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everlarkficexchange · 6 years ago

Text

A Father Figure

Written by: @wingletblackbird

Prompt 44: Their love was forbidden in more ways than the obvious one (older!Peeta). Their love conquers all even with revelations that destroys other person relationships. AU. Toast babies for extra cookies. [submitted by @animekpopxx]

Betaed by: @jroseley

Warnings: Minor references to pedophilia, although there is none present in this story.

Rating: General. (If you’ve read the Hunger Games you can read this. lol)

A/N: This submission has four chapters and a little over 17k words. I have one more chapter and an epilogue, (with the extra-kudos toastbabies), left to write. However, I also have a couple other EFE fics to work on before the deadline, so I’m submitting this now. Hopefully I can compete this fic by April 7th, but if not, I should be able to finish it in the next month or two. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter One: Guardian Angel

I have never felt lower in my life, never felt more desperate. You’d think it would be the day Dad died, but that was just the harbinger of ill tide. It’s amazing how quickly things change. You never see it coming, like a sucker punch, every plan you ever had, every thought you took for granted, gone with the ash. When Daddy died it was so hard to understand. The words, Daddy died. Daddy died. Daddy’s dead. echoed all through my head, bouncing around the walls of my skull, mere sounds which garnered no understanding. I remember holding Prim tight, like I might lose her too, and Momma held both of us as we all cried and cried. I remember nuzzling my head into my mother’s breast and breathing her scent in, comforted. At least we had each other. I clung to her, our only rock left, our refuge. The next morning came, and Momma wouldn’t get up. It was like thinking you were holding onto driftwood in a flood, only to realise it’s sinking metal. Your refuge is torn from you, was never a refuge at all. You flail, and choke on water, can’t even make a noise. There’s no air, only panic, and terror, such terror. It imprisons you like prey lured to a dead end, rushing this way and that, trying to bolt; the terror and panic in their eyes…my eyes…crippling them. Desperation. You swim or die. I tried to swim, while holding Prim above the powerful waves. It’s so hard to manage even yourself against the tide. So here I am, soaked to the bone, drowning, and the icy rain falling is still warmer than the chill in my soul, the desperate ache in my ribcage, as I scrounge for scraps in the garbage bins in town, but there is nothing. I am nothing. The mines took all of us.

A raw, wrenching cry rises up in me. I keel over with it. There’s no food. We’re done. I failed. It’s like I can feel the severing of my life’s thread. I am dead. Soon everyone will know it. I’m only eleven, so close to tesserae, but I have no energy and no hope. The merchant’s trash was my last shot, but there’s not even trash for me. My knees buckle, but I can’t stay here, so I crawl through the mud to the meagre refuge of an apple tree by the bakery. I bet I look like those stragglers that lie down and die in the meadow. It’s a beautiful place to die. Maybe I’d go too if I had the energy. This apple tree will have to do. If only it had fruit.

I sit here under it, too raw for tears, as the water drenches me, and my fingers and lips turn blue. I don’t dare look at the bakery. The smell of it is cruel enough, to look and see inside the warmth, the light, and the food–all the food, mountains of food–not for me, would be too much. It would be the final confirmation I am nothing, will never be anything, locked out, not worthy to even eat the scraps. No one cares about Katniss Everdeen; no one cares about the Everdeens at all. All the people Momma healed, and all the people Daddy stood up for, worked with, not one of them had a care to return the favour. No one. It hurts. I close my eyes, unable to get up and face my sister with her hollow cheeks, and cracked lips. Does she even understand how bad it is? Gentle Prim who still cleans Daddy’s shaving mirror everyday like that’ll somehow bring him home? Maybe they’ll send me to the Home, but hopefully I’ll die long before I have to face the failure embodied in a broken Prim. I was supposed to protect her.

I’ve almost passed out from the hunger, fallen asleep from the cold, when I hear slushy footprints walking towards me. It’s probably peacekeepers, or maybe the baker is running me off, or someone’s going to drag me to the Community Home. I muster the energy to open my eyes, and turn my head over expecting to see a cruel face, a harsh twist of sneering lips, instead I am greeted with a smile. It is a gentle, kind smile. Not the kind that is fake, or is so peppy it ignores reality, or is just really forced, but the kind that comes at the end of a hard day when there’s really no joy to be had, except you see someone you love…and you smile. I can’t imagine why this man’d be smiling at me like that. I feel nervous.

He kneels next to me in the mud, ruining his slacks. The rain is drenching him now too, plastering his blonde hair to his head, but he doesn’t seem to care. He looks to be about mid-twenties, fair with blue eyes, like most people in town. He looks healthy, nothing like me. I just want to know what he wants. Get this over with.

“You’re Katniss, right?” The man, Mr. Mellark I suppose, looks at me earnestly, and he seems sincere, concerned. How does he know my name? I tense and I nod vaguely.

“Jack Everdeen’s daughter?”

I nod again, and tears fill my eyes at the words, at what seems like the compassion behind them, at the recognition, the gentleness… at Daddy. His eyes seem unbearably tender. He sighs.

“I’m sorry about your Dad. He was a good friend of mine.” He shakes his head. “I should have visited, but…I didn’t want to make things worse for you.”

What he means by that, I couldn’t say.

“How do you mean?” He hesitates a moment, and I worry he won’t answer, but he meets my tentative gaze.

“I used to trade with him, bread for squirrels and the like. He was a good man. I liked him. We talked sometimes.”

Yes, that makes sense. It would have been around the entire district if some townie walked up to our house. He’s right; it probably wouldn’t have been a good idea. I’d wonder what everyone else’s excuse was, but talking to someone, anyone at all, who seems to care is warming me in spite of myself.

“Here.” He pulls a package out from under his jacket, and presses it into my hands. It’s bread, I realise: Three loaves. The tears overflow. I am overwhelmed, shocked. No one just gives food away in Twelve. I look up for a catch, but he just smiles sadly. “For your father’s sake,” he says. I can accept that.

With a sudden spurt of energy, I lean over, grasp him in a quick hug, mutter, “Thank you,” and dash off back home. I think I hear him say, “Anytime,” with remarkable sincerity, but I’m not sure. Either way, his kindness is unparalleled.

When I wake up the next morning the world feels different, warmer, not quite so hopeless, not quite so alone. It’s like Mr. Mellark’s kindness has stayed with me, penetrated me. Still, I know something is going to have to change. I can’t just keep reacting, hoping for more people like Mr. Mellark, (if they even exist). My pride won’t take it anyway. You don’t sit back and let people hand you stuff. You work for it. In the back of my mind, I take pride in the words Mr. Mellark said, how he identified me: You’re Jack Everdeen’s daughter. I am, I think, and Daddy wouldn’t want me to quit, lie down in the dirt. When I spy a dandelion on my way to school, I know how we’ll survive. The spring truly returns to my step. I look back at Prim who’s trailing behind me, holding my hand, and smile.

It takes some time, of course, to be sure I know all the edible plants off by heart, to know where and when to find them without Daddy watching over my shoulder, but soon the woods are

my refuge. I find food there, sustenance, comfort. As the seasons change, I spend hours upon hours in the summer practicing my shooting, making more arrows, storing food for winter. Between my poaching and my tesserae, we are managing. Prim brings my mother out into the sun more, and the return of meat to the house slowly seems to rouse her from her stupor. Prim gives her some kind of medicine that’s supposed to help. I guess it works. Momma’s not the same, but it’ll do. She’s functional. Prim is thrilled. Hugging Mom over and over, and smiling, like she’s back from the dead, which she may as well be. Me though, I hug mom stiffly, once, but I don’t know what else to do when she looks at me with sad eyes. The damage is done. I can no longer rely on her. Things have changed. They’ll never go back. Where’s the use in pretending? Her arms are no longer my refuge. There are the woods for that. That will have to be enough. It’s not that I hate her. It’s just that I can’t pretend to be younger than I was forced to grow to be. I don’t fit that niche anymore. I won’t nuzzle into her a chest again. I can’t need her, don’t know how to trust her. I’m glad Prim is happy. I keep my thoughts to myself.

It is about five or six months after the incident with Mr. Mellark that I see him again. We, Gale, a boy I became poaching allies with over the last month, and I, have excitedly hauled up our first ever deer into the butcher’s, and are just leaving with the cash. I’ve never seen so much before, I can only imagine what more I would’ve gotten if the doe had been intact. Even better, I now know I can trade with the butcher for currency if I need to, so it’s a good day when Mr. Mellark walks out from the back room.

“Hi, Katniss,” he greets cheerfully. “Aunt Rooba just told me about that deer you and your buddy shot down.” He nods at Gale as he says this. “If you ever get a squirrel, feel free to come down to the bakery, or better yet, actually, just come to my place.” He rattles off an address I quickly try to memorise. “My brother’s not too keen on trading.” He winks, pats me firmly on the shoulder, says he’s glad to see I’m doing better, acknowledges Gale politely, and heads back to the bakery. He’s humming a cheery tune. All in all, it’s a short exchange, but I feel a sense of pride go through me that he didn’t make a mistake in giving me that bread. You’re Jack Everdeen’s daughter. I can get him that squirrel.

Gale doesn’t look nearly so pleased I notice as we head back to the Seam. His brow is furrowed, and his fists are buried so deep into his pockets they seem to bow his body forward. His breathing is strained.

“What’s your problem?” I ask, probably more defensively than I needed to.

“He is my problem.” Gale huffs, and there’s no doubt to whom he’s referring. “It’s sick. His type. Worse than Cray.”

“Worse than Cray?” I am utterly confused. Cray gives desperate women a pittance to warm his bed. How could Mr. Mellark ever be compared to such an odious man?

“Haven’t you heard, Catnip?”

“Heard what?” I’m getting mad now. Gale can be patronising at the best of times. It’s clear he thinks I’m just some little kid he had better put up with. Gale stops in is tracks, and pivots around to look at me intently. His rage matches mine.

“They say he gives out food to starving kids, but in return he expects them to…stay over…at his place. You get what I mean? They say that’s why he’s never married. He has preferences.”

Unfortunately, I know what he’s hinting at, and it taints the memory of Mr. Mellark giving me that bread right when I most needed it. Is this why he wants me to come to his place? Is he really worse than Cray? Does he expect something? It’s hard to believe. His smile, his warmth, had seemed so genuine. Now I worry I’ve been played for a fool.

“I get what you mean, but we trade with Cray too, and I’m not going to turn my nose up at a bargain that could help my family. Besides, my dad used to trade with him. He can’t be all that bad.”

Gale shakes his head like I’m so naive, and it pisses me off. He presses forward against the cold wind. “Suit yourself, Catnip. I just don’t like it. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I won’t!” I snarl. He’s reaching to touch a part of me that is far to vulnerable for such callous exposure. We part ways quickly after splitting our haul. My good mood killed.

The next morning I rise before dawn and shoot a squirrel determined to know the truth for myself. I am absolutely dwarfed in my father’s leather hunting jacket I insist on wearing, no matter how pathetic it seems. I stomp into town gripping the handle of my knife in my pocket. I doubt I’ll need it, but still, I feel uptight. I draw in a quick breathe to fortify myself, and knock on the door.

“Katniss!” Mr. Mellark exclaims looking thrilled to see me, his eyebrows comically risen on his forehead. “Wow! You came faster than I could have hoped. Why don’t you come in?” He opens the door wider and gestures grandly for me to enter. “I’ll just get something for you.” I’m tempted to say I’ll wait, but it seems rather rude to a man who has been so seemingly kind.

His house is bright. I wonder if he’s decorated it himself. There are beautiful pictures, sketches, and paintings on the walls. Most look like they could be from Twelve. But some look like the scribbles of children which feels makes me feel like I’ve swallowed stones. He leads me into the kitchen and I can see breakfast is on the table. I have interrupted him, as well as two children I’m pretty sure are from the Community Home who are sitting there. I almost throw up.

“How many squirrels have you got me? And how would you prefer I pay? Bread or coin?” He asks. I try to shake myself out of my horror. “Katniss?”

“Umm…Just the one squirrel, and, um, bread, please.” I am utterly unable to take my eyes off of the children in front of me. They look about five and six. I think I really might puke.

Peeta just nods agreeably and goes to a bread box at the counter where he pulls out a loaf of sourdough which he places neatly in a paper bag and hands over at me.

“Katniss?” He asks again. I must really look bad.

“Yes, I’m fine.” I panic. “I just…I’m not used to being up this early.” He chuckles at that.

“Yes, the early mornings are hard to get used to.” He glances over at the children who are shyly pretending not to look at us. “You two done?” His voice is jovial.

“Yes, Mr. Peeta.” The young boy mutters, and grabs the hand of the little girl I assume must be his sister. Peeta looks back at me, because somehow I haven’t been able to move myself out of there as quickly as possible. “I don’t suppose you mind walking them back to the Home? I’m running a bit late.”

“Yes, of course.” I seize my chance, and grab the boy’s hand, and he pulls his younger sister behind him. I nod goodbye to Mr. Mellark, and dash out the door.

Watching them though, they seem shy, but not…harmed in anyway, and I wonder if I’m overreacting. Mr. Mellark didn’t seem horrible, hadn’t propositioned me for anything, but then again not everyone who is awful looks like it. Yet I find it hard to believe though that my Dad would have traded with someone who was a pedophile. Cray is awful, but to use children…

“Do you like Mr. Mellark?”

“Uh, huh.” It’s the girl that answers. “He’s nice. He lets us eat until we’re full sometimes, and if someone stole our place, he gives us a bed.”

“Does he ever…hurt you? Make you do…funny things?” How am I really supposed to phrase it? Does Mr. Mellark fondle you? Give you food and a roof over your head in exchange for satisfying his sexual perversions? I can’t even begin the process of saying it out loud.

“No.” The boy stops walking and stares forcefully up at me. He seems intently serious, more than his age should be. “There are a lot of people like that, but not Mr. Mellark. He’s really nice.”

“Sometimes he bakes cookies with us!” The little girl pipes in. The boy sighs at her optimism, and when his Seam grey eyes properly meet my own, I see an abject loss of innocence. I wonder what he’s seen. I wonder what he’s been through.

“I know what you’re really asking, but he’s not like that, and don’t ever let noone say otherwise.”

After that he won’t say another word, but his sister rambles on and on, about how Mr. Mellark had tucked her in at night, and told her a bedtime story, and how it was so warm, and they actually had enough blankets for once. I feel incredibly relieved, and also guilty for even doubting him: The Kind Man With the Bread.

I take to trading with Mr. Mellark–Peeta, he insists I can call him–about once a week or so. I keep an eye on him at other times too, and as the weeks pass I notice a variety of regular children who frequent his property. Mostly they are children from the Community Home, but there are others who are from truly broken homes who stay over at Mr. Mellark’s when they need a warm roof over their heads. The most he’ll ever ask is that they make their bed, or help him with breakfast. There’s a sixteen year old called Jude, Peeta’s known since he was about eleven, who runs errands for him. Peeta’s never even asked. Jude just looks up to him that much, or owes him that much, I suppose. Peeta’s become every stray’s older brother and father. I see him playing soccer with them in the backyard, or teaching them chess on the porch. Once he bought a young girl a new dress she was desperately in need of, and she proudly twirled it for me. I can easily see how he got such a terrible reputation. No one is going to think well of some Townie who hangs around with Seam children, giving them food and warmth, especially ones who are impoverished even by our standards. No one gives away food here, especially crossing the class lines. Clearly there has to be something salacious. No one’s that nice. Peeta is though, and he’s made a pariah for it.

“Why do you do it?” I ask him one morning when he invites me in. It’s one of those rare mornings he offers to have breakfast with me and the Home kids aren’t there too. Maybe that’s why it’s also the first time I accept.

“Do what?” He seems genuinely confused.

“Help all those kids. Most people wouldn’t. And you must know what they say about you.”

He laughs at this, and shakes his head.

“Oh yeah, I know what they say. I didn’t plan it, you know.”

“I didn’t think you did.” I mutter a bit annoyed at the idea that he might be laughing at me, but he just tugs on my braid good-naturedly and I feel my ire melt a bit.

“It happened sort of gradually, I guess.” He shrugs and spoons up a bit more oatmeal. “I noticed that there were a lot of kids digging around the trash cans. Mom hated it, used to run them off, but I felt bad. Children were starving, and she would go and yell at them,and threaten to call the White Shirts, and I’d give food we had to the pigs.” He’s not laughing now. He’s looking far-off like he’s playing out a distant, painful memory in his head. “So I started to leave food out for them, and when I got older, got a place of my own–anything to get away from Mom, to be honest–I noticed a young boy on the street. It was winter, bitter cold, I knew he probably wouldn’t wake up again if he fell asleep out there, so I brought him in. That was Jude. He was the first. It all snowballed from there. They kept coming, I’d see them on the street, locked out of the Home, and I couldn’t turn them away. We’re supposed to protect children, take care of them, not hit them, not watch them starve and freeze to death” His words drag me back to when I was the one starving and freezing, and I am so lost in the echoes of despair and gratitude, I almost miss the words he whispers next. “Or get thrown into arenas.”

“Is that why you never married?” The reference to the Games draws the question from my lips before I even have time to think. Having already decided myself never to love or marry for precisely that reason, if no other, I find myself quite sympathetic.

“No, not really. I’m just picky.” He picks up his bowl and mine and goes to the sink where he starts washing them up. I stand and grab a towel to help dry. “In town, a lot of people marry for advantage. Oldest son inherits, others apprentice out, often marry the daughter inheriting another business, so on and so forth. My parents have a marriage like that.” I look at his profile and see a tensing in his jaw, and I can tell this topic is difficult for him. “They don’t like each other very much, and mother’s bitterness spills over everywhere. I swore that would never be me, even if it meant the mines.”

“But it didn’t?” This seems intrinsically important to me. I would not want to see Peeta in the mines. I wouldn’t want to see anyone in the mines, but Peeta is the nicest man in my life now that Daddy’s gone, and that makes the image ten times worse.

“No, Ryen hated the bakery so much he apprenticed out to become a blacksmith, so I didn’t have to worry too much. The bakery can support both me and my brother. Still, to be on the safe side, it would’ve been good for me to marry well. I just never met any woman who I thought I could be happy with. They either don’t approve of me or what I do, or we have nothing in common, or I’m not attracted to them, or as the youngest and least financially secure son, they want nothing to do with me.”

