The halls of The Juilliard School always seemed to buzz with activity. People from all walks of life wandered to and from various buildings carrying book bags and dance bags, guitar cases, or scripts depending on the nature of their studies. During any given time various sounds could be heard just beyond the doors of crowded classrooms and the students participating wouldn't have had it any other way. Passionate monologues, inspired strums of a guitar, and perfectly executed rhythmic movements were the soundtrack to life. All of it was everything any Juilliard student could have ever dreamed of. In this space others, who knew what distinct dedication and passion felt like when it burned in the chest, surrounded them all. They found comfort, they found friendship, in those who loved dance, love theater, or loved music as much as the person standing beside them.

It was Peeta Mellark's life, as he knew it, as he had known it for as long as he could remember. He'd been pouring himself into the deliberate strums he made on his guitar all of his life. Every flick of his fingers was purposeful when it came to the melodies he'd mastered on the piano. All of his life he'd been musical and, as a result, had felt out-of-place. A childhood spent in outskirts of Kentucky didn't allow many opportunities to expand on a talent his Father insisted he'd possessed since birth. He'd given him every opportunity he could, nurtured him, ignited his desire to continue to learn, and encouraged him despite the constant arguments from his Mother. Slowly, as his childhood had ticked by, others began to recognize his abilities. With two older brothers, he'd always had an eager and willing audience and they had pushed him to break out, escape from underneath the power of their Mother, away from the family business, and make recognition of his talent happen. It was as if they understood his need to get his music out there more than even he could articulate.

He wanted to write. He wanted to stand in the shadows and watch someone else sing his songs. Songs inspired by happiness and love. Songs inspired by pain and loss. He knew every feeling, had felt each one, and had been putting them down on paper since he'd figured out how to string a sentence together. His brothers were the source of all the happiness in his life and they had been since their Father had died ten years before. Ten years earlier he'd been rocked to the core when his Father's life had been taken so ruthlessly and without regard to the family that would be left to live on without him. That was the root of his pain, the sadness in his songs. Writing was his therapy, writing made it easier to live.

The highlight of his adolescence had come when he'd been accepted to the Bachelor of Music program at Juilliard five and a half years earlier. With a concentration in Composition he'd been given the opportunity to really dedicate every moment to his craft. His four undergraduate years had been the best of his life, meeting people just like him and improving on his skills. He'd even found his place in a band quickly, though he didn't do much of the singing. Finnick Odair was just about as egotistical as any lead singer had to be in order to be a convincing front man. He was the personality, the draw, the voice…and Peeta was more than happy to supply the material. They'd become friends, family really, and he knew his friend would be ecstatic when in, six months time, they would finally be able to relocate to Los Angeles.

They were working on putting a demo together and LA was the place where big things could happen for them. He didn't want to leave but once he completed his Masters degree…there was no need to stay anymore. Six blissful, inspiring years where he grew more than he thought imaginable were enough. It would soon be time for him to find the success he'd been working toward all of his life. Even if the band didn't get very far together, he knew it was their foot in the door. It was his shot, his chance to have his voice be heard. To prove that it hadn't been for nothing, to honor the sacrifices his Father had made, and to show his Mother that she'd been wrong all along.

Still, he knew it would be difficult to leave and that's why he'd been spending so much of his time taking in those around him. Watching each person with an inquisitive eye and attempting to walk a mile in their shoes. He was an artist; he was always trying to discover the voice of a stranger in his music. He wanted to tell everyone's story, not just his own. His own personal mission had led him to her. He'd stumbled upon her beauty, her grace, her talent on accident. The previous spring he'd been selected by a panel of Professors to take part in Julliard's Composers and Performer's spring concert. On the evening of the concert, just after he'd finished tuning his guitar in one of the many acoustically suitable hallways, he'd walked past a seemingly empty rehearsal room. Except it wasn't empty, she was there, warming her voice as she paced back and forth. In simple dark denim jeans and an orange top, she'd caught his eye. She'd been catching his eye ever since.

