Rising Storm

Chapter 13

Katniss

"And so you just put some white in the color you already had and add it to the sides of the petals to make them lifelike," Peeta says as he paints and shows Prim. I scribble song lyrics on a scrap of paper and play occasionally with the guitar in my lap.

"Katniss! Look!," Prim says excitedly. "Peeta painted primroses for me." I glance up and see her pointing at the carefully painted clusters of brightly colored flowers and the leaves with shadows layered so perfect yet effortlessly.

"They're very pretty," I say getting up. "Just like you." She laughs and looks back at the painting.

"Once it dries, how about I hang it up in your room for you?"Peeta asks her.

"Really?" She asks. "Oh thank you so much Peeta!" She hugs him, careful of his paint covered hands and the lets go. "I'm gonna go figure out where I want to put it." She runs upstairs and I hear her door shut. I hand Peeta his rag and he wipes his hands off.

"Thanks," he says.

"It really is good," I say. "I wasn't just trying to butter you up in front of her."

"Thanks," he says. "I'll just put this in the study. It's gonna take about a week to dry." I laugh and start cleaning up his mess while he disappears into the back room. I shut his paint case as he returns.

"Do you have to go into the bakery today?" I ask. He shakes his head.

"No," he says. "And I'm still not used to having this much free time. Especially when everyone else our age has two more years of school." I shrug.

"It's not like even if we went to school we'd ever use any of the Panem history or that other junk in a job," I say. 

"How are you using your time?" He asks.

"Dabbling in my supposed talent," I say gesturing at the scribbles on the wrinkled paper. "I'm no good, but hey, just because they heard me sing a lullaby in the games, I must just bleed creativity like you do." He walks over to the scrap and picks it up.

"Interesting," he says. I rush over to him and grab it back.

"I didn't tell you you could look at that," I say.

"You look at unfinished paintings I don't think look like anything but garbage and I don't complain," he says.

"It's different," I say. "My stuff doesn't make the slightest bit of sense" I look down. "Not most of the time anyway." 

"And when it does?" he asks. I shrug.

"I put it in a drawer in my room," I say. "Look it over a couple times and then I just kinda forget it."

"So you get something good and you hide it away?" He says.

"You do too," I say. "I know all the real paintings go in your basement."

"They don't deserve to know about those," he says looking down.

"Well then you should understand that when I put a piece of myself into these stupid lyrics, I'm not giving them that," I say. His gaze softens and he gently lays a hand on my shoulder.