Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

”My wings are open.”  

”My wings are open.”

”Willing and wide-”

The crunch of crispy spring leaves crackled under footsteps. A size 5 and 10 marched side by side through the thick lushness of grass, the shade of green seemed to be enhanced by the way colors always seemed to be so vibrant after it rained. 

“Willlliiing and wideee” a 9-year-old Katniss followed her pa’s lead, her little melodic voice a stark— but not unwelcomed— contrast to Burdock’s deep timbre. She hurried along beside him, trying to keep up with his long legs, even though unbeknownst to her, he was moving slower than usual to let her catch up. He had finally convinced Ma to take her all the way out to the lake today. She wasn't gonna screw it up by letting him think she couldn't keep up.

“My wings are open, I’m ready to fly!” His voice came out above her again, the next couple of verses they would sing in unison, their voices mending beautifully among the song of the birds, chorusing and chirping in the trees they were surrounded by. 

“Wherever I’ve been, I get to decide. Way down the hill, high up in the sky.” They chorused, a giggle emanating from the little girl’s throat as she spread her arms out in a “T” position as if they were wings and she was a bird. She excitedly ran ahead of him with her arms out, almost tripping on a protruding tree root but balancing herself at the last second. The tanned leather jacket Pa made for her birthday out of deer hide clung a tiny bit loose on her form–

(”You’ll grow into it.” He’d said, bringing one of her own braids around to lightly slap her face. She’d giggled and hugged him tight and hadn’t taken the thing off since.so far, She’d loved the gift so much.) 

It fits ‘round her arms all nice and does a mighty fine job keeping out the residual cold that always seems to come about before summer hits around this time. 

“My toes grippin’ tight, I’m tucked in for the nigh-” 

“Those ain't the right lyrics, Pa!” Katniss scrunched up her nose, stopping in her tracks and turning around so he could see her displeasure. She put her hands on her hips as he chuckled. 

He mimicked her pose, marveling at how much she was beginning to look like him already, barely nine years of age today. He brought a calloused hand up to his chin, stroking his beard thoughtfully. The mockingjays had already begun echoing their melody, floodingfilling their woods with it. “Is that right?” he pretended to think. 

Katniss nodded aggressively, her badly cut bangs (courtesy of Burdock) flopping along with her movements, “ Wrong order. You’re ‘posed to close your wings first!” 

“ Duh!” He hits his own temple as if he’d just remembered, “ How could I forget somethin’ as vital as the Official Mockingjay Code of Conduct? Why, I’m liable to get fined by the bird council!" 

Katniss grinned a snaggle-toothed, mischievous smile, and spun dramatically to glance around the branches. "They’re listenin’, you know."

"Oh, I know," he said in a stage whisper, crouching low as if the trees themselves might report him. Pa always said the trees hear everything. That if you listen close enough, they’ll whisper back. He was always sayin’ whimsical stuff like that. Katniss told herself she didn’t much believe it, but often when Pa was off checking traps, she’d stay still as a board, ear poised against a tree, listening for a whisper. 

 "I hear the fine’s a whole week of squirrel stew without salt," he continues. 

She shudders, "Yuck!" No seasoning? She could almost taste the blandness on her tongue. 

"Exactly." He tapped her on the nose gently with his finger. "That’s why I need my lil’ know-it-all keepin’ me in check."

Katniss puffed up a little, proud, not registering the comment as the (albeit lighthearted) jab it was, “I know all the verses AND the right order."

"And the right order," he repeated, laughing, his eyes softening as he looked at her. The mockingjays echoed again, weaving their notes through the branches above them as if confirming her authority.

For a moment, he just watched her. The way the sunlight touched her dark braids, the quickness in her eyes. Then he smiled and rose to his feet, brushing his pants off and combing his long locks out of his face.

“Alright then, Baby Bug,” he said. “Wanna take it from the top? Wings closed, then hum?”

She nodded seriously, standing straighter, already half in song. They sang their special tune or melodysong as they continued on to the river. Katniss loved days like this. Of course, she liked spending time with Prim and Mama, but Prim was too little to do most of the things that Katniss liked to do, and Mama had a habit of over-fretting as if she thought Katniss would break. But with Pa–in their woods– Katniss was free from restriction(within reason). Free to be as loud as she wanted. Free to say whatever she wanted (within reason), whenever she wanted, without consequence. (sorta). The air is clean and fresh. 

But however free she was out here, she knew that as soon as she stepped foot back in that district she’d be smothered by the suffocating fumes of coal dust and depression that lingered in the lanes of the Seam so heavily. She dreads it every single time. Going back inside those gates. Always has since the moment she escaped their hold with Pa two years back, the first time he took her out here. Can you blame her? 

It's hard to go back to choking on fumes in a cage when your lungs have tasted clean air.

They make it to the lake just as the sun begins its descent downward. They won't have much longer out here–maybe an hour before they have to head back but she’s glad to be here all the same. “I’ll teach ya to swim one day.” Pa starts as the open body of water comes into view. Katniss’s jaw goes slack as she catches sight of the glistening surface. She’s never seen such an open body of water in real life. It must span for miles! She can see the little ripples of the surface and walks forward, completely enthralled by it. 

The lake stretched out before them like a dream—quiet and massive and open in a way nothing in District 12 ever was. Katniss slowed her steps until she came to a full stop at the edge of the grass. The mossy bank sloped gently down to where rocks jutted up from the mud, and the water glimmered with streaks of gold from the lowering sun. Her mouth parted, awestruck. Pa stopped behind her, watching her reaction with a knowing grin.

“Somethin’, ain’t it?” he said low, slinging the bag off his shoulder with a practiced thud. “Capitol don’t touch out this far. No fences, no wires, no peacekeepers.” He breathed deeply through his nose, spreading his arms wide like the wings of a bird. “Just the air, the trees….and us.”

Katniss nodded slowly, still staring like she was afraid if she blinked it’d disappear. “It’s real big,” she said. “Like… way bigger than the creek.”

Burdock laughed and squatted down, undoing the flap of the bag and pulling out a battered tin can. “That it is. This here’s what you call a lake. A proper one. You ain’t seen big ‘til you see it from the east ridge at dawn. Water looks like glass then.”

Katniss shucked off her boots and sank her feet into the mud, curling her toesies. It was cold, but not too cold. She could hear frogs start up a low chorus on the far side. Everything felt alive out here. Like even the dirt breathed. "Come here a sec." Burdock motioned her over to a patch of broad-leafed greenery growing close to the water’s edge. He crouched and carefully brushed the soil from around the base of the plant, revealing the pale, arrowhead-shaped tubers clinging low to the stems.

“This one here,” he said, “is real special. Grows in shallow water. Easy to miss unless you know what you’re lookin’ for.”

Katniss knelt beside him, paying close attention like she always did when Pa explained something to her. No matter how fun it could be, they were still breaking the law for a purpose. To feed the family. To be providers. He’d always been clear about that. In fact, it was one of the first lessons she’d learned. She tilted her head, eyes narrowing at the roots.

He grinned and gently tugged one free. “Now, this here is Katniss.”

Her mouth opened in a soft, astonished gasp, her gaze darting between the plant and his face. “Like me?”

“Just like you,” he said, winking. “Long as you find yourself, you’ll never starve.”

