A/N: Two updates in a day because this chapter ges hand in hand with the other! Enjoy! Thanks again for the wonderful reviews!
"Come and take a walk on the wild side
let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain
Choose your last words
This is the last time
'Cause you and I, we were born to die."
-Born To Die, Lana Del Ray
Chapter 2: Born To Die
It is Prim's screams that pull me away from thoughts of my relationship and back to the present.
"No! No! Noooo!"
"Hey, hey," I soothe, gathering the shrieking girl into my arms. "It's okay. It's okay. You're okay. You were just dreaming."
"It was me, Katniss," she whispered shakily, burrowing her delicate, tear-stained face into my chest, still trembling like a leaf in a storm. "It was me."
"I know, but it's not," I'm not shocked at Prim's distress, or the nightmares that have been occurring for the better part of a month. Today is Reaping Day - Prim's first Reaping Day, this was bound to happen.
"You'll be okay, just try to go back to sleep." I know it's early since there is no light struggling to get past the grime on my blinds. She needs as much sleep as she can get.
Unlike Prim, who is twelves years old now, I am eighteen, and this is my seventh year of the Reaping; the last year I will ever have to worry about one of my twenty-eight slips being pulled from the tribute bowl.
Life is cruel that way. After today, I no longer have to worry about being a potential tribute, but all that consuming anxiety that comes with the possibility of being reaped has been passed on to Prim - sweet, innocent, lovely as the flower she's named after. She does not deserve this, but it's how the Hunger Games are designed, what the Capitol wants. The games and the never-ending dose of fear they supply are what keeps them in power.
It takes awhile, at least fifteen minutes of comforting words and melodic humming, before Prim falls back into fitful sleep; petal-pink lips parted slightly, and blonde eyelashes resting against ivory cheeks. As soon as she's knocked out, I move from the rough canvas of the bed. Buttercup jumps onto it, taking his usual spot at Prim's feet.
Buttercup, named after the bright flower that doesn't match his muddy yellow coat, is the world's ugliest cat. Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of rotting squash. The stupid thing hates me or at least distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I think he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when Prim brought him home as a scrawny kitten; belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of the vermin and he's a natural mouser; can even catch a rat if he's really feeling up to it. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me.
Entrails. No hissing. That's the foundation of our coexistence.
I quickly braid my hair, pull on my hunting gear, and grab my forage bag; next to it, under a wooden bowl to protect it from rats and other critters, is goat cheese wrapped in a basil leaf.
Prim's reaping day gift to me and, by default, to Gale.
As I exit our small shack, the world is silent, and the sun is still resolutely below the horizon, a light orange glow escaping it's hiding spot. I make my way through the streets of the Seam. It's unusually empty besides the occasional stray dog. Most days the black cinder road is filled with miners - men and women with hunched shoulders, broken nails and coal dust lining every jagged line in their broken faces - but not today. There is no work on reaping day. Might as well sleep in if you can.
Once I cross the meadow, I easily crawl under the electric fence that covers the borders of District 12; an action that has become such second nature to me that I do so numbly and enter the woods that have been sustaining me for about six years now.
As soon as I'm in the trees, I retrieve a bow and sheath of arrows with careful hands from the hollow log closest to the fence, inhaling the crisp, mossy scent of the air and listening to the sounds of birdsong that came in random bursts and lulls. My pace quickens now that I'm in the safety of the trees and I start to feel the muscles of my face relax; this is the only place where I can truly be myself, and over the hills standing by a rock ledge overlooking the valley, is the only person I can be myself with.
Gale.
He's leaning against a tree, eyeing me as I walk closer. His stance is no different than the one he was in the day we met all those years ago; but Gale is no longer a gangly, awkward limbed little boy, he's a man now. Sharp jawed chiseled-featured, and a strong, lean form that begs to have my hands all over it. It's an indisputable fact that the oldest Hawthorne boy is one of the most attractive men in all of District 12.
