Author's notes: Thanks to papofglencoe for your wonderful friendship and support. This story is better because of you!

Trigger warning: This chapter centers around a child dying, and there's brief mention of abortion. If either, or both of them, is a trigger, you might want to skip this.


No one knows what it's like

To be the bad man

To be the sad man

Behind blue eyes

No one knows what it's like

To feel these feelings

Like I do

And I blame you

No one bites back as hard

On their anger

None of my pain and woe

Can show through

But my dreams

They aren't as empty

As my conscience seems to be

I have hours, only lonely

My love is vengeance

That's never free


Peeta's POV

October 4th, four years earlier

I love birthdays. That's why I'm in such a good mood when I walk up to the front door of my parents' house. I press the button on the key to lock my car, hearing the familiar beep from the doors locking. I spend all my birthdays here. After Aaron and Rye moved out, they always came here for my birthday, since I was the last one to leave the nest. And after that we continued the tradition; even though I'm not living here anymore, it wouldn't feel right to celebrate it elsewhere. Besides, the table in my apartment would be cramped if we were to sit there all five of us. And Mom would not appreciate that.

"I'm here," I announce as I walk through the door, not bothering to knock. Dad comes out of the kitchen as I'm putting my jacket in the coat closet next to the door. In the last couple of years his hair has become thinner, and the gray part that was previously only confined to his temples has started to grow. He doesn't like it, but I think it adds to his character. At one point he had the same shade of blonde as me, so I guess I know what's in store for me.

"Peeta! Happy birthday, son," he exclaims, giving me a hug that I eagerly return. Dad's always been very generous with hugs, a trait that I would like to think I've inherited. I don't get to spend as much time him as I would like, so I revel in these rare moments, where neither Mom or any of my brothers are around.

"Thanks."

When he releases me from his embrace he ruffles my hair, effectively messing it up. "You need a haircut."

"Please. Mom showed me pictures from when you guys were younger. At least I can't put mine in a ponytail," I smirk, knowing that those pictures were never meant for my eyes.

"You're early," he informs me, obviously trying to change the subject. I'm always early, and he knows why.

"I know. Have you started yet?"

He looks at me almost like he's offended, mouth open and eyebrows raised. "Of course not. I wouldn't dare," he winks.

"Good," I say with a smile.

We go into the kitchen together, his arms slung around my shoulders.

"There it is," Dad says, pointing to the cake in the middle of the table. The baking is done, and all that's left to do is decorate it. We've been doing this together for as long as I can remember. Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to help out with the birthday cakes. I remember Dad beaming with pride over the cake for my eleventh birthday. It looked like crap, but it was the first one I made all by myself. As the years passed, I got better, but I still want to do it with him. Growing up with two brothers, time alone with either parent can be hard to come by, so I've always seen it as an opportunity to spend some quality time with him.

He's already laid out all the tools we need, and we mix the ingredients before we start decorating. We don't talk much, only concentrating on the cake and frosting. It's a silent dance, and we're in perfect sync. Painting on a canvas is one thing; you have more possibilities, since it's flat and the surface is hard. But a cake is soft, and you have to follow the curves and shapes of it. It feels more natural, and there's something soothing about that. Every year it's a different color, and this year we go for blue. We mix all types of shades, even throwing in a dash of turquoise.

Just as we're finishing up, Mom comes into the kitchen. I wipe my hands on the apron and ask, "What do you think?"

"It looks great," she tells us. "Happy birthday, Peeta." She gives me a kiss on the cheek as I put my arm around her shoulders.

"Thanks, Mom," I say, hugging her from the side.

"When are the other two little devils coming here?" Dad asks.

"I'm not little." Rye surprises us from the door, nodding in my direction. He doesn't have to say it; I know he's referring to me. I have to bite my tongue not to indulge him by responding to his comment, because that's exactly what he wants. I've heard it all my life, and neither Aaron nor Rye gets tired of teasing. Especially not Rye.

"Rye, we didn't hear you," Dad says.