“I’m sorry.” I say, and I am, because even though I never want to marry and never want to have kids, I am sad that such a nice man seems so alone. He flicks water up at me clearly unencumbered by such thoughts.

“Don’t look so gloomy, Miss Sunshine,” he teases. “Do I look unhappy to you?”

“No.” He drags a smile out of me, and gives me a loaf of bread to trade as I leave, telling me to drop by “anytime,”. The little girl I met when I first traded with him, I’ve learned her name is Sarai, runs up and gives him a hug.

“Morning, Little Angel!” he greets, and I realise Mr. Mellark never needed to be a husband to be a father. When I hug Prim in my arms that night, I realise I’m not much different there.

After our conversation that day, I do try to drop by every once in awhile. I tell myself it’s to make sure he’s okay. The truth is when I have my bad days, just walking by his house makes me feel better, reminds me that in the crushing grinder of life, there are people who will care. Someone who’ll listen. I’ve noticed I have an unfortunate weakness for kind people, but it is New Years Eve that ruins me.

I go to visit Peeta and wish him a Happy New Year when he invites me in saying he has a present for me. Inside there seems to be a little party going on. There is music playing, and I glance into the living room to see Peeta has clearly tried to bring some holiday cheer into his kids’ lives, but it is not the living room he takes me too. He takes me to some kind of office or studio where he presents me with a picture frame deliberately turned upside down. I turn it over and there is a beautiful painting of my father. The expression captured is perfect. The woods look incredibly real. His eyes are shining as brightly as they did in life. I realise Peeta must have painted this, must have made all the pictures around here. I’m impressed at his talent but that is lost behind the well of emotions which have broken through the dam I have built around them. Mom looks at the picture of Dad all the time, but I haven’t been able to bear looking at his visage since the day he died. Now he is here in front of me. Tears stream down my cheeks. I don’t know how it happened, but Peeta’s arms are around me as I sob and sob and sob. I’ve been trying to be brave so long, I haven’t really cried.

“Shh. Shh,” he whispers as he rubs my back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

I shudder and gasp as I try to find the words. I settle for shaking my head and snuggle deeper into his chest as his arms encircle me. I haven’t been held like this since the day my father died, and I feel safe. I feel small, not like a bug about to be crushed under your foot small, small like a chick under their mother’s wing. The thought makes me shake and cry harder. I’ve missed this. I’ve needed this.

“It’s perfect, Peeta. Thank you.”

I pull away reluctantly and through watery eyes I see blue eyes meet mine. Something flops and rises in my chest; I know now, I will never be able to claw this man out of my heart, the guardian angel my father sent from beyond the grave.

Chapter Two: Loneliness

About a year and a half later, not long after I turn fourteen, I discover Peeta has ambitions far beyond what I’m sure anyone else could have imagined. As always, I don’t see it coming. Not much has changed over the year and a half so much as it has grown. Gale trades with Peeta too now, although his disdain for anyone from Town remains uncomfortably evident. I drop by sometimes for breakfast or supper, bringing trophies from the woods like berries, or wild onions, here and there, so Peeta doesn’t feel like I’m using him. I share parts of my life. It’s nice, to have someone to talk to outside of school or hunting. Madge and I don’t really talk much. Gale and I are only just learning to. And it is this undeniable passage of time that spurs the conversation I never saw coming.

“I have a proposition for you, Katniss, now it’s spring.”

I have to swallow quickly before answering.

“What sort of proposition?”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t mind taking some of your time in the woods to look for some sizeable flood banks, or moist valleys, you know, places water accumulates, and the soil looks good?”

I’m so surprised by the nature of his question my spoon is left suspended in the air.

“Why?”

He places his palms flat on the table in front of him, and draws himself up for what looks like a discussion he’s going to feel passionate about.

“Jude’s aging out of the Reaping this year.”

I nod.

“And I obviously don’t want him going down the mines.”

I nod again because I have no idea where he’s going with this.

“I also rather hate the tesserae system, and how dependent we are on the Capitol for rations in general.”

Oh, this is getting dangerous. I swallow.

“Everyone in Town depends on the Capitol for supplies to continue their trade–that’s a huge part of the reason no one from the Seam can buy from us, the prices are too high–and it’s also what keeps us Town-folk at their mercy. It divides us completely, and still I know people starve everyday.”

“Your point,” I say tilting my chin down for a stern look, because this topic of conversation is dangerous, and while I would expect it from Gale and his rants, I am not expecting it from Peeta, who prefers to talk about homework, or my relationships with my family, or other safer topics of conversation a man in his mid to late twenties might ask a young girl he looks out for.

“My point is that I want to change that if I can. I’ve been planning this for years, actually. I want to see if maybe we can farm in the woods. Get our flour from our own sources. Then we could open a bakery at the Hob, and sell at prices people can afford, cut out the middleman. It might help a lot. Of course, no one from the Seam is going to want to buy from me, and while I think if the alternative were tesserae or starve, most would, I thought maybe Jude could do it? And that way I don’t have to worry about him either.”

“You’re crazy.” The way I say it though sounds nothing short of awestruck. “You really could hang for this.”

He gives this about a second’s thought which either proves he’s not thinking this through, or he’s thought this through so much he’s already made up his mind. Knowing him, both could somehow be true at the same time.

“I could, but I’m one person. Children starve to death everyday.”

“What about the children you’re already responsible for?” I note even as I am saying it that technically Peeta isn’t responsible for them. The Home is. The Capitol is. The District is. But they are so inadequate, Peeta has stepped in.

“I know. I know. It is a risk. It’s a gamble. I just don’t see any other option I can live with in clear conscience. This is way bigger than that, and no matter what I do, there are risks we face.”

I can’t say he’s wrong, and who am I to argue with him when I risk my life everyday to feed Prim? I could hang for it, be shot for it, and if that happens, what’ll happen to Prim? But if I don’t she might starve and still die, or take tesserae and be that much more likely to die. It’s like Peeta said. It’s a gamble. It’s a risk.

“What’s in it for me?”

I don’t mean to sound callous, but business is business, and this is risky business. Peeta doesn’t seem to mind. A wide smile returns to his face. In truth it annoys me at times he seems to find my stern-negotiating-face adorable. I don’t want to be associated with adorable. I am not adorable. Regardless, he agrees to pay me a certain amount to find the land for him, and if they succeed in growing anything, he’ll give me enough grain to match my monthly tesserae rations. While it won’t mean I’ll be able to stop taking out tessera, since I split everything with Gale, it will mean decreasing the number of times I have to put my name in each year. I probably would have agreed to this scheme anyway, but there’s no way I could turn down a deal like that.

As it turns out, Peeta really has put a lot of thought into this farming scheme. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Perhaps it’s part of being a bakeer–the way he gets up at three every morning and methodically kneads dough–but deliberateness permeates his being. Peeta is as steady and solid as the earth he means to till. He’s been stockpiling barrels, and building airtight containers to store flour in. He’s been looking into long-term storage. He has a contact in Eleven, (how I dare not ask), who got him corn and wheat seed. He asked his blacksmith brother to make him several hoes, (and laments he couldn’t find a domesticated horse or ox even if it were possible to bring such a creature past the fence), and has even made arrangements with the Goat Man to shovel his manure which Peeta plans to use as fertiliser. Never has it been more obvious to me what a planner Peeta is. Since I usually react to things and don’t generally think past tomorrow, it’s rather mind-boggling to see the lengths to which one man can scheme. Peeta has even grilled Greasy Sae on what she can remember from before the Dark Days about farming in the area. Peeta’s decided to plant corn in the spring and summer, and then wheat in the fall and winter. Who knew wheat just sort of stayed packed under the snow and waited to be harvested come spring? I didn’t. Now I do.

Peeta has this way of talking about things that keeps you interested. Like when he talked about why he convinced his Aunt to give him chickens. I didn’t know gluten is what made bread stick together, and any flour he might get from corn, or even acorns, would need something else to make it stick. Hence, the eggs which he got from his Aunt, the butcher, who can occasionally get animals into the district. That’s just the tip of the iceberg. I have little particular interest in the making of bread, and I had no idea there was so much to the subject of flour, oil, sugar, water, and yeast, but there is, and I listen, because he is interesting. Peeta asked if he was boring me, and I told him he wasn’t, but it wasn’t really because what he was saying was interesting, but his eyes lit up, and his arms gestured, and his humour was on point. His entire countenance took on such an animated, light-giving quality, I’d dare anyone to not have been absorbed. It seemed too important to him. Peeta has tendency to wrap you up in his enthusiasm, and make you smile in spite of yourself. It’s infectious. I almost hate him for it.

He is truly pouring his all into this crazy scheme. He only works part-time at the bakery now. The rest of the day he is out in the woods, by the river, in the valley, hoeing the land. He’s crazy. He is. There’s no other word. It’s insanity. I worry all the time wild animals are going to savage him, but he carries several knives, and he has a hoe, and I’ve taught him how to scale a tree fast, (which was hilarious because he’s stocky and definitely wasn’t made to scale trees, so much as haul them home for fuel), so I tell myself he’ll be fine. For the first two weeks though, come schools end, I race into the woods to make sure he’s okay. He teases me when he notices.

“Worried about me?” He chortles.

I roll my eyes as he tugs my braid and splashes me with river water. I pretend I don’t care. I can sort of see the humour of a girl who barely reaches up to his chest crouching in trees to keep an eye on him, but it’s harder to not get aggravated when Prim joins in the teasing.

“It’s alright,” she says one day when I meet her after school to tell her where I’m going. “I’d run into the woods with Peeta too.” I immediately tell her off as she giggles. She is ten; I don’t know where she gets all this from. I point out that Mr. Mellark will be thirty come November, but she keeps laughing and later has mom tell a story about how her first crush was on the carpenter who was an older guy too. I huff and storm outside. Don’t they know why I worry? What Peeta has done for us, and still does for us? Of course, I’m worried. Of course I keep tabs on him. Maybe it’s just that I know nothing good stays. It’s nothing to do with crushes on older, stronger men. The problem is they’ve got me so worked up, I question every natural observation I have that Peeta’s arms are strong, and look good when they flex, or the way his shirt sticks to his skin when he sweats, or the way his hair shines gold when the light hits it just right. It’s normal to see these things when you look at someone. It doesn’t mean anything, but I head home when my keeping tabs on him results in me seeing him strip off his shirt and pour cool water over his head. There were many trails of water to follow over his chest, droplets that cascaded down him and dazzled in the sun, and he didn’t know I was there so it wasn’t fair.

On weekends, and everyday come summer, the rest of Peeta’s pseudo-family join him. There is Jude, who is the oldest, and Jet who I know from various conversations over the last year is seventeen, and lives with his mom who is an alcoholic. Then there is Colleen and her brother Cole, who are fourteen and twelve. They were orphaned in the blast that killed my father. Finally, there are the babies of this group, Sarai and her brother Elliot, who were the first of Peeta’s foster kids I met. They don’t help much with the plowing, but they’re up bright and early every morning when the time comes for planting the seeds. I dare say it keeps them out of trouble. I help out too when I can, which always earns me a huge smile from Peeta that makes it hard to maintain eye contact with him. I refuse any form of payment pointing out that this is an investment for me too. Truth is, I just wanted to. Seeing them all work so hard tugs my heartstrings. Contrary to popular belief, I do have them. The corn grows fast, and high, and waves in the wind.

It sometimes takes me time to find where they are working since Peeta has divided the farming land into sections. He hopes that’ll reduce the likelihood of damage to his crop than if they’re all in one place, and of the Capitol clueing into what’s going on with the two or three acres or so of land they’re farming. I have to say I agree. It was only a few months previously Gale and I had seen two people fleeing the Capitol only to be captured by hovercraft. I hadn’t told anyone but Peeta. Prim I couldn’t tell for fear of worrying her, and the same went with my mother. I don’t want to risk her checking out again, but Peeta, he is the one person in the world today I would say I trust unconditionally. That’s why I told him about the cabin by the lake my father brought me, in case he wants to fix that up to store grain in. He seemed terribly touched I’d told him, and I was glad he’d understood what it meant to me. Sometimes I go to the lake and see the work done and while it saddens me that this place is no longer my own, I am glad that my knowledge, my life, might now sustain others. (You’re Jack Everdeen’s daughter.)

Gale cautions me about getting too involved in all this.

“It’ll be great if it works out, Catnip, but if it doesn’t, don’t go wasting your time with it. We’ve got our own mouths to feed.” I hate he has a point, and reluctantly agree. It doesn’t end there though. Another time he points out, “And don’t go giving away our trade secrets either. We don’t need that kind of competition.”

Again I agree with him, but a bakery isn’t going to compete with us, and I’ve known starvation too well not to help when I can, especially when I know what help has meant to me, and even more so when it is the person who helped me when I most needed it.

“Stupid Townie,” Gale mutters. “If he wants to help out, fine, but the woods are ours. He’s stepping in where he doesn’t belong, trying to take advantage of us, thinks we can’t do better, but what else is new?”

I get where Gale is coming from. I really do. We’ve been at the backdoors of people who will give us a pittance for our work, because they know we can’t really say no, especially when the law is on their side. It’s frustrating to say the very, very least, but I resent even more the notion that Peeta Mellark is like that when he is the one out here sweating under a hot sun, and working so hard I know I saw blood on the handle of his hoe. I also know that blood is there because he gave Jet his own gloves, and never let on a hint to his own pain. Peeta is staking a lot on this venture. I tell Gale so, and before I know it we’re in a flaming row. I generally try to avoid rows with Gale, or wait until we’re done hunting. They scare off the game, but I can’t help myself this time. There is a lot of huffing, arm-waving, and finger-pointing, and Gale calls me a naive child, again, and eventually we just stop unable to reach an accord. He’s only two years older, I wish he’d stop acting uppity. The truth is, I should have seen this coming. I’ve been called a halfie a few times, and that’s one of the kinder words out there. It doesn’t matter how much my mother does as a healer in the Seam, and I am proud of her for that if nothing else, she is still from Town, and people still skirt around her. It’s no different for Peeta. Gale is sceptical. He always will be, I think. It exhausts me.

It works though. The corn grows, is harvested, dehydrated, and stored to be ground into cornmeal. I take Sarai and Elliot through the woods with massive buckets to get acorns to supplement that as well. One Sunday in October, Peeta invites me to join in a celebration in the woods. I am told I can bring my mother and Prim if I want to, but something in me hesitates and I seek them out alone. When I arrive I find a massive bonfire, and Jet playing something on some kind of wooden instrument. There are some cookies to snack on, and everyone is milling and dancing about the flames. I stop in the shadow of a tree just to watch them as the night grows darker. It’s strange this group of people. Seam colouring aside, they don’t look like a family, and Peeta doesn’t even have that. Jet is the only one that has anything merchant to him, blue eyes, because he’s the product of some Townie looking for fun without responsibility. Jude is lean and thin faced, but Jet is circular and short. Colleen and Cole look related of course, but their hair is blunt and straight, as are their noses. Then the youngest, Sarai and Eliot, well they have an impish look to them, even as serious as Eliot can be. Peeta sticks out like a sore thumb. Yet there is a harmony to this group, a joy, and a hope that unites them as they join hands and spin around and laugh together. They seem bound by something beyond anything I’ve experienced before. It makes something in me ache. I want to join in, but it feels dangerous to do so. I am not a part of this, and celebrating something scares me in a way I don’t fully understand. It seems risky, even as I wish it.

“Katniss!” Elliot has spotted me. “Come on!” He runs forward and pulls me in. Jude hands me a cookie. It’s delicious, and I can’t help but smile. Soon Sarai who had been enjoying a piggy-back ride by Colleen runs over to get me to dance with her, and her joy drags all of us in as we spin and spin around. Half way through a twirl I lose my balance and Peeta catches me. All I notice is his warmth, his strong arms and chest, and then his blue eyes and his smile, and I forget to breathe. The urge to move forward is so overwhelming I shove him away.

“I-I’m sorry. It’s getting late. My family’ll worry.”

“Of course,” Peeta nods, apparently finding nothing the matter with my reaction. I suppose maybe I’m just that awkward. “Give them my regards.”

“Yeah, sure.”

I turn away to hug the youngest one’s goodbye and dash off trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling that my mother and Prim were right.

I avoid him after that. It’s stupid, because it’s not like he’d care, but I don’t know how to act. I trade with him as always, but insist that with winter here, I’m needed elsewhere so I don’t stay. Peeta looks concerned, but I brush him off and he lets it go. I encourage Gale to trade there more often. Gale notices and asks if Peeta has done anything wrong, but he really hasn’t. Gale doesn’t believe me, of course, but he lets it go for which I’m grateful.

I am, however, kept up to date on everything that’s happening in Peeta’s life by Colleen. For whatever reason she has decided we are friends now we’ve been to a bonfire together. I discovered this when she decided to sit with Madge and I and lunch. I don’t discourage it though, it wouldn’t be particularly nice, and I also know Colleen, like me, doesn’t have many friends. Still, she’s a chatterbox which is an odd change since I think Madge and I are friends-of-a-sort, because we both don’t like to talk. Colleen isn’t shallow though, and her conversation does cover things that are at least relevant or interesting. I don’t think I could’ve bourne a gossip. Funnily enough, the injection of a talker to our group seems to have done Madge and I a bit of good allowing us to actually acknowledge that we are, in fact, friends. She drags us both to her house to teach us to play the piano, which is a huge laugh to say the least, and she talks us into bringing her to the woods. It’s been so long since I’ve done anything besides hunt and trade and work, I never realised how much I missed it. Short of some joking with Prim, or family time at New Years, I haven’t just had fun since my father died. It fills me with a deep ache in my heart. My father and I used to spend time together just singing with the mockingjays. Sometimes, he would seat me on his lap and teach me to sing in harmony with him. Silly songs. Folk songs. Love songs. I learned them all, and now waching Madge laugh as Colleen fudges up her part of Heart and Soul, I almost feel I could cry. For the first time, it doesn’t feel quite so much like death and loss, but life and growth. The cracking of a shell I’m out-growing. I’ve never considered that new life comes in to the world to us with pain, so much as I have fixated on the losing of it.

