like a sunset

“Don’t listen to him,” Peeta spoke, his eyes still closed, as if he was going to drift off into sleep. Though, he doubted he would sleep well in the next few weeks. “He’s trying to get to you.” He paused before adding, “And he’s a drunk.” That, of course, didn’t mean that Haymitch’s information wasn’t valuable but he knew it’d take some coaxing to get anything out of him. He’d be sure to work on that first thing in the morning.

Just as he was going to respond, the train door opened once again. In strode Effie, her tall heels still clicking against the tile floors. Behind her, came Haymitch stumbling as always. Peeta was happy that he was sitting on the other side of the room because the old victor looked like he was going to be sick at any moment. When he saw them, he sat up straighter, ready to ask questions and begin their training as soon as possible. He wanted a fair chance and the only way he was going to do that is if he prepared.

Haymitch made a beeline to the rolling bar that sat near the entrance, he scrutinized the selection of alcohol before pouring a generous amount of what looked like whiskey into one of the crystalline glasses. Peeta had to hold back from rolling his eyes. Everyone knew the victor self-medicated but he’d really appreciate if for two weeks the man could at least try and keep sober.

“So,” Peeta leaned on his knees, his fingers intertwined with each other, “should we start going over strategies? Because I had an id-”

On the other side of the room, he noticed a tall brown leather chair next to a window, next to it sat Echo. Teeth tugged at his lower lip as he walked over to her and sat down, his weight causing the leather to squeak like it’d never been used before. It probably hadn’t. There were so many things that he wanted to say, but he couldn’t bring himself to. Nothing seemed right. Nervousness coursed through his body, causing his leg to bounce up and down which rattled the table that sat beside them.

They opened the doors and ushered him in, his parents rushing in after them. Peeta’s mother wore a smile as she tugged at his hair, the curls coming loose as they dried. “District twelve might finally have another victor.” Her darks eyes flicked to Peeta’s father and he gave a nod of approval. “She’s going to prove something.”

Peeta’s heart sank. He should have expected that the cruel remarks wouldn’t stop even though he was being sent to his inevitable death. There was just surprised in the fact that they were being said during his possible final moments with those that were supposed to love him. He didn’t say anything back to his mother, only reached forward and pulled her into his chest. No matter what she said, she was still his mom. He buried his face into her hair. It smelled like gardenias and bread. She gingerly patted his back and pulled away, trying once again to swipe aside the wild dark curls that seemed to perpetually be in his eyes.

“This is a step in history.” She murmured and stepped back from him. His father stepped forward and clasped Peeta’s still shaking hand.

“Good luck.” It was as much encouragement as he knew how to say.

The cries of who he knew was her mother called out behind them, her sobs didn’t make the morbid moment any easier. Effie only cleared her throat, giving an overly whitened smile to the audience. “Ah, here she is!” She exclaimed while directing Echo on where to stand. “Alright then, time for the young men.” 

The way the word “young” slipped off of her lips was a sting in and of itself. It was as if she were greeting her friend’s children, it didn’t belong. They were all children being used to barter with. Their lives were pieces that the Capitol threw away in their Game. Effie Trinket knew this. Even worse, she enjoyed it. 

Effie strode to the other bowl, her heels clicking along as she went. Peeta sucked in another breath, this time in anticipation. She hovered her silk gloved hand over the opening and spun her fingers around, building up the apprehension of the audience before plucking a piece of white paper from the top and returning to her microphone.

 “Peeta Mellark.”

His heart dropped and the breath he’d been holding came out fast, like the wind had been knocked out of him. His jaw went slack as he started making his way to the stage. Every step he took felt like he would topple over.

Once Echo reached her home her mother immediately took the cake from her hands and placed it on the center of the table. She was told to go get ready for the reaping before they ate as a family. “Yes mother.” Echo told her softly. Making her way upstairs she changed into her nicest dress, which still looked worn. It was a gray simple dress that she paired with brown laced boots. She tied a blue ribbon in her hair and braided it into one thick braid down her back. Once finished she came down stairs to her family who were waiting for her. Her mother, and her two older brothers. “Where’s father?” Echo asked. “He was summoned early for the reaping.” Her mother replied. With a flicker of pain in her eyes she nodded once and sat down at the table, continuing their annual tradition. Suddenly, a large horn was heard throughout the district letting everyone know it was time.  

“Look at the table..” his eyebrow shot up, confused by her statement until he locked eyes on the silver pieces that lay on the edge of the only table they had in the bakery. With a roll of his eyes, he walked over and scooped them up and into his apron pocket. Now he wouldn’t get a beating, at least. He peered up at the clock that sat above the entrance. Like the window, it was mostly covered in flour and was almost indecipherable, but from what he could tell, it was almost time.

Unwilling hands put away the dough he’d been kneading earlier along with the icing pipe. He fumbled around with the knot of his apron before shrugging it off and returning it to its rightful hook just beside the cabinet that held all of their desserts. It wasn’t long before his mother was shouting his name, breaking through the otherwise silent room. The motions of closing up the shop were enough of a habit that it wasn’t long before he was turning out the lights, locking the door, and making his way on to their attached home.

