Chapter Text
The store was small. Literally tiny. And because of its popularity, you couldn't move an inch without either bumping into a person or a rack of clothes. It was no secret that the place also sold a variety of legal highs, and even if you didn't know this, it became apparent from the glass cabinet behind the till that exhibited an array of fancy bongs. But Madge loved the place and if she was happy, so was Peeta.
Madge had always been a grunge girl so places like this were her heaven. If she could drive, she'd probably stay there 24/7 but she had yet to earn the money to buy the insurance and the lessons. So every Saturday she took the bus into the city to go to this store. And then, one day, she took Peeta.
He was only in the store for five minutes when the inside of his nose began to burn with every breath he took. He wondered if anyone actually lit up the drugs they bought and if so whether he was actually inhaling second hand smoke or whether the feeling of an imminent nosebleed was just a natural reaction. Madge was lost in a sea of punk dresses, already having introduced herself to an attracted shop help man.
Great Madge, thanks for sticking with me.
This place was well outside Peeta's comfort zone. He felt like he was breathing in tons of second hand smoke and if he met eyes with anyone, their expressions were dark and completely unwelcoming. Peeta couldn't even decipher the difference between customer and staff. They just sort of melted into one trippy mass of people.
Peeta finally found a small corner that he could tolerate beside a glass cabinet containing many different stones. Some were glass, others looked like authentic stone Some were glittery, others were luminous, some were metal. Peeta wondered what one would do with a stone like that. Keep it as a trinket? It had no other use. While he ran his finger along the glass, he listening in one the buzz of conversation that filled the store's four walls. A voice stood out against the rest, admist Madge's distant faux laughter and the discreet mumblings of the various other customers. It was the voice of one of the cashiers. The voice was warm, welcoming any and every customer with a 'dude' for a guy and a 'honey' for a girl. Peeta couldn't see the voice's owner as there were too many people between him and them.
Focusing his attention to the stones, his attention was immediately captured by a gorgeous orange stone. At the top, it was white but the further down your eyes went, it proceeded to turn faintly orange, to a lighter shade, all the way down to the bottom where it was deep orange. It was almost like the sky at sunset. Peeta wondered how much something so intricate and magnificent something would cost. The crinkled £10 note in his pocket would hardly buy a speck of dust from it. Still, it wouldn't do any harm to ask.
When Peeta approached the counter, the crowd had dispersed a little. He was able to make his way all the way to the till without having to pause.
He was caught off guard. The cashier was hot. Like properly, properly hot. Peeta almost couldn't find the right words to speak, especially when the guy focused his attention-and his dazzling green eyes-right on him. The cashier smirked, this painfully sexy lop sided grin, and said, "Hello gorgeous, how can I help you?"
Gorgeous?! Him?! Peeta swallowed the lump in his throat and asked, "That orange stone, how much is it?"
The man leaned forward to get a look at said stone and Peeta's breath caught in his throat at how close their faces were in that moment. It was ridiculous and Peeta scolded himself for acting so strange. "The orange one that looks like a sunset?" he asked.
"Yeah, that one."
"£5.99."
What? Peeta stared at the cashier, waiting for the punchline. "You're serious?!" he exclaimed incredulously.
The cashier tsked. "I know," he said. "Should be more."
"How can you price something so precious so cheaply?" asked Peeta.
"I don't do the prices, sadly, I only enforce them."
Peeta resisted the urge to ask for the stone to be taken out of the cabinet so he could have a better look at it. He said so himself that he had no use for such trinkets and that if he bought it then it would probably just gather dust on his bedside table. "Thank you," he forced himself to say, smiling tightly at the cashier and turning to leave.
The cashier grabbed his wrist and pulled him back. Peeta blinked in surprise and raised his eyebrows. "Here's the thing," the cashier said, "I've never seen you around here before and I know everyone who comes here. It's kind of a gift, really."
"I'm a friend of Madge's," said Peeta. If he knew everyone who went to this shop then he'd surely know Madge.
"Ah, well, Madge is a lovely girl," said the cashier. He hadn't let go of Peeta's wrist yet and was instead holding it a little tighter. "So, what's your name?"
"Peeta," Peeta said slowly. He wasn't sure why the cashier was so curious, nor was he absolutely sure why he hadn't yanked his wrist away yet. "What's yours?"
"Cato." The lop-sided grin was so casual, so easily placed, that Peeta found it difficult to breathe when standing in its presence. "So Peeta, what brings you to my neck of the woods?"
"Just checking this place out. The way Madge talks about it, I thought it would be a lot more . . ." Peeta tried to find the right word without coming off as offensive.
