(A/N:) HELLOOOOOO AGAIN! I'm back! Didja miss me? Well, I haven't written any fanfiction for a helluva long time, but the Hunger Games movie inspired me to the point where I had to write a little something for my favorite couple or face imminent death. So yeah. Basically, this story has been hanging over me like a black thunderhead, and it wouldn't go away. Thank God it practically wrote itself; things would have gotten BAD if it hadn't lol.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games. Suzanne Collins does. If I did, I wouldn't have to plant 21st century hunting gear in my closet in an attempt to lure Gale into there, now would I? =D
ENJOY!
I stand in the milling crowds and look around warily, trying not to fidget. I am one in thousands, standing there before the grand stage in wait. I figure I shouldn't be so nervous. It is my seventh time, after all, and I'm still alive, still here, still safe. But that cold feeling of dread curled in the pit of my gut refuses to go away, so I just ignore it.
Upon the stage, there stand three people: Haymitch, barely keeping the drink in his stomach, as always; the mayor, twisting his hands distractedly as he watches civilians file into the small center square; and Effie Trinket, giggling and bobbing that ridiculous wig as she prepares to make her annual speech. My eyes linger on this woman the longest. It is appalling how she stands out within this district, cheeks nicely filled in, clothed in brilliant, unnatural colors and absolutely glowing with giddiness. She does not know fear. She does not understand the meaning of hunger. She does not see the horror she brings upon us, because she is from the Capitol, and to them, it is all just a big joke, watching children take the lives of other children.
Not for the first time, I think that I hate her.
When the ceremony begins, my eyes close, and I drown everything out. The projection is over and it is time to pick names when they open again, and I feel slightly steadied. I breathe slowly, in and out. I have been safe six times. I am still alive. My siblings haven't been entered yet, so I don't need to worry about them; they'll be sitting safe at home within the hour, finishing the kill I'd brought in this morning. I will be okay again, because there are thousands to choose from. I can't afford to be scared. But the glass balls are transparent, and I can clearly see the white filling, piled a little more than halfway up . . . . .
. . . Forty-two slips of paper have my name on them . . .
I shiver. "Not me," I whisper, before Effie moves before the orbs and reaches in with a flourish. Just in time, I realize that this is the girls' lottery, and doesn't pertain to me. Of course. Ladies first; it's proper manners and all.
"Primrose Everdeen."
First there is a moment of silence. Then my head snaps up. My eyes widen in recognition. If Prim has been chosen, it only means . . .
I know she won't be the one going into the Games this year.
"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" The shriek rings out around the square as people crane their necks to see it's origin. I don't need to turn to know that it is Katniss, but I look anyway. My mind is reeling as she takes the stage slowly, long braid swinging from side to side down her back. Her expression is strong, jaw set in a firm line, but I see the underlying panic screaming through her eyes. It is terror. She hides it well, but I've known her too long to miss it.
"Peeta Mellark," comes the name of the boy, and, in my confusion and distress I almost yell my own name to let them take me instead. To let me be with her.
But I don't because neither of our families can afford to have us missing, both at the same time. She wouldn't have wanted me there if the cost was to be her mother and sister, and I can sympathize with that reasoning to the same extent.
Chaos and whispering ensues as the boy and girl shake hands, and I see glints of metal, coins being passed around in silent bets even before the games even begin. It makes me sick, so I focus on the stage, where a group of guards has surrounded the new tributes and is herding them into the Justice Building. I stand on my toes and manage to catch a glimpse of shining black, but I won't ever know if it is her hair or the helmet of a Peacekeeper. At the back of the small congregation, Effie Trinket twirls around to giggle and give the crowd one more gleeful wave of goodbye, oblivious, yet again, to the fact that she's just killed two people.
Then the doors slam shut, and nobody is left to look at. I breathe in. I breathe out.
But my breath has been stolen.
