A/N: Sorry it's been a while since I've updated this fic: it's a long story involving travel and apartment hunting and a really tough anatomy exam. Regardless, I am back at last! I've been asked a couple of times if I have an updating schedule, and sadly but obviously, I don't. I only write when I'm feeling inspired so it can be really erratic. I've also been asked how long the story will be. To be honest, I'm not sure, but I really don't think there will be any more than four additional chapters.

Second, the fabulous KenoshaChick has informed me that this story has won First Place WIP AND Judge's Choice WIP awards at the Countdown to Mockingjay fan fiction contest! Check out the link on my profile to read all of the nominees and check out the other winners. Also, I owe KenoshaChick another huge thanks for selecting A Lot Has Happened as one of her fan fiction picks over at Muttations! Check out her review of the story in Episode 11.

Third, I want to give a shout out to my awesomely loyal and patient reviewers: MorningxLight, KenoshaChick (again!), windyday, fcajoymartin, Medea Smyke, OMGMaree (or should I say Eliza?), Penelope Wendy Bing, StillOnCloud9, isforwinners (thanks!), hollah, and scoobygal. You all are fantastic! Also to my anonymous reviewers widz, I do plan on continuing even after the third book is released, pk, erm, your wish is my command, and MADGE AND GALE 4EVA, thanks for the enthusiasm!

And since it's been so long since I last posted…a little refresher! Previously on A Lot Has Happened:

I like Madge. I roll the thought around in my head, and I can barely grasp it because I haven't felt this way in so long. Almost like I'm hopeful. And I want to cling to this feeling, hold on to it with every fiber of my being because my chest doesn't ache and heart doesn't hurt and my head feels clear.

And because I'm so desperate to hold onto this feeling I don't really think, and I say the first thing that comes into my head:

"Will you go to the Mockingjay Ball with me?"

…

My eyes widen in surprise. "The Mockingjay Ball?" I say, and my voice sounds strangled in my ears. Yes! Yes, a thousand, million, billion times yes! But my throat has gone dry and my face drains of blood and I feel cold regret grip my heart because-

"I can't," I say.

"I know you'll have to take off work. They might let you off if you just ask…" Gale says, and he doesn't understand.

"No. I really can't," I say with a sigh, and every word is torture. "I already agreed to go with Mazer Preston."

And here it at last…Chapter 6.

Part I

The week flies by in a rush of working at the bar, running to class, and getting ready for the Mockingjay Ball. But no matter how many dresses I try or beers I pass out or lists of radioactive isotopes I memorize, all I can feel is guilt, guilt, guilt. Guilt and longing. Because I miss Gale, and I can't stop thinking about him. I can't stop thinking about the hesitant smile tilting his lips when he asked me to the Ball. The way he looked up at me from under the dark fringe of hair that constantly falls into his eyes as he waited for my answer.

And god I can't stop thinking about his face when I told him I was going to the Ball with Mazer. How his face fell just for an instant, and his grey eyes widened with hurt. And then, more painful than anything, his face went blank and hard and his jaw tightened. And I was so horrified that I made him feel this way that I couldn't think of what to say so I could recapture the friendly, open Gale of just a few moments before.

Oh, I tried. I mumbled and I blushed and I stuttered out how I would much rather go with him. How I never in a million years even thought he would ask.

"It's fine, Madge," he says, and I stop. I can feel the blood draining from my face at his voice, so perfectly neutral. And in that moment I can't really tell if he's hurt at all or if he was just asking me to the Ball to be nice. And then I feel like an idiot because this is Gale Hawthorne, and I'm probably reading too much into our conversation and his hesitant smile and his asking me to the Ball.

And the whole time I'm working all of this out, Gale is pushing back his chair and thanking me for my hospitality and walking towards the door, all with his face completely blank and his voice even and calm. I hurry after him, stumbling as I follow him to the door and faltering over my words as I try to tell him that it was no problem and that I'll see him soon, right?

But I feel dizzy because everything is so off-kilter, like we didn't just have a wonderful, friendly conversation. Like we didn't just sit down to breakfast after he spent the night in my bed.

