the next will never come (part 12/?, hunger games, r)
the next will never come
"It means I'm done. It means I'm free. It means I'll live."
katniss/peeta, katniss/gale, au, r. katniss makes it through her final reaping. part 12 of ?
“How’s Gale?” Prim asks the second I walk through the front door. She’s stretched out on the sofa, watching the Games.
I force my eyes away from the television and narrow them suspiciously at Prim. “Who says I was at Gale’s?”
She shrugs. “Where were you then?”
“At Gale’s,” I grumble, moving to sit beside her.
“Aha,” she says with a triumphant grin. I roll my eyes in response, bumping her lightly with my elbow.
A crack of thunder draws my attention back to the tv screen. It’s raining in the arena, and the cameras are focused on a pair of Careers, flirting beneath the makeshift shelter they’ve created out of a tarp.
They’re the ones who escaped from Stunner, the boy with the axe, I realize with a start. For a moment I can’t believe they’re behaving like this - teasing, giggling, normal - so soon after the brutal deaths of the boy and girl from 2. But I remember quickly who these people are: volunteers. Theywant to be here. The tributes from District 2 weren’t their friends; they were their allies, and that means something very different inside the arena.
“I don’t know why you’re so secretive about it,” she says more seriously. “Everyone saw it coming.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you only hang out with each other…and he’s so handsome…and it’s pretty obvious he liked you, at least.” Prim shrugs. “It just seemed kind of inevitable.”
I don’t know why it bothers me - hadn’t I had similar thoughts myself? - but her words rankle nonetheless. I guess it’s the implication that others knew something about me that I didn’t even know myself. That they were thinking, talking, about Gale and me.
“It’s nobody’s business,” I say quietly.
Normally I’d follow that up with some teasing - not even you, you nosy little duck - but right now I’m exhausted, and more than a little anxious about how quickly things are progressing with Gale. I don’t want to talk or even think about it right now - thankfully, Prim seems to sense this, because she changes the subject.
“Effie Trinket told me they’re airing the interviews Saturday night,” she says, staring back at the screen.
“That’s quick.” It’s two days from now. I brush a stray piece of hair away from her temple. “Are you nervous?”
“No.” She shakes her head a little. “I did what I could. Hopefully it’s enough.”
Her answer surprises me. Isn’t this the same girl who couldn’t bear to glance away from the television for even a second, just a week ago?
It’s not, I realize abruptly. Prim’s not the same. She’ll never be the same. This is what the Games do to us: pull us apart so we’re forced to stitch ourselves back together, in whatever way we can. The first time a person you know…a person you love…is reaped, things change. You’re never as whole as you were before you reached Reaping age.
“They’ll love it,” I say gently. “She’ll get so many sponsors, they’ll be turning them away.”
“She could still come home, right?” Prim’s words are so soft I’m not even sure they were meant for me to hear. “She could.”
But though she’s quiet, I can still detect something I’ve never heard before in Prim’s voice: resignation.
---
Brody’s still sick, according to Peeta, so it’s just the two of us and Mr. Mellark in the kitchens the next morning. I’m a terrible substitute for Brody’s steady hands and years of experience. They must spend half the morning explaining which type of flour and how much yeast to use for the different kinds of bread I’m making, and I’m so slow at mixing together a batch of sugar cookies that Mr. Mellark politely asks if he can take over.
Relief washes over me when I hear footsteps heading down the stairs; maybe Brody’s feeling well enough come back and bake. But my heart nearly stops when I hear the voice - it’s female.
“Your son says he needs to have a word with you,” Mrs. Mellark says loudly, arms crossed over her chest. Mr. Mellark sighs heavily and gestures towards me.
“Katniss, can you finish dropping these cookies onto the sheet? Just a spoonful for each.” I nod quickly and hurry over to the table where he’s working, feeling his wife’s icy, hard eyes on me as I move.
Peeta’s father trudges up the stairs, but Mrs. Mellark remains by the foot of the stairs, staring at me. I keep my head ducked down, my face hot. Does she remember me? Does she know I’m the girl she caught picking through her trash all those years ago - the one who huddled beneath their apple tree, slowly dying, while she struck her youngest son across the face for trying to help?
“What is she doing back here?” she demands, addressing Peeta as though I can’t hear her. “We’re paying her to stand out front.”
