Chapter Text
Prim is practically deadweight in my arms by the time I get her back to Mrs. Everdeen, who's surprisingly lucid considering everything that's happened.
I've never held any true dislike for her, really, despite Katniss's obvious resentment for the woman. It’s a miracle that Ma had taken Pa's death as well as she had, pouring her grief into her work and beating it out against the washing boards while managing to keep me and my kid brothers alive. Not everyone can handle that kind of loss like that. Mrs. Everdeen came back to them after a while, started moving again and picking back up her work, but Katniss never really forgave her for it. I can’t say I wouldn’t feel the same, in her place.
Blue eyes meet grey as I deposit Prim in front of her mother, a wordless thanks passing between us. Prim doesn't say anything, practically ignores me to instead turn and bury her face in Mrs. Everdeen's chest, but I don't take offense; it's only from countless summers of practice that I'm keeping myself together, after all. Katniss already caused enough of a ruckus, shaking me so completely that I feel slightly off-kilter, as if the world’s suddenly tilted beneath my feet.
It's strange how a person's body can respond to danger before your mind even has the chance to process it. That instinct's saved my life more than a few times in the woods, alerting me to things I wouldn't have caught otherwise until it was far too late.
I've always wondered if my father had been struck by that peculiar paralysis before going into the mines that day, if he had to continue on even with the lingering certainty that he was walking to his grave.
Too bad that there’s no hope of running from this particular threat. I feel myself freeze in place even before my mind catches up with the rest of the world around me, that horrifyingly familiar sound ringing out across the town square.
“Gale Hawthorne?” Effie Trinket calls out my name again, and her stupid Capitol accent makes it sound utterly ridiculous. The annoyance it sparks in me works to thaw my body, enough for me to lift my head and straighten my back. My eyes find Ma’s as I do, just briefly; my horror is mirrored in her gaze, and I have to make myself move, then, so I don’t completely lose it.
The walk up to the stage has always felt like watching a man being walked to the gallows, and it’s only amplified now that it’s my neck destined for the rope. Every eye in Twelve has fixed itself on me, and I’m all too aware of their gaze, my skin crawling and a lump forming in my throat. It’s all I can do to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, take the stairs step by step, until I’m finally up on the stage and I’m far closer to Effie Trinket than I’ve ever wanted to be.
Whatever she’s put on her face to make her skin white has been coming off in the humid summer heat, I note distantly, since I can see the faint lines where sweat has tracked down her face and her real skin peeks through. She says something to me, but it might as well be Posy’s babbling when she was younger for all that I can understand it. Between her white skin, her coily pink hair, and the off-putting green of her suit, I’m suddenly reminded of the clowns I’d seen in books as a kid. I struggle to keep my expression schooled, because I can’t laugh, not unless I want to sign my death certificate right here on live television.
Katniss is behind her, but I can’t look at her either, not yet, not unless I want to make a completely different type of fool of myself in front of the entirety of Panem, so I turn and stare into the town square while the Mayor begins the Treaty. It’s by sheer luck that I manage to find Ma in the crowd again; it’s only her eyes that reassure me and keep me tethered, my solace in the storm as hysteria rises to the lump in my throat and chokes me.
Taking a few deep breaths in through my nose, I finally calm, and I manage to settle myself enough that when the Mayor finally stops talking, I take his cue to turn, robotically reaching out my hand in the same old choreography engrained from years of being in the audience. Katniss's grey eyes lock with mine almost immediately, baring every bit of her own hidden emotions to me and me alone—I can see echoes of my own fear and shock projected back to me, along with no small bit of betrayal, doubtlessly taking my initial refusal to look at her personally.
I’m glad that I’m facing away from the camera, if only because the sight of Katniss in front of me sends the weight of reality slamming back into my chest so hard that my knees nearly give out with the force of it. The rough touch of her hand in mine does little to soothe me, being awfully, sickeningly familiar, our mirrored calluses formed by years of routine and fond memories. This is a hand I know. A hand I trust.
