Hey everyone. It's been a while. I'm certain most of you thought I would never get back to this. At points, I didn't believe I would. It would have been so easy to let the stories be forgotten. And then an author of a story I had long since lost hope in ever getting another chapter posted a note about how they were going to seriously revamp it and I was so excited. Then I realized I had readers who would feel the same. So I got off my pity wagon and wrote this for you guys.
Peeta continued to leave bake offerings. No doubt aided by my sister whose eyes got all doe-like whenever he and I weren't talking. Which happened just about as often as we actually talked, not that I was keeping track.
Much as I didn't want to, the next time I had a bag of plump squirrels, I took them the bakery. Mr. Mellark opened the back door, pleased, and joked about how I no longer needed to sneak in.
I must have looked puzzled, because he offered a standing invitation to drop by whenever I wanted.
"Now that you're with Peeta, consider our home yours as well."
The bag of squirrels landed on the counter with more force than necessary.
I wouldn't have been here if Hazelle hadn't mentioned her supply of tesserae grain was running low. "I'm trading for the Hawthornes."
"That's fine," he replied, unbothered by my brusqueness. "Let Gale know he's still welcome to trade. I dearly missed the squirrels while you were away."
The sound of my teeth grinding was deafening, but the baker, occupied with wrapping two loaves of day old bread, didn't notice.
"Is there anything you would like, Katniss? It's on the house. Peeta mentioned you were a fan of our nutty bread."
I refused, knowing his wife would somehow blame her youngest. I wasn't going to give the awful excuse for a human being a reason to lash out at Peeta the next time he came in. I had only caught glimpses of him through the window. The bruise was starting to fade but my anger hadn't.
At his mother for daring to lay a hand on him. I was still angry that she had thought I would be the Victor, that she cared more about reaping the benefits of a District Twelve win over the life of her son. There was a lingering anger with Peeta for continuing to put up with his mother's abuse and to make excuses for her. For not letting me hit her back.
Greater than the anger was the hurt. It hurt that Peeta tried to hide it from me. Made me feel like a fool for giving us a try. All his talks about how he'd be happy with any affection I gave him and his willingness to wait for me to love him were just that.
Meaningless words.
Both of our fights had been his fault. Peeta had been the one locking me out repeatedly. It was a pretty obvious sign that he didn't want me, and no amount of cheese stuffed buns was going to persuade me otherwise.
That was the moment Mrs. Mellark entered the kitchen with a loud bang of the swinging door.
The woman glowered at her husband before turning narrowing eyes on me. "We're not a charity. If you want bread you'll have to pay for it like every other person in Town."
I held my tongue. Of course I could pay for myself, not that I actually wanted the sweet-smelling loaf. However, I couldn't pay for the other two loaves that had already been prepared. Those were for Gale's family. I wasn't going to trivialize everything he had done to keep them fed by buying food for him. Even Hazelle's pride wouldn't accept handouts.
"Still a dirty Seam rat. All that coin you're hoarding won't do you any good. Don't know what the damn boy sees in you. You'll only ruin him. Not that he was useful before the Games. Worthless brat."
"Darling!" Mr. Mellark cried. His wife fell silent with an ugly glare.
Beyond incensed, I accepted the baker's offer, pointing at a loaf I knew to be expensive.
Mr. Mellark winced slightly.
A vein throbbed above Mrs. Mellark's eye. "Give her something else if you must give handouts. That loaf is too expensive." She spat out the last sentence like each word was its own sentence.
Peeta's father meticulously wrapped the indicated loaf of bread and pushed it into my hand. I stared at it, mouth nearly watering from the delicious aroma. How much would it cost if I weren't a Victor? Before I could never have hoped to trade for such a decadent bread.
"I can pay."
It was a petty move to pick the most expensive loaf in the bakery. Even with the extra food and luxury items that would come each month as a result of our win, there were few in District Twelve that could afford such a rich loaf. But someone would have bought it, otherwise the baker wouldn't have wasted ingredients making it. And because I couldn't control my anger, he was going to lose a profitable sale.
"Nonsense," Mr. Mellark said, to me or his wife I was unsure. "It's the least I can do for you, Katniss." My confusion must have shown because he elaborated. "For bringing my boy home."
"Your mistaken. I didn't do anything."
The words came out biting. Mr. Mellark had it all wrong. It was Peeta that saved me. If not for him, the Gamemakers would have seen me die in that arena.
His father looked like he wanted to hug me, but thankfully his arms remained at his side. "You risked your life for him. You were willing to die for him."
I desperately wished he would stop looking so sincere and grateful. I hadn't done any of that. I was going to die as a 'fuck you' to the Capitol, denying the obscenely flamboyant and extra masses the Victor they craved. Keeping Peeta alive was the only way for both of us to survive as long as we did. Without him, there was no tragic love story for the citizens to throw their money at.
"Worthless boy," his mother snarled. "I told him you would be the Victor. I never would have thought he'd go to such lengths, latching onto you like a leech."
"Stop it," I said warningly. For Peeta's sake, I didn't want to break his mother's nose. But if she kept flapping her jaw, I wasn't going to be held responsible for my reaction.
I was reasonably certain that the Peacekeepers wouldn't arrest a Victor.