The first thing I do when she falls into my arms is bury my face in her hair. This motion is an unfamiliar one, though not unwelcome. With her cheek pressed into the crook of my neck, we probably look more like parting lovers than friends, and that notion is more than I want to think about under these circumstances. I can feel her shaking slightly in my embrace, and pull her closer.
"Katniss," I whisper, willing her to understand everything I feel in that one word, like only she can. Her response is a tightening of her grip around my chest, making it so constricting it almost hurts. Almost. If I weren't squeezing just as tightly in return, I might have complained.
Then, after too short a moment, she pushes me away, and reluctantly, I allow it. "Gale," she says, demanding my attention. Her eyes are not red-rimmed, like she's been crying, so I must have imagined the tremors that shook her body. Either that, or they were my own.
"Gale, listen to me." Katniss's voice snaps me out of my thoughts, and I focus. We have three minutes left together, maybe less now, and heavens know I'd never let that go to waste.
"If you were going to ask about your family, you already know they're safe with me. I'll hunt for all of us, maybe teach Rory to. They'll be fine, Katniss," I reply, careful to keep the emotion out of my voice. Her coal-gray eyes watch me like a hawk, searching for any signs of weakness, deceit, uncertainty, and after a short pause, she nods grimly.
"You can handle all that?"
"Always," I say with a slight smirk. "I am the better hunter, after all."
"Yes, because you tromp around so loudly you scare away all my game, you ass," Katniss says, a mischievous glint in her eye. She's caught on. I crack a smile.
"You gotta take care of yourself, Catnip. Promise me that, at least."
And suddenly she is serious again. "You know I have to try, Gale. Prim can't live on squirrels and goat cheese forever, right?"
I nod. "All they want is a show. You're a survivor, Catnip, and they'll know it when they see you. Show them what you're made of."
She draws me into another hug so quickly that I barely have time to blink. "Thanks for the pep talk," she says wryly into my shoulder. I hesitantly pull her closer and close my eyes, breathing in the sharp scent of summer wind and pine sap. The smell of the forest. Her smell.
We sit like this for a long time, rocking slowly back and forth and content with one another, before a sharp knocking permeates the air. The door opens, and we draw apart regretfully. My three minutes are up. I stand slowly. The Peacekeeper beckons for me to follow him, but just as I've reached the entryway, I turn and speak one more time.
"Don't worry about us, Katniss. Worry about yourself and come home alive."
She just smiles and lifts a hand in farewell, a motion I don't copy. Instead, I nod curtly and turn to step out, away from my hunting partner, my best friend, the one person who could ever break through to me.
Maybe more.
When I stand outside the Justice Building, I have to blink rapidly to adjust my vision. The sun is bright at it's peak, dazzling my eyes. On any other day, I would have appraised this hour, marking it as a good time for a rest on the grass outdoors or a small, well-deserved noontime meal. Now, I just want it to cloud over and rain, to reflect the bubbling sorrow and anger housed in my chest. A selfish part of me wishes it were Prim that was to compete in the 74th Hunger Games, not her stupidly-brave hot-headed sister whom I can't imagine life without. But it isn't the sweet-faced girl's fault, no matter how much I want her to take the blame. The fault is the Capitol's, for killing these children and pitting the districts up against one another this way.
The analytical part of me suggests that this strategy is very near flawless, but I dismiss the idea.
I trudge slowly home, through the city and back out into the slums. As I pass by Katniss's small home, I notice that my shoulder feels slightly moist, and reach up to touch it. It is. Then I stop moving abruptly, though no one is there to see it.
She was crying.
What I want to do is scream, but I won't. I can't. Not here, in front of her home, where her mother and dear little sister are likely wallowing in misery. There's no way I can show weakness like this, when she never did.
I wrap my fingers around the wet blotch of fabric on my shoulder without really thinking about it, subconsciously keeping the memory of her touch close. Even when she isn't here next to me, we are still competing. Some things will never change, I suppose, no matter how much one wants them to.
I promise never to lose to her.
