Author's Note: Wow, I'm so sorry! It's been forever since I've updated. The sad thing is, I've had this chapter written out for a while but have been much too lazy to upload it. I actually have the entire rest of the story mapped and plotted out, but I'm simply editing it into an actual story if that makes any sense. Reviewers, thank you SO much for your attentiveness and generosity. Your kind words and criticism are what keeps me going and I'm beyond grateful for it.
And, bonus points to everyone who actually understands all the music references I'm making. ;) PLEASE read and review! Your feedback is always more than welcome.
Thanks to Fadi for the idea for the ending line! 3
I feel miserable. My skin has broken out in blotchy, red welts, and they won't stop itching. My ankle is still swollen and sensitive, making walking nearly an impossible feat. I feel faint from hunger, but the lingering hints of vomit in my mouth terminate any trace of an appetite. Already, it feels like such a long day. Sometimes I wonder how many hours the Gamemakers allow us from sunrise to sunset. Some of those hours linger on and on, while others seem to fly by at an incomprehensible speed. Through blurred vision, I watch Cato walk slightly ahead of me, alongside the other two Careers. I wonder if he even suspects that I'm watching him. He's so peculiarly strong. I mean, anyone can see that he's in good physical shape, but the way he's dealt with the hallucinations this morning, the way he's coping with the Games, and his home background is beyond admirable. Hell, even the way he's itching the red bumps on his palms is impressive. I just can't help but wonder why he's so determined to keep me protected - what merit could I possibly have to him? The only reason I can muster up is that I'm keeping his secrets, that I'm aware of what he's been through. Maybe I'm the only one here who does. But why would he want to keep me alive, when know I this much about him? I'm driving myself into some kind of madness by questioning myself so much, but it's the only way I can come to conclusions. I'm terribly confused. Especially by the dream I had last night. In all honesty with myself, I'm definitely attracted to him. It's a venial thing, and I guess I can live with it. But if it's just physical attraction, why does imagining him with a woman feel like nails screeching down a chalkboard? It'd be downright absurd to feel anything deeper than infatuation in a place like this, a place where no two people are allowed to survive. To be blunt, it's stupid to get attached. Besides, he probably wouldn't return the feelings. Not to mention there are cameras embedded in every nook and cranny of the arena. And if those feelings actually did exist, and I decided to show them, all the shame I would bring to my District would be too way too much to have to die with.
The rest of our trek through the woods seems to endure forever, probably because the pain in my ankle is constantly sharpening. But sharpening is putting it mildly. It feels more like all the fury of hell shooting up my leg with each step. I really wish I still had that tube of ointment that Haymitch sent me, I know it could have eventually eased the pain. I'd be fortunate to receive something like it again, but the odds of that are probably pretty slim, means that the Gamemakers saw me lose the first one. Up ahead, I'm finally starting to see the Cornucopia's gleam in the tree clearing. Marvel stops abruptly, studying the broad field ahead.
"We're going to have to go back around to the tail of the Cornucopia, because Three's got the ground in front of the mouth totally rigged." he instructs in a whisper, as to quietly keep the secret of the mines hidden from potentially listening ears.
"He's been stocking supplies there this whole time, right?" I ask in a calm voice, despite the fact I'm compulsively itching my arm.
Marvel nods. "I guess. I have no idea how no one's set the mines off, but apparently the Gamemakers send something small to the Cornucopia every day, and he just hoards it there."
Now that I have an opportunity to look closer, he looks very tired. Heavy bags hang under his eyes, graduating into the leathery and worn skin of his cheeks.. Clove seems to be quickly ailing, too. Her pallor is a sickly white, and her body is beginning to appear bony and frail. The tracker jacker stings on their arms are much smaller than that on Cato, but I guess compared to Glimmer, they were all lucky to have only been stung once. I can't help but wonder what kind of hallucinations and other side effects came over them, but they seem fine now. I guess it wasn't too terribly severe. But even Cato's golden skin tone has faded, and his welts and wounds are increasingly prominent. If these "stronger" Tributes are becoming visibly weaker, I don't even want to know how I look. But I do wonder how Katniss is managing since the tracker jacker incident this morning. She didn't seem debilitated or feeble at all when she jumped down from the tree, but if I remember right, she was staggering around afterwards. We walk swiftly through the sparse trees until we reach the open field, where the faint, white sunlight beats down on the vulnerable plain. I groan to myself. I'm not exactly feeling up to running full speed right now.
