The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins. This chapter has lines taken from THG. I like to keep things close to canon, even in an AU fic. The last line includes one of my favorite proverbs.
The next morning I'm running late to meet my hunting partner and best friend, Gale. Not only did I come home late last night but I had to calm Prim and organize the collected pictures. Even after I laid down next to my deeply sleeping sister, I had trouble getting comfortable. Sleep found me just a couple of hours before I was supposed be awake again. I guess I decided to overlook that.
I climb the hills and find him at to our place, a rock ledge overlooking a valley. His game bag is already full.
"Hey," I greet, plopping down next to him. "Sorry I totally wasted our day, I overslept."
"Wild night?" Gale asks, popping a berry into his mouth.
"Try boring. I had the longest stake out ever." I don't say more, because of confidentiality and all of that. I am good at what I do, if you exclude the photo-taking part. Gale frowns at this. Other than my job, the Capitol is probably the only thing he is against more. We've argued about this too many times and it never ends well, so I'd rather not go into it again. "It's not even noon yet, we can still hunt some more, if you want?"
"There's no point. I have enough, so you can take some," he says with a shrug.
"Oh, thanks. We have some meat, but I'd need fresh to trade." At times like these I'm glad for all these wasted hours in the night, because otherwise my family would still be eating dandelions for dinner. Now I have one thing less to worry about, though sometimes I still find myself counting every coin.
"I'm keeping the rabbits and a squirrel, but we can see about the rest in the Hob," Gale says, getting up.
"Um, I actually promised the baker I'll bring him a few squirrels." It's a lie and I have other reasons to go see the baker, but Gale won't question it. "Maybe you could go to The Hob, I to the bakery and we'll meet later?"
Agreeing to go to his house when we're done, we start our walk back to the real world.
Standing in front of the bakery's kitchen door, I don't waste time overthinking, because I know it could mean losing my nerve, so I knock quickly. Though, after seeing me more than once look over inside worriedly while we trade, Mr. Mellark has told me that his wife doesn't do much work in the kitchen, I still worry. All of the reasons a Seam child could possibly be in town are illegal, or at least more than enough to cause a scandal, and if she catches me near her house again I'm sure she won't be afraid to rat me out and then it will all be over because of me being too careless and can someone please open the damn door already?
I'm too busy praying that the person isn't female that I completely forget just how many males occupy the lot. Imagine the panic that sets in when Peeta, the youngest Mellark, opens the door.
Oh, no, I think. Not him. Because I know I can't do it. Delivering the news to him would mean coming full circle from all the years I've spent despising his witch of a mother after seeing just what kind of a mother she is.
He seems just as startled as me, but he manages to get a hold of himself faster.
"Katniss," he starts. "How are you?"
Peeta Mellark and I are not friends. Not even neighbours. We don't speak. Our only real interaction happened years ago. He's probably forgotten it. But I haven't and I know I never will.
It was during the worst time. Three months after my father's death, when my mother didn't do anything but sit propped up in a chair or, more often, huddled under the blankets on her bed, eyes fixed on some point in the distance; when me and my sister were under the threat of being placed in the community home; when we were slowly starving to death.
Starvation's not an uncommon fate in District 12. Who hasn't seen the victims? Older people who can't work. Children from a family with too many to feed. Those injured in the mines. Straggling through the streets. And one day, you come upon them sitting motionless against a wall or lying in the Meadow, you hear the wails from a house, and the Peacekeepers are called in to retrieve the body. Starvation is never the cause of death officially. It's always the flu, or exposure, or pneumonia. But that fools no one.
On the afternoon of my encounter with Peeta Mellark, the rain was falling in relentless icy sheets. I had been in town, trying to trade some threadbare old baby clothes of Prim's in the public market, but there were no takers. Although I had been to the Hob on several occasions with my father, at that point I was still too frightened to venture into that rough, gritty place alone. The rain had soaked through my father's hunting jacket, leaving me chilled to the bone. For three days, we'd had nothing but boiled water with some old dried mint leaves I'd found in the back of a cupboard. By the time the market closed, I was shaking so hard I dropped my bundle of baby clothes in a mud puddle. I didn't pick it up for fear I would keel over and be unable to regain my feet. Besides, no one wanted those clothes.
