So here it is, first update of the new year! Hope you all had a great holiday season and that the year's been treating you good so far. Before we get on with the chapter I want to take a moment to say a great big THANK YOU to everyone who takes the time to read and/or comment. It truly means a lot to me, even though I only reply sporadically these days. I know this story is a very slow burn and that Galeniss has been going on for quite some time but I promise you that if you stay with it you will be rewarded.
Monday comes and to my own surprise I wake up feeling enthusiastic. I'm excited to sit down and read that folder and fill out that form and hand it in to our teachers. It's got to be the first time a pair has done something like that and it will do wonders for our grade. In fact I'm in such a good mood that my mother, my sister and Madge – who has a cough and looks pale and tired but is otherwise doing much better – all comment on it during the day. I don't reveal the reason why and they all seem to draw the same conclusion.
"I'm glad you're in such high spirits," Madge says during lunch, twirling her fork to roll spaghetti onto it. "You've been so reserved about your relationship with Gale – barely even telling me about it," she adds with a pointed look. It was only recently that I told her and she was surprisingly annoyed – a little bit hurt even – that I hadn't shared that information sooner. "Now that it's out in the open I'm happy to see that you're happy about it."
"Sure," I say, not bothering to shatter her illusion on this particular subject. Why would Gale all of a sudden have me smiling all day through? That's supposed to be early relationship stuff, right? We've been together more than two months.
Finally we reach the last class of the day and Peeta and I meet up to go to our table. I try to hide my eagerness at first, keeping my face as neutral as I can only for Peeta to greet me with a look and a smile that shows me he's just as excited about this as I am. I smile back at him and we have a brief laugh, causing a couple of heads around us to turn. Peeta whistles a tune to himself as we leave the classroom and then begins his usual questions about how my weekend was and all that. I've noticed that he's been slyly adding more questions to his repertoire over the weeks. Nowadays he also wants to know about my sister and even my mother sometimes. Never about Gale, though. I haven't given him verbal permission to tell anyone that we're dating so he doesn't let on that he knows.
We reach our table and begin to get ready, unpacking everything we need. Peeta's whistling again, lifting his large notebook from his bag with a small toss included. Then he openly brings out our prized possessions, making no attempt at concealing them from our classmates.
"You should be more careful with that," I scold.
"Yeah," he snorts with a chuckle. "As if any of them have the first idea what this even is." He winks at me then. "We're sitting on gold here, Katniss. And none of them know it."
This evokes another smile from me. For a moment my eyes seem to be stuck on his cheeks and chin and how his facial hair moves with his skin as he smiles, chuckles, turns serious. Then I catch myself and look at the form instead.
"Okay," I say. "Should we get started?"
"Yes we should, but…" He looks around us, now suddenly the paranoid one. "Okay, you know, I would actually… I think we should…" He looks down at my backpack sitting on the chair in-between us. He grunts, scowls, shakes his head. "Get rid of that."
"My backpack? What's wrong with my backpack?"
"Nothing, just… switch places with it."
Oh. I reach for my bag and lift it up, smoothly sliding over to that chair and setting the pack down where I was sitting a second ago. I am now right beside Peeta, able to feel the warmth radiating from him and the scent of vanilla, dill and cinnamon. It's so different from Gale's familiar wood smoke and apples – smells I've always liked because they are so familiar and comforting and partially remind me of my father, though Peeta's scent is sweeter and more enticing. I push the thought of scents from my mind and reach for the form, trying, but failing, to avoid brushing against Peeta in the process.
"Do you want to fill it out?" I ask.
"No I think you ought to. It was your brilliant idea."
"Thank you," I smile.
Together we look at the form. Clinical and formal and everything a form regarding the arrival of a new life shouldn't be. It's got several boxes where you fill out information, the text all in an old, classic kind of font I recognize as being called Typewriter. It doesn't look very uplifting yet forms like it contain the basic information about every human life in all of Panem. By the looks of it, it hasn't changed much in the last few decades either. Which means my parents once filled out a form exactly like this about me, and Peeta's parents did too about him. What an odd feeling that is.
Peeta harks and draws my attention to the first box.
"Should we get started?"
"Uh-huh." The first thing the form requests is the name of the father, and it's with a slight blush and an awkward smile that I write Peeta's name there. Then comes the mother's maiden name – sparing me the awkwardness of having to write Katniss Mellark – and which child in the brood it is. I write that it's the first and give Peeta a glance. "Why do you think they ask that question?"
"The more closely they can monitor our lives, the happier they will be," he answers dryly. He looks thoughtful though, suggesting that he's got some other theory that he doesn't feel comfortable sharing with me while we're surrounded by classmates.
"Okay, date of birth, time of birth…" I frown and worry my bottom lip between my teeth. "They didn't give us that information, did they?"
"No, I don't think so…" He grabs the contents of our latest envelope and browses through it, his eyes moving quickly from side to side as he skims the text. "Nope, doesn't say. But they gave us this last Monday, which was the… 30th of January. So why don't we use that as the date?"
"And the time of birth?"
"I don't know," he shrugs. "Do you have a favourite time of day?"
"What?" I say with a little laugh. "Who has a favourite time of day?"
"I do."
"Okay, like what…? 15:27?"
"No, not that specific," he chuckles. "But I like dusk."
"Yeah, sorry Peeta, that's not at all helpful. Actually…" I smile slightly as I jot something down in that box. "I think I know just the right time." Peeta leans closer to see what I picked. He's so close that I can feel him vibrating with his soft chuckle when he sees it – the time when our project hour begins. "Okay, so shall we move on to the next box?"
