This story is rated at a high T due to repeated strong language and sexual references.
Marvel Beaumont is famous at Panem Prep for his parties. Anybody who's anybody attends, crowding into his swanky mansion, drowning in alcohol and hormones and heavy bass.
Cato is glad to have a friend like Marvel.
He leans against a wall, red cup in his hand and lazy grin on his face. Usually Cato isn't the wallflower type, but tonight's different. He's completely fixated on her, mesmerized by her every move as she dances with her friends, grinding against the other girls and swaying her hips so deliciously that it has his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. She laughs and she smiles and she tousles her hair and it's all he can do to not march forward, tug her away by the wrist, and pin her against a wall.
[Oh, Cato, how ignorant you truly are.]
He's slept with a lot of girls. Being the golden boy of Panem Prep, it's practically in the job description. But something about her isn't the same. Every time they meet, his heart races and his palms become slick with sweat, and every time they're lying in bed, tangled up in the sheets and utterly spent, he finds himself wanting her to stay.
He thinks that's what it is. Usually he's the one to leave first. He likes to feel needed, and the pretty pouts and desperate whines that he so often receives from other girls as he rolls out of bed fulfill that.
But not her.
No, she's always the one to pull back first, to slip away just before his arms can encircle her tiny frame, throwing him that sexy fucking smirk over her shoulder and tugging her shirt back over her head, agonizingly slow. (Seriously, he never thought he'd be turned on by a girl putting clothes on.)
"So like, when are you gonna stop ogling Clove like a fucking perv?"
Cato blinks, tearing his eyes away from her and turning to face Marvel. His best friend is grinning, rather childishly, and Cato shoves his shoulder. It's forceful enough that Marvel's drink sloshes over the rim of his cup, splashing onto his hand. He curses, bringing his hand to his mouth. "Seriously, dude?"
Cato only smirks. "You know Clove and I have done shit, right?"
His friend shakes his head, taking a sip from his drink and leaning against the wall as well. "Obviously," he says. "You guys have the most sexual tension of anybody I know. It's sickening, really."
Cato rolls his eyes. "It's just Clove."
Marvel narrows his eyes. "I know you like her."
"Sure I do. She's a cool girl."
[But isn't she so much more than that?]
"You know what I mean."
On instinct, Cato's eyes flick back to the pack of girls occupying the center of the room. Clove, as always, is the only one to catch his eye. Even from the distance between them he can see the flush of her cheeks, the sheen of sweat glistening along her exposed collarbones in that devilishly low-cut top, and he really just can't stop his mind from wandering off to very dirty places before Marvel is coughing meaningfully. Cato turns back to his friend. "I know what you think you mean," he says, shrugging. "But you're wrong. I don't like girls."
"I always knew you had a secret, Cato," says Marvel with exaggeratedly-wide eyes. "I'm glad you've finally come to terms with your sexuality."
"You know what I meant, asshole."
"I know what you think you m—"
"Shut up."
The party begins to die down after a few more hours, a few stragglers stumbling around in an attempt to clean up after themselves. Really though, it just makes things worse. Cato witnesses Finnick Odair toss a crumpled beer can at the sink shouting, "Kobe!", no doubt thinking it's the trash. It would've been slightly more acceptable if he made the shot, but the guy can barely stand and misses by a mile. His girlfriend Annie watches on with a look of long-suffering that has Cato fighting laughter.
Subconsciously (or maybe consciously, he's been having trouble recognizing the difference lately), he finds himself scanning the dwindling crowd for a familiar head of ebony hair. He frowns when he can't find her, but straightens slightly when he catches sight of Glimmer, her blonde curls gleaming under the light.
"Belcourt," he calls as he approaches.
She turns to him, smiling brightly. "Hey, Cato," she chirps. Glimmer's nice, Cato supposes. He slept with her once, and she definitely met the expectation, but he finds that she's just too... soft. Easy. He's always liked a challenge.
Luckily, she's mature about it. She knows when not to mention something, which Cato respects. It's a mutual understanding of sorts.
"Do you know where Clove went?" he asks, not even trying for subtlety.
The corner of her perfectly-shaped lips twitches slightly upward before she answers. "Not sure. She said something about heading to the balcony for some air. I think Marvel's brother was with her."
His fists automatically clench, his jaw setting rigidly. Clove is with Gloss Beaumont? Marvel's older, college-aged brother?
Fuck that.
