Twisted Perfection ~ Everlark

Gentle.

Katniss' Pov:

I decide to switch on Tv and bore myself to death with the news from the Capitol. It's still the same Capitol. People are maybe a bit different about what they say about the war and the past, but their concerns are still the same. Not enough shampoo in the shops. Not enough diamonds in the jewellers. It depresses me to see them returning to a life of luxury after everything that's happened. The news. A lot of it is fake and over-dramatized. Some news is about Peeta and me. Speculations of me and him not being married anymore; ironic. We were never married in the first place. Other speculations that I was spotted at the hospital, near the phycology ward. To be honest, I would love to be drugged up with some morphling at the hospital, but that isn't going to happen. Where do people even get this false information? I turn it off, not wanting to hear such stupid facts that aren't near enough to even be false. 

I decide to go and see what Peeta has gotten up to in the last 30 minutes. I encase Prim's blanket around my shoulders and slowly shuffle across the floor to avoid any noise that could be prevented. I lean against the frame of the large white door and see that Peeta is sat on a stool, gently stroking fine lines of a bright yellow onto the canvas. Although what he is painting is only very, very small, he takes such time and care into each movement. The way he paints is a perfect representation of how he  is. Careful, gentle, peaceful. Although there will still be times when he rocks on the back of a chair or still shakes his hands when he ties his shoelaces, trying not to show that he is struggling an agonizing amount, it's at these small and intimate moments when the old Peeta comes crawling back through. He looks peaceful and content. Completely opposite to how I deal with my past. He simply stays quiet and then only has the odd outburst where he will scream in the middle of the night and wake up with cold sweats. He tries to remain as happy as he can be probably because he knows he will never fully recover. However, I feel as though I will drag a line of sadness behind me for the rest of my life. But I don't really care. I can't seem to fight it.

I don't want to disturb him, so I potter back to the kitchen to get something to eat. Even if it's an apple or a few slices of chicken, at least it's food. I open the fridge and remember that me and Peeta bought some lamb. Although he said he could never replicate the lamb and dried plum meal from the Capitol, Peeta still got some lamb for a meal or snack. I take it out of the fridge and source a knife from the drawer. I gently carve away at the meat, hoping to retrieve a few slices. 

I remember at one point in my life when I would only see a knife as a murder weapon. Something that could kill people. Yes, It can, but I started to look beyond that and only encase myself in today's reality that the only reason I'd use a knife, would be to cut food up. I become so transfixed in my notions that I don't realise the red line of blood that is piercing through the layer of skin on my hand. It's quite deep, but not deep enough for stiches. I hate to disturb him from his serenity, but I know I will struggle to bandage my hand myself. 

"Peeta?" I shout quietly. I hear him stumble through the kitchen door. 

"Yeah, what's wrong?" He asks, before he sees the blood. 

I lift up my hand. He gasps and his eyes widen. 

"Katniss! What happened?" He queries with worry. 

"Stupid me was slicing some lamb and I became so fixed in a daze that I accidently cut my hand. I'm fine though." I say.

I see a line of a smile creep across his face. It's probably because he now not only thinks I can't even make a salad without using mouldy food, but now I can't even chop up food without blood pouring out of my hand. 

"Ok, are you in pain?" He asks. I shake my head. 

"I'll clean it with some antiseptic and then could you bandage it for me?" I ask.

His face becomes contoured into an expression of confusion and embarrassment. 

"I don't know how to bandage." He says. 

I look at the floor and smile to myself. He can paint, bake, dance and probably sing without me knowing it, but can't bandage a hand. I chuckle to myself. 

"I'll show you as you do it." I say. He nods and gets the stuff out while I clean the wound. 

---

When he touches my hand, I feel warmth enter my body. His hands are soft yet, his finger tips still have a rough edge to them. I imagine them wrapping around a piping bag and icing pastries and cakes with intricate designs. Although I tried to stop the bleeding from the wound, there is a thin slit of visible blood on my hand leaking from the wound. It reminds me of the wound Peeta's leg possessed in the first games after it healed. My hand is underneath a bandage. He sits down opposite me and grasps either side of the soft material. 

"So, how on earth do I do this?" He asks. 

I take a hold of his left hand and pick it up so he can pick up the right side of the bandage. Once he folds it over my hand, he looks up beckoning for me to tell him what to do next. However, he does something he hasn't done for at least 3 months. He stares into my eyes, looks at my lips, then looks at me again. I do the same. I can't help, but to plant a gentle kiss onto his lips.