The cleaning lady

by Diana911

Summary:

'Of course, some would say it's because he's a Victor, but that's not true. People in District 12 think that Haymitch Abernathy - our other living Victor - drinks too much, but they don't despise him like they do Gale.
It is because Gale Hawthorne - my best friend, my hunting partner, the boy who strains to keep me alive - killed his district partner in the Game.'

Or - Gale goes to the Arena, and Katniss and Peeta never does, but they end up together, anyway. Some things are different, yes, and some things maybe darker for it - but the important things, like Katniss and Peeta and Haymitch... they are the same.

Notes:

• For deansdandelionedhair.

This is an "Everlark" fic I promise, just give me some time to get there. :) Gale is not a perfectly bad person, so they try to remain friends, its just that the Arena is a dark place for everyone.

Chapter 1: The Pariah

’I don’t need your help! I don’t know how else to say it. We are fine. You can go home. What are you doing here anyway?’

’This is my home.’ There’s such flatness in his voice, it’s so emotionless, that I stop, and look at him. Gale stands straight in front of me, tense, his expression reserved, his gray eyes hard.

We've argued about this a million times since he got back from the Game, and we're getting nowhere. He's my best friend, yes, but I don't need his help. I can take care of my family, and I don't need charity.

’It wouldn't be charity,' he argues with me, as if he's reading my thoughts, as we head back towards my home. 'You're the reason my mother and Rory and Posy and Vick didn't starve while I was away. I owe you.'

I snort contemptuously, but there’s something to it. Still, I wouldn’t accept anything from his mother; Hazelle has been more of a mother to me than my own in recent years. And I wouldn’t accept anything from Gale because I’d feel like he’d expect something from me in return that I couldn’t give.

’We're fine,’ I repeat, stubbornly. My back tenses; as we pass people, they stare at Gale with distrustful eyes. They're right; the boy shouldn't be here, he should be in the Victors Village, but still. He's my best friend, and I feel sorry for him. It's no wonder he's having a hard time adjusting to his new home.

’Can I help you with something?’ I growl as I notice Coltson Black, one of my classmates, watching us with undisguised curiosity as we walk past. The boy lowers his head in shame, and I feel a momentary sense of satisfaction.

’Thanks’ Gale mutters, and as I look at him, he is smiling faintly. I flash him a smile, and for a moment everything is like before, until he speaks.

'This winter is going to be hard, Katniss, it's already showing. What are you going to do?'

’What I always do,’ I say curtly. He knows exactly what will happen. I will try, and survive. Why does he asking then? He thinks there's an easy way to survive now; accept his help. Just because I don't agree with him doesn't mean my solution - hunting, trading - is worse than his. That's exactly what he did before the Games. He still has a bag full of squirrels hanging over his shoulder, for Panem's sake!

’So, you'd rather risk starving to death just so you can get food through your own 'honest' work?’ he asks, and it's like a slap in the face. It suggests that I'm putting my pride before Prim's survival.

I give him a sharp look.

'At least I don't stab anyone in the back!' Gale stops as if I had hit him, and in a way I did. His face is dead pale, at once, and his right hand is clenched into a fist at his side. There's a reason why the people of the District are distrustful and cold towards Gale.

Of course, some would say it's because he's a Victor, but that's not true. People in District 12 think that Haymitch Abernathy - our other living Victor - drinks too much, but they don't despise him like they do Gale.

It is because Gale Hawthorne - my best friend, my hunting partner, the boy who strains to keep me alive - killed his district partner in the Game.

The girl’s name was Ena Garton, and thank fuck, I didn’t know her personally.  She was a short, malnourished, dark-skinned little thing, and oddly enough, with blue eyes for her colours, the only thing that made her stand out from the many Seam girls around here. Anyone with a brain knew that Gale, who was stronger, more fit, good with a bow, and excellent at setting snares, have better chances.

Still - Haymitch may be nothing but an old drunk, but he did what he could with Ena. The Sapphire from the Mine - that was the nickname given to Ena in the Capitol, and from interviews it was clear that her Mentor tried everything to keep her alive. Gale had better luck in that regard. His persona was Orion, the ancient god associated with the hunt, but Ena only had her interesting eyes, and visibly kind, shy personality.

At first I thought they both had some chance. The new stylist, Cinna, did such a good job with both of them that Cesar asked him to stand up and bow at the end of the interviews.

With Gale, he draw the attention to the fact that he is big and handsome, and during the Parade he wore  lion skin, with a sword in one hand, a bow on his back, and a club in the other hand. Ena, in contrast, was elegant, in a shimmering, understated dress that shone in a thousand shades of blue.

A living Sapphire.

The audience went so crazy for the two of them that they even started chanting Haymitch's name, who at one point stood up and waved with the faintest smile on his face. I remember him wearing a pale blue suit, a navy blue tie with a silver lion brooch on it.  He was an ally to both of his kids.

’I didn't stab her in the back,’ Gale whispers, pale. ’I cut her throat.’

Suddenly I can't see my best friend anymore, I'm staring at the face of a stranger.

’Because thats much better?! I hiss in disgust. ’The only thing we all do in an Arena is not harming our district partner. We only attack if its only the two of us left, which never happens!’

’Don’t talk like you know how it feels to be in the Arena!’

’Don’t talk like there isn’t a shred of honor left in you!’

’You talk like the Carriers do.’

’You would know, I guess.’

We suddenly fall silent and realize that we've had a full-blown, screaming argument on the street. So much for not giving people a reason to stare at Gale.

"The show's over!" Gale snaps when he notices one of the women still watching us. The woman quickens her steps and rushes past us.

We start walking again. You would know, I guess, I told Gale, and that was a low blow, but still deserved. Gale did ally himself with the Carrier Pack after all. And when one of his own snares trapped Ena, hanging her upside down by her leg from a tree - the boy didn't help her. No, he didn't rebel against the others, but at the command of Cato - a brutally strong, blond boy - he cut Ena's throat to prove his loyalty.

They may call Gale ’Orion’ in the Capitol, but when they talk about him in the District, they wishper the word, pariah.  I can hear it; I have ears. Gale sighs deeply.

"What would you have done?" he asks quietly.

’Help her. Or run.’

’So, be a coward?’ The boy grimaces.

"I'd rather be a coward than a traitor," I retort without thinking. The other swallows hard and suddenly I feel a surge of guilt.

’Sorry’

’No, you are right’ He shrugs. 'It's a shame to whine about this.'

He is right. We're not arguing about Ena anyway. Or about what is appropriate' to do in the Arena. Our arguments are always about the things he wants to give and the things I don't want to accept. About how should we live, what does this include. About the question if there is even a ’we’ anymore. Whether there ever was.

’Would you accept a job?" Gale asks as we arrive at my house.

‘What kind of job?’ I ask as we enter. ‘We’re here!’ I shout to my mother and Primrose.

‘I’m in the kitchen!’ my mother calls back, so we head there.

"Haymitch needs someone to take care of him," Gale replies, and the honesty in his voice surprises me. It doesn't seem to me that he likes his Mentor, although of course, that could just be the surface.

I chuckle dryly.

'I'm not the motherly type, and he would hate me anyway,' I remark.

’Who would hate you?’ asks my mother, as she looks up. She stands at the kitchen counter, sorting out herbs, her blonde hair tied back in a tight bun.

’Haymitch’ Gale tells her before I can say anything. 'The old goat really needs someone to clean and cook for him and generally keep him alive.’

To my surprise, my mother smiles faintly.

"He could never hate you, Katniss," she says with surprising quietness. My mother wasn't there for me when I needed her most; logically I know it wasn't her fault she was sick but... still. It always surprises me when she's gentle with me, but this time it feels good.

‘Why?’ I ask, frowning.

’He was your father's best friend before his Game,' my mother replies. 'He and I were friends too. But... the Game changes you, and we couldn't help him after his  Game. But he would never hurt you. You would remind him too much of Burdie, and maybe a little of me too.’

My heart starts beating faster than usual, like every time when I learn something about my father that I didn't know before. He and Haymitch were friends, and he and Mom tried to help him after the Game. I store the information in my brain like it's made of gold. I nod slowly.

The Game changes you. Maybe I am in exactly the same situation as Dad was, when Haymitch won his Game. Our best friend, a Victor – changed. But still our best friend.

I look at Gale, who stands silently, tense, watching my face. I know this posture - when the hunter doesn't want to scare off the prey.

Do you think I get scared that easily?

But then I come to a decision.

"Okay," I say simply, and Gale smiles so wide I think the corner of his mouth hurts.

*

The first morning I go to Haymitch’s to clean, it starts to snow. I wrap myself in my dad’s old hunting jacket and sling my bag over my shoulder, which contains two thermoses of my mom’s famous flower tea; one for me, one for Haymitch

’Don't let him scare you,' Gale says the day before, for the fifth time in an hour. 'If he behaves really badly, remind him that I'm paying you, not him, so he can't fire you.’

I grimace, because it's a fact I don't like at all, but I remind myself that I work for the money, and Gale only wants the best for me.

"Don't worry about me," I say quietly instead of anything else.

As I step out the door, the snow falls in large flakes, and I have to brace myself against the wind as I begin the long walk to Victors Village. By the time I reach the right door, I feel like my bones are frozen, and I suddenly think with gratitude of the tea in my bag. I hope the thermos kept the heat in.

I knock and wait, but there is no answer.

I knock again. Take a breath. Then again.

I wait. Nothing. Stillness; wind. I strain against the door; it moves, but it hits something. There must be piles of rubbish in its way. Damn old goat! Where is he?

I push the door open, it creaks and obeys, but something catches it again. The thick, strange sound it makes fills me with unpleasant anxiety.

What the…?

I enter with difficulty; my hunting instincts are raging, fear overwhelms me as I look down at the ground in front of me.

 

Haymitch Abernathy lies motionless, deathly pale on the ground.

 

 

Chapter 2: The Victor

Summary:

’Haymitch?' I say, hopefully firmly, but my voice shakes. 'Haymitch, can you hear me? Haymitch!'

Notes:

The song in the chapter is If I could write by Sam Phillips.
The poem in the chapter is Who Come From Far Away by Endre Ady.

Fear overwhelms me with a speed that I have never experienced before in my life. I unstrap the bag from my shoulder, which lands on the ground with a clatter, and in the blink of an eye I'm kneeling next to the Victor.

The man's face is pale and looks wet, and a half-full bottle of wine lies next to his body. Damn it!

’Haymitch?' I say, hopefully firmly, but my voice shakes. 'Haymitch, can you hear me? Haymitch!'

I quickly slide my hand around his neck; his pulse is weak, but it's there; it seems he's breathing. But then why is he unconscious? I shake his shoulder, but he doesn't respond.

I am not the Everdeen who inherited our mother’s gift for healing, and my hands tremble with fear, but Mother did teach me some of the basics. I glance at the wine bottle in disgust, which is on the ground, cloose to him. The idiot obviously has alcohol poisoning.

Come on, you know what to do, a voice wishpers in my ear, which reminds me of Mom. Help him into recovery recovery position

’Recovery position’ I repeat, softly, mumbling. I quickly kneel on the ground to Haymitch's right: his right hand falls closer to me this way, so I place it at a right angle to his body, with the palm facing upwards.  I bring the other arm across his chest and place the back of his hand on his cheek closest to me, holding it in place. I try, and use my r other hand to bend Haymitch’s leg farthest from me, so his foot is flat on the floor.

I’m not a gentle person, and I’m terrified, but I try. He can’t die on me; he is Dad’s best friend! I gently pull his knee towards me to roll him onto his side, keeping his head supported by the hand on his cheek. I adjust the bent top leg so it rests on the floor in front of his body to help balance him.

’Come on, Haymitch’ I murmur. ’Don’t do this to me.’

 I tilt his head back and lift his chin to ensure his airway stays open and nothing is blocking it. There's nothing else I can do; Haymitch would need my mother from now on.

I let go of the man carefully; I really don’t want to leave him here, but I have to, at least for a few minutes. I turn around and start running toward the house next door, where Gale and Hazelle have lived for a year.

'Gale!' I shout for him; I burst through the door, which is fortunately open; I run across the hall and immediately head for the kitchen, from where I hear their voices. 'Gale!'

They're all sitting around the breakfast table. There's a lot to say about Gale, but the moment he sees my expression, he immediately jumps to his feet and comes to me. The Hunger Games Victor is nowhere to be found: this is my best friend, my partner in hell.

’Katniss, what…’

"Haymitch has alcohol poisoning, you need to go get my mom," I say so quickly that my words are slurred.   'Tell her I've already adjusted his body to the recovery position, but there's nothing else I can do, hurry up!'

Gale doesn’t argue, he starts running, without even grabbing a coat. I’m right behind him; I might not be able to go with him to get my mom, but I can’t leave Haymitch alone until they get back. We turn in different directions on the street, and I slam the door open with such force that it slams against the wall. I kneel down next to Haymitch again, gently stroking the side of his neck; nothing changes.

’What have you done to yourself, huh?' I murmur quietly, smoothing his dirty blonde hair out of his face. 'What the hell have you done to yourself?'

I feel helpless and I hate it. Where are my mom and Gale?  

The minutes tick by slowly, and I really, really want to do something useful, but I can only watch Haymitch's chest slowly rise and fall. I wamt to comfort the man lying on the ground, no matter how ridiculous this may seem.

Suddenly, I remember a soft song my father used to sing to my mother sometimes when I was a little girl, and before I can stop, I start humming, then softly singing.

 

If I could write I'd set all the words free to follow you
Tell you wonder, tell you secrets and solitude
I've had to let go of so much, it's hard to hold on now
Something far off is pulling me
And when I go this time I don't think I'm coming back

I took your ring that never comes off and put it on
Sorry to lose you, sorry to keep you after you were gone
Nothing is small, nothing is unexpected
I want more
When I go this time I don't think I'm coming back

Desire's the element that I can't fight
Girl's looking for themselves in your eyes
I'm looking for you
Was this supposed to be some kind of perfect?
I want more
When I go this time I don't think I'm coming back

Coming back
Coming back

 

My voice dies away and I feel a little ridiculous. Regardless, I gently stroke Haymitch's hair, wishing he'd open his eyes and tell me to go to hell. But then, thank fuck, I hear hurried footsteps and my mom and Gale burst through the door. I jump to my feet and step back, stopping next to Gale to give my mom some space.