When the chariot emerges, the first thing I feel is horror. Katniss - my Katniss - is burning. She is swathed in a cloak of tumultuous, swirling fire, a dazzling sight at first glance, a terrifying one at second. My eyes widen in shock and I reach toward the TV screen with a shaking hand, in a futile attempt to warn her. Some part of my mind registers that she's halfway across the country, but the vast majority is too deeply in shock to think clearly at the moment.
Then the camera zooms in onto the Twelve chariot, and I notice her impassive look. My agitation slowly drains away. Surely, with the stupefied roars of the Capitol people echoing around her, she will have noticed the flames lapping at her arms, her neck, her face. As neither she nor her smiling partner are panicking and flinging the capes to the ground in an attempt to save themselves, this has been planned. A part of the costume, then. A costume that may well have taken ten years off my life.
After this spectacular entrance, it is hard to force myself to blink. Katniss and Peeta, together, have stolen the spotlight with their elaborate vestments, physically and metaphorically glowing brighter than any other tribute. You can tell that the Capitol crowd absolutely loves them; any comment made by the announcers is rendered unintelligible by the cheers, screams, and overall clamor, until they stop trying altogether and let the moment pass. Except it doesn't. I find myself just as captivated as everyone else, swaying from side to side slightly as I stare at the screen on the Justice Building wall, little Posy gripping my hair as she, too, watches entranced.
It strikes me suddenly how strangely out-of-place Katniss is in that big city, surrounded by flashes of iridescent color and bright lights and hubbub; she, more than the rest of them. And yet, she manages to keep a confident expression, smiling at the masses of people and even blowing a kiss here and there.
That is not where Katniss belongs. She belongs at my side, in the deep Appalachian woods, shooting things and picking berries and sprawling on her back in rest, looking up at the sky. In this fantasy of mine, the background is green, shades ranging from the deepest of olive to soft chartreuse. Not bright. Not illuminated artificially, creating sharp contrast with the surroundings. Natural.
I am drawn back into the world when I see bread-boy reach for Katniss's hand, and without resisting, she gives a teasing smile and lifts it into the air. We are a team, the gesture says. Don't mess with us.
And a burning jealousy tugs at my heart so suddenly, so self-righteously, that I almost drop poor Posy right there. Katniss is my teammate, my partner-in-crime, my right hand. We have been best of friends for years, me and her, the Seam children, and some stupid town boy has absolutely nothing to do with it. I know it is wrong of me; she is doing this solely to stay alive, to gain sponsors that may feed her and shelter her in the arena.
And yet, I cannot help but feel betrayed.
I turn away from the screens in disgust and begin to walk home, ignoring the garbled protests of my siblings.
When the Games begin, I am nestled safely in the smooth crook of two tree roots, wiping away the silent tears as they come. It is a mandatory viewing, but red-headed Darius has allowed me to slip away, crossing my name off his list as he made his way around the Seam earlier. He knew how inseparable Katniss and I were, and I think a part of him sympathized with me as he jerked his head to the side, telling me to go where I needed to.
And so I allowed my legs to carry me here, where I can scream and cry and no one will see my weakness but the trees and the squirrels. It is a horrible feeling, knowing that within the hour, hell, within the minute, your best friend of years might well be dead. I know that if she is, no one else will really bat an eye, not even the people of District Twelve. No, more probably, this lot will be passing around money, paying off the bets with a grumble or two but no real care. It makes me wonder just where along the line it has become okay in the minds of people for children to be murdered brutally, on a yearly basis. If this is normalcy to us, then normalcy is sick.
And Katniss, right now, might be dead and I won't know it. Because I've run away, run away so shamelessly from the fear that's lunging at my heels with bared fangs. I don't have the courage to turn and fight it, the same way she is fighting to survive, and I don't think I ever will.
I realize I am shaking. Over the years, Katniss has done many bad things to me. More than once, when she was teaching me to shoot, she'd whack me over the head with her bow when I failed under her strict instruction. Another time, she capriciously sprinkled wild lobelia onto my bread, silent vengeance for an argument which I've long forgotten; then she would just laugh as I threw up over every other bush I saw that day, clutching my stomach. But this time, she has don't something far worse, wounding not my body but my pride.
