Weeks after the announcement of the 75th Hunger Games and the daunting new provision warranted by the Quarter Quell, the painful severity of encroaching reality was starting to Plateau. Training like Careers, being so detached from Peeta, hearing all but nothing from Gale, and worrying for District 12 were all heavier than ever on my conscious, but a small, nagging knot in my chest was unsettling. All work and no play.
Maybe it was selfish of me, to want a small break. This feeling too tugged at me until finally I caved. After a long stint of training with Haymitch and Peeta, I wander into town late that afternoon. I didn't want to buy a treat, like a cake or candy—Peeta and my mother like to keep a steady though modest flow of those in our household—but I wanted to make something. I wasn't like Peeta in that I wanted to make confections and sweets, but in this moment I was. I had an idea of what I wanted to make that wasn't usual, and by the time I walked up to the market I was craving it. Chocolate pudding.
It's rare here in District 12 simply because it's abnormal and superfluous. Cakes, cookies, candy, these are all typical desires people of all ages think of when they want to indulge or celebrate an occasion, granted not many do often. Pudding, not so much. It's not even considerably expensive, but rarely can a family afford it when trying not to starve is a daily pressure. So they choose not to afford it.
A pang of fear shoots through me as I search for the few small boxes of instant pudding. What if they didn't have any, I thought to myself. I know I had seen some here before over the years when I came by once in a while. Sometimes they did, sometimes they didn't, but my current haphazard state of mind didn't anticipate my one shot at sporadic, person comfort being foiled by absence of supply. Of course the demand is practically non existent, only alive and festering inside me, mute though it was.
Looking into crates and over shelves I calmly search. Mentally I begin to scramble for a plan B before I finally see them. Three brown, flat, rectangular boxes tossed in between crates of flour and other grains. The whole market was more or less scattered, clothing next to fruits, plates next to soap. It never crossed my mind how disorganized the place was—I doubt anyone did, considering what was on everyone's mind was the struggle to acquire the sustenance they needed—and this moment was no exception, as I reached down to grab all three of them.
I didn't look to see what was required to even make instant chocolate pudding until I was back in my home in Victory Village. Before, when my father was still alive, I had the creamy desert once. Once, and it was after a birthday I had years ago, a couple days after I offered to give the doll I got to a boy younger than I who was trying to recover under the care of my mother. It was hard being around him and the family, watching as he struggled with a terrible infection. I wanted to help them somehow, hoping the small toy would help him pull through—and pull through he did. After that, my father—out of the blue—came home with a bowl of pudding.
The memory of it was so delicious, thinking back to it makes my heart beat quicken. Quicken as it slowly floats down. I was relieved when I saw that all else that was necessary was milk.
I had the sudden urge to call Peeta. I could count on one hand how many times I used the phone to call him. Hold up another finger on that hand I did as I dialed his number. I decided my guise was that I wanted reassurance and not mess up such a simple concoction. I really wanted to hear his voice beyond the context of training, how it alone made me feel right.
I heard the ringing curtail before I heard Peeta's greeting.
"Katniss, hi," he said, a hint of surprise in his voice.
"I want to make pudding." I should have said more to follow with this blunt statement, but I didn't. I just stared at the box I brought with me in my hands, at a loss for words.
"Uh okay," he chuckled, amused by me and how random a call this is. What a treat I imagine it is for him.
I stammer. "I bought a few boxes—well three boxes—of instant stuff and I just um…." I stop to reread the fine print on the back for the instructions, having forgotten what they were already. Based on Peeta's next words, the mute blush of embarrassment that crossed my face was most definitely not mute.
"Oh Katniss," he began in a low, considerate tone. "If you really want umm pudding," he continues, trying hard to be delicate, "I can make you some."
"I want to make it." My words come out more blunt than I intend, coming off maybe harsh. I quickly stammer before correcting what I said. "I mean, I want to actually do it. It's just with the Quarter Quell approaching and all the daily stress, I want to do something normal." I avoid driving Peeta away with this amendment. The words feel better.
Peeta speaks, not a hint of offense in him. "I understand. You still don't have to stoop to instant, Katniss. All great things take time to blossom." Again, he can say things simply in passing that have such an impact. I focus on one of the small printed words on the box I hold as I ponder what he said, forgetting I'm in the middle of a conversation.
"Katniss," Peeta says again, stoking me from my trance. "Can I at least help?"
"Oh, yes. Thank you, Peeta."
"You can come over to my place," he suggests. I can tell he's going out on a limb. "It would probably be easier, since I…yeah I have everything that's necessary."
"I'll come over now then I guess," I say, slightly absent of mine, again worried how I'm being interpreted.
"Oh now, okay." He sounds surprised again, but not at all disappointed.
"If you're not busy I mean—"
"Katniss," Peeta says, cutting me off eagerly. "Come over."
