A/N;
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games or the characters. Neither do I profit from the fanfic. All rights go to the respective author, Suzanne Collins.
*waves shyly* Hi, this is my first ever THG fanfic. I've only ever written fanfic for one other couple in my life! I've tried to resist against writing this but it's literally been screaming in my brain to be written so I've caved! I've based it after the MockingJay extract below and it's a short little one-shot from Gale's POV.
I'm willing to bet it's OOC but this is how it's been residing in my brain for the previous few days so I've just put words to paper and I'm publishing it without any beta or detailed proof reading so excuse any mistakes! I hope you like it?! Thank you to anyone to reads it *or is kind enough to review* CC x
"Remember?" he asks. "This is where you kissed me".
So the heavy dose of morphling administered after the whipping wasn't enough to erase that from his consciousness. "I didn't think you'd remember that". I say.
"Have to be dead to forget. Maybe even not then." he tells me. "Maybe I'll be like that man in The Hanging Tree." Still waiting for an answer. Gale, who I have never seen cry, has tears in his eyes. To keep them from spilling over, I reach forward and press my lips against his. We taste of heat, ashes and misery. It's a surprising flavour for such a gentle kiss. He pulls away first and gives me a wry smile. "I knew you'd kiss me".
"How?" I say. Because I didn't know myself.
"Because I'm in pain" he says. "That's the only way I get your attention". He picks up the box. "Don't worry Katniss. It'll pass". He leaves before I can answer. [PAGE 152 - THE MOCKINGJAY].
Heart thudding, I leave the room. It's only when I reach out to open the door, do I realise that my hand is trembling. Katniss kissed me. She actually kissed me. Hazed memories don't do the curve of her lip justice neither the softness. Hearing slow footsteps behind me, I shake my head, making my way to the hovercraft. That shouldn't have happened, and as much as I try and erase the memory from my head, I can already feel it settling deep inside my heart, awaiting to be pulled on when alone.
Discreetly, I wipe my eyes dry. I know exactly where the tears came from. It wasn't from wanting her and knowing that I couldn't have her, and it wasn't even from the fact that I'm still pretending to be her cousin when all I really want to do is hold her in my arms and make her mine. "Maybe I'll be like that man in The Hanging Tree." I'd said to her. Little does Katniss know about the fact that I've been having nightmares about him. Ever since we'd ventured back to District 12 for our propo recordings and we'd sat in the little lake house when Katniss had sung the song. The words had stuck with me. Everyone was as equally mesmerised by the song, myself no exception. I hardly ever saw Katniss sing and her melodic voice entranced me.
The nightmares began that same night. I was the man in The Hanging Tree, awaiting Katniss. But she never came. Only the Tree took on a human-like form and walked around looking for her, while I called for her. But she never came. Dangling like a puppet, as the dream progressed, I'd feel my neck getting tighter, my breathing getting harder. Then I'd start struggling, screaming for her, fighting for my last breath, begging her to come like she promised. Like she promised that the war was bigger than the both of us and we'd be better off dead. Only as my breathing became more constricted, images becoming more distorted blurring from the table where she'd kissed me to the jungle in the arena. The venues would change but the nightmare always ended the same way. With my hands scrabbling against the tightening noose, I'd be swinging in pitch black when the Tree would turn a corner and there'd be a massive bright light and eventually my eyes would finally rest on two bodies from which the light was emitting. My eyes would rest on Katniss. And Peeta. Their bodies intricately woven together, naked. I could see Peeta moving inside her, one hand supporting the back of her head and the other supporting her body while her soft pleasurable moans would resonate around me followed by the same desperate and helpless feeling crashing through my soul. No matter how desperately I screamed for her, she never turned to me and I'd wake up gasping for breath, my own hands around my throat, sweat pouring off me. The first time I woke from the nightmare, I'd thrown up all over myself.
A shudder runs through me, as I relive the nightmares that I know will be lurking, waiting for me tonight when we return. Was it wrong that I sometimes imagined Katniss and I as the lovers in the Hanging Tree. I believe in justice, but I don't think I believe in heaven and hell. Maybe Katniss and I would be reincarnated in a kinder world, where we'd be free to be together. Where we wouldn't have to worry about being pawns in a game that we shouldn't even be playing.
