Clove remembers her first memory of Cato. She caught him once, killing a squirrel outside of the training center with a rock: his eight year-old-body was shaking, eyes illuminated through tears, he told her that he loved it.
She had assumed he meant the squirrel.
And she remembers their first kiss, after their first reaping. Her name was called, from the group of volunteers and Cato had kissed her when they were alone, not out of anything but compassion. Their first fuck had been on the train, and Clove remembers that in detail.
She does not remember ever feeling this.
In a sudden state of tears, of hysteria, her vision is blurred but she sees his shins, and then slowly, she looks up, and tries to take in the rest of him. Cato appears to her, strong and present, and she can smell him, like the violet of her perfume and tulips. Not like the faded apparitions and ghosts, stronger, there, and Clove knows, somehow, someway, that if she reached out for him she would find warm skin and pulse, not madness.
Her chest is tight, her hands are shaking. All the while Cato remains still, tense and motionless. What does she expect? Cato has never made a pretense of sensitivity, he always tries to staunch the bleeding with a blade. She manages to wrestle control of her breathing away from her emotions at last, and she stands slowly.
"I watched you die," Is the first thing she says. Clove adjusts the baby in her arms. "I heard the cannon-..." she sniffs, and looks up finally, at long last into oceans she has memorized. It's enough to make her lose it again, almost. But for the sake of her own pride, she keeps herself from crying, from letting him win. "I thought you had left me here, Cato, I thought-..."
He jams his fists into his pockets and looks at the ground before at Clove. "I'm sorry," he says, sounding odd and a little insincere.
"If the sentries here see you, they'll kill you," Her voice is very quiet. She tries to play it distant, the plan had always been hard to get, she wasn't going out to sea for just any man, and can you really see Clove as an easy catch? No, she's supposed to be okay, but her needs overwhelm her desires and she kisses him hard ion the mouth. He tastes like the ammoniac of lightning and the cold of inertia. Not of flowers. Never of flowers.
And it feels so good, her pulse is running miles and her blood is singing in sorrowful gladness, he came back for here, he came back, he came! The pleasure is so good and nearly forgotten that Clove wants to tell Cato everything with her tongue, with the passing of air between their lungs, but her eulogy is cut short.
He pushes her back with his palm on her heart and wipes is mouth. "I'm sorry," He says again, but his eyes are empty, they cannot betray his heart if they have nothing in. He's not finished, but Clove interrupts.
"I don't care," She says, breathless with joy, soaring on gilded wings, not noticing the shadow that block the sunlight. She spares a look at Kara, and then to Cato. "I don't care, because you're here now, and we can leave-"
"Clove-" Cato says, edgily. She doesn't listen.
"We can live secluded, like you wanted, and I'll-" Her throat is tight and she's a train-wreck when speaking, A stuttering soliloquy, a broken symphony. Right now Clove is ashamed that she's not how Cato would want her, leaking self-esteem like a rust faucet, the drips louder than sin in a room full of God and Cato can barely hear her. "I'll play the piano-..."
"Clove, listen to me," He begs her, no longer sorry to see her, but hostile. "I don't know-"
Her voice is pinched and hysterical. She raises a hand to caress him. "That doesn't matter no-"
Cato grabs her by the jaw with a superhuman inhumanity, and locks eyes with her. "Interrupt me again, and I'll strangle you," Her whole body starts to tremor. Silver trails of tears cut down her face and Cato can feel them hot on his knuckles like blood. The only things in the dim light that are really visible, that shine to him are her tears, and these enormous blue eyes balanced on her shoulder, the ones Cato sees in the mirror.
"I don't know who you are," He says, hard and unemotional. Clove makes a noise as if to speak, but he squeezes harder, scaring her into silence. "I don't know a thing about you but your name. You understand me?" Clove swallows, and her lack of response makes Cato impatient. He shakes her, roughly. "Understand?"
She nods, sobbing so silently it seems impossible. Her eyes fall to floor. He's grateful for the mercy, and he lets her go, so suddenly that she staggers backwards, nearly losing balance. The child with his eyes starts to cry.
