A/N: So I got a ton of interesting feedback on MJ. Some of you hated it and some of you loved it, and all of you made me think about it. And what I figured out is that I might have liked MJ if I hadn't gone in with so many expectations about the characters and how I thought they would act. I don't know, maybe if it was a stand-alone novel I would have felt differently about it. Though honestly, I still think the book is pretty dark. As horrible as mankind can be, we do have redeeming qualities and moments of transcendence, and I didn't really get that from MJ.
Anyway, thanks for all of your food for thought! And thank you for all of the lovely reviews! Wow, you guys are awesome and have inspired me to be better about reviewing everything I read. Major props to KenoshaChick, yeah I'm all about characters doing it!, pk, I'm happy you liked the chapter, windyday, haha glad you liked Gale dissing girly Peeta, She's Classy, really great points and thanks for sharing your personal experience; it definitely made me think more deeply about the book, IsForWinners, you always have the best and most encouraging reviews!, also, I think you might like this chapter based on your question ;), roj, thanks for the tip, should it be anyway?, StillOnCloud9, thanks for two awesome reviews, and I totally agree with you about MJ, MorningxLight, don't worry, the story isn't over yet, Hgteampeeta, thanks and I'm glad you're happy :D, Medea Smyke, I know, we all just want these two to be happy!, DemigodWiththeBread, love the fan girl sighs and simultaneous awwws—too funny, grrlinterrupted, I wish I had a Gale for myself too!, and Kid on FanFiction, thanks for the review!
Sorry I haven't been doing personal replies; I really have no time with packing and moving and ordering furniture, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate your comments!
And to my lurkers, who read and don't review: don't worry; I think you guys are pretty cool too.
And now here it is, my longest chapter yet…
Chapter 8Part I: 14 days left.
My days aren't all that different, now that I'm with Gale. I still study in the mornings and go to school during the day and work at the bar at night. But my life, my life is completely different. I don't know how to explain it, but it's like there's sunshine here in the Underground. The long hours and the tough customers and the tedious reading, none of that really bothers me anymore. And there's this weight, this heaviness in my heart, that just dissolved the moment Gale put his arms around me for the first time.
Everything really is the same, and yet, there's been some kind of shift now that I have someone to share it all with. Like sometimes when I come back to my place from a lecture, Gale will be there, waiting for me. And we don't even do anything. I still go for my shower and get dressed for work, and he'll go to the kitchen and warm something up for dinner. And then we'll eat together and talk about our days, and then he'll go home and I'll go to the bar. And it's just dinner and it's just conversation, but somehow, it feels like I'm actually coming home when he's there. Like there's this warmth in my life that wasn't there before. And I've noticed that the cold, tough exterior I've held around myself for so long is gradually melting away.
And it doesn't even feel like a new relationship, all awkward conversation and uncertainty. I've been in love with Gale for so long that I guess I know a lot about him already. And Gale, with his hunter instincts and army training, is pretty good at observing people, and sometimes he seems to know more about me than I know about myself.
I still make startling discoveries about him every now and then though, like how he takes his army duties really seriously even though he hates the war. And so often in the afternoons he'll come by after a meeting or a training session, and we'll sit together at the table, me with my books on fusion theory and him with his sheaf of reports from the front lines, and we don't need to talk because we'll both be studying silently together for a while.
I've learned how much Gale loves his family. I always knew they were close, considering all he used to do for them in District 12, but we spend a fair amount of time at his mother's house, and it's been another thing entirely to see them together. I'm continually amazed at how Gale will sit for hours, patiently working through homework problems with Vick. Or how he wrestles Rory and wins every time, but somehow still encourages him and teaches him to be the man of the house. Or how he lets Posy climb all over him and pull his ears and braid his hair without complaining. In fact, he's usually laughing along. Or how all three kids idolize Gale—following him around the house, vying for his attention, looking for his approval when they try new things—and Gale doesn't seem to realize it; he just worships them right back.
And I've learned how much he helps his mom. Often when I stop by, Gale will be folding a load of laundry or putting the kids to bed. And sometimes I'll join them in the kitchen, and we'll all bake bread together. These are some of my favorite times. Laughing with the kids, getting advice from Gale's mom, sneaking dough from the bowl. And Gale whispering in my ear that he loves me here, as part of his family. And my face warms and I can't help but smile and duck my head, and then he'll whisper how he loves my blush when he says things like that.
