A/N: We're up to 21K words. I hope you enjoy this chapter. It was a lot to write. (Thank you to my husband for being my coach and for pushing me to do this. I love you more than words can physically write.)
Your humble story-teller,
FLUX
-*** Tribute Dinner ***-
After washing away the turmoil of his desires, Cato quickly dried himself before stepping into his suite.
Angel, Gabriel, and Samuel dressed him in black oxfords, matching slacks, and a light blue button-up shirt. The finishing touch was a navy blazer adorned with golden Lion's Teeth, a nod from Cornelia. He resisted any additional makeup as he reunited with Ophelia and Cornelia in the foyer, where a grand piano stood—a sight he had only seen in textbooks.
His fingers idly played across the keys as they waited for Clove to join them.
Ophelia, dressed to impress in a golden mini-dress with floral ruffles and a new platinum hairdo, beamed. Cornelia wore a regal gown in deep yellow.
"Are we following a theme?" he asked, trailing his fingers along the piano keys.
"Yes, yes!" Ophelia exclaimed, hobbling over with a glass flute of fizzy liquid. "Angel and Eros suggested we show district solidarity. Cornelia picked these flowers, and I love them!"
Cornelia smiled and raised her glass in a gentle toast to her idea.
Their celebratory moment was interrupted as Eros and his team emerged from an adjacent room with exasperation.
"She won't come out! That stubborn girl," Eros lamented, grabbing a champagne flute. His gaze rested on Cornelia. "Cornelia, dear, I've tried everything. She's feeling sick, refusing meds, and we can't send her to a party like this. Plus, her makeup!"
Cato stopped playing as Cornelia turned to him, knowing he would need to intervene.
"Let me talk to her," he offered.
Eros sighed and gestured towards the room behind him. "Good luck."
Cato crossed the foyer and climbed a few steps to Clove's room. He knocked on the closed glass door of her bathroom, receiving no response at first.
"Clove, it's me. Can you open up, please?"
He heard a distant sigh before the glass door whooshed open. Inside, he found Clove kneeling before the toilet. She wore a gown embroidered with golden lace, mascara streaking her face.
He wet a washcloth under the tap and handed it to her. She accepted begrudgingly as he settled beside her on the floor.
"Thanks," she muttered, wiping her face and pressing the cloth to her forehead. "Why are you here?"
A small smile touched Cato's lips. "Misery loves company."
She rolled her eyes, scowling. "You don't look miserable to me."
"Appearances can deceive."
He wasn't sure how much to share, but honesty seemed right.
"You're wrong. I do understand," he said quietly, meeting her gaze in the mirror's reflection. "I've only been switched on for three days. I lost my best friend during our final exam."
Clove froze, wiping her face and mascara. "You cheated then?"
"Technically. But it doesn't matter."
Clove's words stung, but he deserved it. Despair welled in his chest, his body trembling. He had to push through.
"There's no prize for the greatest suffering," he continued. "Just know, I understand."
Silence hung between them before Clove glanced at him.
"I'm sorry about your friend," she whispered. "No one should go through what you did."
"I'm sorry about your pills."
"It's fine," she replied defensively. "I was the last pick. They wanted the top girl from your class, but she conceded after I threw a dagger into her hand."
A small laugh escaped Cato. "I'm sure the Drill Master wasn't pleased."
"It only lasted a minute," she chuckled. "I've never seen him so disappointed. Even knowing I was on Refrain, they still sent me. That should give you an idea of how little my success meant to them."
His lips twitched. "It matters to me."
Their smiles met in the mirror's reflection. Clove turned, nudging his foot.
"Stop smiling. We have a party to attend."
Though it hurt, Cato's smile remained as he rose from the floor.
He was thankful for Clove. He may not have deserved her forgiveness, but he could earn it. They were two strangers whose chaotic world suddenly made sense together.
They exited the bathroom and rejoined their group in the foyer, where Eros touched Clove's makeup before heading out.
A rich, warm melody echoed through the Tribute Center's halls. The soothing rhythm eased Cato's nerves as he approached the balcony. Down below, the stables had been transformed into a stunning ballroom, reminiscent of the fairy tales Cornelia used to read to him.