From now on, it's no longer my responsibility, and the fact suddenly frees me, and gives me space for terror, to a degree I haven't had time for before. What would have happened if I had gotten here late? What would have happened if...?

But then my mother steps back from the living room door, and the way she looks at me, with those kindly sparkling blue eyes, reminds me of my early childhood.

'Katniss, are you coming?’ she asks in a gentle voice. So, I do.

*

’What the hell are you all doing here again?’ Haymitch grumbles.

The man is still pale, but thanks to my mother's magic, he is conscious and sitting on the living room couch with a pile of pillows behind him.

’Saving your worthless ass, Hay!’ my mom snaps, and Gale and I look at each other. She is always soft-spoken with her patients, and this style is not typical of her. But then again—she and Haymitch were friends, once, so its different. ’What the fuck where you thinking? And drink that, right now!’ With that, she hands Haymitch the medicated tea she's made

" And just who  asked you to save me again?!" the Victor growls. Mom gives him an icy look.

’You may not consider me your friend anymore, idiot, but I can desegree with you on that’ she tells him. ’And it doesn’t matter how good of a healer I am, If Katniss hadn't helped you, you would have been dead by the time I got here.’

I see a strange emotion flash through Haymitch's bright eyes as my mother utters the word friend, and then his gaze locks onto mine.

’And what do we have here?’ he asks, clearly teasing. ’Don’t look at me like that, sweetheart, if you want me dead, you should’ve just let me drown in my own vomit.’

’Haymitch!’ my mother snaps, and it's so rare for her to defend me that it feels good. ’Don’t talk to her like that. She is my daughter, Katniss Everdeen. Katniss, you already heard about Haymitch from me.’

’Only bad things, I hope,’ Haymitch mutters, then takes a sip of his tea. It must taste bad because the man grimaces. I can't help but laugh softly at this, and I notice the corner of Haymitch's mouth twitching into a half-grin.

"You both did a great job," my mother says, smiling at me and then at Gale. "Katniss, the position Haymitch was in when I arrived saved his life. I know how hard it is to get someone who is unconscious that way. And Gale, you were amazingly fast. You guys are a great team."

Gale and I grin at each other, but Haymitch growls.

’Yes, yes, wonderful, one more sunny, happy day on this earth for me. Could you all get out of my house?’

My mother's blue eyes widen.

'How dare you, Haymitch? We just want to help!'

"I didn't ask you to help!" the man growls with such force that my mother reflexively steps back.

’You maybe didn’t ask for it, but you clearly need it’ she tells him then, tenderly. ’You deserve better, Hay.’

"And who gets what they deserve?" Victor retorts, but his voice trails off and he suddenly sounds tired.

My mother ignores him, turning to me instead. 'Katniss, you're staying here to clean anyway, you can keep an eye on him. What exactly do you need to watch out for?'

’Headache, stomach pain, nausea, anxiety, and tremors may persist’ I list what she told me earlier, without thinking.

’Good girl’ she nods with a smile. "I'll leave the medicine here on the table," she gestures to the bottles he's piled on the small glass table in front of the couch. "You can give them to him if anything's wrong."

I nod, and as I start to tidy up the small table where my mother left the medicine vials.

’Try and not to die, while I’m out, will you?’ Gale asks Haymitch, who only mutters something. ’Later, Catnip’

’Later, G’ I tell him, and I’m glad I have something to do with my heands, because I can feel Haymitch’s gaze on both of us.

As the front door closes behind my mom and Gale, Haymitch speaks, finally.

"So, sweethart, again, who asked you to clean my house? It's not like you're not a real sunshine," his voice rings with mockery. "But I like my life the way it is, and I didn't invite you here."

’You like this?’ I straighten up and look around; the floor is littered with empty bottles, cigarette butts, and some kind of white substance stuck to the floor. ’Liar.’

To my surprise, Haymitch doesn't seem offended; he stares curiously, the corners of his mouth twitch, then he lets out a dry laugh that turns into a cough.

I blink; this man is annoying me to death with his sarcasm, but strangely enough, he also awakens some unexpected protective instinct in me.

"Would you like a glass of water?" I ask cautiously when the dry, raspy cough doesn't go away.

’Nah’ he answers heavily, swallowing to suppress a cough. ’I’m… I’m fine. So, who told you to come here?’

"Gale hired me, if that's what you're asking," I reply curtly. "Do you have hot water? Whatever's stuck here, cold water won't wash it away." I look suspiciously at the white, dried-on stains on the floor.

‘Why?’ he asks, raising his blond eyebrows.

This is going to be a very long day.

"'I just told you,' I repeat impatiently. 'Whatever it is on there, cold water won't...'

"No," Haymitch interrupts. "Why would Gale hire you?"

Because he doesn't want me to starve, runs through my mind, but I can't even think of saying it. I blush with shame, and the shame turns to anger.

'How would I know?' I growl. 'Maybe you're not as bad a mentor as you think. I guess he doesn't want you to drown in the trash. So: hot water?'

"Look at you, what a sensitive little flower you are," Haymitch grins. "I didn't think you'd be the type of our dear Orion."

My throat tightens. That name is somehow so... inhuman. As if Gale is nothing more than the insrument of the Capitol’s amusement.

"Don't call him that," I say suddenly quietly. "He's my best friend, and his name is Gale."

Haymitch's blond eyebrows rise even more.

’Even if he is a Victor?’

’Neither of you asked to go to that Arena. Not your fault.’

The man groans deeply.

'Panem, you really are Burdie's daughter'

'Yes, I am,' I say proudly, staring at him unwaveringly. 'One last time: hot water?'

For the first time since we met, Haymitch smiles genuinely.

'Bathroom, darling,' he says. 'Bathroom.'

*

I work hard. I fill several buckets with steaming hot water; I pour in some lavender-scented detergent, which is completely new to me. I get Haymitch a blanket from the bedroom and, despite his protests, I put it over his lap, then open the windows in the house and let in the cold winter air.

I collect the empty wine bottles in a trash bag and throw it all away; I gather the discarded cigarette butts, and get rid of them. I sweep the floor. Haymitch sits on the couch, slowly drinking a glass of water, watching me humanize the environment.

'You grew up in the Seam,' I grumble. 'We're all clean. What is this?' I have to fight hard to make the weird, dry white spots fade and then disappear.

’You don’t want to know. Anyway, if I were clean, you wouldn't have a job," he notes with a half-grin.

'Oh, don't try to make me think you're dirty so I can have a job,' I say. 'It's just that you're trouble.’

This time he laughs sincerely, without any mockery.

I go upstairs to the bedrooms, gather up the dirty clothes from the floor (seriously, this guy!) and load them into the washing machine. I have to struggle with the mechanism a bit, but it finally seems to start.

I miraculously find clean sheets in one of the closets, so I change them on the bed. As I take the dirty sheets out to the bathroom, something comes to mind.

’Hey, are there any scents you like?" I call out to Haymitch. "I'd wash with those with in mind. My dad preferred mint, for example, and my mom likes honey."

There’s no answer, and honestly, that scares me. Could it be that Haymitch is sick again?

I run down the stairs, as fast as I can.

’Haymitch, are you…?’ the question dies on my lips when I see that he is conscious, but curled up in a ball on the couch, his eyes shining strangely ’Okay?’ I finish the question, and suddenly I’m mad at him. I can see he's not well, but two minutes ago I was afraid he was dead, and the fact that he didn't respond makes me angry.

’You scared the living shit out of me!' I snap, and he flinches. That's why I'm not a healer; this isn't for me.

’Get out of here,’ he mutters softly, staring straight ahead without blinking, as if his very existence hurts.

I suddenly feel a surge of concern and sit down next to him on the couch.

'Hey,' I say gently. 'Hey, what's wrong? Do you think you could drink some water?'

Perfectly reflexively, I caress his face anxiously when he doesn't respond. He blinks at my touch; my hand lands in his blond hair, and to my surprise, he makes a small, contented sound that he doesn't seem to be aware of.

‘Maybe some food would do you some good, wouldn’t it?’ I hum, hopefully kindly. 'Is there anything you would like to eat?'

His blue eyes lock onto mine and he slowly shakes his head.

’Then I'll just have to figure something out on my own, I guess,’ I note, trying to strike a light tone. ’Thats fine: this is the first time I can experiment in a real kitchen!' All I get a faint smile at this, but its something.

I'm making a thick vegetable soup; it's an indescribable feeling to be working with a full pantry, and for a moment I feel an instinctive envy. But then I think of the bloody battles, the Arena, and Haymitch's blank expression, and the envy turns to shame.

I measure out the finished soup onto a plate and call Haymitch to the table. His steps are visibly unsteady, but I don't look at him directly, instead cutting him a thick slice of bread and placing it in a bowl next to the food.

I turn back to the counter as soon as I hear him pull out the chair with difficulty and start tidying up.

There is such a silence between us that every movement he makes seems loud. I hear him softly blow on the first spoonful of soup.

“You’re not eating?” he asks a minute later. I turn around; the Victor is frowning, as if the situation is making his headache worse.

 I don’t know what to do with this. I'm not here to be his friend, even though he was my father's, and I can't take anything from him that I can't give back. I can't stand to be indebted to anyone, and I can't accept any favors right now. Not until Gale pays my first paycheck, anyway.

"Are you sure you don't mind?" comes out of my mouth before I can stop myself.

Haymitch snorts.

'Don't pretend to be an idiot, sweetheart, I know you're not really one. If I didn't offer you food, I wouldn't have asked if you eat. Do you eat?'

"Burdock Everdeen's best friend, ladies and gentlemen," I grumble as I pull a plate and spoon out of the cupboard and sit down across from Haymitch at the table.

"What did you say?" asks the other sharply. "I didn't hear you well."

"It comes with age," I note with a smirk as I help myself to some soup.

Haymitch surprises me again as his blond eyebrows shoot up and he laughs loudly and raspily.

The vegetable soup tastes good, even if I made it myself; it's thick and filling, and it smells amazing. It's full of carrots and turnips; I have no idea where Haymitch got them so early in the winter. Probably from the Capitol; that should make the food taste bitter in my mouth, but I don't care. All I can think about is that now that I can eat my share, everything at home could be Prim's and my mother's.

I am so preoccupied with the flavors and aromas that it takes me a moment to notice that Abernathy has stopped eating and is leaning back in his chair; I feel his gaze on me, and when I look up, his blue eyes are almost tender. Almost.

"You don't like it?" I ask.

"There's nothing wrong with it, it's tasty, " replies Victor, and this time there is no mockery in his voice. "I'm just full."

I frown when I realize that more than half of the soup is untouched, and suddenly I feel a wave of concern wash over me.

That makes me angry; I don't have the energy to get close to new people. Yes, despite all my resentment, I love my mother, and I would do anything for my sister. Gale and his family are important to me. I quietly like Magde, the mayor's daughter, and certain people in the district, like Darius, or Thom, or the Baker, who is always kind to me. But... worrying about someone else too? No bloody way.

I tackle the soup with renewed vigor, pouring all my anger into spoonful after spoonful. I glance up from under my eyelashes at Haymitch, who is watching my movements with the faintest of smiles on his lips. The smile is a strange mixture of mild mockery and genuine interest. Damn it!

Maybe he doesn't eat because he can't? Could it be that alcohol has damaged his stomach so badly that he is unable to eat large portions?

I let go of the spoon with more force than necessary when my plate is empty; the spoon clatters loudly, but Haymitch makes no comment. I pick up the two bowls, and when I lift his, I come even closer to those curious blue eyes.

’Thank you,’ he says quietly, and I nod. As I turn toward the counter, he adds, ’Bring some soup home for Asterid and that sister of yours... what was her name again, Posy?’

’That's Gale’, I reply, quietly amused. ’My sister's name is Primrose.’

’Burdock, and his flower names,’ Haymitch mutters, and that makes me want to laugh even more, because he's right. This is strange too: I'm usually sensitive when someone doesn't pay enough attention to my sister to know her name.

’We call her Prim,’ I note, and start washing my plate. I rinse out my flask, which has been filled with flower tea throughout the day, and after wiping it dry, I fill it with soup. I pour the other serving of tea into a glass for Haymitch and place it on the table in front of him; he hasn't moved since I got up to wash the dishes, and that worries me.

'Try this, ' I tell him. 'It's my mother's recipe, so it'll be better than the soup.’

Haymitch just grunts, but I can feel him watching as I wash the second flask.

'Bring soup in that too,' he then says.

My eyebrows shoot up.

’You'll need that portion for dinner, won't you?’

"Don't worry about me, sweetheart," he says too quickly, and suddenly something occurs to me. Without thinking, I spin around to look at him.

"Don't you dare get drunk tonight, Haymitch, you almost died today!" I snap. Something flashes across his face too quickly for me to understand, but then he just grins.

"You know," he replies. "Considering that you look like Burdock, right now you sounded exactly like Asterid!"

I throw the kitchen towel at him, but he laughs and dodges it.

*

Life is becoming almost pleasantly monotonous. I hunt on weekends, but spend the rest of the week at Haymitch's. I meticulously clean every room, even the guest rooms, the bathroom, and the kitchen, until everything is sparkling clean.

I change the bedding in every room, air out the house every morning, and keep an eye on the pantry. I spend most of my time in the study because the wall behind the desk is lined with shelves up to the ceiling, and everything is full of books. Without saying a word, I take them all out, dust them off, and put them back in their places.

Haymitch doesn't comment on anything I do, but he spends most of the day in the study, reading. Mornings, he has newspapers from the Capitol spread out in front of him, and he always has at least one book with him.

