.

—-—-—

amity

—-—-—

Mallen stumbles, caught unbalanced between her feet while Iona lunges forward.

She catches herself, bracing her weapon against the edge of Iona's blade, her teeth gritted. Iona's face is lifted in a permanent snarl. She doesn't waste any more time than she has to sizing Mallen up, just strikes— unrelenting, punishing.

Next to me, Cas is still and attentive. Tension lingers at the head of his spine, his neck still rigid from the head injury that's kept him sidelined for the last two weeks. He leans against his elbows, trying to ease the fatigue in his back from sitting up for so long. I fight the urge to hit him in the shoulder just so he'll cave and relax for a moment.

Urban mumbles some pointers to the two girls, imperceptible even though they're the closest pairing to Cas and me. In fact, Avari's grunts, the impact of her blade against Denali's left bicep— only a dull blow, given the skins we're wearing up to our necks, but still significant enough to invoke bruising— come through clearer than any of Urban's words.

I tuck my notebook back under my legs. No use taking pointers if I can't hear them.

"She's doing well," I say to Cas instead. "Avari is."

His eyes track her movements now, the interconnection of power and control she orchestrates between her limbs. "She always is."

Avari's face is wiped of fatigue, emotion, any direction that might give Denali a leg up. I remember our first months with Nell, Avari would never stop grinning whenever she beat somebody, the same way I couldn't help my smiling after winning foot races around the Atheneum's hills. By Fourteens, of course, she'd had the habit beaten out of her, but she didn't stop winning. Still hasn't. Knowing how hard she works, I should be more respectful, but part of me honestly resents that my fingers are still bound together, bruised and rigid, while hers clutch at a sword she's had an extra two weeks of practice with. I'm used to injuries being my own fault; that's a frustration I know how to handle. It's more difficult to know where to direct my resentment when someone else is, to some extent, at fault.

I hate being helpless, too. Even more so by Avari's doing.

I stretch my hand, cautiously feeling my three fingers push against the boundaries Rhodes' latest tape job has given them. Cas watches my hand, his eyebrows slightly bowing. "Do they hurt?"

"Not so bad today," I say. "I just… same as you, I would much rather be over there practicing with Avari than saying how good she's doing. You know?"

Cas meets my eyes. "Yeah. I get it. Especially— it's extra frustrating, isn't it? That she…"

"What?" I say.

"If you're being honest— and you don't have to tell me, honestly, I'm just— I mean, do you really think it was an accident?"

I frown. "You're asking me? You know her better."

"I know. But you were there, I wasn't."

"Do you really want me to talk badly about her?" I say, shifting onto my hands, careful to avoid the most tender part of my fingers. "You're her friend, too."

"No, I'm not trying to— of course, I'm her friend. It's just…" He trails off, watching her swing at Denali. "I mean, you know how my parents feel about her. I can still be her friend and also, sort of, question the way she's acting. Especially if it's towards someone else I care about."

I sigh, rolling my shoulders back. I practically expect my back to seize up as I do, but this isn't Fourteens, and Urban isn't Akello. In the heat of the moment, no doubt Avari had just been reacting to my own attempts to injure her— and, yes, I had been trying to hurt her. Of course, I wasn't innocent, either. The difference lay in her positioning, her power, and the aftermath. I'd just been trying to get her off of me. She'd explicitly been trying to hurt me.

For what it's worth, though, I truly don't think she meant to injure me to the point I'd miss training. Not only did she genuinely seem sorry, but what does she gain from my being hurt? It's not like I've ever held a candle to her fighting abilities. The last time I was hurt in her presence, she was first in our class, and I was lucky to be at the very precipice of the top twenty of us. Seventh is an achievement by comparison, but not when that comparison is her.

Besides, didn't Eliska tell me that it was only a matter of time before I broke something, given the way I was eating when I first met with her? I've been better, but every time I see her she seems just a bit disappointed in my weight and stature and the way my cycle still hasn't evened out. So how can I even be sure Avari was the one at fault?

"She didn't mean to break my fingers," I say. "We were both trying to hurt each other. Given the circumstances, that's not exactly surprising."

"I know. But you have to put a lot of strength behind it… it just seems like it would be really difficult to do by accident."

"Cas," I say, my voice colder than I intend. "Can we please just drop it?"

"Sorry," he says, and goes quiet. But I can tell he's still watching her critically, just as I am, silently judging the way she batters Denali, then Martina, even Mallen as our peers cycle between partners. Every few minutes, she glances over. At him, I assume, until I catch her staring right at me as she readies herself against Mallen, shifting her hips back, her knees yielding to a more athletic stance.

