Die for You | Catching Fire

chapter seventeen

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chapter seventeen
STANDING TOGETHER

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"THE PUNCH HEARD 'ROUND PANEM!"

There's a part of Ptolemus that's infuriated by the headline, it proving that even in District Two he's unable to have a single vulnerable moment for himself without it being spread across the country like wildfire. Not that the laborers in other Districts actually care for his family drama anyway. Then there's also a part of Ptolemus that dares to laugh at the ridiculous headline, because if he can't have such a moment, neither can his parents, and that might bother them even more. He settles for a smirk as he eyes the tabloid his father has thrown in his direction.

"Are you fucking smirking, Ptolemus?" Nero growls, chest heaving while he grips a crumpled copy of his own. Scattered all across the carpet are more copies he's just spent shredding to bits in a fit of fury. The ornate patterns of the rug are still as crisp as Ptolemus remembers from playing with his toy soldiers on his family living room floor.

He smiles even though it hurts him, his jaw still aching. There's a matching dark violet bruise beneath Nero's cheek. He's only hit his father back twice, once when he first saw him hit his sister (he was only six at the time), and before Two's parade. It was as satisfying as he imagined it. The rage from that day still simmers inside him, bubbling into venom he's itching to spew every chance he gets.

If he's not careful, it could earn him more beatings. Yet, there's a part of him that's counting on it, knuckles clenched and ready.

With a ringed hand, he points to the blurry image of Nero's head turning from Ptolemus's fist. "Have you seen your face?" He gestures toward his father's wound and his own cheek with a twinge of arrogant amusement. "I mean, they literally got the perfect angle."

Nero looks like he could kill him. Petra strategically shifts her form in the middle of the room between the two men. "Ptolemus."

"Hm?"

She narrows her stare at his coyness. "This bad press must stop. Between this and that girl—"

"Any press is good press, right?" Ptolemus shrugs, flopping the tabloid back onto his coffee table. He ignores the comment about Sage.

"Tell that to Snow," his father bitterly remarks from his corner of the room. For a moment, it almost sounds like he himself might be fearful of his own actions.

"Snow doesn't give a fuck about our family drama. So long as we're entertaining." Another one of his shrugs, lips turned downward in a sarcastic pout. "Maybe if Dad wasn't such a dick and smashed his daughter's picture it wouldn't look like I kicked his ass on every magazine cover."

Nero grows as still as a tiger waiting to leap from the grasses and pounce upon his prey. His knuckles twitch at his side as he runs his tongue along his teeth, lips twisting into a bewildererd sneer. "I could kill you."

Ptolemus doesn't even flinch. "You sure about that? Because pretty sure you only got an eleven in your training." He gestures toward himself and Petra in a false lightness. "Mom and I got twelves."

Porcelain shatters against the wall just to the left of his head as a ceramic vase (one Ally was scolded for nearly knocking over once no less) is hurled in his direction. Petra slides in front of Nero before he can strangle his son to death. Unlike his father, the glaciers in her eyes are actually mildly threatening. "Leave. Now."