The clouds have mostly cleared by the time I escape the cellar. I try to regain some semblance of my pride as Cato shuts the hatch behind us, laughing hysterically at my performance. I flip the knife in irritation as I wait.
"You are horrible!" I yell, shoving him when he comes near. "You are the most despicable, obnoxious, irritating bastard! I can't believe you did that!"
"Feeling a little vindictive tonight, aren't we?"
Blood boiling, I try to stop the rush of relief that rises up to take its place. I draw the knife and point it at him so that my face looms behind the blade. "If you ever do that again…"
"What? You'll decide you want to 'tangle' with me?"
"That is not funny!" I exclaim, unable to stop the laugh from escaping. "That was terrible!"
"I'm trying to decide how offended I should be by your reaction to the idea," Cato grins. "You looked like you wanted to rip his guts out for even suggesting it."
I shake my head at him ridiculously. "I don't need your ride your reputation to get people to think I'm–" Before I've even finished, I regret it. Cato fights hard to take me seriously and refrain from anything more than a quizzical expression, but he fails miserably and busts up all over again. "No," I cry, "I… Just don't! Don't even go there!" I bury my face in my hands and kick at the ground.
"I won't…. I won't," he says, pulling himself together.
As awkward as I've made it, I can't take my eyes off his face. It's rare that I get to see him so disarmed and his mirth, even at my expense, makes my whole chest feel warm and alive. That might just be the embarrassment though.
Suddenly I'm very glad it's dark.
"Did you see the look on Tag's face at the end of your match?" he grins, shaking his head proudly.
"No, but I hope he choked on something."
"I'm pretty sure his mouth was hanging open," Cato assures me, his smiling eyes lingering on mine longer than they usually do. I force myself to glance away.
Deciding to ignore my companion, I lie down on the grassy hill indignantly and try to focus on looking up at the sky, amazed at how clear the summer night is when I actually look. I'm surprised when Cato quickly sits down beside me. He lets out a long breath and says nothing.
Like always, his presence is soothing so I focus on relaxing. I close my eyes and try not to think at all, pushing everything aside. It's easy at first when I let the weariness from my match wash over me, but soon my brain begins its familiar pattern of analyzing every moment, searching for weak spots in my performance. Despite my obvious size disadvantage, I did pretty well. I toyed with the idiot a little more than necessary, but showmanship would only win me respect in the beginning. There's nothing fault-worthy in that. That's not the part of the match that bothers me.
What irritates me is that I almost let the oaf get a hold of me. I distinctly remember my focus shifting away from him for a second. Cato caught my attention just past his left shoulder and I lost concentration in an instant, distracted so much by the image of him leaning against the pillar with arms folded across his chest that I nearly missed my opponent's hand reaching out to catch my arm. Luckily I found myself in time, but that was a mistake I wouldn't make again.
I envy Cato, who's all instinct, but somehow never misses a beat in the ring. His focus was perfect as usual and his technique, while sloppy, was effortless. Watching him relax without all of our trainers watching him is refreshing in a way. He is completely natural. The tools mentors give him are useful, but what has always been most impressive about Cato is the natural instinct he never has to work at. He never has to search for openings. He picks them up automatically. His cunning blue eyes are much more perceptive than people give him credit for.
He is a lot of things people never realize. I imagine if the people at the Centre ever saw him the way he is when we're alone, they wouldn't recognize him. He gifts me with his unarmed loyalty and lets me in on his whole person, not just the side that spends every day striving toward the Hunger Games we both know he can win. It's more than camaraderie. It's a companionship that a beaten six-year-old trapped in a dark basement with knives never imagined was possible. It's like a drug, and I need it more than he knows.
I suspect it's the same for him. Being raised in a brothel gave him a better advantage than me, but it still wasn't much. Gretta was a good mother-figure to him when she could afford to be and she loved him in her own way. The imprint of it lasts in his mind, evidenced by where we are. Gretta's calls here were less than savory in nature, but the place's association ties him to her.
