A/N: I have recently read The Hunger Games and wanted to write the story in the P.O.V of Peeta. There wasn't enough information given about him and so I made it up. Hello fanfiction. I am quite smitten with Peeta's character and hope I can do him justice. I would appreciate reviews. This is just a taster chapter and me wondering if I should continue or . . . not.

Disclaimer: Peeta, the characters, their world and the story is not mine. All belongs to Suzanne Collins. I just wanted to have some fun and to have a reason to write again.

An Introduction of Sorts

When I wake up, there's an all too familiar fragrance filling the air. I roll onto my side to look around the room, my tired eyes searching for two missing brothers. Their beds sit empty, covers messily placed on their tops and pillows fluffed into skewed rectangles. I can see them now, Sage and Lucas, rushing their way out of the room – the sun outside barely reaching the horizon – as they hurry down into the bakery.

Being one of the wealthier families in district 12 – my father the proud owner of the town's bakery – we live in a two bedroom apartment above the shop. It's more than what the others have and so I don't complain. Instead we get by on stale bread that never sold and I share this room with my two brothers; both older than me and one old enough not to worry that today is the day of the reaping.

The scent of freshly baked bread fills my nostrils again, stirring me to rise from my bed. I dress for work, keeping my mind on the everyday and ignoring how the next few hours could determine an end. Lucas and I are both in the reaping this year. Not enough times to matter – our chances being two against the rest – but it only takes your name to be drawn once.

Too tired to bother with socks or shoes, I leave the room. My bare feet slapping against the cold stone floor make me regret it. I should have worn shoes. When I enter the shop I see my mother, grey faced and weary, leaning against the counter. She looks at me, her expression stern but eyes giving way to sorrow. Unlike my father, mother prides herself for her tough exterior. We'd tease her that it's become her but she'd probably whack us for it. "About time you were up." She snaps, turning away to wipe her eyes.

"Why didn't anyone wake me?" Even though my question demanded an answer, I didn't wait for it. Instead I held back the anger that was bubbling inside me and, turning from her, I exited into the back of the shop. The kitchen was back here and inside this kitchen my father worked his hands to the bone. "Sorry." I apologised before he even saw me. "I guess I overslept."

His head popped up from behind a hundred pound bag of flour. Smiling to myself I remarked how mad he looked, dusted from head to toe in the stuff. His hair, hands, face and clothes were all white. The only colour on him was the pink in his cheeks and the blue of his eyes – the same blue as my own. I got most of my looks from my father whilst my brothers looked more like my mother. "That's my fault," he admitted with a guilty smile, "I wanted you and Lucas to be well rested for today." Nodding, I acknowledged what went unspoken between us. "So, what are you waiting for? Off with you. Go get dressed. Properly this time."