I found myself stumbling along a muddy lane behind the shops that serve the wealthiest townspeople. The merchants live above their businesses, so I was essentially in their backyards. When I passed the baker's, the smell of fresh bread was so overwhelming I felt dizzy. The ovens were in the back, and a golden glow spilled out the open kitchen door. I stood mesmerized by the heat and the luscious scent until the rain interfered, running its icy fingers down my back, forcing me back to life. Lifting the lid to the baker's trash bin was another one of my illegal actions. I found it spotlessly, heartlessly bare.
Suddenly a voice was screaming at me and I looked up to see the baker's wife, telling me to move on and did I want her to call the Peacekeepers and how sick she was of having those brats from the Seam pawing through her trash. The words were ugly and I had no defense. As I carefully replaced the lid and backed away, I noticed him, a boy with blond hair peering out from behind his mother's back. I'd seen him at school. He was in my year, but I didn't know his name. He stuck with the town kids, so how would I? His mother went back into the bakery, grumbling, but he must have been watching me as I made my way behind the pen that held their pig and leaned against the far side of an old apple tree. The realization that I'd have nothing to take home had finally sunk in. My knees buckled and I slid down the tree trunk to its roots. It was too much. I was too sick and weak and tired, oh, so tired. Let them call the Peacekeepers and take us to the community home, I thought. Or better yet, let me die right here in the rain.
There was a clatter in the bakery and I heard the woman screaming again and the sound of a blow, and I vaguely wondered what was going on. Feet sloshed toward me through the mud and I thought, It's her. She's coming to drive me away with a stick. But it wasn't her. It was the boy. In his arms, he carried two large loaves of bread that must have fallen into the fire because the crusts were scorched black. His mother was yelling, "Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!" He began to tear off chunks from the burned parts and toss them into the trough, and the front bakery bell rung and the mother disappeared to help a customer. The boy never even glanced my way, but I was watching him. Because of the bread, because of the red weal that stood out on his cheekbone. What had she hit him with? Despite the cold, I still felt myself warm up with rage.
The boy took one look back to the bakery as if checking that the coast was clear, then, his attention back on the pig, he threw a loaf of bread in my direction. The second quickly followed, and he sloshed back to the bakery, closing the kitchen door tightly behind him. The same kitchen door we're standing in front of right now.
"I'm fine," I manage to croak out. You're the reason I'm fine.
And I'm the reason he got punished. The question whether he dropped the loaves into the flames on purpose still haunts me, but I've gotten used to the idea that that's a case that could never be solved.
Still, just throwing me the bread was an enormous kindness that I could never possibly repay. It's also why telling him how much kinder his mother can get with strangers than with any member of her own family is not something I can handle doing. Of course, if everything goes according to plan, he will have to learn eventually. If he hasn't learned already. Either way I am not going to be handing the evidence to him.
"Should I get my father?" Peeta asks.
"What?" His father's face is the last one I want to see right now. Right after his mother's, obviously, especially after last night.
"He's doing a delivery a few houses down. You're here to trade, right? I don't really know how that works." He laughs softly and for a moment I'm so transfixed with the sound I almost miss the fact that he knows I hunt. This is the first time anyone other than Mr. Mellark has met me at the door and I can't exactly imagine the family discussing my squirrels over dinner. I find that it doesn't bother me. I wonder if he knows my other secret. He should, considering if he hadn't gotten me on my feet, I wouldn't have either of them.
"Um, I'm actually in a hurry, so maybe we could just get to it? I mean, I'll tell you what we usually exchange and- If you trust me, that is," I rant.
"Why wouldn't I trust you?" He seems truly confused.
Because I'm Seam. "Because I'm a complete stranger," I respond.
Peeta laughs again. "No, you're not," he says and my heart races involuntarily. "We go to school together," he finishes, not smiling anymore and I can breathe again. I'm not quite sure if I'm relieved or upset.
"Okay. Any preferences?" I ask, though I know I don't have much game today. If it means beginning to repay him my debt, I'll at least make sure I have what he wants next time.
"You got a couple of squirrels in there?" He nods towards my bag.
"Yeah," I say, getting two out and handing them to him. I don't know why but I can't help but notice our hands don't touch. "Anything else?"
