First Lover Once Removed

by District13

The story of how Gale became "Cousin Gale". Written for the District 13 Missing Moments Challenge.

Hunger Games "Missing Moments" Challenge

Title: First Lover Once Removed

Summary: The story of how Gale became "Cousin Gale".

I am not wearing the suit. No matter how many times my mother sends me the look from across the dinner table; I refuse to put on that hideous orange and black excuse for an outfit. I have been wearing the same pants and faded shirt every day since before we ever got into this mess. I am pretty sure Panem doesn't care about what clothes I wear, just about what I say about her. I don't need a suit to make her stand out.

"You're only going to cause more trouble," Mom says over her plate. She doesn't have much on it. With Katniss gone and the Everdeens desperate for any kind of food, it's been hard to get enough to feed both families. She and I have a silent contract not to comment on how little the other ate. As long as everyone else had food, we would suffer the hunger pains.

I keep up the charade, placing a small slice of rabbit on my plate and spreading it around before my siblings could see. I know my mother's waiting for an answer, so I shrug.

"It's only an interview. It's not like they're going to kill me over a suit."

She doesn't say anything, but I can tell in her eyes she doesn't believe me. I make a mental note to turn off the TV early tonight when I come home. She watches the Games religiously. I know she feels connected to them. Every day she prays that Katniss makes it through, but I think she feels guilty that she has picked a favorite. Mom never picks a favorite.

She looks over at the screen. Right now we're following one of the boys as he frantically searches for a place to hide. The careers are close behind and the boy can hear the sticks crackling under his feet. It creates a music that's eerily silent, but hauntingly loud. Just the soundtrack you wanted to eat by.

I'm long past feeling sorry for the others. They had moms, dads, brothers, sisters, lovers—the real kind, not the ones that just decided to declare their love on national television. I prefer to let those people root for the others. I'll stick to just one- my one. I glance at the screen anyway. As if it knows I'm watching, it cuts to her. Her hairs in her face and she's breathing hard. Her eyes are shifting all over the place. The music they're playing is tense, but it's not a look of fear. She's calculating. I lean forward unconsciously. I wish I could get in her head. I wish I could brush back that hair and fall into her. I miss those Sundays I spent with her.

My mom's eyes are on me and I look away. She presses her lips tight and leans down to whisper something in Posy's ear.

"They'll be here any minute," she says to me. Posy is clearing the table and avoids looking at me. "Please put on the suit," she adds softly.

"You know I can't," I reply, just as calmly.

My siblings duck out of the room. They've heard this all before. My mother peers at me across the table. Her hands are slightly folded on the smooth surface. Her hair frames her face, clinging to her forehead in the sticky sweat of the summer heat.

"Gale," she whispers, "You and your revolution." She admits defeat. "Just make sure it doesn't get you killed."

The threat hangs in the air. Without me, they will all be dead.

The knock at the door is quick, but it doesn't surprise us. We've been waiting for it. My mother holds out my jacket and I slip my arms into it. I feel her grip my shoulders, holding on tightly because we both know what this means—refusing to wear their suit was just the first down a long, treacherous ladder. She can't cry. She stopped doing that shortly after Dad died. Now she just clings. I have bruises up and down my arm. I always sit next to her during the Hunger Games and her fingers always find me and she always clamps down.

Posy shouts from the door and I walk towards it. I'm going to try start a revolution on National television, but if I won't stop it either. I don't really have a plan. After all Katniss is the one in the arena and I am the one stuck outside the walls. I'm going to say my mind. I'm going to say that what's happening to Katniss and all the others is wrong. Kids should not be sent to slaughter. The Capitol shouldn't try to control us with death and murder and fear. There was enough of that in the world without Snow acting out his malicious brain child. I was going to say all that. And it was going to be edited out. But still I have to try.

And if the fact that I- not that bread-baking twit- truly love the girl who can shoot an arrow better than she walk a straight line happens to slip out, they will just have to deal with that too.

