After the toasting, Peeta throws us into a brutal training regime. Haymitch, who is still battling with the withdrawal, becomes so irritable that it is almost impossible on some days to coax him out of bed. Some days, Peeta coaxes him awake, talks him into fighting back, into fighting the symptoms. Other days, Peeta cannot rouse him, and only my whispered reminder of the promise he made me or bitter taunts can make him angry enough to push back the covers. Either way, at the end of the day we fall into a routine that never changes: we eat the food my mother has prepared, take the vitamins we have been prescribed, and sit on Peeta's porch in the warming summer air. Peeta will stroke my hair as I lie with my head in his lap, watching the stars. Haymitch will grumble incessantly, crack nuts that he is never going to eat, rant about his empty hands and how much he wishes for a drink. I roll my eyes and pretend to ignore him, but secretly I am glad for the ongoing distraction that our recovering mentor provides. Without him, there would be silence. And silence, at this stage, can only be filled with one thing; with thoughts. Thoughts of the incoming slaughter that hovers over all of our heads. Thoughts of the grim funeral-like silence that awaits me in my own home when seldom I should choose to return. Thoughts of Peeta, lovely, kind Peeta, and the thing growing inside me that is part of him.

Peeta spend almost every moment together now. Much to my mother's obvious disdain, I have long since begun the process of moving in to Peeta's home. It began with a toothbrush: it made sense to leave it next to Peeta's sink where I had forgotten it because I spent more time in his bed than in mine. Then it was a pair of shoes, absentmindedly left beside his front door. Steadily more and more of my possessions started to make the transition between my house and Peeta's until one afternoon, half joking and half terrified, Peeta suggested that I make the move permanent. So I did.

Of course, the more time I spend with Peeta, the further I slide from Gale. And of course, the more I try to push Gale out of my mind, the more I end up thinking about him.

"Katniss? Katniss, wake up."

I stir, blinking foggily in the dark nest of sheets that Peeta and I share. "Peeta?" I'm reaching for him, but he is out of arm's reach, perched on the edge of the bed. He isn't looking at me. "Peeta?" I say again, more urgency to my voice now. I push the tangled hair out of my eyes impatiently to frown at his back. "What's wrong?"

"You were talking in your sleep," he replies. It's not an unusual occurrence: Peeta strokes or kisses me awake at least once a night because of my uneasy murmurs or angst-ridden shouts. But this is unusual. I can't remember a time when Peeta has been so… unaffectionate. Not recently, anyway, and certainly never when I have just emerged from the dark, dangerous depths of my night terrors. I stare at him uncertainly. Two or three minutes pass and I am seriously considering rolling over and going back to sleep when it hits me. My stomach drops.

"Peeta…" I begin slowly. My fingers unconsciously grasp for him, although he is out of arm's reach. "Peeta, what… what did I say?"

His whole body tenses and I can tell I've hit the nail on the head. He doesn't answer me, though, so I prop myself up on one elbow and decide to wait it out.

But I've never been a particularly patient person, and between pregnancy and constant training, I am exhausted and, honestly, just want to lie down and go to sleep.

"Peeta…" I shuffle towards him and finally manage to touch him, stroking his shoulder. He still refuses to respond, so I move to sit behind him and gently rub at the base of his neck. "Peeta, I - "

"You said Gale's name in your sleep."

My fingers freeze between his shoulder blades as I contemplate this. Gale. Gale's name. Between my lips. In our bed.

I find myself staring at Peeta's back, wondering why it is that he has not left yet.

"I'm so sorry, Peeta," I whisper. And I am: I picture myself lying beside him as he whispers another's name and it kills me. "I know how that must have felt."

"Do you? Really?" Peeta's voice is low, but I cannot miss the dull tone that makes me want to throw my arms around him, apologise for ever having hurt him, make amends for every heartache, every tear. He snorts and shakes his head. "You have no idea of the effect that you can have."

Suddenly, whether it's the exhaustion or the hormones or the confusion, my patience is gone, and I'm pushing myself away from him, ready to stalk away. "Why do you keep saying that?" I demand, striding away from the bed. I'm reaching for my hunting jacket when his hand closes like steel around my wrist.

