When I was a kid my eldest brother Brann's birthday was a big celebration. He was, by far, my mother's favourite, the perfect son born to inherit the family business and cement my parents' marriage, such as it was. He was born near the Harvest Festival, when there was always a little extra food and a little more money, when people in the districts were lighter, happier. The Harvest Festival was one of the few highlights of the year, and Brann's birthday was bound inextricably with all of that gladness.
Rye was born in the spring, when everything was green and hopeful, when the district was congratulating itself for surviving another long winter. Celebrating Rye's birthday was mandatory; he ensured that no one ever had a chance to forget it. The quintessential middle child, Rye was funny and boisterous, outgoing and loud, but his joy was always infectious. In good years there might be a picnic supper to celebrate, in bad a quiet family dinner, but always there would be cookies, delicate buttery shortbread that I still think of as 'Rye's cookies'.
And then there's me. My birthday was never celebrated because, in the first of a long list of ways that I disappointed my mother, I was born on Reaping Day. My birthday warranted only whispered sentiments from my father and brothers, and never when my mother was within earshot. There was one year, when I was perhaps five, that I asked why Brann and Rye had birthdays and I did not. My ear rang for days afterwards from the slap my mother answered my question with. My father took me out to the meadow late that evening, after the Reaping, when the bakery was closed and the houses in town all shut up tight as the people within gave thanks (all except two of course). We sat among the tall grasses and wildflowers and he told me that long ago, before the Dark Days, the summer solstice had been a time of celebration, that people would mark the longest day of the year with bonfires and feasts and it was a joyous occasion. Then he gave me a single sugar cookie, frosted with a yellow sun, and wished me a happy birthday. He snuck me sugar cookies frosted with suns for a couple more years, until Brann turned 12. After that I never celebrated my birthday again.
My last two birthdays were spent on a train, hurtling towards the Capitol and certain death, but they were also spent with Katniss. Even though she hadn't known it was my birthday, and despite the tragic circumstances, spending my birthday with her was something my younger self had long dreamed of.
There will be no sugar cookies from my father today, but neither will there be pens of frightened children or train rides. Without opening my eyes I can also tell that there'll be no Katniss either, I've become so attuned to her presence that I can sense her absence even before I'm fully awake. I'm not surprised, Reaping Day meant something different to her all of those years, and as the day has drawn closer she's been more and more withdrawn. Probably she'll spend the day crying in her woods. I don't blame her, and besides, I've never told her when my birthday is. Not that she's asked.
I spend my morning doing what I've done nearly every day since my return, baking for the workers and for my little makeshift family in Victor's Village. In a fit of nostalgia I also bake sugar cookies, and contemplate frosting them with yellow suns. Maybe when I return from my rounds.
When I set out to deliver my bread to the workers and returnees I quickly discover that this won't be an ordinary day. Virtually no one is working on the rebuild today, preferring, perhaps, to be with their families. The marketplace too is mostly empty, just a couple of stalls open, Greasy Sae is nowhere to be found. I try stopping by a few of the houses but only a couple of doors open for me. By the time I drag myself home I'm grumpy and annoyed, and even though it's only early afternoon I'm thinking about how nice a nap would be. Even nicer if Katniss would join me, I think longingly. But when I walk into my house, arms laden with bread I couldn't distribute I find not Katniss, but Haymitch of all people sitting in my kitchen. For a moment I can do nothing but blink. He grunts.
"Where's the girl?"
I shrug. "She was gone before I got up."
He nods, "Probably in the woods, shooting something." I imagine she's actually out there crying but I don't correct him. I wait for him to continue, to tell me why he's here, but he simply sits, expectantly.
With a sigh I ask "Have you eaten?" His shrug tells me he has not. I'm pretty sure Haymitch only eats when Katniss, Sae or I feed him.