He mumbles a thanks to Glimmer before turning on his heel and marching away, trying not to walk too quickly despite the sudden tug at his gut. She wouldn't mess around with Gloss, would she? That guy has a reputation, and not a good one.
[You act like you're so much better, when looking at Gloss Beamont is like looking into a mirror. Stupid, ignorant boy.]
He passes Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark on his way upstairs. They're practically the king and queen of the junior class, though Cato isn't sure how. They're way too mushy, in his opinion. They're practically begging for heartbreak.
[But oh, silly Cato, isn't heartbreak the most beautiful pain of them all?]
He finally reaches the third floor, practically skipping the polished marble steps as he climbs them. At the top of the stairs is a grand, open room that holds the entrance to the balcony, huge double-doors and floor-to-ceiling windows in place of a wall. And sure enough he sees her, practically right in front of him, her back turned to him as she leans against the outdoor railing.
He watches her through the glass for a moment, surprising himself when he realizes he isn't checking her out, either, not even with her short black shorts and silky, blood-red spaghetti-strapped top. He just... looks. Her hair spills down her back, slightly wavy and windblown, and as a breeze pulls her dark locks to the side he sees the birthmark on her right shoulder blade, the one that almost looks like a butterfly. He's brushed his lips over that mark more times than he can count, basking in the way she shivers, every time and without fail, when he does.
A door opening down the hall snaps him from his reverie, and when he turns to the source of the noise he sees Gloss Beaumont padding toward him. "Hey, man," he says with a nod of acknowledgment. "Good party? Little Marvel seems to be following in my footsteps."
"Aren't you supposed to be at school?" Cato asks, not in the mood for small talk. He notices that the other guy's hair is sticking up funny, that his lips seem unnaturally red and his shirt is weirdly wrinkled in the front. Once again, Cato feels his fists clench.
[Jealousy isn't a good look on you, boy.]
"Wanted to come home for the weekend," shrugs Gloss. His gaze drifts to the side, skimming over Clove's figure as she continues to lean against the balcony. "She's grown up quite a bit, hasn't she?" he muses, seeming like he's talking more to himself than to Cato. "I remember being like, twelve when Marvel would have you guys over. Never would've expected her to come out of things looking like that."
Now, Cato can admit that he's had some lewd, R-rated thoughts about Clove. But coming from somebody like Gloss it's sickening, the words sounding like poison as they're tossed carelessly into the air. "Did you like, hook up with her or something?" he asks. God, alcohol makes him blunt.
Gloss cocks his head to the side, giving Cato a curious look. "What's it to you?"
"Just answer the question," Cato snaps.
Gloss snorts. "No, Cato, we didn't hook up." Immediately, Cato's shoulders relax as he lets out a breath he didn't even know he was holding. Gloss, however, continues. "I would, though. I'll admit, I was thinking about it—"
"She wouldn't go for you," Cato bites out.
"Oh?" says Gloss. "What's she into, then? Tall blonds with jealousy issues?"
Cato, ignoring the obvious jab, doesn't like the way Clove is being objectified right now. It feels like something out of a terrible movie, and while he certainly is no saint when it comes to the way he treats girls, he knows better than to degrade them like this. Growing up with only his mother and older sister, he can't imagine someone speaking about his sister like this.
"Fuck off, Beaumont," Cato grumbles. "I'm not doing this right now."
Gloss only rolls his eyes, walking past Cato and down the hall opposite the one he just came from. "She's not my type, anyway," he mutters as he goes.
Cato scowls at his retreating figure. Douche.
Taking a deep breath he takes five steps forward, turning the handle of one door and pushing it open. He's met with cool air and a slight breeze, uncharacteristic of a mid-September night.
If Clove notices his presence, she doesn't acknowledge it. Scratching the back of his neck, he walks until he's leaning against the railing beside her. The top of her head just about reaches his shoulder, and he can't help but smile at the thought.
[Careful, Cato, these feelings are growing more real by the second.]
"Aren't you cold?" he asks, trying to break the silence.
She says nothing for a few more beats before answering. "I'm alright," she says simply.
The balcony overlooks the huge pool in the backyard. Floats and pool noodles litter the surface of the water, along with the occasional red cup. Between the blue glow of the water and the golden haze of the backyard lights, Clove looks ethereal. In the background, a song plays softly from the speakers down below. Something piano-driven about closing time and opening doors and turning on the lights.
