Chapter Twenty-Two: The First Date (Part Two)

"I was so undeserving. And yet, you were so relentless. I pushed—you pulled. I wept—you embraced. I bled—you repaired. I faltered—you shushed. I stopped—you smiled. I was a disaster – the worst of its kind. And yet, you still had the audacity to let me know that I was beautiful."

-Unknown

It's The Wizard of Oz.

Memories from my childhood come flooding back in an instant; ones I've spent years purposefully trying to repress. I haven't watched this film since before my father was killed in the mines, and the shock of seeing it again so unexpectedly brings tears to my eyes. Not sad tears, exactly, but tears from remembering happier times—times when I was innocent and carefree; times when I knew I was loved.

Times when life was completely different, and so was I.

I glance at Peeta in surprise and confusion. How in the world did he know this was my favorite movie, or that it'd mean so much for me to see it again? Even Prim doesn't know. In fact, she's never even seen it, so she certainly couldn't have told him.

"I haven't watched this since I was a kid," I tell him breathlessly, searching his face for an answer or a clue. "It….used to be my favorite."

Technically, it still is.

"I know," he replies with a wink.

I shake my head slightly, still not understanding at all. I haven't even thought of the movie in years, so why would he? Why, with so many other newer movies to choose from, would he pick this one in particular?

"How, though? I'm pretty sure I've never told you, and I know for a fact that Prim hasn't."

He appears both shy and pleased by my reaction. A small smile curves his lips as he delicately runs his hand down the length of my arm.

"I guessed. I mean, it wasn't all too hard to figure out. Besides the play in third grade, you dressed as Dorothy for Halloween three years in a row when we were in elementary school." He chuckles softly at this, and I can't help the grin that takes over my face.

It was so long ago, I'm bewildered and touched that he even noticed, let alone remembered after all this time.

He's right, though. I did dress as Dorothy in kindergarten, first, and second grade for Halloween, and I also had the lead part as Dorothy in a third grade play. I find it sort of astounding that he'd preserved something so simple and minute in his mind about me; something that even I had basically forgotten about myself until this very moment. He had no reason at all to remember these tiny details about me, so why did he? Why would he?

I try to keep my focus on the movie, but it's nearly impossible. I have so many questions, and yet I have no idea what to say or where to start.

"I can't believe you remembered," I say quietly after a moment.

"I also remember that you used to wear your hair in two braids almost every day because you said you wanted to look like her." He leans over and places a lingering kiss on my flushed cheek; I can feel the curve of his smile as he does so. When he moves away, my skin tingles where his warm lips had touched it. "And, if you remember, I told you in third grade, during rehearsal, that you were much prettier. I wasn't lying, either."

"I don't remember you telling me that. That's really sweet, though. I'm sure I thought it was very nice at the time."

I wish I could remember, but my life is divided into two separate parts – before Snow and after Snow. I try my best not to think of the times before... I make a point of it, to forget everything. It hurts too much to remember the old me and my old life. I know I can never go back to it. I can never be that happy again, so it's not worth dwelling on.

Sometimes the good memories can hurt more than the worst beating.

"I doubt you would. A lot of boys liked you back then. I was just one among the crowd, vying for your attention," he states factually, nudging my side. I can see him grinning at me from the corner of my eye.

"Whatever, Peeta. That's not true," I answer with a disbelieving snort.

"It is true! I had a lot of competition! Why do you think I never said anything?" Peeta insists.

Despite my denial of his words, I can't help the deep blush or the elation that comes over me at his adoration. Perhaps a part of me is a bit happy that someone still remembers the confident and carefree little girl that I used to be, and wishes to remind me of her.

When I was younger, I had no problem making friends; in fact, I was somewhat of a social butterfly. I didn't have anything holding me back—I didn't have anything to hide. When my father died, I stopped smiling and talking; people started avoiding me because they didn't know what to do or say. Then Mom married Snow and I started coming to school dirty and in old clothes, and the friends I thought were true turned on me and started talking about me behind my back—and eventually started teasing me to my face.

I still had a few good friends, but I started not trusting them, either. I couldn't trust anyone at that point. I was going through hell at home, and I was defensive, moody, and quiet. My personality completely changed. Eventually I pushed everyone away, and they were more than happy to keep their distance, though some of them took the avoidance personally. It's been that way ever since.

As for Peeta's comment about a lot of boys liking me when I was younger, I was never aware of that, and I'm almost positive that he's just saying it to make me feel better about myself.

"Anyway, it's actually because of this movie that I first noticed you." I turn my attention from the TV to him.

"How's that?"

As much as I love the film and want to watch it again after so long, I find that I'm more curious about Peeta's wonderful reminiscing of our childhood. After all, it's not something I normally get to discuss with anyone, let alone someone who cares enough to remember particular details. And besides, who else would I talk to? Gale and I didn't become friends until after our fathers died, and that was when I was forced to grow up and my personality started to change in every way. He also thought I was annoying before then, so he's not exactly one I can have heart-to-hearts with about this sort of thing.

"In kindergarten, Miss Trinket—you remember our eccentric old elementary music teacher?" he asks with a nostalgic, far off smile, and even in the dimly lit room, I can see his eyes twinkle animatedly. I nod slowly, recollecting Miss Trinket's burgundy hair and brightly colored clothes. "Well, she asked if anyone knew the words to 'Over the Rainbow,' and your hand went straight up in the air. I'd never heard the song before or even watched the movie, but when you started singing… time stood still, Katniss. Everything stopped around me. All I could see, hear, or think of was you; the girl with the dark braids and the red dress, who sung the pretty song that gave me hope. I noticed you all the time after that."

I vaguely recall this moment—singing in front of the class during the first week of kindergarten. Miss Trinket asked if anyone knew the words to the song, and it was my absolute favorite. I was quick to volunteer, especially since I'd always sung it with my dad and knew it by heart. It was one of the main ones we'd sing together on our nature walks, and we watched the movie almost every weekend. He knew I loved it, and he always set aside time to watch it with me no matter what. Even though he'd seen it probably a hundred times, his job in the mines was rough, and the weekend was the only free time he had, he always seemed so happy and eager to sit me on his lap and sing along to every song with me.