“We need an extra hand while Brody’s sick,” he explains, glancing over at me from where he stands by the ovens. “She’s helping out. We put a bell out front so a customer can ring if they come in.”
“She looks like she doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing,” his mother responds flatly, and I take that particular moment to drop the spoon I’m using on the floor with a clatter. I squat down to pick up the spoon, and I stay there behind the table, taking slow, deep breaths.
After years of haggling with some of the district’s more colorful residents at the Hob, not many people intimidate me. And yet there is something about Mrs. Mellark that sets me on edge. When I look at her, all I can see is her face twisted in anger, her fingers curled into a fist, ready to fall down on the boy who saved my life.
“She’s still learning,” I hear Peeta answer, and then footsteps approaching me. I let out a long breath when I see that it’s just him, bringing over a new spoon for me to use.
“Here,” he says quietly, crouching down beside me to hand me the spoon. He smiles sadly, and when our fingers brush together he briefly squeezes a few of mine in a comforting gesture.
Unthinking, I grab his hand tightly, as if to steady myself. His eyes flash with surprise but he lets me hold on, and he squeezes my hand again. His grip is strong and warm. We balance like that for a long moment before he pulls back, straightening up to stand.
My fingers dangle in the air after him, suddenly cold.
“If she fucks anything up, it’s on you,” Mrs. Mellark says harshly, and heads back upstairs just as I rise from my spot behind the table. The word sounds jarring coming from a parent, even if it’s her; I can’t even imagine my own mother saying fuck to Prim or I, no matter how angry she got.
“Okay, Mom,” Peeta says sarcastically, though not loud enough for her to hear. He looks down at me, and his eyes immediately soften. “Sorry. I know I said she doesn’t come back here often - she doesn’t, really, it’s just with Brody being sick -“
“It’s okay,” I interrupt him. “Really, it’s fine.”
“No, it’s not,” he sighs, moving away to check on the ovens again. “But it’s how she is.”
“Maybe I should leave,” I blurt out. “I mean - I don’t want to get you in trouble. If I screw up,” I clarify.
“You mean quit? No, no way. We need your help, Katniss,” he says earnestly. “She’s not going to do anything to me, anyway. She just likes to make threats.”
Threats. He says it so casually that I’m not even sure how to respond. “Okay.”
I turn back to the table and stare dumbly at the bowl and the cookie sheet before me, my mind completely blank. What am I supposed to be doing here? Oh, right. Dropping the dough onto the sheet so the cookies can bake.
I complete my task mechanically, grateful that it’s something I can do without much thought. Because all I can think about is the heat of Peeta’s hand, warm and steady around my own, and the fact that I didn’t want to let go.
---
The day ends up being a busy one, and I spend most of it helping customers in the front of the store, trying to ignore the queasy feeling that’s settled in my stomach ever since Mrs. Mellark made her appearance in the kitchen this morning.
What is wrong with me? I finally took a step forward with Gale - finally made it clear to Peeta that his crush was impossible - and yet with one brush of the blond boy’s fingertips, he’s suddenly the sole focus of my mind.
It’s not as if I even like Peeta in that way. We’re only friends. It’s simply the heightened emotions that seeing his mother dredged up in me; hearing her voice again took me back to those moments behind the bakery in the rain, when I was eleven years old and starving, when I had lost all hope.
Then and now, Peeta was the anchor that brought me back. Nothing more, nothing less.
Our moment in the kitchen notwithstanding, Peeta seems to realize that, too. He doesn’t visit me out behind the counter all day, and when the flow of customers thins out and I come back into the kitchen to work, he’s quiet.
All the same, it doesn’t prepare me for the next day, when a girl comes to visit him for lunch.
Violet Plumwell has bright blue eyes, honey-colored hair and a pleasant smile, the kind that puts you immediately at ease. She’s kind of the female version of Peeta, to be honest, and I’m almost certain she’s one of the pretty blonde girls I’d noticed holding his hand in the hallway over the years. She looks a little confused when she enters the storefront on Saturday afternoon, eyes searching the small room as though she might find someone other than me hiding in a corner.
“Hi, um, is Peeta here?” she greets me.