Five crystal chandeliers hung above large mahogany tables at the room's center, flanked by golden statues holding candelabras that bathed the space in a warm glow. Now adorned with mirrors, the exterior windows reflected the interior light, creating a dazzling effect. A small orchestra played near the former main doors, surrounded by tributes, mentors, escorts, and stylists who had already gathered for the ball.
"Cato, dear, are you coming?" Cornelia called out, prompting him to join her, Clove, and Ophelia. He noticed their stylists were absent as Cornelia summoned the glass elevator.
"Where did they go?"
"Oh, did you expect them to join us?" Cornelia chuckled. "They have other matters to attend to and prefer to avoid conflicts with rival stylists. It's not good for their image, especially before the Games."
Cato hadn't anticipated the cutthroat nature of Capitol fashion.
The glass elevator arrived in a rush, and Cato's breath caught as he realized who had occupied the transparent cage. The boy who had set his skin ablaze stood before him. Their eyes locked— an eerie connection lingering between them. His throat tightened as he met Peeta's gaze. Up close, he noticed Peeta's eyes were hazel, not brown— like amber starbursts encircled by cerulean rings.
His heart raced, lost in a whirlwind of emotions. Memories of their encounter in the shower flashed through his mind— breath on his neck, the shiver his touch had caused.
Cato struggled to find words, but thankfully, Cornelia broke the tension.
"Haymitch, darling! It's been ages!" she exclaimed, embracing the older man with curly light-brown hair and a scruffy beard.
She kissed his cheek. "Still indulging, I see."
Haymitch appeared slightly disheveled, his white button-up wrinkled and untucked from navy trousers as Cornelia straightened his blazer with a smile.
"Good to see you, Cornelia. It's been a while."
"Twenty years, give or take," she laughed, adjusting his blazer. "Mind if we ride down with you? I'm sure we can all squeeze in."
Haymitch leaned against the wall, gesturing for them to enter.
"Of course," he said.
Peeta stepped back, allowing Cato space, but Clove shoved him from behind. Their brief contact sent a jolt through him.
"Move your ass. I'm starving," she growled, her hunger trumping her manners as Haymitch chuckled.
"District Two, always charming."
Peeta's muscles tensed under his touch as Cato shifted uneasily back toward him.
"Sorry about that," he murmured, closing the gap between them. "She's nicer when she's not starving."
Peeta's eyes met his, and a faint smile curved his lips.
"I'm sure that applies to most of us," he replied.
Cato felt intoxicated, inhaling Peeta's scent— a sweet blend of honey and vanilla that left his mouth watering and his head spinning.
Peeta wore a black suit with a snug burgundy shirt and tie, accentuating his slender frame. The shirt shimmered in the light, savoring each breath he took like a fan feeding embers. Cato's mind raced with thoughts he knew he shouldn't entertain about a stranger, but this fascination was a potent distraction from the looming Games.
The elevator's arrival snapped Cato back to reality, and he glanced at the opening doors. He turned back to Peeta, ignoring the girl beside him who glared daggers at him.
"See you around," he managed to say, trailing behind Clove as Cornelia veered off to mingle.
He followed behind Clove and Cornelia as Ophelia veered off to catch up with the District 12 escort. He recognized the woman but couldn't recall her name—Ephra, or Ephie, something along those lines. Watching those two interact like long-lost childhood friends brought on a pang of second-hand embarrassment.
Cornelia turned towards them, a lingering smile on her face as she accepted a champagne flute from one of the avox servants.
"I'm going to mingle a bit while we wait for dinner," she announced, her smile gleaming beneath glossy lips. "Please, try to behave yourselves."
Her gaze lingered on Clove as she strolled off across the atrium, leaving the two tributes alone. Cato accepted a champagne flute from a servant, a smirk playing on his lips just as Clove jabbed him in the abdomen.
"What was that for?" he coughed, barely containing a chuckle.
Annoyance flashed across Clove's face. "For taking my Refrain and making me look bad in front of your grandmother."
Cato rolled his eyes and took a long swig of champagne, the sweet, crisp liquid soothing his parched throat.
"I already apologized."
"I reserve the right to be upset," she groaned, folding her arms defiantly.
Quickly snatching a champagne flute from an avox tray, Clove turned towards the sumptuous spread of foods and snacks.
"Come on, let's see what they have for us to snack on," she urged.
Attempting to swipe the glass from her hand, Cato frowned. "You're fifteen, Clove. You don't need that."