As all of these memories slowly come back to me, they are both hazy and vivid—like an intense and impactful dream that I can't fully recollect. I want to remember, but I also want to keep everything forgotten. It's a bittersweet inner conflict which leaves a strange, empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. I feel a tickle in my chest and a lump in my throat, but I won't cry. I refuse to. I'm over my father's death; it was years ago and I can't bring him back, so it's pointless to cry about it.

"Oh, I'm sure you noticed other girls, too," I counter modestly, attempting to change the subject and forget about the connection between the movie and my father. This night is about us, after all—me and Peeta. And he's been so sweet and thoughtful that I don't want him to think that his choosing of this movie was a bad idea. I don't want to make him feel remorseful by crying or telling him the movie reminds me of beautiful things I'd rather forget.

Before he can reply, I glance away from his face and down at his hand. It lies a few inches from my own, and I find myself really wanting to reach out and hold on to it. My mind and heart race in competition, and I feel my body start to tremble with nerves at the boldness of my thoughts. All I have to do is move my arm over a couple of inches and place my palm onto his… so why can't I? I'm being ridiculous. It's not like Peeta would laugh or make fun of me for it; in fact, I know he'd probably like it. I bite my lip, mentally daring myself to make the first move for a change.

Finally, I just hold my breath and do it – I swiftly take hold of his hand and entwine our fingers before he has a chance to pull away. Peeta responds by caressing his thumb over the top of my hand and giving it a slight squeeze. He then brings it up to his lips, planting a small kiss on my wrist, as if to ease the uncertainty of my thoughts.

"I did," Peeta agrees. "But not the same way I noticed you. They couldn't compare… I couldn't get the girl with the beautiful voice out of my head." He kisses the top of my hand, and then my forehead. "And I still can't, almost twelve years later." He leans his head gently onto the side of mine. "I guess I'm a little smitten."

I shake my head at his blatant flirting and turn to him with a smile. "Why are you so sweet all the time?"

"I work with a lot of sugar," he beams with a shrug.

We relax into each other and turn back to the movie again.

After a moment, he retrieves a throw blanket from the end of his bed and envelops us within it, explaining that it's "just to make things more cozy." I nod without a word, feeling more comfortable beneath it, and lean my head into the crook of his shoulder. Our hands are still twined together, and his other one lazily combs through my hair. I'm so tranquil and content that I could simply close my eyes and fall asleep. In his arms, in this moment, I feel like I could easily forget about everyone and everything that worries me.

And then I hear it.

I thought I could handle the song, thought I was strong enough that it wouldn't affect me. I was completely wrong. As soon as I hear Judy Garland open with the first chorus of 'Over The Rainbow,' my breath catches in my chest, my face turns red from trying to keep the tears at bay, and then the pressure of holding back builds up… and I lose it.

An embarrassing and involuntary sob escapes me. I clear my throat to cover it up, but it does no good; I already have tears coming down my cheeks. I'm such an idiot! I shouldn't be crying. Dad is dead and so is the past, and crying over it is just pointless.

I grudgingly wipe at my face with my free hand, attempting to hide the fact from Peeta. I feel ridiculous enough without having to explain why I'm crying at a children's movie.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asks with concern. I lean forward from his embrace, unclasping my hand from his and bringing both of my hands up to my face to hide behind them. I don't want him to see me like this. I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm my rapidly beating heart. Peeta places his hands over mine and gently moves them away from my face.

Then, with his fingers beneath my chin, he turns me towards him. I glance up at him through tear drenched lashes with an ashamed, sorrowful frown. He looks worried and confused. "Did I do something wrong, Katniss?"

"No! Not at all," I quickly answer, shaking my head vigorously. I bite my lip and look away again, feeling a fresh bout of tears begin to cloud my eyes. "I'm just being silly. I'm sorry for crying. I told myself I wouldn't—" I hastily swipe at my eyes with the backs of my hands, resenting my complete lack of composure. Peeta probably thinks I'm an unstable idiot now. Great.

Both of his warm, strong arms wrap around me, bringing me to him. The song is over and I'm relieved. I bring my own arms around his waist and back, clasping them at his side, and bury my face into his chest. One of his hands rubs my back and the other gently and slowly combs though my hair.

"It's fine, you can cry. It's not silly at all," he whispers. He kisses the top of my head, keeping his lips there, he asks, "But what's the matter?"

I hiccup back another sob, and take a deep, shaky breath. I shrug, knowing I can't exactly lie to him. He's already seen me cry, I might as well tell him why.

"My dad," I answer, my voice hoarse and uneven. I keep my cheek against his chest and continue, "We used to watch this movie together all the time. We'd go hiking in the woods… and we'd always sing songs from it, since he knew I loved it. Especially that song. I guess it just sort of… got to me for a moment. I'm okay now, though."

"I'm so sorry, Katniss!" Peeta apologizes in an instant. "I didn't mean to bring up any sad memories. I had no idea about your dad. I'll turn the movie off—" His hand leaves my hair and reaches for the remote. I place my hand over his and stop him.

"No, no. Please don't. You didn't." Our fingers lock together as if by instinct, and I bring his hand closer to me. "They're very good memories. It's just overwhelming to hear that particular song again after so long. That's all."

"You're sure you want to keep watching?"

I nod, but I feel so content where I am that I can't really bring myself to turn my head and look back at the TV.

"Yes," I answer. "I'm very sure."

He leans back onto the headboard, bringing me with him, and lifts the cover up to our shoulders. I close my eyes and just take in the feeling of complete peace that comes over me with him. I take notice of the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, and the rapid beating of his heart against my ear. And once again, I feel solace in knowing I'm not the only one new to all of this.

"Your dad seemed like he was a really great man, at least from what I've heard from my own dad, and from what I saw as a kid." I open my eyes and listen to his voice vibrate from deep inside his chest. It leaves a ticklish feeling against my ear that travels all the way down to the pit of my stomach. "I remember him being so proud and putting you on his shoulders after that play in third grade. You remember that?"

"I do remember that!" I lean back from his chest and look up at him with a nostalgic wide-eyed grin. "Oh man… that seems like a dream, it was so long ago."