He doesn't push anything, but sometimes he reads aloud to me; mostly poems, surprisingly.

 

Who Come From Far Away

We are the men who are always late,

we are the men who come from far away.

Our walk is always weary and sad,

we are the men who are always late.

We do not even know how to die in peace.

When the face of distant death appears,

our souls splash into a tam tam of flame.

We do not even know how to die in peace.

We are the men who are always late.

We are never on time with our success,

our dreams, our heaven, or our embrace.

We are the men who are always late.

 

I would never admit it to him, but I love the way he reads to me. I continue to cook for him; I try to come up with light meals, but I'm not successful. Now I see that he's trying, but either he has no appetite or he's simply physically unable to eat more, I don't know. I am still worried about it, and it continues to frustrate me.

 Maybe if I brought something that would pique his curiosity? My mother mentions that Haymitch loved pumpkin pie when he was a boy, so... I take a deep breath and make my way to the bakery door. I have money now—Haymitch's money, to be honest—but I still pause and stare stubbornly at the door.

All morning I had been thinking about the blond boy with blue eyes—the boy who saved my life, who helped me when he had no reason to. Peeta. Would he be there?

The thought fills me with excitement and dread at the same time. But the fear is stronger in me. Then I remember Haymitch's tired gaze, which always appears when it's time to eat and I walk in.

It's much worse than if Peeta were behind the counter. It's his mother—the one Gale and I still secretly call a witch—whose face immediately lights up with anger when she sees me.

With astonishing speed, the woman leaps over the counter, grabs the broom leaning against one of the shelves—and throws it at me.

Chapter 3: The Baker's youngest son

Summary:

Before I could blink, the boy steps forward cautiously and kisses me on the cheek, his lips feeling pleasantly warm compared to the cold chill of the wind. Then the touch ends, Peeta waves, and turns on his heel. I am foolish; I stand there for a moment, the snow falling in large flakes, and I imagine the touch over and over again.

Notes:

Yes, I dislike Gale, but love Peeta, and I like Otho as well. As I should.

I jump aside energetically, and the broom clatters to the floor; honestly, I didn't expect anything else, but I'm still shocked. I always thought that Mrs. Mellark despises me because I don't have any money, or at least primarily because of that, but now I could pay. It seems that I won't even have a chance to buy anything, though.

"Mom!" a startled boy's voice suddenly rings out, and the air catches in my throat; Peeta steps out of the Bakery's back door, which I assume leads to the storeroom. ’What do you think you’re doing?’

Peeta Mellark is a strong boy of my age, with a handsome face, curly golden blond hair, and friendly, warm blue eyes. After my father's death, my mother fell into a deep, black sadness, and if it hadn't been for Peeta, who deliberately burned the bread because he knew he couldn't give it to me any other way, I would have been dead long ago, and with me my sister and my mother.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" hisses Mrs. Mellark. "I'm cleaning up the trash."

Peeta stands motionless for a moment, his blue eyes suddenly icy, but he doesn't argue with his mother. Instead, he turns to me and smiles kindly.

"Hello, Katniss," he says, his voice friendly. "What can I get you?"

"Hi," I say, a little embarrassed by my shy voice. "Could I have some pumpkin pies, please? Four, if that's okay?"

"'It's more than okay," the boy nods, pulls white, see-through gloves onto his hands, and packs the pies I asked for into a paper bag. "Would you like anything else?"

"Well..." I have these weird feelings, and I hate it because I know for a fact that I'm terrible at feelings. I want to stay because I'm drawn to Peeta, but at the same time, I'll be amazed if Haymitch eats all the pies I'm taking him now. So if I stay and buy something else, will it be because I want to stay with Peeta, or because I want to do something nice for Haymitch?

"Haymitch has trouble eating," I say, honestly. " I'm trying to figure out how to get his appetite back. Do you have any ideas?"

Peeta smiles at me as if he's never heard anything nicer—even though he's the kind one of the two of us.

’Well, maybe some…’

Mrs. Mellark completely ignores our conversation, and cuts in.

"Get out!" she growls at me. When I stare at her in shock for a second, her voice gets louder. "Can't you hear me, girl? Get out of here!"

'Mom...'

’Out, out, out!

"'Blake." The man's voice suddenly rings out behind her, deep and firm, and surprisingly calm. The baker. The man steps up beside Peeta at the counter and gives his wife a long, slow look. "The boys need you in the back."

I highly doubt that Peeta's two brothers need any help from this harpy, and I doubt even more that they want to be around their mother. Something similar must be going through Mrs. Mellark's mind, because she becomes even angrier and her face flushes red.

’Who do you think you a…’

"Go" interrupts the baker, and there is a kind of calm authority in his voice that even affects this witch.

Suddenly, I remember Peeta calmly standing up at the end of a wrestling match; his expression, I now realize, was reminiscent of his father's. Mrs. Mellark gives me one last hateful look, then silently walks past the baker and disappears through the back door.

Otho Mellark's blue eyes soften as he turns toward me. I suddenly recognise how much Peeta resembles his father, with his strong build, golden blond hair, and gentle blue eyes.

’Sorry about that’ he smiles, almost in a shy way. ’Its a hard day for us.’

Of course, they don't explain why, but I get the feeling that every day is difficult for them, and I nod a little.

"So, can we offer anything else?" The baker casts a curious glance at the paper bag Peeta is handing me. The pies are still hot, I can feel it even through the bag.

I repeat what I would like, and Otho looks at me thoughtfully.

"Haymitch used to have quite a sweet tooth," he remarks, then adds, seeing my surprised expression, "We were friends for a while. But I don't think that would be a good idea, considering everything that's happened..."

I want to ask why they are no longer friends, but of course I don't. I know the rumor that the baker once loved my mother, and if my father was Haymitch's best friend... and anyway, there was the Arena. My mouth remains shut, although I am curious about Haymitch's problem with sweet things.

"What do you think about this?" Otho puts on gloves as well, and pulls two crisp-looking, huge cheese pretzels from the counter.

"It looks fantastic," I blurt out, which is surprisingly honest of me, but the two Mellarks seem to have that effect on me. "But one is for sure 'll be enough for Haymitch."

"We meant the other one as a gift for you," Peeta remarks, and dimples appear on both sides of his face.

"'That's something I can't accept," I shake my head. I can't even thank Peeta for the bread. ’Thank you, though!’

"I'll tell you what," Otho Mellark suggests amiably. "You're still out there on weekends, right? I'd be happy to trade you all your haul this time."

This doesn't really mean that I won't owe him anything; he always offers more than anyone else for whatever game I shoot. Still, this gives me the opportunity to actually give something back to him.

’Thank you Sir’ I tell him simply, and he gives me a kind smile.

The heavy snowfall resumes, and I am about to exit the bakery when Peeta appears beside me.

I pay for the pumpkin pies and Haymitch's pretzel as quickly as I can, before they offer me anything else.

I 'm about to leave the bakery when, in the pouring snow, Peeta appears beside me with a friendly expression on his face.

'Dad suggested that I could walk you home, considering the weather. Would you mind?'

Why, why do I feel so awkward around this boy? Why?! I wonder if it would be easier if I could finally thank him for what he did.

"I'm not going home, I'm going back to Haymitch’s," I say, with surprising logic. Look at that, I still have my voice!

"Wherever you go," Peeta replies casually. I don't argue with him; it's not that I don't want to be around him, it's just that... I owe him.

We step out onto the street in surprising harmony and walk side by side. Coltson Black, the boy I last saw staring at Gale with his mouth agape, is arguing with his girlfriend on the street, despite the thick snowflakes. Is that Leevy? The girl who angrily leaves Black behind is our neighbor a few houses down.

"'There goes our bread order,'" Peeta remarks as he walks beside me. There is no malice in his voice; it is simply a casual observation.

"Bread order?" I repeat, surprised, perhaps a little dumbly.

"Yeah, you know, for Colston and Leevey's Toasting," the boy replies. I feel like this is something I should know about, but I never follow the gossip. There is no judgment in Peeta's voice; for him, the absence of marriage in our district also means the absence of the marriage custom known in the district as the Toasting.

Of course, there are formal parts to the ceremony, such as signing papers, exchanging rings, sharing a kiss, blah-blah-blah, but in our district, people truly feel married after they have toasted bread together for the first time in their own home, over a fire they built together, and then exchanged said bread.

"Maybe they'll make up," I mutter; I never know what to say when it comes to emotions.

‘I don't think so, considering that...’ Peeta suddenly stops talking and blushes deeply; my eyebrows shoot up.

’Considering what?’

"Leveey was found with Gale yesterday," Peeta replies, visibly distressed, and I would feel sorry for him if I didn't suddenly feel a surge of anger toward my best friend. So while I was worrying myself to death about his Mentor, he was getting his hands on a girl who was engaged to someone else? Whose engagement was known to everyone in the District? Well, everyone except me, but that's not the point.

"I'm sorry," Peeta says quietly. "I know you guys are close." His voice is so sincere that I can't help but smile at him.

"We're friends," I reply simply. "Just friends." I don't know why I feel it's important to say this, but it's as if Peeta's quiet cheerfulness grows stronger as he walks beside me and nods.

I'm glad he's happy, even if I don't understand the source of his happiness. My thoughts are too preoccupied with worry. What the hell is going on with Gale? One of my favorite things about him is that he's loyal and honorable. But where is the honor in what he's doing?

Perhaps I could forgive what happened with Ena, even though most people in the Districts are taught not to hurt their District Partner unless its the two of them left —but the Arena is a matter of life and death. This?   To ignore the fact that Leveey was committed to someone else is simply despicable.

We slowly arrive at Haymitch's house, and as we stop and my gaze meets Peeta's friendly one, I am overcome with guilt. I wanted to say so many things to him, but instead I wondered where Gale's backbone had gone.

What's wrong with me? But Peeta doesn't seem offended: he's clearly in a good mood, and strangely enough, it brings a half-smile to my face.

"It was nice walking with you, Miss Everdeen," he says playfully, and I feel like laughing.

"Tell that to your poor ears," I note; Peeta isn't wearing anything on his head, and his ears are red from the wind, snowflakes stuck in his blond hair, his face flushed.

"It was totally worth it," Mellark replies, and there's something in his face that makes my heart race faster.

Before I could blink, the boy steps forward cautiously and kisses me on the cheek, his lips feeling pleasantly warm compared to the cold chill of the wind. Then the touch ends, Peeta waves, and turns on his heel. I am foolish; I stand there for a moment, the snow falling in large flakes, and I imagine the touch over and over again.

Then I pull myself together, push open the door, and enter the foyer of Haymitch's house.

"What the hell was that?!" Gale's voice cracks out in front of me, so suddenly that I drop my bags.

I curse myself for getting a fright. Again, what the hell is wrong with me? I didn't do anything wrong.

"Pies and pretzels, Gale," I snap at him dryly. "And if they're ruined because of you, I'll scratch your eyes out," I reply, picking up the paper bags from the floor.

Gale remains silent for a moment: now he is a Victor, of course, which means he never has to worry about starvation again, but he had to ration every bite for long enough for the thought of ruined food to affect him deeply. Good. He deserves it.

"And how did you pay for these, Katniss?" he asks as we head toward the living room. There's something unpleasant in his voice that I can't quite put my finger on, but instinctively I don't like it.

"What do you mean?" I ask, glancing sharply at him over my shoulder. His face is stony. "Haymitch gave me money to go grocery shopping."

As we enter the living room, we find Haymitch sitting on the sofa with a thick book in his hands.

"Hi," I say,  in a not unfriendly tone. "I brought pumpkin pie and cheese pretzels. Otho Mellark sends his regards," I add, placing the bags on the sofa next to him.

"Hello, sweetheart," Haymitch looks up, and a strange, almost longing expression crosses his face at the mention of Otho. I guess he misses his friendship. "So he remembered," he mutters, opening the pie bag and tearing off a small piece.

To my great delight, the man eats the bite, then tears off another piece and offers it to me.

"'Oh, sure,' Gale grumbles. 'And did he have to send his son along with his regards?'"

The piece of pie stops in my mouth, and I stare at Gale.

"If you have something to say, Hawthorne, I'm listening," I say, so coldly that Gale turns pale. I haven't called him by his last name in years.

"What are you doing with the baker's son?" he then asks stubbornly.

"Peeta walked me back," I reply, alternating between astonishment and growing anger. "I don't know if you noticed, but a storm is coming."

Gale snorts.

"Of course, it was just about the storm," he remarks sarcastically. "It wasn't about the guy really wanting to get into your...’

"I advise you," I interrupt sharply. "To finish that fucking sentence very carefully, Gale Hawthorne."

Gale falls silent, but when he speaks, there is little reason to be appreciative.

'I just thought you had more loyalty than hanging out with a townie.'

His condescending, dismissive style makes me lose my patience.

"You want to talk about loyalty, Gale?" I snap at him, so forcefully that he flinches. "How's Leeveey? You know, the girl whose wedding is being cancelled because you can't keep your hands off what isn't yours? Where's the loyalty in that?!"

’I just…’

"You were busy screwing around with a girl who was engaged, while your mentor, who saved your ass, nearly died of alcohol poisoning," I reply ruthlessly, and Gale turns even paler.

"'Sweetheart, leave me out of this..." Haymitch begins, but the thing is, once I get really angry, there's no turning back, and right now I'm very angry.

 "Shut up!" I snap at Haymitch. "You're his mentor, which means you belong with him, and if I'd been in that fucking arena, this would never have happened, because then, you would belong with me, and I'd have ripped your balls off before I let you drink that much. And you have the nerve to talk to me about loyalty?!" I turn back to Gale.

’Sure’ Gale is hissing. ’Talk your way out of fucking a townie, go ahed!’

The argument stops for a moment; I stare in astonishment at my 'best friend.'

’Out’ Haymitch growls quietly, but with such force that Gale immediately turns on his heel. " ''Get out of here!''