Anger has always been my most reliable of emotions. Ma says that it was basically guaranteed when I was born during the worst winter storm Twelve has had in recent years, the howling winds welcoming me with their rage. Even as a kid, any emotion I couldn’t easily handle was quickly turned into anger, and growing up I had quite the temper.
After Pa died, I got into more fights than I really should have, grief manifesting in punches thrown over the smallest problems I could find. I nearly got thrown out of school for it. Ma having to deal with it made me realize how much harder I was making things for her, though, and I promised to stop. I’m still not convinced they really believed me, or if I was only spared by their pity for the poor Seam boy with the dead father.
That’s why, in the middle of shaking Katniss’s hand, I’m not at all surprised to realize that I’m angry. I’m so angry that I have to clench my jaw shut to keep myself from screaming, and I pull my hand away a little too quickly to avoid crushing Katniss’s. Pure fury burns through me, its heat coursing through my veins and setting my heart to pumping, and I feel ready to explode. It's only because I don't want the kids to see me get a bullet to the head that I don't take off running as soon as the anthem ends, and by that point the Peacekeepers at my back keep me from doing anything truly stupid.
We’re marched through the front door of the Justice Building, down the central hall. I want so badly to speak with Katniss, or even just look at her, but we’re separated before I can do so much as turn my head to see her. The Peacekeepers just keep pushing me forward, and since I don’t want to cause any trouble that could affect seeing my family, I don’t do anything except grit my teeth and continue.
Maybe other tributes have been in the same incendiary headspace I am, because there’s not much in here beyond a couch pushed back against the windows with chairs surrounding it. They leave me to sit, and like the obedient little tribute I am, I plant myself in the corner of the couch to glare at the door while silently fuming.
The uselessness of it all chafes at me. The velvet couch, the plush carpet. The finely polished wooden floors. All of that money and labor, wasted on rooms that sit empty for most of the year in a dusty old building that barely anyone goes in. I've been here only once before, after Pa's death; I'd been too preoccupied to notice the offensive wealth surrounding me, but now I'm given ample time to bask in it. How many families could be fed just by selling all of the things in this room? A sick feeling grows in my gut, alongside the burning rage.
It feels childish, to sit and pout instead of doing anything reasonable, but then again, nothing that’s happened in the past half hour has been reasonable. No part of these Games has ever been reasonable. I want to shout all of this to the walls, to the ears they most likely have lining every part of this goddamn room, but I know any punishment will fall onto my family. So I sit instead, simmering in silence.
I prefer to be angry, anyway. Crying or shutting down isn't going to change anything now that my fate is sealed, and I’m already used to redirecting that energy. It's easy enough to funnel it into thinking, making a mental list of everything I'll need to tell Ma. The people she can trust. Who she can reliably trade with. Everything I've learned to keep us alive.
The doors fly open a split second later, startling me enough that I’m unprepared for when Rory flies into me, slamming into the left side of my chest and clinging even as I reel back, winded. This is already concerning, seeing that he's been hellbent on being broody and defiant from the moment he turned eleven, but my heart drops low into my stomach when I finally register him shaking. Then, Vick makes sure I’ve lost all of my air by colliding with my right side, and I can only pat both of their heads as I wheeze complacently.
“What, you two trying to kill me before I even get out of here?” I try to joke as soon as I get control of my breath again, but I can tell that it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as it passes my lips and I wince, hugging them tighter to me. “Sorry. Bad joke.”
The couch dips beside us as Ma sits down next to Vick, and then her fingers are on my jaw and she’s tilting my head so I look at her, meeting my gaze fully now that we aren’t an entire square apart. She has tears welling in her eyes, the corners of her lips betraying the strain of her making herself smile, and she looks so uniquely devastated that I suddenly feel like I’m drowning. I open my mouth almost reflexively, desperate for air, but my mind acts faster than I can process and then words are falling from my mouth like a stream.
“There are a few of Pa's old friends who I know from the Hob, they helped me when I was starting out in the woods. If you tell them I sent you, they'll help you, too. Look for Webber and Oreion.” I wrench my gaze away from Ma and instead look down, meeting Vick’s wide eyes from where he’s burrowed into my chest. Rory still isn’t looking at me, but I can tell he’s listening.
