CHAPTER 4: Ataraxia

Ataraxia. It's a fancy word. It doesn't fit well in his mouth. Gale couldn't remember a lot from school, but what he could remember comes from the week his class spent learning about philosophy. Philosophy class didn't last long, of course, with concepts like freedom and hedonism floating around. But he didn't forget that strange word.

It was winter. All around District 12, snow filled the streets and seemed to glow in the streetlamps. Ataraxia. He thought again. He was moving quickly. He noticed his face felt wet and immediately glanced upward to take note of the clouds. But when he looked up, there was nothing but bright, swirling stars. He realized then that he was crying.

He hated working in the mines. He hated that Rory had tessarae. He hated the fence. He hated the Capitol. He really, really hated the Capitol. In a way, he hated Katniss. He hated the look of delight on her face earlier this evening, when Peeta got down on one knee and asked her to marry him. He hated Peeta. He hated both of them for being Snow's pawns and going through with this.

His boots kept hitting the ground hard, tears kept falling from his face. He walked from the Seam into the Square. Before, he had hated the Mayor. He had hated Madge, with her blonde hair, she looked nothing like the kids from the Seam; he, Katniss, their siblings, all olive-skinned, dark-haired, intense.

Madge, he remembered, was light, pale and golden. Blondeness and paleness did not suit Seam children, whose lives were destined to be spent deep in the dark of the mines. Auburn, black and russet were the only appropriate hair colors for mining children. The birth of a blond child to Seam parents was always an upset. Golden, flaxen, platinum hair on children was only a reminder that it they would grow up, that after their first day in the mines, their hair would never, ever be the same. In that moment, it was confusing. The hatred he had for her and her family was still seated deep inside him, but there were other feelings there as well.

Believing that Madge's family lived in the lap of luxury seemed strange now, having heard and seen some of the realities from the Capitol. Ataraxia certainly did not describe Madge's family. They had worries, too. Before, it seemed Madge's family had more in common with the Capitol. Now, it seemed, they were just members of the group, held down, scrutinized, watched, like the rest of them.

It was cold. He felt an incredible fury. He could remember only one time he felt differently in the past year, where he felt that feeling they had discussed in philosophy class so long ago.

Ataraxia: tranquility, freedom from worry, clarity; a holy, sacred feeling of safety, emptiness and fullness. Something he never felt in the woods for fear of being caught, something he never felt with Katniss, feeling so full of uncertainty. Something he never felt with his family, the weight of their survival squarely on his shoulders.

When they discussed it in philosophy he didn't believe it existed. Life in twelve was so full of hunger, limitations and pain, he had scoffed at the strange, ancient word.

But there it had been, in that brief moment in Madge's sitting room, when he felt everything disappear and felt only her on him. Only her golden hair in his hands. Only her hands on his hips. Only her mouth on him. Nothingness, clarity, lightness; Ataraxia.

And it was that feeling that he was seeking so desperately as he stumbled through the night. It would never, it could never come from Katniss now. It was that feeling that prompted him to knock heavily on the big, oak door of her house.

In moments, she was there. Golden, glowing, as he had imagined her. Her sky-blue eyes sharp with concern. She let him in without a word.

Her house was silent.

"Your dad?" He asked, his voice came out strange and quiet.

"Gone, meeting with the Peacekeepers," she replied easily. He followed her up the stairs. He realized he had never been up the stairs. "Mother is gone on morphling holiday," she supplied.

He felt, for perhaps the first time in his life, like a pervert, as he watched her smooth, almost pearly calves above him on the stairs. He noticed she was barefoot. She opened a door and ushered him through.

It was her bedroom, and it was surprisingly sparse. It was nice, certainly, but the bedspread was plain, dark brown, and the rest of the room seemed to be the same; forest colors.

Madge closed the door, and stared at him. Gale realized what he must look like, what this must look like and found himself sputtering.

"I just- I was coming to-"

"Gale," she said solidly "You don't have to have a reason to come over. You can just come over. We're friends."

Friends seemed like a strange word, in that moment. Perhaps it was because relationships seemed so strange lately. Gale wasn't sure who he was in relation to anyone right at the moment. "Friends," He repeated emptily.

Madge stared at him, still, the same steady blue stare. She looked strange in the moonlight, her hair glowed, her eyes reflected the blue of her nightdress. She was luminous and feminine and somehow very strange, staring at him. He was beginning to feel anxious, which was a very unusual feeling for him.

"This thing with Katniss and Peeta shook you up."

He nodded.

"And it's been a long time since it was all in your face like this."

He nodded again.

"And," she continued quietly, taking slow steps toward him, her voice dropping with every word, "you want to forget."

