Firelight
Chapter Four
Peeta pauses to pick at the blanket on the arm of the sofa. "It was because I couldn't love her anymore," the matter of fact way that he says this tells Gale he has been building up to this for a while. Why didn't he notice it earlier? He watches Peeta constantly. Surely there would have been some outward sign that he had been thinking of things like this?
Gale feels the words like a slap in the face that comes each time he is reminded of her and how she chose Peeta, when it came down to it.
"She came to me, right before she left. To make sure that I couldn't remember all that time together. I told her I did remember, but it still didn't matter. I guess she could see it in my eyes. Something happened to my brain when they… altered it."
Gale can see that this is hard for him, almost as hard as their session of remembering today, and squeezes Peeta's hand for strength.
Peeta takes a deep breath and continues, "I can remember everything, but it feels like it happened to someone else. Like a television highlights reel playing inside my head."
Gale opens his mouth to stop him. Peeta doesn't have to explain. Why now? Why the sudden need to share? But Peeta barrels on, apparently having gained momentum.
"She never touched me unless she had to, you know," he has changed track now, and Gale isn't sure how this is relevant, "Not unless it was for the cameras, or to hold herself up, or to help the revolution… or to save my life," he murmurs quietly.
"I can look back at it all, I know that she loved me, but it didn't seem real, would never seem real."
He closes his eyes, and Gale is about to tell him that this doesn't mean he was the reason she left. Why would she tell me to look after you, if she didn't care? Peeta shouldn't be so self-centered. Then his brain processes Peeta's words. She only touched me if she had to. What would Peeta say if he knew the reason Gale had stayed? That he was only here because he was told to, guilted into it with the memory of the children and the rebels that he may or may not have killed? That keeping Peeta safe is the way that he is paying off his guilty conscience.
He doesn't have to think for long, because Peeta is talking again, looking down at his hands.
"I told her that three months ago. She left the next day," he breathes out through his nose, as though he has been holding his breath. "I just wanted you to know that. In case you wondered." He twists his hands together and looks up, and suddenly Gale is aware of how large and blue Peeta's eyes are. They make him look younger than he should, someone who has lived through a war, who has killed people.
"I just want you to know I…" Peeta pauses again and shifts closer to Gale, "I know the reason you stayed," he is very close now, and Gale wonders if they normally sit this close, or if it is just his imagination. Then it registers. Peeta knows the reason why he stayed. Crap. Double crap.
He opens his mouth to apologize, to try to explain; at exactly the same moment that Peeta leans in and presses his lips to Gale's.
His lips are warm and soft against Gale's already-open mouth, and Gale leans into the kiss as Peeta gently touches the side of his face. Then his mind catches up to his body and he realizes that Peeta probably doesn't know the reason why he stayed after all.
Just a hunch.
With his mind now out of panic mode Gale is free to think about more pressing things, like Peeta's fingers gently stroking his cheek and the back of his neck, or the warmth where their thighs touch. Now, Gale wants to be closer. He runs his hand around Peeta's waist, between the rough leather of his belt and the soft cotton of his shirt. Gale made Peeta that belt, one night late in the winter, and the memory of Peeta's face when Gale gave it to him makes him smile against Peeta's lips.
Now he has his hand on Peeta's back, with no clothing separating them. He strokes the soft skin in small circles, much like he does every night to stop Peeta's tremors, but this time his fingers are probing, inquisitive. Like he can memorize the shape of Peeta by tracing it with his fingertips. The other boy's hands are inside his own shirt now, and Gale feels the cool sensation of air against his chest. Peeta's hands trace around his stomach, gently up and down his sides, and then move to his back…
Gale flinches. Peeta pulls back from nibbling the side of Gale's throat, the action that had distracted Gale so much that he had almost relaxed completely. "What is it?" He murmurs, pulling his shirt closed nervously.
"My back," Gale breathes out, unsure why he is whispering. There's nobody else in the house, and the words are almost lost in the crackling of the fire.
"Your scars?" Peeta lets his shirt hang back open, now certain that Gale wasn't flinching because he wanted him to stop. Peeta knows about the scars, of course. Everyone who lived in District 12 before the rebellion does.
Before the Quarter Quell, the Games that marked the beginning of the end for the Capitol, the Peacekeepers had begun to keep a tighter watch on District 12. Gale had been unlucky enough to get caught with a wild turkey he had shot in the woods, and was punished with a whipping so severe that he passed out when his mind could not process the pain any more.
