So I saw a photo set on Tumblr with a picture of a woman with a sunset painted on her back and I have had an idea of this story for DAYS. And I can't stand not writing it much longer. So very different from my normal stories, in a different fandom, none the less. But I have to do it. Because it's driving me CRAZY! So here it is.

Canvas

By Her Voice

And yours is orange. Not bright. But soft, like the sunset.

That moment always sticks out for me. The moment when my mind was so broken, so bent against her. The moment in which felt so familiar, as if she knew that what I needed was to be transported back to the train. The moment she spoke so freely, the words tumbling out of her without her usual cautious thought, was when I started to really believe what everyone was telling me.

That I loved her.

That she had been broken after the Quell because I was taken.

I tried to believe that it was due to the destruction of Twelve. To believe that she was the selfish, self-centered woman that President Snow had tried to make her out to be. And it was easy to believe it when she avoided me at all costs. Not that I could blame her; my mind was not in the right place, putting it mildly.

But in that short, hurried moment of honesty, I started to doubt the poison that's surrounded me.

If she didn't care, how would she know that I sleep with the windows open? Or that I always double tie my laces? Those weren't exactly things that were obvious. If they had been, I would have been told it earlier. It was something that only my parents would have known. But for her to know it, the look on her face when she said it…

It's that conversation that I try to pull into my mind now.

Most of the time, I can tell when I'm going to have a flashback. I know when I'm going to be thrown back into a life that is mine but isn't. A life that was forced onto me the moment the Capitol hovercraft took me. A life that turned the best memories into nightmares. Triggers, Dr. Aurelius calls them. The moment that catapults me into utter darkness like Katniss's arrow into the Arena barrier.

I can distance myself, pulling myself into solitude where I can't hurt anyone. I can't try to kill her when I'm in the basement of my house, punching the stones that I turn into her image. Hurting myself, damaging my hands, is more acceptable to me that doing something that might hurt her. It's exhausting, but I will do whatever it takes to protect her.

I must look wild. I feel wild. I feel like I could implode.

This whole day has felt like a disaster. Worse then some of the first days back in Twelve.

It took us a while to get used to the idea of finding comfort in each other. It was never just her, not this time. No, it was me. It was hard for me to think about being anything but dangerous to her. I never pictured that I could being her peace, not when my nightmares were filled with the different ways I could kill her. I'd wake up in the middle of the night, wanting to scream from the hate that filled my lungs. But I was always silent, always unable to go back to sleep. I didn't want to sleep, most nights.

But how could I ignore her screams?

Windows open, right?

I would find myself in front of her front door. My hand would be raised to knock before I would fully wake up. It seemed that my slumbered mind could force my body to do what I was adamantly refusing to try. But her whimpers would calm down, and she would either wake up or drift back into her nightmares. Mine would be reassured by the fact that I hadn't killed her— she was alive and well in her own house. I would be able to at least find some peace of mind, enough to take my pent of frustration out on the morning dough.

Until one night, I was at her bedroom door. I still can't figure out how I ended up there. I couldn't retreat fast enough, caught by Katniss as she pushed open the door to venture out of her prison. We had seen each other through enough nightmares to know what the other looked like after one. I know she recognized the frantic need in my eyes, a need that was only calmed when I finally saw her. And I knew the desperation she wore, sharp and fresh. We had spent enough time comforting the other, in our own way.

She was in my arms before I could say anything. Before I could run, afraid of what those arms could do to her, Katniss overwhelmed me. Transported back to the train, where I knew my memories were wholly my own, I pulled her into me. It had felt like it was what I had been missing. I was torturing myself, and punishing both of us. And neither of us could overthink the contact, running on instincts and the familiar touches that had once brought us so much security.

I could no longer pretend like staying away was what was best for us.

She pulled me into her room, into her bed and into her arms. Her grey eyes pierced through mine, possessive and demanding. I didn't need to be told that this was where I belonged.

