the next will never come (part 15/?, hunger games, r)
the next will never come
"It means I'm done. It means I'm free. It means I'll live."
katniss/peeta, katniss/gale, au, r. katniss makes it through her final reaping. part 15 of ?
It's not the axe, wielded by the boy from District 1, as I'd feared the night we gathered to watch the Games in the town square. It's not starvation, as I'd expected when I saw how helpless she was at gathering food.
It's a poison berry, plump and juicy between her fingers, that kills Astrid Mullen in the 76th Hunger Games.
I'm not there to see it live. I'm not sure exactly when it happened - when Peeta and Brody were fighting? When I told Peeta that I quit my job at the bakery? When I ran home through the heavy midday heat, struggling to hold back tears whose origin I couldn't pinpoint?
What I do know is that Prim saw it, every second of it. Prim saw her find the berries, pick them, pass them through her pale, chapped lips…and fall, dead before she even hit the ground.
They replay her death that night in the evening Games recap, and I recognize the berries - they're nightlock. They grow around here, in the woods, and my father had taught me to avoid them before he taught me anything else. They're easily mistaken for blueberries - the only difference is they're bright red inside. But who could know that? Who, except someone like me, who spent their childhood trespassing in the forest?
I didn't even know nightlock berries could grow in the mountains. Maybe they don't. Maybe the Capitol just put them there, to see if anyone would bite.
Either way, the Gamemakers must be a little disappointed. It's the first death in days, and it's silent and painless. Over in the blink of an eye.
At least that's what I tell myself She didn't even feel it. She didn't know it happened. She didn't have to be scared, or hurt.
Somehow, it doesn't make me feel any better.
Prim is already in hysterics by the time I get home. Mother and I try to calm her, but we're both distraught ourselves, and our emotions only feed off of one another. Eventually Mother gives her a dose of sleep syrup, mixed into a glass of water. We carry her into the bedroom, tuck her in under the sheets. Even in sleep, little, hiccupping sobs continue to escape from her throat.
I don't understand how this happened - how last night, we were laughing and celebrating, buoyed by something as simple as a loaf of bread from a stranger. Now, under the harsh summer sun, everything looks different. My best friend hates me. I've lost our main source of income. Another innocent child is dead. And my sister has lost her first love, forever.
I know that Prim will be asleep at least until tomorrow morning, so I leave, hoping a long walk will clear my head. My mother says my name as I open the door, and I pause, looking back, but she shakes her head, say nevermind We both know we're no comfort to each other, even in the best of times.
Before I even realize where I'm going, I'm in front of the tree trunk where I keep my bow and arrows hidden. The weight of my bow is reassuring in my hands, familiar, and I climb up a tree just a few paces away to sit.
The forest is alive around me, flush with squirrels and birds and rabbits, but I don't even think about using my bow. No more death; not today. Instead I sit in silence, nestled between two sturdy branches, for two, three, four hours, letting my mind go blank.
Eventually the sky begins to change, warming into a lovely orange glow as the sun starts to dip below the trees. I don't want to return to my house, heavy as it is with sorrow and regret. But I have nowhere else to go.
The realization startles me as I climb down from my tree: not Gale's house, not the bakery, not even the Hob, where I know people will whisper and gossip. Nowhere.
There's a roll and a small bowl of stewed vegetables waiting for me on the kitchen table when I get home, but the house is silent. Mother must have gone to bed early.
I lift a spoonful of the vegetables to my mouth, but they're cold and limp. I'm not hungry anyway. I let the spoon drop back into the bowl. And I start to cry.
This time it was Astrid. But next time, it could be Prim.
And no matter how much I love her, there i nothing could do to bring her back to me.
I let myself cry in the quiet, dark kitchen. The only sounds are the ones I'm making myself - even the television is turned off tonight - and I feel, intensely, how alone I am.
I'm terrified of who I'll find when Prim wakes up in the morning. Will it b Prim? Or will it be some shadow of Prim, an echo of her, broken into so many pieces that we can't pull her back together?
I don't want to go through this again: dragging a shell of a person I love behind me through life, the way I did with my mother. I'm not sure I evenca do it again.