He knew her name. He only knew it because on that same evening she'd sang on the same stage he'd played on. A simple piece, accompanied by only a piano, but a piece he'd known she'd been completely devoted to. He'd watched her from the wings as she'd left her heart out on that stage. The strength in her voice, the vulnerability in her eyes, and the sound of the entire auditorium silencing the minute she'd opened her mouth. All of it had made his chest tighten. Every feeling he'd ever tried to convey through his music had found a home in her voice, in an instant. Even his brothers had been impressed. They'd shoved the program into his face after meeting him backstage later that evening and demanded to whether he knew the Katniss Everdeen that had performed. He didn't know her, though. Not personally, just the way she sang…and the way it made him feel alive.

At the start of the term he'd been walking out of a meeting with Professor Abernathy, who had been giving him some feedback on one of his demo recordings, when he'd heard the familiar sound of music coming from a room further down the hall. It wasn't unusual to hear many different sounds coming from several different rooms but on that particular evening it had been so late that the ethereal sound had been the only noise present. He'd walked toward it and peeked into the room at the end of the hall. And instantly he'd been taken back to the emotional place he'd gone to on the evening of that spring concert. Her gray eyes had danced with the melody coming from the speakers and as she'd executed each note with a seemingly effortless perfection. Her voice had been so wrought emotion it was as if singing were an act of purification. He'd been coming back every night since to watch her, to try to get into her head, into her heart, and understand what drove her to those emotionally overwhelming sounds. He didn't want to know a life that didn't understand why Katniss Everdeen hurt the way she did, loved the way she did, sang the way she did.

It was early evening now, the sun was setting and amazing variations of burnt oranges and pale pinks were painting the room she sang in. Her dark hair had been pulled back into a braid, and her fingers toyed with the end of it as she studied a piece of sheet music. The light casting across her face made her look like the angel she already sounded like. Every one of the notes she sang flowed from her mouth with uninhibited effort, and as she reached moved easily from one verse to the next he wondered if she felt like she was breaking free. He desperately wanted to hear her sing his words, give them life. He wanted to know her well enough to capture her own thoughts and set them to music. He wanted to play her his music and watch her feel what he felt when he heard her sing. He just didn't know how to say it without sounding like a creep, without making her want to run in the opposite direction.

"I thought I might find you here," his head snapped up and in the direction of the familiar voice of his best friend and band mate. "Peet, if she catches you staring at her like you are…"

"I'm not staring," he insisted with a shake of his head. "You don't understand…"

"I understand plenty," Finnick interjected as he set his hand on his best friends shoulder. "Stalking…"

"I'm not stalking!"

"Stalking her is not going to get you into her bed."

"I'm truly a lesser man for putting up with you," Peeta rolled his eyes as he retrieved the guitar he'd been playing before she'd brushed past him in the hall hours earlier. "Let's get out of here before she catches you being an idiot."

"Oh, okay, I'm the idiot," Finnick agreed sarcastically as they moved away from the room and down the hall. "I just don't know why you try; she doesn't talk to anybody…"

"With a voice like that, who needs talking?" Peeta questioned with a shrug before looking to his friend once more. "She's amazing, you know."

"Amazingly private," Finnick answered simply with a nod. Peeta laughed at his friend before stopping short of the hall's main exit. He'd been in such a hurry to usher Finnick away from her that he'd forgotten to retrieve his guitar case.

"I forgot my case," he announced.

"Like that was an accident," Finnick called after him with a laugh as he walked back down the hall.

Hoping to catch just one glimpse of her he walked toward the room she'd been in after grabbing his case. When he saw it was empty he sat down on the stairs, opening his case and setting his guitar inside. Maybe Finnick was right about everything, maybe he was becoming far too attached to the girl he didn't really know. Maybe she was just a really good singer; maybe there was nothing more to it than that. He couldn't shake the feeling, though, that they were kindred. Their pain was similar; he could feel it deep inside. The purpose of their art was the same, to free themselves from ache.

"I was wondering whose case that was," it was a voice he'd know anywhere even though he'd never heard it other than in melody before. Looking up from his guitar he followed the length of her legs with his blue eyes before focusing on her face. The red blouse she wore made the gray in her eyes pop and he could have sworn he felt his heart skip a beat. If given the opportunity he knew he could stare into her eyes forever.

"Yeah," he finally managed to answer as he closed the case and snapped it shut. "I guess I'm so used to carrying the guitar around that I forget about the case."

"Are you in the music program here?"

"Yeah, Master of Music, Composition concentration," he replied as he stood up.