"What's next?" he asks, looking at me instead of simply looking at the form and finding out the answer.
"Next comes the difficult question," I say, staring back into his eyes.
"And what question would that be?" he asks, his voice sounding different somehow – deeper maybe.
"What is Cookie Crisp's name going to be?"
"Oh." He grins. "Well what is so wrong, really, with Cookie Crisp? Didn't I tell you I picked it out with a boy in mind?"
"You're a loon," I say, rolling my eyes and giving him a light nudge with my shoulder.
"Fine, fine," he grins. "Just loose Cookie and keep Crisp? And if our teachers see fit to bless us with a fictional baby daughter the minute Crispy here has learned to crawl we can call her Cookie."
"Would you forget about Cookie Crisp already?"
"I'm telling you, it's what I intend to call my firstborn."
"My condolences to the future Mrs. Peeta Mellark. Come on, be serious for a minute."
"You mean you think I'm not? But okay, I can take my seriousness to the next level, for you," he nods. "You have, after all, recently pretended to give birth to my non-existent son."
"Great. So what name do you suggest? And please, let's be more creative than Peeta Jr. And no more baking puns!"
"Well what was your father's name?"
I freeze, discomfort spreading through my body. Tentatively I look at him, in this moment feeling that he's sitting too close, close enough to be able to read things on my face, in my eyes, that I rather he didn't.
"What?" I manage.
"Why not give him your father's name? I think that's kind of nice."
"No, no I…" Squirming in my seat I try to think of the right way to express to him that I most definitely don't want to name the project child after my father. It feels wrong, like it would be squandering the name. Even though I'm not saving it for if I have a son for real someday. And even if I did there would be no reason I couldn't use that name still.
"Okay," nods Peeta after a moment. "You don't want to. That's fine. We'll decide on something else." He shrugs and twirls his pencil between his fingers. "The kid doesn't even exist, anyway. We could just call him whatever."
"Whatever Mellark doesn't have a very dignified ring to it," I lamely try to joke, but with so little effort to it that it falls utterly flat.
"We'll figure something out."
"Just write something. I don't care. It doesn't matter."
Peeta shrugs and leans closer to me to write on the form rather than pulling the form closer to him. His side presses up against me and I realize I ought to lean away to give him room but I stay put. If he wants the space he can move the form. He writes down a name but instead of immediately shifting back to how he was sitting before he looks at me for what must be over a minute.
"So…" he then says. "Next question?"
I nod and he leans away from me again.
"Hey Peeta!" a familiar voice then says, making us both look up at Peeta's wrestling buddy Rusty, who's come by our table. I cross my arms on the table and lean forward, covering up the form without drawing attention to what I'm doing. "How's married life treating you?"
"Hey Rusty," Peeta answers. "I'm guessing my fake marriage is going better than yours, seeing as you're not currently doing any work. Where's Jill?"
"Back at our table," answers Rusty in a slightly evasive tone, taking a seat on our table. "I had to go to the bathroom. Also, I needed a damn break. They're giving us babies now, so we've got to write essays and make lists of stuff you need and all sorts of stupidity."
"Way ahead of you there, Rust," says Peeta. "We've already become pretend-parents."
"Congratulations," answers Rusty in a slightly theatrical manner, scratching his chin which, just like Peeta's, hasn't been shaved in a while. "Is it all those sleepless nights and disgusting diapers that's causing you to be late for wrestling practice so many times lately?"
"Is that why you stopped by? To sneer at me about last week?"
"Pretty much, yeah. In all seriousness, Mellark, coach might kick you off the team if you don't become a timelier wrestler."
"I'll keep that in mind, thanks."
"Good. I'm serious about this, you know. Otherwise I wouldn't have interrupted you and the missus having a moment." He makes a silly-looking face and dons a cutesy tone of voice. "You two looked so cuddly!"
"Clearly you've never cuddled with anyone in your life," Peeta says so dryly that I almost laugh.
"Yeah, whatever, lover boy. Just make it in time for practice for the rest of your natural life, or resign to a fate of sitting on the bench, watching me win the final tournament."
"Even if I were to break both my legs you wouldn't win," teases Peeta.
"Whatever makes you feel better, Peeta." Rusty winks at us and gets up from the table. "Enjoy your fantasy love affair while it lasts. And Katniss, whatever this sweet-talker might try and tell you, merchant boys are only interested in Seam girls for one reason. And it ain't getting coal dust on their underwear… even if that sometimes is a by-product."
"Hey!" says Peeta sternly, but Rusty has already walked away. Peeta sighs and scratches his chin, giving me an apologetic look. "Sorry about that. I honestly don't know what makes all these town kids act like classist jerks all of a sudden."
"Don't bother about it," I say. I don't want to tell him that I know the reason why, nor do I want to tell him that this behaviour isn't actually all that new.
I don't think Rusty is merely teasing when he makes his comments about Peeta and me. I believe that people who don't know our relationship to one another, and who don't know me, see something different than what is really going on. They see a charming and popular merchant boy smiling and having a good time with a recluse Seam girl and they draw the wrong conclusions. Nobody asks about my relationship status so I don't talk about it, ergo they presumably think I'm single. And from there it's, in their minds at least, not a big leap to conclude that something romantic is going on at our table each week. That the looks we share, the laughter and the possibility of a friendship developing are actually about us taking a different interest in one another. The words of the man at the Justice Building last week echo in my mind. You make such a sweet couple. It's a shame it will never be more than a school romance. But, you already knew going in that people like you can never be together.
