A/N: 1) I like Careers. I don't like when they're sugarcoated to conform to our cultural moral standards. I tried my best not to sugar coat anything, so these characters might not be super likable, fair warning.
2) This is going to seem like an OFC romance by the end of the first chapter. It's not. Any plot directions used are strictly for the sake of exploring how the people in 2 are {or are not} socialized to relate to/love other human beings

Characters: Cato, Echo (Cato's mother), Cason (Cato's father), Caemon (Cato's brother), Rhagia (Caemon's wife), Ravine (head trainer of the (head trainer for the high ranking trainees at two's 'career academy'), Clove, (Cato's younger sisters will be around at some point but I haven't named them yet, so)

Disclaimer: I own nothing

II
Part One

We are the youth of the nation
Who's to blame for the lives that tragedies claim
No matter what you say, it doesn't take away the pain
That I feel inside, I'm tired of all the lies
Don't nobody know why, it's the blind leading the blind
There's got to be more to life than this
There's got to be more to everything I thought exists

At forty-six, Echo Travertine is far too old to work in the quarry. Her wrinkled, leathery hands are good at scrubbing the blood out of the medical ward's sheets. She doesn't even feel the burn of the scalding hot water. No one can tell if her hands are raw pink from the steam, the scrubbing or just the blood. No one really cares. There is always so much blood in District 2, they're all used to it by now. Especially here in the training center. The trainees are forever hacking and slicing away at each other. Some of District 2's children die before they even stand a reaping. They are cut down by each other. Only a privileged few compete in the actual Games, but living in 2 is a daily competition in and of itself.

The suspicion and aggression often follows the citizens beyond their training years. Everyone in 2 carries a knife. Everyone knows how to use one. And most are vigilantly on the lookout for an opportunity to use it. The peacekeepers have to clean up at least one homicide a month. Half the time, it's their own uniforms they're carrying away.

So when Cato's brother is pushed to his death from the scaffolding in a quarry, no one is very surprised. But there are plenty of other emotions. Anger. Wrath. Vengeance. Cato himself vows to find the man responsible and personally stab him with the dullest machete he can find. It never occurs to him to mourn. He cannot understand death as tragic. He comprehends no loss. Death in District 2 is just a fact of life. Either there is air in his own lungs or there isn't, that's really all he can worry about. Anything else is a distraction from training. And distractions would mean failure in the arena.

Even when a rockslide took his father's life two years before he refused to let it unhinge him. Buried his emotions deep and covered them with longer hours at the training center. He had felt some regret then. That his father would never see him compete in the Games. But life went on. It wasn't his father who had paid for his training. It wasn't his father who had bought his bread. His protein drinks and fiber bars. His hot water. His clothes. Even his room at the training center had all been earned by Cato's own blood and sweat. The stronger he got, the higher he rose on the Training Center depth chart, the more rewards the Capitol gave him. He was completely independent of his parents, of his family. He didn't need them. He needed only himself and the trust of the Capitol. So what was he losing really, when his father was buried under the rubble of the quarry? He'd asked himself a few times but nothing ever came to mind.

The first time he sees loss, real loss, is in his mother. Echo sobbed for days when Cason died. He had been her entire life since the time she was nineteen. In a District where children are raised to cast off familial dependence and suspicion is in every neighbor's glance, your marriage is what keeps you alive. Your husband is the only teammate you can trust. Your wife is like your sword; an extension of your arm and the only defense standing between you and your enemies. You lose that and it's only a matter of time before you lose everything else. Suddenly, the mortality of your life seems frighteningly real.

At his brother's wake, he watches Rhagia, his sister-in-law of three years, struggle with this same reality. Except she is alone at twenty-one with at least fifteen more years to fight through. Probably more. Because although Rhagia works at the quarry, her nails aren't cracked, her skin isn't darkened by a layer of stone dust. She inspects and repairs the machinery. Every wheel, every pulley and pipe. She has made up names for each scaffolding rig. Before he died, Caemon used to joke that her mind itself was made of gears. Instead of blood, her body ran on oil.