The first time he did that, I retaliated by flicking flour at him while his mom was looking away. And that's when I learned that Gale likes to win. Because as soon as his mom stepped out of the kitchen, Gale was laughing and grabbing me by the waist and backing me into a corner and smudging flour all over my chin and my cheeks and my nose and my forehead until I couldn't breathe trying to hold in my laughter. And to seal his victory he pressed me up against the wall and put his floury hands on either side of my face, and then he proceeded to kiss me until my lips were swollen and my hair a mess and I couldn't protest any more. And by the time his mom walked back in, he was backing away with this huge, victorious grin on his face, and I couldn't even strike back because his smile is so rare and so blindingly beautiful that it left me speechless.
And that's when I learned that happiness suits Gale. His smile and his laughter are like treasures to me, and it's sad because most people never get to see them. And I feel so unbelievably blessed to get to see him in these unguarded moments: studying his reports or spending time with his family or holding me in the circle of his arms and murmuring impossibly sweet words into my hair. And all the while I'm learning new things about him and holding his hand as we walk to his house and sighing into his lips and running my hands through his hair, I try to swallow the ache building in my chest because we only have 14 days left.
Part II: 14 days left.
I always used to wonder what it would feel like, when I would see a guy on the front lines looking at a picture of his girl back home. What would it be like to actually have someone waiting for you, praying for you, longing for you to come home? What it would be like to have something to live for beyond the war and the rebellion and the hope of establishing a peaceful world so others could have a happy future. What it would feel like to know that that future could be for you too.
I always used to wonder what it would be like, but I never imagined that it would actually happen to me. That I would find someone who cares about me. And it's funny because I still can't believe that Madge feels the same way about me as I feel about her. Like every time I look at her there's this pressure in my chest and it just builds and builds until all I can do is pull her into my arms. Or the way just seeing her, talking with my mom or coming home from school or even exhausted after a long night of work, makes me feel light as a feather. Or the way I can't help but smile when she pouts because I can reach things on the top shelf that she can't. Or the way I can't swallow properly when her softness and her curves press against me when we kiss.
I feel like the luckiest bastard in the world to have Madge. And I keep thinking that one day she'll see me for what I really am, and she'll be off running. And I don't understand it, but she seems to like all the things that I try to hide from her, the things I think make me inferior to her. Like sometimes I get embarrassed when I fix things in front of her, like the one time I needed to mend the broken coil in my mom's oven, because I know that she would have just paid someone back in District 12 to repair it. But Madge wasn't ashamed at all; instead she watched me the whole time it took me to fix the coil, and she even tried to hand me the parts I needed. And afterwards, when I was done, she told me she was proud of me for being able to fix the oven. And when I told her I didn't really know what I was doing, just fiddling around with it until I got it right, she gave me the sweetest smile and a kiss on the cheek, and I threw her over my shoulder and carried her squeaking in protest out of the kitchen to hide my embarrassment and my pleased grin.
Or like today I had a really tough training session, and I want to stop by Madge's place even though it's pretty late at night because I just want to see her and forget about my horrible day. I hadn't really noticed, but I guess I must have bruised my back during training because we're just having a regular conversation and Madge mentions that I keep shifting in my seat trying to get comfortable. I'm pretty sure that I'm alright, but Madge insists on rubbing my back, which is fine, actually, more than fine, until she goes to get a bottle of cream she uses to ease the tension in her legs after a long shift at the bar. And suddenly, she's off rummaging in her room and I'm sitting on the couch feeling inexplicably nervous because I don't want to take off my shirt and have Madge see my back.
I never really cared if Katniss or the other guys saw all the scars on my back and torso during the war; everyone on the front lines has been wounded in some way, and honestly, we have much more important things to worry about there anyway. The girls I was with during the war, well, I would either keep my shirt on or make sure it was too dark for them to really see me.
And I don't want Madge to see me either. Because I hate the way the Capitol has disfigured me, scratched and gouged and whipped my body, criss-crossing it with lash marks and shrapnel wounds and burns and a bullet hole: souvenirs of all the most painful moments of my life, a permanent reminder of the war not only seared into my mind, but into my flesh too.
I've never shown them to anyone who's really important to me. But when Madge walks back into the room with her bottle of anti-inflammatory cream, I don't know how I can tell her that I don't want her to see me. So I let her sit behind me, and I pull off my shirt, and I feel so exposed under the harsh fluorescent lights, and I'm so tense as I feel her eyes roaming over my back that I'm actually shaking. But Madge doesn't gasp or cry or ask any questions. She doesn't say a word, just takes dollops of the cream and rubs them into my back, running her hands over my cuts and scars and gently warming and loosening the muscles of my back with her hands until I feel myself start to relax and the pain starts to ebb away.
