Chapter Text
Peeta didn’t expect to wake up again. He blinked his eyes a few times and squinted at a shining light. It was soft and warm. He was definitely in a bed. No one was around. Everything ached. His eyes slipped closed and he went back to sleep.
-
Peeta woke up a few more times, never for long and never with anyone else there. He was getting tired of being lonely. The light was off most of the time. Sometimes he thought he heard voices when his eyes were closed but he was never sure if he was imagining it. Sometimes he coil;dn’t even open his eyes. Is he even still alive? Is death just hanging in this dark place with the occasional noise? If he was alive why wasn’t anyone here? He wanted to get home. Finally get home and try to keep everything behind him. Peeta wasn’t sure how he would do that but he had the rest of his life to find out. If he could just keep his eyes open.
It occurred to Peeta that he had never been away from home this long in his life. Never even had a sleepover before, certainly never left town. Lying in a real bed was tricking him. Everytime he woke up he expected to be back in his bed, listening for his brothers’ snoring or his parents moving around, getting ready for the day. It was always a disappointment.
And then one time he dragged his eyes open and they stayed open. There was a little tray at the end of the bed with a bowl of steaming something and a glass of water. The room was dimly lit and there was nothing else in it besides his bed. Not even a mirror and he was curious to see what he looked like. If he was still malnourished or how long he’d been there. If he looked the way he felt. Peeta struggled to sit up and pull the food towards him. He gave a curious sniff and recognized chicken broth. He swallowed it in small mouthfuls. The soup had more flavor in the smell than the taste. The water washed away any lingering taste easily. When the bowl’s empty he sits there, half expecting to fall back asleep. When he didn’t, he stood up on wobbling legs. He looked down to see he was wearing a light white t-shirt and pants. He was shaky but standing and felt unhurt. As soon as he righted himself, a door he hadn’t noticed slid open.
Portia and Haymitch walked through, talking quietly to each other. They stopped when they saw Peeta was up. Peeta couldn’t help getting excited at seeing something else. He grinned and moved towards them, arms ready for a celebration. Portia was ready and pulled him into the hug he had been hoping for.
“You did it!” she told him. Haymitch patted him on the back
“Nice job,” and he actually sounded sincere. Maybe even a little proud. Portcia let him go and clapped her hands together.
“It’s over?” he had to check. Just to make sure he really had woken up. Really had gotten out.
“It better be,” Haymitch grumbled again but he patted his shoulder reassuringly, “Just a rewatch and an interview and we’re home free”. Peeta’s smile slipped for a moment. He hadn’t thought about all that extra stuff. More things keep him away. Potcia glanced at him and clapped her hands together.
“Okay, let's get you ready for the show.” And started leading him through the building while he complained about surviving and only getting a bowl of broth to eat. Portia explained that he’ll start to feel better soon and he could stuff himself with hardy food later when he was stronger. Soon had better come soon. They hit an elevator and started going up and Peeta realized he was back in the training center. He looked down and watched the ground shrink away. It was a weird feeling to go back to a place where he had thought he was spending his final days. He didn’t have much time to dwell on it before he was back in his room and the prep team surrounded him, shrieking and lifting him up in a hug. He had to start squirming before they dropped him and stop yelling in his ear. They went to work on Peeta, chatting all about viewing the Games.
“Obviously I was rooting for Peeta but I lost so much money!” Octovia squealed as she combed through his hair.
“I can’t believe I almost missed the finale” Maia had apparently been in the bath when Peeta was fighting for his life.
“Urg, I was almost in tears when Peeta was watching Birch die. SO tragic.” He squeezed his eyes closed when he heard that until Cyra made him open them to line them. After that Peeta tried not to listen. The general consensus was that Peeta’s Games were almost disappointingly short and probably wouldn’t be remembered if he wasn’t the youngest victor ever. He hadn’t thought about that. Youngest victor of The Hunger Games. How many other 13 year olds had gone in and never come out? He started doing the math in his head. Was Peeta any better than them to have made it out alive? Why did he make it and others didn’t?
His thoughts were interrupted when Portcia came in to dress him. She put him in a stuffy baby blue suit with a skirt over the pants and hard shiny shoes. It seemed like a weird choice. Pick pants or a shirt. His hair was brushed and aired until his curls were light and fluffy. She stepped back and nodded at that outfit, then looked at his face and frowned.
“How are you feeling?” He should be feeling better but hearing the prep team talk about watching him made him feel sick. Peeta didn’t like that he felt bad too. He wanted to come out of the Games and feel good and go home and be okay. He just shrugged at her. She frowns at him.
“Okay,” she didn’t press him and instead turned him to a mirror “What do you think?”
