#i hope this works like an edible and all of a sudden ill be trashed.

[angelstrawbabie420]

[everlarkficexchange]

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….

[bleucheeks]

[011] rub his back; (4/?)

BTS sickfic // kookie-centric // word count: 4,503

Summary: 

Jungkook needs a doctor. 

Sejin-nim takes forever. 

American hospitals are different. 

The thing about being poisoned by food, or by anything, is that your body rejects what you put in it for a while.

Jungkook’s digestive system is all exit signs about ingesting anything . Way too soon, his body says, as he clenches his fists around the blanket wrapped loosely around his waist and struggles through another mouthful. But Jin doesn’t know that. Jin just desperately wants—no, needs —Jungkook to get something nourishing into his body.

“Can’t do anymore, hy—.”

Hyung gets lost in a rather convulsive swallow before he shuts his mouth. Jungkook’s voice is quiet and quaking. Jin can see from his jawline that he’s clenching his teeth. He sets Jungkook’s bowl of steaming porridge down on his lap.

“Try, baby,” he encourages, brushing bangs away and resting his hand on the back of the maknae’s neck with a deep frown on his face. He’s still so warm. “Some food in your system might actually make you feel better.” But the sick boy just shakes his head in defeat.

Jungkook is a strong kid. On a normal day, he can beat Jin at an arm wrestling match a few times in a row, without really trying (which is embarrassing for Jin). He can hoist Taehyung up onto his back and walk around as if he’s wearing a backpack. He goes to the gym for fun. He likes to tackle his bandmates to the ground; he always succeeds. They don’t call him Muscle Bunny for nothin’. That kind of person needs food to keep that up, and Jungkook does, on a normal day. He ogles (cutely) at anything edible in front of him, on a normal day. You don’t ever have to remind Jungkook to eat. Like, ever.

He isn’t prone to stomach-illnesses. Even sick, Jungkook seemed to always work up some sort of appetite. Jin always makes soup or porridge for his bandmates when they’re sick, and he’s usually able to feed Jungkook a whole bowl, at the very least.

But this time around, it’s different. Jungkook can’t even manage half. Jin isn’t used to it.

Feeding him this morning ends up taking longer than he had hoped. Four spoonfuls of porridge and two sips of water brings the maknae down to an unmoving ball at Jin’s lap. His face is pressed into the elder’s thigh, so nauseous he can’t even keep his eyes open. For the first few minutes, Jin touches him carefully, only chancing carding fingers through his hair, cautious that any sudden movement or an increase of pressure might disturb the control Jungkook’s so desperately fighting to keep.  

It’s apparent on his face and in the stiffness of his body that he’s struggling to hold it down. Jin can hear him swallowing. He hasn’t stopped since choking down that last sip of water. What’s only been muted burbles under the blanket is now a loud, groaning, and bubbling organ. It’s quite literally upset.  

Jin feels Jungkook push himself harder into him, smooshing his face more into Jin’s sweatpants, and he whines miserably.

“God, hyung,” he breathes, letting out a tight sigh into the fabric of Jin’s bottoms before pressing his lips together quickly. Poor thing can’t even manage a full breath before needing to swallow again. “I-I don’t feel good. This feels so bad.”

Jin makes long shushing noises, lifting his hand to move to Jungkook’s covered back, drawing his nails along his spine.

“I know, baby. I know it’s bad.”

Jungkook tries to concentrate on the way Jin is trying to soothe him, on the light trails of fingers on his skin.

It’s a few agonizing minutes of this, staying perfectly still on the couch— of Jungkook taking careful breaths and trying not to burp himself into a heaving fit and Jin touching with very, very delicate hands—as they wait to see if Jungkook’s stomach will go easy on him.

The others still haven’t come to the kitchen for breakfast just yet; Jin can hear showers running and moving around behind closed doors, so it won’t be much longer before they all come filing back in. It had been a struggle to get anything productive done since everyone had woken up, each one of them coming into the living room to fuss over Jungkook, wanting to cuddle on the couch with the youngest member and comfort him. The last thing on their minds had anything to do with filming. Nothing would be accomplished at the frequency the boys kept visiting the living room. Jin had to ask Namjoon to keep the others away until they’d at least showered and got dressed.