"Alright, we've got to be fast." Clove says, quietly. She seems energetic.
My heart begins to race as we step outside the protection of the trees, running like hell across the grass, and then around to the backside of the large metal structure. The pain from my foot and skin racks my whole body, and I'm trying as hard as I can to hold back a whimper as I pant from the sprint.
"Hey, Three!" Marvel shouts, making the small boy aware of our presence.
Finally, we make it to the tail, none of us wounded, dead, or blown to smithereens. All of us are trying to catch our breath, even Cato. From behind a stack of empty crates, the boy walks up to meet us, analyzing our condition. Without the expression of terror on his face, I hardly recognize him. He's still scrawny and small, but he looks a lot less humble today. I imagine we're looking pretty weak to him right now too, panting like wild dogs and obviously drained of fuel.
"Back again already?" he asks, staring specifically at Clove and Marvel.
Marvel nods in our direction. "They lost their supplies. And now they're starving."
"Well then, you're in luck." the District Three boy says, handing me a backpack. "There's a sleeping bag and some other stuff in it. The Gamemakers just dropped it by earlier."
"Thank you." I say, probably sounding a little more desperate than I should. But why hide it? I guess everyone's desperate now, no matter how well-off the home they came from was.
"There's more." he says, crawling into the mouth of the Cornucopia. We stay silent, waiting for him to retrieve whatever he mentioned. I look at my reflection in the gold metal. It's blurry, but I can see that I've lost weight. The feast that the Gamemakers were partaking of during our scoring returns to my memory. Here we are, hard up and malnourished, while they're probably sinking their teeth into another roast pig and watching us starve. How revolting.
The boy walks out of the Cornucopia, holding a silver sword. Cato's sleepy eyes brighten upon seeing the blade.
"This is for you." says the boy. He doesn't even have to hand it to Cato before the sword is snatched quickly out of his hand.
"This is fucking awesome!" Cato yells, slicing the air. "Much better than the last one."
It's strangely childlike, the way he jubilantly swings the blade around. If I've learned anything positive from the Games, it's that happiness is easier to come by in times of need. I'll admit that back at the Capitol - or Twelve, for that matter - a simple sword, someone's snoring or even food wouldn't have made me feel the same way it's made me feel here. I guess I've learned to appreciate the smaller things more. The District Three boy smiles shyly, picking up an apple near his feet. But before he takes a bite, he notices me staring hungrily at it. He looks back down at the shiny green fruit, as if to contemplate whether he should give it to me or not. After all, I'm considered a Career, and he's under the impression that I'll kill him if my temperament tells me to.
"Would you like this?" he finally asks.
"No," I say, unzipping my backpack and smiling courteously. "You can have it. I've got food in here."
A smile spreads across his face. "Thank you."
I find a package of mixed nuts in my backpack, so I open them and eat a few. As the boy bites into the apple, I notice the other Careers' eyes are glued to me. Are they upset with me, for being kind to someone below us? Marvel's face is blank, and Clove is smiling gently. Cato, however, is wearing the same expression that he wore in his chariot. Fury. Envy. But why? I'm no longer stealing his spotlight, flames aren't rising on my back anymore. There's no crowd to impress now. It doesn't make much sense, but I guess there's room for misinterpretation on my part. For all I know, he could have just been hungrily pining after the food.
"I'm sorry I never asked," begins Clove. "but what's your name?"
The boy smiles. "My name's Jayel."
"Jayel," she repeats, the corners of her mouth pointing upwards. "Nice to meet you."
"And you too." Jayel's face looks pensive, but he remains polite. But I guess I'd be a little pensive with a girl who tried to pin me down and kill me, too.
