Author's Note: Wooah. Sorry about the hiatus. I was incredibly busy and needed a break from writing. But as you can all see, I've reached somewhat of the turning point of the story. Somewhat of it. Now, more than ever, I need constructive criticism. A few questions I have are, is Cato too OOC? Is Peeta's train of thought too disjointed? And does my dialogue sound like Tommy Wiseau wrote it? (Props to you if you know who that is. xD)
But thank you all SOOO MUCH. Trust me, I never expected the amount of care, compassion and attention I've received in this and I'm more grateful than ever for it. You guys are such a blessing, and I hope you all had a wonderful fourth! Please enjoy the story, read and review!
My battered body collapses against the floor of the cave, struggling for each deep and desperate breath. I watch Cato stretch his arms above his head, his eyes squeezed shut as he, too, tries to regain the ability to breathe. Smoothing back the wet hair that's nearly glued to my forehead, I remember our days training at the Capitol. Never would he and I have received the scores of eight and ten from the Gamemakers with the scarce amount of strength we have right now. We've gotten so much weaker. Even the mere idea of lifting a heavy weight makes me a bit stertorous. I wonder how Cato's holding up internally. I mean, he's still perfectly virile and brawny on the outside, but he must be deteriorating in one way or another. I'm beginning to worry for him. I don't care how strong of a Career he is, or how keen his survival skills are. The Games aren't easy on anyone, and I care just as much about putting food in his mouth as putting it in mine. It's funny how much my feelings for him have transitioned over such a short period of time. I guess being mutually dependent on someone for days on end can make you feel like you've known them forever. From assuming he was an odious monster to listening to his back story, I came to appreciate him as an ally. Maybe even a friend. I told myself not to get attached to him, but irony decided to meddle with my intents. Now, I'm not exactly sure where the lines blurred, and those feelings became more than platonic. And if I'm not even sure how my own feelings have shifted, I'm baffled from trying to read his. We just kissed last night, and even though we started talking about it in the morning, we never finished. The entire day has gone by without any mention of it. The overflowing cup of questions in my mind is stirring up a sickness in my gut. Why did he kiss me? Does he even feel anything like what I've been feeling for him? And why hasn't he said anything about it? This is definitely something I hate about the Games. I find myself focusing so intently on the crucial task at hand, like obtaining food or shelter, that I let my emotions build up like a dam that bursts into my heart whenever my mind has a spare moment.
The rain creates a robust symphony outside of our cave, each heavy raindrop bursting in unison as it crashes upon everything outside. Sword in hand, Cato stomps around and inspects every inch of rock and stalactite in the vicinity for any hints of a Tribute. He does this for an extended period of time, which makes me think he's just bored and needs something to fill the time.
"I think we're safe, Cato." I say, emptying my backpack.
"Yeah, we're safe from the other Tributes, but we're still starving."
I lay out my sleeping bag on the cool, stone floor. "Well, I don't really think there's any food in here, and the rain kind of screwed up our plans to go hunting."
He watches me for a minute, as if to ponder a possible solution. I can only hope that the idea of cannibalism isn't conjuring up in his mind.
"Don't we still have that thermos of broth?" I ask.
He scoffs. "Please. I won't be satisfied with just that."
"Sadly, it's the only thing we've got. It's better than nothing."
He sighs, taking the thermos out of his backpack and handing it to me. The note from Enobaria is still dangling off of the lid. Half of me wants to rip it off and cast it into the storm outside, but the bolder half wants to use it as a scapegoat to talk about what it represents. But instead of paying it any attention, I open the lid and thirstily gulp the salty liquid.
"Here, have some." I tell him, holding it out to offer. "You haven't eaten since yesterday."
"Neither have you." he says, his arms crossed in defiance.
I probe the thermos at him more. "What do you have against this broth? You need food just as much as I do."
He takes it after a brief hesitance, his face scrunched in disgust at the few swigs he takes. "This barely constitutes as food."
