I Could've, I Should've
Chapter 1 – Paintbrush
"Well I can't explain why it's not enough
'Cause I gave it all to you
And if you leave me now, oh just leave me know
It's the better thing to do"
-James Morrison "Pieces Don't Fit Anymore"
AN: ... means a past event (in this case, a past "wish")
I hear cursing upstairs, as I close the front door, and slide off my hunting boots. I slough off my game bag, and place it down on the ground. It's been so many years that I don't have to search for where he is, I can determine exactly which room his voice is coming from with a small string of words.
He's in the room we have reserved for his paintings, probably holding the back of a chair, or cracking his paintbrush in two while staring at a brushstroke that shouldn't have happened, but did. Because of a flashback.
Even after three years, he still gets them. I tried to help him through them during the war, and it helped then, it got him through, and made him saner than I felt. But he insists that he'd rather squeeze the life out of a chair or paintbrush than my "small, little hands." He says my hands have been through enough over the years. I have come to understand that what he really means, is that he doesn't want to squeeze the life out of something more delicate than my hands. I don't blame him, because he's living with the monster that he's terrified of when he has a flashback.
So I don't go upstairs. I sit down in a chair at the kitchen table, and let out a deep breath.
Every flashback he has while painting, brings the same moment to the forefront of my mind. The same regret.
It's a moment that never happened, but it could've, and it should've.
I close my eyes, and let it overtake me, wishing desperately for it to be real.
...
Standing at the two-way glass, I can see Peeta in a hospital bed in District 13. His hands are hand cuffed tightly. I watch his fingers twitch, like electric wires zapped by lightning.
I leave the doctors' side, and Haymitch asks, "Where are you going?"
"I'll be back soon," I say. "Besides, he's not going anywhere any time soon." I immediately feel my cheeks burn with shame. Yeah, he's not going anywhere, even though his hijacking was to hurt me, not him. Yet, he's the one locked away, still suffering from images and uncertainty, not me.
I go to the Special Weapons department, and find Beetee and Gale sitting down, pointing at a large paper, and talking quickly. When they hear me come in they turn to assess the intruder. Beetee flashes me a quick smile before turning back to their new design, but Gale just stares at me warily. I know he's wondering what I'm going to say.
"What can we do for you Katniss?" Beetee asks me distractedly when he determines that Gale and I aren't going to initiate a conversation.
"I was wondering where you guys got your drawing materials...and if you think I could get some?" I ask.
I can feel the tension in the air, so I don't ask what Gale and Beetee drawing. Our fight a few days ago was one of the few times I've ever voiced my concerns over Gale's rage at the Capitol, and he was either unprepared for my stance, or was thrown off kilter when I wasn't on his side.
"On the 15th floor, there's a room with office supplies," Beetee says. "Room 1538, if I remember correctly. They have a printer inside that room and some cabinets. You'll find rudimentary materials like these in there." He briefly lifts the paper they are using for their blueprints.
"Thanks, Beetee."
"What are you drawing, Catnip?" Gale surprises me. His face is tight, and dejected.
"It's not for me," I say awkwardly. I look at the ground, at the tables in the room, at their drawing, anywhere but Gale's eyes.
From the corner of my eye, I see him give me a slow nod, and without another word, he turns around and resumes his conversation with Beetee.
He knows whom the materials are for. He probably knew before he asked. I try to brush aside the pang of guilt twisting my insides, and make my way to the stairs.
We're on the 20th floor, and I dislike elevators, especially ones that are underground, so I decide to walk upstairs and descend down. It's a strange feeling walking upstairs with the numbers decreasing instead of increasing, but that's what happens when you go underground I guess.
I finally find Room 1538, and scour the cabinets until I've got several large sheets of white paper and pencils filled with colored lead. They didn't have any paint, or canvases, but maybe this will help.
I make my way to Peeta's room, my steps becoming quicker and more confident the closer I get. "Can I take these into him?" I ask Haymitch.
He raises an eyebrow at me, before exchanging a glance with Peeta's head doctor, and opening the door for me.
"Be nice," he grunts.
Peeta's eyes widen, and his hands grab onto his sheets and twist at them. He's probably scared I'm the mutt in his flashbacks. He's probably wondering if I plan on attacking him with the colored pencils.
I purse my lips, and walk inside. Haymitch closes the door, and I can practically hear all the frantic handwriting on the other side of the glass.
"What do you want?" he asks me tersely.
"I brought you these."
He doesn't say anything, he doesn't even move a muscle in his face to look at what I brought. Maybe this wasn't a good idea...
"I couldn't find any canvas, or paint," I continue, my voice unsure, "but I thought you might be able to sketch."
Again, he doesn't say anything, but he does look at what I brought. It's strange to hear him so mute. I shift my feet nervously, and avert my eyes around the room.
After a couple minutes, I let my eyes land on his again, and surprisingly find them bluer. I take an unconscious step forward, and he visibly tenses. The blue in his eyes vanishes. His hands start twisting at the sheets again, and his face contorts against his will.
It feels like I've got a rock in my stomach, seeing him move so unnaturally, because of me. So I step back to where I was.
"Sorry," I whisper. I turn around, and walk back towards the door, still clutching the drawing materials. I feel...defeated.
"Katniss" I hear his voice croak out. It's weak and shaky, but the tone is a touch softer than when he first addressed me.
I turn my neck so I can see his face.
"Why?" he asks with a confused look.
"Because...it helped you once."
His eyes fade as he searches his memories for the truth in my words, so I slowly make my way to the table by his bed, lay down the materials, and walk out of his room.
...
It never happened, but it could've, and I don't want to live with any more regrets. So I dig through Peeta's surplus art supplies, pull out a new paintbrush, and walk upstairs. I knock on the door.
"You can come in now, Katniss," he says. It's barely audible, but not from the door blocking the sound.
I open the door, and find him slumped on the ground. Wood splinters from his paintbrush are scattered around him, and the floor has fresh splotches of paint from where the brush fell when he snapped it. I sit down beside him, and wordlessly hand him a new paintbrush.
He tries to smile as he takes it, but it falls short and stretches into a pained frown.
"Hey, no," I say, positioning myself directly in front of him and taking his face in my hands. He refuses to look at me, but I keep talking because I know he wants to believe my words even more than I do. "He didn't take you from me, because you're still here. He tried his hardest, but it wasn't enough."
His blue eyes look at me with an agonizingly, hopeful expression, and he slowly slides his hands over my wrists, holding them gently but tightly. We stay like that for a long time, before he finally feels stable enough to lean in, and kiss my lips.
AN: Reviews are greatly appreciated!