"I still think Miss Trinket set the play up just because she remembered you singing that song in kindergarten. I think you were picked to be the lead before anyone even auditioned," he chuckles.

"I don't know about that," I answer bashfully, leaning my head onto his shoulder. I glance down, watching blissfully as he takes his fingers from between mine, and places both of our hands flat against each other as if to compare the differences. He then brings his fingers sensually down to my palm, tracing circles in the middle. I release a silent, content sigh and continue, "I was so excited when I was picked for the lead. I don't think I've felt that happy in years. Dad helped me rehearse every night when he got home. Looking back, I was probably pretty annoying… but he never let on that I bothered him. It really feels like a lifetime ago, like it wasn't even me…."

"It was you, all right. You were amazing. Everyone else thought so, too. You got a standing ovation, remember? You had everyone surprised. They didn't expect so much talent out of such a little girl."

It's strange to even think about; I don't even sing anymore. I haven't in years. Without my father around, there's no point. Besides, Snow hates it when I do, so I just… don't.

"I remember, but it just doesn't seem real anymore." I gently close my hand over his fingers and flip his palm over, mimicking the movements on him that he had just done to me. I want to make him feel as good as he makes me feel. His hand trembles nervously as I touch him, in the same exact way mine had. I smile, but I don't say anything about it. "I'm not the same person I was back then. And it wasn't just me who got the standing ovation, it was the whole cast—"

"No, it was definitely you they were applauding for. You were the star, everyone else was just kind of… there," he laughs, and his tone becomes more meaningful, "And you're still the same person, Katniss. You can be happy like that again."

"I wish," I whisper. He kisses the top of my head and folds our fingers together again.

"You will be," he assures. "Anyway, do you remember me being the Cowardly Lion?" He snorts as if the thought both amuses and embarrasses him.

"That's right! I totally forgot that was you!" I look up at him again, grinning at the memory. I suddenly recall the scrawny, smiley little boy who played the lion – all blond curls and red cheeks, shy and timid, who never really said anything to anyone. Peeta and I rarely talked to each other, never had a reason to, and it was so long ago, I had completely forgotten that the bashful blond boy was him. "You were an adorable little lion."

His cheeks are as red now as they were then. He kisses me quickly on the lips, then shrugs and looks away, shaking his head as if remembering something funny.

"Well, if you remember, I was really living up to my role. I had horrible stage fright, and you kept trying to encourage me— telling me that I was being exactly like the Cowardly Lion and just needed to find my courage. And Miss Trinket tried to encourage me, too, and at one point she said I'd be a dandy lion. I heard her wrong and thought she said she was going to make me play the part of a dandelion instead. I got pretty insulted and embarrassed by it and told her very passionately that I did not want to be a flower, and you laughed so hard. You thought it was the funniest thing, and called me dandelion for a while after that."

"I do remember that, now that you mention it," I answer, both of us laughing at the memory. It's strange how much things have changed since then—with him being more courageous and me being the cowardly one. But the story warms my heart; it amazes me that I'd nearly forgotten all these little instances I had shared with him as a child. I guess I didn't have a reason to remember any of them until now. I just needed to be reminded. "I'm sorry if I made you feel bad by calling you a dandelion—"

"Oh no, you didn't say it in a mean way at all. You were always really nice, always going out of your way to talk to me, even though I was usually too shy to say anything back. Anyway, you'd say it with a smile and I knew you were only joking with me. And I didn't care at all that you were calling me a flower, I was beyond thrilled that you even noticed me."

"I noticed you—" I start to object.

"Not like I've noticed you, Katniss," he cuts me off, sounding slightly anxious. He exhales deeply, giving my shoulders a quick squeeze—almost as if to reassure himself of what he's about to say. I glance up at him curiously. He avoids my eyes as a small, timid smile graces his lips. "I know it might sound weird, but… I remember every single moment I've ever been around you since kindergarten. Ever since the day I heard you sing."

"That's not weird… that's incredibly sweet. I really had no idea," I reply, unsure of what to think or what to feel, but knowing that I'm definitely moved. "You have such a remarkable memory. I... I think you remember more about me than I do. I'm sorry I can't remember everything—"

"Don't be sorry. You really had no reason to remember or pay attention; they were just everyday moments for you. I was just a kid with a huge crush on a pretty girl, and I wanted to remember everything about you, every moment we shared — even the small ones, because they meant a lot to me."

I knew he had a crush on me, he told me that much before. I just never knew it was quite so serious that he'd remembered everything about me. How could I have known? He never said anything to me. It's still quite a bit for my mind to even process—I never thought anyone could like me, especially not like this. And I most definitely wouldn't have expected it from someone like Peeta.

"I hope you know I'll probably be calling you dandelion sometimes from now on. It's really your own fault for reminding me," I tease with a smirk, poking his side to alleviate the thick tension that's settled between us.

He laughs and pokes me back. I playfully swat his hand away, giggling, and close my eyes as he captures my lips with his in a slow, tender kiss. My heartbeat speeds up in delight and my body melts against his. He pulls away after a moment, resting his forehead onto mine as I bite my lip, feeling a bit dazed.

"I'll always be your dandelion, if you'll always be my cupcake queen."

Instantly, I think of what my mom had said last night, about me and Peeta as children. It was a shock to hear, but I have no way of knowing if it actually happened. If it did, I don't remember it at all. But I'd like to. I find myself wondering if Peeta remembers anything about it.

"Speaking of cupcakes—"

"Do you want me to make you some? Because it won't take long—" he offers quickly before I can finish, and he has such an adorable, earnest expression on his face when he says it that it makes my heart skip a beat.

"No, Peeta, but thank you." I shake my head, amused at his eagerness to please me. I'm unsure of how to continue, but since he seems to remember so much, I'm curious if what my mom said was an actual memory or one that she had imagined. I ask in the best way I can, "I was just wondering… if you remember something about us being seven and you giving me a cupcake? I don't remember, but my mom said something about it. Just wondering if you'd have any idea?"

"Of course I do."

"You do?" I look up at him, surprised.

"Well, it was my first kiss from a girl and my first proposal," Peeta chuckles and shrugs. "And it was by a girl I adored, so yes. I definitely remember."