Ultimately, though, this is not about me. I'm not allowed to break down. And if I'm going to hold it together for Prim in the days, weeks, even months to come, I've got to get this out of my system now.
Eventually I feel my heartbeat slow to its normal pulse, and my ragged breaths grow even. Just as I stand up to clear the table, there's a knock at the door.
Before I can even move to answer it, it swings open. Gale stands still in the doorway for a split second, and then he's gathering me up in his arms, his cheek pressed against my temple.
He smells like ash and dirt. "I came as soon as I heard," he explains breathlessly, and I know he must have come here straight from the mines.
I'm overcome with relief that he's here, tha someone is her with me, and I cling to him for longer than I should, my fingers digging into the sweaty skin of his back. We stand like that for minutes, until Gale pulls away suddenly, as if he's just remembered that he doesn't want to embrace me anymore.
He looks around the tiny room with a frown. "Are they in bed?" he asks quietly. I nod. "How's Prim?"
I shrug helplessly. Why even ask the question? "Not good," I say shakily. "We had to give her sleep syrup just so she'd calm down."
Gale nods, but his frown deepens into concern as he takes in my appearance. I must look like a mess, I realize, after a day spent in the trees, after sobbing at my kitchen table alone in the dark. "Ar yo okay?" he asks.
I shrug again. "Doesn't matter," I mutter, turning to walk over to the couch. He follows me, settling onto the cushion beside me. There's space between us, a few conspicuous inches, and neither of us moves to close it.
"It matters," he says. "You matter."
I meet his eyes, but they're impassive, unreadable. I don't say anything, and eventually he looks away, gazing down at his hands. There's ash in the lines of his knuckles, beneath his fingernails.
A sickening jolt of fear passes through me, seemingly out of nowhere. The mines could be my only option for work, now that I've quit the bakery.
"Well, I'm here to help," Gale says finally. "You don't have to do this all by yourself."
We don't even know wha thi is I think, but I give him a weak smile nonetheless. "Thanks."
My body wakes with the sunrise the next morning, still ready to head into town and open the bakery. I can't fall back asleep, and in my hazy state I imagine Peeta and Brody and Mr. Mellark rushing around the kitchen, the brothers swapping shifts in the storefront. A tiny thread of guilt tugs at my stomach, but I know Peeta will be back in the town square this afternoon, actually tacking up his yellow flyer this time on the job board.
Or maybe they'll just give it to Violet.
The thread tugs harder when I think of the pretty blonde girl, so I try to wipe my thoughts of anything to do with the bakery.
Prim begins to stir beside me just as the clock on our bedside table reaches 8 am. "Prim," I whisper, and her eyes crack open slowly. They're bloodshot, but they soften a little when they find my face.
I push the matted hair away from her face, and let my hand rest over her temple. "You okay?" I ask gently.
"I had a bad dream," she whispers, and my chest constricts in panic. Does she…is it possible that she doesn't know? That the sleep syrup dragged her so far under that she doesn't remember what was real and what was only a dream?
Before I can respond, I have my answer: Fat tears drip down her blotchy cheeks and she keens into the crook of my arm, her wail muffled against my side. Her pain is fresh and raw and endless, infinite. I feel it seeping into me, yet separate from me, floating at the surface of my mind like oil on water.
I don't speak. I only hold her tighter.
Gale is already up and awake when I emerge from the bedroom, stirring a pot of oatmeal over the stove. My stomach grumbles loudly, and he smiles a little. "Hungry?"
I nod enthusiastically, and murmur a sof thank as he spoons a bowlful of the hot cereal out for me. He switches off the burner and turns to me, leaning against the counter, arms folded over his chest. "She wake up yet?"
"Yes," I say thickly, swallowing down a spoonful of oatmeal. "But then she cried herself back to sleep."
Gale sighs. "Yeah, I thought I heard her. That's better than nothing, though, right? Better than your mom?" He whispers the last part, in case my mother is awake. I don't bother telling him that she'll probably spend the whole day in bed anyway, trapped in memories of my dad. She still does that sometimes.
I tilt my head, considering. "Yeah, I guess so." I don't really remember Mother's initial reaction to my father's death. I was so young, and so caught up in my own grief, that everyone else was an afterthought in those first few miserable days.