Not that he wouldn't have indulged her. This wasn't the time or place for Clove to drink, especially after feeling ill earlier. Her stubbornness reminded him of Marcus—he would've approved of her.
"I think I do," she retorted, rolling her eyes as she approached a long table brimming with finger foods, sandwiches, fruits, cheeses, meats, and bread. "With the possibility of dying before I turn sixteen, you can oblige me with a glass of champagne and hold my plate while I graze. Speaking of which, hold this."
Tossing a small ceramic plate into Cato's hands, Clove made her way to the table, leaving him to follow with resignation. He silently accepted responsibility for her, realizing that if he wanted a relatively calm evening, he'd be better off assisting her like a caretaker while she grazed like a cow.
And Panem help him, she could eat.
He watched her shovel food into her mouth with astonishment, so much so that he failed to notice a pair of tributes approaching until they were upon him—vibrant in violets and pinks, unmistakable markers of District 1 luxury. The boy, slightly taller but lacking defined muscles, extended his hand.
"Cato, right?"
"Yeah, and you are?" Cato handed the plate to Clove, extending his free hand to shake the boys.
"Marvel." His grin flashed bright as his grip tightened against Cato's.
Refusing to back down, Cato squeezed back until Marvel relented. He examined his pulsing hand with a smile.
"You've got quite the grip. I guess it's true what they say about District 2 tributes."
Something about Marvel's choice of words unsettled Cato, his glare lingering.
"And what do they say about District 2 tributes?"
A delicate hand squeezed his bicep, accompanied by a childish giggle.
"That you're beautiful and strong."
A stunning woman stood beside Marvel—luminous blonde hair, golden skin, and bright blue eyes framed by a loose magenta dress revealing tantalizing hints of skin. Her grasp made Cato uneasy, like a rodent caught in a predator's claws.
Cato reciprocated with a gentle kiss on her hand. "Pleased to meet you, miss."
The woman smiled irresistibly, grasping his hand tenderly.
"Glimmer."
Finding Glimmer's touch unsettling, Cato opted to play nice with his fellow Careers, much like he indulged Clove's drinking and eating—anything to make this experience more manageable.
"You'll get wrinkles from smiling so much," he quipped, releasing Glimmer's hand. Clove handed her empty plate and glass to an avox servant, brushing past him.
Glimmer's seductive smile twisted into a sinister grin.
"Oh, hello there, Clove. We've heard great things about you."
The young brunette acknowledged the Career pair with a small nod.
"I wish I could say the same about our friends from District 1. It's nice to meet you."
Cato noted Glimmer's growing scowl as he finished his champagne, exchanging it for another from an avox servant. He turned back to Marvel, who wore an amused expression.
"If you'll excuse us, we should return to our mentor. See you around."
Marvel draped an arm reassuringly around Glimmer, beaming at Cato and Clove. "Absolutely! Looking forward to seeing what you bring to training tomorrow. Enjoy your evening."
With a hand on Clove's back, Cato gestured for her to move along, a smirk playing on her lips.
"Was it just me, or did you find those two painfully vain?"
"No, I felt that too," he laughed. "I'm pretty sure their teeth were fake."
Clove's laughter was reassuring. "They were like eggshells. Only sociopaths smile that brightly. They both gave me the creeps."
Cato chuckled, shaking his head. He felt lighter on his feet, though perhaps it was just the champagne talking. They approached the large table where Cornelia sat with Ophelia and the District 12 members. Clove stopped just short of earshot, meeting Cato's eyes.
"You know, your plan seems smarter now. I wasn't thrilled about it earlier, but after that encounter with District One, I think I'm fine sticking around the coal miners."
A gentle smile lingered on her lips as she noticed Cornelia waving them over.
"Let's just hope they can step it up, or we'll be carrying dead weight."
As they reached the table, Cato surveyed the District 12 group, pulling out chairs for himself and Clove.
"Are these seats taken?"
"Take a load of slick," Haymitch replied, taking a swig from his silver flask.
"Yes, sir. Thank you," Cato responded.
The disheveled man rolled his eyes. "And cut the formalities. These two wouldn't know class if it slapped 'em in the face with one of Effie Trinket's designer bags."
"Manners, Haymitch!" chimed the lavender-clad woman seated between Haymitch and Peeta.
