Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

       Peeta Mellark was trying to have a good day. That was a hard task considering he was currency baking in the summer heat alongside every other 13 year old boy in the district waiting fot the reaping of the annual Hunger Games. He had been awake since pre-dawn, too nervous to sleep and sick with worry. He had slipped downstairs to watch his father decorate the tribute cookies he made every year. His dad had been gifting cookies to the unlucky tributes ever since his first child was born. As a child it had made Peeta a little jealous, he and his brothers rarely ate any of the pastries the family sold and supposedly these were his dad’s best ones. His dad sat him down and explained that this was probably the only chance any of the tributes would have to eat a cookie from their district. Most tributes ended up being Seam kids-the tesserae system at work- and could hardly afford bread, let alone a soft- cakey cookie with two tone frosting. His dad also kept him away in the hope that keeping his son from the tribute cookie could keep him from being a tribute. He promised Peeta he would get one the day he aged out of the reapings.

       Peeta was standing in the courtyard and trying to comfort himself. The odds of him getting picked was so small. His name was only in there twice, it was normally a Seam kid who was unlucky enough to get picked, and he had plans for the future to focus on. Not major plans but his family always had some extra business the day of the reaping when those who could spare the cash liked to celebrate another year of safe children. He had also heard from his friend Delly that they were going to be doing a partnered assignment in school next week and when she sneaked a peek at the paperwork it looked like he and his long-time crush Katniss could be partnered up! He lost himself in a little daydream and missed the opening spiel. The questionaly dressed Effie stepped up to draw out the girl’s name. The usual tension spread through the girl’s side until everyone was facing the back of the crowd and a tall girl stepped out. Her name was Alba and she was 18 and clearly Seam. She had a nice enough dress that fell straight down her thin body and blew gently in the breeze as she slowly made her way to the stage. Peeta didn’t know her and felt a little bad about it since she would probably die and he would never get the chance to now. Effie moved to the boys side and Peeta felt he was going to barf. He almost had last year, his first reaping and only a week past his 12th birthday. Bile had made it all the way up to his mouth before he pushed it back down, so preoccupied he had missed the name calling completely. He had no such distractions this year so he was nice and focused when Effie called out,

    “Peeta Mellark!” with a booming voice. On instinct his head whipped to look for his parents. But he wasn’t a very tall 13 year old and the older boys were between him and the adults and he bobbed and squirmed for a look. When he searched the back of the crowd for their faces he saw his older brother Rye glance guilty away. He could’ve volunteered for Peeta but everyone knew he wouldn’t. No one does. His poor dad was divested, face crumbed in a way Peeta had never seen before. His oldest brother Bran, already out the reapings, looked frozen, eyes stuck ahead, unseeing. Even his mom was visibly upset, an angry scowl on her face and teary eyes as she grabbed his dad without looking. There was a throat clearing from the stage and a peacemaker took a step towards him and Peeta forced himself forward.

Don’t Cry. Don’t Cry

He chanted to himself. There were a million eyes on him in the crowd and even more watching through cameras and he didn’t want to cry in front of them. He ridiculed himself in his mind as he walked his way up. 12 and 13 year olds never win the game. They didn't stand a chance against practically grown adults, especially the giants of the Career districts. Soon all of Panem would see him scream and cry and die on camera but he was so insistent on not letting them see just yet.

   He finally made it on stage and stood there blankly as Effie finished the ceremony. The old drunk of town-and the only living District 12 Victor- Haymitch was sitting nearby slumped over and Peeta could smell the alcohol soaked into him. It smelled terrible and Peeta wrinkled his nose and inched away. The tributes were escorted away to a private room for them to say goodbye. Peeta sat on the couch waiting. There was a knock and Rye and Bran walked in. Both brothers were large and stocky and would fare far better in the games then Peeta would. He had hoped he’d get as big as their dad, the only guy he knew that could dwarf them, one day so they’d stop using him as an arm rest but he guessed he'll never find out now. Peeta stood up so he could hug them both and they huddled around him. Neither of them were particularly soft or sentimental but they stood in a silent clump of support and love around their baby brother. Rye spoke without letting go,

    “I’m sorry,” the words were muffled by Bran’s shoulder but it was clear what he was sorry for, “I-’m sorry I-I should’ve done something”. Peeta was a little mad he was having this epiphany but what else could be said? It was too late and it wasn’t Rye’s fault he wanted to live to 18. Peeta drew back from the hug and shrugged.

   “ ‘S okay”, he told him, “Not like I wouldn't have done the same”. He was aiming for a joking tone but it just sounded mean and bitter and Rye’s face looked more hurt then he had expected. Before anyone could say anything there was a knock signaling their time’s up. They went in for one last hug and Peeta felt someone kiss the top of his head.

    The duo headed out as his parents came in. His dad was holding the tribute cookies and Peeta felt his mouth start shaking, fighting the smile he usually had for his dad. He threw himself into his dad’s arms and pressed his face against his chest so he could finally start crying in peace.

   “Oh baby,” He squeezed his son closer, his voice on the end of a sob, “I’m so sorry, I should’ve never had you. I wasn’t sure we could handle another baby but when your mom told me she was pregnant with you I just couldn’t resist meeting you. It was so selfish of us to bring another kid into this world but I loved you the second I saw you. And you grew into such a good kid.” Peeta tilted his head enough to crack a water covered eye at his mom for confirmation. Her mouth was a tight line and her jaw clenched but she nodded in agreement before noticing his tears.

   “Are you kidding me?,” She pulled him away from his dad by the arm, “There are people and cameras all out there and you think you can go out of this room red eyed and snot nosed? Just letting everyone know you’ve been bawling your eyes out?” What did that matter to him? He just wanted to cry with his dad for the last time in his life.

   “What does that matter? People are gonna see a lot worse than me crying by the time I’m done.” he asked, genuinely confused. It’s not like his mother had ever been particularly concerned with image, aside from looking better then the Seam folks. So long as his clothes were clean and grades were okay he didn’t think she cared much about Peeta’s image.

   “You can’t, these things matter,” she told him, voice firm like when she explained math rules to him or that he was going to eat with the pigs if he burned another pastry. That had only happened once before . He stared at her and she stared back. He thought she was trying to communicate something to him but he didn’t know what. Maybe an apology for being a mediocre mother? An encouragement for him to survive? He didn’t know. He would’ve kept staring forever probably, trying to decipher his mom but his dad broke the staring contents, kneeling down in front of his face and resting his huge hands on Peeta cheeks.

   “Look Peet, I was selfish when I brought you into this world and I’m gonna be selfish again when I ask you this. Please do your best. Stay alive as long as you can. You could make it out somehow, crazier things have happened in the games.” Peeta was sure what could make his odds better considering he couldn’t even kill the chickens for dinner, let alone a teenager 3 times his size. The door knocked again and his dad swept him up in a hold again and Peeta lifted his legs around his waist so he could pretend he was small and safe for a little while. He felt his mom press a hand against his back, finger spread wide and a solid presence before they were gone and he had collapsed onto the couch, face pressed flat against the cushions.

   He didn’t think any of his friends were going to come visit, so he was surprised to hear the door open for a third time. He sat up and scrubbed a hand over his face and when he lowered his arm he saw an older Seam boy awkwardly standing there. He knew he was in the same class as Rye but he only knew his name was Gale because he spent a lot of time around Katniss and Peeta spent a lot of time noticing Katniss. They never really interacted. One time when Peeta was 8 he twisted an ankle running around playing on the statue they definitely weren’t supposed to and Gale had been nearby when he started crying and everyone ran off in terror of getting in trouble. Gale rolled his eyes and easily picked him up and carried him off to Katniss’ mom to fix him and then had even found Bran to take him home and provide an alibi for him. Sometimes when he was up late enough he’d open the back door of the bakeshop to find them standing there in hopes of trading with his dad. He would’ve liked to play it cool but he always ended up squeaking something out when they turned their intense gray eyes on him and ran for his dad. He didn’t know why he’d come see Peeta on his “deathbed”.

   “Oh um hey,” Peeta said.

   “Hey Peeta. Katniss wanted me to deliver a message for her. She was gonna come but she... asked me to instead.” Gale looked like he’d much prefer Katniss to be the one one and Peeta agreed with him. He had no idea Katniss thought about him at all. He certainly thought about her and their few interactions often enough but he wasn’t crazy enough to think she’d do the same. Even if he had burnt bread for her and earned himself a hard smack from his mom for it. It was a gift. They both knew that. He waited for Gale to go on.

   “She was thinking about how when her dad used to,” his voice dropped, uncertain of anyone listening, “go out he’d sometimes camp out the whole day in one spot and hunker down waiting. Covered himself in dirt and leaves and shit until something wandered by and he’d strike. She was thinking you’re such a good artist, maybe you could cover yourself up good enough to fool a person and not a deer”.

   “I can’t,” He shook his head, “I doubt I could hurt anyone. I’m not like that”. It was pretty clear Gale didn’t like the implications of Peeta’s words.

   “You think most of them don’t think that? You’re what? the one moral person in all of Panem? What a pity they picked you of all people. Philosopher Peeta, too bad he died at 13 because he had no survival instant he could’ve changed the world. You have no idea what happens when instincts kick in and it's you or them”. It didn’t seem like Gale was really talking about the Games. Peeta wondered what had made him so worked up. He knew Gale had a lot of family to keep fed. Peeta certainly had no clue it was like to have to go out into the wilderness, driven over the fence of safety into dark woods. Peeta had gone for walks by the fence occasionally, maybe hoping to run into Katniss somewhere, and the woods had always scared him. They were always so dark, unlike the lights of the bakery he much preferred, whose lights seemed to always be on when he went to bed and woke up.

   “Thanks but we both know this is useless, I’m not coming back”. He tried to keep his voice from cracking but saying the words out loud made them a whole lot more real. He sniffed and tried to hide the tears because he didn’t want Gale freaking Hawthorne to see him cry and tell his brothers and Katniss and everyone would know what a baby he was way before he died.

   “So are you just giving up already? People have won the Games with worse odds than you. There was that District 4 girl that won because she could swim the other year. You could try making an alliance. Plus that guy from District 6 everyone just forgot about a few years back. Finnick Odair was only like a year older than you when he won. You could at least give Katniss’ idea some thought before you just lay down.” He was getting annoyed sounding so Peeta just nodded along and agreed when he started talking. Gale didn’t wait for the knock on the door and gave Peeta a glare before crossing over to the door. He paused with a hand on the knob, "If you're not gonna bother trying to fight don't waste your time training with stuff. You need to learn survival skills." "Oh, okay yea." "Look for drinkable water first you can go longer without food then water." "Right." "And don't eat anything unless you're 100% sure of it. You know the Gamemarkers always fuck with things." "I won't". He gave him one last look and left the room. Peeta didn’t want to upset anyone but he really didn’t think there was anything he could do. 12 and 13 year olds never win the Games-it just doesn’t happen. And Peeta had no skills to offer besides baking and no hope of hurting anyone and no one would even wanna team up with a scrawny barley teen and Peeta squeezed his eyes shut against his tears and waited for someone to take him away on the train and towards his death.

Chapter Text

   Eventually time’s up and Peeta’s led away alongside Alba to the train that will take them to the Capital. He’s never been on one before and he’s still standing when it starts to move. He stumbles.. Effie is waiting inside to lead them to a couch with a low table spread with food opposite a tv. They sit and eat as a recap of the Reapings plays before them. It’s hard to listen to the tv, caught between his fears and his grumbling stomach. Peeta knows good food.  Not just sweets, though he is pretty damn good at those, his family’s great at all sorts of cooking but this is on another level. He’s never starved but he’s certainly spent a fair portion of his life hungry, when ingredients prices skyrockets and profits are low and all they can afford is their own stale leftovers. It’s a safe bet that even the stale version of this dinner could outshine most of what his family produces. He starts with the things he can recognize, buttery greens and crispy vegetables. Seasoned meats with drippings so good he practically tears up.  He wished he could share it all with people back home.

   “Effie?” he asks as he pokes at some sort of pink meat that's so tender his fork pulls it apart on accident, 

“What's this?”. It certainly has a nice citrusy smell but he’s not about to try anything he doesn’t recognize. He’s heard about a lot of weird Capital fads.

    “That’s salmon.” She doesn’t inform him in any sort of tone but he’s still embarrassed. He knows salmon is a type of fish but he’s never had fish before. No one bothers shipping it all the way out to Twelve and no one ever brought some back from the woods as far as he knows.

   “What’s it taste like?” She gives him a look. “It’s fish Peeta, they don’t come in that many flavors.” Now there’s a bit of a judgmental tone coming through. Whatever, he bets she doesn’t know what groosling tastes like. He’s staring at the piece, trying to figure out what it must have been shaped like once. He can see where a chicken breast on a chicken would go or match squirrel pieces to their body when prepping for a stew but he can’t see how this rectangle once swam in the water. He’s contemplating it still when Alba's fork reaches over and stabs a piece. 13 years of training against brothers and Peeta’s still too slow to do anything more than complain as the food leaves his place. Alba bites it and makes a content noise.

   “It’s good,” she tells him, “Lemony and rich”. Peeta picks up the smallest piece he can manage and tentatively bites it. It is good. Buttery and soft and something he doesn’t recognize that must be a fish thing. The lemon is a nice zing. It would be so good shredded and stuffed into some bread. Maybe his family’s dinner roll? No, it’d be even better on top of their bialy, sliced open and toasted. He puts another piece in his mouth and crams a dinner roll in with it to test his theory. He’s chewing so long his attention turns to the TV. It doesn’t look any better for him. It actually looks worse. They’re showing District 11 already and both the girl and boy are 3 years older then him and twice his size. The youngest person besides him is a 15 year old from 4 and apparently a seafood diet makes you pretty buff looking. All the tributes this year seem extra large to him. Maybe he just didn’t pay close enough attention to previous years to comment. It’s not like one could ignore the Games and their tributes when they were happening but like most people he’s learned to forget them as long as he could till the next year. He saw his own reaping on the tv and thought that he didn’t look too bad. Well he didn’t look to good, standing at Alba's chest and looking pretty pale but at least he didn’t look like he was about to sob. He wondered what everyone else saw when they looked at him.. They were shown to their rooms after eating.

   It was bigger then any room in his house and even had a bathroom in it. It had plush red decorations and a large window where he could sit and watch the sunset. The speed the train was going turned the sky into a beautiful orange blur. He loved it so much he stayed there until the last of the light had been wrung from the sun. Peeta was still stuffed full from dinner but he held up his tribute cookies and took a deep whiff of them. They smelled amazing. There was even a hint of chocolate in the icing covering half of the top of the cookie. Chocolate was rare even for a bakery and expensive as well. They only ever got it for New Years and apparently the reaping. He broke off a piece and tried not to cry. It was clear why these were his dad’s best recipe. Soft and chewy. One half covered in chocolate icing and the other vanilla. More of a cake really than a cookie. Not too sweet but balanced perfectly with the two flavored icing. He noticed he was crying when the cookie started tasting salter but that was fine by him. It added to the taste. It felt like a good time to cry himself to sleep anyhow. 

   The bed felt as good as it looked. He stripped down to his underwear and  buried himself under the covers, pulling them over his head. He wanted to sleep, he needed to sleep, but it was hard without any snoring, tossing, turning noises he was used to after years of room sharing. Under the covers had musty air that was harder to breath. squeezes his eyes tight against the darkness but that reminded him so much of what death could be like he had to claw his way out just to remind himself that he was still alive in this moment. It was all hitting him now, the whole day of emotions making him cry again and drag the covers back over his head so Peeta could pretend that’s why he was crying. 

   He wondered what it was like to die. Not the dying process itself-he didn’t think he'd live long enough to die of starvation and disease-but what was after. He hoped there was something but he was scared of that outcome too. He only vaguely knew people who had died before him. Past tributes he had seen around school, grandparents who passed before he was born. He remembered Katniss’ dad had died and had missed seeing him trade at their bakeshop’s backdoor. Peeta was worried that he’d get to the afterlife and not know anybody. It would be lonely if he had to wait decades for some company to hang out with him. Or was stuck with some old relative who felt obligated to get to know him now. He just wanted to go to sleep so he could have a break from all this worry and stress. He just wanted to freeze this moment, cozy and warm while the train rocked. He just wanted to go home and not die. 