"Did I really kiss you?" I ask, wondering how in the world I could forget something like that, or how I could ever be so bold with a boy—even if I was only seven at the time.

"Yep," he nods, looking rather pleased with himself. "You really liked that butterfly cupcake. Even agreed to marry me if I made you one every day."

"So that was your first proposal, huh? Were you in the habit of giving the girls sweets as a kid and asking them to marry you in trade?"

He shakes his head and kisses my cheek. "You were the only one. The offer still stands, you know."

"What offer?"

"I'll still make you a butterfly cupcake every day if you'll marry me," he winks, grinning.

I roll my eyes and snort. "Gee. That's really tempting, Peeta. I'll definitely have to consider that. Who can resist your cupcakes?"

"You know," he adds suggestively, "my buns aren't bad, either."

I'm about to agree, but then I realize the double entendre and my mouth drops open. "That's… horrible, Peeta."

"What?" he asks in a would-be-innocent tone, smirking. "I'm talking about my cheese buns. I've heard they're irresistible. You seemed pretty fond of them—"

"Sure you were." I shake my head in amusement. "And yes, I love your cheese buns. They're very cheesy. Just like you and your not so subtle bun insinuation."

At my accusation, he opens his mouth in pretend shock and places a hand over his heart in a dramatic display of indignation. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I was insinuating nothing. Geez, Katniss. Where's your dirty mind this time?"

I arch an eyebrow at him in warning and purse my lips, but I can't help smiling. He smirks at me and continues to tease, "Anyway, I think that's what I'll teach you on Monday—how to make buns. All kinds; cheese, cinnamon, sugar… I'd really like to see how you handle your honey buns. And if you can't handle them all by yourself, as always, I'll be happy to take over and help."

My eyes go wide, and I make a face at his implication, playfully swatting him on the shoulder. "I can't believe you just said that, Peeta…."

I laugh despite my reprimanding words. It actually feels really good knowing that we can be like this with each other, at ease and comfortable. Intimate, even. I've never been this way with anyone. Well, besides Prim, but that's different. And Gale has always been a good friend, but he's more of the serious type, and we've never really teased each other. Well, not like this anyway; in fact, it'd just be really weird if we did. I wouldn't know how to react to it. With Peeta, though, it seems so natural and uncomplicated.

"You know I'm just playing," Peeta squeezes my shoulders, giving me a half hug. "As for the cupcake deal, screw just one. I'd make you a dozen every day; one hundred if you wanted."

"You're still on about that?" I roll my eyes. There's a weird fluttery feeling in the pit of my stomach when he talks to me like this. I know on the surface of things he's merely joking, but there's a certain underlying tone to his words and his body language that makes it seem like he's also partly serious. I don't know what to think of it. It's way too soon to be thinking of serious things of that sort. I continue to joke, though, telling him, "I think if I married you, I'd get really fat, very quickly."

"And I'd cherish every pound."

Again, he seems to be kidding, but seems somewhat serious, too. I sigh and avert my eyes. I feel weird talking or even thinking about things like this. It's strange enough realizing that I have a boyfriend now, and that this is my first date.

Anything more than that—like the implication of future things such as marriage and sex—isn't something I can even entertain. They aren't exactly things I ever really thought of prior to meeting Peeta. I knew none of it was ever an option and that I'd probably never have an opportunity for any of it. Not with my life and the way I have to live. I was content—no, I was accepting—of spending my life alone. Prim was my only reason for living, and my only source of happiness. I don't know what to think of anything at all now. I still don't think a happily ever after will be possible for me, but… it gives me hope that, as long as Peeta is around to make me feel good, I'll have a happy present.

"We just started dating yesterday," I shyly tell him. "I think it's a little too early to start talking about things like that."

"Ah, yes, we technically only started dating yesterday, but I proposed to you over a decade ago and you did say yes. A deal's a deal, you know. I promise I'll keep the cupcakes coming, if you keep the kisses coming," he answers jokingly.

Still, there's that hint of promise in his tone.

Before I can reply, he gently places his hands on both sides of my face and leans in to kiss me. I waste no time moving my lips gracefully with his. After a moment, his hands go to the small of my back, bringing me closer to him, and his mouth leaves mine as he begins to plant kisses over my cheek, jaw, and down my neck. It all feels so lovely, even if a bit ticklish, that all I can do is lean my head back to give him more access. As much as his sudden acts of intimacy surprise me, my instinctual reactions to them surprise me a whole lot more.

"You… you really do like me," I whisper, not really as a question but more as a realization. After all he's done lately—the dinner, the movie, the cellphone, wanting to help me, sitting by me in class, bringing me lunch, standing up for me, tending to the cut on my neck, the job and the rides home, reviving these memories, being kind to Prim… and even with all that, there's so much more. There's no way all that can be fake.

Peeta really cares for me

It's not a question. It's a fact. I still don't understand why, though.

"Whatever gave you that impression?" Peeta teases sarcastically. I roll my eyes and look away, feeling silly for voicing my thoughts out loud. "Yes, Katniss, I really, really like you. If that's not completely obvious by now, it should be."

"Well," I let out a nervous breath, my cheeks burning. I work up my courage and admit in a rush, "I really, really like you, too."

Peeta kisses the tip of my nose, seeming a bit bewildered by my words. He then arches an eyebrow and playfully asks, "So you're not just after my awesome butterfly cupcakes, then?"

I don't know what to say, so I just shrug and smile. Without a word of explanation, he unwraps his arms from around me and reaches into a drawer on his side table. I watch curiously as he retrieves a binder and glances over at me with a sigh, as if he's second-guessing whether or not to showing me what's inside of it.

"What's that?"

He looks at me anxiously, chewing on his bottom lip, and then flits his eyes down to the binder again. "I was debating whether to show you this or not. I don't want you to think I'm weird—" he starts timidly.

"I'd never think that," I quickly cut him off, raising my eyebrows. He nods and releases a long breath before finally opening the binder. He flips through some pages, but I can't see what they are as he has it tilted away from me.

Peeta eventually finds what he's looking for and takes the page out slowly and gently. He hands the paper face down to me. "I… painted this when I was in kindergarten… after seeing you that day."