It was the first night we both slept peacefully in what felt like years. From that moment on, we rarely slept alone.

Waking up with her by my side was better than any cup of coffee. She was used to the cold bed in the morning— I was always before her to start the ovens as early as I could. But today, waking up with her gone, immediately took me back into darkness. My mood shifted before I could even do anything to make it worse.

The rabbit hole didn't end there.

I burned my hand on one of my very first loaves, which was followed closely by slicing my finger. My main oven blew a heating element and the part to fix it would take a week to get to Twelve from Three. I ran out of sugar, throwing my day in the kitchen into a tail spin. I could feel just how poorly my mind was keeping it together. I'm teetering on the brink, knowing exactly how delicate it is before I'm spiraling out of control. There was no trigger for this, not with a day starting so terribly. I should have known that it was going to be a one of those days. I know that retreating into my basement is a poor idea, because it will only add to my anger.

The kitchen is abandoned. I won't be able to do anything productive in there.

Most of the time, I can lose myself in my paints.

My studio faces west, giving me gorgeous afternoon light and inspiring sunsets. I can usually find peace, lost in the watercolors or in thicker paints. It is one of the few things that can bring me back. On a day like this, my brushes can bring me back in a way that won't hurt anyone. I'm hopeful that I can come back around before Katniss comes back from wherever she has decided to go.

I'm upstairs in the studio before I can think twice about it. Closing the door, I press the button on my stereo. The soft notes of classical music, chosen to help shift my mood, pipes through the small speakers wired throughout the room. Leaning against the door, my eyes shut. I want to feel normal right now. Fighting this demon living in my head can be exhausting. Usually, once things have dulled in my shiny mind, I can sleep for a day and a half.

But I don't want that. I want to come back today, this afternoon, to be there for Katniss. Maybe something sent her from my bed, and if she's going to need me then I want to be there for her.

I turn, ready to attack the blank slates I store up here. Only to find every canvas already painted on. I'm trying to keep calm, because it's ridiculous that something like a lack of materials could push me into the deep end. I wish I could stand and leave like it was no big deal, but I can't. I'm enraged by how stupid I am. I should have thought to order more, should have thought ahead.

The edges are getting hazy. And I know that I've all but tumbled over into the abyss.

Arms snake around me, forehead pressed against my back. I've somehow ended up on the floor of the studio, my head buried into my knees. I don't know when my shirt came off, but my body feels damp with sweat. A kiss, pressed into the scars of my back. This feels dangerous, like she's putting her own life into her hands by being this close. I don't want to tell her what happened, nor do I want to hear why she left so early this morning.

I should be pleased that she's back. But I'm still fueled by my stupid fury, shiny and petty. I can feel the tension in my muscles growing, wanting to push her away, where she'll be safe from me. My breathing is ragged, and I'm losing focus. She's silent behind me, which is almost more unnerving. It's crushing me, my hands shifting up to my ears so I don't have to hear whatever she is going to say.

Her movements are always so quiet, so I miss the exact moment she moved in front of me. Crouched, poised to run if I can't control myself. I want to say something bitter about that, but before I can, she's tugging my hands away from my ears. "Paint me."

Nothing has cut through the haze of tracker jacker venom like those words. My eyes focus on her face, trying to figure out what she means.

She's never sat for a painting: each time I've put her on canvas, I've done it from memory. I'm panicked, hating to have her this close when I'm crumbling. I bite out the words, "I don't have a canvas."

Katniss's smile is gentle, one I've only seen given to her sister. "We'll improvise."

She's wearing hunting clothing, smelling of fresh game and pine. Was she worried? What did the kitchen look like when she walked in? I'm trying to come up with an excuse as to what happened, but any chance of falling off the edge has been tossed aside with her jacket. My throat is thick, and its all I can do to swallow down the pain of earlier's stress to smile. And I can't form words as her back turns, the oversized shirt joining the pile of clothing on the floor.