Cato's gaze lingered on Peeta's face as he watched the young man's hazel eyes shift from the woman back to him. Cato smiled, shaking off the flush caused by the stares and champagne as he pulled out Clove's chair.
"Oh, don't mind him, Haymitch. He's just trying to make a good impression," Cornelia chuckled, patting the chair beside her to invite Cato to sit.
Taking his place between Cornelia and Clove, Cato took a tiny sip of his champagne flute to settle his nerves as the lavender-clad woman stood to introduce the strangers across the table.
"Oh, where are my manners?" she giggled. "I'm Effie Trinket, Capitol escort for District Twelve. Here is Haymitch Abernathy, the Second Quarter Quell winner, and our tributes, Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen."
"You've certainly become more punctual since our days at Capitol Couture," Ophelia smiled, sipping her champagne flute. "Allow me to introduce Cornelia of House Felix, winner of the First Quarter Quell, and our tributes, Cato of House Marcellus and Clove of House Valentius, Legionnaires of the Stone Bridge Academy. I'm Ophelia Daytide, their escort for these Games."
Haymitch clapped for Ophelia as if giving a round of applause.
"Beautiful, just beautiful. Almost brought a tear to my eye," he remarked.
Cornelia rolled her eyes at the younger victor. "Haymitch, darling, play nice."
"What? I was complimenting her. She's so well-spoken."
Katniss's eyes met Cato's.
"So, what's with the house prefixes? Why not just use surnames?"
"We reserve them for official records and special ceremonies," Cato explained casually, sipping his champagne. "Not so different from how people call you Katniss instead of Katniss Everdeen everywhere you go."
"You can just call me Katniss. That's fine."
A defiant smirk crossed Cato's face, knowing he would do nothing of the sort.
"Well, Everdeen, you can call me Cato," he replied.
Katniss rolled her eyes at him, sarcasm dripping from her tongue.
"Whatever you say, Marcellus."
Despite her fiery demeanor, Cato sensed the underlying tension the Games had placed upon her. He himself wasn't thrilled to be there. Amidst the emotions swirling within him, Katniss's face from the Reaping day played in his mind.
They were mere pawns in the chess game of fate.
Returning to Cornelia and Haymitch's lively debate about Stone Bridge Academy, Cato finished his second glass of champagne, hoping to drown the stirring of emotion in his chest. Occasionally, his gaze wandered to the blonde boy across from him.
Peeta's face was smooth, untouched by the flaws and spots that marked boys from poorer districts. His features were sharp yet gentle. Cato found himself captivated by Peeta's full lips, wondering what they would feel like against his own.
He hesitated before taking another sip from his glass, hoping the alcohol would quell his restless thoughts. Instead, it only heightened his desire.
A bell reverberated through the atrium, signaling everyone to take their seats.
Cato welcomed the distraction as Seneca Crane, the head game maker, approached a makeshift podium near the mirrored front doors. Seneca, a middle-aged man with slicked-back hair and a well-groomed beard, donned a black suit complemented by a high-collared shirt and a golden, feathered brooch on his lapel.
"Tributes, we thank you for your sacrifice to our glorious Panem. Your honor and courage will shine forever, safeguarding our nation's future. May this evening serve as a reminder of the Capital's generosity and our forgiveness. This is how we remember our past. This is how we safeguard our future," Seneca proclaimed.
Applause erupted promptly as Seneca was escorted offstage. Ever the opportunist, Haymitch poured clear liquid from his flask into his champagne flute.
"Speeches like that work up an appetite," he remarked, earning a stifled laugh from Cato and a scowl from Cornelia. Cato diverted his eyes, grabbing his glass and taking a small swig. Peeta's gaze lingered on Cato, who quickly looked away, noting Peeta's faint smile.
Did Peeta find him amusing?
Avox servants in matching suits promptly served them a sumptuous array of dishes: rich soups, crisp greens, succulent chicken, braised pork, roasted vegetables, fluffy rice, and buttery potatoes. Cato mimicked Cornelia's etiquette, chewing every morsel despite feeling uncomfortably full. Dessert followed the banquet, but he couldn't manage another bite, fearing he might be sick. Despite his protests, an avox left a square-layered dessert— creamy layers dusted with cocoa powder— in front of him against his wishes.