"Well, not everyone can have Peeta's heavy gait," he responds.

"Hey, it's my birthday. Can't I have this day off?" I try to bargain.

"Sorry, little bro. No can do. I don't get to see you often, and I have to make up for lost time," he says as he approaches me and gives me a hug. He's a tease, but he cares. "Happy birthday," he whispers in my ear.

"Thank you."

"What's up with this hugging fest?" I hear Aaron's voice. "I heard it's someone's birthday today, so I brought a present." He gestures for me to take the package he's carrying in his hands. We usually don't buy expensive gifts, but they're always thoughtful, and the price isn't important.

I unwrap the present, unsurprised by what I find inside. It's an apron; they're well aware of my love for baking and cooking. But obviously, there's more to it; it wouldn't be their style without a personal touch. It's custom made with I make the best Peeta bread written on the front. "It's from both of us," Rye chips in.

Everyone laughs. "Very funny. Thanks, I guess." I love it.

"Hey, you get to make bread jokes with the ladies. What do I've got? Rye is a fucking grass, thin as paper. You've got it easy, man," Rye complains.

"Rye, language," Mom scolds him.

"Oh relax, Mom," he says, brushing it off. "We're all grown-ups here."

"If you have to point it out, you're not a real grown-up," she responds. That shuts him up, because you can't really argue with that.

"And technically, you can also make bread jokes," I add, looking at him and trying to hold back a smile. He just glares at me. I'm going to call that a win.

The dinner is relatively quiet, and I enjoy the time I get to spend with my family. It's rare these days, so I try not to let Mom's comments get to me.

"All I'm saying is, Peeta, I don't think painting will pay the rent," she says, shaking her head.

Dad tries to take control of the conversation so it doesn't become an argument. "Connie, if painting is what Peeta wants to do, who are we to stand in his way? You know how talented he is."

Mom doesn't support all of my decisions, but Dad has always been my biggest supporter. Even when Rye and Aaron picked on me when we were younger, he always stood up for me. I hope he can see the gratitude in my eyes when I throw him a glance. "Thanks, Dad."

He nods back to me, seemingly understanding the sentiment.

"I'm only trying to look out for you, Peeta." She says that's what she wants, but it's hard to miss the hidden meaning behind her words. What she really wants is someone to take over the bakery when Dad retires. I know she likes Aaron the most, so he's the natural first choice. He's the firstborn after all, but she also wants someone who can actually run it. Considering that neither Aaron nor Rye studied business, apparently I'm the best option. But I haven't volunteered for the job. I love baking, but I don't want to make it my career for fear I'll grow tired of it.

After we've cleared the table Dad suggests, "Let's take a picture of you boys," like he just got the idea. We've been doing this since I can remember. We always take a picture of us once a year.

"Okay," we all agree simultaneously.

"Why does Rye always gets to be in the middle?" Aaron questions.

Rye points at Aaron. "Because you're the oldest. You're always first on all the holiday cards after Mom and Dad. And Peeta always gets away with everything. All I have is being in the middle in the photos," Rye explains, like he's rehearsed it. But the notion that the youngest always gets away with everything is nothing but a pure myth.

"Cheez, martyr much?" Aaron counters.

We've taken a couple of pictures when the doorbell rings. All of us look around at each other like we're mentally counting to see if anyone's missing.

"I'll get it," Dad tells us, putting the camera on the table and heading for the front door. We're scrolling through the pictures Dad took when he calls for me.

"Peeta? It's for you." Why is someone coming here to see me? I don't live here anymore.

When I get to the door I find the two people I'd expected least to see. I've barely given them any thought for a long time.

"Mr. and Mrs. Washington?" I haven't seen them in almost three years, and them showing up on my parents' doorstep takes me completely by surprise. They're Cashmere's parents. Cashmere and I met in high school and stayed together until about three years ago, when she decided I wasn't good enough for her anymore. I'm sorry, Peeta. I don't love you anymore. There's someone else. Those were her exact words. I know because I've been playing them on repeat in my head ever since, wondering how I managed to screw things up that royally. She was the one to break it off, so her parents paying me a visit three years later seems odd.