She has made me a coward.
I hunt early, and I hunt often, but that cannot keep me from the television screens for very long. How is she doing? How is my girl on fire faring against the Careers, against that intelligent-faced redhead from District Five? The questions plague my mind without cease, and only the steady concentration of the hunt can draw my attention away from them. Mostly, I am haunted by nerves, calmed only by periodic releases when I see she is alive, is safe, is thriving. And then the tension returns, worse than ever, because surely, more atrocities are to come. We are speaking of the Capitol, after all.
I remember the rush of relief I'd felt after I'd returned home the first day, so tense I was sure my muscles would stay in permanent knots. I'd braced myself for the worst, then promptly collapsed onto my bed with a sigh at the news, a sudden exhaustion claiming my body.
Alive, I'd thought, breathing heavily, deeply, as I drifted into sleep. Alive.
And she is still alive, still fighting, even when the odds are stack against her. When was the last time somebody won the Hunger Games from our District? Twenty-four years ago, when Haymitch was crowned victor. There's a reason none of us win: District Twelve is boring, gray, unpopular with the crowds, and we, as children, don't learn the tricks of our trade in time to use them in the Games. The only reason she is alive, I think, is because she's learned to do I am doing now: providing for the family. Hunting to kill.
It is a tough going, but I make it work. I spend my days in the woods, hunting twice as hard as usual to fill the empty hole Katniss left behind. I set more snares, then often hike way into the twilight just to check them all. I trade furs, clean meat, and snatch money as freely as it comes. This system is harsh, but I don't spend a day not getting wearily to my feet, doing things all over again. Both my family and Katniss's go to sleep at night with full bellies, where without my work, little Prim and her mother would surely starve. Seeing their smiling, not-quite-plump faces is the only reward I'll ever get for the long extra hours in the forest, but in my eyes, it is worth every extra step, every callus on my fingers from drawing the bowstring back another time.
Slowly, I begin to get used to this arrangement. My legs toughen, and my sleep patterns change to accommodate for the early-rise, late-fall ideals of this system. I come to realize that if, indeed, Katniss does not come back home from these Games (which is altogether too probable for my liking), this is what I will have to do for possibly the rest of my life, to keep everyone I love alive, and keep the promise I made simultaneously. I have sworn myself onto this path. I know full well that she expects me to fail somewhere down the line, but I will not lose to her. I cannot lose to her.
Besides, I won't be a coward again, so I grin and bear it.
Everything changes the day Peeta kisses Katniss for the first time.
It is late into the night, and I am watching the television with my teeth clenched together, fists shaking in barely contained rage at my sides. This is taboo. This is against the rules of the Games. This could even be interpreted as a stand against the Capitol, if you looked at right.
But above all those things, it is just wrong. It is sick, twisted, disgusting. I bite my lip to keep back a scream. Why is he, that nothing, allowed to claim those ownerless lips so easily? Why does she let him? It is all for the entertainment of the Capitol's people, a part of their game, and she is playing along so sweetly that it makes me want to just hit something.
I feel that same jealousy again, the one from a few nights ago, but it seems muted, somehow diluted. And that, in and of itself, terrifies me. It is weaker, when it should only be stronger at this point. Am I losing the spark that makes me miss Katniss?
Makes me love her?
No, I realize. That little spark still pangs in my heart, bright and sharp and painful as ever. What I am losing is not my love, but Katniss herself. As she kisses that alien boy on screen, I can feel my grasp on her slipping like threads through my fingers. The tight knots of our friendship are unwinding, ever so slowly, and as much as I claw and pull and scream, I cannot tie them back together.
It is an act, my mother says, stroking my hair soothingly, luring me into my bed and away from the TV. I flop down, eyes drooping despite my anger, and she scolds me, telling me I should know this. Those two are just staying alive in any way they can, and if kissing on camera is the way to do that, then so be it. She asks if I would rather have a changed Katniss, or a dead Katniss, and grudgingly enough, I know the answer to that question.