I narrow my eyes curiously and turn the manila colored page over. My mouth drops open and I can't believe what I'm seeing. It's a watercolor painting that was done by a child. Avery artistically talented child, but still obviously created by an innocent and unskilled hand.

And it's… me.

More specifically, it's me in kindergarten. He painted my red plaid dress and long dark braids in detail, and at the bottom of the page in a child's scrawl, it reads: 'girl in red dress.' Then below that, looking as if it was added later, 'Catnis Evirdene,' which was at some point scratched out to correct my name, the handwriting much neater, 'Katniss Everdeen.' It's so adorable and touching, I'm nearly speechless. I smile to myself, imagining an enamored young Peeta excitedly rushing home to paint this… to paint me.

"Oh my… Peeta…" I finally manage to say, my voice light and airy. "I can't believe you did this… or that you kept it for so long."

"Your song gave me hope and I wanted to preserve the memory."

"I never knew you were an artist." I can't seem to look away from the picture, and I find myself curious. If he was this wonderful as a six-year-old, what is he capable of now? I glance up at him. "Do you have anything… recent?"

"What's in there," he points to the binder he's placed on the bed. He gestures around the room with his arms, and states casually, "And all the paintings on the walls are mine, too."

My eyes go wide and my mouth drops open in shock. I thought they were prints or duplicates of famous paintings I wasn't aware of or something—they're that good. I would have never thought—never dreamed—that Peeta had been the one to create them. They are all so vivid and realistic, pictures of nature—sunsets, mountains, oceans, and fields, of random people—beautiful in the flaws that he made sure to keep, and of animals—foxes, lions, polar bears, and deer, in their natural habitats, serene and unassuming as they care for their young or hunt their prey. There are many other paintings too—cities and automobiles, and even a few abstracts, all lovely and perfect and magnificent. I'm in awe. I don't even feel worthy of sitting next to him, he's so talented and wonderful. And yet, he's so humble… so timid about it all, like he's completely unaware and uncertain of his own greatness.

"These paintings are yours?" I ask breathlessly, turning to him. He nods and looks down at his lap as if he's too embarrassed to look me in the eye. "Oh my god! I had no idea you were this good! They're amazing, Peeta. Seriously, is there anything you can't do?"

"Believe me, there's plenty I can't do," he quietly replies. "But thank you."

I begin to page through his binder of artwork, holding my breath at the beautiful details and vision that he puts into his work.

And then I come across one that I didn't expect to see. It's another one of me.

I trace my finger over it, not quite believing my eyes. He had to have made this one very recently. My hair is in one braid— long and unkempt. My skin is tan, and my clothes are loose. I'm holding a bucket of blackberries, my face determined and a little dirty.

It looks just like me, every detail and every flaw is there. He didn't hide any of the ugly truths, and he didn't try to make me anything I'm not. But… I look beautiful.

Peeta made me beautiful, and yet I look the same as always. I don't understand.

"Peeta…" I whisper, taking in a deep, ragged breath.

His eyes go wide and he looks mortified. His mouth drops open and he makes a quick rush to grab it out of my hands. I hold it back out of reach and shake my head.

"I uh… I forgot that was in there," he explains, casting his eyes to the side. He brings his hand to the back of his neck and rubs it. I place the painting back down in front of me to study it again, my mouth gaping at its magnificent detail. He says as if ashamed, "I'm sorry…."

"Why?" I ask, surprised, as I glance up at him in confusion. "It's… it's beautiful…."

"You are."

"I didn't mean it that way.""

But I did."

I roll my eyes and change the subject back to his artwork.

"Do you have others?" I ask meaningfully, gesturing to the painting of myself. I'm curious to see more of just how Peeta envisions me. "Like this one?"

He nods after a moment, not meeting my eyes and appearing uncomfortable to even admit to it. He scratches his head and runs his fingers through his hair. "I'll show them to you some other time, though. I think I've sufficiently creeped you out enough with these two already."

"I don't think it's creepy at all. In fact, I've never felt so… flattered before," I reassure him. I'm a little disappointed that he won't show me the others, but he looks so awkward at the mention of it that I know better than to pester. I place the paintings back into the binder, close it, and then look up at him with a sigh. "I really wish I would've known how much you liked me all this time."

He takes the binder and wastes no time placing it back into the drawer it came from, then turns back to me.

"Well, you do now, right? The only thing that's different is I'm not a kid anymore. I still feel the exact same way. Well, not the exact same. I mean, I still want to remember everything about you and every moment we spend together, but I feel a whole lot more now than I ever did—or could— as a kid. And my thoughts definitely aren't as innocent—" He stops mid-sentence, rubbing his eyes as if he's embarrassed of what he'd just said.

"What do you mean?" I arch an eyebrow curiously, biting the insides of my cheeks to keep from laughing. I'm sure I know exactly what he means, and even though I'm not particularly sure I want to hear the answer, I still continue teasingly, "What kind of non-innocent thoughts do you have about me, Peeta?"

His eyes go wide at my question, and his mouth gapes for a moment as he thinks of how to answer. "I… uh… I think I'll let your imagination run wild with that." He goes on with a small laugh. "Mine definitely has… especially since yesterday morning, and what happened on the couch. I can't stop thinking about it."

I nervously lick my bottom lip, looking away from him, as I nod in agreement. Since he brought it up, I guess I can admit to it as well. "I've been thinking about it a lot, too…."

"You have, huh?" he smiles knowingly and then reaches over to tickle me. I try to bat his hand away, but before I can react, he has me lying back on his bed, red faced and breathless as he tickles me mercilessly. And just like yesterday, my hands go under his shirt to tickle him back. As soon as I start, though, he pulls back from me and hovers only inches above my face, his blue eyes intense and his grin very suggestive, "And what do you think?"

"I think… I'll let your imagination run wild with that," I mimic his vague answer, my hands resting on both sides of his waist.

"Oh, believe me, it will." He releases a deep breath, and then flops down to lie beside me. For a moment that's both awkward and comfortable in its silence, we just stare at the ceiling. I hear the movie still playing in the background, but it couldn't be further from my mind.

"Peeta?"

