imperfect fit ; an everlark au based off of 'the selection' series

s e v e n t y - s e v e n

"Come with me?"

"Okay."

I close the door behind me and follow Peeta down the hall.

"You have a point," he starts. "I'm afraid to show all of you every piece of me. You get some, Delly gets others, and so on. And I've based that on what feels appropriate for each of you. With you, I always like coming to you, to your room. It's as if I'm stepping into a bit of your world, and if I do that enough, I can get all of you. Does that make sense?"

"Kind of," I say as we turn up the stairs.

"But that's not really fair, or even accurate. You explained to me once that these are our rooms, not yours. Anyway, I thought it was time I show you another piece of my world, maybe the last one where you're concerned."

"Oh?"

He nods as we stop in front of a door. "My room."

"Really?"

"Only Delly has seen it, and that was a bit of an impulse. I'm not unhappy I showed her, but I feel as if it pushed things forward quickly. You know how private I can be."

"I do."

He wraps his fingers around the handle. "I've wanted to share this with you, and I think it's well past the time. It's not exactly something special, but it's mine. So, I don't know, I just want you to see it."

"Okay." I can tell she's feeing bashful, like maybe he's built this up to be a bigger deal than it is, or maybe he'll regret showing me at all.

He takes a deep breath and opens the door, letting me walk in first.

It's huge. The paneling is dark, some wood I'm not familiar with lining the whole space. On the far wall, a wide fireplace stands, waiting to be used. The whole thing must be for show since it rarely gets cold enough to even justify a fire.

The walls are painted white. His bathroom door is cracked open, and I can see a porcelain tub on the elaborately tiled floor. He has his own collection of books and a table near the fireplace that looks like it's intended for dining rather than work. I wonder how many lonely meals he's had here. Near the table are the doors to his private balcony. His bed, also made from a dark wood, is massive. I want to go and touch it, and see if it feels as good as it looks.

"Peeta, you could fit elephants in here," I tease.

"Tried it once. Not as comfortable as you'd think."

I turn to swat him, glad to see him in a playful mood. It's then, looking past his smiling face, that I see the pictures and paintings. I inhale sharply, taking in the beautiful display. It's so large, it could be the wallpaper for my room.

On the wall by Peeta's door is a vast collage, filled with both paintings and pictures, and then by it is an easel holding a painting of the ocean, and under it more paintings pile up. There's no order to it, just images and paintings for him to enjoy.

I can see that the photos have been taken by him, because they are of the palace, which is where he is almost all the time. Close-ups of tapestries, shots of the ceiling he must have lain on the flat carpet to get, and so many pictures of the gardens. There are others, maybe of places he hopes to visit. There are pictures of the ocean, bridges, and one of a wall like structure that looks like it goes on for miles.

But above all this, I see my face a dozen times over. There's the picture of me that was taken for my Selection application, and the one of Peeta and me taken for the magazine when I wore that sash. We seem happy there, as if it's all a little game. I've never seen that photo, or the one from the article on Halloween. I remember Peeta standing behind me while we look at designs for my costume. While I'm staring at the sketch, Peeta's eyes turned slightly toward me.