Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There’s no train to 12 scheduled until tonight.

I’ve waited months. Even then, I’m just about shaking with eagerness to get the hell out of here, but I’m trying not to let it show.

I’ve come to terms with the constant overanalysis of my every waking movement. I’ve finally gotten to the point where I can just about control the speed of my racing thoughts enough to quell them before they show on my face. I’ve put on a mask of sorts. But I don’t think of it as a bad thing. It’s how I’ve been living since the first games, I suppose.

Do I remember who I was during the 74th Hunger Games? I don’t know. I’ll figure it out later. I’m constantly putting off trying to sort out how I felt about anything before.

That’s what I need to be home for. Katniss and Haymitch. They’re the only ones left (including me) who know me. We’re a fucked up trio of victors who need each other. Is Haymitch my new father? Is Katniss my girlfriend? No. But I feel connected to them in a familial way.

After taking a final call to a slurring Haymitch to finalize my travel plans, I am officially dispatched from the loony bin. For months, I was held at this Capitol “Rehabilitation Center” meant for pill addicts, which was recently converted into a “sanctuary” for, well, crazy people like me.

I didn’t mind it much. There was an awesome garden that had just recently started to bloom. The kitchen staff allowed me to bake bread as long as I helped wash dishes. I did group therapy with the other patients there. Lots of people cycled in and out, everyone with a completely unique story. Each too absorbed in their own turmoil to treat me like some kind of celebrity.

Annie Cresta was there too, for some time. We often took yoga lessons together. She let me feel the baby kicking. Of course, she was consumed with grief, and so was I. There was only so much we could actually say to each other, so mostly we just did sun salutations. Still, I was distraught to see her go before me, cleared to go back to Four for her final trimester of pregnancy. Her father even came to pick her up. In group, she talked about how they weren’t close. I’d have gone with her if I could.

After she left, I did yoga by myself. I watered the garden. But without anyone there that I knew, I began to grow restless. I started having more one-on-ones with Dr. Aurelius, who wasn’t convinced of my readiness to be back in the world.

In all honesty, I’m not ready. I’m terrified of what I might do to myself or others. I have indescribably horrifying nightmares every night. I hardly sleep. When I do, it’s usually outside in a hammock, surrounded by the safety of daylight. But I’m only allowed outside until 5 pm. Then a nurse comes to wake me.

I need to go home. It’s time. As pampered as I’ve been in this place, it’s easy to move on from it as I step out the large glass doors that lead to the outside world. I carry only a tote bag of my belongings and a printout of directions to the train station. The sun feels brighter, beaming off the paved streets of the Capitol and burning my eyes. I strain to read the sheet of paper.

Up until now, I planned to go straight to the station and sit on the floor until my train arrived, but the map is confusing and I’m already lost. I sit on a park bench for a while, listening to people chatter and watching kids play with a ball. One of the moms makes eye contact with me and whispers something to her friend. I leave.

I duck into a cafe. I order myself coffee and a pastry. The barista is about my age, with curly hot pink hair thrown up into two buns on the top of her head. If there’s one luxury I’ve learned I can't live without, it’s coffee. It feels good to buy things with my own money. This is the first meal I’ve had any choice in almost a year.

The pastry is warm and leaves crumbs all over the table. The coffee is bitter, and I should’ve asked for cream and sugar, but I eagerly gulp the whole cup down before I can think to. I throw my cup away and ask the barista where I can find the restroom.

“I’m sorry, I was too nervous to ask before, but are you Peeta Mellark?”

I’m genuinely startled by the question, as it makes me jump. I’m immediately embarrassed at how scared I must have looked.

“Uh, yes.”

“I wasn’t so sure because you look different.”

I smile. “War has made me more handsome, I suppose?”

She doesn’t laugh at my joke. “Where’s Katniss?” she tilts her head to one side like a dog.

“Back in Twelve. I’m going there tonight. This is my last day in the Capitol.”

“Such a shame! There will be such great weather here tomorrow.”

It genuinely is a shame. The weather has been in such an annoying pattern of cold with rare glimpses of summer lately. My garden would have bloomed beautifully. I feel genuine loss for a moment at all the hard work I will never see come to fruition, but I remind myself to think positively. I’ll start a new garden at home, I suppose.