"Grand?" guessed Cato. He let go of Peeta's wrist but something kept Peeta standing there. "Elegant? Posh? Trust me, this place is a lot more interesting than any of that naff stuff. We have many things that they don't."
Peeta stepped to the side so Cato could bag up the purchase of the person behind him in the line. He rested his elbows on the glass counter and quirked an eyebrow. "Oh really? And what are they?" he asked.
"First of all," Cato began, giving the woman who was buying an Iron Maiden badge a slightly more reserved smile than the one he gave Peeta, "we sell the best weed in the entire country. Hey, don't roll your eyes, I'm serious, ask anyone."
Peeta nodded. "Okay, sure," he smiled. "You sell the best weed in the entire country, I get it. What else?"
Cato raised his eyebrows. "Isn't that enough?" he grinned.
"I suppose," Peeta agreed. He was never one for drugs, even if they were legal, but he didn't have any specific feelings towards those who did do it. "So weed is why this store is better than all of the rest?"
"That and the fact that once in a while-very rarely-sexy customers happen upon this humble little store," Cato explained. He winked and Peeta blushed, sheepishly hunching his shoulders to make himself smaller than he actually was. It was a habit he'd had ever since he was little. Whenever someone would complement him, he would make himself smaller as if it would ward off the blush he'd feel rushing to his face.
"You're just a charmer, aren't you?" Peeta found himself saying in a surprisingly teasing voice. Now where did that come from? He didn't flirt, he was physically incapable of flirting! "Why can I imagine you saying this to all of your customers? Maybe to get them to buy your newest . . ." Peeta gestured at the glass cabinet behind Cato at the bong display. "Glass smoker thing?"
Cato laughed. "I can't discount the bongs, sadly," he said.
Peeta blew a raspberry, still unconvinced. "They're pretty impressive," he said, even though he wasn't completely sure about whether they were all that impressive or not.
"You think so?" Cato smirked. "What's so impressive about them?"
Damn it. Peeta tapped his fingers against the side of his face and sighed. "I don't know," he admitted. "I've never smoked anything in my entire life. Not even a measly cigarette." Although this was definitely something to be proud of why was he saying it like it wasn't? "I wouldn't know an impressive bong if you placed it in front of me."
Cato tapped the counter before unhooking the lock and lifting it up. "Come behind here a second and I'll show you what's impressive."
Peeta frowned. "Is that a euphemism?" he asked.
"Nope," Cato laughed.
"Is it even allowed?"
"Don't worry about it."
Peeta shrugged and joined Cato behind the counter. His heart was beating so fast, he couldn't keep up with it. He was just glad that he was able to keep his brain connected to his legs so he could move in the right direction instead of maybe . . . collapsing or something. Cato started talking, gesturing to the different available 'glass smoker things' and probably explaining which where best to use. Peeta tried to listen, he really did, but he was too distracted by the way he could clearly see the hot cashier's muscles shifted underneath his thin t-shirt.
". . . and you're not even listening to me," Cato finally concluded.
"Huh?" Peeta snapped his eyes back to Cato's, pretending he had been listening the entire time. "Of course I was."
"No you weren't, your eyes were distant," said Cato. He smiled, not seeming at all offended by the fact that Peeta hadn't heard a word he was saying. "Distant eyes like that aren't listening eyes. They're daydreaming eyes." He leaned against the counter with one elbow and cocked his head. "What are you thinking about?"
"Erm . . . stuff?" Peeta was not going to admit that he had been distracted by Cato's body. It was too embarrassing. He was normally a very polite person and he didn't know where this evasive version of himself was coming from. Granted, he had never been around someone so dreamy before (wait, dreamy?! What age was he exactly?!)
Cato leaned forward, so their noses were inches apart. Peeta completely forgot about the fact that they were in a store and was wholly focused on the man in front of him. His breath was stolen from his lungs. "What sort of stuff?" Cato asked.
"Many things of unimportance." It became a matter of not being able to breathe and being too afraid to breathe in case his breath disturbed Cato's face, they were that close to each other.
"Do you want me to tell you what I was thinking about?" asked Cato.
"Sure," answered Peeta.
The taller man leaned forward even more, so his mouth brushed the smaller boy's ear. Peeta suppressed a shiver, forcing himself to hold his composure. "I was-and still am-trying to picture exactly what you'd look like the moment where I make you orgasm," he purred.
Peeta almost choked on his own saliva. Had Cato really just said that?! "What makes you think you'll make me orgasm at all?" he demanded to know.
