One Day

Peeta isn't sure of much, but he is definitely sure of one thing – when his mother gets in one of her moods it's best to get out of the way. Of course, he's only nine and sometimes he doesn't quite have the coordination to do so when he should. This usually results in a dirty look, the occasional insult and in the rare instance of a particularly bad day a more physical response.

This unfortunately was one of those.

His mother was restocking the pantry with the ingredients that his brothers had just brought in from the train and he was doing his best to help out. He could carry small bags of grain and spices in his still slightly chubby arms, not quite having grown out of his baby fat still—which his brother's never let him forget. But he wasn't capable of carting around anything like the sacks of flour his brother's so easily toted over their shoulders.

On this particular day, something about the way the sun broke through the clouds outside, and the perfect blush of orange it reflected onto their wall distracted Peeta just long enough to get caught in his mother's way. His small body toppled the middle-aged woman to the ground, breaking one of the bags of flour as she dropped it to the floor.

It took a moment for Peeta to realize what he'd done, staring confused at the white powder that was floating through the air around him. When he looked up his mother's eyes were practically sparking with anger.

"Clumsy little idiot!" She shouted, her screech enough to cause him to move back still seated on the ground. His body was dusted with flour, his small hands leaving palm prints in the flour sprinkled on the ground, a small trail following him across the floor. "Look at the mess you're making! What is wrong with you?"

"B-but, I didn't—" Peeta began to protest, because in all honesty it was his mother who dropped the flour and caused the bag to break open and it was she who didn't see him at her feet. But before he could manage to speak his mother was gripping his arm hard, most likely to leave a bruise, and pulling him up.

"You'll clean up this mess, and put the rest of the ingredients away where they belong before your father gets home – do you hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am." He muttered, keeping his gaze trained onto the ground. His mother huffed and tossed him roughly to the ground. Peeta landed with a small cloud of smoke – his arm catching most of his fall, but he ignored the throbbing in his wrist while he gathered what flour he could and carefully dragged it to the pantry.

It was some hours later when Peeta heard the light bell at the front of the store, and his father's heavy steps walk through the bakery. His heart raced as he scrambled to finish putting away the last of the spices.

"Hello?" His father called, smiling and kneeling down when he spotted his youngest in the pantry. "Where's everyone else, Peeta?"

"Dunno." Peeta said meekly, standing on his toes to place a package of cinnamon on a higher shelf. "Barlee left awhile ago, haven't seen Rye since breakfast."

"And your mother?"

Peeta shrugged and looked down, kicking aside some of the dust on the ground. He frowned and realized he hadn't swept up the floor yet, grabbing the broom and dust pan – wincing as he dragged the broom across the floor.

"Peeta…" His father's wary voice made him stop, looking up questioningly. "What happened to your arm?"

Peeta looked at his sore wrist, which has turned a strange purple color in the past few hours. It also seemed to have swollen about twice as big as it's usual size. He winced as his father took his arm into his calloused hands, his scared fingers running over the unusually warm skin.

"I slipped," he lied pulling his arm back. "I didn't think it was that bad, are you going to tell momma?" He whimpered. The older man looked at his son for a long moment, before shaking his head and lifting Peeta up and onto his hip – much like he had when he was young. Peeta wrapped his arm around his father's neck confused looking around from the new height with wonder. "Where're we going?" He asked meekly as his father made his way out the bakery, locking it behind him.

"You're arm needs some medicine Peeta, we're going to make it feel better." Peeta nodded and stayed silent for most of the journey across town. He became confused when he realized his father wasn't heading toward the market where he could barter for some medicine sent in from the capitol – which would certainly not make his mother happy. Spending money or goods on something that wasn't necessary to fix. His arm would be fine in a few days, he was sure. His fear of his mother grew when he realized his father was heading into the Seam, which was one place he was definitely not supposed to be.

Peeta ignored the glances he was getting from the people around him, their dark eyes trained on the townspeople that were treading through their grey section of town. He pressed his face against his father's chest, suddenly feeling younger than he had before. He watched some boys playing in a pile of ash, hitting a ball back and forth with a straight stick. One of the boys, older than him he figured, froze and watched him warily. Peeta kept his eyes locked on the boy until his father turned a corner and he no longer had him in his sites.

He made heavy steps onto a porch of one of the houses and rapped three hard knocks against the deteriorating wood. A slim woman answered the door. She seemed somewhat surprised to see Peeta and his father at her door, but her confusion quickly turned into a soft smile. She greeted Peeta's father and opened the door wider so they could enter the house, closing the door behind them.

"What brings you here, Gabriel?" She asked quietly, walking into the kitchen. Peeta's father followed her closely and set Peeta down on the table.

"Peeta hurt his arm – it's not broken is it?" He asked nervously, his face tinting a color Peeta had never seen on his father before. His eyes darted back and forth between his father and the woman, a strange energy floating between them as his father kept his gaze trained closely on the woman.

"I'll take a look." She said softly, stepping closer to Peeta.

Peeta sat nervously on the table while the woman examined his arm, wincing when she pressed against the bruised skin. He looked around the small house, the living room and kitchen seemingly all attached into one large space. They were separated by some walls that only branched out halfway into a room, or furniture placed facing one space. The house wasn't in terrible shape but it seemed older than his own. Still with all the creaky floorboards and cobwebs in some of the corners, it seemed more like home than his own house.

