Chapter Text
There is a foot lodged somewhere between my ribs and my hip. Still blanketed with sleep after the restless few nights we’ve had, an attempt is made to ignore it, before I am squarely kicked, right above my hip bone.
Rye is a time-bomb, a pod unaccompanied by a holo. There is no detonating him these last few days without an escalation – without hours’ worth of consoling. Not since he first let out that small, innocent cough during bath time a few days ago. My eyes zero in outside the window. The sun is already shining bright in the July sky. That alone tells me we’ve overslept. I put the time to be after seven, confirmed by the alarm clock on Peeta’s side of the bed. Baker’s hours don’t exist when you are up past midnight trying to get your baby’s fever down. I shift to the edge of the bed, stretching out my stiff, still sleeping, limbs before propping myself up to my elbows to assess the scene.
Our little boy, is diagonally fast asleep, mouth hanging open as his only available airway since this nasty cold began. His hair sticks out to one side, where his chubby cheek is pressed against Peeta’s chest. My absence gives his small body enough room to fully stretch out, landing me another small kick to the ribs. His little hands are clutching onto Peeta’s shirt and there is a small paddle of spit and snot where his head lay. He looks too peaceful – warm and cozy, cuddled up against the protective warmth of his father. This will not last long.
I get up, careful not to make too much noise, and maneuver over the clothes, blankets, toys and tissues that are scattered all over the floor. I tiptoe to Peeta’s side of the bed, slowly taking the hand that is resting over our youngest’s back and move it down to his side. His eyes flatter open, forever the light sleeper – a glaze of sleep clouding the blue. His usual goofy, full of sleep, smile is replaced by immediate understanding and his body goes still.
I hold a finger to my lips before pressing the back of my hand on Rye’s forehead. The fever must have dropped at some point in the early hours of the morning, but his rosy cheeks and still-warm skin, say that this isn’t over quite yet. Peeta’s eyes lock on mine, lips pressed into a thin line as I scoop our three-year-old into my arms. I go still for a second, wait with bated breath for him to start crying again. Instead he tightens his little arms around my neck and nestles into my touch.
Rye’s room is exactly how we left it the night before – toys and teddies scattered on the floor; the soup and medication he refused to take, still on his bedside table. I lay him down, with my body still attached to his limbs. With the same precision of extracting a rabbit’s foot out of a trap, I remove his arms from around my neck and tuck his toy bunny next to him.
I take slow, careful steps backwards and a sigh of relief escapes my lips. Maybe, just maybe, there is thirty more minutes of sleep waiting for me. I inch to close the door and–
‘Mama! Have you seen my blue ribbons?’ The second small child of the house is waiting for me outside her brother’s door. My body stills. And the crying begins.
‘Daddy,’ Rye wails from inside his room. He coughs on the word – that awful chesty cough that won’t quit. I sigh, my head hanging low for a second before opening the door to Rye’s room again, Willow following at my heel.
‘Did you look on your dresser?’ I ask my daughter as I sit down on the edge of Rye’s bed, ‘Good morning, sleepy. Are you still poorly?’ I ask my squirming son who is trying to immediately escape my hold.
‘No. Daddy,’ he wails.
‘I looked, it’s not there!’ she wails.
‘Willow, do you really need it right now? I can help you look in a second,’ I try to maintain my tone neutral, ‘We can go find daddy in a minute, bun,’ I bounce my son softly, smoothing down his sweaty hair. I grab a somewhat clean cloth from his bedside table and wipe his nose. He pushes away from me and I tighten my hold, willing him to stay sitting on my lap. He coughs straight into my face.
‘Cover your mouth, bunny,’ I soften my voice, kissing the side of his head.
‘I need it now!’ Willow says stomping her foot down and scowling at me. Demanding attention. When I am not quick to answer, she groans and turns around to leave.
‘Go ask your father please,’ I call behind her while bouncing Rye softly in my arms. Just like when he was a baby, I stand up, pacing the room while humming a lullaby to him. My hand rhythmically patting his back. If I can get him to go back to sleep for just a few more minutes.
Deep in the mead–
He flings his arms out at me, hitting me square in the jaw. He starts coughing in-between his sobs. I grid my teeth. For an ill three-year-old, he sure is strong.
