AN: Apologies for the late update! I just finished my midterms, so I was busy…Hope you enjoy this chapter!
They do not speak. They do not make eye contact. It goes on for one week, two weeks, three weeks. She entertains thoughts of poisoning him just so she won't have to deal with the aftermath. At night, her mind runs through a list of possibilities: hemlock, aconite, baneberry, castor beans, death camas, foxglove, may apple...the idea is certainly enticing. Not only would it end the awkward non-acknowledgment, it would also end the whole love triangle between her, Cato, and that girl. Yes, poisoning him is starting to look quite brilliant. But days pass, and she cannot think of a viable opportunity, not with the two of them avoiding each other like the plague. His wound has healed, so there's no chance of mixing hemlock into his ointment. They never come close enough to make skin contact, and so she cannot hope to smear may apple juice into his skin. She snarls in frustration one night, having exacted possible methods of poisoning Cato. She grabs her needles and her razors (she leaves the poison-tipped ones at home, in case she nicks herself) and sneaks into the training center.
The training center is dark and abandoned, the way she wants it to be. She walks over to the training dummies and rolls up her sleeves and pants legs. There, four straps of weapons run neatly down her arms and calves, one on each, like so many rows of snake fangs. She crouches down. And she begins to dance.
In quick succession, she pulls out three razors from each calf strap, gripping each between two fingers, her hands clenched into fists. She imagines all the dummies to be Cato, and leaps forward, slashing out at one dummy, then the other, landing in a roll. Chest, torso. Not bad. Leap again. Slash, slash, land, rip, stand, twirl, duck, slash. Face, neck, thigh, wrist. Much better. She throws the razorblades, and all six of them sink cleanly into the dummies' abdomens. The needles are pulled out of their holders, and she begins flinging them with an air of lazy cruelty. One in each eye, a few under the chin, she makes a point of viciously stabbing every soft spot on the human head. More razors, slicing major arteries and veins, severing tendons. A small part of her registers that this isn't making her happy, not the way that girl is made happy by causing pain. No, she feels nothing but rage as she stabs and cuts with cold, surgical precision, and she's not quite sure which is worse, that girl's sadistic glee, or her calculated fury. But she's in no mood to be moralistic or philosophical tonight, so she continues cutting up the dummies, losing herself in the rhythm of slicing and ripping and spinning. This, she knows, is the only useful skill that arose from her love of dancing. Her mind thinks of nothing but vulnerable spots and needlepoints and blades, and she is poised to throw another set of razors, when an unexpected voice breaks her flow.
"Well, well, well. What do we have-" The voice is cut off as she spins around and flings the razors at the source of the voice. But they are harmlessly deflected by a sword, and she can hear the soft clang of metal against metal, and then the clinking sound of her razors tumbling on polished concrete. There is a pause, as he grins cockily at her, and she stares in wide-eyed disbelief. Disbelief turns to fresh rage as she realizes exactly who it is.
"YOU!" She snarls, and she begins throwing her of needles and blades at him, pulling them out of holsters and dummies and flinging them indiscriminately at him. His smile falters as he concentrates on blocking her weapons.
"What is wrongwith you, woman?" he shouts, clearly not expecting such anger and violence from her, as he blocks her attacks.
"What's wrong with me?" Her words are punctuated with more flying projectiles. "You" -fling- "have the nerve" -hurl-"to ask what's wrong" -launch- with me? You kissedme!" Insert hailstorm of pointy objects here.
His face registers bewilderment. Of course it does. He's male. A teenage male. He is not to be expected to understand the subtleties and nuances of human relationships. If she weren't so furious at him, she'd sit him down and launch into a detailed lecture about why it was not okay to kiss a girl when you're already in a relationship with another one, and then why it alsonot okay to ask the aforementioned girl what was wrong with her after kissing her and then not talking to her for three weeks.
"...So?" Did he really just say that? Yes, yes he did. She swears he's driving her crazy on purpose, because no human being could possibly be thisdense. Right?
"So? SO? Are you serious?" She's no longer really aiming by this point. Instead, she's just flinging her blades and needles around wildly, hoping that something will hit him. "You kissed me! And then you don't talkto me?" His eyebrows furrow at this.
"Wait a minute. You didn't talk to me either! And you kissed me back!" She freezes for a second. So he's not as dense as she thought. Damn him.
"SHUT UP!" she screeches, resuming her barrage. "Just shut up! You're the one who started it, you're the one with a girlfriend, you're the one who doesn't love me, so just fuck off!" She is dangerously near tears now, but she will kill herself before she shows weakness in combat. Blame it on the District 2 in her, but her sense of dignity-in-the-face-of-mortal-dueling is somewhat skewed to the extreme.
The last statement has apparently caught Cato by surprise, because his sword arm completely drops, and the most bewildered, puzzled, confused, discombobulated expression overcomes his face.
"What makes you think I don't love you?"
"Oh, for the love of God!" she shrieks, and throws a razor dangerously near Cato's face. He is caught unawares, and the blade nicks his cheekbone. There is a frozen silence. His sword drops to the polished concrete floor with a deafening metallic clang. She can see the blood begin to well up, and a thin trickle runs down his cheek. The confusion in his eyes turns to rage. Her eyes widen in panic. He charges at her, and she is a deer caught in the headlights.
"What makes you think I don't love you?" he roars, grabbing her shoulders in a vise grip. "Huh?"
She tries to answer, but everything is caught in her throat. She has seen him angry, angrier than this, but he has never been more than mildly annoyed with her. His fingers are crushing her shoulders. She knows there will be five finger-shaped bruises on each side the next day. If she lives to see the next day. His breath is coming in short, fast gasps, chest heaving with rage. His ice-blue eyes are bright with fury and wrath and...pain?
"Answer me!" he roars again, shaking her by the shoulder for good measure.
"You love Clove!" she blurts out. "You love Clove, not me. That's why you're with Clove, not me. And that's why you should've kissed her, not me." Her voice hitches as she finishes. She wills herself not to cry, but it's too late. She can feel hot, angry tears running down her face.
"Why are you so stupid?" he shouts, but with less anger than before. "Why do you think I saved the last dance for you? Why do you think I gave you those ribbons?" His voice begins to rise with each question. "Why do you think I let you stitch me up? Why do you think I beat up the bastards that were making fun of you back when we were kids? Why do you think I kissed you?"
"A mistake," she murmurs. "You made a mistake."
"I never make mistakes," he hisses, his voice now low and deadly.
"Yes, you do. You did that time Clove caught you with her knife. You did just now when I got you with my razor. You make mistakes all the time, Cato."
"I kissed you because I love you!"
The words hang in the silence, echoing.
"Explain Clove," she whispers.
He sighs.
"I...break things. Everything. So I thought if I...maybe...I wouldn't break you." His chin lifts, and he looks straight at her, and she can see the things left unsaid. I thought if I was with Clove, maybe you'd stay far away enough so that I wouldn't break you. I was afraid of breaking you. I was afraid of loving you.
"Cato..."
"Yeah?"
"That...was the most stupid thing I ever heard from you." She can feel the anger rise up, and places a hand on his chest to placate him. "I don't break so easily, Cato. I'm District 2, just like you. We're made of the same stone."
He pulls her close, crushing his body against hers, and kisses her. Not soft, like the first time, but desperate and deep and hot. Their legs begin to give out, and the sink, together, to the polished concrete floor.