 As Gale turns away, a mixture of hurt, pain, and anger wells up inside me, then bursts forth. If he's this angry with me, he must have been peeking through the window and saw Peeta kiss me on the cheek. There is something deeply unsettling about the idea that he was watching us, then rushed down the stairs to meet me in the foyer and hold me accountable.

I didn’t do anything wrong.

"Go ahead, you coward, and while you're at it, ask Ena about District loyalty!" I yell after him.

Gale doesn't turn back, but rushes out the door into the deepening snowstorm.

 

 

Chapter 4: Orion

Summary:

"Didn't Daddy teach you not to corner girls?" Johanna growls, her eyes almost black from anger. "Oh, I forgot: Daddy's dead, and you feel like you're above Haymitch."

- Gale –

I fuced up, I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up, I so fucked this up. This becomes evident as soon as I rush out of Haymitch's house and the snow and wind hit my face.

The message is perfectly clear: Katniss thinks I meddled in something that was none of my business. She always does this: if she thinks you've crossed a line, she cuts back just as sharply, like a razor blade. In that respect, she and I are similar. At times like that, she throws every insult she can think of at you, without even thinking twice.

 

You were busy screwing around with a girl who was engaged, while your mentor, who saved your ass, nearly died of alcohol poisoning!

And if I'd been in that fucking arena, this would never have happened!

And while you're at it, ask Ena about District loyalty!

 

Her insults ring in my ears without any logic or order, repeating themselves over and over and over again. Strangely enough, the fact that Haymitch sided with Katniss and not me, that he threw me out of his house, burns just as painfully on my soul as some kind of mark.

My instinctive reaction is to protest: he is my mentor, and no one else's, so shouldn't he favour me? But wasn't that the essence of Katniss's opinion? I don't treat Haymitch as someone who is important to me, as part of my family.

The snow is freezing my face, but I still snort. I don't buy this talk that Haymich and all the other Victors are spouting about how the Victors are like family to each other. Just because we all survived an Arena doesn't mean I have anything in common with these people. And as for Haymitch, I won on my own. That old goat did nothing for me.

….Because then, you would belong with me, and I'd have ripped your balls off before I let you drink that much!

Isn't it strange that Katniss would rather have Haymitch as part of her family than me? I'm her partner. I grit my teeth. Lately, it seems to me that Katniss would prefer anyone over me, including Peeta fucking Mellark. I know, I know, okay? I had a thing with Leeveey, but she was just a placeholder. A bit of fun, doesn’t mean anything. But I know Katniss, and I saw her experssion, when she looked at Mellark.  She never lets anyone cloose to her, unless they are important to her. Fuck!

For a moment, I feel a pang of guilt about Leevey; I didn't want to ruin her chances of marriage. Then I push the thought away. The girl will find someone who wants to fuck her. I don't have the energy for this.

I bypass most of Victors Village; after I won my Game, Haymitch offered to let me move into the house, which was across the green from his, but I felt that house was too close to Abernathy, so I declined. 

Then Haymitch mentioned that the building three houses away from the first house he offered, was in good condition...but I didn't feel thats my own,  either, so I said no to that one as well. Haymitch didn't say anything more.

I stop in front of the last house in the Village, the farthest from my mentor and the two houses offered. My own.

I don't belong here, and the building has never felt like home: it is a part of Victors Villige, but just barely, which perfectly expresses my feelings. But, like every other house in the Village, it has thick walls to keep out the winter cold, the windows are in perfect condition: there is always hot water, and even electricity. My family never goes hungry. And I will protect them from all other dangers, even if I have to kneel before the Capitol whores for it. Katniss can talk about District Loyalty and dignity all she wants, but she knows nothing about anything. I wipe my feet, enter the house, and carefully close the door behind me, then hang my coat on the hanger.

'Posy, come back here right now!' I hear footsteps, accompanied by the voice of one of my little brothers, Rory, and sure enough: in the blink of an eye Posy appears, shiny, black, long hair, and intelligent, chocolate brown eyes; the little girl runs towards me at full speed, a big smile on her face, and she is all giggles.

'Gale save me!' she screams, and I can’t help it, I open my arms laughing, and my little sister jumps between them without thinking.

‘What have you done, Posy-Rosie?’ I ask, teasingly, using the nickname only I am allowed to use, and I lift her up easily in my arms. She’s gained some weight now, thanks to her regular eating, but it’s still not enough.

’I’m in no mood for…’

’Washing your hands’ Rory finishes the sentence, appearing in the opposite dorway from us. My younger brother is fourteen, the same age I was when I started hunting with Katniss, and he looks a lot like me, in his features, dark hair, and gray eyes. But unlike me, in that age, his features are not bony from hunger, his arms are not thin, but visibly muscular, and thanks to good food, they are not weak. Every time I look at him, I feel proud.

Fuck Katniss Everdeen and her moral superiority.

"Come on, Pose, you know Mamma won't let us eat dinner with dirty hands," I say to my little sister, pretending not to notice her grimace. Rory and I grin at each other. I put the little girl down to the floor, and my little brother continues to lead her towards the bathroom.

I head towards the kitchen, where divine smells waft in. My mother is standing over the gas (we have a real, electric stove!) frying small sausages.

"Hi, Momma," I say to her and stop next to her, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

’Hello, my darling’ she smiles. ’Hows Haymitch?’

’Alive’ I reply shortly, and I fish a small sausage out of the sizzling oil with my hand; it's scalding hot, but so delicious that I don't care if it burns my tongue.

’Gale!’ Mom scolds me, but I can see that her brown eyes are soft from a smile. None of us can get enough of the fact that we can now access fresh food at any time. My mother no longer has to tear her back to pieces as a laundress and can live as a stay-at-home mom, raising my siblings.

’Sorry, sorry’ I grin, though I don’t feel sorry at all. My mother snorts, but she doesn't seem really angry.

'You've got some official letter,' she notes lightly. 'I put it on the study table.' The bite stops in my mouth and suddenly turns bitter, despite all the good spices. I appreciate that my mother never opens my letters; she has long considered me the man of the house. But that doesn't change the fact that letters in District 12 don't mean anything good: they're most likely calling me to the Capitol, and those are invitations I can't refuse.

"Please let me know when dinner is ready," I say, suddenly quiet, and my mother senses my mood change.

"It'll be soon, honey," she calls after me, but I don't stop as I walk out of the kitchen.

 The study is on the west side of the house, and this is the place I like the least. The room is spacious, with a dark mahogany floor and a commanding table of the same wood in the middle; behind the table is a deep armchair covered in green velvet.

Behind it are bookshelves to the floor; I don't think much of reading. I am still a survivor at heart, and words do not feed me. But now we have almost unlimited resources, and while I prefer to buy tangible things like winter clothes and food, my mother regularly orders books from the Capitol.

I still get a reflexive revulsion at the thought of accepting anything from the Capitol, but my mother—like Katniss, it seems—has no problem calling me a hypocrite. She repeatedly points out that the ship of my pride has long since sailed: that I do accept things from them, like the house I live in, the clothes I wear, the food I eat.  That books are no different from food in this respect, and my siblings deserve the best education we can give them.  And, every time, she adds that although winning the Game is no glory, because it is bloody, I have earned it all.

Where is the loyalty in you, killing your own district partner? Winning the Game is no glory, because it is bloody. Sometimes I feel like my mother and Katniss secretly have the same opinion about me.

Regardless, the shelves in my study are slowly but steadily filling up with books. Scientific works, adventure novels, detective stories, disgusting romances. Thick storybooks, studded with beautiful pictures, textbooks. I have it all.

This doesn't make me proud: but my other little brother, Vick, who is exactly in the middle in age, between me and Rory, loves it. He spends a lot of time reading, even after school. I s find him there today as well, in the deep green armchair behind my desk, with a thick volume on the table in front of him.

The study door is directly across from the table, and when the door creaks, Vick looks up and grins faintly at me. He’s the shortest of us boys, but he shares our black hair, and unlike Posy, who has our mother’s brown eyes, Vick’s eyes are gray, like my father’s were.

'Hey, man, what are you doing here?' I ask, hopefully lightly. I want to be alone, but he's my little brother.

’School was shorter today because of the snow," he replies, gives me another smile, then returns to his book. Now I'm glad he's the quietest of us.

He also never touches my stuff. The letter that came to me lies untouched on the edge of the table; thick, elegant, creamy white envelope, with the Capitol’s crest on it, and looking at it makes me nauseous. I take the letter-opening knife from the table - a horror of pure withe gold, decorated with roses of white diamonds, and green emerald leaves, that came with the house - and open the letter.

President Snow cordially invites you to the Capitol Ball in celebration of the Winter Solstice.

I suddenly don't feel like eating dinner.

*

Two days later, when I get on the train, the snowfall is less frequent. The snowflakes don't stop, not completely, but there are trains running. I haven't seen Haymitch or Katniss since the fight. I don't mention to anyone that I have to go to the Capitol, just Mom, even though Haymitch would come with me if I asked.

I feel a slight pang of guilt, knowing that my Mentor would do this for me, even though Snow has already killed everyone Haymitch has ever loved. Although... the old goat still considers the elder Mellark his friend, I can see it, and despite his best efforts to hide it, he's letting the Everdeens in closer. But I don’t want Haymitch here. I don’t need anyone.

I could bring a partner to the ball, but there's no one I'd be willing to take. Well - no one I'd be willing to take, and who'd be willing to come with me. I consider Leeveey for a moment, but then I involuntarily snort, even though I know it's mean. There’s nothing wrong with Leeveey per say – she is smart, and shy, and even pretty. But she is no Katniss.

There is something proud and dignified about Katniss's posture, and no Capitol butterfly can match the sharp look she gives a person when she thinks. Katniss could wear any hideous Capitol creation with a dignity that would make any material beautiful.

My breath catches at the thought of Katniss wearing warm colors: deep reds, soft, gentle browns, dusky yellows. Fiery colors. But the fact is, Katniss Everdeen doesn't want to go anywhere with me, so it's a waste to even think about it.

I step onto the luxury train, plop down on one of the deep brown leather seats, and order myself a whiskey, neat. This is not a good idea:  the booze makes me mean, and I know that as a fact. Still, I want to get as drunk as possible during the train ride, so that I can forget what the party is really about.

It's just an excuse for the President to gather as many Victors as possible in one place so that they can entertain as many... clients as possible. The ball comes in handy for this too: to an event like this, he can invite the Capitol elite, as many wealthy citizens as possible who can pay any amount for anything.

The thought makes me nauseous, and I start drinking, drinking, and drinking some more. The edges of the world are softer, my mouth is bitter, my temples slowly start to throb. When sleepiness drags me down like stones into some heavy, dark, watery dream, I suddenly find myself in the Arena.

Again, I'm standing in that fucking wooded area again, the trees looking dark, and Cato, Marvel, Glimmer, and Clove pushing me to kill my own district partner. They're like a pack of bloodthirsty hyenas, giggling, panting beasts. There’s no fucking way I can kill them all, and I won’t run like a coward. I have no choise, no chance, at all.

’Come on, hunter boy, do it’ Cato hisses. ’Or are you a coward?’ Oh, yeah, I am. I’m scared shitless, can’t you fucking see? Dumb blond killing machine. But I can’t tell him that. I raise my head high and look into his eyes. Don't blink, don't blink, don't blink.

’She is my district partner’ I protest. ’She is from home.’

’She is from home! She is my district partner! Oh, mommy, don’t let me do it!’ Clove imitates what I said in a high-pitched voice, mockingly.

 

I feel a burning anger and step towards her, but she puts a knife to my throat so quickly that I don't have time to attack her.

I freeze, but I keep a sharp eye on the whore from under the knife's edge.

'Oh, please, little hunter, give me a reason,' Clove whispers. 'Just one reason to slit your throat. Is your blood as filthy as your district is?’

I don't stand a chance. Cato has a sword; the sword I wanted; Clove has a knife in each hand, Glimmer has a bow, which she uses four times worse than Katniss would, but still... and Marvel has a spear. One on one I would be a worthy opponent to any of them, but against all of them, I am dead.

 I slowly turn towards the body writhing in the trap, Clove's knife slowly following my movements. I try to think of it this way. It's just a body: the carcass of an animal that I have to slaughter to feed my family, and Katniss is about to... it's just a body, it's not the girl who was nice to me, who kissed me on the train. It's just a body, a body, a body.

Ena Garton is constantly moving, never staying still for a moment, trying to free herself from the rope that has captured her legs and is hanging her upside down from a tree. Her face is fiery red from the blood flowing there, and the girl reaches down with all her might for the knife left in the grass, but of course she can't reach it. Her brown hair is out of the tight bun at the back of her neck, her blue eyes are tearful from the pain.

When I bend down to pick up the knife from the blades of grass, Ena freezes. There’s something dishonorable about killing her with her own knife, but of course everything in this situation is dirty, from my own trap to the fact that we come from the same place and yet I’m her enemy.

"Come on, baby hunter, do it!" Glimmer encourages me, and I want to stab the stupid blonde cow in the throat with the knife I'm holding. But the girl has about a thousand arrows.

This time Ena tries to lift her head to look into my eyes. Her irises are a beautiful deep blue, special.

’Please, Gale, don’t’ she wispers, and my heart would break, if I still had one, but I don’t.

I cut her throat as quickly as I can, with a clean, straight cut, from ear to ear. The sound of the canon fills the space, my hands are covered in blood, and...

'NO!' I scream, my eyes pop open, and I'm sitting on a train that just stops silently.

’Please, Gale, don’t.’

*

If I didn't hate the Capitol so much, I might even be willing to admit that the frozen streets are beautiful as I get off the train and head towards Victors Hotel.

 The Victors Hotel is - obviously - the very fancy place where the Mentors stay during the Games or other social events. Our own suite is also the place where our 'dates' take place with the richest, most influential Capitol citizens who pay the price for our... company.

With an aching forehead, I hurry through the frosty white streets and enter the Hotel's gold-lined doors without even glancing at the Peacekeepers standing on either side. Dirty lapdogs.