Three Peacekeepers escort me to the Justice Building, the only place in the entire district that had the technology and the electricity to handle the interview. I look over on the walk and notice their tight hold on their guns. I can't help but laugh in spite of it all—like I was really going to run. I wanted to be on TV, but I didn't expect them to understand that.

The district is small. It's a short walk. They escort me up to a plush room. Secretly, I wonder if it's the same room I said those last words to Katniss. I can't remember it—I was only looking at one thing then and it definitely wasn't the gold fringe on the sofa. With a look, they send me towards a wooden chair in the center of the room. Next to it, there are mirrors all around. An oddly shiny table, elevated to arm's height, suspend suspiciously. There are scissors and brushes of various sizes laid out with exact precious. A tarp I hadn't noticed before creaks under my feet as I pick up the shoes that most definitely did not belong in this room. This cannot be good.

"That is not the outfit I sent over," the voice is strangely melodic, but I have to strain to hear it. What I don't strain to hear is the slight indignant gasp that hangs in the air.

I turn slightly in my seat. The voice belongs to a man, slightly brown with short cropped hair. He stands tall, even though he has Capitol dripping from him. His eyelashes are long and his eyes sparkle unnaturally. In the back of my mind, I know that I've seen him somewhere.

I fold my arms across my chest. I didn't have time for the Capitol.

"I liked these clothes better."

The man snorts.

"I hardly think that you're in the position to make those sorts of decisions," he says. Comes to stand beside me and walks in a slow circle around the chair. "Stand up, please."

I almost don't. I firmly plant my feet on the ground and look up at him from where I sit. He doesn't have any power over me. I'm not afraid of him or his glitzy Capitol crap.

But he scoffs at me. He rolls his eyes and throws his hands in the arm. "For heaven's sake don't be a child. I'm sure you're much smarter than that."

The words cut deep. Obviously, I like to think of myself as more mature than those weasels in the Capitol. To have him call me a child was extremely annoying. I concede and rise to my feet.

"I promise to make this as painless as possible," he says, whipping out a brush that looks like it was made of barbed wire and a pair of tweezers that are tipped with more jewels than I've seen in my entire life.

I would never admit it, but I think the feeling that I have rising up in my stomach is a little bit of fear.

"Stay still."

"No. I brushed my hair this morning and have no interest in getting my eyebrows pulled out. So, thanks but no thanks."

The man looked at me straight in the eye. The little bit of humor that I saw in his eyes before was gone. It's all business now. His fingers tighten around my arm and he forces me back into the seat.

"That wasn't a request." He whispers. He glares at me. Up close, his skin sort of glimmers. Not much, just enough to catch the light. I'm trying to figure it out, but he's making it hard. His touch is ridiculously strong and I can't shake the feeling that the suit I ignored was more to him than just a pile of thread and buttons. I think so hard about why the suit matters that I almost miss the next part—"I should've known you'd be this difficult."

"Excuse me?" I ask and jerk back in pain as the man pulls a wax strip off of my eyebrow. Where did he even get wax?

"Nothing… it was nothing."

We sit in silence. I know I've seen him somewhere. My brain is trying to shift through my memories, looking for those sparkling eyes that are trying to avoid mine. He slathers on another coat of wax and as he preps his fingers to peel the strip violently from my forehead, it hits me.

"You're Cinna." It's my giant revelation and I want some sort of recognition. A small part of me is scared that he's going to deny it. But he's my one connection to Katniss. He would've been the last person to touch her before she went into the Games. All the sudden, I'm hungry for information. I silently decide that I will sit still as a rock and let him pluck out my eyeballs if he wants, as long as he tells me everything I want to know. What did she look like when she entered? What she smell like? Was she scared? Did she mention me?

Cinna notices the shift, but he doesn't change. He continues to slather on the hot, sticky concoction—this time over my chin.

"You know Katniss," I'm breathless. He still says nothing. His fingers brush over my arms and fingernails. I want to shake him, force him to tell me.