Gale and I stop trading with Peeta as of November. We split the grain he gives us between our families, and go straight to the new bakery in the Seam if we need bread. Greasy Sae has partnered with it to give it even more legitimacy, if such is a concern in a black market, and it is gaining popularity quickly. I am told there was a problem with the other bakery at the Hob. The system worked where children could sell there tesserae grain for coin, and that grain would be milled down and baked and sold at the Hob. Before Peeta, that was the best most people could hope for for a bakery in the Seam. With Jude selling now, fewer people were buying tesserae bread, or even having to sell as much tesserae grain for coin. Jude and Jet had almost come to blows with the other baker, I think his name was Mr. Salter, before people came to break it up before the Peacekeepers were forced to actually remember they were on duty. Peeta sorted it out by arranging to pay the Salter family help him mill down his grain, since it’s hard for them to farm, bake, and mill, all by themselves, and now they’ve settled into a reluctant sort of truce. Jude has not been condemned to the mines.

But death comes anyway. It’s unstoppable. Colleen looks sombre come February.

“Did something happen?” Madge asks, concerned.

“Peeta’s mother died.”

None of us say much after that, but after pacing around the woods guilty, I visit Peeta for the first time in four months. When he answers the door he looks dreadfully exhausted. His eyes have a haunted quality to them, and his hair seems simultaneously lank and uncombed. There is stubble where he is usually so clean shaven.

“Hey, Katniss.” He mumbles and motions for me to enter.

“I, um, heard about your mother.” I offer tentatively as I place several squirrels on the table for him.

He sits down and sighs with weariness that is soul-deep.

“Yeah, it’s no surprise really. She’s been sick for awhile, and had stroke a few years back besides.”

I hadn’t known that she was sick. I should’ve known that. Guilt is rising steadily in me, as Peeta emotionally runs his hand through his hair which waves in a way that makes it clear he’s been doing that a lot today. I have never seen him sit with such a slump in his shoulders before. Not knowing what else to do, I decide to cook the squirrel. I remember how hard it can be to move when you lose a parent, how simple tasks can seem monumental. I’m not a brilliant cook; I’ve never had much opportunity to learn, but I think I can handle a stew. Something about the smell seems to wake Peeta up and he enters the kitchen as the stew is bubbling.

“Thank you.”

I just nod. Saying “You’re welcome,” seems trite somehow. This was the least that should be expected. I have been a poor friend to him.

“I didn’t expect it to be so hard,” he continues as he sits down, his voice has this hollow quality to it. “She and I were never close. I was her disgrace…but now that she’s gone. I guess, I don’t know, there’s no way to ever make it right. Not that it was ever going to be made right, of course. Ever. So what’s the use in–” he waves half-heartedly with his hand, unable to articulate himself for once. All I do is hand him over a bowl of soup. You can’t go wrong with feeding someone, right? I pass him a spoon, and I can tell something’s wrong by the way he stares at it, turning it back and forth before his eyes like it is the key to some kind of puzzle. He drops the spoon and covers his face with his hands. His sobs are mostly soundless, but I can tell they are there by the shaking of his shoulders. They wrack his whole body.

After a time, I hesitantly place a hand on his shoulder, and start to rub his back. This seems to help a little. I’m half tempted to sing to him, like I would to Prim, but he’s a grown man and that feels strange so I restrain myself. It hurts to see him like this. I’ve never really registered how alone he is. He’s here, in this house, alone, even though he has a father, two married brothers, and several nieces and nephews. It is I who comforts him. I can feel my heart swell with the absurd need to cradle and protect a man so many years my senior. When he calms, he gently places a large, warm hand over my small one, and smiles. I smile gently back.

“Sorry to do that in front of you.”

“It’s fine.”

“Thanks for the soup. It helps. The kids’ll be in soon, and then I’ve got to go meet with my brothers and Dad about the arrangements.”

“If you ever need anything, please just…let me know.” I say the words earnestly and hesitantly, because I’ve never considered before that I could be of any real help to Peeta Mellark. His face lights a slight amount anyway, and he seems more like himself. He tugs my braid lightly and musses my hair and says he’ll bear that in mind. The gesture squeezes my heart in a way that pains. I know what I’ve always known, that he sees me as a cute kid, the daughter of a good friend, but it’s better that way I think as I walk home. There’s no reason that should hurt me. If I ever had to be attracted to anybody, best to be attracted to someone way beyond me. Peeta is older, from Town. It could never work. He’d never notice me, so I have nothing to fear. I can, however, be a partner to him, and more than just in trade. Gale and I share the burdens of having to help support our households. It makes things easier. I can do the same with Peeta, and bringing him some of Prim’s old clothes for Sarai is a good start, because no one deserves to shoulder the burdens of a family alone. I mean to bridge that gap however I can.

Chapter Three: Artless

“Why art?” I remember asking Peeta shortly after I’d first started trading with him.

“What do you mean why art?”

“I mean…no offence…but, isn’t it a waste of time, even money?”

Peeta took his time in giving me a response. It was something I always appreciated about him. He never belittled me, and spoke to me with respect. When he answered he was still sort of staring into space.

“You can starve physically, but your soul can starve too. You can survive, but have no reason to live. Art feeds the soul.” He pauses and looks over at me. “You know how when you’re tired you can sit down and not want to get up again? You can. But you don’t. You can give up.” Immediately I am brought back to the apple tree where I had sat lost, weak, and weary. I could have gotten up, as I proved when Peeta gave me the bread, but before the hope he gave me, I wouldn’t have believed I could at all. I had no defense. “Art gives rise to hope, and validation of pain. It’s important, Katniss.”

I nodded, content to never bring the topic up again, but after a lull in the conversation I thought was over, Peeta added one final thought. “Your father used to sing all the time. I always loved to draw, but I dare say he taught me the power of it.”

I still haven’t truly sang since my father died, not to anyone other than Prim. I once stood at the edge of the lake my father brought me, not long after that talk with Peeta, and considered opening my mouth and letting the song that flooded to the back of my teeth pour out, but when I saw the mockingjays, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sing and know they would take up the call and sing it again, and again after me for who knew how long. I knew singing again without my father would crack through some barrier that dammed the grief in me, and if I started, would I stop? And how could I bear the mockingjays carrying my pain onward and onward and onward, magnifying it for all to hear? I am too small for that. Too weak. So I don’t sing.

It hadn’t stopped someone else from their own brand.

It was In the spring, shortly before my sixteenth birthday, that I first noticed it. Graffiti on buildings depicting the faces of fallen tributes, or supporting the miners, or deriding the excesses of the Capitol. I’d never seen anything like it before. We usually try to forget the Reaping exists during the rest of the year, not like we ever do of course, but we tuck our heads down and move on. I’ve never seen anyone calling attention to it before, honouring those we’ve lost. I’m not sure how I feel about it, but Gale loves it, of course.

He thinks it’s great to stir people up, take down the Capitol. I want to point out that it’s useless if we’re all by ourselves, one tiny district, but know from experience he won’t listen. He says it would be great if some Townie got reaped so maybe they’d fight alongside us. In truth, I never dreamed he’d get his wish.

I am a mess the 74th games. It is Prim’s first time, and even though the odds are most in your favour the first time, somehow it feels like the worst. I jerkily lead her up to the counter where peacekeepers are taking blood for their records, and guide her through the process. I hardly even noticed when they prick my finger. When I tell her I will find her immediately after the ceremony is done, I know I am reassuring her as much as myself. I love Prim like I love myself…more actually.

Colleen is waiting for me in the area for sixteen year olds and she grasps my hand tightly. I know she is as worried for Cole as I am for Prim, but she’s been through this a couple of times already. I’m not used to this kind of fear. I squeeze her hand back in solidarity and appreciation. She offers me a tight smile I can’t bring myself to return. I stare fruitlessly at the bowl and beg it will not call my name, not Prim’s name, or Madge’s, or Colleen’s, or Cole’s, or Gale’s, and muse that in spite of my best efforts, I care far too much. I don’t want it to be anyone, but I can’t stop that, so I must protect my own. There is a tension in the air, as Effie Trinket quickly reads the name more intent on maintaining her tenuous grasp on her wig then appreciating what she’s doing.

“Flouer Mellark!”

And a fifteen year old girl from Town is reaped: Peeta’s niece.

Colleen and I exchange looks. I can read in her eyes what must be in my own. Was the Reaping punitive? It must be even worse for her, because Mellark is her last name now too. Peeta had adopted them all a few months ago when Jude’s Bakery took off. Colleen grabs my hand even tighter, so much so I fear the circulation must be cut off, but I do the same to her. WIll it be Peeta’s nephew, or will it be Cole, who is the only other boy Peeta cares about who might be eligible? Or if it is about trading in the Hob, what is it’s Gale? My breathing loosens when it’s a boy from the Seam, Terrence Carter–but it’s still horrifying to see it is a twelve year old boy. Twelve year olds are seldom Reaped, but when they are, they come from the very back of the crowd, a longer walk, a longer torment, as if the Capitol wants to rub it in our faces what they do.

Tears are streaming down Colleen’s face now, and the moment we are cleared to leave she runs to find her brother, as I run to find Prim. I clutch her in my arms, breath her scent in, run my fingers through her hair. I need to know she is here, real, in my arms.

“Oh, Katniss,” she sobs, “how awful.” I can only imagine how this felt to her. I had tried to comfort her, comfort myself, saying her name was only in there once, but so had Terrence’s been. Besides, she knows who the Mellark’s are and that drives it home too. No one is safe. How can anyone choose to go through this?

“Hush, Little Duck,” I say as I pull away and tuck in her shirt again. “How about we bring them some strawberries?”

She nods and wipes her tears with the back of her hands. Mom is here now and she hugs Prim too and squeezes my shoulder with her free hand, a teary-eyed smile on her lips.

Gale is waiting at the edge of the crowd, and I motion to my mother and Prim to go on home first. I give him a hug, the first we’ve ever shared.

“Congratulations.” I whisper, trying to remind myself to also be grateful I’ll never have to worry about him being Reaped again.

“Yeah, it’s great,” he says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Maybe he’s thinking about Rory who will be eligible next year. I know I am. “Who’d have thought it’d be someone from Town? Maybe now they’ll know what it’s like.”

“Don’t joke like that Gale.” I glare at him. He doesn’t comment on it.

“So,” he puts his hands in his pockets, and rocks back and forth on his heels, “I was wondering if you’d like to celebrate with me?”

“Celebrate?”

“Yeah, everyone who’s aged out this year. We’re all meeting in the meadow. You want to come?”

There’s an urgency in his eyes, and a nervousness in his tone that make me think this must be more important than I realise, but my mind is at the Mellark house, so I don’t think too much when I reply.

“Of course, I’ll be there. I’ll meet you after dinner.”

“Great!” His eyes light up, and his smile is wider than I’ve seen in ages, and I am happy for him, so I try not to let my distractedness show as he walks me home and prattles on inanely. I nod and hum at appropriate intervals, a practice I am well-versed in given my conversational skills are nil at the best of times.

When I knock on the door with the basket of strawberries in my hand, it is Jet who opens the door for me. He motions me in, and I don’t comment on the shadows under his eyes. Inside, Sarai is softly sobbing in Colleen’s arms; Cole, next to her, has his eyes closed and is leaning on her shoulder. Eliot is stiff as board on the sofa. Jet sits down next to them, and rests the strawberries on the table. No one eats them.

“Is he still at the Justice Building?”

“Yeah,” Jet’s voice breaks. He clears his throat and tries again. “Jude and his wife’s with him. Or were. Family didn’t want the Seam there.” He sighs and rests his chin on his clasped hands.

I stand there awkwardly until the door bursts open. My heart falls when it is Jude and Maria not Peeta.

“He’ll be here in five minutes.” Jude explains awkwardly.

“How bad was it?”

“His brother punched him across the jaw.”

“Shit.” Jet groans.

“Language!” Colleen reprimands him pulling Sarai in closer. He ignores her and goes up to thump Jude on the back in masculine affirmation. Maria announces she’s going to make dinner and courteously thanks me for the strawberries. I feel out of place as Jude flops down next to Jet. I’m the only one standing, but this isn’t my house, and I doubt it would be polite to sit. Maybe I should go, but I don’t feel I can do that until I see Peeta.

He walks in not long after, and already there is the beginnings of a nasty bruise on his left eye. His movements are slowed; his exhaustion is evident.

“Dad,” Sarai rushes over to him, and he kneels to the floor to grasp her in a tight hug. He closes his eyes so tightly I think he must be hiding tears. As the others gather around, I slip out the door feeling like a voyeur.

I almost don’t remember I agreed to go to Gale’s celebration, but halfway through washing the dishes after a silent post-Reaping meal, I head off to the meadow.

Gale is already there. A few people are playing some upbeat songs, and I can tell the Ripper’s liquor has already started to be passed around the large crowd of eighteen year olds.

“Catnip!” Gale waves me over, and introduces me to his friends, Thom, Bristel, Jason, and Axel. “You all know who Katniss is, of course.” He gestures towards me proudly, but all can think is that of course they know who I am. I know my reputation. The surly, halfie, criminal who can kill you from a distance. Daughter of the the Townie healer, with the sister with the fair features. Other. Alien. Jack Everdeen’s daughter.

I am deeply uncertain why Gale wants me here. I am useless with conversation, and I don’t know anyone here. Gale and I spend time together in the woods, but we’ve never done much outside of that. But then I realise maybe that’s the point. I won’t be able to see Gale terribly much after he enters the mines. He’ll only be free on Sundays, so I try to put my best foot forward which I think he appreciates.

I don’t know how well I do, there’s only so much one can say about the weather, the seasons, and the coal. It’s an unwritten rule not to talk about the Reaping, but I still I detect a general sentiment that “at least it’s a Townie this time,” and “now they’ll know what it feels like” which makes me uncomfortable in it’s callousness. They’re all just children. I dance a few dances, and almost have fun, as much as one can at theses sorts of things where you’re never told what you have to do, and what’s expected of you, which leaves someone like me hanging awkwardly wondering how many gaffes they make a second. The only comfort I have is that initially, I can follow Gale’s lead as he drags me around everywhere to introduce me. Once I exhaust my sparse reserves of small talk I cautiously retreat to a corner while Gale takes swigs out of one of the several bottles of white liquor making its rounds. I wonder how long I’m obliged to stay here before I can go home politely. It has been a taxing day and all I want to do is sleep.

As it gets colder and darker, I wrap my arms around myself and realise I forgot to grab a sweater before heading out. My Reaping dress is thin and short-sleeved. I decide I’m just going to go home when Gale notices my discomfort and slips his jacket around me saying he’ll walk me back. Behind him some boys who notice the interaction jeer and wolf-whistle. I’d shoot them a glare, but I am honestly too tired to care. We are just up at my doorstep when Gale grabs my arm.

“Listen, Catnip, we’re both older now, and I’ll be in the mines soon.”

I wearily lift my eyes up to his to hear him out when he grabs my cheeks and pulls my face up to kiss me. I can smell the liquor on him. I am so shocked it takes me a moment to respond. I shove him away with both hands and run inside, trying to ignore the dismayed look on his face. I feel like the ground is rocking under me, and I fall to the ground once I am inside. I wrap my arms around my knees and finally, finally give into my tears. How could he kiss me like that, when he knows how I feel about it, without even asking, and on a day like today when I see what could be all my worst fears realised?

Prim is a sleep, but Momma comes to the front door. She must hear my crying.

“Oh, Katniss,” she whispers sympathetically, and wraps her arms around me soothingly rocking me into her chest. It’s been years since I’ve allowed her to hold me like this, not since Dad died, and it turns a key in my chest that makes me sob all the harder. Somehow it feels good. Momma plants a kiss on my head.

I drop Gale’s jacket on the Hawthorne’s doorsept early the next morning, and go squirrel hunting. Gale, fortunately, is not there. He’s probably still hungover. I work quickly, and soon I am at Peeta’s with fresh meat.

“It’s not to trade.” I murmur when he opens the door. He nods me in and says I don’t have to do that. I already brought them strawberries. I decide to pretend I didn’t hear him since I don’t know what to say.

“The kids are still asleep then?”

“Yeah.”

“It is still quite early.”

“It is.”

The stuntedness is more than I can take, so I address the obvious issue.

“You’re eye looks bad. Is it true your brother hit you?”

“Yes. It is.” He looks away at the kitchen. “Do you want breakfast?”

“Sure.” But I know he’s trying to change the subject.

“Did your brother think it was punitive?”

“Yeah.” His back is to me at the stove so all I can see are clenched muscles and slumped shoulders.

“Do you think it is?”

“I don’t know. They could’ve reaped any of my children if they wanted to do that. Not my nieces. It could just be a coincidence, or maybe they just didn’t want to be too obvious. I don’t know.” He sighs and his hands still. “Either way it doesn’t matter. Over this last year, fewer people than ever have had to take tesserae, which means the odds were less in favour of the Merchants than ever. So either way….I suppose you could argue it’s my fault.”

I frown, uncertain which side to take. “Are you going to stop?”

“No,” he shakes his head firmly. It’s the strongest gesture he’s made since I arrived. “I knew the risks when I started this. More people starve everyday then are reaped every year. The bakery helps with that. I just never expected to have to face the consequences so…soon.” He’s gripping the edge of the counter so tightly now that I can see his knuckles whiten. I can’t help myself. I go up and wrap my arms around him, and he reciprocates. We stand there for a few moments until he extracts himself murmuring a thank you.

“So, how are things for you?” He finally asks, and I grant him the reprieve. There’s nothing more to say in any case. Sorry doesn’t change a damn thing.

“Gale kissed me.” I blurt out. Against my will I scan his face for a reaction. I don’t know what I was hoping for, but all I get out of him is raised eyebrows.

“And you didn’t like it?”

“No!” I cross my arms. “I’ve told him time and again I don’t want marriage or kids. I told him yesterday morning before he even tried. What’s wrong with him?”

Peeta chuckles which contrasts to the stain of grief that remains on his face. I hate him for laughing at my plight.

“He’s an eighteen year old boy, Katniss. He’s just survived his last Reaping. He’s got his whole life ahead of him, and he wants to share it with a remarkable woman. He overstepped his bounds. It’s not the end of the world.”

