(Untitled)

[wasblindbefore]

Bruises fade. It's a simple fact, of course, just the way of the world, nature doing its job or some shit like that, but in this case, it's proven to be a fascination, too. Elvis has watched carefully as they've faded, the marks at his throat, the places where his knuckles went raw from pulling at coarse, unyielding rope. Now, it would be

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[notapiece]

"Oh man, no trouble." With only a moment of hesistation that came from the occasional stiffness of his knee, Peeta bent down to help pick up the papers. Gathering a few in his hand, he didn't look at what was on them. It wasn't for lack of curiosity, but rather the fact that he didn't want to invade this guy's privacy.

"The wind can be kind of awful sometimes," he said as he offered the small pile back to him.

[wasblindbefore]

"Yeah, tell me about it," Elvis says, half on an exhale and mostly to himself as he grabs at a few more stray papers, though the expression of gratitude that crosses his face would be difficult to miss. There are worse possible reactions, he's sure, than someone helping and not seeming too intrusive, even if he'd have turned down any offers of assistance that would have preceded the action itself. He isn't complaining now, though. "Should've thought about that before I tried gettin' anything done outside."

[notapiece]

Snatching a stray paper just as it started to drift away out of the air, Peeta leaned back on his haunches as he nodded. "Yeah. I usually have to have a couple rocks handy myself, but you know it happens." He shrugged his shoulders easily, handing the paper back to the guy. "It sneaks up on you or something."

Back in District 12 the wind had been noticeable, always faintly grey even as it moved. This wind was clean and did as it pleased.

[wasblindbefore]

"What, you do any writing?" Elvis asks, a little surprised, though he'd have no reason to. It isn't like he cares, or even if he knows it's true, but this guy has to do something to be saying the things he is, and that's maybe kind of nice. Not the sort of thing that fosters any sort of kinship or whatever - he's never been the type of person to look for that - but at least making him feel a little less dumb for the scattered papers. "Or just have that much experience battlin' the wind?"

[notapiece]

"Nah, I don't."

The last writing that Peeta did in any volume was for school. He didn't count the notes and the letters he wrote but never sent about what had happened during the mess after he had been chosen as a Tribute. Those memories were vivid enough as is that keeping any more track of them would drive him insane. "Wind-battling experience. I paint. It always gets stuff stuck in the paint."

[wasblindbefore]

Elvis lifts his chin, a half-nod of understanding. He figured it had to be something, so that makes sense, at least as far as he can tell. He'll take the other guy's word for it, anyway. "Pretty much all the painting I know how to do extends to the side of a house," he says, wry, a touch self-deprecating. Even that, he wouldn't have done if it weren't for Anabelle, either. "That must be nice, though."