"Yeah?"

"Never mind, it's… stupid. Just… never mind."

"I highly doubt it's stupid." I see him look over at me from the corner of my eye. "You can tell me."

"Just…" I shrug, feeling adrenaline pumping through my body. I feel anxious, but daring. "I… liked it."

"Liked what?" He turns on his side to face me, and his hand goes to my face to move some hair off of my forehead, away from my eyes.

"You know. Yesterday."

"On the couch?" I give a slight nod. He runs his fingertips lightly down my face. I feel chills spread through my body and I close my eyes.

"I did, too. Actually, that's kind of an understatement." After a moment of silence, he asks a little shyly, "Katniss… can I kiss you again… like that?"

I don't say anything, but I keep my eyes closed and nod, my pulse quickening. And then I feel his mouth on mine again.

It's the same feeling as yesterday, yet… different, too. Knowing all the things he did for me tonight, and all the sweet things he's remembered, I find myself wanting to show him just how much it means to me through our kiss.

Peeta's lips are soft against mine, warm and slightly wet, too. I open my mouth against his, running my tongue along his upper lip and then placing my own lips over it, sucking gently. I hear his breath catch, and a small surprised moan comes from deep inside of him. The sound sends a strange and intense thrill through me, and I find that I want to hear him do it again. I smile at his reaction and place my arms around his neck, bringing him closer to me.

I gasp as his hand slips under my t-shirt again as it had yesterday morning. His palm sprawls flat on the middle of my stomach, where he repeatedly draws his fingertips in slowly, as light as a feathers, then back out again. It sends chills throughout my entire body and prickles my skin in a very pleasant way. I release a small, involuntary sigh against his lips and my face instantly heats up from embarrassment.

Peeta just grins against my mouth, and takes my bottom lip in between his own, running the tip of his tongue lightly along the edge.

His hand inches up a bit more. As before, my breasts nearly ache with a need to be felt by him, and the ticklish dull throb between my legs starts up again—this time much more intensely than before. I can't figure out why this is happening to me, but I know it feels good. It's both embarrassing and frustrating to me. I just want him to touch me, but I don't want to have to tell him. And he's so sweet and respectful, I know he probably won't. I'm not sure if what I want is what I really need anyway.

I arch my back slightly to give him a hint, and hope that he will take it. His hand inches closer and closer… and then it keeps going and I frown as it stops in the center of my chest, right above my breasts.

"Peeta, what are you—" I start, breaking away from our kiss.

"Feeling your heartbeat," he whispers against my lips. He places a quick peck on my mouth again, and continues to explain, "Seeing if it's beating as fast as mine."

"It is." I bring him back into an open mouthed kiss, our tongues once again dancing together.

I don't know why I do it, or what I'm thinking… I just know I want to feel it. I'm tired of imagining what it would be like. I just know I want him to touch me.

I bring my hand to his, swiftly moving it from the center of my chest and placing it on my breast. Peeta's body instantly goes rigid, his mouth stopping all movement against mine, and he appears to be in momentary shock.

He gulps, and I can feel his hand tremble. "Katniss, are you sure...?" I nod, keeping my eyes tightly closed.

I give a loud, surprised gasp as his hand gently squeezes my breast. He kisses me again, more passionately and intensely than before.

Suddenly, I feel his fingertips start to edge in on the bottom of my bra. I don't ever wear normal bras, only sports bras… because they are cheaper, last longer, and are much more comfortable. I know it will only take a slight push upwards of the material and he'll be able to feel my bare breast in his hand. My whole body is shaking from nerves and excitement. I'm not sure if we should be doing this, if it's too soon, or if I should stop it… but I know that I can't. I won't. It feels way too good.

"Can I—" he starts to ask near my ear, his hand hesitating. I nod.

I bite my lip and arch my back as he pushes my bra up. moan escapes me as his warm hand covers my exposed breast. His lips trail kisses up my neck, along my jawbone, and finally he brings his lips to mine again in a slow, sensuous kiss. My mouth opens against his in surprise as I feel his fingertips lightly brush over my nipple; it sends shocks of pleasure throughout my body and settles between my legs.

"Does that feel good to you?" Peeta whispers into my ear, and then kisses the bottom of my lobe, causing a new wave of shivers to cascade down my body. My heartbeat is pumping so fast, I don't know how I'll ever get it back to normal. "When I touch you like this?" He rubs his thumb over me again.

"Mmmm," I murmur, unable to speak or even think clearly. "Do you want me to keep doing it?"

I nod.

"Can I… see you?"

"What?" My eyes bolt open, and I glance up at him. "You're already looking at me."

"No, Katniss," he shakes his head, his face completely flushed. He leans down next to my ear again, while continuing to brush his fingertips over the most sensitive area of my breast, he whispers, "Can I see what I'm… touching?"

"Peeta…" I swallow anxiously. Touching is one thing, but seeing brings it to a whole different level. I'm not sure how I feel about being so exposed. And plus, there's certain things I'm not sure I want him to see just yet. I finish uncertainly, "I… I don't know."

"Never mind," he replies, sounding both embarrassed and disappointed. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

"You didn't," I reply, sitting up quickly. I cross my arms over my chest and look away from him. "I just think…you might not like what you see."

He sits up with a chuckle, arching an eyebrow at me as if I've lost my mind. "Katniss, believe me, there's absolutely zero chance of me not liking what I see, okay?"

"No, not like that…." I roll my eyes, my face burning. In all honesty, my breasts are the farthest thing from my mind about what I don't want him to see. Everyone has them, after all. It's not really that big of a deal. "I mean, they're just boobs. They're nothing special—"

"No, they're not just boobs. They're your boobs, and they're more than special."

"It's got nothing to do with that." I shrug and continue faintly, "It's just… I have scars." I look at him seriously, raising my eyebrows to make a point. "Lots of them. I'm afraid you'll laugh or find it gross."

"Never," he reassures. He brings his arm around my shoulder and gives me a hug. "Never. I would never laugh at you or anything like that. I would hope you'd know that by now. You can't help what's happened to you, and you shouldn't be ashamed. And there's absolutely no chance of me thinking you're anything less than beautiful."