“I’m not remarkable.” I grumble. Peeta places a hand on my shoulder and turns me to face him directly.

“Yes, you are.” I pretend I can’t feel myself blush under his stare.

“I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.” He reassures me touching my cheek in a friendly manner. “Tell Gale how you feel, and if he’s as good a friend as you say he is, then he’ll come around, and accept it.”

“I just hate all the presumptions!” I hate that I��m whining too, but it is so annoying. “Everyone assumes we’re together. I never thought he would just assume too! And now I’m getting older, and the mines are looming, all everyone seems to talk about is boys and marriage.”

“I suppose they figure partnership makes it more bearable.”

“Not me.” I scowl. He laughs lightly.

“Don’t worry about it. Look at me!” He says as he flips eggs that have been frying in the pan too long. “I’ve never married, and I’m doing just fine.” I crook my lips at that one.

“You’ve adopted a bunch of kids and have a terrible reputation.”

“True!” He taps my nose with his index finger. “So don’t be like me.” Then the glint leaves his eyes, and he remembers what happened yesterday. I reach out and grasp his hand. We stay like that a long while as the eggs cool to rubber.

Gale and I don’t talk again until the day after the bloodbath. It’s clear he’s been avoiding me. When we finally meet up again in the woods I rail at him for kissing me and not even having the guts to face me afterward. I hadn’t appreciated splitting my haul with a man who wasn’t there. He at least has the decency to pretend to look ashamed, but I know he isn’t because he says it was just because he had a bit too much to drink, and had originally planned to “ease me into it.” Whatever the Hell that means. I’m not known for being fickle.

“I know you don’t like the idea, Katniss, but I also know you hate the mines. They might turn a blind eye to you poaching, but only if you’re working too. What are you going to say when you turn eighteen? Are you going to go down the mines?”

“I could say I’m a healer like mom!”

He laughs. “Yeah, like that’s going to work.”

“It might!”

“Never mind. Let’s just get on with it.”

I hate that he’s probably right, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t like being talked down too like that. It is a very tense hunt.

Flouer Mellark dies in the bloodbath. Peeta leaves the bakery in Town.

Every time I got to trade in Town I can feel the resentment. I can feel the glares at me, even worse than usual for being from the Seam. I can also feel anger towards the Capitol though. It’s palpable. The Mellarks, Peeta aside, are a respected family here. Meanwhile, at the Hob, Sae starts up a fund to sponsor Terrence. He is killed by the Careers on the fourth day.

No one knows what to do with the coin. We hadn’t had a chance to send it in yet, and Sae hadn’t exactly been keeping records of who gave what. It is Jude who suggests they send it to Rue. When we see there isn’t quite enough yet to get her something decent, he convinces Peeta to ask for donations in Town. I am deeply sceptical, but Peeta rallies his few friends and so angry are the people in Town at the Careers and the Capitol, they donate, and we send Rue some bread. When she receives the bread that is obviously not from her District and thanks us, and everyone in the crowd cheers. I notice the Peacekeepers grip their weapons tighter. I notice Gale is grinning.

We all root for Rue to win, and she lasts longer than I think any twelve year old has before, but she dies when the Careers smoke her out of the tree she hides in. Her death is cruel, painful, sadistic, and brutal. Everyone looks traumatised for weeks. Mockingjays with Rue’s face are found in alleyways making everyone stew. I don’t know if it’s one artists or several that grafiti the District, but they stir us up. Our only consolation is that for once someone from an outlying District wins, someone we actually like: Thresh. If you can call it a consolation when it is a rallying point. There is a curling in my stomach that tells me I need to ask Peeta a few pointed questions, but I decide it’s better not to know.

Chapter Four: Catching Fire

Summer break begins soon after the Games end, and I don’t see much of the Mellarks. All of them disappear into the woods from dawn until dusk to harvest the wheat. I keep an eye on them intermittently between my own prolific hunting. Summer is when you store up for Winter. Everytime I see them, they are hard at work. Jet and Peeta do the scything. Colleen and Cole bundle, and the youngest two rake. That’s just the beginning of course; they also have to thresh and winnow what they’ve gathered. After that, they’ll have to prepare the land to plant the corn. Whenever I catch them working, I invariably think of Thresh, and how skills like this had helped him survive. He knew how to handle a scythe; he knew how to survive in the forest of grain they provided for him. I wonder if the Gamemakers had planned to have an outlier win this year, to keep things from being too boring. It seemed a bit of an advantage for anyone with farming experience, like people from Eleven raised in fields of grain. I wonder if they’re regretting it.

Thresh has been a difficult victor to say the least. His shout, “For Rue!” when he made his last kill has been taken by the District as something of a rallying cry. I’ve seen the phrase graffitied everywhere. During his victor interview, much like his tribute interview, he really made Caesar work for every word. There was seething resentment in him, and tears that shone hatred in his eyes when he saw Rue die. He made it clear he thought anyone who participated or enjoyed that kind of thing was monstrous. It didn’t matter how much the Capitol tried to edit his interview. There really was no salvaging it. I worry all the time about the consequences for him, but so far he’s still around. I can’t imagine what the Victory Tour will be like.

Gale is thrilled by what he’s seen. Ever since he’s started down the mines, he’s been even more of a ticking bomb than ever. Resentment spills out of his every pore. He was made for more than back-breaking minework in unsafe conditions for which he gets a pittance.

“Don’t you see, Catnip! This proves that the other Districts feel the same way we do!”

“Maybe they do, Gale, but we’re all still trapped by fences.” I wish he would be rational. “Do you even know how you’d communicate with them? Let alone ally with them?”

“Thresh is coming here on the tour, isn’t he? We can get him a message then.”

“How? How are you going to get close enough to him?”

He rolls his eyes at me. “All we need is a signal. Someone to shout from the crowd we support him.”

“And get us all killed.”

“They can’t kill all of us, Catnip. Where would they get their coal?”

“Didn’t save Thirteen.” I point out cynically.

“Look, we’re all on camera. Maybe they’ll edit it out in post-production, but maybe other Districts will see what we did too.” He looks down at me in frustration. “I don’t know why you’re fighting me on this, Katniss.”

“I’m not! But there’s no point in having this rebellion if it doesn’t work. I’m not risking my life, let along my sister’s and mother’s on some fool’s scheme!” My chest rises and falls with each rapid breath. “When I’m sure you’ve thought this through, maybe I’ll consider joining.” He internalises this. His eyes are watching me in a manner that is calculating, and, for once, I can’t fathom what’s in the recesses of his mind. Do I know him as well as I think?

“Alright, Catnip. I will. I’ll give you a plan. It’s simple. We get to Thresh. He gets word out to the other districts, other victors, maybe. We make bows, weapons, grab the tools from the mines, take the Peacekeepers. The miners are angry, Katniss. We’d do it. If we can coordinate that with the other districts, we could take the Capitol.”

“They. Have. Bombs. Gale!” I spit through gritted teeth.

“We have a victor who is an ally in the Capitol.”

“And?”

“Maybe he can cripple them somehow.”

“It’s a bit much to hope.”

“All at once, maybe, but if we plan this over a few years. It could work.”

It might. I reluctantly concede to that. We spend the rest of out time in the woods in silence, but I can tell from the distant look in his eyes that Gale is scheming. Right before we leave, he shocks me with that he says.

“Your friend, Madge, the mayor’s daughter.”

“What of her?” I ask cautiously. Gale’s never liked her.

“She’ll be at the banquet when Thresh comes here, won’t she? She could get a message to him, discreetly. Could you talk to her about it?”

I muse over it a bit, but Madge has mentioned her Aunt Maysilee a few times. I know she has a rebellious spirit in her, it’s evident if only in who she choose to befriend. And, in truth, as careful as I’ve learned to be, I want to end these Hunger Games. I want to rebel. I tell Gale I’ll talk to her about it. Something this simple is small, not likely to hurt anyone, but could have impact.

I broach the subject with Madge when she joins me gathering in the woods. She looks intrigued.

“I’ll need to be able to tell him what kind of support to expect.” She muses. “You’ll need to know how many miners are involved, how far they’re willing to go, but, yes, I’ll certainly do it. Actually,” she adds hesitantly, but I see pride in her eyes as she raises them to mine. “My family has been rebels for ages.” Then she bites her lip, before adding something that confounds me. “Just tell Gale to be careful about running his mouth in the mines. New shafts should be fine, but I’m pretty sure the Capitol bugs them to make sure there isn’t anything treasonous that might translate into action. I can’t be sure, but I’ve heard it speculated that that’s why there was that accident years ago. The one your father died in.”

“You mean…?” Could it be possible? My father poached. He was hardly a law-abiding citizen, but I had never considered he might have been a rebel in the revolutionary sense. I suppose it could explain the lack of support we received afterwards. I still don’t doubt it was because my father’s marriage was so unpopular, because everyone was too wrapped up to care, but now there might be another reason as well.

“Yeah.” Madge nods. “I don’t know much, but my aunt and your mother were friends. I think that’s what got your mother into it, when she saw Aunt Maysilee die.”

My mother, a rebel? I can hardly imagine it, but then again, she did leave everything she’d ever known to marry me father. She’d been brave once, rebellious. I feel a stirring of desire to know her again burning up inside me warring with the urge to keep her at a distance to protect myself. A war that has been going on in earmest since she held me after Gale kissed me.

I’m going to have to talk to her.

“Yes, it’s true.”

“Seriously?” She says it so casually. Yes, it’s true. I feel my mind spinning, but at the same time it’s like it’s falling into place, being screwed on right, because it makes a bizarre sort of sense.

“You were rebels?”

“Yes,” my mother nods again. She sips her tea before she elaborates. We’re both sitting at the kitchen table. Prim is out with a friend. Despite the fact that we are talking about Dad, or perhaps because of it, Momma seems more animated than ever. “I grew up thinking, if not nasty things, than superior things about the Seam.” She explains. “I never imagined I would ever visit here, let alone live here. But one day, your father showed up, asking to trade meat for antibiotics. A boy had been horribly whipped, and needed help. My father refused him, but I admired his courage in coming there. There was something shining in his eyes. It was well-known that my family believed in doing business only with those who had the coin. Your father went on about how the young boy was the only child left to a widowed woman. Something about the entire scene touched me, so I followed your father out. I got him the medication. That started everything.”

“You said you met when he came to trade plants with you?”

“I did. The whippings back then were terrible. After Haymitch won, new peacekeepers were brought in, and the punishments were absolutely barbaric. My parents said we shouldn’t help; the people involved were criminal, and it would only cause trouble. The truth is, I wanted to cause trouble. I watched my best friend die a horrific death on live television. Haymitch tried to help her; they were allies. I thanked him for that once.” She quiets as she becomes lost in a distant memory. She shakes herself out of it. “I was angry at the Capitol for what they’d done, and I was sixteen so sneaking out to heal the backs of those who were whipped for defying them seemed a terribly grand idea.” I can see it now. My mother, before grief diminished her, sneaking out to help those in need. I’m proud of her, I realise. “I told your father I couldn’t help him with Capitol-grade medicines again, so I looked through the Plant Book, and told him which herbs to gather. I suppose I realised interacting with all these Seam families that they weren’t so different, the depth of the unfairness. It’s not often someone from Town is Reaped, but now that I knew how devastating it was…I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to face that all the time.” She shrugs, takes another sip of her tea, and concludes. “So that’s how I fell in love with your father, and, yes, eventually, we joined organised rebellion.”

“I don’t know what to say.” I mumble. I twist my head trying to process what I’ve just heard. Momma reaches out to grasp my hand.

“It was nothing I meant to hide from you,” she says softly, “but first you were too young, and then…”

“And then…” I conclude, knowing exactly what she means.

“When Jack died, I feared it was my fault,” she whispers. “Did I get him killed?”

For the first time in years, I go up and wrap my arms around my mother. I love you, I think to myself, because I do. My mother has never turned anyone away, has always healed everybody, and I know, once she came back, she did all she knew how to do for us. Slowly, haltingly, those words cross my lips, and as we cry together, our tears intermingle.

Afterwards she lifts a trembling hand and wipes my tears away.

“I understand why you’re so reticent to have children, you know.” She says tremulously. “Your father and I waited years to have you, until things were safer. I knew better than most do how to avoid a pregnancy. But, sweetheart, I never regretted marrying your father, or having you and your sister. There’s things I wish I’d done differently, but I’ve never regretted it. And if I hadn’t done it, I know I would have always wondered, and that would have been worse. I don’t know what happened between you and Gale, but if he isn’t for you, then he isn’t. I rejected men too, but if you’re afraid…be honest, and consider if it’s worth the risk. I’d never take back what I had with your father for the pain of his loss. And you’re not alone, not like before. Prim and I will stand by you, if nothing else.” She closes her eyes and I touch her hand, the one that wiped my tears. “If you do want to talk to me about that, Katniss, I can listen.” Then she moves to wash up the dishes, and I help her dry. Momma’s like me that way. She says what she has to say, but she’s not wordy. The silence between us communicates what we cannot. It is not shards of ice that let in a chill wind, but a warm chord that hums between us.

I warn Gale about talking in the mines, and about what Madge says, and it fires him up. In light of what I now know, I also try to corner Peeta to talk to him, but even past the harvesting and planting season, he’s hard to find. When I come over with some clothes Prim has outgrown, Colleen greets me at the door, and encourages Sarai to try them on. As she excitedly does, Colleen confides in me that Peeta has been distant ever since the Games. He throws himself into his work, and barely surfaces at the end of the day. He’s gone early in the morning.

“It’s true,” Sarai confirms as she gathers up the clothes that don’t fit her anymore. They’ll likely one day be Posy’s. “He doesn’t tell stories like he used to.” Colleen brushed back her little sister’s hair comfortingly and something rends in my chest.

I go home and stew for hours before marching into the woods to find Peeta. He’s there, sure enough, and I storm up to him hissing at him to come talk to me.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I reprimand as soon as we are out of Jet’s earshot.

“Farming.” He replies blandly, although I detect shock in his eyes at my dressing down. I suppose it’s true I’ve never dared talk to him like this, then again, have I ever had to?

“I’ve barely seen a peep of you in weeks,” which hurt more than I want to admit, “and now I have to hear from Colleen and Sarai that you’ve been all checked out?” I fight the tears forming in my eyes, because it brings back uncomfortable memories. “I’m not your daughter, and even I haven’t appreciated not being able to talk to you, how do you think they feel?”

“I’m sorry.” He stammers. “I-”

“I really don’t care.” I throw my hands up in the air. “Just stop. Do better.”

I storm off, but he follows me, and grabs me by the left forearm twisting me around.

“I am sorry,” he speaks earnestly. “I hadn’t realised I was hurting you or them. I just…I don’t know. Whenever I’m upset, I work.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I have ever since I was a boy, kneading bread is a good way to work out anger. It’s always worked before, and it means things get done that…appease people, I guess.” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t work now though. I hurt all the time. It never goes away, and now Maria’s pregnant, and-

“Maria’s pregnant?!”

“Yes. And I can’t help wondering what’s going to happen, and if maybe I’ve screwed up, and my brother won’t look me in the eye, or talk to me, or accept anything from me, and then I go home, and wonder if I haven’t condemned every single one of them. I just…” He looks skyward and blinks rapidly. I know he’s trying not to cry, and I don’t know what to say.

“Is it true you’re part of the rebellion?” I blurt out instead. He looks gobsmacked again. It seems to be a day for it.

“Yes. Did you figure out from the art?”

“Partially,” I admit, “but Mom told me today about how she and Daddy were in with the rebels, and you said you knew him, and you said he taught you about art. You said he used to sing. It reminded me of the Hanging Tree, and how he used to sing that, but Momma would tell him to be careful. So, I just wondered if…”

“If that’s how we met?”

I nod.

“No. We met because he traded with me, but he was the one who brought me into the Rebellion. I felt like I had to get involved.”

“Why?”

“Because of Jude, I suppose, and the others when they came. So many children starving, I can’t feed them all. Even with the new bakery, I can’t feed them all. Then, I realised I was a father, and how could I be a good father, if I turned a blind eye to something threatening my kids?” He sighs and looks deflated. “My mom used to hit me. My dad did nothing. The Games are worse than being hit, and I couldn’t do nothing the way he did.” He shrugs his shoulders. “That’s how I got in.”

“Just tell them that then.” I say. “They’ll understand that you’re fighting for them. You’re all in too deep now.”

“Do you think they’ll forgive me?” He whispers, and in the curling of his torso I can see what it had cost him to admit this. The family he was born into turned against him. Does he expect the one he created will as well?

“I wouldn’t worry about it. I forgave.” I pause. “And I’m not always good at that.”

He smiles. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

He laughs. “Yelling at me. I guess, I needed it.”

I lean up on my tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek and head home.

Rebellious sentiment spreads quickly. The idea of trying to make contact with other districts proves popular, and while not everyone is willing to join in actively now, they do say that if the Districts unite, they’ll fight. Our district is small so we’ll need a lot of the population to fight, but with the addition of Peeta’s farming, there’s more self-sufficiency, and that means more people who see hope. Which means there’s a shot. I tell Madge everything and she dutifully promises to relay the information. Gale’s ambitious and he hopes that maybe if they show something on camera, it’ll get through during the mandatory viewing, reach more than just Eleven. I don’t know who organises it, or how it’s decided, but when the Victory Tour finally comes, a recording goes off during Thresh’s clearly scripted speech of Rue’s four note tune, and someone shouts For Rue! And gets carted off. Thresh nods in solidarity. We are all put under curfew.

Regardless, Madge is able to get her message to him, and Thresh tells her District Eleven had an uprising after Rue’s death, and are chomping at the bit for freedom. And having been on Tour, he can confirm that other Districts are angry too. Word is quickly spread through the mines, and soon people are whistling various four note tunes in solidarity.

Gale is extremely eager.

“Don’t you see, Catnip!” He exclaims. “It’s closer than ever!” He crows in the woods, and I let him. In spite of myself, I am excited too. “Maybe a couple more years, and we’ll have them. We’ll have them.” I smile at his enthusiasm, even if I think it’s a bit premature. “And what about us, Catnip?” He turns around and looks at me with shining eyes.

“What about us?” I hedge. All the delight in his exclamations dies.

