Chapter Text

Clove doesn't sleep the night before rehearsals begin: she's much too busy stewing over her being reminded of Cato Hadley's existence, and all the ways that she can possibly ruin Haymitch's life between now and forever. It's the least he deserves.

She'd never felt so stupid in her entire fucking life, sitting in that plush conference chair with bile building behind her teeth and every eye momentarily distracted by the blinding force of Cato's ego to watch her reaction. It was almost cruel, the way that Haymitch beamed like he'd achieved world peace, the entire fucking situation playing out before her with no escape route or alarm clock or death blow to reprieve her from it. Instead, she just had to sit there, molars grinding as Haymitch listed off all of Cato's greatest hits while he had the smarmiest smile on his face, like he has won somehow, knowing that he is flooding every hole he drilled into her bones a lifetime ago and weighing her down as if she's a cinderblock tossed into the ocean.

"Really, there's no better choice," she vaguely recalled hearing Haymitch say above the white noise roaring in her ears. "Between his own accrued fanbase and the return of him and Clove for the first time in — what's it been, Clovely? How many years since your little Sonny and Cher moment?"

She was incapable of speech, so fortunately for Haymitch, Cato was able to supply the answer. "Six."

Haymitch snapped his fingers. "Right! Six years. Just enough time for people to start to miss the two of them together and make a comeback big enough to make waves. And make waves we will."

Under the table, Clove could feel the pressure of someone's hand on her leg — Glimmer, grounding her, Glimmer, keeping her from getting up and committing assault or jumping out of the window. It's meant to be reassuring, but nothing could reassure her. Except maybe Haymitch pushing Cato out of the window.

But he didn't. He went on and on and on about how Cato would be so good for the band, how they'd start rehearsals and go on tour and be one big happy family and make so much money they'd suffocate in dollar bills. Clove liked the idea of suffocating Cato with something. Or Haymitch. Or whatever goddamn accursed force threw him into The SeventyFourth's lap. 

And now, she can't sleep, because Cato Hadley, unfortunately, still holds every ounce of power over her that he used to when she was sixteen and making moon eyes at her blonde musical counterpart. She's spent six years trying to train her immune system to fight him off, to develop an allergy to Tobacco Vanille and the way her traitor pulse still skips a beat whenever she hears a guitar sampling that is so fluid it can only be from his fingers and his brain. All it's done is create a malevolent tumor of her heart, that questions the audacity of things and wishes that she'd never met him, even if it means she never could have had this life.

So, as she stares at the ceiling, she thinks of all the ways she can ruin this. She could reach over and grab her phone, send Katniss a complete and utter rambling of how she desperately needs for Katniss to pretend to be her committed girlfriend so she can put on a show and parade the fact she's just fine without Cato, but that's not fair to Katniss, who's perfectly happy as she continues to go on her little coffee and croissant dates with Mellark. She could tell Haymitch it's her or Cato, but she knows Haymitch will laugh in her face and point to the contract he's got framed behind glass before holding out his hand for millions of dollars she's not willing to part with, millions of dollars she doesn't have. She could pull a Gale and pretend to go to rehab, but that sounds like too much work, and she'll be damned if she takes a page from that fucker's playbook. She could go full kamikaze and implode the band, taking all of them down with her.

But she's not going to do that.

Fuck. 

With a resigned sigh, she rolls over onto her side and picks up her phone, the screen painfully luminescent as she opens up the Notes app. 

If she can't take her frustration out on someone, she'll just write another fucking hit.

And then get drunk.

And hope she never wakes up.

The next morning, Clove and Katniss arrive at the warehouse where they're holding the stage two minutes apart from each other. They're the proverbial early birds: Clove's early because if she's early she can figure out her footing before anyone catches her stumbling, and Katniss is early because for her, on time is synonymous with late.

Katniss holds a cup carrier, top heavy with drinks, and extends it out in Clove's direction. She doesn't have to ask which one belongs to her; it's the only hot drink in the bunch, a four-shot Americano with a dash of cinnamon. In her free hand, Katniss is holding her own cup, its contents predictable to Clove (passionfruit tea with honey, because Katniss only likes the smell of coffee). They exchange thin-lipped smiles and a muttered 'morning-thanks-you're-weclome' exchange as they head inside.

