confessional hymns for the devil, himself
Disclaimer: I own nothing that has copyright attached.
Chapter Nine
Clove is stirred to wakefulness by the sounds of the other Tributes rolling up their tents and divvying up food to eat. She crawls out the zippered flap of her tent, grumbling and blinking into the dying sunlight the whole way. She slept well—almost too well given their situation. But now she'll have to face Cato and his grim knowledge of that morning's events. With the adrenaline settled, embarrassment creeps forward.
She can only hope that he has more tact than she gives him credit for. She catches his eye across the clearing, and he smirks dangerously at her. Yeah, a fat chance she supposes.
Clove is in the process of rolling up her tent when she hears his heavy, booted footsteps approach from behind.
"Good morning, sunshine. How'd you sleep?" His voice is rough and gravelly. Heat sinks low in her gut despite his mocking. Damn it!
She staggers to her feet, calves sore from kneeling on overworked muscles and glares at him. "I hate you."
Cato laughs openly, clearly enjoying his teasing. He ruffles her hair roughly in the way she loathes, except his palm lingers longer than necessary against the side of her ear. A nostalgic look appears in his eyes, and Clove looks away quickly. She is barely awake, and he is already too much.
"Rue wants to talk to us. All of us," he adds.
Great. This will swell. Outwardly, Clove makes sure her displeasure at this information is written all over her face. Inwardly, she'll appreciate the help re-dressing her shoulder. Rue isn't the worst person to be around, but the others are downright unbearable at the best of times.
She heavily sighs as she gets to her feet and follows Cato to a more private clearing between the trees away from camp. Marvel arrives at the same time they do. He looks worse for wear this morning – the exuberance and optimism he showed during the beginning of their trek all but gone.
Thresh, Rue, and Glimmer are all seated in a circle on various fallen logs and rocks they have gathered. By the signs of the smoldering fire, it looks like they have been deep in discussion all evening. For some reason, this irks her. She would like to be calling the shots here—it's the best guarantee she'll walk away unscathed from this. At the very least, it is in their best interests to include her in all the significant discussions. District 2 is the best at reconnaissance and the most skilled, and that wasn't just her opinion.
"Thank you for coming, Clove," Rue speaks up. "Cato kept telling us how invaluable your opinions would be right now."
Clove looks sharply at Cato, hoping her glare would pass her annoyance at not being woken up to him. He busies himself with adding more kindling and logs to the fire, and sheepishly refuses to meet her eyes. The blush of pink at the nape of his neck is the only indicator that he's aware of her ire.
"Here, sit next to me. I've brought supplies for your shoulder," Rue deflects. Clove decides she does not have it in her right now to argue. She moves to sit next to Rue on the log and pulls her overshirt off one arm so the girl can tend to her wound.
"How's the morale out there?" Marvel begins. Clove scoffs. He is the only one oblivious to the quiet discontent and helplessness that surrounds the camp.
To her surprise, Thresh snorts in amusement with her. His dark eyebrows are raised high on his forehead. "Uh…bad?"
"I think many have resigned themselves to death," Cato explains, moving to sit on the boulder next to the log she perched on.
She catches his scent when it wafts to her—campfire and some other smoky substance that was damn near intoxicating. She clenches her thighs together covertly. Her body is such a liability when all she wants to do is forget what had happened that morning. She doesn't have time to deal with her foolish, lustful fantasies when there are far more terrible things to worry over.
"I see that, too," Rue agrees. "I am not ready to lay down and die. We need to change the way this ends. It's not enough to hope we'll make it out of here, and Snow will be pleased with our progress and decide not to kill us after all."
"What if we got to the rebels before Snow?" Glimmer suggests. Clove is taken aback; this is the smartest thing she has ever thought up on her own.
Thresh taps his chin with a finger. "That is a possibility. We send someone ahead and ask for them to hide us."
"We fight alongside them," Cato speaks up loudly. "We stop being pawns in Snow's little game, and we take him down." The determination in his eyes scares Clove. This idea is not a fleeting thing brought forth by the moment, but rather, a mission she could tell he has been biding his time for.
"W-we don't have the manpower. Or the weapons," Rue argues, the color draining from her face. Even now, Clove can tell the threat of conflict scares her. She sometimes forgets that the small girl is still only fifteen and that she is only merely wise beyond her years. For the first time, she feels a pang of regret for murdering her in the Games. Rue has been irreplaceable thus far.