“I know you’re worried about having kids, Katniss, but if we built a whole, new, better world, it would be different.” He says it so hopefully, almost confidently that I can’t bring myself to crush him. Besides, I don’t know if he’s wrong. Without the Games, with access to food and Capitol-grade medicine, I really wouldn’t object to having kids, but the idea of opening my heart like that hurts. I do consider it though, I already care about Gale, care about a lot of people, maybe there’s no stopping it. Momma’s right too, we aren’t nearly so helpless now. So I say,

“Maybe I can be different.”

And maybe I can, but when I dare to dream, since I’m dreaming anyway, I dream of blonde hair and blue eyes. Even though I know it’s as likely to happen as pigs flying.

It’s Peeta who first tells me about Thirteen. It is Madge who confirms it. It’s a game-changer really. Weapons are an issue for us. We don’t have a whole lot to fight with. Knowing someone could supply us with arms helps. If every district, or even of most districts, can take their Peacekeepers, we’ll have a shot at the Capitol. It’s sensitive knowledge though, and not something we can blast around which makes recruitment difficult. I don’t do much of any of it, but Gale rales in the mines, and Peeta is working on it in Town with a friend. I provide a listening ear to them both. One thing everyone is nervous about, riled up about, is the upcoming Quarter Quell, and both Gale and Peeta are using that to their advantage.

But Winter is difficult, even more so than usual. Most people become so intent on heating their homes, and overcoming illness, we know we’ll have to wait until spring to really start the conversation up again.

Eliot drags home another girl from the Community Home. She’s three years old, adorable, and her name is Crystal. She’s recently orphaned. After a couple months, she’s one of the many who fall ill. She’s still far from the last. Mom and Prim are gone all hours of the day and night for weeks trying to keep on top of it all, but there’s not much they can do. It drags on and on. There’s speculation it’s punishment, biological warfare from the Capitol, but we don’t know and it doesn’t matter. Either way, it changes nothing of our reality. I spend a lot of time at the Mellarks for support. Crystal coughs and sputters and tries to breath. We feed her as best we are able, and hold her head over steam to help her breath. We try to bring her fever down, and soothe her cough. Nothing works. Finally, I hold her and sing. It’s all I can do. Peeta stands in the doorway as she falls asleep. I see tears stream down his face.

She is in the ground come March.

“This is why I don’t want kids.” I mutter to Prim as we both cry in bed.

“That’s stupid,” she mumbles. “You cared about Crystal; she wasn’t yours. If you stop caring, I don’t think you’ll like yourself very much.”

I don’t know how to answer her, but I still feel a bit validated in my opinion when there is the Reading of the Card for the Quarter Quell.

“As a reminder that they only endangered their most vulnerable by rebelling, this years tributes will be Reaped from only the twelve year old population.”

My mother gasps. Prim cries. I stare.

Gale storms up to me and tells me to meet at the Mellarks for an emergency meeting. There I see Gale and Thom, a couple of other miners I know by sight and not name, and Peeta and his friend Melissa Donner. I gather these must be various cell leaders.

“We need to start the uprisings in May, before the Reaping.” Gale starts off the conversation, “People are furious about this. It’s perfect timing. They want to stomp us down, but we’ll rise up.” The conversation spirals from there. People are only just starting to recover from the harsh winter; we don’t have the numbers yet. It’s hard to organise a community of thousands. That’s why next year was more feasible. Just because Twelve was ready, didn’t mean all the other Districts were and so on. I agree to wait and Gale glares at me, but I don’t see and alternative.

Things don’t really fall apart until Gale and Peeta get into an argument. Peeta makes a reference to offering the Peacekeepers the choice to surrender, and Gale says it would endanger lives.

“Not all the Peacekeepers are bad, Gale.” He points out. I think of Darius and agree.

“If the White Shirts want to join us, that’s fine by me.” Gale growls back. “But I’m not giving them another opportunity to get one over on me.” He is met by enthusiastic agreement. “It’s Us v. Them.”

“How are they going to know to side with us, if we don’t offer them a chance?” I can see by the tenseness around Peeta’s eyes that he is angry, but his voice is carefully modulated and even. “We shouldn’t kill without mercy.”

“It’s war. Sacrifices have to be made. They’ll shoot with us or against us. That’s their choice, but I’m not taking any kind of risk that loses this for us. Anyone who sides with the Capitol is the enemy.”

“I’m so grateful to know, Gale, that anyone who even looks like something you don’t like is the enemy. It’s a wonder you’ll talk to us Townies at all. But, of course, it’s because you get something out of it, allies. I wonder what you’ll do when being allies with the Capitol benefits you more than not.”

Gale swings a punch and the meeting is quickly ended as we break the two men up.

“Are you alright?” I ask Peeta as he sits back down. He seems to need more from me than Gale.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You didn’t seem to be at your best.”

“I think Dad’s sick.” He whispers and I walk over and hug him tightly where he sits. “It’s no surprise. Dad’s getting on anyway. He’s almost sixty. It was really only a matter of time.” Releasing my hold a bit, I card my fingers through his curls trying to soothe him. When I’m done I caress my hand down his jaw. He stops my hand and looks up at me. There’s a focus in his gaze that’s raw, even new, and I immediately become aware of how close he is, how fast my heart is beating, and how my breath started for just a second. I don’t know who does it. I think I do it. But it’s the easiest thing in the world to press my lips to his. Slowly, oh, so slowly, our lips move, part in a gasp of pleasure, so light and tentative, like dragging your finger against a flower petal. Then closer, I press closer, feeling his hands on my hips. I change the angle of my head, and he bursts away. Footsteps pad down the stairs.

“Dad, is it over? Is everything okay?” Cole sidles up to us rubbing at his eyes, and we burst apart.

“It’s fine, son.” He ruffles the boy’s hair. He bounces his eyes past me, and I know we won’t be talking about this today. “Just a disagreement in method. You should be in bed.”

I take that as my cue and awkwardly say my goodbyes.

Peeta doesn’t meet my eyes at the door, and I wonder if I’ve ruined everything.

TBC….

#Springtime Edition 2019 #submission #wingletblackbird #animekpopxx #prompt 44

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technicallycleverdetective · 5 years ago

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Prompt for @izgu6ljena: Person A of your OTP getting married to someone who isn't Person B, and B running out during the middle of the service with tears streaming down their cheeks.

Fabrizio was not comfortable in suits. He owned only two and they emerged from the wardrobe rarely enough that only his close family knew. Well, his close family and one other person. That was the reason why he’d been forced to hire one, just to escape the affectionate teasing that would surely have come his way, assuming Ermal wasn’t too distracted to acknowledge Fabrizio’s presence at all.

He pulled at the collar, forgetting that he’d already opened two buttons to help him breathe. They did nothing to ease the tightness in his chest.

He took a deep breath and felt his ribs contract again, a sound in his throat that sounded dangerously like a sob, but no-one was close enough to hear it. He bit his lip. He could keep it together for an hour. This was an important day for Ermal and he’d invited Fabrizio as a friend, to share in the joy of the occasion, not to ruin it with his ridiculous fantasies.

The situation had reversed so unexpectedly. Fabrizio didn’t know what had happened, but he knew that Ermal was happy. Of course he was. He’d told Fabrizio at the time that he was devastated, that he’d never wanted it to end, that he still wanted her back. They were writing their song, still in the first flush of tentative friendship with no idea of where it would all lead, but apparently Ermal’s thoughts remained unaltered. She’d changed her mind and then it was as if the whole year and a half had meant nothing.

It wasn’t as if Ermal hadn’t made things clear from the beginning. She was the love of his life and Fabrizio was a bit of fun, light relief. She was the one he couldn’t live without. The woman who could effectively click her fingers and he would drop what he and Fabrizio had and…

The church bells were pealing with a single, rhythmic tone. A couple of late guests he didn’t recognise were running up the steps, the woman clutching her hat. They smiled at him and he gave a self-conscious nod. It was time to go. He walked into the church and found himself in a hallway around a garden, Roman columns decorated with black and white mosaic, and a grey font just outside the door of the main church. The ceiling soared high above the old wooden pews and every window was made of stained glass, casting colours all around the space. It was an old, hallowed, austere hall.

Ermal was already standing up there, in front of an ornate white marble altar with red carpet leading down the aisle, wandering a little aimlessly back and forth. He saw Fabrizio and grinned, waving like a child in a school Nativity. His suit was similar to Fabrizio’s, except he had a waistcoat and a neat shirt, and a necklace. He was glad to see the necklace. It was some small sign that it was still his Ermal. He hadn’t lost him completely. Except he wasn’t his Ermal anymore. He’d have to get used to thinking like that.

He walked up the aisle and tried to ignore that little voice in his head screaming, ‘It should have been me, it should have been me.’

“Bizio!”

Ermal jumped down the last step to hug him and Fabrizio held him tightly, savouring the smell of his skin and the ticklish feeling of his hair against his face. This was ridiculous. Ermal wasn’t going to war. They would still be friends. He already knew, however, that this represented a break from which there was no coming back. Ermal would feel awkward about the past they’d shared, or else Fabrizio would be unable to move on, and one of them would walk away in the end. So while he still had this privilege, he would make the most of it.

He pulled back and, without thinking, held Ermal’s face between his hands. He did it all the time, but not now, it wasn’t appropriate anymore. Ermal was still smiling like he didn’t see anything wrong and perhaps he didn’t. Fabrizio had always been tactile even before they got together. Was this just a friendly gesture in his mind?

“Nervous?” Fabrizio asked.

Ermal smiled wider and shook his head, and Fabrizio let go and stepped back. He needed to go to his seat. If he stayed here, he’d just keep touching Ermal and it wasn’t right in front of all these people. He found his way to a pew and sat down. He didn’t know the people beside him, although he recognised Ermal’s family ahead of him. His mother, sister and niece were in the front row. His brother was up at the altar now. Fabrizio hadn’t noticed him before. He looked around the crowd. The only faces he knew were Marco and Andrea, side by side at the church door, watching the road.

Before Fabrizio was quite ready, the organ began to play. Everyone turned to face the door, except Fabrizio. He kept watching Ermal. He saw that bright smile which was so familiar, and until recently had been so often directed towards him. Even now, Ermal was the most beautiful man he’d ever seen and Fabrizio had an awful feeling that he always would be, no matter what.

The voice screamed louder, ‘It should have been me.’

He’d always known this about Ermal. His ‘single man’ veneer was razor thin. Not so far below the surface, he’d always wanted to just fall in love and settle down with someone. And Fabrizio had thoroughly persuaded him that he wasn’t the man to provide that, with his vehement anti-marriage sentiments. It was true that he didn’t like marriage. He didn’t like the ceremony, he feared being trapped in an unhappy relationship held together by legal handcuffs, but right now the idea of making a lifelong commitment to Ermal seemed very attractive.

The music had stopped and the minister was addressing the congregation with a cheerful smile. He looked as if he loved taking weddings. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”

‘Too late,’ the voice taunted. ‘You lost your chance.’

Perhaps that was why Ermal had kept his heart safe from him and never let things get too serious between them. If Fabrizio had been more open with his feelings, or kept his mouth shut more, could he be the one standing up there now? The thoughts of what could have been were torturous.

“Ermal, will you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife, in sickness and health, for richer for poorer, till death do you part?”

There was a slight pause, enough for a rustle of anticipation in the audience, enough for Fabrizio to fervently pray to hear a “No.” “I do.”

He felt like he’d been stabbed. The pain was so real that he glanced down to look for an injury, but his body was intact.

“Will you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband…”

He had heard enough. Accepting this invitation had been such a terrible mistake. What had he thought would happen? Did he believe his mere presence would be enough to change Ermal’s mind back, when it hadn’t stopped him from doing this in the first place? Did he hope to stand up and stop the wedding like he was in a terrible drama?

‘Foolish arrogant idiot,’ the voice snapped. ‘You deserve to be alone.’

He stood and rushed into the aisle, running blind as his hands covered his face to catch the tide of tears. It didn’t matter in that moment that he was ruining everything, that everyone was staring at him, that he had given away the extent of his feelings at the worst possible time and lost whatever scraps of Ermal’s friendship could have been salvaged. He just needed to get out of there or he was going to scream.

“Bizio!”

Part of him wanted Ermal to let him go, another part wanted him to follow, and the two warred viciously. In the meantime Fabrizio was outside the church, running for the great stone gates that would take him to the streets and an escape, but he didn’t get that far. He fell to his knees in the car park and started to cry uncontrollably, huge gulping sobs that left him barely able to breathe. This was the worst heartbreak he’d ever felt. It was like being ripped to shreds from the inside.

“Bizio!”

Ermal’s voice was much closer now, right behind him, and then he was shaking him. Fabrizio jolted forward and gasped, the car park changing in an instant to a dark room. He scrambled around, feeling bedclothes, seeing curtains, a bedside cabinet, a silhouette with distinctive bushy hair. His sight was blurry and when he blinked, he felt that his eyes were wet.

“Ermal?” He gripped the first piece of skin he could find and he was real, he was warm, he was here. “Did that happen?”

“Did what happen?”

“Are you married?” Fabrizio asked urgently.

Ermal frowned, but Fabrizio must have looked truly panicked because he answered quickly. “No, of course not. Did you have a dream that I was married?”

“I…”

Slowly, but surely, the lines between reality and fantasy were beginning to be redrawn and Fabrizio had never been so glad to discover that he’d been dreaming.

“It must have been that show putting ideas in your head” Ermal remarked, resting his head on Fabrizio’s chest. Show? What show? Oh yes, the reality show about those couples getting married on the same day as their first meeting. That had only been on as background noise for cuddling. Fabrizio hadn’t realised that it had filtered into his brain. He ran a hand through the soft curls and realised that he could do that for as long as he wanted, whenever he pleased. The thought made him want to laugh.

“Who was I marrying?” Ermal asked, a mischievous note in his voice, drawing circles on Fabrizio’s skin as he spoke.

In his addled state, he nearly answered without thinking, but reality fully reasserted itself just in time and he pulled up short. “No-one. I…I didn’t focus much on them. I only saw you.”

“Aw!” Ermal lifted his head and kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry, I haven’t married anyone behind your back.”

“Thank you.”

He received a light kiss on the lips and then Ermal lay back down, cuddling him close. He was asleep within minutes. Fabrizio did not return to sleep. He was half-afraid of waking up in a different world again, one where Ermal was not by his side, even though he knew that was ridiculous.

‘Do you want to marry me?’ the voice whispered tentatively.

His sudden wish to stand at an altar had been the result of panic, not a reasoned thought process. He didn’t want to get married. He never had. But Ermal did, or would. Maybe his subconscious was trying to give him a warning that the current arrangement couldn’t last forever. Ermal deserved a full-time partner and if Fabrizio couldn’t do that for him, he’d find someone else who would.

Maybe one day, when they were in a more romantic setting and had more time than the four hours allocated before Ermal’s flight back to Milan, the right moment would present itself. For now, he put a kiss in his boyfriend’s hair and held him close, finally allowing himself to drift back to a peaceful slumber.

#writing #be kind if you read :)

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biomedgrid · 5 years ago

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Biomed Grid | The Quest for Reality

Introduction

Most of us take the world for real. It seems almost ridiculous to question this, after all we can’t walk through walls, and we know that if we won’t stay in the correct lane while driving, there is an acute danger of a head-on collision. We know this from the history of traffic accidents. As a consequence, we generally respect the traffic rules. The laws of physics, in other words. We trust them implicitly. We can observe them every day and all day long. Their regularity inspires us with confidence, and so our trust in the reality of the world is constantly reinforced. This trust is even more enhanced when we compare our daily waking experience with our nocturnal dreams. They are ethereal and fluid in comparison with the day’s encounters. Every night they seem to take place in a different locality, while in waking we are mostly bound to one place and if we do move away from it, we trust that it will still be there in the same state we had left it when we return. And since we regularly find that it is as expected, our trust in the reality of the world is complete.

Not so with our dreams. There we only seldom return to the same place, and when we do, it is more of a feeling that we have been there before rather than a distinct physiological recognition of house and home.

It is for this reason that we consider dreams to be little more than virtual reality. By this we mean that although they feel real while dreaming, they vanish into thin air when we wake up from them. Often, we declare them to be absurd, and many of us consider them to be nothing more substantial than ‘random’ neuronal sparking off. But if we afford waking greater scrutiny, we find that it too requires neuronal sparking. In other words, dreaming and waking stand on common ground in this respect. Both states require a functioning brain. So, we must ask, is the difference between the two states merely in the order of its sparking? Put another way: is the dream due to ‘random’ sparking while waking is the result of ‘controlled’ sparking in the brain?

Although this is a rather crude distinction between the two states, it has some merit. For they both share intermittency of occurrence. It is here that we must pause and ask ourselves if something that is interrupted in its flow so abruptly and completely was worthy of reality status? Indeed, are we not obliged to attribute the same irreality status to waking as we do to dreaming, even though we feel that waking is of more palpable substance than our dreams? We are, for once we recall that dreams feel no less real while dreaming, we discover yet another common trait between the two states. We may struggle to concede yet concede we must. It gets worse for our habitual view of the world. It is not only as unreal as a dream after waking up from it, but it is also as personal as the dream. Indeed, the universe is a private affair. Put most succinctly: the world is not an objective reality, but a solipsistic fact. Again, we struggle to concede, yet concede we must. To put it quite simply: objects have no point of view. The subject alone has a point of view; hence there is no such thing as an objective world.

The world and its myriad of things might as well be a dream. Like a dream it arises in the morning as we wake up, and like a dream after waking, it disappears as we go to sleep. But surely, so we protest, the world must exist to all those who are still awake, which must be testimonial to the fact that the world is real and continues to exist when we go to sleep. Although a tempting inference, logically it is untenable, for this is a double premise. Indeed, one cannot have more than one point of view at one and the same time. Ergo, the world is a private projection in the same way as is the dream. Certainly, in the end the difference between dreaming and waking consists merely of the direction of their respective projections: While the dream is an inward ‘projection’, waking is an outward screening. In order to afford this finding a closer look, let us go down to the lake for a moment where all this will explain itself. There we spot the glistening water wherein we discover a spectacular world of reflections. Let us assume that all we can see there is the water with its mirrored images. With that in view, we realise at once that the reflections in the water are representative of the world of waking as well as of the world of dreams. Both worlds are in need of that water, neither of them will come into existence without it.