‘Okay, okay, I hear you. Let’s go find daddy,’ I give in. I continue bouncing him and shushing him softly as I return back to the room.
‘Someone wants daddy again,’ I say tiredly, approaching where Peeta is picking up toys from the floor and tossing them on the bed. A bang of jealousy hits me when I clock his wet hair and clean clothes.
‘Good morning bunny, still a little sickly, are we?’ Peeta immediately accepts our son into his arms. Rye practically flings himself to him and curls up against his father’s neck. Peeta rubs his back slowly, giving me a sad smile.
‘Why don’t we let mama have a shower while we have our breakfast, huh?’ Peeta continues on and I allow him to plant a kiss to my temple on his way out of the room, ‘And you remember what we agreed on yesterday, right? As long as you take all your medicine–’
The door shuts behind them and I let my body fall on the edge of the bed, head between my hands. Exhaustion threatens me, creeping up behind my spine. I can count on two hands the amount of hours I slept this past week. I could let Peeta handle the kids. Willow will be off to school in a moment and Rye warrants me useless, not wanting me to handle him at all. What’s a ten-minute nap?
‘Mama! Mama! Mama!’ Willow’s voice is heard from hall. Her little feet patter outside the room and she flings the door open, ‘I found the ribbon!’ she holds it up proudly.
‘Nice one sweetheart,’ I say, forcing a smile on. I lean my weight on my knees and get up. My eye catches the clock as I place my hand on Willow’s shoulder, stirring the bouncy seven-year-old to the stair, ‘Go have some breakfast and I’ll do your hair.’
‘I don’t want breakfast,’ she grumbles, following me to her bedroom. I take in the mess of ribbons and clothes on the floor and give Willow a warning glance. The room did not look like that when I tucked her into bed last night. She giggles and looks away guiltily.
‘Why not? What’s wrong with breakfast?’ I ask, balancing the spray bottle, brush and hair ties into the crook of my elbow.
‘Daddy made gross oats again.’
‘It’s because your brother is sick, sweetheart,’ I lead her downstairs and into the kitchen.
‘I don’t care. I am not sick. I want pancakes,’ she demands.
‘No pancakes today, missy. Too late anyway,’ Peeta says nodding up to the clock. Rye had quitened down in his arms and Peeta is slowly feeding him porridge. He accepts it into his mouth but most of it ends up spilling on the side of his cheeks. His eyelids are heavy with sleep and something else.
I feel his forehead.
‘Peeta, he’s burning up again.’
‘I mixed some of the fever medicine in his food, should start working in a bit,’ he responds, glancing between me and our son. Worry.
‘I am not eating this,’ Willow whines from her seat at the table. Peeta gives me that look, the look that tells me not to give in, but today has already been a lot.
‘You can take a pastry on your way to school, okay?’ I offer her an alternative as I begin to do her hair.
‘Pancakes tomorrow?’ she asks, swinging her legs.
‘On Saturday, okay?’ Peeta responds for me.
I am thankful Willow doesn’t press the matter longer, instead she turns back to look at me. I steady her head forward.
‘Can you do the crown braids?’ she asks.
‘Not today. You’ll be late for school,’ I sigh. My fingers expertly half and separate her hair in preparation for her regular two braids. I finish the first one before she can complain further.
‘No I won’t!’ she insists. I glance up at the clock. She should have been on her way out about five minutes ago.
‘Promise to do it tomorrow,’ I say instead, tying the elastic and securing the second braid in place. I take the blue ribbon, tying a bow at the ends.
‘No, I don’t want these!’ she says jumping out of her chair. I mutter something under my breath, going to the fridge and grabbing Willow’s lunchbox and a pastry.
‘Please, Willow,’ Peeta says sternly, ‘Listen to your mother.’
‘No, I hate the braids! They are stupid,’ she stomps her foot again and scowls up at me. The sound wakes Rye up and he starts wailing again. A fleeting satisfaction crosses Willow’s features as Peeta rubs the side of his face in defeat.
I quickly put the food in my daughter’s bag and hold it out for her.
‘Go to school, Willow,’ I say, ‘We will talk about all of this later,’ I add, pushing her softly towards the door. I hold it open for her.