For their last two headlining tours, they've had their stages built in this same warehouse, sound tests and visual run-throughs and rough dress rehearsals all conducted here. They've driven a rut in the concrete floor with their blood, sweat, and tears (literally, too: Marvel sliced through three fingers on his D string during Invasion of Privacy rehearsals, they've never been smart about touring in the off-season, and if Glimmer doesn't cry at least twice a week over something, then there's serious concern). It's their locker room before the big game, and Clove's not shy to admit she's superstitious. She has emergency Jolly Ranchers if they don't fulfill the riders because it is routine for her to have exactly one cherry Jolly Rancher during the opening act's set. If both middle fingernails don't already have black polish on them, she paints them before going on stage. She squeezes Glimmer's hand three times during their backstage huddle while Marvel gives a quick hype-up speech — and only Marvel is allowed to give the huddle speech — and she keeps count of the number of guitar picks she goes through during performance, because if it isn't a multiple of 3 by the end, she feels like ripping her skin off her hands. Showing up early to sit at the foot of the stage with Katniss, coffee spread out around them while they go through every possible song to put on the setlist in the same warehouse they've always rehearsed in feels right. It is a tiny nugget of control awarded back to her in the midst of the Cato superstorm Haymitch has personally brought upon them.

The whole ride here, Clove's mind has been whirring with possible songs for the set list in an active attempt to forget about everything else. Gale's fuckery meant they really had no idea what this tour was going to look like aside from a bunch of idiots playing on stage for a few hours; Clove's mouth is watering when they walk into the storage space and see the silhouettes and angled shadows of their stage. She's ready to do what she does best and plan a goddamn show.

Without preamble, she and Katniss deposit themselves unceremoniously in the floor near the catwalk of the stage, Clove reaching into her bag and digging out a notebook and pen. It's the Twelve notebook; on the inside of the front cover, there is a taped photo of the album cover (with Gale's face furiously scribbled out). She has one of these for every record The SeventyFourth's put out, every tour they've gone on. The notebooks are their Bible. 

"Had a thought last night," Katniss muses thoughtfully as she munches on a chocolate croissant, fresh out of its bakery bag. "Peeta said since Fin and Rue are coming on the road with us, we should do the duets with them and then transition into our cover; do it with them and have ourselves a jam sesh."

"Oh, Lover Boy suggested something?" Clove's eyebrows lift suggestively, and Katniss rolls her eyes. It's fun to pick fun and tease, especially considering that Peeta works with them and is getting paid the big bucks by Haymitch to photograph his girlfriend. He has it good (and Katniss seems pretty happy about it all), so Clove, of course, has to give them some grief. She clicks the pen against her chin, impish smile stretching across her mouth. "I'll add it."

Katniss stares straight ahead at Clove, somberly. "You heard anything else from Haymitch?"

"Nope," Clove answers succinctly, her focus already prioritized on writing Twelve World Tour (!!!) in bubble letters. "What song are we opening with?"

"Clove."

"Kat."

"Tradition. Have you heard from Haymitch?"

"Haymitch's number is currently blocked in my phone," Clove tells her as she writes The Tradition right underneath her bubble letters. "If it's okay with you, I'd rather not talk about the elephant in the room until he's physically incapable to ignore anymore."

And that's that: Katniss drops it, and Clove tries to pretend it isn't continuing to gnaw at her. Clove has her phone open with their discography pulled up on Spotify, her and Katniss alternating between scrolling through to figure out which songs flow best so they can build a setlist. They've got over half of Twelve already on the setlist by the time Glimmer and Marvel come sashaying in, Glimmer with her sunglasses still on and Marvel talking on the phone with someone. Glimmer sits down in the floor with them, resting her chin on Clove's shoulder.

"Whatcha got, boss lady?" Glimmer's eyes scan over the sheet, her spine straightening in excitement. "Ooh, we're doing Easier than Lying?" 

"Duh. It's your favorite."

"She cares after all," Glimmer sings in a nauseatingly sweet voice, squeezing both of Clove's shoulders. 

Slowly, the rest of the band and company trickle in: Clove and Katniss work while Glimmer scrolls on Instagram, occasionally chiming in to agree or offer suggestions. Marvel becomes the beacon for everyone else to surround, be it the other guys or the sound mixers there to help or the ever so helpful instrument tuners that like making extra money prior to tour. Foxy and Peeta are among some of the last to come strolling in, the two of them with their heads together as they likely talk Instagram strategy or whatever it is that they have in common.