"You say that, but you'd be thinking I'm ugly."

"Just because you have scars? You really think I'm that shallow?" "No, not shallow. Just human."

"Katniss…" He exhales deeply and kisses my forehead, then tilts my face to look at him and meets my eyes. "I'd never judge you. I don't care if you have scars. No, I take that back. I do care… but in a way that I want to hurt who ever gave you the scars. But I would never judge you or think less of you, and I'd sure as hell never think you're ugly because some asshole hurt you."

I don't say anything. I just shrug and cast my eyes to the side. Over the years, Snow's actions have taken a toll on my body—mostly on my back, chest, and torso; places where no one usually sees.

Ever since I was eleven, he'd make me go out to the woods more times than I can remember and find my own switch, which he'd strike me with repeatedly until my skin broke and bled. He'd whip me with the belt if my switch wasn't sufficient enough, or if he didn't want to wait for me to find one. Most of the time, he'd hit me with the metal end. Then there was the time when I was fourteen, when he took a hot stove poker to the area right below my shoulder and left a nasty burn scar. There are many others like this, but needless to say, the skin under my shirt is like a road map of scars. I'm aware that it's not the least bit attractive.

"Look, everyone has scars, okay?" he continues, gently tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. "Some of them just aren't visible to the naked eye. Just like the scars hidden under your clothes, I have scars that are hidden beneath my skin. We're way more alike than you think. It's why I trust you so easily… why I feel so connected to you. I've told you some things already, but there's a lot that you still don't know, just like I know there are things you haven't told me yet."

"Like what?" I ask him, frowning. He sighs and runs his hands through his hair, looking apprehensive.

"Well… you already know my mom isn't exactly going to win any parenting awards," he starts with a cynical laugh. "Well, she's a lot nicer now than she ever was to me as a child, if that gives you any indication. She never was very fond of me. She seemed to dote on my brothers, almost to rub it in my face that she liked them better. I don't know why. I don't think I ever will."

I move closer and wrap an arm around him, resting my head on his shoulder as he continues.

"She got worse when Proja and Appam both started school. It was like she was trying to push things to see how far she could take it; to see how cruel she could be without leaving a mark on me—as if it was some sort of challenge or a game to her."

"What did she do to you?" I look at him with narrowed eyes, feeling my blood boil with hate for the woman who calls herself his mother. She doesn't deserve that title. She doesn't deserve Peeta.

"She'd lock me in a trunk upstairs, or in closet or a cupboard, all day long until just before Dad or my brothers came home. She'd threaten me not to say anything or I'd get the needle—"

My mouth drops open in disgust, and I feel tears stinging my eyes. That explains a lot when it comes to his night terrors. I feel horrible for him. I want to kiss all the hurt away, but I simply whisper, horrified, "Needle?"

"Oh, yes. The needle," he repeats dryly, his voice shaky and quiet. "That started since before I can even remember. She'd always carry around a sewing needle and stick me with it where people couldn't see when I did something she didn't care for." He stops for a moment, letting out a long, ragged breath. I can feel his hand tremble within mine; I squeeze it to give him a little strength to keep talking. "She didn't care for a lot of things. She used it to teach me not to wet the bed, learn the alphabet, to keeping secrets and stop crying. Because if I'd cry or tell, it'd only—"

"Only make it worse," I finish, knowing the line all too well myself.

"Exactly," he agrees. His tone gets lighter, childlike, almost whispering with vulnerability as he continues to explain, "Anyway, I'd try to make her love me more, so she might be nicer to me like she was to my brothers. I thought it might make her stop. It didn't, though. In fact, the more I tried, the meaner she got. I'd draw or paint her pictures— she'd crumple them up and throw them away. I'd pick her flowers—she'd pretend to sneeze and stomp on them, then smack and yell at me, or lock me away for working up her allergies. She'd also do unusual, pointless things like make me stand in one spot for hours on end or in the rain, drink teaspoons full of hot sauce, or make me take freezing baths… for no reason at all, other than it just amused her to see me in discomfort. She'd make things up to punish me, messing with my head, like telling me I said a bad word when I had been completely silent. All I ever wanted was for her to love me and treat me right, Katniss, but… I learned as I got older that some people just aren't capable of it. They'll take that need you have and try to crush you with it. But you know what else I learned?"

He turns to me, his face pained at the memories, yet also determined and strong.

"What?" I ask, feeling speechless at his confession. I have so much anger towards his mother, and the need to hold him in my arms and protect him as a child, I feel utterly powerless about all of it.

"To be the complete opposite of those people. To kill them with kindness. If they want you to cry, you laugh. If they want you to hate, you love. If they want you to give up, you fight back. As much as they're mean, you're equally as nice," he turns to look at me and a small, sad smile comes to his face again. He lifts my chin, staring straight into my eyes, "If they want you to be in pain, if they want you to hurt, you—"

"Try to feel good."

"That's exactly right. So don't feel guilty or bad about any of this, Katniss. With all the horrible shit we've been through, don't you think that we deserve this? To feel good? To make each other feel better?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I do," he answers his own question with confidence. He holds both of my hands in his and asks meaningfully, "Do you think badly about me? About me telling you these things that happened to me as a kid? About my night terrors? About my leg? Are you judging me or laughing on the inside?"

"No!" I retort immediately and defensively. "That would be horrible and mean. You can't help any of that!"

"Exactly." He raises his eyebrows. "My point exactly. I would never judge you for something that someone else did to you, and please don't think I ever would."

He leans back onto his headboard, placing his arms behind his head, then closes his eyes and lets out a long, tired breath. And just like that, I feel like I've ruined the evening. Not only did I stop a perfectly good kiss, I made him rehash and relive painful memories. And for what?

I glance at him in contemplation, biting my lip, and debating whether or not I want to go through with what I'm thinking.

Ultimately, I push the fear to the back of my mind. I know what Peeta was saying is correct. He wouldn't judge me. And we do deserve to feel good; I want to make him feel better, especially after all he just told me. I gather all my courage and bravery, feeling my adrenaline pulse with intensity.

And then I rid myself of my bra and my shirt in one swift motion.