So what does water stand for? It stands for that without which there is nothing, nothing, no think. In other words, it is the ‘substance’ that supports the stream of thoughts, which creates both dream and waking experience. Without thought there are no things. But what is it that carries the stream of thoughts? What is it that infuses the sense of reality into the imagery conjured up? It can only be one ‘thing’ Consciousness is indeed the sine qua non of existence. There are biologists who argue that consciousness arises from biological processes. Since such scholars assume that matter was created first with consciousness arising out of it, they must believe in an objective reality. In view of our previous argument, objectivism is logically untenable. Hence the process can be valid only in reverse: it is consciousness that emanates matter. It can hardly be any other way for without consciousness matter or anything else is non-existent. Thus consciousness is to be seen as Primary Reality, while matter can only be regarded as relative, or indeed, ‘parasitical’ reality, much as are the reflections in the water of our lake.

Of course, it has to be said that the water of our lake analogy is not the kind of water whose reflections are dependent on the surroundings of the lake. You will recall that I have stated that we were unable to see what it was around. By saying that was heralding the special quality of the water of our lake: unlike ordinary water it is capable of In short, for its play of light and shade, its colours and shapes it has no need of surrounding features such as of land, trees and houses, of people, ducks and geese. Its power of ‘reflection’ is inherent. I have maintained that it was consciousness that gave us the sense of reality. But I have also said that anything that is intermittent cannot be regarded as real. Only something that remains constant and essentially unaltered can qualify for reality status. So the prime question here is if consciousness meets these qualifications. In short, is consciousness continuous or intermittent?

At first sight it definitely seems to be an intermittent phenomenon for we say of the man, for instance, who suffered a blow to his head and lies there motionless that he is unconscious. Yet when he comes to himself, we realise that he was only unresponsive to the outside world. Now that he is aware of his surroundings again and knows who he was before he was knocked out, we must conclude that his consciousness remained continuous. In fact his condition is little different from the man who has fallen asleep and is able to relate his dreams when he wakes up again. The recall of his dreams is evidence that his consciousness remained intact. Resorting to our lake analogy for a moment, we might say that the ‘water of consciousness’ remained in its place. Had his ‘lake’ been drained, he would not have been able to regain self-awareness.

But what about the ‘water of consciousness’ of the man or woman we consider to be dead? Was their ‘water of consciousness’ drained? Until doctor Moody’s book, “Life after Death”, came along in 1975, the received perception of death was fairly uniform: it meant the end of existence, a break in human consciousness. Moody himself had no doubt that ‘life’ continued after what we term death, that consciousness was not extinguished and that the individual, although discarnate, retained its identity and lived on in a different realm.

His research was naturally heavily criticised. But then, in 1998, a book came on the market that contained a report on an NDE that fulfilled all the requirements of impeccable scientific observation, procedural reporting and indubitable substantiation. In other words the report was underpinned by the fact that there were numerous professionals at the scene of the NDE to witness the case. The book in question is called “Light and Death” by Michael Sabom, M.D. (Zondervan Publishing House, Grand Rapids, Michigan, 49530. ISBN 0-310-21992-2).

The numerous professionals present, over twenty in all, consisted of doctors, nurses and medical technicians, all of whom attended Dr. Spetzler’s daring operation on a basilar artery aneurism that was inaccessible along the usual pathways of operations. (Opus cit. 35) Understandably under such circumstances the “documentation far exceeds any recorded before and provides us with our most complete scientific glimpse yet into the near-death experience”. (Opus cit. 38) Spetzler’s highly original approach, requiring the draining and cooling of the patient’s blood, known as hypothermic arrest was nicknamed ‘stand still’ by the attending doctors. And rightly so, for this procedure results in a complete shut down of all signs of life. In brief, during such an operation the body temperature is a mere 60 degrees Fahrenheit (15.55 C) while the lungs draw no breaths, the heartbeat is flat-lined and the EEG registers no brain waves at all.

In other words, as Sabom writes: “In everyday terms she would be dead.” She was Pam Reynolds, a woman in her thirties whose life hung on a very thin thread, who was now in a state that would be classed by any medical standards as dead. Dead not just for minutes, but for over an hour. Yet, like Lazarus, she returned to life to everyone’s relief and amazement. She returned safely and well to her reheating body. But even more amazingly, the story she had to relate backed up all the essential characteristics Moody had observed in the NDEs of his interviewees. Pam, like so many other near-death patients travelled into the ‘Elysian Fields’ along a wellestablished route reported by Moody and many other authors on NDEs. “It was like a tunnel but it wasn’t a tunnel”, Pam recounted.

What is of no less interest to us here is the way Pam’s crossing of the ‘River Styx’ began: She felt she was being pulled out of the top of her head and as she got further away from it she could see several things in the operating room when she was looking down. ‘It was not like normal vision. It was brighter and more focused and clearer than normal vision.’ (Ibid) Pam’s report not only backed up Moody’s observations but also put to rest all the arguments about a spirit world where one’s relations are encountered after death. It also showed that the senses of our body are not a primary function, but a secondary one; one that in fact is of a lesser quality than primary sensing.

From such evidence we must infer that contrary to common perception NDEs support the notion that consciousness exists separately from the brain and is non-intermittent, so alone qualifying for reality status. It is in fact the ground of all life, which is inherent in consciousness.

Sceptics strenuously search for flaws in the report of Pam Reynolds’ case. There are no flaws. Despite of this some will maintain that Pam had her transcendental experience of meeting her long deceased grandmother and uncle before her body was clinically dead, before her brainwaves ceased. This was not so. The end of her NDE ‘trip’ verifies this: “My grandmother didn’t take me back through the tunnel…My uncle said he would do it…But then I got to the end of it and saw the thing, the body, I didn’t want to get into…It was communicated to me that it was like jumping into a pool of iced water. (“Light and Death”; Michael Sabom M.D. page 40) and so it must have felt on her return to body-consciousness, for her drained blood was reinfused into her body before it reached the normal 37 degrees. It was in fact a mere 32 Celsius when Pam was de-instrumented and returned to waking consciousness. (Opus cit. page 46-7) Clearly, up to that point her body, the ‘thing’ she saw in her transcendental mode, was still clinically dead.

There can be no doubt that consciousness is not generated by the brain, but that it is the deathless Ocean of Absolute Reality and Life in which we and all creation ‘reflect’ at times in a world of waking, at times in the world of dreams and other times as etheric light beings in the realm of our ancestors from whence we reincarnate again and again until our karmic round comes to an end in the Void which is the Absolute, the Source of all there was, is and will be.

Read More About this Article: https://biomedgrid.com/fulltext/volume3/the-quest-for-reality.000663.php

For more about: Journals on Biomedical Science :Biomed Grid

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allmyawesomeness · 7 years ago

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In the Wake of the Storm

A/N: This is the sequal to Prison Bar and Past Wounds. This one set set after Spencer and his team has saved Diana.

I obviously don’t own HP or CM!

As I firmly believe for all writers, this is my personal version of how things go and I can’t guarantee it will be agreed on by everyone. Once again, I would like your feedback but be gentle dear readers.

He knew Hermione was there, hidden in the shadows, aware of his team surrounding him, all equally tired but exhilarated by exonerating him, saving Diana and brining you both home. He chanced a look in her direction, and saw her pointing to the keys of his apartment, conveying to him that she'd meet him there. A small nod of his head and she was gone, giving him the time to reassure himself and his team that they are all safe and together for now - that they won this battle.

He held his mom in his arms, afraid that letting her go meant losing her again. The terror he'd been feeling from the moment Lindsey Vaughn had walked away with his mother in tow to when Hermione sent him the message saying she'd found them and was keeping an eye on both his mom and Lindsey, was something he had never felt before - and he had almost 14 years of experience with the BAU under his belt.

It went against every instinct in him to not ask her bring her right back home, him and Hermione both not wanting to have her using magic to save Diana leading to a botched up case against both women.

He could still remember the break in his mother’s voice as she apologised to him again and again about his incarceration being her fault, no matter how much he tried to tell her otherwise.

Rationally he understood her reaction and wanted to help her understand that he did what he did because he loved her, to stop her from blaming herself for something that was out of her control, something that he would go through again and again, because she was his mom and it would be worth it if it helped her even a little bit. Emotionally he wanted to regress to the little boy who could rest his head in his mother's lap, because he felt so bone weary and this was the only thing that could soothe him.

Slowly the rest of his team also retreated, wanting to give them both the privacy, or at least the semblance of it.

As he released his mother and looked at her, he saw the exhaustion on her face. Suddenly realising that she went through a lot in the last few hours too, he bid his team - no, his family goodbye and left with his mother.

Home.

Everything was the same - at the same time it wasn't. It would take some time for him to get used to the freedom of being able to open and close doors, no longer needing to wait for a guard, no longer stuck to a small cell. It felt like he had been living in a nightmare - a nightmare that went on for three months too long.

.......

Finally he was settled on his sofa, after making sure his mother was comfortable, in her bed, sleeping.

He was just trying to figure out what to do next, part of him disappointed at not finding Hermione waiting for him, when he heard the sound of a lock opening, and then she was there, in front of him.

No matter what had happened all those years ago, he followed his instincts and hugged her crushingly, not wanting to let go of her. It didn't seem to matter to her, as she was holding him just as tight, the reality of almost having lost him heavy in her heart and mind.

Everything that had happened to him until now, all the stress due to his mother's illness, the trips to Mexico, the last three months, his mother being taken away from him, the fear of not knowing where or how his mother was and then the face off with Cat - all of it caught up to him in that moment and he let go, safe in the arms of the one person who he never had to hide himself from.

The reversal in their roles was not lost on them, remembering that time when it was Hermione who broke down, and Spencer was the one providing comfort.

Today she was his anchor, and he let himself feel all the pain, fear, doubt and terror that he had been trying to suppress the last three months, wanting to only survive till he was proven innocent. His tears ran freely, unchecked as his body shook with the repressed emotions finally being released after so long.

Time became irrelevant as the two of them stood there in the middle of his living room, as his sobs turned to silent crying and finally only the sound of his tears and her voice was heard.

Vaguely he was aware of her murmuring to him, running her hand through his hair. The other was clutching his shirt, afraid to let go.

As he focused on the sound of her voice, he realised she wasn't shushing him, but encouraging him to let it all out.

Once he had stopped, they both moved to the couch, their hands almost intertwined with each other. All was silent between them for a while, the two of them simply enjoying the other's company.

Neither of them had forgotten the crux of their conversation the first time Hermione visited him in the jail, but she was trying to earn their trust, bridge back the gap, and he could appreciate that. Both were aware that it was going to take time - time he was willing to give.

Hermione was brought back to the moment as she felt Spencer lift their hands, and place a kiss on the back of her palms. "Thank you", he said, his lips still pressed to her hands "for keeping her safe".

A scoff escaped her lips as she heard this. "I didn't. She was taken by that bitch while I was supposed to look after her. She killed Cassie too. All the while I was running around trying to find a man who in the end wasn't even involved in this. It's my fault she had to go through this. I should've been more careful. Maybe if I'd put up stronger wards they wouldn't have gotten to her. I should've been here with her - I could've stopped her dammit!"

"Hey hey hey! Hermione no! Nobody could've stopped her because nobody knew! The only reason you were chasing the wrong man was BECAUSE I gave you the wrong information! We all thought it was Scratch and so that's what I told you. Cat had planned everything down to the last detail - she had access to my file. She knew everything about me, everything that was written down in any file in our system! You can't blame yourself for this".

Before she had a chance to contradict him, he continued, "And you did keep her safe. You put that tracking spell on her even when you didn't know Lindsey was targeting her. The moment you realised she was gone you found her! You knew you couldn't take her away from that cabin and so you made sure she was not hurt in any way." Spencer took a breath, and she could hear it was shaky - showing how much affected he still was. "Hermione, if I hadn't known that she was safe even if still captive by Lindsey, I don't know if I would have been able to face Cat and not done something I would regret for the rest of my life! You kept my sanity intact too. So don't you dare think you didn't do anything right. Hell, you had no way of knowing about Cat or that there was a partner involved."

"but--"

"No anything. You- you did the best you could do! You have to believe that"

"I jus- I feel so useless right now! I'm a witch Spence! The brightest of my age - they call me. And all I could do was ensure that that damn bomb wouldn't go off and give Diana a freaking calming draught! What's the use of- of all this power? All my promises and it came down to this!"

Spencer was shaking his head even as she finished speaking. "Hermione any skill can only be utilised with the right information. You can't solve a problem you don't know exists! Tell me, what should you have done? You were trying to find the man that you were told was behind all this. And you told me you have made headway on that. You kept an eye on my mom and put a tracking spell on her, which by the way did come to use! You found her half an hour after you realised she was gone. The only reason it took so long to find her was because I waited in telling you. What more could you do? You knew this had to play out - using magic to do anything would only bring up questions no one could answer. Which, by the way, would've ruined any case we would've built against them. This was it. This was Enough. Please believe that".

There was silence for a few seconds, and then -

"I can understand what you're saying up here-" Hermione said, pointing to her head, "but I just feel like I failed her and you, here." she continued, putting a hand to her heart.

Before Spencer could start again about her having done all she could she said, "But forget about that. Are you okay? I know it couldn't have been easy going to see that woman in jail, right as you got out of prison! And I also know you stabbed yourself to get to solitary. What the hell were you thinking??? I mean seriously Spencer! Did you even think how wrong that stunt could've gone? I almost stormed in there to give you a piece of my mind then heal your moronic self!"

And suddenly, the gloomy spell was broken by the sounds of Spencer's chuckles, her whiplash of a subject change and her twisted priorities too much for him to take. He'd tried to smother his laughter, but at one point he just lost his control.

After he'd calmed himself down, ignoring the red face of his friend and her huffing, he spoke.

"It was a small stab wound Hermione!"

This apparently was the wrong thing to say, as he saw her expression become even more angry.

"Sma-small stab wound! There is no such thing as a small stab wound, you idiot!” The word 'small' was said with apparent disdain for his choice of terminology.

Spencer continued, occasional chortles still present, "Okay, so it was a stab wound, but it was not that deep. I didn't go in there guns-a-blazing. The team had exhausted all the ways of getting me to solitary & this was the only one left. I'd considered all the probable outcomes and I made sure to put the plan in action with all the variables in mind so as to have as much control as possible. The were enough guards to ensure it wouldn't have gone out of hand".

"Still".

"Hermione".

"uh-uh".

"It's over. I didn't get too badly hurt. In fact I've had worse while in the field".

"Not helping, really".

"The point is I'm home, safe. Mom is safe. I'm no longer accused of things I didn't do. Let's focus on that for a while please. Please Hermione."

Damn him, damn his common sense and double damn his puppy dog eyes - they should be criminal. No longer allowed to be used on people to break their strong will, thought Hermione. But you'd want these eyes only for yourself and no one else either, said a part of her. Shaking her head in attempt to shake off her, in her opinion, inappropriate and ill-timed thoughts, she looked into his eyes, finding a smile creeping up on her face automatically.

Smiling in his presence always came as easy as breathing to her, she remembered. In fact just being with him had always been easy, effortless. Small realisations like this always make her feel more guilty for how she's hurt him. But she'd be damned if she let this chance go.

Humoring him, she asked what he wanted to focus on. His reply was quite surprising.

"How are Hugh and Isla? I haven't spoken to them for so long, I don't even know where they are! Are they still practising in London? Or travelling on a vacation somewhere?"

"Mum & Dad are well, if not a little pissed at you for not telling them about what's been happening with your mom and then the whole jail business. Obviously they are also quite worried about you. It was all I could do to stop them from getting on a jet and flying straight down here when they found out!"

"They know? How? I mean I...wait you told them didn't you? What the hell Hermione! Why did you do that?"

"Of course I told them! I went to see them first thing after my first visit to you. After the crying spell here, I shed a river there with them too. It was not easy, let me tell you! They kept saying I didn't have to do this and that they understood. And I was like of course I do! I have to apologise and make up for it all. Obviously it was not okay! And I may have mentioned you and my visit to them. And then they asked me about you and I, well, I sort of hesitated. And you know mum. She has this crazy spidey sense about secrets and she just knew something was wrong, and that woman does not stop when she puts her mind to it and so she got me to fold. And then we were both crying and dad was also upset and then they started discussing about hiring a jet because last minute flight tickets are a bitch and it took me more time convince them to stay back than it did to apologise. Apparently they love you more."

The end of her monologue was accompanied by a huff, which worked very well to absolve Spencer's anger at her. He, of course, understood very well how terrifying it can be going against Isla Granger in trying to hide something from her. She is absolutely relentless and knows exactly when something is wrong.

"You know that's not true. And how did you even manage to stop them? That's the real question here! I mean your mom is--"

"I know how she is, thank you very much. I mean, she would just not understand that it was simply not safe for her to be here, especially what with Peter Lewis on the loose and not to mention, I knew you wouldn't want them to see you like that but she just wouldn't budge. Dad's obviously no help because he's as scared of her as anyone!"

"With good reason", exclaimed Spencer.

"But he's been married to her for almost forty years! You'd think he'd have learned how to get her to listen to reason at least!"

Her remark had him chortling again, the image of a tiny Hugh Granger cowering in front of an Amazonian Isla Granger coming to his mind.

"Why are you laughing? This is not funny!" Hermione said.

"It- It is!" he replied amid his laughter, telling her about the vision in his head. At this he was joined by Hermione, both of them losing control but trying in vain to keep the noise to a minimum.

For a while the living room was filled with the sound of their joy - free and unbound, with no fear of anything.

Hermione looked at him, noticing the play of lights and shadows on his face and the echo of their laughter, still visible in his shining eyes. It was a relief to her, seeing this shine which had been missing the last time she visited him in prison.

"I umm, I missed you, you know. And I'm so glad you're out! I just, I really missed you."

"Hermione, I--"

"It's okay! I just wanted you to know. That's all. That I'm trying."

"I know you are. And I missed you too."