Cato goes over to the room of the door and locks it, quickly. He doesn't look back at her when he says, "Shut it up,"
His threat still hot on the side of her face, Clove tries to comply, but all she can think of is Cato, or at least, the one she remembers. Old friends. Her heart aches, but most of all she feels empty. She cannot really feel anything, because she's waiting for him to turn around and laugh, for him to kiss her and wrap his arms around her and let her on in this big joke. And she'd laugh, because maybe Clove doesn't get the joke, but she needs the laugh.
She can feel the tears on her own face, and see them on her daughter's, oh Christ, her daughter, the one with his eyes, that stare at her, shiny with fear, or some less recognisable horror. Outside, it might be raining, unusual for summer, by there's this faint tapping, and she wants to be let in, too, she wants to let the rain in and have it wash away everything. At last, Kara falls back into a sleepy silence, and Clove heaves a sigh that sounds like 'I love you, tormented'.
And when everything is quiet, he goes over to the window, Clove watches the curve of his spine as he looks out at the darkness below, lights flickering like holes in the curtain of heaven, or stars, drowning. He looks sad when he turns his head halfway towards her. His eyes are full of suspicion.
"That ring," He says, quietly. "I have one like it."
Clove feels in a trance when she speaks. "You gave it to me. You married me," He turns back to the window and nods, as if considering, before he turns around and stretches out his palm. At first, she thinks he will hit her, but instead, he looks at her.
"This is a kindness," He says, coldly, and Clove steps backwards, she shakes her head.
"No, it's not," She whimpers, terrified and somehow furious. "Please-" He doesn't hesitate in grabbing her wrist and pulling the small ring off. It weighs nothing, not physically. Emotionally, it crushes them both.
Clove will remember it as the night that even though Cato had never had a problem with looking, or liking, he couldn't quite meet her gaze.
In the middle of the night, Peeta wakes. His eyes are molten with fatigue as he lifts his head, hearing the rain tap against his small window. This place is so dark, and the air seems to be thin. He's alone, and he's scared, because in his dreams Cato was dead and buried, because Peeta had been laying shoulder-to-shoulder with him in a grave, but then they starts to pile earth on,t hat got in his ears and mouth and eyes, and when he finally reaches for Cato's hand, it was cold, and stiff with rigour mortis.
His eyes were still open.
The rain will wash away everything, if you let it, so Peeta rocks onto his knees, hearing joints click as he rises to standing on the bed. Cautious, he pushes on the cold glass and it gives, stiff, but enough. Now, he presses both of his palms to the glass and lifts it up enough that the gap is open. Peeta makes no fantasies about escaping. Instead, he lifts himself onto the sill and leans half-out of the window. The rain is cold and acidic but it feels so good, coming in fast and heavy. His hair is soaked in seconds, dripping onto his face. Out of the corner of his mouth, his tongue darts out to taste some, and it's good.
He's so focused on the rain that he doesn't hear his compartment door open.
Peeta slips inside and the small window flaps shut. His face is cold and white when he speaks. A rivulet of rainwater trails down his spine and makes him shiver. There's a sentry in his doorway, and they wear black. Against his optimism, Peeta assumes, God, he nearly breaks down when he thinks about Cato, helpless, lifeless, like on those plains.
He stands, at odd with himself. "Oh, God," he whispers. A hand flies to his mouth. "What happened?"
The sentry gives him an unsure smile. And down the darkening stairs they go.
Peeta doesn't ever ask, but he wishes for an answer. He doesn't like surprises, he never has done. The surprise of being reaped of being picked by Clove, which was at first horrible. The surprise of his father sitting him down one day and explaining, calmly, distantly, that Peeta would be going away, and he probably wouldn't be coming back. Even now, just to see Cato would be this mix of guilt and happiness.
Why must it always be a mixture?
Being here, Peeta's been told that you get used to it. Your eyes form their own single-celled lenses and your nose closes up to the chemical sprays, and your hands? They will grow their own gloves, invisible, indestructible, tough. Peeta's been here a few days now, that's it, and he thought he was made of tougher things. Maybe surplusing, and falling in love somehow gave him delusions of grandeur, about being more than he really is, when he's nothing. So Peeta sucks it up. Lasts for as long as he can.
