(Warnings for sex)
It's two nights before the Games.
And that midnight, conversations take place that are necessary.
There are no more songs, Peeta is all out of melodies and they have to move on. It's not the time, anyway, not with the Games looming, not with Clove knowing that whatever happens, she's going to have to watch some hapless thing pipe it's way to glory, or the grave.
So, they find themselves drinking tea in a silence, with the remnants of Clove's makeup sticking under her eyes and making her look tired. She is tried, though. Of everybody. Of the Games, that she really thought she had escaped.
They never really got free. That little stunt, that threat with the double-suicide? Nobody threatens the Capitol like that, nobody makes a fool of the Gamemakers and ever gets to live very long.
Clove thinks of that one from 12, that won the last Quarter Quell by using the forcefield at the edge of the arena. A hideous alcoholic, with what left? Not long since dead anyway. She wonders if that'll happen to her, or Cato, if the Capitol decide to retaliate with murder.
Oh God, her body goes numb. Jesus Christ, who would they take from her? Cato? Peeta, or worse still, and then Clove tries not to think anymore, it hurts too much, and she can't sleep anyway.
Their conversation goes like this:
"Do you miss home?" Clove speaks first. She wets her lips, and waits for the answer. Peeta looks as he always does always so steady. It comforts her that he's that way, like furniture of the heart. The boy looks up at her, his face still a little purple from Cato's episode in the garden, but youthful and untouchable.
He considers himself. "I thought I would." His voice is soft, and older than himself, with an age deeper than years. "I thought it'd really get to me, but it hasn't." To think of him as happy here makes Clove smile. "I expected to have patrons that I hated."
Intrigued, Clove leans forward. "And do you hate us?"
Peeta is brave. "No, I don't." He assures her. Their conversations are always calm, which is nice, but almost disappointing. Clove loves the way Cato riles her, and winds her up but she'll never ever say it to him and give him that victory. "I feel sorry for you."
She laughs mirthlessly. "Yes, poor Cato, with his expensive house and his money and his pick of Capitol whores-" Peeta opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it, and then finally decides to select a few words. Clove doesn't mean to shout at him, or even to shout, but she's scared that she'll lose even one of them, and she's no good on her own, only, Christ, she won't be alone, will she..?
"I didn't mean-" He begins, quietly. Clove waves a hand, as if trying to bat away the conversation.
"Save it." She says, and then swallows, knowing she'll have to say it, because Peeta isn't going to, he isn't always so honest. Neither of them want to either, the notion is so horrible that it robs her of all of her grace. "Look, Peeta-"
"I'll come back." He says to her. They still never touch, and at a moment like this Clove would like nothing more than to reach out and hold one of his hands, or curl up next to the baker that smells of flowers. They both know that she can't, and there's always Cato,, sleeping upstairs, that makes her feel too conflicted to move.
"You can't know that." Clove counters. She hates this conversation. She hates the Games, and she wants it all to burn, because she's not usually like this, it makes her obnoxious, it makes her hateful and she doesn't mean to be, not to Peeta, not even to Cato. What is it with him that makes her act like this?
Peeta looks down at the table, and then up again. "It's the Quell." He says, calmly. "They won't pick just anybody if they want a good show." For a second, Clove lets herself smile. At least, for now the feeling is good. She knows that the sweet will turn bitter all too quickly if his name ends up on a cursed slip of white paper.
"But if they do-" Clove sighs, closing her eyes.
"If they do?" When she looks up, Peeta is smiling at her.
"Well, if that happens-" She begins. Peeta has a habit of interrupting.
"It won't happen." She glares at him.
"But if it does-"
"Which it won't." Peeta grins.
"Why'd you kiss me?" It knocks all of the wind from Peeta's metaphorical sails and he so isn't expecting it, making that smile on his face change suddenly into this open-mouthed guilt. Like he's been caught out at something which is ridiculous because Clove was the one he was kissing and it wasn't a crime (not unless crimes of passion count, and even then, Clove's only real crime of passion is not realising the passion that Cato has for her).
He's blushing now, and he won't look at her. It annoys clove to no end, but what can she do? Peeta is a Surplus, and he's just some boy. She can't expect him to be so forward, not with that component in his wrist, and not with Clove sitting in front of him, the wedding ring glistening on the hand that smooths over her swollen stomach.
