nChapter 8

Previously on The Hunger:

Sleep makes Peeta's face vulnerable, making him seem much younger than he really is. His breath is slow and steady, and he doesn't move even though Cato is gone. The lines of pain that crease his face are now gone, smoothing the plane. He's more beautiful in sleep than Cato ever thought imaginable, and it takes all of his will power to keep from crawling against him once more.

With a final pang of guilt, Cato tightens his fingers around his dagger and steps out from the cave, into the dead of night.

And heads straight for the Cornucopia.

-x-x-x-x-

The only sound he hears is his breathing, even despite his quick pace. His legs stretch out beneath him, a familiar burn flittering up his thighs and calves. His heart thrums in his chest and he leaves himself counting its beats, trying to do anything but listen to the thoughts swirling around in his head. He refuses to acknowledge the look on Peeta's face when he begged him to stay. A wince ripples through Cato's body and he bites down hard on his tongue, drawing blood. He's doing this for Peeta, God damn it. He shouldn't feel guilty about doing him a favour.

He pushes his legs further, comforted by the accustomed sound of his footsteps pounding into the forest floor. Leaves and debris crunch under his sneakers. Running is easy; running is good; he's used to running. He did a lot of it as a part of his training to be a Career. Every morning he'd faithfully way up at 5 and go for an hour long run before another hour of training. Then he'd do more after school. Sure, it was testing both physically and mentally but it was all supposed to be worth it when he stood up on that podium, a Champion in front of all Panem. For the first time in years, the idea doesn't bring warmth to his chest. The idea of being a Champion doesn't excite him enough to get his blood rushing.

He doesn't want to win.

Cato shakes his head, blonde locks sticking to his sweaty forehead. He hears a bird's gentle trill in the canopy of the trees. His throat arches as he looks up into the trees. Instead of seeing the bird though, his eyes fall on the force field that shows them the fallen tributes. Intrigue wells inside him. How do they keep that up? What is it, really? Catching his lower lip between his teeth, he curves his jog in the direction of the force field.

It takes about twenty minutes at a steady jog to reach the edge of the force field. By now he can see the sun slowly rising on the horizon. His and Peeta's kisses must have lasted for hours. Either that or he waited longer by Peeta's sleeping side than he had expected to. His jog has so far lasted about an hour and a half. When was the last time he slept? A slow frown creeps onto his face when he realises it was well over 24 hours ago. Cato sighs, slowing his pace as the force field nears him still.

He wanders the edge, his eyes flitting from the roof of the field to the ground. Eventually he comes across a small, compact contraption. In a way it looked like that robot in the old Star Wars movies his dad made him watch, R2D2. It was cone like in shape, but with a domed top instead of a pointed one. It was made of all silver, the sun glinting off it and the glare hitting his eyes. Squinting he kneels beside the contraption to get a closer look and analyse what its use is. Blinking lights in a myriad of colours circle the base of the contraption, blinking rapidly. He reaches out to touch it but before he gets the chance his fingers start fizzing, the same feeling you get when static electricity makes the hairs on your arms and legs stand up on end.

His eyebrows crease together faintly and he slowly withdraws his hand, letting it fall limp to his side. Knowing that touch is no longer an option, he uses sight to define the use of the mechanism. More lights flitter up from the blinking bulbs, though these are more like holographic lines, curving into each other. He takes a step back from the device, needing a broader view. It takes him only a minute to find that there are a myriad of the apparatuses surrounding the arena in a curve. Interesting. Interesting still, he sees that the same lines of light dances from all of the others, meeting up in a faintly holographic spider web. The web enhances the more he steps back, until finally he sees it meeting in the centre of the sky. He's sure that if he stepped forward and attempted to press his fingers against the holographic projection his skin would tingle with electricity, much like before. From the centre of the roof, the force field rains down in a dome all around the arena.

What hardly any Tributes before have realised, Cato sees in just minutes. Not only that the force field is just one big projection, but exactly how it works and what makes it work. Cato doesn't quite understand how this could ever be of any importance to him, but he stores the piece of knowledge in the back of his head, just in case he may ever find use for it.

Gracefully, the tall boy twists on his ankles, flexing out his legs slightly before he begins jogging once more in the direction of the Cornucopia. Once more the memory of Peeta settles into the forefront of his mind, leaving his heart thudding dramatically and his lips slightly parched. Cato has never been one to feel guilt, and although now he values someone else's life over his own, he's still the same person he was before the Games. He still rues his moments of compassion, no matter how rare and short they are, and he loathes feeling guilt. But right now knowing that even after Peeta opened himself up to him, pleaded for him not to leave and then gifted him with the one thing he never thought he would have without force, he feels guilt.

