Author's Note:

Wow! Last Chapter caused quite a stir! Thanks for the feedback. And I picked a hell of a spot to wait a long time between updates... sorry guys :P I had this chapter ready to go a few days ago, but decided at the last minute that I didn't like the way it turned out (it seemed really jumbled to me, which is saying something because I still think it's a little jumbled, but at this point I'm calling 'Uncle'). So I started over, did a bunch of cutting and pasting, and will use the scraps in future installments where they fit better. I've got most of my potlines out there now, and I'm finding it harder to keep up with each of them within each chapter - it seemed wayyyy easier in outline form. So I'm doing some juggling :) Thanks for reading!

Rory is dressed and sitting at the kitchen table when I walk out of the bedroom ready to head to the fence. I feel my blood start to boil at the sight of my brother, so I remind myself that I shouldn't be angry at him and busy myself with inspecting my bag and hunting knife meticulously to keep from looking at him. I feel his eyes on me, and I know he is not going to let this pass.

"What are you doing up so early?" I ask flatly, still refusing to look at him, and hope that he is smart enough to figure out that the correct response is Because I couldn't sleep.

There is a split second of a pause, just long enough for me to flirt with a sense of relief that he has decided to fold. "I was going to go with you this morning," he says, his voice perfectly, artificially level like he has practiced it over and over again.

"No you're not," I say nonchalantly as I sheath the knife in the strap of my right boot. It's a struggle to keep my cool, but I'm afraid that if I snap at him and push back too hard he'll just dig in his heels even harder. He is a Hawthorne, after all.

From the corner of my eye, I see him frown a little. Apparently, he thought if he just announced that he was going with me like it was simply a matter of routine (rather than ask if he could) it would slip past me before I thought to argue. But I'm wise to that trick. Where does he think he learned that one, anyway? "I thought maybe-"

"No, Rory," I say as gently as I can manage as I step out the door, "not today." I leave before he can press me further, because I know he wants to and I'm not sure how much longer I can keep my temper in check. I shouldn't be angry at him. I guess I'm mostly angry at me.

The quiet in the forest calms me down a little, and the familiar activity of checking and setting snares helps me organize and file away my thoughts. I'll need Rory's help soon enough, but the money I'll be earning at the mine will buy me some time. It's more than just not wanting him to grow up too soon - I've been getting away with poaching for years, true, but I'm also keenly aware that that could end at any given moment. I don't want him to be there if it ends badly.

….

I find a newspaper left for me on the kitchen table in the morning. I barely give it any notice at first – it's little more than a gossip rag, and I'm still holding a grudge against my father who has clearly been keeping more secrets from me than I think is fair. Then I notice that big, color pictures of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark take up most of the front page. Out of curiosity, I read the headline underneath the image, and the rush of joy that comes is dizzying when it collides with my fatigue. Capitol Viewers Call for 'Happily Ever After' Ending. I have to read the article twice because the first time I do it so fast it doesn't make sense. Ever since Peeta's tragically heroic "rescue," interest in the Star-Crossed lovers from Twelve had been renewed and steadily building, but this… this is more perfect than we could have hoped.

Once it finally sinks in, I consider rushing upstairs to tell my mother the good news. She had been far more aware of the recent goings-on than I ever could have imagined. I contain myself, though, because I had found her asleep when I looked in on her first thing this morning and I don't want to disturb her. She may be aware, but she is still fragile; since her guilt-ridden confession, she hasn't had any rest between fits of uncontrollable crying and excruciating headaches. Even with the medicine. The resentment I'd been beginning to feel toward her has softened since then. It's easy to be critical and to think that someone ought to find a way to draw strength from the sadness caused by great loss, until you find out that the sadness was really guilt.

My next thought is to take the paper with me to school because I can hardly contain my excitement – after all that has happened so far, I have to talk to somebody about something, and I can reasonably talk about this without going into the revolutionary significance of it. Capitol citizens actually want both Tributes from District Twelve to win the Games – who wouldn't be pleased to hear that? Surely Gale will want to hear anything that betters Katniss' odds of coming home. And I might as well be honest about it. It'll give me an excuse to talk to him since he decided to be nice to me.

It hits me quite suddenly that I've made myself late by becoming so absorbed in the newspaper, but running late in the morning has become specialty of mine. So I snatch a pastry from the breadbox and hold it in my teeth while I hurriedly pull back my hair with a rubber band, hoping that I haven't transferred too much of its glaze into my ponytail. At least it's clear, I think as I stuff the newspaper into my backpack and remember Gale's colorful little sister. Worst case it'll just make me smell like sugar. I've left the house in worse shape. I sling my bag over my shoulder and grab an apple on my way out the door to eat after I finish my messy pastry, and coach myself to be brave.

….

At my locker, I debate for a moment whether it's really worth the trouble to actually take my textbook to class with me. I'm technically supposed to, but that has never had much bearing on my decision-making process, and my last few classes at the end of the week have been replaced by an appointment with mine officials. Because that's where I'll be going next week, instead of to school.

Fuck the textbook.

I slam my locker door and am about to head down the hall when I hear my name behind me.

