CHAPTER 11: 6:00
As could be expected, Peeta was brilliant with a paint brush. Frighteningly so, since, unlike Clove and her peaceful landscapes, he painted the violence of the arena, and nothing else.
He rendered, in painstaking detail, his dramatic rescue from the riverbank by Katniss, the blood covered field that surrounded the Cornucopia following the bloodbath, and even his time with the Careers. Cato's breath was taken away over and over by the immediacy of the paintings – as if each subject was trapped in a moment in time, and might come to life and leap from their canvas as if no time had passed since their capture.
There was a particular portrait of Clove with her coat open, lips pursed in concentration, sorting through her knives that brought Cato a distinct chill down his spine. The way the sun caught in her hair, betraying the streaks of brown that were nearly invisible in all but direct sunlight; The look in her intelligent eyes was so real it made Cato give the painting a wide breadth. He didn't want to see Clove, didn't want to see the sprinkling of freckles on her nose, the way her ears stuck out a little too far from her head; He didn't want to remember, in all her complex and vivid detail, his best friend. It made him miss her too much.
Just as painful as Clove's presence in the apartment, but for a much different reason, was the sheer multitude of portraits of the Girl on Fire, looking strong, beautiful, and benevolent, as Cato knew Peeta must see her - as he knew Peeta loved her.
Peeta missed her, as Cato himself missed Clove, but more, he imagined. The thought made him too angry to consider as more than a fleeting curiosity.
Cato was awful at painting, as he knew he would be. He covered entire canvases in swirling vibrant colors, rendering no subject at all. Peeta liked them, but Cato gave up after about a week. Painting was like meditating on canvas, but Cato didn't like sharing the contents of his heart and his mind, so he opted to lay his paintbrush down. More canvases for Peeta's work, he figured. That's what the Capitol had given them the art supplies for anyway.
It seemed the more paintings there were, the less there was to say between Cato and Peeta. How could they speak with so many ghosts listening? The presence of the portraits was just a reminder of lucky they were to have made it through. Or perhaps how unlucky. The painting reminded them of how they'd been at odds in the arena, how, perhaps, if the other had not survived so long, they wouldn't have to miss their District Partners at all. Only each other.
This thought brought little comfort, of course. Nothing brought them much comfort, not with the Victory Tour so close now. Just another day, and Peeta would be on a train touring the Districts, and Cato would be… where? Moving to their new living arrangements? Stuck in the apartment alone for the 3 weeks spanned by the tour? Dead?
This last option Cato had not discussed with Peeta. He didn't want to upset the boy, but he thought it was at least a possibility. There was no point in telling Peeta, it's not as if either of them could stop it if the Capitol decided they wanted Cato dead. He would be dead. No point in worrying Peeta, especially since there was no way to know if that was even a possibility.
Neither knew what was to happen on the tour, or after, and both were far beyond speculating, at least out loud. There was only each day, and each other, and the paintings - the ghosts.
Cato couldn't help but study each face, each drop of blood, each raw brush stroke, as he helped Peeta pack up the paintings for the tour. Since the paintings were Peeta's talent, they would be shown on the tour. Cato wondered if the Capitol would find these appropriate. They usually liked the Victor's talent to seem as if their life had moved beyond the Games, onto bigger and better things. Peeta's talent, while incredible, made it clear that he had not done so.
Painting seemed to really help Peeta deal with his feelings about the things that happened in the Arena. He was having fewer nightmares, and painted the Arena from his perspective, not the Capitol's glorified, processed vision. It was gritty, and desperate, and sad. No, Cato got the feeling that the Capitol wouldn't be too pleased with Peeta's talent.
Cato had noticed a suspicious lack of renderings of himself in Peeta's work – he could be seen in the background of a few paintings of the Career Pack, facing away, fading, a ghost himself. He hadn't asked Peeta about it yet.
"Why-," Cato's voice faltered, as he ran his fingers over one of the few images of himself, "Didn't you paint me more?"
Peeta's patient sigh gave Cato the impression that he may have been expecting this question.
"I'm surprised it took you so long to ask." Peeta tenderly set the painting he was packing down and turned to Cato. He was cross-legged, hair messy, and looking sad, as always.