   The next day came with a feast for breakfast. Peeta said a polite hello to Alba and slipped into his seat, planning his attack on breakfast. There was a drink called hot chocolate and was richer and sweeter than any chocolate he had ever had. Peeta forwent most breakfast foods in favor of dunking whatever he could into the chocolate and eating it. The rolls were pretty good, the biscuits too crumbly to hold the moisture and the griddle  cakes had to be dunked quickly or else they dissolved. The bacon was surprisingly tasty.  He was on his 3rd refill when Haymitch arrived, slumping into a seat with Effie sat across from him and glared. She must have made him come. Then it seems her glare turns to Peeta as she notices him dunking food with his fingers. He switches to using a fork to dip but she doesn’t seem any more pleased. 

Everyone’s looking around, making eye contact and everything but no one's speaking. It wasn’t a comfortable silence before but it is much more awkward now. Peeta keeps glancing up in between bites and making awkward eye contact. He meets Haymitch’s eyes twice but he doubts he really notices. Surprisingly, it’s Alba who decides to break the silence when the meal draws to a close. 

   “So is now when you’re supposed to start mentoring or...?”

   “Mentoring? On what?” Haymitch slurs out sarcastic and Peeta hates him so much. He doesn't know if Haymitch is just drunk or being an ass Alba seems to agree.

   “Are you kidding me?” she asks, voice clipped, “You have one job once a year you can’t even be sober for it?” Haymitch gives a weary sigh and reaches for a drink.

  “Do either or you have then skills or anything at all you think could be the slightest bit useful in a fight?,” they don't, "then my advice is to avoid the people trying to kill you.” Peeta suddenly has a new fear, well, new among all the old ones he’s been thinking up since they called his name. What if, by some miracle, he manages to win and ends up like Haymitch? A shitty old drunk who probably hasn’t said or done a kind thing in a long time. It’d probably be easy too, they’d be the only ones in the Victor Village, only one around for company. There’s a pause as Alba takes in Haymitch’s words. 

   “So that’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

  “Look girl, maybe you could pick up a skill or two in the Training Center but that’d would hardly give you the killing instinct, and that one,” a finger turns to Peeta, “is at least 2 full years younger then the rest and like 5 feet tall, so unless everyone blows themself up at once he’s not going anywhere.” Alba is saying something in response, arguing probably, going off her tone but Peeta’s not listening anymore. The harsh truth has stunned him. And then it doesn't.

   Peeta’s face screws up and he can feel the burning heat as he stomps off from the table, slamming every step as hard as he can. 13 isn’t too old to forget how it felt to throw yourself down and scream out a tantrum. But this time Peeta’s slamming the doors not because he’s been denied a treat or got yelled at for messing up. Now he’s on the verge of a full blown meltdown because everything in this moment is so unfair. Somehow he’s ended up unluckier than even the other tributes because yes, they were reaped as well but at least people see them as an option. They can dream and scheme their way into a shot at winning. He slams a few doors as he passes them. If he had to be reaped why couldn’t it be at 18? When he was sure he would be as big as at least Rye by then. There would be options then. He stomps his way through car after car but the anger doesn’t stop. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this mad in his life. Infuriated because yeah he’ll probably die in there but no one gives him a chance at all. And he sure as hell doesn’t need constant reminders of that. Doesn’t he at least deserve a shot? He’s not another nameless tribute yet. 

  Peeta ends up at the end of the train (or maybe the front? He can’t see an engine anywhere). It’s a rounded car with a round couch to match, pressed up against the windows stretched along the walls. Wherever he is, the train itself is heading into the mountains. Within minutes the light outside the window disappears as they plunge into a tunnel. He still fuming and now he’s embarrassed too because everyone saw him run away. It was going to be so awkward to go back and face their pitying looks. Maybe he could just hide out here, and someone who didn’t see him stomp off like a baby would find and escort him out. He tries to calm himself down and almost manages it by the time he can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Haha.

   The sudden sun had him blinking his eyes and the sudden colors he saw had his finger itching to capture it. The Capital was coated in a million different colors.  He wished he had some paint or even some icing would work as an outlet. It was breathtaking. The view was covered in loud colors, something new catching his eye through every window. How much yellow and how much red would it take to make a shade of orange that stunning? There was a building painted a deep blue he was sure he had never seen before in his life. Even the people were colorful. They rushed by in a blur but it was easy to spot some like green heads or lilac skin or the rainbow array of cloths. They had to be insane here. He had no idea how you even color your skin. The train pulls into the station and there is a crowd he can see through the windows. Some people see him and wave and on instinct he waves back, a small smile on his face. Those that notice get excited and wave harder. A little girl catches his eye and beams from her father’s shoulder when he wiggles his fingers at her. Does she understand he’s going to his death or is it all just a game for her? Has she already become someone willing to bet on children’s violence and survival instinct? He hopes not.  

-

   An hour later Peeta was surrounded by a trio of Capital workers all dressed in strange fashion trends.Spiky hairs, green skin, and embedded metals give them a frightening look. They introduced themselves as his prep team to get him ready for the tribute parade. The prep seemed to involve a lot of cooing over the fact that they didn’t have to shave any facial hair off and then gleefully ripping off his few hard earned hairs. Then he was standing there naked and awkward while they scrubbed him down and dressed him up again in a robe. They fill the silence by gossiping about people he’s never met and, from the sound of it, some they haven’t met either. They spare absolutely to detail or rumor. One story gets so salaciously detailed his face starts getting red enough they notice and have to stop talking because it’s ‘messing with his complexion and ruining the makeup’. The makeup they paint on itches almost immediately but he knew better than to scratch it off. He had never seen makeup except for on a few of the older merchant girls and he’s definitely never wore it. This seemed different from the simple red lips and pink cheeks they would do. Everything the prep team put on him just feels so slimy and thick and wrong and he was near tears imagining the hours of wear ahead of him.

   One of the workers, Octovia, her name might be, moved to tackling his hair when the others left. It felt nice. The methodical scrap of the comb over his scalp and the tug of wet hair from his head. It almost could’ve lulled him to sleep but the door opened and interrupted them. A woman, dark skinned with big, bleach fried hair and green accent makeup, introduced herself as Portia, his stylist. She didn’t say anything more then that, just gave him a long look head to toe and sent the final prep member out of the room. He was gonna miss the hair brushing-even if his hair was now stiff and straighter than it’s ever been.

   “Okay” she started, “I think the best I can do is make you nice but not memorable.” Ouch. He’s getting tired of being told that 'strategy'. As if anyone could forget. She sees his unhappy frown and follows up with, 

   “Unless you had a different plan in mind?”

   “Uh...” Is there a possibility of a different plan? 

   “How do you want to present yourself Peeta? What’s the best way to get people on your side? I can work with you but you have to give me something. Most of the younger kids end up trying to act cute enough to win people over.”

   “Shouldn’t you be telling me to be myself and people will like me?” It’s what adults have been telling Peeta his whole life, he assumed there must be some truth to it.

   “Well do people like you?”

   “I.. think so? I don’t know. I have like, friends and stuff.”. He tries to be nice to everyone.

   “Impressive. Are any of them not 13 year old boys?”

   “...Yeah, I mean, well, some of them are 13 year old girls.” He grins a little after that, thinking about Katniss, though he could barely call them friends. He’s pretty sure she doesn’t hate him. He always made friends with both girls and boys pretty easily. He had even almost had his first kiss a little bit ago with the Mayor’s daughter Madge but he chickened out. She was pretty but he felt bad kissing someone he didn’t really know. Maybe part of him was hoping he’d get the nerve to talk to his crush. 

   “Cute. Do adults tend to find you appealing?”

   “I don’t think it really matters if I befriend the other tributes. It won’t keep them from killing me in the end.” He tried to say it casually but he choked up a bit at the end. It’s so easy to think in his head but the moment that facts get spoken he turns into a mess. Portia plows on, probably used to seeing soon-to-be dead kids cry. 

   “You’re not trying to get them to like you, you’re trying to get sponsors to. And since you’re not particularly impressive or pretty you should be trying to charm them into liking you. Cute is a good angle” Oh. Right. He had completely forgotten that aspect. Twelve rarely has anyone interested in sponsoring them and it’s not as if any of their people has money to spare. He’s gotta dance for his dinner, she's saying, especially during the interview. 

   What kind of cute are they looking for? He doesn’t really consider a 13 year old boy like him cute but he can admit some girls certainly are. But so are the stray cats that wander town and Delly’s little toddler sister. There are all different kinds of cute and he has no idea what kind she thinks he’d fit. He can definably be charming though. His dad says so all the time. Sometimes he runs the front of the bakery and can convince people to buy more (he only ever tries with people he knows could spare it, the major, the peacekeepers, the apothecary). But he knows those people and they know him. It feels unlikely that anyone would be willing to send stuff to him based on one interview but what does he have to lose? 

   Portia ends up fitting him in a tight glittery black outfit. Long pants and a shirt, with a little vest and a shiny black crown. It’s supposed to look like the coal they mine back home, plus some glitter for flair. He’s just glad he’s not wearing a miner uniform because they’re so ugly and he had always assumed he'd take over the bakery one day, not end up in a miner’s uniform so that might’ve pushed him over the edge. His outfit does have a pretty shine when the lights move. It almost looks like the night sky during a brownout. The crown does look nice against his blond hair too. All in all, there have been much worse outfits in the past years and he tells her so. 

“Is that you being cute and charming?” is the deadpan response. There’s nothing to say back to that so he just tries out being charming and gives her a bashful smiles. It seems to soften her. 

She takes him to his chariot where he waits for Alba to arrive. She’s dressed in a similar material, but in a clearly more...”womanly” way so she must be taking her presentation in another direction. As usual, Twelve is last to go and they anxiously await their turn to join the parade so he leans closer to the horses pulling them. He’s never been this close to a horse before. He didn’t realize how big they were compared to him., tall and strong and their butt in facing him. They smell. He wants to get this whole thing over with already. The chariot finally starts moving and it is a bumpy, jostling ride that makes him work to keep a smile on. The lights hit them and the pair do sparkle a lot nicer in the firelight then they had under fluorescent lights. It’s so loud and so bright that he struggles to keep himself from getting disoriented. He waves with one hand blindly with one hand while he tries to pry his eyes open against the light. He'd like to hold Alba's hand if she’d let him but that would probably just make them both look dumb. 

  There’s a polite little cheer that happens every time a district enters and when he hears one in response to his waving he manages to open his eyes. Since his other hand is free he throws both up in a wave and smiles his best. He thinks he hears the crowd get a little louder for him. It’s almost fun, seeing the crowd react to him.  The parade ends eventually, like it does every year, with all the tributes lined up in a circle, ready to hear the opening speech of this year’s game. It’s the first time he’s seen all his opponents in person

  He looks like a toddler among the grownups. He feels like a toddler among them.

Chapter Text

After the speech the tributes were led up to their respective floor in the Training Center. Peeta was taken to his room and told dinner would be in an hour. This room is even fancier looking than the one on the train. He takes the time to use the fancy shower and scrub all the junk off his face. It takes a while but he manages to get his face clean, even if it now feels tender and raw. He has no idea how long it's been, so he heads down for dinner.

Peeta is the first one to dinner. A large spread, rolls, roasts, vegetables, and sides cover the center of the table. There are already places set, bowls of what looks like stew in front of each seat. There's an empty wine glass as well and when Peeta sits there alone he figures why not? He won’t have another chance to try it. Bran used to sneak back into the room they all shared after a night of drinking. Peeta was never sure where exactly he and his friends would get the alcohol. Twelve didn’t care about age restrictions but it’s not as if anyone he knew had extra money lying around. But Bran had spent many nights waking Rye and Peeta up drunkenly entering the room. He was pretty entertaining. Normally Bran was pretty quiet, definitely taking after their dad in that regard, but he was always chatty on those nights. Funny too. He would tell stories about his night, chock full of jokes he made in the moment. The three would end up staying up far too late that night to do anything productive the next day.

The wine’s delivered as others start to sit, Effie, Haymitch, Alba, and the stylists. He’s not sure if anyone would actually care about him drinking but thankfully the bottle comes open so it's easy enough to quickly fill the glass to the brim. He takes a sip, expecting the burn he’s been told about. It’s worse than he thought. He feels his eyes bug out for a second at the sour, tangy bite and probably would have had more of an reaction if he hadn’t noticed Haymitch’s eyes over the brim of his glass. He has an amused little smirk on his face as he reaches for his own glass. Peeta fights to keep a straight face and holds the glass against his face to help cover himself. Unfortunately, this leads to half the glass tipping into his mouth and forcing him to drink it. He finally comes up for air and Haymitch has turned his attention to his dinner.

Effie and the stylists speak about the parade as Alba, Haymitch and Peeta focus on food. At one point Peeta looks up from his food and notices Haymitch dunking a pork chop into his wine. Since this worked out so nicely for Peeta this morning with the hot chocolate he copies it. The wine is much more bearable in small doses and he thinks he starts to feel funny near the end of the glass. He’s pretty sure he’s not drunk though so he pours another glass and braves a full sip. With a full stomach and a lesser need to try drinking, he tunes into the conversation. Well, maybe several conversations because Peeta’s is not following any of it.

“I asked around and there’s certainly less interested parties.”

“Well there’s always some more interest after the interviews.”

“The boy from 1 looks like a beast. Honestly that's where I’d be betting”

“Porcia!” Is this what being drunk is? Because he is so lost right now but it feels pretty fun to be lost.

“I was thinking for the interview we should keep the black and have red accents. Like a poker in the flame.”

“Maybe some of that fabric from the Presidential event?”

“I think you could present as a provider, too much on the line to lose.”

“Oh yea nothing people love more than someone they don’t know taking care of other people they don’t know. Really makes them relatable.”

“What was your suggestion again? Dying immediately?”

“Actually my advice was to not die. That is the best way to stay alive.” The last line he catches is, of course, said by Haymitch and it’s said in such a deadpan, unfunny manner that Peeta starts giggling. Which turns the attention to him and the responsible adults notice the almost empty wine glass at his place. Someone reaches to move it away and he almost makes a move to block it but he’s gotten pretty dizzy in the last few minutes and would hate to spill something. Now he’s pretty sure he’s drunk. Or at least buzzed? He doesn’t know when one goes from one to the other but he does enjoy the feeling he currently has. People are exchanging looks over his head which he finds pretty rude because he can still see them and he tells them so.

“Okay maybe you should go to bed Peeta?”

“Nooo, I’m a baker, I need dessert.” he pouts for a second before desserts hit the table and he’s ready to go.

There’s a very tall slice of cake that immediately catches his eye. The whole cake is chocolate and he can taste orange in the buttercream. He tries to figure out what it would cost to make this at home but his head is way too slow for that kind of math. Sometimes Rye and Peeta would try and get a drunken Bran to do little tests for their amusement, see if he could balance on one leg, recite the alphabet backwards, that kind of thing. Bran always seemed to enjoy it. Peeta gets it now. Things are funnier when you’ve been drinking, like the face Haymitch is making at him. The conversations pick up again. He guesses people must have moved past his drinking which is good because he’s starting to make himself laugh, thinking about some of Bran’s stories and he definitely couldn’t explain them well. The third time everyone stops talking to look at him laughing he decides to excuse himself to go back to his room. He’s pretty sure he remembers where it is.

Peeta doesn’t find his room but he does find a glass elevator that can go all the way from the top of the building to the bottom. The feeling of the wine mixed with the feeling of stomach dropping is an excellent combination. He tries to jump when he feels it dropping and rising and see if it’s any different from jumping on the ground. It’s hard to tell because he’s still a little dizzy. Haymitch finds him by accident on his 6th ride. Well, he assumes it’s not on purpose because when Peeta reflexly smiles it is not returned.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?” Haymitch sighs. Peeta presses the button for the bottom floor and watches the doors slide shut

“You’re not my dad”

“Thank God for that” he mutters and stabs a button.

“...I also don’t remember where it is.” Peeta didn’t know Haymitch could have so many different kinds of sighs. Haymitch steps over and presses another button for a floor, hopefully theirs. They ride up in silence for a single moment.

“Hey, am I gonna be hungover later?” He’s heard Bran complain about them often enough to know they can’t feel good. Haymitch snorts, which is the closest thing Peeta’s ever heard him do to a laugh

“Off one drink? That's impressive.”

“It was more like 2 drinks.”

“Oh well buckle in for a rough morning then,” he says sarcastically. The doors open and Haymitch starts directing him down the hall with a hand on his arm. There’s quiet for a moment so Peeta decides to start talking again.

“Do you think I should try to be cute and charming at the interviews?”

“I’ve never seen you be cute or charming.”

