It's true what they say about the Capitol, you know. A city that never sleeps.

It's only just breaking into a lilac half-light when her eyes open, but rolling on the back of the open window she can hear the insane mishmash of yells and cheers. Down in the city circle, the false-deities lose their ballads and their lip-mouths and illuminate the way with lighters and all sorts of colours. This place, and indeed all of it's people are too much, too heavy and too stifling. Clove comes from the most affluent section of two, and while that as a reputation of it's own for being flamboyant and enduring, It's nothing in comparison.

In the dim, she turns onto her side and wonders if any of them sleep, or if they have solved the problem of needing together. It makes her so angry, so furious to see these women, with their airy, idle chats and their frivolous laughter and an appetite only for the most unholy host of powders and pills. They all live so fast and die so young, so tragically. Those kind of girls aren't anybody's daughters, that's for sure.

You can see it in the victors here, especially the morphlings from six, this pair of shrivelled beings that speak volumes of waste. They got pulled in by the glitz, only to be made fools by bait and switch.

What of Peeta, from 12, the District of poverty and negligence? Clove knows, somehow, that he has a weakness for beauty, that for all of his depth, the diamonds here shine bright enough to hook him, and pull him under the vast, iron sea. It's almost relieving, in a dark way, to know that won't be a problem. Not really.

Cato has to win. He has to win, and Peeta has to die for that to happen. Clove was done crying a long time ago. She's over it.

Still, they're screaming out there. Baying for blood and marching on the spot like pretty marionettes. She can't sleep at all like this, it's quite impossible. It's not just that of course, it's all of it, the heat of the season and the imminence of the Games and the youth, that terrible, infinite youth all over Cato's features when he sleeps and the knowledge that she could lose him, lose Peeta, lose her mind, in one fell swoop. No position is comfortable.

She shoots up in bed and looks around. The gadgetry is confusing and grand, and Clove doesn't need the clock on her wall, the one she hears in her dreams that laughs in her face, telling her the time. What's today? Everybody knows it.

Clove remembers last year. A score of ten, the same as Cato. And he had been so proud, and he had been so smug and above it all. Then, when they were alone together, he didn't dare touch her, but said he was glad, really, and that if anybody else was going to win, he wanted it be Clove. Not Girl on Fire, or Marvel, or anybody else.

(At the time, he was said insistently that she needed to win, to bring pride to their District. Clove knew, even at the time, that what Cato was trying to say, in his own obscure and roundabout way was that he wanted her safe, and that he did not want to kill her at all.

But Cato said it was all about pride. And that's the only excuse Clove had him give. )

Clove likes winter more than summer. She feels too hot in the sheets, and sticky, unclean, like she could rub her skin raw red of all of this vaingloriousness and still not be uncontaminated ever again. This place is full of toxins, and evils. Villainy wears many masks, perhaps the worst being virtue.

One more look at Cato and she's done for. Without remorse or hesitation, she gets up and flees, as literal as one can be when stiff and rheumatic from sleep. Clove doesn't want to go far at all. Instead, she thinks of the rain, she misses it. Instead of opting for the sounds of the city, or the cold air, she goes into the bathroom and closes the door.

The place is full of mirrors. Even behind the frosted glass of the shower, there are mirrors. Vanity is a strange thing. Clove has never cared too much, she prefers to use manipulation of emotions than skate by using looks, but, like anyone, she likes to feel beautiful. She likes feel desirable, even, and Clove doesn't look at her reflection because she doesn't want to see. It's a horrible feeling, doubt, and it can't be ignored, either. Clove can't just pretend she thinks Cato finds her beautiful.

The sun has yet to rise and help her to see clearly whatever they have become, lucky or otherwise, beautiful or ugly or broken or what have you. Clove steps under the stream of water that's blood-warm and heating up quickly. It's brave to try to be happy, just like Peeta says. To get out of the shape of misery, and just let the water wash anything away. She thinks about him for a second, how she'll always remember him, sitting across the room, with this smile, so knowing and masterful, so sure that his opinions were law. And they were, when it came to the redemption of the water.

(Cato isn't at all like that. He always says how water is a waste of a perfectly good glass, and then he'll go through the process of drinking, making mistakes, and pretending he doesn't remember. Then drinking a little more.)