And when eventually her hands start to slow down and I figure she's almost done, I wonder if she really isn't going to say anything, if she's not going to acknowledge the progression of war mapped into the skin of my back, and I'm relieved that she didn't say anything, but I'm also worried because she might be thinking that this isn't what she expected and that this isn't what she wants.
But the thing about Madge, and the thing about me too, I guess, is that she doesn't really need to use words for me to know what she's feeling. And when Madge is finally done meticulously wiping off her hands and screwing the lid of the bottle back on, she surprises me by wrapping her arms around my waist and resting her head against my shoulder blade, right on this scar I got when a rebel doctor dragged out a dagger of shrapnel. And she places a kiss on the bare skin of my shoulder, her lips half on the scar and half on smooth, untouched skin. And then she lays her head on the scar again, her body flush against my back. And she doesn't have to say anything, her fingers running lightly along my spine and her breath warm on my neck, because in her touch and in her kiss and in her silence, I can hear and I can feel and I know that she doesn't mind my scars at all.
Part III: 11 days left.
Tonight is one of my favorite kinds of nights. I'm not working at the bar, and Gale doesn't have any late meetings. We're sitting on my tiny sofa, me leaning against one armrest and highlighting some notes, my legs stretched out towards Gale, who's cleaning and repairing some of his army gear. I feel peaceful and content and relaxed, for once, because I have nowhere to be.
Eventually, I put down my books and tuck my knees under me, scooting over towards Gale. I lean my head against his shoulder and just watch him as he rebuckles the leather on the holster he just polished. I do that sometimes, just watch Gale while he's in the middle of working on something, and he must be used to it by now because he doesn't seem to mind. I don't know why I do it; there's just something about his eyes when he's concentrating really intensely, and there's also something about his hands. His fingers are so long, and almost delicate, his fine movements deliberate and dexterous.
And as I'm watching his fingers ply the tough leather with ease, I notice a hair-thin scar slicing along the knuckle of his right thumb to his wrist. And even though the scar, white against his olive skin, is barely visible, it reminds me of all the wounds layered over his chest and back, and I remember the throbbing ache I felt when I saw them and realized how much pain Gale has endured in his twenty-two years.
And suddenly I have this urgent need to know the story behind each and every scar on his body, from the painful looking bullet hole, a dark stain under his right collarbone, to this fine crease slivering across his knuckle—when, where, and who did this to him.
And I don't really think, just reach out my hand and place it over the holster, stilling Gale's movements. And I lift my lips to his ear and whisper, "Tell me about the war."
Gale immediately tenses, his eyes hooded and alert.
"It doesn't have to be anything significant," I soothe. "Just something, anything." And I quietly run my other hand through the hair over his ear, just the way he likes.
"You don't want to hear those things," he answers, his words tight and the hands in his lap opening and closing spasmodically.
"You already told me about Thom," I remind him. He doesn't answer, though I see a muscle jump near his temple. "I'm stronger than you think, you know," I add. "Let me share this burden with you."
"I don't think I can, Madge," he says, looking down, his body trembling and his voice sad.
"Let me go first then," I say. "Let me tell you about my parents." And the minute the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. I haven't told anyone about what happened to my parents, only vague references to losing them in the past three years.
"Your parents?" Gale says, shifting his gaze towards me.
"Only if you want to hear," I say, suddenly hesitant.
"Madge," Gale says, turning towards me fully, "Anything you want to say, you know I want to hear it."
And the look in his eyes is so genuine that I nod, and I know I can't turn back now.
So I take a deep breath and I rest my head against Gale's shoulder so I won't have to look into his eyes, and with our fingers entwined in my lap, I start to tell Gale about my parents.
I don't leave out any details. And I start at the beginning, at the firebombing of District 12. Where we didn't leave my mother behind because the bombing was so sudden that we didn't have to time save her. No, we left her behind because she was too weak to move, and if we had carried her with us, all three of us would have been caught in the flames. So we didn't even try to save her. Just closed our eyes and our hearts and told ourselves we would think about it later, when we were safe. And then we ran, my dad and me, towards the train station. And my dad knew that the Capitol wouldn't want to destroy the rail lines so we snuck up to one of the boxcars, and my dad went forward and handed the Peacekeeper standing there all of the money in his pockets to let us hide on the train.