Hermione, who had been looking down in her lap while saying all of this, looked up at him on hearing this. Spencer's face held a fond expression, the closest she'd seen since years ago. She felt a huge weight lift off of her and at the same time her heart beat just that much faster, their proximity brought to her notice as she realised both of them were leaning towards each other, moving closer slowly.

The moment was broken by the sound of Spencer's mobile going off, the happy tune letting him know it was Garcia. A sigh escaped both their lips as Spencer picked up the phone, his eyes still fixed to Hermione's.

"Yeah Garcia".

"uh-hmm. Yeah we both got here fine. Mom's resting now".

A slight chuckle, and "Yeah I'm tired too. Obviously. I was just about to-- no I mean--What is it Garcia? I know you're running around what you really wanted to talk about".

"No I'm tired but I don't really feel like sleeping now, or going out or anything".

"No I don't have any plans. Seriously, what is this about?"

"What? Morgan knows? How? Who told him? Well then how does he...Wha-What do you mean he'll explain? You mean he's coming over?"

"But Garc--"

Hermione had to bite her lip to stop from laughing at the perplexed expression on his face right now. She didn't have to use a spell to know what he was thinking, which was somewhere along the lines of What the hell just happened?

Spencer was still looking at his phone in confusion and Hermione cleared her throat to bring back his attention. All it did was get a verbal response, his eyes still downcast.

“She hung up on me! Didn't even explain what she was saying and just said that Derek is coming over an-and I don't know what is happening?”

“I'm pretty sure it means exactly that Spence! That Derek is coming to see you. It is after all something that friends do, you know!” choked out Hermione between her giggles. But as it dawned on her what his friend coming over meant, she sobered up and turned to face her friend.

“Well, I guess it's time for me to head out then.”

“What no! Why do you have to leave? You can stay. Actually, you should stay. Mom would also want to see you when she wakes.”

“Spence—”

“And I want you to stay too”.

At this she had to smile as her melted even more for her dear friend, if that was even possible. “It's not like I'm flying back to London now is it? Besides how do you plan to explain my presence to your friend? As I recall he's someone very close to you and you didn't even tell him about you being in prison and he suddenly comes over and finds out I did knew? Someone you haven't seen in ten odd years?”

But Spencer was shaking his head, an argument on his lips just as a knock sounded in his apartment.

“Jus-just stay here okay.”

And before Hermione could say anything, he left to open the door.

Words weren't spoken between the two men, who just looked at each other.

Derek Morgan pulled his friend, his brother into a rough hug muttering “Hey kid” as he went.

“I'm sorry I wasn't there for you” he continued.

“Not really your fault was it” came Spencer’s muffled reply.

As Morgan released him, he said, “We're gonna have to talk about that!” continuing to walk into Reid’s home.

Spencer knew he'd come across Hermione because he heard the sudden stop in his steps and a sharp intake of breath.

He followed his friend into the living room to see both his friends facing each other, not really saying anything.

Derek Morgan was surprised, but years facing down the worst of humanity has taught him to hide his reactions well. Despite that, those who really knew him could detect the slight widening of his eyes and the hint of a raised eyebrow, and understand his surprise and curiosity both.

For Spencer, introducing Hermione to his friends was more than just a spontaneous act. It was a declaration to her that she will not he the only one working on repairing their relationship, he has a part to play as well, and he has no intention to let her go through this alone.

With this thought in mind, he took a deep breath and turned to his former teammate.

“Derek, this is Hermione Granger. She's a really old friend of mine. Kinda from childhood really.”

@criminal-minds-fanfiction @original-criminal-fanfics @dontshootmespence @reidsbookworm @reiding-and-writing @bookofreid @prettyboyandmione @criminalmindswriting @speedreiding @illegalcerebral @imagicana @cherry-loves-fanfic

#Spencer x Hermione #criminal minds x harry potter #cm x hp #fanfiction #reid x mione #Criminal Minds #Harry Potter #fanfic

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miraclemin-blog · 8 years ago

Text

get what you deserve

Oh Sehun is hopelessly in love with Kim Junmyeon through the lens of his camera.

AU: idolverse. solo!junmyeon/fansite!sehun

written for my lovely friend courtney (follow her on twitter @/nomjoonie), i love her a lot and this has been rotting in my WiPs folder since July so today is the day i put her out of her misery. please enjoy my poorly cobbled together seho and find me funny. it fuels my ego.

title from: First Things First - Neon Trees

velleity ; noun /vɛˈliːɪti/

formal

A wish or inclination not strong enough to lead to action;

Sunshine hurt his eyes and anything that wasn’t refracted by a camera lens was often too much for Oh Sehun; such was the life of a fansite master. He was all too familiar with two types of bags, those that belonged to his camera equipment and those that belonged to the late nights and too many coffees. Questions were also something he was intimately familiar with but, after the first two (?) years he’d managed to mute the sarcastic laughter that too often came with being the only, or one of the few, fanboys at events.

Kim Junmyeon’s events to be specific.

Things hadn’t really started out with his intentions being that of becoming a fansite master. It had been a few clicks here and there, a youtube playlist that soon snowballed into a spotify playlist. Buying Junmyeon’s discography had come soon after, and believe him, that was when he thought he was going to stop. Strapped-for-cash college students rarely even considered clicking the ‘buy’ button when scrolling through music on iTunes; but it happened and frankly he wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or not.

The money was good, much better than his shitty job at that bubble tea place was paying him (he wasn’t going to name names because he wasn’t successful enough to be burning bridges just yet). So yes, he was a fan, hell that went without saying if you were a fansite and frankly he had no respect for people that were in it just for the money. There weren’t many people that ran sites that weren’t heavy Junmyeon groupies — there were some and they were frowned upon. You could spot them at the fan signs, their only smiles were when they got a shot no other sites had gotten and they always left right after, staying to mingle with fellow fans was mostly definitely not their speed.

Fans knew those sites too though, and subsequently avoided them, hence why Sehun had risen to be one of the more popular sites. Mon Kim, the site run by Kim Jongdae, was also rather popular and Sehun actually had no issues collaborating with Jongdae occasionally. When it came to being a fansite, yes there was competition, but it was all within the interests of good fun.

They all loved Junmyeon just as much.

Or at least that was what Oh Sehun was trying to convince himself of at 5:30 am in the morning when he was running on a health five cups of double shot espresso and two (?) energy drinks. He’d lost count. It had gotten to the point that his fingers weren’t slow on the keyboard, so much as shaking enough to stop them from reaching their destination. While it wasn’t the healthiest hour to be up at, Sehun’s designer had bailed on him at the last second and he was desperately working to secure someone to design his latest fan site project — a feat that wasn’t simple when everyone else had already snapped up the more reliable in the field.

Flopping back in his chair a roll of whatever emotion you felt with the unease of if things were even going to pan out and right before you realised you had reached a point at which caring had stopped being your problem. It was an emotion that he’d felt probably too many times in his career as a full time fansite master but he knew that a roof over his head was worth not giving it up.

Sehun made a sad attempt at ridding his neck of the crinks that had settled in throughout the night but the bone deep exhaustion that had settled in made anything more that cracking his knuckles an arduous task. His chair creaked in protest as he clambered out of the leather bound creation, wincing as the wheels squealed in all their unoiled glory. It was probably a wise decision to do something about that; either by buying another chair in replacement or plucking up the energy to actually lay his hands on some WD-40 or something. In all likelihood he was going to buy another chair, because well, Oh Sehun just didn’t do manual labour that wasn’t taking pictures and elbowing people out of his way for said photos.

Bed was his welcome haven, inviting and warm as he slipped into the freshly pressed sheets. What was not so welcome was his phone, glaring through the darkness as he sleepily pulled up the ‘alarms’ screen, reminding himself unhappily that he would be getting up for the early cuing for one of Junmyeon’s fan greets the next day. The meet itself actually started at 11:30 but if he had any hope of buying any amount of albums he’d need to be there around 6:30 am but he’d allow himself until 7 am because by god he’d been working his ass off.

Sleep came to him slowly, defying any of the writing clichés of sleep swallowing you whole in a wretched night. Instead it rolled on like an insistent storm front, making itself at home on the outer edges of his consciousness and teasing him until it seemed like he wouldn’t have any sleep before he needed to be awake. Fortunately the universe had pity on him and his eyebags, leaving him with 45 hours of hard earnt rest before he even needed to consider even waking up and gathering the equipment he hadn’t had the forethought to pack up before he crawled into bed.

While it would usually be accurate to say that Sehun slept while thinking of Junmyeon, he didn’t even have time to drift to REM sleep before rude and sharp chirps were prying his eyes open. He forced himself to rise out of bed, immediately forgoing the option of a shower in favour of packing up his supplies. Actual solids were very much off the table with only time to grab a liquid breakfast before he tore out the front door, glasses skewed and eyebags still very much intact.

The things Oh Sehun would do for Kim Junmyeon.

Once again Jongdae and he were the only men in the line and while it did thoroughly amuse him, Sehun wasn’t about to push the envelope of Jongdae’s put out pout. “I wish more fanboys appreciated him.” There were about 1001 reasons that wasn’t about to happen any time soon but Sehun saved his friend the reality check and instead opted with pulling his camera out of its bag, checking the lenses carefully. Jongdae rambled on behind him, encouraged by the undulating wave of girls that did nothing but squeal a little louder with each passing official-ish looking car.

“There are some, they fund our sites remember? They’re just not coming to the events because they feel judged man. Toxic masculinity and all, y’know?” It wasn’t really an original thought but rather one that he’d seen echoed around on his site a couple times, lurking in the corner of the forums and such. “I’ve had to step in a couple of times on my site even, when the female fans have gotten too clingy and all over Junmyeon.” He admitted, face souring a little as he recalled the bitter responses that he’d gotten in the moments before they realised that he was indeed the site runner and they wouldn’t have pictures of their precious oppa™ were it not for him. Call him cynical but while he ran a fansite he still disliked the greed that some of his patrons displayed when he wasn’t quick enough in putting up the HDs or any other variety of perceived faults on his part.

Spoiler: Sehun did this for the fun and appreciation of Junmyeon with the money a nice aside. Besides, sometimes he just really needed a nap after music shows or concerts.

Jongdae’s fist hit his side in a teasing punch that Sehun would usually let pass but it knocked his camera and he could have sworn his life flashed before his eyes as the lens stalk hit the pole he was standing beside. A death glare blinked through the space that spanned between he and Jongdae, reminding the man that Sehun would not hesitate to sabotage any and every shot he was planning to capture today. “Wanting Junmyeon…like that? I think it’s fine for both genders. I mean I’m personally not y’know.” The statement as a whole was fine and Sehun did indeed agree with it, hell he’d be a little hypocritical to be saying that people shouldn’t find others of the same sex hot (sue him, Junmyeon was sexy when he wanted to be). What he took issue with was the final implication that Jongdae didn’t swing that way, a thing they both knew to be a lie.

A teeny tiny scoff defied Sehun’s attempt to keep quiet and simply reward his friend with a smirk. Figuring that all of his chances of maintaining the tsundere look he usually cultivated in order to avoid talking to weird people, his surprised formed into words. “Are you trying to tell me that you and Chanyeol aren’t…?” he trailed off and left it to the raise of his right eyebrow to communicate his point.

Realization did eventually dawn across Jongdae’s face but god, it was a long time coming and Sehun had been about to give up that entire line of conversation; the comprehending ‘OhhhHH’ even came just as he’d opened his mouth to pursue another line of question. While it was tempting to press on with what he was going to say, seeing Jongdae squirm with the question provided reasonable entertainment. Sehun resigned himself to leaning agains the fence for at least another hour and after a quick towards the front of the line, turned his attention to Jongdae.

Slowly though, rather than being polite and allowing him to enjoy the steady blossom of a blush on his friend’s face, the fangirls around him began a roar that he knew only came out when their idol was arriving. Bitter as he was, Sehun wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to get some good shots; quickly he grabbed the camera, hoping quietly that the lens wouldn’t distort Junmyeon horribly, especially considering how close they were. It’d be a lie to say that a lump didn’t catch in his throat as the older man walked by, all sashaying hips and confidence that could only be founded on thousands of people hanging on your every word. If it was anyone else, Sehun would have cracked out a sarcastic reply to the ethereal beauty that was passing in front of him. In reality, all he could do was stare.

In fact he was staring so hard that Sehun actually forgot to bring the camera to his eye, forgot to press down the ‘capture’ button to activate fast shutter mode and capture every single thing the singer did. Were there a moment for one to admit that they weren’t entirely straight, this would have been Sehun’s. Unfortunately he'd confronted that fact the moment he’d woken up after Junmyeon’s latest album release with sheets slightly stickier than he would have liked. Letting a curse hit the wind Sehun did eventually bring the camera up to his face, shuttering a few shots, consoling himself with the fact that other fansite’s arms would be weak now and he might capture some rare photos.

God had apparently decided that photos weren’t what Sehun was meant to catch that morning, instead sending a strong wind and an over-enthusiastic fan slamming into his side. It wasn’t the falling that Sehun minded so much as the embarrassment; he fell over with precious things in his arms all the time so this was hardly a new development. What was new, was the falling over in front of him, Kim Junmyeon. A sharp clatter broke through the haughty tension that were the girls clamouring to get the singer’s attention, only turning as the sound of a lens shattering sliced the airwaves in two, demanding attention for both Oh Sehun and his broken goods.

Ever so slowly, Sehun could feel his world collapsing around him, crashing and slamming against his head with a low chuckle that sprinkled the air and left the girls around him swooning. Kim Junmyeon was laughing at him, and while he’d always tried to seperate business from fun, it hurt to feel those beautiful eyes watching him and laughing. Lifting his head felt like the opposite of what he wanted to do, but he knew that if he was going to maintain any sort pretences he’d need to look up eventually. Silence had settled eventually and Sehun’s shoulders didn’t feel like they were being watched so intensely so he scrambled up, grabbing his camera and glancing quickly at his shattered lens before deciding against risking the cuts.

Everything would have been fine really, if only he hadn’t been met with the worried eyes of a certain hallyu star. Specifically speaking, Kim Junmyeon. “I didn’t realise that you broke your lens! I thought you’d just stumbled a little and my manager said something funny and I—god I’m so sorry I shouldn’t have laughed but it was…pretty funny….” he rattled off the apology and Sehun would have passed it off as a set piece he was meant to say were it not for the fact that this was Junmyeon. Shuffling on the spot, his feet felt almost like they were stuck, save for a bit of restricted movement; all amounting to him not actually being able to run away like he wanted to. “Are you okay? You’re not cut are you?” Junmyeon continued on, his hands stretching out to touch Sehun’s shoulders before being pushed down by one of the security guards.

A small crowd had gathered around them by this time, both curious as to what the worry was and clamouring for even a look at their idol — either way it amounted in Sehun not really being able to process what was going on. “I-I don’t think I am.” he tried to focus in on the second question, not really bothering to respond to the apology, but making a note of it in his head. “It’s winter so I don’t have much skin exposed,” he offered, hoping that he was making sense and not spouting reasonings that didn’t follow any sort of shared logic. Relief did eventually flood his system as Junmyeon nodded, letting out a sound of agreement before he looked quickly around and clapped a hand on to his shoulder.

“I’m glad you’re not too badly hurt. I would stay longer but my manager is giving me that look so if I don’t hurry up he’s gonna yell at me.” Sehun did actually know the look that Junmyeon was referring to, he’d caught it in a couple of his shots, especially the ones where the singer was doing something that he wasn’t strictly meant to be doing. Nodding in understanding he stood back, ruffling his hair and ducking his head in apology towards the manager; god knows how loud he could yell at Jongdae if he was late for an event — he could only imagine that would be amplified were he managing an idol.

He barely had time to let an apology catch on the wind before Junmyeon was hustled into the small complex and he was swamped with fangirls that were suddenly more interested in him than the man they’d come here to see. The predictable questions swarmed in the air, ‘Do you know him?’ ‘Did you save a country in your past life?’ and then some more odd ones, of which his favourite was: ‘How soft were his hands?!’ and the follow up question, ‘WHAT MOISTURISER DO YOU THINK HE USES?!’. Sehun considered actually answering the questions before he felt the cool roll of liquid down his knee, and he was fairly sure he hadn’t urinated so all in all it was likely that it was blood. Jongdae’s subsequent gasp of surprise and fairly clichéd point to his knee, only really confirmed the fact, reminding Sehun of the fact that he had been wearing jeans that had holes at the knee. That explained it.

Wincing as the cut grazed against the rough material that was his jeans, Sehun came to the realisation that he definitely didn’t have any first aid things on his person at all. His lack of any tangible supplies did however, become a relatively minuscule issue once he considered his camera. Along with no first aid supplies, Sehun hadn’t brought any back up extension lenses and there was no time for him to go home and collect a lens that couldn’t even be guaranteed to do what he wanted. “Fuck, shit.” He grumbled, kicking his foot against the gravel, immediately to regret his decision once his uncovered graze once again brushed with his jeans.

“Children.” Jongdae hissed out, a warning of a reprimand that wouldn’t dare deal out — especially considering the amount of dirt Sehun had on him. Chanyeol, older than them he was, still wasn’t ready to hear some of the things that came out of Jongdae’s mouth about him.

Blood well and truly smudged along the inside of his pants, Sehun didn’t really have anything he couldn’t complain about. Plans ruined and body aching from the shock (and irritation); he was stuck in line for something that now, seemed rather redundant to attend. “Children,” Sehun started, mocking the tone that Jongdae had adopted, as if feigning he wasn’t one of the more kinky people Sehun had encountered, “didn’t just have their one and a half thousand dollar camera lens ruined, so frankly — I don’t give a shit about their pretty little ears right now.” Sehun fluttered his lashes a couple of times, “Jongdae.” He could tell that his friend thought of snapping out a reply but with the sickly sweet honey that dripped from his name he rethought and nodded instead, gesturing for Sehun to continue on as he was.

Sehun could tell that Jongdae was hesitant to touch him before his fingers even brushed against his shoulders, the sensation muffled by the layers that came with a Seoul winter. “M-Maybe…” Jongdae’s words fell silent with the glaring gaze he was offered as Sehun’s reply. “Maybe…” he was brave, Sehun would give him that; though considering his current mood, there seemed to be a thin line between ‘brave’ and ‘stupid’. “Maybe, you could just enjoy the show? I’ll try and take as many photos as I can so you can have some so it doesn’t look like you totally flaked. I know how fangirls can be.” Third time seemed to be the charm for Jongdae and Sehun had to admit that he couldn’t see that much wrong with his reasoning.