Yet, as I succumb to the calming waves of sleep, I can't help but think how realistic this romance looks to me, like it really is in play. And if there's one thing I remember about Katniss, it's that she's the most terrible actor I've ever seen. Nothing, not even the will to survive, can change this fact.
That is the moment when my heart stops beating.
Shortly after I fall asleep, a sharp rapping noise sounds from the kitchen. I sit up quickly, bleary-eyed, and make my way to the door, where my mother stands, arms folded across her chest in a protective manner. I become slightly nervous, knowing that anyone who's come to see us at an hour so late cannot bear good news.
"You're son's been enlisted," I hear. It is the unmistakable raspy voice of Cray, the head Peacekeeper. I shiver involuntarily, and not because of the chilly night air.
Then I get a hold of myself and step into view, trying to look bored or, at the very least, annoyed with the late visit. "I'm what?" I ask coolly, only to be met by the man's cold smile.
"Happy eighteenth birthday, Hawthorne," he says dryly, and I give a small start. Already? It can't be . . . and yet, it can. Always during the games. It isn't like any of us celebrate our birthdays each year; my family doesn't have that kind of money to throw around. Normally though, I at least have a few seconds to spare to remember what the date is, and what that means to me. Normally, Katniss would shoot me a squirrel, then hand it over free of charge and reach up to pat me on the head. And I would smile, something I haven't truly done for a long time.
Well, if it's my birthday, then I've gotten a bloody awful present: today, I watched my best friend and another boy make out, on public TV to boot. I scowl.
As I ponder this, I barely notice the sheet of paper that Cray is slowly twirling in front of my face. I blink twice to focus my eyes, which have blurred over, and ask, "What's this?"
"A waiver," he replies.
And suddenly, the implications, the address of my birthday, the hidden meanings, they all click into place. "The mines," I whisper, not even sure if he has heard me. I know my mother has; she utters a soft hiccup of distress, no doubt remembering my father. I turn and look at her face, where disbelief turns to pain and then fear, as it slowly dawns on her that my life will be on the line now too.
The moment passes, but I've had enough. I snatch the paper and pen from the heartless Peacekeeper's outstretched hand, barking out, "Where do I sign?"
The man gestures to a line beneath the main block of the contract, and I carve my name in the little circling letters they taught us at school, never having had the time to create a signature. I don't attempt to read anything; even if I see something there that I don't approve of, nothing will be done and my signature will be forced anyway. If somewhere hidden in the small font lies my own death warrant, so be it. I will not have much choice in putting down my name. That, no matter how unjust or awful, is the truth of the matter.
But who am I to talk about unjust or awful, especially during the Games?
I leave the paper on the kitchen table and turn, as rudely as possible, to stalk back to my bed. It must be just past midnight if the Peacekeepers have come for me. Today is my birthday, and I will spend all of it deep beneath the surface of the earth, learning to dig for coal. The thought fills me with dread. I was stronger than Katniss when we lost ours fathers, but at least she would never have to face the horrors the mines brought again. I, on the other hand, am developing an awakening sense of anxiety, not yet ready to face what my father had to. I'm not sure I'll ever be ready.
From the door, I hear my mother and Cray exchange a few passing words, and the door clicks shut with a strange finality, as if it will never open the same way again.
And then I realize what I have done, to the full extent. My eyes shoot open in the deep darkness as I finally see it. My family. Katniss's. I have been feeding them with my time, my wits and hunting techniques, my game, for days now. To sustain all of us, I have hunted from dawn till past dusk, and still barely dragged in enough meat.
And now, for eight hours a day, I will be in the coal mines, bringing home enough money to feed maybe a child, if I'm lucky. But definitely not enough for two grown women, myself, and four little boys and girls. I feel the mind-numbing horror sink in slowly, stretching into my face, my heart, my limbs, my fingers and toes, until it engulfs me. What have I done? My breath quickens, then catches, and I stare at the wall to my side, too much in shock for tears.