Cato rolled his eyes and trailed his fingers up Peeta's arm. "Trust me, when I want something, I always make it my top priority to get it."
"And you want to know whether your imagination serves you correctly and you'll be capable of seeing my orgasm face?" Not that Peeta really had a specific face for it but Cato would get the point. In all honesty, it didn't sound all that bad.
"Are you a screamer, Peeta?" Cato asked thoughtfully, as if trying to piece the perfect image together in his head. "Or do you whimper like a mouse?"
"How did we even get into this topic?" asked Peeta. He was feeling extremely hot all over, like he'd been dropped into a deep fat fryer. Cato didn't look all that bothered, the perfect smirk still gracing his face.
"Peeta?" Madge appeared at the counter, causing both men to step back and turn towards her. "Why are you behind the counter?"
"Cato was just explaining to me which bongs are the most . . . impressive," Peeta said, forcing himself to stop sounding hysterical, as if he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "And which ones should be avoided. Not that I'd really need it since I don't smoke but the topic just sort of . . . came . . . up."
"Hello, Miss Undersee, good to see you again," said Cato, annoyingly calm.
"Hi Cato," Madge replied. Thankfully she didn't seem to suspect anything, a smile burned into her face like it had been welded there. "How are you?"
"Good, good. All the better for meeting your friend Peeta here," Cato answered. As if to punctuate the point just made, Cato reached out and grabbed Peeta's ass underneath the counter. Peeta squeaked and immediately shoved his knuckle into his mouth to silence himself, knawing on the appendage like his life depended on it. His blood heated up and he felt sweat break out across his top lip, his body waking up at the alien touch.
Madge was unaware of this, however, and chatted away to Cato about the new System of a Down emblems that had come in and about how they made more sense than the Nirvana ones as all wannabe gungers always bought things to do with Nirvana. Peeta barely understood half of what they were saying, which he guessed was a good thing since his mind was too busy focusing on the fact that Cato wasn't letting go of his butt and was instead keeping his hand pressed against the backpocket of his jeans.
When Madge left the store (her mother called demanding she get back home early and before she could even think about apologizing to Peeta, Cato said he'd make sure he got home safely), Peeta pulled himself away from Cato and stared at him like he were a mad man. "You can't grab people like that!" he exclaimed.
"You can if they've been giving you the signals ever since you laid eyes on each other and have an ass that begs to be grabbed," Cato said casually. He sat up on the counter and wiggled his eyebrows at Peeta, who was only a little horrified and mostly turned on by the ordeal.
"My ass does not beg to be grabbed," said Peeta defiantly.
"Per-lease, if it had its own sign it would say 'GRAB ME'," Cato grinned.
"Is this how you pick up all the men or is it just a special treat for me?" Peeta asked.
"Everything about you is special," said Cato, fixing Peeta with a very serious stare. "I can feel it."
Peeta rolled his eyes. "You're wrong about that," he said.
Cato closed the distance between them and leaned down until their faces were inches apart. "I'm not wrong about anything," he said sternly. He sounded so sure of himself that Peeta couldn't resist smiling. "My shift ends in five minutes. Do you think you'd be up for a drink at my place?"
"Well, aren't we forward?" Oh god, he couldn't be flirty. Peeta internally cringed.
Cato chuckled, obviously not feeling the same way about Peeta's flirting. "You're damn right I'm forward. As I said, if there's something I want, I always intent to get it."
When Peeta looked back on the moment he met Cato, he told himself that he should have known that something was off. He should have recognized the possessive undertones to the words, he should have realized that something was wrong with what Cato was saying. But he had been so swept up in the moment, so wrapped up in how painfully sexy this man was and how obviously interested in him he seemed to be.
That was the happiest day of Peeta's life. But it was also the day that he would regret for the rest of it.
-PS-
The first impression he got when he laid eyes on Cato's house was that he must have a lot of money. It wasn't a building, really, it was a penthouse at the top of the Seam and Merchant building. Peeta was surprised as he had assumed that the wages one would receive from working at the store Cato was a cashier in would not be all that sustainable. So where would the money for a penthouse come from?
"The Arena is my day job," Cato said, as if able to read Peeta's mind.
"The Arena?" Peeta asked.
Cato raised his eyebrows. "The store?"
"Oh right. Is that what it's called?" Peeta felt so blonde. How could he not even know the name of the store Madge had dragged him to? Cato laughed, causing Peeta's cheeks to burn. "I knew that. I was just testing you."
"Oh yeah, of course," said Cato. He disappeared into a room to the left, leaving Peeta to stand in awe of the room.
