ahem. i forgot this was in my drafts when i was looking for something else. i have no idea what fic this was supposed to be a part of. i love whatever is going on here between them, though!
They stumble back to camp, hardly discreet but not having it in themselves to care. Or, at least, Cato waves off the concern with a sweeping gesture of his hand. Let the other Tributes, weaklings, cannon fodder, hear him and Clove coming from a mile away. They were no match for born and bred soldiers of Two.
On a normal day, Clove would be appalled by such careless arrogance, whether or not it was an accurate assessment of their opponents, but she's busy at the moment fighting off another particular feeling when his fingers wrap loosely around her wrist and he pulls her forward absent-mindedly with a dazzling grin aimed back in her direction. She must have lost her mind, because Clove almost obeys the impulse of taking it a step farther and linking their hands together while her feet blindly follow his will.
She thought she'd mastered it, pushing whatever went on between them to the side, deep into a cavern of the things she would rather not acknowledge. Yet there's a painful awareness of something she can't ignore, an urgency flowing through her bloodstream and clouding her best judgement.
Clove has always gotten what she wanted - the top rank in her division, the sharpest blade, the best Training instructors an Academy student could ask for. A spot in the Games, which she'd had to claim with her claws digging in and several concealed lethal weapons expertly wielded against challengers. Despite his irritating arrogance and lack of emotional control, she sees that same work ethic, that appreciation for where they are, in her District partner. That glowing light in his eyes as he barks orders, veins starkly pressed up against the skin of his bulky arms, sweat in droplets clinging to his hairline and neck, the power and determination in how he moves.
There are a lot of things very, very wrong with wanting her District partner, a list miles long and spanning the mountains of their home. Reminding herself of Cato's many flaws hardly calms her racing heart, and doesn't alleviate the dull throbbing in her chest when she looks at him.
It's just simple hormones, Clove knows. Basic needs, urges, libido, the works. She's not a stranger to it, nor is she naive in these matters - her education on the subject came from the gossip of locker rooms after Training, as well as mandatory lectures on the necessity of contraception. Whatever Trainees got up to in their downtime wasn't anyone's business, as long as it didn't complicate a successful path to the Games or remove one less potential Victor from the talent pool. Other than a couple of restless nights, she hadn't found the time to seek out any flings or partners, and certainly didn't talk to anyone enough to catch feelings.
Not that there could be any involved here. In the Arena, it is impossible, and that road only leads to heartbreak.
But when she comes to accept the fact that she might just want everything - the glory, the bloodshed, the triumph, but also him, if only for a night, in this sweet moment of time where half their competitors are eliminated and they can take a well-earned break before cutting through even more, Clove decides that she will go for it like she does with anything else. Her shrewd, dark green eyes settle on Cato, meeting his thoughtful gaze, and neither of them shy away from the stare-off. She takes him in, the ironic warmth and softness in his expression, how deceptively casually he sits back against a tree with a tight grip on his sword, that dried speck of crimson blood on his neck that she may get the chance to clean away with her tongue.
After a quick peek to their allies, ensuring all of them are really unconscious - not that they could sneak up on her and Cato anyways, what with their advanced training compared to the mediocrity of One's and the pathetic lack of preparedness from Twelve - she shuffles forward, letting the crackling firelight illuminate her path and ignoring the discomfort of sticky dirt and harsh leaves and sticks against her palms. Clove finds herself crawling toward him on her hands and knees, which surely must make him feel special because she could never be this way for anyone else. From his slightly widened eyes and how they are glued to her every move, she knows Cato recognizes the significance of this moment. With a confidence that is somewhat feigned, she straddles his lap, intertwines her fingers behind his neck.
"Well, this is new," he whispers softly, seeming delightedly surprised, hands settling to rightful places on her hips. She immediately likes their weight, and when her shirt rises up slightly so that his skin makes contact with hers, their warmth. If she's reading his body language right, Clove's advance is most certainly welcome.
"Why?" She cocks her head to the side, mocking but also a little curious. With a gentle push on the midcenter of her back, Cato lessens the distance between them as she speaks. "I don't suppose you've ever had a girl on top of you before."
To her frustration, he looks less intimidated than amused. "I've done that plenty," he informs her, not bragging, just a plain fact. "Never thought I'd be doing any of that in an Arena, though. Best not to mix business with pleasure, don't you think?" It's difficult to take him at his word, though, when his eyes keep dipping to her mouth before respectfully coming back to her, and his breath hitches slightly as she adjusts her seating position until she's sure she's resting on the beginnings of a hard-on.
"Why not? One of us isn't going to leave here anyways. You might as well have something to enjoy for your last days." She grins at him cheekily, smothering her laughter to not wake the others while he growls low in his throat - the vibration hitting her ears a little too pleasantly - and lightly pinches her side.
"Brat," the accusation falls off his tongue, tender and sweet. The heavy and hot images of what she might allow him to do to her in the cover of night, with the security of darkness and their allies' unconsciousness, still linger in her mind... but this isn't too bad either, especially not when she could swear that his arms firmly and purposefully grasping at her middle constitutes him holding her.
"Never thought about what you'd eat for your last meal?" The bold statement slips out before she can fully think about it and shut the hell up, but to her relief, she's rewarded with a brilliant smile, making those hard, granite features seem so open, friendly, affectionate - even if he is not any of those things, judging by the fact that he probably would take her up on her suggestive tone and eat her alive if she let him.
He says nothing more, and Clove puts off the act of kissing him for a little while longer. She's not sure why there's a hesitation, but ever the gentleman, Cato doesn't push it. He seems just as content to be here with her, waits patiently for her to get comfortable as she rotates until her back faces his chest and she's lying against him, them keeping watch together. Alert and always aware of their surroundings, Clove marvels at how the two of them make a good team.
She harshly bats away the sentiment of the thought before it can expand into more dangerous ideas, like the notion that if they weren't both fated to fight one another for the crown, they would have been good together. Such wild fantasies are counterproductive, and won't do either of them good.
Clove sinks into his touch anyways, holding on tight to the arms that form a noose of heat and muscle and safety around her neck.
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