"You're really lucky, I would give anything to stay here for another two years and continue to sing," she declared with a smile that he thought seemed sad. "Fourth year, Vocal Arts."

"I…you don't need two more years," Peeta stated simply.

"You've heard me sing?" she questioned with a curious gleam illuminating her eyes. How happiness looked on her was astounding to him. As good as she was she looked surprised, flattered, that someone had recognized her talent.

"I realize that sounds mildly stalker-ish," he answered with an awkward laugh before continuing. "I saw you perform at the Spring Showcase. It was…wow. I mean, even my brothers, who know nothing about music…they were…impressed"

"Thanks," she nodded, biting back on her lip, before extending her hand. "Katniss Everdeen."

"Peeta Mellark," he took her hand in his own and shook it slowly, wanting to maintain the contact for as long as possible. It was like an electric shock, he felt the intensity she possessed flowing through him now. He was feeling a little bit of the woman she really was inside of him. "Your performance that night…It really was just…I can't believe…it was really, really amazing. I've never heard anything that a…"

"Amazing?" she finished his sentence for him before letting out a nervous laugh and dropping his hand. Her laugh, her laugh was like a standing ovation after an amazing set. It made him feel like he could do anything, be anything. "I'm flattered, thank you."

"You're welcome."

"I'm sorry to say that I haven't heard you play before," she confessed with a gentle smile.

"I'll play for you…anytime," he promised. If his best friend had been around at that very moment he would have laughed at how eager he sounded, but he didn't care. He wanted her to see him for who he really was, hear the parts of him he only revealed in his music. It was crazy, he didn't even know her, but he knew that she would appreciate who he really was more than anyone else could. "Just tell me when and where."

"Really?" she inquired, her smile widening when he nodded. "I'll have to catch a performance sometime…"

"That would be great," he interjected with a laugh. He could almost feel his cheeks turning pink. How was a complete stranger able to have this effect of him? It didn't make sense, and he was beginning to think it didn't matter. "We, my band and I, we usually perform at the Bell House, the bar on Seventh. We're pretty much there every weekend."

"I know where that is," she stated as she tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. "I'm a bartender at Barcelona Bar most nights but maybe I could work something out; as long as you don't mind that I'm all sweaty and smelling of smoke when I get there."

"Sweaty doesn't bother me at all," he declared before shaking his head back and forth in disbelief. What was happening to him? "Again…that sounds so much creepier out loud."

"No, I'm almost always working at the bar so I'm always sweaty and smell of smoke, I'm glad it doesn't bother you," she laughed gently as she reached up and started toying with the end of her braid. Again, the sound made his heart jump. It was every melody he'd ever attempted to put down on paper, it was every strum of his guitar, and it was everything the artist inside of him wanted to be. It was a reason to smile, a reason to breathe.

"So, tomorrow night, we go on at 9."

"I'll find someone to cover the last part of my shift," she commented with a nod.

"We could meet here before, around 8…head over together," he suggested before quickly continuing. "I mean, if you want…"

"That would be…good," she agreed as she rocked back on her heels before glancing at her watch. "It's getting late, I should go."

"Yeah, of course," he concurred hurriedly. "So, tomorrow, 8 o'clock, right here."

"Right here, right…right here," she affirmed biting on her bottom lip once again. "Goodnight, Peeta," she waved before turning on her heel and walking down the hall.

"See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, tomorrow," she replied with a slight blush before disappearing around the corner.

He eased himself back down on the stair before cupping the back of his head in his hands. He hadn't expected meeting her for the first time to go that way at all. It had been awkward and comfortable at the same time, if that was even possible, and if she'd asked him to he would have played for her right then. There was more to her story, he knew that, and he wanted to know all of it. He wanted to know why her eyes sparkled the way they did when she talked and why each time he'd mentioned her talent she seemed like she couldn't believe he was really complementing her.

Most of all, though, he wanted to know if she'd felt what he had when they'd held each others hands. His palm was still on fire; he could still feel her on his fingertips. It felt like the beginning of something great...like discovering an amazing melody. When an artist stumbled upon their own artistic greatness, their entire soul lit up with excitement. Peeta felt like he was glowing from the inside out and he knew that their own personal song had just begun and the possibilities, as with anything spectacular, were endless. He could only hope that she felt the same.