The dawn of the Victory Tour brings Peeta to the bakery much earlier than has become usual. By the look in his eyes, I can tell sleep has evaded him. Again. The shadows under them are juxtaposed against his pallor. He's gotten thinner since coming home and I can no longer hide my worry. Anxiety ebbs into my conversations, my thoughts, even my dreams. I myself was up at four, blaming my early rising on the bread.
This morning's air freezes before it can reach my lungs. A bitterly cold wind, the kind that chaffs at cheeks and rubs away the top layer of skin on noses, has blown down from the north. Little tendrils of frost have wrapped their fingers around the plants and windows, leaving behind their crystallized residue. It's the kind of morning that's deceptively pretty, but one foot outdoors and the cold takes the opportunity to give you a taste of frostbite. However, the cold doesn't drive Peeta inside. He just stands on the steps, nose pink and eyes watering from the wind, looking like a lost little sparrow. A young boy scared of what today will bring.
"It's okay, Peeta," I say, opening the door wider. "I made your favorite. It's on the counter. I figured we could butter up a few slices before..."
He nods, his breath creating little white clouds as it escape his lips. Ice crystals cling to his hair, strategically woven among the strands like diamonds. Once we're inside the kitchen, the oven lends its warmth, but I still feel a chill. It gnaws its way past my skin, burying right into my bones. I absentmindedly rub the gooseflesh crawling on my arms.
Peeta deftly slices the bread. With each stroke of the knife, another piece of the textured, nutty loaf falls away. Perfectly even. Impossibly uniform.
"Peeta, it's not like before. You're coming back this time."
My son nods. "Yeah," he sighs. "Yeah, I know. It's just…"
"Katniss," I finish for him.
He lays down the knife and rests his head in his hands, massaging his forehead as if it could erase the creases. The weeks of dreading this day are culminating in a slowly swelling panic. Like a balloon slowly filling with air; it's only a matter of time until it bursts.
"You're worried you'll have to pretend to love her again?" I ask, feeling my own chest contract with dread at the idea.
He raises his head, now, looking me straight in the eye. "I do love her! It's not that at all. I'm worried I won't be able to make it look like she loves me back."
"But," I pause, trying to work it out. "That's her job, isn't it?"
Peeta gives me a wry smile. "You would think."
The sky's lightening now, the grey of dawn getting fainter as the sun peeks over the horizon. The tour leaves in just a few hours. Usually, District Twelve is the first stop. We never have any real kind of hospitality, so best get us out of the way. But this time, we aren't the remote, forgettable district. Twelve is the finale, the last stop on the tour.
The Harvest Festival is one of our most treasured holidays. It's always celebrated on the last day of the Victory Tour, usually consisting of a meal with family and friends. Maybe not even that if money is scarce. It's the one time of year when I allow myself to bake one special loaf to share that's neither stale, nor burned. A perfect, fresh loaf for our family.
But this year, everything will be different. The Festival will be public with Capitol-provided food and entertainment. Everyone will get a meal and a night of celebration, not just the well-to-do. I'm not sure how I feel about it. The Capitol coming in and "revitalizing" a tradition. Even if families couldn't afford a real meal, the Harvest Festival was always a time for thanks and warmth. A quiet affair will be turned into what the Capitol assumes is a celebration. Grandiose. Loud. Bright.
Before that though, our victors will have to travel to all the districts. Endure the speeches. Pretend to enjoy it. Having lived through years of the Games, I know what it's like to see the victor who may have personally killed one or both of our tributes here. You don't see the winner - only the faces of the children we'd lost. It's one thing to be the one doing the comparison, but son will be the object of their sadness and anger now. Somewhere, there is someone wishing that he'd died and their child had lived. In some ways, this tour might be as emotionally damaging as the Games.
"Look, it's not long." I don't think I can stand the thought of my steady Peeta being miserable for another second. "You'll be back home before the weather has a chance to think about getting warmer."
"And then what? I come back here, hide away from the cameras, and then it's time for the Games again."
"The Quarter Quell." It just slips out. I'm supposed to be reassuring him. Not reminding him of the hopeless future.
The effect is instantaneous. The little color the warmth of the bakery brought to his cheeks drains away and his eyes widen. "Dad, don't. I can't, not today."
"What time does your prep team come?" I ask, wishing I'd never brought up the Quell.
"Soon. They'll be aghast at how thin I've gotten."
So he's noticed. When he looks in the mirror, does he see the effects worry has started to have on him? He must. I could care less about what his prep team thinks, but it seems to matter to him.
"I wish I could be there. Be a familiar face," I tell him. Despite our differences and tentative bond, just knowing someone's on your side can be a great comfort. Katniss used to be his beacon of hope, but that light's long been smothered.
"Portia's good," Peeta says. How odd that he's the one consoling me when the opposite should be true. "She'll be with me the whole time so you don't have to worry about me being lonely. And besides, they'll air the whole thing live. You won't miss a minute of it."
Just then, the door opens. My wife strides into the kitchen and I immediately try to work out her motives. It's not until later that I wonder why that's my initial reaction. Usually, she's come to scold. Her face doesn't seem angry, though. There are the lines of resentment, of course, but her eyes lack the smoke that signals a fire.
"Hey," Peeta bites his lip, flinching a little at her approach.
It takes awhile for her words to become a reality. "I- I came to say goodbye," she says at last, gruffly. "And - good luck, I guess."
She too knows what it's like to celebrate the person who was responsible - either directly or indirectly - for your children and your neighbor's children's deaths.
Peeta looks taken aback. He wasn't expecting this, surely. Then, cautiously, he nods. "Thank you."
"Just remember…" his mother trails off, her lips trying to figure out what else she wants to say. "Remember who - you are when you're out there. The other districts may not be the most compassionate, but - but Twelve is on your side."
And then she's gone. In that moment, I realize just who she is. Broken beyond repair. So scarred and damaged by life that she's hardly recognizable. Yet, somewhere, there's a part of her that remains. That was her way of telling our son that she's on his team in the best way that she could manage.
Peeta stares after her, and I can almost see the gears turning. Does he realize the significance of those few, rough words? How long it probably took her to work up the courage to do that? I hope so.
"That was awfully preachy, was it not?" A bit of his old, dry humor surfaces for just a moment.
"She's doing the best she can," I tell him. I'm quick to defend this small brave act. It was so uncharacteristic of her brute nature.
"What if I'm not good enough?" The question falls from his lips so quickly, so out of context, that I can tell it's been troubling him.
"You mean you're worried you can't make Katniss like you?"
"It's going to be so much harder this time because I know how much it hurts her to be kissing me. How can I make myself look head over heels when she's forcing herself to respond?"
"Peeta, I'm not good with words," I sigh. "I can't make you believe in yourself or inspire you in any way. All I know is that Katniss Everdeen has you looking out for her. Just… let it play out." The words sound choppy and pre-rehearsed. If only I had my son's gift. I could comfort, motivate, and empower him effortlessly. Instead, I have a few short sentences with nothing behind them. How inspirational.
"I'll see you at the Harvest Festival."
I give him a quick hug, then release him out into the frigid morning. The Victory Tour. Such an ironic name for game where there are no true victors.