Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.
Author's Note: Thanks so much to everyone who's been reading so far, especially to my reviewers: supergirl846, TheToothFairy92, blurred lines, Clato, Nina, Jesus the Gardener, and Dripping Tears. I really appreciate it :)
Things change and they don't.
Tight fitting training pants shifting with her every stride, Clove departs from the Academy, adrenaline still rushing through her system from the fight. And yet, it takes no more than a few steps away from the spanning stone building for a small scowl to form on her face.
It's the sort of day that Clove loathes - bright with the sun gleaming, illuminating everything it can incorporate into its glowing path. Not to mention the birds. They're chirping. Singing. For all she knows, they're coming up with harmonies as she weighs the pros and cons of attempting to pin at least one of them into silence with her concealed dagger.
The latter list wins out. Tempting as the idea of aiming her weapon at the vocal chords of one of those sickeningly sweet voiced creatures was, she really doubts that she'd be able to get her knife back with much ease, were she to manage to hit one of her targets.
And so the dagger stays hidden.
Gritting her teeth with irritation, she quickens her pace, eager to surround herself with the quiet blandness of her bedroom.
Then she hears the pounding.
It's not exactly a clumsy noise - not at all. Loud as his footsteps are, she never suspected for even a moment that he might trip. Which, really, is a shame, since such a sight would be rather amusing.
By the time that Cato's lumbering figure catches up to her, however, the amused smirk has left her face completely, washed away as if it were never there, in favor of her favorite cold look of cruel collection.
His fight clearly took more energy than her own. It's apparent in the way that he pants after sprinting a distance that even a twelve-year-old trainee would scoff at, the slight layer of sweat that tints his features. Even his voice, angry and vehement as it may be, carries within it a hint of a post-battle weariness which she's sure he loathes.
"What was that?" he demands, digging his gruff fingers into her arm. She's still walking as he does so and the unexpected gesture flails her back in a rare moment of incoordination.
Clove attempts to pull away uselessly, her dark ponytail still swinging at the impact of her sudden stop. A glare bores down at his tight grip on her. "I'm going to need you to give me a bit more to go on. Not everyone speaks caveman."
Cato jerks her closer to him, so that his snarling face is in her direct line of vision when she tilts her head upward. "I told you to stay out of my way."
Lips, which had, not two minutes ago, been trembling with the effort of barring back several streams of derogatory choice words, release a torrent of hard laughter. That was what this was about? "You were taking too long," she says, propping her chin up higher so that she can meet his line of vision directly. "I got bored."
He's waiting for her to look away from his harsh, bright eyes, seek the sunlit ground for reassurance. Brutal as the beating his gaze is inflicting upon her may be, though, her own eyes, shards of ice that don't lack a certain formidableness themselves, refuse to waver.
Finally, after minutes of yanking and twisting, she manages to retrieve her arm, finding the will to refrain from rubbing the bruises left by his demanding grasp only by clinging to the strength of her pride, her disdain for his ego. The last thing he needs is yet more proof of his already clear strength.
Weakened as his physical hold on her may have become, his tone is still fierce as he growls out his next words through his teeth. "I had it under control."
Clove shrugs, her shoulders quirking into the air as she begins to walk again. That was likely true. "Probably."
It doesn't take long for her to realize that he's still beside her, this time keeping in pace with her strides rather than forcibly halting them. The anger seems to have vanished from his features (well, as much as it ever does), replaced by a contemplative satisfaction that nearly makes Clove roll her eyes. Bipolar, honestly.
"Gregoric is pissed," he says, sounding entirely pleased about this fact.
She keeps her eyes trained on the path ahead of her. Because she cares so deeply. "Not a surprising reaction when you've been publicly pummeled."
Before she can think about it, they're sharing a smirk again, but Clove quickly composes herself. She doesn't share. She isn't friendly. And she knows better than to change her attitude for Cato Ludwig, of all people, and his staggering mood swings.
"As he should be." Cato pauses and she wonders if he's replaying his rival's defeat in his head.
What is he still doing here, anyway?
Never one to mince her thoughts, Clove snaps the question aloud, flashing him a look at least as sharp as her words.
He looks at her like she's the crazy one. "Walking you home, of course," he speaks as though his answer is entirely natural, the smirk on his face the only evidence that he knows otherwise.
"Why?" she spats in disbelief. And she had truly believed that this day couldn't get any more nauseating.
The bemused patience on his face does nothing to alleviate her annoyance. "Now, what kind of gentleman," he ignores her snort of skepticism, "would I be if I left you to walk home alone?"
"Luckily for both of us, you're not a gentleman."
His smirk widens. "Then it's a good thing I have the chance to rectify that."
Clove shakes her head in exasperation, refusing to look at him, wishing beyond hope that he would get bored and leave her alone. Possibly fall into a ditch, if it's not too much trouble.
But he doesn't, of course. They just walk in tense silence until they reach her crescent moon front porch. Well, tense on her part, anyway. She's fairly certain that his side is filled with more vicious amusement at finally picking a game to play with her that he can win.
Clove cinches her lips together in a narrow line. They remain clenched through her trek up the steps, his shouted reminder that he'll see her Monday, and even into the sanctuary of her bedroom.
Screw the birds. She should have used the dagger on him.
Aside from in a gym, holding a sword, one would be hard pressed to find a setting more natural to Cato than the sunlight. It dances around his features, glazing over the bronzed angles of his face, the golden strands in his hair.
He looks like an angel, a brutal one, fallen, with blood staining his hands, but unearthly beautiful, nevertheless.
And he knows it.
As he saunters away from his training partner's large white house, Cato grins slightly to himself. It's funny. Fucking hilarious, actually. Here he's been, trying to rile her up for days, and all it took was putting on the charm that most girls at the Academy giggle and squeal over to set her off. She seemed to like him more when he was trying to run her through with a sword.