‘School is stupid!’ she raises her voice at me, looking at me with such determination that I am mostly taken by surprise. Willow has always been even tempered – even as a baby.
‘Yes sometimes it is. You are still going,’ I can feel my patience running out. She groans and pulls the elastics out of her hair, undoing her braids. Her curls, still wet from the spray bottle unravel. I rub the side of my face. This is not a battle I am willing to fight.
‘I didn’t want these!’ she whines, before turning around and taking the path down the Victors’ Village towards town. She makes a point to jump into a puddle of dirty water, caused from last night’s thunderstorm. Her white socks are stained brown. I straighten up my spine and make quick eye-contact with Haymitch from across the lawn. He pauses with his hand in the air, still feeding his geese. They honk in annoyance at being interrupted from their breakfast. I open my mouth to tell him to mind his own business but immediately I hear Rye’s wails again. I shut the door.
‘How about a lullaby and a nice warm bath, huh?’ I coo at our son, brushing his hair back from his face, ‘Oh come to mama. Do you want mama?’ I try to take him from Peeta. He immediately starts crying again, burying himself deeper into his father’s shirt.
‘I got him,’ he says.
‘But–‘
‘No, just let me.’
I shake my head in exasperation, throwing my hands up in the air. I gather the plates form the table and dump them into the sink, accompanied by the bowls and pots from last night’s dinner.
‘Can you at least make some coffee?’ I hear Peeta say behind me.
‘At least?’ I bite back.
‘Yes, I am kind of busy here, Katniss,’ he responds, his voice forcefully neutral. Behind his answer there are layers of sleeplessness, worry and frustration. Behind my answer there is an equal amount of the same stuff.
‘You can wait until I at least shower.’
I grab a stale pastry from the fridge and stomp up the stairs, nearly regretting my decision to forgo coffee, in place of my stubbornness.
No, I need a win today.
I take a moment to sit on the cold porcelain of the toilet after running the water in the shower. The pastry in my hand is stale and the custard feeling inside immediately makes my stomach churn.
I put it aside, my head heavy between my hands.
I count backwards in my head.
One, two, three…
I should get up. Discard my clothes. Get under the water.
Four, five, six…
What day even is it? Does it matter? A sick baby makes them all blend into each other.
Seven, eight, nine…
I reach around the curtain and turn off the shower, opting to quickly splash some cold water on my face and re-braid my hair down my back. I change into comfortable clothes and return downstairs.
Peeta is pacing around the kitchen, brushing a wet cloth on Rye’s forehead.
‘Did he eat?’ I ask, pulling two mugs out and adding a couple of teaspoons of coffee in each one.
Peeta shakes his head, ‘A bit, not much. He’s keeping it down though.’
‘Did you eat?’ I ask.
‘Some porridge. I think this is the worst he’ll get.’
‘I hope so,’ I say and push the mug of black coffee towards him. I take a sip of mine after adding sugar and milk, ‘Let me take him for a second. He’s out of it.’
‘Bunny, how about I give you to mama for a little, huh?’ Peeta turns sweetly to our son. He shakes his head weakly but doesn’t protest when he’s passed over to me. I smooth down his hair and kiss his warm forehead before I sit down on the sofa, holding him close to my chest.
I rock him softly. Peeta gives me a soft smile and changes the wet cloth on Rye’s forehead.
Deep in the meado –
‘Daddy, where is bunny?’ Rye cuts me off. There are tears already in his voice. Peeta freezes besides me, the mug of coffee still on his lips.
‘Bunny, uhh, bunny is probably upstairs,’ Peeta says slowly.
‘I want bunny,’ Rye’s lip trembles.
‘I saw it on his bed this morning,’ I pipe in, nodding towards the stairs, ‘Shh, baby, daddy will go find bunny for you now. Do you feel better at all?’ I try to distract him as Peeta sets his mug down next to mine.
Rye shakes his head, eyes wet with tears.
‘Well once we find bunny, everything will feel much better.’
‘Katniss, where did you say it was?’ Peeta asks from the top of the stairs. I close my eyes, trying to keep down my annoyance.
‘On his bed. It was there this morning.’ Peeta comes downstairs and in his eyes I can see panic.
It’s not there.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, looking at the other teddy in his hands. I already know it won’t be good enough, ‘Are you sure?’
