A/N: 01/01/15
I said this would be 9k ish, and it is. It's just closer to 10k than 9. Peeta's POV is the next chapter.
Chapter 18: Baby Blues
Katniss
At exactly eleven a.m., Madge opens the polished front door of her mansion home, her golden hair tied back with a bow and her dress freshly pressed, and ushers Prim and I inside.
"Leave your shoes and coats by the door," she says, padding along the long marble-pillared corridor, the sound of her footsteps muffled by a fluffy cream carpet covering the floor. We gladly follow her instructions, eager to get out of the cold. It snowed during the night, only an inch or so, but enough to mean that winter was well and truly here. And that I had a few days, hopefully, left over to hunt.
I pull my shoes off and hang my jacket, looking in dismay at how grubby our clothes look compared to the fur coats and rows of shoes that the Undersees own. Prim walks ahead with Madge, talking excitedly about Christmas and staring in awe at the decorations strewn about the Mayor's mansion, and I hang back, feeling sad. Sad to know that while Merchants will be having a Christmas with an abundance of food, a warm house and presents come Christmas morning, the Seam folk will be trying to stay warm, drinking melted snow and eating stew and possibly a cake with their friends and family. Presents are small things, often homemade, like dolls and little wooden cars. Last year I asked Sae to make Prim a doll in exchange for wild boar meat. Prim still has it, tucked underneath her pillow even though she pretends to be too old for dolls.
A picture painted onto a square canvas hanging from the wall catches my eye. I pause to examine it. It's beautifully done, the brush strokes placed with the grace only a seasoned artist could have. It's a picture of a vase of blood-red roses; the blue-tinted glass of the vase looks real, the flower petals curving just gently. I find myself almost reaching out to pluck a flower from the bouquet. I blink. Hidden, just at the corner of the bouquet, hidden in-between the roses, is a single small flower that's unlike the rest. It's a Katniss flower. What is that doing there?
"You like it?" Madge asks. I look along the corridor to find her walking towards me with a smile on her face.
"It's amazing." I murmur.
"The artist is very talented."
"Why is there a Katniss flower?" I ask. Madge examines the painting.
"So there is," she says softly. "I'm not sure why there is. You should ask the painter."
"As if I'm going to the Capitol anytime soon," I snort. "How can I ask the artist?"
"Oh, this isn't a Capitol painting," Madge says. I look at her in surprise. "It was done by the one and only, Peeta Mellark."
"Peeta did this?" I ask, dumbfounded.
"Yup," she nods fondly. "We have one piece of artwork from the Capitol, and that's in the drawing room. The rest is all by Peeta."
"I knew he liked to draw and paint but I didn't know he did all this," I say, spreading my arms wide.
"My father pays him to paint. He actually painted a portrait of me once – it was mortifying."
"Wow." I say softly, still staring at the painting and the Katniss flower hidden between the perfection of the roses.
"You should ask him about the Katniss flower, you know. The answer may surprise you," Madge tells me, looping her arm through mine and pulling me down the corridor.
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing, but he painted this a couple of years ago. I find it strange to think that there's a Katniss flower among the roses."
"I think it spoils the painting. An ugly Katniss flower among delicate roses," I mumble. Madge backhands my arm and pulls me up the hardwood staircase. I trail my hand over the cool, smooth banister, marvelling at the sheer size of this building. In the Capitol, it's considered modest, but here it's like the castles you hear about in fairy tales.
Madge wasn't lying when she said that Peeta had painted a lot of the artwork in the house. Up the staircase there are several other pieces. Madge refuses to talk about her portrait that sits at the top of the stairs alongside ones of her parents. Once we reach her bedroom, I find Prim pressing the keys of a shiny piano that sits on a raised podium in the corner of Madge's room, in front of huge windows.
"Prim! Don't mess with Madge's stuff," I scold, worrying about grubby fingers on ivory keys.
Madge places her hand on my arm. "It's alright, I said she could have a go."
"You play?"
"A little. I'm not very good."
"I bet you're great," I say. "You're just putting yourself down."
"Play something!" Prim suggests, standing and pulling Madge over to sit beside her on a bench. She clears her throat, her cheeks pink, and places her fingers of the keys, pressing them in turn to create a beautiful melody that fills the room. Prim and I clap enthusiastically when the song is over.
Half an hour later, Prim, Madge and I are sitting cross-legged on her softer than soft bed, eating sandwiches. I try to eat slowly, as if sandwiches like these aren't rare. Prim attacks them as gracefully as possible. Madge opens a large can of pears and places it in the middle.
"This is really delicious," Prim comments, touching her finger to her tongue to mop up the rest of the crumbs from her plate before moving on the eat some of the fruit.
"You've got Cook to thank for this, not me. I can barely toast bread," Madge chuckles.
"Katniss isn't good with bread either," Prim giggles. I scowl.
"Shut up and eat your pears."
Prim provides a soundtrack of random key smashes and off key singing as Madge pushes me – despite my protests – into her ridiculous walk-in wardrobe.
"Prim told me that you had invited us round for lunch!"
"Yes, lunch and to borrow something to wear to Peeta's birthday!"
"You're welcome!" Prim calls from the piano, as Madge walks along the rows of clothes.
"Madge, I didn't think I was going to be here for long. I need to go to the Hob and get Peeta's present!" I explain. "I've got to get going."
"Katniss, you've got ages until Peeta is going to be picking you up," Madge rolls her eyes. "Stop worrying, for goodness sake."
Flouncing down onto a pale pink pouf, I watch as Madge glances from me to the racks of clothes in front of her. It's silly, the amount of clothes she has. She has enough dresses to wear two different gowns each day for a year. There are simple ones that I assume Madge wears around the house, though I would have to save up for many weeks before I could buy some material, and even then it wouldn't be as fine a quality as these outfits.
Next, hung in colour order on another rack, is a collection of nicer dresses, ones that are made of lace, silk and other materials I have never heard of, let alone seen. These are used for small events like family gatherings.