Worse is the idea that no matter what I did, no matter how I replayed the scenario, I would never have been able to change the outcome. It has been set in stone, my demise. At least with this knowledge, I can tell that there will be nothing I can regret, if there comes a time for that.
My body is exhausted, but my mind works at a furious pace, and try as I might, I find I cannot sleep at all before dawn comes, when I must stand again.
I broke my promise, Katniss. I lost to you.
Three days later, I enter the mines as Katniss's best friend. I emerge again as her cousin.
At this point, I can barely stand upright. The last time I looked in a mirror, I was almost afraid it would crack. There were enormous, raccoon-like bruises under my eyes, and with my paling skin and disheveled hair, I was almost unrecognizable. My eyes were bloodshot, and everything I saw swam in and out of focus in a ridiculously nauseating way, which I suppose added to the awful image.
In the past three days, I have managed maybe three complete hours of sleep. I spend the day beneath the surface, the night checking all of the snares, one by one, and don't have time to spare to think about bed. I know that if I don't sleep soon, I will drop dead on the spot, as Katniss's mother has warned, but even all I am doing is not enough. The night before, my brothers and I went to sleep on empty stomachs, and though no one dared complain while I lingered there, I heard the angry growl of Rory's stomach as it protested it's emptiness. I'd forced my mother and Posy to eat, stating that we were men and could therefore struggle through it, but my mother refused to touch more than two nibbles of the flatbread I'd traded for, which worried me to no end.
Of course, it had to have been worse in the Everdeen household, which I didn't even dare visit with nothing to show for a night's trapping but a half-rotting squirrel.
Without my hunting partner, these simple tasks have become rigorous, never-ending, and exhausting, begging to be done all one after another and robbing me of any free time I'd have had before. So far, I have made this work, but I know I am beginning to fall apart. My body systems are shutting down. I am failing, though I promised not to.
Thankfully, the Games are almost over, and I will not have to wallow in uncertainty for much longer. When Katniss comes home, alive or in pieces, I will decide what to do. I'll be able to figure things out once and for all. This thought comes as a reassurance, not as a deterrent. I realize that were I even half awake at the moment, I would hurt myself for thinking this. I have given up again, just waiting for the end, after only two short weeks on my own. The coward's way out.
I am a coward again.
Not to mention Katniss's cousin.
When I stagger out of the mine shaft, coated in black dust and coughing softly, I know instantly that something out of the ordinary is happening. Outside of the east entrance, framed by bright afternoon sunlight, stands a great crowd. In it are the curious people of Twelve, creating a ring around a camera crew and Effie Trinket, who holds a microphone out to me as I blink at the rapid change of lighting.
"Gale Hawthorne?" she asks crisply, in that tittering voice I so despise.
"Yeah," I rasp into the microphone. Unable to really process what's going on, I try to keep walking past her, before a delicate hand touches my shoulder. I turn to see my mother, who has locked eyes with Effie in angry defiance.
"Miss Trinket," she says softly, but firmly. "The boy's exhausted after working all day, and it's only been his third time in the mines too. Please. I'm sure now is not the time he'd like to talk about his cousin." The microphone does not catch her words.
What cousin? I think sluggishly, swaying slightly on my feet. I have a cousin?
"Miss . . . Hawthorne, I take it?" Effie bubbles, then continues without any form of assent from my mother. "Today is interview day, as Katniss and Peeta have both made it to the top eight of this year's Games. I'm obligated to talk to their closest friend and relatives. All signs seem to be pointing to this handsome young man here. Gale." She stabs a sharp, manicured nail into my chest, and I flinch, without really meaning to. Interviews? But there are only four people left in the arena at this point, not eight! I wonder what has prompted these delays in the Capitol, as they aren't customary.
