His eyes narrow harshly on the image of the boy on the television, confessing his love of that one silly girl. He remembers seeing her twirl in that ridiculous little dress, and his stomach tosses uncomfortably. She's repulsive, sickening, and awful. Every foul word he's ever thought, heard or muttered, he brings them all back to her. And maybe it's because she's in with a chance of winning. Maybe it's because he's jealous, since she seems to be doing pretty well, even before the competition begins.

But deep down, way deep down, Cato knows it's because Peeta loves her: because Peeta loves Katniss. Cato's known it since he saw them on the television at the reaping. The way the blonde guy stared at her, loathing the fact that she had taken her sister's place. Cato had known that Peeta was in love with Katniss ever since he knew that the boy would be his: his and never hers. Cato would do anything in his power to have the boy. The other blonde, the one with the strong body, the one that Cato had dreamed would be hard as he nestled into his arms, but soft at the same time, a rock surrounded by a pillow.

He thinks back to his fantasy from that night. He had been lying in his bed, desperately trying to get some sleep. Cato didn't care for killing anyone else, he would be proud when the moment came, when he'd finally have his chance at the spotlight. When members of the districts and Capitol alike would cheer his name: when the only slight blemish in his life would be the death of that one boy, of Peeta. So no, of course Cato didn't care if he killed every one of those trivial kids who'd murder him in his sleep if they thought it would help their chances of winning. In fact, he hungered for it: especially the death of the preposterous skank Katniss. And he thirsted to see the broken body of his blonde puppy dog, Glimmer, crumpled at his feet as he chuckles before ending her life. He wanted his face to be the last she ever saw.

He wanted her to hate him for it.

In fact, Cato fantasised about killing these two girls almost as much as he fantasised about Peeta. While his body is tied up in knots, refusing him from sleep, and he envisions the shorter boy wandering the halls in the middle of the night, not really sure of what he's searching for, what he desperately needs, until he finds himself out the front of Cato's door. The way Peeta's hands would tremble before knocking so daintily on the door, despite the fact that Cato knew of the power Peeta could have in those hands. Cato's eyes would open slowly, knowing that there was an intruder in his wake, but not caring. He knew the danger he was in around Peeta, and he enjoyed it. His unreality taunts him with the made up image of Peeta whimpering quietly as he wanders into the taller boy's room.

Cato's lips curl into a slow, feral smile, only just realising that he's still sitting in the amphitheatre, only just being awoken from his illusions when the crowd begins cheering for the boy he lusts for. Cato wets his lips, looking up at the television and not feeling a moment of guilt. Because there's nothing guilty about imagining what he will one day own, about what will be his. Because Peeta will be his.

Even if he has to expose himself in front of the whole world to get it.

-x-x-x-x-

Peeta rolls over in his bed, moaning softly to himself. His mind is filled with images he'd rather forget. He's in love with Katniss, he knows this. He's known this for years, ever since the first day of school. She's so different to every girl he's ever known, she's so strong, so beautiful. Almost exotic, despite the fact that she was born in the same crop as the rest of the girls. That's who he should be thinking about now, the same way he's thought of her every night of every year that he's known her. But he can't. He simply can't.

This place, the Capitol, it's done something to him. No, not this place, just this one boy. He groans again, images guiltily filling his head. Dark blue eyes, watching him from under dark, thick lashes. His creamy lips, lush and swollen from kissing him. His blonde locks, flopping unwillingly against his sweaty forehead. Every detail, every tiny thing about Cato, Peeta can't help but imagine. A rueful grunt escapes his mouth, only just realising that his hands had been stroking at his crotch for the past ten minutes. He tosses his head back, only just feeling how hard he is. It's repulsive. He hates himself for lusting over that monster, for wanting everything that he has to offer, knowing that the boy wants to kill him, even knowing that he wants to kill Katniss, and he just wants him all the more.

Peeta can't take it anymore. He needs his sleep, in just a few hours he'll be thrown into the arena when only God knows what will happen next, but he can't sleep while his body is all wound up like this. Peeta's breathing picks up as he realises just what he has to do if he wants any sort of chance at sleeping. He longs to wander the halls, to crawl into Cato's room and to force himself upon him, but he refuses to give in to urges that might get him killed. So instead he lulls his head back, his jaw slightly agape, and he gives in to the whims and desires of his mind.

His fingers reach up to his chest, crawling underneath his shirt and imagining Cato's abs. He groans, visualising the sharp lines of the hard muscles as they ripple each time he moves. Cato's body hovers over his in his mind, his hands pressed against the bed on each side of Peeta's head. He pretends that his own hands are Cato's as she stroke away from his chest and into his flexible tracksuit pants. Peeta's breath hitches in anticipation, his imagination so thorough that he can almost feel it as Cato's hot breath steams down on his neck, sticky with sweat.

Finally, his own hands, no, Cato's hands, curl around his erect cock, and Peeta has to bite down on his tongue to stop from shouting out, just at the slightest touch. He considers stopping now, knowing that he won't be able to keep quiet for much longer, if this is how he responds to a simple touch. But he's too far into it to end now, even if he wanted to, which a tiny part of him does, he's never be able to manage it.

So his curled fingers start sliding along his length. As slowly as he can manage, not wanting to let go of this. Not wanting to let go of the image of Cato. He imagines the boy's breath turning into kisses along his neck, and his fingers impulsively speed up. He can't have been going for any longer than fifteen minutes, but he feels himself just about ready to blow. He longs to continue, to keep the image of Cato's naked body hovered over his own sweaty, pulsing existence, but he knows that the moment is almost up.

So he takes it and runs. His fingers move faster than he ever thought imaginable, stroking himself at a speed that's creating such a friction it's almost painful. But he simply can't stop. He loses all abilities of breathing, his back and hips arching severely against his blankets as he climaxes. He forgets where he is, who he is, what his name is… He forgets everything except for Cato. He screams out as the orgasm comes in waves, rippling through his body at an almost uncomfortable rate. And all too soon, he's lying in his bed again, panting, his fingers and hips sticky with fulfilled lust.

Ever so gently, he pulls his fingers out of his pants, laying his hand beside him. He lies where he is for a good hour, panting hard and trying to desperately slow his heartbeat. While he lies there, he manages to think things through. He comes to three conclusions: the first being that he wants Cato, the second being that he was wrong and will definitely not be sleeping tonight, and the third and final conclusion being that he will not stop until Cato is his.

And with that, the boy smirks into the darkness at nothing at all, an innocent smile, merged in with the slyness of a naughty child, and he does it all again.