Dazed, Cato watched Peeta voraciously attack his slice of cake with a carnal fervor. Heat flushed through Cato as he observed Peeta devouring each bite. He felt his length twitch against his thigh as Peeta wiped the cream that dribbled down his chin.
God, help him. He's turned on by a boy eating cake.
Trying to quell his urges, Cato downed a hefty swig of champagne. He smirked, pushing his dessert toward Peeta.
"Here, you can have mine," he offered.
"Seriously?" Peeta's eyes lit up. "Thanks, it's delicious."
The orchestra resumed with a gentle, soothing melody. Cornelia sighed, stretching from her seat with an inviting smile at Haymitch.
"Come on, Haymitch. You owe me a dance. Let's leave the kiddies to play," she teased.
Surprisingly, Haymitch rose with determination. "I'll try not to step on your feet too much, darling."
The pair departed for the dance floor, leaving the tributes to observe their mentors and stylists sway with occasional missteps. Ophelia slipped away shortly after, while Effie mingled, leaving the table quiet. Cato watched Cornelia and Haymitch converse animatedly as they danced.
Cato noticed Peeta watching them with interest. Cato decided to seize his chance by taking a cue from Cornelia's playbook.
Standing, he approached Katniss, who met his open hand with a skeptical look.
"May I?" he asked.
"I'm not much of a dancer," Katniss replied, wrinkling her nose.
"Don't worry," Cato reassured her, noting the uncertainty in her icy blue eyes. "I'm a great leader."
With a roll of her eyes, Katniss accepted his hand. Cato admired her maroon dress, shimmering with hues of orange and yellow with every move she made. He placed her hand on his shoulder, leading her to the dance floor's edge.
"Trust me?" he asked softly.
"Not in the slightest," she retorted.
Katniss hesitated before allowing Cato to place his hand on her hip, holding her hand with his other.
They began with measured steps, gradually transitioning into a synchronized dance, perfectly coordinated with the music. A smile played on Cato's lips; it had been ages since he had danced since they didn't play music at the Academy. He welcomed the familiarity.
As they swayed, Cato noticed Katniss's expression shift. Her gaze turned away, her smirk fading.
"What's wrong? Not enjoying the party?" Cato inquired.
"It's a bit overwhelming," Katniss admitted, her annoyance evident.
Cato squeezed her hand, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"If you let go of your reservations, it can be enjoyable. Burn away your inhibitions," he suggested.
Her stare remained resolute, a crease forming on her forehead. "That's where you and I differ, Cato."
"I thought you enjoyed playing with fire."
The pair swayed in unison among the mentors and stylists as the soft violin trilled in the background. Cato's small smile slowly faded as Katniss spoke, rolling her eyes.
"People in my district are starving. Here, people eat so much they're just throwing it up. It's unfair that I'm here while my family scrounges to get by. But someone like you would never understand that."
Cato's gaze remained steady on hers.
"You're right, Katniss. Our pain is different."
"What does someone like you know about pain?"
The music concluded, and they stopped dancing. Light applause echoed through the room as their azure eyes met under the twinkle of candlelight.
"You'd be surprised what we do to survive... Thanks for the dance."
He kissed her knuckle gently, watching the contempt in her eyes soften.
Cato understood her disdain. They came from two different worlds—they would never fully grasp each other's suffering or their reasons for volunteering. Pain wasn't a contest based on districts; one truth remained absolute: the world they were born into wasn't fair.
They were all just players in a much larger game.
A game where there were no tributes, only victims.
No winners, only survivors.
The anchor of guilt and despair weighed down Cato's stomach as he returned to the table. The alcohol had finally taken its toll. Emotions swirled within him like a storm— anxiety, desire, bliss, grief, compassion, anger.
The withdrawal from Refrain was sending him spiraling. He felt adrift, a ghost in the machine, with nothing to ground him.
It was overwhelming. He was feeling too much.
He grabbed another glass of champagne, stumbling towards the glass elevator. Clove called out to him, but he didn't stop. He needed to escape this distorted reality, to breathe again.
Pressing the top button of the elevator panel, he stood beside the glass. His stomach lurched as he watched the rib-like railings race past, the atrium's occupants shrinking from his vision. Relief washed over him when the elevator finally stopped. His feet throbbed as he stepped onto the rooftop garden.