Jungkook twitches suddenly, making a sound as if he’s been kicked, folding himself even more and groaning long and low. He shakily leans himself forward from Jin’s lap to the edge of the couch where the trashcan meets him below. Jin quickly pushes bangs back and supports his forehead, making wide circles on his back with his nails like he’s been before, so the pressure doesn’t encourage him to vomit.

Jungkook’s breaths are clipped and fast. He shakes under Jin’s hands. The cramp in his stomach feels like his insides are being twisted. He’s so wound up that he can’t even relieve himself with a burp; it comes out short and unsatisfying and ends in a whimper of pain. Jin starts lightly patting, fretting quietly under his breath.

Jungkook lurches toward the trashcan and Jin has to anchor himself quickly so he can keep the sick boy steady. 

“How’s he doi— oh shit ,” Namjoon appears with his face still puffy from sleep (he must still be waiting for a shower), but he jumps into action the moment he witnesses the scene on the couch, stumbling to the bedroom for the water bottle they’d been using for Jungkook’s stomach and rushing back to quite literally toss it into the microwave.

Namjoon hears a hiccup and a gurgle up Jungkook’s throat, then something thick hitting the trashcan as he waits impatiently for the timer to ding, cursing under his breath.

Jin doesn’t even notice Namjoon until he’s knelt over them both and slipping the washcloth in between Jin’s hand and Jungkook’s forehead. There’s something about the way he’s heaving that’s alarming. It sounds like it’s wringing him out, choking him. Namjoon has to pound his back a few times to get him to breathe, noting the way he coughs and gags shortly after, bringing up more liquid.

Jin looks up at Namjoon with wide, horrified eyes. They both mirror looks of worry, like parents over their sick child.

“I—I think I gave him too much. I got ahead of myself, I-I should’ve known it was too soon. I just—he just really needed food. I thought—,”

“Jinnie, hey, you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s okay, he’s sick.” Namjoon’s hand hasn’t stopped with its ministrations on Jungkook’s back. Jungkook still gags dryly into the trashcan.

When he finally stops, Namjoon wipes Jungkook’s face with the washcloth and Jin adjusts himself so the leader can lift Jungkook a little and lay him back against Jin’s chest. Jungkook grimaces, wanting to curl up around the soreness of his aching stomach, but then Namjoon’s pressing a warm water bottle into his middle, and it emits a weak sound of surprise and relief past Jungkook’s lips.

“There you go, bunny. How does that feel?” Namjoon asks gently, grazing his knuckles over Jungkook’s clammy cheek. Jungkook just hums a response, not trusting his voice or his body. His eyes fall shut on their own; he’s so tired. Jin spoons him, holding him close, snaking an arm around to secure the water bottle against Jungkook’s relentlessly churning belly. He presses full lips on the back of his neck and breathes him in. Jungkook’s skin is hot and smells sour. His body ripples softly under Jin’s touch, wracked with involuntary chills.

“Where the hell is he?” Jin worries, glancing at Namjoon with those big eyes of his.

Namjoon traces a finger along Jin’s hairline. “He’ll be here soon. Everything will be fine.”

Namjoon’s voice is sure and deep. Exactly what Jin needs.

 x

 Namjoon sees blood lacing the vomit in the trashcan. Blood. It isn’t dark blood. He suspects Jungkook might have irritated something internally from vomiting so much, but it’s still blood. He swallows down the panic for just a second, eyeing the closed door of the bathroom where Jin had to suddenly whisk Jungkook off to.

He can hear Jungkook panting heavy and Jin telling him it’s okay, but the cramps are painful and they keep piling on top of each other. There’s only so much Jungkook (or anyone) can take of that. And there’s only so many things Jin can say to comfort him. He can hear his muffled groans of pain, probably pressing himself into Jin’s shirt. Probably biting into his shoulder.

And then Jungkook’s urgently telling Jin he needs to use the bathroom. That Jin needs to get out. There’s some protesting on Jin’s part because he doesn’t want to leave him alone, but Jungkook raises his voice. He doesn’t do that a lot. Almost never.

Jin’s chewing his lips when he shuts the door behind him. It feels so wrong to leave Jungkook after seeing the raw pain on his face. His shaking frame as he presses his arms tightly into his stomach with all his might. The hitching of his breath as he pleads for Jin’s comfort. The aggressive rumbling under his palm when he feels the maknae’s belly. The tears streaming down Jungkook’s scrunched face.