“Yeah well, you're a dick so why would I?” Peeta mutters and then glances around on instinct, waiting for his mom’s hand on the back of his head for swearing. Haymitch laughs that time and Peeta just knows that he caught him looking around like a little kid waiting for a reprimand. He starts thinking about how he’ll never see his mom again. And suddenly Peeta realizes he is very tired and pretty annoyed now. The fun alcohol feeling is no longer fun and he’d like to be sober and alone and sad but instead he’s here with Haymitch mocking him. They reach what must be Peeta’s door and Haymitch all but tosses him towards the bed. Peeta was exhausted and flopped facedown on top of the covers and was ready for the day to be over, having no problem sleeping in his clothes. It occurs to him he hasn’t heard Haymitch leave and was about to roll over and check if he was still there when he felt his shoe being tugged off. His leg kicked lazily but the tugging moved to his other foot and then he heard the door closing.

---

Peeta did not wake up hungover. But he did have a little headache that didn’t go away until he had eaten and arrived at the training room. He wasn’t thinking about his head pain then, just his terror watching other tributes go straight to showing off their skills. Peeta just wandered around the room looking for an open spot. Should he waste time trying to learn any weapons? What survival skills exactly should he know?

Some of the other tributes started to take pity on him. The girl from 6 showed him some of the most common edible plants the Games normally use. The boy from 8 showed him a few knots for making traps. Mostly for food, he told him, rabbits and such, but he could catch a person if he planned it out properly. Peeta felt sick at the thought of attacking someone like that. Maybe in the heat of the moment, in self defense, he could manage killing someone but not like that. He doesn’t want to be able to do that.

Peeta can’t help but start to get along with some of the other tributes, they clearly don’t see him as any sort of threat. They chat a little while showing him things and are altogether pleasant seeming people. One tribute, a giant of a boy from 2 of all places, with a very nice laugh, lectures him about the importance of water and some potential ways to find it and then apologizes for the fact he’ll kill Peeta if he finds him in the arena.

“I’ll make it quick” he promises and there is not much to say in response Peeta, despite coming to like a few of them, refuses to learn any of their names. It’s not their fault but he doesn’t want to know anything more about his murderer then he has to. He doesn’t need to know if it’s for glory or survival. Doesn’t want to humanize them. He’ll be dead either way.

There’s one station Peeta enjoys and ends up staying at the rest of the training time- camouflage. Katniss and Gale’s advice run in his mind as he takes it in. It’s mostly berry juices, mud and dirt. He spends hours drawing on himself. He stops bothering to try and blend with anything and just messes around. It’s not like he knows where he’ll end up. It could be a dessert or the woods or an island. All of those would require very different colors anyway. He paints a flower onto his cheek and doodles water trails down his arms. He tries to make an eye on the palm of his hand, which is very hard to do with only one hand. It’s peaceful in that little corner and everyone leaves him alone over there. He gets some looks when he arrives at lunch without cleaning it off but who cares.

-

Peeta didn’t have much of a plan for his private session. He was the second to last one in there and none of the Gamemakers looked very interested. That was fair, nothing Peeta was going to do was going to change that. Peeta passed all the weapons and headed to the survival section. He found a nice full photo of a nettle field and took it to his favorite corner and started working on his arm. He worked silently, accompanied by quiet chatter from the Gamemakers. He thinks they’re eating lunch at the moment. It smells pretty good. When Peeta was done and had painted his forearm into the field he crossed to be back in front of them. No one was paying any attention so he had to awkwardly wave an arm at them to get someone to look over.

“Yes?” they asked

“Uh, I painted some camouflage.” He told them and held his arm up next to the photo. He actually thought it had turned out pretty well. He didn’t have to worry about shifting shadows or anything for a picture. The rest of the group looked over and made polite noises.

“Hey, that's pretty good. Nice job, kid,” That sounded sincere at least.

“Thank you.” he waited for a dismissal but people were starting to turn away already. He guessed that meant he was good to go. “Uh bye!”. He managed to score himself a 5 from that. Not the worst score he could’ve gotten. Most of the others had managed a 7 or 8. One boy had a 10. That did not bode well for him.

-

The night of his private session was also the interview night. Portia dressed Peeta in a matted black suit with a shiny red tie and little pocket square thing. She explained that it was supposed to look like coals and red-hot flames. He wasn’t sure how well that was coming through but he did think he looked nice. When he was dressed and made up he kept looking at his reflection. The suit reminded him of something but he couldn’t tell what. It was bugging him, but not as much as the tie. Portia kept coming back over to tighten it up everytime he managed to loosen it. He hated it

The waiting was the worst part of the whole thing. First he had to wait for Alba to be done with her stylist. Then he had to wait for the group to get backstage and still more waiting until it was his turn to speak. As the boy from Twelve, he was going dead last, sitting patiently in a seat and trying not to swing his feet. There was a TV just in his peripheral vision, in the wings of the stage. He caught a glimpse of himself on screen a few times as the camera swept the tributes. It was pointless to try and listen to anyone giving their interview. He couldn’t hear a thing over his own heart. The girl from 10 rose to give her interview and Peeta turned to scratch himself and saw his profile on the TV. And he realized what he was seeing before.

In his house, above the old TV set no one watched unless it was mandatory, was a photo. A full color photo, so semi-expensive. Peeta’s parents had placed it there as a happy moment to focus on among the darkness the TV always created. Peeta himself had spent many minutes watching it when something in the Games was too brutal to handle. It was their wedding photo. His mom looked younger and happier then he’s ever seen her, bright eyes and a genuine smile in a short, white dress. She had her head tilted towards his dad. His dad in turn was staring at her, not the camera, with a soft, sappy look. He had on a black suit that complimented the white dress nicely. There was also a hideously red tie on it. His dad had rented the suit but bought the tie to keep and would pull it out for ‘important events’. He wouldn't even wear it with a nice shirt, just tie it on top of whatever shirt he was working in. It never looked good, Peeta and his brothers would beg him to stop looking ridiculous at whatever school event they would be attending. His mom would always almost smile, before joining the attempt to convince him to take it off. That’s probably why Peeta’s dad did it. That’s what Peeta had been reminded of. From the side he looked a lot like his dad in that photo, with the matching suits and ties. Would they think that too? Staring at an image of Peeta right below their most prized photo? Was he going to ruin that picture when he died underneath it?

Suddenly Peeta was blinking back tears as District 10 finished their interviews. It can in waves, the knowledge of what was to come. He could go all day in a training room, distracted and content, and then sit down to dinner and eat some fancy seaweed roll he’d never heard of and it would all come crashing down. It was hard to even comprehend death and somewhere deep inside him he hoped that he might survive. That somehow, against everyone's odds and expectation he could go home again and show his family everything he’s seen and tasted.

Peeta started to panic then. Alba was up and Peeta was about to start crying and he couldn’t stop it! The tears were starting to leak out, though he was holding in that awful sobbing sound so far. He tried to swipe his eyes subtly. This was bad. Then his name was called and he stood up to make his way over, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear up his eyes.

Peeta makes his way over to Caesar Flickerman blindly through teary eyes and takes his seat. Caesar greets him and jumps right into the conversation, rolling past Peeta’s predicament.

“So Peeta I understand you come from a family of bakers right? You own the bakery back in your district?” He waited for a nod, “Well then, you’ll have to give us your opinion on the food here! You’re a couple meals in now, what do you think?”

“I think it's pretty good.” There’s an awkward little pause as Peeta tries to think back on the food.

“We’re just pretty good here?” Caesar prompts

“I mean I had fish for the first time the other day and I loved it! But I have no idea if it’s supposed to taste like that, you know?” He adds a little laugh because it’s true. Could that chunk of Salmon be better? He’ll never know.

“Oh, what kind of fish was it?”

“I’m pretty sure they said Salmon.”

“You’ve never had Salmon until here? Wow. I think that might be some of the best food I’ve ever eaten myself.” Peeta senses the opportunity for banter and grabs it.

“Well you’ve never had my family’s cheese buns.” Caesar does a dramatic look around to the crowd.

“Cheese buns?”

“Oh yea! It's a warm fluffy little roll with cheddar on top and goat cheese baked inside. When you have them out of the oven the cheese is melty and just kind of coats most of the bread. It's fantastic.”

“Oh now, that does sound delicious!”

“Tell you what, if I make it through all this I can bring you some.”

“Oh see now I’m rooting for you.” Caesar turns to the other tributes, “See this is how you get people on your side, go through the stomach people.” He grins at the audience for confirmation and they yell out sounds of agreement. Peeta feels a little excitement at these strangers agreeing with them. This isn’t going too bad.

“So, we know you scored a nice 5 during your private session- any special skills or knowledge you’d like to tell us about?” Nevermind. Peeta completely blanks on anything to say and decides to go with the truth.

“Oh, I’ve got a ton. I just don’t think any of them will apply to the arena, you know?”

“Well you never know what the Gamemakers will come up with this year.”

“That’s true. If the arena has anything to do with frosting a cake or kneading some dough, things are going to get crazy in there.” Caesar gives a showman’s laugh and the audience laughs with him.

“That’s the spirit! Keep the optimism Peeta and we’ll see where you get!”. And then his time is up and all the tributes are being escorted off stage.

Peeta heads up to his room and orders himself a private dinner. He wants to spend his last night alone. Completely alone, not just the he’s in a room and no one’s talking to him kind of alone he’s been experiencing all week. It was a tasty dinner, lamb chunks and aromatic wild rice. And of course he had to order dessert. It might be the last time he ever eats something sweet. It seems unlikely the arena will have cookies. He eats two slices of chocolate cake, 2 little shortbread cookies and a large cream puff. It fills his stomach quickly and he doesn't have any time to lie in bed and worry about tomorrow. The food puts him out like a light and he gets to enjoy a dreamless sleep.

-

Peeta is woken up the next morning by Portia, who accompanies him on the hovercraft to the room where he’ll be dressed and taken away. She brings a light breakfast with her and they eat together in silence. He feels sick but he knows he should eat as much as he can before going in. He has no idea what’s coming and he just wants to get it over with.

“How are you feeling?” Portia asks as she helps him get dressed. It’s a ridiculously stupid question so Peeta decides to answer honestly.

“I’m really scared.” and makes his voice crack on purpose just to see her frown.

“Well I think you have a good chance if you can hide for a while. It’s safe to assume most of the others don’t want to kill you, they’re hoping someone else does it for them. So maybe they’ll do a lot of the work for you and take most of them out.” Peeta just gives a dull nod as they finish dressing. He’s in long canvas pants, thick socks, and boots. His top half has a heavy, 3/4 sleeve shirt and a very light, waterproof jacket. Portia crouches in front of him and tucks his pants into his socks.

“Best to keep skin covered.” she explains, “Nothing good ever comes from having exposed skin.”. Then she laces up his boots for him, tying and double knotting them extra tight. He appreciates the little advice but he’s not really listening anymore. He just sits in silence trying not to throw up until a voice announces it’s time. A woman in a lab coat appears to shoot a tracker into his arm and direct him onto a metal circle. He does as he’s told and a tube comes down around him. The terror starts setting in and the claustrophobic tube isn’t helping. Portia gives him a thumbs up. Peeta feels himself getting lifted up, just like the elevator. He goes up and up and up and then he's standing outside, squinting in the sun, in open air that’s so hot and wet he’s already struggling to breath.

Over his own gasping, Peeta hears the countdown to the Games begin.

Chapter Text

This year’s arena was nasty and hot. The air was muggy and wet and seemed to stick in Peeta’s lungs. As usual, the tributes were spread out around the cornucopia in a small clearing. Behind them was a jungle forest. Trees taller than Peeta had ever seen, with leaves larger than had ever fallen from the trees in Twelve, dense and dark. Peeta couldn't even see anything in the jungle from where he was. It was like a wall of darkness began as soon as the trees sprouted.

Peeta was finally getting his breathing under control when the last 10 seconds of the countdown happened. He had a plan and was ready-he wasn’t going to bother with the Cornucopia and just bolt while the rest fought it out. The bell rang and Peeta turned 180 and ran for the tree line. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a few others doing the same. There were distant sounds of fighting behind him, screaming and thumping and falling. His heart was pumping, so scared someone might come after him and he’d be dead already. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to hear them coming over his own breathing.

He finally hit the tree line and crashed through it blindly. It was much darker inside and the ground was uneven with roots and mounds of dirt. He made so much noise as he stumbled around. Branches whipped him as he ran along and after only a minute or two Peeta tripped and fell to the ground. Panicking, he clawed himself up against a tree trunk and paused to hear if anyone was around. It didn’t sound like it. There was the endless chirping of birds and hum of insects but no branches being snapped or ground being smacked sounds.

Peeta took a moment to breathe and think. He didn’t know how far he had run or what way to go now. All the trees looked the same. He definitely wanted to go away from the clearing. He also wanted water. He was so thirsty already from that dead sprint. He could maybe climb a tree and see if he could see water? But there could be others doing the same and would go there as well. Maybe he could try and follow an animal around? They would have to go to water eventually. But all Peeta could see was birds zipping around over his head.

For lack of a better idea, Peeta picked a direction and started walking. Maybe he’d come across some water. He didn’t think he could drink just any water but he wasn’t sure. Step one was to find water, then he could panic about trying to drink it. He walked for hours aimlessly. He tried to stay in a straight line but sometimes he would hear a scary sound and veer away from it. He didn’t know if it was a tribute or some animal. It made the hair of the back of his neck stand up. His feet hurt and the thirst was awful. He had been hungry before, everyone in Twelve had. One time the bakery hadn’t gotten in their supply order on time and all they had was flour and water. They didn’t even have salt, let alone sugar. His family had split one flavorless flatbread a day for a week before the supply train from the Capital arrived with fresh supplies for the shop.

But that was nothing compared to being thirsty. Peeta had at least been able to put something in his stomach back then and he had always had water available. If he drank it fast enough after eating the bread he could fill his stomach up nicely. Here there was nothing to trick his body. For a time his mouth would fill with saliva and he could swallow that but it went away pretty soon. The humidity was cruel to him. It felt like he was drowning but couldn’t drink. He was also sweating like crazy. He licked his arm at one point, just to see if it would help at all but then realized the saltness was a bad sign and would only make him thirstier. All the walking around was definitely making the sweat and the thirst worse but what else could he do?

Peeta was getting so tired and stopped for a break, wondering how late it was. He thought the sun might be close to setting but it was impossible to see through the foliage. He reached out to one of the branches and pulled off a leaf. They were large and flat and pleasantly leaf shaped. Peeta rubbed a thumb on it. It had a slippery feel on one side and more matted on the other. He wondered if he could draw on it. He started pulling more leaves off the branches out of bored frustration when he noticed something on the ground by the base of the tree. It was a pretty white flower and he was pretty sure it was a trillium and he could eat it!

Peeta crouched and plucked it. He brought it close to his face and stared hard. He was fairly certain he got it right but he hesitated to eat it yet. He never really foraged at all. His parents would just put whatever they were eating on the table and he’d eat it without thinking. He didn’t know what could happen if he had messed it up. It could be a regular non-edible flower or some hell-ish Capital trick to make him go crazy. He gathered a handful and decided to hold onto them as a backup if he didn’t see anything else and continued on. The sun was definitely starting to set now and Peeta was getting more scared. The jungle was making a lot more noise than before. He definitely heard some growling.

He probably looked ridiculous to the people watching him, holding a little bouquet in one hand and staring at the ground, walking slowly to avoid roots in the dying light and too scared to look up and see something. Eventually the ground started sloping down a little, which was even harder to navigate. It was dark now, twilight fading away above the treetops and Peeta was so tired. He wanted to go to sleep but he wasn’t sure where it was safe. He could climb a tree. But what if he fell out of it in his sleep? He could just curl up against a tree and hope no one came by? But that seemed dumb and risky. He pushed on, hoping for water or an idea.

-

There was a little pond of water at the bottom of the slope. Peeta wanted to drink it but he knew he wasn’t supposed to just drink any random water. He didn’t know what to do with it though. He couldn’t boil it or distill it or anything at the moment. Peeta stared at the water and his own reflection. He looked gross. There was a lot of dirt sticking to his sweaty face and he looked pretty red too. There were little fishes swimming around in the water that scattered when he put a hand in. He started scrubbing his face. As he did, he wondered if he could catch a fish. But he didn’t know anything about cooking them. Could you just eat them whole? He was pretty sure you had to heat it up like chicken. Also he didn’t have anything for a fire. It seemed Peeta was actually pretty good at coming up with ideas, he just couldn’t do any of them.

Peeta decided to try and forgo drinking the water as long as he could and turned to consider the flowers again. Peeta sat next to the water, and dipped his flower in it before shaking it dry. He stared at it for a moment, running everything he knew about it through his head. Double and tripling checking himself, like when he would take a test in school.