Lastly, the biggest set of all, the dresses that are extremely expensive, the kind that I will never wear. You get to see them on Capitol TV shows and when the President's Annual Speech is broadcasted, you get a glimpse of the Capitol fashions. These clothes here are understated in comparison, but in District 12, they're some of the finest things we have. These garments are heavy things, with puffy skirts encrusted with jewels and gems and made of fine shimmering materials. I spot a sparkling silver number that is figure hugging and would touch the floor. I stand and pull it out.
"You haven't worn this, have you?" I ask Madge.
"Definitely not!" She snorts. "I was given this by a person in 1. They thought I would wear it. I never have and never will."
"You've been to other districts?" I ask, surprised. No one is allowed to other districts. I don't know why. What's so harmful about visiting? Instead we're caged in, like animals.
"No, of course I haven't. My Dad took is back when he visited for a meeting with their mayor," she smiles at me, trailing her hand over the gowns on display. "I doubt anyone will be travelling much around Panem for a while though," she muses. "Papa said that President Snow has closed all the crossing points along the borders. Says there's too much trouble in the other districts to risk people wandering around and getting hurt."
She gives me an odd look, seeming a little dazed before shaking herself out of it.
"How many of these dresses are from other districts?" I ask, changing the subject.
"Only two. This one," she points at the silver one. "And this green one is from District 4. From Finnick Odair himself," She smiles fondly. "And this is from District 7." Madge picks up a bracelet from its velvet stand and hands it to me. The bracelet looks like it's made from pieces of orange jewels, but there's something different about it.
"They're amber crystals. The cut down trees and use to resin to make jewellery. If you look closely, you can see the insects that got stuck," Madge tells me. I hold the beads up to the light and gaze at the insects that drowned in the shining stone.
"You should wear this." Madge says, holding up a bright pink dress with a ruffled net skirt. Jewels cover the corset, making the dress weigh more than myself.
"Uh, I'd rather die," I laugh. Madge rolls her eyes. "I mean, it's a beautiful dress, but not for me."
"Or for Peeta," Madge grins. "I think he'd like you in something simpler. Something more… you. Something more District 12."
"I really don't feel comfortable taking your things, Madge. I want to trade it for something." I mumble, trailing my hand over the shiny surface of the wardrobe.
"You only trade when you are taking something. Since you're not taking, just borrowing, I don't need any trade." Madge smiles at me and continues looking slowly through the rack.
I bite my lip. All my life, I've had things taken from me. My father, my family, my future, my freedom. The Capitol is what took those things from me. I was so sick of things being taken, just like my father, so he taught me that you couldn't take without giving something in return. You had to repay debts and make everything equal, and trading was what made it fair. And now, that mind-set has stuck with me. I find it difficult to accept gifts, or displays of affection without thinking something is up; that karma will strike in a horrid, twisted form, minutes, days or even years down the line.
"Please, Katniss. I don't mind you borrowing anything," Madge persists. I swallow and twist the end of my braid in my fingers.
"Alright. But I'm bringing you strawberries come spring."
"You'll be the size of a whale by then. You won't be bringing me any strawberries," she says with a smile. "Katniss, you aren't taking from me. You're borrowing. Stop fretting, please," she looks up at me, her blue eyes wide and pleading. I nod my head and she smirks, pulling a dress from the rack.
Compared to all the other brightly coloured dresses, this one is almost boring in design. The soft material is pale brown, almost tan, and comes in tight below my breasts, allowing the material to fall over my stomach without it being obvious that there's a baby growing within me.
"It's pretty, but practical," Madge grins, handing me the dress. I turn it over in my hands, admiring the lace back.
"It's perfect, Madge. Thank you."
"Come and try it on. I'll wait with Prim and you can come out and show us," Madge moves away, and begins drawing a curtain that cuts off the walk-in wardrobe from the main room. "We've got to give our opinion before you go wearing it in front of your fiancé." She winks, before closing the curtains.
Swiftly I pull the garment on, feeling the material slide over my skin. I've never felt anything so luxurious before. It must be nice to have this all the time. I struggle a little with the zip and adjust the straps so they're comfortable before taking a deep breath and stepping into Madge's bedroom.
"Wow!" she exclaims.
"Katniss you look amazing!" Prim gasps, standing and coming towards me, her eyes roaming over the outfit.
"I'm going to a birthday dinner, not getting married!" I blurt out, embarrassed.
"Katniss, you are getting married." I cover my face with my hand and groan.
"Oh, God. I am, aren't I?"
"You can get a dress from me for that too, if you want." Madge says.
"When the time comes for marrying Peeta, I'm going to wear my muddiest pants, my most blood-stained jacket, and my hunting boots," I declare.
"I don't think anyone would be surprised." Madge laughs. I look down at the dress. It skims the top of my knees and curves into a Bateau neckline that displays the shadows underneath my collarbones. You can just about see my growing belly, but it flares out enough to make it unnoticeable unless you stared at me.
Prim and I leave Madge's house shortly after. I carry the dress carefully over one arm in a special garment bag that protects it from the snow. Prim babbles on about Madge teaching her a few chords on the piano. Once I get home, Mom and Prim start to sew up a pile of garments and bedclothes that have holes in them, leaving me to disappear into the forest.
The snow has melted a little, but the frosty bite of winter is still hanging in the air. My boots make a crunching sound as I walk through the Seam. The cold is seeping into my skin, even though my jacket. If I don't get moving soon, I'll start to get too cold and that won't be good – for the baby or me. I realise with a slight jolt that I need to start thinking more about my actions. I can't go hunting like I used to. I can't let this baby get hurt.
I slide under fence with extra care, lifting the sharp metal as high as it will go. Once in the forest, I find that there is less snow on the ground, the canopy above protecting the needle covered ground. Quickly I find my bow and arrows, moving as quickly as I can to stay warm, but quiet enough so I don't disturb the forest around me. Before long I have a good haul, especially for this time of year, and I sit down on a fallen tree to pluck a turkey of its thick winter coat.
Once I've finished skinning and plucking my game, I head to the Hob. I still need to get Peeta a present. I'm going to hopefully trade something in for something he can use for his art. After seeing the paintings in Madge's house, I've been wanting to get something he can use to create the amazing images I've seen framed. I know nothing about art. When I was in First School, I always struggled to draw. While my classmates' scribbles away with brightly coloured wax crayons and chalk, I sat there, my pencil hovering over the piece of paper, unable to draw anything.
