A/N: WOW guys! Thanks for the reviews! Shout out to all the people who favorited and followed! I know this is a bit of a boring chapter but it needed to be done! Let me know what you guys think and enjoy! I know the beginning is pretty similar to the books BUT just hang on please. This is just that the beginning. I have some surprises and twists in store for later ;)
REVIEW RESPONSES:
Cosmic Candy: Thank you so much! That means the world I'm so glad you liked it and thank you for taking a chance on Gale/Katniss haha. I'll strive to make sure you won't forget it!
catniphawthorne: Girl, thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed the last chapter and I hope you enjoy this one! xoxoxox O-renishiii
Ellenka: Thank you, thank you, thank you! It is close to the original at times I'll admit but, don't worry as the story progresses things will get different bc Katniss and Gale in the arena together will def be different than Katniss and Peeta lol ;) Thanks for the review!
Vaughn Tyler: Thanks!
Gale Lover: Thank you! When it comes to the age I thought so too, just hard to get into the mindset of sixteen-year-olds. Plus, I wanted to write Katniss a bit more mature and less emotionally stunted and that to do that realistically I thought more years needed to be added. Thanks for the consistent reviews and I hope you enjoy this chapter!
0twilightlover184 : Thank you!
"But I will hold on hope. And I won't let you choke
On the noose around your neck
And I'll find strength in pain. And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again."
-The Cave, Mumford and Sons
Chapter 3: Noose Around Your Neck
As soon as we reach the square, I'm annoyed by the presence of the camera crews perched on the buildings surrounding the square, eyeing us like vultures.
I quickly drag Prim to the check-in line, feeling my trepidation and, Prim's panic grow with every shaky step. We file in along with all the other grim-faced children in our age groups, shuffling to our sections with the lagging steps of a death march. Prim is pushed forward to stand in the far front where all the other twelve years old are huddled, and I make my way to the far back, where all the oldest stand.
I can't help glancing in the direction of the eighteen-year-old boy section to see if I can catch a glimpse of Gale, to no avail. There are too many people between us and I'm so short that all I see are shoulders and arms.
This inconvenience doesn't stop me from trying a few times as we wait for the clock to hit two, though.
The bell chimes right on time, and Effie Trinket, the District 12 escort steps onto the stage in all her pink, alien glory.
She waves exuberantly, practically skipping towards the microphone though it looks more like a horse's clomp. Next, to the chair she had been previously occupying, sat Mayor Undersee and slouching in his chair next to the Mayor, is Haymitch Abernathy; the only living victor in District 12 and, also, the only mentor the tributes have.
He doesn't inspire much hope or awe in the district with his sunken eyes, stringy dark hair, and ruffled clothing. There's a lot of resentment in the District for Haymitch, considering he has been unable to bring a 12 tribute home in the past twenty plus years.
The fact that he's a roaring drunk doesn't help either.
"Welcome, welcome!" gushed Effie Trinket, unnaturally pearly smile, and deep purple lips taking over the screens overhead. "Happy Hunger Games! And, may the odds be ever in your favor." There was no applause, but Effie is unfazed.
The crowd's lackluster zeal never deters her.
"Before we begin, we have a very special video, coming to you straight from the Capital!"
I sneer at her words as the video that plays every year replaces her face on the big screen. I tune out the opening credits "War, terrible war." None of us need a reminder of the falling of the old world or the failure of the first rebellion; our prominent ribs and constant hunger already work splendidly as it is. Nor do we want to hear of the "Capital's forgiveness."
Slow deaths and varying torture don't seem like a pardon to me.
I glare a hole into the dirt, hoping that the Capital doesn't own any mind reading technology as I wait for the closing note of the video.
When it comes, Effie is squealing with excitement, "I just love that!", before collecting herself, and getting the actual reaping started. "Well, let us begin! As always, ladies first."
With an unnecessary twirl, Effie flaunts toward the bowl with an unnecessary twirl and sticks her hand in it. The crowd goes still, collectively sucking in a breath and holding it in fear. The bitter taste of bile lingers in my mouth, as we waited for the name.