"Peeta," Mrs. Washington says. Her eyes are red, and she can barely look at me.

"What are you doing here?" is all I can muster. Their presence puzzles me.

Turning to Dad, Mr. Washington says, "Marcus. We need to talk to Peeta." He pauses. "In private." Dad looks as confused as I feel.

"Okay, let's go outside." Opening the door, I motion for them to step out and look back to Dad. "I'll be right back." He looks at me uncertainly, as if to ask if everything is okay. I just nod and close the door.

"It's Cashmere," Mr. Washington starts as soon as we're outside. There's a pang in my heart at the mention of her name. I've been trying so hard to suppress the memories of her. I'm over her, but the hurt from her abandonment still lingers.

"What about…?"

"There was an accident," Mrs. Washington explains quietly, her eyes watery.

"What? Is she alright?" I ask before she has a chance to continue. I may still hold a grudge against Cashmere for walking out on me without much of an explanation, but I wish her no harm.

Mr. Washington puts a hand on my shoulder. "There was a lot of rain, and the road was slippery." He takes a breath. "She's fine, physically."

I don't understand. If she's fine, why are they here? I cross my arms across my chest, beckoning them to carry on and get to the point of their visit.

"There was someone else in the car," he continues. "Not long after you two broke up, Cashmere gave birth to a baby girl, our granddaughter, Charlie." They're not making any sense, throwing out random information. I didn't know Cashmere had a daughter. Not that I'd expect her to tell me; we haven't spoken since that horrible day when she left.

"How long after?" The father is probably the guy she left me for, but I don't see the connection.

"About six months."

Six months? I can't believe this. She was pregnant with another man's child while we were still together. I drop my arms in defeat. It feels like a slap in the face.

"So you came here to... what? Tell me she was cheating on me? To rub it in my face?" I can't stop the anger flaring up. She was having an affair and got pregnant.

"Peeta. Cashmere didn't cheat on you," Mrs. Washington tells me, locking her red-streaked eyes on mine. Then who's the…? Oh.

I back away from them, slowly shaking my head. This is not happening. No. I would have known if I had a daughter. You're supposed to sense these things, right? Like some supernatural bond or some shit. I have a daughter. I have a daughter. Every word in that sentence plays over and over in my head until they start to sound strange. I slide down the door and sit on the ground, not trusting my legs at the moment. I have a daughter. Am I happy? Am I angry? Something else? I don't know.

I can't tell how long I sit there before I can speak again. "Why are you telling me this now?" My voice breaks at the last word, and the anger comes back. How old is she? How many years, months, weeks, and days have I missed? Her first laugh, her first tooth, her first steps…

"Because… Charlie is... not fine. She was in the car too."

Fuck fuck fuck. I have no control over this situation, and I don't know how to handle it, but I don't want to give them the satisfaction of seeing me fall apart like this. They obviously knew about her, but chose not to tell me. They're dead to me for all I care. And as for Cashmere...

Even if I'd known what to say, my throat feels too constricted to talk. I just stare at them, trying to put on a neutral face, silently urging them to keep talking.

"It's bad. You should come back to D.C. with us. If you want to see her before… before..." Mrs. Washington breaks into tears.

"Before what?" I'm afraid to ask, but I have to know.

Mr. Washington looks at me, defeat written across his face. "She won't be waking up, Peeta."


"You look like you've just seen a ghost," Aaron tells me when I come back inside. Maybe I have.

"What did they want, Peeta? Are you alright?" Dad asks, putting his hand on my shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, I have to go." I grab my keys and leave, trying to avoid any questions to which I don't have any answers.

On my way back home my phone keeps buzzing in my pocket, but I don't check it until I'm back inside my apartment and see I have multiple missed calls and text messages. Why did you leave, man? Are you alright? And several variations of that. If you don't want to talk, that's fine, just let us know that you're okay. I scoff to myself. I will never be okay. I quickly type out I'm home, sending it to my father. Turning off the phone, I throw it onto the couch and walk straight to my bedroom, slumping down on the bed.

