Wow, thank you all for the wonderful reviews and follows. I guess I have to keep going now. I'm glad you liked how it started. I've got a great story planned, at least I would like to think so, but you're the judge.
Okay let's delve back into the story.
Ch. 2- When Your Best Isn't Good Enough
Peeta found himself restless in the large and empty house in Victors Village. With only one person living in a five-bedroom home the emptiness of it all created a foreboding atmosphere like an added layer of gravity that tried to wear him down and drive him from the house. But this was his home now and he could not go back to the small apartment above the bakery where his family still lived. The last time he was there his mother had slapped him in the face and accused him of trying to get the family killed. She selfishly believed everything he did since volunteering as tribute was just to spite her and jeopardize the lives of his family members. He brought a hand to the cheek as if all these months later it still smarted from his mothers calloused hand.
Flipping through the channels of his television Peeta found nothing of interest was on as usual. There was a news report on one channel about the destroyed District 13 that he changed from, it was always the same information, still toxic and uninhabitable, nothing of interest there. Then he found himself on a channel that was airing a rerun of the 74th Hunger Games. He froze as the jagged face of the giant tribute from 4 was fully displayed on the screen. Stasson's black eyes were like thick tar pits that trapped Peeta in all his hateful emotions, his fury and his lust for blood. The mere sight of him caused Peeta's skin to blossom with goose bumps like a piece of water-warped parchment. It were as if Stasson was in the room with him and his heartbeat became strained, cowering behind his ribcage like it could sense Stasson was near and ready to finish what he had started. The crushing blows of Stasson's hammer had already left his organ permanently scarred and reliant on Capitol technology to keep it beating, it was not capable of taking more of Stasson's punishment. Peeta switched the television off and flung the remote from his hand as if scalded. He did not need to see anymore, he had lived it. That had been his life only a few months ago and the terror of it still lived inside his skin like an illness eating away at his sanity. I'll never feel safe again, will I?
He walked to the kitchen needing a glass of water to calm his racecar heart. His footsteps echoed through the house and he shook his head in disbelief. The house was so large there was an echo. He had so much he wasn't used to like clean drinking water on tap and an icemaker in the fridge. Which he never used. He couldn't stand his water to be ice cold, it was unnatural. He preferred it room temperature, although during the winter with the iced pipes the water was freezing anyways.
He drank down the water and felt a little bit better. His skin returned to its naturally smooth state as he stared out the window over the sink. No one was out of course; Victors Row was pretty abandoned with only two of the twelve houses occupied, so no one really came over to this side of the district. He felt his legs itch for something to do and he settled on visiting the Hob. He was always looking for an opportunity to spread a little of his wealth around and the Hob offered him the chance to get some fun trinkets. He was also running low on paint supplies. He finally had the money and the spare time to actually work on his craft. He enjoyed the ability to paint and draw to his hearts content in the study. Yes he also had a study, which he had taken to calling his art studio.
Peeta had been painting scenes from the Hunger Games. Making the art offered him a respite from his ravaged mind and the chance to process everything that occurred in the arena. His most recent work was an oil painting of the cave, the one where they had expressed their love. It had been the only sanctuary from the atrocities they endured. But it was just a still life of the cave and river that ran by it. He couldn't bring himself to incorporate any aspect of Cato into the painting. He had painted a portrait of Cato's face back when he first set up the studio. But once it was completed he hid it from view with a sheet. Seeing Cato's beautiful face looking back at him from the canvas only increased the aching in his heart, even if the sketch from memory didn't do the real man justice. Ever since then he had painted scenes from his mind that did not include Cato. He could not bear the reminder, he had enough of them in his own mind and he didn't need them to be haunting him in the physical world too.
Peeta went to the entry hall and opened the side closet to pull on his winter coat. Then he stepped out into the light snow and made his way over to the Hob. The snow flurries stuck to his eyelashes and melted against his warm pink skin. He hurried through the streets to the Hob, desperate to get out of the cold. As he neared the large ramshackle warehouse his nose caught the scent of all the mixed aromas created by the Hob, like burning incense mixed with smoked pig, coal, and sweat.
He entered and made his way over to Greasy Sae's stall. She was famous for her soups, but as he had started buying his painting supplies here she had been keeping an eye out for anything of use for him.
"Hey Greasy Sae, got anything for me today?" He asked.
The hunched woman with grey hair and a glassy eye gave him her gap-toothed smile as she turned from her large cauldron of soup.
