a/n; I started this story long, long ago, and due to my superpower of procrastination (as I should be far, far from this place), I have been digging up all of my old junk that is either unfinished and unrefined, along with snippets of broken ideas that I never had the energy to finish. This one was so close to being finished, so I thought what the hell. Let me finish it with my oodles of free time that I don't have. Guess I can't get away from this odd joy I have of using other people's fictional characters to write with to avoid my responsibilities. /shrugs

Happy reading! As always, any comments/questions/concerns are much appreciated and loved immensely.

ONE TWO THREE

Chapter One: year one, dance one – waltz

Katniss doesn't get it.

First off, dances are stupid. Secondly, what is the point of forcing kids to learn things they don't want to waste their time doing? Again, stupid.

Thirdly, she knows that this is some obvious Snow propaganda. To encourage the union in each District, I am introducing a new idea. School dance lessons will be performed as an extra class to prepare for the three dances that will be held each year.

Oh and by the way, Katniss thinks annoyed, for every dance unattended by a student, two slips of paper will be added to the Reaping! Congratulations, you're forced to do something you really don't want to do with an added consequence of an increased chance of dying.

What's new? Katniss groans, placing her head in her hands. Dancing. To promote union? She may be fifteen, but she isn't that opaque. What a joke.

Some girls in her grade are disgustingly excited. They gush about the boys they want to dance with, the dresses they'll either buy or attempt to sew, and how they finally got the step down to whatever dance is being taught during lessons.

She feels isolated by the cult mindset, and the relief that washes through her when Madge reciprocates her feelings is so immense, Katniss could cry.

"You think this is as stupid as I do?" Katniss nearly exclaims.

Madge shakes her head, sighing. "I didn't think our lives could get any more messed up than they already are. Now this."

Katniss wants to hug her. Then she grimaces at the thought of any contact with another human being and crosses her arms. "Thank the stars. I thought I was losing my mind."

"Definitely not," Madge says, almost amused. "I have some extra dresses you can borrow if you want. I bet they'll fit, and it's one less thing to worry about."

"Madge, you're the best." Katniss can't help it. She's known Madge for three years and has said a maximum of twenty words to her until now. The possible feelings of friendship are so palpable, it makes her think she could, in all actuality, have a friend in Madge. "I'll double the portion of strawberries I bring you."

She smiles in answer. "Sounds good to me."

The mandatory dancing lessons are like having a root canal while someone stabs the bottom of your foot.

Katniss is proud of her ability to hunt, and of her quote on quote "athleticism" that the dancing instructor complimented her on, but dancing sucks. She doesn't want to do it, and even if her dancing instructor sees so much untapped potential in her, it doesn't make the steps any easier for her to make herself accomplish.

"Don't you want to impress all the boys that are going to be there?" one of the girls asks her after a terrible attempt at doing what's called a waltz. Katniss looks at her like the girl's grown two heads.

"Um," she says. "No."

The girl looks affronted. "But it's so attractive if a girl can dance. Don't you want a husband?"

Katniss begins to sneer at her. Is this really what all the girls think about? It makes her feel like an alien. The thought of being married in her future gives her hives and nausea. Just look at what her father's death did to her mother. Look at the world they live in. She'd rather puke than think about being tethered to a guy.

"No," she answers again. "Marriage sounds awful. Don't you want to be independent? Especially living here."

The girl, who Katniss thinks name might be Tiffany, blanches. "Of course. But having someone to help support you, to adore you…" she sighs dreamily. "I want a boy to love me and cherish me."

Katniss lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "Your choice."

Tiffany (or Teresa?) only shakes her head at Katniss dismally. "I don't understand you, Katniss Everdeen. What else is there to live for, if not a future for yourself?"

Then she is blessedly called away to attempt the one-two-three of the dance. Katniss grins when she trips.

With the first instituted dance less than a few weeks away, Katniss can already feel the high anxiety choking the lesson room. Faces are puckered in intense concentration, bopping heads to follow beats, and sweaty, slippery palms.

If there's just one thing Katniss can force herself to think as something good to come from all of this fuss, is what they call music. Apparently, it's been around for several years, recorded on special tools, and is a common commodity in the Capitol Districts. Here, in District Twelve, however, its newness is a fluffy cushion sewed around the roughened edges of the streets. It hums with a heartbeat, betraying everyone that it is a real, living being.

It's the one thing that makes these lessons somewhat bearable.