 Without any originality, each Victor is housed on the floor that represents his own District, so my suite is on the twelfth floor.

I dispise the Capitol and everything that goes with it, but even I admit that since my suite is located on the top floor of the Hotel, the view from the rooftop terrace from the rooms is simply breathtaking.

I’m considering sitting out there before my first appointment when I run into the District Seven Victor, Johanna Mason, outside the elevators. Johanna is tall and muscular, with chocolate brown hair, a pixie cut, and intelligent, sharp, dark eyes. She’s only a few years older than me, but we’re not close. I don’t have any friends among the Victors.

’Mason’ I murmur. I've heard that Johanna despises rudeness, and I'm not in the mood for an argument.

’Hawthorne’ she nods, in a surprisingly friendly voice. Then when she notices my expression, she smiles faintly. "Who spat in your cereal this morning?" she asks.

’Snow’ I replay. It's a dangerous thing to say, but I'm still a little drunk, have a headache, and am in a bad mood.

But Johanna's dark eyes soften at what I say, and she actually laughs.

’Welcome to the fucking club, Gale’ she notes. The elevator arrives and I let Johanna go ahead, who accepts the gesture with a cheeky grin.

“Mich didn’t come with you?” she asks, and it takes me a moment to realize she means Haymitch. Of course: almost all Victors are friends. It’s a club I’m not a part of.

"I don't need a daddy to take care of me," I reply irritably.

"But it wouldn't hurt to have one to discipline you," Johanna replies dryly. The elevator doors close and the elevator starts moving quietly, and I can't decide if I'm offended or if I just want to be touched by someone. Someone of my choosing. ’To have some manners.’

I grin and take a step, and now I’m directly in front of her.

'Are you volunteering?' I ask. 'How will you discipline me?'

Johanna flinches in disgust, then laughs with a snort. This is not the reaction I'm used to.

’Oh, baby, did you just made a move on me? You are really not a big enough boy for this yet.’ I clench my jaw and step closer. I place one hand gently on her wrist, though there is strength in my touch.

'You don't have to pretend.'

Johanna raises her eyebrows and looks down at my hand for a moment, which is gripping her wrist perhaps tighter than necessary

’Who the fuck is pretending?’ she asks, then she takes a step back, but I don't let go of her wrist.

’Okay’ she mutters, and for just a second, I feel like I convinced her, then she clenches her hand into a fist and pulls it back without shaking my hand off her wrist. She punches me so fast and with such force that my head snaps back and slams against the other side of the glass elevator which is behind my back.

The glass doesn't break, but I think my nose does, because blood starts pouring out of it: I grab my hand from Johanna's wrist and press it to my nose, blood pooling all around me

’What the fuck, Mason?’ I hiss. There’s blood absolutley everywhere.

"Didn't Daddy teach you not to corner girls?" Johanna growls, her eyes almost black from anger. "Oh, I forgot: Daddy's dead, and you feel like you're above Haymitch."

If she broke my nose a second time, it couldn't have caused more pain.

"I thought the Victors were all friends. Shiny, fluffy trauma club and all," I hiss.  Even my shirt is bloody.

'Oh, but darling,' Johanna purrs, every word dripping with sarcasm. 'For that club you would need to learn not to be an asshole. At least not to the other Victors. Alas.'

The elevator stops with a quiet jingle on the seventh floor, and Johanna turns around. Without stopping, she steps out the elevator door and raises her right hand, waving without looking back.

’That was fun’ she sings. ’Lets do it again sometime!’

I think she broke my nose in several places, if that's possible.

*

I decide that instead of retreating to my suite, I'll go down to the bar and have a drink. It's not a good idea, but my nose hurts and I'm not willing to go down to Medical to have it fixed by the doctors who are on duty constantly, in case  any of the Victors' need anything. If the Capitol whore wants me, this has to do.

 The bar space plays in deep emerald and black tones, highlighted by golden and bronze lights. From the ceiling geometric chandeliers hang down, made of cut glass and gleaming brass.  The walls are covered in dark velvet, into which a subtle rose pattern is woven – the roses appear sometimes with golden contours, sometimes in a pale blush shade, as if the play of light brings them to life.

The counter is made of black marble veined with gold, while the barstools have tall backs upholstered in emerald green leather. I find several Victors around the counter; Chaff from Eleven is in deep conversation with Cecelia, whose fiery red hair is flowing freely. Old Woof is talking to Mags, quietly. Seedeer listens with visible interest to Beetee's explanation of something.

I try not to look at anyone directly, and sit in a secluded spot, but nothing escapes Finnick Odair’s attention. The handsome man from District Four immediately raises his eyebrows as he sees me.

’Gale, what happend to you?’ he asks, and there’s worry in his voice: I know that he thinks a client hurt me, and I feel ashamed.

’Johanna’ I bark shortly, and I order a double wishky. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Finnick's gaze turn icy; his sea-green eyes suddenly are steely. Of course: Johanna and he are extremely close. Excellent.

"I feel like I should smash your head through a concrete wall for what you did to her, whatever it was, but Johanna already did," Finnick remarks coldly.

’Spear me’ I growl, then down the whiskey as soon as the bartender places it in front of me. The alcohol is so strong that for a moment I feel like I can't breathe.

’Why should I?’ asks Finnick, darkly, and I suddenly remember that he won his Game at just fourteen years old, the youngest ever. He is dangerous. ’Did you spear her?’

I sit up straight, but Finnick doesn't lseem to be bothered. He sighs wearily and orders a grog with a wave.

'We have enough enemies, kid,' he tells me, even though he's not much older than me. 'Don't make more, out of potential friends.'

’I’m not a kid’ I murmur, but for some reason my eyes start to sting. I ask for another round.  Odair takes a sip of his own drink and looks at me thoughtfully.

’Whats going on with you, Hawthorne?’ he asks, and suprisingly, he sounds honest. ’You can tell me, I’m good with secreets.’

Maybe it's because of the alcohol, but everything is pouring out of me. Katniss. Ena. Haymitch. Leeveey. Everything.

Finnick listens patiently to what I have to say; but when my words finally dry up, I suddenly feel naked and jump to my feet before he can speak.

"I have to go" comes out of me, and I feel pathetic.

’Gale’ the man exudes so much tenderness towards me that I can't bear it.

’I have a client’ I tell him, and I almost run out of the bar: Finnick doesn't come after me.

I’m pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. Just pathetic.

*

In my suite, I take a shower so cold I can barely stand it. I wash my hair, shave, and pull out a suit, hat is—by Capitol standards— a simple one, and sapphire blue. The walking closet in the suite is full of clothes, shoes, and accessories that are made for me, so I don't have to worry about the size. But the color, as always, reminds me of Ena, and I almost hang the set back up.

Are you as good a kisser as they say? Her question echoes in my mind.

Then I grit my teeth and shake my head. This is my punishment. I wear a crisp white shirt under my suit jacket, and my pants and leather shoes are a matching blue, while my pocket square is a shade lighter. I decorate my tie with a silver pin shaped like a lion: just like Haymitch did the night of our interviews.

When the client knocks on the door, I try to hold my head high and smile at her. Valeria Snow is an objectively beautiful woman, even in her older years, and I'm trying my best to forget that she's the first lady of Panem.

"Good evening, Madame," I say politely.

When I find myself on my back on the bed, I close my eyes tightly.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 5: The Witch

Summary:

’Where were you?’ Mama asks darkly, and I try my best not to flinch. If you do, its even worse with her.

Peeta

The wind blows hard as I say goodbye to Katniss, but it could be a firstorm, for all I care. I am happy; perfectly, soaringly happy. The girl I never dared to talk to before took a walk with me, and it seemed like she didn't mind me kissing her on the cheek. I only dared to look at her for a moment as I said goodbye, but her face seemed to flash with surprised joy. It's a perfect day.

As soon as I enter the bakery, the sweet-smelling warmth hits me in the face. Other times I associate the smell with home, but now the air catches in my throat as I see my mother behind the counter.

’Where were you?’ Mama asks darkly, and I try my best not to flinch. If you do, its even worse with her.

'I walked a customer home,' I answer cautiously. 'Papa knew about it.' She snorts, as if Papa's opinion doesn't matter.

'What kind of customer?’ I know what she means; whether the person came from the Town, that is, whether she was a merchant, or whether she was from the Seam. I don't want to think about it, and I don't think it's important anyway, but I can't lie to her. It'll come out anyway. I grit my teeth.

’It was Katniss Everdeen. Mama, the storm was horrible, and it was the gentlemanly thing to…’

I have no chance to complete my setnece; her dark eyes became huge, and the usual unbridled anger takes hold of her face.

’ The gentlemanly thing to do?!’ she is hissing, and this time, I do flinch. ’Who cares if you are a gentleman to that piece of trash!’ She screams so loudly that I can feel the sounds resonating inside my eardrums. I raise my head high and think about how many times Papa has remained silent, just to calm her down, just to pay for the imaginary sin of once loving someone else.

'Don't talk about her like that,' I say quietly. My mother's eyes widen even more; she's not used to be contradicted.

’Is she Asterid Everdeen’s bastard, or not?!

'She is her daughter, yes,' I answer softly, and there's no stopping from here.

"Turn the sign around," my mother growls at me, and even though I shouldn't, I obey her; I turn the sign on our door so that the word "closed" now appears, and then I pull down the shutter on the glass.

Mom throws herself at me without a word, but her continuous, painful blows land on my skin like hail. My nose is bleeding, my face is burning from the slaps; her hand wraps around my neck at one point; darkness slowly settles over me. From somewhere, a frying iron falls into her hand, which slams into my skull; the world fades and...

‘What the hell is going on here?!’ My father’s voice is almost as painful to hear, as my mother’s punches, and I want to ask him to be quieter, but I don’t have the strength; how did I end up on the ground?

’Peeta? Son, can you hear me?’

Quieter, please.

*

Katniss

I’m walking home in a particularly good mood. The fact that I clean Haymitch's house every day means that that it is almost sparkling clean. I also keep his clothes tidy and iron them; he's not enthusiastic about it, but after I remind him that I have absolutely no interest in his underwear and that if he has a problem with it, he can wash them himself, he quiets down.

I'm quietly happy that he ate the pie and the pretzel, and I make him some creamy mushroom soup, of which he also eats a little, though not enough, in my opinion. But he insists that I should take home as much of it as I want and I won't object. The man may have been a Victor for decades, but he was born in the Seam and never became a snob; he knows that in our neighborhood, gifts should be useful, that they are worth most when they help you survive. Giving me food is his way of expressing that he doesn't actually hate me.

As I walk through our door, I think to myself that the next thing I need to do, what I need to see, is Haymitch's fireplace cleaned; it's been quite difficult to light it today, and even though the old man said I didn't need to, I know he's cold.

’Hey, everybody, I got food!’ I shout happily as I enter the kitchen. The smile freezes on my face as quickly as it has never happened before; on the kitchen table lies the blond boy who insisted on taking me back to Haymitch’s today. The one who is always nice to me; the one who gossiped with me as if I were a normal human being, not some frozen creation who has only focused on survival since her father died. My boy with the bread.

Peeta's forehead, his entire skull is wrapped in a thick white bandage, but the white material is already bloody; my mother is gently peeling the gauze off him; she looks up, and I see that her blue eyes are worried and sad.

’Katniss’ she says gently.

"What happened?" I step closer to the table, my gaze on the pale Peeta, who is clearly unconscious. Under the bandage, deep, punctured wounds alternate with burn marks, and my stomach churns.

"We've had a little accident," a sad male voice says from the other side of the table, and I flinch. I didn't even notice that Otho Mellark is here as well.

"A little accident? "I repeate. ’Thats something little for you?!’

'Katniss,' my mother snapps. 'Don't be rude.’

I shiver and take a closer look at Otho’s face. He’s as pale as his son, his hands shaking as he grips the edge of the table at Peeta’s feet, his blue eyes so bright I think he might burst into tears at any moment. Guilt grips me.

"I'm sorry," I say with quiet sincerity. Of course, he didn't do this to Peeta. He is a good man.

"Hey, Katniss," Prim steps up to Mom, stepping out of our bedroom, handing Mom fresh bandage.

Primrose is the one who inherited our mother’s gift for healing. My throat tightens when I look at Peeta’s pale face, and my eyes start to sting. I grit my teeth; I won’t cry, I won’t cry, I won’t. Mom and Prim wouldn’t get it anyway: I never told them about how I did get that bread. And in a weird way, I feel like its none of their buisness, which of course, isn’t true. I just don’t want anyone to touch my feelings regarding Peeta.

Wait –

Before I can think about where this came from, Prim speaks softly;

"Katniss, you said you brought food?" she asks, her smart blue eyes seeing something on my face. "Mr. Mellark, can we offer you some?"

'I really can't accept it...' Otho mutters, and I understand; he's a merchant, while we live in the Seam, so he feels like he's taking away our food if he accepts, and insulting us if he refuses.

But I think about how Otho Mellark is always nice to me; he always offers more for the game than anyone else. Sure, Gale would say that he still wants to get into my mother's panties (disgusting), but of course that's not true.

Otho is just naturally nice, I think. I suddenly remember the rumors about how the baker often hides candy and lollipops in bread bags for the children of the poorest families in Seam; how he tried to help me with Haymitch's eating, just because they were friends once upon a time.

Gale would say that Otho doesn't understand the Seam families; that with his free gift he's only imposing a debt on them that they can't repay, but I think he just wants to help. Of course, my best friend would also bring up the assumption that Mellark is only trying to help me so much with Haymitch because Haymitch is a Victor. But I think Otho is just loyal to a friend.

I think Otho is basically an older Peeta, with the difference that Otho chose a terrible wife for himself, and perhaps too peaceful, in the face of the witch's cruelty. But Otho is a good soul, and his son is injured, so I swallow my tears and look at him.

'Come on Mr Mellark,' I tell him. 'I made the mushroom soup, I promise it's not poisonous.'