The puzzle feels complete to Clove, but there's an ugly maw that continues to sink its teeth into her as reminder. They're not complete, even if she thinks this is really all they need, and the air is surprisingly superfluous without Cato's ego sucking it from the room. 

When he shows his face, she vows to herself as she pens another song onto the list, I'll kill him.

They were supposed to all be present and ready to go by ten. Five past comes and goes, then ten fifteen, and ten twenty-five. Clove wishes for Gale.

At ten twenty-eight, Clove calls it. "Okay," she says as she pushes herself off the floor. "Avengers, assemble." The present members of The SeventyFourth that haven't already gravitated towards her shuffle closer, and Clove shows the notebook to them. "Here's what we've got for setlist round one."

Marvel and Thresh look over what's written, humming and nodding while Clove and Katniss exchange glances and Glimmer furiously types away on her phone. "Nice job, girlies," Marvel says after he finishes reading. 

Thresh seconds his approval. "Let's give it a try and see if we actually like it."

"Can we skip over Tradition today?" Katniss asks as they all head for the wings of the stage, where metal staircases have been rolled flush against the sides to allow them up without the need for lifts. "I want to extend the intro for the shows, and I want some time to figure it out before we start blocking."

"Are we even blocking today?" Marvel asks. "Don't see how we can without—"

"We don't have to block," Clove interjects. "We can just start playing through what we've got so far and see if we like how it sounds."  

It's how they've always done it. It's an organic process, as pretentious as it sounds, but it works for them. Not broken, don't fix it: this is Clove's general philosophy that she uses to explain away her superstitions and tendencies and because it garners perfect results, it's not questioned. It's how she likes it.

Of course, the universe is conspiring against her, the second Marvel starts strumming chords, he comes strutting in.

"Gonna start without me?" His voice catches their attention, ricocheting off the walls of the warehouse. Every head, it seems, turns in his direction, as he pulls his sunglasses off and walks towards the stage. "I didn't know you could start without one of your leads." It's meant to be a joke, with the lilting tone, but it's far from funny. It feels like someone's stirred up an entire hornet's nest under her skin.

"Yes, well, here we are," Clove sharply responds, never lifting her eyes from where she adjusts the height of her microphone stand. Cato stops at the lip of the stage where the main stage and catwalk are juxtaposed, looking up at her. His eyes are weights, pressing into her skin.

"Good morning to you, too," he deadpans. 

"Planning to join us any time soon?" she asks coldly. "Or did they tell you we like it when our guitarist is late?" When she glances up in absence of another remark from him, she sees his eyebrows are vaulted in amusement. "We let go of the last guy who pulled this shit, you know."

"So I heard."   

As Cato deposits his stuff on the floor, the rest of the band is behind Clove acting as though they're in another goddamn universe. Marvel is pretending to re-tune his guitar, Katniss is idly running her fingers over each individual key of the piano, Thresh is searching around him for something he hasn't dropped, and Glimmer's braiding her hair out of her eyes. Like any of it matters. 

Clove is grinding her teeth together as Cato casually bounds up the steps to the stage. "So, band," he begins, doing a sweeping glance across the stage. "Are we warming up, or...?"

"Yes," Clove answers. "By going through what we have of the setlist so far."

This surprises Cato, judging by the look on his face. "You've already outlined the setlist?"

She suppresses the irritated groan rapidly rising in the back of her throat. Cato, of all fucking people, knows that she plans out sets before she even gets onto a stage.

Thresh, finally, has located his voice, and speaks instead of Clove. "Yeah, man," he casually responds as he sits back up, drumstick idly twirling between his fingers. "That's what we do. Clove and Katniss come up with a list of songs, and we play through 'em to see which ones fit."

Cato is quiet at this revelation. "What?" Glimmer prods.

"Haymitch must not have talked to you, then."

Clove's blood burns. "And he talked to you?" she bites. "Because you're the face of this operation now?"

"He says he tried calling you," Cato says dismissively, and if Clove didn't really like the guitar she had in her hands, she'd throw it. Fucking Haymitch.

"What did he say?" Marvel interjects, taking a few steps in Cato's direction. "Haymitch."