As a reminder, his back is covered in a lattice of raised scars and twisted flesh, and every time he catches a reflection of his back in a mirror or a pane of glass, Gale is reminded of the day that he got those scars. He had been weak, wanting to run away with her when she told him of her plan to flee. He almost had, right there and then, left his family to fend for themselves and hurried off into the woods, to escape the control of the Capitol and just be with her. Of course he stayed, once he heard about the possibility of an uprising, and fought like all the rest. But the scars are his reminder of that moment of weakness, when he would have given up everything for her.
"We all have battle scars." Peeta pats his own leg, and Gale remembers that the bottom half was amputated after the Hunger Games and replaced with a prosthetic. It's easy to forget, since he walks so well. It has become an extension of his leg by now. Gale exhales and moves his eyes back up to Peeta's face, flushed from the kissing and looking at him with concern. He shifts slightly to get some space, then pulls his shirt off in one swift motion, throwing it onto the floor at their feet.
At this sign of surrender, Peeta almost pounces on Gale, sliding quickly along the couch to close the distance between them in seconds. He places light kisses along Gale's cheekbones and down his jaw, concentrating on the slightly rough underside of his chin where it meets his neck. Gale takes his hands and places them on his back, pulling Peeta tight enough to smell the sharp citrus of the soap he uses to wash his hair mixed with the fresh green smell their time in the woods has left almost imprinted into his skin.
Peeta's hands on his back are like nothing he has ever felt before. He felt Prim's hands, and of course her mother's hands when they healed him. He doesn't want to think of them now, but the difference forces him to recall their touches. Healing hands. Soothing the pain from the lashes and cooling the inflamed skin. Peeta's hands are healing in a different way. Instead of cooling they trace hot lines of fire against his back, as though his fingers are tipped with coals.
The pleasure is so strong that Gale finds it almost impossible to pull himself gently back from the embrace of the now shirtless Peeta, but he does, slowly. He wonders where Peeta's shirt has gone, until he sees it hanging over the top of the tall lamp behind them. Did I do that? He wonders. All the kissing seems to have started to freeze his mind, so that his thoughts move slowly like a stream starting to ice over. Gale uses the distance now between them to study Peeta. He traces his hand over Peeta's jaw, glowing yellow and gold in the firelight. The skin is soft and free of hair. Ever since he went to the Capitol, the hair on his face has refused to grow. This makes him look young, vulnerable, even though Gale knows that he has killed people, that this boy – or more correctly, man – sitting in front of him has come closer to death more times than Gale ever expected to.
Gale feels the words like a slap in the face that comes each time he is reminded of her and how she chose Peeta, when it came down to it.
"She came to me, right before she left. To make sure that I couldn't remember all that time together. I told her I did remember, but it still didn't matter. I guess she could see it in my eyes. Something happened to my brain when they… altered it."
Gale can see that this is hard for him, almost as hard as their session of remembering today, and squeezes Peeta's hand for strength.
Peeta takes a deep breath and continues, "I can remember everything, but it feels like it happened to someone else. Like a television highlights reel playing inside my head."
Gale opens his mouth to stop him. Peeta doesn't have to explain. Why now? Why the sudden need to share? But Peeta barrels on, apparently having gained momentum.
"She never touched me unless she had to, you know," he has changed track now, and Gale isn't sure how this is relevant, "Not unless it was for the cameras, or to hold herself up, or to help the revolution… or to save my life," he murmurs quietly.
"I can look back at it all, I know that she loved me, but it didn't seem real, would never seem real."
He closes his eyes, and Gale is about to tell him that this doesn't mean he was the reason she left. Why would she tell me to look after you, if she didn't care? Peeta shouldn't be so self-centered. Then his brain processes Peeta's words. She only touched me if she had to. What would Peeta say if he knew the reason Gale had stayed? That he was only here because he was told to, guilted into it with the memory of the children and the rebels that he may or may not have killed? That keeping Peeta safe is the way that he is paying off his guilty conscience.
He doesn't have to think for long, because Peeta is talking again, looking down at his hands.
"I told her that three months ago. She left the next day," he breathes out through his nose, as though he has been holding his breath. "I just wanted you to know that. In case you wondered." He twists his hands together and looks up, and suddenly Gale is aware of how large and blue Peeta's eyes are. They make him look younger than he should, someone who has lived through a war, who has killed people.
"I just want you to know I…" Peeta pauses again and shifts closer to Gale, "I know the reason you stayed," he is very close now, and Gale wonders if they normally sit this close, or if it is just his imagination. Then it registers. Peeta knows the reason why he stayed. Crap. Double crap.