The waltz, which is the one dance being taught (for now, the instructor assures with adamant righteousness (who is, coincidentally, from District Two and has lavender curls and powder blue eyebrows)), has a gentle, simple rhythm. Each one-two-three pulses with unrelenting fluidity, and even Katniss can see how this might be a pastime in other districts.

"Katniss Everdeen! It's your turn!" the instructor, whose name is Madame Corinne, sing-songs, clapping her hands as if it'll make her stand up faster.

Katniss sighs and makes her way into the middle of the room again.

"Are you excited for your first dance?" Prim asks when Katniss gets home one day out of many.

Katniss hates breaking the novelty of it for Prim, who still has a few years before she'll be able to attend a dance of her own. Then again, Prim has a different view on District life than Katniss. In some ways, Prim can see the silver lining much easier than her. While Katniss can't see Prim fawning over the different dances when the time comes like the other annoying, girly-girls, she can see Prim taking the lessons with grace and enjoyment. The boys will see her and slip on their own drool.

Katniss is not her sister. She sighs. "Not really, no."

Prim frowns. "Why not? Dancing sounds fun." She shakes her head. "It won't be like a Reaping."

She's got a point there. The only dread Katniss feels about it is being baited around and voluntarily asked by boys of age fifteen and up. It kind of gives her anxiety—mostly because she doesn't ever try to garner attention in her direction.

It's going to be an…experience.

"It's just something I don't care for," she says carefully.

"Oh," Prim says. Katniss can tell she's trying to understand. "Maybe it won't be as bad as you think."

"Yeah," Katniss says, trying and failing to smile it away. "Maybe."

Unfortunately, it does turn out to be as bad as she thinks.

They change the school's tiny auditorium (which is a concrete slab bordered by wooden, ramshackle walls) into what they call a dancefloor. There are minute decorations, like lights strung along the ceiling imitating stars acting as the main source of light, chairs covered with brightly lit cloths, some decorated with flowers, or stripes, or other abstract designs. There is a small, uplifted portion in the corner, acting as a stage of some kind, and there is a table off to the side holding a bucket full of water and a few paper cups and nothing else.

It looks like one very big try. Katniss files in line with the other girls through the entrance, packing herself into one of the chairs, fidgeting with the borrowed dress she's wearing and feeling like one big try, too.

Madge, in all her generosity, gave her a green dress. It falls just below her knobby knees, and the neckline is very modest, which Katniss appreciates. There are buttons down the front, and the entirety of her back is covered. It's a little stifling, but it's doable. Only two hours of this, she thinks. Then home free.

The boys file in at the same time, and once everyone finds a place, it starts. Kind of. A lot of them stare at each other from across the room, shifting weight on feet and acting like they could do something but won't.

They're prodded along by some music stating up from the corner stage, and Katniss can make out the four people crammed together with some sort of instruments that make noise. The tune is decent—different from the lessons, but the easy beats are there just as prominently. Katniss sits there, watching as the bolder boys come forward to ask for dances, picking girls like strawberries off a bush. She suddenly notices how beautiful some of the girls are, here in Twelve. Being able to see all of them at once is striking. She's never paid much attention before, but it's easy to pick out the pretty ones. They're the ones that get asked first, blushing and smiling.

Katniss messes with her hands, not knowing what to do with them. She wrings them, then stills them and puts them in her lap, then folds them together, then watches the couples dance, then zones out looking toward the people with instruments, unhooking her brain from the room and the girls and boys around her.

"Katniss?"

She starts, blinking away from the haze she was lost in. She looks up.

The boy in front of her is very familiar. His hair looks blonde and ashy under the dim lighting above. His eyes are thoughtful, and his stance seems a little uncomfortable. Katniss is unsettled by the idea that she might make a boy nervous.

Her memory works quickly, and she's able to identify him before it gets too awkward.

"Peeta," she says. "Hello."

He clears his throat. "Do you want to dance?"

No, her brain says automatically. She has to bite her tongue from answering that way, too. She also has to hold back a grimace.

She figures this will be her thank you for that bread he threw to her those years ago.

"Okay," she says. She stands and follows him closer to the floor. He holds his hands out in the same fashion as her instructor did during the lessons. She places her hands in them, reluctantly, and she tries to hide her cringing as she touches him. It's different—it's not bad or terrible, and her hands don't fall off, so she'll make it through this somehow—and when his hand lands on her hip, that's different, too.

He attempts to lead, and she stumbles along, stilted and stroppy. They catch each other's eyes, sometimes, and they look away just as quickly when it happens. It becomes painful after the fifth time, and Katniss resolves to stare at the juncture of where his collar hits his shoulder. She nearly burns a hole through it by the time the song finally, finally ends, and she breaks away from him as soon as it's appropriate.