They reach the door outside of medical and he loses it. Cato's strong, he is, even in his soul, and he can brave most things. Everything but the last thing is survivable. What if this Is it?
If Cato's not through that door, with his slightly crooked smile, Peeta doesn't want to open it. He refuses to see the world without Cato in it, to give his eyes colour. With Peeta's heart in his mouth, tasting too sweet to be palatable, he manages to push on the door, eyes closed, breath short but present. His face is flushed but still white like grief, and he hears the rain like a talisman, a good-luck charm. He needs it.
Cato's laughter bleeds across the room. When his eyes open, Clove smiles. Saddest face he's ever seen.
Peeta wasn't ever told about this kind of want.
He knows all about romance, about love and kissing and falling for somebody emotionally. That's all fine. But what happens when he wants more than just hand-holding? What happens if he wants all of Cato, and not this abstract idea of virtue?
Cato knows.
It's what wakes Peeta late into the night. He laying on his front, drained of everything, finally asleep. Thesedays he's been so scared of his alarm clock he can't even shut his eyes. After nearly losing Cato,after the agony of waiting, he needs rest. Peeta knows what he needs exactly, he's less sure of what he wants. And he gets woken from his dreamless sleep by a kiss.
It's long and drawn-out and it's love is so incredibly true that Peeta can tell already that Cato will not save him, Cato will leave him so fuckin broken there will be body bags under his eyes from night to come. The kiss is deep and passionate and something new entirely, Peeta's eyes snap open and he reaches out for Cato, fixes his arms around his neck and feels safe, for once, safe and sound.
Cato breaks for air. He laughs. "You seem surprised to see me," He laughs. Peeta allows himself the pleasure of a smile, of this company.
"You're not usually in my bed," He breathes, reaching out a hand to confirm that Cato is here and real and so intimate. Then there's Cato, struggling to believe that his only constant in a world of water, Peeta, is allowing this, wanting him here. "I thought you were gone," He says, quietly.
Cato smirks, thinking he's something fierce, thinking he's ten times smarter. "Not a chance," And he leans so that he's above Peeta. The boy smells like Galbanna Lilies and the glow of an anarchist's heart, the one that Cato plays with even though it's molten and his fingers are burning. They kiss again, Peeta trembling, not with fear or cold, but with something darker, a vice that Cato knows well, a virtue that suits him. "What do you need?" he whispers, dropping his lips to Peeta's neck.
The boy grabs a fistful of the sheets and gasps, mewling. "I-I don't know," Even now, he doesn't seem to have tit in him to be selfish, just for once, to allow himself to feel good, really good. His small body stiffens, pink lips part because Cato is clever and ruthless.
"Do you trust me?" He asks, taken in by Peeta's rapturous beauty, looking like this, face hot with blush and lips red and hair mussed. Not how Cato remembers him, because Peeta's nobody's easy catch, can you really see him anything but lovely?
Peeta laughs. "Not a bit,"he assures Cato, and Cato laughs back.
"Liar," He remarks, and leans back, pulling off his shirt, and helping Peeta, who's skinnier and paler and so beautiful, ever bit lie Cato has imagined, pale blonde hair that dusts him arms, and legs, and goes down his navel. Peeta looks confused, hut his eyes burn cold with want and Cato is only human, he doesn't know when he'll get the chance to dig his teeth into that soft underbelly again so he stares Peeta in the eyes as he places a hand on Peeta's waistband. "Are you sure?" Is all he can say. His own desire is eminent.
Peeta's eye flutter, and God, that isn't fair. Cato wants to bite the soft skin on his neck and take him here, during the rain, so that the drips will sound like fireworks and the lights like stars. "I think so," his eyes say I love you, and Cato smiles, faintly, before he dips his head.
