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November 11th. It's November 11th, which means it's been exactly seven months since Peeta came home to Twelve. That's what the calendar on of the fridge says anyway. It's also Peeta's Birthday. That's what really matters about today. It's Peeta's 19th Birthday, and he was supposed to be home 20 minutes ago.
He probably just got caught up and lost track of time, I remind myself. He's got that watch Portia gave him but I know he takes it off when he's working, not wanting to damage such a precious gift. 5:30 PM. That's when he usually comes through the door, almost always right on the dot at 5:30. So then, why does the clock on the mantle read 5:53?
The bakery isn't quite up and running yet, but he's making steady progress. He's fine. I tell myself. He just got caught up coming home. I try again. Usually I don't panic like this. In fact, I've worked really hard in the last seven months to figure out how to stop — or at least handle — panicking like this. But I'm a little on edge today.
I thought about it long and hard, the right way to celebrate Peeta's birthday. How to strike that balance between something he'd enjoy and something that wouldn't be too much. To be honest, I'm proud of what I came up with. It's simple; it's easy; it's just for us. But, he's running late.
I return to the kitchen, checking our dinner one more time. The fried squirrel is being kept warm in the oven. Tucked beside the loaf of bread I attempted to make. It's not quite up to Peeta's standards but it's the best I could do without his help. I had much more success with the soup left simmering on the stove. A rich pumpkin one that I've been practicing since the first signs of fall blew in, and a meal Peeta has quickly come to enjoy.
"Ok, the food is all set." I say aloud, hoping to quell even a bit of my nerves. Why am I so nervous?
I know everything in the living room is set. All the blankets I could find in our house — because as of last month it is officially our house — have been collected on the couch. The fire has caught in the hearth and is slowly filling the room with its steady heat and flickering light.
I try to occupy my time by tidying the already clean space, forcing my gaze to look anywhere but at the clock. It's hands ticking onward, every second marking off another moment without the sight of his flushed cheeks, the soft sound of his voice, the spiced smell of his skin. I drop down onto the couch, unable to stop my leg from bouncing no matter what I do.
I think about trying to call him. Actually putting to use that new phone he got installed in the bakery the other day. That had been a fun day of waiting. He promised he'd call as soon as it was up and running, just to test it. I don't think I've ever been so excited to hear my phone ring. But I sat by it all morning, and the moment I heard that….brrrrrnnggg…I had it to my ear. "Mellark's Bakery, how can we help ya?" Peeta's voice burst through the other end, triggering a cheery laugh from mine. That was a good phone call.
Usually, I ignore the phone. My mother and I speak on Sundays. I speak to Dr. Aurelius on Wednesdays. But otherwise the phone doesn't bring anything good. Plutarch, trying to convince us to partake in some post-war media push. I think propaganda is a better word for it, but he never gets me on the phone for long enough to hear that particular piece of my mind. Sometimes it's Effie just "checking in" or subtly trying to figure out if we'd like some odd new fad of the Capitol's sent our way. When she calls I'm more willing to at least say "hello" but I still always pass the phone to Peeta. He's always been better with that kind of stuff anyway.
To much of Panem, I've surely disappeared into the trees. Just a memory on the wind. Good. For now, that's exactly how I want it to be. Leave me here to Twelve, with Peeta and Haymitch, and the rebuilding efforts. The little life we've carved out for ourselves may not be the one any of us expected but I think I'm finally doing a lot better than I have in quite some time.
6:03 PM. Peeta walks through the front door just as the clock shifts to 6:03.
"Katniss?" He calls from the entryway, but it lacks his usual eagerness. Instead, his voice is laced with exhaustion. Must have been an even longer day that I thought.
For a moment, I'm disappointed. But then I remember something he said a few nights ago, about the ways we help each other. How did he phrase it?: "All my problems fade to nothing when I look at you."
He'd been halfway in dreams when the words fell from his lips. From anyone else it could have been little more than sleepy sweet nothings, but this is Peeta. The boy who's always so careful, so intentional with his words. The person who, despite it all, has always tried to be honest with me. So I choose to believe it — to believe in him — just as I always do.
"In here!" I answer, leaping to my feet.
His exhaustion is visible from the moment he comes around the corner. His shoulders are slumped. His hair is mussed from a day spent constantly tugging at it. His eyes are soft, lacking their usual light. Until…until he catches a glimpse at the living room.
"You…what's…what did you do?"
"Happy Birthday." I explain, playing at nonchalance with a shrug.
"You didn't have to do anything."
"Of course I did." I can tell he doesn't believe me, but he lets me pull him into a tight hug regardless. He smells like spices, hard work, and home.