The Peacekeeper took the money and let us on the train, and there we hid like cowards behind some empty crates as bombs rained down on our home and on our town and the people around us turned to ash. And all I could think of was my mom, her once beautiful blond hair now orange with flames, and the screams of pain when she used to have a bad migraine horribly amplified as the fire slowly swallowed her limbs.
Hours later, the Peacekeepers loaded onto the train, filling the more comfortable front compartments, and we started moving towards an unknown destination. Eventually we found ourselves in District 11, and when we tried to slip off the train in the middle of the night, a young farmhand stumbled upon us. Luckily, like many in the district, he was sympathetic to the rebellion, and so he smuggled us to a safe house in his cart.
And that's when we got deeply involved in the rebellion. In the cover of darkness and in shadowy corners my dad got in contact with some his friends around the country and in the Capitol, planning and strategizing and disseminating information and coordinating with rebel elements in D11. And I worked in secret too, spinning bandages at night and gathering food for those who were injured and rationing out the small cache of morphling that we had managed to bring from home.
And the Peacekeepers in D11 were so much harsher than they were in District 12. My father and I had to live in the damp cellar of a safe house, and we could only travel around at night, hidden under the turnips and cabbages and radishes of the farmers as they drove to and from the fields. And one night, my dad and I were separated, hidden amongst piles of hay as a large group of carts moved from one of the fields to the town center. And I heard one of the carts stopped for a random check, and I had no idea it was the cart carrying my father until I heard two sharp shots cracking in the cool night air, one for the cart driver and one for my dad.
And then I smelled the burning, smoky scent of fire as the Peacekeepers started setting the carts ablaze, burning all for the crimes of two. And I couldn't move and I couldn't scream and I couldn't run from the flames for fear of being caught. All I could do was cover my mouth with my hand to filter out the smoke, and I lay there as still as the dead, trying not to panic, waiting for the heat of the flames to lick my skin. All around me, I could hear other rebels trying to escape the fire, but as soon as they would move, they would reveal their hiding places, and the Peacekeepers would shoot them and anyone else in their carts.
And somehow amidst the flames and the commotion and the screams, the driver of my cart managed to slip us towards the edge of the group, and the two of us melted into the darkness and ran and ran until we reached our safe house. And there I immediately started packing what little I had, my hands shaking and my eyes wet, and the next morning at dawn I slipped out of the town towards a rumored rendezvous point for those attempting to reach the fabled District 13. And I left behind a district-wide crackdown, kicked in doors and nighttime raids and heads knocked in with rifle butts, as the Peacekeepers started clamping down on rebel activity. And I also left behind my dad, a patch of his blood darkening the cobblestone path leading to town, and his mutilated body hung in the town square, a reminder and a warning against rebellion.
…
I'm in shock by the time Madge finishes her story. Shock and horror. Because I thought I knew what it's like to lose a parent, to feel helpless and overwhelmed and alone. But I never had to choose between my own life and my mom's when District 12 was burning. I didn't have to hear my dad die without even being able to move a muscle to prevent it. I never had to see his body, strung up at the whim of the Capitol.
And I never had to feel guilty for his death. I can hear the guilt in Madge's voice as she chokes on her words. I can hear her fear of the dark places she thinks are inside of her because she left them behind, because she didn't stand up and didn't save them. But I know a thing or two about survival, and I know that she didn't have a choice, that it's a miracle that she's even alive right now.
But I don't say anything because I know she wouldn't believe me if I told her those things. Instead, I turn towards her and bring my hands to her face, drawing her into my chest and holding her as tightly as I can without physically crawling inside her and filling the aching hole in her heart.
And she feels so small and fragile in my arms. And this is my girl, I think fiercely, I want to protect her from pain and fear and loneliness. I want her to be happy and laughing and to have everything in the world.
And so when she whispers, "Please tell me something about the war, Gale," I know I can't say no.
But I don't really know what to tell her. I could just tell her the truth. That most of the time, it isn't all that bad. Just drills and prep and moving gear around. And at the end of a long day you get to relax with the other guys and complain about the food packs and talk about how much you hate the Capitol. And the planning isn't all that bad either, when everything is still theoretical and the collateral damage is still hypothetical.
And I know Madge probably wants to know all of those things, but not right now. And then I can't help it, I think about the first time I used a flamethrower. I was leading my platoon up an embankment, and we needed to clear a path quickly. I still remember the hiss of flames blooming in the dark and the smell of gasoline as I waved the massive wall of fire back and forth in front of me, and it was almost beautiful. But then we had to crawl up the embankment, pull ourselves up on our elbows through the burnt remains of those I'd just killed, crunch over the vestiges of men that were alive a few minutes before, their limbs and their screams turned to dust in an instant.
