Chapter Text
Gale’s POV
The transition from the cold, damp floors of the Seam to the plush carpets of the Victor’s Village still feels like a trick of the light. I woke up today not to the sound of the morning whistle, but to the weight of Vick and Posy jumping onto my bed.
"Wake up, Gale! Mom says the eggs are ready!" Posy chirped, her small face glowing with a health that only a Victor’s purse can buy.
I sat up, pulling them into a brief scuffle before heading downstairs. The house is too big, the air too clean, but the smell of mom’s cooking—real butter, real ham—makes it feel a little more like home.
We were halfway through breakfast when a knock sounded at the door. I didn't need to check to know who it was.
Peeta Mellark stood on the porch, a heavy crate of fresh bread and pastries in his arms. It’s a deal we made weeks ago. I pay in advance for deliveries to all three occupied houses in the Village—mine, Katniss’s, and Haymitch’s. It gives Peeta a reason to be here, and it gives me a reason to talk to the one person who understands the Capitol's machinery better than anyone.
"You’re early," I said, stepping aside.
"The ovens were hot," Peeta replied with that easy smile of his.
"Sit down, Peeta," Hazelle insisted, already reaching for an extra plate. "You can’t deliver on an empty stomach."
He didn't argue. That’s the thing about Peeta; he fits in anywhere. He sat between Vick and Rory, laughing at their stories as if he hadn't grown up in a merchant’s shop on the other side of the district.
As I watched him tear into a piece of toast, I thought about what Greasy Sae told me after the Games. I had assumed the gifts we received in the arena—the medicine and the food—were just because of the Capitol citizens.
“It was the baker’s boy,” Sae had whispered. “He didn't just give his own coins. He stood in the middle of the Hob and talked until people who hadn't eaten in two days were reaching into their pockets.”
He had even convinced Cray and Darius (The peacekeepers), and managed to get a contribution from Mayor Undersee himself. I looked at Peeta’s hands—flour-dusted and steady. Those hands didn't just knead dough; they moved the heart of an entire district. It’s a power I don't have. I am the fist; Peeta is the voice. And in the war that’s coming, we’re going to need both.
After breakfast, we set out. The crate of bread was our shield. To any Peacekeeper watching, we were just two guys completing a transaction.
"Haymitch first?" Peeta asked as we walked down the quiet, paved street.
"Yeah. Then Katniss’s," I said. "Then we head to the woods."
We reached the edge of the Village, where the trees began to thicken. This is where our real trade happens. In the shadows of the oaks, I showed him how to balance a throwing knife and which roots in the frozen ground could be eaten if the world ever turned upside down.
"You're holding it too tight," I muttered, adjusting his grip on the hilt. "If you’re too stiff, the blade won't spin. You have to let it flow, like you're throwing a punch."
Peeta took a breath and let the knife fly. It thudded into the trunk of a dead pine—not a bullseye, but enough to kill.
"Now you," Peeta said, wiping the sweat from his brow despite the cold. "The Tour starts soon. When the cameras hit you, you can't look like you want to strangle the cameraman. You have to look like you’re overwhelmed by love. Soften your eyes, Gale, and correct your posture to look less threatening. "
I practiced the look—the "adoring boyfriend" mask—while Peeta coached me on tone and timing. It felt more exhausting than a twelve-hour shift in the mines. But I did it. I did it because every time I closed my eyes, I saw Katniss’s face on a Capitol screen.
I’m a victor. I’m her protector. And if I have to learn how to lie from the best liar in the district to keep her alive, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.
The winter doesn't just bite; it tries to hollow you out. The wind howls through the skeletal trees of the woods surrounding District 12, carrying the scent of pine and the promise of more snow.
I adjusted the strap of my bow, the leather stiff from the frost. Behind me, Rory and Peeta were trudging through the knee-deep drifts. Rory moved with a quiet confidence—I’d been bringing him out here since he was big enough to track a rabbit—so I let him range a few hundred yards ahead to check a secondary snare line. He knew the signals. He knew when to disappear.
Peeta, on the other hand, was a different story. He had the raw strength of a bull from years of heaving flour sacks at the bakery, and I knew he’d done some wrestling back in school, but the woods were a foreign language to him.
"Watch your step," I muttered, catching Peeta by the shoulder before he could snap a dry branch. "In the woods, sound travels farther than a Peacekeeper’s bullet."
