Uh…whoops. I guess posting new chapters has become a once-a-week-or-less thing now. Am I allowed to keep using work as an excuse? Work is VERY busy. I was really good at making TS a priority while I was writing the thing, but not so much with editing and publishing. My bad.

Even though I'm not really a Gadge shipper (not in any sort of way that requires effort) I really liked writing their scenes. Even though writing about Katniss and Peeta and District Twelve is fun, the arena is substantially MORE fun. Even if it's from Katniss's perspective, watching it on TV.

I can feel Prim, next to me, shudder. Her face is buried in my shoulder, just like mine was on Peeta's a minute ago. I want to comfort her, but I doubt I could form coherent words now. Not when I feel like something's been ripped out of me too.

It all seems so wrong. It always has, I guess- but until this year, until it became personal, I never dwelled on it. I've always just been grateful it's not me.

I can't think. Thinking is worse than watching. So I watch. Clove pulls her knives out of Rue and tucks them back in her belt. Cato kicks dirt over the remains of the fire and they meet in the middle. "She get you pretty bad?" asks Cato, gesturing to the wound on Clove's forehead. It hasn't slowed her down, but there's a big streak of blood from one of the acorns.

"I'm fine," Clove says dismissively. "You?"

He holds out his arms, showing her the raw spots from shaking the maple tree so hard. Apparently bark can be nasty. "I've been better. But I'll heal."

She nods. Grabs Rue's slingshot and tucks it into her jacket pocket. "Let's get back to camp. Shame about Glimmer."

"Shame," Cato echoes. They turn and leave. That's it, then. They don't care that their friend is dead. I don't know why that shocks me, after the atrocities I've seen them commit so far, but it does.

"I'm going to bed!" Prim announces abruptly. She unsticks herself from the loveseat (truly, we are jammed in there) and practically bolts. Words of comfort die on my lips. How could I make this better? The best possible thing for her is to get away. I understand the desire, but don't have the luxury.

The camera switches to Thresh. He's skinning a small jackrabbit. I wonder how he managed to catch it.

"So, are we going to the sponsorship office tomorrow?" Peeta asks, breaking our unsaid oath of silence.

"We could," I agree half-heartedly. It's hard to focus on saving Gale's life when it's fresh in my mind how many people are going to die. "We should, really. It makes me nervous to keep so much money in the house."

"I doubt anyone would be brave enough to break into your house."

"I don't even keep a bow inside, though." For a second I scold myself for letting that information slip. Then I remember it's Peeta; I can trust him. Old habits just die hard.

"Even so," he says. "What do you think you'll buy for them?"

I shrug. "I don't know the prices. And we didn't count the money."

He's doing this on purpose, trying to get me to talk. I'm sure he can tell my mind has gone to a dark place- he can always tell. I give in. "…but I suppose, the best thing would probably be to send them food. I doubt we could afford a better weapon than what he already has."

"We could send him more arrows," Peeta suggests.

I shake my head. "I know Gale. He'll keep track of what he has- trust me."

"What do you suggest, then?"

I mull it over for a while. It's a good distraction from the gory onscreen death, although it does lead back there if I think too hard on it. "I wonder if we could afford a sleeping bag."

Or, ideally, two separate ones. But I don't share that thought with the class.

"They'd probably really appreciate that," says Peeta. As usual, he sounds way more optimistic than I feel. I guess it's easier for him. Whatever happens in the arena, he has less to lose.

Part of me wants to be angry with him, for not caring as much as I do, but that part of me shuts down quickly. He doesn't even like Gale, and he's helped collect the sponsorship money as if Gale is the only thing that matters. I can't be angry. Really, I should be grateful.

'Grateful' doesn't come easy on a night like tonight, when what's really on my mind is how cruel and terrible the world is. But I look at Peeta, and his earnest expression reminds me there's some good in it.

I realize I've just been staring for a bit. He probably thinks I'm building up to some big reveal or heartfelt speech, and I don't want to do that. I force myself to look away, even though staring at Peeta is the second-most comforting thing I can think of, right after collecting for the sponsorship that was his idea.

"Hey."

As soon as I look away, he makes me look back. How unfair is that? "What?"

I'm worried he's going to say something sappy about how it's all going to be okay (spoiler alert: it's not), but he just grabs the end of my braid and twirls it around. In general I don't like when people touch me, but Peeta is something of an exception. Plus, I continuously get him back. I reach over and whuffle his ash-blonde locks.

He smiles. "Do you remember how this tradition started?"