"I got some hides a few days ago that would be perfect for you to paint on and Busey gave me some good oil paints she got in a trade."
"You are so good to me. I'm almost done with the painting I started for you. I think it's going to really brighten up your home." He smiled charmingly at the old woman.
She cackled lightly and poured a small bowl of soup for him. "It's my winter special, you must have some."
She shoved it into his hands and he could not refuse her. He knew she worked wonders with any type of meat given to her and her winter stew was famous. He slurped it down and groaned as the hot liquid washed down his throat warming him up and satisfying his taste buds. While he had money now he did not know how to cook for himself besides roasting a woodland rabbit over a fire, so most nights he didn't eat the best meals. That's why he had started taking up Mrs. Everdeen on her offers for dinner, knowing she could cook.
Thinking of the Everdeen's reminded him he needed to thank her. "Oh by the way, thanks for recommending Mr. Ebsin to me. He has been great and he works really fast."
"Oh no, no, thank you Peeta boy, he greatly needed the work." She then reached out and gripped his right hand in her frail one.
Peeta had hired Mr. Ebsin to do some repairs to the Everdeen's home so they were not so exposed to the elements. Mrs. Everdeen felt it was too much at first, but once the holes in the roof were patched she harassed him no more. Besides, as he had told her, Mr. Ebsin had needed the work too. Peeta thought today he was supposed to start work on the Hawthorne's home. Gale had started the mines recently and would not be able to spend as much time with family nor provide for them as much from hunting. So Peeta had thought it was the least he could do and maybe it would help with their icy relationship. Gale meant a lot to Katniss, he was probably her only friend, and Peeta didn't feel right not sharing his winnings with Gale. Although he did not tell him he was planning this, knowing his pride would cause him to refuse the offer. So instead he just went by to let Hazelle know what he was arranging with Mr. Ebsin. She had been floored by his offer and he could tell she was desperate for the restorations as her youngest, Posy, was sick from the cold draft in her small home. But she had pride like Gale too and was hesitant. Luckily Peeta's smooth words pacified her worries and she was more pragmatic about it than Gale could have been, what with being a single mother of four.
Once he had his fill of Greasy Sae's stew he paid her for the two hides and oil paints, making sure to leave a little extra for the soup. Then he made his way over to Ripper for some of the white liqeour she always managed to smuggle in. He bought three bottles and then headed back out into the cold. The light snow flurry had picked up slightly since he had been inside and he hurried his way back to Victors Row.
As he made his way by the Peacekeepers headquarters a block down from the Town Square and Justice building Darius intercepted him. His beard was thicker from before covering the harsh angles of his jaw line. He was a wide man, but not in the overweight sense, no he was solid and compacted with muscles.
"Hey, Peeta!" He called.
Peeta really didn't want to stop and chat. He knew what he was going to ask and he really didn't want to go to a large group therapy session for all the gay men and women of District 12. He already had enough of his own psychological problems from the Games and missing Cato, he didn't really need to share in other stranger's burdens too. He also didn't need to be putting himself out there as an instigator for change, not with Snow most likely watching his moves in District 12.
"Hello Darius. How are you?" Peeta asked cordially.
"I'm good now. Have you thought more about my offer? The group is waiting for you until we schedule our next meeting."
Peeta didn't like how much he was pushing it, but Darius was an intimidating man and one in a position of power so he didn't really want to anger him.
"I'm sorry. I've just been really busy, uh, preparing for the Victory Tours. Did you know we have to write our own speeches?" He lied.
Darius nodded sympathetically. "Ah, they should hire people to do that for you."
"I wish. I gotta deliver these to a friend though, so I'll be seeing you." Peeta held up the liquor bottles for Darius to see.
"Of course. I'm going to hold you to it though." Darius smiled and Peeta couldn't help but glance at his dead tooth, the left incisor a noticeable brown color.
"Please do." Peeta half-smiled and then made his way back to Victors Row. He thought he could feel Darius watching him walk away, but he didn't want to look back and check.
Once on his street he dropped off his paint supplies and then went to the one other occupied house on the block. All the homes had the same look, a neutral grey paint color with steep peaked roofs and red front doors. But the one occupied by Haymitch was easily recognizable as his curtains were almost always drawn and he had a thick layer of dust that was visibly coating the windows, while his trashcan sat permanently by the front door and overflowed with finished liquor bottles.
