Written with inspiration from an indirect prompt in the tags of something my good friend arollercoasteronlygoesup reblogged late the other night...
This was the end result, and I'll admit that it probably isn't finished in its entirety, and when/if I do post it on any of my other writing platforms, there may be a second part, if there's interest... *Hint, hint.*
Anyways, without further ado...
Rivalry was something that couldn’t be escaped with the two—beside the fact that it was everywhere, because they were everywhere, all the time.
The young woman, who wasn’t all about the fanfare, had at first given the man a second and third glance, not only because he was good looking—with a pair of deep eyes that were eerily familiar to those of her fellow co-star from years ago, Katniss Everdeen, and always-fitting pants that were tight in just the right places—but because he was all the tabloids could talk about for the last couple months.
‘Gale Hawthorne’ this, ‘Could He Be the Next Finnick Odair?’ that.
She finally saw who they were raving about… And she couldn’t stand it.
While she stood on the red carpet, smothered by screaming fans, she could also feel that this wasn’t going to last long, could feel a strange tingling in her bones. Apprehension. She knew this spotlight that was big enough for the both of them was just going to shrink with time.
Something would have to give.
.. .. ..
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Madge mumbled against Gale’s throat, kissing it with fervor that he equally reciprocated. “If someone catches us—”
“Shh,” he hummed over her head. “This is a private limousine. And if he,” —he stuck a thumb to the chauffeur in the front seat, driving them around town so that they could expel some “pent-up tension” in the back— “tells anyone about this, leaks it or somethin’ like that, his ass will be on a platter.”
“That sounds disgusting,” she retorted, giggling when his fingers found her sides, then the strap from her dress that hung low on her shoulder.
“Does it?” Gale asked, quirking a brow that she could only see when they passed a dim streetlight. “Good.”
"You’re horrible.”
"Am I?”
“Good,” she finished for him, knowing that was what he was going to respond with.
.. .. ..
The email from Effie’s agent came late Tuesday night, the evening before she was supposed to go on the talk show to talk about her newest project that her dad had her going out for. She was supposed to meet her claimed biggest fan and give a donation to the girl’s family that they needed so that they wouldn’t lose their home; the show host was going to supply them with a new car.
After Madge read the words We are sorry, she stopped reading and closed out her inbox. She already knew what had happened—she had been replaced.
The next afternoon, she scrolled through the guide with her remote, settling into the large plush couch with a bowl of Spaghettios for lunch. It was just after three, and The Effie Show was on. When the television shifted from whatever she was watching on PMV to U Network, the attractive newbie she had seen at the premiere a few weeks ago was in the middle of a greeting, standing in the middle of the studio stage.
Gale Hawthorne, dressed in a light grey suit and tie, hands shoved into the jacket pockets. He beamed out into the crowd, eyes catching the cameras lenses. Effie fawned over him, blushing when he complimented her, kissing both his cheeks and clucking when he leaned in for a hug.
“Gale Hawthorne,” she tittered. “What a nice surprise.”
It wasn’t a surprise.
"The girls just adore you, don’t they?” she continued.
The actor bit his bottom lip and smiled. “Yeah. ‘Guess they do.” His voice was deep and unsettling and sent a shiver down Madge’s spine.
The interview went on, a montage of stupid questions and compliments and gifts to the ones in the audience. She angrily took bite after bite of her meal, feeling heat radiate down from her head, the back of her neck, her shoulders, all the way to her fingertips.
While the man on-screen was charming and striking—awarding her fan with her prize that was supposed to be given by her—he didn’t have a vote of confidence from Madge.
She disliked him foolishly; she was upset. She didn’t want to watch the way he sauntered off after his segment was up, didn’t want to like the way he walked, the way his coat accented his wide physique.
.. .. ..
He approached her months later at a gala for the stars—not the Met Gala, they weren’t high enough on the totem pole for that one, but a dance all the same. Come to think of it, she couldn’t remember the name if she tried.
Gale was wearing tighter pants than usual (if that was even possible), she noticed, watching him spin with a brunette (not Katniss, they had gone their separate ways a while before), his collar poking from over the neckline of his deep navy suit coat, the ends pointing upwards. Who he was dancing with didn’t seem to notice, didn’t try to fix it.
Her feet hurt from the heels, high ones that Madge had only thought strippers wore—but no, apparently you’ll find celebrities who haven’t been ripping their clothes off for men like Johanna Mason, a famous star of the… adult arts. Gale had glanced over at the spiky black-haired actress multiple times, and both were caught by the concession tables, guffawing with one of the press agents, Haymitch Abernathy.
She couldn’t tell if Johanna was drunk, and everybody knew that Haymitch was, while Gale looked pretty sober. A little buzzed, maybe tipsy, as shown when he nearly dropped the random dance partner for a dip, but nothing dangerous.