"Seemed like you were enjoying the party," Cato tries again. She seems out of it, like there's something on her mind. He finds himself wanting to help, wanting to listen to her problems and give her advice and maybe even kiss her worries away. His gut twists. What's gotten into him?
[Ha. You know exactly what it is, don't you?]
"It was fun," she says, finally turning to him. She smiles, cryptic and unreadable, like she's holding something back. "They always are."
"What's wrong, Clove?"
Her eyes narrow at him, clearly taken aback by his suddenness, and she turns back away from him, crossing her arms over the railing and leaning forward. "Nothing."
"Liar."
She huffs a breath out through her nose, impatient and annoyed. "Just leave it, Cato. Everyone's going home now. You should, too."
"Nah," he says, "I was thinking of crashing here. My mom's home this weekend and I don't wanna get busted for drinking."
Clove smirks at that, suddenly slipping back into her normal, sarcastic state. "Aw, is big, bad Cato a mommy's boy?" she croons in mock affection, and he finds himself chuckling at that.
"So what if I am?" he asks, leaning closer to her until he can pick out the black stars in her hazel eyes, which begin to flutter closed at the proximity. Just as he goes to kiss her, though, she inhales sharply and turns away, her attention once again fixated on the pool below them. Cato frowns. This is unlike her.
"Seriously, though, I should probably get going," she says, turning on her heel to face the doors as she hugs her arms around her body. "You were right. Kinda chilly. I'll see you on Monday or something."
She manages a few steps before Cato's arm shoots out and his hand closes around her upper arm. "Clove," he breathes, and she stiffens. "Stay?"
"Why, Cato?" she asks, not looking at him.
"Because something is bothering you," he says, not loosening his grip on her arm, "and believe it or not, I'm actually not completely heartless and I'm like, totally here to listen if you need me to."
After a long moment she sighs, finally turning to him. He's surprised to see her expression, some combination of tiredness and dejection, something so un-Clove-like that his breath catches in his throat. "Clove—" he begins, but she cuts him off.
"It's dumb, okay?" she says.
"I doubt that."
Gently, he tugs her toward the balcony again, and she lets him. Good, he thinks. This is progress.
They lean over the railing once more. Cato looks up at the sky, littered with stars. His gaze follows the blinking lights of an airplane and he counts fifteen Mississippis until Clove finally speaks.
"I'm not ready."
He frowns, blinks, looks down at her in confusion at her cryptic words. Her gaze doesn't waver from the blue water below, her features pulled into a frown of her own.
"Not... ready..." Cato repeats slowly. "Um, for what, exactly?"
"Life, Cato," Clove says, sounding exhausted. "Just... life and the future and college and everything that comes with adulthood and being a senior. Like, what happened to elementary school? Back then, our biggest fear was Ms. Trinket's hair."
Cato can't help but snort at the mention of their fourth-grade teacher. Effie Trinket was her name. Her appearance gave circus clowns a run for their money, and her obsession with manners and etiquette was borderline obsessive-compulsive. "If I'm being honest, I'm still terrified of that hair," he supplies, and his chest swells with pride when she laughs.
[Just pride? Or maybe something more?]
He swallows, suddenly hot despite the coolness of the air. "Seriously though, Clove, it's nothing to worry about. You're smart and beautiful and sharp and determined and badass and you can totally take on the world. If anyone's ready for the future, it's you."
She scoffs. "Hasn't anyone ever told you that flattery will get you nowhere?"
"But I mean it."
She goes quiet at that, but then wheels on him so abruptly that he blinks in surprise. Her eyes are suddenly burning, almost angry, and when she speaks it sounds like the's struggling to keep her voice level. "Don't act like you're so fucking saintly, Cato. You're not."
"What the fuck?" he splutters, his own temper immediately spiking. "What does that even mean?"
"Oh, I don't know," she says in faux ignorance. "Maybe it means I'm tired of you and your games and everything about you."
Where the hell is this coming from?
"My games?" he asks incredulously.
"Oh, yeah," she nods, turning to face him fully, her arms still crossed. "Yep. You and your little ritual. Fuck-and-go, right? I know that's what you were hoping for tonight, isn't it?"
Alright, now he's pissed. Does she not see how hypocritical she's being?
[Read between the lines, Cato. Open your eyes, you silly boy, or you'll miss everything.]
"Says the one who's always first to go," he retorts.
"Because I'm terrified, Cato!"
"Of what?"
"Of being used! Of being tossed away like all of your other girls after every single one-night stand!"