"We'll get them," Cato replies. "The rebels already hate Snow. Imagine how mad they'll be when we tell them how the Hunger Games really are."
"We should tell the Tributes—they deserve to know." The statement comes from Marvel.
"Uh-uh, no, bad plan." It's the first time Clove has spoken up since she sat down with them. "You saw them all this morning. They're scared shitless. Half of them can't fight their way out of a paper bag. You go and tell them you're replacing Snow as their war commander, and I promise you they will bail, and get us killed in the process."
Marvel looks miffed for being shot down so quickly. He stares at her from over the fire, eyebrows drawn in.
"She's right, you know." Thresh's quiet voice breaks through, and Marvel stares at him next in bewilderment. Clove is equally shocked; this might the very first time in history that Thresh and her are on the same page. "Telling them right now is not the best choice. Later. Later, when we're safe with the rebels, we give them the option. They have to know their lives are their own."
"I agree with this," Rue adds, tying off the bandage on Clove's shoulder with deft fingers. The wrapping was superior to the one Clove hastily did in the early morning hours, and the wound itself felt much cleaner. It was hard accepting her help, but now Clove is glad she sucked it up and did.
"So, it's settled. We tell them once we're in the safety of the rebel's hands," Cato surmises.
Clove frowns to herself. There is no guarantee the rebels won't kill them first, ask questions later. Or that they'll agree for a group of children to aid them in their cause. But from where she is standing, it seemed that they were running out of options. She would have to go along with it, for now, no matter the outcome.
It doesn't take long for the rest of the camp to pack up and begin another long night of trekking through the forest. They are hesitant to move forward after their near-death experiences the night before, but the group agrees that staying there and waiting for something else to happen is just as risky.
Hours pass as they make their way and Clove becomes more unsettled the longer they go without incident. She scans the trees on high alert just waiting for the next of Snow's traps they are bound to walk right into. The way the quietness creeps in around them and hangs heavy is worse than the acid fog in her opinion. Something should have happened by now.
Cato seems to sense her inner turmoil. He walks next to her in silence until she is finally forced to acknowledge his efforts.
"I don't like not knowing what's ahead of me," she admits quietly. It feels like weakness.
He makes a noise of agreement. "I feel the same. I think that's a Career thing, don't you? You think we might have had everything handed down to us?"
Clove reminisces on her younger years—of the grueling training, the punishments that were doled out, and the knawing hunger she felt before her body just accepted starvation as a normal bodily function. It absolutely does not feel like they were just handed the very few things they had. She does not tell Cato this, though. She didn't want to argue right now about something so stupid when they could die at any moment at Snow's hands.
When she doesn't answer him outside of single-syllable words, Cato accepts defeat and moves on. Thresh and he argues throughout the rest of the night to the point where she might throttle them both if Rue and Marvel don't get to them before her. At first, it was merely about which path was the best to take. Then it was where they should hypothetically stop in the morning for camp. Later—in hushed, angry whispers—about their plan once they reach the rebel forces.
The other Tributes start to deliberately avoid the two young men's walking paths when they see the ropey veins begin to pop out on Thresh's dark neck, and finally, Rue intervenes in her calm, reserved way. The boys break apart, albeit grudgingly, and stomp through the undergrowth in silence. It is strange to see Cato cow so easily to the younger girl.
His jaw remains clenched, and Clove admires the sharp jut of it from afar. Her attention is so diverted despite herself that she trips over an exposed root and barely catches her balance. Damn. This silly infatuation is becoming an occupational hazard.
The group unanimously decides to make camp later the next morning on the bank of the lake in the cover of the tree line. The land here is flatter, and a flowing creek cuts through the trees and empties into the lake. Shelves of earth overhang the sides of the stream, creating small, cave-like openings large enough for one to two people. It was the best place to stop and stay out of the elements.
Clove travels upstream further into the forest away from the group after dumping her pack off. No one would dare mess with it. When Cato follows her, her stomach flips and churns uncomfortably.
"I'll wash up with you. I don't want you out here alone."
"I can take care of myself," she snaps, but it has no fire behind it. Fighting with Cato has become a task in and of itself, and after the acid fog it feels like they have an unspoken bond neither will talk about. It feels like they are a team now.
The water is ice cold when she dips her hands in it. She splashes some on her face and the nape of her neck, bringing forth a gasp from her chest. It doesn't take long before her fingers are numb. Cato kneels next to her and copies her actions. This close to him, she can smell the sharp bite of his sweat. It's not offending, but it makes her head swim all the same.