Immeasurable, all-consuming guilt that threatens to swallow him whole and leave him without air, drowning in despair. He can't help but imagine Peeta's face if he were to awake and find that Cato wasn't beside him. Peeta is smart; he'd understand where Cato had gone instantly. Cato isn't sure what Peeta's specific reaction would be but he knew the boy would feel disappointment if ever the situation came to life.

Cato's fingers curl, twisting his hands into claws at his side. Fingers nails grip into the sensitive skin of his palms, biting hard enough to draw blood. The distraction is exactly what he needs. Sure, it isn't much pain but it's enough to side track his thoughts, focusing on the light buzzing at his palms. The guilt settles into a pool in his chest, leaving his breath shallow, calm radiating through him. Peeta would thank him for this eventually. Although the other boy doesn't see it yet, doesn't understand the necessity for this underneath the haze of his illness, Cato's certain that it's the best thing to do.

The rest of the forest blurs by him in a flash of green and brown. The scent of pine coats him, washing through his skin in such a way that makes him certain he'll never get the scent from his nostrils as long as he lives. Blood, fear and adrenaline swirl in the air, a dangerous mix but Cato's thankful for it. He's been with Peeta for too long, sheltered by the real world. In his world with Peeta there is light and beauty. He wants only for the boy he loves to find happiness in all that he does. His main aim is not to survive, but simply to exist, floating around the atmosphere an orb of energy. In the real world his aim is to hunt, to track and to kill. The taste of blood lies bitterly on the tip of his tongue the closer to get to the Cornucopia, the hunger rising in him once more. Cato isn't characteristically an overly addictive person, but with the right push the need to main envelops him one more, drowning him in craving.

Finally the meadow opens up before him like a flower unfurling. He's not too surprised to see the small group arguing; Clove, Glimmer and Marvel. So he was right then, that the girl from 4 and the boy from 3 were the only two to succumb to death by tracker jackers. Cato strains his ears, needing to hear what the trio are talking about.

Early morning light rains down on the trio as he watches; he's been awake all night.

"It's a trap." Clove spits, her eyes narrowing on her allies in bitterness.

"Obviously." Glimmer replies, tossing a lock of radiant hair over her shoulder and rolling her eyes. In that moment she reminds Cato of one of those cheerleaders on TV more than ever. "But we can still go up there, still kill them. What if it's Cato? This is exactly the kind of thing he'd try to do. It's a flag, signalling us to him. We just need to get closer and prove that we're more dangerous than he thinks." The blonde crosses her arms tightly over her chest, her eyes falling upon the boy at her side. "What do you think, Marvel?"

"I think we have to take this chance. Yeah it's a trap, but we need to take every chance we can get. The arena's a big place and numbers are starting to dwindle. If we don't act now then we might not get everyone."

The argument hangs between the trio. Clove, still with her arms crossed over her chest, tastes the words slowly allowing them to sink in. After a great deal of consideration a nod takes to her head, her eyes falling upon Glimmer.

"You and Marvel will go. We can't risk leaving the supplies here alone so I'll stay and keep others away. I'm still certain that this is a trap, and in that case this might be what they're after." At the end of her short statement, the other two begin picking up a myriad of weapons, slinging sword and daggers over their backs and hiding them into hidden sheaths. Cato notices abstractly that Glimmer lacks her silver bow. She must have left it at Katniss's tree after all, he decides silently.

Before another word is passed the two leave into the vegetation surrounding the meadow, disappearing.

Cato takes a sharp inhale of breath, crouching lower in the bush. Clove stays standing where she is, her face puckered into a frown, eyes narrowed, as she watches her companions leave. With arms crossed over her chest she begins to pace, eyes watchful on her surroundings. Even at her most anxious Clove will always remain receptive to her environment, always understand the danger and the risks around her. Clove and Cato shared a lot of their training back at District 2, finding it easier to train with each other than to hold on to the want to train alone. He knows her, he knows what she's thinking and he thinks he knows how she'll react when he steps out, into the clearing.

Clove takes an alarmingly long time to realise that Cato's there, watching her. His feet pepper the ground with gentle kisses as he walks, his eyes wary as he watches her pace. Back before Cato realised he was gay, he must have been fourteen at the time, him and Clove had a fling. She was different then; happier. She always wore the same, widespread smile that could light up a whole room. Her dark eyes were as smothering as they were beautiful, open to the world yet continuously boring into the eyes of the person she was speaking to, giving them her undivided attention.