He opens his mouth to apologize, to try to explain; at exactly the same moment that Peeta leans in and presses his lips to Gale's.
His lips are warm and soft against Gale's already-open mouth, and Gale leans into the kiss as Peeta gently touches the side of his face. Then his mind catches up to his body and he realizes that Peeta probably doesn't know the reason why he stayed after all.
Just a hunch.
With his mind now out of panic mode Gale is free to think about more pressing things, like Peeta's fingers gently stroking his cheek and the back of his neck, or the warmth where their thighs touch. Now, Gale wants to be closer. He runs his hand around Peeta's waist, between the rough leather of his belt and the soft cotton of his shirt. Gale made Peeta that belt, one night late in the winter, and the memory of Peeta's face when Gale gave it to him makes him smile against Peeta's lips.
Now he has his hand on Peeta's back, with no clothing separating them. He strokes the soft skin in small circles, much like he does every night to stop Peeta's tremors, but this time his fingers are probing, inquisitive. Like he can memorize the shape of Peeta by tracing it with his fingertips. The other boy's hands are inside his own shirt now, and Gale feels the cool sensation of air against his chest. Peeta's hands trace around his stomach, gently up and down his sides, and then move to his back…
Gale flinches. Peeta pulls back from nibbling the side of Gale's throat, the action that had distracted Gale so much that he had almost relaxed completely. "What is it?" He murmurs, pulling his shirt closed nervously.
"My back," Gale breathes out, unsure why he is whispering. There's nobody else in the house, and the words are almost lost in the crackling of the fire.
"Your scars?" Peeta lets his shirt hang back open, now certain that Gale wasn't flinching because he wanted him to stop. Peeta knows about the scars, of course. Everyone who lived in District 12 before the rebellion does.
Before the Quarter Quell, the Games that marked the beginning of the end for the Capitol, the Peacekeepers had begun to keep a tighter watch on District 12. Gale had been unlucky enough to get caught with a wild turkey he had shot in the woods, and was punished with a whipping so severe that he passed out when his mind could not process the pain any more.
As a reminder, his back is covered in a lattice of raised scars and twisted flesh, and every time he catches a reflection of his back in a mirror or a pane of glass, Gale is reminded of the day that he got those scars. He had been weak, wanting to run away with her when she told him of her plan to flee. He almost had, right there and then, left his family to fend for themselves and hurried off into the woods, to escape the control of the Capitol and just be with her. Of course he stayed, once he heard about the possibility of an uprising, and fought like all the rest. But the scars are his reminder of that moment of weakness, when he would have given up everything for her.
"We all have battle scars." Peeta pats his own leg, and Gale remembers that the bottom half was amputated after the Hunger Games and replaced with a prosthetic. It's easy to forget, since he walks so well. It has become an extension of his leg by now. Gale exhales and moves his eyes back up to Peeta's face, flushed from the kissing and looking at him with concern. He shifts slightly to get some space, then pulls his shirt off in one swift motion, throwing it onto the floor at their feet.
At this sign of surrender, Peeta almost pounces on Gale, sliding quickly along the couch to close the distance between them in seconds. He places light kisses along Gale's cheekbones and down his jaw, concentrating on the slightly rough underside of his chin where it meets his neck. Gale takes his hands and places them on his back, pulling Peeta tight enough to smell the sharp citrus of the soap he uses to wash his hair mixed with the fresh green smell their time in the woods has left almost imprinted into his skin.
Peeta's hands on his back are like nothing he has ever felt before. He felt Prim's hands, and of course her mother's hands when they healed him. He doesn't want to think of them now, but the difference forces him to recall their touches. Healing hands. Soothing the pain from the lashes and cooling the inflamed skin. Peeta's hands are healing in a different way. Instead of cooling they trace hot lines of fire against his back, as though his fingers are tipped with coals.
The pleasure is so strong that Gale finds it almost impossible to pull himself gently back from the embrace of the now shirtless Peeta, but he does, slowly. He wonders where Peeta's shirt has gone, until he sees it hanging over the top of the tall lamp behind them. Did I do that? He wonders. All the kissing seems to have started to freeze his mind, so that his thoughts move slowly like a stream starting to ice over. Gale uses the distance now between them to study Peeta. He traces his hand over Peeta's jaw, glowing yellow and gold in the firelight. The skin is soft and free of hair. Ever since he went to the Capitol, the hair on his face has refused to grow. This makes him look young, vulnerable, even though Gale knows that he has killed people, that this boy – or more correctly, man – sitting in front of him has come closer to death more times than Gale ever expected to.