Her hair falls heavy and drips down her left shoulder. She unties to plait absently. Peeta was always fascinated by the style; he said It reminded him of a friend. Clove knows she has started to refer to him in the past tense, did, had, was. He still is. Too young, and so slight, impossibly large and infinite and will be forgotten so quickly. The thought of Peeta, standing in that gymnasium, trying to impress the Gamemakers, seems almost impossible. She thinks of the Games, and then Peeta, separate. And then she thinks of the boy and his ideas and his loveliness, and she cannot divorce Peeta as a soul from his appearance.

So caught up in thought about him, when she feels a rush of sudden cold air, Clove is horrified.

"What are you doing?" Her voice only conveys the unmitigated shock, and she turns, giving Cato a view of her spine and nothing more. When he gives her a small chuckle, she turns and looks over her shoulder. "You're not allowed to just hop in,"

That stupid, incorrigible man with his stupid smile, says otherwise, and he just wanders in under the jet, still in in a shirt, and underwear. "Who says?" The voice bleeds through the steam and laughs on the surface of the mirrors. Clove can't stand him here, seeing her like this. She doesn't do vulnerability. At least when they fuck, when she cries out his name and bites his shoulder, they're equals, they're both as human as in need as eachother. Here, he as the advantage, and she wants to peel back his skin, have him try to understand how it feels inside.

But she doesn't do that. She keeps herself still, and she keeps her eyes on the floor, even when he puts his arms around her.

"They didn't exactly encourage us palling around together last year," She says, wistfully. It's not something they talk about an awful lot, though. It's just something that happened. Clove can barely recall the blur of interviews and Districts. Truth is, she doesn't want to.

Cato doesn't let go of her. " That was back when we were supposed to kill eachother, darling," He says, far too casually. They were never enemies. At least, not in her memory at all. Now? Who knows where they stand? "Besides," He grins. "I'm about to fight to the death, and you're already pregnant. There aren't an awful lot of shenanigans we can get up to,"

Clove snorts. "What?" His arms shift around her, as if annoyed.

"Shenanigans," She mumbles. "You're full of it," She elbows out of his grip and turns with a dramatic roll of her hips to face the wall of bottles, her heavy rope of hair switching shoulder and catching Cato on the arm. He lets her up, pushing the heir out of his face that has begun to droop, heavy with water. The blonde has gone all mousy. She takes a mental picture at the same time as she tries to make out like she's comfortable here, under his gaze. "Now get out of my damn shower,"

"I told Peeta," Suddenly, the water feels so much colder. The steam feels cumbersome and heavy, no longer dancing fancy pirouettes on the mirrors or diving off the deep end of a Capitol cigar, but dense and eerie, like the graveyard clouds.

"Told him what?" Clove manages. Cato blinks the water from his yes.

"I told him about helping him to win. If I can't," Clove shouldn't have to hear that. She shouldn't have to figure what she'll do if he goes. Because she'll have to watch, helplessly, counting the kicks from her (pale, blonde) daughter between thoughts of the enemy, of Peeta. Instead of saying anything, Clove stays motionless.

"What did he say?"

Cato smiles. "You're looking a little flushed, sweetheart, maybe you should sit down," But he can never just le it lie. As if she wasn't embarrassed enough, but he finds the nerve to lean over and take her face with the side of his hand. Clove bats him away.

"You can still drown in three inches of water," She says, tiredly. If only she had stirred softer, or more quietly, or thought to shower with a shirt on. To have herself his for devouring is scary. And what if Cato finds her ugly? She doesn't know what she'll do if he leaves her, if he makes a fool of her again.

"I'm serious," Cato says, in an oddly [playful tone, which in itself seems oxymoronic. He gets closer, eye-to-eye and reads over the volume of her face. "You're blushing," He says, very quietly. Clove makes an inhuman noise that's supposed to be laughter.

"I never blushed in my whole damn life," Clove tells him, fiercely. But she has blushed, and right now, under his scrutiny. The white of his shirt is seer and it makes her mad and sick in the night to see his skin, the form of a perfect physical specimen. Still, he's looking like he knows exactly what he sees, and nothing is more terrifying. God, would she miss him. Cato is stupid and foolish and arrogant and as necessary to life as oxygen. "What're you looking like that for?"