And then I remember the first time I really killed someone. Not just faceless soldiers shooting from atop a building or from inside a hovercraft. No, the first time I put a gun right up to someone's temple and pulled the trigger. He was just a kid. The Capitol had taken hostages from the rebels, usually young family members or loved ones, and they had brainwashed them, warped their minds to hate the rebellion with almost frenetic passion. And we didn't have the money or the resources or the knowledge to rehabilitate any of them. So when a wild-eyed kid, probably not much older than Rory, snuck into our camp with a bomb strapped to his chest, we had no choice but to execute him. My platoon had brought him down, and so I received the order to shoot him. I couldn't ask any of the men to do it, so I called for the kid and cocked my own gun. They brought him in front of me, his hands tied to together and his eyes suddenly docile. He looked like a kid who had just got in trouble for skipping school or something, hardly a threat. But orders are orders, and we couldn't risk a sleeper in our midst, so I lifted up my gun and shot the kid in the head. He fell like rock, and the light just went out of his eyes, easy as blowing out a candle. One second he was there. And the next, it was just me still breathing, standing alone.
But because Madge told me about her family, I don't know, I keep thinking about Bristel, and so I decide to tell her about him. I tell her how we were in the same crew when I worked the mines in District 12, and we escaped together when the bombs came. But once we both enlisted in the war, we didn't see much of each other. He wasn't much of a soldier so he had signed up to drive transport trucks, and occasionally I'd see him when he brought a shipment of food or weapons to the front lines. He was always good for a laugh, Bristel, always smiling even when the world around him burned.
Anyway, it was in the middle of the night when it happened. I was digging a trench with some of my men, fortifying our position with barbed wire and machine gun nests before the Capitol got wind of our location. Suddenly, the crackling of the walkie-talkie in my ear told us that a transport convoy was being attacked a few klicks from our position.
We mobilized as fast as we could, but by the time we got there, only the charred remains of the trucks were left, smoldering in the dark. We set up a perimeter and a meager first-aid tent, and then we started looking for survivors. We found a couple of guys with some pretty bad burns, but almost everyone else was dead, in unrecognizeable pieces scattered over the hillsides or splattered on the truck windshields.
I was kicking in the door of the last truck when a young soldier ran up to me, asking if I was from District 12. When I told him I was, he led me towards the med tent where I saw Bristel, lying on his back with a bandage on his head, smiling.
"Hey man," I said, but when I stepped closer I realized that his eyes were really glassy and he was smiling at me without recognition.
"What's wrong with him?" I asked the soldier.
"Just sit with him for a while," he answered with a shrug, "Until he goes."
So I sat down next to Bristel, and when he finally focused on me, his eyes widened in surprise.
"I thought you died," he said, but before I could say anything he babbled on, "You were so sick and so thin. I was so sure you starved to death. Those sores on your body, man, I didn't think you'd make it."
And that's when I realized that Bristel didn't recognize me at all, but thought I was his older brother who had died of starvation when Bristel was just a kid. Well, he didn't really die of starvation; actually he was sick and there was no way to save him so he stopped eating because he didn't want to waste what little food his family had. And with the dirt on my face and my olive skin and grey eyes, I can see why Bristel would confuse me for his long-dead brother.
"It's nice to see you, man," Bristel says, and his eyes are shining. "My brother at my bedside. I never would have thought. Are mom and dad here too?" And I don't know what to say because Bristel was alone when I knew him, his brother and his parents long dead because he couldn't hunt the way I could and he was too young for the mines for too many years.
"Yeah, they're here," I say, my voice cracking. "Just close your eyes; they'll be here in a second."
"No way," Bristel says, and I can hear him fading. "I want to get a proper look at you. I can't believe you're here."
And Bristel keeps talking about things he and his brother used to do as kids, get water from the well and play catch with an old pair of socks wrapped into a ball. And eventually he's so far gone that he actually thinks he sees his parents over my shoulder, and who knows, maybe he does. And he tells them all kinds of things. How he loves them and how he's sorry and how he wishes he could just get up so he could give them a hug. And there are tears in his eyes and it feels like I'm intruding on a private moment, but I can't get up and leave him, not until the end.
And eventually his words became incoherent and his breathing got really harsh and erratic. And then his eyes closed and his grip on my hands loosened, and he was gone. Just like that—he was gone, a smile still lingering on his lips.
…
It breaks my heart to hear Gale talk about his friend like that. I grip his hands throughout the story, silently letting him know that I'm here, that I'm not going anywhere.
