Chapter Text
It's only mid-morning, but the summer sun beats down on the dusty pathway that runs through the Merchant Square. We're in the middle of a drought in the district, and the day is getting warmer each minute. I can feel the sweat gathering at my hairline, so I pause, adjusting the game bag across my shoulder before taking a handkerchief out to swipe at the dampness.
I got a decent haul from the woods this morning, so my bag is heavy and drags across my hip as I walk. In the summer, it's crucial to get into the woods at or before sunrise- the animals are less active once the heat of the day sets in. When it's hot, the rabbits take off for the shade of the thick patches of grass deep inside the woods, and the squirrels mostly stay in the treetops. Even the larger predators know that once midday hits, they're better off to conserve energy and just lay low until the cool of evening comes.
I crossed paths with Rory and Vick Hawthorne at the edge of the woods an hour or so ago while the boys were coming in to check the snare line. My run-ins with them are nothing out of the ordinary at this point. Checking the snares has been their job for the last several years. Once Gale went into the mines, there was no time for him to check on them during the week, so the two of us trained his brothers to work the snares themselves.
It was vital for them to learn to remove the animals in a way that would preserve the meat and hide. We showed them how to reset the snares and make minor repairs when necessary, and in a pinch, I let them know that they could track me down and ask for my help. Fortunately, Rory and Vick caught on to the task quickly, both seeming to have a natural affinity for trapping animals just like their older brother.
As for Gale, I see little of my old hunting partner these days. Sundays are his only time away from the mines, and he no longer spends them with me.
Gale asked me to marry him the day after his last reaping, and I told him no.
No explanations, no apologies.
Just no.
Being Gale, he went on, wasting his breath as he tried to convince me that we could make it work. He reminded me of what good partners we were. He told me that he loved me, that there was no other girl for him.
Yet the only response I gave him was my one-word refusal, followed by silence. Why should he expect anything different? He knew how I felt. Hadn't we just talked about it that morning in the woods, our one place of freedom in this god-forsaken district?
Gale knew I didn't want children, and he knew as well as I did that marriage in 12 guaranteed just that. I couldn't understand why he'd want to bring anyone else into this world when the odds are stacked against us already. There is no life in 12, only survival.
Say you get married and have a family- even if you don't lose one of your children to the reaping, there are still too many mouths to feed. There's never enough of everything to go around- not just material things but other necessities like love and attention.
Even in a small family, there was always the risk of losing one or both parents in the mines, just like Gale and I had lost our fathers seven years ago.
I might as well have lost both parents then because my mother refused to take care of us. She laid in her bed and stared at the wall for months on end. I was eleven and too young to sign up for tessera. I tried to make things last, but our meager possessions dwindled to nothing until we almost starved to death.
We would have starved to death if it hadn't been for one person and his kindness, the likes of which had no business existing in a place like District 12.
He saved not only my life but Prim's and my mother's as well. And I never managed to thank him.
The only thanks he ever got was a bruised face from his mother.
But that's in the past; it's too late to do anything about it now. I've never once spoken with Peeta, not even in casual conversation when we were children. And now he's a man, and I wouldn't know how to begin to thank him.
I shake my head to clear my thoughts.
Why am I thinking about Peeta Mellark today?
What was I thinking of before? Oh, right.
Gale.
The day that Gale proposed to me was an accurate picture of the way we'd always been together. It's another reason why I couldn't see myself marrying him. He ranted just like always while I stayed quiet.
But my silence that day wasn't enough for him, and so we parted ways and have had little to do with each other since.
This morning, Vick told me that Gale is engaged to Hyacinth McGuire. She was a year ahead of me in school, a typical Seam girl: dark, slim with greenish-grey eyes and black hair. Quiet, but I wouldn't say she's cold or standoffish.
Those are the words that Gale used to describe me on our last day together.
The news of his approaching marriage leaves me with a strange hollowness in my chest. It's an ache that I can't name; I can't call it jealousy because I never wanted Gale like that.
All I know is that the news has left me feeling out of sorts as I make my way through the Merchant square.
Yesterday was my last reaping, and after finding myself getting through the day without my six years of taking tessera coming to collect, I am now free to pursue a Capitol-approved life as a productive member of society. A lifetime as a miner or the wife of a miner is the expected path of Seam residents.
