Author's note:

So I was interested in taking a little look into Peeta's mind, particularly since Katniss is narrow-minded in her view of the world, especially when suffering from depression. I may write some more from his POV, but for now, here is a short drabble :3 Enjoy.

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I swirl my paintbrush through the mixture of browns and blues and greens, and close my eyes.

I found her at a lake this morning. It was cold, and a long way out, but she was in nothing more than a thin nightgown and shawl, staring into nothingness. She didn't talk.

I've been back for 3 weeks, but it feels like longer. Too long. Time has ceased to have meaning. Sometimes I think we are going to be stuck like this forever- her silent and as cold as a statue, Haymitch drowning in a puddle of liquor and me, here, losing my mind.

It's as if she's died.

I grip onto the edge of the table, the wood weak and breakable under my hold, and try to slow my breathing. This has to stop. I can't go on like this.

It's confusing. There are still times when I see the Mutt, when I'm terrified and angry and I wake up to smashed dishes and shattered glass at my feet, shivering in a sheet of cold sweat. But there are more times when I look at her, and I look at her pale face and flat eyes and chapped lips, and I feel it. Like an ocean of different emotions, I find myself drowning in-

Despair? Sorrow? Want?

I turn and start to smear the colours across the blank, empty canvas. First blue. Light crystal blue, for where the dawn had begun to bounce off the water. Then grey. A little brown, a little mauve, and then there's the darkness, the lingering residue of the night.

And finally, black. Black for her hair, for the shadows underneath her eyes, for her pupils and irises. Black for her lashes and the curve of her sharp jaw and the parting between her lips.

Black is how I feel right now.

A memory comes back to me, one from a distant lifetime, another person. That boy that thought she loved him back, before enduring the sharp whip of rejection, and watched her for six whole months from this house, these windows, thinking that he understood pain.

No one understands it. And if they do, it has probably already killed them.

I sigh and stand back from the canvas when something moves in my peripheral vision. I turn and look out the window, across the paving and into her kitchen, and then I see her.

Still in her nightgown. Still too thin and with hair matted and oily. But there is a fire in her eyes now, a little bit of a flush in her cheeks, in her rigid posture and pursed lips. My heart races. I've missed angry Katniss.

And then her eyes snap to mine, through both of our windows, and a jolt shoots through my centre. I step back in shock, and it's as though I've been pushed, stumbling from the blow.

Her eyes are grey, like mist and a thundercloud and smoke. And they pierce me with their aliveness.

I move back, hidden in the shadows, but I can still see the way her brows furrow in surprise, then something else, and she brings the glass of water to her lips. I watch her throat bob as she swallows, a drop of water escaping and trickling down the middle of her bottom lip. I want to reach across to her, through the windows and miles of distance between us, and I want to hold her again.

But I settle for waiting until she leaves the kitchen, and then I turn back to the painting.

Maybe one day I can show her these. I can show her all these paintings and sketches and doodles of her, of her expression, of the blankness in her eyes, and then maybe she'll see how I feel about her. Because really, my feelings are written all over them, hidden in my brushstrokes.

But not now.

Now I must take one step at a time, one step closer to her, through the distance that lies between us, because if I don't I have nothing to live for. I must pace myself, learn the way to her heart again, to those warm smiles and scarlet stained cheeks and perceptive eyes – that still keep me up at night, when the darkness closes in on me and I can't breathe and I think I'm going to die - and I must keep on living, keep on loving her in the only way I know how. Because she is my saving grace. Because she is my dying wish.

And the war may be over, but I'm not done fighting.

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Not gonna lie, I love that sentence^.

Anyway, for those who are reading this I was wondering if anyone would be interested in beta-ing "Before Dawn", the story from which this stems. If you are, please just PM me or leave a comment in the reviews, I'd love to hear from you.

And if you have a spare moment, I will forever love you if you leave a review...

Thanx for reading!