I hear the way girls at school whisper about makes me jealous but, the fact that it is also an indisputable fact that he's mine usually lessens the sting.
"Hey, Catnip. Look what I shot," he calls, lumbering over in all his glory, sun on his left shoulder and the crooked smile he's managed to keep all these years on full display. He's comically holding up a loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it.
A burst of laughter - the untamed, girlish type that only Gale can coax from me - tumbles out my mouth, and he lights up at the sound. Even from here I catch the subtle fragrance of freshly baked bread wafting downwind.
My mouth pools with saliva.
"Well, I guess we're feasting today," I respond, pulling the goat cheese from out of my pocket, smirking at the slackening of Gale's face and the twitch of his eyebrows, "took me forever to track this bad boy."
Gale blinks owlishly, before jerking his head slightly, shaking himself from his reverie. "Well, well. Thank you, Prim. Guess everyone's feeling generous today. The Baker even wished me luck." he marvels, looking quite disbelieving.
"Well, we all feel a little closer today, don't we?" I say, not even bothering to hide the bitterness in my words. "How much did the bread cost you?"
"Just a squirrel," he admits, and my face twitches in shock.
"Wow, definitely sentimental," I agree, before changing the subject to something less worrisome, trying to install a fake cheer into my words. "It looks like we got a good meal from it, though."
I don't think it worked.
"That we do Ms. Everdeen," he attempts to smile, it doesn't come out right.
Then the atmosphere shifts once we realize what he said and we're wrapped in a blanket of authenticity, a heavy tension settling between us; awkward, unsure yet hopeful.
Ms. Everdeen….
Our discussion from the night before is obviously fresh on both our minds. We share shy glances, fleeting smiles dancing across our expressions; showcasing something rare and endearing and pure.
Gale breaks the silence first, glancing at the toes of his boots, "Do you still… Are you…" he clears his throat gruffly. "Did you mean it?" he finishes, his rough voice quivering slightly with vulnerability.
I swallow slightly, my thoughts immediately delving into the memories of last night.
A blanket of stars overhead, the spongy feel of grass and moss under me. The taste of my own salty tears fills my senses, the iron hold of the terror of what is to come squeezes me uncomfortably but, warm hands that can weave the most intricate and beautifully twisted snares act as a balm, they soothe me.
I'm peppered with assuaging kisses; breaths pass between our open mouths.
I'm drowning in the musk of leather, smoke, pine and pain; husky whispers of broken dreams and memories of two children left behind to carry the weight of a broken world - children who learned to share that weight - are spoken into the night. And, eventually, as the night sky deepens and there are no more tears to cry, a kindling flame of hope lights up in both our hearts right along side the blazing torch of love shared between us.
"Tomorrow's our last day, Catnip. We'll be free."
"Only if neither of us gets reaped, Gale and the odds -"
"Let's not talk about the odds," he interrupts. "Either way tomorrow we'll know where our life is headed. We'll know if we actually get a shot at life."
"... I've never thought about what my life after the Reapings would be like."
"I have, lots of times."
"Really? What have you thought of? The mines?"
"Well yes, and I'm not looking forward to that, I'm not gonna lie. But, mostly, I've been thinking about… you. Us."
"Me?"
"Of course, we're adults now. We can't live the same life we did when we were thirteen."
"I guess. What would change? We'll still be together, still hunting, still taking care of the kids," I hate change. "Hell, we'll probably work in the mines together."
A flash of anxiety resurfaces in the both of us.
"Well, I've been thinking more of what could change, what's in the books now."
"What do you mean?" My heart picks up, my chin trembles, my eyebrows draw together. There's a sting somewhere behind my eyes. I try to hide with a clenched jaw and anger.
They're what I know best.
"Gale if you want to break up just say it -" I start to wriggle out of the embrace.
Gale holds on, rolling his eyes."Pfft, jeez, Katniss way to think the worst. Of course not. It's been years. I love you, that's not even - never."
