Author's Note: Finally, another update! I'm sorry if this chapter isn't very good. I've been busy as you know, and haven't had a lot of opportunities to update very frequently. I'd like to thank my loyal reviewers, once again. You guys can lift my spirits like nothing else! :D Please continue to review, and if you see any errors please don't be afraid to point them out. I'm very grateful for your patronage.

I'm not sure where exactly last night ended and today began. I'm not even sure when I fell asleep, or if I even slept at all. Because it all felt like a dream. I don't really feel anything at the moment, but maybe it just hasn't hit me yet. I'm just sitting here, in my sleeping bag, watching Cato and Clove sleep. It's all my foggy and half conscious mind has the capacity to focus on. They're both so loud, I can't help but smile as their snores almost harmonize into what could be a very abstract song. Like nearly every morning, the sky is an incandescent white, and the dark treetops give it a good contrast. It reminds me of how badly I miss creating artwork. I haven't painted in what feels like centuries, and I haven't even thought of it until now. But thinking back on it, the last piece I made was a portrait of Katniss, right before the Reaping. I shudder. I just don't want to think about her. I don't really want to think about anyone in Twelve, who are more than likely casting down their well-deserved judgments on me. Because last night, the boy lying in the sleeping bag beside me, whose face looks almost angelic in slumber...

He kissed me.

And it felt amazing.

I touch my lips as if they're a replay button of that moment. But I'm not supposed to feel this way. This isn't what the Capitol wanted, is it? No. The whole country wanted me to fall in love with Katniss. I'm sure Haymitch knows more about the way the majority of people think than I do, anyway. Maybe that's why he wanted me to profess love for her in the interview. But whatever the case, things obviously didn't turn out that way. A cold sweat comes over me. I'm trying to decide which is worse: facing a immediate and quick death at the hand of a Tribute, or facing brutal and slow condemnation back home. Stricken by a sword, or mauled by a Peacekeeper. I bury my face in my hands. Why can't I just learn to control my emotions? I could have just acted like I didn't return the feelings, even though I clearly did. But that brings me to a knew level of thought. What are his feelings, anyway? He never specified if he felt anything for me, aside from actually kissing me. I asked him if he wanted a guy, and he said yes. But he never narrowed it down to me in particular. What are we? Obviously, we can't date in the arena. Watching the Capitol's projection of dead Tributes over grilled, leathery game doesn't exactly constitute as a classic dinner-and-movie outing. I don't think we're just friends, because friends don't usually kiss each other like that. Are we so starved of warmth and love that it's come down to using each other to obtain it? The thought of being used to quench a need for affection leaves me with a bitter emotion in my stomach, one that I can only identify as rejection. Manipulation, if you will. And then I'd feel like an idiot for playing along with it. But now I'm just jumping to conclusions. Maybe, by some lick of a chance, he's actually feeling the same attraction for me that I feel towards him. Wouldn't that just be nice? I sigh. The kiss in my dream was much better, because this indigestible mix of confusion, guilt and fear didn't follow it like a hangover the next morning.

