You're probably going to think this chapter is kind of boring…but you'll end up rereading it later! Hehe. Once again this turned out way too long; WHY DID I NOT PACE MYSELF THROUGHOUT THE BOOK?!

I'm disappointed. I don't get to see Gale and Madge's reaction to our gifts- all they're airing is interviews with the families. It's a routine part of Top Eight, but I see it exclusively as an inconvenience. Who cares what Clove's mom has to say when I could be watching Gale and Madge?

We might as well watch what they're playing, though. Peeta tilts his head a little, as if asking my permission to stay. Ridiculous. The boy practically lives here. I nod back at him and we settle in.

We listen as Clove's parents gush over and over again about how proud they are of her. It's seriously the only thing they have to say. Except when, at the end of the interview, Clove's little sister pipes up that she's jealous.

Jealous.

What on earth can be jealous of? The fans, the glory? If Clove dies in the arena she'll never even know about the fans. If not that, what, the chance to "unleash the beast" and kill people?

What kind of teenager is jealous of that?

I answer my own question. Most of the kids in District Two, probably. I shudder a little and think about how grateful I am that we are normal.

The next interviewees are a bald-but-swole middle-aged man and a dark-haired teen. I don't know what I'm looking at until labels pop up on the screen. Brutus Cabot, Cato's mentor. Nolan Hadley, Cato's brother.

"Parents must be dead," Peeta states.

"The brother looks nothing like him," I add, but I end up retracting my statement. If you get past the black hair, you can tell the two boys are brothers. They share the same thin nose and sea-green eyes, in addition to the rippling muscles.

"Brutus, did you expect Cato to get this far in the games?"

"I expect him to get much farther." Brutus's voice is deep and flat, as if he has never cared about anything in his life. The Hunger Games will do that to you. "We've barely scratched the surface of what the boy can do. I'd be more surprised if he loses."

I imagine a lot of people share that sentiment. Cato is exactly the kind of person that usually wins. I'm just hoping an underdog like Gale will be able to unseat him.

"Nolan, are you jealous of your brother's success in the spotlight?"

Nolan just shrugs. "Oh, maybe a little. But he's my brother; I'm proud of him. Nobody wants it more than Cato."

I'm not sure if I believe that. When everybody's lives are on the line, how can one person want it more or less? I guess the difference is Cato is in it not just for his survival, but for the glory and fame that comes with winning.

"What's your opinion on Cato's choice of teammates?"

"I'm his mentor. I told him to do that."

"Clove's the obvious choice. Glimmer and Marvel were alright while they lasted."

He's so matter-of-fact about it. I wonder if Nolan's in a Career academy like Cato presumably was. I guess he looks the part.

The reporter has one last question. "If you could give Cato one more piece of advice, what would it be?"

Neither of their answers surprises me. "Trust no one," says Brutus.

"Don't get too cocky," Nolan adds.

I don't pay much attention to the family interviews from Three and Four. Both those tributes have survived this long exclusively by chance. Neither of them has much for supplies so unless they spontaneously gain the mother of all sponsors, they won't last long. With the real players like Cato and Clove, I'm curious the families might offer some insight on weaknesses. These guys don't matter.

The girl from Five is a little more of a contender, in my mind. She's clever and stealthy…but she doesn't have Gale's hunting skills or the Careers' brute strength. She has to survive by her wits while the others have resources. The only way she could really win is if everyone else forgets about her until they've destroyed each other.

And then there's Thresh, who is a threat. Oddly enough, the scary-looking giant of a dude has an adorable family. It tugs at my heartstrings to see his six siblings, all much smaller than him, huddled around their mother as the cameras get in their faces. It's a little reminder of how many people will be hurt no matter who wins the Games. All those siblings, all those parents, me. How unfair is it that twenty-three families a year must lose everything?

When I see the Hawthornes onscreen, all thoughts of unfairness vacate my mind. The Undersees are there too. Normally, two families would not get interviewed together, but I suppose Gale and Madge have defied 'normal' in every other way so far.

"It's so weird to see them on TV," Peeta says. I start a little at his voice.

"I felt the same way about Gale and Madge." My words come out hollow. "I guess I've gotten used to it."

"Hey." He drops into a tone I know is meant to soothe me. Soft and gentle, as if he can read me from just two sentences. He probably can, actually. "You'll see him again."