It wasn't a classic romance; not by a long shot. They had been friends for years, their whole lives really, so this was just an extension of their friendship. Everything remained the same, apart from the way they held hands to and from training and of course the kissing. Cato was never very interested in the physical side of things, which really should have been Clove's first clue, but the girl thought she was in love. It was Clove who initiated their relationship, Clove who had held them together, relented whenever they had a fight. With a sharp pain Cato realises that he cares for Clove. Not in the same way he cares for Peeta, not at all, not even in the way he'd care for a sister, but in the way he'd care for an acquaintance he's particularly partial to.

Perhaps he should be glad that he pushed people away his entire life; that his relationship with Clove never went too far; that he never allowed himself the luxury of love. Love is giving someone the power to destroy you, Cato thinks detachedly. Not really focusing on his thoughts. If Clove had the power to destroy him she would, no matter how much she loved him.

Finally, Clove's eyes lock with his and they are all that's left in the world. Cato forgets the supplies for a moment. He forgets the fact that Marvel and Glimmer are coming back soon; he forgets the fact that he and Peeta aren't the only two people trying to distract the Careers; he even forgets Peeta. All he sees is Clove, but it's not Clove. It's the eight year old Clove he first made friends with, the girl with wide, trusting eyes. The first moment she had seen Cato she had begun grinning, cheerfully introducing herself without a moment of hesitation. Clove had been the first girl, really the first person, Cato had ever called his friend. They used to play pretend, the way only children do, imagining themselves to be gypsies, pirates, wizards and witches; whatever they wanted. They imagined themselves victors, their fingers linked as the world cheered their names. They had pretend weddings and named their children. They were going to have a dog, when they got married.

Looking in her eyes now, Cato sees a ghost of that girl. He sees the ghost of the girl he promised to marry when he was ten years old, who he told he loved forever. A sharp pang attacks his chest the longer he analyses her eyes, seeing things he had never noticed before. The way she watched him as if he could do no wrong, how even now, knowing he's most likely going to kill her, an impulsive half smile can't help but dance across her lips. He sees the pain shattering in her eyes, over and over again, the same way it did when he chose Peeta.

"Cato." She breathes, her voice heavy and thick with emotions that the Cato of a former life never would have recognised. It's Peeta, he realises. Peeta who's changed him, torn him apart. He's made him susceptible to emotions, who's made it easier for him to understand. Love changes you; you become whatever it wants you to be because you have no choice. Love forces you into a mould, making you into whatever the other person needs. Peeta needs someone who can see the fine details, someone who he won't have to spell things out to. Peeta needs someone sensitive, but who can protect him at the same time. It scares Cato that he's changed, terrifies him really, but he can't help but be glad.

It proves to him that this thing is real.

"Clove." Cato replies, his voice a mocking mimic of her own. He watches her wince, pain flashing ruefully through her eyes. A smile dances across Cato's lips, although he feels no joy. He feels himself slipping into familiar waters, into the Cato he knew at the beginning of the Games. Cato who would do anything to win, who knows he deserves to win.

"Let me guess," she murmurs, smiling with pain. "You're not here to spill Loverboy's secrets, are you? You're not here to join us." The dark-haired girl smiles. "You're here for him."

Unexpected pain ripples through Cato's chest as he watches her. He sees the tears welling in her eyes, the hard line of her jaw as she grits her teeth, refusing to let those tears fall. He realises just how fragile Clove is in that moment. She's just a little china doll, all wrapped up in bubble wrap, pretending like nothing can hurt her when really everything does.

"I'm here for him." He whispers, his voice seeming to ripple through the meadow.

"I won't kill you, you know."

"I know."

"You'll have to kill me."

"I know."

Silence.

"I love you."

He sighs.

"I know."

Silence.

Muteness takes up more space in the meadow that their words ever could. Cato feels his skin itch with claustrophobia as he works up the courage. He can see the tableau unfold in front of his eyes. He'll walk towards her and she won't make a move. The tears will begin to fall, crashing against the grass in huge drops. He'll take the dagger from his ankle and lift it to her chest.

She'll look him in the eye as he kills her, forgiving him. She'll understand; she'll understand that he did it for love, the same way she'd do anything for him.

Because Clove is in love with him; she's been in love with him since they were ten years old. Cato was too daft to realise it before, he thought it was a silly infatuation, a minor crush. But she's in love with him.

Which makes the moment he stabs her in the chest that much harder.

She doesn't take long to die, only five minutes or so. Her blood stains his skin, dripping into the ground beneath their feet, seeping deep into the mud. Her eyes refuse to shut. Cato stares into them, letting that be his punishment. He knows he'll never get that look out of his head; the look in her eyes as he killed her will always be burned into his eyelids, terrorising him while he tries to sleep. He'll never be able to go home, knowing her family will be there. He'll never forgive himself for killing Clove.