Cato glances around, eyes skipping over each of them like a song on a playlist that he doesn't care much to listen to. "Said he had a meeting with the label and sent over their input."

"Input?" Katniss echoes.

"Yeah. With the tour, they wanted to switch out some venues for bigger ones. Different merch options. Live album recordings." Clove's head is spinning, to the point where she almost misses him say, "Setlist."

Her eyes narrow, daggers whirling up at him. "Setlist," she intones. 

"Yes." 

"The label has never made setlist suggestions before." Because this is still her band, their band. Not the label's. Not anyone else's. They leave the music part up to the actual musicians. She ditches her microphone stand, guitar swinging by the strap around her neck as she stalks over in his direction. She doesn't miss Marvel inching closer to Cato, ready to play interference. "Well? What'd they request?"

"Don't know that I'd call them requests. These are the musts," Cato says with a shrug, extending his phone out to Clove. She snatches it from him, eyes narrowing as she scans over the email.

Every song title makes her angrier than the last. Lovely. Exile. Peer Pressure. Crying Over You. How Not to Drown. No More Friends. Dust to Dust. They're only given two hours, two and fifteen if they can push it, and they're having to devote nearly half of it to a journey through the Careers' dusty discography that Clove wants to burn off the face of the earth, or SeventyFourth songs she loathes because of how much Gale was featured on them. She can't believe what she's seeing. 

"This is a fucking joke," she snarls, mostly to herself, but Cato replies nonetheless.

"It's what the label wants."

"Yeah, well, the label—"

"—the label likes to make their suggestions," Glimmer cuts in, her voice half an octave higher and overly saccharine. "We'll figure it out. Right, Clove?" Glimmer's teeth are ground together, eyes scrolling with keep it together or I'll kill you myself as she glares at Clove. 

"Right," Clove agrees hollowly.

They do not figure it out.

Rehearsals tend to be enjoyable. It's what makes being in a band fun, beyond the money and celebrity and shows. The magic in The SeventyFourth has always been the chemistry; Rolling Stone was the first publication to put it to words, even if all they did was water it down in a way that made sense to the mass market. "Brash personalities and brick walls of reticence compose its members, but when they're together is where the beguiling nature of The SeventyFourth creates sparks and pulls you in. Together, they create a super-organism that is heady and high octane," it said. Clove remembers it vividly, considering she's got the clipping cut out and glued into a journal somewhere that chronicles Invasion of Privacy. "It's when you see Sevina and Everdeen's pinkies interlocked coming out of The Viper Room when you want to bury yourself in theories and conversations to try and know them better. It's the livestreams from Glimmer Dillon on a private plane, snickering in the background while her brother Marvel tries to recreate the infamous Samuel L. Jackson scene from Snakes on a Plane while drummer Emmett Lovett glares on where you feel like you are present with them, the unseen seventh member of the band. It's the allure of enigmatic Instagram photos on the band's joint account and the cycle of energy they are constantly giving to one another and consuming that makes them the band to watch."

Now, when Clove watches them, all she sees is a goddamn dumpster fire, and it is entirely Cato's fault.

Cato, who is, in a technical sense, good at what he does, but is a full-fledged sore spot in Clove's focus. He is a jagged puzzle piece that someone has forced into the gaping hole Gale left, one that very obviously does not fit and is piercing into her side. He sounds all wrong on their songs, and when they have to figure out their own spin on the old Careers songs that Clove has burned from the tapestry of her memory, it just sounds like nails on a chalkboard. Their rhythm is flawed now. Their magic depletes by the day, and no matter how much Glimmer tries to console her that things are working from a technical standpoint, Clove continues to heighten.

The first thing to go is the setlist. It pains her to look at, so much so that she has to rip it out of the journal. And then she has to buy a new one, knowing full well she's not going to want to document anything in this tour.

Everything piles up from there, a freak blizzard pouring snow in front of the door and trapping Clove. The fact that Cato is now in her safe space is bad enough, but the longer she simmers, the clearer the root of the problem is: she doesn't like that she has to sing all of hers and Cato's old fucking love songs, six years later, when all of those feelings and memories are tainted. She doesn't want to be backed into that corner of her life again and yet, here she is, herded like cattle into her memories. It makes her skin crawl, hearing Marvel and Katniss arrange Lovely and 90 days with the sole intent that they are performing it. Live. Now.