Cato still remembers the way his brother would lose focus at the Training Center just to watch her. It was annoying then, when all Cato wanted to do was lift weights and spar. That hasn't changed. But he can remember when life in the training center had kept Rhagia strong. Her skin had been healthy, vibrant even. Her eyes had been alert and happy. If he tries hard enough he can remember the sound of her laugh when she would knock her sparring partner to the ground or ace a new martial arts move. He remembers respecting her.

But here at Caemon's wake, he sees for the first time what life after training has done to her. Locked away at the Center, Cato rarely visits his own family. It's a system designed to help him focus. To ensure that he doesn't have to trouble himself with anything beyond his own existence. And it works. But it makes moments such as this confusing. Who is this frail, bug-eyed girl before him now? Where there was once a tall, proud trainee, now there is only a tired, too-thin widow who is trying not cry. Her lip gives a slight tremble here and there. Her eyes look glassy, too large for the fine features that have sunken in the absence of the Center's nutrient rich food. Even now she barely has the grain for finger cakes at the wake. There is plenty of tea, though. But Cato hates tea.

For once, he feels torn. Typically nothing can keep his focus away from training. Tragedy, anger, frustration. These things only fuel his drive to push weights, run the track or swing a sword. But there's something actually quite interesting about watching Rhagia in her attempts not to cry. He thinks, she looks so tormented and weak. She'll have to break sometime. She'll have to. He decides that he'll leave when he wins that bet. At the first signs of tears, he's out of there.

But it never comes. She bites her lip or clenches her jaw. But the crown of grace never slips. Her strength only falters, it never gives way. So, in stubbornness, he's stuck there. Wearing stuffy, warm clothes and an irritating necktie. Daydreaming of a new arm rotation he's been practicing while sparring. Trying to reconcile how death could break someone apart. First his mother. Now Rhagia. All of his surviving aunts and uncles. Even a few crew members who'd worked on the same rig as Caemon. Why is everyone so fucking sad? Was Caemon so incredible of a human being? What the hell did he ever actually accomplish? What made him so damn special?…If Cato died…would they weep as hard for him?

He turns his head to hide the smirk that tugs at his lips. Someone would have to kill him first. And that's not going to happen anytime soon. There's no one at the Center higher on the depth chart. And it's not as if he's going to die in the quarry. No. he's been fated for the Games since he was conceived. He's going to go. And he's going to win. And he'll never work a day in his life.

Before he even realizes it, the wake is over. Echo cries as she presses goodbye kisses to Rhagia's cheeks. Promises over and over again that if there's anything the young widow needs, the Travertine's are her family. Cato has to wonder if she'd be falling all over herself with the same declarations had she not been widowed herself just two years earlier. Either way, Echo can't bring herself to look at her only remaining son on her way out. He bears too much resemblance to his brother. Just seeing his golden hair out of the corner of her eye is like a stab to the chest. He does not reach out to her. It never really occurs to him to do so. He stays near the windows, hands in his pockets, watching the sun shine on the creek below the ridge Caemon built his house on.

Rhagia can only assume she's finally alone, that Echo's son followed her out the door. Her hands shake as she starts to clean up. Her lower lip trembles hard. Her throat is tight. Her eyes burn. Before half the table can be cleared, she's finally broken down and sobbing. Her knees give out and she probably would have snapped her ankle on the way down had Cato not appeared to catch her. She doesn't question why he's there. Just lets her fingers curl around his suit jacket, her tears stain the white material of his button-down shirt.

As he straitens his back to pull her up to her feet again, he keeps her close. His brows furrow as he rests his nose in her hair and breathes. His eyes close and he realizes…he's never held anything before. His hands have crushed windpipes, his arms have swung axes, his body is a machine of hurt and destruction. But he sees for the first time that strength can keep something together too, can keep someone standing.

