Here's my piece for @promptseverlark's Summer 'This Would Have Happened Anyway'. For someone who's not draw to reading or writing AUs, I've sure been doing a lot of it lately!
It was good to have something to "force" me to write, but I think my favourite thing about this challenge has been reading the amazing works! It's pushed me to read things that I might have otherwise scrolled past, but have really enjoyed. There are incredibly talented people in this community!!
Without further ado...
What if Peeta and Katniss had both been rescued and taken to District Thirteen at the conclusion of the Quarter Quell?
This story takes place around the time of events in the early chapters of Mockingjay.
Peeta's Proposal
I’m not sure how long it takes for my reality to sink in. The loss of natural daylight and knowledge I am underground makes me feel like an animal trapped in a Capitol laboratory.
Despite everyone around me telling me I am safe, I continue to feel watched. I look for hidden cameras in the ceilings and the walls; wondering if I am being broadcast on to District Thirteen’s version of Capitol TV.
The first thing I remember was the hospital ward. I found out later from Prim that it took the doctors over a week to wake me up properly. I spent much of that time under the influence of large doses of morphling.
Each day I get a small white capsule of morphling with my breakfast. Prim tells me there are small lines if you look closely to indicate the dose. She says they are weaning me off it slowly because that is the safest thing to do. I tried to stop suddenly a few days ago on my own and felt terrible – it felt like my skull was being split open, my joints were aching and my eyes and nose kept watering. So I take the pill and squeeze my eyes closed swallowing it with a gulp of recycled water.
Even on the morphling, I continue to have pain. Some days, it’s my head that aches where Johanna knocked me out, other days it’s everywhere all at once. One of the doctors here is a specialist in the mind; he tried explaining to me that pain is a signal and sometimes there is no clear physical cause. I guess that is why I am wearing this bracelet to signify I am “mentally unstable”.
The only thing that truly calms me down is Peeta. I have to wait until very late at night when there are only a few people left in the hospital ward and tread silently to his room. Most of the time he is already asleep, his blond curls softly heaped up on his forehead. He is exhausted more than the rest of us, and they have him on special monitors that watch his heart. Apparently, the doctors have never known anyone to survive touching a forcefield, and Prim says they sit around and talk about the shapes of the lines, and how quick his heart beats. As good natured as ever, Peeta doesn’t mind much and asks the doctors questions every now and then. I take it upon myself to be suspicious of them, so I do not speak to the doctors unless absolutely necessary.
Peeta is already asleep tonight to the melody of the soft beeps of the monitors when I peek behind the door. He is curled up on his side with the blanket rolled down, anticipating my arrival. Seeing him prepared like this makes me want to laugh at how well he knows me, but that thought is quickly overcome by tears that spring up into my eyes over this boy that is so good, and that I have already almost lost so many times. I crawl in next to him, pressing my back against his stomach and pulling the blanket up over both of us. The warmth from his belly travels right up my spine and settles around my heart. The beeps slow, a heaviness settles into my body, and before I know it, I am pulled into a dreamless sleep.
***
As soon as we are all discharged from the hospital, we receive summons from Plutarch to join a meeting in Command to discuss the next phase of the Revolution. I have yet to see the full extent of District Thirteen. I have only seen the inside of the hospital, our family’s assigned compartment, the dining hall, and a few supply closets big enough to hide in until today. I don’t know how deep they have buried into the rock here, but I did have to squeeze Peeta’s hand in the elevator ride down here, the air feeling like it was being squeezed out of my chest as we descended deeper under the earth.
It turns out there are far more people involved in the Revolution than I would have guessed. I am impressed by the acting skills. It makes me a little annoyed to think of Haymitch being right to keep me in the dark about all this – my ability to keep a straight face in a lie is, after-all, non-existent.