He stands up and grips that wire brush. I know he's going to scrub my scalp until it bleeds, but I don't care. I would let him pluck every hair from my head if it meant he would answer my questions.

"Answer me," I demand. My hands tighten into fists. Air rushes into the pores that Cinna has just opened. This is a matter of life and death to me. Katniss left me in a whirlwind. I can't pick up the pieces when she's so far away, on the television. With him. "Please," I grab his arm and knock away the brush. I can almost feel my scalp crawling, but I'm sure whether it was from the brush or the thought of being so close to Katniss—the man who created the girl on fire.

"Yes, I knew her." Knew her. He says it like Katniss is already gone. Just like that, I can feel our connection slip away. He has given up on her. I haven't.

"She was beautiful," he whispers. He drops his hands and absent-mindedly picks at the comb. I can tell he's remembering her. Just like I am. I'm remembering her hands, her hair, and the lips I'll never kiss. I wouldn't give up on her. She deserves better than him. "I was so lucky."

The past tense leaves a bad taste in my mouth. "She's not dead." I want to fight him. I want to punch him and see those Capitol eyes go up in flames. Flames. Orange. Black. Katniss. All the sudden I know why my suit was such a hideous color.

I was supposed to match.

"Shit."

The man chuckles. The sound seems like the murmur of a summer storm, sad and ominous.

"Figured it out, have you? The suit? I specifically came out here to make sure that Katniss' team was dressed to support her and you go and ruin it all."

I don't say anything. My eyes are on the mirror, fingering my clothes. He had been making us into a pair. I was to support her through my wardrobe. I could've shown my support. Her on the inside and me here, waiting for her to come out. Cheering from a far.

"It doesn't matter," he continues, "What's done is done. You're slated to go on air any minute now. I can't do anything else to you anyway, not without that suit. I can only make you presentable."

I'm pretty sure the cold air about him is because I ruined his master matching plan. But I was still bitter about the fact that he's given Katniss up for dead. True, she's had a few close calls, but she's handled it beautifully. Only my Katniss could think of triggering the mass of landmines.

But still, something nags at me. It's the image of Katniss spinning, smiling. Giggling. I admit, I tried to find her beneath all of her makeup and girlish charm. It was fake, but that smile she sent to her stylist… that was genuine. Katniss has pickier taste than I do, if she likes him, there must be some redeeming quality in him.

"Stop speaking like she's gone." I say. "She's not gone."

He looks at me, long and hard. A muscle around his mouth tightens. He takes a breath like he's going to say something, but instead gives a movement that's not quite a nod, but not quite a shake.

"No. She's not gone." He doesn't say, but I feel as if he's trying to hold back the "yet" he wants to add.

The stylist is right. They come for me in a few minutes. He shoos me with a slight of his pretty and manicured hands. I'm sure he was going to do that to me had he had time. I can't quite decide which one I'd rather endure: a manicure or quality time with Caesar Flickerman. Too bad I didn't get much of a choice.

The room in which the interview is supposed to be conducted is small, but bright and tall. It's a perfect fit for the six foot high lights they've set up to hide in the background of the set. There are two cameras that look as if they weigh a hundred pounds. The screens are black and the room, for the most part, is empty. I assume the crew is in the next room, watching Katniss. The man sitting in one of the two empty directors chairs situated at the center of the massive ring of lights looks exactly like I thought he would. Well, if you don't count the colors.

Unlike what he wore at the ceremony- while he was rubbing elbows with that prick and beaming fake smiles to Catnip—his hair is a vibrant gold. Apparently, I had really missed the mark on this whole gold theme.

He smiles at me. Underneath it all, I know he's just trying to trap me in his web of sickly sweet smiles like everyone else. It doesn't work. His body tells me he's just as cold as he looks like from TV. At least to me. It's not my fault everyone else falls for it.