No matter who I watch— Tarq cracking a spear against Sep's shoulder, Torin doing a far more effective job against Elissa by staying on his feet— whenever I return to watching Avari, it's only a matter of time before she checks in on me, too. I'm reminded of Cavara, a pinch of guilt nagging at my stomach for never recognizing that it was always meant to be a kind gesture. Except I'd be foolish to assume Avari's only intent is concern for me. If anything, she's worried for herself. I'm resentful towards her, then towards myself for even thinking about it, until as soon as the session lets out, Avari comes straight for me.

Cas has already gotten to his feet to retrieve his things from the cubbies. I smile softly at Avari, already tense. "Hey."

"Hi," she says. "Sorry if this is too forward, but can I ask what you and Cas were talking about? And don't say it had nothing to do with me, because I know you both were watching me."

Her ponytail is slicked back, sweat keeping her hair back and neat against her scalp, her long, straight ponytail hanging tall above her neck. Her fingers curl against her hips, rigid like talons, like given the chance they'd claw anyone who wronged her to shreds, or at the very least snap a few fingers.

My tongue is slack against my teeth. I've never been a good liar, and frankly, I know better than to try. "Honestly, we were saying how well you were doing," I say, watching her eyes, so unwavering against mine, track my features for signs of malice. "And then… just about how you broke my fingers. That's all."

Avari frowns. "What about that? Just that I did? Or that I tried to? Because you know I didn't mean to."

"I know," I say quickly.

"I didn't want to break your fingers. You just hurt me. So I retaliated."

"I know," I say, my eyes seeking Cas as he lifts his pack over his shoulder. But this isn't a situation where I want him to come to my rescue. As if he could. "And I'm sorry, because I was just trying to get you off of me. You know that, too."

"But it was useless," she says. "You had to know you couldn't. And you tried, anyway."

"Yeah, because I wasn't just going to give up if there was a chance," I counter, irritated. "Is that seriously what you're mad at me about?"

She scoffs, her lips splitting so pointedly it sends a flicker of fire down my arms. "I'm not still mad at you, if that's what you're asking. But if you're going to act like I'm the only person who did something wrong, then maybe I might be."

"That's not what I'm saying," I say, fighting to keep my voice low. "Look, that was one session. The only reason we even brought it up was because my fingers are still broken, by the way. And I've said I'm sorry, but it's not like you even had to miss a session because I kicked you or whatever I even did. Whether or not you meant it, it's just objectively shitty that it happened."

Avari smooths her hair back along her head, as if this very conversation is making her frazzled. "You know I'm sorry, Scout. Okay? That's all I can say. You don't have to believe me, but I am."

"Okay," I say.

"And that's it. It doesn't need to be a thing."

"No, it doesn't," I say. "That's fine."

"Which is why I don't really get why you had to get Cas involved."

I blink. "Cas? I didn't— he's the one who brought it up. I wasn't trying to make it a thing. I literally only said She's doing well and then we just started talking about it. What exactly did you want me to do? He's the one who asked about it. I shut it down. I want to move on, too."

"Cas asked about it?" she says.

Great. Now I've gotten him involved, too. "Yeah. But it wasn't a big deal. Like I said, I shut it down."

"Why did he—"

"I don't know," I say. "He brought it up. So maybe talk to him instead, because I feel like we've said all we need to say about it."

When I duck out of the gym, I don't check to see if she's taken my advice. She's not my responsibility, anyways. And, inevitably, what does any of this matter, who's at fault, who's saying what? I'm injured either way. I gain nothing, only expend energy convincing myself worrying about it all is worth my time.

If she wants to waste her time at training stressing about me, that's her choice. But I'm still seventh place, with only the top five making it to the end. If I'm going to climb those last two spots, I don't exactly have time to waste.

My fingers take nearly a month to fully heal. In fact, it's the day before Cavara's victory celebration that I finally get to take the tape off and flex my fingers. "How does that feel?" Eliska asks, examining my fingers for any residual swelling. The main issue, however, is range of motion. I wiggle my fingers around, feeling a tense stretch along the front and back of my knuckles.

"Tight… but good," I say. I've been beside myself wanting to properly train with weapons for the past month. Luckily Rhodes eventually gave in and let me work on other weapons, but I've missed my knives.

"Glad to hear," she says, frigid as always. "Listen, before I let you go throw, we should check your weight again."

"Sure," I say, making no effort to hide my disappointment.