It’s the first time he’s seen himself in a long time. He doesn’t look right. The suit jacket looks just a tad too big on his shoulders, his hairs gently curl over his forehead and the makeup made his eyes look bigger. He doesn’t look like someone who almost died 10 times in the last week. People didn’t usually pay attention as much to the viewing ceremony so he’s not sure why she dressed him up like this.
“I look like a baby,” he told her, which was a little rude but so was her attempt to make him look like a cherub.
“I think you look very sweet,” she told him, carefully picking up and rearranging a curl, “And that’s never a bad thing.” Before he can ask why she’s trying to embarrass him it’s time to head to the viewing. There was no time to be nervous about being on TV.
They head out and meet up with the prep team, Haymitch and Effie appeared again. She latched on to congratulate Peeta and insisted she never doubted him and how proud she was the entire trip. When they make it to the stage every part of his ‘team’ trails out onto the stage one by one until the only two left are Peeta and Haymitch, who kept shooting him looks he didn’t understand.
Peeta walked out to greet Caesar Flickerman and sat on a tall, uncomfortable wooden chair. The crowd cheered for him and he has to admit it does feel nice to hear. He awkwardly settled his arms on the hard armrests and waited for Caesar to start.
“Hello Peeta,” he stared, and the crowd falls silent.
“Hi Caesar,” He couldn't help but grin as he spoke. He was swinging wildly between pure ecstasy at being alive and the numb silence that comes every time he stops to think. Something about being in front of a crowd made everything seem unreal, like a dream without consequences.
“I’m certainly not the first to say this but: congratulations on winning The Hunger Games.”. Peeta smiled and thanked him, and then felt his smile get shaky. Cesar moved ahead.
“So, Peeta,” he paused for dramatic effect, “I understand you’ve been through a lot, but I have to say this...I believe I was promised cheese buns when you won.” The crowd laughed and Peeta did too. He agreed and promised he’d bring him some at the end of the Victory Tour. Caesar directed them to the screen and the movie started. Peeta really didn’t want to see this. He wasn’t ready to relive it all.
Like every year, the Games had been edited to mostly show Peeta and the highlights of the Games. Peeta sees himself riding in the chariot next to Alba. They show his initial interview where he can see the wet shine in his eyes. They show the opening of the Games and him sprinting off with the occasional interrupting shot of other tributes going down. It’s a brutal opening this year. Whoever edited the video breezed over all his aimless wandering and cuts to him staring down at that first pond, clearly debating if he should risk drinking it. The next shot is his first attempt at camouflaging himself to sleep. In the dark of the night, it’s hard for the cameras to pick him up. The editor was pretty nice, showing clips like Peeta had any idea what he was doing. Then the camera cuts to a few other tributes, stopping at Birch.
He saw, for the first time, Birch get jumped by the pair from District Eight. Birch had gone down hard and practically lost his leg before getting the upper hand. Peeta watched him beat the other’s boy’s brain so brutally his partner didn’t even try to help, just stared in horror. When she finally moved she went after him with a machete and they both ran off. And then he found Peeta and that was it. Peeta sat there, trying to figure out how someone who had just dented another guy’s head in could just chat with Peeta. Or how he could’ve just accepted death after trying so hard to live he killed for it.
Peeta hears himself talk to Birch and occasionally the audience laughs, as if the two were merely bantering. His hands keep clenching the armrests and he has to consciously let go, over and over again.
He watched for the second time as Birch died and he got up and started moving. The camera starts to cut away to other tributes and switch off everytime someone dies. There is occasionally a shot of Peeta messing around, dragging his fingers through the dirt and wandering around the arena.
He saw himself on the screen and all he could think about was how pathetic he looked. No wonder no one would want to remember this game. He just sat around doing nothing while people around him tried so much harder to live; fought and killed and died for it. And here Peeta was, a victor without any guts. He felt gross. What do people think about him?
The movie turned to him hiding in the tree from the career pack. He had made a look of disgust when they started making out, which had the crowd cooing and laughing. His face burned. Next he was on screening tripping down a hill and rolling into water. He popped out the water flailing around until he realized he could stand in it. The crow was going wild and he hated it. Hated that they could see him at all. He couldn’t get himself to relax.
The roaring crowd was an uncomfortable reminder that people were still watching him now. Should he be trying to react? Not react? The camera might be rolling but is anyone actually looking? He had never bothered to pay attention to the victors when he was watching. Peeta was confused as to why they even did all this. Most of the games were mandatory viewing. Maybe it was different in the Capital.
Peeta saw himself claw his way out of the hole and continue on. He started to zone out. He knew what was coming. He saw his past self go berry-picking, go under the bush, and the girl from 5 snuck up. And she didn’t hurt Peeta, despite him lying defenseless, completely unaware of anything around him. She merely picked up some berries, just a handful and popped them in her mouth as she moved to leave. His reaction to her death upset him all over again and he flinched away from the screen. He kept one eye open while his past self freaked out before he got under control and moved away.
