A/N: 08/01/15

It was my birthday when I originally posted this because I'm cool like that.

Chapter 27: Snow Worries

Katniss

When I wake up, Peeta is still asleep beside me, lying on his stomach, one arm under his pillow. The sheets are scrunched up around us and I fight to free myself without waking him. All I have on is my lose sleep pants. Red-hot and burning, embarrassment floods through me. I gather the sheets, pressing them to my chest to hide myself, staring at the wall.

Last night felt good. I think it was good, not only for me, but for Peeta as well. Now that our true feelings have been put out there, it makes us fragile and vulnerable to each other. We are hiding fewer things from each other, opening up a little- okay, a lot- and living with each other in a state of coexistence that is not only peaceful, but comforting. Home to me is still the Seam. It's still the house that my father built with his own hands, it's still the forest. That will never change, I am sure. But why can't I have two homes? Whilst the Seam holds the most memories, good and bad, this house with Peeta seems to hold the most hope. I think that I can live with that.

However, I do think that I might have gone a little too far last night. One minute I was arguing with him for no good reason, then I shoved him, and then I was making out with him. Instructing him to remove my shirt, and enjoying the consequences.

Not that he seemed to mind when I returned the favour. Not one bit.

My cheeks flush. I feel happy. Happier than I have in a long, long time. Fighting the large grin that worms its way onto my face is useless, and I even let out a content little giggle. This is not what I would usually do. This is not me. Well, it isn't the old me, at least. May be it's a good thing- I've been stuck in a loop for too long, focused on Prim. Focused on survival. Ignoring trivial things like boys and relationships and the future. I preferred to take each day as it came, and not think too much about how dreary my future was looking to be. Sitting here, beside Peeta's sleeping form, I struggle to come to terms with how quickly everything has happened.

In just a few shorts months, I've been paired with the youngest Mellark, partied with the youngest Mellark, had sex with the youngest Mellark, and ended up pregnant and engaged. All because of the youngest Mellark. And now I'm sitting in a Merchant bed, beside a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, prodigy townie. It's laughable; really, how quickly things can change.

Life is like a game. One wrong move and you'll end up in a tailspin, flung across the board, trying to hold on to not only your head, but anything that will anchor you to solid ground. Play the game right, though, and you'll end up reaching your goal. There may be obstacles in your way, but if you're careful you'll be able to do what you want to do. You'll be happier, because you know that you've won. You've beaten everyone else. You've ignored the temptations to stray from the path. You've found what you were intended find.

In my case, this is Peeta Mellark.

Who would've thought?

I dress quickly, the cold air biting at my skin. Two pairs of socks (one of them looks to be Peeta's) stop my feet from freezing on the cold tiles of the kitchen floor, but I wrap a knitted shawl around my shoulders nevertheless. Reaching up with one arm, and holding the shawl in place with the other, I tug the heavy curtains over the kitchen window open, and am momentarily blinded by a bright, glaring white light. I squint, waiting for my eyes to adjust.

Snow.

Piled high, almost up to the windowsill, the snow drifts are enormous. They'll block the roads, the paths, the doorways of everyone's homes. It's going to be chaos trying to go anywhere. It looks like the next few days are going to be spent by the fire, wrapped up warm in blankets, in our own company. It's Christmas Eve tomorrow. Will the snow have cleared enough for Mom and Prim to reach us, and the Hawthornes if Gale stops being an asshole? I hope so. I've missed their presence. I climb onto the countertop, force the window just enough for my arm to fit through, hissing when the glacial air rushes into the room, and scoop a handful of snow into my hand. It numbs my fingers, the calloused skin turning red, and as it begins to melt in my warm palm, the water runs down my arm. Before it turns to slush, I hurry up the stairs, and check to see if Peeta is still asleep. He is. A smirk appears on my face.

What I'm about to do is cruel, really. The snow is freezing, painfully so, but it's just too tempting. I climb onto the bed, placing my feet on either side of his waist, and drop the snowball onto his back. It lands with a satisfying 'splat' and begins to melt rapidly, spreading over his back, tricking down to the small of his back.

"What the fuck?" Peeta jolts awake, wriggling around like a worm, bending his arms backward to swipe at the icy moisture on his back. He rolls over, still half asleep, and spots me.

I grin wickedly. "It snowed during the night."

"Why?!" h gasps, narrowing his eyes, shivering at the feeling of the melting snow and scowling at me.

