Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games or any of Suzanne Collins' characters.
Author's Note: Here's the story of when Peeta teaches Katniss to bake. Enjoy. I'm not sure if it's cute, fluffy, serious, or passionate. Well, then I guess we'll find out.
XxXxX
It's been at least two months since I've last had a real conTversation with Katniss Everdeen. Haymitch informed me last night that if the romance is going to play off well on the television for the Victor's Tour next week, Katniss might need some warming up. For me, this contact with her isn't about convincing the public, saving our lives, or representing a rebellion. It's real. I feel this beating of my heart that pounds only for her as it always has. Nothing will ever change that. For Katniss, I can't understand what it is. It might be confusion of her emotions. It might be the desperation of saving her family. It might even be real – but I stop my thoughts on trailing from this, because it will only lead to no good.
I lay my paintbrush down on the easel. I would have never dreamed of such a fantasy. A room full of thousands of colors of paint, canvases, and brushes. Brushes with different textures, different shapes, and different purposes. Paints all colors of the rainbow, just waiting to be blended together into shades I would never imagine in District 12. I take one look at the painting I've just finished. Katniss is kneeling over Rue's body, a fire in her eyes with such passion that is only revealed around Primrose. The braid hangs over her shoulder and grazes Rue's forehead as Katniss plays with the flowers in Rue's hair. Rue lies limp and lifeless against the dirt ground, but looks ever so pleasant with the yellow and pink tulips swimming in her hair and around her body.
I force myself to stand up and examine the other paintings around me. All are splattered with memories of past experiences in the Games, morphed into exaggerated forms of their real being. Resisting the urge to trash each and every canvas, I run down the staircase away from the memories. Breathing heavily, I swing open the front door and emerge into the snow. The cold snaps my senses into reality as Haymitch's drunken voice rings through my head. That one might need a little warming up before hand if you're both going to stay alive this year, he laughs.
I knock thrice on the door to meet Prim's face, "Hello, Peeta!" she says.
"Hey, Prim. How are you?" I smile playfully, my hands ruffle the braid that looks ever so similar to Katniss'.
"Hey!" she giggles, grabbing the braid in her own hands and fixing the mess I've made. "Katniss is upstairs if you need her."
"Thanks," I say and make my way up the staircase.
My fist knocks gently on Katniss' bedroom door without hesitation. There is no answer.
"Katniss?" I call. There is still no answer.
I push the door open. She is lying on the bed with her eyes staring fixatedly on the ceiling. "Katniss?" I call from the door frame.
She jerks into a sitting position as though she's just heard me. "Peeta," her voice is unsteady. "What…" her scowl returns and her voice is as sturdy as a rock once again.
"Um," I start, unsure of what I planned to say to her. "How are you?"
"I'm fine," she answers skeptically. "And yourself?"
"Getting there."
"Well," she says, "is there something you wanted?"
"Yeah," I regain my stature quickly, "Would you want to see something?"
"Sure," she answers, and I know she will trust my judgment.
"Come on, then," I smile.
"Come where?"
"You'll see."
I take her hand in mine, and she halts for a moment but gives in and lets me lead her.
I take her out of the house, down the coal-ridden streets, and into the area where the Merchants live. I remove the key from my pocket and glance down at her. Her face speaks confusion, wondering why I've brought her to my parents' bakery. The bakery is closed today as my mother is sick and my father is out with my brothers. There is no longer a worry about the money we would lose if the bakery was closed for a day because, as a victor, I have the life we've all dreamed of. The door creaks open and I pull Katniss through the dusty room. She sits on the rotting couch across from the kitchen. She knows that I come here daily; the evidence is the cheese buns I deliver to her mother every evening. I myself don't know why I've never taken her. The bakery, now almost deserted by my mother and just kept up enough by my father, is my sanctuary. It is a reminder of days that were simpler and easier to live through. I realize now that the extra food from being a victor is not security, as I would have thought back in my Merchant days. The delicacies of being a victor will never be greater than the nightmares I face every night.
Katniss watches me as I pull out bowls, spoons, measuring cups, and ingredients.
"Well?" I say, "What are you waiting for?"
She looks startled. Her eyes speak that she's never baked before. I place my hand over a bag of flour and take her hand on top of my own. I show her the measuring cup, indicating the amount of flour needed. I pour one cup, empty it in the bowl, and allow her to try the same. "Go on, fill it." She nods and follows my orders.
Order after order, ingredient after ingredient, I teach her. Sift and pour the flour. Separate the egg yolks from the whites. Cut the sugar portion in half so the cake will not be too sweet. Katniss says nothing, but I can see in her eyes that she enjoys the precise measuring. The fact that every measure must be exact. I can see that the baking takes her mind away from terrifying memories as it does to me. After I'm sure she knows what she's doing, I sit on the couch, watching her hands fill the measuring cups and empty them again.
"How many eggs did you say?" she looks up.
I'm already watching her, "Three."
She cracks the egg on the side of the bowl, and it filters quickly to the floor. "Oh!" She rushes to wipe it clean.
I laugh, and she scowls in return. Getting up and kneeling to the floor, I flick some of the egg white onto her arm.
"Hey!" she tosses a handful of flour in my direction.
I scoop salt into my palm and toss it at her, "You shouldn't make such a mess, you know," I joke.