"That's up to him, not me."

"I think you should believe in him."

"I do believe in him."

I don't want to say the truth: while there are bursts of hope, I've been grieving for Gale ever since I heard him vow to protect Madge. If that's the path he's on, no amount of believing in him will make a difference.

I guess we should hope while we still can.

"How surprised were you, when you first heard Madge and Gale were an item?"

So far, everyone has just been chattering over each other, but now the two families slow down and take turns.

"SO surprised!" exclaims Vick, the youngest Hawthorne boy. He'd look exactly like the eldest if not for a strange refusal to cut his hair. He looks a little goofy, with his black locks long enough to brush his shoulders, but he's only ten.

"We had no idea!" Mrs. Undersee puts in.

"Gale's always been a private kid, but I just couldn't believe…" Hazelle trails off.

"Why do you think they kept their relationship a secret?"

The two mothers exchange a look. Extraordinary, how two extremely different people can make the exact same face.

"…I suppose they didn't know how we'd react," Mrs. Undersee says hesitantly.

"Because of the difference in income?"

It seems so silly now, doesn't it?

I think they all realize it at the same time I do.

When your child's life is on the line, it doesn't really matter who's merchant and who's miner.

The mayor speaks up and, as always, handles the situation with grace. "Well, we are very protective of Madge. Always have been. We can't protect her in the arena, but Gale can, and he's done a wonderful job so far. Regardless of what our initial reaction might have been, we're pleased with our daughter's choice of mate."

"And bravo for that." The reporter holds out his microphone to Rory, who's around Prim's age. "What do you think of Madge?"

"Well, I think she's a good influence on Gale."

This makes all the adults laugh. Mr. Undersee sounds like he's faking it a little.

"Moving on. Are you surprised that both tributes have made it past the first day?"

Only in the Capitol would that be considered a reasonable question.

"I was worried Gale might rush into the bloodbath," Hazelle confesses. I remember thinking the same thing.

"And Madge, well, she just isn't a fighter," adds Mrs. Undersee. "But look at how they've rallied! And District Twelve has rallied with them."

"…what exactly do you mean by that?"

"It's all thanks to a pair of Gale and Madge's friends at home; they've taken up a collection so they can become sponsors!" the mayor explains.

"It's very admirable, for a couple of kids. Really warms our hearts to see how much people do care about Gale and Madge!"

"That's us!" I exclaim. "They're talking about us! On national TV!"

"Well, sort of," says Peeta. "I still don't consider Gale my friend."

"And neither of us knows Madge."

"At least they didn't mention we almost got arrested."

"All because we stood on the stage."

We're joking now, but I'm still proud of what we've done. Obviously it's never been about the recognition- I had no idea that was even on the table. But there's something pleasing about being talked about to the whole world, in a positive way this time. Now I really know we've made a difference.

I don't know why I'm surprised when Peeta stands up, as the interview concludes. I expected him to stay. Why? I don't know that either. Perhaps I've just gotten too used to his presence at the house.

I guess it would make sense for Peeta to have better things to do.

"I'll see you tomorrow?"

It's definitely phrased as a question. I'm not sure if he's asking me if I want to see him, or if he's just not sure what the next day might bring. I nod affirmatively just in case. "Right. Tomorrow…partner."

"Partner? I don't know if I can claim equal stake in this endeavor."

I shrug. "You've easily done half the work."

"Well…when Gale gets back, you don't have to tell him I did any of it."

"I wish I could share your confidence."

"I'm surprised you don't. If anyone should believe in Gale, it's you."

I mean, I guess he's right. But I still feel like there's something weird in the way he says it, something I'm supposed to understand that I don't.

I always feel weird when Peeta leaves.

Unlike him, I don't have anything better to do. I leave the TV on, hoping they'll go back to airing live footage, but they just keep coming up with more questions for the families. I grow frustrated before long. I'm sure if something was really going down in the arena, they would show it, but I'd still prefer to see Gale and Madge, safe and sound, with my own eyes.

Mom and Prim burst into the house, a bloodied man supported between their shoulders. I bolt, almost without thinking. I'd be no help to them anyway, and I'd rather get out before the painful howls that come with anesthetic-free surgery start.

An afternoon in the woods does me good, although I don't bring back much food. When I get back, there's no sign of blood or the wounded man, and Prim is singing as she chops carrots for dinner. I take this to mean the surgery went well.