"Then?!" I snap, annoyed and relieved.
"I mean… I was wondering…" I feel a deep breath behind me; I can sense his nervous jitters. All his prior confidence is gone and it confuses me. "If, hypothetically, I were to ask you to marry me tomorrow, after the reaping… would that… is that an option?"
A heavy pause. There's a hint of apprehension somewhere in my chest but, it's overshadowed by something warm, something heady.
Love.
No more fear, I won't allow it; there are so much scarier things to fear.
"Yes, that's an option. At least, you're not making me wait. I'm not very patient."
Gale laughs and his relief is tangible - his joy. He gifts me with a searing kiss, leaving me gasping: we share a timid yet shy smile afterward, our palms cupping the others face - never wanting to let go.
"Aren't you getting ahead of yourself, Catnip? I said hypothetically."
I'm roused from my memories by a crunch of twigs; Gale has shifted, tentatively stepping forward. He looks more distressed than I've ever seen him.
Well, besides that one time I was dying - but, we don't talk about that.
"Katniss?"
I immediately move forward to stop him from worrying. Close enough to be able to share body heat, not to touch. "Of course, I meant it. I wouldn't have said it otherwise."
The sound Gale releases is half exhale, half chuckle; the warmth of his breath fans my face gloriously. He shifts closer, entrapping me as easily as one of his snares trap prey.
"Good to know," he rumbles, "hypothetically, of course."
Then the invisible tension between us crumbles, and we're drawn together like moths to flame.
Gale wraps his strong arms around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest while I grip his hips with my empty hand, squeaking lightly at the force of his pull. "Don't drop the bread, Gale!" I try to admonish when I see him bend down but, his mouth has already slanted over mine, causing a rush of heat to surge through my veins.
I softened my lips, let them move and yield to his: allowing Gale to control the tender kiss.
This wasn't the same sloppy, hurried kiss from last night when we had a similar discussion. This is the type of slow kiss I secretly enjoyed the most. The one driven by a low burn filled with emotion, intensity, and promises of forever.
When we part, my eyes lazily flutter open and I feel Gale's hum of content through his torso. He hasn't opened his eyes and he's nibbling on his bottom lip, savoring the taste of me.
It causes my blood to sizzle.
"You almost squashed the cheese," I choke out in a daze, the breathless tone of my voice ruins my attempt at scolding.
Gale bends down to drop one last kiss on my mouth, "Worth it, " he mutters against my lips, a dreamy haze shining through the grey filter of his eyes once he opens them.
We stare stupidly at each other for a moment, memorizing every plane, every freckle, every imperfection of the others faces - this either may be one of the last opportunities we have for this or just the beginning of a lifetime filled with moments like this - and we're drinking in the tranquility of the moment, only breaking apart when it is shattered by a particularly noisy squeak somewhere to the east.
Gale grins bashfully, unwinding from around me to check to see if the bread is still on the arrow.
It is.
"Alright, beautiful," he tugs playfully at the end of my braid, "What do you want to do? We can fish, hunt, gather, skinny dip in the lake, make out under the sun-"
I smack his chest with the hand that isn't cradling the cheese, unable to stop the twitch of my lips or the flush in my face. Gale chuckles, his body quaking with quiet laughter, teeth flashing in the sunlight.
"Let's go fishing," I roll my eyes, moving away from his warmth reluctantly, "after breakfast."
"Fishing sounds good." Gale chimes, grinning as he stalks back to the edge of our clearing. He glances out over the edge of the hill, facing the soft rays of sunrise: looking for danger. "We'll earn back everything we eat."
Gale pulls out his knife and slices the bread, spreading the warm dough with the creamy, tangy cheese from Lady. I pick blackberries from the bushes quickly, washing them in the brook before ridding them of their tough spines.
When I'm sure the berries won't slice the roots of our mouths I sprinkle them over the cheese on our bread, settling back down next to Gale into a nook on the hillside.
