Hi, sorry it took so long! I wanted to get this out on Monday but I have recently learned NO UPDATES CAN HAPPEN EVER ON WEEKDAYS DUE TO ME BEING EXTREMELY BUSY :( ugh! but, have no fear ONE CAN COME ON MONDAY BECAUSE I HAVE NO SCHOOOOLLL! WOOHOO! and a Five Years Of Love chapter tomorrow or tonight of course :) Thank you all for the follows/favorites/ and most importantly REVIEWS! so please guys, keep reviewing it really is amazing to see someone actually take the time to review. Thanks again!

Alright, enough with me!


Buzz. The sound of the fly's wings flapping, can be heard through out the room. He doesn't try to swat at it, leaving it to roam freely about the room. He doesn't swat it because its something real. That's all he wants, something real. Sure, the bed is real, his brother is real. But he want's something innocent, true, and free – like his brother. His mother isn't real. She is far from it with her made up pinned curls, only to come home with them lacking volume, flattened. The girls he tries to get to know, becoming more with them, they aren't real. They want a good time, not a commitment. And, they want to be cool. When they laugh at a joke that some idiot says, the little he he coming from them isn't real. Peeta has come to the conclusion, the world isn't real.

His father was real, his father with the kind smile, always up for a game of catch or tag after his long hours of work. The crinkles by his eyes, showing how genuinely happy his little boy made him. The tears he shed when both of his boys were born. They tears were of happiness and of joy, also the way his mother wouldn't even acknowledge any of them.

His mother only thought of him as a waste of nine months of drugs. His father pleaded with her, begging almost for her to lay back for nine months so they can be healthy. He promised her more money from his paychecks, everything he could afford – she could have.

How, oh how would she ever let that go from her grasp?

So she let it be, was pregnant for nine months as his father tended to her every need. Leave at 4:00 in the morning, come home at 1:00, leaving a sliver of sleep for the next work day. Peeta always knew that his father never really loved his mother – tried to desperately, but he didn't. He stayed for his boys, it was always his boys.

Peeta's father got his mother pregnant at sixteen. She came to his door, weeping saying she had a human inside of her. He held to his chest, promising that he would be there for everything, would get another job. When they told his parents, they couldn't even look at him. Told him to collect his belongings and leave, or do something to fetus. So he packed, got another job and bought the house they used today cheap.

Peeta always knew his mother didn't love him, the way she would give him disgusted looks, the sneer that would always appear on her features. The way her dead cold blue hues followed him.

But most importantly it was the smacks, punches, and kicks. The bruises that would form on his grimy pale skin. The welts formed were covered by her cheap make-up just in case someone felt obligated to call the authorities. From time to time, he would go in the shower that only produced cold icy water, he would scrub himself senseless, trying to take off the touch of his mother's hands as it came in contact to his skin from the smack he received. Lord knows were her hands have been.

What broke Peeta the most was his father knowing. His father knew that she hit him, his father knew what she went to do when the red lipstick was spared for the night. He didn't do anything but frown, and return to the task at hand. He remembers as a young boy, receiving a blow to the head when he took his mothers lipstick. He swiveled the cap, the red paint coming up to the top. Her turned it upside down, let it fall to the ground in a heap of goop. He ended up putting in an old mason jar, planning to use it as paint. He hid under his bed. This young innocent Peeta was at the age when he wanted his mother to stop, and care for him. He watched his school-mates getting the peck on their foreheads when they were let off of school. He wanted his mother to go shopping for shoes with him, like the other children said they did the weekend. He felt embarrassed when he looked down at the size-to-big shoes he wore, they were his papa's as a boy. The only thing he got from his mother, was the back of her hand.

His agreed no boy should go through this, this pain he endured. A boy shouldn't watch as his father came home, a check of payment in his hand. His mother smiled, sashayed up to him, risen up to the tip of her toes and pecked his lips, a disturbing smile on her face. She snatched the check from his hands, looking it over before pecking his lips once again.

"I'll keep it safe," she told him.

They never saw that check again.

When they were eating their meal of stale bread, the bread his father could take home for dinner since it would be disposed anyway, and the meat he got from his other job at the butchers, his mother told them both she was expecting. Peeta smiled, excited to be an older brother, he thought of all the things he could teach the younger sibling. His father was so happy, talking a mile a minute about the plans they could make. It turned silent when they both looked that his mother, her lips were in a fine line, her eyes narrowed.

"I don't know if we are keeping it," she told them firmly.

Peeta's fathers eyes saddened immediately, explaining how it would be good for Peeta to have someone, a sibling, to play with. Her argument was that he was eight, he was far to old for playing.

Peeta left the table and went into his room. He looked out the window, as he whispered his words to God.

"Can I have him? Please..I really would care for him. Make him safe or warm! I'll even take a sister, I get her ribbons from the thread shop for her hair, let her have my giraffe, you know him, Spotted?" he sighed and looked back out the sky. "Please..all I want is him or her..please," and with that, Peeta went under the scratchy sheets with spoiled stains on it, and fell into a deep sleep.

He never knew, his father standing there watching him. The tears falling down his cheeks. His father walked back to the living room, were he saw his wife going through his wallet, hungrily looking for cash to feed her drug addiction. Wheaton clears his throat, startling her into dropping the torn wallet on the floor.

He sighs, "I'll give you all of it, just don't – don't kill the baby," he says in a hoarse whisper, rubbing furiously at his eyes. She licks her lips, contemplating before nodding.