She is standing in a graveyard watching as everyone digs up her skeletons and dresses them up for a parade, and she is screaming so loudly that it may as well be background noise for everyone else, the way they do not pay her any attention.

The only victory that Clove claims is that she negotiates her way out of half of the suggested-but-mandatory songs from Haymitch's email from hell after penning one of her own.

Glimmer all but shoves her in Cato's direction during one of their lunch breaks after she gets a response from Haymitch. She feels like a child, ambling over to him and Marvel with her phone clutched tight in her fist like it's a sword; she's David facing Goliath, except she knows they'll come to a draw no matter what they bring to the fight. 

She loses her bravado (and voice) upon approach, left with just awkwardly clearing her throat as she looks down at the two of them so they're aware of her presence. Both of them look up, eyes wide with surprise: Cato looks away just as quickly as his eyes landed on her, while Marvel stares on like he can hardly believe what he's seeing. "Can I... uh, Marv?" she finally utters, head tipping in the other direction.  

"Yeah, sure," Marvel says in a rush of syllables, grabbing his Coke can and all but falling out of the folding chair to get out of the way.

Clove doesn't sit. She doesn't move, doesn't even feel like she's breathing. Instead, she just watches Cato for a moment as he runs the end of his plastic fork through the icing on top of the complimentary cookie that the restaurant they'd DoorDashed from provided. He kind of looks like he'd want for the ground to swallow him whole, too. Clove clears her throat once again. "I talked with Haymitch," is what she lands on saying to him.

"Mm," Cato hums disinterestedly.

"About the setlist."

The end of the fork is now doing figure 8s and chipping away pink frosting as it goes. "What about it?"

"I didn't think it was fair to dump all those songs on the band. On us."

"Who in this industry gives a shit about fairness?"

"Me." That's a lie. "Sometimes." One of her shoulders bends in a half-shrug. "The label's never made mandatory suggestions for setlists before, and they're only doing it because you're here."

"Joy," Cato drawls out.

"And even though I don't... like the idea of us having to sing Careers songs again—"

"—get in line—"

"I figured they could at least give us some say." The fork stops, and Cato glances up at her once more. "I negotiated with Haymitch."

His eyebrows furrow together. "You can do that?"

"Who do you think got rid of Gale?" She can't resist the smirk, and Cato nods in acknowledgement. Clove finally brings it in herself to take Marvel's abandoned seat, but she leaves it exactly at the distant, awkward angle he left it. "Haymitch said the label wants at least four Careers songs on the setlist."

"Why do they even want Careers songs on the setlist? It's not a reunion tour for us. I joined your new band."

Yes, thank you, she'd like to say. It's a glimmer of a moment where they see eye to eye on something again, but Clove doesn't point that out. Acknowledging it seems dangerous. "Something about bridging discographies and reeling in old fans. It's all to do with money, really."

"Because that's why we do this," Cato comments under his breath. The longer they live in this enemy of my enemy is my friend moment where they are in agreement, the louder the alarm bells clang in Clove's head. She doesn't like it one bit. "So, four songs?"

"Four," she repeats with a curt nod. "I looked back through everything we put out together and tried to whittle it down."

"Do I get a say?" Cato asks drily. "Or did you just want your complete control back?"

The flare of her temper is almost welcomed, and the hard edge gladly re-enters her voice. "I thought we could each pick two songs apiece. Since we're being fair." She can't help how derisive she sounds. 

Cato sighs. "Fine." He picks his phone up from where it sits near his plate, face down, and starts typing something in. There's a short pause, where his thumbs stop moving and blue eyes lift back up to her. "Did you already pick your two?"

"Lovely and The Chain." They're not her favorite songs — she doesn't categorize anything that The Careers created under the label of favorite, because that would imply that she actually held a flame of fondness towards her and Cato — but they go best with the setlist she'd already grown attached to.

He nods, lips pressed together as he begins scrolling. Clove is left unsure of what to do: sit here and wait for his feedback? Tell him to get back to her like it's a business transaction? She grows wildly uncomfortable with every second that ticks by, her bones seeming to weigh her skin down with the overflow of anxiety, and right when she decides to do something, he pipes up.

"Exile," he states. "And Crying Over You."

Ah, incredible. The two songs of theirs she hates the most.