He's not exactly sure what he's supposed to do right now. And he desperately wants her to stop crying, because it's making him painfully uncomfortable. But every time the words try to form in his throat, all he can do is swallow them. God, just please calm down. Stop crying. It's okay. Why are you so upset? You're okay. Sighing softly, he resigns himself to silence and lets his arms tighten around her. He's not sure why but one of his hands starts to drag up and down her spine.

Eventually her breathing evens out and the sobs quiet down to sniffling. Still, neither of them move. Rhagia knows it's wrong but Cato is almost the same height as his brother. His arms are as strong as Caemon's had been when they'd first made love. He even smells the same. It's so easy to pretend when they're standing like this, her eyes hiding against his shirt, arms folded to his chest. She wishes she could speak. But there's really nothing that makes enough sense to say. The truth is, she doesn't even know how she feels. Is she angry at Caemon for leaving her alone? Is she terrified to be alone? Is she just exhausted? She doesn't want to try and sort it all out now. She just wants to stand like this with warm, strong arms keeping her from falling to the ground in a pathetic heap.

Time starts to unravel. She has no idea how long they stand there. Minutes. Hours. Centuries. It's a wonderful feeling, losing touch with reality. It numbs her anxiety. It helps her stop caring about…anything beyond Cato's arms. Caemon's arms, she lies to herself.

He has to shift his weight to keep his feet from falling asleep, but this isn't so terrible really. He sort of…likes the way it feels, holding something. Especially now that it's stopped crying. His hand continues its path up and down her spine, occasionally brushing through her hair. Part of him wants to thank her for not speaking, but he'd hate to break the silence.

Cato has been trained to master many parts of himself. But restraint really isn't one of those things. When his mouth feels the urge to kiss a soft path down her hair and over her neck, he sees no reason to stop himself. He doesn't need a reason to justify himself. He just does it. That's how his life has always been. Impulse. Action. Satisfaction.

I should stop him. The thought hangs half-heartedly in Rhagia's mind as her lips part in surprise. A moment later she tilts her head a bit to give him better access to her neck, lets one of her hands drag up his chest, her knuckles brushing his throat. A soft sigh falls from her lips and her brows pull together as his teeth drag over her skin in reaction. Fingers brushing down again, she starts to tug at his tie.

She honestly doesn't remember their path from the living room to the bedroom but it seems that within seconds she's under him, her dress on the floor. His mouth is like fire on hers. Demanding, moving almost faster than she can keep up with, scorching her without remorse. His palms drift up her arms as he pushes them down by her head, fingers curling between hers as he keeps her hands pressed into the bed. His lips are everywhere at once. Biting, sucking, teeth dragging. He's rougher than Caemon ever was. But she can't bring herself to ask for gentle.

Head digging back, she lets out a soft cry when he pushes inside of her, pulling one of her thighs tight around his hips as he rocks his body into hers. Her free arm curls around his neck and their mouths bruise a little as they kiss hard. He stays deep but thrusts hard. Before she's even aware that he's rubbing off on her, Rhagia is biting into his lip in retaliation. She trails off, nipping and kissing along his shoulder. Her nails dig into his back, dragging up his spine. The pain is delicious and he moves faster, harder, hoping she'll give him more.

There's barely any noise between them. Just the heavy breath that mingles together. The sweat. The occasional grunt or soft cry. Cato's jaw clenches as he gets close. He's struggling to stay above the surface, but it's hard. Sex is usually so carelessly taken and consumed for him. Like a meal easily found and easily forgotten. Something about this is different. This doesn't even feel like sex. Not the way he knows it. Maybe it's her grief and how vulnerable it's made her. Maybe it's the respect he always had for her at the Center. Maybe it's the shared tragedy between them. Whatever it is, it keeps him in bed with her after he comes. His arms and legs tangle with hers, their sweat and cum stains the sheets.

The sun is just starting to set over the creek as they fall into a comfortable silence. Rhagia strokes her fingers through his thick, blonde hair. Brushes a kiss here and there as he nuzzles her collarbone, already half asleep. I love you, Caemon, she whispers in her mind.