We made our way to the abandoned cabin—a collapsed stone hearth and rotting timber shell that offered just enough shelter from the wind. We’d been coming here for weeks. While Rory circled the perimeter, Peeta and I took a break from the physical drills.
I watched Peeta as he sat on a crate, rubbing his hands together. He was a good guy—better than I wanted to admit. I looked at him—really looked at him. I’d seen the way his eyes lingered on Katniss during the few times we’d all been together in the Village. I’d seen the way he jumped to help her before she even asked. It wasn't just a fan's crush. It was the kind of devotion that made a man dangerous or a saint.
"You love her," I said. It wasn't a question.
Peeta didn't flinch. He didn't look away. "I’ve loved her since I was five years old, Gale. Since the first time I heard her sing in music class."
I felt a surge of something—not quite jealousy, but a heavy sort of respect. "And?"
"And nothing," Peeta said firmly. "She chose you. She’s with you. I’m not here to get in the way of that. I’m here to make sure she stays alive. That’s all that matters."
The wind rattled the loose boards of the cabin. I leaned back against the stone hearth, thinking about the Quarter Quell. Rory and Peeta were both still eligible. If the Capitol wanted to hurt us, they’d reap the people close to us.
"If something happens to me," I said, my voice barely a whisper, "if I don't make it out of whatever Snow is planning... you take care of her. Don't let her shut down. Don't let her go back into that shell."
Peeta looked at me, his expression solemn. "I will, Gale. I promise you. I’ll protect her with everything I have."
I nodded, the weight in my chest easing just a fraction. "Good. Now, show me that 'look' again. The one that’s supposed to make the women in the Capitol cry."
Peeta smiled, the disarming mask sliding back into place. "Think of the moment you thought the tracker jackers had finished her. Hold that feeling in your throat, but keep your lips soft..."
We sat there in the cold, the baker and the hunter, trading secrets of survival and performance, two men preparing to fight a war where the first casualty was always the truth.
Katniss’ POV
The cold in the Victor’s Village feels different than the cold in the Seam. In the Seam, it was a predator you fought with a flickering hearth; here, it’s a silent observer that lingers in the corners of rooms too large to ever truly feel warm.
I woke up to the sound of Prim laughing in the kitchen—a sound that is still the only thing that makes this move feel worth it. We shared a breakfast of real eggs and toast, the kind of meal I used to dream about when I was out in the woods with an empty stomach.
"Don't forget your scarf, Prim," I said, wrapping the wool tight around her neck. "The wind is biting today."
"I know, Katniss. Stop worrying," she giggled, kissing my cheek before heading out for school. My mother watched her go with a soft smile, one that only appears now that she doesn't have to wonder where our next meal is coming from.
A knock at the door brought my mother to the front. I stayed in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. I knew who it was. Gale and Peeta Mellark were on the porch, breath blooming in the frozen air.
I watched through the hallway as my mother received the boxes of bread and pastries. Gale caught my eye for a split second over her shoulder. There was a hardness in his gaze, a focus that I knew meant he was heading to the woods. He didn't come in; he couldn't. Not when every minute of sunlight was needed for whatever he was trying to do.
Peeta gave a small, polite nod to my mother, his merchant mask perfectly in place. They were an odd pair, the hunter and the baker, but Gale had told me they had a deal. I didn't ask for details. In District 12, sometimes the less you know, the safer you are.
Once they were gone and the house settled into silence, I grabbed my coat. Today was my turn with Haymitch.
Gale and I have a pact: we don't let our mentor drown in a bottle of white liquor if we can help it. I walked the short distance to his house, the snow crunching under my boots. I didn't bother knocking.
The smell hit me the moment I opened the door—stale alcohol and something sour. Haymitch was slumped at the kitchen table, a half-empty bottle clutched in his hand. I didn't say a word. I just started boiling water and clearing the empty canisters from the floor.
"You're late, sweetheart," he grumbled, his eyes bloodshot.
"You're still breathing, Haymitch. Consider it a win," I countered, dumping a cup of strong tea in front of him.
We sat in a heavy, familiar silence for an hour. I didn't try to make him talk; I just made sure he ate something and didn't fall off his chair. It’s a grim ritual, but it’s the only way we know how to say thank you for getting us home.
By mid-morning, I headed toward the center of the district. I had a standing date with Madge Undersee.
