Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Chance Not Taken
The sound echoes along the back loading dock of the Merchant bakery after I knock my fist against the metal hull of the rear door. With the other, the hem of my blue Reaping dress is getting hopelessly creased. I've never been back here in so nice a dress – the nicest article of clothing I own – but I got a late start when my sister woke up in the middle of the night from a terror. It was a fortunate thing I had gotten in an extra haul the afternoon before, and that all it took to make my trade today was fetch the extra hunk of squirrel meat from our icebox.
The Reaping starts in a little over an hour. I don't have much time.
The metal of the door creaks as it hinges open, and my fist freezes against my skirts mid-crease. My throat suddenly feels very dry, my grey orbs expanding as I take in the handsome, stocky build of the boy standing before me, busily wiping his hands down on an apron that hugs his strong, firm frame. I feel a strange ache down below, and my cheeks burn so that I can only hope he will think the sun's rays have scorched me there.
Peeta Mellark is a classmate of mine in school, though we have never spoken outside of conducting these back door trades over the past several months, since he took it over from his father. Before, the Baker would always conduct business with me, and often I ordinarily have Gale at my side.
But today is the Reaping, and I am risking punishment from the Peacekeepers by just being out here, and so close to a Mandatory Assembly.
Peeta smiles. "Good morning, Katniss." I actually like the way he smiles. It is bright, and makes his eyes sparkle so that they are as blue as a summer sky…
It also makes my stomach do odd flip-flops that have always disquieted me. The things that this boy makes me feel unconsciously. I try to weakly smile back, certain it comes off as more of a grimace.
My one fist has gone back to ruining much of my mother's ironing from the previous night, while with the other, I hold up the squirrel by the tail, clearing my throat as I do so. Peeta brightens.
"Glad you could make it! I was beginning to wonder that you wouldn't, it being a holiday and all…" He makes a show of inspecting the little beast, and I have to wrestle with myself to tamp down a laugh. The first time Peeta and I traded meat for bread, his rather dramatic insistence on inspecting the product had elicited a bizarre giggle from me, so that now he has displayed the scrutiny ever since. Though he knows as well as I do that I only deliver his family the best game meat.
I always have to deliver the best, for that is all I can do to repay the debt I owe him from when we were children, not much younger than my sister. In the midst of a driving rain, eyes meet. Sudden silence. Sudden heat… heat from the loaves of bread against my chest. The loaves of bread he threw to me…
"Something hold you up?"
I am jolted out of my train of thought and the strange, gooey…. warmth that's always accompanied it. Late. He's wondering why I'm later this morning than I normally am delivering my trade. I glance down at my feet, using my remaining free hand to run my fingers through the braided tresses of my chestnut hair – yet another nervous habit that I only seem to display when he's around. I sigh. "Prim was up in the night, sobbing about being picked."
I am flooded with heat from the sympathetic look Peeta sends my way. "It's perfectly normal to feel that before your first Reaping. I did. Tell her she won't get chosen. And if she's really that concerned, tell her to get a Reaping Kiss too."
I blast out a chuckle. "I think she'd have someone in mind if I did, so I'd rather not nudge her in that direction." My sister's been crushing on Rory Hawthorne, the little brother of my hunting partner, since they both started school the same year.
My amusement almost makes me miss Peeta's next question. "…. So have you gotten one? A Reaping Kiss?"
I blink, gazing at him. "What?"
The Reaping Kiss is one of the oldest superstitions in District 12. No one knows who started it, or why, but legend has it that if you share a kiss with someone on Reaping morning, both you and your partner are guaranteed not to be picked. I've sailed through my last four Reapings just fine without one, although I have yet to uncover any evidence that the good luck charm doesn't work.
My face is cherry red. My blue skirts must be so crumpled, the fabric will be in danger of tearing. Casting my eyes askance, I pet my braid anxiously, tossing it back over my shoulder as I mumble, "No."
Through my fluttering lashes, I dare to lift my eyes to where Peeta is gnawing on his bottom lip in thought. I'm drawn to it, suddenly conjuring an image of my lips… I bat it back, scared and somewhat appalled with myself. I've told myself I'm never getting married and having kids. Not after Daddy died. Not after what happened to Mother.
"Can… can I give you a Reaping Kiss?"
My grey eyes expand so that they must look like moons. Did Peeta Mellark just ask to kiss…. me…?