"It was too tempting!" I laugh. Peeta sighs, but a large smile appears on his lips and he eventually laughs too, finding it just as funny as I do.

"So, you wake me up by throwing a snowball at me, and I don't even get breakfast in bed or anything?"

"I'm the pregnant one here, not you," I say. Peeta rolls his eyes, and pulls me down, his large hands gripping my calves. I rest on his stomach, and place my hands on his chest.

"You can't use that excuse for everything, you know," he laughs, his eyes wide. I shake my head.

"Don't be a wuss," I say, and he tickles my sides until I'm begging him to stop.

"Uh, about last night..." he suddenly speaks up, and my laughter trails off. His hands feel like theyr'e burning me.

"I'm sorry if I went too far."

"No!" he frowns, his hands moving upwards towards my thighs. Normally I would've shied away from physical contact like this- now I just find it exhilarating. "Not at all. Last night was... uh...great. I enjoyed it," he pauses, his cheeks pink. "Was it good for you?"

It's my turn to blush. "I did."

"So I wasn't dreaming?"

I punch his shoulder. "No, you idiot. It was real."

We stay like this for a long time, smiling at each other. I think about Prim. I think about Mom. I force myself to stop thinking about Gale, even though I miss him too. I even find myself thinking about Lady. I hope she's warm. Prim probably has her by the fire, covered in blankets. Peeta rubs his thumbs over the smooth skin on my thighs in a soothing motion, his brow furrowed as he thinks. We're completely silent. My heart leaps when I feel the baby kick. The surprised yelp I let out makes Peeta jump, and he looks up at me in confusion.

"Here, give me your hands," I whisper, pulling up my shirt so it's bunched in the space between the bottom of my breasts and the start of where my stomach begins to stick out. His eyes brighten when he realises what's happening. I place his hands on my stomach. "Can you feel it?" I ask. Peeta nods, staring down at his hands in complete awe.

"It's really strong this time."

"Mom said it would be stronger and more frequent in the upcoming weeks." Peeta nods, and smiles up at me. He pulls me forward until I'm sitting directly on his chest. I worry momentarily is he can breathe properly or not, but he doesn't seem bothered by the weight of me pressing down on his chest.

"Hey there, baby," he says gently, pressing a soft kiss to my swollen stomach. I exhale, watching Peeta speak to his child. "I can't wait for April, though I'm not sure that your Mommy has the same opinion," I whack the side of his head and he chuckles, his breath hot against my skin. "And even though you make your Mommy feel sick and make her want to eat unhealthy food, I know that she loves you," Peeta takes his hands away, and pulls my shirt back down, taking my hands in his. "And I love you too." His eyes are locked on mine as he says this, and he continues to hold my gaze when he kisses my knuckles. Electricity shoots up my arm, and I tear my eyes away, pushing myself off him and stretching my legs, my knees stiff and achy due to having them on either side of Peeta's broad torso for so long.

"Come and see the snow."

"I've seen enough of it already," he retorts, stretching his arms above his head.

After observing the snow depth outside, breakfast ends up being oats mixed with hot milk, an apple and a chocolate muffin. Peeta insists that I eat more fruit and vegetables, for the baby's sake, and decides to bribe me. "I'll tell what," He says, holding the chocolate muffin in the air, just out of reach. "If you eat this, you get this." He raises an eyebrow, pushing the apple towards me.

"Bribery? Really?"

"Yes."

"Fine." I say stubbornly, taking the apple and biting into it. Peeta folds his arms over his chest as I inhale the fruit as quickly as possible without choking.

"And now you get the cupcake."

"Thank you," I half-smile, half-scowl, and grab the cupcake, ripping into it, stuffing it into my mouth.

Half an hour later, Peeta opens the kitchen door that leads to our small backyard, stepping back when the snow that has piled up against it falls onto the tiled floor. He uses a spade to push the snow backwards, away from the house, and then sweeps away the fallen snow with a broom. I wash dishes, mop floors, and dust surfaces. I can't think of what I could possibly get Peeta for Christmas. Whenever I think of things he would like to get, I draw up blank. All the time I spend racking my head, trying as hard as I can to come up with original and meaningful gift ideas is fruitless. I use my time cleaning as a brainstorming opportunity.

