For a while I'd been toying with the idea of writing a fic about Peeta's brother (I've named him Farina, you'll see why later) replacing him in the games. I came up with this concept a while back, started penning it, but ultimately scrapped it because didn't like where it was going. Recently, ideas to fix it just kept creeping up on me and now I've finally sat down to get these plot bunnies out of my head.

"Farina, Farina." My dad calls from downstairs, "Farina, it's nearly 11, you need to get ready."

I groan and slowly rise from under the covers. I rarely get to sleep in, and when I do I milk it in for all it's worth. Monday through Saturday I get up at 3 AM to start baking bread. Sundays the bakery opens later, so I get to sleep in a whopping two extra hours. The only time I'm up after 5 is if I'm sick, or it's reaping day.

"Farina, are you up yet?"

"Yes Dad."

Today, obviously, is reaping day. I'm not sick, though I sort of wish I was, then I would get to stay home. I hate the reapings. Hate them. Not because I was facing a shot at certain death, but getting all dressed up. I'm a baker; I'm always covered in flour. It gets in my hair, on my clothes, under my nails, and embedded in my skin. I love it. I never try to get myself completely clean, just clean enough that I don't smell. Reaping days I have to wash all the four away and trade in my baking clothes for my button down shirt and tie. The complete lack of dough and flour on my body is a strange, foreign feeling. As unmanly as it sounds, I feel almost naked without my apron.

"Fare, hurry up." Peeta shouts from outside the bathroom, "You're using up all the hot water."

"Not my fault you didn't start your bath earlier Peety."

Dad said my name means flour in some ancient language nobody speaks anymore. My mom thought she was being clever and creative when she gave her boys baking names. My older brother and younger brother are both named for types of bread, but purposely spelling them slightly off so people wouldn't think the bakers named their children after bread. And I'm named for flour. My Mom has also dropped hints that she would have liked a daughter. Besides saying every other day "I wish we had a girl around the bakery." my brothers and I have girly names. My older brother Brioshe got off easy, but Peeta? Farina? Really Mom?

"Farina, why aren't you dressed yet"

"Mom's ironing my shirt."

"We leave in 15 minutes. Why didn't you fold your shirts rather than shoving them into your drawers?"

"Shut up Brioshe! I know we leave soon, and I'm sorry I don't fold my clothes exactly like you do."

"We're going to be late because of you."

"No we're not, you say that every year. We have never once been late to a reaping."

I hate Brioshe, and he hates me too. It's a mutual hatred. He's a stuck up, smartass that thinks he's so great because he's 3 years older and 30 IQ points higher than me. He's neat, orderly, 15 minutes early to everything, and I am a fashionably late slob. He loves reading fancy Capitol books, managing the finances of the bakery, and insulting jocks. I'm a jock, captain of the wrestling team and shot put champion 3 years running. I've used some of my signature wrestling moves on both my brothers before. Brioshe because I hate him, Peeta because he's on the wrestling team. He's not half bad either, second only to me. I've always thought of Peeta and me as close. I like him a whole hell of a lot more than Brioshe, but he can be such a pansy at times. He spends way too much effort into decorating cakes (probably why he's Dad's favorite) and he's had a crush on a girl he's never talked to for almost ten years. I can see him now, 40 years old, alone, and still secretly crushing on that girl who's married with a family, and has no idea he likes her. Pathetic, just pathetic.

"Name please."

"Mellark, Farina."

"Thank you. Now please stand with your appropriate age group, the reaping will begin in a few minutes."

We get to the reapings on time, with more than a few minutes to spare (just like I said we would, but of course, Brioshe still complains about almost being late.) Mom, Dad, and Brioshe stand on the outsides, with the others that aren't eligible to be reaped, and Peeta and I go with our age groups.

"Fare, I really need to talk to you." I sigh and turn to face Lise Arricksen, my ex. We'd been going out for two years until she decided to cheat on me with some scum from the seam. It's been over for two months and 18 days. I've moved on, she hasn't. She's been trying to win me back ever since we split, no matter how many times I say I don't want her, she keeps coming back.

"And I really don't care."

"Fare, please, it's important."

"Funny, I still don't care." I hope her important news is that she's being sent away to District 2, or somewhere else far away. The farther away she is from me, the better. What I wouldn't do for her to be out of my life.

"What did Lise want?" my friend Eames asks me.

"Me to take her back. Same as usual."

"God, when is she going to get over herself?"

"Hopefully soon. This 'please take me back' routine got annoying 2 months ago."

The mayor starts to talk; it's the same thing every year, how Panem came to be and yada yada yada. I've heard the same thing every year. I could probably recite the thing myself if the mayor ever got sick. It never changes, except it somehow manages to get more boring every time I hear it.

"Is this ever gonna end?" I mutter to Eames.

"Just this one last time Fare, after this reaping, we'll be free."

"Yeah, and then we get to hear it from the sides, still bored out of our skulls."