"Ah, Gale Hawthorne," he says with his arm outstretched towards me. He does not move from his chair, but uncrosses his legs as if it were a peace offering. "It's such a pleasure to meet you." As I come closer, I realize that his teeth have been studded with little gold flecks. His eyebrows are accented by gold thread and his earrings are mimics of Katniss' mockingjay pin.

Oops.

I shake his hand lightly rather than gripping it like I should have. I'm hoping to throw him off guard, but it doesn't. He drapes his hand over the seat next to me. The energy is not as strong as it is off screen. His eyes don't sparkle and he looks about thirty pounds heavier.

I always knew they edited these kinds of Capitol freaks.

"Please," he says, gesturing again. "We have just a few things to go over before we get started."

I take a seat. There's no way I can get out of this. I'm secretly wondering how I even got into this mess in the first place. But I brought it on myself. Who else would know enough about Katniss? Who else could provide an interview that's good enough to show the world what she's really like, how amazing she is when she's not dropping nests of angry jackets onto people's heads? Although, in my opinion, I think that was pretty amazing.

Caesar hands me a slip of paper. There are a few things of what I can't say—you know the standard no-encouraging-revolution type of deal— and one thing I should say. When I see it, I can't fight the laugh. It's a joke. There's no way. We don't even look alike.

"Is there something wrong?" He says it like he was expecting my reaction.

"I'm not her cousin," I say. "Not even close."

"Ah," he exhales slowly and reminds me a bit of a mother giggling over her child's wobbly first steps. "I thought we might hit that little snag." He leans over the arm of his chair and whispers, "You see Gale, for our purpose, which is the purpose of keeping the love affair fresh in our viewers' minds, we thought it was best that we minimize any sort of doubt or distractions. As I'm sure you can understand, this meant eliminating any sort of belief that you are competition for Peeta. That won't be a problem, will it Mr. Hawthorne?"

He knows of course. I can see it in his eyes. He knows I'm in love with her. Someone's told him about how I follow Katniss around, how I hate it when she's out of my sight, how I stay awake wondering if she's had enough to eat that night or if she's crying. Someone snitched. I wish I knew who.

Then there was the business of him. He had been prowling around with the Careers, but moaning her name in the middle of the night. What kind of shit is that? Who did he think he was kidding? If he loved her at all, he would've been up there in that tree with her, giving her all of his food. He should've been her lookout—I doubted he'd be good for anything else with that body. He only showed to be useful for painting. Painting doesn't do much for murder. The most harm someone can come by is getting paint in the eye. There's no way she loves him. She's too good for him.

Caesar looks at me. That fake smile has turned into business. He reeks of the Capitol. Of Snow. Shouts come from the next room and my heart starts to beat too fast to breathe. Was that Katniss? Did the Careers find her under that shrub? She should've known better than to stay there that long. I thought I'd taught her to cover her tracks.

"Mr. Hawthorne?" He's still there, looking into me with that sinister smile. What is it the world finds attractive about him again? Surely not for his genuine personality.

I would do anything to destroy him and that sparkly image he's created for himself. I want to make the world see him as I see him now—as cold as the gold plated token he wears around his neck. So I look down at the sheet and look back up at him.

There's no way in hell I am calling myself her cousin. In fact, even if I was in hell, I would probably still inform anyone who wanted to know that Katniss is pretty much the love of my life. And I have every intention of letting her know that.

But I don't see the point of telling that to Caesar. So I smile politely, sweetly and turn his weapon on him.

"No, there will be no problem with that," I say.

His smile broadens and he seems to relax a little while. I can only imagine how much pressure is riding on him—from Snow to the Games. It must be a lot. I almost feel bad for him.

Almost.

With a snap, Caesar calls his crew in from the next room. I have no idea how they heard his fingers, but realize they've probably done this a million times.

"We're ready. Please get set up."

Does he keep the charade up for everyone? Or is his crew working this fast because they know about Caesar's hidden temper?