"Gale." The sound of her voice stops me mid-stride even before I think about it. Madge stands behind me, struggling with her backpack. She pulls a crumpled handful of papers from it and looks up at me with a faint smile. "I thought you'd want to see…."

I don't really see what she is showing me because I'm focused on her face. I had seen her yesterday as I passed by the cafeteria during lunchtime, because I can't not see her there, and she had seemed somehow unlike herself. Now, up close, even with her smile she looks worn, hollow, less luminous. It's a weird feeling to be so bothered by this. I like her better bright, on fire.

"The Capitol is eating up this Star-Crossed-Lovers bit. Thank goodness Peeta was the one who started it in the interviews," she whispers conspiratorially, "because Katniss hasn't got a romantic bone in her body and nobody would have believed it." Madge taps the front page. "They want them both to win."

I have to force myself to look at the pictures and the headline, and I'm not sure if it's because I don't want to look at Katniss-and-Peeta or I don't want to stop looking at Madge. Sure enough, it's all there in print. The Katniss I know, slipping further away. The baker's boy I don't want to know, doing for her what I cannot. Even if their romance is a stunt for sponsors, the things that are happening are real. But, that glimmer of hope pulls at me for a moment – it would double her odds of winning….

"Only one Victor is allowed, Madge," I remind her icily as the glimmer snuffs itself out.

"I know, but read it – they're pushing for a rule change, and they're getting loud about it."

"It's the Hunger Games," I say. "They don't change the rules. If they did, it wouldn't be the Hunger Games."

She leans in a little closer and whispers again, careful not to let a passing teacher hear her. "They don't change the rules for us, Gale, but the Capitol is asking for it – so, who knows?" She shrugs lightly, as if to say anything's possible.

I'm skeptical, but I can't help but smile a little. When it came down to Us-Against-Them, I'd always thought of her on the Them side. Maybe I was wrong. And surprisingly, this time being wrong doesn't irritate me as much as it usually does. Especially since everything else about my life is miserable at the moment.

….

Gale's smile fades suddenly, and I wonder what I've done wrong until I see that he is looking past me. But it doesn't really make me feel much better, because I'm still pretty sure that I'm at least part of the reason that he slouches a little, looks like he is preparing for the worst. Another Seam boy walks up to him from behind me. I recognize him, he is a classmate of Gale's, but I can't remember his name; he is tall, good-looking but not as handsome as Gale, wearing a mischievous smile. He leans an elbow on Gale's shoulder and looks pointedly at me.

"Who's your new friend, Hawthorne?" he asks with a broad grin. I try to keep up my smile, but it's hard, because I find the entire situation painfully awkward.

Gale rolls his eyes and doesn't look at either of us. "You know who she is, Bristel," comes the flat reply.

"I do?" he asks innocently.

"Yes. You do."

He looks hard at me again, and despite myself I can't help but feel a little uncomfortable. Clearly there is more going on here than I'm privy to. Bristel snaps his fingers with a theatrical gasp of surprise. "That's right!" he says. "She's the one that had you off your rocker after that argument."

Gale finally scowls at his friend. "Bristel, I'm gonna count to five and let you decide whether you want to spend first period picking your teeth out of the back of your skull."

He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. "Still defensive I see."

"I'm already at three."

"Okay, okay," he says as the grin widens and he backs away, "but wait, what was it you said about an argument? A far cry –"

"Five, Bristel!"

Bristel finds this hysterically funny, and takes off down the hallway laughing.

Gale's eyes come back to mine, and I hold my breath as I wait for him to speak. "Apparently word got around about our little tiff in the cafeteria," he says flatly.

I wince at the memory. "I'm sorry. I never intended to upset you."

He shrugs. "Hey, I gave as good as I got. Fair's fair."

I nod down the hall where Bristel disappeared as I bite my lip sheepishly. "Or embarrass you."

"What, Bristel?" he says with a snort. "Bristel's an idiot. He thinks he won something with that, but all he did was make you uncomfortable. Believe me – he's not getting off scot-free."

I blink at him out of pure shock. Is he being… protective? I want so much to believe it, but I know better. He just thinks his friend is stupid, Madge. Don't get carried away just because he's still being nice to you….

"Don't worry," he says, mistaking my surprise for concern, "I'm not going to punch him." He gives me a sly little smile. "But I do know his locker combination."

This gets me laughing, and he joins me, and it is perfect. Then the bell chimes, and I remember that I'm at school, I'm supposed to be going to class, and I still haven't unpacked my bag. I remember the newspaper in my hands. I remember that Gale isn't the only person waiting for good news. "Before you go," I say as he starts to turn from me, "can you tell Prim for me?" I explain when he meets my eyes again. "Things are, um, rough at home right now," (good one, Madge, understatement of the millennium), "and I don't know if I'll be able to get away for a while, and I don't usually see her here, so…."

He nods. "Okay. I'll tell her." And he walks away. Like there's nothing to it. Again. And the real world – the Games, my father, my mother – it all comes rushing back in again, as if that tiny, perfect moment was the only thing holding it back.