Peeta's noise as Cato takes him in his mouth is depraved and filthy. Truth is, Cato hasn't ever done this before, but he knows what he'd like, and that's his only guidance. What guidance, too. It isn't long before Peeta's pupils are blown and he's feral, wriggling like a live wire. Even the smallest of Cato's movements proves too much, and Peeta kicks his legs up, digging his feet hard into Cato's shoulders and pounding him on the back.
"Cato-" Peeta's voice is pinched, and he's stopped thrashing, taught as a bowstring and staring down at Cato, his shock of blonde in the darkness, his bright blue eyes that smile with the darkest sorts of pleasure. With one hand, Cato steadies himself and with the other, he brings himself to finishing, skin burning with sweat, pulse shaking the floorboards and Peeta's cries shoving him further and further into starry skies.
"God," Peeta chokes, his face beet red, mouth unable to close, jaw clenched. "Oh Jesus, Cato-" He goes all at once, quivering, back arched, toes curled, hands curled into fists, with this strangled cry. Cato is completely caught up inn Peeta, hes never seen anything so sensual in his entire life, and Peeta's face is bright red, even still, his breath is raspy when his head hits his pillow and his eyes close and he sucks in air desperately.
Cato's following him, narrowly, quiet but then pushed to groans because he cannot even remember the last time he felt so alive, and so good, he can't remember the last Peeta looked so absolutely wrecked and perfect. He knows he's going, God, he keeps his eyes on Peeta and screws his eyes shut.
"That's-" His sounds are obscene. He's gone by the time his eyes snap open. But he can't see Peeta. Stunned, and alarmed, he searches in the dim light. His body swill not move. He feels absolutely paralyzed, and what's worse is that he can hear things that are not there, he can hear his own voice even though he's silent.
"I'll do it quick, if I have to." He says, in a softer voice. And the girl, Clove, it looks like, adjusts against his body and gritts her teeth and gasps, trying to quiet herself. She nods, and her toes are already curling.
"Through the heart." She says, and her eyes roll back, he body tightens, she cries out...
He smells blood when his eyes open. Something warm, a drip, catches the side of his cheek and he brushes a hand against it, only to find it clear. Peeta is knelt above him, hands on shoulders, crying. There's a not trail of blood above Cato's lips. He sits up, slowly, his muscles still stiff as martyr's manners, and wipes the thick crimson from under his nose. The boy is still in shock.
Cato lets himself lay limp on the mattress before he turns on Peeta. In a soft voice, he asks, "What happened?"
Peeta's trembling. "You were sick." he sniffs. "And-...and bleeding, and your whole body started to shake," He's so afraid, so damn afraid that his love is made small. The once he lets himself be selfish, just that once, and now he's afraid again.
Cato hooks an arm around Peeta and pulls him close. "Hey, I'm fine." he promises, voice calm. It's not strictly true: he's broken out into a cold sweat and his nose is still bleeding. His arms ache from the sudden seizing of the muscles. But most of all, he can hear her murmurs, he recalls, on that occasion the way it felt between her cries, and the words they shared, stiff but unafraid. "I just-..." He sighs. There are no words he can use.
"You what?" Peeta puts a hand on his heart. "Did I do that?"
Cato sits up, slowly, painfully, and Peeta lets him, eventually. "You didn't do anything, Peeta," he lets out a sigh. "I just... remembered something."
Peeta's face goes white. he knows, realistically, that while Cato's love for him is sweet and romantic, eh really is meant for clove, it's something deeper and more sexual, more physical, a whole lot harder to forget or destroy, even if Peeta could. He would never, though. his own love will be torn apart at the hands of a child, the one with Cato's eyes. "Remembered what?" He gets out, vaguely.
Cato leans down and grabs a fistful of his clothes. "I just gotta be somewhere," He dresses in haste and reaches at last into his pocket, pulling out something small, and something so heavy it nearly breaks his hand. Peeta catches it with his eyes, and hen drops them to the floor, as if he doesn't feel worthy of it. Cato takes his hand and places the small gold ring inside of it, closes his fingers around it.
Peeta thinks he'll cry when he speak, "Thankyou," he whispers.
And Cato nods. "Don't wait up for me," He smiles: saddest face Peeta's ever seen.