I open my mouth to speak, but am beaten to it by my mother. "I'm sure he would absolutely love to speak with you, Miss Trinket. In the morning." Without another word, she takes me by the wrist and drags me through the crowd of gaping bystanders. I feel suddenly that I will never be more grateful to my mother than I am now. Even in this moment, when her cheeks are beginning to look hollow and her hair is losing that healthy shine, she can still make a stand for the people she loves, no matter what power she's faced with.
"How rude," Effie mutters behind us as we leave, and even in my sleepless state, I can't help but smirk a little.
As we near the Seam, I recall something from the previous conversation. "Who's my cousin?" I ask my mother, who is practically carrying me at this point, though I tower over her.
"Don't you worry about it. I'll tell you once you've had some rest. Then maybe you'll actually pay attention to anything I say," she replies, smoothing down my hair.
A shot of alarm suddenly explodes in my mind, and it instantly drowns out any plea for sleep. I stand up suddenly, on my own. "The snares-" I cry out.
"Will still be there in the morning, and the afternoon, and after that. You need to sleep."
And so, trusting blindly, like some dumb sheep, I slump back down and allow her to lead me to my bed, where I wink out like a dead light bulb.
When I see the Capitol train roll to a stop at our small District Twelve station, I almost fall to my knees.
News arrived two days ago, via mandatory viewing. "Two victors!" roared Ceasar Flickerman into the mobs of people, eliciting a tumultuous cry of "Star-crossed lovers!" from them, a sound that rocked even the square of District Twelve a thousand miles away. A tear slid down my cheek as I watched Katniss mount that stage for the final time, gorgeous and eye-catching, and so amazingly, incredibly, beautifully alive that I couldn't withhold a sigh of immense relief. Having missed all of the Games, either in the woods or the mines the entire time, I had no way of knowing that the finale had come and gone, that there were not one, but two victors, both from District Twelve, an outcome so ridiculously unheard-of that I thought it was surely a joke at first.
The live Capitol broadcast only confirmed the rumors that had been floating around, showing both children from Twelve standing victorious in front of all of Panem, hands clasped together and raised above their heads, pointing to the clouds and stars and far beyond. The two looked so overjoyed, flying so high in jubilation at the moment, that I even forgave the bout of savage kissing that followed. Through the screens, applause, cheers, and even shrieks could be heard, echoing around all of Twelve in a mad ruckus. The star-crossed lover charade had pulled through. But no, it'd done more than that: Katniss and bread-boy owned the Capitol with their shameless act. The people had bought it without a second glance, not a thought as to the reasons behind such an odd choice of actions. The murderous Games were all a big action show, and young love just added this lovely soap-opera tang to it that couldn't be ignored.
I had no real idea as to the thought processes of a Capitol civilian, but all of them were so dim and annoyingly perky that it wasn't too much of a strain to figure it out. I allowed myself one more moment of disgust, one more smirk of superiority, before focusing my attention onto the screens once more. I watched and watched until they finally went blank, replaced by the intimidating Capitol seal.
All around the District, people were celebrating. Drink was poured freely, and even the Peacekeepers couldn't help but join in, as this victory meant prosperity to them as well as the rest of us. A few couples decided to dance in the center of the square, and pretty soon, everyone around was sucked in as well. I began by twirling around with Prim, then passed her off to Rory as I made a trade for little Posy, who, as of yet, had no idea what was going on but was having a grand time of it.
Even as I left for home with my family that night, still exhausted but fueled and ready to go through my nightly snare run, the celebrations were only beginning. They have dragged on to this day, and at least now I am not the only haggard one standing in the crowd, waiting for my victor to show her pretty face. I am about to gain back what I've lost, see what I thought I'd never lay eyes on again. That train, which once left with all of my hopes and dreams and love on board, has returned, carrying all of that and more.
When the door to the back car opens, I allow a joyous cry to rumble up my throat. "Katniss!" I call. "Katniss!"
And then she is there, standing in front of us all. My face cracks open in the widest grin I think I'll ever manage, and I hoist Prim onto my shoulders so she can see too, see that her sister's back, really back, in flesh and blood.