The bakery. Peeta loves baking and cooking, so if I managed to make something without burning the house down, and could present it without the worry of making people sick, I figure that would be a damn good gift. Besides, I never do the cooking. Peeta does it. There's good reasoning behind that arrangement, mainly because I'm an awful cook, and neither of us have complained.

I climb down the stairs, pull on my coat and boots and hat and scarf, and step out onto the path Peeta has cleared.

"Where are you going?" he asks. I step up onto my toes and kiss his cheek.

"To the bakery."

"I'll come too."

"You don't have to, Peeta. I'll be alright." He just shakes his head, swiping his hand over his sweaty forehead.

"Let me just get my coat." He disappears inside, and I watch his throat bob up and down as her drinks a glass of water through the kitchen window. He reappears wearing a padded, dark blue coat. We walk down the snow-covered street slowly, careful to walk around the icy patches. The snow has been cleared away by someone, leaving a small path through the middle of the street. It's eerily silent, the sound of our footsteps muffled by falling snow, and no one is out. I spot a few people shovelling snow, and when we reach the square find ourselves standing on the side-lines of a massive snowball fight. I can see a few adults in the mix, but the majority of people flinging snowballs at each other are teenagers. I begin the careful walk around the square as to keep out of the firing line, and Peeta follows close behind.

"Peeta?" someone shouts from within the fight. I look up from studying where to place my feet, and watch as Peeta greets the kid.

"Hey, Wolf, how've you been?" Peeta asks, ever the cheerful conversationalist.

"I'm good, haven't seen you around. Thought you'd be going round Mitch's house, watching wrestling," Wolf asks. He has bright red hair, much like Darius', but dark eyes that are almost black. He's from the Seam originally, but his mother died giving birth to him and the father was never known, so he was dumped in the orphanage. Luckily for him, he was adopted by some townie couple who couldn't have children but needed an heir to their business. He's an alright guy, though I wouldn't really know. Socializing with my peers (or anyone for that matter) is not exactly my forte.

"Yeah, Mitch and I got into an argument," Peeta says, kicking at the ground with the toe of his boot.

"Ah, well, he'll come around, don't you worry."

"Thanks."

"Everdeen? Is it true?" Wolf continues, leaning to the side and spying me from where I'm hiding behind Peeta, trying to avoid conversation.

"Is what true?" I ask.

"That you're marrying this goon," Wolf claps Peeta on shoulder. Peeta ducks out of the way and pops back up to throw a snowball at his face. It misses, sailing over his shoulder. Wolf laughs, and I finally realise why he's named after the animal. His laugh is like a wolf's howl, loud and low and echoing.

"He isn't a goon, but his aim is pretty shitty." I say.

"Ah, and that's why you're knocked up?" he asks, waggling his eyebrows. I pull my coat tighter. "Yeah, I noticed," he adds sarcastically. "Like everyone else with a pair of eyes."

I bend down, form a snowball and throw it at him. This time, unlike Peeta's attempt, the snowball actually hits him square in the face. Peeta claps his hands, and Wolf splutters, firing obscenities at me. "I'll see you around, buddy," my fiancé chuckles, taking my arm.

"I want an invite to that damn wedding!" Wolf shouts.

"I didn't know you were such good friends with Wolf," Peeta teases.

"I didn't know your aim was so bad!"

"You heard what he said. That's how you got preg-" I cut him off by scooping some more snow from the top of a nearby barrel and shoving it down his shirt. He yells out and I cackle, rushing away. "I'm gonna get you back when you least expect it."

"I'd like to see you try," I challenge.

We reach the bakery and enter through the front door for once, stamping our feet on the porch outside to rid them of most of the snow, and then shuffling out feet back and forth over the bristly brown mat sitting just inside of the door. Fenton and Rye are standing behind the counter, serving customers, and they look up and wave when they see us. Peeta leads the way, 'excuse me's pouring out of his mouth as we move past the people waiting to be served. I mumble the same things, but with much less enthusiasm and volume.

"Peeta!" Rye greets us, slapping his brother on the back. "How's nearly-married life?"

"It's good, thanks."

"Hey Katniss," Fenton greets me.

"Hey," I reply, feeling the eyes of all three customers burning into my side. Into my ballooning stomach. Into my left hand, which is displaying my engagement ring for all to see. Peeta senses my discomfort and tugs me into the kitchen. Mr Mellark pulls his youngest into a bear hug, slapping his cheek jovially and pushing him aside to come and hug me.