We are sat around a long rectangular table in the Command Room of District Thirteen – a combination of Victors, Rebels and District Thirteen leaders. Each of us is dressed in the utilitarian grey shirt and trousers, but the groupings remain distinct. The Victors are weary, suspicious; the Rebels hopeful, fiery; the District Thirteen personnel silent and soldier-like in their mannerisms.
While I am told they are grateful for the new arrivals, the original District Thirteen residents keep to themselves. This is the first time I have been in a room with many of them up close. Prim told me there was a poxvirus that wiped out large numbers of their original population. Here in the dark room, the light from the screens on the walls reflects off old scars on some of their faces.
At the head of the table is President Coin, a middle-aged woman with copper eyes and straight, grey hair that falls to her shoulders in a sheet. Her hands are folded on top of the table, her lips pursed. To her right, sits Plutarch Heavensbee, his belly pulling at the buttons of his shirt, leaning back in his chair behind a pile of papers scattered across the desk in front of him.
Trying to be the model of democracy, after standing up and waving us in and telling us how wonderful it is to see us all – I think how pleased Effie would be at his manners, and quickly discard the thought before I start thinking about what has become of her –, Plutarch asks us for ideas about how to stir up loyalty in the districts.
For all their soldiers, personnel and intelligence gathering, District Thirteen have not had a Head Gamemaker here to figure out how to play with all the pieces in this new arena.
Plutarch’s question is met with silence.
I turn to look at each of the Victors seated at the table.
Finnick, looking slightly unhinged, ties knots over and over in a short length of rope without making eye contact with anyone.
Johanna clenches her jaw, her fists balled up, intermittently smacking them into her thighs, eyes angrily darting around.
Beetee taps away on a small electronic machine, muttering to himself and seemingly oblivious to the presence of anyone else.
Haymitch may look the worst of all of us, as he has spent up until now drying out in a padded cell. He barely registers a hint of recognition when I look at him, his eyes bloodshot.
Finally, I come to Peeta who is immediately to my left. He is already looking at me with soft eyes. When our eyes lock glances, his gaze sharpens and becomes questioning. I feel my brow furrow a little, but the corners of my lips pull upwards.
Once upon a time, we talked about the same solution under very different circumstances.
Peeta feels out for my hand under the table, taking it in his and rubbing small circles across the back of it. He has always known how to play the games without being told, so for once, I trust his instincts, and squeeze his hand gently to tell him so.
“Katniss and I can get married” Peeta announces.
Knowing what was coming doesn’t stop my tongue from becoming paper dry, my hands from starting to shake and my heart from thumping away in my chest as if I was trying to outrun a wild dog. I look down at the table, tracing the woodgrain with my eyes to try and calm myself.
Plutarch claps his hands with delight, “Yes, I love it! In fact…” he rustles through the haphazard pile of papers, “I think our friend had just the same idea.”
He pulls out a drawing, ragged along one edge where it has been ripped from its journal and hands it to me. Drawn in Cinna’s hand are two figures – one in a long, white gown, with a glittering gold sash across the shoulder, and a sheer gold cape that falls to the ends of the fingers; the other in a white shirt and formal jacket with black trousers that have what looks like a gold sash around the top. This is me and Peeta. The tears in my eyes threaten to spill over onto the paper, but I swallow them back so as not to destroy this final piece of Cinna. I clutch it to my chest as if to quiet the palpitations, wishing my friend was here with me too.
When I look back up at the faces around the table, I am met by a mix of expressions. While Plutarch is clearly delighted at the prospect of a party, there are dark looks on the faces of many of the District Thirteen delegates.
It dawns on me that here, underground, they may have not seen the “star-crossed lovers of District Twelve”.
A thought that is confirmed when President Coin clears her throat and speaks: “Perhaps there is a more military strategy we can explore.” Plutarch waves her concern away, “Nonsense, Madam President, if we are to defeat the Capitol, we must beat them at their own game.”
“But how exactly will a marriage unite the districts?” asks one of the District Thirteen soldiers I don’t know the name of yet.