Jin’s eyes get misty; he turns away the moment he realizes the others are starting to surround the door. Jimin looks about ready to ram the door open if it isn’t for Yoongi tugging him back by the belt loop of his pants.  

“He’s ah—using the bathroom. He doesn’t want us in there.” Jin says. His face is grim. Namjoon sees he’s clearly shaken after Jungkook pushed him away. Taehyung hugs him before anyone else can, resting a chin on his shoulder and squeezing him like it can take the stress away. Jin melts into him, wrapping his arms around Tae and resting his eyes. His exhale is shaky. They all hear Jungkook trying to muffle his whimpers behind the door. When Jin opens his eyes, he looks straight at Namjoon.

“I think Kookie needs the hospital.”

Namjoon recalls the blood in the trash bin. “Yeah, I think so too.”

 x

 Jimin says “Hell no.”

It comes out of him in all of its Busan glory and grit, and it gets everyone’s attention. Even Jungkook looks up, with bleary feverish eyes peeking up from where Jimin’s shoulder shields him after having twisted around to face the others. That usually sweet honey voice gets low and loose whenever his native accent slips out to shine. It’s clear in the raising of his tone, the incredulity on his face, that he isn’t at all happy with Sejin’s news: that they’d continue their filming today without Jungkook. That they aren’t going to the hospital with him. “We can’t do that.”  

“Jimin-ah,” Namjoon starts, his voice a gentle warning. It’s unlike Jimin to blurt his objections in the middle of a discussion like this, in the presence of their manager at that. But Sejin decides not to acknowledge the interruption, regarding Jimin with an apologetic look.

“It’ll only be for today. I’ll take Jungkook and he’ll have the day to rest. We’ll figure out how to go about everything when tomorrow comes.”

“Hyung-nim, he vomited blood this morning. Blood. What if he isn’t better by tomorrow? Are we going to film without him then too? We can’t.”

Sejin doesn’t have immediate words after that. He looks down, shades hiding the hangover he’s trying not to reveal, hands on his hips as he considers. Jimin’s right. They were family. They were a unit. It wouldn’t be the same without Jungkook with them.

Jungkook’s too-warm body shivers in Jimin’s arms, unable to stop the new set of chills wracking his body despite the multiple layers of blankets the boys have wrapped him in. They’d checked his temperature only a few minutes ago. It stubbornly remains in the realm of 102.

Jin had managed to clean Jungkook’s body with a warm rag (too achy and miserable to tolerate a bath right now) before Sejin finally arrived, helping change him into a fresh pair of skinny joggers and a black tee that he was too woozy to put on himself. Hoseok fits a black mask under Jungkook’s chin and Taehyung places a cap on his head.

The boy hasn’t the strength to do much but stay curled around his middle. He feels worse. His body feels sorer than it previously had. The aches are deeper. His skin is sensitive from the fever. He doesn’t like how his skin prickles with goosebumps every time his clothes chafe. His stomach feels like it isn’t satisfied with all the heaving he’d been doing all last night and all this morning. Nausea still stays camped in the back of his throat, but now there’s an incessant throb behind his eyes as well. It pulses each time he moves his head.

“And we’re going with you,” Jimin adds firmly. “I called an uber for us a few minutes before you got here. You were taking too long.”

Well then cancel it. I’m here now, is what Sejin wants to defend, but the guilt kicks in and he’s at a loss for words. Jungkook had been sick all night and his one job to answer a phone and get his butt to the beach house was lost in a drunken stupor then and a hungover haze now. He wants to hide under a rock.

But how could they take an Uber to the hospital? 7 celebrities and their manager, riding through Hawaii’s streets publicly without informing anyone, without hired protection. Their staff is still asleep, having agreed to stay in later than usual to give the effects from last night’s partying time to wear off. He’d be gone without telling anyone. It would be a careless move on Sejin’s part. But then again, this is an emergency.

“Hyungnim,” Yoongi begins calmly, with a hand clasped on Sejin’s broad shoulder. “it isn’t the smartest idea, no, but let's risk it, hmm? It’s better if you didn’t drive right now anyway; you don’t look well. Let us do this. We need to be with Kookie.”

Miraculously, with his serious eyes still shielded by shades, Sejin nods his head.