“The restroom?”

“Oh, I’m sorry! It’s to your right.”

In the restroom, I get a good look at myself in the full-length mirror. The loony bin didn’t have many mirrors. They told me it was because they treated those with “body image issues.” People who would starve themselves voluntarily to look thinner. I don’t understand the impulse. Starving is a terrible feeling.

However, I think I might be experiencing some of those body image issues right now. The pink barista was right; I do look different. I barely recognize myself. I look gaunt. Not bony, yellow, and bruised as I used to see in the two-way mirror in Thirteen, but not remotely identical to my old self. My hair has grown out in a way that makes me look younger, but the skin on my cheeks has lost its bounce in a way that makes me look older. In fact, I am older. I’m eighteen now. Legally an adult, as of today.

This was the reason they let me leave the loony bin. Dr. Aurelius advised strongly against it, but now I am old enough to sign myself out. And I did. And now here I am, out barely a few blocks in the world. And I catch myself crying.

I’m not so sure how it started. Something about the sight of myself. The same boy on the TV who killed Darius, not too far from here. I turn away from the mirror.

I’m not sure what to do, so I splash water on my face. It helps calm me down a bit, but as I go to turn off the faucet, I realize how badly I am shaking.

I need to get it together. Now. The barista will notice I’ve been in here too long and think it’s suspicious. But I can’t stop crying. Breathe, I tell myself. But the tears don’t stop. Breathe.

I try the water again, but the cold sensation just irritates me even more, and suddenly, the sink is disconnected from the wall as I’ve kicked it to the floor.

I guess I’m a bit stronger than I look. The sink lands on my prosthetic leg, which emits a phantom wave of pain. This grounds me for a second as I’m confused by the sensation. The Games doctors warned me of this when it was amputated, real or not real? Real, I decide. No shininess in the memory. No time to second-guess.

I look in the mirror again. I start hysterically laughing at the sight of myself. I’m a hot mess. And I’m crazy. How can I be laughing if my whole family is dead?

Anyway, I try to clean up my mess but decide it’s hopeless and leave.

“I broke your sink.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

I’m already a criminal here anyway. I’m sure that’s what they’re all thinking.

The other patrons stare at me as I exit. Way to keep a low profile, I think. I take out the crumpled map from my pocket. I’m feeling the coffee now and i’m more able to focus. Get to the train station.

Chapter Text

The station is only a few blocks in the other direction. I enjoy the walk. The sunlight warms my tear-stained cheeks, and the goosebumps on my arms from the air-conditioned cafe go away.

The streets leading up to the City Circle are still blocked off. I can hear the clamor of construction coming from several different directions. Otherwise, it's relatively quiet. Many Capitol residents were temporarily relocated after their places were trashed. It was only in the past few weeks that people have started returning to the high-rises which were deemed "structurally sound." There's talk of rebuilding the economy, so businesses have begun to reopen operations.

Nevertheless, the Capitol is always an interesting place to people-watch. I overhear a couple behind me arguing about a gathering they don’t want to attend. Their bickering reminds me of my parents, of course. It was always my mother at fault, histrionic and melodramatic as she was. My father had a great deal of patience to stay with her as long as he did. He might have loved her a great deal at one point, but to me, they never seemed in love. I never once saw them kiss, not that I can remember. 

I walk past an old advertisement for women’s perfume with a model who looks strikingly like Katniss. They might have even digitally altered her features to appear more similar to the famous Mockingjay. The image leaves me with a funny feeling in my stomach. The model is half-naked. 

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been consumed with thoughts of Katniss all these months. I know part of my obsession stems from the hijacking; we’ve worked on that. But the other part is pure teenage hormones and utter curiosity about the female species. 

Snow put all these harsh feelings of rejection in my brain, and that’s the part that’s hardest to see rationally, because that part is real. Katniss didn’t love me as I loved her at one point. But that sweet kiss…

She had been trying to bring me back from the edge of a meltdown. It’s an embarrassing memory to look back on, but the way she kissed me replays in my head every time I close my eyes. It had been the last thing I expected her to do in that moment. To me, it felt like our first kiss; the first one I have a real memory of. 