I arrive at his house. It's beyond sunset, but still hues of orange rest low under a blue and pink sky, the range of colors creating an ombre effect as they stretch across. I don't know why, but I decide to bring the three boxes of instant with me. Peeta opens the door, his strong jaw soft with a smile, before he sees the small boxes in my hands. He looks at me like I'm 11 and grabs them from me, turning back into his house, the door wide open. A silent invitation.
He does in fact have all the ingredients. I see this as I walk into his kitchen, everything laid out. I also catch him tossing the boxes of instant pudding mix I brought into his trash can, like an after thought. A couple years ago, before winning the games, this would have warranted me to threaten him—nearly anyone's life who blatantly disposed of something I had to purchase. No matter the object, hypothetically, the gesture is startling. But this is Peeta, and money is no hard pressed thing anymore.
I'm shaken, but soon enough I elicit that I'm unfazed, in fact fine. "We all can't have the sophisticated pallet of you, Peeta," I say in a haughty tone.
"True, but you have me," he goads as he circles around the kitchen island back towards me, "and if I can help it you're not going to eat instantpudding." He's teasing me, but I can't help but feel sad as he speaks. I think about how much joy and comfort that instant pudding gave me long ago when I was a child, when my father was alive. Now Peeta Mellark is dashing aside the instant, and inadvertently my special connection with it and my father. It's not his fault, he doesn't know, I tell myself.
I make a conscious effort not to become rash with the boy. "So show me how it's done."
By the time all the ingredients are in a large mixing bowl it is well dark outside. It's also slightly cold inside. I had assembled mostly everything into the bowl with Peeta's instructions, and now I motion to stir. I stand at the counter stirring the concoction. The room goes quiet except for the intermittent sounds of Peeta cleaning and putting away containers and other things.
I think about the situation I am in—the potential of it. After a while I'm still stirring when I feel a warm presence come up behind me slowly, his touch warming me. With one hand on my waste I feel another wrap around my side and reach before me. It's not until I feel the lukewarm chocolate goop on my nose and lips that I snap out of another trance and shriek.
"Taste it. How is it?" He reaches for another dab on his fingers for himself as I lick my own lips. It tastes like a dream I had long ago. Last year, Peeta and I ate splendors that were so rich for the first time, but in this moment, the creamy pudding shows up all the rest.
"Peeta, it's wonderful," I say. He kisses me behind my jaw.
"All wonderful things take time, to blossom." He hasn't removed himself from me. He reaches into a drawer for a convenient spoon and goes for a spoonful of it. He holds it to me as he wraps his other hand around my stomach. "Open please, Katniss."
I slowly open my mouth to feel the full rush of the flavors in my mouth. Feeling the heat of the moment I whip around after the spoon slides from my mouth and kiss Peeta passionately, swallowing as I hold him to me.
We end up on his couch, the bowl of chocolate pudding in my lap as he holds me. We intermittently talk, share a spoon, and kiss. Sure the delicious goop is not cold—Peeta said it really should be chilled—but I don't care. I can't wait. Time is running out, for both Peeta and I, and I don't want to wait to enjoy the few spots of happiness in my life that are right before me.
"Why pudding?" Peeta asks suddenly.
"The stress of training, the Games, Snow, District 12, it's all so much. I wanted a change of pace…and something sweet," I say with a giggle, but disguise my current state. I don't know if I want to tell Peeta about my father more. It's been quietly pressing in the back of my mind since earlier this afternoon, building. I tell him the truth regardless, about all the pressures pertinent to us now, but the subject change has made me feel suddenly very melancholy.
"I guess the cookies and cake don't cut it anymore," he jabs, scooping another spoonful of pudding from the glass bowl, eating it.
"No, I love your cookies, and your cakes. They are art! It's just…" and now it seems there's no other choice but to confide in him.
"Katniss?" He's looking at me confused and worried now. I care for him so much, and trust him with my life…and that's all I confirm in my mind before telling him just that little more about my past.
Peeta is silent. He then softly caresses my back and pulls me in for a hug, one that I accept. "Don't feel so sad. You're infectious, Katniss," he says. I look into his eyes now as he speaks. "My Heaven is right here in Panem, in District 12, with you. I want you to be here with me. When you feel miserable like this, it makes me miserable for you."
What I feel in that moment is indescribable. Maybe it is heaven. My body doesn't lose muscle control, but I abandon it to melt into Peeta, my back resting in his chest. I don't eat anymore, and I don't speak. Neither does Peeta, and we fall asleep there on his couch with the lights on. We don't care. We're in our own world, were the clouds are leather cushions and the angels are the bugs that begin to hum in our subconsciousness.
I wake up in his bed. He's next to me with his shirt off, holding me. His warm skin and muscles soothe me and make me feel so soft.
"Good morning," I mumble, turning to lay on my back.
"For now," he says as he rests a long, lingering kiss on my lips. "In a little while we have training, be ready." His wink is hideous to me.
"So much for heaven on Earth," I whisper, my cute tone no where near matching my true irritation.