She stared down at the root in his hands, fingers reaching out to brush its smooth surface. It didn’t look like much. But suddenly it felt important—sacred even. She traced the curve of it with her thumb, committing the shape to memory. They sat like that for a while in quiet peace, the root nestled in her lap. Eventually, as the sky turned lavender and the light shifted to a hush, Katniss curled against her father’s side, her leather jacket pressed to his. His locs spilled over his shoulder and tickled her forehead as he leaned back against the slope.

“Pa?” she murmured.

He hummed in acknowledgment.

“When I grow up… if I can’t find you… will the woods tell me where you went?”

The only answer she got was the chirp of birdsong and the wind whistling. Okay? Maybe he wasn’t in a talking mood anymore.

“Pa?” she said again, a little louder now, nudging his chest.

Chirp Chirp Chirp.

She lifted her head to look at him—just a glance.

And the world split open.

Where his head should’ve been, there was nothing but blood and rot, the reek of scorched flesh flooding her nose as the sky turned red all around her.  A severed stump of a neck lolled grotesquely above his shoulders. His body was still warm. Still leaning against her. But the face was gone—blown away and blackened like coal.

Katniss screamed.

The birds stopped singing.

The water went still.

And somewhere, far away, the siren’s wail of the mine alarm began to rise.

.

A gasp tore from her throat as Katniss jolted upright at the kitchen table. She blinked wildly, heart still pounding, before realizing where she was. Home. Her house. Her kitchen. The hard edge of the chair pressed into her back as she slumped forward with a shaky breath.

Fuck. She really had to stop falling asleep at the table.

Aggressively, Katniss starts to snatch the papers off the table, breaking a nail or two in the process and ripping off a small paper stuck to her cheek with a groan.  A sticky rectangle fluttered loose and landed in her lap, the red seal winking mockingly in the pale morning light.

“ Courtesy of The Capitol, ” it read.

She snorted. How ironic.

The last thing she needed to see after that shitshow of a dream was that as soon as she opened her eyes. Utterly drained already despite just waking up, she squints through the soft morning sunlight reflecting off the glistening snow on the windowsill. Jaw clenched, she glanced toward the nearly empty pantry, then back to the stupid fucking tesserae ticket still in her hand. They’d waited longer than usual to cash it this year—she and Gale had been lucky lately—but winter didn’t give a damn about streaks. Of course, it had to come in hard.

She should’ve known. Dreamers always end up disappointed.

This winter had been especially egregious. No wonder her brain dragged her back to that . They were skirting dangerously close to the state they’d been in after Pa died. Not having the emotional integrity to deal with Sadniss this morning, her default goes back to anger. 

Pissed, and without Ma awake or Buttercup anywhere nearby to take it out on, she stretches and sucks it up, shuffling her bare feet on the hardwood floors of their home. She pauses for a moment, spotting Prim sleeping soundly with their mother on the floor mattress. She must’ve had a nightmare too, poor thing. Katniss’s gaze softens for a moment, unable to shake the blame that weighs on her shoulders at the sight. She must’ve gotten tired of waiting for Katniss to come to bed and went to their mom for comfort. She hated that. Hated the idea that her little sister needed her and she wasn’t there.

She sighed and turned away, quietly promising to bring her back something sweet after school. A cookie or a roll. Something soft.

The morning went on like normal. They woke, dressed, and packed while Ma made mint tea for breakfast and attempted to start a conversation. Katniss responded with one-word answers while she and Prim pulled on their coats, scarves, and gloves and walked out the door. 

“Bye, Ma!” Prim shouts over her shoulder before the door closes, her shoes crunching on the freshly fallen snow. The coal dust that lingers in the Seam seemed to get to it already. It was a sort of brown slush that they tried to avoid walking in as they passed neighbors who were already out doing their morning tasks. Katniss gave them nods and little waves as they walked through the lanes.

Mon, Dec 11th 73ADD

“How was your sleep, Prim?” She asked, hands in the brown pockets of her father’s old leather hunting jacket he’d made himself. The thing had remained tried and true throughout the years, needing minimal repairs. At times like this, she’s glad her dad was such a perfectionist. 

“I had a nightmare.” Prim screws her mouth up. Katniss nods. She had figured as much. 

“So did I.” Katniss grumbles, looking down at her boots, frowning as she noticed the slight unevenness in Prim’s gait through her peripheral. Hunter’s eyes.  Always watching. “Need new shoes?” She asks. 

Prim looks sheepish as she glances at her sister. “Yes,” Prim said quietly. She never did like vocalizing that she needed new things. She knew the pressure Katniss was under already, and the last thing she wanted was to add one more burden to the pile, knowing her sister would work herself to the bone to get her whatever she needed–even at the cost of her own health. No matter how many times Katniss tells her not to, she still can't help feeling bad about it. 

Like last year when she’d hit a major growth spurt out of nowhere and suddenly couldn’t fit any of her clothes. Katniss stayed out in the woods every day after school until dusk and skipped two meals in a row just to buy her new ones. Because that’s what you did when you loved someone more than anything.

You gave until it hurt.

Prim must’ve been thinking about that too, because she fell quiet, chewing at her lip and focusing hard on the icy ground ahead. Katniss didn’t say anything else—just gave her a little nudge with her elbow and a grunt that said “I’ve got it.” That was enough for now.

They kept walking. The closer they got to the center of town, the less the coal dust in the air got as the dirt road that paved the seam slowly turned into cracked concrete. School was already in sight—its gray walls, its rusting pipes trailing like veins into the frozen ground. 

“How’s your leg been botherin’ you?” Came Prim’s voice, looking up at Katniss through grey eyes similar to her own. Katniss shrugs, 

“Alright. Doesn’t particularly hurt that much anymore.” She said. About two weeks back, Katniss and Gale had run into some trouble in the woods. A tussle with a bear over a beehive of all things. She and Gale both sustained moderate injuries– A decently deep three-clawed slash along the width of Katniss’s right calf and another smaller three-clawed slash along the lower half of her back. Gale had only suffered a minor slash on his forehead that slit through his eyebrow and a cut on his arm that strangely didn’t even come from the bear. He had thrown himself in front of Katniss when the bear had decided to ditch the beehive and wanted an alternate source of protein from human meat. Gale had then tripped on a tree root and fell on the knife he had pulled out of his holster. 

They both had a good laugh about it when everything was all said and done. 

(Gale frowned, his thick eyebrows drawing together and his mouth twisting into a scowl. “Last time I try to be nice and save your ass.” He grumbled as Prim put the last bandage on his head. 

“My hero.” Katniss joked with a mocking smile. He tried to resist the smile that was creeping up on him but the humor of it all won in the end. They cracked up in her living room until Katniss pulled the stitches in her leg from moving it around too much. )

Asterid said the gash on her calf would leave a pretty visible scar but the one on her back was likely to be barely visible unless you looked too close. About two days later, they had showed up to school– a slightly llimping Katniss being helped by Gale to a majority of her classes. This of course, caused rumors to spread and the whispering started up again, theories on what may have transpired in the woods with the two of them. It was thanks to their trades at The Hob (selling the meat), and The Shoe Cobbler(the leather) that majority of people found out what had happened. Though neither of them had said a word. Katniss still walks with a bit of a limp, but the wound has healed mostly, and the stitches were taken out yesterday. 

“And your back?” Prim asks. Katniss smiles slightly. Her sister, ever the healer. 

“Fully healed by now. Doesn’t hurt either. “

Primrose gave a terse nod as they came up to the doors of the school, slowing a little when spotting a familiar figure leaning against the wall out front.