"Thanks," she says, not really sure why. At least he didn't step on her toes. They actually got into a kind of rhythm. A miracle, in all respects.

"Of course," he says back. He smiles at her. She swallows and turns on her heel back to her chair. When she sits, she sinks into it like it's her safe haven. She got a dance under her belt—she should be given a trophy and be allowed to leave.

One song passes without her being bothered. But when the song after that one is about to come on, she sees him.

One of the top five males in the school that at least a handful of girls in each age group are in love with. A hunter, trapper, and tracker—the one who occasionally traipses into her portion of the forest.

Gale Hawthorne.

Girls turn their heads when he walks by. Some flutter their lashes, and he grins wide and hungrily at the ones who do. Some look heavily expectant for him to go to them, and Katniss can imagine them trying to persuade him in their direction with their thoughts.

She holds back a gag.

She doesn't get it—he's older than her, yes. He can be considered attractive, yes. But it is such a subjective opinion among the masses. The arrogance he exudes as he walks across the floor is enough to transform any attractive features he may have into something beastly, indeed.

She feels sorry for the poor girl he asks next. She'll probably fall under whatever spell he puts on them, all fake and fabricated, forced to look on as he leaves her behind for the other, next prettiest girl. She rolls her eyes and snickers. So many of these girls, thinking a dance is a step towards a proposal.

"What's funny?"

Katniss starts for the second time. She grimaces, looking up to the person who spoke to her.

She swallows. Thinking about him behind his back is much easier than being under his very real, direct stare. She was pretty confident she was invisible to him, anyway, and when had he gotten so close to her proximity? She nearly laughs at the absurdity of it.

"Uh…" she stumbles. "You."

She doesn't mean to say that.

Gale Hawthorne's eyebrow twitches upward. "Me?"

Katniss straightens her back against the chair. She grasps for any and all confidence she can find hidden underneath her dress. It's not like she hasn't talked to him before. It's just…strange. The last time she spoke to him, it was to set up a boundary in the forest so that they wouldn't get in each other's way on hunts. It was face-to-face, only them, by themselves, and lasted a brief minute. She'd rather have nothing to do with him. Now, she can feel several stares on her from her periphery, and it makes warmth under her skin flare up to her neck.

"Yes," she says.

"What did I do?"

This has to end, she thinks. The unwanted attention is driving her up the wall, and it hasn't even been thirty seconds.

"Nothing," she says. "Don't you have to go ask a girl to dance with you?"

"Well, I was going to ask you, Catnip," he answers. "But…"

Katniss blanches at the words. Catnip. Not that again. It seems her mumbling that day caused a nickname that lingered and stuck. Figures she would embarrass herself. "No," she answers. His face at the word makes her add, "Thank you."

"You don't want—"

"I already danced," she says, as if that explains her rejection. As if she needs to explain. Though she does feel a little compelled. Rejection probably doesn't feel good to anyone, especially Gale Hawthorne. "You should ask Tiffany." Or Teresa, her mind says as an aside.

"But I want to ask you."

Katniss forces herself from rubbing her forehead in exasperation. "Listen, I don't like dancing, so please ask someone else."

"You danced earlier."

"Yes."

"So, dance with me."

"No."

He crosses his arms, looking at her as if she's a puzzle. Her skin itches—she can feel the stares around her multiply. He's been in front of her too long. She has to do something.

"Maybe later," she amends, quick and sharp, before he can say something else ridiculous. "Just not now."

He looks on at her for a few, achingly long moments. Then he agrees by saying, "I'll be back, then."

As soon as he turns, she sighs loudly. Bullet dodged. Momentarily. She stands up to get a drink. Her throat is suddenly parched. She chugs two cups of water, her eyes finding his head in the masses dancing on the floor.

She seriously contemplates hiding in the bathroom. Her eyes catch on his black hair again, now in the middle of the room. She knows she can't back down that way, however. That's the thing about both of them—they're predators. Katniss has never felt as dangled or helpless as she has sitting in a chair in this auditorium, waiting to just be...picked. Without having any say about it.

She thinks that's why she's been having such a terrible time with these dances. She knew it would be like this. She knew. It's too bad even the anticipation of knowing didn't help her.

She also would rather not have to deal with Gale Hawthorne, or the repercussions of hearing it from all the girls in her grade. Her eyes immediately search her vicinity, Hawthorne's head permanent in her side view just in case. She spies the blonde head she's looking for among the masses, and she slips through the other students, sneaking around to keep enough of them between her and Hawthorne.