I can remember being jealous of Peeta Mellark, the blonde baker's son who could draw like he was put in Panem specifically to be an artist. He'd always draw something for someone. His teacher. His friends. His father. But never his mother or brothers. And never me.
I caught him staring at me enough times to know that I wasn't just spotting him when he looked in my direction by coincidence. His cheeks would turn pink when we caught each other's eyes, grey on blue. In class, I could sometimes feel his eyes on me. It made me squirm. It made me confused. Why was this boy staring at me?
Aged ten, Peeta had acquired his first 'girlfriend'. All it was was a daylong relationship of a kiss on the cheek, holding hands and giggling. But as we grew up, he had only two other companions. And they never lasted long. Rumour was that he had his eye on someone else. Gale's words from weeks ago spring to mind like a spring under pressure. Does Peeta like me? As in like like me? It's a thought that is both unsettling and promising, but I push it to the back of my mind.
The Hob is always packed at this time of year with people trying to stock up on whatever they can, whether that be firewood or broth. Some people are even buying things for Christmas. I can only hope that someone is this massive warehouse will be selling something that I can give to Peeta. I walk through the crowds of people, searching all of the booths on offer. I reach a small one at the side of Hob, the table laden down with an array of objects. There are bowls of beads and buttons, boxes containing who knows what and racks of knives, hammers and other tools.
"And why would you be looking 'ere?" the vendor asks, his voice gravely, the wrinkles creasing his skin lined with coal dust. I blink. I've never been here before. I've never seen this man before, and he looks as old as time itself.
"I'm looking for a gift." I say. The man chuckles.
"You're gonna have to be a little more specific."
"Oh, um. He's an artist," I begin. The man raises an eyebrow. "He likes painting, and drawing. He's good at it too."
"So I repeat myself: what are you looking for?"
"A sketchpad? Pencils?" the man frowns as I speak, his eyes only brightening when I say pencils.
"Pencils? I think I have just the thing," he nods, standing, his bones creaking. Like so many elderly Seam residents, this man has a grotesquely hunched back, his spine warped from a lifetime in those tiny, choking tunnels. I watch as his withered hands rummage through the boxes behind the table.
"You do?" I ask, surprised to say the least. Although you can get almost anything from this place with a bit of perseverance, some things, like luxury items such as good quality pencils, are rare. At school, we're issued with a year's supply of pencils and these are practically just lumps of wood that give you blisters. By the end of the year, your hands have softened the wood, and the wood has hardened the skin of your hand. These pencils break easily and are barely suitable for schoolwork.
"I've had this old thing for years. Always wondered if anyone would come lookin'," the man smiles, leaning over to hand me a small rectangular tin. It's about the size of my foot, made of a rusty looking metal. The man wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Go on. Open it." He prompts.
I sling my bag over my arm and pop the tin open. The lid swings back after some persuasion, revealing a set of pencils. The pencils are slightly worn, that's clear, but well loved. Despite being faded, I can still see the colours. Bright blue, a deep forest green. Even purples, and dandelion yellows. Every colour of the rainbow and more. This makes the coloured crayons and chalks from First School look gaudy and childish.
"Wow, where did you get this from?" I query.
"Miss, you can find everything in District 12. This was passed down from my father to me. Been in the family for generations," he taps the tin softly. "This, my girl, is from before the Dark Days. The pencils, not so much." My eyes widen.
"Really? Before the Dark Days?"
"Yup, so I'd keep it quiet if I were you. You know how those Peacekeepers are."
"Are you sure you want me to have this?" I ask, dumbfounded. Such treasures like this are not only unusual, but also valuable. Anyone in possession of something like this would probably have sold it for extra cash. I know I would've. This would've earned me a good amount; an amount that would've have been welcome in the months when we end up almost starving, the grasping hands of death curdling around our feet like sour milk.
"For a price, of course," I nod quickly. "But I haven't got a steady hand. I can't draw. Haven't got anyone to pass it on to."
"Can I trade for it?"
"Sure you can."
"How about a turkey and two squirrels?" I offer. "And twenty five coins?"
Recognition floods over the man's features. "Oh, I know who you are!"
"You do?"
"You're Lowell's eldest aren't you?"
"Yes," I say quietly. Still, after all these years, hearing my father's name feels like a knife to the heart. If we talk about him, we refer to him as 'him' or 'he'. Prim stopped saying Daddy soon after his death. But I never stopped thinking of him as my father, the man who shadowed me on my trips to the forest and not the man who is buried hundreds of feet below the ground in the place he hated.
"Your Papa was a good man, Miss Everdeen. I worked with him for many, many years," he recalls, his eyes fogging up.
"Until the mine collapsed?" I ask, trying to hold back the bitter edge to my voice.
"Until the mine collapsed," he confirms. We fall into silence for a few long seconds. I close the tin carefully. "You keep the turkey. For Lowell."
"No, you can have it all," I say, pulling the animals from my bag and placing them on the counter, before digging out some coins.
"Please, I insist." The man says, shaking his head.
"It's what he would have wanted," I say softly. The man pauses, considers me for a minute, before taking the game I'm pushing toward him. "A trade, after all, is only a trade if-"
"If you repay your debt," he concludes, with a smile. I turn and walk away, the weight of the tin heavy in my palm.
Come four o'clock, I begin to panic. This isn't like me. I'm, usually so calm about everything, my face a mask, my fear never displayed. But I guess this is a completely different situation.
"Katniss, calm down. You've got an hour till Peeta picks you up. Go have a bath and then I'll braid your hair all nice and you can wear Madge's beautiful dress," Mom says, patting me on the shoulder.
"But people are going see. They'll notice the bump. They'll see me with Peeta and start to assume things."
"Katniss…"
"And the dinner is just going to be awkward. His brothers are probably going to be all sarcastic and his mother is going to be herself which is just as bad."