The overcast sky from earlier had cleared, and night was descending over the Capitol. A cool summer breeze kissed his skin as he shed his blazer and loosened his tie. It was colder here than in District 2, but the brisk air calmed his overloaded nerves as he followed one of the illuminated paths.
In the distance, the cheers and cries of the Capitol's populace celebrated the day's ceremony, but here, aside from that, it was serene. Windchimes softly echoed on the breeze. His oxfords clacked on the ceramic tiles as he passed manicured shrubs and luminous rose bushes. His heart raced beneath his chest, finding solace beneath the shade of a large pergola. The glittering metropolis faded into silence as a dull ringing filled his senses.
Why was he here?
Clutching Marcus's token, he felt the sting of loss pierce his chest. Downing his glass, he heard it shatter as he cast it aside. His body trembled, clutching the railing for support. He screamed, silent tears streaming down his cheeks, reminiscent of the night Marcus had died, embracing the willow tree in District 2.
The ringing in his ears subsided as he sank onto one of the plush couches lining the canopy. Wiping stinging tears from his eyes, he gazed at the distant horizon.
There were no stars here, only the flickering of artificial lights.
Cato couldn't recall the last time he'd seen the stars. Had Marcus taken them with him when he died? Even in the depths of despair, he still searched for the golden-eyed boy.
From the rooftop of the Tribute Center, he saw streets lined with ornate streetlamps, decorative trees, high-end shops, restaurants, and entertainment venues catering to the Capitol's wealthy and influential citizens. Yet, as breathtaking as it was, his heart yearned for home. He missed the distant snow-capped mountains and the feel of limestone beneath his feet. He missed his mother's cooking, his sister's infectious smile, and even his father's disapproving stare.
A figure sat beside him.
"Hey, are you okay?"
Turning his head, he met those haunting hazel eyes.
Peeta sat beside him, blazer draped comfortably over his lap. Cato observed his stylist's marvel once more.
"Hey," he replied, his gaze shifting from Peeta's face to the skyline. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"Are you sure? I heard you scream," Peeta pressed.
He wished for more champagne to numb his body—or for Peeta to leave.
"I've had a rough few days," he admitted.
Expecting Peeta to drop it, to leave him alone, Cato was surprised to hear him speak again.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not really," he said, shaking his head with a sigh. "Someone close to me died recently. That's all."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
Peeta's motives were hidden behind a sad smile tugging at his lips. The notion made Cato's hollow chest ache as he pushed aside his grief. Peeta's amber eyes scanned his face for any indication of what he might do next.
"I don't need your sympathy," Cato said, his gaze trailing to the blonde boy from District 12. "I didn't ask for it."
"I know... but I can only imagine what it's like to lose someone you care about."
His eyes flickered back toward the Capitol. Peeta's sincerity frustrated him—it made a part of him resent him. Battling the kindness from District 12 with his anger was already a losing battle. He felt the tension in his shoulders ease, pushing back the whirl of emotions that had brought him here.
He despised the comfort.
"Why aren't you at the party?"
"I wanted to see the lights," Peeta said, the corners of his lips forming two small dimples. "In District 12, we're lucky to get two or three hours of electricity in the evening. Everything seems so much brighter here."
Cato shook his head.
"It's too bright. You can't see the stars."
Peeta's gaze traced the horizon.
"Huh, I guess not. Are the stars bright in District 2?"
"They were," he whispered.
On a clear night, the sky above District 2's arid desert was a vast expanse of darkness, interrupted only by the twinkling of thousands of stars. But now, the sky was void of stars.
They sat in silence, listening to each other's breaths amid the gentle rustling of windchimes, overlooking the Capitol's twinkling lights shining brighter than any starry night sky. Peeta's breaths were deep and gentle, a rhythmic pattern that offered Cato an odd comfort. He quietly shifted closer, not wanting to disturb the tranquility of the moment.
Peeta broke the silence.
"Why did you volunteer? I saw the video of your Reaping. It looked like a celebration."
"In District 2, the Reaping is a celebration," he replied, shifting his gaze to the blonde boy beside him. The champagne in his blood made his head spin. "I'm a Legionnaire. This is what I've trained for my whole life."
Peeta pursed his lips, furrowing his brow.
"That's it?"
"Yeah, I guess. What were you expecting?" he asked, a sly smirk playing on his lips. His eyes studied Peeta's face for any hint of what he was getting at.