"Katniss, my dear. How are you? How is the baby? Is my son treating you right?" he asks, his voice loud in my ear.

"Both the baby and I are okay, thanks," I smile, slightly flustered at my soon-to-be-father-in-law's displays of affection to the girl who, essentially, drove an even bigger rut between Peeta and his mother, and causes a whole lot of drama that could've been avoided. I'm sure that if the roles were reversed, and I was Katniss Mellark and Peeta was an Everdeen, Peeta wouldn't have been welcomed with such open arms. "Peeta's a good fiancé. You've raised him well."

"Phew!" Mr Mellark says, grasping at his heart.

"Uh, Peeta, could you go help Fenton and Rye or something?" I ask, wringing my hands.

"What? Why?"

"I need to talk to your Dad without you hearing," I say, smiling ruefully.

"Is something wrong?" Peeta flies into protective mode, stepping closer to me. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, I'm just... you can't hear about this yet." I say. This is going well. All I'm trying to do is organize a surprise for Peeta, and end up making him worried that something is wrong.

"Peet, just go help your brothers," Mr Mellark intercepts, leaning against the countertop. Peeta gives me a concerned look, hangs his coat up, and squeezes my shoulder reassuringly before disappearing into the front of the shop. "Now, what seems to be the problem?" Peeta's father asks.

"I need your help," I begin. "For Peeta's Christmas gift, I want to make him something that he can eat. I know he likes baking, but I can't cook to save my life."

"So, what do you want me to do?"

"Help me bake or cook something, anything, that Peeta will like," I say. "Please?"

"That's a real nice thing to do," Mr Mellark nods, smiling fondly at me.

"Can you help me then? I don't want to intrude or make work here more difficult. But it would be really nice to cook something for him for once... Is this a silly idea?"

"Katniss, no, this isn't a silly idea at all. Sit down for a moment," he says, pulling out a chair and sitting me down. He pulls a heavy, dog-eared, leather-bound book from the shelf, and brings it to the table, sitting down to flick through the pages. "I have just the thing." He finds the page he's looking for, spins the book around, and pushes it towards me.

"Snickerdoodles?" I ask, raising my eyebrows at the ridiculous name. "What are they?"

Mr Mellark laughs at my expression. "They sound silly, but when Peeta was little he loved making these. Snickerdoodles are cookies, made from butter, sugar and flour. Some people roll them in sugar, but we Mellarks like to roll them in cinnamon."

"Should I make... Snickerdoodles?" I ask warily.

"I think you should. They're reminders of good memories to Peeta- he and his grandfather used to make them. It was the first thing that Peet ever made by himself. He likes them best with chocolate chips."

"Snickerdoodles it is," I conclude, glancing over the recipe.

"I'll get the ingredients and equipment; you rummage through that bin and find an apron to wear. If you've got flour all over your clothes he's going to suspect something."

I hang my coat beside Peeta's, the dry heat pouring from the ovens a stark contrast to the frigid weather outside. Mr Mellark busies himself, measuring flour, cutting butter, and bringing out countless bowls, not once looking at the recipe book on the kitchen table, and checking the ovens periodically and taking out cooked produce and setting it too cool. Everything is so methodical. I'm pretty sure he could do it in his sleep.

"Katniss, could you go and ask the boys for another roll of greaseproof paper?" is the only request he has. I nod, rolling my sleeves up to my elbow, and walk through the house and into the shop.

"Hey, can I come back now?" Peeta asks, his blue eyes wide as he straightens up from reaching for something under the counter.

"No, not yet," I say. "I need a roll of greaseproof paper though."

Rye gives me a look. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Nothing that concerns you." I retort. Rye scoffs. Fen chuckles. Peeta hands me the paper.

"You're up to something..." he says, eyeing me.

"And it's a good thing. So calm down," I say, looking over my shoulder as I walk back towards the kitchen.

"You've got a right diva to deal with." I hear Rye tell Peeta.

"That isn't her maximum diva level." He replies. I smirk. I'm glad he knows that.

Mr Mellark guides me through all the stages of baking the Snickerdoodles. I feel stupid when he has to correct me on things that must seem obvious to him. Anyone else would find this easy, I'm sure. But the end product turns out golden brown, and not burnt to a crisp. The bakery doesn't burn down either, which I count as a good thing. Whilst we let the cookies cool, we sit back at the kitchen table, eating bread and jam. We chat about anything from Merchant quality flour versus Seam flour to how long we suspect the snow to last.