"Katniss. It's going to be fine. Stop worrying," my mother says, pushing me towards the bedroom. There's already a tub of hot water waiting for me. Mom pulls a curtain over the doorway and I sigh, scrubbing my face with my hands. She's right. I do need to stop worrying. I do need to get control of my feelings. Tonight I'm feeling overly nervous, and I don't think it's out of place.
I remove my clothes, run my fingers through my hair to free it from its braid, and sink into the water, submerging myself fully and trying to calm my senses. Underwater, everything's muffled. Everything's quieter, and calmer, and helps me to think. Pushing myself up to the surface with my foot against the side of the tub, I begin to wash my hair, working out the oils worked up from the last few days.
District 12 is divided. Divided between those who have money, and those who have barely anything. How will I look in the Mellark household, with my borrowed clothes and dark skin and hair and grouchy personality? I'm going to be sitting at a table of blonde-haired, blue-eyed people, feeling like the odd one out. Mrs Mellark is undoubtedly going to pick out every single flaw I have, every single thing I say or do until she's pecked me down to the bone like a vulture. I can only hope that nobody expects a calm evening where I'll hold my tongue and not yell at that damned women.
I scrub my body with a coarse sponge that makes my skin turn slightly pink, before climbing out of the tub and drying myself, and wrapping a tattered towel around myself. My hair, dripping slightly, is cool against my back. I pull on a loose t-shirt and a pair of pants, and walk back out into the kitchen, using another, smaller towel to help my hair dry.
"You want me to braid your hair?" Mom asks. I nod, and sit opposite Prim at the table.
"Keep your hair down, Katniss. It looks really pretty," Prim tells me, looking up from her embroidery circle.
"I'll braid the front and pin it back if you want, so it doesn't get in your eyes," Mom offers, combing through my hair with her fingers. Twenty minutes later, she has finished braiding my hair away from my face, but leaves it loose and wavy down my back. With my hair still slightly damp, I move into the bedroom to change. I pull the dress on, and turn around in the mirror, inspecting my profile from all angles.
Despite the dress, you can still see the curve of my stomach. I'm should really be bigger, but I'm kind of grateful of my small-ish size. It gives me a little while longer to sort out my head. To figure out what I'm going to do next. A flash of gold catches my eye. The Mockingjay pin that Madge gave me. I pick it up and pin it to my dress.
"You should wear those little brown shoes with it," Mom says from the doorway. I look up and see her standing there, watching me.
"I can't do this. Mrs Mellark is going to be angry and I don't think I'll be able to keep my tongue around her," I fret, smoothing down the dress. I have twenty minutes until Peeta is going to collect me. Mom bends down, her knees cracking when she kneels down to search under her bed for the small pair of light-brown shoes with only a tiny heel. Any bigger and I'm sure I'd fall over.
"Katniss, you look wonderful, and I'm sure that everything will be okay," Mom says, handing me the shoes and smirking slightly. "And if you do end up yelling at his mother, make sure you give that woman a mouthful from me too." I push my feet into the shoes.
"I'll make sure I do," I say, standing and taking a deep breath.
"Seventeen," Mom muses, shaking her head. "When did you all get so old? I can remember, on your first day of school, you hid behind my skirts and pointed to all the Merchant boys playing ball. And you pointed right at Peeta Mellark because he was staring at you." Mom smiles at the memory.
"I did?" I ask, surprised.
"Yep."
"And what did you say?"
"I told you that the boy was Peeta Mellark, and that he would never hurt you," Mom says softly. I smile and look down at my stomach. Yet again, Mom is right. Peeta Mellark would never hurt me. And now he's seventeen, and we'll be able to get married in May. Sure, the wedding will be after the baby is born, but at least people won't be able to make up more rumours about how I'm just a desperate Seam slut. Doing that to Peeta would ruin him.
"At the Hob, I got him a present." I say, turning and reaching under my pillow for the small tin of pencils.
"You did?" I nod, showing her the tin. "It's lovely Katniss, I didn't know he could draw." Mom says, running her fingers over the cool metal, rolling the pencils.
"Not only draw, but paint as well. Madge showed me at her house. He's really good," I gush, thinking of the portraits and landscapes that littered the Undersee mansion.
"I've got some brown paper and string, do you want to wrap it up?" Prim pokes her head through the door.
"Have you been eavesdropping?" I ask. Prim opens her mouth, taken aback.
"I would never!" she gasps. I roll my eyes.
"Prim…" Mom sighs, pushing a greying strand of hair behind her ear.
"Do you want to wrap it or not?" Prim giggles.
"Quickly, Peeta will be here any second." Mom hurries Prim along and guides me into the kitchen. Prim leaps into action, her nimble fingers cutting a square of shiny brown paper and a length of string, wrapping the tin swiftly but carefully, asking me to hold my finger on the knot of the string so she can secure it with a bow. I thank her and she smiles brightly up at me.
"You're welcome. Always got to make a good impression on your first date." She winks.
"Peeta and I have done everything backward. Growing up, I was taught that dating came before marriage and a child," I say sarcastically.
"There's a first time for everything," Mom says from behind me, smoothing down a piece of hair that's come astray from the braid encircling half of my head, just as there's a light knock on the door. Prim squeals, Mom smiles and I worry at the skin of my thumb. Batting my thumb from my teeth, Mom squeezes my hand. Prim grins. I think she's more excited than I am.
"I feel sick." I say.
"Katniss, you'll be okay," my mother promises.
"I can't do this."
Prim claps her hands excitedly. "Go!"
"Don't keep him waiting, he's already walked all this way in the cold," Mom says, pushing me towards the door.
After shooing Mom and Prim into the sitting room, I open the door.
"Hey," Peeta says, smiling at me from the bottom of the porch steps, his shoulders hunched as he hides from the icy wind. Snowflakes waft down. It's gotten warmer, meaning that the snow isn't quite settling yet, but it won't be long before the district is buried.
"Happy Birthday!" I offer cheerfully, shutting the front door behind me and walking down the steps, Peeta's gift held behind my back.
"Thank you," he chuckles.
"How does it feel to be seventeen?"
