I've been a little low on muse lately (which explains why chapter 3 of Prototype is taking so long. Sorry guys). It's 4am, I started this at 1am. Three hours of writing and it's the first oneshot I've been able to finish in a while. I sincerely hope you like this: I hope it isn't too confusing in some parts (let me repeat: I wrote this at 1am). Tell me if it is, and I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: All characters and concepts belong to the talented Suzanne Collins. Sadly, I am not she :(
The boom of the cannon echoed through the arena before Katniss Everdeen's body hit the ground, still preserving some color of life in her face. As Clove withdrew the knife embedded in Fire Girl's chest with a sharp slicing sound, she couldn't help but admire the fight she put up. Even now, the fire she was famous for was still burning in her eyes, a sign that she would be forgotten no sooner than the victors of these Games.
Clove cleaned the smooth blade on her shirt slowly and wordlessly, savouring the flowing and dripping of the hot red blood. This blood ran through strong veins, pumped through a powerful body. Maybe, in another life, she could have been on reasonable terms with Fire Girl, maybe even considered her a partner in Career training. But in such a brutal game, all she could ever be was a worthy opponent. Silently, Clove thanked her for the thrilling fight.
About eighty feet away from her Cato stood in the long grass panting, sword still clenched tightly in hand. Sweat ran down the side of his bloody and bruised face and gathered on his muscled chest – seen through the rips in his shirt. His jacket had been discarded hours ago, seen as an unnecessary weight that was easily shed. Short, sharp puffs of air hissed in and out through clenched teeth as his piercing eyes glared off into the distance. What was running through his mind, no one could know for sure. But whatever it was, it wasn't thoughts of the slashed and bloody corpse of a boy lying discarded behind him carelessly.
Clove turned her head sharply to look at him with narrowed eyes that scanned over him observantly. Unlike her, Cato didn't feel triumphant over his kill. And why should he? While the Girl on Fire proved to be a difficult target that would need all of one's physical and mental strength to hit, Lover Boy was a simple and mediocre mark. The only reason why he'd survived so long was because of Katniss. No, Cato had not collected a trophy like Clove had.
"It's over then?" her words broke the silence which had fallen after the final cannon that had lasted a fair few minutes, causing Cato's head to snap in her direction. The remark was both a rhetorical question and a statement in one; they knew it was over, they were the only two left, yet the small brunette couldn't help but feel something was out of place.
The muscular boy grunted in agreement, finally breaking out of his bull-like stance and walking over to his partner, reaching her in a few strides. He was much taller than she was, looming over her and casting a shadow with the aid of the sun that had only just risen to swallow the early night the arena had thrown into. But she was in no way intimidated by him. She never was.
They locked eyes for the briefest of moments. Ice blue orbs met grey-green ones in an understanding stare. It was unsure what was expected of them in this moment of tense silence and thick atmosphere. A sudden outbreak of relieved smiles? A handshake and nod as they thanked each other for proving to be loyal and trustworthy allies? Or did the audience expect something more confronting: a kiss?
Cato was almost shocked himself by the idea of such a thing. To him, a kiss was merely lips pressed against one another, accompanied by a light embrace or cupping of the cheek. To people who had not experienced a life of emotionless violence, it meant something more. It was a sign of affection, a symbol of everlasting love. If he were to kiss her here and now, would that be what it meant? He'd given Clove so much, about as much as she'd given to him. Could he give her his love as well?
But even as he merely thought about it, what it meant for him to give her all that, his eyes couldn't help but take in the rest of her face. Although tainted by bruises and blood (not all of it hers) and covered in a light sheen of sweat, her skin still seemed delicate and porcelain-like. It looked hard and unbreakable to the eye, like she was made of stone, but was it as soft to touch as Cato thought it was? How easy was it to bring a flush of pink to her pale cheeks?
A single thought crept into his head, which drew his gaze to her lips. From afar, they seemed to hold nothing but an unimpressed scowl or a sadistic grin, but up close...up close they weren't what he expected. They were a light shade of pink, slightly paled and dry from the lack of proper food and water these past few days, but they still seemed flawless. Even with the presence of two small indents on her lower lip, which came from years of habitually chewing on it in concentration, these lips were still as soft and delicate as the rest of her face was up close.
And how he suddenly wanted to press his own to them was almost uncontrollable.
He was too caught up in this daydream to notice his hand moving by itself, until it was pressed against her cheek. At the sudden contact, they both seemed a little taken aback, but neither of them moved away. His warm palm against her cold cheek was refreshing for them both, bringing a sense of reality back to their minds after two weeks of mindless slaughter. So many things were relevant now: how lucky they were to still both be alive, how hard things really were, how much comfort they found in the other's presence.
Her eyes never left his, finding their almost impossibly bright hue piercing and captivating, even as they drifted away from her own. Even as her eyes were glued to his, she could feel a sense of burning across her skin as they scanned over it little by little, until it finally came to a halt, where the tingling sensation stayed: her mouth. More importantly, her lips. And oh so suddenly, how dry and cracked they were became painfully obvious to her.
Fatigue wore at her mind from the exposure to bloodshed and the lack of sleep these past couple of weeks, resulting in her conscience yelling all kinds of things at her. Something in the back of her mind was constantly telling her that this wasn't good. This was weak. She couldn't give in now, not to something as mediocre as human contact. Not from him. However, a new voice was making itself heard: a voice that spoke no words yet was somehow coaxing her through an odd fluttering sensation in her chest and stomach that she wanted this.