"Why did you let me?" He counters, weakly. Clove laughs out loud, shaking her head. Peeta lets out a breath, as if at last feeling safe.
"I asked first." She says, just because, and Peeta plays along because he's terrified of having to be serious with her about this, he cannot say in words why he had closed the gap between them. But instead, he says
"My question is more urgent." You can see it on his face, Peeta thinks he's won for a second, and Clove wants to slap him but she also wants something else that she can't ask for, and there they are again, sitting in this comfortable silence and thinking, because between them thinking is safe and fine and it counts as fidelity, physically. It's ironic, Clove thinks, that both her and Cato are rubbish at adultery and fidelity. They both should just choose one and stick to it.
"I should-" Clove sighs, she feels her face heat up as she speaks. She gestures to the door. "I should probably head back up. I'll need some sleep if I-"
Peeta shakes his head at her. "Clove." He says, and then when she won't look he speaks again. "Clove, calm down." Because he can see that she's shaking a little and her eyes are all shrunken with fear. It's okay to be afraid, Peeta has lived most of his life afraid. So, when he tries to calm her, he means everything he says. "Cato won't get picked. They're not going to do that."
She wipes at her face and sucks in a breath. "God, Peeta-" Her voice sounds too pathetic and small. She tries to iron out the creases in it. "Like you said, it''s the Quell." She sniffs. "They won't pick just anybody if they want a good show."
Peeta sighs, and he looks around for some kind of help, but Clove's opinions are law, and now he's rendered useless by the feeling, the cold creeping into the room like a swarm of spiders, free to crawl all over his legs and neck and face.
"Even if he did get reaped, Clove," Peeta begins, looking up at her. "He'd still have a good chance of winning. He'd still be able to get home."
Out of nowhere, Clove says. "I'm sorry."
It takes Peeta by surprise, which is rare. He's too steady, almost, he knows the worst outcomes of most situations, but this one is unscripted and more heartfelt because of it. " For what?" Clove laughs, miserably.
"You told me about your nightmare, about getting reaped." She pushes her hair out of her eyes. "And I laughed at you." She takes a breath, but Peeta perceives it as waiting a beat for some kind of morbid punchline. "I shouldn't have laughed at you. I shouldn't have done that." Her voice is barely audible.
Peeta considers his words, again, like counting cards, somehow cheating at the conversation. "I kissed you because I wanted to, Clove." His gaze in unwavering, and Clove could stare forever, but this tiny kick jolts her from her inertia, and reminds her who's side she should be on.
Without another word to her name, Clove sets her cup down onto the table. She notices the tall jug of water, from where she'd sipped as Cato answered her question, and he crime of passion comes back to her, not realising what Cato had actually said. It hits her in sudden waves, and she's drowning, unable to surface under all that she had ignored when she was staring at Peeta. "If I lost my sight, I'd have you talk to me, always, about the contents of your thoughts."...Oh, God, he had been so careful with his words and Clove had tossed them aside so heartlessly.
So cannot linger when she realises it. Instead, she nods to the Surplus, this tiny, unprepared boy, who she'll wave off in the morning.
Clove heads upstairs in the darkness and back into the warm bedroom, where there are different flowers. The Galbanna Lillies needed somewhere different to bloom, so the yellow ones watch her from the bedside table now. The smell isn't so strong, and they aren't so beautiful, but she likes them.
She sits on the edge of the bed for a very long time and watches Cato, in his sleep. It his her that she has forgotten to say out loud how beautiful Cato is to her. Her perfect match, because they shout and scream and claw at eachother, but she needs him, like she needs the sunrise and the oxygen in the air. She doesn't want him to leave her, and render her useless. Maybe she doesn't tell him, because it;'s hard enough, but she loves him, more than she can actually rationalize to words. Please, she wants to grab him and scream, please don't leave me.
Of course, Clove doesn't do that. She remains where she is a little longer, wondering about him. He looked younger under the stars of the arena. They called him vicious and cruel, and for the longest time Clove believed them. When the first nightmare hit, that image fell to bits because Cato was shaking and crying and holding onto her so damn tight, not letting go...