Clove's mouth flattens into a hard line. "Thank you," she says diplomatically. "I'll tell Haymitch we decided."

Cato just nods, and Clove is ready to launch out of her seat and into a shower to scrub the tension off of her skin. She's risen and turned to walk away, and suddenly he calls out, "Clove?"

"Hm?"

"I think Crying Over You could work well with that 'ends well' song off of your last album. As like... you know, a mashup? Or something? But I know you don't like suggestions, so." He falls flat, and all Clove can do is turn back around and get the fuck out of there. 

(It bothers her that he is right.)

"Hey, you two just had a conversation," Glimmer whispers excitedly as Clove returns to her side. "And without killing each other! That's improvement!" Clove knows where it's going: Glimmer hopes that they are on the road to redemption and that the weird ick befalling the band will dissipate before their first show. 

Glimmer's hope is misplaced. Strongly, deeply, irrefutably misplaced.

It all reaches a head three weeks into rehearsals, over halfway through and closer now to being on a stage than they are from learning of Cato's newfound membership. At this point, they are no longer ironing out little things like setlist songs. They are blocking. They are perfecting the show, ironing out the kinks, and the steam is frazzling every nerve end of Clove's. If it's not one thing, it's another: it's all little shit, too, that has turned a molehill into a mountain of grievances. Cato being consistently late. Cato messing up the blocking. Cato giving notes, Cato having the audacity to even have notes. Cato making eye contact with her during a song. 

She thought she was through with all of this. The Careers broke up for a reason, and she'd moved on, and goddammit, she was happy. And yet, here she is, in a waking nightmare no matter how civil she tries to be, no matter how few times she looks at Cato, no matter how much she tries to pad herself with the company of the others even though they are warming up to him because he is regrettably charming without ulterior motives, without even fucking trying.

He left, she bitterly tells herself. He was the one who left, and now I have to put out the welcome mat for him again.

She hates the way it makes her feel more than she hates him. 

They are playing through Always Wanna Die, and Cato keeps trying to add harmonies that do not exist. At first, she tries to ignore it, but when his vocals overpower hers on the bridge, she snaps.

"Stop!" Clove finally yells into the microphone, the rest of the band grinding to a halt. She can see Glimmer's frantic head-shaking in her periphery, and the pressure of Katniss's warning glare pushing deep into her muscles, but she can't take it any longer.

These are her songs. This is her band. And if Cato's going to try and overpower her on the single song in the entirety of the Twelve's discography where Gale didn't open his fucking trap because she'd be damned letting him sing on a track about one of her depressive episodes, he's going to have to rip it from her cold dead hands in order to succeed.

"Clove," Glimmer says gently into the microphone, but her words do little to stop Clove now that she's been wound up too tight and released.

"Stop," Clove repeats, stalking away from the mic and right up to Cato. "Stop... just, stop all of it."

He is baffled. "What? I was just—"

"Ruining my song, I know. I heard. Did Haymitch not tell you that there were times when we left Gale out because we didn't want to hear his voice?"

"Clove, that's not fair," Thresh points out gently.

"No, what's not fair is that we have to stand up here and stitch two bands together into some freakish Frankenstein thing all because somebody wants to make money, and they're ordering us to play songs that aren't even ours. How is that fair to any of us? It's fucked up, and I'm putting on my pretty little smile and sucking it up as best as I can, but what I'm not going to sit here and do is let him take one of my songs and shred it to pieces because he signed a contract to keep him from irrelevancy. The line has to exist somewhere and I am drawing it."

"So, what, you're going to take it out on me?" Cato interrupts. "Same old Clove: pretending our problems aren't our own."

She takes a step closer to him. "Old Clove let you deal your shit out in spades. You were always my problem, you still are, and you don't sing on this song, period."

"You're mad, I got it—"

"Damn right I'm mad. You were the one who joined our band against our will. Our band. Not yours. So show up, do what you're supposed to, and quit trying to turn it into the Cato show."

Cato laughs, a low, venomous sound from the back of his throat. When he sneers down at her, she finally recognizes him. "The Cato show would be making you play my solo singles. Be glad that wasn't in my contract."

"What is in your contract, anyways? Being a goddamn menace?"

"Is that the best you got, honey?"

Clove feels her stomach drop and her hands curl up into fists by her sides. "Stop ruining everything."