The entrance lead out into this huge expanse of a room, fitted with a bar, kitchen and sitting room. A window took up the entire wall dead ahead, displaying the amazing view that was the Panem skyline. Never had Peeta had such an untainted view of the skyline and especially since the sun was setting, the sky looked like it was on fire. For a man who loved the colour of the sky at sunset, Peeta was in complete amazement at how beautiful the view was.
"So, what did you tell Madge when she found out that you weren't leave with her?" Cato asked as he emerged from side room.
Peeta shrugged and put his hands into his pockets. "I just told her that I was going out with you. She was pretty excited, she's been harping on me to socialize for months now."
Cato chuckled. "Sounds like her," he said. He went to the bar and pulled out two glasses. "What would you like to drink?"
"Uh . . . what do you recommend?" asked Peeta. He joined Cato, both of them separated only by the black marble bar. He perched on one of the stools and focused on breathing properly. The last time he had ever been on anything that even resembled a date had been a year and a half ago so you can understand how nerve-wracking this experience was.
Cato clicked his fingers. "Got just the thing," he said. "Just don't ask what's in it."
Peeta didn't bother worrying about why he shouldn't worry. It's not like Cato was going to drug him or anything. As ridiculous as it sounded, he felt safe in the older man's presence and didn't feel at all threatened. So when Cato passed him a glass of red liquid, he drank it without much thought. The drink tasted like strawberries but it also had a burn, maybe a sign that it contained vodka?
"Hey, that's not bad. Did you make that up yourself?" asked Peeta.
"I can't remember coming up with it, I think I may have been drunk," Cato admitted.
"Maybe you should do it more often, because this is delicious," said Peeta. He frowned. "Well, I don't mean that you should get drunk more often, that sounds trippy, what I meant was . . . well, I don't really know what I meant . . . It's just"-
Cato suppressed his laughter. "I know what you meant," he said. "Although, the idea of getting drunk more often doesn't sound too bad if it's with you."
Peeta smiled and carefully took another sip of his drink. "Did you read a book on how to charm someone's pants off?" he asked. "Or is this a natural quality that comes easily to all attractive guys?"
"Oh, it's a talent," Cato answered. He walked around the bar and sat beside Peeta on another stool. "Only a very select few of us were chosen to be bestowed with such a gift."
"While the rest of us were troubled with crippling anxiety around hot men," Peeta muttered. Cato grinned in amusement and grabbed the bottle of vodka, adding a dollop more into Peeta's glass. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"
"Could be," Cato replied. "I mean, what else is there to do around here?"
Peeta blew a thoughtful raspberry. There really all that much you could do in Panem other than drink, do drugs and go out partying. He didn't even know if there was a park within a twenty mile radius for the kids. He could remember sitting in his front yard when he was ten, drawing pictures in the mud with a stick because there was nothing else to do.
"Tell me about yourself, Peeta," Cato said. He poured more vodka into his own drink and took a sip of it.
"What do you want to know?" asked Peeta.
"Everything," answered Cato. "Talk like you're writing a dating profile. I want to hear it all."
"Why don't you go first?"
"Because I asked first."
"Okay, uh . . . well, my full name's Peeta Mellark. I don't have a middle name because my mother didn't believe in them. I'm twenty one and my birthday's on the 12th of October. I have two older brothers and my best friend is Madge, as you already know." Peeta felt absurd reciting all this information but Cato seemed to be invested in every word that came from his mouth. "I occasionally volunteer at my family's bakery and when I'm not doing that I'm working or painting."
"Painting? So you like art then?" asked Cato.
"I adore art," Peeta replied. "I believe that there's beauty in everything and it's the artist's duty to capture it where-ever they see it, in whatever form it is that they think it would be best represented."
Cato's smile felt like it could illuminate the entire country, it was that overwhelmingly bright. Peeta returned the smile, somewhat sheepishly. "So, what do you do for a living?" Cato asked. He took a huge gulp of his own drink and Peeta marvelled at how he didn't even wince at the burn that there was bound to be.
"It's kind of embarrassing," Peeta admitted, not all too keen on telling Cato how he earned his money.
"Aw, go on. Can't be as bad as selling Nirvana badges and telling people which brand of weed is less likely to give them a bad trip," Cato said.
"The type of trip depends on the type of weed?" Peeta asked in surprise.
"No, it's just a random bag but the customers don't need to know that." Cato winked. Peeta could feel his face turning red, he was surely looking like a tomato by now. "I use it to convince them to buy the more expensive stuff. So come on, own up, how does Peeta earn a living?"
