A/N: Short & somewhat dirty as promised, and later than anticipated, but I guess the timing can pass for soon by my terrible standards. Enjoy.

Opening quote by T. S. Eliot. I freaking love it.

Love, Thorns, and Fire

XI.

The Defiance

A toothache, or a violent passion, is not necessarily diminished by our knowledge of its causes, its character, its importance or insignificance.

Some things are easier said than done, volunteering for the Hunger Games included. Saying the fateful words when I saw the Peacekeepers reaching for my little sister was the most natural thing to do, I would have done it thousand times over just like I would have ran into a burning building or jumped into a flood or thrown myself in front of a firing squad just to make sure no harm becomes her.

Only now I'm beginning to see how difficult it's going to be to live up to them, and to make dying up to them matter enough. Because laying down the one life I have won't be enough to guarantee Prim's safety for longer than a year, and neither would winning the Games in the usual manner. Only some kind of change could really ensure her a future I'd consider good enough. With whatever mad scheme Haymitch has cooked up, we might have a shot at that, but how do we even play a game within a game without him telling us what to do?

The thoughts keep swirling in my head as we follow in the footsteps of our mentor and make our way downstairs, hand in hand. The distinct smell of Haymitch's bottle lingers in the air, and I can't help but wonder how daft are we to trust someone who spends a good portion of his time totally hammered. Haymitch made pretty clear during our first talk on the train that he uses alcohol to deal with things, whatever he feels about mentoring two kids doomed to death every year included, but I don't see it working for me. The drinks I've had seemed to only make my feelings more raw and intense, and I find it more difficult to see sense through the slight fog in my mind. I guess Haymitch would only laugh and say I haven't had enough.

We faintly hear him exchange a few words with Effie down on our floor, and almost collide with our disgruntled escort as we emerge from the stairwell.

"Oh, here you are!" she hiccups over the sound of her heels clicking to a slightly unsteady stop. "At least I didn't have to go up there to get you." Well, the combination of her heels and a few glasses of champagne might have been really disastrous on the stairs. I try not to think about it and, more importantly, not to laugh. "Go get a good rest, it's a big, big, big day tomorrow!"

We nod with muttered goodnights.

"The days just keep getting bigger, don't they?" Gale whispers few steps later.

"Own rooms!" Effie calls after us, a little louder than necessary, at least as far as my buzzing head is concerned. She doesn't wait to see us there, though, and disappears behind her own door. I guess she can tell we're not intending to obey her anyway.

Gale opens and closes the door to his room, very loudly and pointedly, and I flinch even as I smirk at the puerile gesture. Then I smile genuinely and tug him towards my own.

The door opens before I reach for the knob, and the silent red-haired girl walks out, cradling my burned-out parade costume in her arms.

"I'm sorry," I blurt out as we stop dead face to face, before giving any thought to Haymitch's advice not to talk to her, and the fact she won't be able to answer anyway. My tongue seems to shrivel in my mouth when I do.

"Me too," says Gale, squeezing my hand. "For... um, for leaving… things," he gestures uncertainly to the costume, "there like that."

We all know he isn't talking about parade costumes at all. The girl nods, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly, and then pushes past us with her head bowed.

We stare after her until she disappears around the corner – just like we've watched her once before, disappearing beyond help. One more failure, one more reason to give whatever we can for change.

It's so little – after all, we are just two kids from the Seam, just like so many before us, two little drops about to fall into the sea of death. Just like the two who went before us, both kids from the community home that have been far unluckier than us after the mining explosion that took our fathers. Have they died instead of us last year, just so that we can be singled out now?

But it's also so much – everything we have individually and together, for the hope that we will start a rain that changes the color of the sea. We'll have to dissolve there, though, and that thought is hard to bear when we're still solid and holding onto each other.

I tug at Gale's hand and pull him to my room, closing the door after us.

I wish there was a lock, but no such luck.

We make our way straight to the bathroom, together to spare time. It's hot and steamy, and smells incredibly clean.

Do the girl's duties also involve scrubbing the bathroom for me?

I shudder slightly and veer towards the sink to splash some water onto my face, but before I do, the mirror catches my attention and swings my mood back to the opposite pole. The glass is covered by a white layer of fog, interrupted by a line of small finger-drawn letters.

THERE WAS NOTHING TO DO

THEN

"Hey. . . "

Gale turns sharply and curses under his breath. After giving him a few seconds to process it, I reach over and quickly wipe the message away. I dare to believe it was evidence enough to confirm the bathroom is not monitored, but just in case.

"It's true, you know," Gale whispers, wrapping an arm around my waist.

"I know." I splay my hand over his heart and deflate against him. We also know it implies we can do something now, even though trying to break out from here and escape with her is obviously not the answer.

Our reflection in the mirror is slightly distorted by the remaining droplets of condensation, and we look nothing like the fiery apparitions from the parade. We're just plain old us. We mean the world to each other - especially now that we've been ripped away from everything else. I don't quite understand how can we mean hope for change to the desensitized world we live in, but I have felt it on the chariot, and I believe the audacity will return when needed.

Now I don't even feel like facing my own mockingjay-pinned reflection, though, and pull Gale back to the room and away from the wiped message. For a moment, I just want to hide.

I kick off my shoes and pants, and dive under the covers of the bed. Gale follows suit and I bury my head in his chest as soon as he lays down beside me.

"I'm okay," I reassure him, and myself too. "Just need a minute."

"As many as you want," he whispers into my hair, slowly running his fingers through my conditioned tresses.

The slow, sensual motion easily reminds me how I'd vaguely planned to drag Gale into the shower and have my way with him. Moments later, I'm already unbuttoning his shirt, wanting to feel more of him, to have him even closer. Shifting across him, I press my nose and lips against his skin, desperate for a hint of his intimately familiar scent and taste, desperate to confirm he's still mine despite the claims being laid from all sides.