What the fuck do I do? How do you handle a situation like this? I usually know these types of things, but for the first time in my life I come up short.

I have to sort this out. I'm Peeta Mellark. I'm a painter. I'm a baker. I'm a father. Fuck, I'm a father. I'm a soon-to-be ex-father.

It's the last part that does it. Soon-to-be. She's still alive. I have to look past my own anger and hurt. I won't let her pay for Cashmere's mistakes. I have to go to her.


I don't tell my family where I'm going or why; I don't know if I could gather enough strength for that. The drive to D.C. takes about five hours, but it feels shorter. I thought it would feel like a marathon, so I'm surprised when I'm almost there. Cashmere's parents gave me the name and address to the hospital that they're staying at; they also offered to let me ride in their car, but I opted out of that. I can't handle spending several hours in a confined space with them right now.

The lobby in the hospital is big, with children playing with toys in a corner, people chatting and doctors in white coats walking around. The receptionist is nice, flashing me a wide smile and her pleasantries leave a bad taste in my mouth. How can everyone keep doing their everyday business like usual when there's a child dying? My child.

The first thing I hear when the elevator door opens is crying. I guess I shouldn't expect anything else; I'm in a hospital after all, and it's not like many people are here by choice. The first thing I see is Cashmere; it's impossible not to recognize her. She's talking to a doctor, and she's obviously been crying. She's not the same perfect girl I've imagined in my head all these years; I guess we've both changed. I can't quite read her facial expression when she sees me. Fear? She walks up to me carefully, and I have to restrain myself from backing away. She locks her arms around me, sobbing into my chest, barely overpowering the crying from the room next to us.

"Peeta," she whimpers after a while. Her arms around me are restricting, and I want to get rid of her hold on me.

"Where is she?" I try to keep calm because if I give in to the emotions boiling on the inside, I don't think I will be able to keep it together. She doesn't say anything, just keeps crying. "Where?" I ask again.

Instead of telling me, she releases me, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward a closed door. I really don't want her to touch me at all, but I can't make a scene about it here and now. This is not about me or Cashmere. Without a word she opens the door, and all the courage I thought I'd built up comes crashing down. Everything around me turns gray, Cashmere disappears, and all I can see is the small, lifeless child lying on a hospital bed that's way too big for her. There are tubes coming out of her nose and mouth and regular beeps that I assume represent her heartbeats.

I drop Cashmere's hand and walk to the bed in what feels like slow motion, letting my eyes linger on one of her hands. If I look at her face again I'm afraid that the little composure I have left will crumble to pieces. Instead, I sit on the chair next to the bed and grab her small hand in mine. This is my daughter's hand. It's warm and smooth, and, right now, it's the only thing keeping me from crumbling. But it doesn't stop the tears from falling silently across my cheeks.

There's a thin tube on the back of her hand; I'm assuming it's the IV. I let my eyes travel up her delicate arm, passing the hospital bracelet with her name on it. When I reach her shoulders and neck I notice a lock of hair that's fallen out of her braid and I have to resist the urge to tuck it behind her ear. I have to brace myself before I reach her face, but when I do I'm surprised by feeling a sort of calm. She looks so peaceful, almost like she's sleeping. I just wish I had the power to wake you up. I'd give anything for that.

I want to touch her face, but a part of me feels like that would be crossing some sort of invisible line. Even if I'm her father, she hasn't given me her permission; she doesn't even know who I am. So I decide to stay like this, content with holding her hand in mine, silently begging her to open her eyes.

There's hand on my shoulder, and I flinch at the touch.

"Peeta. I think we need to talk," Cashmere whispers tentatively. You think? She's three years too late, and I have no interest in helping ease her conscience. I don't want to leave this room, afraid that if it closes I won't be allowed in here again. But I reluctantly comply with her wish, mostly out of curiosity of what she could possibly have to say for herself.