"I know," she says. "It's not pleasant, but I wouldn't be insisting if I weren't certain it would help you. I just want to make sure you're doing okay."

I strip the shoes and socks from my feet and let her guide me up towards the scale. I look forward towards the wall, posters detailing height and weight requirements, basic strength standards, hydration information, and a long banner displaying a group of our now-middle-aged Victors, pictured together like a gathering of old friends. I focus on the distant look in Rodoin's eyes, feeling just as far away from the medical room I used to know.

"You're low, still," Eliska says. I ignore the number, just stepping off as soon as she speaks. "Better than the beginning of this year, which is a start. But still low. So I'm wondering if you're really following the diet we talked about, or if you'd like for me to run it through with you again."

Her idea of a diet for me involves a strict eating schedule along with carefully measured portion sizes, working around the eating hall's hours and the snacks that are available around those times. It's already more work than I feel like it's worth, but she's also never once attempted to work around my own schedule or what I'm most comfortable with. "I'm working on it. Really, I am. It's just, you know, I'm not lifting or really doing most of the stuff I normally do weapons-wise. I'm not as hungry as usual."

Eliska doesn't say anything at first, not that she needs to open her mouth to make clear that I've disappointed her. "Caverley," she says, after a pause. "Please… you realize you're running out of time to keep making excuses."

My stomach drops.

"I can't argue with you. It's your choice, at the end of this. If you want to go to the Games, or if you want to sabotage yourself before you even get the chance. However well you did at Pre-Trials, I've seen the lift results, too. If injury doesn't stop you from making it, your strength will."

"Eliska…"

"That's all I'm going to say about it," she says. "Go throw, go see how it feels. After that… it's up to you."

My elation at being told I can throw is immediately buried in shame. I leave the medical room with my eyes prickling and my cheeks burning, craving the relative comfort of my bunk rather than being exposed back in the gym. But I go there anyways, knowing if anything can distract me, it's mindless, therapeutic weapon work.

I expect to be rusty, but the motion's as natural as ever, more than archery or axes ever were when I was healthy, even if my fingers at first resist the way I need them to curl and balance the blade. I stretch my fingers out gently between drills, resisting the month-long urge I've had to crack my knuckles, afraid as soon as I try my fingers will fragment again, and I'll have lost even more time to my own self-sabotage.

At the very least, I can feel lucky I have the chance to do drills at all. Cas, by comparison, isn't as lucky, even when he does everything right. His injury is far stingier than mine, his improvement less linear. To his credit, I can tell he's genuinely pleased for me to go back to training. But despite his discipline, he's still dealing with headaches and fatigue a month after hitting his head. I practically have to beg him to come to Cavara's celebration. "Come on, we haven't had one of these since Neo," I say the next morning between drills, accepting my water bottle when he hands it to me.

"I'm supposed to be resting."

"One night isn't going to kill you," I say, even if I'd likely be as cautious as he is if I were him. "You're going to be tired regardless, aren't you? Might as well enjoy yourself for it."

In the end, he relents, on the condition that as soon as he says he's tired or wants to leave, I don't get to complain. I figure it's the least I can do if he's going for my sake, but I tell him I can't promise I won't be a little disappointed.

"Hate to break it to you, Scout," he says. "But you see me every day already."

"Yeah, but not at something like this," I maintain.

"What's the difference?"

The difference? It's the only day in the Games cycle, save the day one of us wins, where there's no judgment for our behavior, where celebration transcends repression. No one cares if you're sixteen and legal to drink, how inebriated you are, only that you're showing the proper respect to our victory. It's the night of Elias' funeral again, only take the few minutes he was aflame, the resulting mayhem, and multiply that vector-wise.

There are parties all throughout the District tonight, but the most exuberant by far is in Emona, where the Reaping and Homecoming are always held. This is where we watched Elias burn, where Cavara spoke yesterday, relaying her gratitude for our support and sponsorship, looking every part the Victor she made herself, able now to stand on her own two feet even if walking is still challenging for her. But this is also the region where I lived for fifteen years of my life, and knowing my family home is just a half-hour walk from the square where we dance is immediately sobering, no matter how bad of enablers Tarq and Mallen were at Cas' house, setting my head swirling with shots. The crowd eases me, sweltering and chaotic as it is to be in the middle of it. Even if my parents or my brothers are here in this mass of people, there's little chance we'll run into each other.

The downside of that is it's far easier to lose Cas. One moment he's trailing behind Mallen and me on our way to get more drinks, notched against Tarq if for no other reason than it will keep him from getting swept away. The next, I turn to pass him a cup of water— he's sworn not to drink— from one of the stalls we're passing, only to find he's vanished.