He darted to his room, muttering a small hello to his parents as he passed them. His mother was too focused on the oven to say anything back and his father, well, his father never focused much on anything. Neatly pressed clothes were already spread across his bed- his only unstained white shirt, charcoal pants, and leather shoes that were so polished you could hardly tell they were hand-me-downs from a miner that couldn’t wear them anymore. A pitcher of water sat next to his bed which he dipped his hands in and ran over his hair, letting the water slick back his usually unruly locks. It took a few moments to scrape the dried flour and dough from under his fingernails before he changed into his best clothes. The ones that were only brought out once a year. The last Reaping. With a deep breath, he shoved his shaking hands into his pockets and tried to keep calm. Nervousness wasn’t an unknown concept on that day, though, he was surprised he still felt it after all these years.

By the time he’d emerged from his room, the trumpets blared, meaning that it was time to gather in the town center. Together, he and his parents left their home and made their way to the Reaping. Guards were stationed at the end of the street and he paused to write out his tesserae and place it into the giant glass bowl that held some poor kid’s future. Twelve times. The odds weren’t great but he knew of people that had to put their names in upwards of forty times for their siblings. Maybe they’d be in his favor afterall. Moving forward from the line of people waiting to put their names in the bowl, he followed the others to his section where everyone stood and waited for the ceremony to begin.

The rustle of coins in her pockets made him shake his head, “Don’t worry about this one.” It was the least he could do, this was a day of mourning for her family and he often gave away goods to those that had lost someone anyway. Why should she be any different? “It’s on the house,” he paused, “just don’t tell my mom.” A smirk crawled across his features, it felt out of place, but there had to be some light to be found even on the darkest day in the district.

“I’ll see you at the Reaping,” he started to turn back towards his work before deciding against it. In his best impression and dripped with sarcasm, he muttered “and may the odds be ever in your favor.” His voice was light and tilting like the Capitol sprung escort that plagued their streets once a year. “Hopefully, nothing changes.”

When she broke the almost uncomfortable silence, he let out a sigh, happy to talk about something else other than her broken family and his own.

“Not typically.” They were supposed to, by orders of the Capitol, take the day off and prepare for the excitement that the Games brought forth. No one really obeyed that, though, particularly in the outlying districts where they didn’t have much of a shot of coming out victorious. “We’re usually too busy to have traditions, so I’m here all day before and after the Reaping.”

For a moment, he wordlessly continued icing the sides of the cake, turning the plate so that he could complete the last little section. The last year. He should be overwhelmed with relief. The fact that he more than likely would never have to see the inside of arena or die such a cruel premature death as a spectacle. His name had been entered ten times due to the tesserae- substantially less than some of the other he knew who put their names in additional times for their family members. In that way, he was fortunate not to have any siblings to look after.

A pang of jealousy tinged in his chest. Echo probably never knew of the additional fear from adding your name extra times into the giant glass bowl. How every sheet of paper was your death written over and over. He shook his head, to himself but also to her question, “It’s also the last year my family gets more grain.” His teeth tugged at his lip in worry. They’d have to start trading at the Hub more, Peeta had already spoken to his father about setting up a booth. It was risky, but it was better than starving.

“But yeah, it’s kind relieving to know that it’s the last one,” he paused his piping, “for us, at least.”

There were so many children whose names were still circling in the bottom of that bowl and would be for many years to come. It was a vicious cycle and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find it in himself to celebrate that.

Carefully, he removed the cake from the shelf and closed the cabinet with his foot. “I just need to ice the flowers on, sorry. I was expecting you a little later and we’ve had a lot of orders…” He knew he didn’t need to explain, but he felt the urge to anyway. Clearing his throat, he set the cake on the counter and dipped his head below, searching the shelves for the icing pipe he used for flowers. After fumbling for a few moments, he found it and took the lid off of the cake before beginning to ice the flowers onto the sides of it.

“How’s your family?” As soon as he asked he regretted it. Everyone knew that the Reaping wasn’t a good time for anyone, much less for the families of those that lost someone in the Games, “Eh, you don’t have to answer that.” He shook his head before turning the plate slightly. He was alternating between roses and simple lines, giving the design a little more depth. Icing cakes and cookies was his favorite part of being in the bakery, so he took it pretty seriously.

He was stuck in one particular reverie- falling leaves, running water, birds chirping all around, peace- when the ding of the bell above the door shook him out of it. Without glancing up from his work, he knew who it was. 

“Echo,” he greeted, the name slipping off of his tongue like a habit. She came to the bakery every week or so, one of the only regular customers they had, considering everyone else was busy bartering for food at the Hub. “You’re here early.” An eyebrow ticked upwards as he finally glanced at the girl. He tossed the dough to the side and grabbed a worn cloth to wipe the flour from his hands. “You want the usual?” He mustered a smile and leaned against the counter-top.