The image of Katniss and Peeta's naked bodies is indelibly burnt inside my eyelids. All I have to do is close my eyes and I can see them, the entire scene unfolding, painfully slowly and I'm unable to turn my eyes away from it. A torturous fascination that chips away at me. Because as every day goes on, and I see Katniss more determined and more anxious to seek Peeta out, I see just how much she's slipping away, out of my grasp. I can see it in her eyes, she loves him. I accept that. It doesn't matter because once all of this is over, she won't push him away. How can she? He's saved her life. Twice. And as much as it kills me, I owe Peeta. I owe him for bringing Katniss back to me. But she's not mine anymore. She's his. And it's my fault because I never told her how I truly felt about her. All those Sunday's spent together hunting, prior to The Hunger Games, I had so many countless opportunities but I never took them. I suppose I arrogantly never thought that she'd ever be interested in anyone else and we were so busy trying to fight for our survival - hunting from meal to meal that we had more important concerns that consisted of the survival of our families.
I run my thumb over lip, I can still taste her on me. I shake my head, no! I can't do this to myself. I'd meant what I'd said about Katniss only kissing me when I'm in pain. After the brutal lashes that Thread carved into my back, Katniss kissed me, maybe thinking that I was still in a drug induced haze. I was, hovering somewhere between reality and a different world, far beyond my reach. Katniss had my hand gripped into hers, the other hand exploring my face. When her hands reached my face, I'd become conscious. I laid there, feeling my heartbeat increasing, and just as I became aware of her warm breath on my face; she kissed me. Softly at first, only applying a tiny yet noticeable amount of pressure, holding her lips against mine for a fraction longer. It'd taken everything in my soul, not to reiterate the kiss. Instead, I'd revelled in the warmth pool that was seeping through my body. That's when I realised that she couldn't cope with the pain, so she'd kissed me. It's easier to convince myself of that, easier to believe, because then I don't have to consider the alternative that involves a conflicted and emotionally torn Katniss. And after seeing her with Peeta, especially in the arena, screaming for him, I realised that he does mean something (a big something) to her, so I need to respect that. I'm her saviour, her protector and I always will be.
I can still have her, but in a different way. Each day, we wake up in District 13, preparing ourselves for the inevitable battle that will commence. Everyday, before I head out the compartment door, I tightly lock away all the memories of Katniss and I. I make sure that I remind myself why I'm doing it. Because I can't bear to see the pain in her eyes and if another man is the way to diminish that sorrowful pain, then I'll do it. Maybe that's where the Man from The Hanging Tree went wrong. If he truly loved his woman, he should have let her go. That's the selfless thing to do.
But now I pay for my naivety and foolishness. Because from my very grip, he's taken Katniss away and now he's there and I'm here. And it kills my soul to know that she would rather have him here than me. So with every last resounding breath, no matter how deeply and strongly I feel for her, I'll bury my feelings alongside the kiss away and I will fight to bring him back for her. Because if I didn't, I'd never forgive myself.
So when Katniss turns to me, and asks me to stay by her side, to catch her when she slides away from sanity, I'll be that man. The unwavering faithful guy who will never let her fall or trip up. I'll stroke her hair away from her face, take her into my arms, and allow her those few moments of security. And when her head tilts up to me, and I see those grey eyes increasing in intensity, I'll step back and break the hold. Because I can't risk jeopardising what we have, I can't risk the spark of hope that I know will flare up inside me - and the trickle of "what ifs" that'll follow. So instead, I'll save those thoughts for the really dark and endless nights that'll consume me, so come morning I can be her trusty Gale again.
A stroke of her face. A caress of her lips. A brush of the cheek. That'll be the epitome of our intimacy now. I can remember those moments when our bodies were so attuned to each other, operating in a natural synchronization that can't be taught instead learned over years of experience. A slight twitch, a shuffle of a foot. Both nonsensical movements but important to me nonetheless.
I know Katniss better than I know myself. I can read her, not how everyone else can, but below the book. Below the surface where even she doesn't often venture. I can stare into her eyes and read her soul openly. The place where she has nowhere to hide yet doesn't deny me access. It's ours. But her body, the remainder of her life. It's his.