I find myself avoiding eye contact with Cato, and trying to make it less obvious by scratching my neck. Marvel grabs a spear from the mouth of the Cornucopia, even though Jayel didn't offer it to him.
"Well," he says, eyeing the lengthy weapon. "I guess we should probably get going. Thanks for the supplies, man."
Jayel notices his spear, but doesn't seem to mind. "No problem."
We begin running back to the woods, but somehow, it isn't as tedious as it was a few minutes ago. I mean, I'm still red and itchy, and my foot still feels like someone's driven a knife through it, but at least I'm not starving anymore. Cato is tagging alongside me, jogging slowly and panting. Without even really thinking about it, I offer him my hand, like he did for me the other day. Maybe I shouldn't have done it, but to my surprise, he smiles and takes it. I smile too, feeling myself blush. It's hard not to feel a rush of adrenaline and pride, holding his hand again. It's almost like the cameras and the people watching them don't matter right now. Finally, we disappear into the darkness of the trees, obstructed from the open view. I heave a sigh of relief, and Cato drops my hand. In some strange way, I wish he'd have kept holding it. We're all trying to catch our breath, recovering from both running and the internal panic from being out in the field. Cato and I scratch our already scabbing skin incessantly. Aside from our panting and wheezing, the arena is completely quiet. The mockingjays must be resting, and the sun is shining directly overhead. For a fake, man made Game board, it actually looks somewhat beautiful today.
"I really have to piss." Cato blurts out, bluntly breaking the tranquil silence.
It's almost telepathic how Marvel, Clove and I look at each other and burst out in laughter. Even Cato is holding back a chuckle himself, refusing to swallow his pride by laughing.
"Yeah," Clove giggles. "Now that you mention it, I guess I do too."
Cato points at a nearby tree. "Well then, I'll be at that tree over there, Clove can go to that other tree, and Loverboy-"
His dictations are interrupted by another fit of laughter from us. No one could possibly take him seriously, and it's funny how he thinks we would.
"I'm serious, damnit!" he shouts, working every muscle in his face against grinning before he stomps off. "I'll be over here."
We gradually ease down from our laughter. If our bladders weren't already full, we've all acquired the urge to pee from thinking about it. Ironically, Clove and I fumble over to the trees that Cato suggested in the first place, while Marvel finds a tree located shamelessly close to the open field. I glance discreetly around, unzipping my pants only when I'm sure no one's looking. Poor Clove must feel so out of place right now, being the only female Tribute left in the Career pack. If I were her, I might feel a little defensive, using a very public restroom in the woods with three guys she hardly knows. Not that we would try anything creepy or violative, but she is very vulnerable. Not only to the rest of the Careers, but to the other Tributes as well. Something I've learned from the past Games is that people her age and size seldom survive the bloodbath. And if they do, they don't last much longer than that. I'm not certain of her age, but despite her knife-throwing skills, I think she's definitely on the younger side. I can tell by the way she talks. There's a curious innocence in her voice, a tone that I've only heard used by little girls who would come to the bakery and admire my cakes. Like... Prim. Katniss's sister. The very reason that Katniss is here, suffering somewhere in this green death trap. I try to shake the thought out of my mind. Yes, I know there are only a few Tributes left. I know I'm going to either lose Katniss, Cato or die before I know who comes out. It's all a matter of what happens first. I know those outcomes are less than ideal. But I'm going to be strong. I'm going to make it through another day and do the best that I can.
I can't help but stare intently at Cato, who is fixing up his pants with one hand and scratching his back with the other. The more time that passes, the more willing I am to give myself up to helping him survive. Even if the rest of my feelings for him are still whirling around unsettled, I've at least confirmed that I want him to go home as victor. I know, I'm not supposed to want that. I'm supposed to be fervently in love with Katniss, playing the romantic hero and sticking my neck out to save her from other the beastly, bloodthirsty Tributes. But that's not how the Games are playing out. Instead, I'm letting my feelings fall to atrophy, teamed up with the Careers, and trying not to fall for the enemy. If Cato can return to his District, I know his circumstances will improve. His mother would stop abusing him. He'd be wealthy. He'd bring pride to District Two. He'd finally be happy. But... this isn't what I'm supposed to want.