When I ask as much, Prim informs me that is not the only reason she's in a good mood.

"Well, what else is there?" I ask dryly.

"There's going to be a dance in the square tomorrow!" she exclaims, knocking a couple carrots to the floor in her enthusiasm. "Like, with real music and everything!"

I'm caught by surprise. A dance is one of the nicest things that can happen in District Twelve. It's not a very common occurrence, since only a few people own instruments and leisure time is rare except for children on summer break.

"Really?" I ask.

She looks at me as if I've said something truly horrible. "Yes, really! We heard about it when we were out! Isn't it exciting?"

"Of course it's exciting!" I assure her. "I just…it seems wrong to celebrate without Gale."

"Gale's the reason so many people want to celebrate," Prim reasons. She gives me an intent stare, the stage right before puppy-dog-eyes. "You'll go, won't you?"

She can tell I'm hesitating. She can read me like a book and she knows I would do anything for my little sister. It's just hard to imagine going dancing without Gale.

Before Madge, it was something we would do together. Never in a romantic sense, but in a madly fun sense, spinning each other around to the lively folk tunes. That's always belonged to us.

"You'll go, right?" Prim tries again.

"Won't you be too busy dancing with boys to worry about me being there?" I suggest.

She wrinkles her nose. "No, of course not! Ew! It's just for fun, Katniss."

Ah, to be twelve.

"I guess, though, it's your choice…if you want to go…but I really think you should."

I sigh. She is so hard to say no to. "…can I say I'll think about it?"

She's visibly pleased, as if I've already agreed. Which is probably what I'll end up doing, because I am a sucker who has nothing better to do. "Sure! Let's start there."

§

It's a quiet day, both in my real life and onscreen. Eventually I see a replay of Madge and Gale eating strawberries and setting up snares. Prim and Mother keep talking about surgery so I skip dinner.

I make up for it by getting to the woods extra early the next morning. I've decided I'm going to save up for the two sleeping bags, squirrel by squirrel if I have to. The Gamemakers have been messing with the arena, making it freezing cold at night and blisteringly hot during the day, so an extra layer while they sleep would make a big difference for them. Also it drives me nuts to watch them spooning under that stupid bush.

I break my promise to Prim just this once by dividing and marketing all the goods myself. It saves a lot of time to go straight to the Hob after hunting, and with the Hawthornes still in the Capitol, it's really not that complicated to divvy up the goods. I'd really like to think that's within my capabilities.

On the off chance she is annoyed with me, I decide to stop at the bakery and pick up something she'll like. That's not too hard- Prim likes everything. I'm envisioning raisin bread with goat's butter or maybe some sugar cookies, depending how far my coins from the Hob will stretch.

I'm a little disappointed it's not Peeta working the counter, but Rye, the middle brother. They look very similar, except Rye's hair is a bit darker and he's built like a musk ox. He's a year older than me.

Peeta does make an appearance, though! He sticks his head out of the kitchen when Rye and I start talking. "Katniss?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you're here! Come in!"

"I am in."

"No, back here!"

I've never been in the actual baking part of the bakery before. But I guess I'm curious. I leave the loaf of bread I'd picked out on the counter and promise Rye I'll be back.

I'm very familiar with the store side of the bakery, its whitewashed walls and the oak platters in the display case. The baking side is all brand new to me. I decide it's charming. There's a trio of great big ovens on one wall, run on District Twelve coal, surely, and an enormous counter covered in flour. Off to the side is a two-tiered cake on a stand, half-frosted.

"Did you make that?" I ask, awestruck.

He nods and gestures to the frosting smears on his apron. Not many men can pull off the apron look, but Peeta does alright. "Yes, been working on it all morning. But I can take a break. Do you want to bake something?"

"Bake something? Me? Here?" I look around.

"Mom's not here," he says, answering the question I've been dancing around. "She's in the square, setting up. She'll be gone all afternoon."

I can breathe a side of relief. I have always disliked Mrs. Mellark- our first interaction involved her slapping her youngest son across the face, and I've avoided her as much as possible ever since. She's the dark cloud in what's otherwise one of the nicest families I know.

"Is the cake for the dance?" I ask.

Peeta nods, visibly proud of his work. As he should be- the intricate frosting swirls and stars look more like a piece of art than a dessert. "Yes. It was Nicky's idea, but he kindly let me put it into action."