I sit up and stretch. The morning is silent, once again. I wonder who will die today, if anyone does. All I know is that the Capitol must be getting terribly bored of the sparsely timed deaths that are barely even occurring anymore. And anyone who's ever watched a Hunger Games knows that when the Capitol gets bored, the Gamemakers set up plenty of mortal traps to exterminate Tributes more quickly and efficiently.
"Mmm... What's this?" I hear a croak from my side. I turn to see Cato, barely awake, holding a decent-sized silver thermos. A parachute is attached. He opens the lid, letting a wave of fragrant steam explode onto his face.
"What is it?" I ask.
Noticing me, he closes the lid and makes eye contact. "It's broth. One of the sponsors must have sent it."
"Look," I say, spotting a white piece of paper suspended by a string on the lid. "What's that?"
I point to the paper. He unfolds it, reading it aloud:
"Keep up the good work, guys. The sponsors loved it. -Enobaria."
The look on Cato's face tells me that we both know what the note is referring to. Still, after a brief lull, no one mentions anything.
"Enobaria?" I question.
"She's our mentor." Cato says, handing me the thermos after taking a drink. "Who's yours?"
"Haymitch Abernathy and Effie Trinket." I say.
"I don't know them, but that's cool."
I take a sip of the broth. So refreshing. I can almost feel the nutrients fortifying my blood from a single sip. I gulp down as much as I can without being rude.
"Here," I say, handing it to him. "You should have some."
"I'm really not hungry." He says, thinly.
"Not hungry? You haven't eaten for an entire day." I say, in disbelief. Why won't he eat? If I'm famished, he must be on the brink of starvation. Teenage boys are known for their uncannily frequent and plentiful consumption of food. With Cato's muscle mass, it's sort of imperative that he takes in the fuel.
He sighs, looking up to the sky. "I know. I'm just not feeling hungry. Save some for Clove, though."
Yet another awkward silence drifts into our midst. I can tell something is definitely wrong. I wonder if he's thinking the same thing about last night. What happened between he and I? I wish I could see into his mind and just spectate his thoughts. It'd make things much simple. I'd feel much more sane, not having to play a guessing game with myself to gauge his feelings. But since the human mind isn't innovative and advanced that way, I'll have to resort to less invasive ways. I figure I'll just ask. What harm could it possibly do at this point?
"Um, Cato," I begin. What do I say? Well, this might be a bit more difficult than I thought.
"Hmm?" he grunts, without making eye contact.
"Well, um, you remember last night?"
I could just smack myself in the face right now. That sounded brilliantly stupid.
"No Peeta, I don't." he says, sarcastically. "It wasn't even twenty four hours ago, of course I remember it."
I force a chuckle out of my calamity. "Well, I know you remember it. I was just wondering, well, how did you feel about it?"
A shade of pink flashes across his cheek. I'm sure he's just as nervous as I am, because this is a really awkward topic. "Well, do I have to spell it out for you? It should be obvious." he says, hastily.
"No need to get defensive." I tell him. "I just wanted to know if you felt the same way I did."

Before he has a chance to answer, a loud explosion rocks the arena. It isn't a cannon boom. No, that was much too loud. Like a pair of deer in the headlights, our attention is completely focused at the trees where the sound seems to have came from.
"It's the Cornucopia." he says, quietly.
"You mean, the mines?" I correct him with sarcasm.
His eyebrows furrow. "Don't get smart with me, you know what I'm talking about."
"I was just joking, Cato." Yeah, I'm really starting to feel the love.
"Start packing our stuff. We've got to go." he orders, the irritation in his voice budding into anger.
I'm not sure why, but I obey. I guess he's already upset enough, he doesn't need me defying him and stepping in his way. While I'm stuffing everything in the two backpacks, Clove stirs in her sleeping bag, probably waking up from the loud noise. Impatiently, Cato stomps up and crouches next to her, shaking the girl until she jolts awake.
"Clove!" he whispers loudly. "That bastard blew up our supplies. Let's go."
She stretches, her half-conscious mind trying to take in and process everything that he's saying. "Who? Jayel? Where are we going?" she stammers, shivering from her ailment. "I'm so cold, Cato."
"I'll tell you on the way, just come on."
"Where's Marvel?" she asks.
Cato stops in his tracks. Her question seems to freeze the moment, as both of us stop our rushing around to look at her expectant face.
"He's dead." Cato says, cold and resolute.
Tears well up in her brown doe eyes. "Dead...?"
Cato sighs, realizing he might have been too harsh in breaking the news. "Look, you can't cry on public television. Try to suck it up, and let's go."