Meeting her at the Mayor’s house is always a strange experience. The merchants live in a world of polished wood and lace curtains, but Madge has always been the exception. She was waiting for me on the porch.
"Ready?" she asked, her breath hitching in the cold.
"Ready as I'll ever be," I replied.
We walked through the merchant streets, a pair that drew looks from everyone we passed. To the townspeople, I’m the girl who survived the Games; to Madge, I’m just Katniss. We spent the afternoon drifting through the shops, picking up supplies—yarn for my mother, some specialized herbs from the apothecary, and a few luxury items Madge’s father wanted.
For a few hours, I tried to pretend I was just a normal girl in a normal town. We talked about small things—the weather, the upcoming parcel day, and the books she was reading. But as we passed the Justice Building, I saw the Peacekeepers standing a little straighter, their eyes a little colder.
The Victory Tour is only weeks away. The world is watching, and even here, in the quiet streets of the merchant sector, the shadow of the Capitol is growing longer. I clutched my shopping bags a little tighter, wishing I could just stay in this moment forever, before the "Star-Crossed Lovers" need to step back onto the stage.
The sun had long since dipped behind the peaks of the mountains, leaving Victor’s Village bathed in a blue, bruising twilight. I spent some other time with Madge at her house, hearing her play the piano before I came back to the village.
I sat in the house kitchen, the expensive wool of my coat still draped over the back of a chair I didn't feel right sitting in. The house was too quiet. The hum of the heater felt like a low-frequency warning.
A heavy knock at the back door made my heart jump—a sharp, rhythmic sequence. Gale.
I opened it, and the freezing air rushed in, carrying the scent of pine and the raw, metallic smell of the woods. Gale stood there, his face flushed from the cold, his grey eyes searching mine with an intensity that always made me want to either look away or pull him closer.
"Everything alright?" he asked, his voice low.
"Fine. Just... a long day," I said, stepping aside to let him in.
He didn't take off his coat. He stood in the center of the kitchen, looking at the ceiling, then at the corners where the shadows pooled. We didn't know if the walls were listening, if the vents had ears, or if Snow was watching us through the very light fixtures.
"I brought the rest of the bread from the bakery," he said, setting a small brown parcel on the table. It was a lie; I knew he’d given the rest to the Seam. It was a cover story for being here.
"Thanks. My mother will appreciate it," I replied, my voice sounding tinny and rehearsed.
There was a thick, suffocating tension between us that hadn't been there before the Games. Before, we were two halves of a whole, moving through the woods in a dance of survival. Now, there was a ghost between us—the version of us created for the Capitol.
I looked at his hands, scarred and rough, and thought about the way he’d looked in the arena when he thought the cameras weren't watching. I wanted to ask him what he and Peeta had talked about in the woods. I wanted to ask him if he still looked at me and saw the girl he used to hunt with, or if he just saw a ticking time bomb.
Gale stepped toward me, closing the distance. For a second, I thought he was going to kiss me—really kiss me, not for the cameras—but he stopped just inches away. He reached out, his thumb brushing the line of my jaw, his touch a mixture of longing and something that felt like a goodbye.
"We leave in two weeks, Katniss," he whispered, so softly I could barely hear him over the hum of the house.
"I know," I breathed.
He leaned down, his forehead resting against mine. It was the same gesture he’d used in the interview, the one that made the Capitol sigh. But here, in the silence of my kitchen, it felt desperate. He wasn't looking for a romantic ending; he was checking to see if I was still there.
"Whatever they make us do on that stage," Gale murmured, his breath warm against my skin, "remember who we're protecting."
I closed my eyes, leaning into him. I wanted to tell him that I was scared. I wanted to tell him that I didn't think I could keep the act up for the whole Tour. But I couldn't say it. Not here.
"I’ll remember," I said, my voice steady.
He pulled back, his expression hardening into that "Lion" mask he’d been wearing since the games. He gave my hand one last, tight squeeze and turned toward the door.
"See you later, Catnip," he said.
"See you later," I echoed.
As the door clicked shut, I stood in the center of the silent, opulent kitchen. I felt like I was standing on a frozen lake, listening to the ice crack beneath my feet. We were together, we were home, and yet we had never been further apart.
I looked at the brown parcel on the table. I didn't open it. I just sat back down in the dark, waiting for the sun to rise on another day of pretending.