"May I give you a Reaping Kiss?" My voice is a breathless whisper as I correct his grammar. I'm locked in his sapphire stare again, and I gulp. "Please," I tack on at the end.
Peeta must think the 'Please' was my way of signaling permission, for he looks oddly thrilled, maybe even a little bit elated. He takes one step into me and I nearly prance away like a skittish deer, my blue skirts swishing at my ankles.
"Oh, no, I…. I…. I don't believe in that stuff. Superstitious crap," I dismiss, smiling weakly. Now a giggle bubbles up and escapes, and I want to die of shame. If Peeta is disappointed that I've rebuffed his asking for a kiss, he doesn't show it.
"If you're sure. You can never have too much luck, Katty."
I blush. Peeta started calling me 'Katty' after he overheard Primrose call me that once when I brought her along on one of my trades before school. It's a pet name, much like Gale's moniker of Catnip, only this one I like hearing much better, especially when he says it.
My smile is still unconvincing, even as I murmur out, "I'll be fine."
Peeta nods softly. "May the odds be ev-ah in your fav-uh."
He gets a laugh out of me with his attempt at a Capitol accent, and I lamely wave goodbye as I dash up the back alley, my heart fluttering and tightening in a way that nearly makes me want to cry. I don't know what it is about this boy that he makes me feel so… strongly. And even if I did know, I daren't voice it.
Mother doesn't raise any objections to how crumpled I've made my own dress. Not that I expected her to – she hasn't shown energy for much of anything in the five years since my father died. So I have to substitute in much of the mother hen fussing, making sure to take in the hem of Primrose's blouse. "Better tuck in that tail, Little Duck."
My sister and I walk to the Square hand in hand, Mother trailing behind. We register with the authorities wordlessly, though Prim does whimper a little bit at having to surrender some of her own blood so her DNA can be matched and placed in the logbook.
The Reaping starts promptly at 10:00, and when the clock above the Justice Building strikes the hour, our district mayor, Mayor Undersee, takes the microphone to read the names of past District 12 Victors of the Hunger Games.
In what will soon be 74 years of this death match starring children, we have had exactly two. Only one is still alive.
"The Victor of the 10th Hunger Games: Lucy Gray Baird!" We all bow our heads in silent reverence, something I have done since I was a small child, something my parents no doubt did when they were small children. Little is known about the woman whose name the Mayor is invoking. Our Hunger Games History teacher lectures us on as much as she can – or at least, what the government allows her to. There is a statue of Lucy Gray Baird out in the school play-yard. Our train station is named after her. Daddy used to always say that Lucy Gray Baird was one of us – Seam, and also endowed with that unique Covey blood that runs through my own veins. He also used to say she disappeared not long after returning from her arena. She's mostly viewed as an old ghost story that Seam mothers use to frighten their little ones into behaving.
"The Victor of the 50th Hunger Games, or Second Quarter Quell: Haymitch Abernathy!" There is more laughter than scattered applause as our only living champion takes the stage in a staggering soft-shoe. A paunchy, middle-aged drunk who rarely comes down the hill from the Victors' Village where he lives like a recluse all alone (except for the Hunger Games History school lectures he's forced to deliver near the end of term), Haymitch Abernathy is probably a peer of my mother – scarcely 40 – though his thinning blonde hair suggests he's much older. He doesn't even closely resemble his marble likeness that overlooks the school play-yard. In terms of anything bearing his name, his got slapped over the district's largest mine, even though the man never worked down its shafts a day in his life.
Haymitch half falls into the chair provided for him, belches, then tries to give our district escort, Effie Trinket, a hug on her way to the microphone.
"Welcome…. Welcome! The time has come to choose one young man and woman for the honor of representing District 12 in the 74th Annual Hunger Games! As always… ladies first."
I barely have time to squeeze my eyes tight against the glare, silently willing for a name that isn't Prim's. Any name but Prim's…
"Leevey Thompson!"
I exhale in relief, though the breath nonetheless causes a stab of pain to flare up. I watch guiltily as a tall, skinny girl takes the stage. Aged 18, she's Gale's year in school. This was her last Reaping, but the odds just weren't in her favor. It rarely is, for Seam kids like us.
I've been so focused on Leevey that I don't notice how Effie has crossed to the bowl with the boys' names until her voice is ringing out:
"Peeta Mellark!"
I nearly swoon from shock into the girl next to me.
