Perspectives

His Best Friend

It pains me to see him like this, my best friend, my only remaining friend, turned into a dull shadow of himself. It's my eighteenth birthday today, and I'm spending it with him, just I have spent all other birthdays that I could remember. Only this time we're not laughing together on my front porch, or behind the counter at his father's bakery. I'm in District 13 and Peeta...well there are times when I don't even know where Peeta is.

I'm excused from my shift at Textiles this afternoon, not because President Coin is feeling particularly generous, but probably because she believes that I could be of greater use to the cause if I were to sit next to Peeta Mellark in the kitchen and get him through the hour without harming himself or others. I watch him silently as he determinedly mixes the batter as if his whole life depended on it, his brow furrowed in concentration, and his eyes darkened by the effort he is putting in it.

My birthday cake.

It kills me to think that, in actual fact, any hope he may have for a sane life does indeed depend on the progress he is finally making simply by going through the motions. His effort is heartbreaking, and I stop myself from helping him as he murmurs the steps and ingredients that he has known and replicated since childhood. His hands tremble ever so slightly as they hover mid-air while he second guesses something in his memory and there are times where he hesitates in his movements. The skin under my friend's eyes is tainted with purple and his face, so dear and familiar to me, is gaunt and pale. If it weren't for the fact that I have known him all my life, I would say that I am starting to forget what a smile from him actually looks like.

That isn't possible though. Peeta Mellark's smile has found its way too often in my dreams to be able to disappear from my memory any time in my lifetime.

But he is torn, broken and in so much pain. And he's still baking a cake, just for me.

He catches me staring at him from where I sit next to the counter in the kitchen, bare, stark and cold as everything else in the underground prison that is District 13. The Peeta of my childhood and early adolescence would have raised an eyebrow quizzically and grinned, not too surprised at catching me staring at him. His expression would also hold that apologetic look he always gets when he realises that he still remains the unwilling but still so grateful and sweet about it object of my affection. The Peeta that was returned to us following the Capitol administrations looks at me in suspicion and a spark of fear. My heart breaks.

"You're doing well," I whisper stopping myself from reaching for his hand. These past few weeks have taught me that it is still too early for unexpected and intrusive invasions of his personal space.

He frowns at me, and looks away sadly. "No I'm not, Dells," he whispers.

"Yes, you are," I insist. "Look at you, look at what you're doing now!"

"I'm baking a cake," he snaps at me angrily, "and it's going to taste awful, just warning you."

He's making it for me, and just for that it's going to be the best cake in the world.

"It's going to taste great," I reply, and something just hits me. "You remembered everything, even that extra spoonful of vanilla that no one but me knows you put there," I exclaim with a wide smile.

Peeta looks at me with narrowed eyes, trying to see if I'm messing around with him. But I'm not ... I really am not. All I want is for him to return to me.

"You should fight it, Peeta, fight what they did to you," I prod on gently.

"What do you think I'm doing?" he mutters. "What do you think I've been doing ever since I've been here?"