Effie crosses the podium once again to get to the microphone, heels clicking obnoxiously on the stage and she holds up a white slip trapped between her talons. Please don't be me, please don't be me. She pauses briefly for dramatic effect, then announces the name of the female tribute through the microphone, the sound of her voice reverberating through the crowd like a crack of doom.
It isn't me.
It's "Primrose Everdeen."
It takes a second before I truly process to whom the name belongs to, and once I do, my knees buckles.
Just as fast as it came, the split second of relief I felt when the name called didn't begin with a "K" is gone, leaving behind nausea, dizziness and a vague sense of disbelief.
There is no mistaking the name Efiie called out; not when it boomed through the speakers and hammered into my skull.
My limbs are frozen, eyes stinging with unshed tears; I can't think, can't breathe.
I've never even bothered to worry about Prim getting reaped. The idea that she would be picked when there were people like me who have their names in twenty or thirty times was ridiculous.
Hell, I know of a handful of other twelve-year-olds with more slips in the bowl than Prim.
My ears ring and, my heart's thundering in disbelief. Hadn't I done everything? Taken the tesserae, refused to let her do the same? One slip. One slip in thousands.
The odds were supposed to be in her favor.
Somewhere far away, I can hear the crowd murmuring unhappily as they always do when a twelve-year-old gets chosen because no one thinks this is fair.
And then I see her, the blood drained from her face, hands clenched in fists at her sides, walking with stiff, small steps up toward the stage, passing me, and I see the back of her blouse has become untucked and hangs out over her skirt.
It's this detail, the untucked blouse forming a ducktail, my little duck, that brings me back to myself.
"Prim!" The strangled plea comes from the most painful depths of my throat, and my muscles begin to move again. "Prim!"
I bolt towards the stage, shoving past the few people who don't have the sense to move out of my way. I reach her just as she is about to mount the steps. With one sweep of my arm, I push her behind me.
"I volunteer!" I shout, my tongue dripping acid and, words cutting through the air.
A hush falls over the crowd. People don't volunteer in District 12 where the word tribute was interchangeable with the word corpse, what I am doing is unheard of. But, it doesn't matter, I just need to save Prim, nothing else matters.
"I volunteer as tribute," I repeat, my voice firmer than I expected it to be. I feel less wild, less frantic now that Prim is safe. A strange emptiness fills my insides instead, making me feel heavy and weightless all at once, like an airbag ready to explode.
The sensation make's no sense, and I don't like it.
There's some confusion up on stage, the protocol for volunteers has gotten rusty, and Effie looks equal parts alarmed and ecstatic. Gross.
But, I can't focus on that. Prim is screaming hysterically behind me. She's wrapped her skinny arms around me like a vice.
"No, Katniss! No! No!"
"Prim, go to mom," I rush, she needs to go because this is upsetting me and I don't want to cry. I can't cry; if I'm going into those god awful games, I will do it with dignity and strength.
I will give not give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.
"I'm so sorry. You have to go find mom now." She's still hollering, "Prim, go find mom!"
She only clutches at me harder, her thin nails digging into the satin of my dress. I'm just about to snap at her harshly when she's yanked away from me.
In a panic I look behind me to check if it's a peacekeeper who's trying to drag her away but, all I see is a mirror of heartbroken smokey eyes staring back at me: overwhelming love and sadness spilling out from the orbs.
Gale's crestfallen face is a stab at my heart as it suddenly dawns on me what I've done, what I'm losing.
We were going to get married.
The thought guts me.
Gale lifts Prim off the ground, and she's thrashing in his arms. "Up you go, Catnip," he says, in a thick voice he's fighting to keep steady. I hear the whisper of the "I love you" I know he's thinking but won't say here, and turns to carry a still shrieking Prim off to my mother.
I steel my nerves, and climb the stairs, fighting the black spots in my vision.
When I reach the top Effie trinket is waiting, she eagerly ushers me to the microphone, buzzing in excitement.