I cherish that memory. She made me feel wanted. A man can live on scraps as long as he has Katniss Everdeen wanting him.

But I cannot bank on this being the case. Especially now. Especially when we have both been through so much. Especially when I have hurt her as badly as I have. 

I see the station now, and it’s a building that I recognize. My familiarity with the Capitol makes me uneasy. I never wanted this wretched place to become a sort of second home to me. I can’t wait to be home, whatever’s left of it. 

I spend most of my time at the train station sketching in a notebook they gave me at the loony bin. It's ruled, and I'm supposed to use it to journal my thoughts, but I figure this works just as well. I sketch portraits of some passers-by, some distinctly Capitol with their uncanny body modifications, others from the districts.

I somehow doze off in the claustrophobic seat and wake up to a man with black sclerae rustling through my tote bag. I nearly shit myself thinking he must be a mutt. It's only when I hear his yelp as I latch onto his throat that I realize he is just a weird-looking man—a Capitol freak, not a mutt. I let go of him, and he scurries off, dropping the bag.

My heart is pounding, and my brain is telling me to run after him; to finish the job. I remember to take three deep breaths, and end up digging my fingernails into the rough pink flesh around my arms in an attempt to stay grounded. It hurts enough to jolt me back to reality.

I look around. Nobody seems to have noticed the whole interaction. The station isn't necessarily bustling, but the freak doesn't stand out at all. The people here are shifty. They keep to themselves, as if looking at one another is sinful.

I assess the damage. I didn't think to keep a log of my few meager possessions, but I try to remember the most important things. A sweet "Get Well Soon" greeting card from Delly Cartwright, the envelope with postage from District 13 containing her mailing address, which I will use to write her back. A sweatshirt with "Cottonwood Panem Luxury Rehab & Detox" (the loony bin) inscribed on the chest. A toothbrush and toothpaste. A District 13-issued cloth wallet containing cash, a ration card, my photo ID issued by the interim government to returning citizens, and a photo of Katniss that I ripped out of a magazine a few weeks ago. This, I had to smuggle out. 

I count my various medications, the names of which I can't pronounce. I hardly remember which is which. There are the tiny yellow ones I pop out of an aluminum packet; I think they're the anti-psychotics. The canister of salve I apply to my burns, which are everywhere. The big white painkillers– that one's easy. The last bottle contains little train-track-looking cream tablets, which I'm supposed to take as-needed for anxiety. I decide now is a good time to pop one.

That leaves the purple gummies I take to go to sleep, which are nowhere to be seen. They didn't work anyway, but they tasted sweet. The Capitol-freak was probably just hungry. I forgive him. But my heart is still racing, and I'm fighting away awful thoughts of mutts and gore and death.

Sometimes I feel like I have a terrible case of bad luck. Reaped at 16 despite having never taken out tesserae. Forced to marry the girl who didn't love me back. Reaped again. Left to die. Didn't die. Orphaned. Tortured. Hijacked. Forced into battle. Bombed. The broken sink earlier today. Now this. Does everyone's survival require being tested at every possible opportunity, or is it just me?

I make sure to check the time before the pill I took kicks in. It tends to make me forgetful. I’m awestruck when I realize it’s time for me to get going. I’m honestly grateful to the thief for waking me, because I would have missed my train. I can't take another day here. 

Most other passengers on the train are going to District 8. It has been more stable than most districts throughout the reconstruction, and many of its citizens have relocated to the Capitol or other districts for the time being. There are only 2 cars dedicated to civilians. The rest of the train contains car after car of supplies to be distributed to several districts we’ll be making stops at. I hope there are enough people in 12 to warrant a generous percentage of this. 

It's early summer, and days are becoming longer and longer. It's well into the evening, yet the sun is just nearly set. For this, I am glad to have a window seat. I have an excellent view of nature's grand finale for the day. I'll think of it as a birthday gift.