But I do remember the memorial service we'd attended, and the medal they'd given to us and the other families whose loved ones died in the mine explosion. I'd worn my nicest dress for that ceremony, and my hair was neatly done, so Mother must have been at least functional at that point. The vacancy set in later.
That day was the first time I'd ever seen Gale up close. What struck me the most was ho angr he'd looked, standing up on the stage with his younger brothers and pregnant mother. I couldn't have known that in a few short years, that angry boy would be the person who knows me better than anyone; that a few years afte that, we'd be on the verge of a breaking point in our relationship.
The morning passes slowly. Mother joins us an hour or two after breakfast, looking pale and drawn. She seems surprised to see Gale, but offers him a small smile, patting his arm as she passes him on her way to the kitchen cupboards.
I check on Prim periodically, but she's either truly exhausted from the stress, or doesn't want to see me again, because she's fast asleep each time I peek into the room.
Around lunchtime Mother leaves to make a house call, and Gale and I are alone again.
I'm not sure what we are to each other anymore. He hasn't brought up our fight, which I'm grateful for, but he's also barely touched me, except for the hug when he first arrived last night. He didn't go home last night, insisting he'd be fine on the couch, and I can't deny that it was a comfort knowing he was only steps away as I drifted off to sleep.
"You don't have to stay here," I tell him. "You're missing work for no reason."
He shrugs. "Do you want me to go?"
Do I? I'm not sure why, but part of me recognizes that if I tell him to go now, that's it - that's the end of Gale and Katniss, best friends, hunting partners, and maybe something more. And that's not what I want at all.
"No," I say quietly.
I find an old, battered pack of playing cards on the small bookshelf where I keep my father's plant book, and we play game after game of War together. It's rote and mindless, but it calms me. I even find myself smiling at Gale's sounds of disbelief as a double war becomes a triple war becomes a quadruple war.
As Gale shuffles the cards for a new round, someone knocks at the door tap tap tap. quot;It's probably your mom," I say, and he nods as I stand to answer it.
But it's not Hazelle; not even Vick or Rory, or someone looking for my mother, or someone who's actuall bee to my house before.
It's Peeta.
I watch him dumbly as he steps towards me, holding an envelope out before him. "Hi. I brought you this," he says, and I take the envelope, peeking under the flap. It's cash, my final paycheck.
"Thank you," I say quietly. He holds out his other arm, a small burlap sack clutched in his hand.
"And this. I thought…w thought…you could use some extra today." I accept the bag, and as soon as its weight hits me I know it's bread. Three, maybe four loaves. It's far too generous for someone who just left them short an employee, but I'm too shocked to argue.
"Um. Thanks," I say again, turning to head back inside. Peeta's voice stops me.
"Katniss, wait. Look, I'm so sorry about what happened yesterday. I'm an idiot. I shouldn't -"
This makes no sense. Why i h apologizing? Remembering Gale inside, I pull the door shut behind me. "You don't have to apologize," I tell him. "There's nothing to feel sorry for. It's just…it's not a good fit for me."
Peeta falls quiet, like he's thinking something over. "I didn't tell my dad you quit," he says suddenly. "I told him you ran out after you saw what happened to Astrid. You can come back. It doesn't even have to be right away, he knows you have to take care of Prim." Peeta takes a deep breath. "Please come back, Katniss."
I'm taken aback, but for a brief moment, I consider it. Quitting was a rash decision, and I haven't yet had time to sort through the implications in my head. I wasn't lying when I told Peeta that I wanted to hunt more, but I'm not confident that I'll be able to make as much money selling and trading my kills as I would working at the bakery. Especially not if I've lost one of my most reliable customers.
And the mines…I can't even think about working in the mines without panic clawing at my chest.
"Why?" I say before I can stop myself. "Anyone could do that job. Why do you care if it's me?"
His eyes are piercing, steady, and I feel my breath catch in my throat when he says, "You know why."
He's right. d know; that's what makes this so difficult. But this time, I don't look away. And we stand like that, frozen in place by a force I can't name, until the front door creaks open behind me.
Gale steps through the doorway to stand beside me, and I blink as Peeta looks over my shoulder to take him in. "Hey," Gale says gruffly.