-Wait, what? Where was the part when he had stained her and tried to cover it up? They cut the part where he had tried to honor her out? He felt his eyebrows wrinkling in confusion and thought that he should probably stop but he didn’t know how. What did they gain from cutting away from an already dead girl? Peeta glanced away from the screen and caught Haymitch’s eye, who was already looking at him and shaking his head a little. Peeta still had no idea what he was trying to tell him but he tried to reset his face and turn his attention back to the screen.
While Peeta was starving to death the others tributes were picked off. He saw one of the girls eaten alive by a swarm on bugs and a boy ripped apart by a big black cat. The numbness was hitting him a lot harder then before. His eyes kept unfocusing and then he tried to focus on them and became aware of his blinking, which distracted him while the Careers turned on each other. Every cut back to Peeta had him looking worse and worse. Dirty and bloody and dazed. His mom must have hated seeing that. His only saving grace was when the bread arrived and his face lighting up. He could actually see his eyes brighten.
When the fight at the cornucopia happened he saw himself get knocked down and had to close his eyes against it. The size difference between him and Apollo on screen was horrifying to see. With his eyes closed that distant feeling came back. Distant thoughts and feelings, like this was someone else’s story.
He kept his eyes closed until all the noises stopped and when he opened his eyes he was on top of the cornucopia waiting to die. And it was finally over. Again. Hopefully. President Snow appeared to place the crown on his head. The president of Panem stood right in front of Peeta and his eyes bore right through Peeta. It creeped Peeta out and he was glad when he moved away. Things were wrapped up and Ceasar reminded everyone to come back for the final interview tomorrow and then they were off air and Peeta was once again being ushered off to a new place, no time to waste.
-
The Victory Banquet had an obscene amount of food. It was set in a large room packed with people who were probably important or wealthy. The little group Peeta arrived with peeled off almost immediately and he was alone in a room of strangers. Some of them tried to talk to him but he beelined around them straight to the food. The tables were long and weighed down with foods of all shapes and sizes. The scents wafted and mixed together in the air, alongside the metallic smell of the food warmers. He couldn’t even recognize half of them. Peeta probably should’ve been excited or interested but all he felt was tired. He started to load up a plate but that gave an opportunity for an old woman to come up to him and pinch his cheeks while complimenting his survival. He just kind of smiled before pretending to notice someone and walk away empty handed. Further away was a table loaded with desserts that no one had hit yet. Peeta went straight for it.
Tiny cakes and cups of custards and delicate cookies. Cut slices of cakes and entremets enrobed in chocolate. Stable mousses towered high and gelatin sculptures jiggled with every bump. Things he only recognized from very old cookbooks his family had saved. There was so much variety. And all so colorful, unlike most of the stuff at home. Most of the bread, by nature of caramelization in the crust, ended up that tan brown. The cakes had plain white or brown icing. There was a scat precious food colorings they would pull out for special occasions and orders from those who could afford it. Peeta loaded up a plate and turned around, at a loss of what to do now. There were long tables with chairs in the center of the room and small sofas lined the wall. People started coming up to talk to him while he tried to eat. They were all excited to shake his hand and say how good he had done. They describe how they did or did not enjoy stuff Peeta did. They all seemed to look through him, excited at the idea of him then himself. A few complimented his camouflage and art. He kept stuffing his mouth so he wouldn’t have to answer.
After discovering people were vomiting in the bathroom and coming back out for more, Peeta was done. He moved to find Haymitch, figuring people were probably not talking to him. He weaved through the crowd of people and found him standing alone next to a tower of champagne glasses. Peeta took a glass for himself and sipped it. It was different then the wine. It was light and sweet and still burned going down.
“Following in my footsteps?” Haymitch asked him with little judgment.
“Maybe. At least no ones bothering you over here.”
“I did my schmoozing already. You should be doing the same.”
“I don’t like these people... They’re weird.”
“You don’t have to like them. You want them to like you. Trust me, it makes everything in life easier.” Peeta kept sipping his drink
“What am I supposed to do now?”
“Eat a cake, smile at some people, try not to vomit in front of anyone.” Haymitch rolled his eyes as he spoke. He wasn’t getting what Peeta meant.
“No, like, what am I supposed to do after this? Forever? This is awful.” Haymitch glanced around and spoke in a low voice, pulling Peeta close under the guise of wrestling the champagne from him.
“Don’t worry about that now, and don't worry about that here. And start thinking before you speak to people.” and he tugged the glass away and downed it. Haymitch punctuated his advice by nudging Peeta away from him. Okay, Peeta could understand not insulting the Capital while standing in it but why was he acting like this. Peeta just wanted to talk to someone who had been through this. It was probably a lost cause trying to get Haymitch to help with emotions Peeta couldn’t even describe.