Finally he couldn’t put it off anymore and started eating the petals. It was...weird in his mouth. The texture was so strange. He had eaten plants before but not petals. It didn’t taste bad (but really didn’t taste good) so he closed his eyes and pretended he was back home eating dinner with his family. It wasn’t working. He sat there, mouth full of flower, one hand holded the rest and the other dragging his fingers through the mud beside the pond. Mud! Peeta sat up and dropped the flowers to the ground. The lessons from the training center were coming back. He took a deep breath and started thinking.

He found a nearby tree with a nice clump of bushy leaves around the trunk. Then he dug a ditch with his hands just long enough to fit himself in with his legs curled up and a few inches deep, right behind the bushes and up against the tree. He started smearing mud all over himself without a care. It was an especially nasty feeling on his face but he continued on. He went back to curl himself up against the trunk of the tree and rearranged the bushes and leaves in front and around him. He felt pretty good about it. The coverings on his legs kept him warm and the nasty feeling on his face kept him from worrying about being exposed there. He thought he could settle in there for the night.

Peeta laid back and tried to get as comfortable as he could. Just as he found the right spot he heard the cannons start booming, telling him how many were gone. He counted silently to 14 and had to take a deep breath. 14 people all gone in a single day. It was hard to imagine. He heard the Capital anthem start playing and looked up to see their faces, trying to remember if he had noticed any of them. It was hard to see anything through the canopy of the tree but he could just make our faces if he tilted his head back and leaned over to the right. It was an uncomfortable position and he hoped that it’s all be over soon.

Oh. That was Alba’s face in the sky. He hadn’t even realized. When was the last time he’d seen her? Dinner the day before? Where was she at the Cornucopia? He had liked her. He hoped she died quickly, that it didn’t hurt too much. He felt even lonier, which was stupid because he hadn’t even thought about her the entire day. He felt so guilty, he had forgotten about her so quickly.

The night continued and that guilt eventually turned to exhaustion. Peeta was so tired but everytime he came close to sleeping some new noise would go off and startle him awake, heart pounding. The sound of nature was no lullaby for him. The night passed slowly.

-

13 years of waking up before the sun meant Peeta wasn’t surprised to open his eyes, semi-rested, and still see darkness. He figured he was up for the day then and sat there for a moment trying to plan. Something felt off but he didn’t know what. It didn’t make sense but he was suddenly scared to move at all. He sat there frozen, trying to determine what had him so freaked out before he realized. There was no noise. The birds had stopped the chirping. The bugs weren’t buzzing and that weird clicking noise had stopped. That couldn’t be good. There was a single scream not too far away. It...might’ve been human but Peeta waited and didn’t hear a cannon go off. What was happening? It was too early in the game for the Capital to send out some monster. He guessed it could’ve been a regular monster of the jungle he didn’t know about. School mostly taught about coal, not potential animals they could one day see.

Peeta sat frozen, pressed up against the tree with his eyes closed for some time. He’d crack an eye open every now and then. By the time he caught a glimpse of the sun rising, sound had slowly started to return to the jungle. He assumed whatever had been there was gone now.

There was a benefit to all that, Peeta found. As he was slowly moving himself out of the spot his face was getting sprinkled with water drops. He didn’t realize why until the sun rose higher and shone some light on it. It was dew! Shining atop all those big leaves around him. Peeta started grabbing them, careful not to shake the dew off, and licking. It was slowly going to work and the water was nasty tasting and warm but he licked practically every leaf in reach. He stopped being thirsty and then kept going at it, scared of when he’d see water again. After that, he chewed on the remainder of his flowers.

After a nice breakfast Peeta went to scrub the dried mud from the night off. It was a process, but eventually he was clean enough. Peeta sat down next to the water, drawing little images in the mud with a stick while he tried to think. He should probably find a new place to be if he wanted to avoid the others. But he didn’t want to leave the water, what if he never found another source? He knew he shouldn’t drink it but it was nice to have as a last resort. He sighed and looked down at the mud. He drew a little tree and a cat in it. It was a relaxing moment, in this whole thing. He dragged the tip of the stick through the doodles to erase them and started making new ones on top. This would have gone on for a while but a cannon went off and made him jump.

Peeta’s head whipped around in a panic, trying to find out what had happened. It was irrational but he felt like the cannon had been right next to him. It shook him, made him remember the murder aspect of the game. How many were left now? 6 or 7? That number was frighteningly small already. Peeta felt very unsafe and was spurred into moving himself away from there.

He took off at random, walking in a straight line in the hope of following it back later. It was getting to be unbearably hot again as he trekked through the jungle. He wondered what was happening back home. Rye would probably be back from school by now. His parents and Bran would be working. If it was around noon (it felt hot enough) they would probably be finishing the final bread shaping stage. Then another hour or so of proofing and off into the oven. It was an easy distraction, focusing on the routine of his home instead of the sweat drenching him. He realized the mayor’s birthday was coming up so his family would have to start brainstorming decorations for that soon. That was always a good time for the family, the extra money bolstering everyone’s spirits and the opportunity for creativity tempting. Peeta normally got to practice coloring and would keep an eye for pretty flowers he saw, plucking them and bringing them home to study, trying to turn gumpaste to art. He could make a pretty nice Cape Lilies by now. Peeta’s mom would probably take over the decorations alone this year. She was a better artist anyway.

The day wore on and Peeta had taken to having many breaks to simply sit and look around. The trees were tall and endless but they were pretty in an endless, eternal way. There were large plants growing all over the place that must be fruit of some kind but he had never seen before. Peeta had found more flowers to stave off hunger but no water yet. He had the thought to maybe follow an animal to water but they all moved far too quickly for him to succeed. He was getting tired, thirsty, and cranky very quickly and decided to turn back.

It took nearly half the day to find his way back but Peeta did make it back to his little pond. He only recognized it because his mud drawings were still there. He starts scrubbing himself down with a handful of water and rubs a hand through his hair. His fingers keep catching and he gives up pretty quickly, figuring he would just get sweaty again tomorrow. The water was so much cooler than the air it felt amazing running down his head. Without thinking, Peeta scoops up a handful and drinks it. It’s so, so, refreshing that for a moment he doesn’t realize his mistake. He freezes in place. When he doesn’t drop dead immediately he takes a breath and tries to calm down. One handful can’t have been that bad for him right? Plus he had plenty of regular water this morning. He’ll....it’ll be fine. He won’t drink anymore of that and he will find some more water tomorrow. He’s doing fine.

Peeta wonders how long he can stay here before someone else finds him. The Gamemarkers could easily force him away from here to force someone else to his little spot. He wondered if he had been on TV yet. Everyone else was probably doing more interesting things than him. The Career pack would at the very least be talking and planning with each other, the Capital liked to show that so the audience could see if any of their plans worked out. They’d also bet on who'd turn first in the group. Peeta guessed there could be other alliances fighting for a spot on the air. He wondered who was left, who was in or out of the career pack. It was always weird to see them team up with someone outside of 1,2, or 4. It felt like a betrayal to most, like it was supposed to be all the other districts against them. It never seemed to help that outsider anyway, always the first to be killed when the pack broke up.

Despite doing nothing but walking a few hours Peeta was exhausted. It was tiring being so alert. He just wanted to go to sleep but it was too risky with the sun out. To occupy himself he turned back to drawing in the mud. He gave up on the stick and started dragging his hands though it. After he got bored of that he started adding dry dirt, mixing it into the proper building constantly.

Peeta used to play outside with the other merchant kids when he was little and it was nice out. They’d draw with chalk on the sidewalk and when the rain came to wash those away they’d turn to playing in the mud. Sometimes Bran and Rye would come out to join them and they could make large sprawling empires of mud kingdoms, with a castle and moats and rain rivera running through it.

Peeta sat and played in the mud, building little cakes and castles like he did as a little kid. He plucks some leaves and starts plastering them to the side of his little cake, adds tiny flags to the castle’s towers. Makes a large boot, as big as he can manage before it starts crumbling under its weight. He sizes it up next to his own and is pleased to find it’s nearly the correct size. It’s fun. Peeta never had much free time between school and working at the bakery anymore. Only a few hours a day to socialize and he’d normally sketch or hang out with his friends, not make a mess in the mud that would just require cleaning himself and his clothes. It’s nice to sit and enjoy himself.

The sun was finally setting and Peeta felt safe enough to start camouflaging himself for bed. He set himself up by the tree and wanted to fall asleep, hoping to wake to some dew again and not someone or something trying to kill him. At least it was getting easier to sleep upright.

-

Peeta was startled awake by the boom of a cannon. It was still dark and he couldn't see much. He did hear noises coming towards him, snapping branches and crashing footsteps. He pressed himself against the tree and closed his eyes, hoping that whoever it was would pass by. He would have no such luck as the noises seemed to stop right around where he was. Peeta cracked a single eye open and looked around. There was no one in front of him. Hesitantly, he turned his head. The boy from 7 was lying on the ground by the pond, his arm stuck in the pool and it looked like his face was close to following it. He didn’t look good. There was a lot of blood on his shirt and face and a chunk of his thigh was missing. It was terrifying to look at. Peeta had seen plenty of gorey and distressing things in previous Hunger Games but it was so much worse in person. There was no escaping the smell of the blood or the grating wheezing noises the boy was making as he almost rolled himself into the water. 5 feet from this boy was the closest Peeta had ever been to such violence.

It didn’t seem like the other kid had noticed Peeta yet, so he felt more confident in opening both eyes and turning to observe better. The boy finally took his arm out of the pool and rolled over onto his back, lying on top of a bag. The moonlight reflected off the water and showed off tiny bite marks littereding the surface of his arm. He laid there for a moment, staring up at the sky and sighing before turning his head towards Peeta. Peeta held his breath and didn’t move. It took some time of gazing off into the near darkness before he seemed to notice Peeta’s eye and jump.

“Shit kid” he wheezed out, “You scared me. I didn’t think you’d still be in here.” Peeta found that a little offensive. Still, there was a long pause before Peeta decided to respond, whispering from his safe spot.

“It’s only day 2,” he reminded him. The other boy made a move that could’ve been interpreted as a shrug.

“A lot can happen in two days,” and then he gave a wheezing cough blood started leaking from his shirt onto the ground. The thigh blood had been on the ground for a while now, dark and nearly impossible to see in the dark of the night. Peeta wanted to ask if he was okay but that was stupid. He didn’t know if he should offer help or if there was anything he could do. The other boy followed his eyes to his wound.

“The girl from 8 is a beast,” he said, “Don’t run into her.” Peeta still couldn’t think of anything to say but he started inching closer, determined to see if there was anything he could do at all. The boy kept talking,

“Ran into her and her district partner. I guess they had teamed up,” another wheezing cough came out, “Don’t worry though, I took him out. One less to worry about. Probably two for you since I don;t think I’ll be here very long.” He looked at Peeta with a sad, bloody smile. The closer Peeta got the clearer it was how bad off the boy was. He was becoming more and more drenched in blood and what skin was exposed had a million tiny little welts welling up.

“Don’t suppose you’re up for a mercy kill?” He asked and laughed when Peeta jumped back in horror, like he could’ve tricked him into it.

“No!” Peeta yelped too loudly and then looked around in fear. What if the tribute who had done this had followed him here?

“Relax,” he was still laughing, “I can’t make you. It’d be good practice though. Get your hands bloody on an easy mark.”

Peeta was getting more upset now. He understood how the Capital and the careers could be so casual and cruel about it all but another tribute? Someone like him, acting like ending his life would be so simple. Like it could all be so easy. The laughter peeled off pretty quickly and the two were in uncomfortable silence while Peeta thought.

“I’m Peeta,” he introduced himself in hopes of starting a different topic.

“I know,” the other boy said, “I remember you, the little baby tribute.” Peeta feels his face go red, first at the embarrassment of not bothering to learn the others' names and then in anger at being called a baby. Before he could start yelling at him, the boy kept talking,

“My name is Birch. I’m from 7.”

“I knew that! That you’re from 7.” he clarified, “What happened?”

“Like I said, I ran into the duo from 8 and tried to fight my way out. I wouldn’t advise that. Although I was never as good at hiding as you seem to be.” Peeta was then aware of how he was talking to Birch while absolutely coated in mud. It must’ve looked weird to Birch.

“You uh, like playing in the mud then?” Birch asked, gesturing to the various mud art he was now lying in the middle of.

“No. I was just bored.” Peeta started explaining how he occupied his last two days to Birch, coming next to him to point out his favorite pieces.

“You’ve just been sitting in the same spot for two days? What’s wrong with you? You’re gonna get killed staying like that.”

“You’re the first tribute I’ve met.” Peeta defended. He knew he shouldn’t have stuck around but where else to go? Apparently Birch had plenty of plans.

“There’s plenty of watering spots all over the jungle, you just have to treat the water. And there are edible fruits like all over this place, kid. Keep the moss on one side of you and you at least know what way you’re going.” Great, now Peeta was getting a lecture from someone only 4 years older than him.

“Well I’m not the one dying.” he snapped, and immediately felt awful, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry that was awful.” Birch had sobered up considerably from that comment.

“No,” he grit his teeth, “You’re right, I’m not getting out of here.” He had been speaking slower and slower as the conversation went on and Peeta could see when the pain would have him clenching up. They were sitting in silence while Birch tried to catch a breath.

“Do you think you’ll make it out of here?” He asked Peeta

“I don’t know.” Peeta answered in a small voice, curling his knees up to his chest. Birch’s blood was starting to spread very close to his boots but Peeta thought he’d be incredibly rude to start scooting away from it, “I don't think I could hurt anybody.”

“I offered to let you practice on me.”

“No.. I don’t...want to be able to hurt people, you know? I don’t wanna be that kind of person who has that instinct.”

“That's sweet but do you think it’ll matter in the end?”

“I don’t know. Can’t hurt to try.”

“I guess.” Peeta was forced to start scooching back when the blood hit his shows and he thought about leaving bloody footprints in the jungle.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Birch offered, “My bag here has some supplies for a few days in here. I’ll give it to you if you’ll stay with me until the end.” When Peeta didn’t answer immediately he guilted him, “Since you can’t put me out of my misery.”

“Okay,” Peeta nodded in agreement and Birch gestured for him to help get the back out from under him.

Peeta wasn’t sure how long this would take. He had never sat at a bedside vigil before. The doctor lived on the same street as him and sometimes he would see families come and go in a few hours and sometimes it would stretch out for days. Peeta felt terrible about worrying about himself and his time while another human being lay dying in front of him. He started sniffling and it must have been loud enough to hear over the jungle noises because a hand clumsy patted his ankle.

“There, there, ” Birch said, “I’m sure I’m going to a better place.” The concept of Birch comforting him over his own death was so terribly unexpected Peeta made a snotty laugh.

“I’ve got plenty of people to meet over there,” Birch said, eyes distinct, clearly thinking of so many other things and people besides Peeta. Peeta tried to keep his emotions in, not wanting to interrupt him.

“Why the hell am I comforting you? It’s my death.” But Birch smiled as he said it and Peeta was pretty sure he was messing with him. “You’re definitely a little brother aren’t you? Used to the easier life.” And Peeta nodded and started telling him about Bran and Rye and slowly, pausing frequently to spit up blood and get deep breaths, Birch spoke of his own family. An older sister and two younger twins, a boy and a girl. The twins were 2 years older than Peeta. Both parents were alive as well and the whole family were all old enough to work in the lumber yard together. He kept talking through the night.

When the sun began to rise the two had run out of things to say. Peeta was surprised he had held out so long. He’d had enough time to talk about his family, the best parts of his district and all the people he planned to meet in the afterlife. Peeta, as promised, stayed until the very end. Sometime during the night he had taken Birch’s hand and Birch in turn would give him a squeeze in between silences, to let him know he was still there. Peeta looked up through the trees, taking in the first rays of sunlight and heard the cannon boom. He looked down at Birch to find him dead.

Chapter Text

When Peeta was 6 Bran brought home a cat. Well, brought home in the sense that a cat followed him home from somewhere else and he was too nice to shake it off. It had been a sweet old cat who very quickly took to sunbathing on the sidewalk outside the front door. Bran used to feed it scraps and that kept her coming back no matter how many times their mom shooed her away. Peeta would draw on the sidewalk besides her and she didn’t seem to mind when he’d wipe his chalky hands off on her black fur. It had made her look prettier in his opinion.