Cato was crouched, and settled back down onto the floor to assume a more comfortable position. "I didn't want to impose."
"Impose?" Peeta gave his hair a toss, and laughed. "On what, exactly?"
"Your…," Cato coughed, awkwardly, "Feelings… your privacy; I don't know. Your right to paint whatever you want."
"My privacy?" Peeta laughed even harder. Cato looked at his feet. He was bad at talking about his feelings, Peeta knew that. He couldn't just say that it made him jealous, all the paintings of Katniss Everdeen. He couldn't admit that his feelings were hurt. What did Peeta expect him to say?
Peeta scooted into his line of sight, downwardly directed as it was. Peeta's face ducked into his view, an odd sort of smirk on his face. Cato followed Peeta's head back up with his eyes. Peeta reached out for Cato's wrist, and set his hand on it, gently. "I don't have any secrets from you. You can ask me anything."
Cato studied his face, his blonde swoop of hair, and downwards, to his lean arms, his broad shoulders, and finally back up to his warm, open smile. Peeta's voice, smooth as honey, urged him, "So ask me."
Cato shook his head, as if trying to clear the rush of blood to his cheeks. "I just- You painted the Girl on Fire and- everyone else… but not me. Not really. Why not?"
Peeta grew silent, and assumed the slightly furrowed brow Cato had come to recognize as him collecting his thoughts.
Cato waited. He had been taught patience at a very young age. It was lucky he had mastered it so completely, or the past few months might have actually killed him. Peeta always thought things through completely before he spoke. Sometimes it took days.
Luckily, now was not one of those times. Peeta found his words, and spoke them, plainly, "Is this about me and you, or is it about me and Katniss?"
Peeta's answer brought Cato up short. He hadn't thought of these things as separate before. "Can't it be about both?"
Peeta gave another sigh, this time, less patient, "I've decided that it's better if they're different."
Cato's face flushed again, this time from anger, "How so?!" He cringed at his own demanding tone.
"How I feel about you… it's different from the way I loved Katniss."
"Right, because you don't love me at all," Cato snapped. As usual, Peeta managed to push him into sounding like a complete idiot - a vulnerable, worthless idiot.
Peeta's face was unreadable. He looked a little shocked, his mouth hanging slightly open, as if he wanted to say something, his eyes wide, and his brows furrowed. Cato couldn't really think of a recovery statement, or a retreat strategy, and so he sat, and tried to be patient.
Peeta closed his mouth, and furrowed his brow, and for good measure went about chewing his lip – collecting his thoughts.
To quell his restlessness, Cato stood, and continued wrapping the paintings and packing them in the crates in which they would be loaded onto the train. Peeta stayed still as a statue in the middle of the room, crossed legged, hair messy, slightly sad, like always.
Cato put away the ghosts, which had made their little life feel claustrophobic. Once they were packed, their faces once again lingering memories, their absence made things feel empty instead. Cato looked around Peeta's bedroom, in which he had painted his masterpieces, now bare, desolate.
With nothing left to do but wait, Cato moved opposite Peeta, crouched, and watched him collect his thoughts.
Hours passed, the lights dimmed, and still they sat.
At some point around about 4 in the morning, Peeta gave a heartbreaking laugh, helpless, as he asked Cato, "How long are you going to wait for me?"
"As long as it takes." Cato stared into his eyes, blue, and beautiful. He hoped that Peeta could see that behind his eyes, there was a real person, with thoughts and feelings that his clumsy words simply weren't capable of expressing. Cato meant this statement on a broader scale than just tonight. He meant it in regards to the tour, in regards to sex, in regards to forever. All this he tried to say with his eyes, as his lips were mute to say how much he cared about Peeta Mellark. Cato held Peeta's gaze until it turned back inwards, and the boy continued sorting his thoughts.
It was still early morning, just before the lights would come back to full power, when Peeta finally said, "Yes I do."
"What?" Cato hadn't expected anything so vague. Usually Peeta was so eloquent. Clearly, his words were meant to be a rebuttal to what Cato had said, but it had been so long since he'd said it, and his thoughts were hazy. He couldn't remember what his exact wording had been. Peeta did… what?