"What the—?"

"What?" Mallen says.

"Where did Cas go? Tarq?"

He looks just as lost as I am. "Bathroom, maybe?"

"He's not even drinking," I contend. "What does he think he needs the bathroom for?"

"I need the bathroom," Mallen says. "Scout, why the fuck did you mention the bathroom?"

"Stay here," I tell Tarq. We're at an intersection of the main square and two adjacent roads, with somewhat less populated avenues stretching in either direction. It's easy enough to find again as long as Tarq himself doesn't start wandering. "I don't care how big you are, if you move an inch we're going to lose you, too."

"Appreciate the invite, guys," Tarq calls.

"Go find someone to deadlift, big beefy," Mallen yells. "We'll be back in five."

My fingers curl around Mallen's and hold tight despite their soreness, and I pull her towards the next street. There's lines of people around every vendor, residual camera crews who appear to have gotten lost from the main square. I feel exposed in their glaring lights, the judgmental blinking of red and white, and drag Mallen further past the noise away to where the music courses less like a wave in our ears and more like an undercurrent, still pulsing beneath our feet but not sweeping us away. The glow of streetlights is more subdued a block down, and we press into a dimly-lit bar, its patronage more modest on a night when most people would rather be out. But there's a good handful of clients who sip from tall, curved glasses or down petite shots of dark liquor, their eyes never drifting from the screens above the bar, where highlights from Cavara's games replay— every kill, every fight, and her finale. By this point, I've seen her legs shatter more times than I can count. I look away and pull Mallen through the corner doors.

I let Mallen into the stall first, distracting myself with the mirror in the restroom, peering at my reflection around a tall, dark-skinned girl and her red-haired companion. I revel in the way my face glows and blushes with the heat of the liquor in my veins. I fix my hair, tucking the loose locks back behind my ears, even if they don't stay properly, even if the curve of their makeup at least seems like it should fit around the loop of my ears. My fingernails tug through my hair, and I feel suddenly frazzled, my skin blazing on its surface. I throw my second drink back, keeping my face neutral, pleased that at the very least I can hardly taste the acidic sizzle of vodka against the back of my throat.

Narrow, bony fingers close around my wrist before I can toss the paper cup into the corner trash bin. I freeze, my eyes finding another pair in the mirror.

"Where did you get that?" the taller girl asks.

"Just outside," I say, holding back laughter at how serious her tone is. "Like, all along the street."

"You're serious."

"I sure am."

"Why the fuck—" She turns to her friend. "Cal, why the fuck did I just pay for a shot at the counter?"

Cal looks sideways at the other girl. "I don't know."

"You're getting this shit for free?" she asks me. "Like, free free?"

"I really hope so," I say. "Otherwise I completely stole, like, four of these from them and the second I leave they're gonna Avox me or something." In reality, the celebration's mostly Capitol-sponsored. But we take pride in our own vendors, too, which is why they're out and well-trafficked tonight. "No, like, it's definitely free. Probably."

The girl whirls around to face Cal, not resentful, just genuinely caught off-guard. "Your own sister's party— you didn't even know they were giving this shit out—"

Cal gives her friend a warning glance. "I don't know. There were other things to worry about, okay?"

My skin prickles like I've been shocked, the pieces fitting together now— the tilt and dark hue of her eyes, the point at the edge of her nose, and, of course, the shade of her hair, pulled up and away from a countenance that's lighter, softer, but still unmistakably like Cavara's. "Wait, you're Cavara's sister?"

She glances at the dark-haired girl, upset she outed her.

"No, I'm not trying to—" I feel like I have to justify my interest. "I just know her from tr— the Atheneum, you know. She was hurt even more often than I was— that stupid wrist thing had her in the medical room pretty much every day. Wait, why aren't you out in the square? Party's way better over there."

She visibly relaxes to hear that I've met Cavara, that I'm not trying to lie about knowing her in order to get closer to her. "It's so loud in the square. Adela and I needed a breather."

"Also, I had to throw up," says Adela. "All good now. No fucking clue what those oysters earlier did to me and at this point, it's not worth knowing."

"Same," I say. "About the breather. It's crazy out there. Can't even hear myself think."

"I wanted to go to one of the smaller parties, right," Cal says. "It's a bit more mellow out in Osso, and more of my friends were going, but Cav said if I didn't come to this one with her she'd lock me out of the new house and, uh…"

"Neatly put, shove the key up her ass," Adela says. "Anyways, we lost her, like, five minutes in. Mayor or someone boring as fuck whisked her away and then I thought we had to pay for drinks, so we came here because they don't actually care if you're sixteen as long as you pay for your shit—"

"I really didn't know," Cal says apologetically.

