What's Left Here
Part One
During the 74th Hunger Games
"If you just realize what I just realized, that we'd be perfect for each other, and we'll never find another. Just realize what I realized—we'd never have to wonder, if we missed out on each other." – Realize, Colbie Caillat
One Sunday at a quarter 'til three in the afternoon, Madge Undersee finds herself standing at the mirror in her bedroom, examining herself.
Her hair is pulled back loosely at the nape of her neck, long blonde tendrils swept over her right shoulder. She does not curl her hair; instead, she pulls it back with a grey ribbon, the bow simple and almost unnoticeable.
Make-up is disregarded, even the simplest of measures. She does not pinch her cheeks to bring them color, nor does she line her eyes with a dark pencil. Her one tube of lipstick, a gift from her sixteenth birthday, lays untouched.
She spends the most time picking out her clothing. Dresses are unacceptable. She rummages through her closet, trying to compile the perfect outfit. Dark wash shorts, a heather blue-grey blouse. The simplest, drabbest outfit she can find, though it is still better quality than most of her peers' clothing. Any accessories, even small studs in her ears or a single silver ring on her middle finger, are out of the question.
Like a checklist, she makes sure she looks presentable for her weekly guest. She will never be quite perfect, however; at least, not on this particular day. Her face is too flushed, a light sheen on her forehead and the bridge of her nose. It is a particularly hot day, and the moment Madge awoke that morning, perspiring and lethargic, she knew that it would be long and miserable. Coupled with the mandatory viewings of the game that evening, it would be something of a nightmare.
She cocks her head to the side. She wonders if it's enough. Maybe he won't say anything to me now, she thought. Perhaps I'm invisible enough now.
Three knocks, succinct, sound from the back door.
Madge makes sure her mother's door is completely closed and descends the staircase. She opens her backdoor, and is greeted with a blank stare that has only grown stonier since Katniss was reaped a week before.
The first thing that Madge notices is the tension in his body, a fatigue that would make a lesser man lean against the door in a bone-aching weariness, but not Gale Hawthorne. Madge has always admired how tall he stands, the pride and strength evident in every taut line of his lean body. She can't help but be worried for him, however. His clothes are heavy and dark, meant to protect him from the sticker bushes in the woods, but horrendous for such weather. His sleeves are rolled up and she can see the deep flush despite the dark skin.
"Hello, Gale," she says quietly, staring back at him.
Gale nods. "Madge," he says, and he licks his dry lips with a sandpaper tongue. He holds up a bag of strawberries. "It's a pound," he tells her.
"Thank you," she says quietly, gazing at him with big blue eyes he always thought were a little queer and strange, too all-knowing for his tastes. There's something about her that always put him on edge, that make him say things he tends to regret. He looks at her—despite the frivolity of having a white dress, he thinks perhaps she might be more comfortable in it.
"No dress today?" He calls after her as she turns away, gets the satchel of money in a locked drawer in the kitchen, counts what she owes him.
He does not miss the way she stills, flinches slightly. He frowns. "No," she says after a while. She does not turn. "There is no occasion that calls for it."
The first week of The Games is on that night. He wonders if she speaks deliberately, if it is a snub towards the Games—or of Katniss and Peeta as competitors.
He opens his mouth, ready to assume the worst, but scowls fiercely when he sees her return with his money and something else—a glass of ice water.
"What's this, Undersee?" He asks, angry.
"It's 92 degrees outside, Gale," Madge says, motioning to the thermometer hanging up outside of the back door. "Those clothes look heavy. You look warm. It's just a glass of water."
Gale looks at her, at the sink with clean water that runs hot and cold instantly, at the pristine girl in front of him. There is no hint of pity in her face, only kindness, but that angers him more.
"If I wanted water," he snaps, "I would've asked."