Gale was bundled in that patched coat he always wore, hands shoved deep in the pockets, jaw tense, eyes scanning the crowd the way he always did when he was low on sleep or worried. Which meant he’d probably had a night like Katniss’s. He looked up when they approached and gave a sharp little nod, but his eyes lingered on her a second longer than usual. Maybe he could tell she hadn’t really slept. Maybe it was written all over her face. 

“Hey,” he said. The cut on his forehead had completely healed, leaving a slight scar running through the arch of his eyebrow where the hair would never grow back again. 

Prim gave him a beaming smile, "Mornin', Gale!" 

“Morning, Prim,” he said, his expression softening just for her, “Rory’s already inside.” He told her, nodding to the entrance to the school with his head. Prim nodded, and skipped inside, leaving Katniss and Gale alone outside. Katniss squirms under his gaze. Why is he looking at her like that? It’s almost like he can see inside her mind. “You alright, Catnip?”

Katniss shifted the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder. “Peachy.” 

He snorted under his breath. “Right.” There was a pause. The school bell hadn’t rung yet, and a few kids were still trickling in through the gate. Gale kicked at a clump of ice by his boot and leaned in slightly. “I was thinking,” he muttered, low enough that only she could hear. Their hunting was probably one of the worst-kept secrets in the district, but that doesn’t mean they can just go around flaunting their illegal activity out in the open. “We should try that southeast ridge again. Tracks looked fresh last time.” 

Katniss simply nodded. Gale gave one of his rare, quick smiles and then the bell rang, sharp and shrill. The two of them moved together through the front doors, down the hall that smelled like chalk and mildew and wet wool. Business as usual.

.

“Rye, you ass! ”

The ass in question’s cackle reverberated off the bakery machinery, echoing back obnoxiously into Peeta’s ears as he scrambled after his older brother, trying to be quiet enough not to wake their mother.

 Rye had long since stopped caring about their mother’s wrath, though. He smirked arrogantly, one of Peeta’s clean shirts draped over his shoulder like a prize.

“Learn to take a joke, baby brother.”

Peeta snatched the shirt back with a glare, his cheeks hot from the cold and Rye’s idiocy. “You ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?”

Rye just winked and tossed him a roll he must’ve snagged off the cooling rack. “You’re welcome for breakfast.”

Peeta caught it mid-air and immediately tossed it back. “ I made breakfast, dumbass.” He muttered, disappearing into the back to get dressed, trying not to think about how little sleep he’d gotten or how many deliveries were left.

The cold water in the washbasin hadn’t done much to wake him up, and his limbs still felt heavy. Flour still clung to the lines of his hands no matter how many times he scrubbed it away. He tugged on his shirt— the one he’d actually picked out to wear —and tried to smooth it down, though it still looked a little wrinkled from Rye’s idiotic game.

As he passed the prep table, he paused. The fresh batch of rye loaves lined up in neat little rows, golden and crusty. He could feel his father’s hand in the shaping of them—the careful scores across the top, the precise color. The kind of consistency his mother never bothered to praise, but Peeta had memorized like scripture.

He let himself look just a second longer. Then the memory from last night surfaced.

.

Rye had been in one of his moods —half-sarcastic, half-inspired, and loud about both.

They’d been in the shared upstairs room, Rye lounging across his bed, tuning the old guitar with a pencil between his teeth.

“We need a lead singer,” he’d said out of nowhere.

Peeta had looked up from his sketchbook, where he’d been halfway through drawing a raven. “Okay? What do you want me to do about that?”

Rye sat up and looked at him with that gleam in his eye—the one that usually meant trouble or some wild idea that’d end with both of them grounded. “What about your lil’ songbird?” He says, a smirk growing on his face.

Peeta’s pencil stopped moving.

Rye raised a brow. “What was her name again? Katpiss…Neverclean?” he feigns a thoughtful expression. 

Peeta couldn’t help himself, “ Katniss Everdeen. ” He hissed, “Rye, don’t be mean.” He frowns disapprovingly. Rye is one of the five people in the district who even knew about Peeta’s little crush on the Seam girl– not that Peeta had wanted Rye to know about it in the first place. He’d simply gotten caught staring in her direction one too many times. Which had in turn led to Rye cornering a blushing Peeta and pestering him until he got annoyed enough to confess. 

The point is, Rye definitely knew her name and was just being an ass for the sake of it. Because he knew his brother would come to her defense. 

“Right-” Rye waves a hand dismissively, carefully swinging his guitar around to sit on his side. “Funny thing is, I’ve never actually heard her sing. She really as good as you say or is it just that the pathetic loverboy in you concocted a false memory of her to justify your pining?” 

Peeta rolled his eyes. With Rye, it’s best not to take anything he says too seriously. If you do, you’ll have a brain aneurysm before the end of the week. “She does have a beautiful voice…but I haven’t heard her sing in years.” He says, frowning at the thought. 

Rye stops, his face screwing up in indignation. “So she may be shit now?” 

Peeta rolls his eyes yet again—It was an inevitability hanging around Rye— and closes his sketchbook with a sigh, sitting up from his relaxed position. “I doubt someone could devolve that much in just four years… Are you actually serious about this?” 

Rye pauses before sighing, “The guys can't carry a tune to save their lives. I mean, I can carry a tune-” He says arrogantly, a hand pointing to his chest, “But I ain’t like– lead singer material, y’know?”

“So you really want a Seam girl in your band?” Peeta says the question he’s been thinking all along. Peeta himself has no prejudice against Seamfolk– but he knows his brother takes more after their mother in that department. It annoys him sometimes(all the time) but there ain’t much to do in the way of trying to convince either of them to change their minds. 

“Hell, I’ll take anyone even remotely good at this point. I mean, who’s gonna hire a band without a singer?” Rye dramatically flops back onto his bed, hitting his head on the wall in the process. Peeta laughs at his pained ‘ow!’ and leans back on his own bed. There’s silence for a moment and then-

“We’ll approach her tomorrow.” 

Peeta immediately sits up, an eyebrow cocked “We?”

Rye gives him a side eye from his place on his bed, not bothering to sit all the way up, “Ya gotta suck it up at some point, Peet. You’ll be thankin’ me when ya’ll are cuddled up at the slag heap.”

Peeta’s jaw flies open and before he knows it, one of his pillows is chucked at Rye’s head, “Rye!” 

.

The words had stuck with Peeta the rest of the night. Even through the crack of the oven door and the dull scrape of trays being rotated, even through the groan of the mixer. That tight, nervous flutter he always felt when someone mentioned her name had only gotten worse.

He should’ve known Rye wouldn’t drop it.

By the time lunch came around, Peeta was sitting with a group of his friends, occasionally chiming into the conversation and taking mouse-like nibbles at some cold roasted potatoes he’d brought from home. The cafeteria buzzed with its usual noise—kids talking too loud, trays clattering, gossip floating through the air like ash.

He had his sketchbook open beside him on the table, a half-finished doodle of a bear with a honey pot, which he was totally not drawing because of the gossip about what happened to Katniss and Gale. It was just a coincidence.

The noise around him blurred together until a loud thump jolted him upright.

“Move it,” Rye said, dropping onto the bench beside him like he owned it. Peeta’s friends gave a polite nod in welcome before going back to their conversation. Peeta gave him a narrowed look.

“I was eating.”

“You were staring at potatoes and drawing a cartoon bear. Get up.” Rye stood, already grabbing Peeta’s lunchbox and sketchbook before he could protest.

“Wait, what—Rye—” A few of his friends had stopped to look at him curiously. 

“C’mon, let’s talk to your songbird.”