"Would you be upset if I ask you to wait a bit longer to celebrate? I need to shower." He whispers against my hair.
"It's your birthday. We can wait as long as you want."
"I'll be quick." With a swift kiss to my temple, he pulls away, rushing upstairs as fast as his exhausted legs can carry him.
I busy myself with plating our dinner and laying out the blankets. Making sure everything is set just so. As usual, I hear his heavy tread on the stairs long before I glimpse it.
"Ready for our picnic?" I suggest as he comes around the corner. We had a few during the summer, mainly up at the lake. But it's a little too cold and a little too late in the year to make that trek today, so this will have to do.
His smile is as bright as the fluttering flames as his eyes drink it all in: our meals across from each other on the coffee table, the blankets and pillows all spread on the floor, and me sat right in front of the hearth. That perfect smile. The one that makes me feel warm from my chest all the way to my toes. Maybe he'll mistakenly blame my obvious blush on the heat of the room — though I doubt it. He's always been able to see straight through me.
He settles down on the blanket at my side, but not before shifting his plate right next to mine so we're sharing the same corner of the table. "Is this alright?" He asks, only a hint of nervousness in his tone.
I nod, leaning in to finally greet him properly with a soft kiss to his lips. This is still relatively new for us: the closeness, the kissing, the first blushes at something real. It feels good…it feels right, to be here with Peeta. But a dangerous thought flits through my mind: I wonder if it could feel better. If he wouldn't mind if we got a little closer.
I've been trying to be better about identifying what I want. Beyond that, I've been trying to be better at telling Peeta what I want. But sometimes words fail, or more accurately, action works faster. So, I simply swing my legs over Peeta's lap and revel in his moment of surprise.
His shock passes as soon as it comes and a heavy hand finds itself on my ankle.
Another smile blooms on his face as he lifts a bite of dinner to his lips. We share a quiet, peaceful, meal just as I'd hoped. Though perhaps a little slower than I'd expected. Stopping between every handful of bites to share a slow, burning, kiss will do that though.
Once we've had our fill, something shifts. Those kisses become bruising and before long I'm firmly planted on Peeta's lap, no longer half-draped against his side. He somehow looks even more handsome in this light. Bathed in the orange glow of the fire, his blue eyes glitter and shift, his cheeks shine an even brighter pink than usual, and his lips flush well-kissed red. A rainbow of youth, and life, and…and perhaps desire. A vision out of my softest dreams.
It's silly, how girlish it all makes me feel. Like I am this brand new thing: not some fire-mutt, or rebellion-sparking Mockingjay, or the Girl on Fire. Katniss. I can read it so clearly in his face: he just sees me as Katniss. And that is a revolution of its own after everything I've been through — no, after everything we've been through.
Haymitch has caught on I think. He's started making jokes about 'my boyfriend,' anyway. But that's not what I've been calling Peeta in my mind.
We don't have a word for it yet, at least we haven't talked about one, and I'm alright with that. We have each other, we protect each other, we care for each other. That all matters more than whatever anyone calls our relationship. Some silly title, like boyfriend, almost feels inconsequential at this point. He's…he's just…well he's just Peeta. My Peeta.
"You alright?" He asks, voice barely above a whisper and I realize I've been staring at him.
"Yes. Sorry." I reply, trying not to shrink under the weight of his gaze. "Just…just thinking."
"Good things, I hope."
"I promise."
"Well, that's nice to hear because I had a thought of my own." He quips, wrapping his arms tighter around my waist giving us no choice but to be chest-to-chest. "But I warn you it's rather silly."
"It's your birthday. And after everything, you're allowed all the silliness you want, I think." I assure him, dropping my head to his shoulder.
"Well, you've collected I think every blanket we own and it made me think of something I did once with my brothers, when I was a kid. My mother was gone for the night, I think it was when her father was sick, so…well, I guess we were a little less afraid of getting in trouble."
I give him a moment, let him exist in his emotional reminiscing. When he's ready to press on — ready to share — I know he will.
"We…we grabbed all the blankets from our beds and piled them together Then we used the little chair in our room and one Rye stole from the kitchen to lift them up. Giving us a little fort we could hide and play in."
"That sounds very sweet."
"It was fun." He confesses. "Even when we were almost caught."
"Really?" I sit up again.
"Yeah, I don't remember who heard my dad's steps first but someone did. To this day, I swear he knew what was going on. But he didn't open the door, didn't get us in trouble. Just left us to our childish fun."
"How old were you?"
"I think I was maybe 7? Or, no. 6?" He guesses. "I don't remember exactly."