It sounded so awful coming from her. It sounded disgusting. And, it wasn't quite true, but he didn't know how to explain that to her.

"I wanted to see you," he mumbled lamely.

Madge looked surprised, and sat on her bed. The clock ticked on the wall. It was a bird-clock, soon, he guessed, the hour would change and a little wooden bird would chirp the time. It was the only opulent thing in the room. Reminded that he was wearing a lot of wet clothing, and that he was likely getting mud and snow on her carpet, Gale silently began removing his boots.

Madge stood up. "Let me help you." She took his boots and placed them upside-down on the heater. He stood stock-still, watching her. She turned back to him, silhouetted by the moon through the window. Again, he felt he should avert his eyes, but didn't. Her nightdress was made of some thin material, and in the light from the window, he could see the outline of her body with incredible clarity. He was entranced for a moment, and startled when she began unbuttoning his coat.

Though he had just been outside, Gale felt relieved to have his heavy jacket off. Madge folded the jacket carefully and set it near the door. Then, she put her hands on the first button of his shirt.

Madge saw his steely eyes widen, but kept her hand on that first button. She tilted her head, in question. She seemed to say this was what you wanted, wasn't it? He gave her an almost imperceptible nod, and with that, she gave him a smirk and tore the button off. Rather than throwing it, she tucked it safely in his front pocket, and patted his chest. Then, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him.

This was certainly not ataraxia, but it was different. Generally, someone ripping a button from his clothing might have made him angry. His mother did not need any more sewing to do. But this meant something else.

He reached down and put his hands on the curve of her waist, and pulled her close to him. Her mouth was exactly as he remembered it. She smelled like wildflowers. She inched closer and he felt one of her feet on top of his. Effortlessly, he slid his hands down to her thighs, and pulled her up onto him, so that her legs were wrapped securely around him.

These kisses were very different than the ones they shared almost a year ago. A year ago, their kisses were flaming, harsh. Sometimes they weren't even kisses, but bites that left both of them having to explain away the marks the next day. Being rough and tumble probably made the process easier for him than it had been for her.

He kissed her cheek. He kissed her forehead. He kissed her mouth, her neck, her mouth again. These kisses burned on his lips, smoldered. She felt warm against him, then she pulled back.

"Why," she demanded. It was not a question.

Still holding her flush against him, Gale leaned his forehead into hers.

She spoke again, he could feel her breathing, "I'm not her. I won't be her. I will not pretend this didn't happen afterward, not again."

He knew she was serious. Strangely, in telling him this, she seemed more like Katniss than ever, in her woodsy room. It was not Katniss he came for.

"I came to see you," he repeated.

This was enough of an answer for Madge, fully believing him the second time. She kissed his face, and he caught her mouth up in a kiss. It was white-hot, glowing, like her. It was effortless to hold her body off the floor like this, but it didn't feel close enough.

In measured steps, he walked toward the bed and gently deposited her there, kissing her all the while. He ran his hands up her legs, thrilling at their incredible smoothness and caught the hem of her nightdress, which seemed rough in comparison. The last time they had done this, he had ripped her dress off of her, only to barely look at her. The last time, he gave it a passing glance. Tonight, it was different.

Madge lifted her arms above her head as he pulled the nightdress off of her. Then, she was entirely naked. He remembered clearly the perfect, round shape of her breasts, the strange flatness of her stomach, her collarbone, neck and shoulders coming together in devastating perfection. Madge apparently did not wear underclothes to bed. Gale easily recognized the feeling of being confined, but he was not used to this feeling with regard to his own pants. She was breathtakingly beautiful. Tonight, he could see the tiny things that he had missed before.

She had a small mole on her right breast, though he had never seen her wear jewelry, he noticed something sparkly in the middle of her stomach. She was certainly thinner than the last time they were together. Her sex was covered in downy, blonde hair a shade or two darker than the crown of gold on her head. He ached to touch her, but stood still.

The tension in the room was palpable.

As Gale was admiring Madge, she couldn't help look him over as well. She had watched him for years, he was familiar. This, though, the entranced look on his usually dark face, the absolute lack of embarrassment as he stood before her, clearly aroused, making no move to hide himself, the way he seemed to tremble, was incredibly unfamiliar. She knew when she let him in that they would not turn on the television. That they would not make small talk. She wondered if this was what she had wanted when she opened the door.

He leaned down and gently, reverently traced the outline of the mole on her breast. It felt to her as though his hand was on fire. It didn't matter what her intentions were in letting him in. The way he touched her, just now, allowed her to accept that perhaps this was about something between the two of them, not merely a distraction.