"Ladies and gentleman, District 12's very first voluneteer!"
There are no cheers, and I ignore her keeping my eyes locked on Gale's lean build stomping back to the eighteen-year-old boy section. When he settles into his place I avert my eyes my eyes quickly; if I stare too long at the devastation etched into the creases of his face I won't be able to keep myself impassive.
I stare resolutely at the horizon instead. I like the horizon, the horizon is good. I can see our woods.
"What's your name, dear."
I swallow hard, "Katniss Everdeen."
"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we?" trills Effie, either not realizing or ignoring the sudden rumble of agitation that passes through the crowd.
I can sense the rage emanating from Gale at her implication, heating me up and sparking the faint match I feel in the bottom of my stomach. It's only a small flame, flickering dimly like a candle in the wind, but it comforts me all the same.
At least I still have my fire, the dull pounding of my flame - I haven't been extinguished, and I hold onto that. The fire keeps me standing tall in the face of my death sentence.
"Well, onto the boys!" Before she can move on though, Haymitch drunkenly interrupts.
"Look at her. Look at this one!" he hollers, throwing an arm around us. Effie's squeaks and tries to scurry away, but he holds on. He's surprisingly strong for such a wreck. "I like her!" His breath reeks of liquor, and it's probably been a long time since he's bathed. "Lots of . . . " He can't think of the word for a while. "Spunk!" he says triumphantly. "More than you!" he releases me and starts for the front of the stage. "More than you!" he shouts, pointing directly at a camera.
Is he addressing the audience or is he so drunk he might actually be taunting the Capitol? I'll never know because just as he's opening his mouth to continue, Haymitch plummets off the stage and knocks himself unconscious.
I ignore him, release a choked breath I didn't realize I'd been holding and latch onto my resolve, making sure to keep my vision trained toward the distance.
'The horizon is good. The horizon is safe. Look there. Don't cry.' I coach myself.
From here I can see the hills I climbed this morning with Gale. For a moment, I yearn for something . . . The idea of us leaving the district . . . Making our way in the woods . . . Living a life of freedom and solitude together; but I know I was right about not running off.
Who else would have volunteered for Prim?
"Gosh, isn't today just full of surprises," Effie fake giggles as Haymitch is whisked away on a stretcher, her nervousness amplified by the microphone. "But, more excitement to come! Now, the boys."
Her ridiculous wig has shifted to the side during Haymitch's groping and, in a vain attempt to contain her tenuous hair situation, she plants one hand on her head as she crosses to the ball that contains the boys' names; grabbing the first slip she encounters.
Effie zips back to the podium, and then she's reading the name.
"Gale Hawthorne!"
Gasps emit from the crowd, the screams of a little girl – two little girls – bounces off the walls of the buildings, echoing through the square.
It takes me a minute before it hits me why.
Gale Hawthorne. Gale. My Gale.
My vision blanks, my ears rings, and, for the second time today, my knees buckle.
"No," I whimper through parted lips, and I don't realize that because of my place on the stage everyone in the square hears my moan. "Gale, no."
I can vaguely see the crowd parting for Gale; he's striding forward, eyes set ablaze and face set in anger; there was something else ingrained in his features as well, a peculiar feeling mixed into his expression. Relief maybe? I'm not too sure, all I can focus on is the spasming of my muscles, the horror pulsating through my insides and the trembles wracking my form. I've basically thrown not being seen as weak out the window, but I can't bring myself to care.
Somewhere beside me, Effie is announcing, "There's our boy! Come on up!"
Gale is barely a foot away from the steps and, already I think he's too close. I don't want him to come on up. The closer Gale gets to the stage the more real this cruel twist of fate is becoming.
'We're both going to the games. We have to fight to the deat-.'
No that's not possible, there's only one way this plays out.
'We're both going to die.'
The absolute terror I feel at the revelation shakes me to my core. 'We're going to die.'
Gale is hurrying up the sets now, staring fixedly at me. I'm gaping at him; mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, unable to breathe with all the pressure settling in my lungs.