"I know, but until we find something more substantial, it'll have to do."
He wanders over to the mouth of the cave, staring forlornly outside. "I wish this fucking rain would let up so I could go kill us some decent game."
In the process of unloading my backpack, I come across our empty canteens. I guess we got so distracted by bathing and swimming that we forgot to refill them.
"Well, we did forget to fill these up, maybe the rain serves us a purpose after all." I hand him one of the silver tins. "Just stick it outside."
"Alright." He does as I suggest, without any objection. I'm not going to lie, it makes me feel good to know someone's actually listening to me, and that I'm not just following the decisions of a pack anymore.
"Cato, are we even considered Careers anymore?"
He slides his back down against the wall, sitting about a foot away from me on the floor of the cave. "I guess not, considering everyone else is dead."
"I can't believe it all happened so fast." I say, my mind recapping Clove's grievous end.
"I can. Career bonds don't usually last that long. Whether everyone gets killed off or kills each other, they're just fickle."
"How do you know so much about the Games, anyway? You talk like a Gamemaker sometimes."
He sighs, with just the right inflection that makes him sound hopeless and defeated. "I've watched them all my life. I'm sure I've watched every last snippet of Oslo's Games at least a million times."
"I just don't get why anyone would volunteer to come out here and starve to death."
He turns his attention to the ground and fidgets with a stray pebble. "Well, I had one hell of a reason to."
"Cato, you confuse me sometimes." I blurt out, making sure I don't sound too firm.
"Do I?"
"Yeah," I begin, feeling the adrenaline from speaking my mind bursting through the facade of callousness I was putting up all day. But I manage to keep at least a loose reign on my words, deciding I won't mention last night just yet.
"I just don't understand why you do the things you do. I don't really understand the link between you and your past. It just all seems so detached from who you are right now, if that makes any sense."
Silence sweeps over us. I find myself watching him with bated breath, almost as if I were hunting prey. I'm hanging on every second waiting for a response.
"It just doesn't affect me anymore." he says, plainly.
"How could it not affect you anymore? It's tragic."
Cato raises an eyebrow, and our gazes meet. "Well, now that the whole country knows that I've told you about it, I might as well tell you about the rest."
"There's more?"
He hesitates, stretching his arms behind his head. "I didn't wan't to live at home. So I volunteered for the Games, hoping that being a victor would give me more power. That, or I'd just be freed from everything. Like my brother. I didn't plan to care, and it seemed easy. So I went through the motions. Training, making alliances, you know, Tribute stuff. But then I met someone here, and it made not caring one hell of a lot harder."
The fast-paced rhythm of my heartbeat rocks my whole body into another cold sweat as our eyes meet. His eyes penetrates past mine, almost like he's looking into my thoughts.
"And who was that?" I ask coyly, trying not to sound too wiry or eager.
"Damn it, Peeta, do I really have to spell it out for you?" he chuckles.
That adrenal tenseness from last night returns in its full strength as my mind struggles to keep up with what's going on. Two muscular arms envelope my waist, pulling me in closer. Before I know it, my face is fervent, and the source of the heat is his lips smashed against mine. Once again, it feels perfect. I wish I didn't have to pull away to discuss why we were doing it, because all that matters to both my head and my body is how good it feels. But the practical side of me pulls away, opens my eyes and stares straight into his. It goes on like this for a minute or two, both of us just reading each other's faces like an engrossing novel. Heavy breaths escape his slightly parted lips. He's hungry for another kiss, but I feel sobered. My rush of nerves is gone, and now I just want to ease my mind and get to the root of his motives.
"Why?" The word crawls shyly out of my mouth. "Why do you-"
I'm interrupted by his finger pressed to my lips. I feel myself flush all over again. "Peeta," he says, flashing a reassuring smile. "I know you like me. It doesn't take a genius to figure that out."
"Don't you like me too?" I blurt out. Gosh, I sound so desperate. "I mean, you should like someone if you're going to kiss them."
