Chapter Text
I tried to sit somewhere else today. Still near the back of the lecture hall where I like to disappear, but not in the very back where the late losers like to sneak in.
I'm not avoiding him, per se, I just don't want to owe him and admit that he helped me.
I might as well admit that I'm avoiding the longing I feel too.
His blue eyes meet mine. He takes the seat next to me --his unofficial spot since the semester began.
I shake my head. I was trying to avoid him but, as he sits down, I can't help the desire to smile from the inside out.
He’s so annoying! With a wavy mop of unruly hair, a wild side, a stark contrast to his classic All-American boy looks and tidy, smart attire. His sunny disposition is especially difficult to palate. Who’s friends with this many people? Unheard of.
Of course I thought he was shallow, but the more I learn about Peeta Mellark the more he surprises me. His depths could fill an ocean. The color of his eyes match the soul inside. Depth. Swirling of emotions.
The beauty he sees in the world, he commits to paper so profoundly. It’s soul-stirring.
Upon smiling at him, Peeta gives me a knowing smirk. “Trying to ditch me, Everdeen?”
“Didn't work.” I fake a scowl, then laugh.
Hmm, I've been laughing a lot around him. It's unsettling.
He grabs my papers, and shifts through them while we wait for class.
I roll my eyes as he uses a pen to draw on the final draft of the poem I have to turn in next class.
A beautiful dandelion to go along with my poem. It's breathtaking.
The first time he did this I was furious. For a moment, I let myself get I lost in the memory.
Peeta sat next to me for our first class of the semester in Professor Crane’s lecture period.
After Peeta sat next to me 3 lectures in a row, I remained indifferent. I pretended I didn't notice. Apart from the “bless you” I uttered when he sneezed, I never spoke to him.
I have a feeling Peeta is not used to being ignored because his attempts at communication increased. I don't really do small talk, so his every attempt fell flat. Yet, he continued to sit by me. I gave him short answers or shrugs.
I'm focused on my degree. Junior year as an English major is no walk in the park.
“What are you, a writer?” he asked as he observed just how many pages and pages of my notebook were filled with my penmanship.
“Mhmm, English major,” I mumbled.
I'm not fond of people raffling through my stuff but, I also don't really care what he reads.
He started reading some of my original work and his eyes widened.
I briefly panicked, ‘that wasn't the erotic one was it?’ Then I reminded myself that that particular notebook is tucked away in my apartment.
“Woah, this is really good! You're a decent writer, Everdeen!” He announced.
I shrugged. ‘Good’ is relatively subjective. Especially when it comes to the written word.
Peeta takes his pencil and starts doodling, which he often does. I used to think he was kind of a slacker because of this, but he gets good grades. I also noticed that at times he has paint splatters or a rogue charcoal smudge.
I remember my roommate, Madge, who is a psych major, once explaining that highly creative children and adults are often active learners. I assume Peeta is the same and it helps him absorb the boring information.
This professor in particular is especially fond of the sound of his own voice.
I look over and he's drawing in the margin of my notebook. The nerve of this guy! As class ends, I snatch my notebook from him, and scowl.
How dare he?
What kind of person grafitis all over someone else’s hard work?
I was livid.
Seething.
Until I looked at what he'd drawn.
It gave me pause.
Peeta's good. He's really good!
I look back up at him, I hadn't looked at him face to face until this moment.
His blue eyes are gorgeous and they shine. The intense masculine gaze I'm met with makes me sweat a little. I take a moment to observe his strong jawline and the light stubble he's rocking. The way his hair sweeps over his forehead in a disheveled rockstar kind of way. Something in my stomach did a flip.
This might actually be the hottest guy I've ever talked to.
“This is really good! You're a decent artist, Mellark,” I echo his words, but my praise was sincere.
Peeta's smile brightened. Near perfect teeth, and a dimple. If I wasn't sitting I think I would have gone weak in the knees.
I don't think a guy has ever had this effect on me before.
“Art major,” he stated simply.
So I might have a crush on him, that I'm only slightly aware of and definitely NOT acknowledging…
Unless he feels the same.
I sigh to myself.
Since I can't avoid him, I have to admit how much he helped me with a class I was struggling to keep an A in.
I whip out a few of my graded papers from moronic Professor Vinia who previously felt that my poetry was “far too serious.”
To be fair, I'm indifferent about flowery poetry.
On the last 4 poems I turned in, Peeta drew an illustration. As a result, my poems have increased an entire letter grade.
Professor Vinia prattled on and on about how I must have found some new inspiration.
“Look.” I point to the papers just as class gets out.
“Great job, Katniss!”