“I know I never showed you two anything past the fence, or taught you how to shoot. I’m sorry. But I know you can figure it out, and you have to keep each other safe. Plus, you've got a whole list of people you can trade with. Prim has that goat of hers, and Mrs. Everdeen has a real useful book, filled with all sorts of plants that are safe to ea—”
“Shut up! ”
My jaw clicks shut as the temperature around us seems to drop by a few degrees. The shout was accompanied by a small fist pounding itself into my chest, and now Rory is shoving his face close to mine before I can think.
He’s madder than I’ve ever seen him, and he's been crying too, his eyes red and cheeks streaked with fat tears. Any anger sparked by his behavior dissolves instantly. I can’t remember the last time he cried like this, not since he was little, and my chest grows heavy, like there’s been a boulder dropped directly on me. “Ror…”
“No! Stop it!” A pound of his fist. “Don't talk like that! Stop–talking like you’re–you’re–like you’re not coming back!”
Another hit, and this time it actually smarts. Ma reaches out to grab his hand and stop him, but he wrenches it away before she can. I scowl at him.
“You can be mad at me all you want, but don’t you take it out on Ma,” I warn.
I may as well have said nothing at all with how he ignores it, though, continuing on like there hadn’t been an interruption.
“You are gonna come back. You. Are. And you talking like you won’t just means you’ve already given up. But you’re not allowed to give up.” The boulder on my chest just gets heavier, pressing down on my lungs like it’s threatening to crush me, and for a moment I can’t find any words to answer him. “You can’t give up. So you’re gonna come back. You will. Swear it.”
I have to swallow twice to get past the hard lump in my throat. There’s no way I can swear a thing like that, and he knows it—it’d be just as foolish as me swearing to become the next President. Possible, yes, but the chances of it happening are slim to none, and everyone would be trying to kill me along the way. Not to mention Katniss…
My thoughts drift to her, who’s surely in a room identical to this one, having an identical conversation with Prim, and my stomach folds in on itself. I’ve been trying not to dwell on it, trying not to think about it, but I know, deep down, that if it comes to me and her, I know which one of us isn’t coming home. I’ve always known, in a way, that there’s no way I could ever be the same if I lost her, but she’s strong. She’d be okay.
I can’t ever say that, though. Especially not to them.
“Swear it! Please ,” he repeats, voice breaking in the middle of his plea. Two more tears slide down his cheeks, and I feel something in my chest snap as they do. Damn it, if he doesn't know exactly how to wear me down…
“... I’ll try my hardest,” I finally manage to croak. Rory doesn’t seem very convinced – I’ve never been a great liar, not to my family – but I ruffle Rory’s hair just to get him to stop looking at me like that, and he simply sniffles before pulling back, leaving a damp patch on my shirt over my heart.
On my other side, Vick has somehow managed to worm even closer to me, almost as if he’s trying to merge his body with mine. I ruffle his hair, too, just for good measure.
“That’s all I could ever ask of you.”
It's Ma who's talking, and when I turn and meet her eye, I know in an instant that she’s reached the same conclusion I have. She knows just as well as I do that I'm not coming back, and no matter how much she may want to try and convince me otherwise, I've made up my mind.
I should say something to her, I realize. I should tell her how much she means to me, how she’s kept me afloat through Pa's death and all the years after. I should tell her how much I love her. I should tell all of them that I love them. That I'm sorry. Yet, when I open my mouth, the words get lodged in my throat and I'm unable to say anything at all.
After a heartbeat or two, though, she must realize my issue because she just smiles at me, all gentle. Then I'm in real danger of getting upset, because of course she does. We’ve always been better without words anyway, me and Ma.
She’d wiped her tears away at some point, so she's clear-eyed when she looks at me and I’m selfishly glad for it. Her tears are sure to incite my own, and we both know that I can’t go on the train looking vulnerable and weak.
Then she leans over Vick’s head to hug me, and it’s a bit awkward, but I try to only focus on the familiar scent of laundry soap and cinnamon that greets me when I bury my nose in her hair. Every time I smell that combination I think of her, how I’ve been her rock and she’s been mine, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep tears from forming as she steadies me one last time.