I wish Peeta wasn't sitting so close to me. I wish we had a barrier of backpacks and books and whatever else between us so that I could hide my state of mind from him. All I can do instead is rest my right elbow, the one closest to him, on the table and rest my cheek against it, thereby blocking my face a little bit at least. With my pencil in the wrong hand I tap lightly at the form without seeing it, pretending that I'm studying it and thinking of answers for the rest of the questions. I don't want him to know how it hurts. How humiliating it feels to have a whole class of people in the place where you live judge you as unworthy of the affections of another person. They see me as nothing more than a plaything for Peeta, don't they? What's worse, I think they suspect that what exists between us is entirely lopsided – that Peeta is looking for some slag heap fun and that I am losing my heart and daydreaming of an impossible future with a handsome merchant boy. Bile rises in my throat at the thought of it. I hate them. I hate all who presume to know what I feel. I hate the ones who pity me, even worse than I hate people like Mallory who probably think I'm amusingly pathetic. The only merchant person I don't hate right now, aside from Madge of course, is Peeta.
Peeta. They must not know him at all. Peeta is not the type of boy who would take advantage of a girl at the slag heap, much less the type of boy who would lead a girl on and get her to fall in love with him just so he could make out, or even have sex. I do feel he is better than me, too good for me in fact, but it has nothing to do with his place of birth and everything to do with the person he is. I haven't been able to fully let go of that man's words a week ago - you already knew going in that people like you can never be together – and Rusty's careless dismissal just now brought all those thoughts back. What if I had fallen in love with Peeta, and him with me? What if we had then acted on those feelings and started dating and that grew into something potentially lifelong? These thoughts are theoretical, of course, since I have no intention of ever marrying and therefore have no desire to find true love. It's the principle of the thing that upsets me. That, and the knowledge that if I were to love Peeta…
I pause my train of thought just then, looking over at my merchant-born project partner who is patiently waiting for me to be ready to continue working. He's drawing something on the margin of his notepad, clearly understanding that I need a moment even if he doesn't understand the real reason why. If I were to somehow fall in love with Peeta in real life I would still be safe from marriage. I could never subject him to the fallout of marrying a Seam woman, losing his group of friends and his place high on the social ladder in our class.
Pulling myself away from these thoughts, though not bothering with trying to come up with an explanation for why I've been quiet for several minutes, I straighten my back and shift my pencil to my right hand, hark and actually focus on the form says so that we can move on to the next question. In doing so I notice what name Peeta put down for our fictional son. Despite everything, a small smile appears on my face.
"So our son's name is Hunter?"
"Uh-huh," he answers, a little smile on his face as well. "You didn't say anything about Everdeen puns. Or… Everdeen jokes, as it were."
"It's perfect," I tell him.
We end up being done with all our project work with just short of half an hour left on the clock. Peeta doesn't see much point in leaving since he won't have time to go anywhere before wrestling practice, so he decides to stay and do homework. I opt to stay as well, even though I could head out to the woods and get an early start on procuring fresh meat for dinner. Hunting can wait thirty minutes. Perhaps Peeta will need some help doing his homework. It's the least I can do. Besides, if I get started on my own homework now there will be less of that to do later.
The only school books I have in my backpack are English and arithmetic, so I choose arithmetic. While working on a particularly annoying square root problem I begin chewing on one of my nails. I don't even realize that I'm doing it until I start chewing further down and manage to cause a bleed on the cuticle.
"Damn it," I hiss, sticking the tip of the finger in my mouth and sucking on it, more to relieve the stinging than to stop the bleeding. It doesn't bleed much, but enough so that I can feel its metallic taste.
"What's up?" asks Peeta, looking up from his textbook.
"Nothing, just… some self-inflicted stupidity stuff," I reply, holding the finger close to my face to assess how long it might bleed for.
"Need a band-aid?"
"What? Oh, no thanks. It will stop bleeding in a minute. It's just a cuticle."
"Okay," he says, sounding a touch sceptic but returning his eyes to his book.
Thinking to myself that I perhaps should have accepted the offer of a band-aid I use my sleeve to wipe up the blood that has leaked out. There's not much new blood following it so maybe this is about it.
"Good thing I wore my red sweater today," I mumble, grabbing my pencil and keeping half an eye on the mistreated finger as I try and focus on my math problem again.
I notice Peeta lifting his head from his own work but he doesn't offer me another plaster. He studies me with his head slightly tilted and a friendly but not concerned-over-minor-bloodshed look in his eyes. I'm not quite sure what reason he has to look at me for this long but given that it's Peeta Mellark and he's not afraid of speaking his mind I have no doubt I'll find out soon enough.
"I haven't seen you wear red since… well since this project began at least."
He's making a note of what colour I'm wearing? What does that matter? Granted red isn't the easiest colour to get a hold of in the Seam given how much it costs to buy at a seamstress' shop but by now I feel I know Peeta well enough that I don't believe he's making a comment on my social standing. I look down at the sleeve of my red knitted sweater and I get the strangest feeling as I recall the day my mother dyed the yarn. I had brought home as many dandelions as I could find with the intention of us eating them and as per my mother's instructions I had plucked them with their roots and all. Most of the roots I gather for her she uses for medicinal purposes but these roots were used to give the yarn the red colour Peeta is now commenting on.
"It's just an old sweater," I mumble, wondering if he can tell that I'm being oddly affected by this otherwise mundane conversation. I can't quite shake the connection between the flower behind my sweater and the boy remarking on it.
"It looks good on you," he says. "You usually wear mostly browns and greens and greys. Earthy colours. The red goes with your hair." I give him a look and he laughs lightly. "You know by now that I'm a painter, or try to be. I notice things like that about people." He crosses his arms on the table and leans forward a bit, still with that friendly smile in place. "Do you like red?"