We walk out to a small balcony on the same floor. I guess it's the closest we'll get to some sort of privacy. She doesn't say anything, only looks at me with pleading eyes.

I cross my arms, my patience already running short. "You said you wanted to talk. So talk."

Her eyes starts to water again. "Peeta, you have to understand. I was so scared when I found out I was pregnant," she weeps.

"I can understand that." I do. Getting pregnant at that age is probably terrifying. "What I don't understand is why you didn't tell me." I try to keep my anger in check, but it's hard.

"I was so afraid that you were going to be mad at me," she says, refusing to meet my eyes.

"Why the fuck would I be mad at you? It takes two people to get pregnant, you know."

"It's just… I thought you were going to be so angry and want me to have an abortion." The last word comes out almost as a whisper, like she's afraid of saying it.

The reasoning behind her decision is a kick in the stomach. "What? If you thought for one second that that was how I was going to react, then you clearly didn't know me at all. I would never have asked you, or anyone else for that matter, to have an abortion." I'm starting to feel sick. How could she have thought that I wouldn't have supported her, whatever decision she would have made?

"I didn't know..."

"No, you obviously didn't. So you made that choice for me." I have to ball my hands into tight fists to contain some of anger that's threatening to boil over. "Jesus, Cashmere. You didn't even give me the chance." I start pacing to try to relieve some of my frustration.

"Do you think it was easy for me? Raising her all by myself, with no one to help?" Cashmere raises her voice.

"Don't you dare put this on me." I mirror her tone. "You made that choice. If you'd let me, I would have been there every step of the way."

"You're not the only one who's grieving here, Peeta. Don't you think it's killing me see my daughter lying in there like that? With all those tubes everywhere." She's on the brink of crying, and I have to suppress my instinct of comforting her.

"You're fucking unbelievable. You're right, she's your daughter," I yell, pointing at her and hoping that the hurt I'm feeling doesn't show. "You have all the memories to prove it. I don't. I don't even know the color of her eyes." She opens her mouth to speak, but apparently changes her mind.

She didn't even think I deserved to know I have a child, and that's the biggest betrayal of all. "You broke my heart three years ago, and now, you broke the rest," I say in defeat. "Don't talk to me. Don't touch me. Just ignore me; you seem pretty good at it."

Maybe I'm being unreasonable, I don't know. All I know is that I can't even look at her without feeling like I'm dying a little bit inside. So I leave her there, intent on not giving her another minute of my time. On my way back, I almost bump into a woman on her way out to the balcony. She probably heard the entire exchange. Great. Just fucking great.


I'm sitting in a sad-ass excuse for a cafeteria, sipping on some tasteless brown beverage that they insist on calling coffee, staring at the magazine in my hands. I'm emotionally exhausted from yesterday's confrontation with Cashmere, and I'm still trying to process everything. I see the words in front of me, but I don't read them. How the fuck did I manage get myself into this mess? I'm too wrapped up in my own mind to notice the woman sitting down on the opposite side of the table.

"Enjoying the coffee?" she startles me from my thoughts. She has dark, short hair, and her sweater is way too big for her small frame. It's the same woman I saw yesterday outside the balcony.

"Not really. It's yours if you want." I'm not in a talkative mood, especially not about what transpired yesterday, or why I'm here at all.

"Please, anyone who drinks that shit must be completely brainless." She's right; it's awful. But I really don't want to chit-chat.

"Look, I'm sorry, but I don't think I'm the best company right now." I don't want to be rude, but I want to be left alone.

"Look around, Blondie." She makes a swirling motion with her finger. "You think you're the only one? We're in a hospital, for fuck's sake."

I put down the magazine to look at her, wondering if she wants something, or if she's lonely, just wanting to talk to someone. I can do that. Maybe it'll distract me, if only for a little while.

"You're right."

"I figured we might as well get to know each other. Since we have adjoining cells and all," she says, leaning back in her chair.

"Adjoining cells?"

"Yeah, that's what it feels like anyway. A prison. Or a torture chamber. Take your pick." She pauses, and her eyes flicker across the room before continuing. "I saw you yesterday," she says, pulling on an invisible thread on the hem of her sweater.