"Sure, I'll see you later," Gale says without looking at me, and his voice tells me that he doesn't really care either way.

And then the door shuts and he's gone before I can even say goodbye. And all I'm left with is this horrible, sinking feeling of loss as the same painfully obvious thought prickles the back recesses of my brain: I should have said yes.

So I rush through the busy week feeling by turns guilty for saying no and stupid for feeling guilty because Gale isn't really hurt at all. And the whole week I promise myself I will find Gale so I can talk to him and figure out where we stand, but I'm so busy, so damn busy, that all of a sudden the week is over and it's time for the Ball.

"Damn, honey, you look gorgeous," Mazer drawls as I open the door. And I blush because I can't remember the last time someone looked at me like that and told me I was beautiful.

Especially someone like Mazer Preston with his fitted uniform and his thick, dark hair and his perfect smile. And he's looking at me! With fire in his eyes and a smile full of promises, he's actually looking at me.

I smile and try to forget about Gale as I put my arm through his and we walk towards the Ball. I can't help it though; I feel nervous and giddy and flushed, but I don't know whether it's because I'm with Mazer or because I'm about to see Gale.

And then we're inside, and I feel overwhelmed by the color and the music and the wealth that drips of these people thick like honey. I look back and forth amazed and awed, and I tell myself I'm just looking around trying to take it all in, not that I'm looking for anyone in particular.

It doesn't help when Mazer reaches for the tray of a passing waiter and smoothly picks up two flutes of champagne. I take one with a shy smile, and before I can take a sip he clinks our glasses together lightly and says, "To a wonderful night," with the ghost of a wink and the sexiest smirk I have ever seen. I take a sip of champagne, the tickle of the bubbles adding to the heat racing up and down my spine, and suddenly I wish I hadn't worn a dress that is cut so low in the front and back.

I feel Mazer's hand warm and low on my back, and I almost gasp at his voice, soft and intimate in my ear. "Come on, honey, I want you to meet a few people," he says, his breath a hot whisper on my neck. I can only clutch my glass of champagne and nod wordlessly in agreement as Mazer gently leads me through the crowd, his hand a burning reminder at the small of my back.

It gets a little easier then, as Mazer introduces me to his friends and his fellow officers and to politicians and wealthy sponsors. I only have to say a few polite words and smile on occasion. I set down my glass of champagne while Mazer is distracted and take several deep, calming breaths. I remember the long-forgotten manners and bearing bred in me since birth, lifting my chin and straightening my shoulders and injecting my manner with confidence and poise. I remind myself that I am Madge Undersee, daughter of the mayor of one of the twelve districts of Panem. The refined mask falls in place, and when Mazer hands me another glass of champagne I'm not afraid to take it and I'm not afraid to place my hand on his shoulder and smile at his most recent joke.

Every one around me is playing a game, but I can play along too.

And when I look over my shoulder and see Gale Hawthorne smiling at a gorgeous young girl with cascading blonde hair, my breath only hitches for a second before I turn back to the group of air force pilots around me and join the conversation, taking a small sip of champagne and focusing on the feel of Mazer's thumb tracing small, warm circles along the base of my spine where the fabric of my dress begins, a promise of things to come.

I stand that way as long as I can, making courteous chitchat with the elite of D13 and pretending that I'm not acutely aware that Gale Hawthorne is flirting with another woman just out of my line of sight. I hate myself for it, but eventually I can't take it any more. I swallow my pride and tilt my shoulders so I can see him again, this time handing around drinks to a whole group of stunning women.

I swallow the bile climbing up my throat, and whisper to myself: Ignore him, ignore him, ignore him. And I almost convince myself that I'm moving on.

And I say almost convince myself because I may be pathetic in many ways, but I am usually honest with myself, and I honestly know that the canapés taste like dust in my mouth and my head hurts from all of my disingenuous smiles and I feel all alone because Mazer melted into the crowd ages ago for a private chat with his superior officer leaving me with a group of socialites and the promise that he'd be right back.

