March 10, 2020
This is a cut scene from my story, panem sumebant . (I honestly regret that name, but I feel I gotta stick with it.) It just didn't fit.
Author's notes: see bottom
—
She is so tired of it. Watching Gale so effortlessly create a snare—efficiently, thoroughly, precisely—it grinds her nerves. The chill of the wind breaking through her father's coat was not making her feel better.
She's known him for three years and known of him for six, and never has he irritated (or fascinated) her more than when he's making a snare. Honestly though, it only grated her whenever he insisted she was doing it wrong. He was right, of course, but she was angry, and her finger had numbed from her attempts at knotting.
She fails, again, so she tugs roughly, like she was forcing a knot from her hair. She was fifteen and a prodigal archer. She didn't need this. Gasping in anger, her finger is caught by the wire, and she has that irrational urge to cry. The type of crying when you don't understand something, can't comprehend it, is honestly one of the most mortifying experiences of Katniss' life, because it usually happens in front of others. The feeling of pressure behind her eyelids, the want to scream in frustration, she can't shake it.
She shields her gaze with stray hairs, willing her cry away. In her despair, fingers lay on hers as she senses warmth surround her. Chest to back, his shoulders hug her head. His chin bends to her ear, saying encouragements kindly. Her braid flickers snowy silver, shivering off her scalp and onto his sleeves.
His ginormous hands cover hers efficiently. They both wear fingerless gloves, and the fingers glow pink, freezing, and sturdy. He's got snares to set and she's got prey to shoot, and besides, finger covering gloves are very expensive. She sees the many scars, cuts on his tendons. The journey of mastering snares. When they backfire, they hurt. She would know—she has no where near as many though; he taught her what not to do, and he'd learned what not to do through blood. It's a spider web, she notes. She realizes he's once again trying to teach her the snare, and she, as always, tuned him out.
He's warm, and his body surrounds hers like he's meant to be there. She breathes with him, and he smells like the forest: Gale infinitely smells of coal, like everyone in the Seam does.
Right now, she likes this feeling, this support. It doesn't help her learn, but it helps her feel safe, warm, protected. She absorbs into him, soft puffy clouds meld with their breath. His fingers guide hers mindlessly, step after step. She ties the knot correctly, and his thumb rubs her palm encouragingly. Then as she tries to pull away the snare reacts and latches her hand.
She yelps and he jumps, but realizes there's no pain. Thankfully, she had, once again, set it wrong, so her hands remained cleared. His didn't, and drops of blood leak from his finger.
"Ouch."
The pain doesn't stop him from laughing. He pulls hand away, rubbing at the cut. Uproariously and right in her ear, heavy chuckles roll out. She turns on him with puffy cheeks, beating on his shoulders. He laughs harder, and face to face she notices all his little blemishes. They trickle his face, define him, much like his hands.
"Sorry." She starts laughing too, giving up her punches. She rests her hands on his chest, and his lay on her waste.
With a snare swaying in the wind and snow falling soundlessly, they laugh. He holds her tightly. She feels so warm, so safe. He holds her as her mind conjures memories of her mother and father, holding each other, just like this, swaying to his singing in their small, cold kitchen.
Then, her head explodes with sirens and painful screams, and suddenly, she's a starving and twelve.
She jumps from his arms, because... because she doesn't need anyone's protection. Especially not his. His gaze bleeds an apology, his shoulders bend in regret. Her breath is a shallow hum.
"I- sorry, Catnip." She nods.
He knows they'll be fine: he didn't break the dam. Gale knows he can't push so he won't, but sometimes he doesn't think things through. It's coming, one of these days.
He puts his finger in his mouth, trying to get the cut to stop bleeding.
—
They forget it happened, in their own little ways. He tucks it into his heart, and she pretends it never occurred. They do the same thing with this infinitismal moment as they have with every other little moment they've ever had.
—
I have literally fallen in love with them. No regrets.
I feel this could be a lot better, but I lost my passion for this one specifically so I'm gonna settle with this. Thanks. Also on my last story I got a few reviews.
sinking815: when I saw your review, and how in-depth it was my heart squeezed a bit lol. I love your works sooo much, especially snapshots. In your review, you said I had a talent for writing Gale, and (ignore my pride) I agree. My struggles fall in writing Katniss, because I always want to highlight what's on his mind, but I had to push myself lol. We had three books to see her perspective.
Paradigm of Writing: This review was very sweet, and you called my writing "poetic" and "heart-wrenching" and it made me smile so much.
empressakura655: short and sweet, I like it. :)
Ellenka: your little compliments are so sweet and a huge motivator. I love when I see them.