"I know."

"I was about to grab a smoke, but apparently I'm not the only one who's found the only private corner on this floor."

I'm embarrassed. I don't want to talk about how I lashed out like that. I know Cashmere's hurting too, and I should have contained my anger. But it was like someone hijacked my mind and I couldn't control it. I meant every word, but that was neither the time nor place.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that," I apologize.

"Please, it's the best gossip I've heard in a week."

"I'm glad my clusterfuck of a personal life is amusing to you," I say dryly, looking her in the eye. She has a tough exterior, but I can see there's turmoil going on inside. So I decide to cut her some slack.

"So what's your name?" I try to change the subject.

"Johanna," she mumbles, pulling the arms of her sweater over her hands.

"I'm Peeta. What are you in for?" I try to make a joke, but it misses the mark.

"What?" Confusion is written across her face.

"I'm continuing you prison analogy. Keep up." This earns me the semblance of a smile.

I don't know how long we sit there, but it's a kind of a relief to talk to someone, and she obviously already knows my story.

Her family was out on a sailing trip when they found themselves caught in an unexpected thunderstorm. Their boat capsized and both of her parents drowned; they haven't found them yet, but right now it's more about salvaging their bodies than it is a rescue mission. Her sister is here, and they still don't know if she'll pull through.

I don't want to wallow in other people's misery, but it's a welcome distraction to let go some of my own grievances and share some else's. But I can't keep avoiding Cashmere forever. Whether I like it or not, our paths will have to cross.

But when I get back the room she is the least of my worries. All I can focus on is the girl lying underneath that fucking ugly yellow blanket. I know she's mine; she got the Mellark nose, and her blonde hair is the same shade as Rye's. Cashmere has brown eyes, so Charlie's could be either her color or mine, but I don't want to ask. I've said everything I wanted to say.

The decision to take her off life support was Cashmere's, since she's the sole guardian. The doctor said they could keep her alive, but the chances of her waking up are slim to none. I don't question her decision; I'd probably make the same one. If I'd had any say.

Sitting here for four days straight gives you a lot of time to think. Can you miss someone you've never met? Can you grieve someone you didn't even knew existed?

I spend most of the time sitting by her bed, carefully clutching her hand in mine and trying to commit every part of her to memory. I can't help but fantasize about teaching her the different painting techniques, how you angle the brush to get the shading just right. Or stolen Sunday mornings, skipping breakfast to make cupcakes instead. I don't know if I'm only adding to my pain, but I can't stop my mind from wandering.

I will never comfort her when she's hurting, never be a shoulder to cry on after a heartbreak. I will watch her die, knowing that I will never truly meet her.

The days pass quicker than I thought, so when Dr. Paylor taps me on the shoulder, I feel like a kid who's being awakened early in the morning. Just a few more minutes. But I know it's hopeless. They've already waited a couple of extra days, giving me the chance to come here. I wasn't good enough for her when she was alive, but now, in death, my presence is suddenly acceptable and expected.


I don't intervene with any of the funeral plans. How could I plan a funeral for someone I didn't even know? Knowing that most of the people who will be attending won't have the faintest clue who I am, I decide to sit in the back, not drawing any unwanted attention to myself. I also want the option of leaving unnoticed if feel like I can't stay.

I manage to stay through the entire service, though barely holding onto sanity by clutching the bench to the point of pain to keep myself from breaking. After the ceremony, I leave the church with every intention of never coming back.

There is nothing left for me here, except for memories of betrayal, loss, and the painful knowledge that I will never be able to look into my daughter's eyes.


No one knows what it's like

To be the bad man

To be the sad man

Behind blue eyes


Author's notes: If anyone's wondering, the prologue was written in Peeta's POV. Sorry for keeping you all in the dark. Please drop me a line, either here or on tumblr (maxwellandlovelace) and tell me what you think.

The lyrics in the beginning and the end are from Behind Blue Eyes by The Who.