"I'll show you guys where you can get drinks," I say, as Mallen finally emerges from the stall, stretching her arms over her head. "Just give me, like, two minutes…"

I close myself in the stall, still feeling the din from the main bar trembling under my sneakers. Mallen's making fast friends with Cal and Adela, from the sounds of their high-volume conversation. I grin into my hands, my neck suddenly heavy from those last two shots.

I am… so drunk.

Part of it's Mallen's fault, the bloody enabler, who got me two drinks past tipsy before we even left Cas'. Part of it's Cas' fault for letting me drink for him in that stupid drinking game. Not that I'm really upset at them, because it's pleasant to be heavy and weightless at the same time, to feel my senses bow and compound, sound blurring into taste into touch, all in the same blended haze of euphoria. I giggle, curling my fingers through my hair, all its twists and tangles. This is nice. I like this.

For once, there's nothing to stress about tomorrow, no mandatory training, and thus, no reason to hold back. I breathe into my hands, and shove my stresses away.

Back at the sink, Mallen plays with my hair as I wash my hands, wiggling my fingers under the flow of the tap. "You're so fucking pretty, Scout," she says. "Holy fuck. I'd kill a kid for this fucking hair."

I flick water into her face and pull away to dry my hands. "Don't scare our friends away. I said I'd find them drinks."

"Oh, good," she says. "I can literally taste myself sobering up and it's disgusting. Cal, Adela, let's go, lovers."

We push back into the bar and again out onto the darker road, music drumming in the distance. Mallen links arms with Cal, bragging about how little she knows Cavara. "Saw her once. I've literally never met her, though. I'm just here to get drunk with pretty girls."

"Doesn't sound half-bad to me," Cal says.

"Seriously," Mallen hums. "Everyone's talking about where they were when she killed that bitch from Four and I'm like okay but did you see Four's ass?"

"Holy fuck," Cal says, her voice lower. "I'm so not allowed to say that at home, because she almost killed Cav, but… literally. She came out for interviews and I genuinely forgot Cav was in the Games for a second."

"Why did Casitella make her sit down?"

"I don't know! I was furious!"

"I'm telling your sister on you," Adela says. "Stop pining after Asherah."

"Seriously, though," Cal says as we head back towards the main square. "Like, if Cav died and Asherah won, I'd definitely be sad. Right? But then I keep imagining this alternate universe where she comes here for her own Victory Tour, and we meet her because obviously she knew her, and then she and I share this instant connection, and she tells me you look just like her, you know—"

"Oh, look, vodka," I say, beckoning towards the Capitol stand. "Four shots, please."

We down our cups in synchrony, Cal and Adela's faces contorting with the sting of the liquor while Mallen's holds neutral. "Pussies," she says to the others. "Cal, you're such a fucking pussy."

"Am not," Cal laughs.

"Prove it."

"I just don't like hard alcohol!"

"Prove it," Mallen says, her voice icy, a smirk pressing into the circles under her eyes. "Take another shot. If you wince, you have to kiss Scout."

"What?" I say. Cal covers her face, laughing. "Don't make me part of this!"

"Scout, you too. Take another shot."

"But I didn't do anything wrong!"

"Yes, you did," she says. "You're too sober. Four shots, please, like, what the fuck was that?"

"You're trying to kill me," I mutter, but take another cup. Cal wiggles her eyebrows at me over the lip of her drink. "Just say when. And Cal, just— it's just vodka, it's not going to hurt you—"

"Go!" Mallen shrieks. I hardly have time to shoot Cal an apologetic look before she tosses her shot back. I down mine, keeping my eyes locked on hers.

Poor thing, she's really trying to keep it together, biting at her lip to keep from making a face. But then she grimaces, coughing against the bite of the alcohol as Adela shrieks with laughter. "Shit."

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Mallen says.

"It's vile."

"Didn't ask, don't care."

"Wait, wait," I say, holding my hands up. The liquor's making me dizzy and giggly and my protests are buried in the back of my throat behind bubbling laughter. "Wait, I'm nervous."

"You don't have to do it," Cal says.

I scoff. "Yeah, but I'm no pussy, either."