It's a hard concept to face, but it's for her own good. Showing weakness in the Games, in any form, is frowned upon in the Capitol. Tributes lose sponsors all the time because of it, and in past Games, I've seen the Gamemakers just eliminate the Tributes who cried. They've killed them right on the spot by bolts of lightning, forest fires, whatever they could muster up to make their deaths quick. Like they never even mattered. Understanding this, Clove asserts herself and gets to her feet as quickly as possible, rolling up her sleeping bag and carrying it under her arm. We all run towards the Cornucopia, as the crisp morning air hitting our faces completes the process of waking us up. My foot has completely healed, and I can tell because not only is the pain absent, but I'm keeping up so close with Cato. Clove is still convalescent, chugging along a few feet behind us. I can't help but occasionally look back at her tear-stained face, trying to be strong as best as she can. It makes the Capitol look even more disgusting to me than I already thought it was. Here is the girl that they've set up as a bloodthirsty, ruthless Career. But in reality, she's got feelings and a beating heart, a compassionate one at that. And they've distorted her image, depriving her of all emotion. Restricting her from it. That's almost as merciless as giving her to the Games in the first place. Why did she volunteer? Moreover, why did anyone let her volunteer? My thoughts are definitely running faster than my feet at the moment. But before I know it, we've reached the clearing in the trees that acts as a window to the field of the Cornucopia. We take a moment and watch what's going on out there. Sure enough, the ground is covered in ashes, and the green grass has been misconstrued into a mess of soot and soil. Jayel, panicking on his knees, is pulling on his hair, staring forlornly at the ground. He knows his fate, and that it's only a matter of time before he's to receive it. If I were him, I too would be a little racked by Cato's venomous words that promised me death if I were to mess up something like those mines.

Finally, Cato takes the first vehement step onto the field. Clove and I follow him sheepishly, all of us silent. Cato is fuming, walking hastily and headstrong toward the scene. Today isn't a good one for anybody to step in his way. I've never seen him this angry before, and I'm not going to lie, I'm a little scared. Once we've reached the Cornucopia, Jayel stands to face Cato. His knees are wobbling, and his forehead is sweating profusely.
Clove and I watch as Cato marches up to him, standing immediately before him and staring down into his face.
"I promise, I didn't do anything." Jayel testifies, his voice trembling just as much as the rest of his body.
"The hell you didn't!" Cato roars in his face, sadistically smirking. "You're fucked, Three."
"Please-" Jayel begins.

But it's too late. Cato, with his bare hands, snaps his neck.

The cannon booms. Jayel falls on the ground, limp as a noodle. His eyes are still bulging in fear. I can't stop staring at his carcass... Mainly because I don't want to face the monster who killed him. My blood is frozen in my veins, and every muscle in my body feels suspended. I can't even scream if I wanted to. Where is the gentle and confident guy that gave me my first kiss last night? Surely, it isn't the one pacing around the Cornucopia, surveying the damage and muttering obscenities. I feel disgusted with myself. Why in the world did I consent to him last night? I still have no idea what he was thinking when he did it. For all I know, he could have just been using me for that canteen of broth, knowing the sponsors would enjoy the show. Before I saw him kill Jayel, I would have told myself that Cato would never do something like that to me. But now, I'm hazy as to who he even is right now. It's like he's been possessed by some otherworldly, indignant demon. Today, he's been acting just like the Capitol expects him to. Merciless. Void of emotion. Like a classic, stereotypical Career Tribute. And it sickens me. But I really don't have much time to be sickened by Cato's antics. Because before I know it, a high-pitched scream pierces the air. Whipping around to look behind me, I find Clove, laying on the ground, with an arrow through her chest.
"Clove!" I yell, crouching at her side. Tears are streaming down her face, and she's choking up blood. I don't care if it makes me look weak, but tears gather in my eyes. What can I do to save her? I run my fingers through her hair, letting hot tears trickle down my cheek. The cannon booms again, but Clove is still breathing. I look up and see Cato's sword pierced through the District Eight boy's chest. His bow and arrow have fallen on the ground beside him.
I turn my attention back to Clove. Before I know it, Cato is on his knees, at her other side.
"Clove, stay with me!" he yells, placing his hand gently on her face. It's the most heartfelt thing he's done all day, but it's not like yelling can do anything right now.