Plutarch turns to the solider and asks: “What is the antidote to fear?”
He stops to think for a few seconds, and replies “I don’t know, sir.”
“Anyone?”
“Hope,” comes a voice from the other end of the table – Gale’s voice. I try to catch his eye, but he stares straight ahead at Plutarch unwaveringly.
“Indeed! The districts know only fear from the Capitol, they do not know there is hope that the Captiol’s reign can be overturned. Much less that one can escape the Capitol like these two lovebirds have! If we give people in the districts hope, we can light a fire under this revolution which has until now only been smouldering quietly in the background.” Plutarch looks pleased at this monologue and mimes to the scribe to write it down.
“Well that’s all well and good, sir, but how exactly does a wedding nobody knows about do that?” asks the District Thirteen solider.
“Ah, well that’s an excellent question! One that our dear friend Beetee here can help answer.” He gestures to Beetee who continues tapping away, muttering to himself.
Plutarch clears his throat again, “Beetee”.
Beetee looks up, lifting his fingers off the machine and holding them in mid-air, before pushing his glasses back up his nose. “The broadcasts from the Capitol are secured through a system that was designed not to be breached…However, if someone could indeed break through that encoding, alternative messages could be broadcast to the Districts…Seeing I helped designed this system, I believe I can get through, it will just take some time…” he trails off and looks at his screen once again, beginning to tap on the keys.
“So there you have it, we will have a wedding broadcast to all!” Plutarch claps his hands with finality.
President Coin clears her throat, “Thank you Mister Heavensbee. It’s now noon, we will reconvene at thirteen hundred hours for our next meeting as scheduled. Dismissed all.”
I watch as the District Thirteen soldiers and Gale file out instantly without a look in our direction.
I turn back to Peeta who is waiting to ask, “So do you want to kiss me, kick me, or kill me?”
I'm back writing fanfic after many years away from the wonderful community of writers and readers! This is my first THG fic and was inspired by the prompt "This Would Have Happened Anyway" on @promptseverlark but I just never got around to writing it in time for the challenge.
Also posted on my ao3 here (I'm sillymarigolds there, too!)
Synopsis: If the 74th Hunger Games had never brought them together, perhaps the 75th Hunger Games would bring Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark together instead. A canon-divergent AU fic based on the “This would have happened anyway” prompt on @promptseverlark
~*~
Early Summer
Crouching in the scrub, I strain my ears listening for the rustling of leaves that might give away any game. The chorus of birds is absent today, leaving only the hum of insects emanating from the trees.
I watch the shadows of the trees grow taller on the forest floor and sigh. It’s time to go.
I trudge back to the hollowed tree stump where I carefully wrap my bow in oilcloth to protect it against the elements. Readjusting my game bag with only two hares and some wild greens to show for my afternoon, I pick up my pace to a trot, making my way towards the fence. I stop briefly to listen for the hum of electricity. Hearing nothing, I wriggle under a loose section close to home.
The streets of the Seam are quiet, still awaiting the next layer of coal to be deposited off the backs of the miners toiling underground. I make this journey alone most days now. Since Gale has turned nineteen and started work at the mines, we are hunting partners only on his weekends off.
I have started to feel very envious of Gale sometimes. He no longer has to go to school and listen to lessons on the importance of coal production to Panem. He can finally support his family financially without relying on selling game at the Hob. And most of all he has survived the reapings.
The only place where I don’t have those terrible thoughts is the woods. Because in the woods there is no District 12. There is no Hunger Games. There is only green and bird song.
From the street, I catch sight of the clock atop the Hall of Justice and realise I am late to pick up Prim. Sliding my father’s hunting jacket off and dumping the game bag in front of an angry Buttercup who yowls in response, I cut through backyards to make it back to the schoolhouse.
The schoolhouse has apparently not changed in anyone living’s memory. It is only one room, built of whitewashed wood harvested from the forest that now lies outside the fence. Prim was supposed to wait outside on the front steps for me, but I can’t see her.