"I just figured there was more to it than that for you— Careers, I mean," he replied sheepishly, fidgeting with one of the buttons on his blazer.
Peeta hadn't expected Cato's gaze to linger on him. The Career's azure eyes bore into him, refusing to show vulnerability.
"What's a Legionnaire?"
The smirk faded from Cato's lips.
"We're the top of our class. Clove and I were chosen from among our peers to volunteer because we're the best."
"Our schools aren't like that. We learn a lot about coal," Peeta said, his cheeks flushing crimson.
"You're kidding, right?"
The mere thought of learning about coal sparked laughter from Cato's chest. A blush tinged the blonde boy's cheeks.
"Did you always want to be a Legionnaire?"
Cato stiffened at the question, his laughter fading. That feeling crept up again—the ghost behind his amber sky eyes. His gaze flickered between Peeta and the skyline. The thought had crossed his mind once before, but he never had an answer.
If he could do something different—be someone different.
His entire life had been laid out for him since birth. He was destined to walk this blood-soaked path. He wasn't sure what else he could do. Peeta must've sensed his unease, gently touching his shoulder as if to shake him awake. The contact startled him.
"Hey—sorry. I didn't mean to cross a line."
A flush heated his cheeks as Peeta withdrew his warm hand.
"It's fine. Where I'm from, we know what's expected of us. There's no choice. I was always meant to be a Legionnaire—a victor."
"Oh," Peeta's gaze lowered. "Aren't you afraid you'll become something you're not? Like some kind of monster?"
A monster.
It was a term he knew well. But unlike childhood bedtime stories, he was the monster. His eyes searched the uncertainty in Peeta's gaze. They had come so close he could feel the warmth lingering on his skin. The champagne now felt like an enemy, turning his blood against him.
"Monsters can't hurt you if you're a monster too," he replied, shaking his head. His gaze fixed on Peeta's face, searching the amber pools with cerulean rings. The boy's puzzled stare made them shine brighter under the distant moonlight. His body felt warm—a comforting sensation.
"Is that what worries you? Losing yourself?"
"Yeah, it does,"
The light faded from Peeta's eyes, resting on his hands.
"I'm worried I'll disgrace myself… I'm scared I'll become something I'm not," he said, hesitation on his lips. "I don't know how to put it into words, but I want to die as myself. I don't want them to change me in there."
His gaze narrowed on the boy. It was admirable that Peeta struggled to maintain his identity—his sense of purity. The ghost behind Peeta's gaze returned as their eyes met. For some reason, the thought of him dying was unsettling—a lump formed in his throat as he spoke.
"Only become a monster if they make you one. Don't let them own you; don't become another pawn in their game. Die as yourself."
Peeta's gaze was unwavering, sensing him draw closer.
"But within that framework, there's still you and me. Can't you see?"
"Then live for someone else… because then you'll be ready to die—to make a difference," he replied, his eyes searching Peeta's for an answer to a question hovering on his tongue.
Peeta's gaze softened as if there were a mutual understanding between them. He swallowed nervously, noticing the narrowing gap between them. His hand brushed against his skin as he moved closer. The fleeting feeling burned Cato's skin, sending fire through his veins.
"Who do you live for, Cato?"
He found himself at odds with his mind. The drunken heat in his blood made his thoughts irrational. He wasn't sure what he was doing or about to do, but it felt good. Finally, he felt something other than despair. The feeling was much stronger than the pain—it was desire. A sinful lust that ignited his skin.
He craved more of it—more of Peeta's touch.
"I don't know," he whispered, filling the space between them as his eyes lingered on Peeta's soft lips, wondering what they tasted like. "I'm still trying to figure that out."
His stomach knotted as he drew closer, hearing Peeta's breath catch. His gaze was curious yet undeterred. His radiant eyes met his face as he tilted it upwards.
Their full lips were a heartbeat away.
Peeta's warm breath brushed against his face. A nervous tremor passed between them.
"Can I kiss you?" he whispered, his voice deep and husky.
Peeta's eyelids fluttered shut as he took a deep breath. He flinched slightly, bracing for the unknown, then slowly nodded. Cato's lips twitched upward, his gaze lingering on Peeta's delicate features.