Instantly, I regret it. I open my eyes, looking down at my completely nude upper body. My mouth opens in shock and embarrassment, and I quickly reach for my shirt again, hoping that Peeta won't open his eyes before I can put it back on.

"What are you… uh…wow..." I hear Peeta's stunned voice break off into a cracked, hoarse whisper.

"I'm so stupid!" I feel like crying. This isn't me. I don't do these sorts of things. Peeta must think awful things about me now. "Sorry… I'll just—"

Peeta places his hands over the shirt, lowering it gently. I bring my eyes to his, and he gives me an encouraging smile. I glance away just as quickly, my cheeks burning, and quickly cross my arms over my chest before letting my hair over them.

"Please don't?" he asks, caressing his hands lightly along my bare arms, removing them from my breasts. I reluctantly let him, releasing a long, nervous breath as I glance back at him. "Please don't hide yourself from me."

"I look ridiculous—"

"You look stunning," he counters, eyeing me in disbelief. "God, Katniss. Do you really not see how attractive you are?"

"I'm not." I frown and close my eyes so I don't have to see him look at me.

"You are," he insists. "You're amazing. You're beautiful. You're perfect."

"And you're a really good liar—Oh! Oh my god…" I'm cut off as I feel Peeta's warm, wet mouth on me. Not on my lips, but on my breast. I definitely didn't expect anything like this, or for it to feel so… wonderful. His hand goes to my other breast, kneading and running his thumb over the sensitive point in the center. I feel his tongue swirling and flicking at my nipple. My hand goes to his hair, and I'm not sure whether to bring him closer or push him away. My whole body feels like it's on fire. I can't breathe, can't think, can't believe…

"Peeta… what are you… why are you…" I don't even recognize my own voice.

"You're gorgeous, Katniss; every part of you." I look down at him, my eyes wide and unbelieving. He takes my breasts in both of his hands and gives them a gentle squeeze. "Especially these." He gives a small chuckle, kissing right in the middle of them—right on an old scar.

"Not… not really," I answer, my voice weak and high-pitched. He takes his time, leaving lingering kisses on every scar or bruise he can see, as if to heal them. "You just… haven't seen many—oh!" His mouth envelops one of my nipples again, and there's such an amazing pressure behind it that it makes my whole body react. My head falls back and my hips move forward; the aching I felt in my breasts travels down with a brilliant intensity between my legs. I feel wet and tingly down there—it's certainly a brand new feeling, but not an unwelcome one.

I don't fight it when he brings me into his lap. I rest my legs on either side of his, and wrap my arms around his neck. He kisses me on the mouth again— with more passion and desire than we've ever shared before. He pulls away after a moment, his eyes glassy and dazed, as he whispers breathlessly but with concern, "Do you want me to stop? Is this too fast for you?" He runs his hand down the length of my hair. I close my eyes again and shake my head.

He kisses my cheek, then my lips, my chin, my neck, and my collarbone. I open my eyes abruptly and look down, just in time to see his tongue dart out and lick my nipple, before taking the whole thing into his mouth. I gasp in surprise and shock. Feeling it is one thing, but seeing him do these things to me, it makes my body react on a whole different level. I bring my hands to his head, running my fingertips through his blond curls, pulling him closer to me.

Each flick or swirl of his tongue, and each knead and squeeze of his hand emits a soft moan or a sigh from me, and I'm powerless to stop it. His breath is as erratic as my own, and he releases small groans right after any noise I make. Then, without even thinking about it, and as if they have a mind of their own, my hips begin to rock into his. Peeta seems very shocked by this at first, but wastes no time in mimicking my movements. In fact, judging by the enthusiastic sounds he's making and the way he moves his body up to meet mine, he appears to be rather pleased and very accepting of this new development.

I know I should stop, we're not ready for this yet… but I can't. Peeta seems to be enjoying it just as much as I am, and the noises he emits are becoming much more passionate and louder than before. The movements of his hands, mouth, and tongue are also becoming increasingly powerful and needful as his hips repeatedly thrust up to meet mine. I feel a hard lump in the front of his pants as it touches my center, but I try not to overthink it. I've honestly never seen a male's anatomy down there, and I'm not sure I'm even ready for it. But I do know that this friction, this sensual rhythm between us, makes us both feel good… and it's enough for right now.

His body stills all of a sudden, but I am too wrapped up in what he's making me feel and how I can make him feel, that I don't think anything of it.

"Oh god…" he mumbles. I kiss him and continue my movements against him. He says a little louder, "Katniss! I… I think… I think we should—" His hands go to my hips to still them. I'm kind of confused; he seemed to really enjoy it a moment ago. "We need to stop—"

But even as he tells me this, he thrusts up rather powerfully, and pulls me down onto him with the same intensity, taking me by surprise. He then lets out such an intense, primal cry that I simply stop and look at him with my mouth hanging open.

Afterwards, his eyes go wide and he looks absolutely mortified. "Too late…." He looks pained as he quickly removes me from his lap. I feel guilty, though I don't know what I did.

"What?" I ask curiously, sympathetically. "Did I hurt you? I'm so sorry, Peeta—"

"No, Katniss," he answers with a gulp, not meeting my eyes. His cheeks are a deep red. I can't really read his expression. He looks happy, disbelieving, but also rather embarrassed. "I'm not hurt. Kind of the opposite."

"What do you mean? What just happened?" I ask in concern. I feel like I did something wrong, or there's something I'm just not quite getting. I have no idea what it is, though. I just know his whole attitude changed in a split second. We were enjoying what was going on between us, right? It wasn't just me? Maybe it was just me. Maybe it was uncomfortable and horrible for him the whole time and I just didn't realize.

"You… really don't know?" He narrows his eyes at me in disbelief. I shake my head, frowning. He lets out a small, uncomfortable laugh and sighs. He stands up from the bed and goes to a drawer, retrieving a pair of jeans. "I think I need to go change first…"

"Why?"

Is he so disgusted by what happened that he has to change his pants?

He bites his lip and scratches his head, looking very awkward and uncertain of how to answer. "I'll be right back, okay?""

Okay…"

I watch him walk away, feeling confused and wondering what in the world just happened, and how this will change things between us.

Somehow, I have a huge feeling that it will.