Taehyung looks back at Jimin with eyes filled with amazement. This normally soft-spoken singer just flawlessly stood his ground. “Wah,” he mouths, shooting Jimin a thumbs-up. “You’re pretty cool sometimes, you know that?”

 x

 They should have gotten two UberXLs, but this vehicle is particularly large, and they’re all able to fit without it bordering illegal capacity. What’s even more miraculous is that their driver doesn’t seem to know who they are. The masks on their faces and the hats dipped low to shield their eyes help hide their identities, but any fan could instantly notice a group such as theirs. The driver respectfully keeps his eyes on the road and questions nothing and Sejin gives Jimin permission to tip the driver big once the app on his phone prompts him to.

Jin fishes through a small designer duffle bag full of items he’s thrown together, checking almost obsessively for Jungkook’s passport and insurance card, holding them in his hands for a mental yes they’re right here, his lips moving through his mask as he asks Sejin questions about the check-in process at an American hospital. Their driver kindly explains to Namjoon that there might be a long wait in the ER, as there typically is, and Namjoon decides not to translate that to the others. He chews his lip and looks out the window before he tells Sejin he’ll make the phone calls for him; he’ll text their CEO Bang PD-nim to let him know where they are and not to worry. He’ll leave their whereabouts on the staff’s group chat. He’ll call their publicists to let them know they’ve paused their itinerary until further notice and to not announce anything publicly until given word.

The distance from the beach house to the hospital isn’t a long one, but Jungkook doesn’t take to the motion well at all. Yoongi comes equipped with a plastic bag that Jungkook refuses to use. He smothers his dry heaves with a hand over his mouth, but the burps he tries to hold down in his chest come up sounding so painful and wet that Namjoon makes their driver stop several times to hold Jungkook outside the door and rub his back until he’s done retching on air.

Even sick, Jungkook cares enough to be embarrassed by his situation. He hates that the silence brings all the attention on his rumbling stomach. He hates that the jostling of the SUV makes his stomach jump up his throat. And he hates how Yoongi has the bag poised in his hands, bringing it to the maknae’s lips each time he makes a sound, just in case. He squeezes Jimin’s arm each time he jolts with a hiccup, feeling millimeters away from a heave or a gag or a retch, swallowing convulsively to try and stop it.

“Almost there, bunny,” Jimin whispers in his ear. “Let it out if you need to. It’s okay—you’re sick, we understand.”

Yoongi’s hand is a warm presence on the small of his back. He watches the maknae intently. Jungkook’s neck is flushed as pink as his cheeks. It reminds him of the very young Jungkook they all first moved in with, so timid and shy that he wouldn’t even shower until everyone was asleep. Yoongi knows Jungkook is trying to be mindful of their driver, who looks a little nervous about the potential mess that could be made in his vehicle. The fact of the matter is Jungkook will not loosen up until he’s out of this car. Comforting touches and reassuring words just aren’t going to do it.

Hoseok reaches out from the backseat to softly massage the tension out of the back of Jungkook’s neck. Then arms snake around from behind to loosely lock across his front. There’s a barrier because of Jungkook’s headrest, but the maknae can feel the elder’s breath on his skin. Everything Hoseok does is so naturally intimate, so easy to express. Somehow, only Hobi can pull that off. Jungkook doesn’t ever tell him, but he finds Hoseok’s affection the most addicting.

“Gonna be okay, cutie. We’re here with you. Your hyungs are here.”

Jungkook lifts a shaky hand to squeeze Hobi’s wrist, feels a kiss peppered right where his hairline ends behind his head. Hears him hum in satisfaction at Jungkook’s reciprocation. Yoongi’s fingers twitch along his back. Jimin’s chin rests on his shoulder like an attentive puppy. Taehyung somehow manages to keep a constant hand petting his hair from the back seat.

He’s right. His hyungs are all right here.

 x

 Checking in is awkward.

What Namjoon hopes would happen, doesn’t. Namjoon thinks that the moment they enter the hospital doors, someone will immediately greet them and whisk Jungkook away into a room so he can get checked out.

It’s weird to be in a place of so many people and not elicit a reaction. Heads turn because there are eight tall Asian men dressed in obscure clothing entering a hospital all at once, but not because they’re BTS. There are no cameras flashing and no gasps of realization. On another day, this would be nice, but today Namjoon would actually invite the attention if it meant Jungkook would get quick service.

He at least thinks there will be an urgency about the staff, but the woman at the front desk doesn’t even notice that someone has approached her.

The receptionist is kind, but she doesn’t give Namjoon the response he anticipates. After fumbling through his English to run through Jungkook’s symptoms, the woman still says there’s a wait. Even after mentioning the blood.