Peeta filled his plate from the dinner table this time and mentally prepared himself to mingle. He focused on the conversation of the foods, dissecting them and rating them multiple times in an attempt to keep anyone from telling him anything he didn’t want to hear.
-
Peeta was still used to waking up and falling asleep with the sun. As the night wore on the buzz of people started to die down. He ended up on a couch, half awake. He debated if he could just leave on his own or if he’s supposed to find Haymitch or Effie. He propped his head on his fist and let his eyes slip close. He was just about to fall asleep when the seat next to him dipped and he felt an arm settle on the top of the couch near him.
“There’s the little usurper.” A voice said and Peeta opened his eyes to see Finnick freaking Odair sitting next to him. Peeta made a sleepily questioning grunt. Why was Finnick Odair talking to him?
“I’m not the youngest victor in history anymore” He explained. Oh yeah, Peeta forgot that he beat him by one year.
“Uh...sorry,” Peeta was still half awake, “What are you doing here?” Did previous victors normally show up here? Peeta assumed they stayed in their districts unless they were actively mentoring. “What are you doing here?” Finnick shrugged in answer and gestured to an older man across the room.
“Ew, him?” Peeta made a face, “I mean, you’re not the youngest victor anymore but you’re still the prettiest.” Finnick laughed loudly and it jolted Peeta awake enough to be embarrassed and apologize. Finnick waved him off and offered a plate of fish in lieu of forgiveness. It was still fresh, the table had been restocked over and over again during the night. Even now the tables were flush, as if only a few people had sampled from it.
“How’s the life of a victor treating you?”
“I’ve mostly just been dragged around the place.” Peeta shrugged
“Get used to that,” Finnick muttered before perking the conversation up, “At least the food’s a lot better on this side right? What’s your expert opinion?” As always, food was a bit of a weak point for Peeta and he couldn’t help but dive in earnestly about some of the more exotic treats. He had warmed himself up to the food, having used it as a talking point through the night. There had just been so much to try and it was work to remember everything he had to say about it.
“-and I know in theory we could get some of the same effect with pig bones but no ones ever gonna have the time or money to bother messing around with that. And no one in Twelve’s ever gonna waste money on that kind of treat so it’s kinda worthless.”
“Well, I suppose you’ll have the money now.” Finnick pointed out.
“I guess.” Peeta hadn’t really considered that he’d get a brand new house and money. What was that going to be like? Part of him wanted to ask but it didn’t seem right. He doubted Finnick dealt with the same problems he had. Finnick had won his game like 10 years ago. He had volunteered and then went back home in triumph. He was clearly raised to be a fighter. Peeta was raised to get by.
“You’re very nice Peeta,” Finnick said rather abruptly, “And you are so genuine it hurts. You should get back to the kitchen before you get eaten out here.”
...What on earth was Peetta supposed to say back to that? Did he think Peeta wanted to be here? Peeta wanted to go home where no one tried to kill him or spoke over his head or in poorly coded advice he couldn’t decipher. Peeta was going home. Peeta was going home. Peeta was just standing to excuse himself to find someone to get him out of there when Haymitch appeared behind him.
“Finnick.” Haymitch greeted, warmly albeit drunkenly
“Haymitch” They sounded friendly enough with each other, which shouldn’t have been a surprise. Did other victors usually know each other? When would they ever meet up? During the Games?
“Keeping an eye on our new victor here?”
“Well somebody had to. Poor kid’s falling asleep all alone.”
“It’s pretty late,” Peeta defended himself. They both looked at him.
“It’s barely after midnight,” Haymitch told him.
“Does that mean we get to leave soon?”
“These things normally go for a few more hours”
“Doing what? How long can they stuff themselves and vomit and complain about enjoying or not enjoying stuff. This sucks.” Haymitch and Finnick gave each other a look. It was true though. Peeta had talked to so many people tonight and he thought he hated them all.
“We can probably sneak you out of here.” Haymitch decided.
“Growing boys need their sleep,” Finnick added, standing and brushing himself off, “You should find me when the tour comes through Four, by the way. I’ll take you out to the water and show you some stuff.” And he went off into the crowd.
“C’mon.” Haymitch started leading out, occasionally butting into important people’s conversations to prompt Peeta to say goodbye. Everyone else was sticking around so Haymitch and Peeta were the only two in the car. Peeta kept trying to think of something to break the ice. To beg for someone to tell him what to do now. Someone who understood. But Haymitch beat him to it.
“Look, we just need to make it through one more day and then we can all go home and have a breakdown. Okay?”
“One more day?” his voice came out a little shaky. It had been a long night. Heck, a long day. He had woken up in the afternoon and went straight into the interview and the eternally long banquet. Peeta had gotten what? 30 minutes of empty time all day. He was out of energy, resilience, everything.
“One more,” Haymitch clarified, “And you’re more or less on your own again.”
Right. not safe, or okay, or free. Just on his own.