"I'll make it quick," she says, and in an instant her lips have touched mine, soft but purposeful. I taste the alcohol in her breath, the chuckle on her tongue. My head spins with shock, but in less than a second she pulls away, and Mallen's whooping, Adela's laughing, and I'm still dizzy, thinking maybe I shouldn't have had that last shot—

"You guys are assholes," yells a deep voice, farther up the street. Through the haze in my vision, I recognize Tarq's frame barrelling towards us, Cas trailing more slowly behind him.

"Oh, shit," Mallen says.

"Assholes," Tarq repeats. "I was out there for ten minutes— thought maybe I'd wander around, just in case you got lost—"

"We were just on our way back," I defend. "We just made a quick detour for more drinks. Wait, you found Cas!"

"Hi, Scout," Cas says.

"Hi," I say cheerily. "We thought we lost you."

"Except then," Tarq continues, "I realize you've abandoned me so you can take shots with two girls you probably met in the bathroom or something—"

"Yeah," Cas says to me. "I saw Khione and had to go give him grief for pretending he couldn't see me. I told you guys."

"No, you didn't."

"Yeah, I did. I was like, Wait, I have to go talk to Khione, and you were like, no way you saw Khione, there's like seven million people here and then I think you got distracted because they had shots at the next stall."

"That does sound like me," I say. "I feel like I need to warn you, but I'm incredibly drunk."

"No need to warn me. It's more obvious than you think."

"Cal and Adela are my best friends in the fucking world!" Mallen is yelling. "I would fucking die for them!"

"Yeah?" Tarq asks. "Then what's Cal short for?"

Mallen doesn't even hesitate. "Calzone, asshole!"

"Mallen's worse, though," I clarify. "How's Khione?"

It's awkward to ask about him, knowing how openly I criticized his decision to quit on a whim last year. Cas just shrugs. "Fine. Has an actual life now. Or so he says."

"Imagine having a life," I say.

Cas smiles, shrugging like the entire concept is beyond him. "Listen, Scout, I was actually thinking of heading out—"

"Cas," I warn.

"Scout, you promised—"

"I'm not complaining, I'm threatening you. If you leave right now before we even get to light something on fire, I'll come to your house and beat you up."

"You promise?" he says, his voice coy.

"I know where you live," I hiss.

Mallen and Tarq are in each other's faces now, all in jest, although frankly I can't be sure Mallen doesn't want to sock him just because she can. Cas looks on, mildly amused, knowing better than to try to get involved.

"Seriously," I say. "Fireworks."

"One pack of fireworks, and then I'm going back to the station."

"Yeah, and I said one shot," I grumble. "Good. Yes. That's all I'm asking. Hey, Mallen, we're leaving—"

She whirls around to turn on me just as fast as Tarq came flying in. "You're what?"

"My fault," Cas says. "Stupid concussion. I've got to get to bed."

"And, what? You need Scouty to tuck you in? Make you a mug of warm milk?"

"We're setting off fireworks," I say, scowling. "I'll be back later if I can find you guys."

"Don't expect me to stay in one spot," Tarq yells, as Mallen jams her fist in his mouth.

I wave to Cal and Adela, finding it harder to meet the former's eyes than it should be, especially in front of Cas. "Nice to meet you guys," I say, and quickly bail.

Cas and I wander back towards the main square, the swell of voices almost immediately encompassing me as we come around the corner, bubbling pavement transitioning into smooth stone beneath our feet. Overhead, lights dangle from wires and blink from every corner, where even more camera crews are patrolling the festivities. "This way," Cas yells, having to raise his voice to be heard over the chaos from every direction, his hand on my back to guide me towards the east end of the square. Glass crumbles to screeching laughter to our left side. On our right, flaming torches crackle, waving wisps of ash into the cool night air. Children's sneakered feet dance around my toes, dashing through the crowd.

At the edges of the fray, scattered vendors offer vibrant toys, fresh roasts of meat, trinkets, art, jewelry. An older woman, her face bronze and worn with deep crevices, trails her red-dipped fingers along a young boy's cheek, giving him the illusion that he's painted in blood. The longest queue by far is the one we stand in, eventually exchanging a handful of coins for a modest pack of colored rockets, their wicks curled together.

The central bonfire looms over the square, its flames towering above the crowd, the stage, even the camera crews as they measure us from the rooftops. Cas looks tired in its glow, his expression not entirely vacant, but mildly distant. "You haven't been drinking, have you?" I ask, as we approach the pyre and warmth from the fire crescendos over my nose and cheeks, my fingers prickling with energy.

"I'm not supposed to," Cas says. "But I had a drink."

I throw a hand over my mouth. "You didn't—"

"One drink," he says. "Wasn't it you who said one night wouldn't kill me? Neither will one drink."