Gently, he pressed their lips together, hearing him gasp as they met. His lips were soft and tender, radiating warmth like two plump pillows. They made his world stop briefly, calming his ever-racing mind. His arms moved, tracing his fingers through the curve of his neck until they danced through Peeta's hair, pulling him closer. Goosebumps ran down his legs, feeling Peeta's mouth move against his. A trembling heat ignited in his chest as his fingers gripped Peeta's hair.
He thought about pushing him away, but the fire in his blood begged him to continue. His head swirled from his beating chest. His hungry mouth melded awkwardly into Peeta's, feeling him desperately cling onto his shirt as if he'd drift away from this moment.
He lost all sense of self-control as he became lost in the sparks between them. His sweet scent of honey and vanilla made his blood simmer. His lips tasted like salt, chocolate, and sin.
He had kissed Marcus many times before. But right now, everything else paled in comparison to Peeta. His entire existence was a shooting star flashing across his eyes, leaving him stunned and blind. Electricity danced across his body as it crackled with yearning. Peeta's lips left him overwhelmed, deprived of air, and sinking into an abyss of lust.
A gasp escaped them as they both pulled away.
Peeta's ragged breath kissed his cheek, loosening his grip on his shirt—a glistening sweat formed on his skin. His gaze was steadfast as Cato released the blonde locks from between his fingers.
He tried to still his racing heart as guilt washed over him. His cheeks burned crimson.
He shouldn't have done that. He shouldn't have kissed him.
As intoxicating as Peeta was and as much as he craved his taste again.
It wasn't right.
His eyes traced Peeta's face, trying to read the younger boy's flushed expression. It was swelled with confusion and racked with a lingering hunger. His fingers brushed against Peeta's again. They were soft and warm, unlike his dry, calloused ones.
"I shouldn't have done that— I'm sorry,"
Peeta's hand moved against his, brushing his fingers against his knuckles.
"N-no— it-t's fine. It was nice," he stuttered out as the edges of his lips turned upward.
Peeta took a breath, withdrawing his hand before shifting to stand.
"W-we should probably get back inside. I-It's getting late, and we've got training at t-ten,"
Cato nodded. The smile fell from his face, missing the warmth of Peeta's hand. He was right; it had been a long day, and they needed to get off this roof before he decided to do something reckless.
As Peeta turned to leave, his eyes met his. There was a pause as if he was waiting for him.
"Are you coming?" he asked, a smile crept upon his puffy lips.
It didn't register with him immediately, scrambling to catch up with the other blonde as he descended the illuminated tiles.
"Sorry, I didn't think you wanted to be seen— with me, that's all,"
Peeta gave him a curious look as they reached the elevator. The two boys entered the transparent cage as Peeta hit two buttons, one for twelve and one for two. Cato's eyes lingered on the atrium below. The avox workers moved diligently to clear the space quickly. He wondered how long they were gone.
A tense silence filled the elevator as it began its descent— a silence like a child holding back a secret—one filled with darting eyes, twitching lips, and fidgeting fingers.
As Peeta left the elevator, his cheeks dimpled as he turned toward him. A spark settled between their gazes.
"Goodnight, Cato,"
An innocent smile merged with the guile of a naughty child.
"Goodnight, Peeta,"
Cato's descent to his suite on the second floor felt like an eternity as he played back their kiss. Touching his fingers to his mouth, he still felt Peeta's lips lingering on his. The moist, tender heat of his mouth melded against his. The swirl of aromas and tastes left him utterly bewildered as he pushed into his quiet suite.
Cornelia sat at the nearby kitchen table, a glass of red wine and a small paperback book before her. Her judgmental gaze rested on him as she grilled him on his whereabouts, to which he replied half-truly with a steadfast smile.
His time with Peeta would be his secret.
After saying goodnight, Cato stripped underneath the thick duvet in his bedroom. The cloud-like fiber engulfed him as his mind lingered on Peeta. His captivating eyes, his plump lips, his sharp jawline. The way his cheeks dimpled when he smiled. The feeling of his lips against his.
He felt like drowning as the waves of guilt resurfaced.
The mistake of their poisonous kisses eroded his sense of self. The shame of their passion made his heart yearn for the ghost behind his gaze. He felt Marcus riding on the airwaves, wondering if his heart would know if he met him in a new set of bones.
With him and Peeta, they could meet in the middle—anything to see the trace of his outline beneath the amber eyes marked with cerulean rings.