Peeta Mellark!
Oh…. Oh Snow's Roses, no... Not him.
But it is. There is a heated whispering amidst my peers as the stocky, hale form of the boy I've traded with for months, the… the boy who saved my life, suddenly has his so brutally ripped away. I watch helplessly, my mouth hanging agape, as the handsome young man takes the stage.
Merchants – that's what people of polite manners call the richer folks in Town – getting selected for the Games is quite rare. They never go hungry, and thus never have to take out the tesserae rations the rest of us in the Seam do just to survive. The resentment this breeds means that more than a few of my neighbors will be more than happy to see a child of fairer looks go in.
But I can't be resentful. I don't have many friends, and the limited ones I do have don't run with 'Townies,' as Gale calls them… but the last person who deserves this is Peeta Mellark, the Baker's youngest son.
Several heads of the people closest to me in line are suddenly swiveling to look at me, and I suddenly realize it's because some strange, choking cry just emanated from my throat. My cheeks sizzle aflame and I curl into myself, mind spinning like a top. Even after the scrutiny of others has faded, I can still feel one person's eyes on me, and I can't bear to look up. Up at the stage where he is.
Effie presents out tributes from District 12 to uniform silence, and the ceremony concludes without any fanfare. I am jostled a little as the rows and squares of teenagers congeals, disperses. I weave through the openings until I find my sister, who hugs me around the middle in abject relief. Tucking an arm around her, we head to the edge of the Square to meet up with Mother. Yet with every step I take, I can't help but glance back at the Justice Building, where no one is braving the marble steps and oak doors to wish our tributes goodbye. The tributes who everyone always sees as good as dead, because outside of two freak exceptions, every District 12 tribute who goes into the Games comes back dead.
My heart constricts into something closely resembling panic, and I've only just picked out the blonde curls of our mother in the crowd when I am suddenly pushing Prim in her direction, my mind coming to a rash, mad decision.
"Prim: go to Mother! I'll be right behind you!" And turning, my blue skirts flapping at my ankles, I take off running for the Justice Building doors.
"Where are you going, Katty?!" I hear Prim call after me, but I don't glance back.
If I don't do this now…. I never will. And I can't bear that.
I'm a little annoyed and relieved all at once to see there is the start of a line to see Peeta Mellark. His family is being ushered in just as I arrive at the back. Also ahead of me are two girls – one redhead, one blonde. The redhead I only recognize vaguely (especially from the back) as a school classmate, but the blonde I would know anywhere: Madge Undersee, the Mayor's daughter and probably my only girl friend. A handful of boys – teammates of Peeta's from the wrestling squad in school – are also present. No one pays me any mind, and no one gets in line behind me.
The hem of my blue dress is hefted barely past my knees as I'm kneading the fabric with both fists now. I'm biting my lip so hard, I am sure it will bleed. I don't even fully know what it is I'm doing here, and I only have a slightly better grasp on as to why… even if admitting the reason makes my face flush.
The Mellarks – Peeta's parents and two older brothers – are let out after fifteen minutes; people are let in individually unless family groups are in queue. From there, I have to wait as close to half a dozen people are let in ahead of me, one at a time. I always knew Peeta was popular in school. He's always had a tight circle of friends.
When the redheaded girl steps back out, I place her as the daughter of the shoe cobbler, the girl who's always happy. She seems surprised to see me in line, blinking before suddenly grinning in a way that seems to have some deeper meaning behind it. When she follows, Madge and I lock eyes and she nods to me once. Peeta's wrestling buddies are ferried in and out in a revolving door fashion without acknowledgement from either party.
Finally, I am standing in front of the door, my palms by now sweating so that the moisture seeps into the blue fabric of my dress. The officer stationed in front of the door is also a ginger, and he has a kind smile – unusual for a Peacekeeper, but I've seen him around the Hob. He's not like most of the others, and I've caught his name in passing. Darius.
"Last visitor of the day gets twenty minutes. Bet you're glad about that, eh, Miss Everdeen?" Darius winks at me, and I turn fuchsia, flustered at what he is implying.
The door opens and Darius gently nudges me in, murmuring the reminder that I have an extra five minutes than the others. 20 minutes total. To say what I need to say to a boy who makes me feel things I shouldn't, things I can't even begin to identify or name.
