Peeta didn't come until after dinner. Though he looked tired, I excitedly shared my idea with him. He agreed to help me with the book. "It would be nice to paint something besides nightmares," he said.
I wanted to get started right away. It was hard to wait for the next train to bring writing supplies from Dr. Aurelius, who whole-heartedly approved the project. While I waited, I began to write the book in my head. As I filled my days with favorite memories, my nights became a little less horrible. Death still dominated my dreams, but I occasionally woke to pleasant images floating on the edge of my consciousness.
The day the parchment and pens arrived I began writing immediately. I started with the man who had been the impetus for the project-Finnick. If Peeta had any curiosity about this choice, he kept it to himself. There was no need for Peeta to paint Finnick's extensively photographed beauty, so he painted the cake he had made for the wedding. I wrote about the training before the quarter quell.
For the first time since our return home, Peeta and I reminisced about a fellow tribute. We laughed about Finnick's revealing gold costume, his outrageous flirting, and the fainting fits caused by his poem for his one true love. Peeta made a little sketch of Finnick's face twisted in a leer and tinted green; that was how he remembered Finnick's face when we scared him awake on the beach. I wrote steadily as Peeta and I took turns to tell stories. Peeta was gently making fun of Finnick much the way he used to, but jarring notes occasionally broke the easy flow of conversation.
"I remember Mags kissing Finnick before she walked into the poison fog."
"I remember when I threatened to take Annie from Finnick if he didn't treat her well."
"Gale told me that he thought that you and Finnick were..." Peeta didn't finish the statement, but I already knew the ending the the sentence. For a few seconds Peeta stared at me, his mouth open as if he were still planning to say the rest of the words. Then he looked down and went back to his painting with a frown on his face and a slightly trembling hand.
How was I supposed to respond? It seemed impossible and ridiculous that Peeta would worry about Finnick and me. Perhaps my decision to begin the book with Finnick had caused old suspicions to resurface. Peeta still had difficulty distinguishing the true from the false and even minor questions sometimes bothered him for days.
I forced myself to speak. "You know Gale was mistaken, right?"
"Of course," said Peeta defensively. He kept his eyes on his painting.
I couldn't think of anything else to say so I returned to my writing. After working in silence for a few more minutes, Peeta gathered his supplies and said good night.
I sighed as the door closed behind him; it was a disappointing ending to the best evening we'd shared since his return. Returning to my book, I found that I was in the middle of recounting the night Finnick taught me to tie ropes in the bunker. My mind had almost gone to pieces that night from worrying about Peeta in the hands of Peacekeepers. Combined with the fear had been ache of missing the boy I loved. How tragic that I was still missing that boy even when he was with me. I desperately wanted the old Peeta back, but it seemed that it might not be possible.
He came over the next day to help with the book. We began Mags' page and Peeta painted her last kiss with Finnick. He masterfully recreated the scene: Finnick, surprised by the gesture and already partially paralyzed by the gas, had Peeta draped over his shoulder. Mags, with one arm hanging uselessly and the fingers of the other on Finnick's chest, was kissing Finnick's lips with her eyes closed. I wondered how Peeta could remember so accurately when his actual view of the event had probably been restricted to Finnick's back.
As we worked together and talked more, Peeta's old personality surfaced more and more often. Some of his memories were distorted and setting them straight was a relief. It was as if we were pulling splinters out of his mind and allowing the wounds to heal. Remembering the things that we had experienced together helped us to remember how they had bound us together. By the time we had created a dozen pages, I felt that we were really friends again. Peeta was at my house whenever he wasn't sleeping or baking and our conversations rarely dried up for lack of material anymore.
One evening we were working on a page for Rue. After detailed descriptions from me, Peeta was painting her with arms slightly outstretched, poised on her toes. I watched him paint for a while, then went to heat up some squirrel stew.
I had begun hunting again about a week after we had started on the working on the book was a catharsis, I sometimes needed a break from it. Hunting reinvigorated me and kept me from drowning in pathos. As I turned on the stove, I noticed Peeta's bread was getting very dark. He must have gotten immersed in his painting and forgotten about it. I pulled it out of the oven and set the loaves on a rack to cool.
A few minutes later Peeta came into the kitchen.
"Thanks for rescuing my bread. I was so absorbed in painting Rue that I forgot all about it."
"No problem," I said, turning back to my stew.
Without warning, his arm was around my shoulders and a piece of bread was in front of my mouth.
"Have a bite; it's best right out of the oven," said Peeta, his mouth already full.
I took a bite and he was gone, back to working on his painting.
My mouth was warm from the bread and my shoulder was warm from the memory of his arm. It was the first time he had touched me since his return and he had done it as casually as if all months of torture, war, estrangement, and brokenness had never occurred. Did he know what he had done? Had he simply forgotten that there had ever been distance between us or was he deliberately breaking the ice? If it was the former, so much the better. If it was the latter, he hadn't displayed any desire to discuss it. I decided that the best response would be to follow his lead.
After dinner Peeta called me over to look at his painting. Only Rue's face was finished, but it was beautifully done. Rue's expression was as carefree as if she had been home in District 11. Tears began pricking my eyes because she had been so young and winsome, so kind-hearted amidst poverty and brutality and because she had been like Prim. I couldn't find the words to tell Peeta how pleased I was, so I squeezed his arm. He didn't look at me, but he put his hand over mine and we remained like that for a few moments until Buttercup decided to examine the picture as well.
"I'd better take this page back to my house to dry so that he doesn't make a mess of it," said Peeta while he quickly gathered his supplies.
"All right," I said, managing to keep the disappointment out my voice. "I'll hold him til you go."
I remained in my chair, stroking the cat and marveling that we had touched and wondering if Peeta would ever stay the night with me again. I felt lonelier than ever that night and I dreamed of singing to Rue as she died in my arms.