Bruised Lifetime
He likes when she is alone with him.
He sits on her bed in her small house; the room they are in is still the same with its washed-out walls and wobbly bedside furniture. The girl who sifts through her closet, brow in a furrow, is not.
While she pulls out a ghastly pale dress with a slightly ruffled collar, he decides that in another life, things could be different. He might actually see her smile, might actually be able to offer her more support. She might not have to go through the pain she is constantly thrown into, from her father to the Games itself.
In defeat, she tosses the dress to the ground. Her eyes find his, and though it does not show, he can tell that she's getting close to tears. He hates the Capitol for making everyone else think they're not good enough. He wishes he could find the words to tell her this, to tell her she's good enough for him, too good actually, and she doesn't deserve this and –
But it won't make a difference. She will wake up tomorrow with the same weight on her shoulders, and he knows he won't do anything about it. So he just opens up his arms, and she crawls onto his lap, seeming much, much smaller than usual, less formidable and more real and maybe just a bit pitiful.
In the future, he'll look back on this moment and realize he was wrong – he could have made a difference.
Maybe, in the end, he would have had her.
.
.
.
xx I like how Gale defies the Capitol inwardly.
I think it's just hard for me to write happiness when I know they're doomed.