"I'm sorry if Peeta moving out of the bakery has made work over here difficult," I apologise, pulling the sleeves of my heavy knit jumper over to cover my hands. "It must be nice when he comes over to help. I'm sorry for stealing you son."

Mr Mellark chuckles. "It's okay, really. He's happy. I just which he'd come around here more often. I mean, I know he's growing up and marrying a lovely girl, having a baby and all, but he never seems to be here."

"What do you mean?" I ask, my brow furrowing, thinking of all the times when Peeta has kissed me on the cheek goodbye and headed out for a day or work at his old home. "He's always gone."

"Yesterday he wasn't here. The last time he was here for more than an hour was last week."

"If he wasn't here, where was he?"

"I thought he was spending time with you," Mr Mellark says, and I shake my head.

"I'll ask him," I shake my head. I'm sure he's told me where he's going. My pregnancy brain is probably kicking in. "It's probably nothing."

Mr Mellark teaches me how to roll the cookies in a mixture of cinnamon and sugar, and then leaves to help Fenton deliver orders of cakes and pastries and other delicious creations to the elderly who cannot come through the knee-deep snow and collect it themselves, leaving me to finish making Peeta's gift. It's simple and easy, and even though I end up dropping a cookie, the finished product looks and tastes nice. I place the cookies in a paper box and put the box into a paper bag, ready to be taken back to our house and stored away until Christmas arrives when the kitchen door swings open behind me.

Peeta

I'm helping Rye serve customers when I hear shouting. He gives me a look I'm very familiar with- Mom is yelling. Dad left ages ago with Fen, delivering parcels to the elderly members of the district. That leaves Katniss on her own. Mom must be yelling at her.

"Go see if she's alright," Rye says, his sympathetic smile not reaching his eyes. "I mean, I'm sure Katniss can handle it herself but…" He shrugs his shoulders. I close the till and finish up with a customer before excusing myself, heading for the kitchen.

"Why are you here?" Mom's voice rings loud and clear as I creep down the darkened corridor. I peek around the door frame and see Katniss turn to face my mother.

"I'm making something for Peeta," she says, her grey eyes wide but challenging. "Is that a problem?"

Mom steps over the threshold and into the room, eerily calm. I don't like it. Not one bit. I can only imagine how Katniss is feeling. She must be furious already merely at her presence. "Not entirely. But you shouldn't be here. Seam scum like you are not meant to mix with the likes of us." My stomach clenches. Why does she have to do this?

According the Fen and Rye, Mom used to have a good soul. She was kind to her sons, never laid a hand on them and treated them with all the love a mother would be expected to give. But as time went by, and I was born, she turned sour. 'I wanted a daughter! Not another boy! Why can't you give me what I want?' she would scream at my father as he held me to his chest, covering my ears, before bursting into tears. Dad would comfort her, telling her that this was simply how it was meant to be, and she would apologise for shouting. But the next day they would be back in square one.

And one day, square one became a permanent state of mind for my mother. The first child she hit was Fen, when he dropped a glass of milk. At first we thought it was a onetime thing, but the beatings got harsher and more often, and we just accepted it. I can remember from a young age being found by Dad after Mom flew into one of her rages and left me to deal with the aftermath by myself.

My tummy hurts, and if I cry, it hurts even more. But I can't stop crying. I don't make any sound, terrified that Mommy will come back in here and hit me again. She's been drinking from those glass bottles again and she hasn't taken her medicine to make her feel happy.

Fen and Rye are out playing kick ball with their friends. I begged them to let me go with them so I wasn't by myself but they said no. I wish they had said yes. I wouldn't have cried if I fell over, not like last time. Fen said that babies weren't allowed. I'm not a baby. I'm five. Five years old is not a baby.

I've been hiding in my closet for ages. Mom threw a bottle at me. My hair smells really bad now. The stuff that was inside the bottle went in my hair. It can't be water- water doesn't smell that bad. I peek through the gap in the cupboard doors. I think Mommy went to bed.

Taking a deep breath, I push open the cupboard door and step out into the hallway. My knee is bleeding. And my arm is bleeding. My tummy hurts. My face hurts. I hope Mommy is okay because she started to cry and I don't want her to be sad.

