The Hunger Games - Beyond the Books

Signature Practice

POV: Katniss
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My eyes flutter open to the too-bright sunlight of a summer morning filling the room. I immediately close them again and turn my head to bury my face in the warmth of whatever is closest, namely, the cozy space between Peeta's neck and shoulder. He mumbles something incoherent at my movement, and clumsily shifts to tighten his hold around my waist in his sleep. I feel my lips curve into a lazy smile, and I inhale the familiar smell of him. I never get tired of—or even acclimated to—the dizzying combination of scents; fresh bread and cinnamon and the natural musk of boy. I nuzzle my cheek against the soft cotton t-shirt that he wears to bed. He shifts again, and this time one heavy, flannel-pajama leg of his hooks over my own. My chest seizes with silent laughter—that is alarmingly unlike myself—but then, lately I've been noticing that me giggling is becoming more of a typical occurrence, and I have a feeling it has something to do with my twenty-two year old fiancé that is currently drooling on my pillow.

My fiancé.

The thought makes my whole body bloom with a warm feeling, and my stomach gives a funny little jump, like when I miss a step going down stairs. It's been just three days since Peeta asked me to marry him, and I am still reveling in my imagination. It gives me a thrill to imagine being officially his, and he being mine. I know he is mine, and surely he knows I am his, with all my heart and body and soul, but to see it in words and have it recognized legally is an entirely new feeling. We will be one unit, under one name. I look over at Peeta again.

"Katniss Mellark." I whisper to myself, tasting the words on my tongue. I study his sweet face, peaceful in sleep. I hope my voice reached his dreams, reminding him of the happy prospect of our marriage. I turn to lie on my back and stare at the bright white ceiling.

"Katniss Mellark." I say it again...and again, until it's all my brain can think, until my heartbeat starts to sound like it. Kat-niss Mel-lark. It beats proudly.

My body is buzzing, and I know I will not be falling back asleep any time soon. I need to find a way to occupy myself or I might spontaneously combust. I gently take his arm by the wrist and extricate myself from his grasp, placing his hand down on his abdomen. The loss of warmth—or maybe just the lack of him—immediately strikes and I shiver. My thumb strokes the the back of his hand and then I let go. I take one last look at him as I rise and sneak silently out of the room.

I don't know where I'm going, and I don't plan on ending up there, but I find myself walking into Peeta's studio. Almost every inch of the walls is covered by either finished paintings and sketches or shelving units that hold various supplies. A dark writing desk is pushed up against one wall, holding stacks of paper and a cup of pens, sticks of graphite, and other materials. The desk is the one thing I actually use in this room. Otherwise I just watch as Peeta creates. It's mesmerizing to watch him work. To watch as his skillful hands turn nothing into something incredible. I imagine I could watch it for the rest of my life. Actually, I will.

Katniss Mellark, my heart whispers again, like it's sharing a precious secret.

I sit on the stool at the desk, and pop the cap off a black felt-tipped pen.

Katniss Mellark.

My hand writes the name, and it looks beautiful even in my childish script. I brush a fingertip over the ink, smudging it slightly. I sigh, my eyes stinging with tears in awe. I write it again right next to the first. I write it over and over until it fills the whole page. I stare at the page full of my future until I hear the sudden creak of the floorboard at the door. My heart leaps into my throat in instinctive panic. I feel like an animal trapped in one of my snares. Caught.

"What are you doing?" Peeta asks me curiously, walking over to the desk from behind me. His voice is husky from sleep, and even in my panic I enjoy the sound. I scramble to press the paper face down against my shirt, so he can't see what I've written.

"Nothing." My cheeks stain scarlet in embarrassment as I turn and meet his gaze. Peeta lifts one sun-bleached eyebrow at my peculiar reaction, glancing down at my hidden paper. I watch him squint at it, and then a slow smile creeps over his features. His eyes soften, and he takes another step closer.

"If you were trying not to let me see what you'd written, I should probably tell you that you chose the wrong pen." He says gently, his eyes starting to shine with what could only be tears.

I look down at the paper in horror. Dozens of splotchy, backwards "Katniss Mellark" s can be seen through the thin sheet of paper, the ink having bled through almost comically. I can feel more color rise to my face and neck in embarrassment as I avoid his eyes. Then his hands are on both sides of my hot face, tipping it upward to meet his.

His deep blue eyes don't tease or mock me. In fact, they look into mine ardently as he presses his forehead briefly to mine, nudging our noses together before looking down at the paper in my hands. He turns it over so it is face-up in both of our hands. I watch his face as he stares at the page. That reverent little smile is still there. He smoothes out some of the crumples that my desperate hands made when I clutched it to my chest.

"Katniss Mellark." He reads in a whisper. "Has a ring to it, doesn't it?" He looks up and grins impishly at me, and I practically throw myself at him, my arms around his neck and me giggling into his lips as I kiss him eagerly, not caring about the paper sandwiched between us wrinkling more in the process. Eventually I pull him closer and rest my chin on his shoulder. I feel the rumble of his chest against mine as he speaks in a tearful voice.

"I think I'm gonna frame it."

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That may have been the cutest thing I've ever written and extremely fun to play out in my head. Too sweet. I wrote this pretty fast so I hope it's alright.