Peeta chewed on his lip reflectively. Cato watched him carefully, his eyes flickering between Peeta's own eyes and his mouth. Peeta's heart was pounding at a million beats a second. Why did he have to be so effortlessly handsome? "I busk," he finally said.
Cato looked surprised. "You busk?" he asked.
"Yeah. You know, where you do stuff on the street for the people milling around?" Peeta said.
"What do you do?"
"Um, well, sometimes I paint and sell pictures and other times I play the guitar and sing," Peeta explained. He scratched his head nervously and swallowed hard. "I know it's not a proper living but people pay generously so . . ." Cato was staring at him with such bright eyes, he lose his train of thought so he quickly changed the subject to hide it. "If the Arena is your day job then what's your night time occupation?"
Cato tapped his nose. "Very private," he said. "Although, maybe I'll tell you in the future."
Now it was Peeta's turn to raise his eyebrows. "What makes you think there will be a future?" he asked.
"Isn't there?"
"Um . . ." Peeta wanted there to be a future, he really did, but he couldn't bring himself to admit this out loud. It was too embarrassing. "What do you think?"
Cato swallowed the rest of his drink and moved his chair so it was closer to Peeta's. Now their legs were pressed against one another's and Peeta was finding it increasingly difficult to find oxygen to fill his lungs. "I think there will," Cato answered. "You're great company; you can stomach my liquor and you're very, very interesting." Peeta couldn't help smiling at that. "Oh, and you're painfully sexy. There's that too."
Peeta flushed. "You were doing well there, too," he said. "Was all seeming so sweet and then you added lib."
"I always start off with the fluff to reel them in then go in for the kill with the dashingly charismatic compliments," explained Cato. "It works every time."
"Oh does it now?" Peeta asked.
"Of course it does," said Cato. "Although every one pretends that it doesn't work on them, pretend that they don't get flattered by being called sexy but their faces always give them away."
"What do you mean?" Peeta asked. He traced the rim of the glass with his finger absentmindedly.
"Well, take yourself for example," Cato said. "You're acting calm but your face is as pink as candyfloss."
Oh God. Peeta covered his face in horror, knowing that it had only been a matter of time before Cato noticed his stupid blushing. Why couldn't he just take a compliment without frying like a lobster? "No one's ever said that to me, that's all," he muttered peevishly.
"I can't see why not," Cato answered. He put his hand on Peeta's knee; the touch burning through the material of his jeans like a hot poker. If his heart had been pounding before, it was on the verge of bursting now. "Although, I am quite honoured to be the first."
"Just for the record, I have been with other people," said Peeta. He didn't want to sound like a complete inexperienced nitwit.
"I don't doubt that at all," Cato replied. He took a firm hold of Peeta's jaw and turned his head to face him. "In fact, I think the whole anxious puppy dog thing is just an act. I think when it comes down to the crunch, you'd be an animal in bed."
"You're not a very good judge of character then," Peeta said.
"Oh really?"
"Uh-huh."
Cato's breath was hot as it brushed Peeta's face. The younger boy's blood was on fire, tearing through his veins like a match chucked onto some gasoline. "We'll see," the older man murmured before connecting their lips.
Peeta's breath hitched but he didn't push Cato away. Taking this as a go ahead, Cato wound his arms around the smaller boy and practically pulled him off his stool and onto his lap. Peeta melted like butter in the older man's arms, allowing Cato to take control and dominate his mouth. The kiss was hot and the passion seeped into Peeta's veins and felt almost like fuel to his drive.
He wound his arms around Cato's neck and squirmed to get himself into a more comfortable position on top of him. Sensing that he was struggling, Cato gave him a hand by wedging his hands underneath Peeta's butt and using the leverage to lift him up onto the counter of the bar.
Peeta broke the kiss to suck in some air and tried to say something but he was distracted by Cato, who had begun making up for the lost time by sucking on his neck. A shaky moan escaped him and Peeta flushed in embarrassment. Cato, however, tugged him closer as if encouraging him to be as loud as he wanted to be.
"I think I should point out that I don't sleep with people on the first date," Peeta managed to get out. His words were warbled and shaky, but he got them out none-the-less.
"We don't have to sleep together," said Cato. "But I'll be damned if I can't kiss you brainless."
"I think I've already lost ten IQ points," Peeta helpfully said.
"Only ten? We'll have to fix that then."
The second time around, Peeta's moan was a lot softer and muffled by Cato's lips. He was in heaven, pure heaven. Like an angel soaring through the sky, high above the clouds, flying over everyone else on the ground. But you know what they say about angels.
They have to fall.