And she did. She wanted so much to stretch up on her toes and connect their lips. It was so simple to do, so easy, and maybe it would speed up the painfully slow remaining minutes in this arena. But reason was still nagging at her – at them both – that this couldn't happen. For whatever reason that brought on this sudden urge, it couldn't work. Careers can't love, it was about as biological as birds having wings and trees having roots. It brought a sinking pain to her chest as she realized it: no matter what they felt in this moment, they didn't – and couldn't – love each other.
"Cato…" she murmured, the contact between his hand and her face as obvious as ever as his thumb slid back and forth over her skin. But he didn't respond, too caught up in her to listen. He didn't want to listen. He knew what she was going to say, that it went against everything they'd ever been told, but right now, he didn't care. All he wanted was her: her lips, her taste, her body, her everything. And he could have it; they could have this abstract thing called love, and exchange it through kisses and touches and whispers. And, deep down, they both craved it.
He found himself leaning a little closer to her, literally feeling the space between their lips diminishing little by little. Was he going to kiss her? Yes, that was most certainly a given. But how would he kiss her? Would it be soft and slow, and last until they were finally announced victors? Or would it be barely anything at first: teasing and featherlike as they hardly touched at all, before neither of them could take it and release all the passion they'd been holding into each other? These questions only boggled in his mind for a second, before a sudden, almost harrowing noise boomed over the loudspeaker.
"Attention all tributes," it announced, clearly Claudius Templesmith's voice, "The earlier revisions have been…revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be crowned. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor."
The air around them froze for a split second, during which their eyes met once again: confused, afraid, conflicted. Only one of them would come out of this alive…were they strong enough, after what just transpired, to choose who could live without the other? If they had not connected like they had, if no physical contact had been shared, chances are they wouldn't be finding being suddenly torn apart so heartbreaking. But instead, they were shattered: so much, that they didn't even have the strength in them to start screaming and shouting that they couldn't change the rules so suddenly.
"Cato," she breathed again, and this time he listened. He closed his eyes tightly as he pressed his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling in the space between them. She wrapped her arms around his neck, lifting herself closer to him. In what were possibly their last few moments together, he couldn't blame her for wanting to be close as possible.
He took a deep breath, "I know, I know," he mumbled, his other hand slowly pulling out the ties in her four-tiered ponytail until her ebony hair was flowing freely over one shoulder, blood-matted and muddy, but still breathtaking. His fingers slid through her hair, tangling themselves amongst it as the thumb on her cheek brushed over her bottom lip lightly. And suddenly, there it was: the heated blush he'd been so curious about. It was such a surprise to him, almost a shock that someone as tough as her could flush at such a simple gesture.
At this point, he could take it no longer. Sliding his hand to cup her chin, he closed the gap between them and captured her lips in a soft yet urgent kiss.
It was so new to him, yet so familiar at the same time. Like he'd kissed her a thousand times before. An odd sensation flooded through his body: his skin felt heated and fevered, yet iciness ran through his veins. And yet, it was as thought he'd known all this time this is how it would feel.
She fit into his arms perfectly, like she was meant to be his. Her breath hitched a number of times as the voice in the back of her mind kept reminding her how bad this was, how little time they had left, but his hand against her face continuously brought her back and calmed her. The corners of her mouth twitched slightly, and had they not been so busy kissing Cato, her lips may have just formed a smile.
How long they stayed like that in each other's arms was irrelevant; time just didn't seem to pass anymore. All over the country, Capitol people may have been cheering or cooing over them, their families may have been shaking their heads and sighing, but in their little bubble, they had forever.
It did, however, eventually dawn on Cato that their time was running out. Who knew what mutated beast the Gamemakers would set on them if they took too long? He couldn't risk Clove being ripped from his arms and torn apart. He couldn't watch that without going insane.
His mind was abruptly snapped back to reality as their lips finally parted reluctantly. Looking down at the small brunette, who looked up at him forlornly, he felt his insides melt. How could he live without her? How could he let her live without him? What would be the kinder thing to do: kill her quickly or die in her place? Both things seemed generous and cruel at the same time.
"Cato…" she choked out a third time, her breath catching in her throat. He looked down at her expectantly, waiting for her to continue. But as she opened her mouth, no sound came out, her internal struggle evident in her eyes. In that moment, he knew exactly what she wanted to say. How she felt about him, all she'd ever wanted to say, it was all bottled up inside, and she just couldn't get it out. In that second, he looked into her eyes again sadly, and knew what he needed to do.
The sickening snap of her neck seemed so loud to Cato as he abruptly jerked her head at an odd angle, the rustle of grass echoing in his eardrums as her body went limp, only supported by him now, "I know…" he whispered, his own breath catching as he kissed her forehead, "I love you too,"
He closed his eyes tightly, not even hearing the announcement of, 'Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victor of the 74th Annual Hunger Games…' as he forced himself to release his grip on her. Her body collapsed back onto the ground with a thump, lying still in the grass. Had the cannon gone off? It must have, or else he would not have been announced victor. A deep, burning hole seemed to be forming in his chest, but he batted it away. Careers can't love, he repeated in his head over and over. The more he said it in his mind, the less guilt he felt.
He looked down at her body, which had fallen in such a position that she may have been sleeping, had her eyes not been wide open in shock and her head not lying at an odd angle. Faintly, somewhere in what felt like a long distance away, he heard the hum of the hovercraft sent to pick him up, but he didn't look up for the step-ladder just yet. He continued to look at the girl in front of him, marvelling at how beautiful she still was. Maybe, in another life, he could have given her all they wanted, the kisses and touches and gentle promises whispered in her ear; maybe even promised to spend forever by her side. But in such a brutal game, all she could ever be was a worthy opponent. Silently, Cato thanked her for the thrilling fight.