#relentlessescapism

Right. She suddenly remembers the purpose of this activity, and it was not so she could ogle Cato's lean, sculpted body.

Horrifically unfortunate that her libido would rear its horny head for the one man she should - and does - want dead.

Slowly, and with more delicacy than she ever has before, Clove draws her knife from its holster around her thigh and brings the point to the center of his back. Sliding it until the blade is just under his right shoulder, Clove cuts with intention, piercing the cutaneous layer. No further than his epidermis, just this once, or for however many days they are in the Arena.

She makes one tally mark in crimson red, a small droplet forming at the end of the cut. If it heals over, she will have to do it again at the same spot until it leaves a scar. The idea makes her giddy and brings a smirk to her chapped lips. Any opportunity to use her knives on a victim is a fantastic day for her.

Especially a willing victim.

One who asks to be marked, who so patiently waits and gives her the honor of exposing his bare skin. One who seems to trust - unwisely so - that she won't tear out his ribs, or find his heart from behind the first chance she gets, or strike him in the spinal cord and paralyze him to be left for dead.

Her willing victim.

Hers.

They remain there far longer than they should, despite both knowing full well it's been done. A new tracking system has been implemented, for counting the days they spend here in this wilderness with their worst instincts and impulses set free.

Her thumb tentatively reaches up and brushes away the slight drip of blood, too softly.

It's a glorified paper cut to them.

"More," Cato groans, almost as if by a slip of the tongue. When she leans to the side to get a proper look at his face, he nods quickly, piercing gaze locked onto hers, hands clenching the tree tightly despite the rough texture of the bark.

Clove never liked taking orders, but she can't say no to the way her heart beats faster and how the roughness of his voice, the desperation in his command, makes her thighs want to squeeze together. Grabbing his shoulder for purchase and readjusting her grip on her knife, she makes the incision deeper, drawing more blood. She knows just when to stop, to make him feel good - herself too - without any unneeded risks.

"You have some strange tastes," she remarks, meaning to be sarcastic and teasing. It would work if she wasn't breathing so fast right now. Cato must know it too by the way he looks back at her with a smug grin, turning his body so he is leaning against the tree facing her.

It takes every last bit of strength left in her not to fixate on his chest, stubbornly insistent on maintaining eye contact even when she has to crane her neck up to do so. She needs to get her upper hand back, and quick.

"You know," she hums in a saccharine, sing-song tone, "this is good practice for you. To know how I'll leave my mark before I kill you." Clove taps his left pec suggestively with her hilt, her other palm splayed out flat on his right. "Maybe sign my name like this right over your heart."

His eyes bore into her, dark as thunderstorms. Delicately, and with tenderness that shouldn't be possible for either of them, he pries her fingers off of his chest and intertwines them with his own. His other hand circles around her wrist that is occupied with the knife, grasping tightly. She lets Cato lower her arms to her sides, doesn't comment when his touch lingers for a little too long.

The shuffling and groans from their pack members are a sign that they will surely rise any minute now from their sleep. Neither Cato or Clove can bring themselves to care yet. When he finally releases her and tugs his shirt back down, safely protecting his torso from the open air, a rotten feeling of disappointment burns through her chest.

----

Men's suits don't come backless, or at least Cato would have refused one if the Capitol offered such fashion choices. It's a shame that she never gets to admire those gifts she left for him on his back, the rows and columns of lines making a striking pattern of neat, uniform and artfully placed wounds.

He is a mosaic of damage from the Arena, both that inflicted by her which brought them both pleasure, and the patches of mutilated skin from the armor that turned against them. Skin grafting could only do so much to restore what was once perfect. Not that it matters to her.

Like him, she also prefers the excuse to stay covered as needed, and can avoid the more risque wardrobe choices. Clove will never be ashamed of her scarring, of the canvas of her body painting the story of her triumph over horrific pain. Her reasons for turtle-necked dresses with wide shoulders and long sleeves come from a need for modesty more than anything else, but it certainly helps spare her from the fate of the Cashmeres and Finnicks to be so "unsightly" and "deformed."

Hand in hand, they arrive home from District Two's annual Victors' Banquet, where they were the guests of honor, celebrating their recent win. By habit, she leads them to his house in Victors' Village, where she sleeps more often than not, always in his bed. The arrangement began not even two days after their return from the Capitol, and has worked well ever since.

They deposit their keys on the kitchen island, metal clinking against polished granite. Clove is about to reach up and blindly grope for the zipper behind her, when -

"I've got it, Clovey." Before she can even ask, the warmth of him is pressing against her back, carefully pulling down the zipper. No harsh tugs, only careful, concentrated patience. She trained him well.

Fingers brushing the nape of her neck to sweep aside her hair so it won't get caught in the zipper. Broad palm curling over her shoulder, gliding down her back as he works. Lives wires of electricity spark through the nerves in her body, every place he touches.

When the coolness of the air conditioning hits her uncovered back and Cato whistles happily, she can't resist the urge to tease him. "Oh, please, I knew you just wanted the excuse to undress me." Clove twists her head back to send a cheeky smile in his direction.

Cato doesn't miss a beat, his palms landing low on her hips and squeezing tight to steady himself when he leans forward, his parted lips brushing the shell of her ear. "As if you wouldn't like that."

Without waiting for her answer, he helps her shrug off the dress and let it pool into a pile of silk on the floor around her ankles. She steps out of it in simple underclothes, not shy to be this way in front of him. Not when he's seen everything of her already, inside and out. Cruel and bloody and poorly groomed in the Arena, stripping off her armor and revealing corroded patches of skin underneath. Shiny with skin of unblemised porcelain and dolled up in swaths of fluffy pink fabric for Caesar's interviews.

His gaze carries only deep appreciation, making her feel beautiful without a word. Cato sinks to his knees to undo the strap on her high heels, lifting her feet, left then right, to remove the stilettos that she would never have been caught in just months ago.

"Well, if you're going to do this much work getting me out of my clothes, might as well help me put fresh ones on too." Her suggestion brings a grin to his mouth, transforming him from a seasoned killer to a boy who simply aims to please.

Or... "no." He rises to a stand, not daring to touch her but heavily flirting nonetheless. "You look just fine to me right now."

A heated flush of rosy pink spreads across her freckled cheeks. "Cato," she warns.

With no argument and only some suppressed laughter, he heads upstairs dutifully and returns with her favorite training set that simultaneously functions as pajamas, all nicely folded and everything. Clove nods her thanks and lets him raise her arms above her head to help her into the tank top.

"Isn't it my turn," he asks when they finish, still all dressed up with only his tie loose around his neck.