"I do love you." Peeta's face was serious. "Yes, it's different from the way I loved Katniss, but you can't fault me for that. I'm sure the way you feel for me is different from the way you felt for Clove, too. Love isn't finite."
"I didn't love Clove." Cato's voice betrayed his exhaustion.
"Not the way you love me, but you did love her. You told me she was your best friend."
"I don't- I never said that I… about you, I mean-," Cato was panicking. He didn't like talking about this right before Peeta left. It seemed like no good could come of this conversation. All they were doing was giving the Capitol something to use against them. Saying how they felt about each other would only invite further punishment.
"You don't have to say it." Peeta's voice was gentle, but he sounded disappointed.
"I- I can't-," Cato wasn't even sure what he was trying to say.
"You don't have to say it." Peeta's voice was firmer.
"I'm sorry," was all Cato could choke out. His head fell to rest against his chest. He couldn't look at Peeta; this was all just too much.
He thought they were doomed to silence again until Peeta's voice reached him, lilting seductively, "You don't have to say it… if you show me."
Cato looked up at Peeta, confused. Peeta had stood up and was walking towards his bed.
"What are you-?" Cato stopped wondering what Peeta meant mid-sentence, when the boy removed his shirt.
"I know you don't have to words to tell me how you feel," Peeta turned, the dim light casting soft shadows on his naked chest. "I believe that someday, you'll find them. Until then, I want you to show me. Give me a piece of you to take on this tour with me, so I don't have to feel alone."
Cato rose to his feet and moved to Peeta. As he did, he dropped his pants and removed his shirt. He reached out, taking Peeta's face in both his hands and kissing him deeply. Peeta was right; Cato's actions had always spoken louder than his words. As Peeta's arms wrapped around the small of Cato's back, and their bare chests made contact. Cato's body was ablaze, encompassed by the familiar flames which could only be quelled by Peeta – his skin, his breath, his beating heart. Cato wanted them all, and so he took them.
It was difficult for him to stay in control, to be gentle enough with Peeta. With each moan, and each sigh, and each ragged whisper of his name, Cato could feel the rush of his blood underneath his skin, burning for Peeta. He took care to go slowly, and to listen when Peeta said, "Wait."
They were a tangle of limbs, united in their breath, their heartbeats. They explored each other, memorizing each and every inch of the other's body, learning to make each other tick, and hiss, and cry out. It was like nothing Cato had ever experienced – bliss, wholeness, wanting so badly to progress, but also, needing to stay, to savor each moment.
When it came time for Cato to thrust into Peeta, both boys were almost giddy in their euphoria, quivering with the anticipation of what was to come. Cato's arm wrapped tightly around Peeta's chest, and his other around the boys hips. He buried his lips in Peeta's hair, jaw quivering as he whispered, hoarsely, "Are you ready?"
"Yes."
Peeta's reply had barely passed his lips before Cato buried himself inside Peeta, who cried out in pleasure, and a bit of pain. His body tensed, and he gripped the sheets with his hands. Cato held him as he writhed, letting out his breath in a sort of hiss between his clenched teeth.
It was a raw, animal sort of feeling, being this close to someone. When Peeta's tense muscles relaxed, Cato began to move inside him. Slowly, and carefully at first, but gaining momentum as the pressure that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at the same time began to build, to urge him, faster, deeper.
Peeta cried Cato's name, and grabbed his hand. Peeta held on so tightly that Cato knew he must be feeling the same pressure – the same need for release. When finally they climaxed, fireworks seemed to explode behind his eyelids, and Cato was convinced for just a moment that maybe he had died. Just between the apex of the pressure and the waves of pleasure there was an instant of nothing; of absolutely nothing.
He heard himself choking on his own breath as the world began to swim back into focus. Peeta, too, was gasping for air. Once the aftershocks had ended, and both boys were finally still and had caught their breaths, Cato pulled Peeta to him and kissed his forehead, gently.
There were no words. There were only the ghosts, and impending day that would bring Peeta's departure and Cato's uncertain future.
The lights came up.
6:00.
