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His birthday was coming up and Katniss wanted to do something special for Peeta, something homemade.
"He does so much for me," she told Haymitch while they nibbled on the rye bread Peeta had left them for lunch. "I want to return the favor. He deserves it." And Peeta did deserve it. After these rough few months of trying to repair themselves and figure out what they were, she wanted something normal, something happy. Or as happy as they could possibly reach.
"I'm just not very good at gift giving," she confessed, picking at the bread.
Haymitch ripped another piece off the loaf and shoved it into his mouth. "I don't know what it is with you two and owing each other, but he's not expecting a parade, sweetheart." Katniss squirmed in her seat at the thought of being paraded in front of a crowd again. "Just do something any normal girlfriend would do."
"We're not dating," she quickly insisted. "We're just...us."
"Fine. Whatever. Make the boy dinner and, I don't know, get him paper or something to draw on. He should be happy with that."
The idea did sound good, and Peeta always made dinner. A birthday dinner would give him a night off, let him relax. Yes, a surprise dinner would definitely be a good gift for him. She'd make his favorite meal, maybe steal a bottle of Haymitch's finest to lighten the mood. It was perfect.
The only problem was she didn't know his favorite meal. At least something she could make. Katniss tried to think back to every meal they'd ever had together, but her own mind had been so transfixed on her plate she'd never noticed what Peeta ate.
She would just have to find out before his birthday.
Peeta was pouring vegetable soup into her bowl for dinner when she decided to ask. "You make soup a lot," Katniss observed, waiting for him to sit before lightly blowing on her meal.
"Can't go wrong with it," he smiled.
As expected, the soup tasted wonderful, with hints of spices Peeta kept to himself, saying it was a family secret. She tapped the spoon on the side of her bowl and sighed, wondering how to go about asking him without making it too obvious what she planned to do.
"Is something the matter?" His eyebrows were scrunched together in concern, his hand gripping hard on his spoon. Katniss patted his hand and told him she was fine.
"I'm just thinking about the soup," is all she said, taking another timid sip.
"Oh."
The dining room grew quiet, the only sounds were the scrapes of their spoons against bowls and Buttercup begging for scraps at Peeta's feet. It was typically how dinner went for them, but Katniss didn't want to chicken out about this. She wanted to make sure what she was making Peeta would be something he'd like.
"You know, when I..." A lump formed in her throat at the thought of her family. She cleared her throat and started again. "When I was little, my father used to make this dandelion salad and my mother had this special dressing she'd pour on top. It was really simple, nothing like...like the Capitol food, but I'd always get excited whenever I'd see him walking back with a bag full of dandelions. It was my favorite meal."
It was too much, too obvious, and she shoved a spoonful of soup in her mouth to avoid blurting out anything that would trigger any emotional episode. Peeta wasn't stupid, and he always figured out whatever she was planning because he was perceptive and good at reading people, and Katniss was lucky if she could spit out a sentence every once in awhile.
He didn't seem to notice, empathetically smiling at her, like he always did whenever something from their past was mentioned. He understood how much it hurt to talk about the dead and the hopeless, and she was so thankful for that. Another reminder why Peeta deserved a special birthday dinner.
"I could call your mom for the dressing recipe. We could make it together."
"Yes," Katniss said slowly, "we could make it together. So now you know what mine was. Um, so what was your favorite meal?"
His eyes gleamed over in thought as he leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment. It wasn't often they talked about trivial things like favorite childhood foods, but it wasn't on the list of triggers Dr. Aurelius had given and that was all Katniss was concerned with as she watched his face carefully. Just because it wasn't on the list didn't mean Peeta would react lightly to topics of his family. His episodes were sparse, but it was always best to be safe.
"It sounds silly," Peeta chuckled, pulling her out of her worry, "but I loved when my dad would make fresh bread for dinner." It wasn't the answer she expected from the baker's son and her face must have shown her surprise. "I've told you we always got stuck with the stale bread—the bread no one wanted," he explained, "but on special occasions, Dad would make a fresh loaf of bread for us. Sometimes add in raisins, if we were really lucky. It was really rare, but I remember jumping up and down whenever I'd smell bread baking in our apartment's kitchen." He sheepishly smiled and looked down at his bowl of soup. "It's stupid, I know, Katniss, but it is what it is."