"I haven't done a damn thing."

"Guys—"

"That is such bullshit and you know it." Behind her, Glimmer is now tugging on her arm, but she's too enraptured in punching in all her nuclear codes just for fun. "You should have stayed under whatever fucking rock you've been under for six years and left me the hell alone."

"Do you think I wanted to be in this band? Do you think I wanted to be anywhere near you ever again?"

"Then why the actual fuck are you here?"

She can't remember when she got chest to chest against Cato, but Marvel quickly inserts himself between them. "Walk it off, Clove," he instructs, in a serious voice that Clove's only ever heard from him twice before. Her mouth opens to protest, but Marvel shakes his head firmly. "Walk. It. Off."

She slings her guitar off her neck and pushes it into Glimmer's chest as she stomps off the stage, stomps out of the warehouse, and slams the door into the wall on her way outside.

The sky is gray, clouds thin but packed in tight enough to change the color of everything just like each and every little thing Cato's done to wind her up. He is changing the color of her band, her baby, forcing it to take a new shape into something she doesn't recognize and doesn't like, and she thought that she had buried him long ago but here he is and fuck, she can't breathe—

"Clove? Clove," comes Katniss's voice, soft in her ear. "It's okay." 

Clove realizes she's crying.

Katniss's hand is gentle on her back, rubbing at the spot between her shoulders, while Clove, hunched over in the middle and holding onto her knees, gasps out her sobs. "Kat, I can't do this," she pants. "I can't be in the same room as him."

"I know," Katniss murmurs idly, because she can't say much. She can't wave the magic wand and fix Clove's problem. She can't even kiss her and make it go away for a half-second by the sheer distraction lust brings. "But we gotta find a way."

"How?" Clove's sights cut to Katniss, pushing her hair from her face. "I'm stuck, Kat. Stuck with him, stuck with this, stuck. It feels like I'm being punished for something I didn't fucking do, and whatever it was to get this as my punishment, I would've done anything to apologize. Anything."

Katniss grimaces, continuing to assuage Clove as best as she can with the gentle circles she creates on the back of Clove's shirt. "We'll find a way. You trust me?"

"I don't trust him, that's the—"

"Problem, I know." Katniss reaches over and tucks a piece of Clove's hair behind her ears. "But I didn't ask you if you trust him. I asked if you trust me."

"Yeah," Clove answers weakly.

"Okay then. We'll figure it out."

Clove chokes out another sob, clambering to wrap her arms around Katniss. Katniss returns the hug for a few seconds, letting Clove get some of it out. They don't have enough time at their disposal — not enough time in the world, really — for her to recover fully. Finally, Clove pulls away and swipes underneath her eyes while Katniss holds her at arm's length, checking her over. "God," she laughs bitterly.

"What?" Katniss asks, brows crinkling together.

Clove shakes her head. "This is going to be a disaster, Kat. I'm calling it."

"This is a disaster," Effie announces.

Effie's their liaison to the label, and any time Haymitch pulls her out of the woodwork (or she invites herself, she's fairly notorious for including herself in all their affairs) they can count on a lecture. She slaps a newspaper down on the table in front of them, like it's supposed to mean something. Beside Clove, Marvel mutters under his breath, "Why are we supposed to care about Tiger Woods driving off a cliff?"

"Focus!" Effie snaps. "It's not about Tiger Woods, it's about you acting like a bunch of hoodlums where the public can catch wind of it." Her finger jabs forcefully at the cover of the tabloid: DELAYED INDEFINITELY? — INSIDE THE TURMOIL OF THE SEVENTYFOURTH'S NEW MEMBER, NEW LOVE TRIANGLE, AND WHY SOURCES SAY THEY'RE 'NOT MAKING IT TO TOUR.' 

"Someone overheard Clove and Cato fighting at rehearsal. Someone had a camera and got pictures of Clove crying outside of rehearsal. And that is all the ammunition they need to make up whatever they want about you."

"It's not true, so what does it matter?" Cato asks, almost bored that he has been summoned. 

He may as well have gotten up and slapped Effie clean across the face. Foxy takes this as her chance to speak. "Because, you moron—"

"Roxanne."

"—you're now apart of the highest profile band in America, signed to a record label that doesn't like said band's name in tabloids when it starts to interfere and impacts sales."