No, thank you.
I know that I should be on my way to the Justice Building to sign up for a shift in the mines, as we could use the extra income. But I can't do it. Our last school trip down into the belly of the earth proved that.
It'd been laughable. Me, the girl who was respected by men and women alike as the district hunter, who regularly faced down large predators in the woods with my bow or knife, found myself blacking out at the mouth of a mine shaft.
I forgot how to breathe down there.
I don't know how long it was until I came to again, but I was lying on a cot, facing a dingy soot-stained wall and listening to the low murmuring of voices behind me while my head throbbed.
"Thank you for bringing her up." Mrs. Grossman spoke in a low tone, and I heard a muted response from a male voice. A part of me seemed to recognize the other speaker even though I couldn't place who it was. I had a flash of memory of strong arms around my shoulders and under my knees and the smell of something like bread and spices coming from a crisp cotton shirt underneath my cheek.
I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on the memory but instead slipped back into unconsciousness.
I was allowed to rest in the foreman's office until I felt less shaky and, after that, excused to go home for the day. The rest of my class was too far down into the mines for me to catch up with them.
I stepped out into the low fall daylight, and my eyes scanned the yard. It was eerily quiet between shifts, which made it difficult to imagine the hum of activity that lay beneath the earth's surface miles below as I started towards town.
I remember walking beside the train tracks for a while. There was no pressing reason to head home, so I took long, measured steps over the wooden beams that tied the rails to the earth.
Train travel is the only way in and out of the district, and there are checkpoints at each of its borders, armed with Peacekeepers who make sure that nothing other than coal crosses through the district border walls.
I don't know why they bother, honestly. What's the difference between one district and the next?
I knew the only way I'd ever board that train was if my luck ran out on reaping day.
But my luck held.
Yesterday, I stood in the square for the last time with the other girls my age. The thought, not me, not me, not me going through my head in a panicked cadence until the moment Effie Trinket selected the name of a girl from the glass reaping bowl.
I only felt a little guilty for the wave of relief that washed over me.
There's still Prim, but I've done what I can for my younger sister- she's never taken out tessera, and her odds are as low as they can be. She only had three entries in the reaping bowl this year, while mine stood at 28.
So today, with the reaping and its surety of a horrific death behind, I'm left with the rest of my life staring me in the face. There are no real choices here in Twelve, so why do I feel so unsettled, like there's going to be a big decision to make? Honestly, I feel like I made the most significant choice two years ago when I told Gale that I didn't want to get married. Not to him.
Not to anybody.
I head towards the bakery, my first stop, and I'm about twenty yards away when I see the back door open, and Peeta Mellark steps outside, his head down as he makes his way down the steps.
Of course, I know he's usually here, but regardless, he catches me off guard. Peeta hasn't spotted me yet, so I slow down, ducking behind a refuse container to watch from a safe place as he strides toward the apple tree in the corner of his backyard.
He stops and braces one hand against the tree trunk. Peeta seems to be staring off into the open space between his backyard and the fence that borders the portion of the woods that surround the Merchant District.
A wave of Deja Vu hits me.
The space he's occupying right now is where I sat the night he threw the bread to a starving, soaking wet, eleven-year-old me.
Peeta shakes his head, covering his face with the palm of his hand for a moment.
I study him because now I don't know what to do; I don't like it.
I need to make my trade with his father and move on, but I hesitate to approach. I stay in his periphery- it's what I've always done. We both do it, have spent years this way, consciously not looking at each other.
I felt the weight of his gaze on me many times while we were in school together, but I was never quick enough to catch his eye, only a glance as he looked away.
I don't know why this feels different today. The days when I come to the bakery to trade with Peeta's father, he's almost always there. I catch glimpses of him while his father takes my offerings and gathers bread for trade.
Bread, it always comes back to the bread- that has to be why he has kept tabs on me after all these years.
Although that doesn't explain why I pay attention to him, it's surprising how much I've paid attention to him, I realize. I study his back and ponder the things I know about him- his strength, his kindness, his ability to pull conversation out of his back pocket with the ease of a natural wordsmith.