I feel a familiar prickle in the corner of my eye, and I'm about to extract myself from the conversation and find a ladies' room so I can compose myself when I feel a hand on my elbow. For a wild, thrilling second I think it might be Gale, but then I turn around and see that it's Katniss.

"Wow, Katniss, you look wonderful!" I say and give her a hug. And she does look beautiful in her long, midnight blue gown and simply braided hair.

Katniss hugs me back fiercely, and once again I feel how much we've missed each other. Once we let each other go, Peeta kisses me warmly on the cheeks, and suddenly it's just the three of us. Talking, smiling, catching up. Peeta tells me all about their trips to rally the rebels in other districts and their efforts to garner money and support throughout D13, and by the way his shoulders relax as he's telling me all this, I can tell that he's happy to be finally talking to a friend rather than to another politician. And when Peeta slips away to grab drinks, Katniss pulls me aside and in delighted whispers tells me how happy they are together and how she wouldn't be able to get through all the schmoozing and politics and planning if it weren't for Peeta and how they want to get married as soon as the war is over.

So Katniss and I huddle in a corner and I compliment Peeta's blue eyes and his messy blond hair until she can't help but spill some of her secrets about him and their time together. And I smile and laugh and nod encouragingly and sometimes get tongue-tied because some of the things she says make me blush too hard. And giggling together it feels like old times again even though we never really talked about girly things back in District 12 because we didn't have any girly things to talk about.

But eventually, our laughter begins to dwindle and Katniss starts mumbling that her feet hurt and I am thinking about finding Mazer and telling him that I need to get home when all of a sudden I feel a hand brush along my arm and the heat of a body pressed tight to my back and a warm breath like a caress in my ear, "I've been neglecting you all night, honey. Come on, say you'll dance with me."

I can feel myself being propelled forward, and all I can manage is a semi-apologetic look to Katniss, which she answers with a raised eyebrow and amused smile, and a pleased blush heating my cheeks.

And then I'm in Mazer's arms, and because he is always a perfect gentleman he leads me expertly through the dance, his eyes dark and smoldering and his hand hot at my waist. I don't want him to see how much he is affecting me so I brush my eyes over the room, across dazzling gowns and feathers, flicked hair, flawless smiles, and sparkling jewels, white gloves and fluttering fans, across tables bubbling with champagne, glistening with rich fruits, and frothy with cream.

I close my eyes and tilt my head back and let it all consume me: the striking colors, the tinkling laughter, the champagne flowing like a drug in my veins.

And Mazer's cheek on my hair, his voice a whisper in my ear: telling me I'm soft and warm and gorgeous, telling me he was thinking about me all night, how he wanted nothing more than to pull me indecently close during the dance and just hold me, hold me, hold me tight.

And he whispers other things that he wants to do to me and with me and I can feel my body warming and my limbs melting away, and suddenly we're behind a curtain in a deserted hallway and all I can see are his eyes, deep and brown and burning for me. My hands are moving along his jaw, feather light on his neck, tangled in his hair, and then slowly, so slowly, he leans forward, a shallow groan and hot breaths, and then his lips are on mine.

And though the kiss is soft, his lips are blazing with heat, and I find myself clutching at his hair, pulling him closer and closer until I feel his arms tighten around my waist, so tight I can barely breathe, and I feel myself pressed against the length of him, and his lips are like fire on mine, and all I can feel is the kiss, deep and warm and slow and moaning.

And just when I am dizzy and drugged and sure I'm melting to the floor, he pulls back just a little, his hand soft as a breath on my collar bone and his voice no more than a murmur, "Damn, honey, I've been wanting to do that all night."

And I lift my eyes to his and think that maybe, just maybe, I could lose myself in their swirling brown depths forever. His eyes are burning like fire, pulling me in closer and deeper, but then I blink and suddenly I'm looking into grey eyes, wide and hurt and bright and I'm falling into them, suspended for a moment that stretches taut and tight into infinity.

But then I blink again and it's Mazer holding me and Gale is gone, the curtain swinging lightly in the rush of air he leaves behind.