I pull out some blackberry muffins I made this morning and cold tea from the refrigerator. He waves off the tea but inhales a couple of muffins, seemingly without chewing. Haymitch never reveals the reason for his visit, simply sitting with me, eating muffins and occasionally offering commentary on this or that. I fill in the silence by talking about town, about my decision to rebuild the bakery and other safe topics. Neither of us mentions Reaping Day, or the pall that seems to hang over the district. A few minutes before 4 he rises, grunts out his thanks and leaves. I remain at the table awhile longer, shaking my head. Haymitch just gets stranger and stranger…
It's too late now for that nap. I'm not sure if Katniss will be here for dinner, if she has hunted at all or if she's spent the day surrendering to her grief. I wish she would communicate more with me, I feel like I could help, could at least comfort her, but she remains tightly guarded. I wonder, not for the first time, if she will ever learn how to trust. Not that I blame her reticence, she has had so few in her life who haven't let her down, and all of those are now gone.
I'm still sitting at the table, lost in my thoughts, when Katniss walks in. She's tucks her bow into the corner and I can see that her game bag is empty, but when she walks over to me her eyes are clear, not heavy and red-rimmed like they so often are after a day spent in the woods but not hunting. In fact, she smiles. I return it eagerly.
"I'm glad you're here Peeta. I, uh, I want to... to show you something." she stammers. It's kind of adorable how nervous she seems. When she holds out her hand to me I take it and follow her, but when she heads towards the door I pull back a little. I'm drained, bordering on exhausted actually, which I tell her. She chews on her bottom lip and those silver eyes flash the way they do when she's having an internal conversation. I wait her out.
"Please Peeta," she says softly. "It's not that far and I really think you'll like it." She had me at please. I push aside my fatigue and we set out, but slowly. Katniss grabs my hand as we walk and that simple action melts away a lot of my trepidation.
After a while I realize that we're heading towards the meadow. I've been thinking a lot about the meadow today, about that long ago talk with my father over sunshine frosted cookies. It no longer looks like it did when I was a child, but neither does it look like it did before my return to 12 when the meadow was a huge open pit, or so Thom tells me. With the mass grave there now filled, the grasses and wildflowers are reclaiming the bare earth, reminding me that despite everything life goes on.
We're not far from the meadow when I see the smoke. I stiffen and stop, and shiny images start to claw into the edges of my vision: the district burning, my parents burning, everything burning. Katniss is in front of me in a flash, locking her eyes with mine, holding my face between her hands. "Not real Peeta, not real, not real. You're safe Peeta."
"Burning," is the only word I can choke out as I struggle to stay in reality.
"No," she murmurs softly, her thumbs stroking my cheeks. "It's just a cooking fire, you're safe Peeta, you're safe."
My mind clings to her voice as I take slow deep breaths. The world comes back into focus, her silver eyes soft and locked onto mine. When she sees I'm back she wraps her arms around me and we hold each other, rocking gently in the sunshine. Too soon she pulls back to look into my face. I answer her unasked question. "I'm okay." She kisses my cheek, a delicate whisper of soft lips on skin which is enough to banish the last bits of haze from my mind.
We move closer to the source of the smoke and I can smell that she's right, someone is roasting meat. I haven't been hungry today but the scent makes my mouth water. I can hear the faint thrum of voices growing louder with every step too, but nothing could have prepared me for what appears before us as we crest the knoll just before our destination.
The meadow is full of people. Men and women, children too, our neighbours and friends, the very people I missed seeing this morning. They are all standing chatting amongst themselves, or sitting on blankets in the grass, and a pleasant hum of conversation fills the air. I just have time to notice the tables loaded with food and the spit turning over a large open fire before some of the townspeople notice our approach and begin to clap. The others follow suit, and there are cheers as people begin walking towards us. I look at Katniss, shocked. She smiles slyly. "Happy Birthday Peeta," she murmurs. My jaw drops but I can't ask any of the questions swirling in my head because I'm enveloped by people, surrounding me, hugging me and clapping me on the back, all with smiles and good wishes. Katniss slips away as I greet everyone, my neighbours, my friends.