I pretend to study the slice with exaggerated suspicion, "You put more cheese on yours!" I accuse.
Gale gives me a sheepish tight-mouthed smile, the bread he had already shoved into his gob puffing his cheeks out adorably, like a chipmunk. "You like the breadth beffer," he mumbles through the food, "can't wafste the cheefe."
I snort throatily but don't deny it. I have never liked too much cheese on my bread, I rather enjoy the floury taste as opposed to the tang of the cheese.
"Don't talk with your mouth full," is all I reply.
He makes a big show of swallowing, almost choking in the process.
Gale twines his leathery, calloused fingers with mine, and I lean over, making sure our whole arms are touching while I rest my head on his shoulder.
The day is glorious; made up of a blue sky and soft breeze. The blend of cheese seeping into the soft bread and the berries bursting in our mouths warms me from inside out, and I can almost forget what is to come. We stare out at the landscape, observing the view of brilliant green under the glowing orange horizon of a burnt sky. It was a beautiful view, one we looked at often but, never tire of.
Our meal is spent in silence. I think both of us are thinking of what's to come later today. Just because it's our last reaping doesn't put us in the clear.
If anything it puts us in more danger. Our names are in there more than all other kids, because of our age and our lack of wealth.
The odds aren't in our favor.
I know for sure Gale has had the same realization when he suddenly blurts quietly, "We could do it you know,"
"Do what," I ask, even though I already know.
I may not be looking at his face, but I can practically feel the turbulence gathering in his chest. Gale's anger at the Capital, at the world, is brewing up: the slight tightening of his knuckles, the hardness of his jaw gives him away.
I shift closer to him wearily, ready to dish it out. He won't be easy to talk down - not today.
Even though this happens on almost a weekly basis, his anger is always stronger on Reaping Days.
"Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it," says Gale almost wistfully. I sigh at his words. Wouldn't that be wonderful. A life away from oppressive government, harsh rules, and even harsher punishments. A life of freedom.
A life together.
Of course the together part isn't debatable, not in the confines of twelve or the wilds of Panem. Gale and I are a team - always have been, always will be.
It only takes two words from me to shatter that delicate dream, as much as I hate to do it.
"The kids," I whisper, and Gale deflates.
There is no way we can leave our responsibilities, our families. Prim who is twelve, Rory who is fourteen, Vick who is ten or little Posy who's barely six. There's too much holding us here.
"I know," he concedes, and he looks so worn down that I lean even closer, cupping his cheek in my palm and kissing him - solid, sweet and simple.
He smiles quietly when we part, the smile doesn't entirely fill his eyes, but it's genuine.
"I don't want kids," I blurt gracelessly, completely ruining the moment. I think he knows I don't, but I feel the need to remind him.
Gale tenses, just marginally, then relaxes; resting his lips against my forehead - not in agreement, in acceptance.
"I know that too. Look, I know I've said I might want kids before, a little Catnip running around would be the greatest thing I could ever imagine, but not now. Not with so many mouths to feed, and all the kids we already have… It's just a dream. I'd be happy childless for the rest of my life as long as you're in it."
The growing anxiety that has been pulsing in my ribcage dissipates at his confession, replaced with a fluttering sensation in my chest.
I nod softly, "okay," then, because now that I know Gale understands it's not possible, just a dream, I utter words I would usually never do say out loud in fear of giving him false hope. "A little Gale running around wouldn't be too bad either. If things were different."
The radiant smile that blossoms in Gale's face could've illuminated all of Panem - a sun in it's own right.
"I love you," he breathes, sliding the pad of his thumb across my cheekbone.
Almost two years ago these words would have terrified me, now they just fill me with a sense of peace and safety. There's no fighting it, I've already tried, and from that, I learned you can't control feelings. They come at you and when they're real, they stay - rooting into your heart, growing stronger and steadier as the seasons' pass.