"It's alright," I shrug.
"Not your favourite?"
"No, I suppose not."
"No…" He looks like he ponders it for a second and then studies me with a squint. "I'm guessing… either yellow or green is your favourite."
"Green. Definitely green."
His grin widens, as if he just got a perfect score on a surprise quiz.
"Green. It suits you. Has it always been your favourite colour or has it come with being out in the woods so much?"
"Why are you so interested in what colours I like?" I question, making sure that I don't sound unfriendly but finding his interest in the subject matter weird. There's a bit more blood on my fingertip so I stick the finger in my mouth again and suck it off.
"I told you. It's the aspiring painter in me." He shrugs a shoulder. "Besides, I feel we're becoming friends and friends share things like that with one another."
"Well… What's your favourite colour?"
"Orange," he tells me without hesitation.
"Orange?" I echo. I don't think I've ever heard anyone claim that as their favourite colour before.
"Yeah," he says, a touch of softness in his voice. "Like the sunset."
"The sunset has many different colours," I point out.
"It does. But I like the orange hues the best. When the sky lights up like that it just… seems like the horizon is on fire or something." He laughs a little and makes a face. "God, I can hear how cheesy that sounds…"
"A little bit cheesy," I agree. "But nice. I've never thought of it that way before. To tell you the truth I don't know that I've ever really looked at a sunset before. They're just… there. They can be nice and all but I don't think about them much."
"You should stop and take a moment the next time you see one," he says. "You might find you really like it." The look in his eyes is distant, almost dreaming, suggesting a beautiful view before him that only he can see. "You know what my favourite part is?"
"Tell me."
"It used to be when there are clouds in the sky and the light hits them just right and they get that silver lining the proverb talks of. Now it's the times when whatever is on the horizon, be it a forest or some houses or something else, seems entirely dark – just a black silhouette against the cascade of colours on the sky."
I don't really know what to say as he continues vividly describing the kind of sunset he loves the best. I've never known anyone to be that fond or fascinated by it before. I find it endearing and I find I can relate to it because he is speaking of nature in a way I don't often hear people in the Seam, never mind in town, do and all of this scares me a little. It scares me that his words seem to resonate somewhere deep in my chest, somewhere I don't want anybody to be able to access.
So as soon as he seems to be finished I hark and look pointedly down at my arithmetic textbook.
"Well anyway, I, uhm…" Though I attempt to grin casually I have a sneaking suspicion it comes off more as making a wincing face. "I should try and solve this math problem before I forget what numbers were in my head a minute ago."
"Oh!" He looks apologetic and quickly turns the page in his own textbook, flushing a little. "Of course. I apologise. Didn't mean to digress like a complete idiot."
"You didn't," I say, now with a soft smile that is completely genuine and thus can't be misinterpreted, unlike the failed grin a second ago. "And you're not an idiot. Besides, it was my stupid nail biting that distracted me from the math in the first place."
"I'll make sure not to be a further distraction, then," he says, smiling at me with one eyebrow slightly raised, making me feel the strangest little ache in my chest.
"And I promise not to distract you further, either," I answer, hating my voice for having a stupid quiver to it.
He winks at me and turns his attention back to his homework. I try to swallow but my mouth as gone oddly dry. I force myself to stare at the math problem but my brain simply refuses to cooperate and concentrate, and when Peeta closes his book shut ten minutes later and begins to pack up to head for practice I still haven't found the stupid square root.
I don't see much more of Peeta that week. Not until Sunday morning when Gale and I stop by the bakery on our way to the Hob, intending on trading the squirrel we shot for some good bread. As usual it's Mr. Mellark who answers our knock on the door and he assures us that we can have some raisin nut bread in exchange for the rodent. Gale busies himself with whistling a tune and twirling a broken snare around his finger while we wait. I lean against the brick wall and close my eyes, savouring each intake of air which gives me the delectable scent of freshly baked bread and sweets. It always seems like the baker comes back way too fast, though I wonder if his sons feel the opposite. Mr. Mellark almost always leaves the door open while he goes out into the store and gets the bread, letting the cold winter air in but allowing us the lovely smells of the bakery kitchen. I asked Peeta about it a few weeks ago and he assured me that they actually appreciate getting some cold air to relieve some of the heat from the ovens but I think he's just being polite in telling me so. I also think his father is being nice to us by leaving the door open but I choose to officially accept Peeta's assurance that it's just as much for their benefit. It's one of the few things I can allow as a gift of sorts, since it doesn't put me in debt to the Mellarks.
"Katniss! Hey!"
My eyes open at the familiar sound of Peeta's voice. Spontaneously I smile, though I quickly adopt a neutral expression instead so that Gale won't feel uncomfortable. Peeta's smiling widely but he doesn't stop to have a talk with me. Despite the fact that he's outside in fifteen degrees below temperatures he's wearing nothing but a sweat stained t-shirt on his upper body and his face seems flushed with beads of sweat cover his brow. He's carrying a large bag of flour draped across his shoulders, which is why he doesn't stop to talk to me. He's strong, but he's got to be eager to put that thing down.
"Hey yourself," I answer him as he turns sideways to better fit himself and the large bag through the door.
"It's good to see you," he smiles. "Looking forward to tomorrow!"