"Peeta..." she stammers, my name barely escaping her blood-stained lips.
Her eyes focus straight ahead, and her wounded chest falls dormant of any respiration. The cannon sounds again. Clove is dead. I cover my face with my hands. My nose is burning, and tears are escaping my eyes after every sporadic breath. I don't care who sees me, but I can't cry. I try to refrain my tears, bating my breath. Clove held a lot of significance to me in the few days I knew her. I knew it would come down to this one of these days. And I knew it'd be hard on me. Metaphorically, she was just like a brave, red rose in a field of thorns, struggling to keep herself intact despite the obstacles choking her back. She was so dependent on us. Every time I looked at her, her vibrant eyes told me that she believed we could keep her safe. And evidently, we couldn't. I take my hands away from my face, in time to see Cato remove the arrow from her chest, take off his jacket and wrap it around her shoulders. I don't even care that it's the same jacket he loaned to me. The girl lying before me is obviously much colder than I've ever been. I can't help but blubber out more tears upon looking at her.
Cato places his hand on my shoulder, with less force than I expected. "Come on, Peeta," he says softly, his voice ridden with sorrow. "You can't cry. Stop. We've done all we can do."
Hesitantly, I stand, readying myself to leave the girl's side. Her death seemed to sober Cato's rage, because he's being surprisingly docile at the moment. I take a moment to take one last look at Clove before turning to walk away. Her battered body tells me I've got no other choice but to leave.
"Come on." Cato prompts again, this time offering his hand out to me.
As wary as I should be about him after watching him brutally murder two Tributes, I set my palm trustingly against his. His fingers intertwine with mine, which is a much more intimate gesture than any way he's held my hand in the past few days. Why? Why is he even doing this? Is it for the sponsors? We begin to walk solemnly toward the woods, not speaking a word. Right now, I don't care what his intentions are. I just need the physical affection for support.

A figure in the distance catches my eye. Curled up, creeping slowly across the ground. Even though we aren't moving in the same direction, I analyze it. A quiver on its back, an ectomorphic frame, and a dark braid falling just above where I remembered it to fall. Katniss Everdeen. Guilt tugs on the strings of my heart as I watch the injured girl crawl away toward a different sect of the woods. I'm supposed to be protecting her right now. She catches me staring at her, and her eyes linger to study me. I couldn't ask for worse timing. Here I am, locked hand in hand with Cato, having just mourned the death of one of her adversaries. I feel ashamed, like I should be terribly remorseful for the entire path I've taken in the Games. But strangely, I don't. I just feel like I've betrayed her, and the look on her face tells me that I have. It asks me something like, "How could you do this to me, Peeta?". And I don't want to face it. The country, if not the world, already knows what a Judas I am, and I see no reason to dote on it in my own mind. I look away and keep walking with Cato. I can only hope that he still remembers his oath regarding the Girl on Fire.

Soon, we're shielded once more by brush. We're not vulnerable in the open anymore. I feel more within my element, but something feels very strange right now. Something that wasn't there before. Maybe it's my feelings for Katniss that have fell by the wayside. Maybe it's the absence of our short-lived and beloved ally. Maybe it's the fact I feel somewhat healthy today.

No. It's the fact that now Cato and I are vying for survival on our own, just he and I.