I'm Gale's and Gale's mine, anything else is unthinkable.
This is how it is meant to be.
"I love you too," I confess, a small smile pulling at my lips. "You know what else I love? Fishing."
He barks out a laugh, loud enough that he scares a flock of birds hidden in the thick branches of the trees; as they fly away, weaving through leaves, they sing a great chorus of his laughter that the wind carries farther than we can see.
"Well then," he smiles, pushing himself up and holding out a hand for me, "what my girl want's my girl gets."
Rising beside him and lacing my fingers through his, I can't help my pleased giggle, "you just wanna go skinny dip."
"So it's an option?"
"If you get too cocky, no" I retort blandly, and Gale arches an eyebrow at me, lips pulled into a taut grin.
"Cocky, huh? Fine choice of words Catnip," he winks, sounding entirely too arrogant, and looking even more so as we walk to our next destination: bows and bags swung over our shoulders.
I blush.
In the cover of green, with our hands intertwined, and thoughts of always near our hearts, it's harder for the Games and the Capital too keep us down. My father was poetic enough that he'd probably say that this, being consumed by love and hope in times where fear is so prevalent, is an act of defiance on its own.
And, if Gale and I are anything, it's defiant.
The lake is quiet, and flat, not a ripple in the silver-blue water as it twinkles happily, just as it usually does whenever we come out here. The fish should be easy to catch because they are slow and sluggish this time of year, made lazy by the summer warmth.
By the time Gale and I cast out the intricate net Gale slaved over a couple of years ago, the sun is rising higher in the sky, reminding me that we have a deadline. We keep it there for a while and, use our free hands to trap the fatter fishes without the net. We work until we're sure we have caught at least a dozen fish before reeling the net back and prepping the dead trout.
We do our work swiftly and efficiently, orbiting around each other and not speaking much as we go about our business.
There has never been many reasons for words with Gale; we only speak when we want to, not always because we need to.
It's shocking to me that when we first became an item - I still mentally cringe at the term - I was scared our hunting would be affected.
I mean, it has been, but not negatively.
I know his body like the back of my hand; the way it moves, the sound of his heart beating - which I've memorized from quiet moments on a hunt, and having it pressed against mine in moments of passion or comfort - the subtle cues that let me know if he's frustrated, confused or having difficulty with something. It only serves to make us a better team, better survivors.
I can't deny it's a relief.
Like usual, on reaping days, I can't help that my angst affects my performance. I'll never admit it out loud, but my mind's not as sharp as it normally is.
The wisps of safety and hope I had briefly captured earlier, over the valley, has slipped through my fingers: leaving my stomach in knots and my throat dry. Gale doesn't suffer the like I do, and if he does, he's careful to hide it; even from me which should be impossible. His feet are as swift and silent as ever, aim precise (though even in my disquiet his aim will never be as good as mine), and determination unwavering.
By the time, the sun indicates it's late morning, our game bags are full of fish, a couple of squirrels hang from the rope tied around Gales' waist, and I have already plucked and washed the plumpest, reddest strawberries I could find to sell to the Mayor - it's a favorite of his.
As I work on stringing the rabbit I just shot, the air behind me stirs, and I know from the muted steps that it's Gale.
"I think we're set for today, we have a strong haul. Enough to sell and enough to keep a decent amount for the family feast." Our families usually celebrate the passing of the Reaping together.
The people of twelve tonight will celebrate the safety of their children with a meal larger than customary, while two families will close their blinds, and mourn for theirs.
The thought makes a sickness build up in my throat.
"Yeah," I wrangle out, wrestling the growing anxiety settling in my bones, "We should go."
Gale inhales behind me, grabbing my shoulders and pulling me up out of my crouched position. I expect tender words and consolation when I turn to face him but what I get instead is a face full of a large hand, coated with the sticky juice from strawberries.
"Gale!" I try to bat him away "what are you doing?!"