I grin widely despite Gale's presence, though I have no time to answer Peeta before he's disappeared inside the kitchen. We're hoping to get feedback tomorrow from our teachers about fictional baby Hunter's birth registration form and we're both excited to find out what they think of our work. Once Peeta is back inside my eyes turn to Gale, who is still whistling and has his eyes on the snare he's playing with. From inside the kitchen I can hear Peeta setting down the bag of flour with a huff and talking in low voices with one of his brothers. Then his father shows up at the door, handing me a brown paper bag containing something that smells absolutely divine. The bag is practically steaming warm and again I have a hard time concealing my grin. This bread did not come from inside the store. This must have come from the oven just a short while ago.
"Thank you kindly, Mr. Mellark." I say, recognizing that this technically puts the bread at higher value. Storefront bread is not always freshly baked, in fact they sell older loaves at lower price. Six months ago I would have refused to accept a loaf this fresh without handing the baker another squirrel or something but I'm willing to cede my principles a tiny bit this time. If you want to get technical about it this bread might only be an hour newer than the loaves out in the store and by the time we get home it won't be fresh from the oven anymore. What it mostly gives me is the pleasure of it's wonderful scent while I carry it home.
"Thank you, Katniss," replies Mr. Mellark. "Gale," he says with a nod.
"Thank you," says Gale and puts the snare away. As we begin to walk away he takes my free hand in his and I wonder if he's going to make a comment about the way I thanked the baker just now. But he doesn't.
We head over to the Hob and spend about half an hour there, trading the excess of today's spoils from the woods and sharing a bowl of Greasy Sae's stew. Afterward we stop by at my house to leave my half of the bounty with Mother. Prim is not at home, she's out with her friends. We only stay for a few minutes, to leave my share and cut the loaf of bread in half. It's cooled but still smells heavenly. My mouth waters just from the sight and smell of it and I almost wish I could have a slice now while it's still somewhat oven-fresh. But I don't want to enjoy it without Prim here to share it with me, and Gale is eager for us to go. We bid my mother farewell and head back outside in the cold, making our way to the Hawthorne house.
"Come on," Gale grins, opening the door and leading the way inside. He's been in a great mood all day but he's been bordering on giddy ever since we left the Hob and began heading back to the Seam. Not even the run-in with Peeta at the bakery seems to have done much to dampen his spirits, which makes me happy. I may have a difficult time combining the two of them in my mind, something I attribute to one of them being my partner for real and the other being it in make believe, but I don't see why Gale should be affected by it. The fact that he has been has been a source of frustration with me. I don't like jealousy. Not in matters like these. I find it petty. If you're sure about someone there's no need for jealousy and if you're not sure then jealousy won't solve the problem. And it feels like an insult that he would feel there was some conduct on my part that would give him reason to be jealous in the first place.
At the moment though jealousy seems to be the last thing on Gale's mind. I notice when I step inside and close the door behind me that the house is oddly quiet. I've rarely been here without at least two other members of the Hawthorne family being present. It's always been such a lively household compared to my own. Speaking of jealousy, I can't deny that I've often wished my home could have the same atmosphere as Gale's. Now that said atmosphere seems to be gone it's a little disconcerting to me. Well, it's not bad per se, so disconcerting might be the wrong word. It's not what I'm used to in this house, is all, and it might take me a moment to get used to it.
Gale notices the look on my face and chuckles softly.
"The boys are playing football at the school field," he explains. "And Posy is at a play date with a friend from school. My mother went with her. Apparently she and that girl's mother are becoming friends as well." I nod and shrug a shoulder as I head for the sitting room and the couch. I look around, wondering if I've ever seen the place without people in it. "Which means…" Gale continues, his voice dropping an octave. His hand finds my elbow and catches my attention. "We are all alone."
"Yeah," I nod. "It's a little strange. This place has never been so quiet."
"It doesn't have to be," he says in a strangely suggestive tone. I don't know what that's supposed to mean or what I should read into it so I don't answer.
He goes into the kitchen to put away the bread, the game and the things we acquired through trade at the Hob. I take a seat on the worn old couch, my eyes travelling across the room, still trying to get accustomed to the entire Hawthorne family being out. No, not the entire family. Gale appears in the doorway, leaning against the doorpost with a smile. He stands there for a minute, looking at me in a way that makes me smile a little. I've never thought myself beautiful but when he looks at me like that I can almost believe that I am. He walks over to me and holds out his hand. I take it and he helps pull me to my feet. He then leads me to a different room of the house, one I've never been in for more than a minute or two. His bedroom. Even though we're alone he closes the door behind us and my eyes fall on the bed that takes up most of the room. There's nowhere else for us to sit than on top of the bed.
"Oh," I say, realizing why he brought me here.
His hands land on my upper arms and gently he ushers me to the bed where I sit. I don't know what else to do, honestly. I'm incredibly nervous all of a sudden and when Gale sits down so close to me that he almost squishes my leg a little my heart begins to pound in my chest, loud enough that I can hear the blood whirling in my ears. His hands cup my face and he looks deep into my eyes. I'm so nervous that my mouth has gone completely dry but he doesn't seem to think less of me for it.
"Alone at last…" he mumbles, his voice deep. His eyes go to my lips for a brief second before meeting my gaze again. "You don't know how long I've wanted to have you to myself in here."
I try and swallow but I have no saliva. I settle for a dry hark instead.
"How… How long will your family be gone, you said?"
"At least another half hour…" He leans in and kisses me in a way that's both tender and hungry. I open my mouth and his tongue immediately finds its way in, exploring me in a somewhat slow but very determined manner. I let him take the lead, as I almost always do. He seems to be much more fond of having his tongue exploring my mouth than I am of letting mine explore his, anyway.
"So…" I manage when we part for air. I feel myself trembling with nervousness so in order to distract myself – and Gale, so he won't notice – I find something that brings our focus away from kisses for a minute or two. I stroke his cheek with the palm of my hand, humming slightly. "Your cheek is smooth."