I glance back at the kitchen, where I know he’s working on decorating a birthday cake for some wealthy family in town. “Yeah. He’s working though…” I trail off, unsure what she’s here for. None of the Mellarks have had a visitor in the few weeks I’ve worked here.
“Could you tell him I’m here?” she asks hopefully. “Violet, I mean. Well - you know that. You’re Katniss, I’m Violet.” Her cheeks flush, and I can’t help but notice how charming the blush looks against her pale skin. I just look blotchy when I blush…not that it matters.
“Are you here for the birthday cake? I don’t think it’s ready.”
“Oh, no. I’m just visiting.” Violet bounces on her heels nervously. I can’t imagine what a girl like this - attractive, well-off, always surrounded by friends - has to be nervous about.
“Oh. Okay, I’ll go get him.”
Peeta’s broad back is turned towards me as I slip into the kitchen, a spot on his t-shirt growing dark with sweat just below the nape of his neck. Brody is back at work today, too, and he looks up at me curiously when I enter the room. “Peeta,” I say loudly, and he cranes his neck around to glance at me.
“Hey, what’s up,” he responds, returning his attention back to the cake on the table in front of him.
“You have a…” I fall silent as I come closer and see the cake. “That’s beautiful,” I say abruptly, and it is: the top of the cake looks like it’s bursting with flowers, orange and blue and green and purple, sunflowers and roses and tulips and daisies.
He smiles, looking pleased. “Thanks. I’ve been working on it all morning. Did you need something?”
I shake my head. “No, there’s just someone here to see you.”
“Oh. Violet?” He perks up at my nod. “Wow, I lost track of time. Thanks.”
I linger behind as Peeta strides out front to greet her, my eyes wandering over his cake. It’s incredible, really, that something so delicate and pretty can come from hands so large and strong.
“How are you today, Katniss?” I startle at Brody’s voice, carrying from across the room. I’d forgotten he was even here, and I blink rapidly in embarrassment, hoping he didn’t notice me ogling the cake.
“I’m good,” I say neutrally. “How are you?”
“Been better.” He sniffs loudly, and my nose wrinkles involuntarily; from the sound of things, Brody probably shouldn’t be preparing food quite yet. Luckily it seems he’s on dish duty again - plenty of soap and water. “But that’s all? Just good? Not great?”
I eye him warily. “Why would I be great?”
“I don’t know, young love? New relationships?” He lets it sink in for a moment, then continues. “I asked you to let him down easy, Katniss, not stomp all over his heart.”
“I didn’t stomp on anyone’s heart,” I snap defensively. It’s not as though Peeta’s madly in love with me - he had a silly crush, and now he’ll get over it. How is it any of Brody’s business who I date, anyway? “Besides, it’s not like he’s having any trouble moving on.” I jerk my chin towards the front door for emphasis.
Brody shrugs. “I’m not convinced.” He doesn’t clarify his words, though, and I’m about to demand what exactly he means when Peeta and Violet push through the swinging door. She’s laughing a high, breathy giggle at something Peeta said. Peeta’s hand moves quickly to his side, and I wonder if they were holding hands just a moment before.
“Hey.” Peeta nods at me but avoids my eyes as they join me by the table. Violet gasps in delight when she sees the flower cake.
“Oh, Peeta. It’s so gorgeous! Did you really make this?”
“I did. It’s not that hard, really,” and as he launches into an explanation of how he crafted the flowers, I get the distinct sense that I’m no longer needed back here. With a last glance at Brody, I slip back out where I belong.
Hello! I know this chapter was a long time coming and I hope it doesn't disappoint. I ran into some writer's block these past few weeks. But I'm taking a lot of time off in December AND I made a vague outline for the rest of the story, so that should help me get back to regular updates soon!
So, this is more of a bakery chapter, and includes the return of Brody! I like writing Brody. To be honest, this is probably really weird and not at all what you guys are thinking, but I kind of envision him as Nolan from the show "Revenge." Yeah. Try and unsee THAT, guys.
Anyway, hope you enjoy - hope you like it enough to leave some feedback - and as always, thank you so much for your kind reviews. :)
OH and one last thing: If you don't have an LJ/AO3 account and don't want to follow the story on FF.net, you can sign up for updates here: http://eepurl.com/nWMF5. Or follow me on tumblr, my username is imloveleee.