"I don't think it's stupid," she comforted, taking his hand in hers. "I...I think it's sweet, Peeta. I'm glad those memories aren’t—aren't gone." His hand squeezed hers back in response and they resumed eating in silence.
Baking bread was a lot harder than Peeta made it out to be.
It was ridiculous, really. She'd made bread plenty of times with the tesserae grains her family received. But everything seemed simple back then—her mother and sister, their tiny, dilapidated house in the Seam. Even the bread was simple, but nothing made sense any more. Not even the stupid, complicated bread recipe.
She followed every step closely. Double-checking just to be safe.
She put in every ingredient with care, like she’s seen Peeta do a thousand times and more.
But when it came time to pound out the dough, the whole project went awry. Images of Snow and Coin and Plutarch consumed her thoughts as she pounded the soft, malleable dough. Their faces smirking, toying with her, wanting. Her hands grew rougher with the dough, feeling used and spit out. They used her. Used them. Discarding them like unwanted waste when their purpose was done. And Prim. Prim. Prim. Prim. Sweet, little Prim.
Her vision went black. Her chest heavy, lungs filling with smoke from the bombs. The bombs that killed little Prim.
Prim Prim Prim Prim
A sharp pain in her hand snapped her back to the kitchen. She was home, safe. Not the Capitol or the arena. Home. The pale dough was smeared red with her blood, her knuckles bruised and battered.
My name is Katniss Everdeen, she began her list, taking deep breaths in, eyes closed. I am at my house. I am safe. I am making bread. Today is Peeta’s birthday. I am making Peeta's favorite bread. I want to make him happy. Today is a Peeta’s birthday.
Her heartbeat slows. She cleans her hands, wrapping them in gauze, before pulling out the ingredients to start once more.
She double-checked the steps closely, pouring the ingredients into the bowl with care, just like Peeta.
Bread should not be this complicated.
The bread was almost finished baking when the grandfather clock tolled the hour, telling her Peeta would be home any minute. Katniss sat on the floor, face pressed against the oven window, still covered in flour, and watched the loaf continue to bake. Her face was tear stained and puffy, her knuckles still ached after all these hours, but part of her felt proud for sticking it out and finishing the bread for Peeta, instead of running to her bed or closet. It was definitely an improvement from months ago.
The front door opened, startling her from her bread watch, and Katniss scrambled to her feet and patted some of the flour off her pants.
"Happy birthday!" she cheered when Peeta stepped into the kitchen.
His face broke out into a smile and laughed, looking around the flour covered kitchen. "I see you've been busy." He ran a finger across the countertop and rubbed the flour between his finger and thumb. “Flour? Do I smell bread?”
"I made dinner. Your favorite meal."
She couldn't help but laugh along when he asked in surprise, "You did?"
"For your birthday,” she explained, taking his coat and tossing it aside. She pulled out a chair for him and told him to sit as she went and got him a drink. “You always do the cooking, but not on your birthday. We’re making birthdays special now. And I wanted to make your favorite meal because I thought it’d—you know, make you happy.”
His hand found hers, his thumb lightly tracing her bandage. Her breath stilled, unsure if he’d ask about it and ruin the happiness she felt stirring in her chest, seeing him happy, like her Peeta. But his smile grew, his blue blue eyes warming, causing her smile to grow until they both looked like deranged fools. The aroma of baked bread filled the small kitchen, making their stomachs growl.
“It’s perfect, Katniss. Really.” She shrugged like it meant nothing, but her stomach fluttered more when his hand didn’t let go of hers, and she told him the bread should be ready any minute.
The bread wasn’t burnt, like a certain loaf all those years ago, and it wasn’t perfect, like the loaves he made, but Peeta proclaimed it was the best bread he’d ever had.
“I just wanted to make you happy,” Katniss shyly told him again, blushing at his compliment. “After all you’ve done for me, it’s the least I can do.”
“Thank you for making this a memorable birthday, Katniss.” The earnestness in his voice proved he meant every word and it was then that she felt that familiar stirring, deep inside her. It felt warm and full and without even thinking about if this would set them back, she kissed him. Soft on the lips.
“Happy birthday, Peeta,” she whispered and laughed when he quickly pulled her closer for another.