#nice boy

Hunger Games Fanfic

Peeta Mellark x Y/N

You never thought you’d notice him, not really. Peeta Mellark, the boy with the soft eyes and the steady hands, the one whose face was etched into the memory of an entire nation. Yet here he was, sitting on the bench outside the bakery, staring down at his hands as if they held the answers to questions no one dared ask. You pause as you approach, pretending to tie your shoelace, just to steal a glance.

He looks up, catching your gaze, and there’s a flicker of something surprise, maybe, or just recognition that someone is watching. “Hi,” he says, voice low but gentle. Not loud, not the Peeta from the Games who could make a crowd cheer or sob. Just Peeta, quiet and vulnerable.

“Hi,” you reply, your voice steadier than you feel. You have no idea why you’re talking to him, only that something inside you nudges you forward. “Mind if I… sit?”

“Sure,” he says, moving slightly to make room. He shifts, awkward, like he’s not used to company. You take a seat, hands folded in your lap. There’s an uncomfortable silence at first not a tense one, but the kind that hums with the weight of things unspoken.

Finally, he speaks. “I… haven’t seen many people out here lately. Not since… everything.” He gestures vaguely toward the town, the destruction still scarred into the edges of District 12. You nod, understanding.

“I know,” you say softly. “It’s… quiet now, but some of us are still trying to live.”

He laughs quietly, almost bitterly. “Live.” The word hangs in the air, heavy. “I used to think I knew what that meant.”

You watch him, feeling a tug in your chest. Something in the way he carries himself not the confident hero of the Games or the rebellion, but a man who’s been broken and is trying to piece himself together draws you in. “Maybe… maybe it’s simpler than we think,” you suggest. “Sometimes living just means showing up every day, even when it’s hard.”

His eyes meet yours then, really meet yours, and for a moment the world shrinks until it’s just the two of you, sitting on a sun-warmed bench, sharing the weight of survival. “I… I like the sound of that,” he murmurs. “Showing up.”

You smile faintly, unsure if he realizes the way his words brush over your chest. “It’s not glamorous,” you admit. “But it works.”

He nods, staring at the ground again. Then, quietly, almost to himself, he says, “I don’t… I don’t know if I’ll ever feel like I deserve simple.”

You want to reach out, touch his arm, tell him that everyone deserves simple that everyone deserves someone who sees them without all the expectation and spectacle but something stops you. Instead, you just say, “Maybe it’s not about deserving. Maybe it’s just about being allowed to.”

He looks up, startled. Then, a small, almost shy smile tugs at his lips. It’s the first time you’ve seen him smile without the pressure of the crowd or the Games. It’s tentative, fragile, but it’s there. “Allowed,” he repeats softly. “I like that.”

Days pass, though you don’t notice the time slipping by. You start finding reasons to cross paths. A basket of bread from the bakery where you work. A nod on the street. A shared bench when the sun is just low enough to cast gold over everything. He’s still careful with you, reserved, and you’re careful in return. No one here trusts too easily after everything that’s happened.

But one afternoon, he surprises you. He’s carrying a small bundle wrapped in a cloth and he shuffles awkwardly beside you as you walk toward the square. “I… I baked some bread,” he says, holding it out. “I thought… maybe you’d like it.”

You take it, fingers brushing against his. It’s brief, electric, and you feel it. The faint pulse of something new. “Thank you,” you whisper, smiling. “I’d love it.”

He scratches the back of his neck, eyes avoiding yours. “I’m… not great at this,” he admits. “Talking to people. Showing up… like you said. I mean, I… I’m not sure how to…”

“You don’t have to be great,” you say, gently. “You just… have to be here. That’s enough for now.”

His gaze finally meets yours, steady and searching. There’s a pause, thick with words left unspoken. And then, just like that, he laughs. Not a hollow laugh, not the kind he used to force for appearances. A soft, real laugh, the kind that reaches his eyes and warms your chest.

