Okay, I'm inspired! Which is odd, because I'm REALLY REALLY stopped up X_X. But anyways MERRY CHRISTMAS!

And I forgot to mention before, this is a frame story. Kind of like...erm The Book of One Thousand and One Arabian Nights. The sultan married a new virgin everyday then had his previous wife beheaded. Scheherazade escaped this fate by telling him a story until the dawn when she had to stop. He was so entranced he let her live to the next day. She would finish that story the next night and start on another until she was halfway through-this happened for one thousand nights. On that night, she tells him there are no more stories. Instead of killing her, the sultan realizes he has fallen in love with her.

Scheherazade and how the sultan grows to love her is the frame story, while the tales are the story within.

I DO plan on doing a Katniss and Peeta fanfic of well...everything later, but this will in short be a frame story showing how they grow together while making the book. It won't be that detailed about them typically, and sometimes it will only be what they write.

Anyways, this should be my LAST long A/N.

It's hard to sleep thinking about the book. Finally, I give up on sleeping and head downstairs. I sit at the table trying to think of what I will write. I want to start with Prim, but every time I try to begin…The world goes hazy from the tears in my eyes. The world spins and quakes.

I find myself having to make a list. I am Katniss Everdeen. I'm seventeen years old. I was the Mockingjay. I've forgotten how to fly. I'm in District 12. I know what Johanna meant when she said there is no one left I love. I can breathe even if I don't feel like it.

Even though the words aren't very reassuring, I find that they calm me.

I'm not ready to write about Prim yet.

When Peeta comes to the door an hour later, I'm waiting for him. There's not much to say as he walks in, there's nothing left for us to say to each other—we've said so much. We just sit in silence for a long time as I stare at the wood grain of the table.

Finally, his voice—the voice that still sounds like Peeta from our first game speaks, "Are you ready?"

I look up into his calm blue eyes—like skies where birds can fly freely, where clouds waft by…"No." I'm not. I'm really not, but I have to. "I'll never be ready."

"But you're going to do it anyways?" He asks gently.

"Yes, because we have to live—" my voice trails off, but he finishes my sentence.

"For them," he touches my hand and I don't pull away. He opens his sketch book, "Who do you want to start with?"

And it comes to me suddenly. "My dad," I say it in barely a whisper. His memory is not so painful. His death is already so distant, I don't want to forget more. The only picture I had to remember him by went with my mother to District 4. I don't want his face to fade anymore than it already has…

I begin to tell Peeta about him. The kindness in his eyes, the way he had lines of laughter around his eyes. The grey eyes…the way his forehead was shaped, the way his lips looked, the way his eyes flashed when he was happy, the angle of his jaw…Every detail I thought I had forgotten.

It's a little after lunch when he finishes. Wiping away the charcoal colors, I notice the smudges on his hands—like coal. He turns the sheet to me, and it's like seeing my father again. It's like he's really truly there.

I feel the tears sting my eyes as I touch the paper—a perfect replica of my father's face. I thought, I'd never see him again and now I can see him everyday if I like. I can't ever forget him now.

…

It's late afternoon and Peeta has settled back at the table with me while I write. I told him he could leave, but he said he'd rather not be alone. So he sits there as I start writing in my very best writing directly into the book.

Aidan Everdeen loved his wife very much, and his two daughters—Primrose and Katniss. He was a good man. When he laughed, you felt as if there had never been anything in the world so beautiful or happy, you wondered what joy he could see in this place. He provided for his family, he did everything he could.

His voice was rich and powerful. Every bird would stop to listen in awe. Nothing could escape the power of his voice, nothing not even my mother. He taught me how to hunt, how to live—how to provide. So when he was gone, I was ready.

He gave me his voice, he gave me his love, he gave me his life.

His hands were rough, but capable of the most tender touch—of tying ribbons in his daughter's hair, of consoling any sadness I felt—even after he was gone. He still comforts me.

I stop writing and read it over and over again before handing it to Peeta. He reads quietly and then looks up at me. But before he can say anything I blurt out, "It's not good enough."

"It's perfect," he says.

"It doesn't do him justice," I protest.

"Nothing can bring him back," he states calmly.

I snatch the book away and slam it shut before walking up stairs. It's at least an hour before I hear him show himself out.