Dear Katniss;
How are you today? I imagine it must be some sort of day to you, living with Peeta. Though I suppose you have lived with him for the last twenty years, so I can only hope he loses some of his shine. Perhaps you will love me instead? Of course, this is all fools hope. I hope you are happy with him, hope he brings you all the happiness you deserve. Indeed, I hope you get everything you wish for, though I know this is not the case, for you are too kind, to selfless to be someone like that. I know you will argue differently, will say that you are selfish, angry, a flawed person. I know you blame yourself, I know you're scared, that you think yourself a coward. But I want to say Catnip, that you are the bravest person I never knew, the only person strong enough to stand up to the Capitol, and win. You united us, all the districts, and broke an oppressive system running for three quarters of a century. You have saved the lives and brightened the futures of so many unborn children. The world can never thank you enough, and should know this, even if I must imbue this letter with all my strength to yell this into your ears.
He writes her a letter every day, at exactly ten pm at night. He writes it under the cover of a glowing lamp, knowing he could use the much-improved lighting systems that District Two has always had. He writes the letters when everyone else has gone to bed, weary and fatigued, their bones aching to be soothed before the start of another day. He cannot function without this routine, this daily task which has become as much ingrained into his life as brushing his teeth, or eating breakfast in the morning. One would hazard to say it was even more important than that.
He writes her to tell her everything that has happened to him in that day. The ups, the downs, the laughter, the tears, the joy, the sadness. He writes to her about his successes, his failures, small stories about the child who ran him over on the street, or the woman who knocked over the radio disc on his table. Small, useless anecdotes from his life that he shares with her, if only to make himself believe that she is right there with him.
He asks her how she is, constantly. Whether she is finally eating well, no longer having to worry about hunting well in order to feed their families. He asks whether she is warm at night, if the cold affects her as it does him. But most of all, he asks about her life with Peeta, whether she still loves him as she did before. Whether their passion has died down to almost soft, simmering flames. Whether he'd ever stood a chance all those years ago.
He tells her that she is beautiful, brave, courageous, strong. He tells her everything he has always told her, and more, his words growing over the years. He tells her that she created all this, this newfound world where parents no longer have to send their children to their deaths, no longer have to face the horror, the fear, of just wishing their child's name wasn't the one picked out of the ball. Wouldn't have to feel guilty that, when it wasn't their child, it was someone else's. A friend's, a cousin's, a neighbour's, a brother's.
He keeps them all stacked in a drawer within his desk, each one neatly enveloped, a stamp affixed to the top right corner of the soft white paper. He folds each letter up neatly, making sure to prevent a single fold, a single crease, from marring the words written within. He promises himself that he will mail it tomorrow. Every night he says this, and every morning he grabs each letter, placing it into his bag with every intent of dropping it off. He can't do it though. Come nightfall the letter finds its way back into his drawer, left there like the hundreds of others he's written.
I wish those things had never happened, truly I do. But it has, and I cannot erase the past, but I can rewrite the future. I feel guilt everyday for what I have done, and I cannot sleep at night without hearing your voice, seeing your face, telling me all the wrongs I have done. I cannot sleep, for the cries of dying children echo in my dreams- But that isn't important now, is it? What is important is that you are safe, that nightmares no longer have their grip upon you; that you no longer grieve for her. Prim. For you should not have to share the burden, simply thrust it all upon me, and I will gladly carry it. I hope one day we shall meet again, but I doubt it shall be so. I will write soon;
Gale.
He writes her a thousand words a day; but she has never received one.
AN: 'First' Hunger Games fic, I'd say it turned out all right.(SYOT's don't count, thank you very much!) I'm not massively into the fandom, but the idea came by, and I couldn't resist writing it. I've always enjoyed Gale the best, after Cinna, and I wasn't overjoyed to have Gale go the way he did. Doesn't stop me from using it to write sad fics though. It's been a while since I've refreshed my memory of The Hunger Games, and while I did use wiki a little, if you see any glaring mistakes (like if I got the district which Gale is in wrong) please let me know. I'd say don't yell at me, but some of you probably will, so do your worst.