"Of course I do." I'm almost offended he would ask. "We were twelve. That boy kept pulling my hair at recess- bastard- but none of the teachers believed me! And he was a merchant kid, so I couldn't hit him…"

"...so you had me pull your braid in front of him, and you hit me," Peeta finishes. "...I don't know why I went along with that."

"I was gentle!"

"You were not," Peeta insists. "But he never bothered you again, did he?"

I shake my head, grinning. "Never. And I like to think my problem-solving skills have gotten a little better since then."

He pauses, then abruptly asks, "Why did you ask me to help you, not Gale?"

I shrug. Obviously I remember the actual incident, but the lead-up is lost on me now. "I don't remember. Maybe I thought he wouldn't be such a good sport about being punched in the face."

"Regardless, it's an honor." He tugs on my braid one last time.

"Definitely a turning point in our friendship."

"I was-"

The national anthem starts playing and Peeta clamps his mouth shut. The tributes who died today appear on the screen in numerical order. First, Glimmer from One. Then, both from District Eight- I hadn't known about the boy; it must have happened while we were at the market- and Rue.

The camera switches to Gale and Madge and I forget everything else. They're halfway up one of the trees near their camp, looking up at the sky where the tributes' faces were screened just a second ago. "You know what that means?" asks Madge. "There's only eight of us left."

Gale counts them off on his fingers. "Me, you, both from Two, one each from Three, Four, and Five, and Thresh from Eleven. You're right."

"It's all happened so fast," she murmurs, resting her head on Gale's shoulder.

"You sound sad," he observes. "Don't be sad. It's one step closer to getting home."

I've been thinking the same thing.

"Or one step closer to them hunting us."

"Don't talk like that," Gale insists. "We're not helpless, Madge. Even if the Careers do find us, we'll be ready."

"Maybe you're not helpless," Madge snaps. At first, she sounds angry, but a tasteful close-up shot reveals she's near tears again. "Don't go easy on me, Gale; I know the truth! I'm useless with a weapon and I don't know how to find food. The only reason I'm still alive is because you're protecting me."

Another thing I've been thinking this whole time.

"Or maybe," Gale says slowly, staring into her eyes like they're his lifeline. "...the reason I'm still alive is because I have something to live for."

There's nothing dirty about it, but it's such an intimate moment that it seems wrong to film it. Even wronger to air it live on national television, and wrongest of all for me to watch it, but for some reason, I cannot look away. The depth of love in Madge's returning gaze makes something in me shrivel up. I'm so jealous I can hardly see straight. Why am I putting myself through this?

Because he needs to live, even if he's hers, the voice in my head answers. I accept that as the truth and cling to it. Gale's not 'someone I have a crush on'. He's my best friend, my hunting partner, a brother, a son, a person that many people love and depend on. That's what makes his life worth twenty-three others combined.

"You're not helpless," Gale says seriously, snapping me out of my angsty thoughts. He pulls the last throwing knife out of his belt and presses it into Madge's hand. She looks unsure what to do with it. "Don't think you are. Take this. If we get jumped, I want you to use it."

She gives him a soulful look. With her big blue eyes and golden hair framing her face, I think every look Madge produces is soulful. "Gale. I don't want to use it. I don't think I could."

"You need to." He's deadly serious. Even from hundreds of miles away, a shiver runs down my spine. "Listen, Madge. I need to know you'll try to protect yourself, when I can't. There's nothing dishonorable about fighting for your life, but do it because I'm asking you to, if that helps. Just…promise me."

"I wish I didn't have to." There's that soulful look again. It even tugs at my heartstrings a little. Must be the lighting. "...but for you, I will."

And then, all of a sudden, they're kissing. I flail to grab the remote and shut the thing off. It's late; I've watched enough. I'm fast, but the split-second image burns into my mind anyway. Maybe I should have just left the thing on.

"Top Eight, huh?" Peeta says with a yawn.

I jump a little. So immersed in the television, I more or less forgot he's still here. "Yeah. I guess so."

"You know, they really have a chance."

"One of them has a chance," I correct. "And with the way things are going, it's more likely to be Madge."

"You don't know that," Peeta argues.

"I don't have to know; all the signs are there!"

The sound of us yelling settles uncomfortably in the air. I hadn't meant to raise my voice- I'm sure Peeta didn't either. But we did, and now we're glaring at each other reproachfully like we could be friend or could be foe, anyone's guess.

Peeta softens first. I can see it, the moment his eyebrows de-scrunch and his shoulders sag, the fight going out of him. "Don't."