And when he's done I want to be close to him, to be part of him, to press myself into him until he forgets all the grief and anguish in his heart. So I climb into his lap and circle my arms around his neck, and I place kisses on his throat and on his chin and on his cheeks and his forehead and his ears and his lips until he grips my waist and kisses me back, his lips more desperate than usual. And we stay like that for a long time, me pressing myself into his chest, and his lips urgent on mine, his fingers digging into me fiercely.
And when he finally pulls back, our breathing hard and our faces flushed, I see that his eyes are rimmed with red. But behind the pain and the desperation, there's gratitude in them too.
Part IV: 9 days left
Tonight I'm putting a dead bolt on Madge's door. She made the mistake this morning of telling me how scared she was that day I broke into her place to fix her ventilation system, and that's when I realized it was terrifyingly easy for me to get in without a keycard.
Madge had said it almost as a joke, laughing at how horrifying it would have been if a thief really had been waiting for her inside. I did not laugh and I did not find it funny, and as soon as she left for class, I bought a deadbolt and a screwdriver.
I didn't get out of my meetings until late at night; the meetings are getting longer and more intense now that the rebel forces are moving deep into Capitol territory. I came by Madge's place anyway, tools in hand. She laughed at me at first until I actually took out the deadbolt and told her I was serious. She gave me this searching look and then said I was crazy because she had nothing worth stealing. I took one look up and down her body and said that she was the crazy one if she thought I would let anyone near her as long as she looked like that. "Ugh, you're biased," is all she said with an exasperated wave of her hands.
And it kills me when she says things like that, when she betrays the cracks in her confidence. I hate that working at the bar and being mistreated for years has made Madge think that she isn't beautiful and desirable. That she doesn't deserve someone to love her and protect her. And when I look at her, I can't believe that she thinks she is the undeserving one in our relationship when I count every day I'm with her as the luckiest in my life.
So now I'm on my knees peering at the knob of the door, the only light coming from the flashlight I'm holding in my mouth. I would have preferred Madge to hold the light, but she said that she was exhausted and had some studying to do. More than anything I want Madge to do well in school so she can leave the Black Heart, so I let her go. Also, I'm still stewing over her lack of deadbolt, and I'm sure she's tired of hearing me lecture on the subject.
I can't help how upset it makes me. I've been with men at their most desperate, and therefore displaying their truest character. And the things I've seen them do to women—well, it makes my blood curdle. Hell, even I've mistreated women during the war, using them to forget about Katniss and my loneliness and the bloodstains on my hands. It kills me to imagine someone using Madge that way, someone even thinking about Madge that way. And I desperately wish that I didn't have to go back to fighting so that I could stay with Madge—just be with her and hold her and, damn it, protect her, hear her laughter and smell her hair.
And after double-checking the deadbolt I head towards Madge's room so that I can see her smile indulgently and roll her eyes at my triumph of carpentry, but when I get there I see that Madge has fallen asleep, her book having slipped from her languid fingers and her face illuminated by the single candle on her bedside table.
I quietly close the book and put it away, and I'm about to blow out the candle so she can sleep properly. But then I look at Madge. Actually look at her, her skin warmed by the glow of the candle and her face softened in sleep. And I wish she were always this way: free of the tension and strain of survival.
She looks fragile and angelic, her hair a gilded halo sprawled along the pillows, and her tiny frame curled in the white sheets. I reach out a finger and trace it along the curve of her cheek. Her eyelashes flutter lightly, and I think how much it will kill me to leave her. How much I will ache for her kisses and her smiles when I'm gone.
And because I can't resist, I kick off my boots and climb into the bed next to her, and I just watch her, flickering shadows playing over her delicate features. And I can't believe that Madge could ever doubt herself, ever think that she is less than deserving of all the love and happiness in the world. And eventually the pressure in my chest becomes too much, and I gather her in my arms and pull her close, her limbs languorous in sleep.
Her eyes flicker open, still cloudy with drowsiness, and my heart clenches as she gives me a sweet little smile before snuggling into my chest.
"Madge," I say, placing my hands on her cheeks and pulling back slightly.
"Hm," she murmurs drowsily, looking up at me through her lashes.
I gently push the hair from her face, my feelings so intense that I'm trembling.
"Madge, let me love you," I whisper, a quiet prayer in the dark.
This time, she doesn't tense, and she doesn't hesitate.
"Gale," she whispers, achingly sweet, as she runs a single finger along my jaw. And before I can ask her if she's sure, I feel her lips feather light on my neck.