"It's not broken." The woman said looking up at Peeta's father before looking back down at his injured arm. "But I think it's sprained."

"That's good." Peeta's father said with relief smiling at this son.

"What's 'spained?" A small voice emanated from under the table, a little flash of blonde hair appearing by Peeta's feet. He leaned over the table and saw a young girl, no more than four or five, standing by her mother's feet and staring at his arm with intense interest.

"Sprained, Prim." She corrected smiling, "it means that his wrist twisted too much, and now it's sore." The small girl nodded and looked at Peeta again, fascinated by his swollen wrist. "Would you go get some bandage from the cabinet please?" The small girl nodded and ran off like a shot into the other room.

Peeta's father cleared his throat, stuffing his hands into his pockets and looked around the house. "The house looks nice, Marlena." He said, looking at her, filling the dense air while they waited for Prim to return. Peeta watched the interaction with strange curiosity – for the first time he could remember he saw something in his father's expression. There was something loving about his gaze, and it caused the woman to blush and nod modestly. Peeta wondered if his father ever looked at his mother that way – if there was a time when they seemed happy at all.

"Thank you." She said quietly, looking over her shoulder to check in the direction where her youngest ran, frowning slightly when she didn't appear. "Katniss?" She called, a young girl stepped into the kitchen, her finger placed between the pages of a worn book. She looked at her mother expectantly, twisting her free hand around the end of a long braid that was pulled over her shoulder. "Would you go check to make sure you're sister is okay?" The girl nodded without a word and walked off beyond the wall.

Peeta leaned forward and watched Katniss walk away, waiting until she was completely out of site to sit back. Katniss was in his class, and he remembered her perfectly from the day his father pointed her out all those years ago. Never would he think he'd be in her house. Of course now that he'd thought of it he knew Katniss had a younger sister, with shimmery blonde hair (so unlike all the other girls in the Seam) and he knew her mother was a healer. He blamed the throbbing in his wrist and his father's distracted behavior for his lack of connection to this revelation. But, of course his father was looking at Katniss's mom with longing and love, because he'd loved her – but she had chosen someone else.

Peeta's heart clenched when Katniss came back into the room, without her sister. He wondered if he would face the same fate as his father. Staring at the seam girl which he already cared for so much, he concluded he would have no other choice. She barely spoke to the other kids at school and his mother would never let him even speak to her let alone marry her. But still when she handed the bandages to her mother, explaining that Prim had gotten distracted by the cat and glanced up at Peeta briefly, he would have been content to die right there. The misty grey of her eyes gave his stomach butterflies and he knew he was a goner – nothing would keep him from loving those eyes.

Mrs. Everdeen set the bandages aside, thanking Katniss as she left the room. Peeta nearly having forgotten what he was doing in Katniss' house until her mother pulled out a small vile and held her palm out to Peeta, two small pills in her hand. "Take these, they'll stop the pain and reduce the swelling a bit." Peeta nodded and did as she asked, ignoring the chalky bitterness that they tasted of. "This may hurt a bit." She said, taking Peeta's wrist again, starting to wrap it tightly in the bandage. She sealed it at the end with two metal clips, making sure it was secure. "Now, this should stay on for about two weeks, take it off when you bathe though – don't let the bandages get wet and re-wrap it every morning to make sure it's tight. You probably won't be able to do much with it, but keep it straight alright? If something seems wrong, please don't hesitate to come back."

"Thank you, Ma'am." Peeta said quietly, running his fingers over the strange gauze, enjoying the feeling of it.

"Yes, thank you, Marlena. Thank you so much."

"It really was nothing, it's my job." She said with a smile.

"I don't have any money," Peeta's father said hesitantly, "but I can send it to you with one of the boys next week?"

"Oh, please it's my pleasure."

"I insist, at least a fresh loaf of bread for the week? Stop by the bakery tomorrow morning and we'll have one set aside."

"If you insist."

"I do." And then the air was thick again with the same strange air that Peeta felt before. Katniss' mother was blushing a deep hue of red and dipping her head down to hide the rose of her cheeks. Peeta's father was watching her so contently, Peeta wasn't sure that he would notice if he left the room. He glanced up at his father and slid slowly off the table, seemingly unnoticed. He looked out into the living room where Katniss had disappeared before – wondering if she was still in there. Perhaps Peeta could thank her, for letting him come into her home, for helping him for anything. If he could only just speak to her for a moment.

But as he was about to take another step out of the kitchen he felt his father's hand on his shoulder, pushing him toward the door.

"We better get home before your mother worries, Peet." His father said, opening the door and glancing back once more at Katniss' mother, nodding to her before taking a step out onto the porch and back home.

Peeta stayed quiet as they walked back, staring at his shoes and kicking at rocks he saw on the road. He was determined to talk to her, he would one day. He'd tell her exactly how he felt and how much she meant to him. One day he'd thank her for all she gave him – the love she filled him with and the happiness just mere thoughts of her brought him. One day he'd figure out a way to thank her.