The man lets out a wet laugh and nods slightly. We pull into a different part of the kitchen, sit down at the counter where my mother usually selects her herbs, and eat.

’Its really good’ Mr. Mellark comments softly, and I’m able to give him a small smile; I may not cry, but my heart is beating fast. Peeta.

’Don’t worry’ I murmur. ’Mum and Prim will help.’

’I don’t deserve their help’ he wishpers. ’What kind of father lets his son be beaten up by his own wife? By anyone for that matter? She hit him on the head with.... with hot iron. Hit him over, and over again.’

The spoon clatters out of my hand, nausea and anger struggle within me. Breathe. I force myself to look up, into Otho's blue eyes, which are just like Peeta's.

’You brought him here’ I say. ’That’s enough.’

*

Peeta doesn't wake up for days. My mother and Prim do everything they can; they barely sleep, but the boy doesn't move. I stay by Peeta's side whenever I can, and when no one can hear, I hum quietly to him.

Visitors appear beside me; the mayor's daughter, Madge, with her golden hair and intelligent blue eyes, who brings me homework from school, and reads to Peeta.

Delly, who even in this situation smiles sadly; of course - I've heard they're friends. The plump, pretty girl is so genuinely friendly that it's strangely not bothering me that she's there. Delly leaves us four beautiful, red apples as a kind of payment, although she doesn't owe us anything and I have no idea where she got the fruit in the raging winter. Maybe she feels she owes us something because my mom treats her best friend. Maybe merchants and those born in the Seam aren't so different.

Peeta's brothers take turns with stubborn constancy, though none of them ever say a word, they just give worried glances to their father, then sit down next to their little brother. The eldest, Bran, is even bigger than Peeta, almost brutally strong, and the quietest of the three; his medium-length blond hair reaches almost to his shoulders and is sometimes held back with a piece of leather. Her other brother, Rye, is also blond, but his hair is curly, like water droplets clinging together. He sometimes accepts a cup of tea from my sister.

The next day, I scrape the fireplace with such aggression that even Haymitch notices it and looks up from his current book.

’What twisted your braid this morning, sweetheart?’ he asks, only half sarcastically, but when he sees my gaze, his face becomes serious. ’What is it?’

'Peeta,' I say simply, and my heart races again. 'Otho Mellark's youngest son, he's...' I trail off, and strangely, Haymitch waits patiently, just raising an eyebrow.

I grit my teeth again. Don't cry, don't cry, don't...

"His mother beat him," I force out. "The hot iron..." Haymitch flinches, and curses so colorfully that I forget to cry in surprise.

'I told that fucking idiot not to marry that damn harpy...' the man grumbles, and there's something so accurate about that statement, it makes me laugh.

Haymitch looks at me in surprise, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth; then he just shakes his head and doesn't say anything, but it's still good to have him there.

The unbearable old man.

*

The next afternoon, Haymitch shows up at our place, a bottle of wine in hand.

"Are you fucking kidding me, Haymitch Abernathy? Is that alcohol in there?" my mother asks, changing Peeta's bandage. To my surprise, I notice Otho Mellark smiling quietly in the background.

"Hey, good wine is good for circulation, and Otho needs all the help he can get here," Haymitch protests, grinning.

Otho laughs. I don't think I've ever seen him laugh before.

"Thanks, Hay," he says softly. It's strange to hear Haymitch have a nickname, but after all: these two men are friends.  My mother glares at them both, and the two fools lower their heads like teenagers.

"I want to let you know up front that if any of you get alcohol poisoning, you'll stay on the floor and die," my mother says, but her voice isn't sharp. There's something about it that I can't quite place. Is she teasing them?

"We understand, Ast," Otho nodds meekly. . My mother's gaze loses its edge and she sighs, then walks to the cupboard and takes out two glasses.

My mother also has a nickname. It's a strange day.

'Don't die, you idiots,' my mother says, setting the two glasses down in front of the men, then looking at me. 'Honey, can you get me some goat cheese? We really need it.' I don't object.

When I return with the cheese, Haymitch is opening the bottle and looking at me with interest.

"Would you like a round sweetheart?" he asks.

'No, she wouldn’t,' my mother snaps before I can open my mouth. ’Panem, Hay, come on!’

’You come on, Miss Vodka Champion, before her twenty-first birthday’ Haymitch answers dryly, but with a half smile. 'This wine is of good quality, she won't be harmed by a glass.’

’Oh, so its not the type of crap you prefer?’ asks Otho with a slight grin.

’Only a best for you’ shrugs Haymitch with a grin of his own.

Suddenly I understand what’s so unusual about all of this for me. They are just people. Otho Mellark is not just the baker, and Haymitch is not just the district drunk Victor, and my mom is not only the widowed healer. They are frineds.

"You could have a drink with us," Mr. Mellark ventures. My mother looks at him for a long moment, then turns back to the cupboard and takes out another glass.

’Wohooo!’ celebrates Haymitch.

’Shut up, Hay’ mutters my mom, but she smiles softly, and settles down opposite the other two.

That evening they drink wine and eat goat cheese; it doesn't chase away the darkness, but it helps a little.

 

The only one who doesn't show up is Peeta's mother.

*

Two nights later, the snow starts falling again, and I wake up; suddenly I can't bear the thought of Peeta lying alone in the dark kitchen, in a strange place, even with my mother's blankets and pillows around him. I move over to his side, feed the fire, and gently touch his wrist; as I throw more wood into the flames with one hand, I suddenly feel movement under my other palm; I freeze. Maybe I'm just imagining it? Slowly, slowly I turn around.

Peeta Mellark's beautiful blue eyes almost glow in the dark as he looks at me..

Chapter 6: The Toasting

Summary:

’Gale!’ I can’t do this. I can’t. But I stop, and I look at her.
"I hope you'll be truly happy," Primrose says, gently.

Notes:

The song in the chapter is Heartbeats by José González.

Gale -

When I get back to the District it's still cold, although I think I feel terrible more because of what happened in the Capitol, not because of the miserable winter. I don't expect anyone to be waiting at the station; I haven't told my mother when I'll be back, and I haven't told anyone else about the entire trip, so I'm surprised when I recognize the shivering figure.

'Leeveey, it's not like I don't find it touching that you're here, but I'm seriously not in the mood, right now'

The girl lifts her head and looks at me sharply. Her eyes are gray, her hair is a shade darker than Katniss's, jet black.

'And you think I'm in the mood for you?' she asks as I jump off the train, my feet clacking on the platform. 'My wedding was canceled because of you. But I need to talk to you.'

I respect her for not being shy in front of me. I've always liked girls who have spirit. But, at the same time..

"I didn't force you to do anything," I tell her, and start walking towards Victors Village. I don't wait to see if she comes or not, but she keeps up with me without a problem. Damn.

"You didn't force me to do anything?" she repeats, with a sneer that would even earn Haymitch's respect. "Is that your excuse? But, I'm not saying it's all your fault. The thing is though, I'm pregnant."

I stop, as if Johanna had punched me in the nose again.

’ Pregnant?’ I repeat, amazed.’ And you're telling me this like this? At a train station?’

"Oh, please, it's not like you're expecting a romantic dinner," she snaps. "You didn't force me to do anything, remember?"

I stare at her; Leeveey always seemed gentle, soft-spoken, which is why I was surprised to see her so temperamental just now. Up until now, I've mostly had fun with her because she looks a lot like Katniss.

"'Are you sure it's mine?' I ask then, more quietly. 'Isn't it Black's bastard?'

Leevey snorts deeply, and I shudder: what am I doing with the girls that they're all became sharp and dismissive of me?

'If I had any sense, I wouldn't even look at you, I'd stay with Coltson,' she declares, mercilessly. 'Polite, gentle, curious Coll. But I was bored.' She spits out the words like they were water 'That's exactly why I ended up with you, because Coll wanted to wait until marriage. I'm an idiot, and now I'm paying for it. The child is yours.'

Her words hurt more than they should. I have no right to feel this way, but they sting, and I find it offensive that she's treating my child like a punishment for her.

"If you want to be a man about it, marry me," Leeveey continues harshly. "If your dick is soft, tell me now and I'll handle it without you."

I stare at her; how is she going to do it alone? There aren't many options for single women in the District, especially those with children. I may not be worth anything, but I won't leave the mother of my child begging for crumbs on some street corner.

"I'll marry you," I say shortly, and start walking home again. "Meet me in an hour in front of the Justice Building!" I throw it over my shoulder.

"Don't let your heart be torn apart by the great romanticism!" the girl screams, with such force that my ears hurt; but she doesn't say she's not coming, and I experience this as a victory.

*

Maybe I'm a coward, but my plan is to sneak home, change, and meet Leeveey alone so I don't have to explain myself to anyone. My plan is immediately thwarted, however, when I run into my mother in the hall. Hazelle Hawthorne may be a kind, gentle nature, but she knows immediately when I'm doing something wrong.

"What, Gale?" she asks sharply. "What did you do?"

I summarize what happened with my head bowed, I feel like I'm five years old again. My mother's dark eyes are huge and incredulous.

'But it doesn't have to be a big deal,' I say quickly. 'I'll change, meet her, and we'll get through it.'

’Doesn't have to be a big…?’ Momma bites off the end of the sentence and her hand lands on my face in a sharp slap, that shocks me more than anything.

My mother believes that violence is the weapon of the weak, so she never, ever hit us; my hand goes to my face and I squeeze the spot where she hit me.

“You’re a grown man,” my mother says with soft coldness. “I never wanted to tell you who to spend your time with or what to do with a girl; I thought I’d already taught you respect. I was clearly wrong. I don’t blame you for what happened to Leeveey, although I’m not proud of it.” My mother takes a deep breath, and I feel so ashamed that I want to defend myself.

’Momma…’ But she raises her hand; she's not done yet.

'But to act like a thief in the night and marry that girl as if you were ashamed, when you are both equally at fault, is dishonorable, Gale.'

Dishonorable, this word seems to haunt me. My mouth is bitter.

"I'll tell you what happens," my mother declares, and I can tell from her voice that it's useless to argue.

'You change, put on a suit, the best one they made for you in the Capitol. Then you go to Town, and ask the jeweler, Gregor, to make you a pair of rings.'

I instinctively grimace; I have no desire to owe anything to a Townie.

'Maybe he can melt the ones that I already have. ’ My clients who feel uncomfortable after dates often pay me with jewelry to ease their dirty souls.

My mother clicks her tongue sharply.

"I don't know what you did to deserve them, Gale," she says darkly. "And I'm sure your future wife wouldn't want to know either. Every girl deserves her own ring. Your father worked for months for mine. You're Victor: pay for your bride's ring!"

The last sentence is so loud that Momma could have hit me again; she's gasping and I want to sink into a hole.

'In an hour, me and your siblings will be in front of the Justice Building,' she then announces. ’After Gregor,  you go, invite the Everdeens, and...'

 'Momma, I don't want..’ My mother cuts in with a sharpness that could draw blood.

'I don't fucking care' My mother swears so rarely that the words get stuck in my throat. 'You go invite Asterid, Katniss, and Primrose, because those three are like family to us...'

’Mom, Katniss…’

"Should be in Leeveey's place, but you've already ruined that, son," my mother nodds. 'When you're done with all this, you go to Haymitch and ask him to be there too; just like the Everdeens, at the Justice Building, and at the Toasting as well.'

I'll grit my teeth. Maybe I can still win this.

'Mom, I don't want him anywhere near….’

'He's your mentor, he saved your life, he'll always have a place with us,' my mother grumbles, cutting in again. 'Panem, haven't I taught you anything? While you take care of these things, I'll go to the Mellarks for bread for the Toasting and prepare the reception for after the Justice Building. Go.'

You're his mentor, which means you belong with him, and if I'd been in that fucking arena, this would never have happened.

He's your mentor, he saved your life, he'll always have a place with us.

The parallel between the two hits me in the face with such force that I bow my head. I have no say in my own wedding, starting with the bride, ending with the guests. I guess I deserve it. At least I don't have to go to the Baker's for bread, only to see Peeta's gloating face.

*

Gregor is a huge, muscular man, no one would think how delicate his paddle-like hands are. When he asks what kind of ring I want, I almost tell him I don't care at all; but then I remember my mother's voice and take a deep breath.

"Something that will last a long time," I say, and Gregor raises his thick, red eyebrows.  Everything about Gregor is thick and fiery red, from his eyebrows to his curly, thick hair; but his skepticism is indeed justified. I obviously want precious metal, and that usually lasts a long time.

'Something of fine workmanship'I risk it; although I feel like I'm having my teeth pulled. We are talking lightly about fine jewelry here, as I stand in the District's jewelry store, in Town; I am talking lightly, in the palest silver-gray suit I have ever owned.

But that doesn't mean District 12 isn't a dark, cold place where most people go hungry. I don't know if there's room for anything fragile, anything delicate, even if it's jewelry.

The man unpacks several rings in front of me, but honestly, they all fill me with a certain disgust. They're all thick, too many, too ostentatious, too...

But then I see something that might work. The ring is delicate, like it's made up of elegant waves; Gregore sees what I'm looking at, and notes that the ring is white gold, and the tiny pale green stone in the center is a real emerald.

"I'll take it," I say quickly, hoping I can finally get over it all.

"It'll be a bit expensive," Gregor remarks. I raise my eyebrows and look at him unflinchingly. The man flinches. I guess I deserve this because I don't really identify with the Victor persona like every other Victor I know; but still.

"I'll pack them," the man grumbles, and I say no more. I'm lucky; the other half of the ring, the one  for me, is simple, unadorned, a bit thicker, white gold, although it also has a small emerald in the center, but it's not ostentatious. I might even be able to wear it.

Yet I hate it all, and as I leave the store, with the two green velvet boxes in my pocket, I feel like crying. I pretend it's from the cold.

*

’Good job, Peeta!’ Primrose's cheerful voice hits me in the face as I enter the Everdeens' house, walk through the hall, through the living room, and into the kitchen. I just catch a glimpse of Prim jumping up happily to throw her arms around Peeta's neck. What the hell is he doing here?