I fly up the steps, my braid swinging like a crazed pendulum behind me. Two of the long desks we sit at during classes have been covered in old cloths stained in many colours. The long bench seats have been pulled either side making it look more like a formal dinner setting than a classroom. Old jars stand filled with opaque shades of brown, grey, blue and violet atop the table. Pencils and charcoal are dotted between them. Darius, one of the younger peacekeepers is napping on a chair in the corner of the room, his hands resting on a folio stuffed with paper. The late afternoon sunlight casts a bright orange glow onto the crown of his head which rests on the window. The room is otherwise empty, but I see the back door is open, so I slow to a walk and make my way out the back.
I see the backs of Prim and Miss Flora our old schoolmistress standing over a tub together washing out paintbrushes quietly singing a folk song that calls for a good harvest. I take the stairs two at a time and walk around to stand opposite so as not to scare them knowing I have a light tread. “Prim, you said you would be out front,” I say hands on hips. Prim’s eyes widen pleading forgiveness. Miss Flora turns looks at me through her grimy spectacles and I swear I can almost see a hint of a smirk on her lips. She looks over to Prim and exclaims, “I’m sorry dear, time must have gotten away from us both. Thank you for all your help, I can take it from here.”
“But Miss Flora, Katniss and I could stay for a little…”
I open my mouth to rebut that no, we do not have time and that we need to make it home so I can cook dinner, but Prim continues:
“We still have to take all the paintings inside!”
Miss Flora pulls her hands out of the tub and wipes them on her apron, pushing her spectacles back up her nose. “I would certainly appreciate it if you two would do that, my knees aren’t quite what they used to be. If you could stack them all against the wall next to the blackboard.”
My stomach growls as I go to frown at Prim, but she is already wiping off her own hands on her skirts and skipping around the side to the building.
Miss Flora looks up at me and says, “Thank you Katniss, see you tomorrow morning,” and goes back to washing up, whistling the chorus of the song.
I follow Prim around the side of the schoolhouse to where the canvases are lined up to dry in the late afternoon sun. She has already got one in each hand and is heading inside with them. “Thank you, Katniss,” she says sweetly, and my face softens. I could never be angry with Prim.
As we pass one another, I catch sight of one of the paintings —a portrait of a man opening the door as he comes home from work in the mines. It is every bit a beloved father painted by an adoring child. But everything in it is too clean – the house, the father’s face, his clothes. One thing strikes me as true though, and that is his smile. I can remember my father always having one on as he walked through the door, bending down to hug me as I clung to his knees, and then he would scoop up a baby Prim to plant a kiss on her temple. Always the left one, where she has a birthmark so close to her hairline it is almost invisible. Sometimes I see her touching it when she looks at the photo of our father on the mantlepiece. Suddenly my chest feels tight, and I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the emotion swelling in my throat from spilling over into tears.
When I close my eyes, I can still see President Snow’s face pulling that letter out of the wooden box, his eyes cold as he reads out the words: “On the 75th anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that the beauty and peace they enjoy at the generosity of the Capitol is still young, each district will send their youngest eligible male and female as tributes.”
The art was Snow’s addition. That “all the potential tributes should showcase their district and the generosity of the Capitol in art to be displayed in the Capitol before the Games.” There have never been proper art classes at school before. Only ever graphite pencils and plain paper which were already scarce. Most of the children in Twelve had only ever drawn on frosty windowpanes when there wasn’t enough money to keep the fire stoked with the coal their fathers toiled underground to mine during the long, harsh winters.
The day after President Snow’s announcement, a peacekeeper-guarded train arrived filled with coloured pencils, paints and paintbrushes in all the colours I could imagine and some that I couldn’t. There had been an announcement to all parents that children were to stay on Friday afternoons until the reaping to work on their pieces that would be considered for the “great honour” of travelling to the Capitol and representing our district. Of course, that should have include me, but I was excused by Miss Flora on account of my inability to think of anything I was remotely grateful for that the Capitol had given me. How could I be grateful to people who killed my father and left me and Prim to starve? Who will take away twenty-four twelve-year-olds to fight to the death for entertainment?