He drags a hand through his hair, clutching and twisting at the short blond strands as he tries to quell his anger. It isn't working.
"But you don't even give me a chance, Clove!" he says, nearly shouting now. "Maybe I don't want to just 'toss you away,' as you so kindly worded it. Maybe I want you to fucking stay because you're the one decent fucking thing in my goddamn fucking life."
"Then fucking act like it!" she yells, getting right up in his face and acting for all the world like she isn't nearly a foot shorter than him.
Fine. She wants him to act like he cares, to act how he really feels? That is abso-fucking-lutely fine by him.
He proves it to her by gripping the back of her head and tugging her forward until their lips meet in the middle, a kiss that tastes of alcohol and desperation on each end. He feels her inhale sharply through her nose and he wraps his other arm tightly around her, securing her to his chest.
It isn't necessarily a rough kiss, like their others in the past. There is no biting, no growling, no blood drawn—only the feel of Clove's soft lips against his and those tiny sounds that she's making in the back of her throat that do things to his stomach.
He's the first to pull away, soft and gentle as he can be as he leans his forehead against hers. He's struggling to keep his breathing even, and he's sure she can feel his heart pounding against his sternum from where her hands are trapped against his chest. "How's that for acting like it?" he breathes, and when he finally opens his eyes they lock on hers, wide and shocked.
"I—" she begins, suddenly prying herself from his grip and taking two steps back. She shakes her head, chews on her lower lip, and Cato is so fucking confused.
[I think it's time to be honest with yourself.]
"What, Clove?" he says, letting his shoulders slump in defeat. "I don't know what else you fucking want from me. I know I sleep around and I know I seem careless but fuck, Clove, I do care. I care about you. And I'm sorry you can't see that, and I'm sorry that I've never shown it, and I'm sorry that I'm falling for you and I'm sorry that I'm fucking terrified, too—"
"Shut up!" Clove all but screeches, her hands flying to her head, her fingers tangling in her hair. "Just shut up, Cato, for once in your life just stop talking." Her voice becomes strained toward the end, and her eyes are glistening with what seem to be tears as she breathes heavily, looking at him with wide eyes.
It's enough to shut him up, that's for sure. He's never seen her… lose it like this before. She looks almost feral, ready to bolt away at any second. "Clove—"
"I said shut up!"
"No," he says, shaking his head. "No, tell me what the fuck is wrong, Clove! I know I'm part of the issue—hell, I probably am the whole fucking issue—and I want to help you. Please." The last word, the last plea, is softer than his other words. He doesn't like the way he feels right now, guilty and uneasy. He didn't mean to hurt her, ever.
[But you did. The damage is done, isn't it?]
"Fuck, Cato," she breathes. "You can't just… you can't just up and say that you're fucking falling for me, okay? Do you have any fucking idea what that does to my head?"
Oh.
He forgot he said that. It was the alcohol. Right? It has to have been. He'd never, ever say something that heavy. He's just buzzed. So buzzed.
[What's that saying, again? Drunk words are sober thoughts?]
"I… I didn't…"
"It's what you said, Cato. You said that shit."
"I know, but—"
"Is it true?"
"Clove—"
"Is it fucking true, Cato?" she demands. "Or are you just saying that in hopes that it'll loosen me up? That I'll just forget everything because you said you're falling in love with me?"
"God fucking damn it, Clove, can you not be paranoid for two fucking seconds," he groans, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. "I'm not… I'm not the bad guy, okay? I'm not some manipulative prick who thinks he can get into your pants just by saying a few mushy things. I know you're not the type of girl to fall for that either, and you know that I know that. So why would I fucking try it?"
Her breathing has slowed a bit, and now she's just looking at him with conflict written all across her features. She's visibly shivering, her thin arms wrapped around her wiry frame. And then her eyes close, and she takes a deep breath. "I know," she says. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." She laughs, but it's empty and humorless and she doesn't smile. "God, I'm a fucking mess."
[Well, that makes two of you.]
He takes a chance and steps forward, slowly and carefully reaches out for her. Her eyes are still closed, but they open when he gently takes a strand of her dark hair and rolls it between his fingers. She says nothing, only stares up at him, but she also doesn't do anything to stop him. So he speaks.
"I am, too," he says, smiling slightly.
She gives him a watery smile of her own, then nods. "Yeah," she says. "We're both just fucked up, aren't we?"