After a moment, she pulls back, just enough for her to plant a kiss on my cheek.
“Give ‘em hell for us, baby,” she whispers. I can’t stop the surprised laugh that escapes from me.
Pa used to say something similar to me when he’d be there to send me off to school, back when I was little, just starting and nervous as hell. It was the Hawthorne family motto, he'd told me, a decree to avoid trouble by being the trouble. Give ‘em hell. Of course, that didn't ever really make sense. I'd yell at him for being ridiculous and he'd only laugh in response, but no matter what, every time he said goodbye he'd end it the same way.
Between that and his hand-me-downs I’ve worn for the Reaping, I’d like to think that he’s also here to send me off, in a way. A strange kind of silver lining on what’s quickly turning out to be the worst day of my life.
“ Heeeeey , it's my turn,” a tiny whine comes from Ma's shoulder, and I laugh louder. I’d almost forgotten she was still holding Posy, with how quiet she’s been.
My grin slips a bit, though, upon looking at Posy's sweet little face. Although she’s got her lip stuck out in a pout, the uncertainty and fear is clear as day. She's entirely too solemn for a near five year old, and I suddenly realize that whatever levity I've been expecting from her will not be coming.
“Alright. C'mere, Posy-pose,” I try, using the nickname that always makes her giggle as I lift her into my lap. She doesn't react to it, just as I'd dreaded, and my heart sinks—Vick moves back to make room and Posy doesn't hesitate before wrapping her little arms around my neck, burying her face there. Still, I keep trying. “What's up, Pose?”
She mumbles something into my collarbone, but her face is so mushed against my chest that I can't make out a word of it. Ma sighs. “We can't hear you, baby. Speak up.”
Posy whines, and her voice is barely louder than it was before, but it's intelligible enough to break my heart. “I said, I don' want Gale to go away like Pa did.”
Well.
There’s a point a person reaches, where they can only feel so much at one time. When they start feeling way too much all at once, their brain just blocks it all out before it completely overwhelms them. I think I’ve reached that point because all I feel at her words is an eerie sense of calm, washing over me like a wave. I’m still at a loss for words, though, so I do the only thing I can think of at the moment, leaning down and pressing a kiss into her hair.
Little flyaway strands tickle my nose, and I close my eyes, my mind going back to the hours before this, when she’d crawled right into my lap and demanded I do her hair for the Reaping. Was it really only this morning? The memory almost feels like it's from another life, a completely separate world where I wasn't reaped and I didn't have this conversation, and I was able to go back home and have dinner with the Everdeens to celebrate the passing of my last Reaping.
Yet, when I open my eyes again, I’m still there in that awful room, saying goodbye to everyone I love, and I know that it’s pointless to think about anything that isn’t here and now.
“I know, Pose. I don’t want to either,” I tell her, knowing that I'm entering a fight I’m guaranteed to lose. “But I have to. I love you, okay?”
Just as I'd dreaded, Posy furiously shakes her head, tightening her grip on me. “No! I don’t wanna!”
“Posy,” Ma warns. There's a crack in her voice that betrays just how close she is to breaking, and I feel another snap in my chest, identical to before. I suppose you really can feel your heart break.
Of course, I've known we only have so much time to say our goodbyes, but they couldn't have picked a worse moment for two Peacekeepers to march in and inform us that time is up. Ma goes to pry Posy off of me right as I try to do the same, and it’s like a bomb goes off with how she immediately starts screaming, clinging to me like I'm her lifeline. Even aside from the sheer volume, I can’t handle the sound of it. It's a different type of scream than her usual tantrums, closer to her wailing when she wakes up from a nightmare, and it deeply upsets me in a way that little else can.
I'm so rattled by it that I seem to briefly work on autopilot, shuffling behind my family on numb feet as they're led out. It’s only a few feet away from the door that I come back to my senses and remember that I can speak. So I do, telling them I love them and hoping they hear it over Posy's wails, over and over in a repeated mantra, until the door is closed in my face and I'm left alone once again.