And in the hush of the darkness there's no need for words. There's nothing but the rustle of fabric and the silk of her skin, a brush of her hair and long, sinuous limbs wrapping around me. Drowning in the smooth planes of her back, the softness of her curves, the luxuriousness of her embrace. The caress of her kiss, the breath of her touch—soft sighs in the semi-dark. Exquisite pleasure arcing through me like lightning.
And hours later with Madge in my lap, the contours of her thighs contracting and relaxing under my hands as she rocks against me, her head thrown back and her hair a brush of silk down to her waist, her eyes closed and her pink lips parted, a single bead of sweat rolls down the flushed skin of her neck and trails between her breasts, and I don't think I've ever seen anything so beautiful in my life.
And after, when she wraps herself around me and whispers my name in my ear, I clutch her to me close, my hands desperate on the smooth warmth of her back, and I promise myself that I will never, ever let her go.
Part V: 3 days left.
I'm happy as I walk home, even though it's late at night and I've just finished a grueling ten hours at the bar. I'm happy because I know that I'll get to see Gale tomorrow, as soon as I wake up.
Gale has a massive meeting tonight. The entire rebel leadership spread all over the country, from the army generals to the hospital administrators to the President, are holding a teleconference tonight to go over every aspect of the rebellion and to coordinate the next steps in the war effort.
So even though I don't get to see Gale right now, and even though I know he's probably suffering through another political and bureaucratic nightmare, I'm happy because he promised he would stop by early tomorrow morning.
So I slip into the shower, a smile on my face. And because I wasn't expecting it, I'm taken totally by surprise when I've just finished lathering my skin with soap and I feel a rush of cold air as the shower door opens and a moment later I feel a kiss burning the skin of my neck.
"Gale!" I say in surprise, turning around. "What are you doing here?" And I feel this fluttery mix of joy and breathlessness and disbelief.
"Meeting ended. Wanted to see you," is all he says, his lips still hot on my collarbone.
And suddenly I see the tension in the line of Gale's shoulders and feel the urgency of his touch. "What happened? What's wrong?" I say, steadying him with my hands on his chest.
Gale buries his face in the crook of my neck, his body curving over me, and hot water rolling down his back. "Casualty reports came in. I'll tell you later. Please, just not now."
And he sounds so desperate and so sad, that I don't think twice. I don't care that my hair is wet and sticking to my body. I don't care that my skin is flushed with the steam of the shower. I don't care that I can barely breath in the heat. All I care about is Gale, my poor, aching Gale—and I want to dispel the sadness palpable in his every movement.
I run my hands down the smooth contours of his stomach, my lips suddenly on the hard muscles of his chest. Gale's breath hitches, and I don't stop, running my nails across the hot skin of his back and arching into him, offering him whatever he needs.
Gale reacts instantly, his arm tightening around me, his lips begging on mine, his hand hitching my thigh up and around his waist. He throws his weight forward, pressing me up against the wall of the shower, crushing himself against me. I put my arms around Gale's neck and pull myself up, hooking my other leg around him.
And then I hold on. Gale's lips are like fire on my neck, his hands demanding, pressing into my stomach, tangled in my hair, running up my leg. I drag my lips down Gale's throat; my teeth scrape across his collarbone. I feel him shudder, his eyes closed tight, and he grinds his hips into me, our bodies slick with heat and soap.
And I can't breathe, I can't think. All I can do is feel Gale hot and shaking in me and around me, my legs tightening convulsively around him, my nails raking on the skin of his back, a jagged moan escaping my lips as I'm overwhelmed by a torrent of sensation.
And it isn't until afterwards, when I'm kissing a soft trail down his jaw, our bodies spent, the shower a gentle rain on our backs, that I taste an unfamiliar trace of salt on his skin. And that's when I realize that I can't tell which water droplets on his cheeks are from the shower, and which are from his tears.
Part VI: 0 days left.
The weeks, the days, the hours have flown by in a rush, a haze, an unbelievable dream.
And now it's my last night. My last night of safety. My last night of freedom from war and bloodshed and death. My last night maybe ever, now that I'm going back into battle.
And my last night with Madge.
I want to make it last as long as possible—stretch the fleeting, bittersweet minutes into eighteen months worth of memories. Eighteen months worth of kisses and sighs and touches. Eighteen months worth of dreams and caresses so somehow I can bear to be away from her for so long. I want to hold onto Madge while I'm gone, preserve her in my mind like a spider trapped in a drop of amber. Remember her so that missing her won't kill me.