He laughs at that, brings his other arm up until he's cupping her face with both of his hands. "We make it work," he says, and they lean in at the same time, their lips meeting in the middle.
If the kiss before felt different, then this one is otherworldly. It's uncharacteristically gentle, no tongue or teeth, just lips, and he likes it. He tilts his head for a better angle and she sighs through her nose, and it hits him that yeah, holy fuck, they are so fucked up.
When they finally break apart, he presses his forehead to hers and traces her lips with the pad of his thumb. "What do we do?" he asks, voice low.
Her hands come up to gently catch his wrists, and she shakes her head. "I don't know," she whispers.
"Do you think… do you think it's worth a shot?" he asks. "Us, I mean?"
"I… don't know," she repeats. "We're not good people, Cato. Not to each other."
"Maybe we can learn, though," he says, and he's surprised at the hopefulness in his own voice. "Together, right?"
[How naïve.]
She pulls his hands away from her face, takes a step back. Once again, her expression is something unreadable. He never fucking knows what she's thinking. "Are you drunk?" she asks.
"Not anymore," he says. He's never seen things so clearly in his life.
She nods at that, taking another step backwards. "I think we… just need space."
"Space," he repeats, his voice suddenly hoarse. He tries not to feel too dejected at that. He respects her feelings, he does, and if this is what she needs, then so be it. But hell if it doesn't fucking hurt.
"I don't mean it as like, a permanent thing," Clove says quickly. "I just meant, like… until we can figure shit out. Figure ourselves out. You know?" He nods, and she continues. "I fucking want you, Cato, want this," she says, gesturing between them. "I really do. But I think we just… we need to make sure we can do it, right?"
He swallows and nods. "Yeah," he says, and even he can admit that he sees the logic in it. "Yeah, I think that's good."
She smiles softly. "Good," she says. And then she steps forward, grips his face, and brings his mouth down to hers in one last, hungry kiss. "I'm not giving up. Okay?" she says when she pulls away, and all he can do is nod breathlessly.
She smirks, that sexy fucking smirk, before backpedaling a few steps and turning around to walk away from the balcony, through the huge glass doors and into the open room and down the marble staircase. Cato smiles after her, lost in thought.
[You're really in love with her, aren't you?]
He walks through the halls of Panem Prep, backpack thrown over one shoulder and tie hung loose around his neck. When he makes it to Marvel's locker, he claps his friend on the shoulder. "Morning, buddy."
Marvel turns to him, eyes narrowed. "You're in a good mood. Why are you in a good mood?"
"Because it's a good day!" Cato exclaims. "It's a good-ass fucking day, my friend."
"Right…"
He's about to continue the conversation when he sees her, dark hair pulled into a loose braid, laughing with her friends as they make their way down the hall, directly toward them. "I'll catch you later," Cato mumbles to his friend, unable to fight his smile.
He doesn't wait for Marvel's reply, but if he had he would've caught his best friend's mocking, "Fucking whipped."
He marches over to the group of girls, says hello to her friends. They all giggle and say hello to him as well, and Clove rolls her eyes when they leave her alone to go their separate ways. Cato doesn't mind the privacy, taking the opportunity to wrap an arm around her, pull her in close, and plant a lingering kiss on her temple. "And how are you this morning?" he asks, not removing his arm.
"Ready and eager to learn!" she says sarcastically, and he snorts.
"Sure you are," he says.
"Don't doubt me!" she protests, playfully whacking his chest with one of her binders. "Anyway, I've got chem third period today and I am not going to be able to deal with Abernathy. Might need a little study break by the first-floor bathrooms."
Cato lights up at that, chuckling and pulling her in tighter. "You're bad, you know that?" he says into her ear, and he revels in the way she shivers as she laughs with him. "But I'll be there, of course. You know, on a study break."
She looks up at him and grins, and he swears he is so fucking in love with this girl it isn't even funny.
Their conversation on Marvel's balcony happened nearly four months ago, and Cato is happy to say that he and Clove have been together for three. It's the happiest he's been in who-knows how long, and he wouldn't trade any of it for the world. She makes him happy, makes him better, and really, that's all he could ever ask for. The sex is great, too, but really it's the fact that everything about Clove Kentwell is absolute perfection.
He makes some joke and she elbows him in the gut, and he winces and she laughs and then he laughs, too, and he leans in and kisses her and she kisses him, and everything is good and right and so fucking perfect.
He wouldn't want it any other way.
[Well, would you look at that. You got your happy ending, after all.]