"Hey, Loverboy!" he yells, crashing my train of thought. I can tell he's noticed that my eyes are still focused on him. "When you're ready to stop admiring me, let's look through our supplies."
"Yeah, sorry about that." I shout back, forcing out a chuckle to be cordial. He must think I'm some kind of pervert for staring at him. How embarrassing.
I quickly zip up my pants and join the others, who are sitting in a circle around three backpacks, a sword and a spear. Without hesitation, Clove turns the backpacks upside down, shaking their contents onto the ground. We curiously sift through the goods, trying to identify every object. Three heavy black sleeping bags, my bag of nuts, two apples, and a dagger immediately catch my eye. Clove picks up the apple. She studies it with an intent gaze, as if she were expecting it to do something out of the ordinary.
"Marvel, are you going to want this, or can I have it?" she asks.
"Go right ahead." he answers.
"Thanks." She bites happily into the flesh, which makes a loud crunching noise. I guess it doesn't matter if we're overheard by the other Tributes. We're well-armed now, ready to jump in defense if threatened. But everything seems uncannily quiet today. I haven't heard the cannon, or even seen any other Tributes. It's a temporary relief, though. There are only eleven of us left. The arena won't be quiet for long.
"Hey, Loverboy, look!" Cato exclaims, holding up a small, silver jar.
I look closer, trying to read the print on the label. "What is that?"
He unscrews the lid and begins to rub the substance on his welts. "Antihistamine ointment. We can use it for the poison ivy. Try some."
He tosses me the jar. I catch it, quickly unscrewing the lid and rubbing the glossy, green ointment all over my swollen arms.
"Oh... This feels great." I can't help but moan quietly in pleasure. The soothing menthol instantly cools and calms the irritation, like rain in a time of drought. Eyes closed, Cato throws his head back and exhales deeply, his muscular chest rising and falling. His rash already is looking less ornery. As much as I don't want to admit it, it's sort of arousing.
"It feels good, huh?" I say, slathering more of the ointment on my face.
Cato nods, motioning for the jar. As I stretch my arm out to hand it to him, a crisp breeze whisks around us, cooling us down all over again. The patches of skin that I've rubbed the ointment are tingling gently at the surface. It feels fantastic, to say the least. Without even thinking about it, we moan at the same time - rather loudly at that.
"Gosh," Marvel says, snickering. "It sounds like you guys are fucking each other or something."
...Did he really just say that?
"Of course not!" I blurt out defensively, without even thinking about it first. Marvel and Clove are staring at me, their eyebrows raised in shock, probably because of my volume. Damnit, why can't I just keep my mouth shut? Cato chuckles slightly at my calamity. My face must be beet red right now, and the euphoric sensation of the menthol has worn off from the heat in my face. Needless to say, I'm nowhere near turned on anymore.
"Shit, Loverboy, it was just a joke. I don't think you actually would do anything like that." Marvel shrugs.
I look at the ground, my eyes once again evading Cato. His poignant expressions are so scrutinizing sometimes. "Yeah, sorry about that."
"Well," says Clove, promptly standing up. "While you guys were, um, healing yourselves, we counted up all of our stuff."
"Oh yeah, what all do we have?" I ask, probably a little too enthusiastic. I'm just trying to veer their attention off of Cato and I.
"We have three sleeping bags, the bag of nuts, the ointment, a box of matches, a dagger, four water bottles, Cato's sword, Marvel's spear, and now, only one apple."
"I guess that will get us through a few days, now we just need to find a place to sleep tonight." says Cato, stiffly.
Clove sits back down. "In that case, I'll pack everything back up. Hey, Peeta, want to hand me that dagger?" she asks me, wearing an animated smile. The more I get to know her, the more childlike and credulous she becomes to me. It's hard to believe that she's probably killed a sufficient number of Tributes in the bloodbath. Her face isn't that of a murderer.
