It's not too early to update again, is it?

No rights to The Hunger Games.

I bolt up from the couch suddenly, and three pairs of eyes widen at the action. I'm supposed to provide an explanation here. I think I'll turn in or I think I'll get some fresh air. But I just leave. I bolt for my temporary bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind me. I don't bother locking it and head for the bed. My back is turned to the mattress and my hands cling to the edge as I slide down against it. I hit the floor and release my grip on the bed, entwining my fingers in my hair.

My feelings are getting the best of me.

Suddenly I notice, and I'm not sure when it began, I'm crying.

I could be killed. Gale could be killed. Gale and I could be killed.

Or worse.

I don't let my mind rest on the and worse part, because I'm not sure how hysterical that could make me.

I rest my head against my knees, my fingers in my hair, and cry and cry and cry.

I'm faintly aware a section of light spilling into the room, and then disappearing again. The door opening and closing. Soon after, Gale slides down beside me, and puts a comforting hand on my back.

"You okay?" he says quietly.

I lift my head up to look at him meaningfully. "Peachy."

He knows the question is unneeded. If one finds it called for to ask someone if they're okay, then chances are, they aren't. But it's nice to be asked. No matter how sarcastic the reply.

Gale knows that, and he knows that I do appreciate the question. He rubs my shoulder comfortingly, and I don't hesitate to lean into him.

"What are we going to do?" I ask him softly.

He continues rubbing my shoulder as he admits, "We don't need to think about that now."

"The Games are tomorrow," my cracking voice reminds him.

"Whoever won the Games because of a well-planned alliance?"

"Not the entire alliance," I say, not looking at him. "The entire alliance can't win."

Gale doesn't try to get me to look at him. He's quiet for what feels like a very long time.

"Hey, Catnip," he says, "you're the half of us that wins, okay?"

I drop my jaw at him. "What?"

"Call it moral obligation or chivalry or whatever, but if you think I'm going to let myself live while you die, you've got a fight coming your way," he explains.

"Gale!" I exclaim breathily.

"Don't try to argue with me, Katniss," he requested.

"And how exactly do you expect me to keep going without you?" I demand of him.

"You did for twelve years before you met me," he points out. "I don't want your blood on my hands. If I died knowing I could've gone in your place—"

"So you're willing to put your blood on mine?" I cry. "Shifting guilt over to me isn't noble, Gale."

"Not when you put it like that," he says. "Otherwise, it's downright gentlemanly."

"No! Gale, we—"

"Catnip," he cuts me off, "how likely is it we'll be the final two. Let's cross this bridge when we get to it, alright?"

"But—" I try feebly.

"Katniss," he interrupts gently. "Go to sleep. In a bed, while you have the opportunity."

It's a sensible suggestion, and I really am tired. Emotions do that to you. I should try and avoid them. I lift myself onto the bed, and Gale assists me, keeping a hand on the small of my back. This gesture might have been patronizing from anyone else.

"You're not going to leave, are you?" I ask him as slide under the blankets.

In the dimness, I see Gale's figure stand up, and I think he might. But then, he walk around the bed and climbs onto the bed beside me.

"Not for the world," he says.

The time in which I wake up to the time I'm waiting in room with Cinna for the Games to begin is something of a blur.

Effie is rapping at the door when I pry my eyes open. She practically rips Gale and me out of bed and shoves us to our day. No sympathy exudes from her. She looks customarily excited about Capitol business. Gale and I are eventually separated somewhere in the corridors before I realize what's happening. I don't even have a chance to give him a hopeful or despairing look.

I'm shoved into vehicles. My clothes are changed. A tracker is injected into my arm. I barely register any of it.

Eventually, I end up in an elevator with Haymitch. It may be the last time we ever see each other. He's giving me pointers and advice, and I try desperately to concentrate on what he has to say.

"When you come up into the Arena," he explains, talking with his hands, "there'll be a Cornucopia in the center of all the tributes. There'll be weapons and supplies, probably a bow for you and some snares for the boy, if you showed that off in training. It's your call whether or not you dive into the scramble for that stuff, but know that if you do, you will probably lose half the blood in your body and most of your limbs. And then consequently, you'll be dead."

I make an expression at the comment, but allow him to flow into the next piece of wisdom.

"If you avoid the Cornucopia like you ought to, make finding nourishment, food and water, a priority. Put it before finding your buddy. You won't be any good to him dead. Find food and water first, and preferably a weapon, then go find him."

"What do I do when I find him?" I ask.

"Make sure the audience the audience wants to see more of you," he advises.

"What does that mean?" I frown.

He claps a hand onto my shoulder. "Romance, honey. Work it."

My eyes go wide. It's been brought up before sure, but Haymitch never meant it too seriously. "But I thought the audience liked the best friend dynamic."

"They do," Haymitch agrees. "They're already rooting for you two to make it far. But people make friends often. A romance, that's special. You could have them eating out of the palm of your hand. You are of opposing genders and you're extremely close. The audience is already rooting for it to happen.

"Don't give it to them immediately, though," he advises. "Let it flesh itself out."

"How do I know when it's fleshed out?" I ask.

"Probably when you start developing actual feelings for him," Haymitch says simply.

I give him a shocked looked.

He shrugs at the expression. "Don't pretend it's not likely."

The doors open in front of us. Cinna waits in the room with a glass tube I'm presumably supposed to get into so it can lift me into the arena. I force myself not to hyperventilate.

I turn to Haymitch and throw my arms around him.

"Thank you," I say into his ear as I hug him.

I wouldn't do this with many people. The only reason I'm doing it with Haymitch is because I know it makes him as uncomfortable as it would make me. For some reason, that's comforting. It's like I'm giving him a hard time, deliberately annoying him. But I'm sure he knows I mean more than that.

"Whatever," he offers, awkwardly putting my shoulder. And I know he means more than that, too.

I release my grip and drop my arms. He squeezes my shoulder reassuringly.

"You do good out there, sweetheart," he says, "for that sister of yours."

I nod, forcing back tears.

I step out of the elevator and Haymitch disappears behind me. Cinna smiles warmly at me as I enter.

"I found this on the outfit you wore before I set you on fire," Cinna holds something up towards me. It's the mockingjay pin Gale gave me.

"Oh!" I gasp, taking it from him. "Thank you."

"Here," he offers. He takes the pin from me and pins it to my uniform. The tributes are all dresses similarly, dark colors and minimalistic. Nothing special. I wonder if Glimmer will still look gorgeous.

"Thank you," I say again.

"I'm rooting for you," he tells me. "And your tribute friend, too. Not just one of you."

I look up at him, and we meet eyes. At this point, it seems trite, but I repeat the words anyway.

"Thank you."

He nods graciously, and then holds out a hand, gesturing toward the clear tube. My breath catches in my throat as I realize immediacy of the situation. My feet seem to move slowly and unbidden toward the tube. I step into it, and the tube slides closed.

A terrifying, immediate silence assaults my ears. I look back desperately at Cinna. He seems somber at my condition, but I wouldn't be able to hear anything he'd say to comfort me.

Instead, he brings his hand to his lips and then stretch out his arm, holding up his three middle fingers. It's a sign I know from my district. A salute of sorts. A sign of respect.

It's terribly contrived and overused now, and it's probably lost its meaning, but I think of no better term.

I mouth thank you.

The floor begins to lift me into the arena.