Peeta blinked. His stomach dropped, face flushing.

“Rye. It’s your band. Why do I have to-”

Rye ignored him completely, already halfway across the lunchroom, weaving between tables like he had a mission. And Peeta, to his complete horror, realized he was actually following him.

And there she was—Katniss Everdeen, sitting at her usual spot with her tray in front of her, chewing like she didn’t care about anything in the world except getting through the day. Her ridiculously long braid was a little messier than usual. Her shoulders looked tight.

Too late to turn back now. 

Rye dropped Peeta’s lunchbox on the table with a clatter . Both Katniss and Madge’s heads snapped up, slowly looking over to the boys. Katniss’s eyebrows shoot up upon seeing the townie boys and she looks over to Madge with a questioning look–Townie business?-- only to find that she looks just as surprised as Katniss feels. Oh brother, what now?

Katniss sighs and looks back. She knows this guy– or at least has seen him around– Rye Mellark. They don't interact much. And honestly, she prefers it that way, she thinks, looking at the patronizing smile plastered on his face. 

Next to him is his brother, Peeta Mellark, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but here, a rosy tint to his cheeks and looking anywhere but at her. Katniss pauses, the memory of the day he’d saved her life with the bread coming back full force. She avoids looking at him at all costs if she can help it, though she still catches his eye every once in a while. Every time it happens, she turns away awkwardly, the guilt of having not thanked him all those years ago still fresh in her gut. She clears her throat slightly as Rye starts talking, almost not catching what he was saying. 

“Everdeen,” he says simply, grinning like he owned the place. “So, we need to talk.”

Katniss raises a brow. “About?” comes her monotone voice. Peeta blushes harder if that's even possible. His brother puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him down into the seat next to her, taking the one on the other side of her. 

“I’m starting a band. And Peeta here-” He slaps him on the back, “Says that you have a beautiful voice .” 

Katniss’s gaze falls onto Peeta, her eyes narrowed. She can catch the look of mortification on his face before his hands slide up his completely red cheeks, covering them with his palms. The Mellark boys, for the most part, have the same features. Messy blonde hair, striking blue eyes, and stocky, muscular builds. Not particularly up there in height, but nobody really cares about that sort of thing as long as you’ve got something to provide. 

“Says that when you sing, all the birds stop to listen, ain’t that right, Peet?” Rye continues, a mischievous smirk on his face. And how would he know that?   Katniss glares at Rye, Peeta’s hands clamp even harder onto his face and Katniss could see the tips of his ears start to redden. 

He’s obviously embarrassed. Katniss can't help but feel a little bad for him. She’d be embarrassed too if she had someone like Rye for a brother.  Katniss says nothing and just looks at Rye, willing him to say whatever the hell he came over here to say. 

Rye stretched his arms across the back of the bench like he was settling in for a chat at the bakery instead of inviting himself into someone else's lunch. He grinned at Katniss like this was normal, like this wasn't the weirdest possible interaction she could be having at twelve-thirty on a Tuesday.

“I’m forming a band,” he said again, slow and smug like he expected applause. “And you, Everdeen, have been selected for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Katniss blinked at him. Her expression didn’t change. Didn’t even twitch. It was the same tired deadpan she used when Gale complained about coal dust in his teeth like she had a way to fix it. Slowly, she set her fork down beside her tray.

“No,” she said flatly.

Rye’s eyebrows twitched up, like he hadn’t even considered rejection as a possibility. “No?” he repeated, like he’d misheard.

“No,” she repeated, more firmly this time. “I don’t sing.” for you . She doesn’t add.

Peeta made a quiet noise like he wanted to disappear. His fingers were digging into his sketchbook like he wished he could crawl inside one of his drawings and slam the page shut behind him. Rye looked between them, then scoffed.

“I thought you said she was cool.”

Peeta finally looked up, eyes wide with betrayal and disbelief. “I never—!” he started, but Rye ignored him, turning back to Katniss with the same forced charm of a merchant trying to sell you stale bread at full price.

“C’mon, don’t be shy. Peet says you’ve got a voice like a mourning dove or whatever.”

Katniss’s eyes narrowed in Peeta’s direction. “Did he?”

Peeta gave her a look of pure panic, somewhere between please believe me and please don’t kill me. His cheeks were still pink, and his lips were pressed so tightly together it looked like it hurt. He wasn’t even trying to explain himself—just waiting for the humiliation to pass like a storm cloud overhead.

And honestly, Katniss wasn’t even mad. Just confused and a little annoyed. This had the same chaotic, steamrolling energy as a Hawthorne sibling fight—like it didn’t matter what you said, because the other person had already decided how it was going to go.

“Look,” Rye said, hands raised like he was doing her a favor. “We’re not asking you to play guitar or write songs or whatever. Just stand there and sing. Pretty face, decent lungs. I’ve got the rest covered.  I'm sure you can use the money anyway, poor thing. You’d have to audition, of course, but if you’re good, I’d have no problem letting you in.” 

Katniss blinked. Then blinked again.

“…Did you seriously just say that to me?” she asked, tone low and flat.

“Think of it as representation,” Rye added, breezing right past it. “Y’know, Seam girl joins up with a bunch of merchants, breaks class barriers, sings her little heart out. Everyone wins.”

Madge let out a choked sound from across the table that she tried and failed to disguise as a cough. Katniss didn’t even glance at her. Her entire attention was locked on Rye now. If looks could kill, this kid surely would’ve never survived infancy. This kind of annoyingness doesn't come with age. It’s something you have to be born with. 

Peeta looked like he wanted to die of embarrassment on Rye’s behalf, if not his own. He was glaring now, jaw tight, and finally muttered, “Rye. Shut up.”

Rye huffed, but stood anyway, ruffling Peeta’s hair on the way up. “Whatever. Just think about it,” he said, already walking off. “Let me know.”

Peeta stayed frozen in his seat for a beat too long, eyes flicking between Katniss, the table, and anywhere but directly at her. Finally, he grabbed his lunchbox and sketchbook with a mumbled “Sorry,” and stood to follow.

Katniss didn’t stop him.

As soon as they were out of earshot, she turned to Madge, who looked like she didn’t know whether to laugh or be upset on her behalf. “What the fuck just happened?” Katniss asked.

Katniss glared at her lunchbox, food half gone already, mumbling to herself. “Stuck up merchant asshole.” Who does he think he is?  “No offense.” She adds to Madge, who just shook her head with a chuckle. 

“None taken.” She picked her bookbagbook back up and flipped to the page she was on before being interrupted. There was a beat of silence before– “You do have a really pretty voice…”

Katniss’s head snaps up, head tilted. To her knowledge, she’d never even sung around Madge. Madge just shrugs. 

“You hum to yourself while doing homework.”

Now it was Katniss’s turn to be flushed. Oops. She’d definitely have to work on that. Her signature scowl is back, looking down at her lunchbox as if it personally did her wrong. She still finishes her meagre tough, brown sandwich made with the Tessare grain and oil she’d signed up for just the day before. Ignorant as it was, Katniss was more infuriated at the fact that Rye’s comment about her needing the money was correct. And she couldn’t afford to waste food– however disgusting it was.

“Are you gonna do it?” Madge asks, a look of curiosity clouding her features. 

“Absolutely not.”

Madge doesn’t question it– one of the things Katniss likes about her– and shrugs, picking up her pen to underline something in her book. 

 She doesn’t know why that interaction bothered her so much… besides the obvious reason. She doesn’t even sing for anyone besides Prim nowadays. The last time she sang in public was right before her pa…

She shakes her head, going back to eating. 