Intimacy with us has always been tentative. While for me, it had always been genuine, that part was still new for her. Which makes me appreciate the gentle, honest kisses we've shared. There is a passion there, but neither of us want to do more. Even after a year, the wounds still feel so fresh.

She doesn't turn around, pulling the small pillow off the couch. She's settled onto the floor, her back up, head towards me. Her smile turns to something I've never seen before, as if she's seducing me. It gets hard for me to breath again, but for a different reason. I try to hide the hunger in my eyes, but I know she sees it. One of her eyebrows rise, her face indescribably bright. "Use me, Peeta."

My laughter is unexpected. But it makes her smile, and at once I'm relaxed. Well, as relaxed as I can be with the woman I love half naked in front of me. The music is still filling the room, soft strings mixed in with some sort of horns. I'm in a flurry of motion, knowing that if I stop and give her a chance to change her mind, she will. This is the most spontaneous she's been in a long time. And I'm me enough to be able to gather my water based paints and brushes.

I'm close to her, settling down onto ground, my legs touching her sides. I had no idea what I was going to paint, but now, all I can think of is the sunset. I can see the colors behind me, wondering where I lost more than four hours of an autumn day. But I don't care at this point.

I spend a moment staring at Katniss's back. The skin is losing the deep tan from the summer, puckered with a few burn scars on her sides. Her back could have been worse, and should have been. But even the horrible tracker jacker haze from that day the Capitol fell, I had enough mind to rush to her side, to protect her from the fire. How I remembered our promise made during the first Games, to put out her fire first, I'll never know. But her back had remained smooth overall.

Smooth and beautiful.

I can't stop myself, leaning in to gently kiss the groove in the center of her shoulders. Her breath catches, and I place another just below my previous one. Goosebumps cover her arms, and damn it if mine aren't the same. But I ignore the blush on my cheeks and begin to paint.

Skin doesn't absorb the paint like canvas, so you don't really have to build the colors into the art. The skin has more oils to it, but the water based paint sticks just fine to it. I've painted my own skin before, in the Games. The memory flashes, with no signs of shiny edges to prove that it's been altered.

Katniss giggles softly as I paint the few few strokes, the brushes gentle against delicate skin. But it's not long before we fall into a comfortable silence, the music keeping tempo with my brushes. It's almost like I'm the conductor, my brush setting the pace of the music instead of the other way around. And it's noticing this that I've realized that I'm no longer in danger of falling off the edge.

I am me. And it's the first time I've felt like that in a long time.

My hands are slightly stained with oranges and pinks. I could spend hours up here, but now this room has a new meaning. I'm lost in my mind, in the best way possible. At some point, she started to hum along with the music. There is a comfort, and it's something that feels new in this house. I've never felt that in this house. Hell, I really can't remember

That thought stops me for a moment, mid stroke. I can't stop myself from setting my brush down, finally looking at her face. She looks stunned that I've stopped, and I know that's how I look too.

I smile, not caring that my hands are covered in paint. I reach out, touching her face, leaving gentle purple streaks on her cheek. "This never felt like home for me." I don't want her to feel bad. She has always had a hard time talking about her emotions. But not me. I don't give her a chance to ask, needing to explain myself. "I've always felt alone here, like I was just waiting for something. And then, once the Quell was announced, I was just buying my time until the Games. I didn't plan on coming back." It's not like this is news for her— my intentions were always crystal clear.

"But you make this home for me." My hand finds her braid, playing with the ends of it. I can't look her in the face, not when I feel like I'm going to betray her. "I almost didn't come back here. It didn't seem like there was anything for me here. The bakery was gone. My family was dead. It seemed safer to stay away. Because I could hurt you without meaning to. I feel like I'm a divided person most days, and that's not fair to you." Her hand reaches out to mine, lacing together. I smile to her, hoping that she sees that I don't regret coming home. "But the moment at the beach, the real version, reminded me that you don't really have anyone else either." I bring her hand up to my lips, kissing the back with as much tenderness as I can muster.