"What did I do?"

Nicky is the eldest Mellark brother. He's just come in the back door. He looks a lot like Peeta and Rye, but he's taller and skinnier than either of them. He's eighteen, I'm pretty sure.

"You told me to bake a cake," says Peeta.

"Oh, right.." He nods goodbye and starts checking something in the oven.

Peeta wipes his hands on his apron and turns to me. "So, how 'bout that baking lesson?"

I hesitate; he can tell. "C'mon, I went hunting with you that one time! It's only fair!"

"One time!" I repeat.

"You don't think it would be fun?"

I just shrug. But "oh, fine" springs to my lips. I cannot say no to Prim; I cannot say no to Peeta. At least it's only the two kindest people in the world who have this kind of power over me.

Peeta is thrilled when I agree. He pulls out a big bowl and starts telling me what to do. In this one particular case, I am happy to do as I'm told. He measures, I stir. This is the way of things.

There's not much to talk about, but we chat anyway. The Games. Raisin bread versus nut bread. The interviews from yesterday. Nicky chimes in once in a while. Even Rye has something to say, if we're being particularly loud and no one's in the shop. I want to say it's peace, but it's better than that: it's fun. It's the most fun I've had in a long time.

"This is dough stage one," Peeta announces, tipping the contents of the bowl onto the flour-covered counter. A pale shapeless lump. "We need to knead it."

"We need to knead it," I repeat.

"So flour your hands."

I dunk my hands in the nearby bowl, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. The resulting cloud of flour makes me cough a little.

Peeta points me to the lump of dough, as if I know what to do with it. I've never watched the bread-making process before, and the tesserae bread we make at home doesn't require kneading or rising. Nevertheless, I feel it would be awkward to ask for more instruction at this point, so I grab the dough and make an attempt.

"Whoa, not like that!" Peeta interrupts almost right away.

I have no possible way of knowing what I've done wrong. "Like what?"

"You have to be gentle with it," he says. His tone is dead serious- I had no idea the kneading of bread was such a grave matter. "More palm, less fingers. You're not strangling it."

"Okay…"

I try again, making a point of being soft when I mash the dough around. Peeta shakes his head again. "Hmm…okay, try something, like, in the middle."

Apparently my 'something in the middle' isn't right either. Peeta sighs heavily- as if I have tried his patience so greatly- and covers my hands with his. "Here. Try it like this."

It should be obvious by now that I don't take criticism very well. But if there's any subject I should defer to Peeta on, it's bread, so I let him guide my hands over the dough. It is immediately clear that I was doing it wrong before, not that I will admit that.

I figure it out pretty quickly. Peeta steps away and watches intently as I attempt to knead (correctly) on my own. He looks so serious that I can't help but flick a clump of dough at him. He picks it off his apron and flicks it back at me.

"Why do we have to do this, anyway?" I complain.

"It activates the yeast. Makes it rise."

"What would happen if we didn't knead it?"

"It would…rise less."

When Peeta declares I have kneaded the dough enough (I don't know how to tell) we dump it back in the bowl and let it rise. While we wait, Peeta goes back to working on the cake. I watch, marveling at his precision and the seemingly-insignificant details that make the whole thing come together perfectly. He doesn't offer to let me help with the frosting- a decision we can all agree is for the best.

I feel almost reverent, watching Peeta create the delicate piece of art that is dessert, and I have not made a sound since he began. It would be so wrong to interrupt his focus, to risk a single smear on this masterpiece. I don't mind not talking, either. Our silence is comfortable and companionable, like when Gale and I are out in the woods together.

The single thought of Gale sends a jolt down my spine. It's only been maybe an hour since he last crossed my mind- but when was the last time I went an hour without thinking of Gale? I feel guilty about it, at first. As if I owe him every hour of every day. But then I remember my thought from earlier.

Peace.

Now, in the bakery, is the first time I've felt peace since before the Reaping.

I've given Gale all I can. I deserve to have this.

Peeta pipes one last dot of frosting onto the cake and steps away from the stand. "Hmm…perfect. Nick, do you wanna take this to the square?"

"Why do I have to do everything?" Nicky complains, but he does box the cake up and carry it out of the bakery. I hope he doesn't drop it.