"Because you don't." I am yank my hand away but the sadness in his voice flows through my veins like morphling, calming me. He releases me and I turn to face him as he sinks onto the bed. He runs a hand through his hair. "Katniss…" he shakes his head. "You have no idea. After the Games, I was so sure of myself. So certain that I was what you wanted. That we'd be happy, now, away from the cameras and the interviews. And to find out that it was all a lie?" He laughs, but it's bitter. "It damn near broke my heart. In fact, I think it did. And the more I thought about it, the clearer it all became. Why would you want me – the spoilt baker's son who had never gone without anything in his life – when you could have Gale? Gale was your equal. Gale was everything I wasn't." I want to interrupt him and am on the verge of doing so when he shakes his head, effectively silencing me. He wants to talk. So I let him. "I began to wonder if, every time we'd kissed, it was his face you were picturing. It didn't help that I'd wake up on a Sunday and look out of the window to see you striding off to meet him."

I can't refrain any more. It's all so preposterous that I just have to do something. I can't let him think this of me. "Peeta, you're being – "

"Stupid? I know it might not make much sense to you, Katniss, but when I heard you saying his name in your sleep – "

I've never been one for big romantic gestures. I can muster the courage to voice the intermittent "I love you" when the occasion calls for it, but the rest of the time I am about as emotionally vocal as a dead slug. So it surprises us both when I throw myself into Peeta's arms and kiss him until we are both short of breath. "I love you," I murmur, my face pressed against his. "I love you."

I'm not sure if it is shock or rationality that calms him, but the man in my arms quietens. Peeta hesitates for a moment, gently pushing the hair out of my face. When he speaks, his voice is carefully contained. "You need to see him, don't you? To… to say goodbye." I nod tentatively. He nods, too, thoughtful. "That's why you were saying his name." I nod vigorously, relieved. Once again, Peeta's intuitive nature has taken over, pushed the jealous teenager aside and replaced it with a far more rational creature. I take advantage of the silence and pull him into bed. He curls up beside me, arms wrapped around my stomach in a way that never stops being blissfully peaceful. Another few minutes passes before he speaks again. "Katniss?"

"Peeta."

"I love you, too."

-x-

An unnatural looking mist is crawling menacingly up the valley. From my vantage point at the crest of the banks of the dip, I watch as it slithers between trees at knee-height, creeping tendril-fingers around the brush in a way that can only be described as sinister. When it reaches me, I childishly lift my feet onto the rock on which I sit rather than let it touch me. It curls around the stone, desensitised to my avoidance. I watch it for a while, lapping unevenly at the cool surface of my seating place, before I return my gaze to the woods.

A dull, uneasy feeling spreads though me. I have never felt such a way in these woods – our woods, as I have come to think of them. The fog is alien and unwelcome. Both impractical – as it limits visibility – and unseasonal – like snow in the Sahara – it is not something that I can welcome happily. Gale and I have never encountered such a persistent mist in all of our time in the woods. It seems to be the moving embodiment of the fact that times really are changing, now. As if to prove its point, here I am. Waiting, motionless, for my best friend. I have been here before, but never for so long a time. I have never had to wait for him before. Not for so long that I have wondered if he is even coming.

And it terrifies me.

I am still for so long that a doe, bright eyed and mystified by the intruding mist as much as I am, flits into my line of vision. I am not in the mood to hunt, but this is far too good an opportunity to miss. Barely moving, I lift my bow and reach behind me for an arrow, silently begging the doe not to flee whilst I simultaneously question her decision to remain here, in plain sight. I have just nocked an arrow and am taking aim when an arrow suddenly appears in her chest as if from nowhere. Without a thought I am spinning, bow steady in my practised hands, scanning the woods for the doe's assailant.

"Katniss?"