Charity wasn’t something that Oh Sehun usually accepted but right now he wasn’t really in a position to actually say no. He would have strips torn off him if he didn’t have any photos, even if it wasn’t his comeback stage, that had only been a couple of days ago so people were still hungry for photos of him that weren’t just the corporate provided ones. Aware of the fact that he wasn’t going to be able to lord his knowledge of the things Jongdae had said about Chanyeol over his head for at least a month, Sehun ceded that he needed the help with a meek nod.

A smirk that told him Jongdae knew exactly what he’d just negotiated flickered across his friend’s face, and a while he was irritated at having given up some bargaining power; Sehun felt relaxed.

It had been exactly a year and nine months since the last time Sehun’s vision of Kim Junmyeon hadn’t been fractured by the lens of a camera, or any other type of screen (not counting their encounter outside the filming studios). He’d actually forgotten what it felt like to be a regular fan at one of these things, getting numbered and not having to be verified as a ‘proper’ fansite. There were girls (and probably boys) that were most likely attending one of these showings for the first and possibly last time and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a little guilty for not appreciating his opportunities properly.

While his duty as a fansite master was usually that of sitting up in the seats, surrounded by the tripods and other gear that helped those who couldn’t get their arms above the sea of heads (Jongdae), this time Sehun was nestled snug against the stage and other fellow fans. A pang of guilt did resound in his heart as he glanced back to catch the eye of Jongdae and the man was alone in a sea of female fansite masters. He knew that the solidarity of having Sehun with him was what had encouraged Jongdae to really flourish in the community so leaving him alone did make him feel…not worried…actually, he was more proud than anything else. This time Jongdae was the one that had his back.

Not having his camera resting heavily in his fingers did feel odd to Sehun, and a few times during the warm up he did freak out momentarily before remembering. Today was for Junmyeon, well, it always was, but he meant that it was for him purely; no photos or anything, all of Sehun’s attention would be on him.

Beats kicked up in the air around them, bouncing off each wall, fine acoustics channeling the sounds perfectly as Junmyeon stepped out on to the stage, sweater tucking in close to his waist and straight jeans inciting every distinctly NON-straight thought Sehun thought he could have. In those few breaths Sehun had as Junmyeon brought the microphone to his lips, he gulped down as much air as possible, knowing he was about to have every stolen gasp and sigh knocked out of him. Silence save for the ebb and flow of the piano flooded the studio, every eye on Kim Junmyeon, all of them waiting for the exact same thing as Sehun.

The first strains that perhaps didn’t even need a microphone to be heard cut the breaths each individual was holding, resulting in a collective sigh as Junmyeon pulled each audience member into their own private reverie. Sehun’s attention was unblinkingly draw the perfect formation of each word, Junmyeon’s lips almost acting independently of all laws of beauty to create a sound that rivalled the beauty of one’s name being called out by their lover.

Perhaps that was what this was for Sehun, a reminder of just how much he loved and appreciated the man who was right there, so close and yet so far. He found himself mouthing the words by reflex, eyes glued to the man in front of him, losing himself in the music just the same as the other fans. In that moment, just as Sehun was about to slip his eyes closed, to fully lose himself to the sound and the beat, their eyes met and a smile cracked across Junmyeon’s lips. Doing something that even the declaration of World War Three would be pressed to do, his smile snapped Sehun out of it, and his feet, where they’d been moving freely, he tripped, falling into someone’s elbow. To say it was one of the less enticing things he’d done in quite sometime would be an understatement.

Pain kicked in before the embarrassment, though it was hotly followed by a burning on his cheeks that definitely didn’t belong to the slap of skin against skin. His nose and eye hurt too much for him to notice that the music had fallen quiet and there were scattered gasps in the crowd. Right now Sehun’s main focus was making sure he hadn’t actually broken his nose — his supplementary career as a small time model didn’t really need to be jeopardised, especially considering his looming camera costs. “Are you okay?” The voice was amplified and yet close by, and there was feedback of a microphone being set down on the ground. Sehun didn’t piece together evidence until hands hooked under his shoulders and pulled him up to a standing position once again. “Do I need to call an ambulance?” The question was punctuated by the soft trickle of cool blood down and over Sehun’s lips.

By now the whispers had amplified and were periodically cut through by Jongdae’s ‘Sehun-ah!’s and his desperately scrambling to get all their gear packed up while also trying to wade down to his friend’s side. Those broad hands were still fixed on his shoulder and as the blackness of the pain crept back from the edges of his eyes, Sehun finally had the time to catch a glimpse of the man by his side.

Kim Junmyeon stared back at him. Eyes warm and compassionate, every thought that was racing through Sehun’s head slowed and once again the universe narrowed, whispers and gasps falling away as their eyes met. “You were singing beautifully.” He blurted out, eyes wide and shocked, not entirely sure what he was meant to say, “Sorry for interrupting.” An attempt to bow forwards was blocked by those fateful hands, holding his shoulders back and as an unsurprisingly dazzling smile blossomed across his face.

“You’re the one who got hurt at my concert and you’re apologising?” While Sehun knew it was a rhetorical question, he could tell as such from the mirth that tinged each word, he still felt compelled open his mouth and offer an explanation. Junmyeon’s finger came down to silence him, pressing against his semi-parted lips, uncalloused, making Sehun think of that moisturiser question from earlier. “Now I’m gonna ask again, do I need to call an ambulance?” Sehun had hoped he’d avoided the question by blurting out his stupid response but it hadn’t saved him, instead leaving him to laugh awkwardly and try and brush the question off.

Shuffling a little away from Junmyeon so he could tip his head forwards, hoping to prevent the flow of blood to the back of his throat, it was pretty obvious that yes, Sehun needed to go and see someone. “Maybe, but please don’t worry about me, my friend…” he trailed off as Jongdae slide into the situation, tiny hand resting on the small of his back and most likely looking positively ridiculous with all their camera gear strapped to his back. “…he can call for me.”

A hiss of dissent from Jongdae has Sehun looking up, shooting him a look to rival Kyungsoo’s whenever Baek pretended he didn’t have the remote on their movie nights. “Sehun-ah, I wouldn’t say I can…” HIs brow pulled up at Sehun surveyed his friend’s face, daring him to be joking in a time like this. Unfortunately he wasn’t and Jongdae’s face took on an expression of apology he’d not seen since the time Chanyeol had forgotten to wake him up while he was tanning. “I left my phone at home today, things were kind of rushed and I — I forgot.” Fuck. Junmyeon was going to come in all chivalrous, like he seemed to be making a habit of, and Sehun was literally going to be the bleeding idiot.

Sehun ducked his head once again, knowing he could use the excuse of First Aid should he need it, and allowed his gaze to bore holes into the ground, teeth set on edge and shoulders tight. “I’ve got my phone on me. Give me a second to call the ambulance and I’ll let my manager know that I won’t be able to make the rest of the set. This isn’t a major special or anything.” Why Junmyeon was cancelling the show Sehun didn’t really know, nor did he really care, at least if the ambulance was here he’d be able escape the speculative eye of the public and the endearing gaze of Junmyeon.

It was the latter he was more concerned with — like he needed any other excuses to dig himself further into an affection that had no hopes of being reciprocated.

Soon there was only one pair of hands rubbing at his back and shoulders, and they were far too small to below to the singer. “Hyung, why is Junmyeon cancelling his show?” he managed to groan out, vision still slightly blurred at the edges, even fraying into blackness if he tried to focus too hard.

“He said something about going to the hospital with you Sehun, didn’t you hear?” Jongdae’s voice was uncharacteristically serious and he could tell that there was something seriously wrong. His friend nearly never took things seriously unless one of his friends had just gotten hurt, and considering the very real possibility that this had just happened Sehun wasn’t feeling totally inspired.

They bustled out of the main area quickly, and the faint hush that had settled over the crowd surprised Sehun as he heard Junmyeon’s footsteps following them out to meet the paramedics.

Exactly how cliché was it that his last thought before the pain got to him was one about Junmyeon? Granted, it was about his moisturiser but he was pretty sure it still counted.

The ambulance ride was excruciating, a mix of Sehun half passed out, and then brushing off the concerned hands of Junmyeon.

Waiting in hospital was worse, Jongdae fidgeting at his side, worrying about the fact that he’d not been able to text Chanyeol why he was late for their lunch date. Sehun had told him to stop being so whiney, Chanyeol was used enough to them being late for things, being a fansite meant you had a pretty hectic schedule. Being whatever he was to Jongdae, Chanyeol should have known that things had the ability to change on the fly and wouldn’t be too worried about what was going on — though he’d probably be surprised when they came back and Sehun had a broken nose.

Strangely enough though, the person that made the trip the worse wasn’t Jongdae, it was the worried mess at his left side, a certain Kim Junmyeon. “God, I’m so sorry, my fans really need to learn about to calm down sometimes…” Sehun has huffed out an appreciative smile at the apology the first couple of times but by the hundredth utterance of the phrase, it had become a little tired. He appreciated the concern over his health but it just made the blush on his cheeks worse and he found himself regretting agreeing to letting Junmyeon come with them.

They’d already sat through the initial check up, the doctors hadn’t sounded too upset and after some sore poking at Sehun’s nose he was sent back into the waiting room. His nose had pretty obviously been broken when he’d looked into the window of the ambulance, coming in and out of consciousness with what had to be a strong mix of anaesthetic and embarrassment. So really, Sehun was more waiting for whatever prescription the doctors gave him, right before his chance to run the fuck out of here and get the hell away from Junmyeon.

“Are you Oh Sehun?” The same doctor from before stood in the door way, eyes soft as they watched Junmyeon worriedly rubbing Sehun’s back, soothing intentions tainted with the thrum of worry running through his finger tips. Taking on a role that Sehun hadn’t really delegated to him, Junmyeon shot up and out of his seat with an enthusiasm that had a faint smile quirking the edges of Sehun’s lips in spite of the pain rolling from the centre of his face. The poor doctor jumped back a little at the sudden movement, but only before a warm smile settled on his face, eyes drawn back to the habit of bedside manner, poised to assuage the fears of anyone and anything. “Are you his partner?”

Fuck.

Junmyeon’s voice stuttered in the air Sehun almost felt sorry for him as the scrambled, “No, actually, I’m just a friend.” The breath he’d been about to take caught in Shun’s throat as he heard the last word, friend, he supposed they were. One didn’t usually escort strangers to the hospital ward, but Sehun’d just assumed this was some sort of grand gesture of fan service, assumed that this was another one of those times Junmyeon went above and beyond for his fans. The word ‘friend’ hadn’t even occurred to him.

“I’ll let my co-worker know, he was worrying about the famous Kim Junmyeon having a boyfriend. He was rather put out.” Jongdae, worried as he was, choked out a laugh from where he’d sat silent for the last twenty minutes. Sehun followed quickly, biting his lip to hold back a full-blown laugh but when he looked up and saw the scandalised look on Junmyeon’s face he couldn’t manage it anymore and he doubled over, wincing when his hand pressed to his tender cheek.

A skidding sound came to Sehun’s ears at Junmyeon turned between the doctor and Sehun then back again. “You knew who I am?” he asked, voice harried and rising in pitch with every word.

A faint chuckle once again. “Of course, you’re the prize of our country’s entertainment industry, why wouldn’t I recognise you?” When he looked up again, smile still pressed on his face, Sehun was met with the gaping mouth of Junmyeon.

“Junmyeon, it was stupid of you to think that you wouldn’t be recognised, now come on. Jongdae’s silently begging to be let go and I think the forecast says it’s going to start raining soon.” His excuse was feeble, in truth it was pretty funny to watch Junmyeon squirm as he realised his plans had been fucked up but as funny as it was, Jongdae was getting pretty annoying and Sehun wanted to rest up at home. Breaking his nose was going to put him out of work for at least a couple of weeks, and he wanted to get some sleep in before the real implications of financial loss set in. Pouting, Junmyeon conceded the point, bustling over to Sehun’s side as he stood up, hand firm on his shoulder. “Pick up your prescription at the nurses’ desk and just follow the signs to get to the exit. There’s a rolling cab service so you should be able to get a ride if you don’t live close by.” Sehun did live close by actually, it wouldn’t be too much trouble to walk home alone and hopefully he’d be able to convince Junmyeon to leave him at the door.

“Sehun?”

“Jongdae.”

“Chanyeol is probably wor-“

“Go Jongdae, I’m okay to walk home.”

“Thanks.”

A faint chuckle bubbled from Sehun’s chest and the quirk of his eyebrows hurt just a little as he watched his friend skid around the corner, not wanting to disappoint his beau (were they even dating? Sehun wasn’t sure.). “Are you sure that you’ll be able to walk home? I can get us a cab.” In watching his friend run away Sehun had forgotten there was someone waiting for him at his side, arm slung over his should in a faux attempt at supporting him.

Casting a quick glance over at Junmyeon he let out a more hearty effort at laughter once he noticed he was still in his stage outfit, having been too preoccupied with his injury before to have seen. “I’ll be fine. You can catch a cab back to wherever you need to be hyung,” Sehun said the familiar term before he’d even realised it and felt his neck colour in embarrassment, knowing his body his ears were probably red too.

“I don’t think that’ll be an issue, dongaeng,” His toes curled a little at the way Junmyeon didn’t draw any further attention to the slip in his language, and went even further to return it. It was cute. “I’ll walk you home, I mean, it’s the least I can do.” They were still walking a this point and it was with a vague register in his mind that Sehun realised they were by the nurses’ desk.

He raised his hand as a sign to pause the conversation and hurried to the desk, saying his name before the nurses handed him a stack of paper prescriptions and wished him a speedy recovery. Turning back to Junmyeon, watching him for a moment before returning to his side, Sehun huffed out a quick, “Believe me, I think you’ve gone well beyond what the least was, hyung, and I appreciate it.” Junmyeon shook his head but Sehun knew what he was saying was true. They both did.

They walked slow, even though neither of them had any injuries to their feet, uncrushed as they traipsed down the stairs and ducked into the hospital gift shop. Sehun had been right about the rain and had spotted the clouds in the sky through the porthole like windows, he wouldn’t forgive himself if he allowed a hallyu star to get wet, and consequently, sick, on his watch.

Silence felt good though, it was nothing as he paid for the umbrella, nor as they made their way away from the hospital and onto the main, then side roads, that would eventually take Sehun home. It was nice, to just be with Junmyeon and Sehun felt himself enjoying the occasional bump of their hands a little too much. He was wandering into dangerous territory and by the third time it’d happened he decided it was much better to simply focus on where he was walking rather than indulging his feelings further.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever rushed one of my fans to the hospital before. Even rarer for me to walk them home.” Junmyeon’s words pulled Sehun from his focus on the footpath, taking the cracks and watching them to make sure he didn’t trip and embarrass himself more than strictly necessary.

He huffed an awkward laugh, hand coming up to rub the red on his neck, “About that…” he started up, wanting to give an excuse, perhaps even insist that he’d not asked for him to come with him to the hospital. Junmyeon cut him off like he had earlier, except it was too fingers this time, two fingers that came to rest on Sehun’s plush lips, heating his cheeks as he fell into silence.

“It wasn’t a problem. I’m glad you’re okay, well… semi-okay.”Junmyeon’s eyes watched him as the rain dotted the walkway around them, a cheap hospital gift-store umbrella the only thing shielding them from the rain. Sehun would have responded but those fingers were still pressed to his lips, holding them closed, and yeah, okay, he was frozen still by how warm they felt against his skin.

“I should probably get going. Today technically isn’t one of my days off and my manager always likes to make sure that I squeeze in some practice.” It was an excuse that Sehun knew he’d have to hear eventually, the man standing in front of him wasn’t just anyone, he was Kim Junmyeon. A hallyu star, a rising light for the people of Korea on an international stage, and he was here, standing under an umbrella Oh Sehun was holding for him. Junmyeon’s fingers fell away from his face.

He swallowed back any excuses daring to keep Junmyeon, hoping that he could convince himself that it was okay that Junmyeon would get back in his car, and that this day needed to come to an end. “You should.” was all he managed to get out, voice husky with what he convinced himself was an oncoming cold, not ready to really accept the emotion he knew was filling his eyes. “I don’t want your manage to get upset with you. I’m not worth it.” His attempt to joke, to lighten the atmosphere he felt pressing down on him, crushing him with Junmyeon’s smile dazzling behind his eyes, fell on deaf ears.

Instead of the soft smile, the one that Junmyeon always brought out for his interviews when they asked about ideal types, Sehun was met with furrowed brows. A purse of the lips that was all too alike the expression Junmyeon had worn as he’d bundled Sehun up and took him backstage earlier today dusted his face, the idol looking up at him with concern. “Well considering how terrifying he is, I wouldn’t say anyone is but, I’d say…” Junmyeon trailed off, eyes drifting to the ground as Sehun guessed he looked for his words. “…I’d say,” Sehun licked his lips, “that, that I’d feel less bitter about being yelled at if it meant I got to spend a bit more time with you.” He finished his sentence with a curt nod, eyes turned to crescents and hands well and truly wrapped around Sehun’s heart.

Pulling his bottom lip through his teeth, rain hitting his shoulders as Sehun tipped the umbrella further forward to shield Junmyeon, “I’m touched.” The words were simple, spoken with a sentimentality that Jongdae would tease him about for days if he heard them. He didn’t though, the man in front of him did.

The hand traced his jawline for a brief moment, mapping out the gentle curve to where it tapered into his chin, even there it slowed for a moment, thumb coming up and brushing against his bottom lip. Softly, oh so softly, the thumb skirted across the full expanse of his lips, tracing the outline before the hand fell away, once again cupping his jaw, pulling him ever so gently forwards.

Eyes having drifted shut Sehun didn’t know what was going to happen until it did, until he felt the insistent press of those lips, the ones he’d dreamt of touching, those that he’d wished to feel night after night.

Oh Sehun was the one that Kim Junmyeon kissed.

Kim Junmyeon was the one Oh Sehun kissed back.

AN//

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