He lays her down to rest in the meadow, shutting her eyes gently with his fingers. He reaches down to kiss her face, her cheeks, her forehead, her nose. He leaves her feeling the gifts that he never could grant her in life, leaves her with all the love he can manage. But Clove will never be loved again, not by the living. Anyone who ever loved her will die with her, the piece that loved Clove being buried with along with the girl with the night. Cato will never love Clove.

Time passes. When Cato looks up the sky veined with fire. It's midday when he looks up, the sun blaring down on his unforgivingly, not caring that he's in mourning. His heart throbs with unexplained pain. Clove's blood is dried into his fingers and clothes and his cheeks are stained with tears he doesn't remember crying.

He stands up and stumbles to the supplies.

He learned the dance around the mines so well that he skips through it without thinking, a zombie. Is body is possessed by need, the real Cato cold and dead, curled up in a ball in some small recess of his mind. He murdered today. Every time he's killed before that it was for survival. The curly haired boy at the Cornucopia meant nothing to him, he was just another body in the way of his success.

Clove was a murder. He didn't do it for his own survival, her death wasn't necessary. In fact, her death was counterproductive in his survival. If he had chosen Clove he would have chosen life. She wouldn't have let anyone hurt him; she loved him too much. He could have sold Peeta out, watch as he was killed for survival's sake. Cato could win, he knew he could. He was the best player in the arena. He could control the Games, if that was what he wished.

But what Cato wished was to see Peeta become an old man. He wanted the boy he loved to live a long life, a life where he had children and grandchildren. He didn't want Peeta to forget him, forget all that he gave up for him, but he'd never ask Peeta to hurt over Cato's sacrifices. He longed for Peeta to see the morning sky unfurl like a blooming flower, to experience the taste of real air, not the synthesised stuff that the arena feeds them.

He wanted Peeta to experience life.

Cato isn't sure how he did it when he finds himself running from the meadow, backpacks filled with supplies on his back. He took weapons, food, clean water… Everything he thought might help. Cold bites into him, the kind of cold that attacks your bones, leaving you shivering from the inside. He wishes to rip off his skin, remove it like it were a dirty suit, one he could clean and hang up to dry. He feels so filthy, grimy with blood, dirt and hatred. Hatred for the games, hatred for himself, hatred for his parents. Loathing for these things burns bright like a fire in the pit of his stomach, mingling in with his love, battling each other. Only one will be victorious, but neither will set him free.

Behind him, the world explodes. He's run a good three miles before he hears the explosion, yet he still manages to feel the flames licking his back, heat flaring along his body. He skin shrives from the heat, longing for moisture. He twists instantly, his eyes not taking long to find the source of the bang.

Exactly where the meadow is, where he had been only twenty or so minutes earlier, fire dances, blurring his vision with the edges of a mirage. He hears the flames crackling and popping and he knows what's happened. Someone tried getting to the supplies; someone stood on one of the mines. Despite knowing that Peeta isn't stupid enough to wander out there, alone, and get himself blown to bits, instinctive fear prickles along his skin. He turns away and sprints for the cave, knowing if it is Peeta then there's nothing he can do.

He makes it to the cave quicker than he would have thought possible, ripping at the door-like boulder, rock digging deep into the skin of his fingers and shredding it. He doesn't feel the pain, overcome with adrenaline. In seconds the boulder is pushed away, leaving only the resting Peeta in Cato's line of vision.

Relief pours through him, washing over him like a bucket of ice water.

"Peeta!" He all but screams, not even stopping to pull the boulder back in front of the cave's mouth as he throws himself at the dozing boy. Peeta's eyes flutter awake, disorientation clear as day on his face. It's the most beautiful expression Cato's ever seen, an expression full of life and humanity.

Clove's eyes, still with death, flash before his eyelids, burning into him with a sting, though he pushes the memory away. It was worth it to kill Clove, if it saves Peeta. The death of that silly girl, no matter how much she may have loved him, is a worthy enough sacrifice.

"Cato?" Peeta whispers, disorientation colouring his voice. Unlike his voice, his skin is left pale beyond belief. If Cato had not seen it for himself he would not have believed it possible for someone to be so pale. Cato's eyes graze over Peeta's body instinctively, searching for signs of improvement. Although the lumps left from the tracker jacker stings have reduced immensely, the deep gash in his leg has produced puss and is quite obviously inflamed. Lines trace along his skin, webbing along his body in dark tracings; blood poisoning, obviously. The feeling of death creeps into Cato's heart freezing in a hard block. Peeta's not safe; not yet. An abundance of food, clean water, weapons… they'll all mean nothing if Peeta's injuries aren't healed soon.