"I can't believe you're drunk," I say, shaking my head. "This is so embarrassing for both of us."

"You're not even that bad. Although, I could have sworn I saw you kissing someone—"

"Oh, sheesh," I say. "Mallen was flirting stupidly with Cal and told her if she couldn't take a shot without wincing, she'd have to kiss me. Believe me, it wasn't my idea."

Cas takes an unlit torch from the attendant next to the fire, his face aglow, and passes it to me. "Sure, it wasn't."

"It wasn't!" I laugh. "It's not my thing. And even if I'd had a thing for her, no way was I getting in Mallen's way. That's, like, asking to get choked out."

We plunge our torches into the base of the fire, extracting them with a fragment of the flame. The torch quivers in my hand, my grip slick on its holder, but we don't have to walk far, just to the cordoned-off area where enough of the square has been cleared to safely send our explosives into the air. Cas steadies the fireworks against the stone, arranging them so the wicks point towards us. "Ready?" he says.

"Ready," I say.

We touch our torches to the ground at the same time until the tails start to flicker, sparking from the flame curling up the wick. "Run!" I half-yell, half-laugh, pulling him backwards away from the fireworks. I stumble, dragging him down with me against the stone, my body trembling with euphoria as we watch the light approach the base of the rockets.

There's a second of sizzling before, with a burst, the fireworks blaze into the sky, their bodies composed and locked together as long as I can notch a breath in my throat. Then they breach, fanning in five different directions and bursting into a dazzling spangle of gold.

My heart skips at the magnitude of the explosion, the way each booming blast echoes through the walls of the square. Cas watches the sky, transfixed by the colors sparkling above. I don't speak, either, as the colors bloom and decay, their flashes lasting a second or two at most until they fade into the indigo.

When I look over again, Cas' eyes are on mine. I grin, pushing myself up from the ground. "Those were… so impressive."

He smiles. "I've never set them off before."

"Really? Not with your family? Or at Neo's?" Even my parents gave us that opportunity, to help decorate the sky in a Victor's honor.

"Nope. Makes them nervous. My parents always thought I'd find a way to blow myself up in the process."

"So this makes them nervous—" I beckon towards a trio of awestruck children, curled behind their mother as she bends to light their fireworks— "but they're cool with training?"

"I choose not to argue about it," he says. "As soon as they figure out people die in the Hunger Games they might start to worry about me."

I roll my eyes, retrieving the charred remains of our miniature explosives, and follow Cas out towards the central part of the square, scanning the exuberance in thousands of dancing, parading bodies. "Well, if they haven't picked up on that part yet, I don't think you need to worry about them."

"Maybe not," he mumbles, staring almost regretfully at the other partygoers.

His body is rigid, the same way he sits at training when he can't do what he wants to do. "Sorry you have to leave," I say.

He turns to me, then, his expression subdued, a soft sort of smile on his lips. "I'm glad I came, at least," he says quietly. "Thanks for giving me a hard time."

"Did not."

"Yes, you did. You said you'd beat me up if I didn't let you light off fireworks."

"Yeah, because I knew you'd regret missing out on it. Just like you're going to regret missing out on all the rest of this, that you totally don't have to miss—"

"Scout."

"Fine," I say, yielding to the gentle twist of his lips. My heart drums, warm with the way he watches me, half-amused and not really irritated. "Should we head out?"

He cocks his head. "You're not leaving too, are you?"

"Oh, not at all," I say. "Just figured I'd go with you to the station. If your parents knew I let you walk alone in the dark they'd be very nervous."

"They only say that about you because they care about you," he scoffs.

"Even so. I couldn't possibly have Marius coming to me cause his poor baby Casimir got jumped in the dark—"

"Say that name again and I'll light your hair on fire."

"To the station!" I announce, skipping away from him. "Come on! Race you there!"

I pull away from him and take off running down the empty avenue, the glow of sturdy street lamps illuminating the way. My face is icy in the night once we're away from the bodies, the fire, the comfort of collective jubilance. But my insides are ablaze with what's left of the liquor, the freedom of a night with no plans, no responsibilities, just lights and color and ecstatic sound.

"Scout! Wait up!"

I turn and Cas isn't running, just following behind at a brisk walk. Of course, the idiot would stay out and drink but not run, because he's not supposed to, it might mess with his head. But I stop anyway, waiting at the mouth of the tunnel as he approaches. "Slowpoke."

"Scout."

My stomach twists. "Look, in my defense, I thought the exercise might be nice. But also, you could have at least pretended to give me some decent competition—"

His left hand curls around the side of my chin, and before I can finish my sentence he pushes his lips against mine.