Yet the girl on fire does not look happy to see any of us. She clutches bread-boy's hand almost like a vise, as though she needs it for support. She is terrified, perhaps seeing something I don't, perhaps seeing only us and wondering whether she'll ever truly be accepted here again. There is no need for a fear like that, of course, but I know nothing of what she has gone through, what transformation has taken place in her mind. For all I know, she could even have forgotten me, though even the thought of that burns at my heart.
People do not seem to see what I'm seeing so clearly, and cheer with such force that I can barely hear my thoughts. Then again, they don't know the girl nearly as well as I do, and I don't expect them to be able to read into what she's feeling. I tread carefully, pushing through the crowd toward the decaying station platform with Prim balanced precariously on my shoulders. I almost trip several times over, because people's feet always seem to find mine with ease, but eventually, I make it to the front, where Katniss and her entourage have just begun descending the steps toward the Justice Building. I let Prim down as she notices us, eyes widening as a smile comes to her face.
As soon as Katniss reaches us, she takes Prim up in her arms and swings her around once, twice, before finally setting her back down. She bends down to kiss her on the cheek and tells her how she missed the little duck so much in the arena, and what she would do to repay the girl now that she was back home, safe and sound.
Then I am hugging her again, with my face in her hair and my arms around her neck, just like the goodbye three weeks ago, that horrible, dreadful day where I gave up on her, gave up on seeing her ever again. But she's here now, concrete and rock-steady and warm and alive.
But something isn't right. As I hold my "cousin," she seems to be pulling away, taking those threads that bind us and snipping them with a pair of coal-dusted scissors. When she finally breaks out of my grip, she holds me at arm's length and looks straight into me, almost peering into my soul. "Hello, Gale," she says. The sound is distant. Cold. Loveless.
Just like her eyes.
Then she is gone, wisping from my side like a leaf in the wind, and latched onto Peeta as though she plans to never let go. That is when she smiles, she laughs. Even I see that the smile is reaching her eyes. It is not an act anymore. My Katniss has slipped away from me, taken by fate, stolen by love. The love that was supposed to be mine. I feel my knees suddenly go weak.
I turn to follow her procession up into the Justice Building. Are there tears rolling down my cheeks? I'm not sure. If they are there, I don't even know if I'm able to feel them anymore. Prim is leaning against me, crying as well, but for entirely different reasons. Her sister has been returned to her. All that's been returned to me is the feeling of loss, and pain, and dread. I have been tossed aside by my partner, my best friend, the only person who could ever break through to me. And for what? For a stupid town-boy who had nothing to do with anything.
I find it hard to breathe again, for some reason or another, and am suddenly very, very tired. I feel that I should sit down, maybe take a breather, and when I get the chance, sleep my troubles away. But as I crane my neck to find a place like this, I see it: the grand finale, the straw that broke the camel's back. I am suddenly grateful of Prim's short stature. For surely, she would break if she saw.
Mrs. Everdeen, the woman who's mothered two of the most beautiful children known to mankind, is walking through the crowd, accepting money from various men and stuffing it into a pouch at her side. I recognize a few: the old ones, the drunkards, the gamblers.
Katniss's mother has betted on her own daughter's life.
Everything hits me like a final, roaring tidal wave, and I fall to the ground, losing my consciousness on the spot.
That is the moment when my sanity crumbles.
(A/N:) Well, if you are actually still reading this, expect an invisible silver parachute with your choice of anything to fly through your window in 3 . . . . 2 . . . . 1! See? Told you! Well, thanks for reading!
Special thanks go Caitlin G, Renata B, and Miko K for being the bestest best friends ever, and always being the beacons of light for my stories, even when I feel no one will read them. =D Love you all! Not really sure why I italicized Special (lolz) but just go with it; I'm tired.
It is now 1:45 AM (not too bad, I know, but still), and Astreich689 is signing off. ~~~
Review? =D