‘Daddy?’ Rye’s tears start to fall and I breath out steadily, settling my son against the sofa.
‘I’ll go look. I think bunny might be playing hide and seek,’ I press a kiss on his head and make my way to his room. I am far too confident when I swing the door open, expecting to see the white stuffie on his pillow. The bed instead mocks me with its emptiness.
It was there.
I pull back the covers.
It was there.
I hear Rye’s cries intensify form downstairs.
The phone rings.
I look under the bed, under the piles of clothes.
I grab the goose shaped teddy Rye was obsessed with a few months back and silently hope it’s enough. It won’t be.
‘Are you serious?’ I can hear Peeta’s voice mixed with Rye’s wails, ‘Today is not a good day for this. Can you not handle it?’
I raise my eyebrows in question but Peeta averts his eyes from me. Eyebrows furrowed. He bounces Rye, shushing him softly.
I go closer, lifting Rye up from him.
‘Bunny! I want bunny!’ he cries, slapping the goose from my hand.
‘I think bunny is too good at hide and seek. How about we read your bunny book until it shows up?’ I try to distract him. Peeta pinches the bridge of his noise.
‘How long has it been like that?’
I wipe Rye’s tears from his cheeks with my thumb and bounce him on my hip.
‘And what did they say?’ Peeta asks.
‘Daddy!’ Rye stretches his arms out. Peeta wears a pained expression.
‘Daddy won’t be long,’ I rub his back. His shirt is drenched, ‘One book and then a nice bath okay? It will help with your nose too. Your nose hurts, doesn’t it?’
‘Noooo I want daddy,’ he coughs out.
‘Katniss.’
I turn around and Peeta wears the most apologetic, defeated expression I’ve ever seen.
‘No,’ I say.
‘It’s bad,’ he shakes his head, ‘All the fridges. Dead. We don’t know how long it’s been like that.’
Rye flings himself to his dad and Peeta accepts him with a kiss on his head.
‘And you have to go?’ I ask exasperated.
He explains something. They need to owner. They need proof that no one broke into the bakery.
Something about him being right back. There are apologies in every other one of his sentences.
Rye is wailing in my arms and I can see tears prickling Peeta’s eyes.
‘I can take him with me,’ he offers.
‘No, no. Go, it’s okay,’ I reassure him, placing a protective hand on the back of Rye’s head. He is reaching for his father.
‘I’ll come straight back. I’ll look for the bunny in the bakery too,’ he plants a kiss on my lips and then on Rye’s head.
‘Just go. Be quick please,’ but my plea doesn’t quite leave my lips. Rye, coughs loudly in my face.
Peeta gives my hand a final squeeze and practically runs out the door.
I sit Rye on the kitchen counter and open multiple metallic tins full of different medicinal ointments until I find the one.
‘Remember the smelly one? It will help you breathe okay? I am sorry, this won’t be nice,’ I say, lifting Rye’s shirt over his head. He shakes his head no, and tries to push me away from him. It honestly smells horrible but it seems to slowly be working because his cries quiet down and he starts sniffling. I hum a melody, hopeful that I can put him back to sleep.
Deep in the meado–
‘You look awful.’
‘I told you to knock,’ I glare up at Haymitch.
‘I did. The boy would still be louder if I knocked your door down.’
I say nothing and continue massaging the oil on Rye’s chest and back. His skin is still warm under my hand but he is no longer burning up as much as earlier.
‘Did you ran out of sleep syrup?’ Haymitch asks, changing which hand he holds his cane with.
‘Are you going to tell me how to parent?’ I glare at him.
‘Did you eat?’ He comes around and opens the fridge behind me.
‘Are you here for lunch or to help?’ I say lifting Rye up to my hip again. His arms come and wrap around my neck.
‘Hi papaw,’ he gives a little wave.
‘Heard you’re sick buddy. Got all the attention on you now huh?’ Haymitch wipes the tears from his cheek, ‘Got your ma and pa running round like headless chickens.’
I scoff at his comment. Haymitch had made a habit at calling us that when one of the kids got ill.
‘Daddy?’ Rye perks up slightly and I shake my head.
‘Daddy will be back soon, baby,’ I rub his back.