"Sure." I say happily, sitting down to join her.
"We should just sleep back at that tree." Marvel suggests.
"Are you insane? That tree could be a vending machine just full of tracker jackers, and we might as well be the coins that send 'em down!" Cato yells.
"It was just a suggestion!" Marvel yells back. "I highly doubt the Gamemakers would actually put two nests in one tree!"
"You never fucking know, Marvel, that's the point. These bastards just want us dead anyway!"
Marvel stays silent. He can't object, because it's so true. It really brings into focus how the Gamemakers don't care if you're a Career or an outlier - if you're in the arena, the odds just aren't in your favor.
"What about the place we camped out our first night here?" I suggest, zipping up the last backpack.
Cato considers it for a moment. "I guess we could do that, Loverboy. We'd just need to get there before nightfall. Which means we'll need to start hiking now."
Ugh. The last thing I want to do right now is walk on my sore foot. Wrapped in the stiff, bloody cast of my sock, I don't have the slightest idea what condition it's in. But since I'm mobile, I guess it'd be best to hurry to the camp site. Maybe then, I could analyze it.
"Isn't it like, a mile away?" Marvel whines.
Cato glares at him coldly. "You went through vigorous training for the Games since you were twelve. I'm sure you're going to live through one mile."
Marvel scowls, his arms crossed in contempt as Cato picks up a backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. "Not everyone has the kind of energy you have, Cato."
Cato picks up Marvel's spear, handing it to him forcefully. "Life's a bitch, Marvel."
Marvel rolls his eyes, grasping his spear tightly.
"Well," Cato says irritably, turning towards all of us. "Let's get moving."
Hesitantly, Clove and I try to politely ignore the growing animosity between the other two Tributes. We equip the two remaining take our first few steps toward the portion of the woods to the far left of the Cornucopia. The temperature is dropping, and the sky indicates that the day is reaching its stale hours of late afternoon. The pain in my foot is starting to become fairly bearable the more I walk on it. Still, the other Careers are moving at a faster pace a few feet ahead of me. From behind, I notice Cato's welts have diminished. Well, not completely, but they've certainly faded to a pinkish tone instead of brick red blotches. Marvel is slumped over, using his spear like a walking cane. If I didn't know better, I'd guess he was elderly or disabled. Clove is wiry and alert, her eyes fleeting nervously around the treetops. There's a disconcerted expression on her face, but everything she's looking at looks normal to me.
"Guys, do you hear that?" she asks us.
We pause, watching for any movements, and listening to the surroundings. Rustle, rustle, rustle. My heart picks up in pace. Cato and Marvel hold up their sword and spear, anticipating an attack. I guess I'm too scared to feel inadequate about not having my own trademark weapon right now. Rustle, rustle, rustle. The sound is becoming louder... Could it be another Tribute? Clove's thin face is contorted into a petrified gaze, directed at a bush a few yards left of Marvel. Catching sight of her expression, we expectantly watch the leaves of the bush shake and rattle. Finally, a plump possum crawls out from under the bush. I take a deep breath, settling down from the internal panic. Instinctively, Marvel spears the creature. I flinch. I seriously hate watching things get killed. Human or animal, it's never pleasant to see a creature become a carcass. But the others don't seem to mind.
"That scared me half to death." says Clove.
"Me too." I admit.
Despite his frustration, Cato smiles. "Well, at least we can use its meat. There wasn't any in the backpacks."
Marvel tends silently to the corpse, removing the spear from its side, and tucking it under his arm to carry it. We continue walking, hardly speaking a single word. Everyone seems pretty irritable, so it works much better for all of us to just keep our mouths shut. The sky is gradually fading into that eerie orange pigment again. Normally, I'd say sunset orange is my favorite color, but I'm not really enjoying it at the moment.
