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buggiebite · 7 months ago

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The Life of a Victor

First chapter is published!

I am relatively new to writing and publishing fanfic on AO3. I’m still learning the ropes and making adjustments. But, I really have high hopes for this fanfic!

Summary: Katniss Everdeen learns to navigate her life as a Victor while living under the Capitol’s demand. A mentor, wife, and soon to be mother, she must weigh her choices to pursue the happiest life manageable and protect those she loves.

I’ll add a snippet to preview here:

As if the train were a bassinet, I long to feel it sway back and forth to lull me asleep. Only, it never does. It stays insistent in its fashion. Moving so fast I cannot feel it at all. The light fixture above me does not falter or attempt to. The decorative picture frames stay put. Glinting in the moonlight as we twist and turn through the countryside. It makes me sick, queasy to be exact. This stiffening feeling of being on a train for the rest of my life. Caught in a loop that I wish I was never a part of. The life of a Victor.

I close my eyes and focus on the events of the last day. An aged black car making tire tracks at the gates of Victor’s Village. Hugging Prim and Mother farewell, promising to see them soon. Joining Peeta and Haymitch in the cramped backseat and meandering our way to the train station. Setting off to a week of parties in the Capitol, all dedicated to the Victor of the 79th Hunger Games. Today was not eventful in the slightest. Other than the meal that is better than anyone in District 12 could concoct. I sigh deeply before opening my eyes again to find a pair another staring back at me.

Out of defiance of his concern, I would close my eyes again, but I don’t. He knows I cannot sleep. Not on this train. Not in our bed. Not even in his arms, at least not for too long. Something I greatly appreciate about Peeta is his ability to read me without speaking. He does not say a word as he reaches a short distance to move the stray hairs from my face. Then goes to pet my bare arm softly. I watch his hand as he shoulders this and eventually drifts back to the blue of his eyes.

“What can I do for you?” He asks quietly, a deep rasp in his throat that indicates he was sleeping moments ago.

What couldn’t he do for me? I could list a million things he could do, but I won’t name them. I shake my head and scoot closer to his center. Where his beating heart massages my temple. Each time we board this train and inevitably spend our time in the Capitol, I worry Peeta will lose his scent. The sweet cinnamon and dill aroma that has become a comfort in times of chaos. He never does. It sticks to his hair no matter how much it is washed and styled. He’s constantly followed by these sentiments of home that keep me steady.

I acutely inhale and copy the movement of his fingers that are now at my hips. I trail soft fingertips over his freckled arms, I cannot see these freckles in the darkness of the train car, but I know they’re there. Hundreds of multicolored dots litter his skin like wildflowers in the wilderness.

“You can turn this train around.” I joke pitifully. Removing my hand to adjust his own to massage where I am sore. He chuckles a little and lightly kisses my forehead. We’ve been married for nearly three years. It was arranged, yes, but sometimes I cannot help but feel like it’s all real. That I married him for love and not to quell an uprising. Then, I get those paralyzing thoughts of the girl I used to be. Afraid of marriage, of any sort of domestic life, because it could be ripped away from her in a second.

Now, I am without choice in the matters of anything. I live my life how President Snow wants me to. Putting away my bow and arrows and replacing them with a shiny diamond ring and a title I can never deny. Mother.

Six months roughly. That’s how far along I am. Prim reminds me all of the time. Updating me on sizes and little facts I wonder where she learned. Surely not in school. Maybe from our mother, but, I doubt it. She had been very despondent to the idea of being a grandmother. I don’t blame her. Prim gloats over it quite often. Asking all sorts of questions about the life growing inside of me.

This was never my intention, yet I knew it was coming. Somehow I made myself believe I would never have children in the position I am in. A Victor. That within a few years Peeta and I would slowly be forgotten and we could forget. I kick myself for being so naive. All it took was threats to our families and we agreed. Taking a few months to conceive but eventually became successful. I cried for a month. I still cry. Not because of the hormones, but for the guilt I feel over the little person who wriggles inside of me. A death sentence has already been written. Peeta tells me not to think of it that way. Or think of it at all. I can tell that he’s pained by it just as much as I am, but in brief, fleeting moments I can see the joy of fatherhood radiating off him.

I normally don’t like anyone touching my protruding stomach, even I fein from it. I, however, let Prim, and in the heat of the moment, let Peeta. Reaching for his hand again I place it on my swell. His touch calms me, rubbing soothing circles and smiling when there’s a kick in response.

We don’t speak for the rest of the night. I plant a few kisses on his collarbone and he to my head. I try to bury my thoughts deep within the covers. Tossing them out the cracked train window. Disposing of them so I can get some

semblance of sleep. With time, I do, just to be awoken a few mere hours later by nightmares of screaming infants being ripped from my arms.