Part II

For the week after my conversation with Madge, my head is a boiling mass of confusion and hurt and anger and disappointment. First come the disappointment, regardless of what I'm doing, and the memory of Madge, avoiding my gaze and telling me that she's going to the Ball with someone else. Then comes the hurt, and to be honest, the feeling of stupidity, because I asked Madge Undersee to the Mockingjay Ball and actually thought that she would say yes, that she didn't already have someone to go with who is more handsome and more wealthy and more polished and well mannered than me. Because I was stupid enough to think that when I found myself falling for Madge, there would be a chance in hell that she would fall for me too.

Cue the hurt. Because I hate the fact that Madge would rather go to the Ball with someone like Mazer Preston than she would with someone like me. Because even though she's poor and struggling and working her fingers to the bone right now, she will always be of better blood and higher class than me—it's written in her manners and her language, in the paleness of her skin and the light blond of her hair that Madge Undersee is meant for better things, a better life, and better men than me. And despite all of that, I hurt even more because I know that I could have changed her opinion of me if I had just bothered to be nicer. I had years to realize Madge's worth, years to convince her to give me a chance, years we could have spent together before she ever heard the name Mazer Preston

Then comes the regret, sharp and biting like acid in the back of my throat: I should have realized before, I should have said something sooner, I should have come home earlier, damn it, I should have, I should have, I should have done and thought a million things before Mazer Preston got his slimy hands all over Madge.

And then comes the anger, as inevitable as the icy bite of winter. The anger, the anger, chewing at my insides, burning in my guts, festering and pulling me apart from within. My dearest friends and my most constant companions since the war began: anger and regret. And loneliness, don't forget loneliness.

I do try to bury my loneliness. I meet up with my platoon mates for drinks, delicious drinks, burning smoothly down my throat and helping me forget. And I drink in my family as well, spending as much time with them as I can before I have to say goodbye. I don't tire of playing with Posy or listening to Vick's stories or watching Rory act like a man. I don't tire of spending hours at home, and I tell myself it's because of the kids and my mom and not because I'm waiting for her to stop by.

But as reliable as clockwork and inescapable as death, the hurt, the regret, the anger build in my chest until I can't breathe and the drinks don't help and I have to leave home so my family won't see me this way. And the only thing that helps is war. Planning and training and the sweet release of the shooting range. I can flex my arms and sweat drips down my back and I can feel my anger sharpening my focus and improving my reflexes. And at the end of a long day of strategies and weapons and drills and more drills, I'm too exhausted to be angry any more.

I hate the idea of the Ball and all it entails: the dancing and talking and flirting, yes flirting, because what better way to get the ladies to convince their rich husbands to support the troops than with a smile and a wink and the hint of something more? Because just as important as knowing how to clean an assault rifle and put on a flak jacket and aim a flame thrower, a soldier and officer must know how to play the game. And, oh, how I hate the game. But after a whole week of stewing in my juices and thinking and hoping and wondering, a small part of me wants to go to the Ball if it means I'll get to see Madge again. Because I only have three weeks left before I'm shipped back to the Capitol, and I can't leave feeling this way. Not again.

So the day of the Ball I wake up early to shave and wash my hair and press my dress uniform. And I force myself not to drink anything before the evening starts because the army is low on bullets and armored plates for our vehicles and because I have to do my duty before I can think about myself or Madge.

And at eight exactly I'm handing over my ticket and being checked off the guest list and then I'm inside looking around at the jewel-toned dresses and pinstriped suits and bullshit smiles spouting bullshit words.

I spy a group of teenage girls, clearly D13 socialites, and I figure it's as good a place to start as any. As I wend my way towards them through the crowd I imagine how the evening will go: Can I get you ladies drinks? No problem, absolutely, what are you having? Really? That's what I'm having too. No really, it's no problem (thank god for the open bar). A dance? Of course, one for each of you. You're all too beautiful for me to pick just one. And then they'll dance and giggle and follow after me like pearls on a string, and they'll go into their purses and pledge their pocket money to the dashing rebels, and they'll go home and beg daddy until he pledges too.