A voice from behind a tree. For a moment, I tense. But then I recognise the voice. Put the bow down. "Don't shoot me," Gale half-calls, half-laughs from behind his tree. I have lowered the bow by now, and something must tell him that I will not harm him, as he edges into plain view. I'm struck, suddenly, by how different he looks. Large bags under his eyes are the least of my concerns – why is he limping? And why does every movement seem to cause him to wince a little more, go a little paler? I do not think about it, find myself acting on an unconscious impulse when I race to his side. I throw myself into his arms. He wraps them around me without hesitation, but I can feel him squirm in pain under my desperate grasp. "Steady, Catnip," he murmurs. It's quiet, but the pain in his voice is unmistakable. I draw away to stare at him.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

Gale shifts uncomfortably under my gaze. He smiles in a way that would be convincing if not for the pain in his eyes. "Can't a guy have any secrets?" He leans backwards against a tree – and this is his mistake. He gasps in pain and pushes himself a way, instinctively reaching round to touch his back: his fingers come away from the shirt sticky and stained red. Within a second, I am behind him, pushing his hands away. I gasp. Gale turns to me, the sadness in his eyes prominent even over the pain, to see me back away, my hands at my mouth. Tears swim to the surface of my eyes and threaten to break free. I meet his eyes, an unspeakable question in my own. He sighs. "So, I met our new Head Peacekeeper," he says. The casual tone of his words is defeated somewhat by the slightly deadened way in which he voices them. I can't quite manage to be confused by this new information: images of the back of Gale's white shirt, stained in a criss-cross pattern of angry red lash marks, swim before my eyes. In an effort to escape them, I throw my hands over my eyes, shaking my head minutely. I jump when Gale's hands are suddenly prising mine away. He's laughing at me. "Sorry. I know how you are with… gore."

I swat his hands away pathetically, wiping away unshed tears as I glare at him. "Come on. You need to see my mother."

He's shaking his head. "I've been."

This shocks me. I frown at him. "What? When?"

"When it happened. She's been coming to my house for the past few weeks."

My mouth falls open. "What? Why didn't anyone tell me?"

He shrugs. "I kinda guessed you had enough to be dealing with for now."

His tone is casual and even, but I am angry: I advance on him, hands curled into fists. His eyes widen and he steps back slightly. "Damnit, Gale!" I'm yelling now. "What does that matter? You think because I'm – because I'm busy – I'm not allowed to care about you?" I come to a stop about a foot away from him when I realise I'm crying. "You should've told me," I'm sobbing. Gale's wide eyes mirror the shock that I feel – when have I ever cried in front of him? He closes the distance between us and pulls me into his arms.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into my hair. "I'm so sorry. I didn't…"

We stand like this for a few more minutes before I pull away, angrily wiping away the tears. I glare at him. Reach for his hand. "Come on. We're going to my mother."

"I told you, I - "

The look on my face silences him. I'm sure he can see my resolve to help him, to do something, in my grey Seam eyes, because he lets me drag him along in silence. Wriggling under the fence proves a little difficult for him, and soon the scabs are open, blood soaking his shirt. In an effort to distract him, I make him tell me what happened.

"Oh," he says, shrugging and then wincing when the torn flesh starts to move. "I was hunting. Came out with a handful of greens and a wild turkey." That's all? He sees the incredulity in my eyes and grins. "Yeah, I know. But I was a little distracted." He glances meaningfully at me and I duck my head. A blush swiftly covers my cheeks. "Anyway… I headed over to Cray's place – you know how he likes wild turkey – and I knock on the door, and there he is."

I frown. "Who?"

"New Head Peacekeeper."

I consider this, soaking up the implications. It's a sobering thought: 12, where you can starve to death in safety, has always lacked the perseverant persecution found in the other districts. We haven't had a new Head for as long as I can remember. I shiver at the thought that now, because of me, Snow might be paying attention to our quiet little district again. How thoughtful of him.

Gale continues. "Anyway, he's not as big a fan of hunting as Cray was. Tied me to this post and gave me fifty."

I gasp. Fifty? Gale must sense my horror, and he lets out a dark chuckle. "That's nothing. You haven't been by the square, have you?" I shake my head. He pulls me left, down an alley that leads to the square in front of the Justice building. I consider dragging him straight to my mother, but curiosity gets the better of me and I let him tow me along.

When we get to the Square, I almost wish I hadn't.

It's unrecognisable. What was once a wide, open, empty space is now cluttered with various dark apparatus that give off an aura of pain and death. In the corner nearest us, stocks; in the furthest one next to the Justice building, a gallows awaits us, the noose drifting ominously in the breeze, as if beckoning. I shiver and instinctively press myself closer to Gale.