"It means I'm done. It means I'm free. It means I'll live."
katniss/peeta, katniss/gale, au, r. katniss makes it through her final reaping. part 12 of ?
“How’s Gale?” Prim asks the second I walk through the front door. She’s stretched out on the sofa, watching the Games.
I force my eyes away from the television and narrow them suspiciously at Prim. “Who says I was at Gale’s?”
She shrugs. “Where were you then?”
“At Gale’s,” I grumble, moving to sit beside her.
“Aha,” she says with a triumphant grin. I roll my eyes in response, bumping her lightly with my elbow.
A crack of thunder draws my attention back to the tv screen. It’s raining in the arena, and the cameras are focused on a pair of Careers, flirting beneath the makeshift shelter they’ve created out of a tarp.
They’re the ones who escaped from Stunner, the boy with the axe, I realize with a start. For a moment I can’t believe they’re behaving like this - teasing, giggling, normal - so soon after the brutal deaths of the boy and girl from 2. But I remember quickly who these people are: volunteers. Theywant to be here. The tributes from District 2 weren’t their friends; they were their allies, and that means something very different inside the arena.
“I don’t know why you’re so secretive about it,” she says more seriously. “Everyone saw it coming.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you only hang out with each other…and he’s so handsome…and it’s pretty obvious he liked you, at least.” Prim shrugs. “It just seemed kind of inevitable.”
I don’t know why it bothers me - hadn’t I had similar thoughts myself? - but her words rankle nonetheless. I guess it’s the implication that others knew something about me that I didn’t even know myself. That they were thinking, talking, about Gale and me.
“It’s nobody’s business,” I say quietly.
Normally I’d follow that up with some teasing - not even you, you nosy little duck - but right now I’m exhausted, and more than a little anxious about how quickly things are progressing with Gale. I don’t want to talk or even think about it right now - thankfully, Prim seems to sense this, because she changes the subject.
“Effie Trinket told me they’re airing the interviews Saturday night,” she says, staring back at the screen.
“That’s quick.” It’s two days from now. I brush a stray piece of hair away from her temple. “Are you nervous?”
“No.” She shakes her head a little. “I did what I could. Hopefully it’s enough.”
Her answer surprises me. Isn’t this the same girl who couldn’t bear to glance away from the television for even a second, just a week ago?
It’s not, I realize abruptly. Prim’s not the same. She’ll never be the same. This is what the Games do to us: pull us apart so we’re forced to stitch ourselves back together, in whatever way we can. The first time a person you know…a person you love…is reaped, things change. You’re never as whole as you were before you reached Reaping age.
“They’ll love it,” I say gently. “She’ll get so many sponsors, they’ll be turning them away.”
“She could still come home, right?” Prim’s words are so soft I’m not even sure they were meant for me to hear. “She could.”
But though she’s quiet, I can still detect something I’ve never heard before in Prim’s voice: resignation.
---
Brody’s still sick, according to Peeta, so it’s just the two of us and Mr. Mellark in the kitchens the next morning. I’m a terrible substitute for Brody’s steady hands and years of experience. They must spend half the morning explaining which type of flour and how much yeast to use for the different kinds of bread I’m making, and I’m so slow at mixing together a batch of sugar cookies that Mr. Mellark politely asks if he can take over.
Relief washes over me when I hear footsteps heading down the stairs; maybe Brody’s feeling well enough come back and bake. But my heart nearly stops when I hear the voice - it’s female.
“Your son says he needs to have a word with you,” Mrs. Mellark says loudly, arms crossed over her chest. Mr. Mellark sighs heavily and gestures towards me.
“Katniss, can you finish dropping these cookies onto the sheet? Just a spoonful for each.” I nod quickly and hurry over to the table where he’s working, feeling his wife’s icy, hard eyes on me as I move.
Peeta’s father trudges up the stairs, but Mrs. Mellark remains by the foot of the stairs, staring at me. I keep my head ducked down, my face hot. Does she remember me? Does she know I’m the girl she caught picking through her trash all those years ago - the one who huddled beneath their apple tree, slowly dying, while she struck her youngest son across the face for trying to help?
“What is she doing back here?” she demands, addressing Peeta as though I can’t hear her. “We’re paying her to stand out front.”