No. She decides resolutely. She would not join Rye Mellark’s stupid band. 

Chapter Text

“Fuck.” 

It wasn't even a shout.

Gale watches with self-pity as the scrawny bunny rabbit squirms its little ass right out of his snare and expertly evades his hands, the bright white fur camouflaging with the bright white snow that reflects the bright white glare of the sun that is making it impossible for the hunters to see where it went.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Katniss deadpans, sighing heavily and leaning against the tree the trap lay against, her game bag thumping pathetically against her waist under the (near weightless) weight of the two borderline skeleton-like squirrels she shot earlier. (It was almost pointless to do so. They had almost no meat on their frail little bones.) 

She might as well have chopped up her own left arm into three sections and offered it up for pickings, the way the folks at the Hob will look at her sideways when she tries to sell something with barely a mouthful of meat on it.

( She can hear Greasy Sae now– “Tell you what—I’ll boil ‘em with a wish and pray somethin’ hearty shows up.” )

Gale mimics her sigh and—ever the dramatic— almost punches a tree before thinking better of it and putting his hands on his hips dejectedly. 

“We’ve still got daylight left. Circle back to the south end of the clearing? Think I saw a trial cutting cross that way.” Katniss gestures, a determined set to her brow. Her arms are sore, and her feet are getting blistered in her patched boots, but the hollow feeling in her gut is enough to motivate movement. Gale says nothing but lets her lead the way.

Wednesday Dec 13th 73 ADD

The snow-covered woods glitter like a damn Capitol postcard.

The landscape is almost taunting in a way. The glittering surface of the snow, the crisp winter air whipping against their cheeks, wafting an earthy, green-smelling fresh aroma into their noses. The vibrant green of tree leaves peeking through the fallen white fluff that has settled on its surface, the calm and quiet that inhabit the forest. 

To Katniss, it would have been beautiful in any other circumstance. Enchanting, even... But now, when the snow blanketing the earth drives their families' food and livelihood into hiding and hibernation, now, when the blinding light of the sun beams painfully into their unprotected eyes, impairing their vision and making it much harder to see tracks or get a good shot. Now, when the lack of food for their own prey makes the meat they do catch practically unsellable (just ask the two anorexic squirrels in her hunting bag). Now, when the lack of income has forced them to go four nights in a row with only air sandwiches for lunch and aspirations and ambitions for dinner, reminding both of them of a time in which they’d rather not relive. 

It was enough to make her think on that dumb band offer again… ‘til her pride reared up and stomped it back down.

( Burdock smiles widely, those dimples of his popping out against his bronze skin. Asterid stands beside him, twin smile, twirling the colorful feathers clipped into his midnight-hued hair. Her view of them is swaying, like she’s dancing. The angelic sound of deep, rich humming floods her ears as if his mouth was right beside her ear, warm breath fanning the flesh. Her sight is momentarily obscured by the glare of the sun.. 

And then, they’re gone. But the humming remains. )

Katniss shakes her head, letting out a discreet breath as her heart hammers in her chest. She looks to the side at Gale, who doesn’t seem to notice anything off with her yet. She must not have been gone that long, then. After a few seconds, the memory, along with the humming in her ear dissipates, and they keep moving. 

Borderline desperation compels Katniss to shoot for the south clearing of the forest. Most of the grandiose rumors about the forest were either simply untrue or exaggerated to scare the District 12 residents away from its direction. Katniss never believed most of them at any rate since she was little. Her pa’s presence was sure to keep her safe in her younger years, and he had made sure to drill safety protocols into her head as soon as she was big enough to understand them. Even so, the southern clearing is farther out than either Katniss or Gale had been comfortable with previously, and most of those “horrifying” tales being spread had probably come from the unknown that inhabited that far out. Their route worked. It kept them fed…until now. 

Besides the increased danger that came with uncharted land, it was just never worth the time. Always a Ma or sibling to get back to. Always a homework assignment or Sister’s hair to braid. Though now that they were literally on the verge of starving yet again , it doesn't seem they have a choice when not even the apple trees, which the occasional brave soul will risk a venture under the fence to pick spoils from, are blooming fruit. 

“Careful ‘round here.” 

Katniss and Gale tread carefully on the new soil, moving with a practiced synchronization that could only come from their years of working alongside each other as loyal partners. Their treads are soft and soundless, matching the sharp grey eyes that swivel over their surroundings. Katniss has her father’s old bow poised and at a defensive but lowered position, feet moving gracefully in tandem with the other over an overgrown root.

They don’t talk. No need to when you’re trying to move quietly.  This wordless and trustful silence is a regular part of their routine. 

The shift felt automatic when they’d passed through the threshold of where they normally bordered the southern clearings, teetering on the edge but never feeling the need to go further. The air is different here—fresher, definitely— it always is the further out you are from the district, but also heavier. It was darker here too, something Katniss was only semi-grateful for despite the fact of having been complaining about the sun only an hour prior. 

Katniss doesn’t say anything, but she notices Gale's head tilt the same way hers does, alert to the difference in tone the further out they go. No birdsong. No scurrying. Just quiet.

But then—movement.

It starts slow, like the forest is testing them. A faint rustle to the left, and a twitch in the branches above. Gale gestures, two fingers up, then tilts his head. Squirrel. Maybe a hare. Katniss nods. She’s already sliding an arrow from her quiver before he finishes the motion. Within minutes, they bag another squirrel—less emaciated than the first two, thankfully—and a small quail stupid enough to think it could fly through a thicket of frostbitten brambles.

By the time they’ve finished their southern circuit and started back toward familiar ground, they’ve got a rabbit, the quail, and four squirrels- two barely worth gutting, two maybe passable if Greasy Sae’s in a generous mood.

Katniss doesn’t smile. But she doesn’t curse again either.

...

By the time they reach their stump—a rotting old thing about ten yards from the fence that had once been a birch tree and now serves as their unofficial rendezvous point—the light is starting to stretch sideways through the trees. The sun is dipping, just enough that it spills gold on the frost, catching on the tips of the pine needles like all-fire. It’s still bitterly cold, but the glow tricks Katniss into thinking maybe it might not be a completely wasted day.

She drops her bag down beside the stump and squats, pulling out the two limp squirrels from earlier. Gale flops down across from her, his own take spilling out in a heavier thud than usual. They work in silence, hands methodically slicing and skinning. The smell isn’t great , but they’ve long since gotten used to it.

“Prim still need new shoes?” Gale asks after a few minutes, his voice low. It sounds like an afterthought, but she knows it isn’t.

Katniss nods, not looking up. “She’s stuffin’ rags in the toes again. Says it’s fine, but the heels are raw.”

“My Ma’s been washing clothes for the cobbler’s wife. She threw some shoes in along with coin. We were saving them for Posy to grow into, but they oughta fit Prim,” he offers, after a pause.

Posy is four. It would take a looong time for her to grow into shoes that could fit Prim. By then, Katniss and Gale would be out of the reaping and have secured jobs in the mines… assuming they don't get reaped and die before then. This alone is what compels Katniss to accept the offer. “Thanks.” She says. The second squirrel is clean now. Katniss sets it aside and glances toward the fence. “How is little PoPo anyway? I was meaning to stop by tomorrow. Got a little surprise for her.”

Gale lifts a thick, furry brow, shucking the skin off his rabbit with practiced precision, “Surprise?”

“Surprise.” She smirks, arching her own brow back. 