His force carries me one, two steps backwards, until my shoulders brace against the wall. His pinky twists around a lock of my hair, one of those pieces that never fit nicely around my ear, and I'm too stunned to push back, to match the energy he gives me.

It's not until he pulls away that I realize I haven't breathed.

I watch him step away, his eyes creased, my jaw slack. I don't know what to say. His face is flushed, his gaze wide with worry. "Scout," he says.

"Cas—"

"I thought—"

A smile crawls across my lips, soft and nervous. "Cas."

"Was that—"

"Yes," I say, tasting laughter on my tongue. I exhale softly. "It was nice."

"I just—"

"I know, Cas."

Then he's laughing, too, this one blooming from nervousness, like the rose in his cheeks. His hands are trembling, I can feel them on my fingertips. He leans his head against my right collarbone, laughing, until I feel his hair against my neck.

"I'm sorry," he says, pulling away.

"For what?"

"For— I don't know, I just—" His eyes trace mine, alert and still cautious even in their mirth. "I'm just blabbering. Forget it."

He doesn't bridge the gap between us, doesn't try to stretch it, either. Tension tightens in my chest, and my lips curl with just a trace of nerves. I know he's going to kiss me again before he can muster up the courage to do it, it's not the first time I've seen that look in a boy's eyes. But I've never liked waiting for it. The pressure hangs too long, binding my words in my throat like iron links or frigid fingers.

It's a relief, then, rather than a rush, when his lips press against mine, all sense of delicacy swept away. He pulls me towards him, his hands curling into my hair, his hips against mine, exhaling against my lips with a sound that's soft but hungry, somehow. One hand trails down my back until it rests at the base of my spine, lifting the back of my coat just enough for a whisper of a chill to creep against my skin, to make me shiver.

"Cas," I mumble.

"Hm?" He tugs away, an inch at most, his forehead pressed to mine.

"You don't have to leave," I say. "You don't have to leave yet."

I feel him smile, his face creasing so gently, almost shyly. "You don't have to stay."

I chuckle, my lips brushing against his so he can feel every word. "Mallen would kill me."

"Mallen," Cas says, "is probably too busy trying to get into Cal's pants to even remember you said you were coming back."

"Really?" I say, not really asking.

"Oh, completely. She's great at fighting. Not so great at being subtle."

"That's true," I hum. "And, what, I'm just going to leave Tarq to deal with that?"

"You're right," he says. "How can I expect Tarq, nine feet tall and five hundred pounds of pure muscle, to look after himself with two girls that add up to half his size?"

"You know what I mean," I say, hitting him in the arm.

"I think he'll be okay," Cas says. "But I don't want to pressure you too hard. Even if you clearly never respected that with me."

"I tried to—"

"Bullshit, Scout."

"Fine," I say. "I was heading that way, anyways."

"You're coming?" he asks, his eyes lighting up.

I smile. In the golden haze of the tunnel lights, his skin glitters, aglow with happiness. I could do anything to see that look on his face. "Don't get too excited," I say. "I'm falling asleep on your couch the second we get there."

"Oh, naturally."

"And if you've got anything to eat, I'm going to want some of that, too."

"Already done."

When he offers his hand, I take it easily. His hand fits delicately around the lingering bruising on my fingers, that injury all but forgotten. It doesn't matter, does it? All that seems to matter is this, the lightness in my chest, the softness of Cas' hand in mine.

It's surprisingly easy to forget about training, ignore the hell that's sure to come. We turn our backs on the party, on the pyre scorching above us, the flames lapping at our backs. Only bliss awaits us, glittering like gold in the lights of the train station, in the freckles on his cheeks, in the peripheral glimmer of my hair around my face.

In our footsteps, the fire fades. In our faces, the future beckons.

For just a moment, suspended in between in betweens, I feel unbreakable peace.

agreatleap. weebly. com

This is a bit of a later update than I imagined when I started writing this chapter, but I had to tinker around with it a lot before I could be satisfied, with everything from which characters were where to the very nature of the Victory celebration. Hope this was worth the wait!

At this point, we've started on the quintet of chapters I'm probably most excited for with this fic. There are aspects to Part V I'm already looking forward to as well, but this string of chapters, the relationships that define them and everything that has been led up to that I finally get to explore, is what I've been motivating myself with through the early chapters of this fic. I'm excited and I hope you are, too!

Hope everyone is well, that your Pride month was lovely, and that you're staying cool.

Love always,
Ali