He sits on a log, burying his face in his hands. Confused by his action, I sit down beside him. "Cato?"
"Damnit." a muffled voice escapes through his fingers.
It's kind of a risky move, but I caress his back. I mean it to be a supportive gesture, but the fact I can feel the stone-solid muscles in his back threatens to blur my motive. "What's wrong?" I ask, ignoring the aphrodisiac.
"Isn't it obvious?" he spews out. His voice is shaking like he, too, is resisting a breakdown. "You're pretty torn up about it, too."
I sigh, feeling the sting of the urge to cry current through my sinuses. Means that we can't use tears to mourn the girl, we use silence instead. It's at this point that I realize Cato is sort of my rock of strength right now. He's the only reason I haven't completely lost my sanity through the Games. Just to see his endurance ability over time has inspired me to push myself to be tough. But I'm also aware that he's a real person, as I can see right now. He's got fragile feelings that he tries to cover up with a mask of cockiness, like every Career is expected to. But he's lived like a Career long before ever becoming one. According to what he's told me, it seems like he's had to be a slave to misery and abuse for most of his life. Always having to suck it up and be strong.
He breaks the silence, his generally loud voice slightly hushed by his anguish. "She's gone, Peeta. She's gone, and there's not a fucking thing I can do about it."
"Neither of us can, Cato." I say, with a sigh. "I just wish it didn't have to happen."
"You know, I think I hallucinated about this the other day, when I got stung. Because I swear I've seen this before. I knew she was going to die." he says.
Somehow, I feel a bit gratified. Like I just acquired a piece of the puzzle of Cato's mind that I'm trying to put together in my head. "Did you have a lot of visions?" I ask.
"Yeah, and it's probably obvious to you what the other ones were. But her death was seriously in there." he says, his voice beginning to break.
I'm flattered by his openness. Maybe he's finally starting to take off that mask. "Why did she even volunteer, anyway?" I probe.
He hesitates, taking the moment to pull himself back together to answer my question. "She said her family was poor. They needed the profits of having her as a victor."
"There are poor people in Two?" I ask, trying to revert the conversation away from Clove. If, by some chance, Cato were to break down and cry, I couldn't help but do the same.
"Yeah, of course there are. Isn't there a lower class and an upper class in Twelve?"
My mind strolls back through my hometown, remembering the difference between the Hob dwellers and the Victor's Village. I've always thought it was unfair that one part of a unified District should be wealthier than another. But maybe that was because I was always on the lower end of the social class. "Yeah, I guess there are."
Cato seems to be deep in thought, his eyes not focusing on anything in particular. He shakes his head. "Damn, she was even generous to come here and die for her family."
"Well, Cato, I didn't know her as well as you did, but she was almost like a little sister to me." I tell him.
"I didn't know her that well either, but I guess it was the same way for me." he says. His voice sounds oblivious and thoughtful.
I let a brief moment of quiet sweep over us before standing up. "Well, we should probably go to the lake, like we planned to yesterday. We're not getting any more hydrated just sitting here, right?" I say, forcing a smile.
Cato looks up, and I'm grateful to see even a slight smile graze his lips. "Yeah, you're right. Let's go."

No matter who's accompanying me, it seems to be routine to suspend conversation while we're walking. Maybe it's because we're always traveling at a jogging speed, and just can't spare the extra breath that a word would require. It'd be the perfect time to talk, though. I have so many questions that I just need to have answered by him. What does he feel about me? A ray of hope that derived from our previous conversation tells me that there was more of a reason behind his kiss than just entertaining sponsors - like, there could be something there. But what? Does he know how I feel about him? I never really did disclose how much I'm attached to him. I just wasn't sure if I was ready to. The timing would have sucked, too. We went to sleep almost immediately after the incident.
"We should probably hunt before we set up camp for tonight." He says. I can't be more thankful that he took it upon himself to break the silence.
"Isn't the broth enough for today?"
"Of course not," he pants. "We need solid meat. That broth's got about as much protein as a rock."
"True." I say. I don't object. If it weren't for all the knots in my gut that came with being nervous around Cato, the fact that I'm starving would be a lot more prevalent.
Quite some time seems to pass before any more words are exchanged. But it really isn't awkward. We're not really here to make conversation with each other in the first place, so I guess every word or gesture exchanged between Tributes is simply a bonus in the entertainment. I just can't help but wonder just how enthused they are by all of my brazen mistakes I'm making in my love life, if it constitutes as one. Finally, the lake appears in view. It's really not that long of a walk when you're healthy and capable of walking it. In fact, we run toward the shimmering water at full speed.