He catches me off-guard. I thought we were yelling. "What?"

"Don't fight with me and run away. Not again. I know that's what you want to do right now."

He's right; all my instincts are screaming at me to flee. And why? Because there's a conflict? Because I'm pissed at him? Because I already feel like I've opened up to him too much?

I ignore that feeling. Try to settle. "I'm not going to run."

Not just because he asked me not to, but because it's dark and the wild dogs hunt at night.

"Thank you."

We just stare at each other for a moment. The first time I've made the 'correct' choice, and I have no idea what to say. This is why I usually take off when things get serious. I'm not good at this part.

"I don't want us to fight." He's said that before. "I'm not your enemy, Katniss. I just want to help."

I know he's not my enemy. His blue-eyed stare is so intense, with the shadows of our singular lamp making all his edges sharper. I would never want him to be my enemy. I duck my head, overwhelmed for a moment by the way he's looking at me. Eventually, I mumble, "Why are you helping me…and Gale?"

"You know why."

"I don't. You don't like Gale. Why have you given up so much for him?"

Peeta shakes his head. Maybe I've finally found something he doesn't want to talk about. "Fine. I don't like him. And I don't care who wins the Games."

Neither do I, usually.

"...but I care about you."

That shouldn't feel like a surprise. I know Peeta cares about me- I care about him too. I'm about to say as much when he continues. "Somebody's gotta win, so why shouldn't it be your pick?"

I think he's right. I think I did know why this whole time. But to hear him say it, out loud, creates a rush of warmth in me that can only end in a hug. He seems surprised when I throw my arms around him, as if he's not aware of how good, kind, and selfless he is and always has been.

"I should go," he says, after a moment has passed. I step back, letting him. "I'll meet you at lunch tomorrow?"

Right. To go to the sponsorship office. I had almost completely forgotten, but now I nod as if it's been on my mind the whole time. "Sure. Goodnight, Peeta."

I walk him to the door and feel a wave of exhaustion roll over me. I feel like a completely different person after the past twenty-four hours. I don't know if I'm optimistic or devastated or crushed beyond recognition. I am tired. That's the only thing I know.

I resist the urge to turn on the TV and "check on" Gale and Madge one more time. Sure, I feel better when I can see him, see that he's alive, but based on how things were going I might end up seeing his bare ass too. I'm not sure if him and Madge would do that. I'm not sure if the Capitol would air it. But all in all, not a risk I'm willing to take.

I curl up in bed next to Prim. Sleep finds me within minutes.

§

The next morning drags on and on. I spend little time in the woods- the Hawthornes are traveling to the Capitol, since Gale has made the Top Eight, so I don't need to catch enough to feed them today. There's not much point in overhunting to have something to sell, either, since we're spending our sponsorship money today.

I try to distract myself by dreaming of what we might buy. That doesn't work. I go out again and pick herbs for Mom and Prim, and it's notably more effective.

Still, the hours seem determined to crawl by. I wonder, crankily, why I agreed to wait for Peeta to do this. Then I remember I'll be walking through town with a visibly-full stew pot of money. And also most of the law enforcement hates me. Going alone would be a bad idea, and Prim- if she was even around to help, which she's not- wouldn't be much for backup. I will wait for Peeta.

I eat just a few bites for lunch. I don't know why I'm nervous. This is as close to "good" as things can be right now. Maybe I'm worried what we've done won't be enough. Even convincing the whole town to contribute might not be enough to help Gale.

I try to push those thoughts aside. The Games have only been going on for a few days- the prices can't have soared too high yet. Even if we can only do something small, we'll be doing something. And as I've told myself a million times, something small can make a big difference.

I eat a little more when Peeta shows up. He brings a loaf of hearty raisin bread, fresh out of the oven. Insists it's for us to share, so I have to have some. I don't think he'll be willing to leave until he sees me eat- wow, does he know me- so I have a slice.

I've already counted the money several times, but we pull out the pot and count it again. We spend a few minutes discussing the possibilities of what we might buy, but that's no good until we know something about pricing. That means it's time to leave. We carry the pot between us and start walking, hoping the streets will be empty.

For the most part, they are. Empty of Peacekeepers, at least. There are merchants out and about, some of whom recognize us from our speech the day before. There are some children, too, who ask us if we are making soup. That is easier to handle.

"Did you watch the Games this morning?" Peeta asks conversationally. "I didn't. I was baking."

