My mother and I meet Peeta outside the bakery as the bell tower in town square chimes. It's the newest addition to town, favored by some more than others. For me, it reminds me of standing on an explosive, waiting for a clock to tick down. The clanging of the bells reminds me of the boom of a cannon signaling a death for one, a victory for another. It reminds me of the bloodbath at the cornucopia, my first introduction to the Games.
Precisely on time, Peeta slips through the front door of the bakery, shutting it quietly behind him and turning the lock as the last toll of the bell chimes. The ringing resonates in my ears as my hands ball into fists. I count to ten, a shallow breath between each number. I only begin to relax when he joins my side, slipping his arm around my waist in a motion that is second nature by now. The solid feel of him beside me calms me the way my counting cannot today. My nerves remain a pinched, unraveled wreck of a ball, but at least the muddle in my mind clears.
"Ready?" he asks. He cannot mask the smile as he poses the question. I ponder for a moment whether I ought to pinch him, hard, just to prove this is real. Turning to my mother, he adds politely, "Good evening Mrs. Everdeen."
"Peeta," she replies with an inclination of her head and a worn but brilliant smile. I don't remember the last time I saw her smile. It's nice for a change. I'm glad I can bring that to her, even if the happiness won't last forever. Even if she goes straight back to her district and throws herself immediately back into her work, I hope she can hold on to this moment, this evening, for a while. That it will bring her at least a little happiness and light.
Haymitch waits on the front stoop as our trio makes our way through the Victors' Village. I know he wanted to invite Effie, but it would have been too hard to explain why we'd perform another Toasting. To be fair to Haymitch, though, it was probably just as hard for him to make an excuse as to why he needed to come over to our house for a bit without her. It's hard to believe, but they've become almost inseparable these past few months. She's spent a lot of time organizing the opening of the factory, and he's spent a lot of time with her after hours.
As hard as it is to believe, I can't imagine having the Toasting without Haymitch. I can't tell if that's more sappy sentimental or just plain sad. But there it is. Whether I like it or not, that sobered up drunk has wormed his snarky little way into my blackened, cynical heart one way or another. He's the closest thing I have to a father, even if I feel like killing him half the time and punching him the other half.
Greasy Sae is in the kitchen cooking up a storm when we unlock the front door and usher my mother in. I raise an eyebrow as I silently question why Haymitch was waiting on the front porch if someone was home, but I doubt I'll ever understand what classifies as logic in his mind. I'm not about to open my mouth and start a bickering match. Tonight will be perfection envisioned, I promise myself. If not for me, then certainly for Peeta. He's waited long enough. He deserves it to be all he's imagined and more.
As Haymitch and my mother move into the house, Peeta and I pause on the stoop in unison. Sliding his arm from around my waist, he drops it to his side before extending it slightly towards me. Splaying his fingers, he holds out his hand in question. Crossing the threshold together is the first step of the Toasting, the first step of the ritual to seal our fates.
I quirk the side of my mouth and pretend to think about his offer. Only for a moment, to try to release some of the butterflies punching the inside of my gut, trying to force their way out in all possible directions. With a slightly shaking hand, I grasp his and hold it firm. As I move to step forward, he catches me instead. Pulling me to him, he captures my lips with his in an all too familiar way. It should embarrass me, this public display of affection in front of my mother. It doesn't. I pull him closer with my free hand, and I swear I hear my mother sigh in delight as I extend the kiss a beat longer.
"Katniss Everdeen," he whispers against my lips as he regrettably pulls away. "I knew I'd eventually wear you down."
"Peeta Mellark," I counter, "shut up." I squeeze his hand softly as I chastise.
We cross over the threshold into the house, and he pushes the door shut without relinquishing his hold on my hand. Our hands remain joined throughout the Toasting ceremony. Greasy Sae meets us in the living room, holding a tray of fresh bread. She sets it down on the coffee table as Haymitch and my mother take seats around the table. Peeta leads me to the fireplace and I follow on his heels, our arms creating a physical link between us that feels unbreakable.
He lowers to his knees, bending down to perch atop his legs. I join him. He reaches for my other hand, and I offer it immediately. We sit for a moment without saying a word, just staring at each other. It's not an official wedding ceremony, but it feels more important than anything else I've ever done. It means more to join him in this tradition, the way he explained in front of all of Panem, than any official ceremony we could have.
His eyes flicker to the poker, and I reach for it while he opens the grate. Setting the poker down next to us, I stretch back, leaning to the side to grab a log from the pile past the mantle overhang. Handing it to him, I let him place it in the fireplace. He pulls a match from his pocket, and I realize he must have thought ahead to grab one from the bakery before he left. Leave it to Peeta to be three steps ahead, to leave nothing to chance.
"It seems only appropriate for the Girl on Fire to strike the match," he says as he hands the matchbook to me.
I want to tell him to shut up again. Haymitch snorts, then turns it into an unconvincing cough. I have to restrain from shooting him a dirty look. At least he keeps his remarks to himself, at least for the time being.
"I disagree," I tell him, turning the matchbook over in my hand. As I slide it back into his palm, I close his fingers around it. My voice cracks. "You rekindled the ashes of my heart when I thought I'd never be able to love again." I don't mention her name, because I don't have to. Everyone knows who I mean. They always know who I mean. "You never gave up on me, Peeta, even when I'd given up on myself. You came back to Twelve just in time to bring me back to life. Your never ending persistence is the reason we're here now. If anyone deserves to strike the match, it's you."
His cheeks redden, and I take immense satisfaction that, for once, I'm the one that's managed to embarrass him with my admission of love. I feel overly sappy and utterly romantic, but it's worth it to see the way his face lights up.
Releasing my other hand, he pulls a match from the book. As the match slides against the striker, the flame bursts to life. He collects my hand again and wraps it around his. "Together," he says so softly I'm certain I'm the only one in the room who hears it.
And so we light the fire together. As it crackles to life, he blows out the match and sets it on the stone of the fireplace. Breaking off a piece of the loaf, Greasy Sae hands us the bread.
Because it would be too much to ask for Haymitch to suffer through the entire ritual without uttering a remark, he cuts in as we take the rough slice together. "The Girl on Fire and the Boy with the Bread, toasting together." It brings a gentle, light laughter through the room. I hadn't realized it, but he's right. It's just further proof that I never stood a chance. Somewhere, it was written down in history, perhaps on the first day in school, that we would somehow, someday end up here together. Through all the hurt and the pain and the anger and the death and the destruction, we would find a way to heal and to learn to be happy again, together. Leave it to old Haymitch to point it out.
Peeta pushes the poker through the bread. Placing my hand below his, I grip its iron girth and we hold it over the flames. The fire licks the bread like it licked my skin. But the bread doesn't burn. The putrid smell of rooting flesh doesn't fill the room. Instead, a hint of cinnamon spreads as the bread toasts. Once it's golden brown, we draw it back instinctually. Peeta understands the bread, I understand the fire. Together, we toast the slice to perfection. Breaking off a piece, he blows it cool before sliding it between my teeth. I return the favor before we offer the remaining bread to our trio of guests.
Just like that, it's done. It feels perfect in every way, especially when he leans into me and whispers just how beautiful I look, and how he can't imagine a more perfect dress. Or a more perfect bride. Blushing madly, I kiss him to silence him, knowing I'm bound to hear more of it later once our guests depart. Pulling away, I reach for the bread and tear off another piece to give my mouth something to do other than kissing him. The hunger inside me licks my veins, demanding to be fed one way or another. For now, as I smile and share this perfect moment with my mother, my family, the bread will have to do. And it is more than enough.