Yep. I'm still kinda caught up in this whole PiP inspirational trip and I'm riding it out for as long as it lasts... sorry, people.

Disclaimer: The Hunger Games and all the characters in this fic are the property of Suzanne Collins.

Enjoy!

He stared at her in awe as the smoke dissipated.

The world dissipated.

Time stopped.

It was just him and her.

It was her!

Before him, stood a visage he'd only beheld once before, on an occasion fueled by the adrenaline of mortification mixed with the innocence only a four-year-old with more guts than commonsense could possess, yes. But, he decidedly remembered this pose, this demureness – this overwhelming regality.

The book had been ancient, forbidden- he was certain. He'd had no idea as to the why or how it had come to be in that dilapidated, dust-covered portmanteau in his family's attic. He'd only been up there on a stupid dare from his second oldest brother. At four, he still worshiped both his elder siblings to a fault.

Many beatings over the years would wean him of this failing, but at this point, they held deity status to him. So, if Rye declared him a coward, were he not to venture into a pitch black, creaky, musky, cobweb-invested realm of nightmares – guess who was suckering his paunchy little legs up those rickety old ladders with nothing but a candle to fend off the monsters the aforementioned swore resided within?

Of course, the baker's second born hadn't followed. Perish the thought.

No. He'd tasked his baby brother with bringing back a spoil to prove his act of bravery. Therefore, the moment the little towhead made it to the top of the steps, he took a frantic look around into what looked to him as a cavernous vault (but in reality was a suffocating, cramped belfry). Not finding anything due to the pitifully short range the candlelight afforded, he took a few tentative steps to his immediate left and that's when the light cast its ugly, distorted glare on the chest.

Placing the candle carefully on the floor beside the box and as far away from it as possible to keep the cobwebs from catching fire, he settled on his knees to stare at it for a moment. It was white with dust and had a latch like the belts his daddy wore, so he figured it shouldn't be too difficult to open. However, the moment he did undo the latch and raised the lid, the amount of dust that was displaced into the surrounding atmosphere had him coughing and choking to the point of tears.

After rubbing his eyes and waiting for the dust to settle on the floor and everything else around him, his own person included, he finally shifted forward on his haunches to get a proper look inside. There was nothing of particular interest, just some old clothes, items his young mind could not place use for and a thick yellowed hardcover book with frayed edges and red-lined pages. Paranoia causing him to think he'd heard his mother's footsteps approaching – even then, a greater threat than even the monsters in this catacomb – he quickly grabbed for the book, closed the lid to the chest without bothering with the clasp and grabbed the candle.

He made a mad dash down the ladder with the book, surprising even himself at his coordination, considering his handicap at being one-handed. As an afterthought, he remembered to shove the ladder up with all the strength his four-year-old build could muster; thus triggering the pulley that propelled the steps up and closed the door behind them, effectively hiding any evidence of his foraging expedition.

The baker's youngest ran as quickly as his stubby legs could carry him into the room he shared with his older brother, the smile splitting his cherubic features so triumphant; it could have been noticeable clear across the Seam.

Not a second after clearing the doorjamb, he'd propelled himself onto Rye's bed, book in hand. "I got proof. You can never say I'm chicken again. Now you gotta be my slave for a week. That's the deal."

The five-year-old could only stare back slack-jawed and wide-eyed. He'd never thought the runt would actually go up there. He'd just wanted to get rid of his annoying little brother.

"What'd you make him do now, Rye?"

Both children turned to find the eldest of the baker's children – the only one who did not reside in that room – making his way onto the bed to join them.

Making what could possibly be the worst attempt at looking innocent, the Mellark middle child avoided eye contact with his elder sibling as he snorted out, "Don't look at me. I didn't think he'd be stupid enough to really go up there."

This, of course, was answered by a very swift and not very soft smack to the back of the aforementioned's head. "Don't call Peeta stupid, Rye. What did you make him do?"

Rubbing the sore spot and holding back tears, the five-year-old circumvented the question altogether, pointing an accusing finger at the boy who'd accosted him. "I'm telling Mom on you, Flax."

Rolling his nearly purple eyes at the idle threat, the seven-year-old decided on a different tactic. He turned his attention to his baby brother who clasped a book that almost encompassed his whole torso with both arms to his chest. "What did the crybaby make you do, Peeta?"

The little boy looked from one older sibling to the sniffling other one before vehemently shaking his head. This caused the eldest of the three to let out a frustrated breath before entreating, "Okay, then. Do you want me to read you that book?"

As the older boy planned, this brought an excited spark to his baby brother's eyes and he nodded eagerly. At four, the kid was showing signs of high intelligence, but he hadn't started school yet. He couldn't read. And certainly, not a tome as big as his bloody head.

Setting the heavy book down in front of his older brother, Peeta shifted so that he was sitting beside him on the bed so he could have a better look inside as his brother opened it. He noted the second oldest did the same- albeit, a little begrudgingly.

"Okay, the book is titled 'Collective Masterpieces Through the Ages'," he paused here to quirk a questioning eyebrow at his youngest sibling. "Where did you get this, Peeta."

Distracted and absorbed by the depiction of a landscape in the first page, the baker's youngest merely shrugged, answering flippantly, "In the attic. In a stinky old chest. Rye said I was chicken if I didn't go."

Sending a death glare at his second youngest brother on his opposite side, Flax ground out from between clenched teeth, "Oh, did he, now? That's funny. Did he mention what Mom would do to you if she found you up there?" The Mellark middle child shrunk so far into himself, his back actually cracked involuntarily at the gesture.

Peeta's response was another aloof shrug, already turning the page to another painting. There were very few words in the book. It was mostly paintings… beautiful paintings of all kinds- people, landscapes, objects. Some were so real it felt like he could reach in and grab them, while others seamed as if they were from dreams, distorted and nonsensical.

Then, as he continued flipping through the pages, he found her.

She was so pretty. She looked shy. She looked… ethereal.

That was all he could commit to memory of the painting before his oldest brother snapped the book closed amidst the cacophony of laughter coming from Rye. He was angry and confused, but before he could complain to his eldest brother about his actions, he was derailed by a nearly-choking Rye. "Did you see that? She was naked! Why would Mom and Dad have a book with paintings of naked people in the attic?"

This confounded Peeta even further. He hadn't even registered what the girl in the painting had been wearing. He'd just noticed her… her essence, her very mien had called to him.

Even at the tender age of four, Peeta came to two realizations at that moment. One was that his second oldest brother might be an idiot. The second was… He was simultaneously cursed and blessed with a very unique ability.

He could see beyond what people chose to show…

Blinking a few times to break away from his reverie, the seventeen-year-old focused once more on the beautiful young woman on stage before him.

She'd changed her body position now and Caesar was tentatively touching the feathers of her still-smoldering dress, asking her questions about it.

An edge of his lip quirked up at the tragically ironic humor.

He'd learned years later the name and the subject matter of that picture he'd seen when he was four. Though Flax made sure to return the book to the attic with instructions, he should never go up there again. (He was never particularly good at following inconvenient orders.)

Small wonder what he'd just witnessed evoked a memory of it.

Leave it to him to fall in love with his psyche's interpretation of the mortal doppelganger to a mythological, unattainable deity.

Nothing he ever did could possibly ever be simple, after all.

Fin

A/N: I know! Evelark is not my thing. Don't kill me. LOL! On the extremely off-chance you liked this…

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