One day, a month or so after the cat had followed Bran home, Peeta heard crying coming through the front door. It sounded like Bran which was scary because he never cried anymore, he tended to tease Peeta and Rye about them crying. Peeta shouted for his dad and they opened the door together to see the cat curling up in the morning light, still and unmoving and Bran next to her with a little dish of milk. Peeta’s dad put him down to go comfort his brother and left him staring at her. It was the first time he’d seen anything dead before, too young to see the mandatory viewing of the Hunger Games. He knew the food he ate was dead animals but they didn’t look like animals anymore. But the cat looked the same as she had alive. He reached out a small hand to touch her. The fur was still so soft but it was cold like it had never been before. Underneath all the fur was hard and stiff.

Peeta looked down at Birch and wondered if he would feel the same. That unnatural stiffness and cold. He looked-. Well, Peeta wasn’t sure what he must look like when he was happy and whole. The Birch he knew looked torn and ragged. The thought made him sick and he felt lonelier than he had now the entire game. Peeta didn’t know if he would miss Birch. He didn’t really know him for all the talking they did last night. The things he talked about got a little confusing towards the end anyhow, mumbling words Peeta didn’t know and ideas he didn’t understand. But he was nice to Peeta and had offered him supplies when he didn’t have to. They had both made each other laugh at least once during the night. He wished he would have known him outside the games and see who he really was.

The sun was rising higher and shedding enough light onto Birch to get Peeta’s stomach turning and kicking their plan into motion. They had spoken about this, in the dark hours. The hovercraft would come to get his body and the other tribute would see and possibly go looking in that area for whatever killed him. As far as Birtch knew the career pack was still together, 5 of them, and three solo tributes, one was the boy from 8. This was going by pretty fast. Part of Peeta was grateful for it, part of him horrified by how many were gone so quickly.

Peeta sprinted as long as he could before slowing to a walk. He stopped to pant beside a tree. He was banking on there being water in Birch’s bag. He had had a chance to go through it yet. It seemed rude to pillage his stuff while he was still alive right next to Peeta. If there was water in there Peeta could probably make good progress running without having to worry too much about sweating it all out. He went as long as he could before collapsing. It had been almost an hour, he must have been pretty far away. The jungle had settled into that uncomfortable stillness that made him feel like the only person in the world.

It felt like a good time to check out Birch's bag. There was a full (!) bottle of water that he greedily drank half of immediately. It had a weird, metallic taste to it which was probably from the iodine bottle that was also in the bag. There was also a pack of dried meat, some matches, a container of wet beans, and hard cheese. The cheese would probably go bad soon so he decided to eat that first. He didn’t recognize what kind it was but it was sharp and crumbly and coated his tongue. It was...okay tasting. Peeta had definitely had better cheeses. He ate one of the meat strips too. That one he could recognize. Tasty beef.

A stomach full of real food and water felt amazing. Peeta had more energy now then he had since the Games started. He wanted to do something with this energy. More than just wandering around and hiding. He- Peeta cast around for inspiration. He wanted to climb a tree! Get to the top and get a good view of the arena. Learn something for once.

There was one tree in Peeta’s yard. A red oak tree. It was only a little taller than the house. The branches were cluttered together nicely but they started a few feet into the air. Peeta’s dad used to put him on his shoulder when he was little to reach the lower ones. Peeta was always desperate to follow his brothers as high as he could. One day Bran climbed too high and when he fell down he broke his leg and their mom banned anyone from climbing it anymore. This tree was a lot bigger and wider. He stood at the bottom looking up at the lowest branches above him and scratching his head. He had no idea how to start this.

He walked up to the tree and wrapped his arms around it. He started trying to pull himself up but he pretty quickly started sliding down again. He tried wrapping both legs around too and slowly start to inch his way up. It wasn’t easy. The tree looked smoother then his own at home but he kept scratching his hands and knees when he slipped back down. Peeta kept trying, he had plenty of time and energy.

Peeta knew he was strong. He was the best wrestler in his grade but he wasn’t used to this full body exertion. When he managed to claw his way to the lowest branches he stopped, head against the tree trunk to catch his breath before trying to move. Then he gave it his all and hauled himself sideways onto a sturdy looking branch.

It was a lot easier once he was up in the tree. The branches were thick and sturdy and the air was cooler up here too. The leaves were right in his face and swaying in the breeze. There were more birds around him chirping to each other. He kept climbing up. It was like a puzzle, seeing where he could go and on what branches. He had to backtrack a lot, his arms just too short to cross the gapes. He made it high enough into the tree that the foliage of the other trees started to blend together. In a particularly daring moment he managed to slowly, very carefully, climb his way from one tree to another tree without touching the ground. It was exhilarating and a lot of fun. Peeta liked it up here in the treetops. It felt safe, like no one could get him through the leaves. He settled into a nice thick fork in the tree to relax and give his muscles a break. He dozed off.

-

Peeta was startled when he heard noises drifting up from below. It sounded like...words? Chatting. It must be people. Huh. Peeta had gone 3 days before seeing Birch and now he's seeing everyone. It was hard to make out anything that was being said from his position but he wasn’t about to go moving for a better listen. The group seemed to be arguing and ended up somewhere around the base of his tree, attempting to speak over each other.

“Okay!” a boy yelled, loud enough to be heard clearly by Peeta, “Everyone pick a direction, walk a few miles and turn back. One of them will lead us the way back.”

They must be lost in the jungle. He wondered where they were trying to go. Probably the cornucopia, the careers tended to take over that spot every year. And it must be the career pack down below. 3 girls and 2 boys he could just make out. He mostly judged that by hair length.

There must have been no objections to the plan because they all did as suggested and started walking away from each other, leaving one girl behind as a marker. This was pretty annoying for Peeta to hear. Now he was probably going to be stuck up here for hours probably. There was no way he’d risk moving out of the tree. He was confident that he could wait her out silently but it was going to be a long and boring wait. He settled back against the tree and waited.

Peeta didn’t have to wait long until there was movement coming back towards the tree. One of those tributes must have a really fast mile time. He peered down to see it was one of the boys.

“Celeste” he greeted and the girl jumped and turned around, axe at the ready. She visibly relaxed when she saw who it was.

“What are you doing?” she asked. He shrugged.

“Figured that either one of the others would find the way and if they didn’t then we’d go my way. Might as well save my energy and keep you company.”

“That’s so sweet. And you have no other reason to not want to go wandering around alone? You’re not scared are you?” she teased.

“Nah, just wanted to make sure you weren’t getting scared all alone out here.”

“Aww. I don’t suppose you also thought of a way to pass the time all by our lonesome?”

“I have a couple actually.” And then they were pressed up against Peeta’s tree. The whole thing shook a bit from how hard they hit it. Oh God. Peeta risked going hands-free to press them against his ears. They were getting very loud during their pastime. Maybe Peeta should call down to them. Sure they’d kill him but it had to be better than listening to a disgustingly sloppy makeout. Why would they even want to do that on TV? Or in The Hunger Games? The jungle was such an unromantic place. The duo had to come up for air at some point and Peeta prayed that was the end. It couldn’t take the others too long to get back and interrupt them.

-

Apparently it could take some time for the rest of the Careers to return. Thankfully they have finally stopped trying to devour each other’s faces after the second break. Peeta was nervous to look down at them again but it seemed to be safe now, they had turned to talking, quiet voices drifting up to Peeta just loud enough to be heard.

“Just three of them left now.” Celeste sighed out,

“8, 5 and 3. Should be pretty easy.” the boy agreed.

“How long do you think we’ll have?”

“We should at least stay together until we find the base. Then...”. There was a long pause.

“Maybe we should just get it over with tonight. You and I can handle the last ones ourselves.” The boy made a noncommittal sound in response.

“Maybe. Feels like no ones too prepared yet.”

“I don’t want my throat slit in the middle of the night, Maverick.”

”I dunno, you might be able to pull that look off. Literal blood-red necklace.” Bizarrely this seemed to lighten the two. Peeta thought that they’re must be something wrong with them. But speaking of the remaining tributes, could they have actually forgotten about him? His chances of getting out of here were looking a lot better. Maybe they’d all take each other out and he’d go home.

The teens had been sitting side by side but he turned to face her and lifted a hand to guide her towards him.

“You’ll be okay, I promise.”

“I want us both to be okay.” she said quietly, like it was a confession.

“If we can’t be okay we can at least be happy for a while.” And they were back to kissing and Peeta was back to debating suicide. They had to get bored of that eventually. When they did finally break apart they just stood there chatting about nothing. The boy started chunking rocks at the tree opposite Peeta and Celeste started whipping her axe into it. The thud would vibrate up the tree until the leaves in Peeta’s eyeline were rattling. It really only added to Peeta’s terror. An axe to the head was such a brutal way to go. One of the victors of the last few years was from 7 and used an axe as well. One of the few remaining tributes had taken her axe to the neck. He fell down but he didn’t die immediately, his hands weakly tugging on the axe head. It had given Peeta nightmares for weeks.

One of Celeste’s throws must have been harder than the rest. She yanked at it, hard, and nearly hit the ground with it when it came free. She pulled herself up and for one heartstopping moment she looked right at Peeta in the tree. It lasted a fraction of a moment but it was too late. Peeta’s heart was in his throat. There was no chance to do anything. It was all over. But rather than say anything or aim for Peeta’s neck she returned to her position.

Had she not seen him? Sure he was pretty high up but he hadn’t thought to hide himself? Was this some sort of trap he couldn’t understand or had she simply ignored him? Thought him too weak to even bother killing. Would she hide somewhere and wait for Peeta to come down only to ambush him? Everytime he thought he couldn’t get more scared in here, some new horror would appear before him and send his stomach twisting and his heart beating. A reminder that he had to survive not just the elements but bloodthirsty people.

He wanted to go home so bad. He wanted his dad to tuck him and his brothers into bed like he used to when they were little. He wanted to be back in school, laughing with his friends and gazing at Katniss from a distance. He didn’t think he could last much longer here.

The lovestruck teens broke apart when they heard the rest of the pack returning. The boy went off in one direction while she stayed behind. The other boy was the first one to make it back. He shook his head when he arrived so he must not have found a way back. The others slowly came back as well as Peet watched on high above them. Maverick came back after the others, strolling in with something half eaten in his hand. Peeta squinted down at it, trying to memorize what it looked like. It was big as a hand and maybe a darker reddish color. The boy stuffed some more fruit in his mouth and looked towards Celeste. She shook her head slightly and he swallowed and announced he had found it and led them away. Peeta could finally breathe again.

He waited a while before climbing back down. It wasn’t fun anymore. Every snap stopped his heart and every buzzing in his ear sent it back into motion at 100 times the rate. Peeta had a feeling his days of tributeless survival were over. There were only 8 of them left now. The Gameakers were probably cooking up some horror. He took a breath and tried to shake off those thoughts. It was no use worrying about what would happen right now. He had to focus on getting down without breaking his neck and form his next plan.

When Peeta hit the ground he was ready and moving. Far away from where the Careers had gone. Finding water and a place for rest was the new plan. The sun was far from setting but he was too drained to consider anything else. He put his head down and trudged on, looking for water. Birch was right, it didn’t take long to find another pond so long as he kept moving. He plopped down next to it and drank down the rest of his water alongside the rest of the cheese and another strip of beef. He dunked the now empty bottle in the pond to refill it and took out the iodine bottle. He didn’t know how much he was supposed to add to it. Was it better to go over or under? Did the water even really need it? He added a few drops and figured he’d see how his luck would go.

Peeta went to work camouflaging himself. He was getting better at it. The gross caked-on feeling was getting easier to deal with and he had more time to work on the coloring. He pulled sandy silt up from beneath the water and added that on as well. He tried drawing some bark on but he didn’t think it turned out as good as it seemed in his head. But he felt secure enough to set himself up by a tree and drift off, a leave on his face to block out the fading sun.

-

It wasn’t much later in the night when Peeta woke up. It was the same tense, unsettling silence he had awoken to the first night here. There was definitely some sort of mutt wandering around here. There was nothing else to do besides sit and wait it out. Unlike the last time it didn’t seem to be moving away. There was near silence now, the softest snap of branches and crush of leaves slowly making its way through the jungle.

Peeta squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could. It was easy to hear the mutt coming close to him. All the other animals in the area must have fled and left Peeta alone as food. He could feel it come up to him, a heavy weight settled over his legs and air moved against his cheek as it sniffed him.

He couldn’t help the whimper that came out of him. He was going to be eaten by whatever this thing was. Something wet and rough licked at his mud covered cheek. He whined in response and it backed off for a moment before coming back for another taste. Peeta just kept his eyes closed and waited to die. He hoped it would be quick. The mutt snorted? In his face and gave him some room, its heavy presence drifting away. When it didn’t return he cracked an eye open to see whatever it was walking away. It looked like a big cat, sleek and black fur that blended into the night perfectly. Once it left his sight he scrambled up from his position and into the tree. He didn't know why the big cat hadn’t killed him but he wasn;t going to see if it would let him go a second time. He hauled himself into the branches and hoped that the mutt couldn’t climb. His hands were shaking as he moved through the tree. He had been so close to death and so helpless. Peeta laid down on a wide branch and hoped he wouldn’t roll in his sleep. He drifted back to sleep.

-

The next time Peeta woke up he thought for a moment that he was on fire. His skin was burning from a thousand tiny pricks. A thousand tiny bug thing were swarmed around him. He forgot he was in a tree and started flailing around. Almost immediately he slipped and went crashing to the ground, landing hard on his ankle. He screamed but the stinging continued. The pain had him dazed for a moment and they swarmed down on him. He didn’t have a ton of exposed skin so they focused on his face and forearms. He ran blindly from them. He knocked into trees until tripping on a root and rolling down a steep hill.

Peeta hit the bottom of the hill and was suddenly surrounded by water. Then he was drowning. Peeta didn’t know how to swim, and had never been in anything deeper than a bathtub before. He crawled what he hoped was up, desperate for air. His head broke the surface and he gasped for breath and flailed his arms around again, splashing water into his face. He kicked his feet wildly until he must have made his way to a shallow part and his feet hit something solid. He forced himself up, desperate for a full breath before going back under and-oh. The water only came up to his waist when he stood up. Once he had a chance to catch his breath he couldn’t help but get embarrassed. He was sure everyone must have seen him go flailing around in 3 foot water like it was the bottomless ocean. He hoped it wasn’t a mandatory viewing time at home.

It seemed that falling headfirst into the water had gotten rid of the bugs at least. Peeta was now facing a different problem. The water may have only been 3 feet deep but the start of the hole was a foot over his head. It also sort of bowed out where it met the water, allowing the pond to spread deeper under the vegetation. It was easy to see the roots of the soil hanging down into the water.

He tried to jump but the water soaking his clothes really weighed him down. His ankle wasn’t doing too well either. It was fine in the water but as soon as he lifted it above gravity weighed it down and made it throb. He tried to pull himself up but there wasn’t much of a grip available, his knees swinging into the top of the cavern. He slammed back down and took several slow, deep breaths and fought the frustrated tears forming. He could make it out of this hole. He had to. Peeta moved his way around the hole looking for a better option. It was a fight to move through the water. How did people swim? He kept his arms up from the water out of instinct and they were getting sore quickly. His bag was also dipping into the water and he panicked over the thought of his food getting ruined. He clawed at another section of the wall and there was just enough space for his feet to start scrambling up the side and get his hopes up. He tried to stick off his bad ankle. Peeta shifted his weight but the root broke free and he went crashing onto him back into the water.

Peeta went down under again. He did manage to get himself above the water faster this time but he swallowed some water. He coughed up as much as he could, clinging against the wall to stay up. Peeta hated that feeling. The water burned going in and coming out. Peeta was so tired even though he just woke up. He kept trying to climb, circling the hole and trying to find a foothold. He started scratching at the dirt, trying to dig a foothold into it. It took some time, his wet bag and clothes slowly dragging him deeper into the water, sapping his strength. There was only enough energy left for a last ditch effort. He carefully lined himself up best he could with his hold holes and heaved himself up. His hands made it over the edge and he grasped desperately at the dirt. His elbows made contact and his shoulders were able to follow with a push from a his legs. He squirmed forwards on his belly, legs dangling out for a moment before he could get his knees up to start to crawl.

When Peeta made it far enough from the hole he pulled off his soaked jacket and bag. He wished he could’ve changed into dry clothes. He decided to take off his shirt too and lay them both out and maybe the sun could dry them some. When he felt brave enough he tried to take off his shoes. After several days of not taking them off and jumping in water they stank. His left came off easily but the other took some very slow movements. The ankle looked hot and swollen. He poked it and it throbbed in pain. He didn’t think it was broken or anything but he had no way of knowing. He decided to let it breathe while he went to salvage his bag.