She reached up and pressed his hand to her chest, where her heart was beating hard, steadily.

"Take your shirt off, please," she whispered.

He complied, keeping his eyes locked on her as he undid each button. Then, for good measure, he untied his pants and dropped them to the floor, along with his underclothes.

Gale did not glow as she did in the moonlight, he seemed to burn. He was all bronze and obsidian, where she was smooth, he had scars and marks. Though he was fastidiously clean, parts of him still seemed to have collected coal, or perhaps those were shadows.

She took his hand, and pulled him down next to her on the bed. She touched where she had bitten him during their last encounter, it seemed to blend in with the other marks on his skin, but Madge knew that she had put it there.

For awhile, they said nothing and laid quietly with their hands exploring one another thoroughly, as though they might never see one another again. Gale's hand strayed down, and he looked to Madge for permission. She nodded. His deft fingers parted her, she was hot, smooth and incredibly wet. Unfamiliar, he felt around, watching her face carefully. Her eyes had closed, her mouth shut in a quiet hum. Then, he found something, and her eyes flew open, a gasp escaped her throat. He rubbed across the spot again, and wrapped his other arm around her back, holding her tight.

There was no other word for it, Madge writhed under his touch. Her back arched and he was glad her parents were indisposed, as she let out a series of low moans. It was the most incredible sound he'd ever heard. He kissed across her face to her ear. He slid his fingers down and played at her entrance.
"Stop," she ordered suddenly. Gale blinked in surprise, yanked from his reverie. She looked at him sheepishly, and then said more quietly, "I just want it to be you, not your hand." She put her hand on him, astounded by the incredible hardness and heat. He could not hold back a growl. He pulled his hand up and held her close as she stroked him, slowly, carefully. He felt a fire in the pit of his stomach.

"Nnnnmmm," he groaned.

Her eyes flashed at him playfully, "patience," she murmured and continued her incredibly deliberate ministrations. Unaccustomed to being patronized, Gale gave her his best glare, but his face quickly loosened as she picked up her pace just slightly.

Again, this was not the feeling he had been searching for. It was not freedom, in fact, it was just the opposite. This was not tranquility, this was need. He hissed as she ran her thumb over the head of him. She removed her hand and he saw her look curiously at the sticky liquid on her thumb. He watched as she pointedly put it in her mouth and sucked it clean. They kissed, their mouths touching gently, sparring with their tongues. He felt her soft, lean body pressed up against him. It seemed like there was no part of them left untouched.

Carefully, he rolled on top of her. He said nothing. She said nothing.

She reached down and positioned him. Time seemed to stretch endlessly as they stared at one another. Her hands smoothed his hair. She watched the muscles in his arms, carefully holding him aloft.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said as he hovered just above her.

"You can't," she said plainly "I broke it horseback riding about a year ago."

That was all the more invitation he needed to enter her, slowly, one inch at a time. By the time he was almost fully inside of her, he had a sheen of sweat from the effort of going slowly. She was so tight, so wet, and so beautiful below him that it took all he had not to thrust into her again and again. Though he had never done this before, and guessed rightly that she hadn't either, he knew this was not a time to go quickly.

Carefully, he pushed the last slow inch in. Gale moaned in frustration. This was still not the feeling he had come here for, it was better. The emptiness he'd felt the last time replaced by an incredible feeling of heat and connection. The heat in the room, the pain from the stupid television, the anger, the fury, slipped away. He was in her, and they were the same, in that moment. Fervently, he kissed her neck, then began to move.

It seemed strange to him, that most other things in the world required quite a bit of practice. How long had it taken him to learn how to walk silently through the woods, to set a snare? This, what they were doing now, seemed to come so naturally. Plunging into her seemed to be what he had been made to do. They rocked together, quiet, her nails raked across his back as he changed his angle and she hissed, like a teapot unable to hold the boiling water any longer.

Then, he was moving faster, she was gripping him tighter. He felt something that was not unfamiliar building in the core of him. The fear of hurting her was never far from his mind, but she didn't look so fragile now, entwined with him, her usually perfect hair strewn about, her usually porcelain-white chest flushed an angry red. Gale trembled, so close to the edge.

"Gale," she whispered in a voice so full of need, he lost all resolve. White lights flashed behind his eyes. He felt an incredible pulsating, white-hot release. He felt her hands, tight on his biceps and he is unsure where the end of him is, exactly.

Suddenly, he became very aware of where he was. He was there, with Madge, curled up, carefully cradling her as they both shuddered through aftershocks, fireworks.

And there it was, he thought sleepily to himself, toying absentmindedly with her hair. Completion, fullness, emptiness, tranquilty, peace, ataraxia.