Chapter 3: Promise Me

Peeta's POV

Primrose Everdeen and I are left alone for a time with our escort to start dinner, silently and morosely. Haymitch Abernathy wandered off somewhere, to the next car perhaps, to do…. something. Probably get even more drunk.

I chance a glance over at the little wisp of a girl folded into herself in the chair next to me. She's still a child in face, but will be quite a striking woman as she grows older, much like her sister. Though if I had to choose between the two young Everdeen women, I know which one is the more beautiful…

If I had known that Effie was to call my name within the next few moments at the Reaping, I would have been happy to let her original selection for the girls stand. Maybe then, it would be the girl I've always secretly loved, and not her baby sister, sitting beside me. Maybe then I could finally get to know Katniss… even if it would have been during my last days.

I watch as Primrose tucks a strand of golden hair behind her ear, eyes bowed into her lap, where her hands now sit folded. Yes, she will be an attractive young lady when she comes of age.

Or, she would have been, had she not volunteered for this. I've never heard of a twelve-year-old signing up for death. I can't help but admire her bravery, if also silently marvel just as much at her foolishness. She can't possibly think she can win.

But after….

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of retching, and Primrose, Effie and I all glance up to see Haymitch Abernathy upchucking much of his stomach's contents onto the pristine Capitol carpet. The middle-aged dolt then totters forward, slips and falls into his own sick. Effie whimpers in absolute revulsion, but doesn't move to get up. Primrose and I have to dash forward and help Haymitch up by his arms.

"I tripped? Smells bad," he slurs. I get a better grip under the lining of his coat, only to draw it away when I see my hand is slathered in vomit.

"Is there a bathroom, Miss Trinket?" I ask, failing to hide my own cringe.

"Halfway down the next car, dear," Effie chirps, sounding pleased that at least someone on this train from Twelve has manners.

I grit my teeth. "Much obliged." And I lug Haymitch out of the car and into the next one. A blast of cold air ruffles us as we navigate between cars. Primrose dutifully tries to help in the hefting, until I insist to her I've got it. Even then, it's slow-going and my muscles are burning by the time I force the door back into a small washroom, about the width of a Merchant's closet. There's a tub with a shower curtain at my right and with a final heave-ho, I dump Haymitch into it; Primrose assists with his legs while displaying a competence I didn't expect to see from her. Almost like she's done this before, or something similar to it.

"Strip him," I order. I divest our mentor of his pants while telling myself it's so Prim will be more comfortable, and not because she gets the pleasure of undressing Haymitch's top half along with most of the bile. Haymitch has a slight paunch to his beer gut that's rather unflattering, and I turn my face away as I jerk the shower handle on full-blast – cold water. Which, considering Haymitch's inebriation is all the better; he'll get both cleaned and sobered up. The Victor of the 50th Hunger Games coughs and splutters, but doesn't squirm as Primrose begins to take a washcloth across much of his chest, bathing him like she would a small child.

Out of it as he is, Haymitch is watching his smaller tribute with curious, though crossed, eyes; perhaps he is wondering just like me where Primrose became so effective at skills like home care.

"Peeta, check along Haymitch's legs for breaks or fractures. You'll be able to tell if there is a break in the bone. He might have sprained or twisted something when he fell at the very least."

I go down both of Haymitch's legs from calf to ankle. Lathering his face with soap, Primrose instructs our mentor, "If you feel any pain, tell Peeta." OK: she definitely has experience in…. whatever this is.

By the time I finish my very layman's examination, Haymitch hasn't hollered out in agony at any point, so I suppose he must be fine. I didn't feel anything unusual in the muscles or bones either. The geezer stays rather quiet throughout much of his bath, in fact, though I can feel his eyes studying me. No doubt he's perusing me to see what my chances might be, running stats in his head, wondering what he can glean from sponsors. I avoid thinking about what my short-term future will be by making light conversation with my district partner.

"You certainly seem to know your way around…. this," I finish lamely. "Where did you learn?"

"My mother's the district healer. She's been teaching me how to set legs, draw blood, things like that."

