A Knife in the Dark | ✓

Seven

Cato and I stumbled down the dark, chilly street. We were more than a little tipsy, alcohol warming our veins. I could barely walk, my heels making the process significantly harder. We were laughing at something--what it was, I can't remember--and walking to nowhere.

I didn't even realize where we were headed until I saw the familiar fountain, the lights turned on and casting a greenish glow over the gray stone. Cato and I took a seat on the fountain's ledge and leaned against each other, our laughter silenced and our heads tipped back to stare up at the night sky.

"I don't think I've ever seen the stars look so bright." Cato said. "They're usually dimmed from all of the lights down there." He gestured towards the glowing, populated area of the district.

"The sky's always been beautiful back here." I said. "This is where my father taught me the constellations." I leaned closer to him and pointed upwards towards a cluster of stars, rattling off the familiar names of them. He smelled like he usually did--like metal and cold, lemongrass and clary sage (like the candles his mother loved, and the little bundles of herbs she hid around the house in winter to give the house a smell other than cold). I preferred the way he smelled to the peppermint and pine of the Capitol that would cling to him for weeks after his trips there. Those scents were nice, sure. But they weren't Cato.

"I don't see them." He said. "But I've never learned them."

"You should." I told him. "They'll help you next year in the Games."

"How so?"

"You'll be able to use them as a guide." I explained, my voice quiet. "I can teach you."

"I'd like that."

We fell silent. I rested my head against his shoulder. His hand was warm, his skin hot against my freezing thigh, which was where his hand rested. My heart beat hard in my chest. I'd never been physically close with anyone, and that was the closest I'd ever been.

"You're beautiful." Cato said, still staring at the sky.

"What?" I sat up to look at him.

He smiled, not looking away from the stars. "You're beautiful," he said. "I've never told you that, but you are. It's why I picked fights with you all the time. I wanted a way to talk to you, but I couldn't think of anything. It's why I asked if you wanted to be friends. I've thought you were beautiful since the first time I saw you. I think your parents were alive back then. I was eight. It was the first day of school."

I vaguely remembered an older, blond boy smiling at me as I let go of my mother's hand to walk into school all those years ago. I hadn't thought much of it then. "That was you?"

He nodded. "I was too afraid to talk to you." He says. He turned to look at me then, his eyes dark and thoughtful. "Atala, I don't want to be your friend anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"I want to be more." He said it like he discussing the weather, and I wondered if he'd consumed more alcohol than me. I wondered if he'd been rehearsing the thought, if it had been a constant presence in his mind for a while, or if it was just the alcohol talking. "Can I kiss you?"

"I don't see what's stopping you."

He smiled and leaned in, and he pressed his lips to mine. He tasted like alcohol and mint, and he smelled like cold and like lemongrass and something like cinnamon that I hadn't caught before. I had the vague awareness that this, this was home. His lips were soft and warm on mine, his movements gentle and sweet. The hand that hand been on my thigh was holding my hand. With his free hand, he tucked some hair behind my ear, and then he pulled away, and it was like the air was suddenly able to reach my lungs and my brain again. My head was spinning, and he...well. Cato was grinning. "I really like you, Atala."

"I really like you too." I giggled.

He stood up, pulling me with him. "Come on. Let's go."