Peeta and I check on the bread. Again, I don't know what to look for, although it is noticeably larger than when we first set it to rise. He declares it "ready to bake" so we grease a pan and stick it in one of the great hulking ovens.

More waiting. I hover at the oven door, watching through the small glass window. After puttering around in the kitchen for a bit, Peeta joins me. His shoulder bumps against mine and my first instinct is to flinch away from the touch. I don't know why- it's Peeta. I've always been comfortable with him, from messing up his hair to sharing the loveseat at my house to shoulder-checking each other when we used to race to school.

I assume it's the proximity to the oven. I rock back on my heels, but our knees just knock and I don't feel any cooler.

"Are you going to the dance tonight?" Peeta asks when we've gotten bored of watching bread bake.

If it was anyone else, he probably wouldn't ask. I'm probably the only person in District Twelve who's 'thinking about it'- everyone else is already dying to go! Ordinarily, I would be too. I just can't separate the merriment of dancing from Gale.

I hope a shrug explains my complex feelings on the matter.

"Really?" he asks. I don't know why he's so shocked. He asked. "You're not going?"

Ugh, of course he's going to make me talk. "…I haven't decided yet."

He meets my eyes- something far more intimate than our knees bumping, but oddly less intimidating- and I swear he's reading my mind. "…because of Gale?"

The little voice in my head sings, shut up, shut up, shut up! over and over again.

It doesn't seem like an appropriate time to lie, so I nod. Reluctantly. "It doesn't seem right to celebrate without him."

It's the same explanation I gave Prim, but it feels dumber coming out of my mouth this time. I have no idea why.

"That's dumb," Peeta declares. Wow, rude- but I guess we are on the same wavelength. "You've done so much for Gale- more than anyone else has. You're allowed, maybe even obligated, to continue living life."

"I am living life!" I argue, gesturing to the oven. "Look- we made bread today! That's life!"

He doesn't need to say anything. He just stares at me with those stupid blue eyes until I come up with the correct conclusion on my own.

"Oh, alright," I huff. "I guess I've been a little…work-focused…lately. And, potentially, I have not exactly been living life as normal."

He nods encouragingly, as if I have begun the right way but I absolutely must go on. I wonder if Prim put him up to this.

"…and perhaps it would be good for me to take a night off," I conclude. "There, happy now?"

A half-smile graces Peeta's poker face. "Elated. But it is your decision, really. And if you decide not to go, I'll have Primrose bring you a slice of the cake."

"No, I'll go," I insist. "…if only for the cake."

"Not because I asked so nicely?"

"No, definitely not that."

Actually, now that I've allowed myself to go, I find that I am looking forward to the dance. I rarely have reason to sing anymore- it reminds me too much of my dad- but music is in my blood. And to see Prim happy, spinning in circles in the middle of the square…well, sometimes it seems like that's all that really matters.

Ding! "Our bread's done!" Peeta announces, opening the oven door. The tempting smell of fresh bread makes my mouth water. The crackle of the crust as Peeta slices it is equally tempting.

It's maybe not as good as a loaf made without my "help", but with a hearty smear of jam on top, it's perfectly satisfactory. "Well?" I ask, as I lick the last trace of jam off my fingers. "Do I pass my first baking lesson?"

"Yes, with flying colors. Actually, I think you should teach me from now on."

"I could teach you how to ruin bread, maybe."

"I already know how to ruin bread."

I don't know if it's on purpose, but my mind spins all the way back to six years ago, starving. Back to when I was saved by a loaf of ruined bread from Peeta. He probably remembers- I know he remembers- but I also know it didn't make nearly as much of an impression on him as it did on me.

Before I can say anything, we hear the back door open and the sound of Peeta's nasty bitch of a mom nagging his much-more-pleasant dad. We both freeze, but react within seconds. Peeta shoves the still-warm loaf of bread into my hands and I bolt into the shop side of the bakery.

"See you tonight, Katniss!" Rye calls as I bang past the front door. I wave at him half-heartedly with my free hand and run home as quickly as I can.

My original opinion stands, that this chapter is kind of boring. But it also includes some Easter eggs (one which will never be revealed, because it's literally just a one-sentence reference to a terrible terrible terrible Everlark fic I started and never finished that I occasionally reread to make me feel better about my current writing) and that's cool I guess? Stay with me, folks, IT GETS BETTER.

Also, yes, 'Nicky' is short for Pumpernickel.