Like My Own

Summary: On the morning of the reaping, Mr. Mellark can't help but to worry for his son he feels is most like him.

Disclaimer: The usual, I own nothing, etc.

It's reaping day once again. At least this year I only have two sons to worry about, I think, as I mindlessly rearrange the cakes in the display. They were fine just as they had been, but my hands had to do something, anything, to get my mind off what day today is. Move this cake here, put that one there, and it looks like a brand new display, even though the cakes are exactly the same. I wonder if anyone will buy them before they go stale. It's rare to make a good sell right now. Most of the people in district 12 can't afford the cakes. Sometimes the cakes cost more to make than they bring in, but I don't say anything. I know baking and frosting keeps Peeta's mind off other things; he needs it. I understand. He does it for the same reason I bake more bread than we could ever possibly sell in a day. I don't expect to sell that much today, so there's really no point in me being awake so early, before even the sun has started to shine, but my body wakes me up at this time everyday and baking is better than lying awake in bed, waiting and wondering which boy and girl will be selected for almost certain death today.

I try to ignore the knot growing in my stomach when I think of my youngest son. I'm worried for him most of all. My oldest son is now, finally, after years of worry, out of the reaping bowl for good. This will be Rhye's last year of eligibility, and then it will just be Peeta for two years. I know there's a slim chance either of their names will be drawn, but I can't help but to worry. It's been a tough year, and they both begged to take tesserae, but I wouldn't allow it. The thought of Rhye's name being drawn makes my heart beat faster and my breath becomes deeper and uneven, but I don't worry about him the same way. Rhye is strong, and athletic, and he can remain distant and cold, much like his mother, and I know, as horrible as the games are, if he could win, if he was the victor, he might manage all right.

But Peeta. . . it's not that Peeta isn't strong or athletic. He could fight just fine, if it came down to it, and I think he could kill too, if it was necessary for his survival. But I know, I just know, that for him, surviving that arena would be much, much worse than dying, and I don't want either fate to befall him. Perhaps it's just because I see so much of myself in him.

Peeta has been different from his brothers since as long as I can remember. They inherited my wife's hard and cold attitude towards life, though I know they care in their own ways. I once believed that she cared, too, but too much has happened for me to still believe that. I tried. I knew I would never love her fully, part of my heart would always be kept from her, but I thought we could make it work because I knew she felt the same way about me. And I did care for her, and I thought her for me. I thought perhaps in our marriage we would slowly fade into love instead of the passion found so often at the beginning of a relationship, but that never came. I don't know if we didn't try hard enough, or we just didn't want too. But slowly, even our affection faded, and now we interact only out of necessity.

Peeta, however, has been the opposite of distant since he was born. Even as a child, he liked being around others constantly. He took a liking to baking right away, and I was relieved. The bakery has been a family business for generations, and I was worried there would be no one to continue it when it became clear that the eldest two had neither an interest nor talent for baking. It's hard enough just to get them to take their turn every day helping with the bread. More than that though, Peeta was a kind child. He seemed to be born with the ability to perceive the right action at the right time and what people around him most need.

It wasn't that surprising when I figured out his liking for Katniss. After all, hadn't I pointed out her mother to him, as a young child? And I saw the way he looks at the squirrel she catches and brings by to trade when we eat it for dinner. And I knew for sure when I learned about the burnt bread, though as far as I know he still thinks I don't know. He never told me, and I'm not sure if it's because he's afraid I'll be angry about the burnt bread or he just wants to keep it a secret, so I leave him that privacy.

I hear footsteps behind me, and I turn around just to see Peeta himself, which brings me back to reality from the deep pool of my thoughts. I give a weary smile, trying to put on a brave face. He's nervous. Aren't we all?

"Need help?" He asks. His voice sounds weary and hoarse and I wonder if he has managed to sleep at all.

I nod, knowing he needs to do something.

"Put these rolls in the far oven. And there's a cake that will be done soon. Can you frost it?" I ask.

I watch as he picks up the bags and starts swirling the colors around on the white cake on the counter. His eyes and lips have narrowed in concentration and I can tell that at least for this moment, on this terrible day, Peeta is completely happy, doing what he does best. I know if his name is called from the reaping bowl, mornings like these will probably never happen again, and the worry in my chest starts to turn into full-fledge panic, but I tell myself not to let it show and be strong. But I know if he's picked to go into the arena today, he'll never come back, not as himself, even if he wins.

And I don't want to lose the son who feels the most like my own.