The lights flip on at once. I'm suddenly blinded by the towers, the camera's flickering screens and Caesar's teeth. The gold flecks are catching the lights and spitting it right back into the camera. It literally glitters. I have to fight back the bile that rises up. Capitol scum.

The head cameraman counts down on his fingers. I can barely see them through the haze. When Caesar starts talking, I'm still trying to fight back the halos that seem to be hovering about the left camera.

"Good afternoon friends, I hope you have been enjoying the latest events in the Games. As you know, there are eight—sorry, now seven—contestants left. Standard procedure states that we interview our remaining tributes family and friends! Today is the day I know you've all been waiting for. We have here a man who can say he knows Katniss better than anyone—aside from our dear Peeta of course!"

You can almost hear the crowd of Panem's laugh of adoration. The thrill of young love always gets them riled up. Well, that and a death in the games. I silently wonder who the contestant was. I know it's not Katniss because they wouldn't bother with an interview then. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hope it's Peeta. That would make my life so much easier.

"Panem, meet Gale Hawthorne. Gale, why don't you start off by telling us a bit about Katniss. What does she like to do in her spare time?"

Caesar turns to me with avid enthusiasm, as if ten minutes ago we were swapping jokes and tidbits rather than threatening and weighted glares. I'm pretty sure he's powered by the lights, kind of like the solar panels we have on top of our school.

"Climb trees and shoot." Nope, I wasn't going to make it any easier for him.

Caesar chuckles and lays a hand on my arm. To the audience, I'm sure it seems like a standard Caesar Flickerman gesture. He can't get enough of me! But I know the truth, because that hand has a death grip on my wrist. Behave, it says. I can feel bruising where he's dug his nails into my skin. I glance at his face. It's calm and controlled as if we really were best friends.

"Yes, let's talk about that, where did she learn to shoot? Surely not in physical education!" He looks to the camera and winks as if there's a joke between him and the audience.

Really? This man actually exists in the world?

"We liked to shoot at knots in the trees. For fun. When we were kids."

The fingernails dug deeper and the smile grew wider.

"Tell us about that, your childhood! What was Katniss like? Has she always been this resourceful?"

"Oh yes, Katniss is so creative and strong. I wouldn't want to go up against her. I've seen how she shoots and I like my life, thank you!" You see Caesar? I can play this game too.

Caesar seems to relax a bit. Only a bit. His fingers are still around my wrist and he leans closer like he's going to ask a very important question. His face wipes clean and his eyes grow serious. I'm not blinded by the smile anymore, it doesn't exist.

"Now Gale, you have to tell us, how did you feel when you heard Katniss' name? Were you afraid for her?"

"No. I knew she could handle it."

"And what did you say to her when you went to her? Did you give her any words of advice?"

This is it. This is my chance.

"Not that much. I just told her to give them hell, shoot straight and that I loved her. I love her very much."

The room does silent. I swear Caesar almost dropped his carefully composed smile. I have him cornered. I can see him squirm in front of the camera as he turns to lovingly address his audience. He touches his ear ever so slightly and takes his hand off of my wrist.

"Ladies and gentleman, I've just received word that there will be an announcement in just a few minutes. We'll put this interview on hold so you can see this breaking news! It's all so exciting! Don't worry, we know you won't want to miss this interview so we will be back with Gale and see if we can't get to know him a little better." He beams at the camera. And I mean beams.

The sizzle cuts off quickly. I'm left in the dark as my eyes try to adjust.

"What was that? Did you not read the sheet? Did you think it was there for my own amusement?"

I knew he'd drop the act eventually. He is seething. Those gold threaded eyebrows are knitted together like daggers; his teeth roll into fangs; his voice, a hiss. This is the Caesar I imagined.

"I'm not playing your game. You can't make me. It's absurd." Sorry Mom. I know I promised to save the revolution for later, but when opportunity knocks. "I love Katniss. Peeta is a pompous asshole who prefers to spend his time knuckle deep in dough than anywhere near Katniss. Anyone who believes he's in love with her is an idiot."