I try not to think about 12 because I know the anticipation will drive me crazy. I'm glad I took the anxiety pill because I’m able to avoid the thought entirely. I simply banish it from the inventory of my brain. Instead, I allow myself to imagine Katniss. 

What first pops into my head is a specific expression of hers that I can’t quite place. A furrowed brow with a grin, her piercing grey eyes that sink into my soul and turn my face bright red. Like she’s appalled at a bad joke I made or lightheartedly judging my old lovesick antics. A side smirk. Her dimples. The tiny vein that pops out of her forehead. It’s the kind of look that makes me feel like she can see right through me. I feel this way often.

With the gentle rock of the locomotive, my eyelids begin to feel heavy, and I drift off once again. 

I sleep for most of the trip. Travel time is much longer than it used to be. There's a lot of track damage and extra security checks at every stop. 

Somewhere around midnight, I awake to a man taking up the seat next to me. He's quite large and leaves minimal room for me to stretch. He immediately reminds me very much of Haymitch, though I'm not sure why, because he looks nothing like him. Then, I realize it's because he emanates a heavy smell of alcohol.

My olfactory senses tend to lead to recovered memories more than anything else. For example, baking bread is a big contributor to unearthed childhood anecdotes. The fancy lavender-scented pillows at the loony bin reminded me of Katniss and brought up the memory of the day she asked me to run away with her.

I wish I had one of those pillows now, because I feel groggy and uncomfortable. My neck is stiff. My good leg is sore from all of the walking earlier. I feel like squirming and screaming, but I don't want to be rude.

"Excuse me, sorry to bother," the man says suddenly, "but may I ask you a question?" I look around. Everyone else in the car seems to be asleep.

"Okay," I agree hesitantly. I have an idea of where this is going.

"How do you begin forgiving the world," he says, "after something like this?”

I register what he said completely, but still I reply, "What?"

"Peeta Mellark," he addresses me.

"Oh, that sorry feller–"

"There are rumors that you were present during the City Circle hovercraft bombing," he says. If he's a drunk, he's certainly high-functioning. He slurs his words, but I predict it's the alcohol that gives him the balls to ask me these prying questions out of nowhere. He pulls out a notepad, and I realize he's some sort of journalist. I used to have representatives who would deal with this sort of thing. Apparently, they're all dead now, and I don't see Effie's golden wig anywhere near, so I'm on my own.

"They're not exactly rumors; there's live footage of me being blown up. Multiple angles," I say. I remember the agonizing pain as I ran to Katniss, pulled her away from the fire, and passed out on top of her.

"How… extensive were your injuries?" He looks me up and down.

"Look, buddy. I'm just trying to get home," I say, "do I have to answer all these questions?"

"Forgive me," he says, "I can be a bit forward. I forget how sensitive people are these days. I'm Chip Reddy." He offers a handshake. I'm uncooperative. He backs down, instead showing me the cover of his notepad, which is stamped with the District 3 emblem. "I'm a writer for a new digital newspaper in 3. It started underground; we used encrypted drives to spread daily rebel communications during the war." 

"Where are you headed?" I ask.

"District 13. It's no rumor that you're very familiar with the place," he says.

"Yeah. They run a tight ship," I say.

"So I've heard. Can I ask what you thought of your experience there?"

"Oh, five stars. Absolutely luxurious low ceilings, nutritious slop, free tattoos."

He mutters as he writes "low… ceilings…"

"Don't actually write that," I argue.

"Care to give me a more fruitful quote?" He leans closer to me, and I can smell the liquor on his breath.

I ponder Chip's first question to me: How do you begin forgiving the world after something like this?

“On the topic of forgiving the world: how can I hold a grudge against the world when I haven’t even forgiven myself? I mean, look at me. I’ve been hijacked, blown up, and somehow I'm still standing… and half the time I want to punish myself for it. But holding onto all that anger is unproductive. It’s like drinking poison and hoping the Capitol explodes. You start with yourself. Admit you’re terrified, admit you’re broken, and then… try not to hate yourself for it. When I can do that, look myself in the mirror without flinching, I realize maybe the world isn’t as unforgivable as I thought.”

He smirks as he hastily jots down my answer. “Good stuff,” he says. 

