Feb 11, 2020
Author's notes: see bottom
Warning: bad word
Chapter 3: sub·tle
adjective
(especially of a change or distinction) so delicate or precise as to be difficult to analyze or describe.
-
Subtlety was always a forté of Gale's; he could always make you look his way while simultaneously making you think he'd had nothing to do with it, but when it came to her, he got away with nothing. She'd look right through him, take a glance at his heart and keep walking. She was not apathetic: she just took none of his shit.
So they remained friends, and grey eyes panicked and her braid whipped open when she realized all their touching was going away. It wasn't severe but she missed the wisps of his fingers on hers when adjusting her snares. She missed his comforting hand on her back when they walked through the Hob, with the creepy sneers and unwelcomed eyes. He still kept them off her, but his touch was always completely void from the equation.
She saw the cracks forming in their solidity, and she's trying to cover it up, fulfill the growing cavern. She went to the bakery, looking for a peace offering, but the witch of Mellark was there, and she was never in the mood to trade, "not with the likes of her." She'd spit.
On her way out, she saw Gale with a beautiful young woman, and she nearly collided with them, in fact. It was clear what was happening: their hands held each others softly. Insecurities bubbled out of her so quickly, she didn't even have it in her to acknowledge them. She met his gaze, and then the pair were gone and she was empty, lonely.
(and mourning opportunities, she'd realized later.)
A time ago, before his lips met hers—opened themselves up, while hers closed off in panic—his calloused fingers used to tingle hers while she'd tighten her bow string. In the cold, he'd snatched her hand, claiming it'd help thaw their icy fingertips. Even though it only made her palms sweaty and her fingers blue, she said it'd help too. He used to fiddle with her braid, much like Darius, but it was always more endearing when a Hawthorne did it. Little Posy loved Katniss' hair, could never get enough, weaving endlessly with no goal or skill, but it was adorable. Katniss realized she hadn't seen his family in ages.
Then, he had kissed her, and it was good, but the part that scared her was that she had kissed him back, with no hesitation. She promised herself she'd never do that, never put herself at risk like that. She thought, for only a second, that it was fine, spectacular even, the way his tongue danced with hers and his fingers played with her hair, but then, she smelled the coal on his shirt, and the ashy stains on his face.
In her head a coal mine concussed around, and a woman sat idle in a chair. This woman was catatonic and unresponsive, but in her mind's eye, instead of blonde, her hair was black as the coal that killed her grey-eyed husband.
(The snow was melting, and the flowers were growing, but she was no where near ready for a new beginning.)
Her everything itched and ached, because, in spite of a mine collapse and her crippling fears, her body still wanted that, wanted him.
She wanted to give him everything he ever wished for, but she knew she couldn't, knew she wasn't ready for all the commitment and happiness it promised, for all the endings and despair it risked.
(Too bad she didn't know that desiring to give someone everything, was the biggest step toward doing just that.)
—
Months after the day he kissed her, came the days he tried to get over her, but it was almost as though every step he took away, she filled with a step forward. It irritated him endlessly: she didn't want all of him, but wouldn't let him give away the rest of the parts she didn't need. Sae noticed their distance, knew something happened.
Gale explored his options. There were many girls around town he could take out, many that would give in.
He needed to move on; this static place wasn't healthy. If he felt bad about pulling away and putting up walls, he felt worse about moving on. Just his lips touching another girl's felt like betrayal in his mind.
He was so angry with himself, for feeling that he needed to move on. They never had a thing. He was just hopeless in his ability to know what's going on around him. His second biggest pride, after snares when hunting, was his ability to sense, know what's in his environment.
The thing is, he always missed things with Katniss, and it's because he didn't want to see it, almost refused to. First, he'd denied her undeniable beauty, and now, he couldn't accept that she didn't want him.
(Not in the way he wanted her. In the back of his head he'd always known, but his heart refused to see it. It grasped on to every hint of a glance and formed a little love story.)
He was moving on too quickly, he told himself, even though he hadn't been to the slagheap since the day he looked down seven inches—moving on, too quickly—but the blonde he was dragging by the hand showed no protest.
(Moving on required force, he'd learned, even when you weren't ready.)
Passing over Katniss on the way there, he stuttered harshly. The merchant girl banged her nose in his shoulder, protesting weakly. He saw the braided girl read right through him, recognize what was happening, and then step out of the way, robotically, as though she didn't even know him. His guilt hit him hard: to most Katniss appeared as though she didn't care, to him he saw more care than she was willing.
(Moving on, too quickly,) The blonde started dragging him, but his eyes never left Catnip's. She turned and stared back, with her crossed arms and tensed shoulders. It was after the girl, who he didn't even know the name of, turned the corner that Gale realized: she was exiting the bakery.
It was the bakery that kids like them, with black hair and dark skin, don't enter unless they know they'll leave with something of value, because smelling the rising bread made their stomachs hurt, groan like old bed springs. He also realized she was holding nothing in her crossed arms, hadn't made any trades. His brain helpfully reminded him of Peeta Mellark, the boy who was in love with the girl, who broke bread for her long before Gale ever had the chance.
(He knew of this favour because Katniss had told him, and after that, Gale noticed how those blue eyes followed her. He met the gaze once, burned it with challenge—the blond had just looked passive, open—it unsettled him.)
Katniss went into the bakery and came out with nothing Gale could see, so she must have gone in for something else.
Someone, his thoughts reminded him.
Gale dragged the merchant girl faster, fucked her harder, and after, he still felt guilty, like a traitor. He felt so guilty for pulling away from her, could see her frustration. He didn't know how to feel, what to do.