Jungkook is perched on Jin’s lap in the waiting room because his stomach is cramping so badly that he needs strong arms to wrap around his whole body tightly. He needs the security of hiding his face into Jin’s neck so no one can see him cry if it comes to that. The mask shields his face, but he’s already had to lower it a few times to gag up the sips of water Yoongi keeps trying to encourage down his throat.

“I’m very sorry, sweetheart. We’re unfortunately understaffed tonight, so your brother’s going to have to hold tight. But we’ll do the best we can, okay?” Namjoon nods, but his lips are tight. He looks past the receptionist, at a darker-skinned doctor who seems to have paused where she was going to regard the scene in the waiting room. Her eyes go from him to the seven seated in the chairs behind him because of a slight commotion that seems to have started; Jungkook is retching into the bag Yoongi’s holding out for him.

The receptionist sets down some papers that are stapled together, unperturbed by the sounds. And then sets down an emesis bowl for Jungkook. “I need you to fill these out for me and we’ll go from there.”

Namjoon gives the doctor a pleading look before turning around.

 x

 It seemed hospitals in Hawaii were more colorful than the ones they were used to. Or maybe it’s just this one. One wall in the small hospital room is splashed with vibrant colors, a floral mural behind Jungkook’s bed. Jungkook is a greyish pale among it, a ball under thin white sheets with an IV sticking out of his arm.  It’s a disturbing sight, but the IV is there to hydrate him, so the boys try not to look so grim.

The same doctor that Namjoon saw in the hallway is the one who single-handedly overrides protocol to get them this room, almost immediately after Namjoon had returned to his seat, before he’d even put a pen to the forms he was supposed to fill out.

She’s a hero of the evening, and so friendly and cheerful. The boys instantly love her because of how gently she handles Jungkook. How she carefully examines Jungkook’s stomach with the lightest touches. Everyone heaves loud sighs of relief when she happily announces that appendicitis is out of the picture.

Not 10 minutes later, Jungkook has fallen to sleep. His head still pounds and his fever still rages, but at least he knows he isn’t dying. The doctor doesn’t regard his illness with an attitude that would encourage fear. He’s comforted by it.

Hoseok and Taehyung leave the room to get everyone coffee from the cafeteria while Jungkook’s doctor sticks around to explain the maknae’s diagnosis.

Jimin is fixated on her, as he gets with many foreigners, a childlike fascination dancing in his eyes. He smiles goofily whenever the doctor looks his way, hiding behind Namjoon, whispering to the leader that he’s never seen someone with eyes as pretty and as light as hers.

She tells Namjoon that she will discharge him in a few hours. “Keep a close eye on him, okay?” She says. She rubs Jungkook’s back while she speaks. No one is bothered by it. Namjoon remembers her mentioning that Jungkook is the same age as her daughter. “He’s sporting a pretty severe case of salmonella poisoning, but since he’s only been displaying symptoms for less than 24 hours, I’m going to send him back home with you. Now, this is commonly treatable and will clear up on its own, but he’s going to feel pretty lousy for a few days. It’s very important that you get him to drink fluids as often as you can. Even if he can’t keep anything down.”

She pulls a card out of the pocket of her white coat. “Here’s my card. If he still can’t hold any liquids down after 24 hours, or his fever doesn’t break within that time, bring him back in. Don’t hesitate to call me personally if you have any questions at all. I will keep you posted on any reports from the health department as they arise, that way you'll know what got the poor thing so sick in the first place.”

Jimin stares down at the business card Namjoon holds in awe and Namjoon laughs when the doctor’s smile makes him hide his face again.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you get us checked in so fast? The lady at the desk said we’d be waiting for a long time.” Namjoon trails off when the older woman smiles sheepishly, her head dipping low with chocolate wispy bangs falling over her eyes (Jimin blurts, “ oh cuuuuteee !” in Korean).

“Well, you see. . . my daughter’s an ARMY,” she says, and though only Namjoon knows English, everyone in the room would be stupid not to recognize the name of their own fanbase. All six members “ wohhhh ” in unison. “She talks my head off about you all, so I was pretty taken back when I saw you in the waiting room. She’d absolutely keel over if she knew you all were here in Hawaii. I think she loves you more than she loves me!” She says with an infectious laugh.  Everyone minus sleeping Jungkook joins in the laughter even though Namjoon’s the only one who understands what she’s saying.