And so I go slowly, as unhurried and intimate as our first time. I tell myself to concentrate, to memorize every curve and plane, scent and taste, every inch of her body from the ends of her hair to the tips of her toes.
I kiss my way up her arms. Remember, remember, remember the pink crescents of her nails, the translucent softness of her wrist, the dimple on her elbow. Remember the elegance of her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, the moan she can't help when I reach her lips.
Remember the darkening of her eyes, the arching of her back, the feel of her nails digging into my skin. Remember the scent of her hair and the feel of her curls, the taste of her lips and the way her toes curl when I say her name.
Remember the dip of her stomach, the curve of her breast, the arch of her thigh. Remember the cream of her skin, the velvet of her tongue, the satin of her touch.
Memorize every moment. Every flush of her skin, every pulse of her heart, every pant, every cry, every flutter of an eyelash. The way she bites down on her lip, the way she clutches the sheets, the way her teeth feel on my tongue.
Memorize every touch, every second, every breath, every sigh. Revere the shell of her ear and the blue of her eyes. Venerate the curve of her back and the length of her legs and the arch of her foot. Worship every inch and every instant, and lock them, ensnare them, trap them and her, in the reliquary of my mind.
And no matter how much I try, no matter how many times I kiss her and touch her and embrace her and taste her, it's not enough. Damn it, it's not nearly enough.
…
I leave the next morning without saying goodbye. I leave her, quiet and beautiful and peaceful in sleep. Pack my gear and put on my fatigues. Take one last look at her sleeping form, her curls spread along the creamy expanse of her back, her breathing gentle and soft. And I know that if I wake her up, let her come with me to say goodbye at the hovercraft, if I see her waving, tears in her eyes, if I give her one last hug and one last kiss, I know, I know I'll never be able to leave. So instead, I turn around and walk away, my heart and mind full of her, the smell of her perfume still lingering in my skin.
Part VII: 0 days left.
I imagined my last night with Gale many times. And I always thought that Gale would be desperate, frantic, full of passion and longing.
But instead he takes his time, his eyes concentrated. Starting with my hand, sucking the tips of each finger into his mouth, breathing in the scent of each palm, kissing each ridge and dip of my wrists, grazing his lips over the sweet spot in the crook of my elbow. He tastes my shoulder and twines his fingers in my hair. He nips my lips, licks my lips, kisses my lips, savors my lips, each movement, each touch delicate and deliberate, mapping and loving and worshipping my body.
His lips trace patterns up my leg, across my stomach, between my breasts, and I can't tell if his groans are from pleasure or anguish. And his hands, oh his hands. The deftness of his fingers makes me sing, and the intensity of his gaze makes me cry.
And when we're done he flips me over and pushes my hair aside with the lightest of touches. Then he starts again on my shoulder, kissing a trail along my neck, and he whispers something, a breath on my throat. And it could be hold on or it could be I love you or it could even be my imagination, but either way it makes my eyes fill with tears. And I don't want him to see them so I bury my face in my pillow. I can't stifle my gasps though, part pain and part ecstasy, as his kisses recite a rosary down my legs, down my arms, down my back: goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
…
I wake with a start in the morning. And I can tell by the cold breeze on my skin that Gale is already gone.
I look for the clock in a rush, hoping that if I hurry I can still catch him before he leaves. But when I see the time, I realize that it's too late. That he's already packed his bags and loaded on the hovercraft and that he's been gone for hours.
The realization leaves me chilled and bereft. I draw my knees to my chest and wrap my arms protectively around myself. The room already feels empty without him. No boots at the door, no warmth at my side, no bark of laughter from the kitchen.
And then I see it on the bedside table, the white rectangle of a note. I reach for it desperately, fumbling out of the sheets to grasp it. And as soon as I read it, the words blur as my eyes fill with tears.
And that's when I know he's really gone. Gone. To war, to death, to who knows what torture and pain. He's gone.
And all he leaves behind is his scent clinging to my hair and the words of his note:
Madge,
There's so much I regret about our past and so much I hope for our future. I will miss you more than I can say. Wait for me.
Love,
Gale.
…
A/N: So usually I don't really doubt my writing, but I've never written anything like this before: emotional and sexual and (hopefully?) powerful. I would really appreciate any feedback you guys have!
Also, I was reading over my last chapter and thought my insults for Peeta were a bit lame. Moony Mellark? Dopey Doughboy? Meh. I would love to hear if any of you guys have any good alliterative aspersions for him. Trust me, even if you like Peeta, it's fun to make these up!