"I figured as much, considering you brought me fresh bread," I say dryly. "I did watch, though. Everyone was looking for food or resting. They were, you, know, as safe as they can be."

"A good time to send a present, then."

"Is there really ever a bad time?"

I've never been to the sponsorship office before- obviously- but I know roughly where it is. Like all things associated with our wonderful government, it's in the Justice Building, the same spot I said goodbye to Gale. That's easy to find, but I don't know the inside very well. Luckily the signage is good.

I nudge the door open and we step inside. The office is completely unintimidating. In fact, it strikes me as a little plain. I imagine the other districts have it better.

The man at the counter looks to be almost asleep. Not surprising. We have to be the first customers he's ever had. I capture his attention by dropping the pot on the counter, a loud thud followed by the jingling of the coins.

"Here to sponsor a tribute?" the man asks blearily. He's clearly from the Capitol. His hair is jade green. A pretty color- green is my favorite, actually- but not a color that hair is supposed to be. And District citizens don't do that.

"Yes. Gale Hawthorne and Madge Undersee."

"What can I interest you in?"

I don't want to say "I don't know", but I think my expression makes it obvious. The green-haired man slides a pamphlet across the counter. "A Sponsor's Guide". It's as clearly Capitol-made as the man himself. I hope it's not too condescending.

I open the book between Peeta and me and we scan the pages. There's lot of useful stuff for sale; that's good. As for the prices, well…it's a good thing we got the whole town involved. And there is no way we're getting them a sleeping bag.

I stab a finger at the page. "What about this? Twenty-foot length of rope. He's got a knife; if he had this he could make snares."

"You'd know better than I," Peeta replies. "That's cheap- you know, in a relative sense. What else do we get?"

I go back to scanning the page. Eventually, I decide on a small bowl of strawberries. "Madge loves strawberries," I say when asked for an explanation. "It seems like the right thing to do."

It's a weirdly personal thing to know about someone, their favorite food. I don't even like Madge. It's the years of selling her the strawberries I gather that give me this knowledge, not anything like friendship.

In a way, it's like she earned these strawberries I'm now sending as a gift. Except I obviously never charged her anywhere near what the Capitol is charging me.

"She seems like a sweet girl, Madge," comments the shopkeeper.

My first instinct is to shoot him a death glare. I'm not interested in a Capitolite's opinion of my district or the people in it. I exhibit something like common sense and let him finish.

"She deserves a lot better than what she's got."

Something is his voice convinces me to lower my hackles. He sounds so sincere in his sorrow for Madge that I could almost believe he's one of us if not for the jade green hair.

"Well, we're doing what we can," I say shortly. "Twenty feet of rope and a bowl of strawberries, please."

We count the money out one more time and exchange most of our coins for the gifts. It seems like such a huge price for a couple meager items, but there's no alternative method of helping Gale. Peeta and I thank the green-haired gentleman and hurry back to my family's house so we can watch Gale and Madge receive their gifts in real time.

§

"Haymitch, what does this do?"

She points at one of the dozens of icons on his screen, a circled exclamation point lit up green. Haymitch is certain it's been there the whole time, but it's never been green before. For a moment they're both confused.

Then his lack of impulse control kicks in. He reaches across the keys and smacks the button. "Oh. It's available sponsorships. That's a first."

There's two of them. "Gale Hawthorne: 20ft rope." "Madge Undersee: strawberries." Both are from Katniss Everdeen. Haymitch thinks of her fondly as "the beer lady". He presses the "send" button without really thinking about it. These kids could die at any time- it's not fair to make them wait for anything.

"Katniss Everdeen," says Effie. "I don't know that name. Who is that, Haymitch?"

"The beer lady" would not be a sufficient answer. Haymitch grunts. "I didn't go out and get this sponsorship, you know."

"Well, I know that, but if I don't know her, she must be from your district! Who is she?"

Haymitch doesn't answer right away. He's thinking of the right thing to say- how often does that happen?! He watches his screen carefully as the silver parachutes land, right into his tributes' waiting hands. They open the capsules greedily, pulling out their prizes.

"I can make snares out of this!" Gale exclaims.

"And strawberries are my favorite!" Madge adds, popping one into her mouth.

"Who is she?" Effie repeats.

He evades. As usual, again. "…she's someone who knows our tributes very, very well."

Writing Haymitch and Effie is my OTHER favorite thing. Why am I not this interested in the main characters? Kidding. I am.

Congratulations on making it ALMOST halfway through Taking Sides. Thanks to those who have stuck with me!