek. A few more yards and they can see it peeking through the trees, swollen with snow-melt. Yet even after Peeta eases the wheelbarrow to a stop at the base of a birch, they linger, nowhere pressing to be. She watches as he stretches out his shoulders, rotates his wrists.
"It is a bit heavy," he admits.
Katniss looks over, to where she can just see slices of the Hob, weathered as old bark, because she knows where to look. "I'll be fine. It's downhill."
Yet still, they linger.
"Well," he says.
"Well."
Nothing more to say, not now, not yet, this tender shoot unfurling from the earth. It needs time and space and sun, too soon to know what it could be.
Katniss draws close, positioning herself. Peeta steps away, careful, always careful.
"Got it?" he asks.
"Yes," she says, although her forearms already feel the strain. "Thank you."
Peeta watches as she maneuvers away. "Thank you," he says, and he doesn't mean just for this.
Katniss rolls into the Hob, wondering how she's going to position this with Sae. But Sae merely cocks an eyebrow at the treasure trove.
"From District 7," Katniss says, lamely, and Sae's eyes twinkle.
Later, when the miners swarm their booth, bees to honey, Katniss overhears Sae tell them, again and again, "From District 7. Family." She doesn't even look at Katniss.
They trade for whatever the miners have, never quite enough. "It will spoil," Sae soothes, as she always does, when someone hesitates at the heft of a sack. "Please. You're doing me a favor. Don't make me throw this to the goats."
One by one, the miners take the sacks home to their families, to their children. Rory even shows up, to this place where Gale never lets him go.
"It worked," Katniss crows to Peeta the next morning when he answers his door, pushing past him to disappear into his pantry. He just stands, blinking at the clock. It's an obscene hour. Katniss pops her head back out. "What? Too early for you, baker boy?"
Peeta breaks into a slow smile, the dawning of a sun, then trots off to get her some fresh sacks.