I've never had a birthday party before, but even if I had there is no way it could ever have compared to this. At least 60 people chose to come out and celebrate with me, for me, turning a day that used to be marked by terror into a day of beauty and community. I am humbled and overjoyed as I try to spend at least a little time with every person there. We all picnic on wild boar that Katniss has spent the entire day roasting, huge pots of stew from Sae and various other dishes and treats that the community brought to contribute. At some point Thom gathered the bread and muffins I'd been unable to deliver earlier and those were added to the tables too.
There is feasting and laughter and conversation until twilight falls and people begin to gather up tables and trays, slipping home with full bellies and, I think, full hearts. Finally all that remains in the now quiet meadow with me is my makeshift family: Haymitch, Sae and Katniss. I'm overcome with emotion, attempting to hug each in turn and thanking them profusely. Haymitch staggers off before I can embrace him, Sae smiles and pats my cheek affectionately. "Katniss did all of the plannin'," she explains.
Katniss flushes crimson and deflects, mentioning all of the others who contributed but I'm not listening. I can't tear my eyes away from her; my heart is so full it's almost painful. She did all of this for me?
The walk home is quiet, I'm exhausted and overwhelmed, and happier than I can ever remember being. When we reach Victor's Village Katniss leads us to my house, for which I'm grateful. We mount the stairs silently and I can do nothing more than take off my shoes and pants, falling into bed in boxers and my t-shirt. Katniss changes into sleep shorts and climbs in beside me. I have a million questions but it's a struggle to get out just one. "How did you know?"
"That it's your birthday?" she replies, rolling towards me and settling her head against my chest. I nod, wondering if she can hear my heart speeding up. "Effie," she says simply, explaining nothing.
"Effie?" I momentarily forget about my exhaustion. "Effie?" I'm utterly bewildered. Katniss laughs, a sound so sweet and musical I'd do anything to hear it again. She shifts to prop her chin on my chest and look at me.
"Yes, Effie. After my birthday I asked Haymitch when your birthday was, he had no clue, of course but he thought that Effie might still have some records. So he called her up. Apparently she cried when she told him, and he had to talk her out of sending you some elaborate and probably bizarre birthday present." She's grinning widely at that, probably thinking about what kind of strange, possibly feather-covered item Effie would think appropriate for a gift.
"And you planned all of this for me?" I ask, reaching out tentatively to run my hand along her messy braid. I have a huge lump in my throat; she went to so much effort just for me. She shrugs.
"You probably didn't get to celebrate your birthday much as a kid did you? Being born on Reaping Day," she asks. I shake my head.
"Pretty much never, actually," I admit. I decide to tell her about the year that my dad took me to the meadow, and the tale he wove of solstice celebrations of old. Her eyes widen.
"Wow, we had a solstice celebration for you, didn't we, with the bonfire and the food? I had no idea!" She's quiet a moment, thoughtful, then asks, softly and uncertainly, "Was it okay?"
I tighten my arms around her, wondering how she could even need to ask. "Oh Katniss," my voice shakes. "This was the best day of my life. I couldn't have imagined a more wonderful celebration. Thank you so much." I can feel her relax in my arms, as if she'd been holding her breath. She leans up and kisses me, her soft lips familiar. Except that this time there are no cameras, no one is watching. There's only us, curled up together in my bed, kissing. It feels like coming home. It feels real. Our mouths move slowly, almost tentatively together, so unlike the kisses we shared for the Capitol. So much better. Katniss breaks the kiss first, pulling back and staring intently into my eyes, her pupils dilated and her nostrils flaring as she breathes heavily.
"Happy birthday Peeta," she whispers after a few moments, and then settles her head back onto my chest. A feeling of calm and contentment fills me as I hold her snugly against me, listening to her breathing even out. We both fall asleep quickly and the nightmares don't dare intrude on our serenity.