Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I just like to torture the characters.
"How about this one?" his daughter turned, her little face dotted with frosting, proffering her chosen tip.
"I think that one will work wonderfully." Peeta took it from her, attaching it to the piping bag.
"Do you think Mommy will like it?" his son asked, his legs swinging back and forth from his perch on the counter.
"I think Mommy will love it." Both children smiled widely as he scooped frosting into the bag.
"I wanna, Daddy, I wanna do it." His little girl was reaching her hands up, and he smiled indulgently.
"Okay, why don't you bring over a chair so you can reach?"
She immediately ran over and scooted one of the kitchen chairs to where their freshly-baked cake waited for its crowning decorations.
"Mommy said she doesn't like celebrating her birthday." His daughter said as she clambered up to stand on the chair.
"Mommy will love celebrating with you two, though." He placated while placing her little hands around the piping back, guiding them with his, "Okay, so you want to move it nice and slow, okay? Follow Daddy."
They continued on like that for a while, decorating the cake together and taste-testing more than he usually allowed.
"Aaaand finished." He added a dramatic twirl to his last flower for effect, and the kids giggled and clapped. His heart swelled with the sounds.
They admired the cake together before setting it aside. It had an endearing sloppiness to it that would have irked the precise artist side of him had it not been because of his children's involvement. But he knew Katniss wouldn't mind.
There was no telling what would trigger him. While sounds were often what set Katniss off into her own personal darkness, there was no identifiable pattern to Peeta's loss of reality.
In one moment, he was helping his kids hop down and watching them run to the front door so they could go pick birthday flowers for Mommy. In the next, he was lost in his mind, flashes of false memories flickering by so quickly, he could not identify any individual one.
He reached around blindly, finally finding the chair his daughter had scooted over. The wood was solid beneath his hands, and he clung to it as if his life depended on it.
The ghost of unimaginable pain rippled over his skin and he shuddered, willing the fuzzy, murky flashes that seemed too bright against his mind's eye to disappear. But they didn't. They just kept coming.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, where he knew his sanity was cowering, he hoped his children had gone outside without him and that they weren't watching him struggle through this episode.
Tears pricked behind his eyes and he choked down a moan of despair. He was not sure how long he continued on like this. How long he was clinging to that damn chair, sweat beading across his body, pain wringing him out like a used rag, and the unstoppable flow of false images bombarding him.
There was no sense of time when he was attacked by his own mind.
"Shh shh shh," the voice seemed far-off, but he clung to it like a lifeline, like an anchor to reality. His hands ached as they clung tightly to the chair, he could taste blood in his mouth from where he had bitten the inside of his cheek, and that voice. All of these things kept him from drowning in the pain and those damn flickers of memories he knew were not memories.
"Peeta," he felt her then. It wasn't the soft caresses she saved for when they were alone, or the gentle guiding touches as she tried to teach him how to string a bow.
Her grasp was strong, and he was reminded that she was made of iron. He focused on her grip, then, so tight around his elbows.
"Peeta, I'm here."
He could feel himself coming back; the images were slowing, the pain was receding.
He blinked, taking in the pale skin on the back of his hands first, then shifting his eyes upwards to her face.
She was pale, too, but her gray eyes were steady and focused on him.
"Peeta."
"Katniss." His voice was weak, but did not break, "The kids."
"They're fine." He let out a sigh of relief, "They're still picking flowers."
"Good." He release the chair finally, his hands aching slightly, "Good. I'm glad they didn't see."
He sat down in the chair now, his body aching as if he had just labored in the bakery for days. He was shaking slightly, and his vision was blotchy, as if he had just come indoors from a sunny day and his eyes were still adjusting. His mouth was dry, and he couldn't find the right words to speak. So he just leaned forward, letting his head rest against Katniss' midsection. She let her fingers weave into his wavy hair, damp with sweat. He sighed at the sensation, letting her sooth him back to reality.
He felt weak, unworthy of her. At that moment, he felt as if he were the weakest person alive, unable to even keep his thoughts at bay.
"You're the strongest man I know."
He looked up at her, surprised. Her expression was the same, strong and steady. She leaned in and kissed his temples, first on the right, then on the left.
Somehow, she always knew what he needed to hear.
"We baked you a cake." His voice was low, as if he didn't trust it.
"I can see that." A smirk played at the corners of her mouth.
"For your birthday."
"You know how I feel about my birthday."
"It was the kids' idea."
She broke into a full-blown smile, "Well then, let's get them back in here so we can celebrate."
And just like that, life went on.