Breakfast comes quicker than anticipated. Morning sun stretching and bending in the windows of the compartments. Tall pines caked in snow leaving streaks of blues and whites ablur outside. When I enter the dining car, Haymitch is wide awake and reading a magazine. Feet crossed and propped in an adjacent chair. Making use of Effie’s absence, as she would have lost her wig if she ever saw him doing this.

“Morning, sunshine.” Haymitch nods, his eyes peering up at me from his reading glasses. Mother says that’s an effect of alcohol: poor vision. Seeing him like this makes me want to snicker, and say something rude about my mentor being old. But I know better than that. It is too early for our childish arguments and I am not in the sunniest mood his nickname implied I was.

Instead of replying, I shove a few strawberries into my mouth. Then I sit two chairs away from where his bare feet ruin the fine velvet chair. I hear Peeta’s footsteps before his greeting. A sleepy but alert ‘good morning’. Inferring he slept similarly to how I did, I send him a little smile that he can hopefully read as my apology. Sleep has never been an easy concept for us. Every minute of it, that is not of nightmares and tortuous memories, is precious.

It is Haymitch that chimes in first. “Busy night?” He asks. I cannot remember the last time he cared, and why should he? I look over to Peeta who has stopped chewing his eggs and looks suspiciously at our mentor. I notice the little, lavender-grey bags that hang from Peeta’s eyes. I have not looked in a mirror but I would guess I look more disheveled than my husband.

“Walls are thin. That’s all I’m saying.” Haymitch adds. Looking up at us again. Waiting for a response, but all I can think of is my screaming. Which is nothing new to him, or out of the ordinary.

“We’re married, Haymitch,” Peeta states defensively. I look around questioningly and dig my fork into the roasted potatoes splayed across my plate. “And our compartments are nowhere near each other. Which means you were eavesdropping. Just when I thought you couldn’t get more disgusting.”

With an eye roll from the drunkard, he moans, “Just keep it in your pants when I’m in the vicinity. The least you could do.” I see him point at me from my peripheral. Blood rising to the apples of my cheeks and peaks of my ears. “And maybe don’t beg so loud, Sweetheart. The whole train thought Peeta was dying.”

Reminiscing last night caused my blush to deepen. Steamy kisses that tasted of hot chocolate. Peeta and I’s clothes were haphazardly thrown across the bathroom. Somehow we managed to fit in the tiny shower together. That is where the first part of the night began. The rest on the plush sheets of the bed.

Peeta managed to get a book about pregnancy. A detailed manual about what to expect from the expecting mother and soon-to-be infant. Foods to eat and not to. What parts of the body may ache and how to combat it. The activities the baby does in the womb: kick, open its eyes, gain the ability to hear. My husband informed me of the side effects too. Increased libido is one. I did not believe him—or should I say the book—but I was wrong. From the brush of his hands against the small of my back to the chaste kisses we share often. I feel that swirl of hunger in my gut that beckons me for more.

Snapping my eyes over at Haymitch, not giving the benefit of my reaction. I chew harder on my breakfast and shoot Peeta an aggravated look. Last night was not the first time we have had sex during our travels. Thinking about it, we may have done it every time we have been on this train for the last couple of years.

“Can you keep your nose out of our relationship? Go to the bar or something.” I tell our mentor, to which he obliges.

Peeta reaches for my hand across the table and gently rubs his thumb over my knuckles. He does not have to say the words, I feel them in his touch. Apologizing for Haymitch’s behavior. Peeta has been frequent with apologies lately. Saying ‘sorry’ for the looks I get and questions I’m asked regarding the baby. I tell him each time it’s not his fault. There’s no need for him to ask forgiveness, but he does anyway.

Before long, we arrive in the Capitol. The glistening reflections of windows bouncing off the surrounding skyline. Looking improved by renovation from our last visit six months ago. Remaking the Capitol so often, it is hardly the city I saw for the first time years ago. Sheets of snow pile on the ground. Falling from the mountains and sprinkling the decorative coats of the paparazzi and crowd. Five years since the 74th Games and still, it is like we won yesterday. The way the people flock to us and try to capture bits of our presence. Peeta brushes them away with a smile. I try to ignore them when they reach for my stomach.

My pregnancy was announced during the Hunger Games six months ago. Mentors congregate in a rooftop plaza, they share drinks and talk like friends once their tributes die. At the time, our oldest tribute was still alive. Eighteen and a boy from the Seam: Abriel Sampson was bitten by a rattlesnake in the desert arena and was going to die without medicine. If it weren’t for being instructed to announce the coming of our baby, Peeta and I would have done it anyway for sponsors.