What I love about Twelve has nothing to do with them. I love Prim and my mother. I love Gale and his family. And I love the woods. Besides, my artistic abilities are limited to drawing hunting maps in the mud with a stick.
I blink my eyes back open into the afternoon and rub my eyelids with the hem of my shirt before Prim comes back. I grab two more canvases trying not to look at them and head back into the schoolhouse to lay them next to Darius’s chair with the others. Darius is still snoring softly, but has been joined by Purnia, another of the peacekeepers who is sitting on the opposite side of the room. We nod politely to one another having seen each other around the Hob. Prim and I continue this dance, passing each other with paintings in each hand, until I see Prim heading for the last two and I wait inside for her while Purnia starts collecting up the art materials from the tables into a large metal box with a lock. Purnia has almost cleared the tables and Prim still hasn’t come back inside, so I head back through the door and around the side where I see her standing perfectly still.
I walk towards her, my steps quickening as she fails to look away. “Prim,” I say from a metre or so away, but I get no response. She is so enraptured by the canvas she is looking at.
I reach for her shoulder placing my hand on top of it and eyeing her with concern. “Katniss,” she whispers quietly in reply, never turning her head to look at me. And so, I turn my head to see what has struck her almost dumb.
I recognise the scene immediately — it is the woods at the outskirts of District 12; the woods I left to come here. The leaves are the perfect shades of green with streaks of gold reflecting the sun overhead. There is even the dappled shade that covers the ground in the afternoons. I have this strange feeling of wanting to reach out and touch the leaves and hear them rustle under my fingertips. And then I focus on the figure in the middle of the painting, a girl with her face turned away and a long braid of black hair resting down the middle of her blue, floaty dress. Birds are perched in all the trees like a silent audience. Their beaks are shut, and they watch intently as if they have been held entranced by the girl.
“Katniss it’s you.” Prim says quietly, finally turning to look at me with tears in her eyes. It’s my turn to be struck dumb because I know she is telling the truth. My tongue feels like it has swollen up to the roof of my mouth and my throat feels as dry as if I hadn’t had a drop of water all day. Prim reaches out to me and takes my left hand in both of hers. She knows I can’t express whatever I’m feeling and not to make me try. She lets go of my hand to walk over and pick up the canvas with both hands, treating it with the utmost care, and starts walking it inside. I look over to the canvas next to it and see a warm hearth with a large scruffy yellow tabby cat and goat curled up on a rug and I smile knowing that Prim can always see the good through the grime.
Reaping Day - Part I
The sun is high in the sky, glaring off the windows in the square. There is no wind to flap the flag of Panem or the banners that have been hung on the Hall of Justice.
Prim and I have scrubbed ourselves to a healthy looking pink. My mother laid out her blue dress for me again, but at the thought of the painting I folded it and left it on the end of her bed. Instead, I am dressed in my favourite green blouse and skirt with my signature braid coiled up into a bun that sits on the nape of my neck.
My eyes flick between the stage and the younger girls a few rows ahead where I see Prim standing in her pink blouse and brown skirt. I have to keep reminding myself that she is safe. This time, my mind adds.
There is no need for the reaping balls this year. Everyone has known who will be going since the announcement or soon afterwards. The little girl Nona’s body shakes with her sobs. The boy Martin is trying to be brave, standing as tall as he can, but I can see the fear in his eyes. They are both Seam children — he the eldest of five, she the youngest of four. I walked past their parents: one mother sobbing like her only daughter, the other completely silent as if she had no tears left to cry as the baby slung across grabbed at her chest for comfort.