He sits back, almost like what I've said repulsed him, or otherwise killed the mood. I'm sure it did, because even with that last sentence, I still sounded like a pining schoolgirl.
"Well, yeah. I do. But you and I both know we can't be together. There's no way the two of us can make it out of here alive."
I stare down at the stitching pattern in the sleeping bag, wishing that for just one day I could forget about the reality of the Games. "I know." I mutter despondently.
"Even if we did, we'd hardly survive back in our Districts. The people in Two wouldn't be satisfied with this kind of weakness from a victor. And I'm sure whatever would happen to you in Twelve wouldn't be good, either."
The haunting image of the Peacekeeper's beatings return to my mind, as I remember that they receive their training from District Two. "No. It wouldn't be good at all. The last guy who did this kind of thing got mauled by a Peacekeeper."
Both of us sigh, the ever-so cumbersome silence wedging its way between us. Somehow, we both think we can justify it by pretending to watch the rain fall over the rest of the arena. The constant drops sound like thousands of melancholy drum rolls, just egging on our bittersweet moment. I can't decide whether I'm content and euphoric from kissing him, or if I feel like brooding over the context. There's something to be said about how relationship work in the arena. They're fast-paced, because there isn't much time to let things properly. Most of them are easily broken by a selfish need to survive, but I don't think that will be the case here, since both of us are adament about not killing each other. In one of the previous Games, a few years back, the Tributes from District Four tried to maintain a relationship. It was sweet, and everyone sponsored them, until the girl stabbed the unwitting boy in his sleep. I could never do something like that. Not to Cato, not to anyone. He wouldn't do that to me either, right?
A familiar beeping sound infiltrates the silence as our eyes follow a parachuted, silver box down to the mouth of the cave. Before it even has a chance to land, Cato's standing right there, eager to receive it.
"I think the sponsors like it when we kiss." I tell him, feeling myself start to smile.
"I'm sure they do." He kneels on the floor next to me, opening our gift. I pick up the soggy little note that's dangling by a thread on the parachute. As courtesy calls, always read the card before opening the present. Except I could care less about courtesy, I'm simply just curious what it says.
"Not exactly my pleasure to watch, but the other sponsors like it. And seriously, you call that a kiss? - H"
Haymitch. I didn't think he was in support of our relationship, or whatever it is. But at least he's going along with it, like the other sponsors. I sigh in relief.
"Oh, hell yes! We got some cigarettes!" Cato exclaims, ripping the plastic film off of the small box.
"Why don't you open the rest of it first?"
Cato rolls his eyes. "Whatever, I just want a smoke. I've been dying for one since we had some in the observatory."
Great. Now Panem thinks I'm not only a blatant homosexual, but a nicotine addict too. And most of Panem, other than the Capitol and District One, is pretty against homosexuality. I'm not sure about their opinion on nicotine, though.
"I thought you told me to keep your smoking a secret, and now you go and announce it on public television?"
He takes one of the matches out of his backpack, strikes it against the stone, and lights the small stick. "It's not like it matters if they know now. I just didn't want them confiscating my cigarettes at the Capitol."
I feel around for anything else inside the silver box, when my hand finally stumbles across something warm. "Hey, Cato, I think they sent us some food!"
He petishly exhales a puff of smoke, raising an eyebrow. "Real food?"
"Well, let's see." I lift the object out of the box. Not unlike neanderthals encountering fire for the first time, we curiously unwrap the warm, enveloping cloth.
"Hey, a loaf of bread!" I can't help but just be filled with warmth after inhaling the sweet fragrance of the stuff I used to bake.
"That's it? Just plain bread?" Cato says, petishly.
I rip off a spongy piece and stuff my face. I didn't even know I was this hungry until I smelled the buttery loaf. "Come on, it's better than nothing." I say, crumbs falling out of my mouth.
The older boy sighs, rubs out his cigarette and rips off a piece of the bread to taste. His sour expression contorts away. "Not bad."