The weak breaths I do manage to exhale come out in short, uneven bursts and in between each pant, one word escapes - a mantra, a prayer. "No"
I vacantly decide that I'm at risk of passing out when suddenly, strong arms are wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me into a solid chest. The scent of leather and smoke penetrates the cloud of my muddled consciousness, and a familiar voice is hissing urgently in my ear.
"Katniss, breath. Katniss, breath."
Now that he's joined me on stage, the rising hysteria bubbles out of me, and a wretched need to make it all stop overruns me; it's the same frantic, desperation I felt when Prim's name was called.
I don't care about the cameras, or the audience or The Capital; the wrath of all of Panem can rain down on me for all I care. I just want is to save him, he's not safe here.
'He can't be here.'
"No!" I shriek and, suddenly, I'm struggling in his arms, shoving at his chest.
He needs to get off the stage, he needs to go. I want to scream for him to run, to head to the woods and never look back but, I'm not in the right frame of mind to string together coherent sentences - which is probably for the best.
The only words I manage to shove past my shriveled tongue is, "Gale, no. Gale you can't - no! Nooo!"
"Katniss, Katniss!" Gale grinds out, straining to keep me caged against his chest, taking ever hit my flailing arms send his way, and painfully bumping our foreheads together as he tries to maneuver our faces close enough to look me in the eye.
"Stop, alright. Stop, Katniss"
Somehow he traps my arms with only one of his and a second arm comes up to cup my face, nails denting my cheeks with a wild eyes meet, and his are hard with determination, a fierceness that I've only ever witnessed in Gale.
Instantly I feel calmer, safer.
"It's okay, it's okay," he grates, and it isn't, nothing will ever be okay again, but for a second I'm selfishly thankful he's here; steady, strong and durable. Unbreakable.
I inhale shakily and lean my forehead against his, trying to catch my breath.
We hold that position for a second, both breathing shallowly and brows pressed together. Gale is looking at me with the same simmer in his eyes that is present when he raves at the unfairness of the world.
My anger blossoms because of it.
I am no longer hysterical, or desperate – I'm furious - boiling because of what I'm losing, what they will take from me.
Gale must recognize my change of emotions because he nods in subtle approval, slowly uncoiling from around me.
He drops his palm from my cheek and arms from my waist, taking a small step to the side; bringing himself up to tower at his full height. I straighten my spine besides him, hardening my features and fuming openly.
My earlier convictions of not being seen as frail come full force, and I'm grateful I haven't shed any tears despite my meltdown.
The square is completely silent, and the cameras are trained on Gale and I. I study the screens from the corner of my eye and see that my expression is irate, my cheeks are flushed and fists clenched. Gale looks thunderous on my right.
'Good,' I think, pushing any regret I feel for losing control like that out of my mind.
I am human, and I love, but I am not weak. I won't let them turn me cold, won't let them take away how I feel about the man beside me.
They can't have that too.
Effie is gawking at us, her lopsided wig completely forgotten as she gapes. I notice the Mayor by her side looking impossibly sad. He must recognize us as the kids who sell him strawberries, or me as the friend of his daughter or remember us as the oldest children of two dead miners who he gifted a medal in the remembrance ceremony for our fathers "sacrifice."
The reminder of my father's death makes me angrier. With Gale and I out of the picture who will care for my family now?
My glare deepens.
The tense, awkward silence stretches and my impatience and insecurity grows. I want to be out of the spotlight; I want this ceremony to be over with.
Too much has happened in too little time.
Gale seems to agree because, after a moment, he snaps, "don't you have a job to do, lady."
My lips twitch in cruel satisfaction when she jumps comically, her wig almost falling off.
"Oh, oh! Yes, my word." she clears her throat before warbling weakly, "Mayor if you please," and then stumbles over to plop down on the wooden chair.
I almost feel bad for her; this has been a very unusual reaping indeed.
'Be careful what you wish for Effie.'
The Mayor clears his throat gruffly and finishes the dreary Treaty of Treason. The old man motions wearily for Gale and I to shake hands, as is custom, but neither of us does.