"Uh-huh," he answers, sounding a touch confused. "That's what you get when you shave every morning."
"A lot of boys at school aren't shaving right now."
"I… I'm not sure I follow."
"The athletes. The tournament is coming up. You remember, don't you?"
"Yeah," he says. There's a crease on his forehead, implying that his mind is working on something he doesn't like too much to think about. "Are we talking boys in general here, or anybody in particular?"
Oh geez, I don't want to get into that right now. And I doubt Gale wants to either. I pretend not to have taken notice of the question and smile, moving my hand to his brow to stroke it, futilely hoping to make that crease go away.
"I like the clean shaven thing better," I say with a smile that I hope is as cute as I intended it to be.
It works. Gale grins widely and captures my lips in a heated kiss. One of his hands reaches behind me, cradling me a bit as he shifts us to lie down. I end up with my feet still on the floor and my head hitting the mattress without a pillow to support it. Gale's elbow accidentally pins my braid and yanks it a little as he shifts to move on top of me. I immediately scowl.
"Very uncomfortable here," I tell him.
"Oh. Sorry." He looks up at the head of the bed. "Let's scoot up. You'll lie more comfortably that way."
With a huff I do as he suggests, using my elbows to help push me further up on the bed. Biting my bottom lip nervously I grab the pillow and adjust it to be as comfortable as possible behind my head. Once I deem it good enough I let out a small sigh and look at Gale who is grinning widely. He moves in again, laying on his side right next to me, caressing my cheek with one hand while leaning down for another kiss. After a few minutes of that he shifts, moving his body on top of mine, his legs between my own. I tense up and he allows me a moment to adjust to the new development before resuming the kisses. At first he holds his weight up on his arms but after a while I feel his pelvis come down to rest against mine. I feel something there, something hard that I can only assume is one thing. My initial reaction is to want to tense up and push him off of me but I force myself to breathe calmly and relax. This is Gale. He knows me, loves me, would never do anything to hurt me. It can't be that he's expecting this to lead to… well, to things couples sometimes do when they're alone in a bed. There are several steps in-between kissing while Gale's hands wander on top of my clothes and the kind of things that happen when all the clothes are off. He wouldn't expect to jump straight to the endgame with me. He knows I've never done anything like that before and I'll need time.
Except time is not what I need. It isn't about becoming ready for it. If we keep kissing and touching there will come a day when I feel physically ready to progress to the next step, and then the next, and then the next. But whatever my body may feel ready to do and desire to do, my heart and mind won't ever allow. Gale and I are never going to be… intimate. Intimacy of that sort leads to children. He knows I'll never agree to take it to that level – doesn't he? Is it really wise to go down this road when we'll never see it through to its end?
It doesn't take long for Gale to notice my not entirely comfortable state of mind. His lips leave my mouth and places kisses along my cheek over to my ear.
"Please Katniss, don't be nervous," he whispers, so close that his breath tickles my ear. "I just want to kiss you…" A kiss on my earlobe emphasises this. "And touch you." His cheek nuzzles mine. "And be near you. That's all I want. Just to be close to you. We're so close in every other way. Just… Just feeling your skin on mine, your lips on mine, your warmth and your softness and your scent…" He groans a little and lifts himself up on his forearms just enough for us to look at each other. "I would never ask anything of you that you're not willing to give yet. Alright?"
"Gale…" I say, managing to swallow while nervously looking up at him. I want to tell him – remind him – that sex won't ever be part of the repertoire between us. I don't want there to be any misunderstandings or false hope where this matter is concerned. But looking at him now and taking in the words he's saying I find I can't bring myself to talk about this right now. He's not pressuring me. All he wants is to be near me. How can I deny him that? In a way it's not much different from us huddling together out on our log in our glade. And I do find the kissing nice and the warmth of his touches invigorating.
So because I don't know what else to do I pull his face back down towards mine, meeting his lips for another kiss.
"Oh Katniss…" he mumbles against my lips when the kiss ends. "You are so incredible." His pelvis grinds against mine and it gives a pleasurable sensation that makes me gasp a little. Gale notices and grins, kissing me heatedly and grinding against me again, and once more after that. I decide to just try and relax and allow myself to enjoy the sensations and Gale's closeness. There are so few things in my life that feel good and make me happy so perhaps I don't have to worry so much about what will happen further down the line and instead just enjoy this moment while it lasts.
"I wish you could stay with me all day and all night," mumbles Gale against my ear.
"That would be nice," I whimper back, wrapping my leg around his waist to try and get more comfortable. I don't know what specifically causes him to moan, my words or moving my leg that way, but I'm pleased that I can bring about that reaction in him.
"Someday, maybe…" he says in a hopeful tone.
"Maybe…" I agree. I can see myself spending the night sleeping beside him here. In fact, it might be kind of nice. Just as long as we're talking scattered nights during which we keep our pyjamas on.
This goes on for a bit, the kissing and Gale's occasional groaning. His hands stay up around my face until they don't anymore, one of them travelling down my neck and then continuing down my side. It tickles and I laugh, looking up at him and expecting to see him laughing as well. But he's completely serious right now, his eyes hooded and his cheeks flushed. In fact he hardly seems aware that he tickled me, almost instantly he's kissing me again, barely giving me a moment to catch my breath. But I'm more distracted now, acutely aware of where his hand is.
Then said hand grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls it up. I grunt in protest but Gale seems to interpret it as surprise, and deepens the kiss. I wait for a second, wondering if he's going to remove his hand, but he doesn't. His hand travels up my bare skin and his fingers touch the underside of my bra.