“We need an extra hand while Brody’s sick,” he explains, glancing over at me from where he stands by the ovens. “She’s helping out. We put a bell out front so a customer can ring if they come in.”
“She looks like she doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing,” his mother responds flatly, and I take that particular moment to drop the spoon I’m using on the floor with a clatter. I squat down to pick up the spoon, and I stay there behind the table, taking slow, deep breaths.
After years of haggling with some of the district’s more colorful residents at the Hob, not many people intimidate me. And yet there is something about Mrs. Mellark that sets me on edge. When I look at her, all I can see is her face twisted in anger, her fingers curled into a fist, ready to fall down on the boy who saved my life.
“She’s still learning,” I hear Peeta answer, and then footsteps approaching me. I let out a long breath when I see that it’s just him, bringing over a new spoon for me to use.
“Here,” he says quietly, crouching down beside me to hand me the spoon. He smiles sadly, and when our fingers brush together he briefly squeezes a few of mine in a comforting gesture.
Unthinking, I grab his hand tightly, as if to steady myself. His eyes flash with surprise but he lets me hold on, and he squeezes my hand again. His grip is strong and warm. We balance like that for a long moment before he pulls back, straightening up to stand.
My fingers dangle in the air after him, suddenly cold.
“If she fucks anything up, it’s on you,” Mrs. Mellark says harshly, and heads back upstairs just as I rise from my spot behind the table. The word sounds jarring coming from a parent, even if it’s her; I can’t even imagine my own mother saying fuck to Prim or I, no matter how angry she got.
“Okay, Mom,” Peeta says sarcastically, though not loud enough for her to hear. He looks down at me, and his eyes immediately soften. “Sorry. I know I said she doesn’t come back here often - she doesn’t, really, it’s just with Brody being sick -“
“It’s okay,” I interrupt him. “Really, it’s fine.”
“No, it’s not,” he sighs, moving away to check on the ovens again. “But it’s how she is.”
“Maybe I should leave,” I blurt out. “I mean - I don’t want to get you in trouble. If I screw up,” I clarify.
“You mean quit? No, no way. We need your help, Katniss,” he says earnestly. “She’s not going to do anything to me, anyway. She just likes to make threats.”
Threats. He says it so casually that I’m not even sure how to respond. “Okay.”
I turn back to the table and stare dumbly at the bowl and the cookie sheet before me, my mind completely blank. What am I supposed to be doing here? Oh, right. Dropping the dough onto the sheet so the cookies can bake.
I complete my task mechanically, grateful that it’s something I can do without much thought. Because all I can think about is the heat of Peeta’s hand, warm and steady around my own, and the fact that I didn’t want to let go.
---
The day ends up being a busy one, and I spend most of it helping customers in the front of the store, trying to ignore the queasy feeling that’s settled in my stomach ever since Mrs. Mellark made her appearance in the kitchen this morning.
What is wrong with me? I finally took a step forward with Gale - finally made it clear to Peeta that his crush was impossible - and yet with one brush of the blond boy’s fingertips, he’s suddenly the sole focus of my mind.
It’s not as if I even like Peeta in that way. We’re only friends. It’s simply the heightened emotions that seeing his mother dredged up in me; hearing her voice again took me back to those moments behind the bakery in the rain, when I was eleven years old and starving, when I had lost all hope.
Then and now, Peeta was the anchor that brought me back. Nothing more, nothing less.
Our moment in the kitchen notwithstanding, Peeta seems to realize that, too. He doesn’t visit me out behind the counter all day, and when the flow of customers thins out and I come back into the kitchen to work, he’s quiet.
All the same, it doesn’t prepare me for the next day, when a girl comes to visit him for lunch.
Violet Plumwell has bright blue eyes, honey-colored hair and a pleasant smile, the kind that puts you immediately at ease. She’s kind of the female version of Peeta, to be honest, and I’m almost certain she’s one of the pretty blonde girls I’d noticed holding his hand in the hallway over the years. She looks a little confused when she enters the storefront on Saturday afternoon, eyes searching the small room as though she might find someone other than me hiding in a corner.
“Hi, um, is Peeta here?” she greets me.