"Hey," Peeta replies, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I was just bringing some bread and pastries for you all." He gestures towards the sack, limp in my hand. "It's from all of us, my family."
"Oh. Thanks." Gale doesn't move, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Thanks," I echo. Peeta nods, looking at me again.
"Please tell Prim she has our deepest sympathies." He backs away slowly, his eyes never leaving my face. "And…let me know, Katniss."
Gale and I watch him retreat in silence, until he's finally out of earshot. "Let him know what?" Gale asks.
"Just…when I'm coming back to work," I say. It's more or less the truth, though it's a much more loaded statement than I'm letting on. I haven't actually told Gale or my mother that I quit my job yet. I'm not sure if he'll think it's a mistake to give up the income, or if he'll be pleased that I'm not spending all my time in town with the Mellarks anymore.
He'll probably be happy, I decide, if not outwardly then at least in secret. Emotions outweigh practicality with Gale every time.
Gale takes the bag from me and sets it on the kitchen counter, pulling out the pastries first. They're danishes, made with sweet cheese and raisins. They're one of the more expensive items we &ndash they ndash; sell at the bakery, and I know Peeta must have slipped those into the bag himself. There's no way his mother would have allowed those to go for free - no way she would have allowed any of this, really. I sincerely doubt there's a bag like this being delivered to the Mullens' house.
I watch as Gale pulls out a few plates, and carefully starts to cut into the danishes with a knife. "I've never had one of these," he says, slipping a piece off of the knife onto a plate.
"Really?" I say without thinking. At Gale's look, I blush. Of course he's never had a danish. The only reason I've had one was Mr. Mellark giving me one at work. He'd said it was overcooked and unfit for sale, but it tasted fine to me.
"They're good," I say quietly, accepting a plate. We sit at the kitchen table together, and Gale raises an eyebrow.
"Yeah, I bet," he says, taking a bite. "Kind of weird that they'd bring food over here, though. You're not Astrid's family or anything."
"Everyone knows how Prim feels about her," I say defensively, unwilling to admit that I'd come to the same conclusion just moments ago.
Gale only shrugs, and continues to eat his pastry in silence. I'm grateful that he doesn't press. My first priority now is Prim; everything else can wait until later.
"It means I'm done. It means I'm free. It means I'll live."
katniss/peeta, katniss/gale, au, r. katniss makes it through her final reaping. part 15 of ?
It's not the axe, wielded by the boy from District 1, as I'd feared the night we gathered to watch the Games in the town square. It's not starvation, as I'd expected when I saw how helpless she was at gathering food.
It's a poison berry, plump and juicy between her fingers, that kills Astrid Mullen in the 76th Hunger Games.
I'm not there to see it live. I'm not sure exactly when it happened - when Peeta and Brody were fighting? When I told Peeta that I quit my job at the bakery? When I ran home through the heavy midday heat, struggling to hold back tears whose origin I couldn't pinpoint?
What I do know is that Prim saw it, every second of it. Prim saw her find the berries, pick them, pass them through her pale, chapped lips…and fall, dead before she even hit the ground.
They replay her death that night in the evening Games recap, and I recognize the berries - they're nightlock. They grow around here, in the woods, and my father had taught me to avoid them before he taught me anything else. They're easily mistaken for blueberries - the only difference is they're bright red inside. But who could know that? Who, except someone like me, who spent their childhood trespassing in the forest?
I didn't even know nightlock berries could grow in the mountains. Maybe they don't. Maybe the Capitol just put them there, to see if anyone would bite.
Either way, the Gamemakers must be a little disappointed. It's the first death in days, and it's silent and painless. Over in the blink of an eye.
At least that's what I tell myself She didn't even feel it. She didn't know it happened. She didn't have to be scared, or hurt.
Somehow, it doesn't make me feel any better.
Prim is already in hysterics by the time I get home. Mother and I try to calm her, but we're both distraught ourselves, and our emotions only feed off of one another. Eventually Mother gives her a dose of sleep syrup, mixed into a glass of water. We carry her into the bedroom, tuck her in under the sheets. Even in sleep, little, hiccupping sobs continue to escape from her throat.
I don't understand how this happened - how last night, we were laughing and celebrating, buoyed by something as simple as a loaf of bread from a stranger. Now, under the harsh summer sun, everything looks different. My best friend hates me. I've lost our main source of income. Another innocent child is dead. And my sister has lost her first love, forever.