Of course he is.

Under the slightly softer texture of his skin, his lean muscles tense under my touch and the heartbeat accelerating against my cheek feels as comforting and right as ever. For a moment, the only thought I can focus on is how much I don't want it to cease, for whatever reason. I just can't help it, however stupid and selfish it might be.

One of Gale's hands slips into my hair to press my face closer, fingers tangling in the loose silky locks as if striving to return them to their usual disheveled state, to get lost in them and never to return. The other caresses my body, running along my side and over the bare thigh I'd wrapped around his hips, and then up again to slip under the hem of my shirt to reacquaint with my changed skin.

I inhale his scent; its deepest essence miraculously unchanged even after all the proceedings we've gone through. I can still smell the lazy hours I'd spent curled against him in our woods, now even more precious, because I know there will be no more of them. My hand wanders over Gale's torso, reclaiming every inch of skin I can reach. The spark of the anger I'd felt when I knew there were strangers touching him flares back up. I don't even know if the prep teams are with us or against us or clueless by default or clueless on purpose, all I can discern in the confusing mess is instinctive resentment for what they represent.

"I want to put them in their place," I whisper into Gale's skin. I don't suppose there would be microphones in the immediate vicinity of the bed - we are probably the first pair of tributes to ever share it and I guess the Capitol audience doesn't care to hear their toys screaming in nightmares or whining for their families (because that might make them seem too human), but caution is still in order.

"Me too," Gale whispers into my hair, but I hear his voice rumbling in chest, the gentle vibrations coursing through my body. "I wanted to hurt them. Every time I thought about what they must be doing to you."

"It's not really their fault. But I wanted that too. Not particularly the idiots who plucked me clean. Just… on principle. For doing this to you… to us… to everyone. For thinking they own us." My hand moves downwards as I speak, tracing the muscle-lines of his stomach. If he belongs to anyone, it's me, and vice-versa. I like it that way, and Gale obviously does too.

"I'm with you there." His voice is raw with desire, for me and for something to do in equal measure, I guess. But the only action he can really take now is with me, and I'm more than fine with that. The hand under my shirt journeys upwards again, tender but possessive fingers fighting my bra aside to claim what's rightfully theirs. I flex into a tight arch as he squeezes my breasts, my hips grinding against Gale's leg, and my torso leaning backwards to give him more room to maneuver. Hot currents of pleasure course through my body, meandering downwards. Gale's fingers eventually follow them, tickling the soft skin of my stomach and eliciting a shiver of pleasure.

My head is beginning to spin, but I'm not letting Gale get too far ahead. His breath hitches audibly when my fingers slip under the elastic waistband of his pants and journey down to confirm all my suspicions. Of course, in a few days' time, the audience will get to see everything, because some needs can't be avoided, not even in the arena, and I suppose everything has to be up to their beauty standards.

It's not like I detested the result. On the contrary, I can't keep my hand away from the perfectly smooth skin and caress every inch as if I wanted to wipe the fingerprints of the perpetrators away, smiling into the covers that hide most of my face as I feel him react. I'm already very confident I can bring about this kind of uprising. If only everything was that easy…

"They are watching us, right?" Gale mutters, words jumbling distractedly as my fingers curl tightly around his already hard length.

"Probably yeah," I whisper, just as breathless under his touch.

"Oh, fuck them."

His voice is low and dangerous, easily chasing away most of my reservations. (And we are under the covers, anyway). My hesitation disappears altogether when Gale carefully slips two fingers inside me, one after another, touching me more intimately than anyone ever did (and than anyone ever would, I promise myself). Buckling against his touch, I roll onto my back, parting my legs a bit more to allow him better access. I tighten my hand around him, moving it up and down with increasing speed. We hand each other a bit of solace and pleasure in the suffocating darkness under the covers, hopefully concealed from all lenses poised to steal everything we are.

The pleasure is already threatening to overwhelm me when Gale's fingers slide to a stop and wrap around my hips instead. I let go of him in my surprise and he uses the moment to roll me over and pull my panties down to my knees, effectively trapping my legs together.

My whimper of protest turns into a satisfied moan as he fumbles his way inside me from behind, his body spooned close against mine, hand resting heavily on my thigh to press my legs closed, making the tight fit almost painful. I squeeze my muscles impulsively, but the spasm only adds to the vivid delight. The sensation of our bodies becoming one is still raw, new and fascinating. I can't even imagine such pleasure becoming commonplace, and even if it could, it never will, not for us. We won't have enough time. My throat clenches and eyes sting at the overwhelming bittersweetness of it all, fingers reflexively seeking Gale's hand and holding on for dearest life.

Luckily, we at least have means of dispelling the thought.

I sigh in bliss as Gale slides his other arm below my body, his large hand splaying over my chest and pulling me even closer to his, sweat gluing our skin together. Half-turning my head, I find his lips to connect us as completely as possible, our tongues caressing each other in tune with the pulse of our joined hips. Warmth floods me from inside out as we melt together, the friction fueling a fire that is only ours, invisible yet unquenchable. It burns brightly in the darkness and explodes behind my lids as our pace increases and I instinctively tug Gale's hand between my thighs, coaxing him to touch the trigger. He does, rubbing me over the edge with his fingers even as he slides out. I squeeze him between my thighs as tightly as I can and we ride out the waves of pleasure together, our bodies twisting and writhing in a single spasm.

After, we scoot away from the wet spot - the bed is huge enough anyway, and lay between the sweaty sheets, sandwiched in a tight embrace. Our breaths and heartbeats synchronize without conscious effort, we feel like two parts of one being, meant to live or die together.

Frankly, I'd rather live.

Life feels too good to give up right now.