We stare defiantly at the Mayor until his expectant appearance drops; only then, does Gale swoop down to drop a quick kiss on my temple. A statement that we are in this together, a declaration that we will not be separated.
I'm proud and immensely grateful for it.
Then, as the anthem of Panem plays behind us to close the ceremony, something amazing happens.
Maybe it's because of how well known we are, maybe it's because I volunteered for my sister, or it's a thank you for all the years we've spent facing the dangers that come with illegal poaching and braving the woods so everyone can eat, but the people of District twelve our looking at us, with strong gazes and, eyes full of comadriere.
At first, one, then another, then almost every member of the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out to us. It is an old and rarely used gesture of our district, occasionally seen at funerals.
It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you love.
This is the last image I have of my home and the people in it. It's a beautiful image, one I decide to keep with me until I'm six feet under.
At this point, that'll be any day now.
The moment the anthem ended, Gale and I are frog-marched through the front door of the Justice Building.
Once inside, we're separated, and I'm conducted to a room by myself.
It's the wealthiest place I'd ever been in, with thick, deep carpets and a long velvet couch that seems to span from wall to wall. I blearily stumble over to it and sink into the fabric.
For the first time in hours, my body is able to fully relax as the air conditioning cools my overheated self down. The sweat on the backs of my thighs stick to the rich material, and I lay my head on one of the plush pillows.
I can't help running my sweaty palms repeatedly over it and childishly hope that my stink will seep into the couch and ruin it forever.
I'm entertaining these thoughts when the first of my visitors arrive. It is my mother and Prim.
I reach out to Prim and she climbs on my lap, her arms around my neck, head on my shoulder, just like she did when she was a toddler. My mother sits beside me and wraps her arms around us. For a few minutes, we say nothing. Then I start telling them all the things they must remember to do, now that I will not be there to do them for them.
Prim is not to take any tesserae. They can get by, if they're careful, on selling Prim's goat milk and cheese and the small apothecary business my mother now runs for the people in the Seam. They need to help take care of the Hawthorne's just like the Hawthorns will help take care of them.
Gale has been teaching Rory and Vick to hunt so they'll bring game; they'll also bring the herbs mother needs that she doesn't grow herself, but she must be very careful to describe them because neither of them are as familiar with them as I am or even Gale.
They will probably not ask for compensation, but I tell them they should thank him with some kind of trade anyway, like milk or medicine.
I don't bother suggesting Prim learn to hunt. I tried to teach her a couple of times and it was disastrous. The woods terrified her, and whenever I shot something, she'd get teary and talk about how we might be able to heal it if we got it home soon enough as if it was a wounded goat or ugly cat she can just take in. But she makes out well with Lady, so I concentrate on that.
When I am done with instructions about fuel, and trading, and staying in school, I turn to my mother and grip her arm, hard.
"Listen to me. Are you listening to me?" She nods, alarmed by my intensity. She must know what's coming.
"You can't leave again," I say.
My mother's eyes find the floor. "I know. I won't. I couldn't help what—"
"Well, you have to help it this time. You can't clock out and leave Prim on her own. There's no me now to keep you both alive. It doesn't matter what happens, whatever you see on the screen. You have to promise me you'll fight through it!" My voice has risen to a shout. In it is all the anger, all the fear I felt at her abandonment years ago.
She pulls her arm from my grasp, moved to anger herself now. "I was ill. I could have treated myself if I'd had the medicine I have now."
That part about her being ill might be true. I've seen her bring back people suffering from immobilizing sadness since.
"Then take it. And take care of her!" I rasp.
"I'll be all right, Katniss," soothes Prim, clasping my face in her hands.
I'm drawn in by the soft, wisdom she seems to radiate despite her delicate features, childish timber, and rosy cheeks. She's so young and pure and gentle, precious like a raindrop; so untouched by the burden of the world, that I'm suddenly filled with a selfless sense of loss.
Now that I will no longer be around to protect her, Prim will have to harden to survive.