"At least on the sides it's easier to sneak food in, and we don't have to get dressed up. Look at this tie my Mom made me wear. I look more ridiculous than the Capitol escort." Eames' mother is obsessed with the latest Capitol fashions, apparently, neon green ties are in.

"It is pretty, flamboyant, but it's got nothing on pink hair. Plus, she probably thinks her hair looks good, you and I know different."

"Good point." They then bring out that lady from the Capitol. I can never remember her name (Arfey or something like that.) It's probably a ridiculous Capitol name to match her ridiculous Capitol accent and ridiculous pink, Capitol hair.

"Ladies first," she says and sticks her hand into the reaping ball, "Primrose Everdeen." I don't recognize the name, but I know who she is when I see her face. I've seen her around the bakery, eyeing the cakes on display. I kinda feel bad for her; she must be only, like, 12. It always sucks to see 12 year olds get reaped, especially really tiny 12 year olds.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute." I wonder who's stupid enough to volunteer. Nobody ever volunteers in District 12 because nobody from District 12 ever wins. Seriously, we haven't had a winner in nearly 25 years. The one winner we do have Haymitch Abernathy, is always drunk, or hung-over. I know the little girl's hopeless, but still I'd rather it be her than me.

"Crazy chick." Eames mutters to me we snicker quietly as they argue about volunteer protocol.

"What's your name?" the Capitol woman asks.

"Katniss Everdeen." Now that name I know. I've never met her personally, I've seen her around once or twice (she's the one that shoots the squirrels so well, my Dad says) but I hear about her all the time from Peeta. His pathetic crush on her irritates me to no end. I don't understand what he sees in her. She's not pretty, she doesn't seem very friendly, and most importantly, she's never said a word to him. I've told him time and time again that he really, really, needs to get over her. He can do so much better than some seam girl who sneaks around with that douchebag Hawthorne.

"And now for the boys," she reaches in, "Peeta Mellark."

Shit. My brother, my little brother. Did I hear her right? There are thousands of little slips in that ball, there's no way she could have said Peeta Mellark.

"Are you alright?" my friend Piccard asks, "You look pale."

"No, I don't think I'm ok." This seriously can't be happening. I'm not supposed to know the people who get reaped, let alone be close to them. We're supposed to go home and eat cake, we only get to eat cake on reaping day. We're supposed to make fun of the Capitol citizens when we watch the recaps. I can't laugh at Arfey the escort when Peeta's the one standing next to her.

Peeta marches up to the stage, trying his hardest to put on a brave face. It's the same face he has when mom yells at him, I've seen it before. He keeps it on while she's looking, but once he's alone he starts to lose it.

"Any volunteers, anyone?" That stupid, pink haired, Capitol bimbo calls out with that annoying accent. Does she really expect someone to volunteer for him? I think Katniss was the first volunteer in District 12, ever. Nobody can save him now. I can't. I can't volunteer for him, but I can't just let him die. No, I can't help him, no one can help him. It's better him than me; it's better him than me. Maybe if I keep thinking it I'll start to believe it. It's better him than me. Why don't I believe it? It's better him than me. Why do I feel guilty? It's better him than me. There's nothing I can do.

"I volunteer." I don't know what possessed me to say this, but I don't regret it.

The odds are not in my favor, most definitely not in my favor. But then again, have they ever? Prim was reaped, my sweet, gentle sister, Prim. I volunteered to take her place. I'm headed for certain death, and now she'll have to live without me. Her being alone with Mom is worse than the thought of me dying.

Then they add insult to injury when Peeta's gets reaped. He saved me with his bread so many years ago. I owe my life to him. He gave me strength to move on, and now we will both die. Then his brother, at least I assume it's his brother, volunteers for him. I've never met him before, aside from seeing him in the bakery. I think Gale may have mentioned him once or twice; they're in the same grade.

"And what's your name?" Effie asks him. I hate how she can be so cheery after this. She's never anything but cheery. It's usually just annoying, now it seems downright disrespectful.

"Farina Mellark" I've definitely seen him around the bakery. He's always carrying around these huge sacks of flour. He looks almost exactly like Peeta, just taller, with longer, shaggier hair, and more muscle, a lot more muscle. He's been wrestling champion at our school three years running. He could probably wrestle me to the ground right now without even trying that hard. When the mayor motions us to shake hands his grip is firm, a scowl on his face. I try to make eye contact, but he doesn't look at me, he looks over me, into the crowd of people.

I definitely should not be writng this now (I have a paper on the Odyssey that I've barely started due Monday. *Groans*) Maybe now that I've finished I can stop procrastinating. Don't know if any of you read Status Updates, but this is the thing I mentioned I was thinking about startng. I have this mapped out, and if I finish it, it'll be the longest thing I've ever written. It's a daunting challenge, but I think I'm up for it. Review if you want, or don't review, that's cool too. I'll post the next chapter when I get around to it.

And for anyone who cares Farina is the Latin word for flour, Brioshe is a play on Brioche (a type of French bread/pastry) and Peeta, well I hope that one's obvious.