Author's Note: Hello everyone, I'm back! I apologise for what is going to be a long author's note, but it's just because this is the first chapter of my brand new sequel! Writing my first story 'Wrong Crowd' was an amazing experience and I knew that eventually I would come back to the story of Cato and Grey, but I just needed to sort out some sort of storyline first. I don't want to get half way through and realise that I don't know where this story is going.

If you're reading this and thinking, "Hang on, this is a sequel? But I haven't read the first story!" then that's okay! If you want to, go onto my profile and read the first in this series, 'Wrong Crowd' but if you want to just start here then I'm sure you'll quickly pick up what you've missed.

In this first chapter I have tried to write as best I can, and I really hope that I'm doing the beginning of this justice. Please review if you enjoy it, don't enjoy it, have suggestions, etc. Truly, anything you say I'll be happy with!

Without further ado, here's the first chapter of Crowd Of Two!

Crowd Of Two

Chapter One - New Beginnings

Grey's POV

"Wait! Stop this instant! May I present you with the victors of the 74th Annual Hunger Games; Cato of District 2 and Grey of District 4!"

The significance of what had just been said into the arena hits me hard and suddenly I feel weak with happiness and relief. For the first time in 74 years, there are going to be two victors. Cato from District 2 and Grey from District 4. The small chance that had previously been growing in my mind had now become an unbelievable reality. Although I know that there are many more hurdles to overcome, the fact that I don't have to worry about being stabbed in the back, literally, is a huge relief.

I slowly drop onto my knees and eventually end up lying flat on my back on the cornucopia, still clasping Cato's bloody hand in my own. I squint my eyes to try and focus my gaze but Cato's face is cloudy in front of me and his self-inflicted neck wound makes him look like some gruesome doll. He's being unexpectedly quiet; I had expected him to be jumping around celebrating his victory, but instead he is silently holding his neck with his hands, the blood seeping through his fingertips. It doesn't take long before he's lying alongside me, and I can't tell if it was of his own accord or not. The way his head roughly hits the metal ground tells me that it wasn't.

There's a familiar sound of wind rustling the trees around us as a hovercraft approaches. I ignore the movement, hoping that if I pay no attention to it, it will go away. I'm too tired to even sit up and leave this arena. Beside me, Cato begins to cough and retch, making noises like a dying animal as the blood spurting out of his neck starts to constrict his breathing.

I turn my head to look at him and try to focus on Cato's face instead of the blood dying his tribute shirt crimson. There's a strange, almost defiant expression on his face, as if he is daring his body to kill him, to give him one last battle. But when his body convulses suddenly, his face loses concentration and he shuts his eyes tightly; a look of pain plastered on his face. Where the blood loss from my own neck wound has made me weak and complacent, Cato's body has fought back, sending him into fits of shaking and hyperventilated breathing. His blue eyes are all the more noticeable against his rapidly paling face.

I begin to hear the sounds of people with clipped Capitol accents climbing up beside us and they start talking in abbreviated statements to each other, as if they have done this many times before.

"District 2 is a 411, he's having trouble breathing. No, don't restrain him! Does anyone have any O17 on hand? It might relax him enough to get him down to the craft. Someone help the girl onto her feet." I want to argue that Cato needs more than a bunch of numbers but I can't make my lips move to form the words. All I can see are those blue eyes of his, stressed but still bold as someone fastens a mask over his mouth and nose, and that's what I hold onto as Capitol medics swarm around us.

Whatever O17 is, it must be fast working because within seconds Cato's eyelids are drooping and his spasms come to a close. Although I don't like the fact that he's being drugged, I know in a non-hazy part of my mind that he needs to calm down. That's why I don't protest as a couple of medics lift him up off the ground and begin to carry him towards the hovercraft stalling in the clearing below the cornucopia. Another medic helps me stand up and wraps a blanket around my shoulders as I am slowly helped off the structure. My legs feel wobbly underneath me but I know that if I got up onto the cornucopia I can get down again. I feel so much weaker now that the adrenaline has worn off, and I know that Cato must be feeling the same way. I keep my eyes on him the whole time, his existence keeping me grounded. After a few minutes with the drug, he has recovered enough to slowly walk on his own legs, but the men who had been carrying him have their arms around his shoulders, supporting him as he takes heavy steps.

Cato turns to look at me and his face curls into a weak smile. I hobble over to him and let him wrap one arm around my shoulders as I take the place of one of the medics. I instantly feel the weight of his body as he allows me to support him but I don't make a sound. We make it onto the hovercraft together and I sit us both down on a bench beside the door. A few men and women walk around us, giving us a knowing look every once and a while as the doors close and the craft begins to start up. Not long after that, the man that had helped me stand in the arena approaches us holding a syringe. Cato finds my hand and entwines his fingers with mine but I think it's to comfort me more than him.

"Now Cato, this is so we can fix you up. It'll be a little prick and then you'll sleep for a while, okay? Does that sound alright?" Cato smirks and I'm comforted that he's a little more like himself again.

"I'm not a child," He laughs, "Drug me up." I look at our intertwined hands with a grin on my face as Cato sticks his arm out to the doctor. Without a fuss the needle is injected into his arm and Cato rubs it subconsciously when it is removed.

"I'll be back soon." He whispers softly, tracing circles onto my hand with his thumb. I nod and smile at him.

"Congratulations Cato, on the victory." The last thing he does before his eyes close and he slumps against the wall is smile.