Two weeks pass, with no event. Gale spends his long days training the District 2- issued Police Corps, and snuffing out the little rebellious pro-Capitol fires. His long nights are spent with cheap whiskey and cheaper girls, and knots in long coils of rope by his bedside. He dates Johanna on and off; he writes Paylor long documents; he babysits for Annie; he tops up (and raids from) Johanna's morphling supply; he goes on crazy joyrides just for the adrenaline, which is better than any of the other drugs; he binge drinks, and cross-district runs, and sleeps about three hours a day.
On the whole, life continues as it always has done; in a strange maelstrom of chaos, order, grief, and bored violence.
It's the same for all the Victors that Gale knows. Sometimes he doubts their sanity, most of the time he doubts his own. But he babysits for Annie anyway, and talks to Haymitch, and (reluctantly) hangs out with Enobaria.
He never had very many friends back at home, and now that Katniss has gone, he pretends not to notice the awkward silences, the strange looks, the strained laughs. Johanna's the only one he can be himself around, and then all they ever do is argue.
He always comes back to her, even though she'll never be anything like Katniss, even though she walks away when he wakes up screaming, even though she has a darker sense of humour than anyone else he's ever met, because it's painfully obvious he's way too messed up for anyone else.
His nightmares are always the same. Fire, desolation, and a dead little girl. A young heart that burnt.
Sometimes he can swear he can hear her, a whisper in the corner of his mind.
"It's okay, Gale," she whispers to him, the hint of her last smile in her voice. And he wants so desperately to believe her.
