Whoa, I'm writing again? Yes, I guess I am :) Enjoy!
The butterfly weaves its way around the violets at my feet, beatings its sapphire wings. I don't know how long I've been staring at it. All I know is that the blue of its wings against the rich purple of the flowers is beautiful, and it has been quite some time since I have seen beauty.
Spring is in full bloom, as evident by the throngs of wildflowers and the incessant chatter of birds. I say incessant as if I am annoyed. Perhaps I am. Mostly, I marvel at their ability to sing despite the bitter winter that has passed by.
As the butterfly flutters from one violet to another, I, not for the first time, wonder how much time has passed. I'm not even supposed to be out here. I had planned to spend the day in front of the fireplace, but on a whim, I had walked past the den and towards the door. And now I am out here, on a rock not too far from the Village, engrossed by a butterfly. I faintly remember Dr. Aurelies say something about attention problems. I decide not to care.
The butterfly flits closer. A sharp breath leaves me as it lands on my knee. Its wings pulse, once, twice, but it does not fly off.
"It's beautiful."
The voice causes the butterfly to flutter away. I cannot care less about its departure, despite having spent hours with it. I know that voice anywhere. And I must really be having attention problem if Peeta Mellark, of all people, is able to sneak up on me.
I turn my head and see him standing behind me, looking disappointed. "I'm sorry," he frowns. "I ruin everything, don't I?"
I don't respond. How am I even supposed to respond to something like that? I find myself searching for the boy I used to know, who always knew what to say, who could turn a bad day around with a smile. I turn away, the pain making my chest feel like it will collapse.
"Thought that I might draw it," he says. A moment passes, and I sense his hesitance. "Do you mind if I sit here?"
I feel my hands clench on the rock. Yes, Peeta, I do mind. I don't even know who you are, anymore. I don't even know if I am safe from you, anymore.
The butterfly flutters back into my view and I realize how horridly unfair I am being. He has been through hell and back. For me. Well, what's new? Who hasn't been through hell and back for me? Who hasn't suffered because of Katniss Everdeen?
And suddenly the guilt gives away to exhaustion. I feel my shoulders slump. The weight of it all is too heavy to bear.
Peeta is still waiting for an answer. I shift to give him some room, but say nothing. He sits down, and my breath catches. After months of solitary confinement, the feeling of another person pressed against my side is alien. I grip the rock, wishing it was bigger. I focus on breathing.
The butterfly is flying, now, looking for a spot to land. It finds a blooming violet near Peeta's feet. Peeta immediately starts to sketch. I abandon watching the butterfly to look at Peeta.
His eyelashes, light and long, catch the light of the sun. His eyes are fixed in steely determination, his hands are steady with the charcoal. If I try hard enough, I can almost trick myself into believing that he's back. The boy with the bread. He's here again.
"Was it like this before?" He's asking, softly. As though to not disturb the butterfly.
I lift my knees to my chest. Its considerably harder to sit like this, but balancing myself on the rock gives me something else to concentrate on than the memories rising like flames. I do not answer.
"I like it," he blurts out. "This, I mean. The quiet."
On a twist of fate, his last word causes the butterfly to fly away. He groans. "Douse myself in flower perfume next time," he's muttering under his breath. I have a strange urge to smile.
He has seen enough of the butterfly, apparently, since he keeps sketching. I go back to watching him. His blue eyes and pulsing lashes remind me of the butterfly. Do you know how much I miss you right now?
He suddenly looks up, making me start. He looks at me so long I snap, "What?"
"I just…want to remember," he offers vaguely, then turns back to his sketch. In a few minutes, he holds out the pad to me. "Done," he says.
I take the sketch in my hands. I shouldn't be surprised. I shouldn't expect anything less from Peeta, but I am taken off guard, anyway. Like I am each time, I suppose. The butterfly has been exactly replicated on paper, even the lines of its wings, the hairs on its head. The quality of the drawing holds more than pleasure to the eye; it speaks of hope. Only Peeta can draw like this. The old Peeta. I can only say, "It's beautiful."
Peeta is looking at his boots. "Like you," he says softly.
It takes me a moment to process what he says. And already I am walking away, from him, from his words.
Peeta is coming back. The old Peeta. My Peeta. I wonder if, perhaps, he never left.
I should be happy. And I am. But with Peeta comes his feelings. With his come my own. A certain four letter word I cannot even think about right now.
No matter how beautiful it might be.