Weeks go by, and the rhythm between you grows slow, unhurried, like a careful dance. He begins to ask about your day, little things at first: what you’ve been reading, what bread you like best. You listen to his stories too, of the Games, of the war, of the world beyond the mountains that he’s never known. You don’t pry too deeply; you let him decide how much to share. And slowly, you notice the cracks in his armor, the vulnerability that creeps through when he thinks no one is looking.

One evening, the sun is setting and the square is quiet. You’re sitting on the bench again, a basket of bread between you. He’s humming under his breath, awkward, shy, like he’s testing the boundaries of comfort. “Do you ever… think about what comes next?” he asks suddenly.

You tilt your head. “You mean after all of this?”

He nod. “Yeah. After… everything. I mean, I don’t… I don’t want to just survive anymore. But I’m not sure I know how to live either.”

Your chest aches for him. You reach out, lightly brushing a hand over his. It’s a small gesture, almost casual, but the tension drains from him, and he doesn’t pull away. “Maybe we figure it out together,” you suggest.

He looks at your hand, then at you, and there’s a flicker of something tender, something that hints at hope. “Together…” he echoes. His lips curve into a small, almost shy smile. “I… I think I’d like that.”

The days turn into weeks, and the bench becomes your ritual. You share bread, stories, laughter. He starts to ask for your opinion on things what flour is best, which flowers to plant along the fence, what book you’re reading. You tease him, sometimes, and he blushes, awkward and endearing, and slowly, ever so slowly, the walls around him crumble.

One rainy afternoon, he shows up at the bakery, drenched and embarrassed. “I… didn’t know where else to go,” he says, sheepish, wringing his hands. You hand him a towel, laughing softly. “You could’ve come inside,” you chide gently.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I… wanted to see you first.”

The words hang in the air between you, delicate, trembling, and the world seems to slow. You look at him really look and notice the slight tremor in his hands, the way his eyes search yours as if asking permission to exist, to hope. “I’m glad you did,” you say softly.

He exhales, relief and something warmer mingling in his chest. “I… I like being here,” he admits. “With you.”

And that’s when it hits you the slow, steady pull that’s been growing all along. He’s falling, quietly, carefully, like the sunrise over District 12. Not with firework declarations, not with the urgency of the Games, but with a patience and sincerity that makes your heart ache in the best way.

You smile, brushing a stray drop of rain from his cheek. “I like having you here too,” you confess.

He looks at you then, really looks, and the world outside the bakery blurs into background noise. “You… make it easier,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “To… want to live. Not just survive.”

You reach out, your hand finding his. His fingers intertwine with yours, hesitant at first, then firmer. He doesn’t pull away. And in that moment, you realize neither of you needs grand gestures or declarations. Just the quiet, steady presence of each other, the simple act of showing up, of caring, of being allowed to exist in the same small corner of the world.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to start over.

Days become months, and the slow burn continues. He’s awkward, sometimes, fumbling over words and feelings, but you’re patient, and he’s learning. He laughs more, he smiles more, and you watch him heal with the tender care that only someone who’s never known the Games firsthand could give.

One evening, the sun dipping low over the mountains, he turns to you as you walk home from the bakery. “You… you’re different from anyone I’ve ever met,” he says, eyes sincere, soft, hesitant.

“And you’re learning how to be yourself again,” you reply gently. “We’re helping each other.”

He chuckles, a warm, genuine sound that makes your chest tighten. “Maybe… I don’t need anyone else,” he murmurs. “Maybe… this is enough.”

You squeeze his hand, your heart thudding. “It’s more than enough,” you whisper.

I hear he cooked up some new songs since we last payed him a visit

"I couldn't think of a better time than the 50th anniversary of my first film to publish my memoir. I'm thrilled to partner with Grand Central, and sit among their hugely impressive roster of authors, to do so. I've had the time of my life revisiting my favourite memories over the past couple of years, and I'm shivering with anticipation to share them with you this fall." - Tim Curry

Tim’s eagerly awaited autobiography ‘Vagabond’ will be released on the 7th of October 2025 from Grand Central Publishing in the US and Cornerstone in the UK.

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