He laughs through his nose, “She’s fine. Been askin’ about you. Sometimes I swear she loves you more than me.”

“Because she does. ” Katniss grins. 

Gale throws the rabbit's foot in her direction, hitting her square in the jaw. 

“The hell?!” 

He guffaws obnoxiously while Katniss rolls her eyes. If they were still hunting, he would have scared off all the game from here to Four. 

“Alright now, it’s not that funny.“

“Mhm,” Gale hums, a mocking smile lifting the corners of his mouth.  He flicks an intestine into the underbrush. There’s another beat of silence. Then he says, more carefully, “And your Ma? Still after… whatever-the-hell-it-was she wanted?”

“Jewelweed root,” Katniss mutters, half under her breath. “For a salve. Says the frost’s been crackin’ open people’s knuckles and mouths. She’s got everything but the Jewelweed.”

“Where do we find it again?” 

“It's not in season,” Katniss rolls her eyes, flipping her long, dark braid over her shoulder, playing with the ends. Of course, she has no real reason to be annoyed with her mom. She hadn’t demanded that she go out to get the root and had even told Katniss it likely wouldn't be available for picking this time of year. Still, it seems everything she does gets on Katniss’s nerves nowadays. “We should head back before mandated viewing starts.” 

The Victory Tour was starting today. 

The District Two boy, Mason Ticket, won the games last year. The last thing that anyone in the district wants to do is watch him smile and hoot and holler in victory in every district to rub it in the faces of all the loved ones of the kids he’d killed, but it's not like they have a choice. He’d be in District 1 today, and everyone would be forced to watch either on their Capitol-given televisions or the giant viewing screen in the square. 

She sighs as they start packing everything up and moving to the fence that keeps them caged, listening for the hum of electricity that’s supposed to be coursing through the metal but never actually is. Their haul is enough to last them till tomorrow at best, after they’ve made their sales at the Hob. She, Gale, and Hazelle would have to gather again for one of their bi-weekly meetings and sort out which ways the money will be split and what it’ll go to.

District 12, where you can starve to death in safety. Yay!

...

The smell hits him before he even gets both boots on. Burnt sugar, yeast and something scorched. Peeta’s barely halfway down the stairs when his ma hollers loud enough to rattle the windows.

“Rye!” she snaps. “You let the icing go again, you useless clod—do you want to waste another half-pound of sugar?”

There’s a loud clatter, then Rye’s voice, far too cheerful for six in the morning. “Good morning to you, too, Mother Dearest.”

Peeta winces, already bracing for the inevitable crash of ceramic or worse. Had that been Peeta, Vel would’ve knocked him so hard upside his head he’d have a month-long concussion, which she’d then have the nerve to get angry at him for, even though it was her actions that led them there. 

He hurries the rest of the way down, stepping into the bakery’s heat. His Pa, Otho, is hunched over a dough trough in the back, sleeves rolled, hands moving rhythmically. The sourdough starter is frothing madly next to him. His father doesn’t look up when Peeta enters, but there’s a familiar flicker of relief in the slight nod he offers.

“Take the front today,” Otho murmurs, “Before she bites Rye’s head off.”

Peeta nods and moves toward the counter without complaint. The air in the storefront is cooler, just barely, but the moment he touches the cash drawer to start prepping for the early morning rush, his mother’s voice calls again.

“Peeta! Front display still ain’t restocked. What you been doing all morning— daydreaming ?”

No use answering. She doesn’t want a response. Just something to fuss about. He silently stacks the last of the cheesebuns, wiping crumbs from the counter and glancing at the clock.  7:03 a.m.

By 7:04, Old Dell’s sauntering her way in and ordering her usual of cinnamon scones.  “My, My! If yuns get any cuter, I’m gonna have to start bringin’ a fan in here. What are you feedin’ these boys, sugar?” 

Peeta laughs good-naturedly,  “Mostly flour and grief.” He jokes. “Morning, Mrs. Dell.”

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” she says, leaning on the counter like she owns it. “Now don’t tell me y’all started dressin’ up just to sell pastries. These early shifts are gettin’ prettier by the week.”

Peeta grins without missing a beat. “You say that now, but wait till you see me after a double shift. You want the usual two currants, or can I tempt you with something sweeter today?”

She squints at him. “Don’t go tryin’ to upsell me, boy. I only got so much coin.”

He pulls out the tray with a flourish and sets it down between them. “Tell you what. I’ll throw in the extra glaze on the house if you pretend I’m your favorite for the rest of the day.”

Dell lets out a rough snort. “I pretend that every day and you still charge me full price.”

“Exactly. That’s loyalty.”

She chuckles, age lines creasing her pale cheeks, dropping her coins into his palm. “You’re gonna be dangerous when you’re older, boy.”

He winks at her. “Just tryin’ to sweeten the morning best I can.”

She shakes her head, curls coming loose from her high bun as she takes the wrapped parcel. “You talk like that to your girl, you’ll have her married by Monday.”

Peeta hums noncommittally, turning back to wipe the counter again as she ambles out the door.

Rye’s voice filters in from the back, singing one of his ridiculous made-up songs—something about “dames and dandelion days.” Their mother screams at him again, but Peeta doesn’t really hear it. It's way too early for such noise, but through all his 15 years in this bakery, he’s learned to deal with it. 

The oven timer dinged, and Peeta pulled the tray out just in time to see one loaf with a blackened bottom.

He stared at it, defeated.

“Well,” he muttered, turning the bread over in his hands, “guess someone’s gettin’ extra fiber.” This one will end up in their dinner tonight. 

Rye, from across the room: “Did it wrong again?”

Peeta rolled his eyes. “Nope. That’s a rustic char. Artisan.”

Still, he scraped the worst of it off and made a mental note not to let Ma see that one until tonight. She was already on his case about “attention to detail.” As if he didn’t already notice every time he fell short.

“Challah’s comin’ later on today,” Rye informs Peeta, unbrushed teeth breath right next to his cheek. Peeta wrinkles his nose and gives him a dirty look, slapping his hands together to get a majority of the flour off of them before turning back to the register. 

“Nice. I was meaning to talk to him anyway.” 

Challah had been gone for about two days on an apprenticeship. He’d recently found himself in quite the predicament when he’d knocked up the Sweetshop owner’s daughter down the road. Surprisingly, their parents hadn’t been too upset when they’d found out. Challah had aged out of the reaping two years ago, and Willamae had aged out last year. It wasn’t uncommon for couples to get married or pregnant young. By District 12 standards, they were pretty much set for their future–secured jobs in their families' shops, and ineligible to be shipped off for slaughter. 

Both sets of parents had congregated together, and now, Challah and Willamae are set to be married, and Challah is to be trained to take over the Sweetshop beside her. Peeta would never admit it out loud, but he was secretly glad things turned out the way they did. He has no idea what his parents were thinking by having three boys with only one being able to take over the family business. Peeta, being the youngest, well, you could imagine he got the short end of the stick. 

“Think he’ll let me play at the wedding?” Rye wiggles his blonde eyebrows up and down, absent-mindedly sweeping the same spot over and over again, spreading dust instead of sweeping properly. 

Peeta side eyes him, “You found a lead singer…?”

Rye dramatically rolls his eyes, stopping his act of fake sweeping altogether, “Katpiss…Hello?”

Now it was Peeta’s turn to roll his eyes, the annoyance at being embarrassed in front of his crush five days ago coming back full swing. “You’re one snide comment away from being a cautionary tale, Rye. I’m just surprised she didn’t cold-clock you in the jaw. You’re lucky I didn't tell Pa.” 