"Oh, I'm not seventeen just yet. I was born at quarter to nine. A few hours to go yet," he reveals. I smile and we begin to walk. "You look lovely, Katniss," my fiancé tells me, smiling at me in the silver moonlight. Fiancé is a word I'm trying to use more often, in order for myself to become more comfortable with the fact that I'm engaged. Pretty soon I'll become Peeta Mellark's wife.
Katniss Mellark. It sounds foreign in my head.
"Thank you, this is Madge's dress," I say, biting my lip.
"And you're wearing that pin again."
"It goes with the ring. Gold and brown," I say lifting my left hand. Peeta grins. I smiles back at him and wrap my arms around myself. I should've worn a jacket. It's December, and I'm just wearing a dress.
"You're cold."
"No, it's fine." I shake my head, trying to ignore the feeling of goose bumps crawling up my arms.
"Take my coat." Peeta offers.
"But then you'll be cold."
"Katniss," Peeta says, unzipping his coat and handing it to me. "I've got my hoodie, and you're in a dress. I don't want you getting hypothermia." I sigh and take his coat, slipping it on and feeling the warmth from Peeta's body flooding through me.
"Thanks." I say, bumping shoulders with him as he walks beside me. He puts his arm around my shoulders, a gesture I'd probably shy away from in any other situation. But now I find myself leaning into him, huddled against his side as we walk down the dark path together.
"That coat is massive on you," Peeta laughs. I hold my arms out, my hands hidden by the long sleeves.
"It's only because you're tall." I retort.
"I think you're just short." Peeta snorts. I slap his arm.
"Whatever, baker boy."
"You got a problem with that?"
"No, but I think I should be able to call you hunter girl or arrows or something."
"Hunter girl? Arrows?" I ask, rolling my eyes. "Come on, you can do better." Peeta is silent, deep in thought.
"Alright. Kitty suits you," he finally says.
"I'd rather shoot myself with an arrow."
"How about Kat?" Peeta suggests.
"I can live with that," I say, staring straight ahead and trying to hide how giddy Peeta's nickname makes me feel. Looming up ahead, the bakery is like a glowing beacon on the horizon. Although it's closed, the front of the shop is still lit up. Twisting in my gut, anxiety floods over me like a tsunami.
Peeta and I speak at the same time:
"Can I just apologise in advance-"
"I'm sorry if I-" We laugh awkwardly. "You first," I tell him.
"My mother. She isn't exactly happy about this so if she gets too much, just say something and I'll take you back home," Peeta grips my arm tightly, his eyes wide with worry.
"Peeta, I was about to say the same thing about myself. I'm sorry if I shout at her," I say. Peeta shakes his head.
"Honestly, Katniss. You'd have a field day arguing with her. But I'm telling the truth. Ever since she found out, she's been sour – she hasn't thrown me out, but she's angry."
"I'm not surprised." I mutter. We reach the front door.
"You ready?" Peeta asks. I let out a deep breath.
"As ready as I'll ever be."
A rush of warmth hits me when I step into the bakery, along with the smell of bread that seems to follow the Mellarks wherever they go. My cheeks tingle from the temperature as I wipe my feet on the doormat and step further forward into the house. I can hear voices from somewhere behind the counter. It sounds like Rye and Mr Mellark.
"I'll take your coat. Well, my coat," Peeta says from beside me, and I slip the garment off. Peeta hangs it up behind the counter on a tall coatrack and smiles at me nervously.
"Am I overdressed?" I ask, looking down at my dress.
"No, you look beautiful. If anything, you'll put us all to shame," Peeta says with a laugh, but I'm barely listening. Now that we're in the yellow lights of the bakery, I can see the mess Gale has left behind on Peeta's face that I couldn't on the walk to the bakery.
"Your face!" I whisper, stepping forward. Peeta opens his mouth to say something, but gives up. I trace my fingers over his skin. Among an array of tiny white scars, a large purple bruise surrounds Peeta's eye, almost forcing it shut. His lip is bust and swollen. He has a few scrapes on his jaw, but they're beginning to fade into red marks.
"It's nothing."
"It isn't nothing!" I gape. "I couldn't see in them in the dark."
"I deserve them," he shrugs, moving away towards where I assume the rest of his family is. I pull him back however, tugging on his dark blue, freshly pressed shirt to make him stay back with me. He's even polished his clunky baker's boots for the occasion, and combed his hair back.
I fix him with my most determined look. "No, you don't. Gale had no right to attack you like that. I shouldn't have worn the ring in the woods – it was a stupid mistake. But Peeta, my God, this is the last thing you deserve."
"He hurt you too," Peeta points out, thinking about when I fell back from the force of Gale's arm drawing back.
"Mom checked me over and said I was fine," I snap. "And don't change the subject."
"If you had lost the baby because of anything he did, whether it was intentional or not, I don't know what I would've done," I pause, listening intently to Peeta's words. "It would've made me so sad, knowing that he had done that to you."
Silence stretches between us before I finally speak. "You really care about this baby, don't you?"
"I do." Peeta says simply.
"I do too," I smile. "Which is why you should realise that I'm not going to take any chances now. Not anymore. Not with this baby, or with you." Peeta stares at me for a second before pulling me to him, crushing me against his broad chest. I wrap my arms around his torso.
Light spills into the bakery from behind me. "Woops, did I interrupt something?" A voice asks. "Peet making a move?"
"Shut up, Fen," Peeta snaps. I pull away and face my soon to be brother-in-law.
"How're you doing, Katniss?" the eldest Mellark asks, ignoring Peeta completely.
"I'm good, thanks. You?" I return politely.
"Well I'm desperate to eat, so stop doing whatever I interrupted and get in here," he says, winking at his brother and ducking out of the room.
"Sorry about that." Peeta apologises.
"That? You don't call your brother by his name?"
"Oh, he doesn't deserve to be classed as a human. It would be an insult to mankind," Peeta rolls his eyes and I laugh. "Let's go meet the parents." He says, making his way into the house, and my laughter quickly peters out.