I can picture it so clearly: three blond heads, giggling behind hands, and trying to stay quiet as they sneak through the bakery. Working together to give themselves a moment of joy and fun in that, less than happy home. I find myself grateful to Otho Mellark, for letting his boys have that time, that memory to share, even if Peeta is the only one left to remember it.
"So you want to make a blanket fort with me?" I hear myself ask.
"I'd love that." He agrees, and before I know it we are on our feet.
Blankets quickly get draped one over the other, using the arms of the chair and the table and anything we can find to create a canopy of fabric and glee. Our laughs bounce off the wall and mix with the snapping kindling to sing a song of merriment and home. But there's one more thing that could make this better — could make this perfect. "Wait for me?" I ask him.
"Always." He smirks, but no cheeky grin could lessen the weight of that word.
I slip back into the kitchen to grab dessert. Not a cake. I could never make a cake worthy of him. So, I had to go another direction: strawberries and cream. A rare favorite from my own childhood. It's not a bakery delicacy but it's something I know how to make. I ordered the strawberries on the train, then hid them in Peeta's largely unused fridge so they'll be a surprise. As a kid we'd serve them over heavy cream if my father could trade for some, but I've seen Peeta turn that into the whipped and fluffy version enough times to pick up the skill. So I spent the morning crafting him a special dessert just for his birthday. Not cake, but hopefully something he'll still enjoy. Something that feels like home to me, and might just do the same for him. I know for sure he'll like the hot cocoa at least.
Laying it all out on a tray, I balance it as carefully as I can. He's waited so patiently, and not just for dessert, but for…for everything. His whole face lights up when I set it in front of him.
"Oh, Katniss…" He murmurs, nearly in disbelief at the sight. "This is…"
"Happy Birthday." I declare again.
"You're incredible." He cups my face in his hands, pulling me close to kiss my right cheek. "You're amazing," He kisses my left cheek. "You're everything." He leans in, intent on bringing his lips back where they belong, on my own.
"Wait!" I shout, jumping back. "Your candle!" I leap to my feet and run back into the kitchen. He's still in shock when I drop down in front of him once more.
"Now, I'm not sure how well this will stand up in the strawberries and cream, but I can hold it and you can just blow it out in my hand instead." I offer, using the fire next to us to light the wick.
"That'll work." He agrees, "But you have to be closer for that." His hands snag my hips and tug me back onto his lap.
"Peeta!" I chide. "The candle!"
"It wouldn't be the first time our clothes caught fire." He teases, and despite the instinctual roll of my eyes I can't stop the small smile from breaking on my face.
"Just…just be careful." I request.
"With you? Always." He vows, kissing me again.
He's really laying it on thick tonight, but just for tonight I won't complain. I grab his bowl with one hand and hold the lit candle over it in the other, crafting the image of a more traditional birthday dessert. "Make a wish." I tell him.
"Don't you need to sing?" He teases, but I'd have to be deaf to miss the obvious request in it.
"Well, it is your birthday." I agree. With one last breath, I launch into a quiet rendition of the classic song. You'd have thought I hung the moon though with the way Peeta focuses in on me.
When I'm done singing, I wait. But he doesn't move, barely even blinks. The full weight, the entire intensity, and deep earnestness of that startling blue should be terrifying. It might have been a year ago, but not anymore. Now, it only makes me brave. Makes me sit up taller and prouder than I have in quite some time. "Make a wish." I request of him again.
He smiles all the way to his ears, hand cradling mine. Only then does he finally close his eyes for just a moment to blow out the candle. As soon as it's safe, he tilts his chin to capture my lips once more. This one is full of mirth, and joy, and something deeper, gratitude.
"Happy Birthday, Peeta." I announce one more time, passing him the bowl of dessert. "So, what did you wish for?"
"Am I allowed to tell you that? Isn't it bad luck?"
"I think we've had our fill of bad luck already in our lives."
"I think you might be right." He agrees, hands squeezing my hips pointedly. Still, he leans in mouth brushing my ear, like he's sharing a secret. "I wished for a lot more birthdays exactly like this. The two of us hidden away, safe and sound, where no one and nothing can hurt us."
I can see the entire life he's hinting at play out in my mind, years of blanket forts, and fires to keep each other warm. The taste of sweet strawberries on our lips and tongues. Yes, I think that would be very nice. "I'd like that."
"So you'll allow it?"
"Yes, I'll allow it."
"Good. Ready to dive in?" His head juts towards our makeshift pile of blankets. "Or is there a no dessert rule in the fort?"
"Shut up and eat your strawberries." I tell him, earning a trilling laugh from Peeta, and as usual, I join him.