She likes him best when he's vulnerable. That's when he's the Cato that saved her, down by the Cornucopia, during the feast. Only then is he so honest and caring. Usually, he plays it aloof and cool, which is ironic because he is the more emotional of the two of them.
Lost in her reverie, she doesn't notice when Cato is staring back at her. When he speaks, she flinches a damn mile.
"What?" Clove asks, embarrassed.
"I said, didn't your mother ever tell you that if you stare like that, your eyes'll roll clean out?" In the half-darkness, with cracks on the moon showing through the blinds Clove can make out this unmistakable smile, that suits Cato in every way, stupid and cocky and ridiculous. His face is dark but his eyes penetrate the darkness and speak in angel wings.
Clove wants to say something equally stupid and meaningless back, but she can't. If she opens her mouth, everything she feels will come out in this unintelligible wad of emotion and that wouldn't be fair on Cato.
He sits up slowly, and leans towards her. "You're shaking."
She tries to play it cool. "I'm just cold." She says. Cato creeps forward some more, and takes one of her hands.
"Your hands are like ice."
Clove wrestles her hand away and looks anywhere but Cato. He isn't going to catch her afraid, she won't let him. "Drop it," She tries to warn him, but her voice is starting to shake a little, and Jesus Christ, she's not going to cry in front of him, that would be the worst.
He pulls her towards him, incredibly strong still, maybe even stronger. "Your face is white, Clove." And then all of a sudden her resolve breaks and she buries herself into his shoulder, breathing in his smell and trying to memorize everything about Cato, just in case. He is baffled for the shortest of moments, his arms lifted in shock, but then he understands, and drops one against the small of her back.
"Hey," He laughs, trying to peel her away. "I'm not dead yet, sweetheart." Usually, she's have his guts for calling her sweetheart or using some clever line but God, she knows that she wouldn't be able to function a day without one. Clove tried to assemble what's left of her dignity when she sits up, pushing her hair out of her face again.
"I'm sorry." She breathes, grappling about for an excuse. The lie occurs to her as she tells it. "S'just hormones." And then Cato finds the temerity to laugh at her in this lilac half-darkness. He laughs loud and golden and Clove's face turns dark. She shoves him, but Cato is far too big to notice.
"Sorry," he says, breathless. "Please don't choke me in my sleep."
Clove narrows her eyes. "I'll think about it." She expects him to make another joke or say something meaningless and stupid but he's never been very predictable and instead he moves back a little, taking all of her in. It's one of the only things that Clove thinks is normal about their relationship: she knows that she finds him attractive. And she doesn't think Cato thinks she's ugly. At least, she hopes not. His eyes pass over her and he smiles.
"C'mere." He says, slowly, wetting his lips with his tongue. Clove knows that look, and it makes her feel something different from either lust and love. He keeps looking at her with that damned smile and she wants him just as much, she can feel herself weakening with it. "I said some here, Clove."
Steadily, she crawls from the edge of the bed, until he knees are either side of his waist. Now there are only two layers between them, and they both desire to be closer, to be much more intimate, and here it's allowed, there are no eyes prying, no blue flowers on her dressing table. Under Cato's hand, she forgets Peeta completely, she disregards his kiss, trades it for another.
Oh, Christ, crucified Christ, Cato feels good and his eyes are closed in this gentle concentration, finding her lips in the way one greets an old friend, with fondness, with such expertise. Clove forgets the rest of the world gladly, forgets the Games like they are some dull rumor of another war because right now it's just her and Cato, together, and it doesn't matter if everything burns, she wants to die here.
One of his hands drops onto her back, it moves up with the deepening of the kiss, his short nails scratching desperately, clawing and she loves it, she wants him to never let go. The other is curled around the nape of her neck, keeping her close to him, disallowing distance between them that has become such a casual criminal offense.
Needing air, Clove breaks away. "I'll let you breathe in a minute," she promises him. Cato's eyes are dark with pleasure and his lips are slightly parted in breathlessness but he looks happy like he hasn't in so long. They both need this. A physical manifestation of all they fought for.
Cato brushes her hair over her ear with a steady arm. "I'm good." He says to her, with this sideways smile. She takes him at his word.