I chuckle, smiling at her kindly. "She taught you well." Between us, Haymitch makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a resigned scoff; Primrose doesn't appear to hear him, or if she does, she doesn't acknowledge it. When he's finally clean, Haymitch manages to stand on shaky legs up in the tub, pointing to an armoire against the opposite wall.

"Check in there, boy; the Avoxes usually set aside a pair of clean clothes for me."

I dutifully open the wardrobe and indeed find an outfit on the hangars, passing the articles to Haymitch one at a time. "Is this a habit of yours? Throwing up over yourself?" I crack before I can think better of it.

Haymitch doesn't appear to be offended. "Occasionally. I can go through half a dozen sets of clothes some years." Whoa, boy.

We help dress him as best we can, but when I get to threading the belt, Haymitch waves us off, exasperated. "I can do my own buckle, thank you." Finishing it through the loop, he pulls up his pants and glances down at me with a tiny smirk.

"So, boy…."

"My name is Peeta," I state politely, sticking out a hand to shake.

"Gasundheit. Let's talk about you and what your angle is going to be."

Ever the gentleman, I attempt to defer to my crush's little sister. "That's fine, sir, but might I suggest ladies first…?" Primrose takes one step forward with a grateful smile to me… and nearly walks into Haymitch waving a dismissive hand in her face.

"That won't be necessary. Run along, squirt. You're gonna be dead in a matter of days anyway."

Primrose sucks in a sharp breath, suddenly looking as though the Victor has slapped her. She turns and departs from the room with an admirable level of dignity, only the faintest hint of tears pricking at her eyes.

As soon as the door closes behind her, I round on this washed-up loser who presumes to think he can abandon one of his charges like that. "Who the hell do you think you are…?"

"Kid, it's called being a realist. A child like that is not going to be able to walk into an arena and go against every instinct she's ever been taught. That little girl has been trained to save life, not take it. She'll never have it in her." He lays a hard, calloused hand on my shoulder. "If you ever get to be like me, you'll come to understand, painful as it is, that a mentor has to choose between his two tributes. After all, only one can come back alive. So I have to go with who has the better chance – juxtaposed against a suicidal preteen no bigger than a wolf-mutt, that would be you. And anyway, isn't that what you should be concerned with? Keeping your own life intact?"

I let out a deep breath. I guess now is as good a time as any to make clear to Haymitch my intentions. "I would be…. if her sister hadn't threatened me."

This causes Haymitch to clue in – so intently, that someone might mistaken that he isn't still hung-over. "The fine-looking chiquita in the blue dress who was almost sent in. The sister. She threatened you? When?"

"In the holding rooms – when she came to visit me…."

FLASHBACK

I am sitting on a plush seat by the window in this holding room, having just said goodbye to my family, when the door opens again and I hear a Peacekeeper mumble the perfunctory instructions about 15 minutes. I glance up, expecting it to be one of my buddies from the wrestling team, maybe even my coach, Coach Gintis, only for my mouth to go totally dry and my tongue to get conveniently stuck near the roof of my mouth.

If I had to hazard a guess, Katniss Everdeen hasn't been to visit her sister yet; her stormy, entrancing grey eyes would likely be red-rimmed and puffy if she had. The thought makes me feel oddly proud, if also unworthy. Why would this girl whom I've only spoken with a handful of times but have been in love with since we were half Primrose's age, visit me before visiting her precious sister who just sacrificed herself for her?

I awkwardly stand, and my tongue decides to work again.

"Katniss…. what are you doing here?"

The look of pure hatred and loathing she sends my way makes me wish I hadn't asked. In the next moment, she is stalking forward and clenching the fabric of my shirt in her fists. She brings her face quite close and for one, insane moment, I think she is going to kiss me until my lips are bruised (a fantasy I've harbored on more than one occasion), but the expression of sheer rage and disgust still marring her gorgeous face is the farthest thing from one worn by a lover.

"Now you listen to me, Peeta Mellark," she snarls. "You will swear to me, here and now, that you will protect my sister in that arena. Because if you don't, or you kill her, and then have the audacity to come back alive –" She yanks me closer, so that our lips are nearly touching; I'm also tempted to seal my mouth over hers and shut her up, except I don't think I want to get punched. "I will make you wish you had died in there. Do you understand me?"