She rolls up her sleeves and begins to wash up her forearms, cleansing her skin of the sweat and grime that had gathered over the past twenty-four hours. The dirt seems to stick to her in sheets, much higher on her arms than she realizes. She tugs off her overshirt, shivering in the fresh air in her tank undershirt.
She busies herself with removing a toothbrush from the small pack at her side. She feels Cato's eyes cut over to her. His gaze burns the side of her skull. Stop. Please stop looking at me. She turns and watches the forest around her as she brushes her teeth in an attempt to control her racing heart and erratic breathing. She rinses her mouth out and continues to the rest of her body.
As she begins splashing water on the rest of her arms, she feels his fingertips alight upon her skin. It seems innocent and accidental at first—a brief whisper across her hand—and then a firmer brush across her shoulder. His fingers leave goosebumps wherever they land. She looks sharply at him, breathing heavily from her nose. He is not looking at her. In fact, he seems utterly oblivious to what he's doing.
She ignores the steady pressure low in her stomach and tugs off her boots and thick, wool socks. The water is icier when she dips her feet in the creek, but she feels the contrast of heat emanating from Cato so close to her. When he lowers his hands to cup more water in them, his left thumb makes the barest contact with her ankle.
She jumps back with her heart beating hard against the inside of her ribcage. Her breath slips out in tiny puffs of fog in front of her face. She must look wild right now. She feels undone. Her whole body is covered in goosebumps, but there is a sharp heat low in her gut. Her muscles spasm once—painful—in her pelvis. She is filled with want, and for the first time, Clove is at a complete loss of what to do.
Cato seems unaware of her predicament, of course. He hasn't seemed to mind how close their personal spaces have intertwined at this moment. Clove imagines pushing his long body down into the leaves beside the riverbed and straddling his lean hips. She could trap him there, grind down as hard as she wanted, and find some sort of relief. These thoughts continue to swirl in her mind that she doesn't realize she has frozen completely.
"Oh, fuck," she murmurs half in astonishment and a half in complete helplessness.
Cato looks up from where he was brushing his teeth (with her toothbrush, damn him), startled. His blue eyes pierce into hers, worry showing between his brow.
"What's that?"
"I—uh—I forgot something in my pack," she stammers out, the lie coming mercifully quickly.
His face is so angular, eyes so blue. Sandy blonde stubble is beginning to appear along his jawline, and she wonders how amazing that would feel running across her lips—both of them if she is honest. Her whole body is heating up now, and she takes a few steps back when he stands. She can't trust herself at this moment.
"I can go get it for you," he offers.
He steps forward, and she moves back more auspiciously. Even though she's compared him to the dumb and brawny type, unfortunately, Cato is much smarter and more observant than she gives him credit for. He sees her heaving, reddened chest. Her shaking hands, which she tries to hide behind her. She thinks that a lightbulb might have just damn well appeared above his head at that moment to add insult to injury.
"Clove," he starts, a smirk beginning to gather on his lips, "what's going on?" His body language becomes predatory. Instead of fear, it turns her on more. She wants this. Wants this cat-and-mouse game they are laying out before them. Wants the tease more than she wants to breathe right now.
"Mind your business," spills off her lips.
He strides forward until they are only inches apart. Clove stiffens; she doesn't want to seem over-eager. The heat coming from his body sends her internal thoughts into a frenzy. He is so close. She smells the same woodsy, smoky scent from before and the sharp tang of mint from the toothpaste.
He ducks his head, searching her eyes for the truth. The smirk on his beautiful face should be illegal. "This is my business." He casually brings an arm around her lower back, large palm flattening against the base of her spine. He jerks her forward into him, into his relentless heat, into the hardening shaft she feels at her waist.
The feel of his own need for her wipes her out. White noise sounds in her ears while every bit of blood she has in her body pools in her pussy, her clit throbbing in tandem with her heartbeat. She wants to lean into him, upward, catch his lower lip between her teeth and show him what for.
However, that would ruin the game. Clove is not ready to give up the base sensation of primal lust, and settle for what happens afterward—the awkward, used-up feeling. So overcome with sensation and the feel of his body against hers, she is only half-aware of her fist balling up.
She is only half-aware of its swinging arc to the side of his head.
He stumbles back, but he's not angry. In fact, the smirk stays plastered to his face, and he laughs lowly, a deep rumble Clove feels in her clit the entire trek alone back to camp.