Cato says nothing. She realises he's trying to memorise her face.

"It's no good," She tells him in a mumble. "I'm not like Glimmer was. Pretty." She shrugs. "At least, not up close,"

"Clove-"

"Save it," She says, as if to finalise things, and pulls away, going back to her water and her reveries and all of the silent nightmares that she cannot share. "Dry off," And for once in all the time that Clove has known him and hated him and loved him and been embarrassed in front of him, the rarest of them all, he complies, without any argument.

Clove watches him go, and how young is he? On the cusp of nineteen. A few weeks from it, and would they have him justify why they should keep him here? Clove feels herself grow angry when she thinks about the others begging Sponsors, taking money when they have no reason for it. Cato has a reason for life, he had a future, and he has promises to keep, one especially. Crucified Christ, she steadies herself against the tile and wonders how in God's name she could do any of it alone.

For a very long time she stand under the water, and tries to let it redeem her. It's just like Peeta says, because he always seems to be right. If this really is the end of the world, she's going to need to confess her sins.

They eat breakfast in their bedroom, away from the stylists and escorts, and from Cato's District partner, Delysia. Clove remembers the woman's face, and the flicker of hope when Clove has sobbed, in front of all of them, had begged to volunteer. Nobody listened, and she's tired of it, why won't they listen to her when she swears she's doing what's best?

"You have about an hour and a half," Clove says to him, carefully, when she's laying on her back and staring up at the ceiling. Colour and sunlight try to enter the room, but are halted at the blinds and frisked. Neither of them are ready to face up to the day, and its challenges. Each minute means the Games are closer and hungrier and even more real.

Cato's voice sounds very small. "What should I do?"

So she rests her head against his heart to assure herself that he must feel because she can heart it beating, pumping sentiment around his body. "Make them remember you,"

He makes a noise of frustration. "How?"

"Don't pick a sword," Right away, Clove has the answer. Cato is sure he loves her, eve for that. She's cleverer than people will ever know. Cato is a fool, and he rushes where somebody as wise as Clove would never go, but wisdom means never to fall in love, so she cannot be so wise. "Don't pick up a weapon." It's in the way that Clove looks at him. She wraps a hand around his, crushing his fingers against eachother, in demand.

"Hold them accountable," She says quietly. "For something you've lost, or something you'll lose,"

They both know what she means.

And so, when Cato waits in the wing, wound up tighter than the clock-face, the idea comes to him suddenly, as he puzzles over weaponry. He thinks of knives, and then remembers, feels foolish, but remembers some strange, unimportant even that seems to make all of the difference now. In the Capitol they stop the presses when Finnick Odair or somebody similar hints roundly at a lover, but there's no justice for the other names, for the blood of the innocent. Cato knows he was lucky to make it out alive the first time.

But nobody Is a victor by chance.

He goes in with his imperiousness surgically attached, for it wouldn't do to seem nervous. Cato doesn't do nervous, he does arrogance and smirking. He must look so relaxed and cool to the watching Gamemakers, most of whom he recognises from last year, and one or two that are unfamiliar. They loaf around and talk idly, with their eyes on the tribute set to impress, and with their eyes they are chewing Cato up and spitting him out. He pulls a smooth smile. Somebody from the small audience speaks up. "Cato Almasy, District 2,"

And then he is alone.

To start with, Cato finds himself the goriest red dye, and slathers the end of a spear with it, until the thing looks fresh from a grievous murder. He throws it across the gym into a small, harmless dummy, that he proceeds to paint with red and bits of pulp. The wound looks very realistic, actually. He's almost proud. They have a few scraps of clothes for past arena at camouflage, which he uses the dress the dummy with. He half-zips the jacket up by the wound and lays the thing in the middle of the floor, for the Gamemakers to see.

Then, thinking of Clove in death's stead, he selects as many of the plants and flowers as he can, ones that aren't harmful or deadly-looking. Time isn't his friend here, and Cato starts to hurry himself, going back to the dummy, and beginning to dress the thing in vibrant shades of green and lilac and magnolia. Wreaths bunch round the face and hands and body, framing the thing, making it seem beautiful. None of this he agonises over too much.