He wonders if she knows how fucked up she is.
It's not for several more blocks that he stops, and, even then, it's not at his house that he turns up and into the walkway. Not bothering to knock, he walks through the front door.
Three figures sit already reclined on the back porch as he makes his way out and back into the Friday afternoon air.
Their heads dart to his emerging figure, a motion that leaves a faint grin on his face. He enjoys the way that they spring to life upon his entrance, their immediate response, even their slight resentment.
Cato is the best of them, owns them, and knows it.
Achates stands up with his easy grin to slap him on the back. "Nice job, man."
Turnus and Rex echo the congratulations from their spots upon the steps as the former tosses Cato a beer.
He catches it easily, satisfied smirk still in place. "I've been waiting for them to match us up again for weeks." There's a feral note to his being as he takes his spot next to Achates, propping his right foot up lazily atop his other knee.
The other boy grins at him. "What, tired of your little training partner already?"
Cato takes a long swig of his drink through his still quirked mouth. "Not quite."
Rex shakes his head. "I don't know how you deal with her. The girl's psycho. Too bad they couldn't have put you with Andromeda, huh?"
Achates flashes him a knowing look. Neither Rex nor Turnus understand the way his mind works the way that he does. They know he's twisted, would have to be complete morons not to see that. But they don't get it, not really. Don't get that he'd bash his fucking brains out before spending that much time a day with Andromeda Weld. He doesn't say this though, just raises an eyebrow. "Better for fucking than training." It's true, as Cato has learned from experience. The tall golden haired girl, with her long legs and round chest, makes for a fine distraction outside of the Academy. But, inside, she wasn't worth a thought.
"Besides," he continues, relaxing further against the steps. "Gregoric doesn't want Andie."
Achates rolls his eyes. Similarly sized and skilled, Cato and Gregoric have been rivals for as long as he can think back, probably for as long as they've been attending the Academy. As they should be. He might like to entertain the thought of volunteering for the Hunger Games, but it's no secret that the male spot in their age group is taken - it will go to either Cato or Gregoric. Less clear is which one; the competition hasn't done wonders for their relationship.
Cato continues speaking, satisfaction still heavy in his voice. "I heard him going off on Julius after training, shouting about how if he'd been assigned Clove as a partner, instead of Lindy, he'd have beat me easy." He takes another swig of his drink. "Bullshit, of course."
Achates chuckles, wishing he could meet the guy capable of beating Cato easily, wondering if this Clove girl knows how things have suddenly changed for her. It was one thing back when she just annoyed his friend, intrigued him with her stubborn viciousness. This is different.
It's been the same way since they were kids, Cato needing to have the best of everything. The best practice swords, the best actual swords once they reached Academy. He can't imagine that the blonde has changed so much that he wouldn't be loving having something that his chief enemy envies.
"You think he'd request a partner change?" Rex breaks into the conversation.
The change in Cato's mood is staggering. A snarl overtakes his face at the thought. He can just picture the smug gratification Gregoric would garner from that, the victory. "Doesn't matter. They wouldn't give it to him." The statement is harsh, brutal, final. It leaves no room for argument.
Achates lets his face fall into his palm. It shouldn't, anyway. And yet there Rex is, with all the perception skills of a goldfish, opening his mouth again. "No, I think they gave one to Marius and Lisa, you know, now that it's been about a month since the original assignments and since they both agreed that they-" Finally, most likely at long last catching sight of the glower that's consumed Cato's every feature, he seems to understand that silence might have been advisable. Still, though, albeit slightly muted, he finishes his sentence, "they agreed that they wanted one, you know, a transfer."
"She's not going to request a transfer." This time no one argues with his stone clad words.
Cato, angry as the idea may have made him, doesn't even bother to argue with himself over it. The thought's ridiculous. She may not like him - hell, they might hate each other, but, like she'd said, she'd just seen Gregoric "publicly pummeled." Clove, psychotic or not, would laugh in his face if he came to her after that display.
More important, though, is the fact that Cato has always gotten what he wants, and at the moment, what he wants is Clove as his partner. He won't accept anyone less. Infuriating as she might be, she is, quite clearly the best of her gender in their level. Just as he is.
Rubbing his hands together as if trying to kindle a flame to break through the sudden cold tension, Achates sends Rex inside to restock the cooler, eager to return the moment to its former brevity.
Cato's good humor finally does return, if shortly before he's completely quit the impromptu introspection prompted by Rex's idiocy.
Besides, he smirks, Clove can't leave yet. Not with all of the games they've started.
Her house, naturally, is still empty when Clove enters the kitchen later that night. The solitude does little to surprise her. Her father's absences have become familiar, his rare presence the incongruity that leaves her on edge. She'd rather, at this point, that he spent his time exactly as he currently does, working. She'd rather have their large stone property to herself, would prefer to be alone.
Going through the habitual motions of washing leaves of lettuce, chopping carrots, and shaking it all into a salad, she lowers herself into a chair at the table. The thought of engaging in such domestic duties had once been... well, repelling, to say the least. Then her obsession with knives had grown - it all came back to her knives - and, domestic or not, the idea of not bothering to acquaint herself the set of kitchen knives, formerly used only by her grandmother, had seemed unacceptable.
This is how she spends her evening. A lone, content figure at a large table.
Cato's own night grows louder, more crowded, as the sky darkens. Boisterous laughter comes to occupy Achates' house as restless trainees funnel their way into the increasingly sparse space. Fridays, the days of rest that follow them, never fail to provide motive for celebration. A celebration of which, Cato, of course, is the center.
Neither thinks much of the other, their separate world.