The paintings going to the Capitol have been hung behind the stage on a large piece of red fabric that I learned is called velvet. Prim’s painting is there amongst a dozen or so others. The painting of me is there as well. Together they tell a very different story of District 12 — one with fathers who always make it home, where there is always food to eat and coal to burn, where we are all surrounded by cleanliness and greenery.
Effie Trinket is back for the televised broadcast of the reaping. As usual she sports the bizarre fashions of the Capitol, with a gold wig teetering atop her head and red jewels stuck on her face. I adopt as neutral an expression I can through the proceedings. The entire district is silent apart from the wails of babies and the soft wooshes of fans held by adults to keep them from fainting. I can see the faces of the peacekeepers starting to falter as they too are struggling with the prospect of sending our youngest away to die far from home for the amusement of strangers. They end up having to restrain Nona as she tries to run for her parents. The only person whose resolve seems not to be tested is Haymitch Abernathy which I think is simply because he is too drunk to be aware of what’s going on.
When Nona and Martin have been taken to the train along with the paintings, the crowd slowly disperses. Prim comes and takes my hand, rubbing circles with her thumb over the back of it to soothe me. I can feel the tension in my jaw loosen a little. “What should we do, little duck?” I ask her, pulling my mouth into a closed smile.
“Can we go and look at the cakes in the bakery window?”
“Of course.” I know Mother will have already gone home to lie down.
Hand in hand we walk over to the bakery, an old brick building painted white and kept meticulously clean. I know the baker, Mr Mellark, well as he is one of my best customers. He loves squirrel, although I can only sell them to him when his wife isn’t around. She is a proud woman who thinks it is beneath them to eat game since they can afford “proper” meat.
I catch sight of the baker at the counter through the glass in the door and he dips his head at me in greeting, his eyes twinkling. Prim drags me towards the window, her nose mere inches from the glass, eyes roaming hungrily over cakes we could never afford.
As I stand there bent over holding Prim’s hand, I notice a new tray being pushed into the cabinet. Small cakes decorated with bright iced flowers on top. They remind me of the paint boxes from the Capitol. I stand up expecting see the baker, but instead my eyes meet his in a different face, that of his son, Peeta Mellark. His reaping clothes are covered by a well-used apron that bears splotches in many colours and a dusting of flour. I notice Peeta’s hands are covered in the same bright hues.
We hold each other’s gaze for a moment, I feel like he wants to ask me something. But then I hear his mother call out for him and his shoulders sag slightly and he turns away and disappears out the back.
Peeta the painter. It must have been him. Which just begs the question, why Peeta who has this comfortable life choose to paint me in the woods?
Reaping Day - Part II
Later that evening, out of our reaping clothes, we are drinking mugs of dandelion tea in candlelight in front of the empty hearth. I am oiling my boots to keep my hands busy and Prim is sitting cross legged with Buttercup on her lap. Instead of turning in to bed, Mother has fallen asleep in one of the armchairs. She dipped into her emergency stash of Ripper’s white liquor, which means she found today more distressing than usual. Father’s photo looks down on all of us from the mantle. The only sounds are my cloth rubbing against well-worn leather and the purr Buttercup eminates as Prim’s nails scratch his scalp. The broadcast of the reaping is at last over, each face of the tributes flashing before my eyes making me rub harder, my knuckles turning white.
A gentle knock on the front door brings me to my feet. Prim’s eyes are wide and worried as she stays rooted to the ground. Mother continues to slumber on.
I tiptoe over to the door and take a deep breath in as I open it into the cool night breeze unsure of what I will find.
A young man stands outside half in shadow, his head tilted down. “I’m sorry to come by so late,” he says, moving towards the light.
It's Peeta Mellark.
The left side of his face is covered with an ugly hand-shaped welt that has swollen his left-eye half shut. He is still dressed in his clothes from the reaping, his hands awkwardly holding his elbows.
My brain struggles to pass words to my mouth, so I instead wave him in and lock the door behind him. Prim’s hands are over her mouth. Peeta winces knowing what a sight he must be.