"Distracting you," he lulled, licking the fingers that were just rubbing my face, "you're being depressing, and, frankly, it's hurting my feelings."
"And, why is that?" I shot back, vaguely annoyed at the syrup on my already dirty cheeks.
"Because we are getting engaged today. At least try to smile." Gale meant it as a joke obviously, but I still feel a stab of guilt, and, if I'm honest, a rush of exhilaration.
Engaged. I'm going to be engaged to Gale.
It's hard to believe there was a time when that thought scared me, now (with the idea of children firmly out of the picture solidifying the feeling) it seems like a perfectly reasonable manifestation in our relationship.
Strange.
Gale most notice the jolt in my body, because he oversees my expression, trying to gauge my reaction.
I squeeze the hand that's twined with mine, and tip my head up, meeting his eyes. I'm sure he notices the gentle twinkle there because his lips pull up smoothly.
"Aren't you getting ahead of yourself, Hawthorne? You said hypothetically," I jokingly repeat his words from last night, but Gale isn't listening anymore.
The hand that isn't tangled in mine, boldly caresses my torso moving slowly from my waist to the underside of my breast, gliding up and down under my shirt. I didn't even realize his hand was under there.
He maneuvers our intertwined hands so it's around his neck, leaning down to nip and trail kisses down mine. I instinctively throw my head back, leaving the flesh he's seeking exposed and, moaning lowly when he gives a particularly hard suck on the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulders.
We haven't crossed that line yet, sex does still scare me, but ample time alone in the woods - away from little, prying eyes - and our tendency to forsake words for actions have given us a good idea on the foundations of it.
"Mrs. Hawthorne," he mouths hotly against my skin, "Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne."
A jolt of lightning runs through me, amazing me in its strength.
I've accepted that this was the road we were heading on two years ago but hearing him say the words sends me to a whole new level of need. The whine I release is shrill and wanton and Gale reacts immediately, planting his lips on mine in a frenzy of teeth, tongue, fire and the tart taste of strawberries.
After a while, we come up for air with an embarrassing pop. I'll find time to be mortified about it later.
"You're right, we should go," he pants, eyes deepening, "I need this day to be over with."
I nod frantically, and we both turn collecting our things with a haste that has more to do with the adrenaline still running through us - between us- then the desire to leave the cocoon of solitude we have here.
As we collect our gear, Gale moving stiffly and with a gait that fills me with a feminine pride, I go to the bush one last time, pulling a strawberry from the stem, and ripping off the leaf.
"Gale!" I call, holding up the berry between my fingers, he smiles wryly showing me in turn the berry he was just about to eat.
"May the odds…." he drawled in that ridiculous capital accent, tossing the berry into the sky so that I can catch it in my mouth.
"... Be ever in your favuh." I finish, launching my berry in return onto his waiting tongue.
After making our way quickly across the forest to the fence, the nervous almost giddy energy that's been ever-present since last night not leaving us, we're relieved to find that our exit hasn't been turned on while we worked.
Getting trapped in the forbidden forest, and missing the mandatory reaping would put a damper on our plans for tonight.
Once, we've crossed the fence we (Gale with a little more difficult than I) shuffle toward the Hob, making our routine trade rounds, and bartering with the same people we normally do. Haggling is much easier than usual, no one puts up too much of a fight today.
We trade six of the fish for good bread, the other two for salt. Greasy Sae, the bony old woman who sells bowls of hot soup from a large kettle, takes half the greens off our hands in exchange for a couple of chunks of paraffin. We might do a tad better elsewhere, but we make an effort to keep on good terms with Greasy Sae.
She's the only one who can consistently be counted on to buy wild dog. We don't hunt them on purpose, but if you're attacked and you take out a dog or two, well, meat is meat.
When we finish our business at the market, we go to the back door of the mayor's house to sell half the strawberries. The mayor's daughter, and the closest thing I have to a friend, Madge, opens the door. Since neither of us really has a group of friends, we seem to end up together a lot at school. Eating lunch, sitting next to each other at assemblies, partnering for sports activities.
