Always | EVERLARK Hunger Games | 2023

1 - Peace, But Not Really.

There is an odd silence to life when you are no longer guaranteed the death of yourself or your loved ones every waking moment. The newfound peace among the districts of Panem felt unnatural. There was a hush across the country. For most, it was a new taste of life that their tongues had never familiarized themselves with—fresh, bittersweet. Upon swallowing, though, it churned the stomach ever so slightly. It was new. It was unexpected. But, life was good.

District 12 was in the process of rebuilding itself—some parts slower than others. The towns that were hit hardest barely had a stable street to walk on, but were buzzing with citizens looking to buy from the new storefronts popping up on every corner: a dress shop, maybe a restaurant, a bakery. The bakery had been getting the most attention of them all. It was run by who is known as a victor—the greatest title of them all. This victor in particular was called Peeta: Peeta Mellark.

Rust-colored brick walls, blackened iron windowsills, and a shiny glass door held together the Mellark Bakery. Inside, the walls were hand painted by Peeta himself with depictions of forests and wildlife. The swinging vines and bobbing tree branches looked so realistic that if you were to reach high up-up above your head, you might just be able to caress the leaves and intertwine your fingers with the vines. Behind the glass display case of many different pastries and treats was the two-time victor himself, serving up a raspberry scone to what seemed like the thousandth customer of the night. The red ooze dripped from the warm flaky crust onto the child's hand as the mother passed it along to her little girl.

The contrast of pale skin to crimson drips were all too familiar to the blue-eyed man behind the counter.

Blood.

Peeta blinked the thought away, accepting the money from the woman. The small girl giggled, licking the jam from her palm.

Another child stripped of their life to entertain the Capitol.

Peeta's eyebrows furrowed and the coins he made for the woman's change dropped to the floor. The symphony of metals-on-tile was barely audible—not above his thoughts.

Another cannon goes off, another body goes down. Another child dead. Another child dead.

Peeta wasn't in his bakery anymore. He was underwater, clawing at the face of another tribute in the Quarter Quell and fighting for his life. With each deep breath he took above water, he was then dragged down underneath and his lungs grew heavier with liquid. Finally, the boy from District 10 who had fought so hard against him floated to the surface, face-down. He was dead, so Peeta could live...but at what cost?

"Sir?"

The sudden interruption awakened Peeta to his daily life. The air felt colder than it had before. His brow relaxed and he bent below the counter to recollect the fallen change.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," He apologized, handing her the coins with fumbling fingers. "Still trying to get used to this."

The woman smiled apologetically. "As is the rest of Panem. It's no worry, Mr. Mellark. You and Katniss have no need to apologize to any one of us."

Peeta let out a sigh of relief that he didn't realize he had been holding in. "Thank you, ma'am." His response replayed back in his mind. He wished he could say more, but it really was all he could find to reply with.

The woman nodded and pocketed her change. Her little girl was becoming a sticky mess, covered in raspberry jam. Peeta reverted his eyes away from the scene.

Soon, the mother and daughter were out the door, leaving the baker in the empty building. It was getting late, and the pair had been the last of the lingering customers. Peeta packed up the leftover pastries into a brown bag and sealed it tightly, placing it to the side as he wiped down the surfaces of the counter. He cleaned up every table, brushing crumbs onto the floor to be swept up in the morning. He locked the doors, recollected his leftovers, and started off towards the Victor's Village, where Haymitch and Katniss resided.

—————

There was no movement in Victor's Village— no whispers from the stone walls, no birds chirping overhead. An array of dead or dying greenery constricted the individual stones making up the exterior of the home belonging to Haymitch Abernathy. The plants had once been flourishing, like the residents of the village. The first week after they all returned to the village was the first week of freedom: a breath of fresh air. Haymitch took up gardening and planted the seeds from wild strawberries and mint leaf. He claimed that he would one day be "self-sufficient" and never depend on anyone for anything. How he planned on living off of strawberries and mint leaves was a mystery, but nevertheless a good hobby for him to adopt. After the week passed and he fell back into old habits, the plants sprouted on their own with the nurture of the rain. They didn't last long, unfortunately, without the care of their planter. The spot he chose was a great one—where the sun hit but the wind and cold did not. Even through the end of a cold winter and beginning of spring, the plants still sprouted, even for a short amount of time. They were given hope in a time of dread. Sun in a time of cold.

The home of Katniss Everdeen looked the same as the unoccupied houses just across the way. Empty.

Peeta hardly saw Katniss anymore. He planted her primroses, shared a long hug with her, and that was it. Here and there he would bring her fresh bread or pastries, but she would not answer the door. He would leave the basket on the doorstep. He never doubted that she was alive because the bread was always gone upon his return, occasionally replaced with a handwritten note that said nothing but "thank you."

Peeta's home was the only one that looked lived-in. He, to the best of his ability, decorated his front porch with a brown wicker couch and orange cushions—sunset orange. He repainted his door the same color. Behind the door, as he twisted the creaking handle open, was another scene of human life. Even without the fireplace burning, it was warm.  A cushion was sat on the floor in front of his coffee table from breakfast this morning—a raspberry scone, the same as the little girl had ordered back at the bakery.

He shut the door behind him, feeling the cold breeze drift to a stop. A sigh escaped his lips as he let his bags drop to the floor. Tonight, he wasn't worried about cleaning up the crumbs he left from breakfast or tidying up his kitchen—he knew that tonight he would not be able to sleep a wink. It was becoming harder and harder to escape the nightmares—the opposite of what he thought was supposed to happen. He had been free from the Capitol for months yet the vivid dreams could convince him that he was in the games that very moment.

He missed Katniss. He missed her love, even if it was just for the camera. He missed human touch. The closest interaction he had since hugging Katniss that day he planted the primroses was handing change to customers and shaking hands with the men who thanked him for his efforts in destroying the Capitol. It wasn't the same.

He thought, for just a moment, that he should go see Katniss—break her door down if he had to. No, he thought. She wants to be alone.

He didn't believe himself. Katniss can't want to be alone—it's not natural. And so, he started off towards her cold, untouched and unchanged home.