“My grade went up after you started illustrating my poems,” I state with a smile.
I bit my lip and meet his eyes.
“So, thank you. I thought this teacher had it out for me, but your magical illustrations convinced her that I have more feeling and depth and um, hope, I think she said? ” I explain.
Peeta lifts one of the poems and reads it. A warm smile spreads on his face. He looks up at me. I'm momentarily captivated in his gaze.
“That's all you. This one in particular is beautiful,” he says and, for some reason, I get the feeling he's not just talking about the poem I wrote about my favorite pond as a child.
Back to the subject at hand. “What, suddenly my poetry improved?” I ask Peeta.
He slowly moves toward me.
“I'm saying.” Peeta’s arms plant themselves on either of me on the table I'm leaning against. “Maybe you found new inspiration?” His voice gets softer as he speaks. His face is so close to mine our noses almost touch.
I'm lost in his eyes, and the way our bodies are mere inches from touching. My heart beats erratically as his cheek brushes mine. His lips graze my ear as he whispers, “A muse, maybe? I know I've found mine.”
I'm breathless at I slowly take in his words.
He's right. He figured it out. Peeta is my muse, my new inspiration. He’s the male lead in all my new stories. A noticeable optimism has brightened the tone of everything I've written since Peeta Mellark first doodled on my notebook.
It takes me a moment to register the last part of what he said to me.
“Who's your muse?” I wonder out loud.
He pulls back so our eyes meet again. The intensity in his blue irises seek out my very soul. ‘You' they speak without words.
The smile that follows could eclipse the sun.
Peeta reaches into his backpack for his sketchbook.
I squint my eyes in curiosity.
He bites his lip to fight the small laugh emerging. Then flips a few pages and hands me his artwork.
Gray eyes, a scowl, a long braid; petite, feminine but calloused hands holding a pencil. My profile, my neck, my collarbone, the back of my head. Pages and pages of my eyes in various states of expression.
And in every single one I'm not just beautiful, I'm radiant! I feel something hot burn the corner of my eye and find a tear there.
I tend to be unusually apathetic by nature, but I'm overcome by emotion looking at these sketches, and how Peeta sees me.
Me.
Ordinary, average, easily overlooked Katniss Everdeen.
“It's always been you, Katniss. You don't know the effect you can have,” Peeta confesses.
If he had more to say, his words are cut off by my lips. I grip his shirt and pull Peeta into a kiss.
Oh, what a kiss! His lips are surprisingly soft and powerful. The strength and intensity with which they respond makes me dizzy.
I wonder if he can feel how manically my heart beats in my chest.
I didn't know a kiss could feel like this.
I’m a goner.
Peeta Mellark has me, I'm putty in his hands.
His strong fingers --the fingers that create such beauty with the pen, pencil, and paint-- weave through my hair at the nape of my neck and pull me closer.
A moan escapes my throat.
Bliss. It feels like we're dancing or riding a rollercoaster. I feel like I'm free-falling as his lips dive in again and take possession of mine. The passion and vigour he kisses me with whispers to my heart loudly, words best expressed in prose or a painting.
An elbow strikes my shoulder and breaks us out of our bubble where fantasies are real.
Johanna Mason flashes a shit-eating grin as I catch my breath and try to stand up right. I wobble, and steady myself with the support of the table.
Peeta just kissed me senseless.
Amazing!
“Can't you take this to your dorm? And also, it's about time! All of us have had enough with the sexual tension filling the entire room. It's ridiculous!” Johanna blurted out.
She turns to Peeta and slaps him on the back.
“Good going, Blondie! You wouldn't believe how many of us have been trying to get in her pants. To no avail, we would have gotten the same response from a dead slug. Only around you... she's a girl on fire!” She leaves Peeta with a wink.
For the second time today I'm speechless.
I don't know why I feel embarrassed. The words ‘dead slug’ being used to describe myself are a pretty awful thing to hear, but ‘girl on fire’ is a little over the top.
I shyly look up at Peeta, his grin actually makes me laugh.
Peeta has bright smiles but this one takes the cake, he's over the moon. His lips are red and his cheeks are flushed.
‘I did that.’ I think to myself and can't contain my own smile.
Peeta clears his throat and nervously rubs the back of his neck. “So, uh, what are you doing Friday? Do you want to go out with me, Katniss?” he asks me with a voice that's more raspy than usual, dangerously arousing.
Instead of answering right away, I just want his lips again. I stand up in my top toes and take his bottom lip in mine. I inhale deeply through my nose, lost in the feel of his wet soft lips. The euphoria surges in waves, leaving a buzz in its wake from my head to my toes.
I pull away and whisper, “Yes, I do.”