Caesar Flickerman stopped us—we left Haymitch to watch our remaining tribute—and interviewed us for updates on our married life.

“I help my family at the bakery still, Katniss does too,” Peeta told him when he asked what we were up to. Half a lie.

“I’m not the best baker.” My reply prompts a laugh from the crowd of sponsors and reporters. Peeta always wraps a sturdy arm around me when we make a sort of appearance. His hand fell to the crease of my waist in a protectively reassuring way. It was Peeta who told them. He knew I could not let the words escape my mouth, not without shutting down and running away as fast as I could.

“We actually have a surprise,” Peeta says, a hint of his voice happy. I watched as every pair of eyes opened wider, Caesar's lipstick turning into a grin. “Well tell us! Don’t keep us waiting. Panem wants to know!”

Panem wants to know. I imagined my mother and sister, my in-laws, my once best friend, and his family, watching the screen. Seeing Peeta and I as a united front and about to announce what would change the course of our lives forever.

Peeta looked down at me and I up at him. I pretended to be happy at that moment. With a plastered smile and nudge to my husband. “Katniss and I are going to have a baby.”

Abriel lasted a few more days with the medicine we got for him. But, like always, it was never enough.

We stay in the Tribute Center. On the twelfth floor in our same penthouse. The showers are the same, spacious chamber of suds and smells. The furniture has been rearranged and replaced. Switching colors to match the season like every year. Peeta and I’s schedule is lenient until the evenings. When we have been ordered to eat dinner with high-ranking Capitolites. Haymitch does not come to those outings or any outings. The only reason he is here is to attend the grand party at the President’s Mansion in a few days.

Effie makes her appearance before our first dinner. Arriving in an elaborate, frilly blue coat accustomed to the chilling winds outside. One look at me and she is sent into a blubbering fit.

“Oh, my Victor! You’re radiant, dear.” Effie dabs away tears to save her powdery makeup. She hugs me tenderly and makes a shocked gasp. “Why Katniss you are huge! Must be those broad shoulders, eh Peeta? If I’d known better, I would think you are about to pop!” Effie giggles and taps an already-dressed Peeta on the shoulder in reference.

“She’s only six months, Effie.” My husband tells her.

“Ah, ah, 31 weeks.” The escort corrects. Blindsiding me a little. I know that babies are (hopefully) born at nine months, but putting it in weeks makes me feel a little breathless. If I am 31 weeks like Effie has said, I only have nine to go. If everything goes smoothly.

My hair and makeup have already been done, which makes Effie’s job a lot simpler: ensuring I am dressed properly. Cinna and Portia have been exceedingly busy, she tells me. The two have been working on our outfits for the party. Cinna sent an assistant of his to get my measurements earlier. I’m sure this pregnancy has made his job twenty times as difficult. Everything about my body has changed. My waist has expanded along with my hips. My thighs have grown to labor this baby. Breasts doubled and filled with milk to eventually feed the little child.

Effie clothes me in a velvet, red, trench coat. Lined in pink accents and tied with a bow over my stomach. Like a wrapped present. I harrumph in annoyance when she shows me in the mirror. It is beautiful and fancy, and I am almost positive Cinna made it. Which makes me feel even worse for criticizing it negatively.

A pink dress that is the same color as the coat’s lining is what I wear under the jacket. Long enough to touch my ankles, but not enough to hide my feet. I am put in heels that pinch at my toes and do nothing for my swollen feet. I should know better when it comes to the Capitol. I’m quite used to not getting what I want. However, it makes me choked up at how unbelievably uncomfortable I am. Looking in the mirror and not seeing a sliver of the girl who volunteered for her sister.

Living with Peeta for so long has taught me something special. He never outright says it but I have seen it in how he acts. Peeta always searches for the rays of sunshine in the bitterly horrible world. So I think of what is a positive to avoid tears.

This time of year in the Capitol is better than the rest. No active games are occurring or twenty-three unlucky returning home in a pine box. I don’t have to sit and watch as my tributes die like I have done every year since I have mentored. Winter means partying. Good food and reacquainting with friends. But, it also means starvation in the districts. It also means prying questions about my baby. It also means I’m further away from home and closer to the evil clutches of President Snow.

“Chin up, Katniss.” Effie scolds me as if I’m still the sixteen-year-old who was sentenced to death.

#I’m really excited and also hoping to stick to this. it will take me a while fs bc of school and life but I’m going to try real hard #buggiebite #the hunger games #everlark #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #thg #district 12 #fanfic #primrose everdeen #Mrs Everdeen #gale hawthorne #Willow Mellark #everlark married #Katniss Mellark #toastbaby

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