"I'm right here." Cato whispers, curling his fingers around Peeta's cheek. His skin is as chalky to the touch as he appears, almost powdery as it kisses his fingertips.

"You-left." The boy gasps, his eyelids fluttering. Cato can see the longing in his eyes, the will to open them burning bright, yet suffocated by the sickness, threatening to take him with each gasp of air. Cato can see it clearly, the longing to let go, to allow death to take him in one final blow. However, he clings on, his fingers only just clawing on to life.

"I'm here now." He replies, his voice breathless as he does. He can't bring himself to feel guilt, to feel shame for lying. Although not a current priority, it was definitely necessary for him to get the supplies now, before they were destroyed. If he had waited too long he would have been denied the ability to gain such things. Even if he had managed to save Peeta from his disease before starvation took hold of him, the victory would have been short lived.

No, Cato will stand by his decision to leave Peeta for those few hours, no matter how soon he loses the boy.

"I'm here now." He sighs once more, leaning lower still to cradle the other blonde in his chest. Peeta is cool in his arms, his breathing painfully shallow. A plunge of fear twists in Cato's stomach, an agony that threatens to overwhelm him. Peeta won't last long, Cato knows it. He's a practical guy and refuses to delude himself to the idea that somehow he and Peeta will escape the arena together alive. If they had even be able to discover a way out of the arena together it would have been a miracle, might as well somehow being able to alive.

No, Cato was not stupid. Peeta was going to die and he was going to be alone.

He gave away everything for two days with Peeta. A terrifyingly long trek; one night, one beautifully, blissfully sweet night; a day spent in attempts to save a life and a few petrifyingly addictive kisses that drew him in with the calling of a siren. It was worth it, he realises. If given the choice to return to his Career pack, knowing how the future would fall apart, he'd still choose Peeta.

Love does strange things to people.

"It's over, Cato." Peeta's breath is raspy and harsh. The very sound of it wells tears in Cato's eyes. He swallows back the lump of coal growing in the back of his throat, reaching forward to brush a lock of hair over his ear.

"No. It's just the beginning." Cato replies, a sad smile resting on his lips. Peeta's eyes flutter open to look at his saviour and his lips match the smile.

"I'm glad, by the way." He sighs. "I don't care that I'm going to die. I'm just glad I got to see you like this… that you got a chance to show the world who you really are."

Silence envelops them tenderly, scratching through their barriers. All Cato's life he's held up a shield; a shield against his father, against his district, against the Games; and now it's gone. Peeta strips him of his shield, of his last defence against the world. Peeta leaves him naked and exposed, all that he is in the open for everybody to see. It both thrills and terrifies him.

Their lips find each other before they realise that they're searching. Their hands search, touching, caressing, as if endeavouring to memorise each other by touch. It's the only goodbye they can handle; words have become too much. Kisses are now whispers, touches tears; it is the only vocabulary they can manage.

Peeta's lips are soft. Cato's firm; Peeta's lips hot and frantic, Cato's cool and calm; Peeta saying goodbye and Cato saying I'll be with you soon. The kiss is chaste yet passionate, sweet despite the fear and agony just beneath the surface. Nothing has ever felt so vivid.

Neither of them notice the sound of shoes rubbing into the ground on the outside of the cave. Neither of them feel the weight of eyes watching them, analysing. It isn't until the watcher gasps, disbelief colouring the noise, that they draw apart from each other and look up.

Time passes in slow motion, hearts thudding. Her eyes are wide as she looks at the scene before her, a million memories flashing in front of her eyes. Peeta and Cato watch the emotions flash before her eyes, first incredulity, then horror, betrayal, disgust and finally hatred. Her hairs tumbles low in a mess of leaves and mud, but she remains uncaring of what they think, attempting to get over one obstacle at a time, firstly understanding the scene before her.

"P-Peeta?" She gasps, fingers crawling around her lips to bury a scream. Both boys wince unsure to know what to do, how to react to her reaction. Shock colours the room, thick in the air. Uncertainty pushes her to take a step back, her free hand twitching for some unknown object at her hip.

Katniss's eyes narrow, deciding on mistrust and disgust as her final emotions.

"What the fuck is going on here?"

-x-x-x-x-

AU: I gave up on NaNoWriMo. I got like, two and a half chapters in, only 7K words. Lawl. But I've also decided that I'm going to write the rest of The Hunger before posting any more. So by the time I post this the rest will be finished *clap clap clap*

After this chapter is posted I'll post the last few once a week. I'm also not going to start posting The Chase until I've finished it. I much prefer planning and I'd feel better to just have it done.