I know that Prim will be asleep at least until tomorrow morning, so I leave, hoping a long walk will clear my head. My mother says my name as I open the door, and I pause, looking back, but she shakes her head, say nevermind We both know we're no comfort to each other, even in the best of times.
Before I even realize where I'm going, I'm in front of the tree trunk where I keep my bow and arrows hidden. The weight of my bow is reassuring in my hands, familiar, and I climb up a tree just a few paces away to sit.
The forest is alive around me, flush with squirrels and birds and rabbits, but I don't even think about using my bow. No more death; not today. Instead I sit in silence, nestled between two sturdy branches, for two, three, four hours, letting my mind go blank.
Eventually the sky begins to change, warming into a lovely orange glow as the sun starts to dip below the trees. I don't want to return to my house, heavy as it is with sorrow and regret. But I have nowhere else to go.
The realization startles me as I climb down from my tree: not Gale's house, not the bakery, not even the Hob, where I know people will whisper and gossip. Nowhere.
There's a roll and a small bowl of stewed vegetables waiting for me on the kitchen table when I get home, but the house is silent. Mother must have gone to bed early.
I lift a spoonful of the vegetables to my mouth, but they're cold and limp. I'm not hungry anyway. I let the spoon drop back into the bowl. And I start to cry.
This time it was Astrid. But next time, it could be Prim.
And no matter how much I love her, there i nothing could do to bring her back to me.
I let myself cry in the quiet, dark kitchen. The only sounds are the ones I'm making myself - even the television is turned off tonight - and I feel, intensely, how alone I am.
I'm terrified of who I'll find when Prim wakes up in the morning. Will it b Prim? Or will it be some shadow of Prim, an echo of her, broken into so many pieces that we can't pull her back together?
I don't want to go through this again: dragging a shell of a person I love behind me through life, the way I did with my mother. I'm not sure I evenca do it again.
Ultimately, though, this is not about me. I'm not allowed to break down. And if I'm going to hold it together for Prim in the days, weeks, even months to come, I've got to get this out of my system now.
Eventually I feel my heartbeat slow to its normal pulse, and my ragged breaths grow even. Just as I stand up to clear the table, there's a knock at the door.
Before I can even move to answer it, it swings open. Gale stands still in the doorway for a split second, and then he's gathering me up in his arms, his cheek pressed against my temple.
He smells like ash and dirt. "I came as soon as I heard," he explains breathlessly, and I know he must have come here straight from the mines.
I'm overcome with relief that he's here, tha someone is her with me, and I cling to him for longer than I should, my fingers digging into the sweaty skin of his back. We stand like that for minutes, until Gale pulls away suddenly, as if he's just remembered that he doesn't want to embrace me anymore.
He looks around the tiny room with a frown. "Are they in bed?" he asks quietly. I nod. "How's Prim?"
I shrug helplessly. Why even ask the question? "Not good," I say shakily. "We had to give her sleep syrup just so she'd calm down."
Gale nods, but his frown deepens into concern as he takes in my appearance. I must look like a mess, I realize, after a day spent in the trees, after sobbing at my kitchen table alone in the dark. "Ar yo okay?" he asks.
I shrug again. "Doesn't matter," I mutter, turning to walk over to the couch. He follows me, settling onto the cushion beside me. There's space between us, a few conspicuous inches, and neither of us moves to close it.
"It matters," he says. "You matter."
I meet his eyes, but they're impassive, unreadable. I don't say anything, and eventually he looks away, gazing down at his hands. There's ash in the lines of his knuckles, beneath his fingernails.
A sickening jolt of fear passes through me, seemingly out of nowhere. The mines could be my only option for work, now that I've quit the bakery.
"Well, I'm here to help," Gale says finally. "You don't have to do this all by yourself."
We don't even know wha thi is I think, but I give him a weak smile nonetheless. "Thanks."
My body wakes with the sunrise the next morning, still ready to head into town and open the bakery. I can't fall back asleep, and in my hazy state I imagine Peeta and Brody and Mr. Mellark rushing around the kitchen, the brothers swapping shifts in the storefront. A tiny thread of guilt tugs at my stomach, but I know Peeta will be back in the town square this afternoon, actually tacking up his yellow flyer this time on the job board.