"Something, isn't it?" He murmurs.

We remain like this for a few more minutes, transfixed by the swaying of the death-rope opposite us. But Gale is bleeding too heavily, now, and the need to get him to my mother has transformed from necessary to urgent. I hurry him to Victor's Village. The walk has never been longer. Gale has never been paler.

"Gale?" My mother is standing on the porch, staring. "I told you to take it easy," she reprimands him, but her tone is soft as she helps him into the kitchen. At once, it is a flurry of activity as the table is swept bare and Gale is helped onto it. My mother and Prim transform. I am transfixed by their sudden steely resolve, their pure knowledge. I watch as Gale's shirt is torn away from his mangled flesh. Watch as they apply various salves and medicines. Gale is whey faced as he grits his teeth through the worst of the pain. In the end, it's me who begs them to give him a painkiller.

"Please," I beg. "Please. Can't you see how much pain he's in?"

Eventually, with much begging and shouting from me, they concede to give him a shot of morphling. Gale is out of it almost instantly. My mother, knowing it would be useless to convince me to leave him, goes to bed, taking Prim with her. I take my seat beside the kitchen table, knowing it will be useless to try to sleep tonight.

At around eleven, Peeta knocks tentatively on the kitchen door. I turn to face him and at once am filled with guilt – had I even told him that I was going to the woods? Concern and relief are simultaneously etched into his face, along with something I can't place – is it pain? I realise, then, that my hand is still on Gale's face. I drop it instantly. "Hey," I say lamely. He smiles.

"Hey," he replies softly. He limps his way over to me and takes my face in his hands, leaning down to kiss me. Our lips are almost touching when Gale moans. In an instant, my hands are at his face, stroking him gently back into oblivion. It isn't until I hear Peeta sigh that I realise what it is I've done. "I'm going to bed." He says. Guilt floods me once again, and I stand, desperate to make him stay.

"Peeta - "

"Catnip?"

Gale's voice is foggy as he fights through the haze of painkillers. I sit down and squeeze his hand gently. "I'm here, Gale." And for the first time, I really am there, no longer distracted by thoughts of Peeta or training or Snow's sudden interest in the district.

"What happened to us, hmm?" I squirm at this, the thought that's been occupying the forefront of my mind for most of the evening finally aired. Gale laughs sadly. "And what happened to you, Catnip? What about never getting married? Was it all lies?" His usual eloquence is marred slightly by the strength of the morphling, but his words do not fail to cut me straight to the bone nonetheless. All of a sudden, I want to tell him that it is all lies, to beg for his forgiveness. But I can't. Peeta's face appears in my mind, his eyes so filled with love and kindness that I have to shut my own as guilt consumes me.

"I don't know, Gale," I choke out as honestly as I can. "I guess… it's not so much about what I wanted as… what I need." My words surprise even me; is this true? At what point did this relationship with Peeta become what I needed, trumping even my long standing friendship with Gale?

"You don't need me anymore?"

Gale's voice is so filled with sadness that I cannot stop myself from leaning forwards, placing my face mere inches from his as I gently brush his hair out of his eyes. "I'll always need you."

He's too close… and getting closer. I can almost taste the morphling on his voice. "I'm sorry. I know I said I'd be fighting…" he gestures hopelessly to his back. "…been kind of busy."

I laugh, but it comes out more like a sob. And then he's leaning forwards, closing the gap between our faces, and his lips are so soft…

I stay until he falls asleep, stroking his face. And then I walk out of the front door and across the lawn to the house I share with my fiancé, and silently slip through the house like a shadow, pausing only to take off my boots before I slide into bed beside him. I do not sleep that night. In the morning, I get up early to undress and to wash the remnants of the tears of the night before from my face. If Peeta can see the guilt in my eyes when he wakes up, he doesn't mention it.

AN: First of all, thanks for reading! It would mean the world if you would review, as it's really encouraging to see what people think of your work. Wasn't sure if I managed to pinpoint Gale in this one, so go ahead and let me know.

Secondly, the dedication for this chapter is split two ways – for ElvenCompanion (happy birthday chuck! I hope you liked the last chapter, sorry the birthday wishes are late!) and for everyone else who has reviewed or favourited or followed. Cheers! Love you all!