Author's Note: This was written for the Starvation monthly challege, so any feedback would be welcome. (Read: Please Review!)
I put the small cake on the table in front of my wife. She said that she didn't want a birthday cake, but it's what I do and I couldn't let it go. Besides, she had that look that said she really did want a birthday cake. When she sees it, I can tell that she's beyond happy with it. Her small, lopsided grin is replaced with a luminous smile that would make even the hardest heart a little softer.
She kisses me softly. "Thank you, Peeta. It's perfect," she whispers.
Perfect. It's been so long since I've heard anyone say that anything is perfect. Maybe it's because we're afraid to believe in perfection anymore. We lived for so long in a world where we didn't dare to think that something was perfect because it could be taken away so easily. Of course, in a world where children are forced to slaughter each other for the viewing public's amusement, there is clearly a twisted sense of what it means to be perfect.
In the districts, perfection used to mean being strong enough to kill and cruel enough not to care. It meant being cold and brutally efficient and willing to throw everything you stand for out the window at a moment's notice. In the Capitol, perfection meant outrageous hair and skin tones; it meant facial tattoos and never showing your age. It meant taking delight in the suffering of others. These ideas still linger with us, and every day is a struggle to rebuild a world that doesn't believe in the old ideals.
I constantly remind myself that perfection is in all the things that I wouldn't trade for the world. It's in the way that buttered bread tastes fresh out of the oven. It's in the way that my stomach isn't constantly growling anymore; it is in the way that someone's face lights up when they see the cake I've baked them. Perfection is in the little things: the feel of the sun on my face, my wife's fingers intertwined with mine, waking up in the morning and knowing that there will be another just like it tomorrow. Perfection is taking a warm shower in the morning and knowing that we'll never spend another night in the dark if we don't want to. Perfection is in knowing that I'll never spend another night alone.
Perfection isn't always beautiful; sometimes, perfection is in the things that everyone else finds ugly. It lies in the dark purple scars on my wife's body; those scars mark her as a survivor, and that's where the perfection lies. The false memories—and some of the real ones—are ugly and awful and terrifying, but they remind me that I'm building a world where no one else will go through what I did, and there's something perfect in that, too.
Later, when Katniss and I are trying to prune the primroses that grow beside our house, I realize that this is a perfect moment. We're on our hands and knees, sweating and up to our elbows in dirt. Her hair is falling out of its braid; she has to keep pushing it out of her face, which is now streaked with dirt. She's biting her lip, deep in thought about something, and she looks beautiful. When she looks up, she sees me staring and smiles.
"Those bushes aren't going to prune themselves, you know," she says quietly and slightly playful.
"They'll survive another day," I answer, taking her hand and leading her inside. She's smiling knowingly at me, and it's a perfect smile.
Perfection is the way that Katniss feels in my arms—warm and whole and inviting. Perfection is in her kiss, in the way that it leaves me breathless and aching for more. It is in the little sounds that she makes, telling me that I'm doing this right. It's in the way that she doesn't have to tell me where to touch, just like I don't have to tell her.
Perfection is in the way she lets me hold her. It's in the way that she rests her head on my chest and listens to the soft thump-thump of my heart. It's in the way that she trusts me enough to fall asleep in my arms, and the way that she lets me help her through her nightmares the way she helps me through mine. Perfection is in the way that she is finally able to say "I love you" without being afraid that they're going to take me away from her.
Perfection is in the way she is snuggling up next to me and holding me close. "That was perfect," she whispers. "Real or not real?"
"Real," I answer with a smile on my face. "Perfectly real."