Katniss eyes seem to mist up, but I keep talking. "If I wanted to fully heal, I had to give you a chance to heal too. And I didn't think that you could fully heal without something more here. You said you needed me— how could I abandon you after remembering that?"

I slip my other hand into hers, freeing up my dominate hand to keep painting. "You healed me, too. This is home. I might not be whole, but I feel like I could be." This time, it's her who kisses the back of my hand. She stays silent, her eyes slightly distant, but we once again fall into the pleasant sounds of the music and brush strokes.

I don't spend much longer on the piece because I don't think that I need it. I needed something cathartic. Now that she's here, exposed and safe, I don't need to paint. I need her. But I finish it, knowing that she will just be washing it off anyway. The sunset is simple, the oranges muted onto her skin with lavenders weaved into the curves of her shoulder blades. I've turned her spine into simple birds, the bumps far less defined then they were when she was first home.

If nothing else, she needed me to keep her fed.

The shadows of the her meadow, the sun setting into the trees. I didn't need blacks to create the shadows, not with blues and greens dark enough to pass for depth. I sign the bottom, like I do with all my art, resisting another kiss onto her shoulder blade. "There. All done. I think." I can't help but laugh a little, surprised just how better I do feel. I don't know how long I've been here, but the rumble of our stomachs is synchronized. We both laugh a little, and I lie down her to her, our noses touching. I'm acutely aware of our bare chests, but I lean in and kiss her, unable to believe where I was a few hours ago. I feel like a different man, but that's not a surprise. I always feel like I'm outside looking in when the tracker jacker venom takes over. I've been afraid to trust her with how close I was to breaking. But somehow, she saw it. And she brought me back to her.

My forehead is pressed into hers, eyes closed. "Thank you. I…" My voice catches, because I don't know what to say. So many bridges have been crossed in this simple action and I'm usually so good with words. I can't form the words to tell her exactly what I'm feeling. I can't tell her that I love her, because I refuse to ruin this moment. My eyes hold hers, hoping she can read in my eyes what I won't say. "Thank you."

There is something different in her smile, like she's realized something she couldn't share. But I let her have her moment, her epiphany. Whatever it is, it's hers. She will tell me when she's ready. "Why don't you go get dinner ready while I shower?" Her directions bring me back to reality. Cheeks flushed, I nod as I become all too aware of just how much skin is really exposed between the two of us. I know she is blushing too, and I kiss her cheek.

It takes me a moment to get my bad leg underneath me. I stop mid motion, kissing the same, painted spot I did before we began. It's dried now, a blend of oranges on tanned skin. The goosebumps are back for both of us, and I smile in spite of my embarrassment. I'm up and out of the room as quickly as I can, taking my discarded shirt with me.

It is a while before I hear the water start to run in my shower. The cleaned game from her hunt lies on the butcher block counters, and it doesn't take me long to throw together a stew from the rabbits. My burnt bread is almost discarded, but I can't help pull it out to serve it. The bread will still be good, the outer crust just darkened. We can scrap it off and eat it. If I know her, she'll recognize the gesture immediately.

It's almost an hour later when she pads down the stairs, dressed in one of my oversized t-shirts and a soft pair of her shorts. Her hair is wet and loose, and I sigh at the sight of her. She is radiant. And I am content.

She noticed the bread. I watch as she lifts the slightly burnt loaf to her nose and I smile. Katniss grins, but doesn't say anything. She knows me well enough to know that his is most likely what set me off. Butter is placed on the table as I dish out servings of stew. She slices the bread and we sit down to a hot meal. But instead of sitting across from me, she sits close, slipping her hand into mine as we eat dinner. She doesn't insist on asking what happened. And I decide to let her early absence go.

This won't be the last time I am lost. And I doubt it will be the last time she is able to bring me back.

Because she always brings me home.