A/N: This started as a one-shot, just for fun, to elaborate on the little exchange in the book between Madge and Gale, and to speculate on their relationship. But, I got hooked on the Gadge, so I kept it going.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games. Dialogue in this chapter is taken directly from the book.

"Pretty dress," says Gale.

My heart skips a beat and for one glorious moment, I allow myself to believe that Gale Hawthorne is giving me a sincere compliment. But I come to my senses and narrow my eyes at him skeptically. As always, he's impossible to read , but I know enough about him to know he's not being genuine. Not on Reaping Day. And certainly not in front of Katniss.

I manage to plaster on a smile anyway. "Well, if I end up going to the Capitol, I want to look nice, don't I?"

When I see Gale's expression, I immediately regret my words. I didn't mean them to sound biting like they had, and, oh no, now he's looking at me with those hunter's eyes and I can barely suppress shivering at the chill he sends running down my spine. Even standing outside my back door on the ground, two steps down from me, he towers over me. His jet black hair looking slightly disheveled, his eyes, cold steel, boring into me from way up there: he looks deadly.

"You won't be going to the Capitol," he says, eyeballing me like I'm a dumb animal that's had the nerve to challenge him in the woods. He's calm and collected as he moves in for the kill. "What can you have? Five entries? I had six when I was just twelve years old," he says venomously.

I can actually feel my heart drop into my stomach like an anvil, and it takes everything in me not to break down and cry.

Katniss, my only friend, if I can even call her that, considering we have so little in common and rarely actually converse, makes an attempt to defend me, saying that it's not my fault. It's very sweet of her, really, trying to rescue me from the icy glare of her actual best friend. She doesn't owe me that. If anything, I'd think she'd be on his side. I know she must have more slips bearing her name in the reaping ball than I do, and she probably doesn't believe that I would ever be chosen.

"No, it's no one's fault. Just the way it is," says Gale, though his expression is saying otherwise. Even if he can't blame me for the odds being stacked so unfairly against him, nothing will stop him from resenting me for it. That's what everything always seems to boil down to with him. Resentment. He is poor, and I am not. Just the way it is.

If only I hadn't made that stupid comment about going to the Capitol. But he was so sarcastic about my dress and I forgot myself. Forgot how many siblings he has and just how many entries he'll have in the reaping ball after taking out tesserae for them all year after year. How callous I must seem to him, when he's so much more likely to be chosen than I am. I just wanted to remind him that I live in District 12 too, that I'm like him in that way, despite my "pretty dress." But of course, it backfired, like practically every word I've ever spoken to Gale Hawthorne, making him resent me even more. What I can't make sense of is why I still bother speaking to him at all, or why it destroys me every time I fail so completely. I haven't had a decent conversation with him since the winter, which seems like a lifetime ago now.

"Good luck, Katniss," I say, keeping my tone as even as possible. Remembering the reason they're here, I hand her the money my father gave me to pay for the strawberries they brought. I won't say it to Gale. He'd probably just think I was trying to insult him again.

As they turn to leave, Gale exchanges his cold stare for what I can only describe as a smirk. As always, I have no clue at all what it means.

I close the door behind them and lean my back against the cool wood, letting myself slide gradually down to the floor, no doubt dirtying the pristine white of my dress.

Fine, Gale Hawthorne, you want to resent me? Well, go right ahead, because I resent you too. I resent you for treating me like I'm a snob, when I've never acted like I'm better than you. You're the real snob, acting so high and mighty because you've gone through hardships, and because I'm lucky enough not to be starving. I resent you for being so painfully handsome when you smile that I melt at the sight, but you only ever show me that famous scowl or glare instead. And I resent- no, I hate, really hate, that you're the first and only boy who's ever kissed me in my sixteen years, and though I can still remember the wood smoke smell of you, the softness of your lips next to your rough, day-old beard, and the way your steel gray eyes can look so kind behind all that intensity, you act like it never even happened.