Inspired by "Stars and the Moon" from Songs for a New World.
Beta'd by the amazing, wonderful, beautiful arborgoldwine.
Gale is perfect.
They meet at the diner restaurant she works at, a fellow co-worker. He hardly speaks, and at first, she finds little reason to engage.
While she's in the middle of fetching two Cokes and an iced tea for a party of three, and he's bussing one of his tables, his tired grey eyes meet hers; it's like looking in a mirror. She smiles softly at him, and when he smiles back, something about it feels intimate, special.
He's penniless. She knows this. He wears threadbare slacks, stained shirts, and there are holes in his socks. He works three jobs, has to take cat naps in his car between shifts, and every cent goes to caring for three little mouths at home, and virtually none to spend on himself. She supposes he's just a hair's width away from living off the streets.
One day, she finds him still sleeping in his parked car when she's about to start her shift at Sae's Diner. Did he sleep through his alarm? The fretful thought fills her mind, because she's found she has grown rather fond of him, and it would upset her greatly to see him go.
She raps her knuckles against the window to wake him. The expression on his face when his eyes flutter open and catch sight of her is something she doesn't recognize. They walk together with fingers entwined on the short way to the diner, because that's all they can do. And Gale understands her, like she understands him. Her pain is his.
Gale is her rock.
Later, he tells her that waking up to the sight of her face was like realizing his reason for breathing. They share a kiss, because he's sure it must be right.
"I want to be the one to make you happy," he says, with that rare smile that he reserves just for her.
"How?" she asks. He already does so much.
"Come with me."
"Where?"
"You'll see."
They drive away, away from the city, from the smog, and noise, and lights, and then they hike. They hike for hours, it seems, and she's so tired, but he pushes her on. Over bridges, through the brush, past the trees, and the trees, and the trees.
And finally they arrive on top of a cliff, and there, she can see the great expanse of the earth. Purple mountains peeking out from the misty fog, acres of wild wood, as far as the eye can see, blackbirds flying off into the distance. It's like something from a dream.
They sit together, resting against each other, like the last two people left in the world. "I love the view," he breathes.
She nods. She has to agree.
But she can't help but think the view from a yacht would be better.
Peeta is perfect.
She finds him walking along the side of the road with a suitcase in one hand, and a paint box in the other. She picks him up in her beat-up old Chevrolet. He's running, he says, away from his family, his old life, to wherever the road will take him. Somewhere far. Somewhere new. Just someplace. His paint box and a few sets of clothing were all he'd taken with him.
She invites him into her apartment, because she can. She is not so unkind. (Sometimes she feels the urge to take care of somebody.)
He has no money to pay her; she never asks for any. She leaves to go work at the restaurant—a different restaurant this time, she doesn't work at Sae's anymore—and she comes home to him mixing paints or watering her house plants. Sometimes he's not there at all when she returns home, but he always returns, like a house cat. Though he never seeks a job of his own and perhaps he never will.
One day, he offers to paint one of her walls. She lets him. He paints a mural right over her bed, expressive brushstrokes of lush woods and trees and purple mountains. She'll have to paint over it again, whenever she leaves the apartment, but for now, it is beautiful.
She's not sure when they crossed some invisible threshold between friends and something more, but eventually, she invites him into her bed.
In the morning, she lays facing away from him after a night of lovemaking. She thinks he's asleep, but suddenly she feels his hands stroke up and down her arm.
"Why aren't you happy?" he asks quietly.
She tells him her story.
The loss of her father. The drug addiction and imprisonment of her mother. The separation from her sister to foster care, and then the years and years of blood, sweat and tears to climb out of a murky hole that was not of her making. The fear of never knowing where her next meal would come from. The bite of the cold when she could find no warmth in the wintertime. Never again, she swore, no, no, not to me, never again. Not with the fire in her now.
But he just smiles at her, softly, and shakes his head.
"Come here," he says.
He takes her hand and leads her outside, onto the balcony. They're both still naked, completely bare to the world, but their skin is bathed in a golden light and he speaks as though that is all they could ever need.
"Look at that. Look," he says, reverently. He's indicating the sunrise, and she follows his gaze. "With my paint box, I can make every color imaginable. And this"—he makes a motion with his head, towards the sky—"is something I try to paint, everyday. A bit of pink. A bit of yellow. A bit of orange." He lifts his hand and gracefully moves it in the air, as if tracing the sunlight streaks and clouds with his fingers as his brush. "I'm not sure if I'll ever get it right; it's always changing. But it'll be worth it to find out. Every second of it."
She's crying, and he kisses her to make it stop.
Peeta bakes.
He bakes her many things, delicious pastries, warm and delightful, like his heart, laid bare for her. Each one is different, flaky croissants, light brioches, gooey cheese buns. She savors the feel of the pillowy layers on her tongue.
But surely the effervescence of champagne would suit her taste buds much more.
Cato is perfect.
He comes from Greece, tall, handsome, and wealthy. He was a famous actor, had retired at age thirty without a single worry of the future. Somehow, she had captured his eye, from her simple waitressing job. Lucky, lucky Katniss.
"Come. Marry me," he says. They're dining in Beaune, at a nice little restaurant, because she said she was craving fine wine. They'd taken his private jet for dinner.
"I've been burnt before."—(oh, but no, she was always the one with the fire)—"What can you promise me?"
He pulls out a small velvet box from his pocket. She smiles at the 14K white-gold ring within. She needs no more words.
They have the wedding ceremony on his yacht; the view of the sea and quaint beachside town is gorgeous. They pop many a bottle of champagne, and it's just as bubbly as she imagined. She cannot dream of anything more perfect.
They share their first wedding dance together while hundreds of faces she does not know surround them. "Are you happy?" he asks. She kisses him, no more words, that's her answer.
Cato is perfect. He fulfills every single promise he gives her.
She wants a yacht, and he gives it to her, for their first wedding anniversary.
She wants a car, and he gives it to her, for her thirty-second birthday.
She wants a fur, and shoes, and a vacation in Florence, and he gives, gives, gives to her.
Every birthday, every anniversary, every holiday, always something.
Always—
—something.
Really, she cannot dream—
Of anything more perfect.
One day she awakes, in her bed that could surely fit seven.
On the fourth floor of their Victorian mansion, she gazes out the bedroom window, at the rising sun outside. Swathed in only a silken robe, she climbs out, onto the roof, where the maid would surely shout at her to get down this instant, if she could see her. The overhang of the roof above covers her in shadow, but she reaches. She stretches out her hand, towards the painted sky of pinks and yellows and oranges, where the blackbirds fly high. Just a little bit more, and the sunlight could catch her fingertips, bathe just a small part of her in a warm blanket that seems like a century ago.
She cannot reach far enough.
He never promised her—
This.
And she weeps, and she cannot stop.
And she weeps, and she cannot stop.
Thanks for reading! Reviews are much appreciated.