‘All okay?’ Haymitch raises his eyebrows.
‘Storm took down the electric at the bakery. Fridges all dead,’ I explain while on my way back upstairs, ‘I think you need a bath.’
I fill up the tub upstairs and change him out of his clothes. I drop in any oils and herbs I can think of that help with a cold and let the bathroom fog up.
I lift him inside the tub and sit on the side, scooping water over his hair while he plays with the petals and leaves.
‘Nice and warm,’ I say softly, smiling at him splashing the water around him. I let him play, humming a lullaby softly to him.
Deep in the meado–
‘Katniss?’ There is a knock on the open bathroom door, ‘I’m going,’ Haymitch adds, standing right outside the bathroom. Rye holds up a small piece of eucalyptus and coughs with his mouth wide open.
‘Nice one buddy. You can show me more later,’ Haymitch says, leaning his weight on his cane.
‘Are you back for dinner?’ I ask rubbing my eyes.
‘Yeah, yeah, I’ll see you later,’ he waves his hand off. The exhaustion settling behind my eyes tells me not to push it.
‘It’s chicken soup tonight,’ I say as he leaves. I hear the door close downstairs and return to my son, ‘A nice and warm chicken soup for my little sickly boy.’
He splashes his hand down in the water I rinse off the soap from his hair and body. Rye turns to look at me with those big, Seam grey eyes that we share.
‘I am sorry you aren’t feeling well, bunny,’ I sigh. His long, blond eyelashes are only a match to his father’s. He is dripping wet from the water and so beautiful I feel the ache in my heart. I plant a kiss at the top of his forehead which garners me a splash of water. I snort as I pull him out of the water, wrapping a fluffy towel around his small body.
‘Bet you thought that was funny huh?’ I say and he gives me a breathy giggle in return. Once dried and dressed, I try to keep him awake enough to have some of last night’s soup Haymitch must have re-heated for himself. With some coaxing and convincing and trying to make him laugh, I successfully get about half in him before tucking him back in bed.
‘Mama will be right here when you wake up,’ I promise, stroking his hair. I get in bed with him, settling him on my side. His eyelids are already heavy, drooping dangerously with sleep. Mine are not any better.
I hum softly, running my hand on his cheek. Tracing his features with my fingertips.
Deep in the meadow…
‘Katniss?’ a soft voice awakes me.
‘Hmm?’ I huff, rubbing my eyes, confused. I look down at the small body curled up on my side, parallel to my stomach. Mouth open and drool dripping down on his pillow.
‘You fell asleep,’ Peeta whispers, stroking my hair.
‘And you woke me up,’ I murmur, cuddling back down to the little boy on my side.
‘Want me to wake you up again when dinner is ready?’ he offers softly. I sigh and shake my head, leaning my cheek onto his hand. I breathe in the scent of butter and sugar on his skin.
‘Bakery okay?’ I whisper. He chuckles quietly and shakes his head.
‘No, definitely not okay,’ he leans down and presses a kiss softly on my lips, ‘Our fridge might be full of butter.’
I breath out, letting him help me up to my feet. I reach over and feel Rye’s forehead.
‘How is he?’ Peeta asks, pulling me into a hug once we have successfully closed the door behind us.
‘Better. I think the crying tired him out.’
‘I am sorry I left,’ he apologises pressing a kiss to the side of my neck. I let my body melt slightly against his touch.
‘Did you end up finding his bunny?’ I ask pulling away.
Peeta shakes his head, pressing his lips together, ‘Let’s start thinking what to tell him,’ he runs a hand over my forehead, stroking back a few sweaty strands of hair.
‘Did you ever manage that shower?’
I chuckle and shake my head.
‘Go now. I’ll start on dinner and call you when it’s done. Take your time,’ he leans forwards and gives me a kiss which I make longer by wrapping my arms around his neck.
When I pull away, I pat his chest before making my way into the room.
I let the warm water rain down on me, leaning my body against the wall.
I allow myself to feel the exhaustion of the day completely. My shoulders drop and my muscles relax one by one. I could stay under here for hours but eventually I make myself turn off the water, reveling in the knowledge that when I return downstairs there will be dinner waiting. While braiding my hair, I hear the front door open and both Willow and Haymitch’s voices fill the downstairs.