"Stop it!" I growl, shoving him off of me with both hands. He looks confused for a second, watching me as I sit up and pull my shirt back down, tucking it in my pants. "Gale what the hell do you think you're doing?"
"We're fooling around," he says, but judging by his voice he knows he's taken it too far. I know Gale Hawthorne pretty well after all these years and although his voice has a ring of apology to it I can also detect something else. Frustration, or perhaps even irritation. Maybe he feels I should have let him continue. Maybe that's what good girlfriends do after this many weeks together.
Too bad for him I'm not like other girlfriends.
"I can't believe you just did that," I scowl, straightening the rest of my clothes while I'm at it, mostly so that my hands can have something to do and so that I have a reason not to look at him. I understand that it's not out of line for a boyfriend to want to do that but Gale knows the terms of our relationship and I despise having to feel like a bad girlfriend just because I won't play by the generally accepted rules. We can either do this on the terms I'm comfortable with, or not at all. But when I look at him he looks the opposite of the happy guy I've spent the day with so far, and I feel bad all of a sudden. "Your family could be home any minute," I add, hoping to defuse the moment a bit.
"We would hear the door," he mutters, running a hand through his hair.
"I'm not sure you would have heard the mine alarm going off thirty seconds ago," I lamely joke, but at least it gets a chuckle out of him. "Look, Gale, kissing is fine but…"
"I wasn't trying to get you naked, even though you're acting as if I were" he answers, shifting so that his back is against the wall and his legs are bent in front of him. His fingers begin to drum on his knees. "What's so wrong about me wanting to touch you?"
Averting my eyes I try to find a good answer. I suppose a good enough answer is that I don't want him to, but it sounds horrible in my ears so it must sound ten times worse to him if I say it.
"You just caught me of guard, that's all."
He looks at me like he's trying to figure out something, then he actually laughs a little. I scowl again, wondering what's so funny all of a sudden. Me being tickled wasn't funny to him, but my answer just now is?
"Katniss did you seriously think I was trying to steer this towards sex? Right here, right now?"
"No," I say defensively, moving to sit at the edge of the bed, feeling a little more at ease when my feet touch the floor. "Why do you think that because I don't intend on having sex that means I somehow feel perfectly alright with you groping me all over the place in the middle of the day and with your family possibly walking in at any minute?"
"Okay, okay, no need to get so defensive…" he chuckles.
"Don't laugh at me Gale."
"I'm not. I'm not." And yet he looks at me like he thinks I'm hilarious and my scowl deepens. Once more he laughs, though at least this time it sounds a bit forced. "Oh come on, Catnip, am I not entitled too to be a bit nervous in these moments?"
"You don't seem particularly nervous," I comment dryly, removing the rubber band that holds my braid together and using my fingers as a makeshift comb. My braid has gotten all messed up during our kissing session and I want it looking decent again.
"You make me nervous," he claims. "You make me feel… all sorts of things."
"Wow, you're so romantic," I say in an even dryer tone, aware of the irony of me accusing him of not being romantic.
"Well I promise you that I wasn't trying to get you naked. Alright?" He holds his hands up in an attempt at being disarming but I don't find him particularly cute at present. "I wasn't even trying to take off your bra. I just wanted to…"
"Yeah whatever," I cut him off. I begin to braid my hair anew, putting the rubber band between my teeth while my fingers work on my hair. It has the disadvantage of making it hard for me to speak.
"Believe me Catnip, I have a whole other arrangement in mind for when we take the sex step. I also don't have any intention of going straight from kissing to fornicating." He says the last word in a funny voice while wiggling his eyebrows, a failed attempt at levity. "Look, we'll take it one step at a time, okay? Right now we have a rare opportunity of being alone together in one of our houses, which means we're warm and safe and we have a bed at our disposal, and I was having such a great time and I wanted to take things to the next level. I truly thought you would be okay with it. But I was only hoping to touch you on top of your bra, I promise, unless you were fine with me moving the cups down. Baby steps is what we agreed on, right?"
"Gale-" I try, rubber band still in-between my teeth. It irritates me that he seems to have forgotten – or maybe even ignored – that we aren't going to be having sex. But when he interrupts me I don't try and interrupt him back, because I'm suddenly not entirely sure that we have understood each other. Have I actually said to him in plain English that I never want to have sex? Or just that I don't want to have children? According to Peeta there are all sorts of ways to prevent the latter without abstaining from the former.
While these thoughts have been going through my mind Gale has kept talking and I haven't been listening. He doesn't seem to have noticed, luckily. I tie the end of my new braid with the band and turn to look at him and he's staring at his hands while he talks – about sex, still, it turns out.
"I want it to feel right for you when it's your first time," he goes on. "I want for you to be comfortable and to feel eager, even though you'll likely be nervous."
"My first time…" I repeat his words, wondering if I've missed anything I should have been paying attention to. "Not ours? Yours? Gale it wouldn't be your first time, would it?"
"No," he admits after a drawn-out pause. He gives me a look that's anxious, almost pleading. "Katniss does that bother you?"
Now it's my turn to take a pause, but then I tell him no. It feels like a lie when I say it. Picturing him having sex with another girl makes my stomach turn and I feel a bit robbed. But it wouldn't be right to tell him so. Gale is mine, but he wasn't whenever that act took place. He is entitled to a past.
"I'm not going to lie to you and tell you it was something that just happened, or try and sell you some song and dance about me wanting to get some experience before my first time with you, so that I could make it better for you." He makes a face and straightens his legs with a heavy huff. "Honestly… I wanted to experience sex."