Rye looks over his shoulder at Otho’s mention, seeing he was still at work putting loaves of freshly shaped bread into the ovens. Both boys knew the soft spot the man had for the Everdeen sisters. Wouldn’t be pleased with Rye’s runnin’ mouth. 

Rye turned back to Peeta with an arrogant look on his face, “Whatever. She’ll come ‘round eventually, I’m sure. If not, I’ll just… Find someone else.” He shrugs, but Peeta can see the tinge of worry in his eye. Considering he needed Peeta’s recommendation in the first place, he doubts he’ll find anyone good enough in time. 

...

It’s two days later when Rye flops down dramatically onto his bed three hours before they were supposed to be in bed after yet another failed “Interview,” as he called them.  

 “Ugh! Are there seriously no other girls in this district who can sing?” 

Peeta sighs. 

He’d made suggestions galore- all of which were shut down by Rye. When he suggested he start broadening his search to include male singers, he’d turned the idea down because, “ Lady voices bring more coin .”

“Stop complaining to me.” 

Rye closes his eyes, chewing on his lip. His pride had been keeping him from reaching out to Katniss again ever since their first run-in. She’d shown up at the bakery’s back door a few times to trade, but every time their eyes met, that glare of hers was locked and loaded—like she’d been waitin’ for a reason to gut him with it. He might’ve been flattered if he weren’t gettin’ so desperate for a singer.

Okay—fine—he could admit he was a little rude. Maybe some of the things he said weren’t strictly necessary. But... he wasn’t wrong , was he? If she was as good as Peeta said...

Still, he couldn’t shake the way she looked at him—like he was just something stuck to the bottom of her boot.

So, Rye decides to try a new tactic: not being a jackass.

Which is how, on Monday, Katniss Everdeen finds herself staring down Rye Mellark in the hallway outside her third-period sophomore algebra class, her arms crossed, expression flat.

“You stalking me now?” she asks, voice sharp enough to cut glass.

Rye smirks, hands shoved into the pockets of his too-loose pants, which are perpetually covered in flour even outside the bakery. “I prefer to think of it as loitering attractively.”

She snorts. “Well, you’re doing a great job attracting flies.”

He flashes a grin, cocky but wavering slightly at the edges. “I thought we got off on the wrong foot last time. Figured I’d try to fix that.”

Katniss raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “By botherin’ me between classes?”

“By extending an olive branch,” he corrects, then pulls something from behind his back like it’s a prize: a wax paper-wrapped muffin. Blueberry, burnt at the edges. “For you.”

Katniss eyes it suspiciously and a little more pissed if that’s possible. 

Peeta, watching all this from the other end of the hall with his notebook clutched to his side, nearly groans aloud. A burnt muffin? Really, Rye?

Katniss doesn’t move. “Did you poison it?”

Rye laughs, a little too loudly. “Only emotionally.”

That earns him a blink.”I don't take charity.” She growls out, appalled in the way most Seamfolk are with handouts. She glares into his deep blue eyes, a tinge of revulsion in her silver ones. Does he think he’s doing her a favor? That she’s so inadequate that she can't provide for her family herself?

Rye holds his hands up in surrender. “Not charity. A peace offering–?” 

She scoffs and moves to step around him. He holds his hand out, stopping her from going anywhere. 

“I ain’t owin’ you nothin’!” She snarls in his general direction. 

Rye sighs dramatically and whips his head side to side in over-exaggerated exasperation, “Panem, what is it with you people and ’Owing’ ? 

“ You people?! ”

“Listen, I’m just trying to– Panem, will you just take the muffin?! Why are you making this such a big deal? It’s not poisoned, and you won't owe me anything.” Rye waves the muffin in front of her face. 

She takes the muffin. Albeit with a glare on her face and a snarl. Their fingers brush momentarily, light brown on pale pink, and one of her nails scratches against the skin. He jumps slightly, exclaiming his owchies. 

“Who’re you tryin’ to kill with those things?!”

She smirks, side-stepping him and walking to her next class. She’ll take that as payment for his comments to her. And for all her pride, the muffin doesn’t hurt either. 

Peeta sighs and turns into his classroom before he can see the aftermath. He’s not sure whether to be impressed or horrified that Rye actually tried. But guilt twists in his gut like rising dough anyway. He still hadn’t said anything to Katniss. Hadn’t apologized on Rye’s behalf, hadn’t defended her properly. That knot had been sitting in his chest for days now. 

And the worst part? He kind of liked watching her put Rye in his place.

Later that day, the three of them are in the cafeteria. Peeta’s at their usual corner table with his friends, sketching out cake designs in the margins of his schoolbook, when Rye drops into the seat across from him and slaps the table. 

Doesn’t he have his own table of friends?

“She didn’t hit me!” he announces, triumphant.

Peeta doesn’t look up. “Did she take the muffin?” Even though he already knows the answer.

“Hell yeah, she did. Even insulted me while doing it. I think we’re bonding.”

Peeta looks at him flatly. “That’s your idea of bonding?”

“I said I think ,” Rye says with mock seriousness, then leans in. “So, reckon she’ll say yes now?”

Peeta closes his notebook, laughing. “No.”

Rye blinks. “No?! Why not?”

“Because you haven’t apologized.”

Rye makes a noise of protest.

“No, You were ignorant. Don’t matter how many muffins you throw at her, you don’t get to treat folks like that and not make it right. If you really want her to join your band, you need to say you’re sorry.”

Rye slouches back in his chair, groaning. “But she hates me—”

“I would, too,” Peeta interrupts, grinning. 

Rye stares at the ceiling like it’s personally betrayed him. “You’re a traitor. You need to be helping me.”

“No, I’m your brother,” Peeta says, grabbing his tray. “Fix it. Then I’ll help.”

Rye opens his mouth to retort, but Peeta’s already standing. And from across the room, he sees Katniss again—head bent over her tray, hair braided back, shoulders stiff. He wants to say something to her. Anything.

But she doesn’t look up. 

He hesitates. For a second, just one second, Peeta considers crossing the cafeteria and sliding into the seat across from her. Maybe cracking a dumb joke. Offering her a fresh roll from his tray. Saying something like, “I thought you might want something that’s not burnt on purpose.” (Doesn’t matter that he knows she’ll reject it. He wants a reason to talk to her.)

But then Madge sits down beside Katniss, her polished blond hair swaying, and Katniss actually smiles—small, tired, but real. Peeta swallows the bread instead. Too fast. It sticks in his throat.

“Smooth,” Rye mutters from behind him, still lounging at the table like an unwanted cat.

Peeta ignores him and closes his lunchbox.

The next morning, Peeta gets to school early. Earlier than usual. Earlier than necessary. His sketchpad is tucked under his arm, and he’s already made up an excuse to be loitering outside the gym in case someone asks

What he doesn’t expect is to run into Katniss in the hallway again—this time, before the first bell. She’s walking alone, her boots scuffing quietly against the linoleum, braid damp from the morning mist. She has that same alert, distant look in her eyes she gets when deep in thought.

Peeta stiffens, then blurts the first thing that comes to mind.

“How was the muffin?”

Katniss halts mid-step and turns. Her eyes narrow.

“That was your idea, was it?” Her arms fold across her chest.

Peeta flushes. “No!” He shakes his head quickly. “No. That was Rye. Obviously .”

She just stares at him.