The next day, he was still there, still sitting right beside her on their rock. He was right beside her; he was only miles away. No matter how hard he tried to run, he was always on their rock before dawn cracked the sky.
One Sunday, two weeks later, his subtle tendencies showed. "I'm going to take Posy out next Sunday." It was a good excuse, a good effort, to get away from her.
Then she offered to join him, ignoring his silent plea.
They spent the day wandering around the district. Posy went on and on about things Gale'd told her about Katniss, and about all his little mortifying stories. He would've been embarrassed, but there was nothing left to be said. She already knew everything.
Posy chattered as they wandered the cold streets, chattered on about her cold toes, trying her Hawthorne subtlety on Katniss. Regardless of the fact that Katniss knew what the young girl was hinting, already familiar with their subtleness, she still picked her up. When she rested Posy on her hip, Gale lost his breath. Katniss holding a child that looked extremely like Gale made his heart pound, his throat close.
(He will never be over her.)
And when she turned, eyes meeting his, he saw everything he felt and more, coming through in flickers. Her eyes held it in like a dam, unlike his steady stream.
When they took Posy home, Katniss laid her into bed with Gale over her shoulder in the door. He watched lazily, pretended this was normal. With how awkward they'd been, tonight he felt like everything had healed, as close to normal as it could be. He could feel his mother around the house, whispering the guidances of her values.
(He expected nothing from her, and knew all the same, that he would never get over her. )
With Posy sleeping, he let her out of the house. They whispered each other little anecdotes, pretending his family was sleeping. They were the secretive teenagers who thought their parents were ignorant. There was a gravity between them, being held by the steel of their eyes, and when their eyes met, the flinted steel sparked. She leaned in, let gravity do its work. They pulled together and then apart seemlessly in conversation, going from an inch to six and then back without noticing.
Then, she noticed, jumping back. His face showed no signs of shock: of course not, he was prepared for it.
It hurt her to know that he was ready for her to hurt him.
She turned and she walked home, and he watched her back. Whispers filled his cheek, begging to come out.
(Not getting over her was fine, or he hoped it was.)
—
When the next Sunday came, she was absent.
As he sat alone in the forest, near their rock, the world seemed empty around him, and a tear or two fell from his eyes. Not dramatically, but they slid down his face slowly, and his features never shifted. He stared at a tree while they fell into the dirt and disappeared.
He'd never admit to anyone he cried. The pressure had built up, and his inadequacies boiled over. He would've sulked all afternoon, but he had a family to feed.
Two dark spots stained the dirt where he had been sitting, and no where else. They will be gone when the flowers bloom.
He got up, hunted, traded, started the walk home, trying to ignore her absence, but on his way there, he caught Katniss in a window—a bakery window. The two squirrels on his back were so heavy, that his toes anchored the dirt.
Everything in him closed, stuttered shut so quickly. The pressure was building again, and his stomach was squeezing in on itself so aggressively that tension was begging to escape his fingertips.
(He saw her, talking to Peeta Mellark, the boy who was in love with the girl, and felt inadequate, again, desperately undermined. She was pointing at different pastries, asking about them, like she cared.)
He turned his head, blinked water back, and walked right by the door. Damn the squirrels: they'd make a great soup.
—
He spent far too long on the squirrels that night, maybe it was his blurry eyes, watered down, but it was probably him trying to hold his anger back from destroying perfectly good food.
His mother came out, with watching eyes. She started questioning him, and he refused to meet her gaze. "I'm fine." He supplied, fingers shaking. The knife shook.
(Was he not enough? Would he ever be? If only he hadn't kissed her, and this all could've just gone away, never happened.)
"Gale."
His eyes met hers, and he collapsed into her. His knife fell into the ground. The half skinned squirrel lies on the trunk. "It's okay. It'll be fine." She told him.
He was so much bigger than her, but there was nothing like a mother's hug. Her arms crowned his frame, supporting it like it was nothing. She told him that how he was reacting was fine, that maybe this was for the best. He trembled.
Rory was watching over their mother's shoulder, and he felt ashamed, "it's okay to cry, Gale. Your father did, when things were hard. I do, too. You've been holding this in for a long time."
How she knew this was about Katniss, he'd never know.
When boy's father is dead, and you compare that boy to him, he never feels prouder. He also wanted Rory to feel proud, because their father is in him too.
—
Katniss was at his door before sun cracked the sky. It was Monday, and she held out a bag, a bakery bag.
"A peace offering." Her shoulders were open, and she seemed as though she could break if he touched her. Her eyes screamed vulnerability. "For ditching you yesterday. I... had lots to think about."
He took the bag, and in it was simple bread. After that, she walked him to work, told him to come back. He promised he would, and grabbed her hand, subtly, delicately as he pulled away. They were rough, he noted. They were beautiful.
He came back, exhausted, but there he was, as promised. She was waiting, and she walked him home.
She was there the next morning, and the next, and the one after that. Everyday, she walked him home. On Sunday she met him in the woods, like always.
He tried to force his mind to not make this a big deal, told himself her intentions were platonic—they'd never be anything else—this wasn't something he should even be thinking about.
Nothing changed, but everything had.
(He'd never get over her, but now, he was fine with that.
Mostly.)
—
Author's notes:
Yea, so maybe this will be five chapters lol. I'm so shit at author's notes. This sat in my folder COMPLETED for two days while I procrastinated on the author's notes. I'm a joke.
Ellenka: thanks so much. That's all I have. it really means a lot.