Right before I reach them, I look up and am startled to see her. Standing tall and beautiful and confident, her dress cut low in the front and lower in the back, a shimmering snakeskin column of green glittering to the floor. Her hair tied back smooth and elegant, revealing the curve of her neck and the creamy, delicate skin of her throat. And at her side, Mazer Preston, with his perfect hair and blinding smile and his hand gently rubbing promises along that flawless place where her skin ends and her dress begins.

She looks perfect.

And when I say she looks perfect, I don't just mean she's beautiful; that goes without saying. What I mean is that she looks like she belongs in that dress with her hair up and a polished man at her side. This is what Madge was born and bred for—wealth and elegance and social graces. She was not born and bred for someone like me.

"What's your name, soldier?" One of the socialites, fortified by her friends and the audacity of youth, has found the courage to approach me. Duty, duty comes first, I remind myself as I turn towards the girls and away from all of my regrets.

"My name is Gale Hawthorne, miss. Can I get you a drink?" I say with the hint of a smirk, and as all her friends gasp and nudge each other and try to hide their smiles, I take one last look at Madge as she disappears into the crowd, Mazer Preston's hand guiding her by the small of her back.

Then it begins. All of the drinks and the laughs and "My, don't you look beautiful"s. And the dancing, the God-forsaken dancing, where I try to smile and not trip at the same time and the girls don't notice because they've grown bold by the intimacy of the dance, and they try to pull me away into dark corners or back to their rooms "because daddy will be here for hours." And if it where a different time or a different place, I probably would have said yes. I would have allowed any one of the faceless girls to pull me along to melt into the crowd and melt into her arms. But I can't. Because even though my hands are on their waists and my lips on their ears, my eyes are searching the room for a glimmer of blond hair, the glitter of a green dress.

And several hours later I do see her again. Smiling at Peeta and clutching Katniss's hand. And it's just too much to stare all of my regret and heartache in the face so I do the one thing that ruins everything but feels like a cure. I head towards the bar.

The first sip tastes like air to a drowning man: sweet and free and a little painful too. So I drink and I drink and I grin and talk when I have to. But when I look over and see Katniss smiling up at Peeta, his arms wrapped tight around her as they dance, I know that I have to get away.

So I set down my drink and push through the crowd, and I slip behind a curtain so I'm in a cool and quiet hallway, empty except for another officer. I can see his back curled over, and I think maybe he's had too much to drink and is going to be sick, but then I hear a soft moan and realize that he's just leaning over a girl and kissing her into oblivion.

And then the girl sighs and her eyes flit to mine, and they're blue—a deep, impossible blue. I lose myself in her eyes for one, slow, interminable second, and I feel a familiar crashing wave of hurt and surprise and pain slicing through my chest like a knife. Because it's Madge Undersee kissing another man. Her eyes dilated dark, her lips pink and swollen, and her hands in his hair. And it feels like losing Katniss all over again—shockingly painful and also blindingly clear that, once again, I am not good enough.

But then Madge blinks, and I'm gone, pushing through the curtain and shouldering my way through the crowd. And all I want is a drink and a way home. Or better yet, an hour at the shooting range.

But suddenly Katniss is blocking my way with a bemused smile and a "Gale, where have you been? We've been looking for you all night." And instead of Katniss, all I can see is failure—the first in a long list of losses and mistakes that somehow have come to define my life. And there, standing behind her, that jackass Peeta Mellark, smiling at me like a goof and holding her drink like a little bitch, and all of my rage bubbles black and burns caustically up through my chest and along my limbs, and I stalk straight past Katniss, pull my arm back, and punch Peeta Mellark in the jaw.

He goes down like a sack of flour, the drinks flying out of his hands and his fake leg clattering with him to the ground.

"What the hell, Gale?" Katniss says, pushing past me and kneeling at his side, stroking his hair and asking him if he's all right in the most tender voice I have ever heard. And I ignore the look of hurt she gives me, and I just stand over Peeta clenching my fists and fuming, waiting for him to get up, to push me back, to say anything, absolutely anything, that would give me the excuse to pummel him, kick him until his jaw shatters and his nose bleeds and his fake leg falls off and every one can see that he's weak, so weak, that he's nothing but a baker with blue eyes and a honey tongue.