"I know. It tastes just like the kind I used to make."
He smiles, letting out a hushed chuckle. Did I say something stupid or something?
"What? Are you laughing at me?"
"No."
I work around the emulsed food in my mouth, shielding it with my hand so he doesn't have to see it when I talk."...Then why are you laughing?"
He smiles. Not a smirk, but a true, jovial grin. Even though it seems condescending in context, it's kind of refreshing to see him smile.
"Because you're cute when you're pigging out on bread."
I swallow before letting a light chuckle escape me. "Thanks, I guess."
As Cato tears off another hunk of the bread, the Capitol anthem resonates through the rain. The sun has already set? I didn't even notice the sky change. It's almost like someone pulled a black sheet over a sunny day. I try to focus on the image projection in the sky, which proves itself a bit difficult due to the muddle of rain and darkness. But anyone could clearly identify the first sullen face to flash above.
Clove.
The emotions come rolling back as I see the rain pour over her frail face, almost representing the tears for Marvel that she never had a chance to shed. I don't even bother to look at Cato. Not now, and not when Jayel's phlegmatic glare flashes across. After a few moments, the projection flickers out. But for some reason, I just keep staring outside into the rainy night. There's just no use in rehashing these grieving emotions. It's like the regurgitation cycle of a cattle. But unlike them, we're only hurting ourselves by bringing them up. Generally, I feel that pain is best healed when it's brought up and spoken for, but that's another arena social norm different from the world outside. Here, every emotion is best if left dormant. Everyone benefits from numbness here, not burdened with how to step over others on the road to survival.
My thoughts are interrupted by a strong arm slung over my shoulder. "You okay?"
I look up to my left side. Cato is perched next to me, his pale skin almost incandescent in the blackness. "I guess so."
He pulls me in closer so that we're immediately side to side. Embracing the moment, I lean my head on his chest.
"The Games have gone much better than I thought they would."
"How could you say that? Your District partner just died."
Well, so much for keeping the emotions buried. I swear I can be so brazen sometimes. Cato pauses, as if to process what I've just said.
He finally speaks up. "Byt you didn't."
I turn my head to face him. Before I can open my mouth to respond, he's slammed his lips against mine. A consoling rush of nicotine grazes my senses as I lose my line of thought, my mind caving into the moment. I'm literally chilled up the spine as he plays with the hair on the back of my head, so I try my best and reciprocate the gesture. I can't help but smile a little underneath his lips. Once again, it feels shiny and flawless. He opens his mouth slightly, as if to reposition his head to get a better angle on me. I do the same, relocking our lips. The adrenaline rush returns as he brushes his tongue over my lips, holding my body a little tighter. Damn, this feels fantastic... I let him in my mouth, trying my hardest to mirror his movements with my own tongue. I have a feeling that I'm an awful kisser.
He pushes me onto my back, pinning me down so that I'm laying on my sleeping bag, sandwiched between him and the fabric. Our kissing becomes more intense as he flecks the outer corners of my mouth, then finally my chin. I feel a slight tingle from his breath on my neck. I think he knows it, because that's exactly where he trails to next. My gosh, I think I finally understand why Katniss and Gale spend so much time in the woods together.
I can't help but moan as his tongue rolls over my pulse. It feels like he's hitting every possible nerve on my neck. Feeling his solidity jab into my thigh, I gasp for breath. I'm not even being directly stimulated, but the pleasure has escalated and I feel uncannily close to my climatic point.
"Cato..."
He stops immediately, as if I've told him to, breaking out contact and sitting up on his knees at my feet. I prop myself up on my elbows behind my back.
He yawns. "Think we should go to bed? It's getting late."
"Why'd you stop?" I ask, sitting up and asserting myself.
He stands up and stretches. Even though it's dark, I can make out his petty smirk. "Because I've got the upper hand now, Peeta. Besides, you're probably tired too. We've had a long day."
A mix of frustration and humiliation with a splash of guilt concocts in my gut, bottling up into one bitter emotion.