I go into the bathroom and pull out the plastic stool that sits under the sink. I'm too short to see the mirror when I brush my teeth, so Daddy brought it for me so I could stand on it. I miss Daddy. He said he'd only be gone for a little while to put in some orders at the train station. I want him to come home and tell me that it's okay. Instead, I have to be a big boy and find a bandage for my knee. Rye uses this white stretchy material when he hurts himself. I'll use that. After searching all the cupboards, I finally find the roll of bandage and begin to wrap it around my knee but it won't stop bleeding even when I use up all the bandage. And my tummy still hurts but I don't think I can put bandages on my tummy.

I pull up my shirt, and see a big purple bruise on my side. I poke at my tummy. Mommy kicked me quite hard. I didn't mean to rip a hole in my shorts. Why can't she just sew it up? That's what Wolf's Mommy does. And when Mitch got his coat snagged on a tree his Mommy taught him how to sew it up so he could fix it himself.

"Peeta?" I drop my shirt and sit upright. Daddy's back!

"Daddy?!" I whisper. I don't want to wake Mommy. But I don't think Daddy can hear me. I look down at the floor. My arm has stopped bleeding now, so it doesn't need a bandage. But there's blood on the bathroom floor now. Lots of it, trickling in between the tiles onto the funny glue that holds the tiles together.

"Peeta? Aymee?" Daddy begins to climb the stairs. He isn't very quiet. He blames it on his big boots but I think he's just noisy like that.

"Daddy!" I call.

"Peety?" Daddy is getting closer closer closer. And then he's there, standing in the doorway, looking down the corridor. "Where's Mommy?" he asks, and then he turns his head to face me.

"She's asleep," I say, patting my bandaged knee. Daddy's face gets all sad when he looks at me. He looks at all the blood on the floor and comes into the bathroom, locking the door quietly behind him. He comes forward and picks me up, his hands under my arms, lifting me up so I'm sitting on the toilet lid.

"How'd you do this?" He asks, taking off my bandage and dampening some tissue and dabbing at my knee. It hurts and I try to stop him from touching it, but he tells me he needs to clean it so it doesn't get more hurt.

"Mommy got angry because I got a hole in my shorts. She threw her bottle at me and I cut my knee. I'm sorry for making a mess," I explain. "My hair smells funny Daddy."

"Where else are you hurt?"

"My arm," I say, holding out my arm to show him. "But it's okay now."

"Where else?"

"My tummy," I say. Daddy lifts my shirt over my head, pulling it away from my sore face gently and putting it aside. He examines my stomach with fingers much more gentle than Mommy's.

"When does it hurt?" Daddy asks, his eyes sad. He touches my face, moving his fingers across where Mommy hit me and then runs his hands all through my hair, feeling around. He then looks at my knee, dabs some cream onto it and bandages it up all proper so it doesn't get all bloody.

"When I breathe," I bite my lip. What if I die? When Fen hurt his arm at a wrestling match, the doctor said he shouldn't use it. But if I stop breathing, I'll die! "Am I going to die?" I ask, worried. Daddy looks up very quickly. He looks very sad but a different sad to Mommy.

"No, Peety, of course not," he says. "Why would you think that?" I explain my theory. He smiles a little. "You aren't going to die. I won't let you die." He pats my knee, pulls my shirt back on, and lifts me into his arms. I wrap my arm around his neck. Daddy always knows how to make me feel better. Mom isn't nice to me when she drinks that bottles stuff.

"Mommy forgot her pills again," I say, resting my head on Daddy's shoulder. He nods, patting my head.

"I know Peety, I know." He sits me on the sofa, gives me a Snickerdoodle on a plate so I don't get crumbs on the floor, and turns on the TV. He goes outside for a little while, and when he comes back in he's carrying a big bottle of bleach and a mop. I think he's going to clear up the blood on the bathroom floor.

That was the first time that Mom really hurt me. Back then, I didn't understand that the 'smelly stuff' was alcohol, nor that Dad had gone into the alley outside the bakery and cried before coming back in with the bleach and the mop. I didn't understand why I was rushed to Mrs Everdeen's house that evening and held down by my father and Mr Everdeen as she helped fix my broken rib, or that my brothers cried when they found out. They felt guilty for not inviting me to go to play football. I think they still feel guilty, but no one actually says something. We all deal with Mom's anger in different ways, and don't actually confront each other about it.