What do you say to the person who was your last hope? What do you say to that person who will soon be pressed into a hopeless situation – a fight to the death from which only one can emerge alive?
Peeta is standing at the far end of the room, gazing out from the floor-to-ceiling windows now being inundated with sunlight. The fancy room we are in seems to sparkle, and I realize we are in one of the Mayor's personal living quarters. There is a fireplace against one wall, and a cushioned bench bolsters the window's sill. A love seat, my mother would call it, and I feel a strange heat pool low in my belly. An ache of muscle between my legs as I take in this handsome man now turning to face me, backlit by the sun so that his beauty only radiates all the more.
"Katniss…." he breathes, clearly shocked but also perhaps…. pleased that I showed up. Braved the doors for him.
My eyes are welling up for some reason, and a pathetic whimper escapes me. Peeta's face falls in concern and he crosses the room in only a few, quick strides until he is standing before me. "Are you all right?"
How can he ask that of me? How can he be thinking only of me, when it's his life now on the line? For he is the one in trouble now.
And it's my fault. It's my entire fault….
"I never got to thank you. For the bread." It comes out in a kind of crooning mutter, but from how my ears are ringing, I might as well have shouted it. "From when we were kids. So…. thank you."
Peeta nods gentlemanly. He seems to know what I'm talking about. What I haven't been able to bear bringing up out of pride, cowardice and a bunch of other complicated feelings I'd rather not dwell on. "You're welcome."
A tear leaks from my eye, and suddenly Peeta's thumb is catching it before it falls and I feel my breath hitch as I suck in a gasp.
"I'm sorry," I warble. "I should have…" I can't finish. Not that Peeta would let me.
"You have nothing to be sorry for," he croons, and his voice – soft like the melted butter I've seen spread over the bread loaves in the bakery windows – is like a balm on my tortured soul.
A shuddering breath escapes me, and I suddenly realize I've stepped into him, damn my pounding heart. I peer up at him, stare at him, my bow lips slightly parted. My grey eyes gaze deep into his smoldering blue ones. When I lift my hand, it feels like it is moving through water, as I brush a finger along the stubble dotting his strong jawline.
"You'd better come home to me…." I don't recognize the tone in my own whisper, and understand still less the choice of my words. Come home to me? Why didn't I just say come home? It might not be much comfort, and no doubt it's not any different from what all his friends said to him in platitudes of support, but it's still comfort.
Peeta's sapphire irises have expanded into whole oceans that I could lose myself into, but he bobs his head once, taking in my hushed prayer as an order. "I will, Katty."
I nod back. "OK…." My voice trails off when my gaze casts down to where Peeta's thumb and forefinger are now playing with my braid. At how he is drinking it in, drinking in me, like he…. like he…
He takes a step in…. I can feel the heat of his body, heat from the ovens he works, radiating upon my skin…
My lashes are lidded, just fluttering as I brace myself for I don't know what –
"Time's up….."
I didn't even hear Darius come in, and his voice peters out almost comically as he takes in whatever… this looks like.
Peeta steps away from me, jaw hardening, and I glance back over my shoulder, stricken. I've heard people say that Peacekeepers will forcibly remove you if they have to, and though I doubt Darius is the type who would, I won't overstay my welcome long enough to find out.
And yet I tarry long enough to surge forward, and before I register what I've done, it's happened: I feel the stubble of Peeta's cheek under my lips as I weakly, lamely, pathetically, brush them against his skin.
"Good….goodbye," I stammer, and I flee.
Primrose is waiting for me on our rickety front porch, when I arrive home. She nearly attacks me, chittering, bursting with questions, but I merely usher her inside and upstairs to bed, not even caring how we are retiring at such an early hour.
As the sun sets over the coalfields, Prim bombards me with hushed questions: Did I go to see the Baker's son, Peeta? What did I say? What did he say? Her eyes are bright and hopeful, an almost matchmaking tinge to them that I haven't the heart to scold her for; I'm too drained. I answer as little as possible, the silence rising with the moon while my sister and I try to snuggle down to sleep in the bed we share.
But the one thing the darkness can't hide are the tears that burst from me unbidden. I sob quietly without even fully knowing why. Only that guilt is lacerating at my insides. I could have kept Peeta safe. If only I…
"Katty?" Prim's silhouette is cast in evening glow. "What's wrong?"
"Oh, Prim…" I weep. "I…. I didn't even give him a Reaping Kiss."