I shake my head, realizing that I need to leave my temporary hiding spot. I can't stay here all day, it's hot, and I need to take care of my trades before the game in my bag spoils. Once I leave town, I need to swing through the Hob on my way back to the Seam.
When I reach the point where I'm standing directly behind him, I pause, and as if he senses my presence, Peeta's head jerks up. He turns and faces me; his eyes grow wide as they meet mine, and he takes a little half step backward, but for the first, they don't dart away from my face.
"Hi Katniss," he says, his friendly tone a little forced as he steps closer to me, shoving his hands in his front pockets.
His stiffness makes me wish that I were better with words. Why do I make him so uncomfortable?
The crux of the matter is that I wish I knew how to thank Peeta for what he did for me. The burden of what I owe hangs heavier than my game bag. I cross my arms over my chest because I don't know what else to do with them at the moment.
"Hi," I reply. The eye contact is too much, so I look down at my feet. "Is your father here?"
He clears his throat, and I look back up to see Peeta running a hand through the ash-blond waves that lie across his forehead. "Yeah, he's just inside."
I've never stood this close to him until now. There are only a few feet between us, and I take a moment to study this boy who perplexes me so much.
Or man, I guess- at least according to Panem. Once your last reaping is behind you, your childhood is over.
I compare the things I know about Peeta with what I can observe in this proximity. He's average height but has a broader frame than most residents of Twelve, with the Merchant class's typical blue eyes and fair skin. The things I'm noticing for the first time are a smattering of freckles across his cheeks- the friendliness of his smile when he's directing it at me.
We stare at each other until I look away again.
I shrug my shoulders awkwardly and turn to walk up the back steps. "Katniss wait," Peeta says as I reach for the door handle, "do you have a minute?" I retrace my steps until I'm in front of him again. "I just wanted to-"
Impulsively, I unload my burden. I go ahead and say it.
"Thank you, Peeta."
He laughs, a surprised little sound that bursts out of his mouth. "What?"
I stare at him again. Isn't it obvious?
He leans against the handrail and examines my face for a moment.
I sigh. Either Peeta wants me to say the words out loud, or he isn't as bright as I thought he was. I'm not sure which of the two scenarios I prefer, but I'll humor him.
I feel my cheeks heat as I stare at the ground- so uncomfortable in these situations, it's a wonder I talk to anybody. "For the bread."
He doesn't say anything, which is not what I'm expecting because the Peeta I've spent years watching always has the right answer for everything.
Although I don't know that from first-hand experience, because talking to each other would've required acknowledging the other's existence.
"From when we were kids?" he finally asks.
Confusion is written across his face but eventually morphs into pensiveness. He flushes. "You don't need to thank me."
I stare as he flounders for his next words.
"Katniss, I shouldn't have thrown them to you like that." A distressed sound escapes from his chest, his tone taking on a desperate edge, eager to convince me that his actions weren't worthy of my praise. "I still can't think about that day without feeling like I should have done more. The least I could have done was handed those loaves to you instead of tossing them out like you were an animal."
"Peeta…"
His name from my mouth cuts off his train of self-loathing.
I can't let him think that way. "It was enough," I say quietly. There's so much more I'd like to tell him, but the words won't cross my lips.
He shakes his head, his jaw tightening. Peeta looks ready to argue with me, but before he can open his mouth, I back away.
"I'd better see your father now." I brace the heel of my foot on the bottom step, and I don't know why I continue, but without my permission, the words spill out, and the end lilts up in question. "But I'll talk to you later?"
Peeta lets out a resigned breath, his expression unreadable. "Yeah, I have to go. I have an appointment at the Justice Building.
He looks at me for a moment before snapping his fingers. "There was something I wanted to talk to you about, but I'm out of time…."
"I'll probably be back to trade in a few days," I tell him, my hand reaching to knock on the back door.
He nods, his face relaxing as he slowly backs away, "I'll see you then. I wish I could stay and talk, but I need to go. I'm probably late already."
I make a shooing motion with my hand, feeling an unexpected laugh bubble up inside of me, but I bite it back, schooling my face into its usual scowl. "Bye."
"Bye, Katniss!" he says, jogging backward for a minute, and I genuinely do laugh as he spins on his heel and takes off.
Once he's disappeared, I shake my head. What a weird day.
And what on earth does he want to talk to me about?