Okay, I know that this story has been done about a million times... but not by me. So this is my take on it.
My brows are woven together like someone had stitched them that way, my frown of concentration never leaving the partially-completed painting before me.
It's hard to get the lighting just right, as it takes place in the early morning. Maybe if I just add...
I remove the paintbrush from my chin, unaware that it had been there in the first place, and dip it inside my favorite color: sunset (or in this case, sunrise) orange.
I dab bits of the paint along the outline of the subject of my work, illuminating the face of the sixteen-year-old version of Katniss.
It's a picture of her from our first Games, when we went hunting together. With her bow raised, the rising sun giving the girl on fire an unearthly glow that strangely suited her, I couldn't help but notice how truly beautiful she looked. Not that she never looks that way, of course.
Thinking of Katniss makes me glance down at my left hand. The golden band of thirteen years upon my fourth finger has flecks of green and gray on it, two colors that make me miss my wife all the more.
Katniss has gone to visit her mother in District Four for the week. I've been occupying my time well enough, but as made apparent by the large portrait I am currently making of her, I can't wait for her to get back.
I suddenly hear the great creak of the front door being opened. Could that be...
My brush falls to the floor as I race downstairs. Sure enough, there stands my wife just inside the door, bags still in hand.
"Welcome home," I say, greeting her with a nice long kiss.
I've definitely missed being able to do that.
After we break apart, I add, "I wasn't expecting you back until tomorrow."
"My mother found me an earlier train," Katniss replies.
She seems rather unhappy about this fact.
"Why so disappointed in seeing your husband early?" I tease.
Katniss appears to miss the joke. "It's not that," she says absently as we make our way into the study. "My mother and I were just discussing some... interesting things."
"Like what?" I ask curiously.
Katniss' voice lowers to a mumble that I can barely comprehend. "Headaches, cravings, mood swings..."
All these things swirl around in my head, trying to put themselves together. "Katniss?"
For the first time since her return, those deep gray eyes lock onto mine. "Peeta, we're going to have a baby."
And all the pieces fall into place at last.
My smile is so huge it almost hurts. I instantly gather my wife up into a hug. "That's wonderful, Katniss!"
I only pull away when I realize the embrace is not being returned.
I hold her out at arm's length, studying her worried expression closely. "Is there something wrong with that?"
Somehow, this simple question is what sets Katniss over the edge.
She falls into a nearby armchair and cradles her face in her hands as she bursts into tears. "I'm not ready!" she sobs. "I know you've always wanted kids, and I wished so badly that I did, too. But every time I see a child, it's like staring straight in the face of Prim or Rue. This baby could be gone just as easily as them! I don't think I could bear being responsible for another innocent victim."
Suddenly I see where her fears are coming from.
I kneel down beside Katniss, using one hand to hold hers, and the other to grasp the side of her face. I use the pad of my thumb to wipe away her tears.
People tell me that I have a great gift with language, but something tells me that a bunch of fancy words won't be enough to get through to her. So I decide upon a much more direct approach.
"Let's play real or not real."
Katniss' head snaps up in surprise at my unusual request. "Peeta, wh-"
"Let's play real or not real," I repeat, but firmer this time.
With a microscopic nod of the head, Katniss reluctantly complies.
Thus the game we have played so many times before begins. Only this time it's not for my benefit, but for Katniss'.
"The rebellion is over, and the Capitol has fallen. Real or not real?"
Katniss has no idea where this is going, but she still replies, "Real."
"Snow and Coin are both dead. Real or not real?"
"Real," she answers again.
This third question I say slow and clear, making sure that it sinks in. "There are no more Hunger Games. Real or not real?"
After a defeated sigh, Katniss says, "Real."
I pause for a moment before starting on the next set of questions.
"You are my wife. Real or not real?"
Even in her present state of mind, Katniss can still roll her eyes like a professional. "Not real," she replies sarcastically.
"Katniss..." I warn.
She sighs again. "Real."
"We love each other. Real or not real?"
"Real." This she says without hesitation.
"And we are going to have a beautiful child together, who will grow up in this world, safe and sound. Real or not real?"
Katniss says nothing.
So when I stand and kiss her forehead tenderly, I answer for her.
"Real."
Then I walk away to leave my wife to her thoughts.
I know that Katniss is scared. And after all we've been through, I don't blame her. But one way or another, I am determined to have her see that this baby will make everything worth it.