"No, you wouldn't have," Madge responds steadily, not raising her voice. "You would prefer to choke on your own pride and dehydrate in the middle of the streets than ask for water from me," she tries not to emphasize the last word so much. It wouldn't do either of them any good if she let on how much his hatred bothered her. "Take the water, Gale. You don't owe me anything. If anything, I'm doing this for selfish reasons." She gives a little half-smile that almost resembles a smirk. "I don't want people questioning why a man has collapsed on my back porch."
Gale gazes back at her, almost in shock. He's never heard so many words from Madge Undersee, and now he's left nearly reeling, again a bit unsure as to whether or not she's joking.
He reaches for the water slowly, almost afraid of making any sudden movements around her. Her outburst has transformed her into a skittish animal he doesn't know how to act around. Amused, she waits for him, the water still outstretched. He takes it slowly and their fingers brush.
Gale surprises himself by letting his fingers linger, and he realizes later that he liked the feel of her fingers, soft and tapered and strong, brushing against the callused pads of his. Madge lets him linger because she's too fascinated by the wondering look in his eyes when he looks at her.
He tips his head and the glass back, taking long, slow gulps. Madge tries to not watch his throat work. She turns her head away resolutely when she sees a bead of water escape the corner of his mouth and travel down his neck.
The glass that is returned to her is empty. She looks back. He looks like a wilting flower, rejuvenated by a long rain. "Thanks, Undersee," he says, a bit gruffly, pushing the glass back into her hand, gently. Their fingers brush again.
"You're welcome," she says, and perhaps if they were more familiar she would tease, him, say, Now that wasn't so hard, was it? But they aren't there yet. Maybe they never will be.
Gale clears his throat. "Here are your berries," he says, and she takes the little package, cradling it in one hand as she balances the change and the glass.
"Sorry," Gale finds himself saying, feeling a little bad about her plight.
"No worries," Madge assures him with a small smile, dropping the coins into his open palm. The tips of her fingers brush against his palm. He represses a shiver despite the heat.
They stand for a moment, and Gale wonders why he isn't turning around and leaving, like he always does.
"Will you be in the Square tonight?" Madge asks quietly. The Capitol always has a big projector set up in the middle of each district so that citizens can watch on a larger screen, that even if they're outside their homes they can't miss the viewing. In District 12, most people prefer the privacy of their own homes, where they at least can look away from the screen and no one will know, but unfortunately, most of the TV sets, particularly in the Seam, don't work, so the poorer citizens are forced to watch their children and friends (since they are usually from the Seam) compete, unable to look away.
"Yes," Gale says, and his fists tighten. "And you?"
"Yes," Madge says, and he is surprised.
"Why?" He asks. "Can't you watch it here?"
Madge gives a small, sad smile. "My father will be at the Square, anyway. My mother will probably be—" She breaks off. "I would probably end up watching it alone," she says quietly. "And this is something that perhaps would be better watching with others."
Gale looks at her closely at this sliver of vulnerability in her face. She is pampered and spoiled, to be sure. He doesn't respect her, or like her, but he is intrigued. There is pain there, there is suffering, the emotions he knows best, like calling to like. Perhaps it is that that calls to him, makes him say, "You can come find me, if you want. I'll be—with Katniss's family."
They are both surprised, but he can't help but feel a twinge of pleasure at the shy, surprised smile that breaks across her face, like sunshine on an overcast day.
"I'd like that," she says. "Very much."
Gale clears his throat, uncomfortable. "I do owe you," he mumbles, but it's a half-hearted excuse and they both know it, although Madge is unsure as to why he invited her. She is smart enough not to ask.
"I'll see you tonight," she says, sensing the inevitable close.
Gale nods, and then turns around and leaves.
Madge doesn't mind that he doesn't say good-bye.
000
Author's Note: I lost the outline to Spoils of the Victor, so to keep my Gadge juices running, I've started this! This shouldn't be more than five parts, tops. Thanks for being patient with me, folks! Graduating college is stressful as hell. I appreciate your support loads.