I sit quietly at the edge of the bed, wringing my hands absent-mindedly and trying to suppress the discomfort in my heart. Then something else comes to my mind and adds a whole other level of hurt, one that feels like an outright betrayal no matter how much I realize that it's not a rational reaction.
"How come you never told me about this?" I ask, looking at my boyfriend whose face looks troubled and flushed. "Who was she? Actually never mind, I don't care who it was. I care that you never told me. How long ago was this?"
"It… didn't seem like the thing we would talk about," answers Gale. "It was during my last year of school, but before you ask, no, it was not Elsie Blum. I was… nervous, I mean a million times more than usual, about the upcoming Reaping and I couldn't help but think that I wanted to experience sex before I die, and then when the opportunity presented itself…" He laughs shortly, mirthlessly. He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth for a second. Then he shrugs and looks at me with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "As for why I never mentioned it… I didn't know how to work that into conversation. So how's your week been? Mine was swell, I got to have sex."
"Yeah, I get it," I say dryly.
"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks, the expression on his face now full of concern and reassurance. "I know the decent thing to do was to not have sex with someone I'm not in love with, especially since it was my first time. I've often thought that I should have waited. For you. Only… You know, the threat of death was looming over me much heavier than the five years that came before it and it felt like something I really wanted to do."
"Gale…" I say, summoning the willpower to reach back and put my hand on his leg in a reassuring manner. I feel so strange about this because deep down I already knew he wasn't a virgin – or at least I had a strong suspicion. Yet hearing him say it is another thing entirely. And that he didn't tell me, his best friend, when something that monumental happened to him… But I don't want to fight over it and I don't want him to feel this bad. He looks, and sounds, like he cheated on me and he has done nothing of the sort.
"Katniss, I..."
"Hush, now," I say. "There is no need to apologise. I have no right to be mad. This happened before we were going out and you had every right to do what you did. I'm just a little… caught off guard about it, that's all."
Again he laughs without a trace of joy.
"Catnip, I think you are great for looking at it like that and I love you for it. But to be completely open and honest with you… Well, there is reason to judge and criticise me for that experience."
"Why?" I ask, unable to imagine anything bad he could have done. "What happened?"
"Well, I… wasn't particularly honourable with the girl I was with." He sighs and although there's a smile on his face it remains without elation and there's a wistful look in his grey eyes. "You see, for the most part I was… thinking about you." He looks deep into my eyes and his voice lowers an octave. "Imagining that I was with you."
"Oh," I say. "Oh."
"Yeah," Gale says sheepishly, giving me a look that implies that he feels bad but that he also wonders if I'm finding this flattering.
"Oh boy," I say, my hands finding the edge of the bed as I lean forward. "I'm not sure how much I can judge you but…" I turn and meet his eyes. "Did she know?"
"What, are you crazy?" He looks genuinely baffled by the question. "You don't tell a person something like that! That would only add insult to… injury."
"This is all starting to make my head spin," I declare, getting up on my feet with one hand to my temple. "Listen Gale, I don't think you're a terrible guy for what you just told me but… it's been an eventful day."
"Catnip…" With a worried look on his face Gale scrambles to get down off the bed, putting his hands on my upper arms but with a very loose grip.
I don't want to talk more right now. I'm not mad, to be honest I don't know what I am, but I feel overwhelmed by everything that's transpired since we set foot in the Hawthorne home. To reassure him, and stop him from launching into a long monologue or a discussion, I give him a kiss on the lips and a smile. He's obviously distraught since he responds with a relieved smile, not picking up on the fact that mine doesn't go so far as to my eyes.
"We're alright," I tell him. "But I've been here for quite a while now and I ought to get back home."
When I step back outside the weather has changed, winds picking up and icy snowflakes falling down from the sky, hurting the exposed skin of my face and hands as the wind hurls them at me. I almost don't notice it, my mind is so preoccupied. For what feels like the millionth time since I started my final school year I lament all the changes that this phase in life brings and I stand there by the Hawthornes' mailbox for a minute and wonder what to do. In becoming Gale's girlfriend I've lost him as a friend, as our relationship presents a whole catalogue of new challenges and experiences but I can't turn to him for help processing everything. Then again I can't imagine that I would have ever wanted to turn to Gale as a friend to discuss matters of sex and other forms of physical intimacy. But I have a strong need to talk to someone and I don't know who I can turn to. Asking my mother for help sorting this all out is unthinkable. Prim is off the table as well. I can talk to her about a lot of things but I don't like worrying her with my problems, and I really don't want her to know my intimate thoughts about intimate issues.
As I've been standing here thinking my head has been turned in the direction that leads home, protecting my face from the winds which are blowing from the direction of town. Now I take a deep breath and turn my face the other way instead. It's still early in the day, not even one o'clock in the afternoon. It's not an inappropriate time to pay a visit, even though I suspect my presence would be considered inappropriate in and of itself by some. But to hell with that, I don't care what anyone says. There is someone I could talk to, someone who might be able to help me or who will at least lend a friendly ear, which might be all that I need. The food waiting at home, including the half-loaf of bread, will have to wait. Squinting to protect my eyes from the icy snow I stick my hands in my pockets and begin to walk away from home, down the road that leads into town.
Speaking to Madge Undersee might be just what I need right now.
I'll be honest, I opted out of doing proper research on the dandelion-roots-as-dye part so I have no earthly clue how many dandelions it would take to produce enough red yarn to make a sweater. Chalk it up to artistic license. I wanted the discussion about their favourite colours and I wanted the dandelion connection.