The beans were fine and so was the water bottle. The beef had gotten limpier but was probably okay. He tasted it and followed it down with water. It seemed like a good day to try finding the fruit that the other boy had been eating. The backpack wouldn’t last long.

Peeta laid there for a while, waiting for the strength to get up. He was going to be sore later, he could already tell. He sat there, useless trying to wring water out of the pants he’s wearing. The sun moved higher and higher in the sky. When he couldn’t put it off any longer he packed his slightly dry coat into his slightly dry bag. He carefully shoved his bad ankle into the boot and laced it up tight to support it. It throbbed with his pulse but at least that meant he was alive. He set off, limping his way along...

Peeta kept his ears open for more tributes. With the way his luck had been going it wouldn't be a surprise to run into the last two tributes right now. As he walked on he got an unsettling feeling he was being watched. Like something was just beyond his field of vision. It must be some new horror, as he couldn’t imagine being stalked like this by a tribute. There was no reason to. He had no purpose or plans anyone could walk up to him and he wouldn’t do a thing. Whatever it was never came closer to him, always just out of reach.

Peeta spent the majority of the day walking, stopping to rest his foot and drink on occasion. He came across a few fruits and started picking any that looked vaguely familiar without much thought and putting them in his bag to look at later. He would have to start rationing what was left of the beef and beans.

When it came time to settle down for the night he hesitated. He was out of energy to go looking for another water source. Peeta also didn’t want to leave himself exposed on the ground again for the mutts but he wasn’t sure if he could climb with his ankle messed up. He also didn’t want to roll out of a tree again. What should he do? He tried to postpone the decision by turning to his little pile of fruit. Some of it was new to him, one he was certain he had eaten before, and one he thought that might be the fruit that the other boy had eaten. It looked the same, he thought that it might be the same size, the other guy's hands were probably bigger.

Part of Peeta wonders if all the worry was worth it. He was tired and sweaty and hurt now. He made it pretty far, almost a week into the games. Maybe he should just eat it all and take his chances. But then he thought about his family, watching him together at home. He wouldn’t want to watch any of them like this so he couldn’t do that to them. He sighed and ate what he knew was safe. He finished off what was left of the water bottle and figured his goal tomorrow would be to wander around for another pond.

Peeta was stuck trying to figure out where to sleep. He was scared to stay on the ground and scared to climb and fall down. He didn’t have anything to cover himself this time so it seemed the tree was the only option. He grit his teeth and wrapped his jacket around his bad ankle in the hopes of cushioning it. Then he got to work. It was getting easier to climb, he thought. Practice does make perfect. He didn’t bother climbing very high in three, just pressed himself into the leaves. He took his jacket off his ankle to tie himself against the branch. Maybe that would help if he rolled in his sleep.

He waited for sleep, his body so tired but it didn’t come for hours. As the night drew on he got hungry and started thinking about the fruit in his bag. It was probably juicy and was definitely fresh. In his state of exhaustion he decided to eat the fruit he thought he recognized. If it killed him, at least he’d go in his sleep. It was sweet and full of juicy seeds he had to dig out of it. It spilled down his front and he tried to lick it back up. It was so good. He fell asleep sticky.

-

When he woke the next day he was sore. He could hardly move his arms and he was so conscious of the pain in his ankle. It didn't seem any better. He poked it and sobbed at the pain. This was bad. He didn’t know how he was going to get down from here. He managed to pull himself over to the trunk of the tree but he couldn't put any weight on his foot. It hurt to even brush it past the tree. Peeta squinted at the ground below. It wasn’t that far. He could just drop and hope to land not on his ankle. He inched his way down the trunk until he could reach the lowest branch and hung off it by his fingers. He fell with a yelp and his ankle smacked the ground harder then he would have liked but it seemed okay.

Peeta pulled himself to his feet. He could stand on both feet, as long as he shifted his weight to his good foot. He would have liked a walking stick but he didn’t see any lying on the ground and he didn’t have anything to cut a branch with. So Peeta was forced to limp his way through the jungle. It wasn’t until he noticed fruit hanging above him that he realized he wasn’t dead. He had gotten the fruit correct. It gave him a boost of optimism. He had beans, a little jerky and a solid fruit supply. Things seemed better in the daylight.

He trekked through the jungle. Taking frequent breaks to rest his ankle and grab some fruit. He was getting pretty confident foraging. There were flowers he could eat too. He must have been heading somewhere specific because it seemed like there was so much more to eat here. Tiny animals were running by, almost close enough to grab. Edible flowers hung from low hanging branches, just out of his reach. Peeta couldn’t bring himself to try and climb for the fruits but there were fruit in the bushy vegetation on the ground.

He pulled one of the big, waxy leaves off a tree and plucked a few berries to inspect closer. He was pretty confident they were chokeberries.There were bigger ones deeper in the bush he could see, so he dropped to his stomach to reach in.

Peeta wiggled a little further under the bush and grabbed a nice handful. A few pop on impact but that’s fine, there was plenty here. Carefully he backed up and dropped them onto the big leaf and headed back into the bush. His hair got snared in the bush and he has to crawl in more and ends up just spinning himself around a bit.

He heard a cannon boom outside the bush and moved to investigate. It’s a bit of a sideway shuffle backwards to free himself without losing berries but he does it. Head down, Peeta leans over to a smaller then he remembers pile to drop off his prize, then turns over to find a face staring at him from the ground, feet away. He shrieked and threw himself backwards, uncaring of who heard. Maybe they’ll follow the noise and kill him and he can get this image out of his head.

It’s a girl, maybe from 5? With lips stained the same blue as the berries and skin that's so much paler then he remembers. Had...She must have gone to steal some of his berry pile. How-why would she do that? Why couldn’t she have just found her own food?

Peeta was on the verge of sobbing but he tried to hold it back. If he cries he’ll probably never stop. If he could keep the tears in for Birth he can do it for this girl.

Peeta tried to get angry instead. He’s trying so hard to stay alive and stay alone but he's a killer now. It wasn’t intentional but it’s not like her family will care about it. How could the Games have done that to him? Twisted him without even knowing? He wants to go home so badly but even if he does everyone will know what he did. Now the anger was coming to him. It’s unclear what it’s directed at. Her for trying to steal his food? Himself for stupidly going to risk berries he wasn’t sure about? The Games for existing? Peeta smacked hand on the ground and smashed into the pile. Juice explodes over his fingers and coats them in an unsettlingly nice shade of pink. He felt his mouth quiver and the corners of lips turning down in a tell-tale sign he’s making that ugly sad frown. A large amount of juice has splattered onto the body and he feels incredibly guilty.

He already killed the poor girl and now he’s still bothering her in death. He grabbed a handful of flowers from the bush and made a little pile to start covering up the juice. He tucks them in her clothes and around her face and makes a little crown on her head. She looked a little better now. It’s almost like the pink stained lips were on purpose now, a little makeup to match her floral decor.

The hovercraft came flying in from above, a long metal arm dangling down and expertly winding through the tree. Peeta watches as the metal claw gently picks the girl up. The finality of it sinks in.

Peeta gives up. He starts crying and wailing like he’s wanted to since his name was called. He just curls up on the ground and cries and cries and cries. There’s moments where he thinks he might be able to get up, caught in a bout of hiccups, and then he’ll see the juice staining his hands or Birch's bag and start it all up again. One pause lasts long enough that some of the birds return and then he scares them off with his crying, which makes him cry harder.

Peeta doesn’t know how no one else comes after him, tribute or mutt. But eventually he’s all out of tears and still alive. His head ache and his ankle throbs and his throat is torn to shreds but he’s alive. He’s alive and his chances of getting out alive are both closer and farther than ever. Everyone seems to have forgotten him but it’s only a matter of time before they’re all drawn together for the final fight and then he’s in the most danger.

His thirst eventually forces Peeta into motion. He unscrews his bottle, just in case he had somehow forgotten a mouthful and finds it drier than ever. Peeta puts his head in his hand and moans, physically and emotionally exhausted. But he can’t just sit there, he tells himself, and starts fighting his way up.

Chapter Text

Haymitch Aberdeen wanted a fucking drink right now. To be honest, he tried to always have a drink in him these days. But he didn’t, his own piss-poor sense of righteous stopping him. He drank to stop the memories and thoughts of his life dragging him down, not to mark an evening of entertainment like everyone else in this city might be doing. And he kept himself sober now to make sure he could remember everything from the game. He owed it to the parents of the kids he couldn’t save, his fellow Seam families and the chosen victims. He owed it to tell them that they had eaten well and enjoyed the sights in their final days. But damn if he wasn’t going to get shitfaced the second his tributes were dead.

It was all going by relatively fast this year at least, the bloodbath particularly brutal. He lost the girl quickly when she chose to go in headfirst. He had pulled her aside and explained her options about that, so she must have made her choice. The boy went off into the jungle, unarmed and unsupplied.

In an absolutely unbelievable lucky streak the kid had managed to not die several times. Haymitch was sure some Gamemaker was pulling out his hair somewhere as the boy obliviously wandered his way in and out of death. The part of him that used to be capable of feeling optimism or hope was starting to move uncomfortably when he saw him on screen. The Capital certainly seemed to enjoy the boy. The cameras had taken to showing him in the long moments of downtime as they waited for action. They just kept the cameras running as he bumbled through the forest and doodled in the dirt. He had even gotten 10 uninterrupted minutes while the world watched him freak out over the 7’s girl before they had gotten bored.

Now they were all watching the boy starve to death. He had run out of food a day or so ago and was clearly too scared to risk scavenging again after what happened to the other girl.

“It’s happening,” someone said grimly, catching the attention of the room and turning it to the TV. The career pack had broken up it seemed, the boy from One killing two in their sleep before the cannons woke up the others and the struggle started. The room just sat quietly as it happened, each lost in their own memories as kids grappled and slashed and screamed at each other. One girl managed to sprint off into the jungle while the boy from One smashed the other boy's head in. He turned and lumbered into the trees after her.

Haymitch tried not to sigh too loudly. He was more than ready to join Chaff up on the roof for a drink. But he couldn’t shirke his duty yet. He hadn’t had a tribute last this long in a long time and the least he could do for the boy was see him through until the end.

-

Graham Mellark hadn't spent a moment away from the TV since he lost his son. He’d dragged the tiny emergency TV out of storage to set up next to him as he worked. And there was plenty of work to be done. People were coming in waves to buy something from him, offering up what little extra they had to his family in these trying times. It made him feel sick, like he’d sold his son for a little extra business.

He didn’t have to have the screen playing all day, mandatory viewing was in the evening mostly. It seemed to upset the customers coming into the shop, casting questioning looks towards him. But Graham had always been a man of few words and felt no need to change that now. It seemed obvious to him anyway: he wouldn’t leave his son alone for a moment. The small Tv played next to him during the workday and in the evening the remainder of his family would join him on the couch and help keep vigil during the mandatory viewings. His wife sat stoically by him, a hand of his arm that she’d squeeze when Peeta appeared on screen. Their baby had looked handsome and clean during his interview in his little suit, bright lights reflected off his gold curls. No one was brave enough to point out the resemblance to the wedding photo hanging above the TV set. The rest of the family would peel off for the night but Graham would spend the night dozing on the couch, ready to awaken at the sound of a cannon.

If (when) Peeta died Graham would be as with him as he could be. Peeta was a sweet boy, he’d know his dad was watching over him all he could. The treacherous part of his heart rooted for the death of all those other children, so long as his was okay. He swap places with Peeta, get rid of all those kids if he could. Graham hadn’t regretted begging Peeta to give survival a chance out there. His wife had confessed, quiet and shameful, that she considered Peeta dead since they called his name and would not stand by him. What could he do but accept that and plow on ahead?

It was almost noon now, Graham was alone in the bakeshop. His boys were still at school and his wife was crunching numbers. (They were struggling. A man down and extra orders was not the kind of help they needed) The narration of the TV was the only sound with him. Peeta hadn’t been on screen all day. The focus was mostly on the remaining Careers attempting to find each other.

It should have been a comfort, no footage meant no death, but it wasn’t. The last he saw was Peeta starving to death before his eyes. It was a helplessness he hadn’t considered. Graham was sure he would be forced to watch him die from another tribute, awful but quick. Not wasting away from his own terror, too scared to even try surviving anymore.

The whole family had been around for that moment. Graham had always been a little slower then his boys at picking up what was happening. He heard twin gasps and the two hands of his wife squeeze his arm hard before he realized what had happened. In fact, it hit him almost the same time it had hit his son.

His baby had killed someone; had had an irreverable effect on this world and sobbed like the child he was over it while those fucking commenters chatted about it. A small uptick in his odds of winning appeared at the corner of the screen. And then Peeta had tried to fix it, tried to cover it up like the artist he was, like his mother. And Graham had come so close to leaving him, walking out on his entire family to do something, somewhere where he didn’t have to see his boy suffer. But his wife felt him shift and squeezed tighter and he saw his other boys press against each other and settled in with a sigh that sounded so much older then he was.

Graham worked his aggression out on his dough. He really had the best job in the world for managing his emotions. Knead some dough, beat some eggs, work so long on gunpaste flowers you can’t think of anything else except how to improve the design. He was so tuned into the Tv, waiting for news of Peeta, that he nearly missed the quiet knocking on the back door. He glanced at the clock, Bran and Rye shouldn’t be back yet. His wife hadn’t emerged to open the door so he quickly washed his hands and went to open it.

Outside stood little Katniss Everdeen, a goose in hand. Graham had started trading with her as a silent gift to her mother (she was as pretty as he remembered and he could see her in Ketniss’ face, just a bit).

He was always willing to trade with her, willing to help out Katniss (and her mother), but it was pretty early in the day to have finished school and gone hunting. He didn’t say any of this, just furrowed his brows and she frowned at him.

“You interested?‘ she asked, giving the bird a little shake. He blinked a thought about where he was in the workday.

“I don't have anything fresh at the moment but I can offer you one and a half of yesterday's stock.” Which was pretty generous and not exactly a deal he’d offer if her hunting buddy was around. But surprisingly she shook her head and took a step back as if afrida he’d snatch it from her.

“I need coins this time,” she said firmly and he blinked at her. What use would someone from the Seam have for money? As far as he knew they exclusively traded with each other. Well, he supposed they had the coin to spare today. He nodded at her to stay there and turned to go back through the bakeshop. Graham paused for a few moments at the TV, just in case he’d missed anything, before moving to the cash register and counting out an appropriate amount. He gathered those coins and then added a few more, in the name of his son’s crush, because he wasn’t here to do it. Bran and Rye certainly upset him enough with their teasing that it must have some truth to it.

Funny, he mused as he made his way back, eyes glued to the screen as he passed by, he didn’t know you could pass down crushes in genes.

Katniss was where he left her, goose in hand. He took the birds from her and dumped the coins in her other hand. He waited to see if she’d take it. He’d learned in the past 2 years since she’d started trading, that she and her partner were incredibly prideful. But she only looked at the coins, gave him a curt nod and walked off.

Graham turned back to the Tv, in search of his son.

Chapter Text

Peeta was fairly certain he was dying. He hadn’t eaten in almost 2 days. He had run out of food from Birch's pack and he didn’t trust himself to try eating anything new. A few days ago the jungle seemed ripe with plenty to eat but not anymore. There were still fruits and berries that sprouted around him but he didn’t recognize any of them. He wasn’t willing to take a chance either. Everytime he closed his eyes he saw the dead girl from Five’s face, her stained mouth reminding him of the consequences of trying new things. There was still plenty of water to drink but that could only keep the hunger at bay for a little bit. His ankle wasn’t doing too well and he had to keep taking breaks to rest his ankle, wrapped tightly in his jacket, and his throbbing head. On top of it all, he had a terrible sunburn.

Peeta was also pretty sure dying was boring. Sometimes it was hard to tell if he was asleep and dreaming or awake and seeing things. The air was stifling and stuck to every part of him. It was like being wrapped in a thick blanket against his will. No escape from the heat, no breeze able to twist its way through all the trees. The rain just provided the jungle with more steam for the air. He was so gross and sweaty and dirty from his days in the arena and he just wanted a shower and an actual bed to sleep in. A nice warm bed, in a nice cold room with his family nearby. Or anybody really. Peeta hadn’t seen another person in days since Branch died. (He was not including or thinking about the girl he had killed. He wasn’t thinking about her at all). The noises had mostly stopped as well. Whatever monster had nearly eaten him the other night hadn’t returned. The only animals he saw were birds at the very tops of the trees and bugs scurrying around in the ground.