Katniss is the first to notice me, of course. She gives me a sharp, gray look.

"Gale," she says briefly, and the message is clear: I have not been forgiven. Mellark turns immediately, as if Katniss's voice were gravity to him, though the boy doesn't let go of Primrose; I notice that his hand is still protectively on the girl's shoulder.

As if Prim has anything to fear from me, asshole. I wanted to help her before you even knew she existed.

Although the way he looks might answer why he's here. Mellark's face is covered in bruises that are different colors depending on where he's at in his healing with each of them, and his skull is wrapped in a white bandage. What the hell happened to him?

Although I can see that he is doing his best to stand perfectly straight, there is still a certain tiredness emanating from him.

My gaze drifts from Mellark to Katniss, who stands across the kitchen from him and Prim. She holds her head stubbornly high, her mouth a straight, unforgiving line. I really screwed this up. But her positioning provides another answer; Mellark has to walk from one Everdeen sister to the other. It’s a balancing exercise Mrs. Everdeen uses for head injuries.

"I didn't come to fight" slips out of my mouth, pitifully.

Katniss doesn't say a word, but Primrose takes pity on me and smiles at me.

’Hi, Gale! How was the Capitol?’ she asks.

I flinch. So, my mom did tell them.

’Amazing as always’ I tell her a bit dry, and apperently that’s not a good choice because Katniss’s gaze is even more sharp now. 'I'm actually here to invite you all to my wedding. Justice Building, Toasting, party, all of it.'

’Oh, a wedding!’ Prim squeals, young enough to see nothing but romance in these things, even where there’s none.

Katniss opens her mouth and I know she wants to refuse, I can see it in her face, but before she can, Mrs. Everdeen beats her to it.

"We'd love to go, Gale, thank you," she says.

Katniss's gray eyes widen.

'Mom, we can't leave Peeta here alone!'

Oh, so he is more important than me?

I know the thought is petty, but the feeling is only deepened by Asterid Everdeen's gentle smile, as if she knows something Katniss doesn't. Damn it!

"Katniss, I'll be fine," Mellark says quietly, and it annoys me even more because his voice rings honestly, and he doesn't think for a minute that I invited him too. ’Don’t worry about me.’

"'It's my job to worry, isn't it?' Katniss argues, and I hate that her voice isn't sharp with Peeta. 'You came to us to be healed.'

I want to tell Katniss that I know she's hiding behind the mask of healing so she can spend time with Mellark, but I'm already in deep enough water with her, so I keep my mouth shut.

Mrs. Everdeen's smile widens.

"Katniss, you can be sure that I won't leave any of my patients alone," she notes, her voice gentle. "Peeta, is it okay if Greasy Sae comes over to keep you company while we're at the Toasting? She can tell if anything's wrong.’

I'm waiting for the Townie to complain about being left alone with a Seam vendor, but Mellark just smiles faintly.

'That would be perfect, Mrs. Everdeen, thank you'

"I told you, call me Asterid if you want," the other one says, and this is at least the third slap I've received today. I never got this offer from the woman.

Katniss's shoulders relax dramatically at the thought that Bread Boy will be safe, and I can't do this anymore.

"I'll see you there," I murmur in goodbye, and turn around.

I’m already at the door when Primrose catches up with me. Everyone says Katniss looks like her father, but Primrose is clearly an echo of Asterid, with her golden hair, soft, white skin, and blue eyes. Her hair is like liquid gold as I open the door and the pale winter light falls on her.

’Gale!’ I can’t do this. I can’t. But I stop, and I look at her.

"I hope you'll be truly happy," Primrose says, gently.

I smile at her, even though there's no chance of that happening.

*

’Are you fucking insane, Hawthorne?’ Haymitch stares at me as if he's seeing me for the first time.

“Is that a rhetorical question?” I mutter, my mentor’s face remains unsmiling.

"Why the fuck would you drag anyone into this shit?" he growls.

'You mean marriage?'

’Cut the crap, you know what I mean!’

I want to bring up the fact that he had a girlfriend once, but despite what everyone says, I'm not  mean by nature. Of course I know what he means; Leeveey will be in danger if she marries me. The Capitol uses everyone against its own Victors. I'll be lucky if my wife is 'just' another name on the list of people with which they can blackmail me. My shoulders slump under his gaze.

’Haymitch, she is pregnant. I have no choice in the matter and I refuse to run.’

I refuse to run, wasn’t that my problem in my Games? If I run away, they might think I'm a coward, but they wouldn't know me as the traitor who let down his own District partner.

My mentor lets out a long curse.

"Would you please come?" I ask, surprising myself with the vulnerability in my voice. What the...?

Haymitch raises his eyebrows, but there's no mockery on his face this this time.

’Sure, kid.’

I want to tell him I'm not a child, but I change my mind and stay silent.

"I'll see you in half an hour," I say, and turn around.

"'Will there be booze?' the man calls after me, and I raise my hand next to my head in a gesture without stopping.

’Bye, Haymitch!’

*

I arrive at the Justice Building at the same time as Leeveey and her parents. I would love to repeat the curse word Haymitch just used, but of course I won’t.

I have to admit, Leeveey is pretty; she's wearing a withe dress that's decidedly simple, but loose at the wrists and intricately laced. Perfect for a wedding, and classy by District standards. The girl's chocolate-colored hair is tied into an intricate bun on top of her head, with only two loose strands framing her face. She obviously paid attention to every detail, but I can't help but think that she planned these details with someone else. Both her mother and father stare at me suspiciously as I walk over.

’Gale’ I have never been so happy to hear Katniss' voice in my life, and this time her tone is gentle. I nod quickly to Leeveey's parents, and as I turn in the direction of the voice, I see Katniss standing not far from me in a sunny, pale yellow dress that looks like it came from Asterid's old Merchant wardrobe, but it's still elegant. The cheerful color sets off her dark skin and creates a beautiful contrast.

She waves.

Asterid, wearing tired, old lavender silk, is engaged in deep conversation with my mother. Everyone is wearing bright colors, from my little sister, who is in pale pink, to my Mom, who is om a delicate green fabric, to Primrose, who chose the palest teal I've ever seen.

My gaze wanders back to Katniss, who is joking with my two younger brothers; Rory and Vick are both wearing classic black and white suits that fit them perfectly, and under normal circumstances this would make me happy, but now my heart aches.

"You're staring at the wrong girl, kid," a raspy voice growls next to me, and I jump so high I almost knock Haymitch over.

’What the hell….’

’My question exactly’ nodds my mentor. "Quit it!"

"Well, I invited you," I say with a certain self-loathing, and Haymitch laughs softly, raspingly. "I deserve it."

I take a deep breath and take Leeveey’s hand, who doesn’t object. Inside the building, we stop in front of the mayor. Mayor Undresse is as blonde as her daughter Madge, though his eyes are a kind brown instead of Madge’s blue iris.

The ceremony is short and simple, and it washes over me like water. I repeat the lines of the oath almost in a trance. Cherish. Love. Protect. Will it be real if I don't really feel it's sincere? Maybe we doesn’t need real or sincere; we are going for offical to protect Leeveey and the child from shame. Protecting them – that, I can promise, thats something, right?

 

The kiss is short and soft - it only makes me sadder. So far, at least our kisses have been real, hungry, and hot, but now the heat is only followed by ashes.

There's really nothing left of me.

*

 

The party is huge. My mother throws the house door wide open and invites practically everyone in the District.   She sends a little boy with three large packages full of food to the Mellarks and Greasy Sae who are almost the only ones not present.

I understand what she is doing. Victors Village is physically further away from the rest of the District, as if whoever built it wanted to separate the Victors from their previous community. This is also just a form of torture.

As such, most of the District largely avoids us - no one wants anything from the Drunk and the Traitor. They fear Haymitch - almost everyone, except Katniss and the Mellark boys, whose father I don't think would ever say anything bad about Abernathy - and they hate me.

My mom wants to show them with the party that we're no different from them. They threw us into an Arena and we had to survive, that's all. For my part, I don't think it's going to work. People will eat - no one in the District is stupid enough to turn down free food at a wedding - they will dance, sing, and then go home, but their opinions won't change.

My heart aches. Katniss is visibly ignoring me - she'll dance with anyone but me. I can't help but feel anger as I watch Haymitch spin the girl, her intricate braids following the movement. A flute is playing.

‘Would you mind not staring?’ Leeveey’s sad voice snapps me out of the moment.

'I'm sorry,' I say, and this time I mean it. I hold out my hand and force a faint smile. 'Dance with me?'

The girl's gray eyes look almost silver with grief, but she's still and lets me spin her. I'll have to try Leeveey. She's the mother of my child.

Someone starts a line dance, and more and more people join in. The lone violinist is joined by a guitar, producing an energetic melody. I see Darius dancing with Griselle.

"Katniss, sing something for us!" I hear Primrose shout from somewhere. I see Katniss shake her head hastily, but the people seem to like the idea.

’Sing! Sing, sing, sing!’

Soon a small chorus forms, and Katniss gives in. She takes a few steps back from Haymitch, but keeps her eyes fixed on him, I guess so she doesn't have to look at me.

One night to be confused
One night to speed up truth
We had a promise, babe
Four hands and then away

Both under influence
We had divine sense
To know what to say
Mind is a razor blade

 

To my utter astonishment, Haymitch sings back, more hoarse and not as clear as Katniss, but there's still something appealing about his voice, creating a contrast with hers.

To call for hands of above
To lean on
Wouldn't be good enough
For me, no

One night of magic rush
The start a simple touch
One night to push and scream
And then relief

Ten days of perfect hues
The colors red and blue
We had a promise, babe
We were in love

To call for hands of above
To lean on
Wouldn't be good enough
For me, no
To call for hands of above
To lean on
Wouldn't be good enough

Katniss claps rhythmically for the man, creating an effect like the sound of a beating heart. It all works, and as more and more people join in, I only feel lonelier in the circle. Leeveey touches my cheek and I look at her.

"Eyes up here," the girl warns, and I nod.

I turn away from the duo of Haymitch and Katniss, whose voices can be heard even in the chorus of many, and bury my face in my wife's shoulder, and we slowly rock. My wife. What a thought. The dance lasts until dawn, and then slowly, as the dawn light filters through the windows, people start to wear out.

The word violin slowly dies away, the guitar falls silent. My mother sends everyone home with a big package of food, and my former neighbors, my schoolmates, step out my door onto the pale road.

My little brother, Rory, who feels like a man now, pays the musicians handsomely; when I next look up, it’s just Leeveey’s parents, the Everdeens, and Haymitch around me. When I look at Leeveey, she smiles faintly at me.

Suddenly I don't mind that the Toasting have witnesses. I don't want to be alone.

My mother conjures up the bread; the dough is spectacularly whiter and softer than the tessare bread, the roughness of which I am used to. But, I guess the only advantage of being Victor is that I can afford better quality things now. Yet, it still feels foreign. We walk into the kitchen, I kneel in front of the fire, ignoring the nice material of my pants, and Leeveey throws wood into the flames.

My mother, my three siblings, Haymitch, Katniss, Prim, and Asterid form a loose circle with Leeveey's parents. The inner circle is made up of my mother and Leeveey's parents, Rory, Vick, and Posy, followed by Haymitch, and then the Everdeen women.

 

Insignificant, small details stick in my mind: the way the light from the flames reflect off Haymitch's dove grey, soft colored suit; the heat of the fire on my face. Leeveey and I, we are slowly toasting our first bread together.

I watch with a certain respect as Leeveey lifts the bread from the fire without hesitation as it darkens to a crispy brown, even though the dough must be piping hot. The girl calmly breaks off a bite of the bread and feeds it to me with a gentle movement.

The bread is deliciously soft, and there's definitely a pinch of salt in it, and it looks like it's sprinkled with flaxseed. Its perfect.

I chew it, then swallow it; then I break the bread too, and with my free hand I stroke the side of Leeveey's cheek, I watch as she accepts it from me and then slowly eats it. The delicate white gold ring sparkles discreetly on her hand, which she keeps in her lap.

Haymitch whistles sharply as I lean forward and kiss my wife, but I’m not angry with my mentor now. This kiss is softer and more emotional, and I can see why people in the District think Toasting is the seal of marriage. I suddenly want to be close to Leeveey and hold her face in my hands, but the kiss ends too quickly.

I blink. I'm married.

Leeveey’s mom hugs her, and mine is kissing me on the cheek. Katniss gives me a short, sharp smile and is out the door. Asterid's smile is softer than that, and she walks out after her daughter, Prim at her side.

Haymitch catches my eye and nods; my mom and siblings are spending the night at his house tonight. I don't think it's necessary, but my mother thinks it's inappropriate to share your wedding night with anyone, but your love, and I don't argue.

My  sister takes my mentor by the hand, who looks surprised, but doesn't pull away, and the little girl pulls the man out the door. If my throat weren't so tight, I'd laugh. Before I know it, only Leeveey is standing next to me.

The Master Bedroom, the largest in the house, had belonged to my mother until now. Now the room is cleaned, the air is fresh here, and mother's personal belongings are gone. She must have moved into one of the spacious guest rooms, of which there are several in the house. There's nothing wrong with guest rooms, they're fit for a queen compared to what our house was like in the Seam, and I appreciate the gesture, but I still feel guilty.

There is a soft, pale green blanket on the bed; I believe it is one of Asterid Everdeen's wedding gifts, and Leeveey looks pleased.

I walk over to the girl and kiss her hungrily, wanting to relive the feeling in front of the fire, but she pulls away.

‘Do you think we can do it?’ She asks quietly.

"We already did it," I reply lightly, but of course I know what she means. Not sex, we've never had a problem with that; living together, raising children. Everything.

’Sure.’ Though, of course, I’m not sure.

 

Leeveey kisses back, then pulls away again.

"Will you wait until I undress?" I can tell from her voice that she wants to do it alone. I find this a bit unnecessary, again, but I don't argue with her.