Rose Garden Records is a lot of things to a lot of people: they make dreams come true, end careers in a heartbeat, the home to some of the biggest names in western music. It can feel like the eponymous place for some artists, and for others, it is modern day music Alcatraz. After losing Madge, the band fell out with their previous label for reasons that Clove does not dwell on, leaving them independent and floating in limbo. For some, independence was a good thing. For The SeventyFourth, it meant inevitable death. They didn't have nearly the numbers and fanbase to survive on their own and be anything other than a garage band, which was not an acceptable fate for Clove and the others. And then, seemingly out of nowhere, Coriolanus Snow and his shiny, glistening headquarters building in Los Angeles that held almost the same revere and spectacle of the Hollywood sign itself called them up for a meeting. The Garden saw their potential and wanted them on their roster, and it had been a no-brainer. The Garden didn't sign nepotism babies or social media stars who could sing with the aide of autotune; the Garden signed trailblazers in music. They were the A Team. Thing was, the A Team played by strict rules: they didn't like scandal or aversive media response. A tasteful media frenzy would do only if it was fully concocted and executed by their teams. It was why they didn't sign viral sensations or one hit wonders or ex-reality TV stars in need of a place to hang their hat: the Garden was not a circus. In all of their contracts was something akin to a morality clause, stating that they'd keep their noses clean whenever there was a chance a camera or a 'source' could sniff it out. They wouldn't be fired if they breached, but the Garden was known to drop artists for much, much less.

For fuck's sake, Clove could remember when Cashmere & Gloss, the OGs from the label's inception back when she was still in middle school, had been dropped without so much as a press release all because Cashmere's sex tapes got released. They were all but buried overnight, the next morning everyone acting as though they had no recollection of the brother-sister duo.

Foxy, despite falling comfortably between Katniss and Thresh in the age department, is arguably the best publicist to have when being signed to the Rose Garden, and it's not just because she is a firecracker and damn good at her job: she's also Snow's niece. She has firsthand insight on how her uncle runs his label, like his own country in which he is the fearless leader, rule-writer and enforcer. She knows what he expects. She knows how to navigate what's either a cakewalk or a minefield. 

So when she glares at Cato, it means something. Everyone except for Cato knows it, too. 

"Okay, but what sales did this shit-piece impact? Our tour's still sold out. We're fine."

"Never mind that," Effie dismisses, because she's contractually obliged to do so. "We are not fine, Mr. Hadley. You are heading onto a months long tour with each other and if you can't be trusted to keep your asses in a line in Los Angeles, do you really think that the tour bus will be any better?"

Marvel raises his hand slightly. "I thought we had upgraded to hotel rooms."

Judging by the way his face suddenly crumples, Glimmer has stomped hard on his foot. 

"Each of you is replaceable," she vows, and while it doesn't hold much weight coming from her oddly high-pitched throat, it is a very real threat. Cato is living, breathing proof that their band is not theirs anymore. They make too much money for the Garden for that to be true. "This is business, not high school. So start acting like you enjoy being a part of this band or they will find someone who will."

Clove's eyes meet Cato's. It's by accident; each of them has looked in the other's direction, expecting to catch a glimpse of the other off guard, and instead their gazes have locked. What used to be a familiar set of eyes across a room in a meeting like this, when the vernacular went right over their heads and they were the kids who just wanted to make music. They didn't care about the red tape or the jargon, all they cared about was the music. And each other. And now, they don't really care about either, not in a mutually exclusive way that they did when it was just the two of them. Now they're strangers on a good day, mortal enemies on their worst, and the music is now money in the eyes of their puppet masters. When they were kids, they'd look at each other and have an entire conversation inside of one glance. You in? Are you? Yeah. Okay, then.

It's not unlike it used to be, except it comes with poison rimmed around her irises and tiny stakes of icicles in his that ward the other out and away. It's all concession and white flags and begrudging acceptance. Clove hates it, almost as much as she hates him.  

Finally, Cato sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine. We won't fight."

Clove holds out for a few elongated seconds before conceding. "Yeah. What he said," she grumbles.

Effie's lips curve in a smug grin. "Excellent. Now let's see if you can walk the walk, too."

She slaps down another sheet of paper, one that reads Billboard Music Awards.

Thresh groans.

This is a disaster.