“Right?” I joke. “And, yes–my injuries were extensive,” I lift my shirt to reveal the heavily scarred, web-like flesh of my abdomen, “so let me rest and recover, will you?”

He nearly gags. "I do have…one more question." He looks around, checking to see if anyone is stirring, then lowers his voice to a whisper. "Do you know anything about whose side the bombs really came from?"

I don't get it. It was a Capitol hovercraft that dropped the parachutes. The rebels had breached the City Circle, and Snow killed the children he had set as human shields as his last line of defense. And using exactly the type of gimmick I had grown accustomed to–the parachutes were a cruel symbol of Snow's evil. After that, it was mayhem. All loyalty to Snow was abandoned. He had finally killed their children just as he killed ours. The Capitol realized that they weren't so special anymore. They felt betrayed.

But then again, the Rebel medics arrived so quickly, as if they'd been expecting mass civilian casualties there in the City Circle. What if Coin had conspired to bomb those children and blame it on Snow? It would be yet another betrayal of human decency.

"I hadn't thought about it, if I'm being honest. I immediately added it to the long list of all the times Snow tried to kill me. I was too disoriented to make any proper observations," I say. My mind replays the moment Katniss' arrow went through Coin's heart. I had thought it was because of her idea for a "final symbolic Hunger Games" with Capitol children, as if there hadn't been enough of their suffering.

“Thanks, Peeta. It was nice meeting you. You deserve some peace.” He grips the back of the seat in front of him to stand up. He stumbles away through the aisle. 

I was lying about having any intention of resting. I sketch for a few hours and then try using the journal for its intended purpose: therapy.

I write about my burns. They’re all over my body. My forehead and the bridge of my nose were badly disfigured for a moment. Reconstructive surgery has restored my face mostly to normal, but the scars are permanent. After I heal for a few more months, I can go back to the Capitol to fix up the rough spots a bit more, but I’m in no rush. My grown-out hair covers up most of it anyway. 

I never saw Katniss in the burn unit. Haymitch told me she was “lucky” that the fire avoided her pretty face. I’m sure she doesn’t feel that way.

I saw the whole thing. When Katniss started running toward the children who had been bombed, I had assumed she wanted to go help them. I was simply following her lead. Then she started screaming for Prim. I’m not sure where she came from, but as soon as I saw her, the second explosion went off. I wasn’t expecting it.

I saw Katniss fly through the air. I ran into the fire to retrieve her. I almost tried to go after Prim, but the pain was too excruciating. It was too late.

I hope Katniss never finds out it was me who pulled her out. Prim was so young. I would have died trying to save her if I weren’t so clouded by my physical suffering. 

My brothers went out with the same excruciating death. I will outgrow them within the next few years of my young life. Beyond the grief, it’s such a strange feeling. 

I write about Prim’s tiny fingers leaving prints on the glass storefront of my family's bakery. My brothers would make fun of her. My dad would tell them to piss off. 

When we arrive in 12, I’m one of the few remaining on board, the rest going to 13. I nod to Chip Reddy as I exit onto the platform. 

I take a deep breath. The crisp air is tinged with the faint smell of ash. It’s the early hours of the morning. I walk home. 

My front door is unlocked. My kitchen looks like it has been looted, though nothing is gone. In fact, the staleness of the setting is eerie. Everything has changed, yet my belongings are untouched. Most of this stuff is exactly the way I left it almost a year ago. 

And the Peeta I was a year ago left the house spotless because he was positive he wouldn’t be returning. I find a note from myself addressed to my family. I can’t bear to read it. Against all odds, they are gone, and I am back here. I feel like a ghost haunting my old life. 

I walk upstairs and into my bedroom. I sneeze several times due to all the dust. I sit at the edge of my bed. I place my tote bag on the bedside table. I need to let a breeze in, so I open the window. Katniss helped me remember that I like that.

I’m in no state to attempt going to sleep, so I decide to go back outside to watch the sunrise.

I walk past Haymitch’s house. He has a light on and I consider knocking to let him know I’ve arrived, but I figure he’s passed out. I’ll see him later. 