"Alright, if that's what you want." I say, accentuating the exasperation in my voice.
He walks over to his sleeping bag. My ears work just as well as my eyes as I listen to him unzip the sleeping bag and rustle through the fabric to crawl inside. "Goodnight."
Hesitantly, I unzip my sleeping bag and do the same. But I'm not going to say goodnight back. Should I feel guilty? Perhaps I enjoyed that - whatever you want to call it, way too much. Maybe I'm the one that let it go too far. But then I remember his words... he had the upper hand. He was the initiator. So does that mean he's using me? A dash of fear runs down my body. What if he set me up? What if this was all he wanted, and now he's bent on stabbing me in my sleep? No. If that were the case, he'd have probably done more to me. I'm driving myself mad with all these assumptions, trying to answer my own questions, but then questioning all of my answers. My still-active hormones want to revel in the glory of having my first intimate experience, but my mind spoils it by remembering the latter event. It's like biting into a piece of spoiled fruit. Sweet, but sickening. So sickening that you can't even enjoy the tasty part. I yawn. Though my eyes are heavy, and I'm getting weary, I try to fight falling asleep as much as I can, just in case my guess about being stabbed was correct.
"Attention, Tributes. I repeat, attention, Tributes."
I jerk awake at the sound of the robotic voice abounding through the arena. Cato has woken up as well, yawning and stretching in the same sick manner he did last night. Neither of us say a word to each other.
"There is something each of you desperately need. Food, water, medicine, supplies - it's all at the Cornucopia, right at this very moment. Here in the Hunger Games, we call this occasion a Feast. Take it as the Capitol's gift of appreciation to you."
I can't believe the audacity of the Capitol sometimes. If they appreciate us so much, then why are they throwing us into the arena and ordering us to kill each other? I sigh with frustration, trying to think of something I so desperately need. We're not injured, the canteens outside are overflowing with water, we're well supplied, Cato even has his pack of cigarettes. The only thing that I can conjure up is food, but we can obtain that by hunting. It'd be much safer than to run out on that field and risk our lives for another canteen of broth that I'd have to basically force down Cato's throat.
"And that's not all we're offering to you, Tributes. There's been a slight rule change. Two victors can possibly be crowned, but only if they are from the same District..."
My blood runs cold.
"...And since there are only five Tributes left in the arena, the pair of victors can only originate from District Twelve. The star-crossed lovers."
... Those last few words were by far the most inflected and expressive that I've ever heard from the announcer here. Halfway sugar-coated, and halfway provoking and contemptuous. They seemed to be aimed directly at me. I can't believe it... It's almost as if they're trying to create dissent, as if they're trying to use Katniss to dismantle the ties I've made with Cato. It's like they know what happened last night, and are trying to take advantage of the emotions I'm feeling right now.
"Well?" The other boy probes, watching me curl up in some kind of ball in my sleeping bag. "Wanna talk about fire girl now?"
"What's there to discuss?" I say. My voice comes off a lot colder and cockier than I intend to.
But Cato immediately picks up on my hints of dissent. "Well, first of all I'd like to discuss why you're acting like such a dick this morning."
"I'm not the one who just played you last night, Cato. You're the one acting like a dick. What was that all about?" I say, the volume of my voice escalating. I guess I probably shouldn't have came off that strong, considering he's not only armed but much bigger, and I'm kind of at his mercy right now.
He shakes his head at me. "I didn't play you, I just got fucking tired."
"But you said you had the upper hand. What the hell did that mean?"
He stretches, his voice straining along with his muscles. "It certainly didn't mean I was playing you. When I'm with you, I just get the chance to be dominant and call the shots."
Call the shots? Who does he think he is? "So being dominant means you'll lead me on and treat me like crap?"
"Damnit, just quit trying to assume things! I never led you on! What part of 'I got tired' don't you understand?" He says, his voice escalating indignantly.
"Well, it kind of makes me mad that you just said you had the upper hand. It made me feel like some kind of weak pussy."