She pauses, and looks at the walls and floor. They are covered in salt, egg, milk, sugar, and flour. She looks down and scolds herself.
"What?"
"Do you see, Peeta?" she points to the mess. "Here we are messing around and wasting food while our friends are on the verge of starving to death. No one should have to face starvation. No one."
Though it was fun, I am snapped back into reality and nod in acceptance. She's right, after all.
"Here," I take the bowl off the kitchen table and empty its contents into three cake trays. The oven is already preheated, electricity pumped by our generator, and I stick the trays into the hot area. "Come on," I lead her back to the couch.
"You do this every day?"
"Yes," my gaze glances to the familiar kitchen tables and walls.
"I like it," she responds, and my gaze turns into hers. She has been staring at my face intently.
"Me too. Helps my mind."
"It puts my mind somewhere else."
"Where?"
"To a place where everything can be good. Maybe not perfect, but good. Just," she pauses, "easier."
"If only the world was covered with frosting and sugar."
"It could be."
"What do you mean?"
She tells me about running into Bonnie and Twill from District 8 in the woods. "There's something there, Peeta. If we give into this rebellion, who knows. We might be able to reverse everything. Reverse the past seventy-five years. Go back to a time when there were no districts and there was no Capitol. Just people. We could do it, Peeta. Be the heads of the rebellion. Start something. Light some kind of spark. There is no chance of us being free now. We might as well try."
I can tell that she's been thinking about this for quite a while. It makes sense to me, what she's saying. She has a good point. Our families and we will never be safe unless we do anything about it. I care more about protecting her, her mother, and Prim than my own family who has done nothing to show their affection. My father, if anyone, has shown the most care toward me, but even then – they still reveal more love for Katniss whom I am more than willing to protect. "I agree."
Her eyebrows rise, "You do?"
"There is nothing more I would rather do," and I mean it when I say it. "This is more of your choice than it is mine, Katniss," she still looks more startled. "You are the mockingjay."
The sound of the oven timer rings, and she leaps up to turn it off. I follow and remove the trays from the heat with my father's oven mitts. I wiggle the cakes from their confinements and onto a metal rack to cool. She watches me intently still, like there's something she's waiting for.
"This is how you do it," she states wonderingly.
I distinctly remember watching her walk down the streets on the way home from school, staring into our shop windows with Prim at her waist.
"Look, Prim," she would say. Prim would hang over the cakes until my mother would shoo them off, calling them filthy Seam children. Then she would curse me for walking too slowly from school, scolding me for wasting time that could be spent frosting cakes.
I separate the different frostings, showing Katniss the different decorative tips that my father had only allowed me to handle. "It's not that difficult," I tell her. We never had a wide array of different colors, but I was able to mix different shades to create a desired tone. Now as a victor, I have any colors I would ever want and more. I fill a plastic bag with white frosting and tie the ends with a decorative tip at one end. "Here," I give it to Katniss.
She stares at it blankly in her hands and then up to me. I place the cakes on a single tray and bring them to the table. I take the plastic bag from her and encourage her to place her hands upon mine.
"One glop in the center," I squeeze the bag until a third of it is upon the cake. "Simple enough?"
She nods and grabs a knife from the drawer. I hold her hand which is wrapped tightly around the spatula as it moves in strokes back and forth. "Loosen your grasp," and she follows suit.
"That's the base coat. I've got a good idea for the decorations if you'd like to try."
I sketch the picture on a sheet of scrap paper, she watches my eyes flick back and forth across the paper along with my pencil.
"Why don't you try stacking the cakes?" I suggest.
"Stacking?"
"Yeah, just place one on top of the other."
She stacks the cakes very slowly, and though one tier is off center, I say nothing and smile.
I hand her a bag of red frosting and direct her to paint the tongue of fire upon the white. She tries her best, but the red fails to stick to the cake. She stifles a laugh, "I can't do this!"
"Of course you can," I smile and cover the remnants of red with more white icing. "Watch me," I paint the flames across the entire bottom tier. She fails to stop me, and I am lost in my work before I know it. There is no District 12. There is no Katniss Everdeen. There is no mockingjay. There is no rebellion. There is me. And there is this cake.
"I'm sorry," I say. The red, orange, and yellow have blended well into each other and the fire designs seem to engulf the cake. "You should've stopped me."
"No," she states quickly. "I like watching you work. I'm no good anyway. Finish it."
I return to the cake and add the last touches: a pearly shimmer which my father saves only for wedding cakes, a blue gem for the bottom of each flame, a hint of gray smoke upon the white background. Katniss stares in admiration, and I try to hold that feeling within me. She passes me a package of yellow frosting. I lay on a thick layer in the form of Katniss' mockingjay pin and dust it with gold.
I flop onto the couch. She follows next to me. We stare together in admiration of the cake covered with fire.
"That's the spark, Peeta."
"The spark to the rebellion," I answer knowingly. President Snow and his Capitol admirers will not be able to overlook this passion and desperation.
"There it is, my little mockingjay," I smile.
She offers me a smile in return and I lean in for our first real kiss since the cave – not one played for the cameras, but one filled with the same passion that resides in that cake.
Author's Note: This is the first fic I've done in Peeta's POV, so I hope it was as in character as I'd meant it to be!