A/N: "You're a painter. You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces."

Have you ever wondered when Katniss found out these things? Well, here you go! Starting off with something we all knew since Catching Fire.

"You know - one loves the sunset, when one is so sad..." – Little Prince

The once pure white canvas is now splashed with an angry red. The brush is savagely dipped in the red paint and splattered on the canvas. He hastily repeats this routine until the paint covers most of the white space. Late afternoon lights peers in through the window next to him. And I, sitting on the high stool in the kitchen, just watch through the open door. I don't dare disturb him. I just silently watch him lose himself in his own world.

Had I not been watching for a time, I would have thought he was moving without purpose. But now, I see the pattern in his rough movements. He's drawing a rough sketch of something.

His arm moves raggedly, the muscles in it straining to keep up. Sweat forms on his forehead, neck and hands but not one drop touches his canvas. He slashes his brush from the upper left to its parallel side and runs back up again. Though strenuous and barbaric his actions may seem, the tip of the brush always touches the white space with wariness.

The expression on his face reads pained and sorrowful.

I follow his "dance" with my eyes wishing I could come up to him and hold him close but I can't; I won't.

His painting sessions, I have come to believe, is his relief and release of all his grief- grief due to his lifestyle of getting what others don't want, his abuse-filled childhood, the traumatizing games and I know even when he won't admit it that a large part of that grief is because of me.

I breathe out a sigh and realize too late that it was too loud. He hears it, turns and looks at me in surprise.

"Katniss," he starts, "have you been sitting there all this time?" His face smoothes out into a smile, no trace of the tormented man in sight. He grabs a rag from the floor and rubs his hands in it trying to erase the paint that had gotten to it. This proves futile.

They look like bloodied hands.

I shudder and look away.

He notices this and looks down on his own hands. From the look on his face, he has seen what I had seen. "Sorry", he murmurs similar to a guilty man's apology. He digs his hands in his pockets and comes closer. "Did you need anything? Some bread maybe?"

I look up into his blue eyes. The corners of his eyes are crinkling like it does when a person smiles. But his eyes alone, tell a different story- a story of shame, remorse and sadness. Feelings which I feel are reflected in my own eyes.

My chest tightens and I grip the side of the stool before I jump out of it. "My mother was asking if you had anymore apple pie. It seems she's taken a liking to them." I try to sound upbeat but my voice comes out breathy.

"I think I have some left." he says and scurries over to his fridge. He gives me a glance before carefully bringing out his hands and opening the door of the fridge. He walks toward me briskly. The pie drops on the counter before he hides his hands again.

I sigh once more. "Let me see them." I say in a voice that implies he cannot refuse.

Reluctantly, he does. He carefully takes them out of his pocket. He offers his clenched hands to me and I take them in my own. Slowly, he opens them.

My eyes rest on the scars on his hands covered in red paint. A shiver runs through me, passing it to him through his hands. He recoils and tries to take his hands back. Immediately, I snatch his wrists and tug them toward me. I give him a leveled gaze before I proceed to examining his hands.

My fingers trace the splatters of paint and eventually his scars. He flinches but it only makes me tighten my grip. My fingers seem small in contrast to his and yet both are equally calloused. Who would have thought, that a town person could be as scarred as a Seam person. And I begin to think that Peeta may be an exception.

Red begins to blur my vision. I instantly cover his hands with mine. Subconsciously, I take a firm hold onto them and shut my eyes. For a few moments, silence hangs in the room.

"Katniss, Katniss," he whispers in a pleading tone that breaks the silence. I open my eyes to see his face looking so sad yet trying to be comforting. "Its okay." he whispers, "I'm okay."

A lump forms in my throat. I let go of his hands as if it would burn me. One thought rings in my head, 'He didn't deserve this. Peeta never deserved this. Someone so innocent and good shouldn't have been forced to kill. No one deserves this.'

I don't dare blink knowing that the tears would escape. I simply look away and my eyes find the red canvas. In the corner of my eyes, Peeta turn his head and follows my gaze.

"Would you like to try and paint?" He asks me gently.

"I've never painted before." I say weakly.

He walks into the room and says, "That's what I'm here for."

Dubiously, I follow him inside. He prepares some things while I look around the room. I see paintings on the wall that weren't visible through the open door. There's a painting of a mockingjay, of the town, of different flowers. Different paintings and yet all of them have the sunset as a background. One painting catches my eye.

A painting of katniss flower bathed in the glory of the setting sun.

Someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn toward it. A clean brush is thrusted in front of my face. "This is yours. Consider it a gift to get you started." Peeta says and I see a genuine smile plastered on his face. "Thank you" is all I say and feebly take the brush.

He directs me to the large canvas he worked on. Everything is red with some areas of white but when I look closer, there is a depth in the color. Each stroke of red can be identified on closer inspection but blends in when viewed from afar. It's actually pretty. And somehow depressing.

He hands me a can of paint and I peer inside. It's a bright yellow.

I flick a look to Peeta and he's staring at me. "Go on," he urges.

I dip the tip of the brush into the paint and position myself in front of the canvas. "Where should I start?"

"Anywhere you want" he says encouragingly.

I stare at the canvas, looking for a good spot to place a seed of yellow but I can't seem to find one. Or more accurately, I'm afraid I'll just mess up his masterpiece.

"Would you like some help?" he asks.

"Yes, please." I answer in a panicked voice.

He moves behind me and gently takes my hand in his and guides it toward the middle.

Irrationally, I flinch when the tip touches the canvas but Peeta continues. He takes my hand in a series of twirls and lines. I relax a little and lean into him.

We stay like that. Him, painting using my hand and I being limp in his.

I look up to his face and see calmness that certainly wasn't there before. His eyes taking on that look he has whenever he concentrates.

I didn't notice time passing until the light changes in the room and an actual sunset is displayed in the window beside the canvas. He pulls back and lets go of my hand.

"See? You're a natural at this Katniss." He grins.

Confused, I take a step back and see the entirety of the painting.

It's another sunset. But somehow it's different to the backgrounds of the other painting. It gives out feelings of serenity, wistfulness and of course, hope.

An angry red blends with a soft yellow.

And I begin to think orange is a really beautiful color.

You're a painter.

A/N: It's been awhile since I posted a story It's not my fault! I blame the virus which invaded and corrupted my files. And then there were tons of assignment and periodical tests in school. Lastly, I had an writer's block.

But anyway, I hope you guys like this fic.

This is a little different from my other fanfics cuz it's a little more angsty and formal… well, it is in my opinion. But as usual, there's a bit of fluff.

This was inspired by the Little Prince (Look above).

Please review :3

On a random note: HUNTER PARRISH PLEASE BE PEETA IN THE MOVIE.