We rarely talk, which suits us both just fine.
Today her drab school outfit has been replaced by an expensive white dress, and her blonde hair is done up with a pink ribbon. Reaping clothes.
Gale tenses, quite obviously biting his tongue as he refrains from commenting. He knows Madge is my closest, I use the term loosely, friend other than him, so he puts an effort into being polite.
And, by polite I mean he avoids interaction with her altogether; for Gale, that's as good as it can get.
Madge puts the money in my palm, "Good luck, Katniss," she expressed, then nods tersely at Gale, "Gale."
Gale nods back while I say, "You, too," and then the door closes.
Madge is straight and to the point, just how I like it.
I reflect on how much I like Madge as we take the familiar route back to the Seam, clutching at Gale's hand, who hasn't unclasped mine since crossing the fence. I glance over at my companion, his face still smoldering underneath the stony expression.
Gale senses my gaze and meets my eyes, "she had a gold pin," he grates; either as an explanation or an apology.
I nod, "yes, she did," and bring his hand up to brush my lips against it.
I discovered not long after our friendship shifted to something else that the gesture softens him up instantly. Just like I expected his countenance eases and he lifts our linked hands to plant a kiss on the pulse point on my inner wrist.
I understand his anger; it's not directed at Madge specifically but at what she represents. I don't blame him. If it wasn't my loyalty to her or if it was some other merchant wearing that pin, I'd have the same reaction.
Gale walks me to my door, and we divide our spoils; leaving two fish, a couple of loaves of good bread, greens, a quart of strawberries, salt, paraffin, and a bit of money for each.
When it's time to finally split ways, he pulls me into a long hug.
"Make sure to wear something pretty," the words are genuine, and that startles me.
"Why should I get dressed up for them," I grumble into his chest, making sure to keep my voice low.
I feel the movement of Gales' torso as he rasps out a quick laugh of approval. "We have a big night, Catnip. Don't most girls wanna get all dolled up for something like that."
"I'm not most girls."
"Eh, you're right. You're not most girls, " he concedes, pulling back and lifting my chin to face him fully, "You're my girl, so show up in a trash bag if you want to. That'll show me."
We share a ghost of a chuckle, then part with a lingering kiss.
"I love you," I whisper. My unease is rising again, and I need him to know how I feel.
"I love you," he repeats, pulling the edge of my braid before turning away, rushing toward the direction of his house.
We're running late.
At home, I find my mother and sister are ready to go. A tub of warm water waits for me. I scrub off the dirt and sweat from the woods and even wash my hair.
To my surprise, my mother has laid out one of her own lovely dresses for me. A soft blue thing with matching shoes.
"Are you sure?" I ask.
I'm trying to get past rejecting offers of help from her. For a while, I was so angry, I wouldn't allow her to do anything for me. And this is something special. Her clothes from her past are very precious to her.
"Of course. Let's put your hair up, too," she motioned. I let her towel-dry it and braid it up on my head. I can hardly recognize myself in the cracked mirror that leans against the wall.
"You look beautiful," whispers Prim in a hushed voice.
"And nothing like myself," I declare.
I hug her, just because I know these next few hours will be terrible for her. Her first reaping. She's about as safe as you can get since she's only entered once. I wouldn't let her take out any tesserae. But she's worried about me.
Even though I hate that she is, I can't help but think that she should be.
I'm worried about me too.
"Tuck your tail in, little duck," I say to distract both of us from our thoughts, smoothing the blouse back in place.
Prim giggles and gives me a small "Quack."
"Quack yourself," I snicker, taking her hand to meet my mother who's already waiting by the door.
She tries to hide the pained expression on her face.
Once we step outside, I notice that the previously clear sky has clouded over, leaving everything below it in a grey shade. I march along with my family in tow, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that this is a bad omen.