A glorious, heady smell invades my senses the second I enter the bakery kitchen, making my stomach rumble. Whatever it is smells filling, and I don't even know what it is. I'm used to smelling bread baking in here, but now it's alive with activity, and the smell of something delicious is filling the air, overriding the scent of bread. I inhale deeply, feeling my knees going weak, and stare at the huge pot on the stove.
"Miss Everdeen!" Peeta's father greets me. "You're looking lovely this evening." He pulls me into a bear hug. I make a little squeak in surprise, not expecting such a hearty welcome.
"Thanks for having me," I say, my words muffled by Mr Mellark's chest. He chuckles in response. Peeta shifts uncomfortably from my side and I shoot him a reassuring look. Stop fretting. It's alright.
"Of course, it wouldn't be right not to invite you."
"I hope you like lamb stew!" Rye calls out from the oven. 'Probably' is the response I have in mind, but instead, my brain-to-mouth filter stops working.
"You cook?" I ask doubtfully. Rye turns, narrowing his eyes and looking offended.
"Why so surprised, Everdeen?"
"You just didn't seem like the kind."
"Oh really."
"And that pink apron really suits you," I add, looking down at the apron tied around Rye's waist.
"I wouldn't wear it if it didn't," he fires back, before turning back to the oven.
"Already putting him in his place, I see," Fenton calls out. Peeta steps closer to me.
"You want to sit down?"
"Doesn't anyone want any help?" I ask.
"No, no, we can handle it," Mr Mellark says warmly, slicing bread on the countertop. "Sit, please. You're our guest!"
Peeta pulls out a chair for me at the kitchen table and I sit down beside him, waiting as Rye and Mr Mellark continue to cook. There's no sign of Mrs Mellark quite yet. To pass time I try to get the hang of a card game Fenton is attempting to teach me.
"No, you match that what with this one," he says impatiently for the tenth time. Peeta chuckles from beside me. Fenton scowls, matching my expression.
"So it's like snap?" I ask.
"Yeah," he nods, looking up at me. "You've played match before?"
"Well, yeah," I say. "I don't live under a rock all the time."
"Alright, but I'm the reigning champion."
"Family game nights," Peeta informs me. "They're complete disasters every single time. Rye cheats, Dad gets confused, and Fen tries to distract people so he can look at their cards."
"Yeah, and you sulk in the corner when you lose," Fenton interjects.
"I do not."
"Don't listen to him," the eldest Mellark advises.
I narrow my eyes, looking down at the cards. "I'm pretty sure I could beat you."
"You want bet on that? I win, and you do the dishes and mop the floors."
"And when you lose, I can walk away with my head held high, and you mopping and scrubbing," I smile sweetly. "Anyway, I'm the guest. You can't make me mop and clean."
Peeta laughs from beside me and his brother scowls. He rests his hand on the back of my chair, his fingertips dancing over the bare skin of my back that the dress doesn't cover. I find this small gesture comforting and lean into his touch, the gentle shapes he's tracing over my spine sending electricity shooting through me and anchoring me at the same time. Fenton and I play snap until Mr Mellark asks us to clear the table, and I win every single game – my hunter's reflexes putting me on the higher ground.
Fenton is bitter. "Alright, you win that round. But I'm not convinced."
I shrug my shoulders. "I told you I'd win and you didn't listen."
"I bet Peeta's helping you cheat."
"I'm crap at match."
"Face it, I'm just better than you," I say. He just rolls his eyes, gathering the cards in time for his father to place a large pot with a chipped lid on the middle of the table.
"Just because you won a few games, it doesn't make you superior."
"Yeah, you keep tellin' yourself that," I say, wincing at how Seam I sound. Fenton laughs nevertheless, promising that he won't let me beat him next time.
"Telling is pronounced with a 'g'," a sharp voice interjects. I look up, my smile disappearing when I see that Mrs Mellark has entered the room, her hair pulled up in a tight bun, her cold eyes fixed on me, judging my every move.
"Good evening, Mrs Mellark," I greet courteously, tucking my hair behind my ear and sitting up straighter in my seat. "Thank you for having me."
"Is that stew?" she enquires, disregarding my words. I lock my jaw, looking over at Peeta. Sorry, he mouths, his eyes sad, eyebrows pulled together. I force a smile onto my lips and shake my head.
"Yes, Aymee. Lamb." Mr Mellark confirms, sitting down beside me at one end of the table. Mrs Mellark nods and sits beside Peeta, opposite her husband. Rye sits opposite me, and Fen is opposite Peeta.
"Have you ever had lamb before?" Peeta asks. I nearly jump at the sound of his voice; he's been mostly silent this entire time, even more so when his mother appeared.
"Of course she hasn't," Mrs Mellark snaps before I can answer. "You know that lamb isn't for the poor. She's probably never eaten anything like this," she lowers her voice just a little. "Charity case."
"Actually, I have had lamb," I speak up. Mrs Mellark purses her lips. Rye raises his eyebrows.
"Really?" Mr Mellark asks. "When was that?" He looks at me with genuine interest and begins to serve up stew, passing plates around the table once each has a portion on it.
"Uh, when I was six," I say, looking down at the meal in front of me in an emotional mix of nostalgia and hunger. The lamb is but in equally sized chunks, drenched in a thick gravy with some sort of fruit added to the mix. All this is sat upon white rice. I've only ever eaten brown rice. The white rice looks blindingly pure on the plate. "My father helped rebuild part of the butcher's roof when it blew down in a storm. He was given a lamb and a pork joint as payment."
"So you like it?"
"Definitely." I nod.
"Dig in then," Peeta's father says. The sound of cutlery scraping against plates soon fills the room.
"Rye puts plums in it," Peeta says suddenly. Rye sighs loudly and dramatically.
"Oh, well done. Just give away the family secret why don't you?" Peeta shoots him a look. I grin at my plate. This is okay. Maybe this won't be painfully awkward if I focus more on the males in the room and not the glaring woman sat two seats away.
"Don't worry. I won't steal it. I'm not a very good cook anyway."
"I'm sure you're just fine. Besides, Peeta's a dab hand in the kitchen anyway, so you can catch the food, and he could cook it," Mr Mellark says, dipping a slice of bread into the stew.
"I could never go hunting," Peeta says, offering me the little basket of bread being passed about the table.