I was stupid to assume that Mom was going to calm down a little- finally accept that her youngest child was having a baby. Of course she wouldn't be alright with this. Of course not.

"Excuse me?" Katniss' voice snaps me out of my thoughts.

"Don't play dumb!" Mom hisses, slamming her palm down onto the countertop. "I know what you're doing! I know that you only did this because you wanted a way out of that God forsaken hell hole!"

"The Seam is not a hell hole!" my fiancé exclaims. "And getting pregnant was an accident!"

"Bullshit!" Mom snarls. "Peeta has loved you for years, despite my efforts to point him in the right direction. He just happened to get you drunk and in his bed- though I'm sure you went with him without a second thought!" She steps even closer to Katniss, her sharp little shoes tapping on the tiled floor. Katniss straightens her back, locking her jaw and staring defiantly at my mother. She's remarkably strong. I guess losing your father and raising her sister does that to you. "I want you to leave. Go back to your family and never talk to Peeta ever again. You don't care about him; all you want is a place to live and money!"

"You don't care about you son, you never have!" Katniss snaps, pushing herself upright from the stool. "How can you say that I don't care? I care about him- more than I've ever cared about anyone!"

"How dare you shout at me!" Mom says, her eyes flaming. "Get out, now! Take that bastard child with you!" I grit my teeth. Katniss looks like she wishes she had her bow with her.

"My child is not a bastard!"

"Ha! As if anyone will believe what you say! That child is not Peeta's. He is not man enough to do anything of the sort," Katniss locks eyes with me. She tilts her head to one side, her brow furrowing together. Mom continues on her rage. "Try and pass off that thing as your child, as Peeta's child, and see how far it gets you."

"I've never slept with anyone but Peeta, so of course it's his!"

"Do not lie to me- do not pretend that you love my son. Do not pretend that you love that baby."

"I love my child. I love Peeta's child," Katniss says softly, watching me carefully over Mom's shoulder. "Why can't you just accept that?"

"I almost feel sorry for the baby. It's going to have to grow up in the care of a person like you," Mom sniffs, relentless, sticking her nose in the air. This obviously strikes a nerve in Katniss' mind, and she bites her lip, looking down at the ground. I know she's worried about whether she'll be able to raise a child. She doesn't believe that she can do it. But I have complete faith in her. If she can raise Prim, she can raise her child. She'd wage a war against Panem if the baby so much as got a bruise.

"Well, if that's how you feel, you can forget about any plans to see your grandchild," I say, keeping my voice slow and steady. Mom whips around, obviously embarrassed at being caught.

That's her weakness. The public eye. Anyone catching her beat her children or scream at her children, and more recently, scream at Katniss. In private, she has no problem with lashing out, but once someone outside the family is there, she is as sweet as sugar. All smiles and laughter- building a facade in which it appears that the Mellark household is a loving place. It's all just a lie. Once everyone is gone the monster lurking beneath resurfaces.

"Ungrateful! That's what you are!" she cries, walking up to me.

"I love Katniss-" I start, towering over my mother. Despite her petite size and skinny frame, she has a lot of strength. She brings her hand around and slaps the side of my head. I don't even react, keeping my face as a mask, refusing to display any emotion since I know that's what she's aiming for.

"You do not!" she hisses. "You're obsessed, boy. You're crazy!"

"I want to look after her, and our baby-"

Another slap. My skin is stinging. Great- another bruise to laugh off to anyone who asks.

"Please, Mom. Stop yelling at her. Katniss has done nothing wrong," I say calmly, wishing that she would just hold her temper back for when people visit. Mom's elbow bends, and I don't even flinch. I'm accepting it, tired of fighting. Katniss leaps forward, gripping Mom's arm. She wrenches it out of her grip, her eyes wide. She can't believe that a Seam rat is touching her. She slaps her instead. Katniss' hands flies up to her cheek, though I think it's more out of shock than pain.

"Katniss!" I exclaim, pushing past Mom and holding onto her upper arms.

"I'm fine," she says stonily, her grey eyes fixed on my mother, who probably has steam pouring from her ears. I hear her leave the room, spinning on her heel with a huff. "She's a coward."

"What happened?" I ask, cradling her face in my hands.

"Nothing, she just came in and started yelling. I'm okay, Peeta," she soothes.

"I can't believe she actually hit you though," I whisper. Katniss sits me back down onto a stool.