"I know that boy didn't have it in him to win. His behavior has been a disgrace. Coming to work every day, making it look like we can't get by without him."
"Stop talking about him like that!" I yelled, loud enough to draw the attention of the brother manning the counter.
Mrs. Mellark's face puckered, like she had sucked on a lemon, astonished that someone had the gall to raise their voice at her.
"Peeta is the only one that deserved to win."
I stalked out before I gave into the urge to put an arrow in her eye. The door slammed behind me.
Peeta deserved better than that. He was courageous and strong, and not just physically. If I hadn't volunteered in Prim's place—even though I would never have let her step foot in one of the arenas if I could prevent it-and another boy's name had been chosen in place of Peeta's, the baker's son would have thrown his life away to see Prim crowned.
My chest tightened at the idea of the boy with the bread dying. Peeta had such a good heart. Too good to have come from that shrew's loins. How could a wonderful person like Peeta come from such a horrid family?
Peeta's mother may have been the worse of the lot, spewing vitriol and physically lashing her children, but his father and brother weren't winning any sympathy points. Mr. Mellark loved his son. I didn't doubt that. It evident every time he spoke of Peeta. But for all his faith in his son, he didn't stop his wife from belittling or even harming Peeta.
Peeta hardly talked about his family and know I knew why. Did his mother treat all her sons as she did her youngest? Or was he a special case?
On autopilot, I navigated the familiar path to the Hawthorne abode. Hazelle, sensing my black mood, accepted the bag of leftover game and bread with solemn thanks.
"You're a blessing, Katniss. Peeta's a lucky man. I know that Gale thought the two of you would get together one day, but I'm glad you found someone you love."
Bewildered by the unexpected and uncharacteristic compliments, I told her it was the least I could do, and quickly retreated to Victor's Village.
I walked briskly past both mine and Peeta's house. Without knocking, I let myself into Haymitch's. There wasn't a point in locking anything in District Twelve—unless you were keeping an unwanted person out, apparently—because not even the most desperate impoverished living in the Seam would dare risk stealing from the Capitol.
His house was surprisingly clean, but empty. If not for the rows of liquor that filled an entire room, I would say it looked like no one lived there.
"Relationship problems, Sweetheart?" Haymitch drawled from where he leaned on the end of the banister. "Better sort it out before Sunshine arrives."
It took a minute to connect the nickname to Effie, and I gave him a baffled stare.
"If it was, I wouldn't come to you for help," I flung. The barb garnered a hard look, but no other response. For the second time that day I swallowed my frustration. I wouldn't get any answers from Haymitch if I pissed him off. "What does a Victor do?"
"Watch twenty-three children who didn't know better die," he lowly delivered.
I flinched violently. Red blood bloomed on Rue's abdomen, staining a field of white flowers. "I meant the rest of the year."
"Drown in guilt and nightmares. Rinse and repeat with every Reaping," he said nonchalantly, draining his glass and picking up a bottle. Instead of refilling his glass, he poured one for me then took a long pull directly from the bottle.
If I hadn't been through the horror of the Games, I would have believed Haymitch desensitized to watching his tributes die. I had never given thought to what Games must be like for him. He lived a comfortable life in his large house and didn't have to worry about where his next meal was coming from. During one bad winter, I had blamed him for not trying hard enough, for not somehow making one of his tributes a Victor so that the district would flourish for a year.
Now I lived it. Now I realize there wasn't much Haymitch could do. The Capitol controlled everything about the Games.
Before Peeta and I, he had never had a tribute with the drive to win. Everyone in District Twelve knew that their two tributes always perished early. After 73 years and only two Victors to its name, the people of District Twelve had no reason to believe their children would come home alive.
Year after year, Haymitch had to watch twenty-three children, two of his own, die for the crimes of another generation. It was no wonder he had turned to drinking.
I curled my fingers around the drink. "Does this quiet the thoughts in your head?"
His blue eyes darkened. "Not long enough."
I nodded, expecting that. I stared at the reflection of tumultuous grey eyes on the amber liquid's surface. They didn't look like the eyes of a Victor. And why should they? Winning the Hunger Games wasn't a victory, not when it meant the rest of my life was tied to it. Any future victories would keep the Capitol's attention focused on them.
"Try not to need it too often, Sweetheart," his lips twisted into a facsimile of a smile. The corner of his mouth had pulled back, but the movement lack emotion. "You should get going. Sunshine's here."
I groaned, following his pointed stare to see the woman in question standing outside Peeta's house. She was dressed in an extravagant bright yellow ensemble, almost as if she was trying to be the district's personal sun.
I dreaded having to talk to Effie. I still had no idea what I was going to choose as my talent. I was pretty sure Peeta's offer to be his model was off the table. Haymitch grunted, sympathetic I hoped.
"What was your talent, Haymitch?" I asked, suspicious. The only thing the district's formerly only Victor was known for was being an embarrassing drunk.
"I made myself into a character, which suited the Captiol well enough. 'And look, it's just after the bloodbath and Haymitch is already in the drinks. How long until the alcohol poisoning kicks in?' But I wouldn't recommend you follow me, Sweetheart."
"Why not?" I demanded. It had to be better than giving another part of myself to them.
"Panem's already decided your character, Girl on Fire. Trust me, you do not want to be seen as the rebel."