"Sure you could," I say, taking a slice.
"I sound like an elephant just walking up the stairs. And my blonde hair wouldn't exactly help in the forest, would it?" I grin and take another bite of my meal. It's really good. Although you wouldn't think it, the plums complement the stew perfectly. The rice, soft and light, is so unlike the burnt congealed brown mess I find in the pan when I cook. It feels homely and nutritious and is the best meal I've eaten in some time now.
"This is amazing, Rye. I salute you," I say, nodding approvingly to the middle Mellark. Fenton snorts.
"Don't tell him it's good. He'll just use that against you." This sets Rye off on a tangent, talking enthusiastically about his cooking skills compared to his older brother, who, according to him, is better suited at counting money and taking inventory than baking or cooking.
"I made ice cream once!" Fenton says adamantly.
"It was from a tub. Sent from the Capitol. And all you did was put it into pastries for customers."
"Ice cream?" I ask, confused.
"It's really nice. I've only ever had it once. It's milk and sugar a load of other stuff mixed together, but really cold," Rye says, before continuing to argue with Fen. I frown. That doesn't sound very nice to eat. Milk and sugar? Frozen?
"Are they always like this?" I ask Peeta quietly. He grimaces and nods, placing his knife and fork neatly on his now empty plate.
"Yes, unfortunately, but I normally join in." An endearing dimple appearing as he lifts one side of his mouth in a smile.
"That's why you want to have girl. Mellark boys are nightmares," Peeta's father contributes.
I look down at my stomach. Is it possible that I'll have a miniature version of Peeta? I can imagine it clearly; a little boy with bright eyes and a stunning smile and the ability to charm everyone with his words. It would be like Peeta was when he was younger, before he hit twelve and began to lose the roundness in his face in place of a chiselled jaw line, he grew taller and his shoulders broadened, his voice turned from a child's squeal to a man's deep, rumbling tone and his curls darkened from almost white to the rich golden hues I know today.
As the meal goes on, and everyone finishes eating, I find myself observing the Mellark family. Aymee Mellark sits at the end of the table, her back rigid against the chair, her eyes accusing slits. Mr Mellark – her polar opposite – sits with his fingers clasped together, resting his chin on his hands as he watches his sons speak with warm eyes.
Fen, Rye and Peeta all seem at ease, leaning back in their seats and talking freely, though there are small things that are different, and not just their appearances. Rye is arrogantly relaxed, slouching back and spinning his knife between his fingers, unaffected by the sharp blade whizzing through the air. Fen is more reserved, sitting upright by a small amount. He uses his hands a lot as he speaks, gesturing wildly.
And then there's Peeta. I can almost feel the worry radiating off him. He's trying to laugh along and relax, but I can see his fingers flexing anxiously from where he rests them on his thigh.
Sliding my hand over, but never looking his way, I place my hand over his and gently but firmly uncurl his fingers, entwining them with mine and giving his hand a squeeze. He squeezes back, letting me know that it's okay. Neither of us let go.
"Let's go get dessert, shall we?" Mr Mellark prompts, standing from his seat. I stand and help him carry the dirty plates over to the large kitchen sink. "You didn't have to do that, you're the guest," he repeats.
"Don't worry. I don't mind helping out," I reply, placing the plates down and smiling at him. After all, it's not like I can tell him that I'm trying to impress his wife to give her less things to pick at me about.
"Oh, Katniss. Sit back down. Peeta's watching you. He's concerned," I peek over my shoulder and Peeta smiles quizzing at me. I blush and turn away.
"He shouldn't be. I've enjoyed the evening so far."
"I know. But he wants to make a good impression."
"Don't worry. I don't think anything could change my impression of him. He's more like his father than..." I pause, unsure if I've gone too far or not.
Mr Mellark lowers his voice and runs the faucet. "Than his mother?"
"Yeah."
"Then aren't you lucky?" Mr Mellark says with a wink, his eyes twinkling. I smile softly and return to my seat. Peeta leans in close to me to whisper into my ear, causing me to shiver at the feeling of his hot breath against my skin.
"What were you talking about with my Dad?"
"Oh, nothing. Just about dessert," I shrug his question off.
"Something must be really wrong then, you looked pretty serious."
"Dessert is a serious thing." I smirk. Peeta rolls his eyes.
Desert turns out to be a gooey chocolate cake that Fen calls a gateau. I take one bite and fall in love, the smooth chocolate melting on my tongue. It's almost as good as cheese buns. And it's in a moment of silence between conversations while everyone is busy eating when Mrs Mellark clears her throat, stopping the sound of people eating when she finally speaks. This is what everyone's been waiting for.
"You cannot cook?" She asks scornfully.
"Not very well. I'm getting better though," I reply, keeping my tone light.
"How are you going to provide from my son when you marry him and have your own household to keep up?"
I frown. A house? For Peeta and I? Will I be able to fully mesh my life with his, and live with him as my husband and father of my child? I'm definitely going to try, that's for sure.
"Well, for a starters I don't think that the woman should be one who abide to their husband's every need," Mrs Mellark opens her mouth to say something but I cut over her. "A couple should of course provide for each other, but not to the point where one person is providing for the other as if the other is incapable. Peeta can cook. I'm learning. We'll be fine."
Aymee Mellark is unrelenting. She grips her fork tightly. "Are you saying that you expect Peeta to cook? He is the man in the marriage, not you, though sometimes I find that hard to believe." Peeta stiffens beside me.
"Peeta is the man in this marriage, and cooking doesn't make him any less than that," I say. For a few, long seconds, the witch is silent, mulling my words over.
"So what job prospects do you have?"
"Job prospects?"
"Yes. I can't imagine you would end up in anywhere else but the mines."
"I don't know. Peeta and I haven't discussed it yet." I say, bewildered.
"So how are you going to pay for that thing when it's born? Peeta's pay working here will not be enough to raise a child." Her eyes are cold and mean, staring me down.
"That thing is a human being, Mom. You don't need to grill Katniss," Peeta speaks up softly.
"I'm not talking to you, so keep your mouth shut!" his mother snaps.