He sighs, like he's blowing off some steam. Letting go of his anger, maybe. "No, I don't think that. I mean, I'm obviously stronger than you, but I don't think you're a pussy or anything. You're just... Passive."
"Passive?"
"Yeah. And it makes me feel more dominant than you." He stands up, walking outside to fetch our overflowing canteens. "I guess I should just finish what I start, then."
I sigh, trying not to look at his highly distracting body. "Yeah. You should."
"Speaking of finishing things, do you got any more of that bread?"
"No, but the rain's finally let up. We can hunt today."
"Or we can just go to the Cornucopia. It would be easier to just do that." He shoves the canteens forcefully into his backpack, then grips the straps tightly as if to clarify that that's what he wants to do.
"I guess we could." I agree, through my teeth.
"Then we will. Let's get our shit together and get moving."
I stretch, preparing myself to face what lies ahead. In a determined silence, instead of an awkward one, we gather up all of our supplies, condensing them down to what we can carry on our backs. My stomach is in knots, twisting and churning at the mere thought of running into Katniss at the Cornucopia. Of course she's heard the announcement, and obviously I've crossed her mind. She's crossed mine, too. To return back to the cheering crowds of people from all Districts, as the victors of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, would be a sensible solution. I could definitely reshape my repute that way, putting on a facade that I've dramatically shifted my feelings from Cato to her. But there's a note of fallacy in the plan.
Cato.
I can't kill him. He's the one who gave me my first kiss. Then again, he did make me pretty upset last night... But I could see his reasoning, if I look at it introspectively. After years of torment from his mother, he's bound to want a taste of dominance. I just happen to be his guinea pig. I know, I'm probably being too thin-skinned and taking things too personally. Maybe he was right, and I really was just tired. I seriously have to grit my teeth at the thought, because being used in any way, shape or form is definitely a serious offense to me. But this wave of meekness, compassion and reverence that I'm feeling just washes away the resent I'd normally feel if it were someone else. Cato gestures for me to follow him out of the cavern. The growling in my stomach pushes my feet to walk over any apprehension I have along the way. We step back out into the arena, where the sun is beating down upon the valley. What bipolar weather the Gamemakers are thrusting upon us.
"So what happens if we see fire girl?"
"Well," I pant, already winded from the brisk pace of my stride. "I don't really know."
I can see Cato bite his lip from the corner of my eye. Every time he does that, it always makes me feel like he's about to say something bold. I pretend not to pay attention, staring off in the distant treetops.
"I'm still keeping my word not to kill you, Peeta." He says quietly, abruptly stopping in his tracks.
I stop alongside him, and we once again make a prolonged eye contact. "I thought you were going to stab me in my sleep last night for a while." I admit.
He laughs, shaking his head. "You can be such an idiot sometimes, you know that?"
I try to laugh at myself. Maybe it was a pretty wild conclusion to leap to. "I guess so."
Two hands cup my face and point it upwards. Before I know it, I'm staring back into his frigid eyes, and my cheeks are burning.
"Since I'm keeping my word, are you keeping yours?"
"Yes," I stammer out, finding myself just as intimidated by his words as I was by his stature when we first met. "I'm not going to kill you."
He kisses my forehead. "Good."
"I just wish there could be two victors, from different Districts." I say, my tension easing as he steps away.
"Yeah, me too." he mutters.
Through brush and trees, we trek silently for what feels like hours. There's not a single Tribute or animal in sight, almost like the Gamemakers removed all the game in order to force us towards the Cornucopia. They don't care about our well being, as I've more than realized. They want action, they want blood. And it infuriates me that they feel compelled to play with my heart in the process.
Finally, we've reached the clearing in the woods. I can see the Cornucopia. There's our backpacks, side by side. Bright orange with the number two on one, twelve on the other. And standing right over them is the tall silhouette of a huntress, bow in hand. Watching. Waiting.
I'm in a very fiery predicament now.