Or maybe they'll just give it to Violet.
The thread tugs harder when I think of the pretty blonde girl, so I try to wipe my thoughts of anything to do with the bakery.
Prim begins to stir beside me just as the clock on our bedside table reaches 8 am. "Prim," I whisper, and her eyes crack open slowly. They're bloodshot, but they soften a little when they find my face.
I push the matted hair away from her face, and let my hand rest over her temple. "You okay?" I ask gently.
"I had a bad dream," she whispers, and my chest constricts in panic. Does she…is it possible that she doesn't know? That the sleep syrup dragged her so far under that she doesn't remember what was real and what was only a dream?
Before I can respond, I have my answer: Fat tears drip down her blotchy cheeks and she keens into the crook of my arm, her wail muffled against my side. Her pain is fresh and raw and endless, infinite. I feel it seeping into me, yet separate from me, floating at the surface of my mind like oil on water.
I don't speak. I only hold her tighter.
Gale is already up and awake when I emerge from the bedroom, stirring a pot of oatmeal over the stove. My stomach grumbles loudly, and he smiles a little. "Hungry?"
I nod enthusiastically, and murmur a sof thank as he spoons a bowlful of the hot cereal out for me. He switches off the burner and turns to me, leaning against the counter, arms folded over his chest. "She wake up yet?"
"Yes," I say thickly, swallowing down a spoonful of oatmeal. "But then she cried herself back to sleep."
Gale sighs. "Yeah, I thought I heard her. That's better than nothing, though, right? Better than your mom?" He whispers the last part, in case my mother is awake. I don't bother telling him that she'll probably spend the whole day in bed anyway, trapped in memories of my dad. She still does that sometimes.
I tilt my head, considering. "Yeah, I guess so." I don't really remember Mother's initial reaction to my father's death. I was so young, and so caught up in my own grief, that everyone else was an afterthought in those first few miserable days.
But I do remember the memorial service we'd attended, and the medal they'd given to us and the other families whose loved ones died in the mine explosion. I'd worn my nicest dress for that ceremony, and my hair was neatly done, so Mother must have been at least functional at that point. The vacancy set in later.
That day was the first time I'd ever seen Gale up close. What struck me the most was ho angr he'd looked, standing up on the stage with his younger brothers and pregnant mother. I couldn't have known that in a few short years, that angry boy would be the person who knows me better than anyone; that a few years afte that, we'd be on the verge of a breaking point in our relationship.
The morning passes slowly. Mother joins us an hour or two after breakfast, looking pale and drawn. She seems surprised to see Gale, but offers him a small smile, patting his arm as she passes him on her way to the kitchen cupboards.
I check on Prim periodically, but she's either truly exhausted from the stress, or doesn't want to see me again, because she's fast asleep each time I peek into the room.
Around lunchtime Mother leaves to make a house call, and Gale and I are alone again.
I'm not sure what we are to each other anymore. He hasn't brought up our fight, which I'm grateful for, but he's also barely touched me, except for the hug when he first arrived last night. He didn't go home last night, insisting he'd be fine on the couch, and I can't deny that it was a comfort knowing he was only steps away as I drifted off to sleep.
"You don't have to stay here," I tell him. "You're missing work for no reason."
He shrugs. "Do you want me to go?"
Do I? I'm not sure why, but part of me recognizes that if I tell him to go now, that's it - that's the end of Gale and Katniss, best friends, hunting partners, and maybe something more. And that's not what I want at all.
"No," I say quietly.
I find an old, battered pack of playing cards on the small bookshelf where I keep my father's plant book, and we play game after game of War together. It's rote and mindless, but it calms me. I even find myself smiling at Gale's sounds of disbelief as a double war becomes a triple war becomes a quadruple war.
As Gale shuffles the cards for a new round, someone knocks at the door tap tap tap. quot;It's probably your mom," I say, and he nods as I stand to answer it.
But it's not Hazelle; not even Vick or Rory, or someone looking for my mother, or someone who's actuall bee to my house before.
It's Peeta.