"Peeta?" she says, coming up behind him. He turns, at first surprised. He recovers quickly, smiling at her more brightly than he should.

"For the next song, can we dance?" she asks, feeling odd. Never did she think she'd ask, but desperate times always call for these measures of desperation.

"Sure," he says, the girl he must have been talking to before glancing at Katniss. She looks a little flustered and she's frowning. She might be disappointed.

"Thanks," she says, avoiding the girl's gaze behind him, smiling tightly. Not sure what to do, she turns around and walks around aimlessly through the rest of the song. She stays close by, just in case.

When the song ends, her paranoia spikes as she catches Hawthorne glancing around the room. She ducks her head and all but pounces on Peeta. He's still talking to that one girl, and this time she has the wits about her to glare. Katniss, in unabashed glory, grabs his arm and drags him away.

Perplexed, he stares at her as she leads him straight into the dance. He stumbles a little, gaining his footing after a few seconds.

"Whoa, you must have really liked our other dance."

"Something like that," she answers, glancing around with discreet darts of her eyes. She looks at him. "We have an hour left. Better make the most of it."

He gives her a funny look before shrugging. "Yeah, I guess so. We only have three of these things a year now."

"Yeah, only three."

"It doesn't sound like you're very excited."

Katniss holds back a sigh. "Just another thing to deal with in District Twelve."

He frowns at that, but he doesn't say anything. Katniss tries to think of something a little more upbeat to say, but flounders for any words. She absently glances off to her side, and her eyes attach to Hawthorne's straight across the room from her. She can't read his face from the angle and the shadows, but she might guess he looks frustrated.

Ha. That should take his ego down a notch. In actuality, it probably doesn't do anything at all to him. She is only one girl, not five.

She thinks about what will happen after this one dance is over, and panic floods her system. She'll have to think up another way to slip out of his clutches. She bites her lip in thought, grinding her skin with her teeth. The auditorium has no alcoves or tiny spaces to squeeze in, and it's too small to find an inconspicuous place. She hates admitting that this could be the end of her measly attempts of defying Gale Hawthorne's freakish desire to dance with her, but she can't seem to find any idea of what else to do stuck in such a claustrophobic area.

When the song ends, she has to keep herself from lodging her fingers into Peeta's shoulder. Can't use him forever, she supposes, but at least she tried.

"Thanks for dancing with me," she says, not able to keep the deflated tone out of her words.

He misreads it, because he smiles and says, "Don't worry, I'm sure I won't be the only guy who wants to dance with you." He says it jokingly, but even then, the words are funny given the situation. She gives a short chuckle, and his face turns delighted.

"Not what I'm worried about," she huffs. "But thanks anyways."

She doesn't get five steps away from him before a hand lightly lands on her shoulder. She reflexively jerks away from it, spinning around.

"Hey," Hawthorne says.

Katniss eyes him, kind of like how she stares down the prey that she's chasing on one of her hunts. "Yes?"

"It's later, now."

"I think that depends on your definition of later. I still have about an hour until my later."

He grimaces. "The dance will be over by then. C'mon, just one dance."

"Go ask someone else."

"But I—"

"There are hundreds," she exaggerates, "of girls who would die for you to ask them to dance. Go find those."

He opens his mouth, eyebrows furrowed, but closes it. Then he opens it again. "If there are so many girls who will dance with me, why won't you?"

"Because I don't want to be in any way associated with you," she answers, and it comes out of her without her thinking about it.

A shadow crosses his face. "Oh."

"Yeah," she says. "So just go grab some other girl."

He blinks, looking over to the side. His lips slant in a frown toward where he's glancing, and she follows it. The line ends at Peeta and the girl he was talking to before.

Oh...her brain chugs along slowly. Oh. Yes. Peeta. She can use this to her advantage.

Or if this could even be considered an advantage. It's not like Gale Hawthorne gives an inkling of care about who she is. She mentally shrugs. Who cares? If she acts so completely disinterested in him as a person, object, or thing, then he'll fall off the radar and never bother her ever again.

Perfect.

While he's looking at Peeta, she nearly skips off toward the seat she claimed an hour ago. She happily watches the people dancing, not daring to catch Hawthorne's or Peeta's eyes, for the rest of the night.

Neither of them bother her. Peeta is occupied by the other girl, and Hawthorne takes her forceful advice and picks the girls who absolutely adore him.

The last hour of the night couldn't have gone any better.