How many people were left at this point? Peeta had heard the cannon fired a few times so the career pack must’ve broken up. He was too tired to count. It felt like everything was coming to an end at least. It couldn’t last much longer. Maybe he could outlast the others before he starved. He had seen from the Seam people, you can live a while on just water. A little while at least. He could remember what Katniss looked like when he threw her that bread. Sunken eyes and a look of defeated desperation. She had looked so terrifying that he had to help her.

Maybe that’s what Peeta looked like by now. He hadn’t really been able to check or clean his reflection since the other day. It felt like the puddles he had kept tripping around were getting smaller. It was a sick replay of his first day in the arena, stumbling around blindly. This time however, he didn’t have any real hope of finding something to eat.

Maybe Peeta could just lie down and look pathetic enough that someone watching would take pity. He certainly felt pathetic and decided to spend his time dozing against the tree, trying to ignore the pain in his stomach and foot. Everytime his eyes closed he thought about dying. He couldn’t help wondering what death would be like. Maybe he could become a ghost and stick around to haunt his friends and family. Maybe there would be some kind of afterlife. If there was, would it be weird to look for Birch? He probably had to own people to visit. What if there wasn’t anything? What if his entire life ended at 13 and he never got to experience anything? The thought had Peeta gasp himself out of sleep, his heart beating he was so upset. He should get up and do something.

That was his latest pastime, stumbling his way around, through endless trees and plants, just to keep himself awake and aware. Part of him hoped to run into someone, just to have something happen. The other, rational, part of him kept yelling that he’d die if anyone else found him. The voice kind of sounded like his brothers, which was not normal. What were they thinking of his chances? Neither of them had ever been really encouraging. Actually both of them had physically and verbally smacked Peeta pretty often growing up. They normally knew when to give it a rest at least. He’s sure both of them would be nice to him now if they could talk to him.

Peeta was roused from his dozing by a beeping that did not belong in the jungle. He knew that beeping! There must be a parachute somewhere. He scrambled up, whipping around to find the source of the noise. And, because Peeta is not allowed to get a break apparently, he finds the package tangled up 50 feet over his head in a tree. How the hell was he going to get there? He was hot and tired and weak from hunger. His ankle was still throbbing when he tried to walk normally. He sighed and started trying to get his way up. He made his way around until he found a tree with low enough branches he could grab and roll himself onto. He tried to use the momentum and swung to a slightly higher branch. Despite being hungry Peeta felt his arms had gotten a little stronger, because he kept trying to keep the weight of his foot. He straddled the branch he was on, trying to come up with a plan.

Peeta untied the jacket around his ankle and tried to loop it around...something to pull on. He started just swinging it wildly and managed to get it around the branch above him. He held onto it and stood up. He balanced for a minute and looked for the parachute again. All he saw was leaves. It must be somewhere else. Holding tight to the jacket, Peeta could make a giant step from one branch to another. And after some wobbling he could pull the jacket free. He had to cling to the trunk, the height and his hunger making everything sway back and forth. Eyes squeezed shut until the feeling of vomit passed. When he could finally pry one eye open he could see the silver parachute in the next tree over and a little up. Urg.

Peeta had to butt scooch his way out on a limb. The branch wobbled under his weight. He reached down and snagged a branch from the other tree that was below him and crawl/dropped his way onto it. He almost slipped off but he hooked his good leg and managed to stay up. He shrieked at the drop and his hands had been ripped open by the bark.

Miraculously, he made it to the trunk of the tree. There was a small box, maybe a foot wide, hanging from the branches almost directly over his head. He really hoped there was food inside. He could probably reach it if he could get himself standing again.

“Okay,” he sighed to himself, pressing his forehead against the tree, “Okay, I can do this”. And he leaned himself back from the trunk and used the jacket as support again. His hands were raw and his legs were trembling. He went from sitting, to kneeling, to squating, and finally, standing up. Peeta had to go up on his toes on his good foot before he could grab the box and yank it to himself. He sat himself back down and fumbled the box open.

Inside was a large hearty loaf of bread. Peeta ripped it in half and shoved a chunk into his mouth, chewing as he reached around for his bag. He gulped down some water and leaned himself back against the tree again. He took a closer look at the bread.

It was a nice fat boule of bread, with nice tall ears from the scoring and a dense crumb. It looked like a dark rye bread, the grain his brother had been named after. He smiled at the thought of Rye recognizing the bread. Rye didn’t actually like rye bread but his parents didn’t know that when they named him. Besides, who can be picky while living around starving people? The bread also had nuts and dried fruit mixed, walnuts, for sure and maybe cranberries? Peeta hadn’t eaten enough fruits to be able to pin it down. Whatever Capital baker had made this had certainly done a nice job pairing the inclusions together. It also had a tough bottom that he could appreciate chewing on for a bit. Peeta scarfed down a quarter of the bread before taking a break. It was funny how much better he felt after getting some food. There was a little note that had been sitting on top of the loaf.

For All The Cookies -The Seam.

That...that was actually really sweet. He didn’t think anyone outside the family knew about the tribute cookies. He had wondered if his dad would keep up the cookies if (when) Peeta died. How much must this have cost this late in the game? Miners didn’t make a lot of money as far as he knew. Maybe his family had contributed to it. Peeta looked back down at the card.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, hoping they would hear him. Peeta might as well use the cameras for his benefit. More than food, the gift had given him a dangerous level of hope. He started thinking about home again. Things would have to start moving quickly in the game, there were only a few people left. He didn’t think anyone, let alone Seam people, would be wasting food on a lost cause so they must feel good about his odds. Maybe the others were starving too. Maybe they were wasting away and all he had to do was outlast them. Maybe he really did have a shot of getting home.

Excited by the thought, Peeta tried to start making his way down the tree. He wrapped his ankle again and tried to wipe his hands clean on his shirt. His stomach ached but he refused to throw up.

It was harder getting down without damaging his poor foot more. He tried to wrap his arms around and slide the best he could, like the old fireman’s pole in the school’s playground. Five feet from the ground, his ankle gave out and he slipped through the air and barely managed to avoid catching his bad foot under his weight. The ground was unforgiving and he hit it hard. Lying there, trying to catch his breath, all the pain started to come to him. His skin felt tight from the sunburns. His ankle was probably broken, both hands lightly bleeding. His head hadn’t recovered from his headache yet.

The only good news from his fall was that he had broken off a branch that was only a little too tall to be a proper walking stick. He wanted to find more water. It took some time to get used to hobbling around. He didn’t have to go far before finding a puddle that he didn’t hesitate to wash his bloody hands in. He frowned when the little water turned pink. Could he still drink it? That’s what the filter was for right? Peeta took another gamble with his life and went about filtering the water. He soaked the bread in water until it was a soggy mess. Maybe it would keep his stomach from acting up. There was half a boule left and who knows how much time left in the game. He was torn between enjoying the bread and having a full stomach, or trying to ration it. But would that be a waste of time? Would he die regretting not taking what he could?

In the end, Peeta’s hope won out and he went about setting himself up for the night and saving the bread so he had the option of eating more.

-

Peeta woke up to the sun searing his face. It seemed hotter than ever if it was possible and the puddle he had slept next to was now a dried up little ditch. The sight put a pit in his stomach.

Normally when this kind of thing happened the Gamemakers were involved. He didn’t want the Gameakers looking at him. Peeta could hardly move; he was so sore. He was glad he hadn’t climbed anything to sleep because he didn’t think he could’ve gotten himself down again. It felt like as good a time as any to down the rest of the bread, but he saved half his water just in case. He just sat there, waiting for the pain to die down a little. He unwrapped him foot and poked at it. It had swollen up way too much and had a nasty bruise on it. He couldn’t stand without the walking stick anymore. The lack of water made him nervous. Peeta went off to try and find another source.

Hobbling over roots with a walking stick was not easy. Even worse, there was no water as far as he could tell. That didn’t stop the air from being so humid he struggled to breath. Around midday, there was a buzzing in his ear. It got louder and louder and he tried to swat away whatever bug was bothering him. There was a pinch in his neck and something started stinging him. He tripped and smacked his side into a tree while whatever bug kept bothering him. He barely kept himself upright and moved as quickly as he could. The buzzing was getting louder and he could hear more insects. When he tripped for the second time he gave up and started crawling. His pants protected him for a little bit but then the knees tore through and tiny rocks were digging into his hands and knees. Peeta kept his head down and kept moving as tiny pricks hit him all over.

One minute Peeta was blindly crawling past tree after tree, the next he looked up and realized he was out of trees. The stinging had stopped with the trees. He was back where he had started. The light was blinding without the cover of the treetops. The sun seemed bigger than usual, not that he could look up from the ground for more than a few seconds. It was hard to open his eyes at all after days in the dim jungle. He felt horribly exposed while waiting for his eyes to adjust. When he finally could look and stand up he could take in the view. The cornucopia stood in the center of the clearing again. The sunlight ended at the treeline behind him and he couldn’t help peering at it to see if anyone would follow him out. He was just starting to walk to the cornucopia when he heard a noise behind him.

The world shook as Peeta was knocked to the ground. The boy from One was on top of him with his hands pressing on his throat. As he laid there, staring up at the face of his soon to be killer he relized he knew his name-Apollo from One (how could he remember this random guy’s name but not the girls he had killed-?). Peeta squirmed and managed to get his legs under Apollo enough to push him back a little. He crawled backwards and Apollo tackled him again and pinned him down more firmly. Peeta’s heart was beating out of his chest, the adrenaline rush no match to get him out. Hands closed around his throat. Nothing was getting through no matter how much he struggled. He felt something wet and hot on his face and opened his eyes to see Apollo's neck with a bloody wound. A knife stabbed into the wound and out again. The girl from district 3 was lying on top of Apollo, driving the knife in over and over and Peeta was suffocating now under the weight of two people. Apollo was still alive and stopped choking Peeta to attempt to roll the girl off of his back. For a moment Peeta couldn’t move, just laid there desperately sucking in air. Tears formed as he realized how close he was to his end and he curled up to try and recover. His eyes slipped closed for a second and he tried to get himself under control. Too soon, he heard the cannon boom and forced his eyes open.

The girl (what was her name? Why hasn’t he paid attention to anything or anyone?) was panting and looked bad. They were bleeding from the head and there was a bandage wrapped tightly on her thigh with red streaks going up the same leg. She looked at Peeta as they both caught their breath. “Thanks for the distraction, kid”

“ You’re welcome,” he said, stunned into politeness. She nodded at him and took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry about this.” And started lumbering after Peeta. She wasn't too fast with her leg and Peeta’s adrenaline was finally kicking in in a way he could use. He bolted. Pushed past the pain in his own ankle and the bleeding stings and hands and the sunburn and ran for his life. He headed straight for the Cornucopia. He grasped the soft metal and started climbing. It was easier than navigating the trees. He made it to the top with enough time to spare to watch her approach and attempt to climb. It was clear the leg couldn’t handle the climb and she was forced to give up. She slowly circled the cornucopia and even attempted to throw a knife up at Peeta but it was no use. He was out of reach.

“C’mon kid it’s over.” She sounded really frustrated. She was mad that Peeta didn’t wanna come down a let her kill him? What’s wrong with her? Peeta didn’t say anything but he did lean over enough to meet her eyes.

“Look, you did a great job buddy, nobody thought you would make it this far, it’s really impressive,” she continued. Peeta agreed with that but kept looking at her, uncertain of anything to say.

“One of us has to go. There can only be one. Do you really think you can come down here and kill me?”

“No!” Peeta called down quickly, reminded of the last conversation Branch would ever have, and who he wanted to be, “I won’t”. He didn’t think she understood what he meant though.

“Exactly. Just let me get this over with so we can be done. I promise it won’t hurt at all.” She pulled something out of her pocket, “Look, I have these berries okay? They’re super deadly and it’s super quick too. They might even be tasty, too you can find out for us.” God, first Peeta was haunted again by Birch's death and now she was bringing up that girl-

“Why,” he felt terrible, suggesting this but said it anyway, “Why don’t you give them a taste first?” Why couldn’t this all be over? Why did she have to keep trying to convince him to kill himself? The girl was quiet. Peeta moved away from the edge to lie down flat. Sweat was dripping off him in the heat and Apollo’s blood was flaky and drying and making him gag. She didn’t look too good either. He might be able to outlast her and make it home. He could actually see his family and home again. There was only one person in the way. It was a standoff.

“They're going to send something much worse out here,” The girl’s voice startled Peeta out of his daze. He peered over the edge to see her sitting curled against the cornucopia, watching the distance. The sun was starting to set in the sky.

“I’m sorry.” and he was too. But he wasn’t going to make it easy for her.

“Me too, kid”. And she was off, hobbling her way to... something he couldn’t see. Where was she going? Splitting up so maybe whatever monster sent after them would be divided? He peered against the sun when he saw her stop and collapse. It looked like she was digging near the circles they stood on to enter the arena. Maybe she was trying to dig her way out of the place. She stopped digging and started dragging. She only made it a few feet before stopping and dropping again. What the hell was she doing? She must have been done because she went in the opposite of the cornucopia and called something out to him that was lost in the wind. Then she made a motion like she was throwing something. She’d throw and then inch forward again. She seemed to be aiming near the tribute pad. He watched her take several attempts before inching forward again and it clicked.

She must have dug up the mines that keep tributes from going too early. He didn’t know why it wasn’t closer to him but she was trying to trigger it without getting too close herself. Oh. This was the end. Even if she blew herself up Peeta was going with her. No no no. He was so close. Closer than anyone in Twelve had been in years. He had thought he might get to go home again. He curled up on his side and sniffed.

“I’m sorry,” There would be close up on camera of him, he was sure. For once he wsa grateful for the idea of being on screen.

“I really tried Dad. I thought I could go home but I can’t kill her. I can’t.” He was crying really hard now and hoped people could still understand him.

“Thank you for the bread everyone. It was really good. I don’t know who makes the bread but you did a nice job.” He had nothing else to say. He just curled up on the warm metal and cried while listening to the rocks creep closer and closer. He went to wipe his face but Apollo's blood had gotten wet from his tears and was smearing all over his face so he tried to not wipe, despite the itch. It will be over soon anyway. The sunset was blurry through his eyes but still looked very pretty.

It took longer than he thought it would. There was a thud, a yelp and a boom and then hot pressure had thrown Peeta against the curved tail of the cornucopia and he didn’t have to worry anymore.

Chapter Text

Peeta didn’t expect to wake up again. He blinked his eyes a few times and squinted at a shining light. It was soft and warm. He was definitely in a bed. No one was around. Everything ached. His eyes slipped closed and he went back to sleep.

-

Peeta woke up a few more times, never for long and never with anyone else there. He was getting tired of being lonely. The light was off most of the time. Sometimes he thought he heard voices when his eyes were closed but he was never sure if he was imagining it. Sometimes he coil;dn’t even open his eyes. Is he even still alive? Is death just hanging in this dark place with the occasional noise? If he was alive why wasn’t anyone here? He wanted to get home. Finally get home and try to keep everything behind him. Peeta wasn’t sure how he would do that but he had the rest of his life to find out. If he could just keep his eyes open.

It occurred to Peeta that he had never been away from home this long in his life. Never even had a sleepover before, certainly never left town. Lying in a real bed was tricking him. Everytime he woke up he expected to be back in his bed, listening for his brothers’ snoring or his parents moving around, getting ready for the day. It was always a disappointment.

And then one time he dragged his eyes open and they stayed open. There was a little tray at the end of the bed with a bowl of steaming something and a glass of water. The room was dimly lit and there was nothing else in it besides his bed. Not even a mirror and he was curious to see what he looked like. If he was still malnourished or how long he’d been there. If he looked the way he felt. Peeta struggled to sit up and pull the food towards him. He gave a curious sniff and recognized chicken broth. He swallowed it in small mouthfuls. The soup had more flavor in the smell than the taste. The water washed away any lingering taste easily. When the bowl’s empty he sits there, half expecting to fall back asleep. When he didn’t, he stood up on wobbling legs. He looked down to see he was wearing a light white t-shirt and pants. He was shaky but standing and felt unhurt. As soon as he righted himself, a door he hadn’t noticed slid open.

Portia and Haymitch walked through, talking quietly to each other. They stopped when they saw Peeta was up. Peeta couldn’t help getting excited at seeing something else. He grinned and moved towards them, arms ready for a celebration. Portia was ready and pulled him into the hug he had been hoping for.

“You did it!” she told him. Haymitch patted him on the back

“Nice job,” and he actually sounded sincere. Maybe even a little proud. Portcia let him go and clapped her hands together.