I glance back at the kitchen, where I know he’s working on decorating a birthday cake for some wealthy family in town. “Yeah. He’s working though…” I trail off, unsure what she’s here for. None of the Mellarks have had a visitor in the few weeks I’ve worked here.
“Could you tell him I’m here?” she asks hopefully. “Violet, I mean. Well - you know that. You’re Katniss, I’m Violet.” Her cheeks flush, and I can’t help but notice how charming the blush looks against her pale skin. I just look blotchy when I blush…not that it matters.
“Are you here for the birthday cake? I don’t think it’s ready.”
“Oh, no. I’m just visiting.” Violet bounces on her heels nervously. I can’t imagine what a girl like this - attractive, well-off, always surrounded by friends - has to be nervous about.
“Oh. Okay, I’ll go get him.”
Peeta’s broad back is turned towards me as I slip into the kitchen, a spot on his t-shirt growing dark with sweat just below the nape of his neck. Brody is back at work today, too, and he looks up at me curiously when I enter the room. “Peeta,” I say loudly, and he cranes his neck around to glance at me.
“Hey, what’s up,” he responds, returning his attention back to the cake on the table in front of him.
“You have a…” I fall silent as I come closer and see the cake. “That’s beautiful,” I say abruptly, and it is: the top of the cake looks like it’s bursting with flowers, orange and blue and green and purple, sunflowers and roses and tulips and daisies.
He smiles, looking pleased. “Thanks. I’ve been working on it all morning. Did you need something?”
I shake my head. “No, there’s just someone here to see you.”
“Oh. Violet?” He perks up at my nod. “Wow, I lost track of time. Thanks.”
I linger behind as Peeta strides out front to greet her, my eyes wandering over his cake. It’s incredible, really, that something so delicate and pretty can come from hands so large and strong.
“How are you today, Katniss?” I startle at Brody’s voice, carrying from across the room. I’d forgotten he was even here, and I blink rapidly in embarrassment, hoping he didn’t notice me ogling the cake.
“I’m good,” I say neutrally. “How are you?”
“Been better.” He sniffs loudly, and my nose wrinkles involuntarily; from the sound of things, Brody probably shouldn’t be preparing food quite yet. Luckily it seems he’s on dish duty again - plenty of soap and water. “But that’s all? Just good? Not great?”
I eye him warily. “Why would I be great?”
“I don’t know, young love? New relationships?” He lets it sink in for a moment, then continues. “I asked you to let him down easy, Katniss, not stomp all over his heart.”
“I didn’t stomp on anyone’s heart,” I snap defensively. It’s not as though Peeta’s madly in love with me - he had a silly crush, and now he’ll get over it. How is it any of Brody’s business who I date, anyway? “Besides, it’s not like he’s having any trouble moving on.” I jerk my chin towards the front door for emphasis.
Brody shrugs. “I’m not convinced.” He doesn’t clarify his words, though, and I’m about to demand what exactly he means when Peeta and Violet push through the swinging door. She’s laughing a high, breathy giggle at something Peeta said. Peeta’s hand moves quickly to his side, and I wonder if they were holding hands just a moment before.
“Hey.” Peeta nods at me but avoids my eyes as they join me by the table. Violet gasps in delight when she sees the flower cake.
“Oh, Peeta. It’s so gorgeous! Did you really make this?”
“I did. It’s not that hard, really,” and as he launches into an explanation of how he crafted the flowers, I get the distinct sense that I’m no longer needed back here. With a last glance at Brody, I slip back out where I belong.
Hello! I know this chapter was a long time coming and I hope it doesn't disappoint. I ran into some writer's block these past few weeks. But I'm taking a lot of time off in December AND I made a vague outline for the rest of the story, so that should help me get back to regular updates soon!
So, this is more of a bakery chapter, and includes the return of Brody! I like writing Brody. To be honest, this is probably really weird and not at all what you guys are thinking, but I kind of envision him as Nolan from the show "Revenge." Yeah. Try and unsee THAT, guys.
Anyway, hope you enjoy - hope you like it enough to leave some feedback - and as always, thank you so much for your kind reviews. :)
OH and one last thing: If you don't have an LJ/AO3 account and don't want to follow the story on FF.net, you can sign up for updates here: http://eepurl.com/nWMF5. Or follow me on tumblr, my username is imloveleee.