“I mean—I baked it. But he took it. Without asking. I would’ve picked a better one. One that wasn’t… burnt.” That earns a tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth as she remembers the night with the bread yet again. The irony is not lost on her.

Peeta takes a cautious breath. “He’s kind of an idiot. But he’s not mean. Not really. He’s just… Rye.”

Katniss huffs. “He is. An idiot.” She nods, “That ‘posed to be an excuse?”

“No,” Peeta says honestly, fluffing the back of his blonde curls, “It’s an explanation. I’m sorry about him. One time he ate a whole spoonful of cinnamon on a dare and threw up behind the bakery—then tried to blame me for ‘using the wrong kind of cinnamon.’ That’s the level we’re working with.”

That draws out a tiny smile, quick and surprising. It transforms her entire face, knocks something loose in his chest. Her eyes, usually stormy, go nearly soft for half a heartbeat.

She shakes her head. “Ya’ll are a little strange.”

He smiles back, a little crooked. She can’t help but notice the dimple that appears on his right cheek. “We get that a lot.”

There’s a beat. Long enough for the tension to shift. “And– you don’t have to join his band. I mean, he is failing spectacularly at finding another lead singer, but hey, maybe that’s good for him. Might teach him some humility. Or at least force him to stop acting like he invented music.”

She snorts before looking down at his sketchbook, pointed fingernails tapping against her own book in thought.

Lately, she had been thinking about it. Not because she cared about Rye or his band or the dumb garage-stage dreams they had—but because the food situation had gotten worse than she wanted to admit. Her last hunt had come up empty, and trading’s been thin. The money from something steady, even something dumb like singing with a bunch of merchant boys, would help. And Prim… Prim needed the help more than her pride did.

“I still don’t know if I’m joining your brother’s band.”

“I get it,” Peeta says, resolutely nodding as if he knew that's what she was gonna say. “You don’t owe him anything.”

She gives him a look. “Damn right I don’t.”

Then she nods, just once, and walks past him without another word. Fine. She’ll join the stupid band, but she’ll be damned if she goes to him . He can grovel more as far as she’s concerned. Prim loved the muffin yesterday—thanked Katniss profusely for going out of her way to get it for her. Katniss didn't bother to mention it was a… “gift.” After all, she’d paid for it with her pride. Not that she’d make a habit of it, but it was always nice to see her little sister happy.

Peeta watches her saunter away confidently.

He’s not sure what just happened. But he thinks… it might be something.

...

Katniss doesn’t think about Peeta Mellark again for the rest of the day.

Or at least, she tries not to.

It’s easier during lessons, when she’s scribbling notes fast enough to keep her calloused fingers aching. Even easier during lunch, when she eats quickly beside Madge, pretending not to notice the occasional glances from across the cafeteria. Madge chatters on about one of the piano compositions she’s been trying to perfect. Katniss half-listens, nodding at the right moments, but her mind’s already tallying tonight’s hunt: trails, snares, whether that buck track is still good.

By the time the last bell rings, she’s already halfway to the door.

“Everdeen!”

Rye Mellark.

She should’ve known.

She turns, steeling herself. He’s leaning against a post by the stairwell like he’s trying out for the role of “most punchable grin in District 12.” She turns back around and doesn’t stop walking, but he jogs up beside her anyway.

“C’mon, just hear me out—”

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me finish.”

“Because I already know what you’re gonna say.”

“Okay, fine. Yes. I was maybe gonna say something about band practice. But also maybe I was just gonna ask how your day was. Ever think of that?”

Katniss lifts an eyebrow, stopping in her tracks. “You don’t care how my day was.”

“Fair,” he admits, shrugging. “But if I did , it’d be out of the kindness of my heart.”

She snorts. “I didn’t know you had one of those.”

He grins, undeterred. “Look. All I’m saying is—think about it. Really think about it. The money’ll be split evenly among all of us.” He says in an appealing tone, raising his eyebrows.

She is. And she’s starting to regret it already. Katniss doesn’t bother responding. Rye starts rambling about how their drummer has “pretty decent” rhythm for someone who once got a concussion falling off his own stool. Halfway through, she realizes she doesn’t have to stand there and starts walking off. 

Rye is mid-rant. “And then he- Hey! Where’re you..”

“I'm done speaking.” And she turns, leaving him mid-sentence.

He calls something after her, but she doesn’t catch it.

She finds Primrose outside the school gate, standing in the shade of the old flagpole, clutching her schoolbag to her chest. Katniss softens immediately at the sight of her.

“Hey,” Prim says with a wide, snaggletoothed smile. 

“Hey, back,” Katniss answers, nudging her toward the path. “Let’s get home. I need to get ready.”

Prim chatters about her day, something about a pop quiz, a boy in her class getting a nosebleed, and how Mrs. Seely gave her a project on lung health. Katniss nods and hums in all the right places, but she’s already running through a mental checklist: boots, bow, the knife she keeps strapped under her hunting coat. She leaves Prim at the door with a quick ruffle of her hair.

Inside, the house is too quiet. Her Ma sits at the kitchen table, sorting the herbs Katniss gathered for her a week ago that were done drying. She looks up as Katniss enters, pale blue catching deep silver. 

“You’re going back out?” she asks, and there’s no judgment in her tone—but something else. That soft, passive concern Katniss always found more frustrating than anger.

“Yeah,” Katniss answers, keeping her voice flat. “I need to.”

Ma gets up slowly from where she’s sat at the table, “There’s a stew in the pot. If you wait until supper—”

“I’ll eat later.”

“Katniss…”

The girl in question’s hand grips the door handle with frustration, “ I’ll eat later.” She bites out. Sometimes she can’t believe the nerve of this woman. Now she’s trying to be a mom? After Pa died and she abandoned both of her children, doomed them to suffering and starvation, watching as her little girls withered away into skin and bones, forcing her oldest to weather the burden of both feeding the family and surrogate motherhood. 

A pause. Asterid looks down in shame before nodding quietly. Quiet again. Always quiet.. Katniss fights the urge to scoff, her heart clenching in her chest. Whatever.

Katniss heads to her room, grabs her coat and hunting bag, and slings it all over her shoulder. 

“She’s trying.” Comes a quiet voice from behind her as she moves to open the door. 

Her mother is in their tiny Seam kitchen, delicately stirring something in a pot–presumably the stew she was talking about. Katniss looks down at her baby sister, sees the way she watches both of ‘em like they’re two cracked pieces that don’t quite fit anymore. Her eyebrows pinch for a moment at the expression on her little features before sighing and ruffling Prim’s blonde hair, leaning down and planting a kiss on her forehead. She’s out the door before she can think twice about it.

Of course, Katniss knows her mother is trying. Has been since she “came back” to them metaphorically two years ago. But by then, the damage had already been done. All trust had been shattered into tiny, heart-shaped pieces and dumped all over the coal-dust-coated floors of their home. She also knows that it wasn’t necessarily her fault that she got “sick” with depression and grief. 

What she knows doesn’t change how she feels. 

And for some reason, Katniss can’t find it in herself to stop and be nice. (even if she feels like shit every time she’s not)

The woods greet her like an old friend. A refuge. 

Just beyond the edge of town, the familiar path curls into the trees—and after a minute or two of walking, she sees him. Lean, dark-haired. He reminds her of a tall, thin, broad-shouldered line. Waiting at the tree stump like he always does.

Gale glances up as she approaches. “Took you long enough.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s the barest trace of a smile tugging at her lips.

“I got held up,” she mutters. “Ready?”