Obliging myself, here...
Update: Apparently I infringed upon a copyright rule FFN is enforcing, hence, the lyrics have been removed; I think you guys get the message, though, as to the inspiration. Thanks.
A fiendishly-orange clock, obviously selected by a Capitol-hired interior decorator, chimed the time from its place upon the far wall, signaling eleven o'clock for Cato. He grimaced at the garish, offensively-colored decoration, before returning his gaze to the large-screen television in his shared tribute quarters. It was turned off, commentary of past games having proved unhelpful at this late stage, and yet he had been focused on the darkened screen for hours anyways. Clove and their mentors had long since retired to their respective rooms; even the noise from the Capitol's street celebrations had quieted, as the tributes' audience settled in for the show that would begin early the next day.
Unlike those who had gathered below in the streets, celebrating and joyful, Cato was secretly dreading the next day. And at this moment, he felt as if giving in to sleep, letting his body rest, would relinquish the control he had momentarily, would let the night pass that much faster, leading him to The Games, and the probable end of his life, that much faster. For now, he had peace and solitude, no one was watching his every move, and he could relax…hypothetically, at least.
Cato stood, groaning quietly as he stretched his arms behind him, the battle-trained limbs popping with the effects of several hours of inactivity, unaccustomed to it as they were. He never just…sat around. At home in district two, it was always training, sleep, strategy lessons, and the odd meal in between. And…well, the never-ending task of watching over Clove.
During training, during her walk home, even in the earliest years of their lives, Cato had guarded and protected her, even when she was unaware, even when she tried to brush off his attempts. She was a small girl; Cato always felt twice her height, and that he could use her entirety as a weight for a one-arm workout. This made her seem perpetually twelve years of age, despite her curves, and temperament, the fiery might of which suggested one was dealing with a much larger person.
He knew she hadn't had a happy, stable, or loving home life, that she immersed herself in training as a salve for the wounds repeatedly inflicted upon her, mind and body alike. Her demeanor was usually quiet, unless one roused her temper, and that usually-silent, single-minded passion for perfection in battle had singled her out in Cato's eyes early on, in elementary training. They had become fast friends, close confidants, and an unbeatable battle partnership. Then, at some point, their relationship had altered, in some subtle, unspoken way. Their dedication to one another progressed passed platonic feelings, and it had only strengthened the bond, the determination to protect and preserve one another.
And then, the reaping.
Afterwards, a grim realization had lain between them, an acknowledgement that was unknown to everyone but Cato and Clove themselves. But heads were held high, challenges accepted. Fate had dealt them a truly cruel hand in choosing the pair for The Games, but they would play, and play hard to win, as was expected.
With a start, Cato realized he had gone down the wrong hallway, and instead of his own room, he now stood before the door to Clove's. She was probably asleep, and shouldn't be disturbed, she would need rest, and all the wits and skill she possessed, for what would soon be upon them…Despite his mental protestations, he found his calloused hand dwarfing her doorknob in his grasp, turning it slowly and as quietly as he could, before slipping into her room. It smelled of lavender, like Clove, and his restless mind was instantly soothed by the balm of her presence. The luxury of the capitol had allowed them large, spacious beds, and Clove looked tiny, so tiny, and so vulnerable, visible by weak moonlight in her bed, dark hair spilled across the pillow as she lay on her side.
He shouldn't be in here. This was still her private space, they had never acknowledged their feelings so outright, but…He had to have tonight. He needed her near, and so he moved closer, each step of his long legs bringing her further within reach. As Cato paused, biting his lip as he thought of how to approach her, Clove moved suddenly, flinging a slender arm skyward as she began to thrash on the bed, whimpering quietly. Nightmare?
He was there in a flash, muttering soothing nothings into her ear, coaxing her arms back to her sides and smoothing down her hair as she settled back into the sheets.
Clove was still twitching and whimpering, so Cato slowly, gingerly stretched out onto the bed beside her, continuing to stroke her hair and murmur consolations. All at once, Clove snapped awake with a loud gasp, heaving herself upright in the bed and tearing herself from Cato's arms.
"Clove…Clove!" Cato reached out an uncharacteristically-gentle hand to shake her shoulder. "It's me, Cato. I've got you, it's okay."
"What…I had the worst dreams," Clove muttered, voice hoarse with sleep. She raised a shaking hand to her head, pushing her heavy mane of hair away from he face.
"The Games?" Cato questioned in a low tone, rubbing circles on Clove's lower back. She said nothing in reply, instead opting for a feeble nod that was just barely visible in the dim room.