"If you hadn't been there I would've slapped her too, don't you worry," she laughs, smoothing her thumb over my cheekbone.

"Do you want some ice for your cheek?" I ask, and she shakes her head. "Have you finished whatever you were doing? I don't like secrets, especially when they're kept from me."

"Stop fussing. And yes, I'm done."

"You want to go home?"

"Yes, please. But I need to thank your Dad for helping me."

"I'll pass on the message for you," I reassure her, walking over to the coat rack and pulling on my jacket and handing Katniss her coat.

"Fuck, I'm not going to be able to wear this if I get any bigger," she mutters. I laugh. She scowls at me. "Don't laugh. I'm going to be like a watermelon with legs!"

It's mid-afternoon, but still bitterly cold. The snow is still falling in erratic flurries, covering all the paths people have cleared. The square is fairly snow-free, the snowball fight that was happening on the way to the bakery using up all the snow. But the snow that remains has been compacted underfoot, solidifying into a giant ice rink. I'm cautious, sticking my arms out as I make my way across, trying not to slip and fall on my ass. Katniss, however, takes the ice like a natural, even in her hunting boots.

"How can you do that?" I ask as she slides towards me.

"There's a lake in the forest. Whenever it froze over enough, Dad would take me there and teach me to skate. We used to have proper skates, with the metal blades on the bottom, but I sold them a few years back," she grips my gloved hands, tugging me away from the safety of the shop walls where I can hang on tight and into the middle of the square.

"Wait, I can't skate!" I say as Katniss twirls away, her braid whipping around. "How do you expect me to get back to dry ground?"

"You'll have to learn pretty fast then, won't you?" she laughs, stopping to readjust her scarf.

"Cut me some slack- at least tell me how to move," I plead, spreading my feet a shoulder widths apart to try and keep my balance.

"Are you telling me that you've never skidded around on the tiles in your kitchen while wearing socks?" Katniss asks, raising her eyebrows incredulously.

"Have I been living under a rock?"

She slides over and takes my hands. "Just pretend you're doing that. Slide your feet forward, but keep your knees bent slightly.

"What if I fall?"

"You'll get a bruise."

"And if I don't?"

"I'll find a way to make you fall," she laughs. "Now come on, you've got to at least try." I try my best to skate, but my efforts look pathetic compared to the way Katniss flies across the bumpy ice, the tip of her nose red, her cheeks flushed from the cold. Just as I begin to get the idea, I lose control of my feet (a Mellark trait, unfortunately) and slip, my arms flailing in what I'm sure is an attractive way, falling flat on my back, whacking my head. Katniss laughs at first, the sound music to my ears, but I lay still, pretending that I've been knocked unconscious from the fall.

"Peeta?" she calls. I hear the scraping sound of ice as she gets closer, and my lips start twitching. I desperately want to burst out laughing. "Peeta? Are you alright?" She bends down, kneeling on the ice, and shakes my shoulder. "Don't be a jackass. If this is your idea of a joke... I swear I'm gonna kill you." I feel her hands on my face. "Peeta? Can you hear me?" She's getting worried now, I can hear it in her voice. "Shit," She breathes, shaking my shoulder again. "Please tell me you're kidding right now. Peeta?" She exhales loudly. "Peeta?" She tries again. "Oh my God." She whispers. I open my eyes. She's inches from my face.

"I got you." I chuckle. She gasps, her eyes wide. I laugh, clutching at my stomach.

"Fuck you, Peeta Mellark! I thought you were dead or something!"

"I told you I'd get you back for putting snow on me!"

"You can sleep on the couch tonight," she scowls, starting to push herself to her feet. I grab her hand and pull her back down. She folds her arms over her chest, glaring at me.

"Alright, I'm sorry," I say, sitting up and kissing the tip of her nose.

"You're a moron, you know that right?" Katniss continues. I press my lips to hers. She doesn't kiss me back. "I was freaking out."

"I know you were," I mumble, giving up on trying to keep a straight face.

"Asshole," she grumbles. I kiss her again.

"You love me anyway," I add, and she takes my face in her hands and kisses me gently. When I pull away, I push the strands of hair that have escaped her braid away from her face.

"Do I still have to sleep on the couch?" I implore. Katniss scoffs, standing up and brushing off her pants. I climb unsteadily to my feet, walking carefully towards her. I tug on her braid. "You didn't answer me."

"Yes," she says, nudging me in the ribs. "You do."