Then Cato finds the softer paints, and while he has ever had gentle hands or been much for visuals at all, he forces himself to take time, and I mean precision with every detail, painting the thing with dark skin and dark eyes and lips, for her lips were parted just-so, she could have been sleeping if it were not for the wound.

Resting beneath her hands, he lays in plain sight a small, twisted gladius. It glimmers up t the Gamemakers, not coy, but mourning. Shooting back the reflections of them in vast fabrics with good food, for the first time blamed for something, anything. Around her, he feels the need to use words, because the image rendered does not say explicitly how he feels, and they need to know, they will be made to know that these are not Games.

He chooses the darkest black paint and tries to think of something clever, and something philosophical and metaphorical, that Peeta or maybe even Clove would say. They always have the right words and feelings. Cato only has his brutality, being neglected by this last stand in remembering. Solidarity amongst those who went under. The time is slipping fast away and he knows he isn't brilliant or metaphorical, he has to be honest. The words have to mean something everywhere.

With the fingers, he finally writes. It takes many minutes to manage those four words.

"For your viewing pleasure," He says, with a dramatic bow, before heading out, away from their stares of knowing, and confusion, and wondering what it all means. He has done all that he could with Clove's advice, and even if he's afraid of getting a 0, he wonders if it's possible to manage a 12. The room is silent as eh leaves. Whatever Gloss, or Cashmere, or even Delysia had mustered up until this point, Cato knows he has blown it out of the water with just four words.

Above the flowers, in black paint: 'She took my knife.'

Cato feels somehow better. As if he has gone to confession and vomited up his emotional crises and eels empty, refreshed, and lighter. He takes the elevator up to his floor and hurries to Clove, telling her every detail, from how she looked asleep, to the words around the dummy, each word more on fire than Katniss ever was. And when he's done, Clove swallows.

"Why Rue?" She asks in a tiny voice. Cato feels his chest swell with pride.

"I want them to know it wasn't Marvel that killed that girl. Not really,"

Clove lets out a bout of nervous laughter and flashes him a trepidatious smile. "You sure better hope they like metaphors,"

It isn't the last, either.

Much later in the day, the reply comes. A small, impossibly plain boy from 12 steps into the light, the same on that scuffled with a Career, and stood there looking too sure of things to be a tribute. You wouldn't recognise him as the Surplus, or the Baker, or even the canary. And for the moment, he isn't. The boy fetches paints and dyes, and a large piece of canvas to paint on. No knives or bows or maces. Not fit for the Capitol's audience, swaying with bloodlust and want for violence. Something more dangerous. Conspiratorial, even.

Peeta isn't like Cato. His hands are small and delicate and he has a sensitivity for colour and shape. There' so nerves of confidence. He seems wholly absorbed in the movement of his hands, trying to get a just-so shade of shadow or a more realistic eye colour. The small audience are sceptical at first. They have seen this before, no doubt, but with Rue's name refreshed in their minds and all of other Cato's implications, it almost seems weak. Unoriginal. The finished product is always the final word.

I wish I could say Peeta paints the Capitol in a nice way, or that it's easy to look at, easy to sympathise with. I wish I could say the metaphor wasn't dark, and that somewhere deep In the picture is a buried montage of Katniss with red. Ugly colours and symbols are used. Inferences are made that are not nice or pretty. And Peeta is too absorbed to realise this will hurt him. This spark of rebellion will be contained and systematically extinguished.

In itself, the picture is a mass of bodies, all of fallen tributes, of Thresh, and Oscar Verbinius, and Glimmer and Katniss, most of all, stacked high into the shape of a mountain. At the top of the mountain, in the distance a blood-red sun hangs, with the emblem of the capitol burnt onto it's face. The gore and mud and forest makes the piece feel claustrophobic and haunting, as if the trees themselves are bleeding, as if the place is burning.

And at the top of the pile of bodies is a single character, easily distinguishable, staring out at the blood-red sun and the product of massacre. Peeta's love. Not Katniss, but the other one, untouched by the Games, and kept safe from harm. Peeta leaves them with more writing, but no words.

'It's a beautiful day.'