I watch him dumbly as he steps towards me, holding an envelope out before him. "Hi. I brought you this," he says, and I take the envelope, peeking under the flap. It's cash, my final paycheck.
"Thank you," I say quietly. He holds out his other arm, a small burlap sack clutched in his hand.
"And this. I thought…w thought…you could use some extra today." I accept the bag, and as soon as its weight hits me I know it's bread. Three, maybe four loaves. It's far too generous for someone who just left them short an employee, but I'm too shocked to argue.
"Um. Thanks," I say again, turning to head back inside. Peeta's voice stops me.
"Katniss, wait. Look, I'm so sorry about what happened yesterday. I'm an idiot. I shouldn't -"
This makes no sense. Why i h apologizing? Remembering Gale inside, I pull the door shut behind me. "You don't have to apologize," I tell him. "There's nothing to feel sorry for. It's just…it's not a good fit for me."
Peeta falls quiet, like he's thinking something over. "I didn't tell my dad you quit," he says suddenly. "I told him you ran out after you saw what happened to Astrid. You can come back. It doesn't even have to be right away, he knows you have to take care of Prim." Peeta takes a deep breath. "Please come back, Katniss."
I'm taken aback, but for a brief moment, I consider it. Quitting was a rash decision, and I haven't yet had time to sort through the implications in my head. I wasn't lying when I told Peeta that I wanted to hunt more, but I'm not confident that I'll be able to make as much money selling and trading my kills as I would working at the bakery. Especially not if I've lost one of my most reliable customers.
And the mines…I can't even think about working in the mines without panic clawing at my chest.
"Why?" I say before I can stop myself. "Anyone could do that job. Why do you care if it's me?"
His eyes are piercing, steady, and I feel my breath catch in my throat when he says, "You know why."
He's right. d know; that's what makes this so difficult. But this time, I don't look away. And we stand like that, frozen in place by a force I can't name, until the front door creaks open behind me.
Gale steps through the doorway to stand beside me, and I blink as Peeta looks over my shoulder to take him in. "Hey," Gale says gruffly.
"Hey," Peeta replies, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I was just bringing some bread and pastries for you all." He gestures towards the sack, limp in my hand. "It's from all of us, my family."
"Oh. Thanks." Gale doesn't move, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Thanks," I echo. Peeta nods, looking at me again.
"Please tell Prim she has our deepest sympathies." He backs away slowly, his eyes never leaving my face. "And…let me know, Katniss."
Gale and I watch him retreat in silence, until he's finally out of earshot. "Let him know what?" Gale asks.
"Just…when I'm coming back to work," I say. It's more or less the truth, though it's a much more loaded statement than I'm letting on. I haven't actually told Gale or my mother that I quit my job yet. I'm not sure if he'll think it's a mistake to give up the income, or if he'll be pleased that I'm not spending all my time in town with the Mellarks anymore.
He'll probably be happy, I decide, if not outwardly then at least in secret. Emotions outweigh practicality with Gale every time.
Gale takes the bag from me and sets it on the kitchen counter, pulling out the pastries first. They're danishes, made with sweet cheese and raisins. They're one of the more expensive items we &ndash they ndash; sell at the bakery, and I know Peeta must have slipped those into the bag himself. There's no way his mother would have allowed those to go for free - no way she would have allowed any of this, really. I sincerely doubt there's a bag like this being delivered to the Mullens' house.
I watch as Gale pulls out a few plates, and carefully starts to cut into the danishes with a knife. "I've never had one of these," he says, slipping a piece off of the knife onto a plate.
"Really?" I say without thinking. At Gale's look, I blush. Of course he's never had a danish. The only reason I've had one was Mr. Mellark giving me one at work. He'd said it was overcooked and unfit for sale, but it tasted fine to me.
"They're good," I say quietly, accepting a plate. We sit at the kitchen table together, and Gale raises an eyebrow.
"Yeah, I bet," he says, taking a bite. "Kind of weird that they'd bring food over here, though. You're not Astrid's family or anything."
"Everyone knows how Prim feels about her," I say defensively, unwilling to admit that I'd come to the same conclusion just moments ago.
Gale only shrugs, and continues to eat his pastry in silence. I'm grateful that he doesn't press. My first priority now is Prim; everything else can wait until later.