"C'mere," Cato cajoled, pulling her small frame back down beside him, enveloping her in his warm embrace. "It'll be over soon, I promise," he swore into her hair, pressing a kiss to her temple, while a corner of his mind grimly dissected the reality his words implied. "You've got to rest now."
He could feel the tension ebbing from her body, as sleep moved in to overcome her again, and he smiled in the darkness, where nothing and no one could see the potential weakness she inspired in him. He hadn't felt this peaceful since…well,since any time he could remember. Sleep was nowhere in sight for Cato, but he was perfectly content to ensure Clove's rest was undisturbed, caged in the protection his arms offered, for the night. In the arena, it wouldn't be so easy.
He dozed at one point, reassured that Clove would sleep soundly in his grasp throughout the night. Around dawn, he was awoken by the first rays of the morning sun edging their way across the expensively-carpeted room. She was still curled against his side, a lock of her thick hair having somehow found its way to his face, tickling his nose at the moment. With a fond smile, he tucked the rogue strands behind her ear, gently moving the arm flung across his chest back to her side, and beginning to edge out of the bed.
He wasn't concerned with his own well-being, but rather Clove's; he didn't want their mentors to think anything unsavory of her, as it could well end up impacting the sponsorships and aid she would receive in the arena.
He grinned briefly to himself, shaking his head lightly as he snuck quietly out of Clove's room, and down the hall to his own. How the mighty Cato had fallen, they would all think, if they knew. He wouldn't be able to face Clove so easily now, in the short time they had left before the commencement of The Games; within the hour, they would be woken by their mentors for a final breakfast and strategy discussion, and then it was off to the stylists they would go, and finally, the arena. They likely wouldn't have any alone, unsupervised time together before one of them was dead.
Stripping off the Capitol-issued t-shirt he'd worn all night, Cato stepped into the shower with a final sigh to himself. Clove's scent seemed to linger on him, haunting, taunting, until the steaming water of the shower erased all trace.
Clove woke slowly, the strengthening light of the sun teasing her face. With a small groan, she rolled over, immediately noticing the vacant, cold spot next to her in the bed. She'd obviously been dreaming; there was no sign anyone had comforted her after a nightmare, or even been in the room at all.
Flinging herself back across the bed, Clove buried her face in the other pillow left on the bed, reluctant to face the day that would see her locked inside an arena of wilderness and fighting for her life, all within a few short hours. She had trained for years, yes; she could hold her own in a battle and maintained a high level of confidence in her abilities at all times, yes; but did she really relish the thought of participation in this event, of killing, forming false alliances, and perhaps dying herself? Not particularly.
And then there was Cato. She may appear stoic, unemotional to the point of frigidity, in her interviews and pre-Games coverage on Capitol television, but no one knew the truth. Only Cato had an inkling of her emotional capacity, which was basically comprised of her affection for him, and him alone. And they both had to pretend, all the time. At this point, with the Mellark boy from District Twelve having broadcasted his affection for his partner tribute across all Capitol Media, any revelation of their own relationship would only cheapen it, make it seem a trick aimed at garnering sympathy and support.
And so they kept quiet.
With a start, Clove's eyes shot open, and she inhaled deeply from where her face was buried in the material of the pillow. There was some scent on it…A pleasant, manly cologne, which she certainly didn't use herself. A broad grin split her face at the realization she hadn't been dreaming after all; Cato had come, had really held her through the night.
Feeling considerably lighter somehow, Clove rose from her bed, crossing to the window of her room and looking down to the streets of the Capitol. Already at this early hour, soon-to-be viewers of The Games were out and about, decorating the streets, heading to the markets to prepare grossly over-fancy meals to celebrate their favorites surviving the initial bloodbath, and heading to The Games' headquarters to contribute to sponsorships.
A sharp rapping and subsequent calling of her name at her bedroom door shook Clove from her daze, and she headed to the bathroom for a shower.
Breakfast was a quiet, serious affair, Cato and Clove even being kept in separate rooms to be grilled on strategy, for after all, only one of them could win. At last, Capitol servants had arrived at the entrance to their quarters, announcing it was time to be taken to the stylists, and then transported into the arena. When their group met in the hallway to prepare to leave, Clove entered after Cato, subtly brushing a hand along his muscled forearm as she moved past him, maintaining a business façade when she pivoted to greet him quietly. "Meet you in the arena," she said softly, turning away after a long glance, to be escorted out the front door.
"'Till the arena," he called with false bravado, watching her tiny form take determined strides out of his sight.
Thank you. ~Bon