"That's enough for today, thank you, Katniss. I'll be right back." He's closed the door behind him before I can argue or even respond. Besides, what could I possibly say? I can't force myself or what I'm selling. Not that I need to anymore. I have no right to be upset.
I've barely registered the fact that I haven't let Peeta know how much does a squirrel usually cost, before he's back carrying a paper bag that looks fuller than the one with my game.
He gives it to me, a smile back on his face. It's heavy and it warms my hands. I'm hesitant to take a look inside. I have the right to be, because nothing could've prepared me or Peeta for my reaction at the two large loaves of bread, cheese buns and different kinds of pastries.
"No." I try to give the bag back to him, but he doesn't take the hint, so our first skin-to-skin contact, after all the anticipation, ends up being me forcing him to grasp it.
"What's wrong? Did you want coins instead? Does my father usually give you more?" Peeta shoots question after question, neither one of them being close to right. He is now not only pitying me, but also accusing me of gluttony. As if anyone in the district can afford or allow that.
"You don't get to do that," I say curtly, but then continue. "I'm not a helpless child anymore. What is it you want?" There isn't a way to repay him. There's nothing to repay. There's only pity. I see the understanding dawning on him and I know he remembers.
"Katniss, I never-" Peeta starts, but his words betray him. He sighs, then begins again, trying another tactic. "Most of them aren't even from today."
"Don't lie to me!" Does he know who he's talking to?
"Fine. Perhaps I was just trying to be kind. There's no law against that, is there?" Perhaps he does know who he's talking to.
"Why?" It's all I know. Question everything always.
"We go to school together?" He tries and if I wasn't glaring at him before, I am now. Peeta sighs. "I don't know. It felt like the right thing. It feels like the right thing. I don't have any more answers for you, but I can tell you for sure that "pity" wouldn't be one of them."
"I'm taking the two loaves," I say firmly. "And one of those cheese buns."
I don't get to the Hawthorne's house before bumping into yet another Mellark. Just near the edge of town, I spy the eldest brother. I start stomping forward the moment I recognize him.
"Where the hell have you been?" I demand.
"What happened? I swear, I was sure mother wouldn't come down today," Bannock says. He has assured me of this, just like his father.
"She wasn't down," I calm him. "But so wasn't your father." I see the realization dawn on him, as his eyes brighten and a smile spreads across his face.
"Oh, Peet," he laughs out.
"I'm glad you find this amusing, I really do." He won't when his nose is bleeding all over his white merchant shirt. His tardiness has cost me my first real interaction with Peeta Mellark. I guess it's caused it too. Even if the shoe didn't drop where I had imagined it would, at least it dropped.
"Wait. You didn't tell him anything, did you?" Bannock's smile disappears.
"I'm not supposed to. The fact that you're related doesn't change the fact that I'm working just for you." I don't tell him that the case being private has almost nothing to do with me not wanting to spill the news to Peeta.
Remembering what we're having this conversation for in the first place, I give him the folder with the pictures from last night. I don't worry about Peacekeepers, because even if Bannock isn't a student anymore, if they see us they'd still guess we're exchanging notes or homework, or something more standard.
"It's enough, I hope," I say and I mean it. I hope it's enough for Mr. Mellark to finally see what kind of a woman he's married, since apparently her being abusive isn't enough. I hope it's enough for her to realize her actions have consequences. I hope it's enough for someone in this poor district to finally gain the courage to do what they feel like is right. Isn't that what Peeta tried to do today?
After that rainy day when he saved my life, I passed him in the school hall. His cheek had swelled up and his eye had blackened. He was with his friends and didn't acknowledge me in any way. But as I collected Prim and started for home that afternoon, I found him staring at me from across the school yard. Our eyes met for only a second, then he turned his head away. I dropped my gaze, embarrassed, and that's when I saw it. The first dandelion of the year. A bell went off in my head. I thought of the hours spent in the woods with my father and I knew how we were going to survive. To this day, I can never shake the connection between this boy, Peeta Mellark, and the bread that gave me hope, and the dandelion that reminded me that I was not doomed.
Most of all, I hope it reminds him, too, that no matter how long the winter, spring is sure to follow.