God, were his pants snug on his ass.
And suddenly he was behind her, his hand on the bodice of her slim pink dress. His fingers splayed over part of the fabric over her lower back, and she could smell the alcohol on his breath; it wasn’t too strong.
“’Lookin’ lonely over here, Mags.” He mistook her for the older star, Mags Cohen, who has been on stage since she was in diapers, from toddler times and on. His voice was smooth.
“It’s Madge,” she said quietly.
“Madge,” he repeated. “Right.”
“Right.”
“You don’t look like you’re having any fun, either, Undersiege.” This time she knew it wasn’t a mistake.
“Good one,” she let herself say.
“I try.” He cleared his throat and looked around; his tone got softer. “Want to dance?” His hand stuck out, palm up, the way a gentleman would ask a woman. “I mean, we’re both alone, so… Why not be alone together… I guess?”
“I’m not really…” She wasn’t able to answer before he had grabbed her hand and spun her, and she nearly tripped in her shoes. His other hand came to rest on her waist, steadying her. Their hands fumbled for the right position, hers more than his, and then their fingers entwined as they should have. She felt his lips brush her ear.
She wanted to be annoyed at him; she was annoyed with herself because she couldn’t be.
They swayed for a few moments, Gale leading, and then Madge slid into the rhythm that she’d known nearly all her life, known as ballroom dancing. She focused on her steps until they came as easy to her as breathing was.
.. .. ..
When she heard his name from Caesar Flickerman’s mouth, passing the living room and the live TV as she got ready for bed sometime next week, she peeked in and saw footage of Gale being mobbed by people while he tried to fight through them, his arm around a woman’s shoulders. Dark hair and dark eyes, like twins or cousins or something, they looked like two of a kind. He leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. Then her lips.
“Has she got a new beau? Ha!” came Caesar’s voice, laughing along with the other man, Claudius, who sat next to him in an office-like setting. Others were gathered around the workstation, shouting their opinions. “Katniss Everdeen, getting caught in our newest star’s net? Who knew?”
“I think the real question is whether or not it’s for promotion,” chirped one of the girls that leaned over a rolling chair. “They are in that new film… What was it, Silver-something?”
“’Looks real to me,” said Caesar.
Madge glared at the screen and reached for the remote, clicking the show off before tossing the thing back onto the couch. This time the hot feeling crawling through her veins left a cold feeling in her toes and warmth in her head, her cheeks burning.
She hated him. She hated her. She hated just about everything at that point.
.. .. ..
“Gale Hawthorne?!” Madge squeaked, the hands holding the script falling down to her sides as she gawked at the casting director. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I don’t need to do a reading with him, I’ll land the part no matter who it is.”
“Not kidding, Hun. Chemistry reads are important, because, what if you’re not attracted to him at all?” her agent said, a colored man with only one arm—his name was Chaff. “And from where I come from, attraction is important when sticking a role where you’ll be in compromising positions; intimate ones. You know, Marilyn herself had to do them, I kid you not.”
“Kid me so,” the blonde responded, her eyes scanning the pages and pages of lines she had with Gale.
“Oh, she’s a pretty little thing,” snickered a woman’s voice from the doorway, and Madge looked up to see the devil himself striding in, dressed in a pair of khaki shorts that showed off his calves and a grey polo shirt.
“She’s lookin’ fine,” he commented to his own manager.
Madge tried to resist the blush creeping up her cheeks. Her hands fiddled with the hem of her sundress, and she could hear her mother’s voice chiding her as a child for fidgeting.
“Glad you think that,” a male voice came and she was whirling around again to see a man striding in with a cluster of other people, many of them holding scripts and clipboards. “It makes my job easier. Now, I want you two to take it from the top of scene four.”
Gadget Comments: --
Please bear in mind that the so-called Kettle didn’t go on until 15.30 hrs. My immediate thought was that Hardy forgets to mention Millbank. The one ‘witness and victim’ of police brutality sitting on his left spoke earlier of being beaten around the head with a baton, yet he has no visible injuries at all. I thought I would post this so officers can gain an understanding of the views of those who are organising the student protests.
Officers in the front line in Parliament Square have told this Blog about plastic bottles of p**s being thrown into their faces 3 hours before any containment went on. One Inspector has told me that the verbal abuse and disrespect was far worse than anything experienced from the EDL or the BNP, again, long before any containment lines went in. We all know from experience that some of the performances after a brief shove would make the Argentine footie team proud; more info. given to me “One young Ms threw herself on the deck in front of me and screamed blue murder for a full 5 minutes to attract photographers. Afterwards, she got up, winked at us and rushed off to another cordon, prior to that even I had thought she was nearly dead!”.
just reading som blog that came from surry's old finest police, of what they think of the student protests.