’Go ahed’ I tell her, and I get a real smile for this. I step through the small door from the bedroom into my mother's former private bathroom, wash my face with cold water, and slowly undress. The face that looks back at me from the mirror is tired and foreign. I walk back to the bedroom with soft steps.

 

My new wife is lying unconscious on the floor next to the bed.

 

Chapter 7: Poison

Summary:

"Hazelle," Haymitch says thoughtfully. "You said that these slices of meat are usually arranged in a flower pattern, right? Do you happen to remember what kind of flower pattern they used for the ones you served at the wedding?"
Haymitch and Gale exchange a strange look that I don't understand. Something seems to be taking over Gale's face. What...?

Katniss

The sudden silence of my home is a stark contrast to the sounds of Gale's wedding. It is surprisingly peaceful. I take off the yellow dress and carefully hang it in my mother's closet. It's a little worn, but since the material must have been incredibly expensive when it was new, the dress is holding up well.

Even though we now have a steady income, thanks to my job at Haymitch’s, the hunting, and my mother's healing skills - I'm still extremely careful with her old wardrobe. Being frugal is ingrained in me, because I vividly remember what it was like to be hungry. So I doubt I'd ever be able to afford fancy clothes, even if I had the money. All three dresses we wore to the wedding - the yellow, the teal, and the tired lavender - belonged to my mother, once.

I decide I'm going to wash up. Peeta brought in three buckets of fresh well water while we were away, even though we washed before the wedding. This is partly a good thing - this boy has the kindest heart in the world - but it also worries me. Peeta should rest.

I scrub my skin thoroughly with the homemade soap my mother made. Before I started working for Haymitch, I was annoyed that my mother used some of the tessare oil to make soap, even though most of the ingredients were sunflower oil... sure, I agree, being clean is important, but still.

But now I'm thinking about including soap among the things I usually offer for exchange; game, berries, seeds, cheese, herbs, and soap, why not? I can try.

I dry myself off and pull on a light material nightgown. I walk into the kitchen, where Peeta is reading one of our medical books by candlelight. As he looks up, his blue eyes look even more pretty, and softer in the light than usual.

"Did I wake you?" he asks worriedly. "I'm sorry."

’Nah, I haven't slept yet,' I reassure him, and sit down in the chair across from him at the table. 'What are you reading about?'

"'It's anatomy,' he says, excitement creeping into his voice. 'Your mother let me borrow it. It discusses different parts of the body and describes which herbs are good for each injury. It's amazing!'

I find his excitement surprisingly sweet, and I have to smile.

'You know,' I say quietly. 'If you show me the herbs, I can gather some for you. It's always different to feel them in person.'

I surprise myself with this offer; this openness is unusal for me. But Peeta is special.

’Serusly?’ His enthusiasm increases dramatically, and this time I laugh

’Course’ I grin. ’You can come with me as well, if you want.’

Those sky-blue eyes widen with joy, but before he can react, there's a rapid knock on our back door. My muscles tense reflexively and I jump to my feet. A visitor at this late hour is never a good sign. It's always someone who is so sick that they need immediate medical attention.

‘Mom!’ I shout and run to the door, throwing it wide open.

Gale stands on the other side of the door, his hair disheveled from running, his white shirt wrinkled, and Leeveey lies in his arms, still in the sleek white dress she wore to the Toasting.

'She's unconscious, Catnip!' the boy says, his voice trembling. 'She's breathing, but she's stiff, and I can't wake her up!'

I am terrified; I am not completely useless, I can treat basic wounds, maybe even set bones, but I am completely unfit for that. But I try. I raise my head and step nimbly out of the way of the door.

'Come in!'

I am incredibly grateful when my mother appears behind me and firmly but gently instructs the boy to lay Leeveey down on the kitchen table. In addition to her deathly pale and snow-white skin, her dark hair, which has been pulled out of a complex hairstyle, is even more spectacular. As always, when I worry, everything around me sharpens, and for a moment I realize that Leeveey's hair is actually jet black, not brown as I had thought.

My mother checks the girl’s pulse gently and quickly, but I can see she’s worried. I hear Peeta step next to me and take my hand gently. I don’t pull away. Gale, pale, starts pacing up and down. No one stops him.

“Did she eat anything special from the District tables?” my mother asks. Peeta and I exchange glances; the boy frowns. Of course, he wasn’t there, but I don’t quite understand the question either. Apparently Gale doesn’t either.

’Pardon?’ ” Gale asks, and somehow shame oozes from him.

My mother looks up from Leeveey's face, surprise and impatience mixed on her features.

'Over the past year, your mother has written several letters to your fellow Victors. She's on friendly terms with most of them now, didn't she tell you? I guess she thought it was good to be in contact with people who could understand what you were going through.’

I understand the logic behind the idea, and if I were to go by Haymitch, maybe most of the Victors are good people, who have experienced terrible things, but Gale stares at my mother like she's crazy.

'So,' my mother continues, hurriedly. 'She talked to some about books, to others about gardening or family, again, with others about cooking.'

Gale shakes himself.

'Mrs. Everdeen, with all due respect, what does this have to do with Leeveey? We don't have time for this.'

’We don't have time for your ignorance, son," my mother snaps, with an edge that makes both Peeta and I flinch.

"For the past few months, your mother has been asking all the District Victors for some interesting food that is typical of that district for you and your siblings to try. She wants to instill some culture in you, Gale. I guess there wasn't time for this taste test, but the food she had saved up came in handy now, and your mother was able to use it for the reception."

District tables. Now I'm starting to understand. But Gale just blinks helplessly, and I can't help but feel deeply sorry for him.

 "Hazelle set up different tables, for each district, so that everyone could try something exciting at the party," my mother speaks in such a hurry that her words are blurred. 'Didn't you question how she was able to put together a reception so big that the entire District could come - in one day?’

Gale looks like he's about to die of embarrassment, and I can see why. He's not paying attention to the details. Not that I have any reason to blame him – I, myself was too busy eating hot meat pies from the Mellark Bakery, which were so delicious that I didn't even notice the District tables.

'I asked what Leeveey ate because exotic foods can have different effects on the body,' my mother explains. 'So - what did she eat?'

’I’m… I’m not sure’ mutters Gale, and I want to hug him. ’She… I wasn’t with her throughout the entire party, and she walked around, exchanged a few words with everyone’

That's true; she even stopped next to me at one point and asked me how I liked the pies, even though there's been some tension between us lately, even though there's never been anything between us, with Gale, just friendship.

My mother strokes her forehead tiredly.

There is something in her comment that makes me flinch again, even though my mother is right. Hazelle has an eye for detail that Gale clearly didn't even notice. The boy turns on his heel, and before I can blink, he's gone. The front door remains open behind him, and cold air rushes in.

*

Haymitch

It feels quite unusual to spend my evening surrounded by a family again. This has not happened with me since my mother and Sid passed away. The Hawthornes are noisily using the bathroom, I can hear the two boys arguing about who should take a shower first, until their mother yells at them to knock it off.

Then Hazelle looks at me anxiously and apologizes for the disturbance for the thousandth time, but honestly, and strangely enough, I don't mind them being here, which I tell her so. The little girl—Posy, I remind myself, her name is Posy Hawthorne—hasn't let go of my hand since the Toasting ended, and again, unexpectedly, I don't mind.

The kid even suggests that she'll sleep next to me tonight, but her mom tells her that's out of the question; I have to grin at the little one’s disappointed expression.

"Don't be sad, flower seedling," I tell her suddenly. "How about we make pancakes together tomorrow morning?"

"Yeey," Posy cheers; her brother has obviously brought her pancakes from the Capitol. "Which one is your favorite?"

"It's a complicated question," I reply, pretending to think deeply. "Can I decide by tomorrow?"

’Sure!’

Hazelle smiles gently at me, and suddenly I start to feel awkward: I don't know what's come over me. This is dangerous.

"Say good night, Posy," Hazelle instructs her daughter.

'Good night, Haymitch!'

'Night, flower petal'

As the two of them climb the stairs leading from the living room to the guest rooms, following Rory and Vick, I decide to check the front door. I usually don't give a damn whether the door is open or not; honestly, I would be deeply grateful to any thief who wants to slit my throat; but not today.

It's foolish, but I feel responsible for those who spend the night under my roof; there are traces of my mother's former guidance, so here I am. I lock the door, which is sturdy and intact, then leave the key in the lock and decide to try to sleep. I usually drink until I pass out, but since I was foolish enough to promise the kid pancakes, I can't be completely useless tomorrow morning.

I'm not drinking more tonight; what I had at the party causes a pleasant buzz in the back of my skull, but nothing more. I guess it's because it was good quality wine, instead of the harsh, raw white liqueur I usually consume.

I walk into the master bedroom, which I rarely use (I usually sleep where I drink), but since Sweetheart has been cleaning here, it's perfectly clean too. Katniss's thoughts bring back memories of us singing together. Of course, I blame the wine for that too. That girl has exactly the same voice as Burdock had, and it makes my chest tighten, but with a kind of unexpected, grateful tightness.

I take off my jacket and hang it on the back of one of the chairs. Lenore Dove would have loved this color; that's exactly why I chose it. I slowly start to unbutton my shirt and consider taking a bath, using the private bathroom, which opens from here, rather than the one downstairs that the boys used earlier, when something clatters against the window.

My hand slides down to my suit trousers, and I grab the knife in my pocket, which I never go anywhere without since the Arena. The sound repeats itself. What the...?

Someone is throwing stones at the window because the front door is locked.

I swing the knife open, which makes a reassuring clicking sound, then I go to the window and throw it wide open. Below the window stands Gale, looking as if he has just crawled out of a muddy hole.

'Hawthorne? What the hell are you doing here?'

'I need my mother'

"On your wedding night?" Indeed, I've never been able to hold my tongue.

'Fuck you, Haymitch, Leeveey is sick, and my mother might be able to help. Let me in!'

I may be an asshole, but I'm not that kind of asshole. I spin around and in the blink of an eye I'm out of the room and into the hallway.

I am very lucky; I almost crash into Hazelle, who is now wearing a simple white blouse with black skirt instead of her lovely green gown. It seems that I am not the only one in this house who has trouble sleeping.

"What's going on, Haymitch?" she asks, her dark eyes alert, her gaze intelligent. For the first time, it occurs to me that she wouldn't be a bad ally or friend to have, and that hasn't happened since Burdock, Asterid, and Otho.

"Gale is here, Leeveey is in some kind of trouble, and they need your help," I blurt out, and I'm glad that's enough for her: she nods firmly and asks no questions. We almost run to the stairs, where I let her go ahead of me.

On the other side of the front door, the boy looks like he's seen the devil and is babbling about food. Of course: I heard that Hazelle wrote to every single Victor, which I approve of. The kid needs someone—even if he doesn't trust me.

Or maybe he does? While his mother braves the night streets, the kid looks like he's frozen into a pillar of salt, staring at me helplessly.

"It's my fault, Haymitch," he wails. "I should never have married her!"

You're fucking right. But of course, I can't say that out loud.

"You had no choice," I remind him, trying with all my might to soften my voice. "Unless you wanted to see your kid in the Community Home, and that's no fun."

It doesn't seem to help: Gale is shaking all over, and before I can do anything about it, I find him in my arms, despite all his muscle and height.

I'm really shit at this, but I can't push him away; I put one arm around his shoulder and run my fingers through his thick, jet-black hair with the other. He buries his face in my shoulder, and for a moment we just stand there in the night.

*

Katniss

"A blowfish?" Gale repeats, stunned, and I can't blame him. This conversation is astonishing.

"Fugu," Hazelle corrects him, as if he should know this. ’ The meat is cut into extremely thin slices and arranged in a floral pattern – for example, like a chrysanthemum shape - on the plate. Mags recommended it from the fourth district, and Leeveey loves fish. Didn't you know?’

Gale shudders, and although I really like Hazell under normal circumstances, I find this a little unnecessary. Why draw his attention to yet another fact he doesn't know about his wife? Gale looks terrible anyway; everything is wrinkled, he looks like he's been crying, and he's standing surprisingly close to Haymitch in the corner of the kitchen. What's even more surprising is that Haymitch doesn't comment on it at all.

’ Mags recommended it from the fourth district?’ repeats the boy, astonished and sharp. 'Did you accept advice from a Carrier District mentor?'

Carrers - We call those districts whose children mostly train in secret for the Arna, such district, although I now know from Haymitch that the fourth district is more relaxed than the first two. And—ever since I've really known Haymitch—I've been reluctant to judge any mentor, honestly.

"No one asks to be born in a particular place, son," Hazelle retorts. "If this were the culture here, like in fourth, you wouldn't question it."

"Not to mention that there are few people in the world kinder than Mags," Haymitch remarks. "She was one of my mentors because we didn't have a living Victor during my Games. So watch your mouth."

Peeta and I look at each other: his face shows the same surprise I feel. I didn't know this, and it seems that most people in the room feel the same way. Only my mother's face shows no bewilderment; she has obviously heard this before.

"I'm sorry," Gale mutters, and I can't help it, I feel sorry for him. This is not his day.

"But what's important to us," my mother says quietly, "is that we now know that certain parts of this food are extremely poisonous because of tetrodotoxin." My mother looks down at Leeveey, who is still unconscious. "We need to figure out what kind of antidote we need, and we have a chance."

"When you figure it out, let me know and I'll order it from the Capitol," says Haymitch, then adds darkly, "They owe me that much."

I want to know what he means by that, but then I notice Gale's grateful glance at his mentor, and that distracts me.

"Hazelle," Haymitch says thoughtfully. "You said that these slices of meat are usually arranged in a flower pattern, right? Do you happen to remember what kind of flower pattern they used for the ones you served at the wedding?"

Haymitch and Gale exchange a strange look that I don't understand. Something seems to be taking over Gale's face. What...?

 

’Well’ says the other slowly. ’As I said, usually its in a chrysanthemum shape, but this time, these were arranged to form a large rose. Why do you ask?’