"Aymee, please." Mr Mellark warns.
"Farrell!" His wife hisses. The table falls silent. "All I'm saying is that I don't think you know what you've done! Honestly, the fact that you were stupid enough to think that fucking him –" she points an accusing finger at Peeta and the entire table winces at the word fucking. " – would mean you would have a better life is difficult to believe in the first place!"
"I know that this is going to difficult. I know that things would've been much easier if this hadn't happened, but it did. And if I were as stupid as you make me out to be, I could've ended up sleeping with some other guy, and not someone as kind-hearted as your son!" I snap, glaring at Mrs Mellark.
"How dare you speak to me like that?!" She screeches.
"Mom, don't…" Peeta says, his voice pained.
"No, let her speak!" I say, aware of how tense the atmosphere has become. The voice inside my head is screaming at me, demanding that I hold my tongue and think before I speak. But this woman, who's done nothing but hurt her husband and sons, has yelled at the wrong person. She shouldn't have shouted at her youngest son's hormonal fiancé, and not have expected to be challenged.
"You're nothing but a Seam slut, you hear me?" Mrs Mellark says, standing up from her seat and leaning forward, over the empty plates so she can loom over me, a vein sticking out on her forehead. "A nasty inbred! You should've gotten rid of that damned thing before he knew!" I bite my lip, tasting blood I'm pressing down with my teeth so hard. Peeta's hand snakes over to mine, like I did before, and he looks pointedly at me. I take a deep breath.
No.
I will not let this woman scare me off, or call me names, or make my life hell.
"How can you prove that it's Peeta's, huh? He's not man enough to get anyone pregnant, so it must be someone else's child," she puts her hands on her hips. "Hawthorne's, is it? You don't go into the woods just to hunt, do you? You nasty creature, passing it off as my grandchild!"
"Mom!" Peeta cries, exasperated.
"I don't want Seam blood in my family. Scum like you are disgusting and it's done nothing but pollute our family. Look what your 'friend' did to my son's face! Are you sleeping with both of them? I assume Peeta is the one paying you since I can't imagine you Seam lot can afford anything!"
Mr Mellark looks embarrassed. "Aymee!"
She ignores him completely, continuing her tirade against me. "And you have the audacity to come into my home and act like everything is okay? Well, it's not! You are filthy! Now get out of our lives, and take that bastard with you!"
"Gale is just my friend!" I say, my resolve, no matter how thin, finally snapping. I've let her yell and accuse and taunt, and now it's my turn. Poor Peeta, this isn't turning out to be a very nice birthday at all. "And just my friend! This child is Peeta's, and I hope he or she has blonde hair and blue eyes like him, so that everyone knows that it's his!" I grip Peeta's hand tightly, his touch the only thing stopping me from getting up and ripping the ghastly woman's head off. "I'm not exactly thrilled to have you in my life, either, but your husband and children are nothing like you, so I'm happy to be around them!"
"Get out! Before I throw you out!"
"Besides, you beat your children anyway. It's not like they know any different," I conclude, putting as much venom into my words as I can. I know I'm not exactly making a good impression, but she's made me so mad. I shouldn't have mentioned the abuse. That was too far. I glance around the table, fearing looks of disgust from all angles, but Fenton looks amazed, Rye looks like he's holding in laughter, and Peeta looks simultaneously proud and shocked.
"I want you out of this house. Now." Mrs Mellark says with finality. She steps around the table and storms out of the room, slamming the door so hard that the crockery rattles.
Agonising silence fills the room, and then I burst into tears.
"I'm sorry!" I choke out, burying my face in my hands.
"Kat, it's alright," Peeta whispers, pulling me towards him and wrapping me in his arms around me, rocking me to side to side like my father used to do when I had a nightmare.
"I've ruined this lovely dinner, and your birthday," I sob. "I'm so sorry."
"Thank you," Mr Mellark says softly, his eyes sad but also stunned. "For actually speaking up."
"I should leave," I say, mortified and shaking my head as I get up to run home and never face Peeta or his family again. Peeta catches my arm and pulls me gently back, pushing a strand of hair from my face and smiling.
"It's my birthday dinner. You can stay," he says calmly.
"But I yelled at her."
"Katniss, I'm proud of you. I'm not angry or embarrassed. Mom yelled first. And you were an equal match – she made Fen's girlfriend cry when she visited."
"It's true." Fenton adds grumpily.
"Are you sure I can stay?" I ask, trying to calm my breathing.
"Yeah, of course you can. Fen still needs his ass kicked at match, doesn't he?" I laugh despite myself, wiping my eyes.
"You have the mouth of a sailor. Bravo," Rye chuckles, holding his hand out for me to high-five.
"Charming, Rye."
"That's my middle name," Rye crows, the atmosphere in the room slowly calming.
"No it isn't. It's Amber." Fenton says. Rye pushes him off his chair and they tussle on the floor.
"Amber?" I giggle, humiliation still filling me as I rest my head against Peeta's chest.
"Fen's is Willow," Peeta's father says, carrying the plates to the sink.
"Gee, thanks Dad!" Fen calls out from the floor.
"Aren't those girl's names?"
"Yeah." Peeta chuckles, rubbing my arm consolingly.
"What's your middle name?"
"I wasn't given one."
"Why not?"
"I don't know, but I'm kind of glad. Peeta is bad enough. Imagine what a middle name would've been like!" He laughs and I close my eyes, listening to the sound.
His father comes back to the table. "I wanted to call you Flour."
"See. Us Mellarks have the naming capabilities of a brick wall," Peeta jokes. I smile and hiccough, the remnants of my sudden crying petering off. "Come with me," he says, standing up and tugging me with him.
"Where are we going?" I ask, following him into the hallway.
"Into the living room. It's present time. I hope you've bought me something!"
I clutch the tin of pencils tightly in my hand and smile. Maybe everything will be okay again. Granted, Mrs Mellark did start the argument, but I had no right to yell back at her. Mr Mellark actually thanked me, and didn't seem too surprised. Fen and Rye congratulated me. And Peeta said that he wasn't angry or embarrassed. That he's proud of me. And for now, that's all I need.