And by that, Rye was born. He was perfect with a fluff of blonde hair on top of his head, bright blue eyes that stared into each and every soul, ten fingers and ten toes. He was perfect. Peeta was so happy as he stared down at the little bundle in his father arms. He tickled his little fair nose, making Rye wrinkle his nose at the contact. Peeta laughs, before rubbing his little cheek soothingly. While they held the dozing off Rye, Wheaton looked across the room to were his wife was sitting, a disgusted look on her face. She coughed a bit, before settling down on the dusty mattress to slumber. She didn't want to hold the baby, or look at it. To her it was a distraction, some living organism.

But Peeta stayed up all night, watching the little child sleep peacefully. The flutter of his chest going up and then down, how his mouth was always slightly ajar. To him, this was the most beautiful thing in the world.

Peeta scuffed his shoe into the dirt, making a dent into the earth. He waited for his little brother to retreat from the school, so they could get home. When Rye finally emerged he was talking animatedly with his friends, his schoolbooks clutched to his chest. Rye finished the last of his conversation with a scrawny red – headed boy when he approached his brother. He smiled in a greeting, wordlessly molding his small hand into Peeta's large one.

They walked in silence, taking the gloomy sight of beer bottles and old newspapers as they sat littered across the street. The coal dust coated the litter like a blanket, making it even more dark.

They look at all the door's they pass, the one's that look even more beaten today, coated in fresh new marks and scratches. It reminds them of their door.

"Remind me to chop some wood later, I need to make us a new door," Rye nods, taking a mental note of his brother's request.

They cross a few streets, a few alleys and passage ways when they come across the path that will divide the richer from the poor. Peeta looks over to the other side when they follow down the other path, staring longingly at the bigger house which probably has hot water. He gazes over, and notices the dark braid swishing the air. The braid holds a blonde's hand, clutching it really. Ballerina.

The little girl looks about Rye's age. Instead of the dark hair, she inhabits blonde, much like the brothers. Her eyes were a crystal blue that held innocence and wonder. Her lips were full and pink, her frame slight. She wore a creamy complexion, with freckles dancing under her eyes. Nothing like Ballerina.

Ballerina is talking to the little girl, smoothing down her fair braided hair when she bends down, and smiles at her. She kisses her forehead and stands back up. Her eyes meet his in the swarm of people, but when they meet, it seems as though they are the only one's present. She holds his gaze before ducking down, blushing. His eyes catch a small dandelion that sits lone in the tall grass. He plucks it carefully, looking at it questioningly. It's not spring yet.

He looks back over to Ballerina, seeing that she is still looking at him. He bends down and hands it over to Rye, who smiles and makes a wish upon its tiny petals.

Peeta reluctantly drops his eyes from her, and descends down the path with Rye in tow. They come upon their estate, and open the matching door. What Peeta see's makes his heart stop.

It's completely trashed. The windows broken, shattered to the last piece of glass that sticks up at the end, pretty much begging to cut someone. The curtains were beaten and ripped, the wooden chairs broken to the last bits, some pieces missing. The one sofa they could even afford the time before is gone. Most of the things were in coated in black char, obviously a fire was in the house.

Peeta runs their room, seeing that everything that once sat in the morning, gone or broken to the last pieces. Nothing but scraps. He hears a soft cry, and jogs back into the broken living room. He kneels down in front of his brother, and soothingly rubs down his hair, his thumbs wiping away his tears.

"Its alright," he whispers to his brother, kissing his forehead lovingly. That's when he notices the note clutched in his hand in a death grip. He pries it from his small fingers and reads his mother's familiar scrawl.

I never liked you. Call the police, and they'll take little Rye away, you want that? No. So use ya dumb head, and just forget I existed.

I never wanted either of you.

The words still play in his head as he and Rye descend upon the world. He hold's Rye close to his chest while Rye bawls into his neck.

"It's all my fault," Rye cries, telling Peeta. He digs his head into the crook of his neck, making his neck moist with is salty tears.

"I wished on the dandelion that she would stop! Now she's gone!" he cries harder, until his whimpers and falls under in exhaustion.

He stalks into the richer part of town, people pulling their curtains back and stare at him disgustingly. He ignores it, knowing he will always get this look. He comes upon the little dance studio he usually finds an excuse to always walk by. He notices the light illuminating the street from the inside. He finds her dancing her plie`, concentration evident on her face. She turns her head and notices him staring through the same exact window.

She looks at him, and notices the sleeping boy in his arms and begins to get worried. She runs back outside, coming down the little steps to them.

"Are you alright?" she asks, worry seeping through her words.

"Were fine, sorry for staring," he mutters before making his way down the road again. She runs and catches up to him, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. He visibly flinches, and she pulls her hand back.

"Shouldn't you be home?" she questions, looking at them again.

"I am trying to find a home, thank you." he tells her, annoyed. She stares at him, before clearing her throat when she realizes what he means.

"I'm sorry–" he immediately stops her with a hand covering her mouth. She doesn't move and stands there motionless. Her eyes wide with curiosity.

"No! No pity, I don't want your pity," he rips his hand away, and walks forward. Leaving her a bit confused. She catches up again and jogs in front of him, putting her hands on his chest were Rye doesn't rest to stop him,

"I have a basement."

Peeta tries not to notice the dandelion that sits lone in the pile of fluffy grass behind them.


Perfect ending right? I had my mind set on letting it end on "I have a basement," sooo yeah :D STAY TUNED