Peeta's Cure ( Hunger Games fanfiction)

Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games. Sadly :( 

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"Alright, you sift the dry ingredients and then you. . ." I trail off, unsure. Hunting is my strength, but even then it's been awhile since I've set foot in the woods. Scared, of walking past the grave of so many people of my district that I killed, of the place in the song that I sang to Rue. . . Rue, who reminded me so much of Prim. Prim, who I watched get blown to bits right in front of my eyes. I grip the counter and my knuckles turn white. 

"Katniss? Are you alright?" Peeta asks, holding a sift. I blink and compose myself. 

"Yes, I'm fine," I wave him off. I look back to the bowl of flour. "Uh. . . You know what Peeta, I'll be right back," I say. I run out the door and down to the square, I haven't been there since I came back and I ignore the curious looks thrown my way. I enter the bakery, now run by some man from District 13 who turned out to love baking. A small bell rings when I open the door and he looks up. 

"Can I help you? Katniss, right?" he says in a friendly tone. 

"Yes, do you have any recipes for bread?" I ask, breathing heavily.

"Well, I do have a few. . . Why do you need them?" he asks. 

"It's a long story. What do you want for them? Money? I have money," I say fumbling with the coins in my pocket. 

"Oh no, no, no! Well you seem desperate, I guess I can lend you one-" he says. 

"Oh, thank you!" I say, cutting him off. He gives me a small smile and disappears into the back of the bakery, when he reappears he's holding a piece of paper. "Here-" he says handing it to me. I grab the piece of paper off him, at the last minute I realize that that was rude and that I should probably apologize, but manners are the last thing on my mind right now. 

"Thank you! Thank you so much!" I say in a hurried way and before I know it, I'm running out of the square and to Peeta's house. I rush up the stairs and fling open the door, panting. 

"Katniss?" Peeta is swirling patterns in some split flour on the bench. I stumble in and pin the piece of paper onto the bench. "OK, let's see. . ." I say scanning the recipe. Peeta looks over my shoulder,

"Well we've already sifted the flour," he says. I nod. 

"Now, we have to dissolve the yeast in warm water," I tell him. "I'll do that while you measure out the sugar, flour and butter. OK?" 

"Excellent," he says and goes off to do as I ordered. I grab another bowl and turn on the warm tap. I fill it up as the recipe said. When I am convinced I have the right temperature I pour the yeast in. I glance over at Peeta, who is carefully measuring out butter. My nose crinkles at the smell of the yeast, I realize the smell reminds me of Haymitch. I stifle a laugh. 

"What?" Peeta asks, his brow furrowed. 

"The smell reminds me of Haymitch," I laugh. 

"Haymitch? How does it remind you of Haymitch?" he asks. 

"Because he's always drunk and smells horrible," I reply, smirking. Peeta walks over and sniffs the bowl and wrinkles his nose. 

"That smells terrible!" he says and I laugh even more and realize it's the first time I've laughed properly for a very long time. Peeta laughs along too. We mix all the ingredients with the yeast and warm the oven. While we wait I look around the cupboards to find anything that might brighten the bread a bit. My eyes land on some raisins and some nuts. It's these two things that remind me of that bitter hollow day in the rain.