But damn it, Peeta wins again because he doesn't get up and he doesn't say a word except to tell Katniss that he's fine. And he just looks up at me from the floor with one cheek starting to swell, and there's no anger in his eyes, only understanding. And somewhere, deep in there, I can see pity.

And I want to kill Peeta Mellark for daring to pity me. For understanding that the war has taken my innocence and my comrades and my home and my best friend and the love of my life. And I want to kill him for seeing all of that and not having enough mercy on me to fight back.

"I'll take him home. Katniss, don't worry; you take care of Peeta. I'll take him home," I hear, and then I feel a soft hand on my shoulder, and I know without looking that it's Madge. And here I go again, showing her what a barbarian I am. As if she needs another reason to stay away.

And I can't think because I'm blinded by hate. I hate myself and I hate dopey Peeta Mellark and I hate that Katniss loves him and I hate that Madge is talking to me like I'm some kind of rabid animal that needs to be calmed. I hate. I hate. I hate everything and every one staring and pointing and whispering, and I just want to explode and dissolve and disappear all at the same time.

I brush Madge's hand away because I can't bear to look at her, and I stalk towards the exit, unbuttoning my jacket savagely as I go.

Part III

"Gale," I whisper.

"Hm?" Mazer asks, contentedly, his forehead resting against mine.

"What?" I say guiltily, my eyes flicking to his. "Nothing, um, nothing…" I murmur, and then I blush because I realize what we've just done and who has just seen.

And then I hear it. A collective gasp and the sound of glass breaking. Cries and fearful whispers taut with excitement as the story begins to spread. And I know, I know in the marrow of my bones, that Gale Hawthorne has done something stupid.

"What the hell?" Mazer says at the noise .He takes me by the hand and pulls me through the crowd until we see Peeta on the floor and Katniss looking upset and Gale absolutely seething with rage.

Before I know what I'm doing, I'm once again offering to take Gale home after a fight. But this time, Gale isn't pliant and plaintive and lost. He is burning with anger, tense to the point of breaking with unreleased fury.

"Wait, Gale!" I call as he rushes away, unbuttoning his jacket and loosening his collar as he goes.

"I don't need a bloody babysitter, Madge," he snarls angrily over his shoulder, and I have to take a second to swallow my hurt before hurrying after him again.

"I'm not trying to baby-sit you, Gale," I pant, my voice as reasonable as possible considering the circumstances. "Just make sure you're alright. Just, just slow down a second. Tell me what happened!"

"I punched Peeta Mellark in the face is what happened," Gale says with a savage grin.

"Yes, I know," I say, and now I'm really struggling to keep up, my ankles twisting and my feet burning in my tall shoes. "But why?" I beg, partly because I'm curious and partly because I see Gale disappearing down another corridor and I really want him to slow down.

"Because he's a prick," Gale says as I round the corner, and he's fumbling with a keycard, trying to slide it into the scanner on a door in front of him. A light on the card reader turns green and Gale shoulders his way in.

"Why do you care anyways?" he says as I follow after him, trying to catch my breath.

I'm about to answer when I realize where I am. I stop. "Is this your room?" I say in awe as I take in the tiny space, hard bed, and row of liquor bottles lining the wall.

"Yep, the army's version of home sweet home," Gale answers bitterly. He's pulling off his uniform coat, revealing a white t-shirt underneath. He throws the jacket in a corner and continues pacing back and forth, still edgy with pent-up anger.

I know I shouldn't say it, but I can't help it and for some reason I have to know. "Did you punch Peeta because you're still in love with Katniss?"

"NO!" Gale shouts, kicking a metal chair into the opposite wall with shattering force. I gasp in surprise and a little bit of fear. "I am not in love with Katniss," he adds forcefully, whirling towards me. I want to back away as he walks toward me, eyes blazing. "What does it matter to you anyway?" he growls. "Why don't you just run off to your slimy boyfriend?"

I can feel tears burning my eyes because I'm scared and alone and hurt by the terrible things Gale is saying. But I don't back down. Not after all I've been through. Not anymore.