His blue eyes meet my grey ones. “I thought maybe your mother…” his sentence trails off. Of course, he is here for Mother.
I go to her and squeeze her forearm, but get no response, so I move to squeeze her shoulder. “Mother, wake up,” I say, my voice a little shaky. She screws her nose up but resists opening her eyes. Prim comes to stand next to me, taking Mother’s opposite hand, “Mother, please, there’s a patient here to see you.”
Prim has said the magic word. Mother’s eyes fly open, and she pushes down into the armchair to stand, smoothing down the front of her dress. She turns to see Peter still standing near the doorway. She gives no hint of pity in seeing his swollen face or his broken spirit.
“Come, sit,” she says like someone who was asleep only moments before. “Prim grab my bag. Katniss, boil some water.” She takes Peeta by the arm and leads him to our kitchen table, settling him in one of the chairs.
As instructed, I head outside to fill the kettle from the pump in the backyard. Seconds later I hear Mother come out behind me, and in my peripheral vision I can see her outline heading for the outhouse. The liquor must have caught up with her.
We head back inside together, not speaking until, as we are a foot away from the back door, she whispers almost inaudibly, “She always did have a nasty temper, his mother.” I almost stumble and fall behind her, closing the door behind me. In the dim light, I catch my reflection in the glass panes of the door and feel like I am looking at a ghost.
I put the kettle on the stovetop and sit down at the end of the kitchen table, watching Mother and Prim working together like a well-oiled machine. They grind up herbs and roots out of jars kept in Mother’s leather apothecary bag to make a poultice. The train of thoughts in my head stretches on without end:
How could his own mother do this?
On a day she was able to keep her son?
I must have lost track of time as I am broken out of my reverie by the order “Katniss, make Peeta tea with some willow bark,” as the kettle whistle crescendos in the background.
I make my way over to the stove, shifting the kettle off the hot plate. “How do you take your tea?” I ask without turning to face Peeta.
“No shu-argh-no sugar, thank you,” he replies, wincing at the sting of whatever Mother is applying.
I steep the willow bark with the tea leaves in one of our nicer mugs, listening to Prim ask Mother questions about the ingredients in the ointment she has applied. When the tea is ready, I make my way around the table to stand in front of Peeta. He is sitting quietly, hands folded in his lap, looking down.
I hold out the mug to him with both hands. He lifts his head up and I get a better look at the mark his mother’s hand has made. If I had a paintbrush, I could trace the outline of each of her fingers. There is a small section that is deeper and jagged where a ring has torn into the milky flesh of his cheek. Peeta reaches both of his hands out for the mug and his fingertips brush mine ever so gently. I want to yelp as the feeling of an electric shock runs up my arms, but I end up biting my tongue.
Our eyes meet again, and I look away.
Every time I see his eyes, I am back there, sitting in the rain outside the bakery.
“Thank you, Katniss,” he whispers quietly.
“You’re welcome,” I reply, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. “Excuse me,” I say to the room as I head back outside to rinse my mouth out.
When his tea is finished, Mother sends Peeta home with a small jar of the ointment and a poultice to keep on it to reduce the swelling. I couldn’t think of anything to say to him, so I sat there awkwardly with my stomach twisting and turning on itself.
She tidies up and heads to bed without saying another word. Prim gets into bed with her, pre-empting the nightmares she will have after today.
I crawl into my own bed alone, pulling the thin, woven blanket over me. I stare up at the ceiling and feel like the world is moving around me ever so slightly, pitching my stomach side to side even as I lie as still as possible. I feel so unbalanced and all I want to do is sleep to make it go away, but I also don’t want to close my eyes. I don’t want to watch the reaping replayed in my dreams. I don’t want to trace the outline of the mark on Peeta’s face. I can’t tell which is worse anymore, being awake or being asleep. I exhale all the air in my lungs and try to focus on the sliver of sky I can see through the roof, hoping sleep will take me by surprise.