Peeta knocked once and then entered with out waiting for a response. His door was always unlocked and knowing Haymitch he was probably holed up in the living room with the TV on as background noise while he drank. Peeta navigated the cluttered hallway, stepping hesitantly over a mushy substance that he was pretty sure was day old vomit. He plugged his nose the rest of the way until he reached the darkened room Haymitch was occupying.
"Haymitch this place has actually surpassed disgusting and is really in a class of its own."
Haymitch sprung upright from the couch, startled by Peeta's pronouncement. Then seeing it was just his former mentee he flipped him off and laid back down with an arm over his eyes.
"If I wanted someone to judge my lifestyle I'd keep Effie around full time," Haymitch moaned. He sounded pretty beat up and Peeta assumed he must have gotten real plastered last night.
"Well Effie sure wouldn't be bringing you gifts. But I guess I can always keep them for myself." Peeta turned to leave.
"Hold on there buddy." Haymitch said as he struggled back upright. His eyes smiled upon seeing the bottles in Peeta's arms. "Bring one of those here."
Peeta grinned. Haymitch was such an easy person to please. He took the rudeness in stride because he knew Haymitch didn't really mean to be an asshole. He was usually just smarting from a hangover or drunk and Peeta could accept that because he knew what Haymitch was coping with. Their lives could never be normal again after what they suffered at the hands of the Capitol. Peeta had at least one nightmare a night. Usually it featured Stasson or Clove exacting some type of torturous revenge or the boy from 10 succeeding in killing Cato. He knew they would probably never fade. Haymitch only kept his demons at bay with the bottle and if that's what he needed Peeta would oblige because he kept his promise of sobriety during the games and worked his ass off to keep Peeta alive. Cato had told him that Haymitch even sat by his bedside in the hospital while Cato was under forced sedation. It was an affectionate display Peeta had not expected from him, but it made sense, as Peeta wasn't conscious to witness it. Haymitch didn't really like being caught showing his emotions so Peeta never mentioned it. He just returned the favor by bringing him drinks.
Peeta forced Haymitch's feet off the couch so he could sit next to him. Then he opened one of the bottles and took a swig of it before passing it to a grateful Haymitch who drank down a large gulp as if it were water and his dehydrated bodied cried out for its replenishment. Peeta coughed from the sharp burn in his throat feeling like he had just swallowed fire.
"Ripper finds the good shit." Haymitch said. "Thanks, by the by."
"No problem," Peeta replied as he felt the liquor warm his stomach.
Haymitch studied Peeta for a minute before he handed him the bottle again. "I'm sure you could use another."
Peeta accepted and took another albeit smaller swig. It still burned going down, but now he was feeling the effects of it as his brain started to buzz slightly as if flies were swarming inside his skull, the vibrations of their wings slowing the processing abilities of his mind. He hiccupped and Haymitch smirked at the novice.
"So how you holding up?"
Peeta knew Haymitch wasn't asking in general. He was referring to dealing with out Cato. Peeta didn't really want to talk about it.
"Oh you know, some days are better than others…" Peeta trailed off lost in his thoughts. He had found the best way to cope was to ignore that part of his life. If he just pretended that he wasn't really banished to District 12 and forcibly separated from Cato he could function. Like the sheet over the portrait of Cato, it hid the pain from sight so he could try for a semblance of normal, although he wasn't sure what that meant anymore. Some days he found himself wallowing in self-despair and unable to get out of bed. But most days he was able to make it through, knowing if he couldn't be with Cato they still were able to have contact and he was thankful for the small blessing.
"Well the Victory Tour is only ten weeks away now, you're more than halfway there," Haymitch said as he awkwardly pat Peeta's back.
"Yep." It was not soon enough. He stole the bottle back from Haymitch and took another sip. The bottle was half empty now and he found it quite apropos because that was exactly as he saw his life right now. The glass of his life was half empty with out Cato in it. No matter how awful things got in the Games he always had Cato and he felt like he could find the light even in the darkest of places, but now the sun seemed to be setting without the promise of a new, better day.
They sat in silence as Peeta slipped into a steady buzz from the alcohol. He could see why Haymitch took to the substance, if he wasn't careful he could form his own addiction. He found himself numbing to his inner pain and his body was warming wonderfully as he felt his head sway to the beat of a tune no one else could hear. Maybe I should keep one of these bottles for myself, Peeta thought. Then I can just drink myself into a dreamless slumber. Stasson can't haunt me then.