The air rings around me with the sudden quiet after Posy’s tantrum, and I feel like my body is buzzing at the same frequency. I ignore the couch in favor of beginning to pace in front of it, left to deal with my growing nerves. The more I think, the more agitated I get, and soon every inch of me is like a live wire, crawling with electricity and ready to burst at the slightest touch..
In hindsight, I'm regretting not saying anything more to prepare my family. Regretting that I didn’t try harder to give them the information to keep them alive, no matter how upsetting it would be to Rory. I run through all of the people I know from the Hob, the merchants that always give me a fair price, people in the Seam who don't particularly care for me but might be willing to keep an eye on Ma and the kids once I'm gone.
Katniss and I had always planned for only one of us possibly being reaped; we'd never considered for the odds to be so cruel as to reap us together, and the loose ends I can't tie up before we leave continue to pile up behind my eyes.
I'm so preoccupied that I nearly give myself whiplash when I turn to look at the door, alerted by the sound of it opening.
I didn't expect any other visitors beyond my family. Maybe some of my friends from school, or even the old friends of Pa’s I'd mentioned, but I knew it was a long shot. If you aren’t especially close to someone who’s been reaped, you don’t visit them unless you have something to get off your chest. It isn’t worth the extra attention from the Capitol otherwise.
“Mr. Mellark,” I say, with equal parts surprise and suspicion.
The old baker’s one of Katniss and I’s best customers, at least whenever we manage to swing by when his wife isn’t around. I know he has a fondness for our squirrels–he’d taken one this morning in exchange for the loaf of bread that made our breakfast, a trade that would be unthinkable on any other day–but our relationship beyond business is nonexistent. Hell, I’d have expected one of his sons to visit me over him. At least I’ve been in the same classes with them for years.
“Peeta wanted to speak with Katniss,” he responds, like he knows what I’m thinking. He’s usually a man of few words, so I’m a little taken aback that he’s made the effort. The words themselves have only made me even more confused, though, and more than a little bit pissed.
There’s no reason to be bothered by Peeta speaking with Katniss, logically. I don’t think they’ve ever interacted either in school or outside of it, beyond the few times he’d been the one to open the door when we came by. It’s not like I keep tabs on who Katniss is friends with, though; she might be my best friend, but I have other friends besides her, and I know she has other friends, too. Maybe Peeta Mellark is one of them. It would make sense.
I repeat this to myself a few times over, and yet it doesn't manage to dislodge that feeling now that it’s there.
Mr. Mellark and I are still standing awkwardly across from each other, I realize. As much as I would like to spend our last moments together by being an ass, I make myself talk. “Thank you for the bread this morning.”
He seems surprised that I brought it up. He shrugs his shoulders, as if he's trying to say No big deal , then we fall back into uneasy silence. After a tense moment, he breaks first and reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a white paper bag, which he hands to me.
Immediately I'm wary. He may be nicer than his wife, but I still don’t trust any of the merchants as far as I can throw them, and gifts undoubtedly come with expectations for them to be repaid. It’d be rude to ignore it, though, and time isn’t moving any faster, so I stiffly take it from him.
Peering inside, I'm actually taken off guard by the sight of the few beautifully decorated cookies at the bottom. Cookies are a rarity in the Seam as it is, but ones like these are practically unheard of. Now I’m confident that he’s either stupid or a bigger asshole than I thought, because it’ll take Ma a few months worth of her laundry money to pay off an expensive gift like this. I bite my tongue to keep myself from screaming at him, but I have to take a few seconds to breathe before I spit out a thank you.
I guess he can tell that he’s done something to piss me off, because he doesn’t stay long after. He just nods his head after another few seconds tick by, as if we’ve had a great conversation, and leaves without saying a word. I don’t care enough to tell him goodbye, and once he’s gone I set to ripping off the top half of the paper bag to tear into tiny little pieces, desperate for something to do with my hands. I flick them away as I do so, uncaring of where they end up.
The petty part of me is glad to leave a mess in this perfectly manicured room. I feel like it’s my prerogative to, as a man condemned to certain death. I may be part of the Games now, but I won’t give them a good show. Not if I can help it.