“*Daebak,” Hoseok says under his breath, with one of those signature smiles that take up his whole face. Jimin demands everyone to gather around her for a selfie and Namjoon begs her to promise to keep this all a secret.

 x

 If they all could pile into the hospital bed with Jungkook, they would. They come to a consensus and let Hoseok and Jimin get in bed with him instead. Hobi is the best cuddler after all, and Jimin is a Jungkook-hog, so he’s a choice by default.

Jungkook sleeps so soundly that he starts to snore lightly, sandwiched between his two hyungs who are sleeping just as soundly. Jin stays awake with his coffee while everyone takes the opportunity to nap, watching fondly as time seems to stop for this moment of real peace.

Namjoon answers phone calls one after the other with Sejin at his side outside the hospital room, working hard to inform and come up with a compromise they’ve worked up for the group regarding their filming plans and their stay in Hawaii. Jin hopes at the bottom of his heart that their company will let them stay right here with Jungkook and give them all the time they need to take care of him.

When Namjoon looks back at Jin through the door window, his smile says things might actually work in their favor.

(* - daebak: a Korean slang word for 'awesome', 'big news'. It's hard to translate into english, but it's kinda like how we've been saying "it's lit" these days)

[aquaticsapphic]

feel free to skip any, but all the oc asks for either Xanthe or Mies? (Or both but I don't wanna give u..... A shitton if u don't want it)

I’m gonna do these in 2 parts!First up is Xanthe :)

What does their bedroom look like?

I don’t have a solid bedroom really, I’m on the move too much. Even if I stay in a room for a while, I don’t typically keep much of my things in there.

(ooc: If she were to suddenly drop travelling in stay in a room, I imagine it would still be pretty bare, but probably small and comfy. Probably a desk for writing and a trash bin with letters.)

Do they have any daily rituals?

Every night before I go to sleep I have a quick check-in with Lulu so she can see how I’m doing or offer advice. It’s nice to have someone to listen and help me feel like I’m not completely alone in the world, you know?

Do they exercise, and if so, what do they do? How often?

I primarily walk from place to place, especially when travelling from one city to another. I used to be very hard-set with exercises, but now I just use whatever I need for day-to-day activities.

What would they do if they needed to make dinner but the kitchen was busy?

I’d hang around for a while if it looked like they were almost done, but otherwise I’d just leave and come back later, so I wouldn’t bother them.

Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.)

In the cities and towns I stay in, I try to bathe every day, but as I sometimes spend weeks getting from place to place, the ideal hygiene isn’t always possible. As for the things I own, I’m not too concerned with keeping them in order in my bag, as I know they’ll just get jumbled up on the journey anyway.

Eating habits and sample daily menu

When I’m in town I try to get a bunch of rations and non-perishables like bread, dried fruits, cheese, and jerky. I also try to collect food as I go through the plains though, so any edible plants and animals I can find there will add a bit of variety to what I eat.

Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time

I like seeing how different people in different towns and cities interact with each other. Everybody has such interesting lives and stories to tell, and it’s exciting to be able to view these chapters for a while. It’s a nice pastime when I can focus on it, but if something else is weighing on me, it just heightens my nervousness.

Favorite indulgence and feelings surrounding indulging

I don’t typically indulge in things very often, but I guess as far as guilty pleasures go, I try to avoid becoming too involved with situations because whenever I do, things seem to go wrong, but…. It’s hard to keep that promise to myself sometimes.

Makeup?

I alternate between wearing none and wearing just enough to make me unrecognizable.

Neuroses? Do they recognize them as such?

(ooc: Xanthe is… very bad at recognizing that these are problems and admitting that, but: Avoidance, low sense of self-worth, repeated negative thoughts. She started working on trying to be better at managing them, but I’m not sure if she understands the neurological components of it.)

Intellectual pursuits?

I like listening to all of Bufo’s past journeys and everything he’s learned throughout the years. He’s actually really cool.

Favorite book genre?

Fantasy. What can I say, I like talking animals.

Sexual Orientation? And, regardless of own orientation, thoughts on sexual orientation in general?

Lesbian. Your sexuality is your own, and no one can decide that for you.

Physical abnormalities? (Both visible and not, including injuries/disabilities, long-term illnesses, food-intolerances, etc.)

