The Volunteers

Chapter 1~ The Truth

A/N

Disclaimer: I don't own any of The Hunger Games characters; Suzanne Collins does. Enjoy :-)

_______________________________________________________________

"Are you going to actually allow me to talk to you for once this week?" Gale sneers without even turning his head to see if it's indeed me. I curse myself with countless expletive words in my mind for not being quieter or returning to my room right when I saw him.

"So I suppose I'm not the only one who knows of this place, huh? I didn't intend on running in to you," I retort. He laughs hollowly.

"Me neither."

I can see the head of his black silhouette finally turn to look at me. I tense up and run my fingers through my hair nervously, looking down at my feet. I despise how striking he looks making it arduous to remain peeved with him.

"What a coincidence," I remark and sit next to him on the bench placed up here on the roof. I keep an obvious distance from him and he doesn't look too motivated to close the gap between us which relieves me. Once it's silent for a while, I can't tolerate the tension between us anymore. I guess he's through attempting to initiate a conversation with me so I do it myself.

"I'm sorry for injuring your hands tonight," I say as sincerely as possible even though most of me is content with what I'd done by ramming him forcefully into that model. He'd put me on the spot in front of cameras by saying he loved me. He made me look weak and it's far from appreciated.

"No, I deserved it," he admits. "Besides, I'm gonna go through much worse in the arena . . . Right?"

I can tell in his voice that he's not believing my apology one bit. I want to deny what he said about the arena, but I know I'd be lying to him and we aren't ones to do that to each other.

"I guess so," I concur and pull my knees to my chest. Once again, we're both silent. Mindlessly, I start speaking again and regret my words as soon as they tumble out.

"Is it true? Do you have a crush on me?" I ask. My face reddens and burns with embarrassment automatically. I bury my face into my knees, wishing I'd kept my mouth shut.

"Does it matter? One of us or both of us will be dead either tomorrow or in the span of a few weeks," he replies. His response isn't enough for me though and once again I say something I regret, but it's also quite strategic.

"Well Peeta Mellark . . . He does; he admitted it in the Justice Building. Not that this matters either though."

I glance at him to read his expression. This is completely true that Peeta did this and I'm using it because I know that if he gets jealous then obviously he was telling the truth in his interview today. Then I think about what he said. How it doesn't matter anyways . . . And he's right. But somewhere lost inside of me wants to know the answer no matter what circumstances we're in.

Gale's jaw is clenched and he's focused on the city below. Capitol citizens partying like they always do the night before the games. It disgusts me and I can see that Gale feels the exact same way as he glares down disdainfully at them. This anger he has for these people messes up my observation. I can't tell wether his jaw is clenched and his eyes are squinted in rage because of my statement, or the pandemonium below.

"That's great," he says suddenly, startling me. "Maybe you can make out with bread-boy when you get out of the arena and earn yourself some free bread. Good luck on your future Catnip," he says sarcastically and rises up. I do the same, not ready for him to leave our argument without me having another bite at it.