“It’s over?” he had to check. Just to make sure he really had woken up. Really had gotten out.

“It better be,” Haymitch grumbled again but he patted his shoulder reassuringly, “Just a rewatch and an interview and we’re home free”. Peeta’s smile slipped for a moment. He hadn’t thought about all that extra stuff. More things keep him away. Potcia glanced at him and clapped her hands together.

“Okay, let's get you ready for the show.” And started leading him through the building while he complained about surviving and only getting a bowl of broth to eat. Portia explained that he’ll start to feel better soon and he could stuff himself with hardy food later when he was stronger. Soon had better come soon. They hit an elevator and started going up and Peeta realized he was back in the training center. He looked down and watched the ground shrink away. It was a weird feeling to go back to a place where he had thought he was spending his final days. He didn’t have much time to dwell on it before he was back in his room and the prep team surrounded him, shrieking and lifting him up in a hug. He had to start squirming before they dropped him and stop yelling in his ear. They went to work on Peeta, chatting all about viewing the Games.

“Obviously I was rooting for Peeta but I lost so much money!” Octovia squealed as she combed through his hair.

“I can’t believe I almost missed the finale” Maia had apparently been in the bath when Peeta was fighting for his life.

“Urg, I was almost in tears when Peeta was watching Birch die. SO tragic.” He squeezed his eyes closed when he heard that until Cyra made him open them to line them. After that Peeta tried not to listen. The general consensus was that Peeta’s Games were almost disappointingly short and probably wouldn’t be remembered if he wasn’t the youngest victor ever. He hadn’t thought about that. Youngest victor of The Hunger Games. How many other 13 year olds had gone in and never come out? He started doing the math in his head. Was Peeta any better than them to have made it out alive? Why did he make it and others didn’t?

His thoughts were interrupted when Portcia came in to dress him. She put him in a stuffy baby blue suit with a skirt over the pants and hard shiny shoes. It seemed like a weird choice. Pick pants or a shirt. His hair was brushed and aired until his curls were light and fluffy. She stepped back and nodded at that outfit, then looked at his face and frowned.

“How are you feeling?” He should be feeling better but hearing the prep team talk about watching him made him feel sick. Peeta didn’t like that he felt bad too. He wanted to come out of the Games and feel good and go home and be okay. He just shrugged at her. She frowns at him.

“Okay,” she didn’t press him and instead turned him to a mirror “What do you think?”

It’s the first time he’s seen himself in a long time. He doesn’t look right. The suit jacket looks just a tad too big on his shoulders, his hairs gently curl over his forehead and the makeup made his eyes look bigger. He doesn’t look like someone who almost died 10 times in the last week. People didn’t usually pay attention as much to the viewing ceremony so he’s not sure why she dressed him up like this.

“I look like a baby,” he told her, which was a little rude but so was her attempt to make him look like a cherub.

“I think you look very sweet,” she told him, carefully picking up and rearranging a curl, “And that’s never a bad thing.” Before he can ask why she’s trying to embarrass him it’s time to head to the viewing. There was no time to be nervous about being on TV.

They head out and meet up with the prep team, Haymitch and Effie appeared again. She latched on to congratulate Peeta and insisted she never doubted him and how proud she was the entire trip. When they make it to the stage every part of his ‘team’ trails out onto the stage one by one until the only two left are Peeta and Haymitch, who kept shooting him looks he didn’t understand.

Peeta walked out to greet Caesar Flickerman and sat on a tall, uncomfortable wooden chair. The crowd cheered for him and he has to admit it does feel nice to hear. He awkwardly settled his arms on the hard armrests and waited for Caesar to start.

“Hello Peeta,” he stared, and the crowd falls silent.

“Hi Caesar,” He couldn't help but grin as he spoke. He was swinging wildly between pure ecstasy at being alive and the numb silence that comes every time he stops to think. Something about being in front of a crowd made everything seem unreal, like a dream without consequences.

“I’m certainly not the first to say this but: congratulations on winning The Hunger Games.”. Peeta smiled and thanked him, and then felt his smile get shaky. Cesar moved ahead.

“So, Peeta,” he paused for dramatic effect, “I understand you’ve been through a lot, but I have to say this...I believe I was promised cheese buns when you won.” The crowd laughed and Peeta did too. He agreed and promised he’d bring him some at the end of the Victory Tour. Caesar directed them to the screen and the movie started. Peeta really didn’t want to see this. He wasn’t ready to relive it all.

Like every year, the Games had been edited to mostly show Peeta and the highlights of the Games. Peeta sees himself riding in the chariot next to Alba. They show his initial interview where he can see the wet shine in his eyes. They show the opening of the Games and him sprinting off with the occasional interrupting shot of other tributes going down. It’s a brutal opening this year. Whoever edited the video breezed over all his aimless wandering and cuts to him staring down at that first pond, clearly debating if he should risk drinking it. The next shot is his first attempt at camouflaging himself to sleep. In the dark of the night, it’s hard for the cameras to pick him up. The editor was pretty nice, showing clips like Peeta had any idea what he was doing. Then the camera cuts to a few other tributes, stopping at Birch.

He saw, for the first time, Birch get jumped by the pair from District Eight. Birch had gone down hard and practically lost his leg before getting the upper hand. Peeta watched him beat the other’s boy’s brain so brutally his partner didn’t even try to help, just stared in horror. When she finally moved she went after him with a machete and they both ran off. And then he found Peeta and that was it. Peeta sat there, trying to figure out how someone who had just dented another guy’s head in could just chat with Peeta. Or how he could’ve just accepted death after trying so hard to live he killed for it.

Peeta hears himself talk to Birch and occasionally the audience laughs, as if the two were merely bantering. His hands keep clenching the armrests and he has to consciously let go, over and over again.

He watched for the second time as Birch died and he got up and started moving. The camera starts to cut away to other tributes and switch off everytime someone dies. There is occasionally a shot of Peeta messing around, dragging his fingers through the dirt and wandering around the arena.

He saw himself on the screen and all he could think about was how pathetic he looked. No wonder no one would want to remember this game. He just sat around doing nothing while people around him tried so much harder to live; fought and killed and died for it. And here Peeta was, a victor without any guts. He felt gross. What do people think about him?

The movie turned to him hiding in the tree from the career pack. He had made a look of disgust when they started making out, which had the crowd cooing and laughing. His face burned. Next he was on screening tripping down a hill and rolling into water. He popped out the water flailing around until he realized he could stand in it. The crow was going wild and he hated it. Hated that they could see him at all. He couldn’t get himself to relax.

The roaring crowd was an uncomfortable reminder that people were still watching him now. Should he be trying to react? Not react? The camera might be rolling but is anyone actually looking? He had never bothered to pay attention to the victors when he was watching. Peeta was confused as to why they even did all this. Most of the games were mandatory viewing. Maybe it was different in the Capital.

Peeta saw himself claw his way out of the hole and continue on. He started to zone out. He knew what was coming. He saw his past self go berry-picking, go under the bush, and the girl from 5 snuck up. And she didn’t hurt Peeta, despite him lying defenseless, completely unaware of anything around him. She merely picked up some berries, just a handful and popped them in her mouth as she moved to leave. His reaction to her death upset him all over again and he flinched away from the screen. He kept one eye open while his past self freaked out before he got under control and moved away.

-Wait, what? Where was the part when he had stained her and tried to cover it up? They cut the part where he had tried to honor her out? He felt his eyebrows wrinkling in confusion and thought that he should probably stop but he didn’t know how. What did they gain from cutting away from an already dead girl? Peeta glanced away from the screen and caught Haymitch’s eye, who was already looking at him and shaking his head a little. Peeta still had no idea what he was trying to tell him but he tried to reset his face and turn his attention back to the screen.

While Peeta was starving to death the others tributes were picked off. He saw one of the girls eaten alive by a swarm on bugs and a boy ripped apart by a big black cat. The numbness was hitting him a lot harder then before. His eyes kept unfocusing and then he tried to focus on them and became aware of his blinking, which distracted him while the Careers turned on each other. Every cut back to Peeta had him looking worse and worse. Dirty and bloody and dazed. His mom must have hated seeing that. His only saving grace was when the bread arrived and his face lighting up. He could actually see his eyes brighten.

When the fight at the cornucopia happened he saw himself get knocked down and had to close his eyes against it. The size difference between him and Apollo on screen was horrifying to see. With his eyes closed that distant feeling came back. Distant thoughts and feelings, like this was someone else’s story.

He kept his eyes closed until all the noises stopped and when he opened his eyes he was on top of the cornucopia waiting to die. And it was finally over. Again. Hopefully. President Snow appeared to place the crown on his head. The president of Panem stood right in front of Peeta and his eyes bore right through Peeta. It creeped Peeta out and he was glad when he moved away. Things were wrapped up and Ceasar reminded everyone to come back for the final interview tomorrow and then they were off air and Peeta was once again being ushered off to a new place, no time to waste.

-

The Victory Banquet had an obscene amount of food. It was set in a large room packed with people who were probably important or wealthy. The little group Peeta arrived with peeled off almost immediately and he was alone in a room of strangers. Some of them tried to talk to him but he beelined around them straight to the food. The tables were long and weighed down with foods of all shapes and sizes. The scents wafted and mixed together in the air, alongside the metallic smell of the food warmers. He couldn’t even recognize half of them. Peeta probably should’ve been excited or interested but all he felt was tired. He started to load up a plate but that gave an opportunity for an old woman to come up to him and pinch his cheeks while complimenting his survival. He just kind of smiled before pretending to notice someone and walk away empty handed. Further away was a table loaded with desserts that no one had hit yet. Peeta went straight for it.

Tiny cakes and cups of custards and delicate cookies. Cut slices of cakes and entremets enrobed in chocolate. Stable mousses towered high and gelatin sculptures jiggled with every bump. Things he only recognized from very old cookbooks his family had saved. There was so much variety. And all so colorful, unlike most of the stuff at home. Most of the bread, by nature of caramelization in the crust, ended up that tan brown. The cakes had plain white or brown icing. There was a scat precious food colorings they would pull out for special occasions and orders from those who could afford it. Peeta loaded up a plate and turned around, at a loss of what to do now. There were long tables with chairs in the center of the room and small sofas lined the wall. People started coming up to talk to him while he tried to eat. They were all excited to shake his hand and say how good he had done. They describe how they did or did not enjoy stuff Peeta did. They all seemed to look through him, excited at the idea of him then himself. A few complimented his camouflage and art. He kept stuffing his mouth so he wouldn’t have to answer.

After discovering people were vomiting in the bathroom and coming back out for more, Peeta was done. He moved to find Haymitch, figuring people were probably not talking to him. He weaved through the crowd of people and found him standing alone next to a tower of champagne glasses. Peeta took a glass for himself and sipped it. It was different then the wine. It was light and sweet and still burned going down.

“Following in my footsteps?” Haymitch asked him with little judgment.

“Maybe. At least no ones bothering you over here.”

“I did my schmoozing already. You should be doing the same.”

“I don’t like these people... They’re weird.”

“You don’t have to like them. You want them to like you. Trust me, it makes everything in life easier.” Peeta kept sipping his drink

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“Eat a cake, smile at some people, try not to vomit in front of anyone.” Haymitch rolled his eyes as he spoke. He wasn’t getting what Peeta meant.

“No, like, what am I supposed to do after this? Forever? This is awful.” Haymitch glanced around and spoke in a low voice, pulling Peeta close under the guise of wrestling the champagne from him.

“Don’t worry about that now, and don't worry about that here. And start thinking before you speak to people.” and he tugged the glass away and downed it. Haymitch punctuated his advice by nudging Peeta away from him. Okay, Peeta could understand not insulting the Capital while standing in it but why was he acting like this. Peeta just wanted to talk to someone who had been through this. It was probably a lost cause trying to get Haymitch to help with emotions Peeta couldn’t even describe.

Peeta filled his plate from the dinner table this time and mentally prepared himself to mingle. He focused on the conversation of the foods, dissecting them and rating them multiple times in an attempt to keep anyone from telling him anything he didn’t want to hear.

-

Peeta was still used to waking up and falling asleep with the sun. As the night wore on the buzz of people started to die down. He ended up on a couch, half awake. He debated if he could just leave on his own or if he’s supposed to find Haymitch or Effie. He propped his head on his fist and let his eyes slip close. He was just about to fall asleep when the seat next to him dipped and he felt an arm settle on the top of the couch near him.

“There’s the little usurper.” A voice said and Peeta opened his eyes to see Finnick freaking Odair sitting next to him. Peeta made a sleepily questioning grunt. Why was Finnick Odair talking to him?

“I’m not the youngest victor in history anymore” He explained. Oh yeah, Peeta forgot that he beat him by one year.

“Uh...sorry,” Peeta was still half awake, “What are you doing here?” Did previous victors normally show up here? Peeta assumed they stayed in their districts unless they were actively mentoring. “What are you doing here?” Finnick shrugged in answer and gestured to an older man across the room.

“Ew, him?” Peeta made a face, “I mean, you’re not the youngest victor anymore but you’re still the prettiest.” Finnick laughed loudly and it jolted Peeta awake enough to be embarrassed and apologize. Finnick waved him off and offered a plate of fish in lieu of forgiveness. It was still fresh, the table had been restocked over and over again during the night. Even now the tables were flush, as if only a few people had sampled from it.

“How’s the life of a victor treating you?”

“I’ve mostly just been dragged around the place.” Peeta shrugged

“Get used to that,” Finnick muttered before perking the conversation up, “At least the food’s a lot better on this side right? What’s your expert opinion?” As always, food was a bit of a weak point for Peeta and he couldn’t help but dive in earnestly about some of the more exotic treats. He had warmed himself up to the food, having used it as a talking point through the night. There had just been so much to try and it was work to remember everything he had to say about it.

“-and I know in theory we could get some of the same effect with pig bones but no ones ever gonna have the time or money to bother messing around with that. And no one in Twelve’s ever gonna waste money on that kind of treat so it’s kinda worthless.”

“Well, I suppose you’ll have the money now.” Finnick pointed out.

“I guess.” Peeta hadn’t really considered that he’d get a brand new house and money. What was that going to be like? Part of him wanted to ask but it didn’t seem right. He doubted Finnick dealt with the same problems he had. Finnick had won his game like 10 years ago. He had volunteered and then went back home in triumph. He was clearly raised to be a fighter. Peeta was raised to get by.

“You’re very nice Peeta,” Finnick said rather abruptly, “And you are so genuine it hurts. You should get back to the kitchen before you get eaten out here.”

...What on earth was Peetta supposed to say back to that? Did he think Peeta wanted to be here? Peeta wanted to go home where no one tried to kill him or spoke over his head or in poorly coded advice he couldn’t decipher. Peeta was going home. Peeta was going home. Peeta was just standing to excuse himself to find someone to get him out of there when Haymitch appeared behind him.

“Finnick.” Haymitch greeted, warmly albeit drunkenly

“Haymitch” They sounded friendly enough with each other, which shouldn’t have been a surprise. Did other victors usually know each other? When would they ever meet up? During the Games?

“Keeping an eye on our new victor here?”

“Well somebody had to. Poor kid’s falling asleep all alone.”

“It’s pretty late,” Peeta defended himself. They both looked at him.

“It’s barely after midnight,” Haymitch told him.

“Does that mean we get to leave soon?”

“These things normally go for a few more hours”

“Doing what? How long can they stuff themselves and vomit and complain about enjoying or not enjoying stuff. This sucks.” Haymitch and Finnick gave each other a look. It was true though. Peeta had talked to so many people tonight and he thought he hated them all.

“We can probably sneak you out of here.” Haymitch decided.

“Growing boys need their sleep,” Finnick added, standing and brushing himself off, “You should find me when the tour comes through Four, by the way. I’ll take you out to the water and show you some stuff.” And he went off into the crowd.

“C’mon.” Haymitch started leading out, occasionally butting into important people’s conversations to prompt Peeta to say goodbye. Everyone else was sticking around so Haymitch and Peeta were the only two in the car. Peeta kept trying to think of something to break the ice. To beg for someone to tell him what to do now. Someone who understood. But Haymitch beat him to it.

“Look, we just need to make it through one more day and then we can all go home and have a breakdown. Okay?”

“One more day?” his voice came out a little shaky. It had been a long night. Heck, a long day. He had woken up in the afternoon and went straight into the interview and the eternally long banquet. Peeta had gotten what? 30 minutes of empty time all day. He was out of energy, resilience, everything.

“One more,” Haymitch clarified, “And you’re more or less on your own again.”

Right. not safe, or okay, or free. Just on his own.