I lift my chin and look in Gale's eyes and with all the anger I can muster I say, "Mazer is not my boyfriend. And you need to calm down."

"He's not your boyfriend?" Gale says, his fingers flexing like he wants to break something. "I saw the way you were kissing him. Is that how you kiss all the guys who aren't your boyfriend?"

And I can't stop help it, my eyes overflow and I feel tears fall hot and fast down my cheeks, but I don't look away. "How dare you say something like that to me when you know better than anyone what I've been through!" I take a step forward. "And who I date or don't date is none of your business, Gale Hawthorne."

"I know," he says, and his jaw is tense and his eyes are hard, but somehow he doesn't seem angry anymore. "Don't you think I know that, Madge?" he says, turning away and scrubbing a hand through his hair, his voice suddenly tired.

"If you know, then why would you say all those horrible things to me?" I say, my voice still teary as I try to mask my confusion.

"I don't know!" Gale says, whirling back around and taking a step towards me. "Because I'm a jerk and a masochist and I can't, I can't-"

"Can't what?" I say in exasperation. "Can't what, Gale?"

There's a sudden fire smoldering in Gale's eyes, and I feel like I'll burn to a crisp just looking at him, but I force myself to hold his gaze.

"I can't help it," Gale answers, and suddenly his lips are hot and needy on mine.

I gasp into Gale's mouth, and his tongue dives into mine. His hands are rough in my hair, tangling in farther and farther until I can feel the elegant knot coming undone and falling down my back like a waterfall. He takes a few steps, forcing me up against the wall, and then his whole body is pressing into me, long and lean and hard.

And hot. Gale's body pulses with heat and desire, his hips grinding into mine and his lips wet and hungry and biting. And I'm moaning and struggling for air, my head crushed against the hard stone of the wall as Gale's tongue dives deeper and deeper into my mouth and his hands are hot on my face, my sides, squeezing my thighs and stroking my neck.

And I want him to slow down, just for a second, so I can take a breath, but his lips are insistent and his hands are everywhere, and I really don't want to say anything because Gale Hawthorne is kissing me. His touches are too rough and his lips are too forceful, but I don't want to ruin this moment because I never thought it would happen and I'm pretty sure it will never happen again.

So I try to keep pace, but I can't seem to move fast enough and I can't get any air and his touch is almost bruising. And suddenly I feel his hand at my shoulder tugging at the strap of my dress, and I don't want to stop him but I also don't want it to be like this.

"Yes, baby," he groans into my mouth, pulling down my dress, and because he doesn't use my name I suddenly know in a horrifying, heart-stopping moment that Gale is drunk and doesn't even know it's me.

Part IV

-SLAP!

"What the hell?" I say as Madge's smack sends me reeling, my cheek blossoming with pain

"How dare you? How dare you?" Madge says, her voice shaking. She's struggling with her dress, trying to pull the strap back onto her shoulder even though it's a twisted mess.

"What-?" I start, reaching out to help her.

"Don't touch me!" she yells, pushing me away. I stumble back a few steps, my balance a little weak from the alcohol. "Of all the men who've mistreated me in my life, you are the only one who can make me feel like total shit!" she says, and I can't really understand her because the room is spinning and my jaw is aching from the slap.

"Madge-"I start, but she cuts me off.

"I'm not some hooker you can pull into your room and use-" she says, and there are tears pooling in her eyes.

"But…but I don't think of you that way, Madge," I say, bewildered, and I blink rapidly so the room will just damn it stop spinning.

"Mixed messages! It's always mixed messages with you." Madge says, as she finally untangles her strap. "You yell at me and then we're friends. You sleep with some girl from the bar and then you ask me to the Ball. You maul me and try to rip off my dress and then you say you don't think I'm a whore. And I'm an idiot because it's not even mixed signals because you love Katniss!"

"Katniss?" I say, and I scowl because I know I'll never be with Katniss, and anyways I like Madge.

"Yes, Katniss!" Madge says, waving her hand at my expression. She runs her hand through her hair, and the blond strands fall in a tousled mess around her flushed face. She turns to the side and sighs. "I don't even know why I'm telling you this; it's not like you'll even remember this conversation."