His kisses rove lower, ans soon enough he's nipping and biting at her collar and her neck and Clove doesn't care about the games that they play, she gasps out and curls her toes, her body going taught as a bowstring and as electric as a live wire. She can hear Cato chuckle in victory as he leaves a few telltale dark marks on her shoulders. God, Clove hasn't felt like this in so long, and she tugs at the short pieces in the back of Cato's hair, ripping and letting out tiny cries.
For a second, he leans over her, to the nigthstand, and Clove wonders if he's going to leave her like this, sweating through her silk and begging him, because he's done that before. But he's merciful tonight and instead Cato flips open a small switchblade. She regards it with fear, at first, but Cato just grins, easing her onto her back, with the blade between his teeth.
"Cato-" She says, nervously. He takes it with his hand.
"Do you trust me?" His voice is devious.
Clove shakes her head. "No."
But instead of hurting her, he runs the knife along the side of her nightgown and cuts it away, before pulling from the side, and having it come away completely. The silk is frayed and ruined and it leaves Clove laying there in her underwear, frozen. In a second, Cato tosses the knife aside and goes for her.
In a second, Clove is naked, pinned by Cato's hand a few inches from her ear, and the other one on her hip. His kissing is fickle, it goes from gentle to biting and never in one place very long. Clove doesn't acre if she wakes up the damn Capitol, this is exactly what she needs, this is what has been missing and she throws her head back and groans, looking for more, looking for Cato in this strange ethereal darkness and finding him.
Her sounds only intensify when Cato's lips go lower, at first making her whimper as he swirls his tongue, raising her nipples to hard, pink peaks before suckling and he knows exactly what he's doing because it only makes Clove scream out more, thumping him on the back with her fist, and then dragging her nails back up, drawing blood in her absolute lust. It's good, too good, and she's trembling terribly, static but also electric with all of this want, and her eyes are squeezed shut.
He thinks not a second about himself. God, Clove curls her toes again and wonders how he came to be so generous and perfect and –Christ, yes, just like this.
In the midst of the chaos, she can feel the unmistakable sensation of his hands, and Jesus Christ, he knows Clove too well, because she's soon sobbing with pleasure, too ready, wanting more, wanting the moon on a string and right now if she asked Cato for his eyes he would crawl to fetch her a scalpel.
Their eyes meet. Clove is sweating and trembling and Cato remains, as always, so collected and practiced and smirking. He waits until she nods, her eyes slipping shut again and her hips bucking up. It's then that he co-ordinates, places his hands on either side of her hips and moves into her in one slow but definite motion.
Clove lets out a pleasured, tormented sob.
Cato searches her face for pain, he asks permission with her eyes and she takes a second, breathing, growing accustomed to the sensation, before giving him another nod. He starts out slow, fighting the urge to claim her completely and it doesn't take so long before Clove's fingernails are back to scratching and her body is taught with pleasure once more and she's gasping into his ear.
He thrusts his hips and her rise to meet him and he bites her neck again to try to quiet the noises that are tumbling out his mouth. It's too late because Clove knows, she matches them with her own. Only, Jesus Christ, she's not soft or gasping, she's wailing and tugging at his hair.
Soon enough she's hanging by her fingernails because something has uncoiled in the pit of her stomach and it's all so sudden but perfect, he's just-so and fast, now, the hair in his fringe sagging with sweat and swishing back and forth as he goes. His movements become more urgent and her cries more insistent.
Clove's eyes snap open as she goes, crying out for Cato, and only Cato, the name of the other blonde slipped from her mind and her tongue and her body. He follows her in a matter of seconds, grunting through his orgasm until he's watching her twitch in the sweaty sheets, still trembling, but noticeably calmer.
He tucks her back into him, and Clove falls asleep fast with her body curled into his, like a cracked piece of glass lining itself back up. It reminds him of wanting her, during the Games, longing to reach out and kiss her but knowing that there, all eyes were upon them.
She has no dreams, and niether does Cato. But it takes him a while to get to sleep, with this enormous smile on his face.
Everybody knows it: Cato loves to win. He loves to be reminded that Clove wants him more than the unflappable Surplus who is apparently flappable after all, because he loves to win.
And, as usual when celebrating a win, the universe is quick to get even.