Rather than coming up with some witty retort, Caesar flicks his finger towards the camera. From nowhere, a screen pops up and I see her. She's a mess. There's dried blood down the side of her face and she has her head slightly cocked to one side. I've never seen so much dirt and grit caked on her face and it's almost as if I don't recognize her underneath it all. She has fresh scars down her legs and arms. I can tell she's trying so hard to keep it all together. She wants to think of her next move, but at the same time, the look on her face is frazzled. She has no idea what she's doing next. She's scared.

The announcement comes soon after the TV flickers on. Teams? There's never been a team before, why should there be now? Of course, I know the answer. Katniss and Peeta have spent the Games by themselves, and while I'm fine by that, I don't think the rest of the population is. They want them together. They want to see what will happen. I'm just about to turn to Caesar and tell him that they'll never do it, Katniss would never work with him. But then I hear it.

"Peeta!" It escapes from her mouth so quickly, and so loudly that she covers her mouth and tries to hide in the foliage. I can see her mind working, the desperation that suddenly comes over to get to him. She scrambles around the trees, the whole time trying to hide back tears. I know her; I know what that face is. She's confused. The blood on the side of her face makes her look childish. I'm trying to find my Katniss underneath the grim and the wild eyes, but I can't.

Does she want him? Yea, I had never sat her down and admitted it to her face, but I thought I'd made myself pretty clear. Every Sunday, I looked forward to spending the day with her. I brushed her hair from her eyes when she was concentrating on a shot, I hoisted her up that particularly tall tree and I even let her make fun of the way I swim. Not everyone can do this. But still, she's running to him in the middle of the forest. Not to me.

I look towards Caesar. He's smiling down at me with lips drawn tight. He nods slightly.

"I thought you might want to see that," he adds softly.

Of course he did. He knows this destroys me. He recognizes defeat. His fingers rise up again and he motions into the darkness.

"I think Mr. Hawthorne needs a few touch-ups. He's looking at little pale."

A slightly plump woman comes over clutching a soft brush and some beige looking powder. She does not try to hide the contempt from her face. Her skin is pea green and I feel that way when I look at her skin. Why do these people do this to themselves?

She grabs my face between her hands and yanks it upwards, towards the bright lights. I try to pull away, but the grip is too tight. She's breathing hard, forcing air through her nose. It surrounds my mouth and I start to really feel nauseous. She brushes the powder quickly across my face. She ignores my rapid blinking even though it's her fault the powder gets into my eye in the first place. She makes a few more quick circles around my nose and forehead. The grip eases a little bit, but she's still making me look into her eyes, those golden pupils I'm sure were contacts made to look like Katniss' color.

"Just so you know," she hisses, "I'm Team Peeta."

She throws my face against the chair and drops her hands. Without another word, she walks back into the darkness behind the monitor with the close up of Peeta, knee deep in mud and whispering Katniss' name. Yea, you and the whole world apparently.

The screen cuts back to Katniss. She's stumbling by the river, searching desperately for something. There's hope in her eyes now and a slight, desperate, maniacal smile. I can feel my stomach tighten into the knot I always get when I watch her, when she feels too far away. I miss her so much.

"Great, we're ready to go now!" Caesar nods at the lights and they flick on. The halo surrounds my eyes and makes Katniss seem like an angel on the screen. The cameraman counts down again—three, two, and one.

"Gale, I understand your love for Katniss. It must be so hard to watch her on the screen."

"Yes, I feel so connected to her." He's setting me up. He wants me to reveal the one thing I don't want to say. But I look at Katniss. She's almost to Peeta now. She's fumbling around and softly calling her name. Her lips are framed so perfectly that name. I wish it were mine. I say. I try to catch my breath, try to force my voice to push out the air required to say the next line.

"You know, as my cousin. I love her as my cousin."

Caesar Flickerman smiles and lays his hand on my arm.

Good dog, it says, good dog.