"Oh, finally." Cato says, taking off his backpack and stretching. "We get to stop smelling like shit today."
"Yeah, not showering for almost five days is pretty disgusting." I add, sitting down on the edge of the lake.
I can't help but stare - and feel slightly aroused - when Cato begins to remove his clothes. Eight, clearly defined abdominal muscles, bulging pectoral muscles and a deep V-shape on his lower stomach that leads into his boxers make it difficult to ignore him. I can't deny it. He's definitely sexy. How in the world is someone like him attracted to someone like me?
"Hey, why don't you put your eyes back in your head?" he says, smiling haughtily.
I blush, quickly looking away to be respectful. As Effie would prod me, where are my manners? "Sorry. I guess I'm just zoning out a lot lately."
Cato snickers. "Yeah, I guess that's it. The fact I'm ripped has nothing to do with it."
I just laugh. There's nothing I can say to deny it. "Whatever, Cato."
After stalling my eyes for a few minutes, I hear a loud splash and decide it's alright to look. All of his clothes are lying in a heap where he formerly stood. His head is peeking out of the water, and his sandy blonde hair is swept slightly over his forehead.
He lets out a hushed moan. "Ahh... The water's great. Aren't you gonna take a bath?"
"Yeah, I'll be right there." I say, sounding more staunch than I actually am.
I know what this means: I'll have to take off my clothes, too. Believe me, I'm no Greek idol when it comes to stature. And it's going to be more than humbling to be naked and vulnerable in Cato's presence. I sigh, removing my shirt, pants, boxers and every other object of clothing as quickly as possible before stepping down into the lake. Covering my groin with my forearms, I touch the bottom of the lake with my foot to test it's depth. There's another thing for me to be ashamed of: I can't swim to save my life. But the cool water definitely feels great as it caresses every inch of me. It seems to make my skin forget that it was ever subject to a snare or poison ivy.
"Oh, you're right, Cato, this is fantastic." I say, twisting and turning freely in the heavy ripples.
"You're not even in the deep part. It feels better over here." he tells me, his eyes closed in pleasure.
I hesitate. It's almost like he's forcing me to admit my weakness. "Actually, Cato, this is really embarrassing, but-"
"You can't swim, can you?" He interrupts, raising an eyebrow.
Well, I'm a little relieved I didn't have to say it myself. "Yeah... There really weren't many lakes in Twelve."
Cato glides through the water, moving closer to me. "Here, do it like this. Just push through the water with your arms." He shows me a simple stroke, kicking his legs and creating a current to carry himself through. I try to memorize the pattern of his movements, but it's difficult when the shape of his body offers a formidable distraction.
He stops, panting a little from the exertion. "Now you try it."
I'm determined not to make a fool of myself. Trying to recall the pattern, I push the water to my sides and kick my legs, but they won't move fast enough. I kick them faster, hoping that'll give me a boost. But it doesn't. In fact, I'm moving so slowly that my head dunks under the water. My heart starts to race. It's got to be the weirdest feeling ever - water entering your mouth and nose the minute you breath. Frantically, I surface, struggling for a breath of air. Before I know it, Cato's directly in front of me, and I'm snorting water out of my face all over his chest. So much for not looking like an idiot.
Cato laughs. "It's fine, you'll get it soon. It takes a long time to be a good swimmer like I am."
I laugh too, trying to make light of my calamity. It's the best thing I can do at this point, right? At least it offers our minds a good break from mourning Clove. "Well, I'm sure I look pretty stupid to the cameras."
He pats me on the back. It kind of stings, though, because his hand is wet. "Don't worry about it. Hey, did you feel that?"
"Feel what?"
"It's starting to rain." He says, holding out his hand. "If you can't swim, I doubt you're going to want to be caught naked in a flooded lake."
I shudder. The mere thought of another Tribute seeing me in the nude disconcerts me. Hell, even Cato seeing me makes me nervous.
"Come on." He says, gesturing toward our heaps of clothes. We float toward the edge of the lake and hoist ourselves up. The rain begins to beat down harder, telling us it's time to hurry to shelter of some sort. We plaster our clothes on as quickly as possible, but not before I catch a glimpse of him in his full-frontal, nude glory. If I had to guess, I'd say he was at least nine inches. Feeling myself getting a bit solid from the sight of his manhood, I make a point to put my boxers and pants on first and foremost. When we've equipped all of our clothes, weapons and backpacks, we dart away towards the thick forest in the direction opposite the Cornucopia.

"Where are we going?" I pant, my ears popping from the transition of sea to land.
"I don't know," he says, dodging thickets of brush and branches. "To find shelter of some sort."
We run for what feels like ages. Soon, the rain feels heavy as drops of blood, and we've run out of breath. Finally, I come to a much needed stop, and Cato does as well.
"What about that cave, over there?" He breathes out heavily, pointing to a stone cavern about forty yards away.
I stare into the dark entrance, perhaps a bit skeptical. "Well, what if Thresh or the other guy is in there?" I say, excluding Katniss' name on purpose. I wouldn't even know what to do if we were to find her.
"I've got my sword. I'll take care of it." he reassures.
I don't object. The rain is almost to the point of smacking me on the head, and the humid mist it creates is making it harder and harder to see out here. At this point, I'll take whatever we can find. "Sounds good to me, then. Let's go."