"Just hold on-" I start. My head is pounding, and I'm completely confused because this conversation is going in a million different directions. And I'm drunk, for God's sake, and I know I have to defend myself but I'm not really sure why. Or how. And I feel really guilty because Madge said I make her feel like shit and I'm still trying to figure out how I managed that.

And Madge is still talking, her arms wrapped around herself and her hair spilling down her back, her voice choked with tears: "Just like you forgot about that night you told me about Thom…"

"Thom?" I say, startled.

"…and that night with the morphling."

"Whoa, what?" I say, completely at a loss.

"And then I come here and you treat me like I'm just some girl you picked up in a bar and can sleep with, and…"

"Whoa, Madge, stop," I say, grabbing her arm. "It's not like that." And that, at least, I know is true.

But I don't think she can hear me because there are tears running down her face and she's still talking: "And I might work in some bar, but that doesn't mean you can treat me like a piece of trash." She's punctuates the word by pushing me away.

She turns around and looks at me over her shoulder. "I would have done anything for you. I would have walked through hell for you, Gale Hawthorne. But you're so damn blind." And her voice breaks at the end of her sentence and then she's turning around and walking away, and I'm open-mouth shocked and feel really horrible.

"Madge, stop. Damn it, just let me think for a second," I say, and she stops in the doorway and turns to look back at me. And there's so much I have to say, but I can't think because all I can see is Madge looking at me with her wide blue eyes, and she looks devastated and I know it's because of me. And a million thoughts are racing around in my mind but I can't quite grasp them because my head is hurting so much and the only thing I really know is that I hate that Madge is looking at me like that.

And I guess I take too long to actually say something because Madge starts sobbing again and just turns around and walks out, shutting the door behind her. I'm a little slow to respond because I'm still trying to figure out what the hell I can say to her to fix this mess, and so by the time I get to the door and wrench it open, Madge is gone.

And all she leaves behind is the trace of her perfume and the image of her face, looking for all the world like I had broken her heart.

Part IV

I don't return to the Ball. I don't tell Mazer that I'm all right and that I'm going home because I'm tired. I don't find Katniss or check on Peeta.

No, I run straight home. Sobbing with makeup dripping down my cheeks and my hair in my face, I run home so I can cry in my pillow over Gale Hawthorne again.

It's kind of strange that no one stops me, a girl in a beautiful dress with her hair a mess and tears streaking down her cheeks, but I'm also kind of grateful that people only stare, whispering to one another, as I hurry past.

And when I get home, I'm really crying. Wracking sobs that saw through my body and scratch my throat as my chest heaves. And I feel like a fool but also like my heart has broken because even though I know Gale loves Katniss, I never imagined he thought so little of me that he would use me to forget about her. Like I'm some kind of throwaway whore.

And then I do something I haven't done for a long time, not since my dad died and I had nightmares about my mom and I was alone trying to survive in District 13 with no money and no friends. I dig through my cabinet to the very back where I keep a bottle of white liquor. And I sit on my bed and struggle with the seal, trying not to think about Gale and sobbing the whole time because I can't. And when I finally get the bottle open, I take a long drink and wince as the noxious taste burns a harsh, poisonous path down my throat.

Then I collapse on the bed and bury my face in my pillow and cry because my heart feels like it's cracked down the middle. And I push the bottle of liquor away, refusing to take another sip.

The bitterness tastes too much like loneliness.

…

A/N: Um, so who is excited for Mockingjay? I can't believe it's coming out so soon! I do hope to continue the story even after Mockingjay is released even though, clearly, this story will be a bit alternate universe by then. Or hey, who knows, maybe Gale will end up a drunk womanizer! Either way, I hope you all will stick with the story…because what better way to deal with the end of the series than by immersing ourselves in fan fiction? Anyways, let me know what you think of this chapter. I personally don't think it's my best, but I'm super jet lagged so what do I know, right?

PS: I will be revising Chapter 2 soon—just fixing some formatting things and grammatical errors. So if you get an alert, don't worry you're not missing anything!