Late Summer
I take every opportunity after the reaping to disappear into the woods.
The weather is still warm, but I leave my father’s hunting jacket on and stick to the shade cast by grandfather trees. The song of invisible birds rings out through the small clearing not too far from the fence. There is no need to hunt today, but I carry my bow out of habit. “If you aren’t prepared to fight then you have already lost,” as my father used to say.
As my eyes wander through the trees, I am reminded of Peeta’s painting — all those birds perched, listening. I feel silly, but I want it to be real, so I lower my bow and clear my throat. The words are tucked deep into my memory, and so as I start to sing, I close my eyes to help bring them to my lips:
“Down in the valley, valley so low,
Late in the evening, hear the train blow.
The train, love, hear the train blow.
Late in the evening, hear the train blow.
Go build me a mansion, build it so high,
So I can see my true love go by.
See him go by, love, see him go by.
So I can see my true—"
I swirl around as a twig snaps behind me.
The corner of a blue shirt and brown boot catch my eye from behind the trunk of a red oak.
I can feel my heartbeat thudding in my ears as I raise and draw my bow.
“Who’s there?” I ask. The birds are silent like curious onlookers.
From behind the tree Peeta steps out his hands raised in surrender. The mark on his face has vanished.
“Sorry,” he says, looking up past me to the trees, “I’m just here to paint,” he leans his head over to his left shoulder which carries a canvas bag. “I was going to move along but…” his voice trails off.
“But what,” I snapped, my bow still raised at his throat.
“But you really can make the birds fall silent.” He gestured up at the trees and I turned around to see the birds had come out into the open, onto the edges of the tree branches like spectators in the highest stands of an arena. They all stood perfectly still as if Peeta and I were Covey midway through an act.
“I remember you singing that song when we were in music class.” Peeta adds.
“My father always said your father could make all the birds fall silent too.”
I am glad I have my back turned to Peeta at this point because I don’t know what to say. I just stand their silently, making eye contact with each of the birds in turn.
“He wanted to marry your mother you know, my father that is. I don’t think my mother’s ever gotten over feeling like a second choice…” He adds.
“I’ll go,” Peeta says after the silence between us grows, he shifts his weight with the resultant rustle of leaves.
“Peeta, I’m sorry.” I blurt out as I turn back around and narrow the gap between us.
Now it’s Peeta’s turn to be confused. He looks at me with a furrowed brow, sunlight glinting off his eyelashes making them outline his eyes in gold.
“I’m sorry your mother did that.” I clarify, tipping my nose towards his left cheek.
Peeta’s brow relaxes, and his face twists into a sad smile. “She was so angry when she saw that painting,” he explains.
“But this was what I thought of when I thought about everything good and pure in District Twelve.”
I duck my head and feel the heat of a blush rise in my cheeks.
Peeta’s voice picks up where I left off:
“—so I can see my true love go by.
Go write a letter, send it by mail.
Bake it and stamp it to the Capitol jail.
Capitol jail, love, to the Capitol jail.
Bake it and stamp it to the Capitol jail.”
There is a commotion as the birds prepare to take flight, jostled by this new voice that sings in a slightly off-key tenor. To settle them, I join him to finish:
“Roses are red, love; violets are blue.
Birds in the heavens know I love you.
Know I love you, oh, know I love you,
Birds in the heavens know I love you.”
The last note of our voices intertwined seems to hang in the air, vibrating slowly.
Something different is in Peeta’s eyes when I meet them this time. It is both steely and determined, soft and enveloping. The trees behind him seem to shift back and forth despite there being no wind.
I feel myself drawn towards him and reach out for the same place that ugly welt marked his face. As lightly as moth wings, I place my hand where his mother’s lay. His skin feels like it is burning my fingertips.
Peeta reaches up to encircle my wrist.
“Katniss,” he says softly, looking straight at me.
And to make everything straighten out I press my lips against his.