In the kitchen, Willow looks down at her muddy socks, an expression of guilt and sorry painting her features.
‘Hi sweetheart,’ I sigh and place a kiss at the top of her head.
I can feel something push at my stomach.
‘I’m sorry…’ she sniffles. I look down between our bodies. Rye’s teddy bunny is muddy and dirty, pressed against my stomach. At the sound of Willow’s tears, Peeta is behind her immediately.
‘Willow, love, what happened this morning? Do you want to talk?’ I ask, stroking her hair. I bend down so I am at a similar height to her.
She shakes her head ‘no’ but after a glance up at Haymitch, she’s nodding yes. She wraps her small arms around my neck and I can feel her body shake with tears.
I sigh, pulling her flush against my chest. My beautiful, dancing, obsessed with ribbons, girl.
‘I’m sorry,’ she continues to apologise against my neck. I make eye contact with my husband and he gives me the same pained expression I must be wearing.
I rack my brain through the day as I let her cry. She mumbles something about the school, a teacher, a boy named Dillon and our bows. It comes out confused and disorganized.
‘It doesn’t matter now baby. You are here now. No one is angry, okay?’ I reassure her. She nods against my neck.
‘It’s not Rye’s fault he’s sick,’ she says as I stir her to her allocated chair on the table. I help carry the pot of soup on the table and start serving up.
‘No it’s not,’ I agree, ‘And you know,’ I add, watching Peeta go upstairs to check if Rye’s awake enough for dinner, ‘It’s been a little difficult with him only wanting his daddy right?’
She nods as I serve her a big bowl of the chicken soup.
‘Maybe he needs some more attention when he is poorly. Like when you are not feeling well and you want to cuddle up and read stories all day,’ I poke her stomach playfully. She nods again, a smile tugging at her lips.
‘But I want Rye to do stories with me too when I am ill,’ Willow sounds small. This larger than life girl is suddenly tiny.
‘And that’s so nice of you. But this is Rye’s first really big cold. He doesn’t know why he is in pain,’ I explain softly, ‘When you get ill, you know that you will get better after a few days. He doesn’t.’
She nods again in understanding, watching Peeta return with Rye in his arms. He sits down, the three-year-old boy perched on his lap.
Once we finish eating, with some more coaxing and pleading from Rye, Peeta and Haymitch settle for a game of chess. I tuck both my babies on either side of my body the sofa.
‘I am sorry, sweetheart. Mama and daddy have been too busy today,’ I kiss my daughter’s temple, ‘It wasn’t very nice of us. We still love you so much.’
She shakes her head, her hand snaking to hold Rye’s.
‘I am sorry I took bunny,’ she says, her brother’s face is looking up at hers. I hold my breath, preparing for Rye to start wailing again, asking for his toy which is in a desperate need of a wash before Rye can sleep with it again. Instead he leans back to my chest.
‘It’s okay. He’s home now.’
I look up at the ceiling, tears prickling my eyes. I catch Peeta’s eyes on us briefly, a knowing sad look in his face. That expanding and deflating grief that’s rooted comfortably at the baseline of our lives.
I would be a liar to say I never was jealous of Prim. Her similarities to our mother. The kindness and joy – which I had fought tirelessly to preserve, yet one I never got to have. Even during those first excruciating years, when Prim’s absence was louder than her existence ever was, jealousy had snuck up on me. Why did I get to live that miserable existence? Why did she get to lie somewhere peaceful while I suffered?
Exhaustion threatens me again but blanketing it is something soft. A warmth, radiating through my body and down to the edges of my limbs, starting from where Willow and Rye have their heads resting on my chest. Today will be filed as one of my worst days. One of those never-ending days where everything goes wrong. The days where I fail and I am powerless to it.
But what a joy for such a non-distinct day – one whose troubles boil down to a bad cold, a stolen toy and some broken fridges; one that in a few days will be laughed at, one that in a few months will be forgotten – to be filed as bad.
I look down at the two children tucked safely on my chest. I give each one of them a kiss on the head and listen to Haymitch take Peeta’s rook on the other side of the room.
Deep in the meadow
Under the willow a bed of grass, a soft green pillow
Lay down your head, and close your eyes
And when they open, the sun will rise