Brrr... The temperature is dropping drastically, and the occasional cool breeze feels more like a nipping blizzard wind. The goosebumps on my skin make me wish Cato would lend me his jacket again. I feel so much better whenever I have it on. It's almost like he's rubbed some of his strength off on it, because I feel unusually strong when that fabric drapes my arms and torso.
"Are we almost there, Cato?" Clove asks. I can tell she's trying to stay on his good side, tailoring her voice as to not sound whiny like Marvel.
Cato stops walking to look around the area, stretching out his arms. My gosh, he's ripped. The contour of his muscles are showing through the back of his jacket, and it's pretty distracting. Still, I look away the minute he turns around.
"Well, since we're all tired, I guess we can just camp out here." he says. "We'll set up the sleeping bags under that tree."
"But what about the sleeping shifts?" Marvel asks, his tone bitter and condescending.
"You're welcome to take the first." Cato grumbles.
Marvel sighs. "I've been through plenty today, no thanks."
Cato remains silent in a conversational stalemate. No one could disagree that Marvel is probably having a less than perfect day, having been stung by a tracker jacker, and losing his District partner.
"Fine, I'll do it." says Clove, hesitantly.
"Thank you, Clove. Really, thanks." Marvel says, sighing in relief. "But you'll have to cook the possum before it spoils."
"That's fine. It'll give me something to do while I'm just sitting there bored." she says, her soft smile finding its way back to her face.
"There's another problem too." Marvel begins.
"What's that?" she asks.
"There are only three sleeping bags, and four of us."
We all look at the ground for a moment, awkwardly avoiding eye contact with each other. My heart starts pounding in the same rhythm as when we found the possum. Half of me is letting my mind conjure up fantasies of what Cato's appealing body would feel like in such close quarters. But the other half is crossing my fingers, in hopes that I wouldn't have to find out. If I didn't already shame District Twelve by holding his hand and staring him down, sleeping with him would certainly do it.
"I want my own." Clove protests.
"Me too." Marvel follows quickly.
Finally, we all look up at one another. Clove and Marvel are staring at Cato and I, wearing the same glares from back at the Training Center when I threw the weight. Arrogant. Patronizing. But Cato doesn't seem to mind. Actually, his expression is docile. Finally, his eyes meet mine, and he casually shrugs.
Damnit.
"Alright, I guess we're sharing it, Loverboy." he says, pulling the thick polyester bag out of his backpack. All of us stare silently as he lays it on the ground, calmly, without the slightest dissent. How could he not mind? I can see my father, mother and brothers huddled around our small tube in the living room, grimacing and groaning in realizing that their son is basically going to spoon with another guy all night. Cato glances back at us, noticing that everyone's eyes are glued to him.
"What are you all staring at? Damnit, mind your own business!" he snaps.
I sit down, because I'm not sure what "business" I have to attend to. I watch Marvel unpack two sleeping bags, laying them out at a considerable distance away from ours. Clove gathers some of the pine brush on the ground, then rummages through one of the backpacks until she finds the matches. I watch her strike it across the sandpaper alongside the box, then carefully set the lit match down on the pile of branches. The fire begins to ignite at the ideal moment. The sun falls behind the horizon, reverting the sky to a dark blue. "Well, goodnight everyone. I'm going to bed." Marvel says, unzipping his sleeping bag and cocooning himself inside.
"And good riddance." Cato mumbles, under his breath. Clove picks up Marvel's spear, poking it once more through the animal. After skewering it, she lowers the handle so that the tips of the flame slightly brush the meat. She seems so adept, like she's been doing things like this her entire life. I hate to admit it, but I know Prim would have never lasted a mere hour here in the arena. Clove, resilient and handy, has survived this whole time without much difficulty at all. I guess I'm surprised at myself, too, because I expected to die on the first day here.
"Coming to bed, Loverboy?" Cato yawns from inside the sleeping bag. I realize that I was so occupied watching Clove I didn't even see him get inside.
"Yeah, I am." I say, getting up. "Good night, Clove."
"Good night."
Next to the sleeping bag, I take off my shoes, making the pain in my foot even more protrusive. I flinch the second I see the bloodied sock.