I have a few light scars on my arms, a circular scar on my chest/shoulder area from getting shot with a bow once, and it seems like I’ll always have a bunch of small bruises. I bruise really easily.

Biggest and smallest short term goal?

Well I definitely want to get off of this island, but I’m not sure how long that will take.  So for now… talk to Fela. Explore the island.

Biggest and smallest long term goal?

Lulu says going back will help me. I hope it will. I also want to see a will-o’-wisp.

Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dress

Someone said I looked good in light purple, so I’ve been trying to add that color into my outfits. I really like loose-fitting clothes, because they’re so nice and airy. But I can’t wear skirts or dresses. They just get in the way and make it hard to move.

Favorite beverage?

I honestly just like water.

What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

If there’s not a lot that happened during the day, my thoughts will ultimately drift back to all the mistakes I’ve made.

Childhood illnesses? Any interesting stories behind them?

“A lady is to be looked at, not listened to. Therefore, if you have to cough, do so daintily, and behind a handkerchief.”

Turn-ons? Turn-offs?

I like open-books. People who know what they want. I can’t stand possessiveness or jealousy.

Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?

I’d probably start doodling Bufo. Or Lulu.

How organized are they? How does this organization/disorganization manifest in their everyday life?

Oh, I’m pretty disorganized. It seems like no matter what I do, I always arrive either too late or too early. Luckily I’ve never had much trouble with misplacing things, even though my backpack is a mess.

Is there one subject of study that they excel at? Or do they even care about intellectual pursuits at all?

I’m interested in learning vague details about academics, but I can’t sit through them or put anything into practice.

How do they see themselves 5 years from today?

Wherever I am, I hope I’m happy. And Bufo is happy. And Lulu is happy. And if it’s not too much to ask, I hope they are still with me.

Do they have any plans for the future? Any contingency plans if things don’t workout?

Lulu thinks it will help to get in touch with old friends. I hope it goes well, but even then, I’ve been fine without them.

What is their biggest regret?

Caerlowyl

Who do they see as their best friend? Their worst enemy?

Bufo. Definitely Bufo. And….. my mom. All these miles apart and she still haunts me.

Reaction to sudden extrapersonal disaster (eg The house is on fire! What do they do?)

There’s always somewhere else I can go.

Reaction to sudden intrapersonal disaster (eg close family member suddenly dies)

Whatever it is, it would probably be my fault somehow.

Most prized possession?

My handaxe. It was the first weapon that I ever really learned how to use, so it has some sentimental value. Plus it’s useful for cutting things.

Thoughts on material possessions in general?

Keep what you need, leave everything else.

Concept of home and family?

They’re too stifling. I can’t imagine a life like that.

Thoughts on privacy? (Are they a private person, or are they prone to ‘TMI’?)

The less everyone knows about me, the better everyone will be.

What activities do they enjoy, but consider to be a waste of time?

I like listening to music, even if there isn’t much to it.

What makes them feel guilty?

Remembering. Open waters.

Are they more analytical or more emotional in their decision-making?

I try to be calm, but it’s not always easy.

Would they consider themselves a Type A or Type B personality?

Neither.

What recharges them when they’re feeling drained?

A good, old-fashioned party.

Would you say that they have a superiority-complex? Inferiority-complex? Neither?

I’ve done many terrible things. I think it’s fair to say most people are better than me in that aspect.

How misanthropic are they?

Not much. People are complex, and the complexity is what makes everyone so interesting.

Hobbies?

I like hiking. And fishing. I don’t keep up with a lot of hobbies.

How far did they get in formal education? What are their views on formal education vs self-education?

Ugh, my mom taught me how to be the Perfect Wife for about half my life and it was a load of bull shit.

Religion?

Gods and I don’t get along.

Superstitions or views on the occult?

I’m generally not a fan.

Do they express their thoughts through words or deeds?

Deeds probably. When I act without thinking is probably when I am the most true.

If they were to fall in love, who (or what) is their ideal?

Someone who accepts me as I am and doesn’t try to change me. I won’t change just to be someone they want me to be. Clearly defined expectations always help.

How do they express love?

Love is staying together until the bitter end.

If this person were to get into a fist fight, what is their fighting style like?

Depends. If the person deserves it, I’m not afraid to fight dirty. At least until they stop fighting me.

Is this person afraid of dying? Why or why not?

I’m not afraid of dying myself. I’d hate to see anybody else die.