1.
The first time Peeta painted her - not just drew her - he was 8. The paint was nothing but smushed up berries and a little bit of food colouring he'd snuck from the kitchen, and he knew he'd get the spanking of a lifetime if his mom found out. But it didn't matter; that wouldn't stop him. He would paint her anyway.
He huddled under his bed, the small candle he'd managed to find in the old, wooden cupboard in their small lounge room lighting the immature smears across the paper. The paintbrush itself was crude, one he'd twined together with a stick and some of the soft, fluttery leaves from the bush in the yard behind the bakery. But he dipped it in the small container, coating it in the black mixture he'd spent ages getting right, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated. This was the last bit he had to finish, and he had to make sure the colour of her hair was perfect - the dark black that looked like the coal he saw on the miners faces, or the bottom of a loaf of bread that had been burned.
When it was done, and the paint had dried, Peeta held it up to the window, looked as the sunlight filtered through the thin piece of paper, setting it aglow. And he thought Katniss Everdeen looked beautiful.
2.
He couldn't shake the image from his mind - it felt like it was permanently sealed into his brain. Her body, curled up and frail in the pouring rain, mud splattering the jacket he knew had been her father's, the hair he loved a bedraggled braid that lay lank along her shoulder. Her face was thin, the cheeks sunken and lips almost purple from cold. Peeta hated himself for days afterwards - that he'd done nothing more than throw the bread at her, that he hadn't gone out to her, that he hadn't given her more.
These days, his brushes were real, and he'd requested them for his twelfth birthday. He knew they were from his father - his mother wouldn't have cared less, he knew that - and he cherished them. He cleaned and dried them painstakingly after every use, packed them away lovingly in the sturdy wooden box that they'd come in.
Today the bristles were streaked with blue and grey and brown, as he tried as hard as he could to paint the image inside his head away. He muttered to himself when her eyes were the wrong shade, when he couldn't seem to capture the bleakness properly. It wasn't cold enough, didn't chill him to the bones like he deserved it to.
He knew all about 'deserving' things. His mother taught him that often enough.
It took him another three days before he got it right. And it pained him that the light that had seemed to emanate from her had disappeared along with her father.
3.
Fire. Fire all around her - twisting, snaking, swirling. Ashes fluttered in the air, settled on the stage, on her hair and arms. But it was the orange and gold and scarlet flames that sprung up from her dress, engulfing her, surrounding her, that drew the attention. Except for her eyes. Peeta couldn't look anywhere except the smoky grey eyes that seemed to stare back at him.
Over the last six months, he'd painted his nightmares, and he'd painted the games.
He'd painted his dreams, and he'd painted her.
"I'm still sorry I told you I hated them."
He half turned to see her in the doorway of the carriage. The thin sleep gown drowned her, highlighting the weight she'd lost since the tour had begun, and her eyes were tired and sad.
"Don't be. I hate them too," Peeta muttered.
Katniss shook her head. "No, Peeta. I hate - I hate what they represent. But I still think they're amaz-" she broke off as she stepped closer, saw the painting that had been half hidden by his body. "You, uh...you didn't show me that one the other day." She reached a finger out, traced it along a long plume of fire that rose from her skirt. "This doesn't look...I mean...this isn't me."
He shook his head. "It's you, Katniss. It's how everyone saw you, how I saw you. How I see you. You're magnificent."
She blushed and looked away, curling her fingertips and tugging on the hem of her nightgown. "Don't hide this one away, Peeta," she whispered before she fled from the car.
Later, when her cries in the night called to him and he slid between cool sheets to soothe her, he promised himself that he wouldn't.
4.
Therapy, they called it. It will help you remember, help you to get better, they'd said.
Load of bullshit, more like it.
He knew they only gave him one paintbrush instead of two or three so that he couldn't hide one to use as a weapon later. He knew they only let him paint if he agreed to his hands being bound, and he knew he would never get to use an easel. That would be far too easy for him to grasp in his arms and hit someone with.
No never mind that the body he'd strengthened for the Games had been whittled away to a mere shadow of itself. That had probably been her intention all along, the stupid mutt. Build him up, only to tear him down in the end.
During his 'therapy' he used green the most, even though he didn't want to. Something told him it was related to her, but not even that could stop him. It was like a compulsion, like he had to use it. So the streaks of paint across the thick, coarse District Thirteen paper were in shades of lime and emerald and the deep, dark green of the trees that surrounded Twelve.
Even when he began to smear it with black, with red, with the colours that seemed to fill him inside, all he could see was the green. All he could see was her.
He knew then, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was Katniss' favourite. And he hated it.
5.
At first she'd flat out refused when he asked her, had screwed up her nose and bluntly told him 'No way, Mellark'. He hadn't been discouraged, though.
A few days later when he'd brought it up again, immediate refusal was tempered by curiosity, and she'd asked him to explain a little more. He'd done so, in graphic detail.
The third time he asked, she was intrigued enough to say yes.
The next week, when the sun was bright and the rain of the last few days had passed, they trudged out to the lake, and he set up his paintbox on the blanket they spread out in the long grass. Katniss knelt down first, before lying on her back and fumbling with the buttons of the old shirt of his that she wore. He could sense her nerves, wanted to calm them.
"Here," he said quietly, reaching over and slipping the last few free before pressing his lips lightly to her fingertips. She wore a simple tank underneath the shirt, and he slowly rolled it up until it rested just underneath her breasts. Her large rounded belly, the olive skin smooth and stretched over the growing child inside, was his canvas.
The idea had come to him, unbidden, one night, and once he'd thought of it, he couldn't unthink it. He'd researched for weeks, making sure that the paints he used were safe, before approaching Katniss. He knew she'd be wary, possibly think him crazy. And she had.
But she'd still said yes.
He painted her then, smooth, featherlight strokes with the brushes Effie had sent as a gift. He concentrated, and watched as Katniss slowly fell asleep beneath him, as he brought the lake and the surrounding mountains to life on her flesh. Occasionally, the baby - he was 100% certain it was a girl - would shift under his touch, and he'd marvel at the sight of a heel, or the clear imprint of a fist, against Katniss' skin.
He decided then and there it was the best painting of Katniss he'd ever done.