"You should probably take that sock off." Cato suggests. "If you don't, the wound could get infected."
"I guess."
I peel the crunchy piece of what used to be cotton off of my toes, then toss it on the ground. My foot has a thick scar that's scabbed over. I'm pleasantly surprised. The injury looks nowhere near as threatening as it feels.
"It doesn't look too terrible." says Cato, holding the sleeping bag open for me.
My face flushes again. Reluctantly, I climb inside, wriggling my feet down to the very bottom of the bag and sinking down.
"It still hurts like hell." I whisper.
The glow of the fire illuminates his face, reminding me just how handsome he is. I can feel his warmth circulating through the sleeping bag, and it feels so good. I shouldn't even be thinking about it, but the dream I had last night is replaying over and over again in my mind. Well, maybe not the entire dream. But definitely the part where he and I... kissed. My mouth is beginning to water, and I'm finding it hard to resist his lips. At the same time, I'm trying to read his face. He's staring slightly over my head, steadily watching Clove grill up the possum. His eyes are drooping, and his lips are lightly parted. He seems like he's got a lot on his mind, but I've got no idea what he must be thinking of. Thankfully, the Capitol anthem booms through the arena, offering my mind a good distraction. All of us, with the exception of an already snoring Marvel, turn our attention over to the seal in the sky. The only face to appear tonight is that of Glimmer. I'm glad that no one else has died today, but the projection was no more than ten seconds long. Some distraction. I turn over on my side, facing away from Cato. Maybe that will ease my concupiscent thoughts. I am pretty tired, after all. I'll just try to fall asleep quickly as possible. But within seconds, I feel him squirming around behind me, tugging the fabric around my body. What the hell is he doing?
"Hey, do you want a pillow?" he asks.
I turn around. He's taken his jacket off, and rolled it into a ball the size of my head.
"Oh, yes, thanks." I say, nonchalantly taking the jacket and tucking it under my head. I beam to myself. He crosses his arms under his head, creating a pillow for himself. Resting your head on the rocky soil is never a comfortable thing.
"Good night, Cato." I whisper.
He yawns. "Good night, Loverboy."
My senses drink in the atmosphere of the night. The only sound I hear is the crackling and occasional squealing of Clove's bonfire. No screams, no slashing of weapons, and no sounds of death. It's peacefully quiet. The plumes of smoke and pine needles from the fire tickle my nose. It's a strong scent, but refreshing at the same time. I sink my face into the makeshift pillow. The cigarette smell has worn off of it. Maybe that's why he's so agitated lately. From what I hear, nicotine's a tough habit to break, and he might just be having withdrawals. But speaking of breaking habits, I really wish he'd stop calling me Loverboy. I don't care if it's a nickname, a pet name, or whatever - I don't "love" Katniss like I said I did. Then again, maybe it's for the best that the rest of Panem is convinced that I do. It's a good cover up for these twisted emotions I've been feeling today. Like how I'm noticing that his heartbeat is gently impressing itself on my back, or how good his warm breath feels on the nape of my neck. I really need to release these feelings somehow. But how? Definitely nothing dirty. I can think of a million ways to appease myself that way, but only a single decent idea forms in my mind. Trying to block out my knowledge of the bubbling, fuming judgement that's traveling from Twelve all the way over here, I glance discreetly over my shoulder. His eyes are closed, his facial muscles appear relaxed, and he's breathing through his mouth. He's probably asleep. Good. I brush my hand softly against his, inconspicuously as possible. Finding it rested on his hip, I lie my hand curiously over it, letting my fingers fill the spaces between his. I smile to myself. I doubt there are any cameras inside of our sleeping bag, so I'm safe from the public eye. I love this feeling of having someone so close to me, sleeping by my side. It's so refreshing, this feeling of security. It's almost like the shadow of death isn't hanging over my head right now. The moment feels so perfect, I can't help but enjoy and savor it. It could be the first and last time I'll ever experience it.
And... I'm not entirely sure if I'm dreaming or not, but I almost feel his fingers enclose around mine.