Peeta decided it was best if he left then. He didn't want the temptation of picking up Haymitch's habit. He may have learned to accept and even love him in spite of it, but it was not what he wanted for himself. So he bid good evening to Haymitch and left him to his bottle. He hopped over the filth in the hallway and braved the cold air the short distance to his home across the street. The sun had set and a fiercely cold wind had picked up, blowing down the empty street with an eerie howl. Luckily his liquored up blood kept him from feeling the difference in temperature as he made his way home three doors down and on the opposing side of the street.
But he stopped short of his door when he spotted a figure waiting for him on the step. He hesitated, wondering who would be visiting him at this hour. As he got closer he saw it was a tall male figure and he wracked his brain for a reason someone would be dropping by.
"Mellark!"
He barely registered the anger in the call of his name as the wind carried the man's voice away. But then he saw those familiar dark brooding blue eyes. They were so dark one almost didn't notice they had a color, but Peeta had seen them in the light during happier times when Katniss was alive to know they were a piercing navy blue. Peeta always felt weaker in the presence of their harsh stare.
"Gale, what's the matter?" Peeta asked and he was surprised by the sober sound of his voice.
"You! Stay the fuck away from my family. We don't need your hand-outs or your pity." He was finally within earshot and close enough to land a push against Peeta's chest. He may have sounded sober, but he was not by any means. He quickly lost his balance and fell back on his ass. Luckily there was a fresh layer of cold snow to soften his landing, but there was nothing to soften the words Gale just spoke.
"Wha— excuse me?" Peeta looked up at Gale's towering figure flabbergasted. Gale's face was smudged with soot from working in the coalmines all day and it enhanced his enraged masculine appearance.
"You heard me. Stay away from my family. You may have convinced Kat— the Everdeens that they need your money," He couldn't say her name and somehow Peeta still felt sorry for him as he continued his rant. "But the Hawthorne's can provide for themselves, I can take care of my family. We don't need you to save us."
Peeta stood back up and brushed the snow from his behind before staring Gale down. "I know you don't need saving. I just want to help. That's all I've ever wanted to do. I have more money than I know what to do with. I'm sorry your infantile brain can't possibly comprehend that I'm not doing this to spite you or emasculate you. I do it in Katniss' honor." He made sure to emphasize her name, because he could say it. He could remember her and honor her, since Gale sure as fuck couldn't.
"Whatever gay boy, just leave me and my family out of your next charity binge," He sneered and then shoved his way past Peeta almost knocking him over again, before storming off into the dark.
While Gale disappeared into the night a particularly harsh gust of wind blew down the street and caused Peeta's legs to wobble. Fuck, maybe the alcohol wasn't the best idea if I can't even stand straight. Although he did manage to hold his own fairly well with Gale, he was not going to be bullied nor would he stoop to his level of name calling and shoving. He would not stop helping him because now he could see how desperate his cries for help were. Katniss' death had done a real number on him and no one seemed to notice his anguish. He was sure being forced to work in the mines six days a week were not helping him cope either while his family struggled to eat on the coalminer's meager salary. Peeta knew he couldn't stop trying to help now, even if that further alienated him from ever being a part of Gale's life because he deserved peace of mind just as much as the next person.
Peeta's resolve only further hardened as he walked back into the empty home. He had begun his day running from the house, restless from the loneliness and yet he found himself returning still just as tormented by the quiet isolation that permeated his large home. Where is the person who will fight for my peace of mind? Peeta wondered. Do I not deserve it because I've sinned? Because I'm a killer? He didn't know the answer and he felt a drunken anger wash over him as he stormed into his study and towards the stack of paintings against one of the walls. He tore through them throwing them about in a fit of rage. He stomped on them and broke them down until they were a trashed unrecognizable pile of splintered frames and shredded hides. Then he lit them on fire in the hearth of his living room with a demented satisfaction. He watched as they cracked and shriveled from the flames, being eaten alive by his suffering. He stomped back into the study and found the sheet-draped painting, which he ripped off with a wild cry and carried to the fire. He lifted the painting above his head ready to toss it into the hungry flames until his eyes connected with the soft chocolate brushstrokes that were Cato's eyes and he felt the bile rise in his throat. His muscles went lax and the painting fell from his numb fingertips as he collapsed to the floor in a cold sweat and heaved up the remnants of Greasy Sae's stew.
Sorry if this chapter wasn't the most exciting, but I've got to set some stuff up before anything can happen. Let me know what you think of everything so far and if you're still with me!