Gone is the painfully shy girl who I've noticed runs her fingers through her hair nervously whenever she has to exchange words with me outside the bakery. The girl who I've sworn sometimes even blushes when she does so. The girl who looked half-dead out in the rain that stormy spring afternoon four years ago.

My head bobs up and down almost frantically, like a broken bobble-head toy. "Yes, Katniss! I believe you! Whatever you say!"

"Promise me!" she hisses, grey eyes blazing like smoke, and I don't think I've ever seen anything so attractive, have been more aroused, in my life. It's quite an odd feeling, since Katniss would probably try and murder me before I got into the arena with her sister, if she thought she could get away with it. "I want to hear you promise!"

"I promise!" I get out, terrified. I know that if she asked me to jump off the Justice Building, I would do it. "You know I would never hurt you!"

She frowns hard, mistrustfully, before she finally releases me, the center of my dress shirt now hopelessly creased. I've already resolved not to iron it, if such accommodations are available on the train or in the Capitol. To know that she touched me there is strangely…. Thrilling….

Katniss's grey eyes have softened, encouragingly, though her gaze is still mistrustful. "You'll really protect her?"

"I will."

"Over your own life?" And with that I know what she is really asking – she is asking me to die in there, if it means her sister gets to live. Yet, the love I feel for this captivating young woman burns through me so strongly that I'm still nodding my head firmly, like I don't even have to think about it. And I don't. Still, a part of it hurts, to know that my life is worth nothing when compared to her sister's, but then again, I can't say I blame her. We've only ever been acquaintances, casual friends at best. To presume that she would care….

"Where's your district token?" The question blurts out from her so suddenly that I almost miss it.

"Huh?"

"Your family didn't give you one?"

I lamely hold up the wrapped sugar cookie Dad handed me earlier. "I got a small treat for the road. Though I don't suppose that counts."

It might be a trick of the light, but I almost swear Katniss's full lips upturn the slightest tick into a smirk. "No. You need something more tangible than that." Glancing down at her wrist, she unties something from it. I hadn't noticed it before – it's a bright green handkerchief, which she now presses into my hand. I feel a spark of electricity shoot up my skin where our palms touch. Katniss must feel something too, for she sucks in a breath and draws her hand back. "Wear… wear this for me."

I want to ask where she got this bandanna, and the significance of it; it has to be something very important to her. I'm about to open my mouth to do just that, but Katniss just lifts a finger and shakes her head. With her other hand, she is bunching up the skirts of her blue Reaping dress into hopeless creases. She stands there awkwardly for a moment, looking like she wants to say or do something further. Finally, she stammers out, "Thank…. Thank you for the bread." And giving an awkward wave, she disappears through the door.

Haymitch looks gobsmacked as I finish telling him my encounter with the girl of my dreams.

"So you promised to prioritize the life of a prepubescent teenage girl over your own because her older sister told you to? You're either an idiot or a District 3 mad genius!"

"I promised Katniss because I'm in love with her!"

"I take it back: you're an idiot," Haymitch decides. "Kid, I'm sorry, but no girl is worth that."

"She is."

"Reminder: you don't have a chance with her if you're dead!"

"I also won't have a chance with her alive; she made it very clear that even if I don't directly kill Prim, she'll hate me forever if I come home instead of her sister! I lose either way, but that doesn't mean that Prim has to."

Sighing in a very put-upon way, Haymitch runs a tired hand over his face. "Let's just…. rejoin Trinket and the Squirt and watch the other Reapings." And he staggers out of the bathroom, leaving me with my thoughts for a moment.

It looks like I'm really doing this. I just might be the first tribute in Games history who has every intention of going into that arena to die. And if I interpreted Haymitch correctly, I might be attempting a suicide run at direct cross-purposes with my own mentor, who has clearly chosen between the two of us to keep me alive, even though it's the tribute he's written off who should actually be saved.

I let out a sigh of my own. These are going to be a long Games.