Katniss’ house is dark and quiet. I question if she made it back here after all. Last I heard, Haymitch was supposed to be escorting her home from the Capitol a few days ago–maybe last week.

The grass outside her front porch is significantly overgrown, and it’s such a shame because her mother used to keep an excellent garden of medicinal herbs. 

Some other houses in Victor's Village have lights in them. I suppose people have moved in. I guess there’s nowhere else to live and nobody to tell them it’s not allowed anymore. 

I hear something rustling around in the shrubs and affix my eyes to the spot, expecting a raccoon or opossum. Instead, Prim's cat, Buttercup, scurries out. Like myself, I can't fathom how he managed to survive the war and return to 12. He must be surprised to see me, too, because he scampers right up to me and meows. I pet him softly on his head, and he purrs. Then, he runs off again, this time towards town.

I didn't want to face it just yet, but the sun has started to peak through the night, and it's making me feel brave. I follow Buttercup, who waits for me at the bottom of the hill. 

It's true that everything is gone. There's black rubble and ruins everywhere. The smell of ash is heavy. There are carts full of debris on every corner. I try not to look at them.

It's hard to tell where I am without any landmarks to reference. I walk through what I presume was the part of town where my family's bakery stood, but I can't know for sure. All the rubble here has been cleaned up. It sits in carts and in piles. I decide to ignore it for right now and push down the urge to scream.

Buttercup leads me through the square and the seam. He ponders the spot where I think the Everdeens’ house once stood, though I can't remember, and I'm not sure if I've ever been. Buttercup seems to know exactly where he is going, and I have to jog to keep up with him as he dashes toward the forest. 

I've never been in the woods. It was always highly illegal, and I was never as brave as Katniss or Gale. The electric fence is turned off permanently, I have free will to wander as far as I want into the unknown. I wonder what’s out there. Are there any more District 13s to be discovered?

I fear I've lost Buttercup until my eyes catch on to the rustling near a small cream colored flower. Buttercup peaks his little head out and takes a bite out of one. I suddenly become very worried that it might be poisonous for him and try to fish it out of his mouth. He spits it out to hiss at me, and I realize that he’s spat out a primrose. 

I take an empty cart, a small one. I uproot as many primrose bushes as I can find and pile them high. I push the cart all the way back to Victor's Village as the sun begins to rise higher over my district. I wipe sweat from my brow and try to avoid eye contact when I see a few men arrive at their posts to continue the cleanup operation. Pushing flowers through town while real men sift through remains is an embarrassing look, even for me. Still, I persist, and if anything, the sun growing warmer serves as motivation for me to complete my task before it becomes too hot out. I'm hazy with sleep deprivation, but I can sleep in the sunlight like I usually do.

When I get back to Victors Village I grab a shovel from my house and start planting the small bushes along Katniss’ porch. I hum her meadow song and become lost in concentration. I must finish this quickly so that she wakes to my gift. Or, so that she has a kind welcome when she comes back from the Capitol. 

I realize she’s definitely back in 12 when I hear the door swing open violently. Katniss locks eyes with me.

I must have woken her. She barrels through the door with this pissed off determined look in her eye.

She looks terrible. Her hair is short and matted in a way that looks painful. She looks like she hasn’t bathed, slept, or talked to anyone in months. This may be true. I feel a pang of guilt for not being here for her. 

She must be going through hell. 

Then again, so am I. 

“You’re back,” she says.

I feel the need to explain why I couldn’t be here when she needed someone. “Dr. Aurelius wouldn’t let me leave the Capitol until yesterday,” I say. “By the way, he said to tell you he can’t keep pretending he’s treating you forever. You have to pick up the phone.”

She doesn’t answer. Haymitch mentioned that she had been mute for a number of months, but I wasn’t expecting this version of her. It makes me upset. I frown. 

She runs her fingers through her tangled hair. “What are you doing?” 

“I went to the woods this morning and dug these up. For her. I thought we could plant them along the side of the house,” I say. 

It’s painful when she retreats into her house without saying a word. I hear more clamoring coming from inside. I continue planting the rest of my bushes, although I’m not so sure if she appreciates the gesture.