"Just promise you will -" she pauses, face twisting as if she's just sucked on a lemon. She may be young but she understands that for me to win Gale will have to die, Prim would never ask me to forsake him. I can't live with that being Gale's fate, our fate. Not after everything. "Promise you won't let them break you. Promise you'll stay my sister no matter what."
My heart shatters at this and, I gather her in my arms. I hear my mother release a faint, pained moan.
"I promise Prim, I promise." Because that's something I can fight for. They can't have me; not my spirit or soul, or heart. Those are mine, they're all I have.
And then, much too soon, the Peacekeeper is at the door, signaling our time is up; we all hug one another so hard it hurts and all I'm saying is "I love you. I love you both." And they're saying it back.
Then the Peacekeeper orders them out and the door closes. I bury my head in one of the velvet pillows as if this can block the whole thing out.
When the door opens again, Posy is bolting in "Katty," she sobbed, ramming into me in a streak of muted green fabric, and ebony hair. "Don't go, please don't go. Please."
I don't know what to say to comfort Gale's little sister, so I stay silent and hold the little girl to my chest, swallowing back the sorrow, or maybe it was vomit, that climbs up my throat.
I look at the entrance to see Hazelle Hawthorne over Posy's head, standing at the door with glassy eyes and pursed lips. For a second, I wonder where Vick and Rory are but I remember that the limit for visitors is two at a time, and only two are allowed in from each family that isn't of direct relation to the tribute.
I will never see Vick and Rory again.
"I'm sorry," she says thickly, "I'm so sorry." Hazelle crosses the room and sits heavily next to me, bowing her head and hunching her shoulders; practically collapsing in on herself. "I'm so sorry."
I wrap my arm around her rigid shoulders and lean in, "I'm sorry too, so sorry about Gale," I whisper.
"I know, honey," she sniffles, "you guys had such a future."
She sends a potent glance my way, and I wonder if she knew of our engagement plans for tonight. That caused my heart to hurt though, so I push the speculation away.
"I know, it doesn't mean much but…. I'm gonna try to help him come home,"
This is the truth. Someone needs to help take care of our families and it will be Gale, he has too many siblings to care for.
Granted, the chance of either of us returning home is slim, but if one of us is too win it has to be Gale.
She gave a sad chuckle, "Brave girl, my son said the same thing about you."
Of course, he did. We take care of each other me and Gale – always.
"Don't go Katty," Posy wailed, "Gale and you stay!"
She doesn't realize we don't have a choice. I open my mouth to comfort her. To tell her that if we could we would and that there's nowhere else I'd rather be but, the door opens and the peacekeeper is at the door.
Our times is up.
Hazelle darts up grabs Posy hands and leans forward urgently, "We'll take care of each other, all of us," she assures, me "please don't leave my son. You two stick together, okay? No matter what, stick together."
Then she's being dragged away in a harmony of Posys cries and the heavy clump of steel boots. I manage to call out one last plea."Take care of her! Watch out for Pri-"
The door slams, then before I can even blink, the door is opened again and a figure with long blonde hair and a pretty white dress is striding in.
"Madge," I whisper, shocked to see her and then shocked that I'm shocked to see her.
Other than Gale she's my only friend, of course, she came to say goodbye.
But, Madge doesn't waste any time on pointless words or tears; her eyes are hard and urgent, her footing steady.
I'm immensely grateful.
"This is my pin - my aunt's pin - it's a Mockingjay," she says, fumbling with the clasp slightly before reaching over to fasten it on my dress, "will you wear it? All tributes get a token."
If we were in any other situation, any other context, I would deny it - I don't like handouts - but, because of where we are all I can do is nod.
"Thank you," I manage to push out through my closed throat. Madge nods once, straightening out the collar of my dress once the pin is on and brings me in for a tight hug.
I'm surprised at this. I've never been hugged by anyone who isn't family, the Hawthornes, or Gale.
The revelation does something funny to me; my eyes starts to sting and I want nothing more than to pull back.
I stay still though.
"Good luck," Madge whispers then, promptly lets me go, strides out the room and glides past the peacekeepers at the door.
I decide then that Mage isn't just my friend - she is my best friend and I was lucky to sit with her in lunch all these years.
I marvel at the fact that I actually have a best friend (who isn't Gale) for a second before putting that out of my mind once a dull ache in my chest starts up.
It doesn't matter anymore - I'm practically already dead. Basically, a walking corpse.
I sit back down heavily, suddenly drained and not expecting any more visitors. I largely keep to myself, usually limiting my interactions to only Gale, and our families. Since our families are gone and my goodbyes have been exhausted all I can do now is wait.
Which is why I'm surprised when someone else enters the room.
I look up sharply, it's the baker, and Peeta Mellark cautiously entering the room. I can't believe they've come to visit me but the three of us do know each other a bit. The baker is especially close with Prim. When she sells her goat cheeses at the Hob, she puts two of them aside for him and he gives her a generous amount of bread in return. He's probably here for her sake.
Peeta Mellark I know is here for me, even if I don't understand it. Years ago, before I met Gale and before the woods, a twelve-year-old Peeta Mellark saved my life with one random act of kindness.
That act gave me hope and I've always felt bad I've never been able to pay him back for it - I feel even worse now that I will never have the chance.
The baker clears his throat gruffly and shares a glance with his son. They look identical.
"We'll make sure the girl eats," he rumbled, "she won't starve, we promise."
I gasp quietly, shocked at this random, unorthodox act of kindness, but, like always, too selfish to question it.
"Thank you. I - thank you."
Peeta speaks up next, "I'm so sorry this happened to you Katniss... to both you and Gale."
Peeta looks deeply wounded, his words ringing of utter sincerity, and I wonder why. He doesn't know us, me or Gale. Doesn't speak to us, or owe us anything. Why does he seem so devasted?
"It's okay," it's not but Katniss plays it off anyway, "It is what it is."
"I'm sorry" was all the bakers' son choked out in response.
I fidgeted uncomfortably, confused at my normally cheerful classmates shattered expression. it looked wrong on him, he was always so happy and full of life, a beacon of life and joy for everyone he spoke to at school - even me. He shouldn't look so sad, not for a girl he barely knows.
"It's okay, really." I reply hurriedly, earnestly; desperate to settle this debt, avoid his pity and get that look off his face, "Thank you for everything."
I give Peeta a pointed look, hoping he understands what I mean - it would sound too weird to thank him, a baker, for bread out loud.
By the look of sad understanding, he sends back Peeta knows what I'm talking about.
A surge of gratefulness and relief washes over me at his acceptance of my thanks, at the fact that I no longer have that debt hanging over me - it feels oddly like closure.
"Here," interrupts my musing, shoving a large pale hand in my direction, I notice that there's a white bag clutched to it, "have this."
I gingerly reach out to take it and right as my fingers wrap around the paper bag there a banging on the door. Time's up... again.
I'm really starting to get tired of that.
Mr. Mellark makes his way out without another word and a sad glance in my direction that has me squishing the bags between my in annoyance; I'm tired of everyone's pity and charity and feelings. Peeta lingers behind, blonde curls hiding the clouded blue of his eyes and mouth parted, as if he wants to say something.
As awful as it is, I sincerely hope he doesn't. I don't want any more feelings or apologizes.
"Thanks again, Peeta," I say, half in an attempt to get him to leave before I do some unforgivable like cry and half out of genuine gratitude.
Peeta is just genuinely good - through and through - despite his horrid mother, who everyone in Twelve knows is a heavy fisted witch. That type of goodness, the one that allows you to see the best in people even when you've experienced the worst first hand, is a quality rarely seen in a world like ours.
It reminds me of Prim.
"Bye Katniss," he chokes an emotion flashing in his eyes I can't decipher before bumbling out. He didn't look back.
Once again that foreign feeling of closure washed over me. I feel like a chapter of my life is done and wrapped up nicely.
Then I remember where I'll be headed in just a few short hours and the feeling is gone.