He wouldn't like me thinking about this, I realize. Some things are given freely in sentiment, but are not meant to be elaborated on. It is enough for him to bring me here. The rest of its meaning belongs to him.
"Would you lay down?" I say without opening my eyes. "You're making me uncomfortable sitting there staring at me."
"Why would I be staring at you?" He says in a low voice, laying down quietly a few feet away.
"Only you know. I'm not even curious." I say nonchalantly.
After a moment, I turn my head and look at where he's settled just out of arm's reach, dissatisfied by the distance. I weigh my options, ultimately deciding to forget appearances. This is Cato after all. Unabashed, I scoot across the space so that we're only a few inches away from being shoulder to shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye I see him turn to look at me curiously, but I don't reply to his unanswered question.
Rather than letting it be, Cato props himself up on one arm so that he's looking down at me, leaning dangerously close.
I still refuse. Looking over casually, I give him an insouciant expression that makes him narrow his eyes suspiciously and raise an eyebrow at me. I smile a little, amused by his strange talent. "You're going to have to teach me that someday," I point out, defusing the tension. "You know I'm the jealous type. It's for your own good really."
"What are you talking about?" He asks, curiosity unintentionally amplifying it.
I give him my best attempt and a wide grin spreads across his face as he immediately catches on. "Yeah, I can't really teach that, but please keep trying!"
"It's not fair," I complain.
That one corner of his mouth is quirked up again, making him look almost lighthearted in the dim light, and for the first time I don't mind how close he is. I like it in an odd way. My eyes drift up to the mess of dirty blonde hair that is somehow still perfectly in place and I realize just how many times he's broken my rules about physical contact today. Even though he's not actually touching me now, I feel so connected to him that he might as well be. In an inexplicable way I almost want him to.
I barely breathe as he smiles down at me. "Why are you looking at me like that?" He asks, his voice dropping a little in the stillness.
I wonder that myself. Rarely has anyone been this close to me before; no one except my father and Vilkus and never without bloodshed. Cato has my complete trust, but trust can't explain the peace that's blossoming into something even stranger in my chest.
"I could ask you the same question," I deflect, recognizing the disarmed state of his expression.
A conflicted look crosses his face and his eyes stray down toward my mouth. Something like adrenaline trickles into my veins, paralyzing me.
He leans down to kiss me and for a second I can't think. My mind goes blurry with the feel of his lips and the warmth of his presence and everything else disappears. I try to recall some coherent thought, any thread of the chaos that plagues me, but it drowns in the bliss of his touch – the feel of his hand in my hair. In the span of that first moment, I fall irreparably in love with the way he silences me. My body reacts almost instantly, giving in to him, and I find my hands reaching up to move across his intoxicating skin and pull him closer.
An infectious smile breaks across his lips and parts us for a second before he kisses me again, overpowering my senses and banishing the space between us as he melts against me, pulling me up against him even as he presses back. I'm sure he's going to crush me, but I don't care.
He doesn't try though. An instant later his lips release me, and I'm glad I'm lying down, because it feels like nothing is in balance but him. Only the presence of his face, millimeters from mine, feels real. For a second I want desperately to close the gap, but I'm almost too stunned to take the initiative. I tilt my face up so our lips barely touch as we silently catch our breath and I feel him smile – feel the appreciative puff of breath against my skin before he detangles himself from me completely.
The air feels suddenly very cold and empty without him. I watch as he rolls onto his back beside me and looks up into the night sky without saying a word. I don't know what to do, what to think. I've never shared something so personal with anyone before and it makes my whole body thrum with a strange craving I never knew existed. I'm not sure if I like it; the way I feel now; the amount of power he has over me suddenly. And yet I can't pull myself away.
I wonder what it means; what he possibly expects to happen now. He closes his eyes and I try discreetly to study the tension in his face; trying to figure out if he feels as tumultuous as I do, but he betrays nothing.
"Stop staring at me, Clove" he murmurs mockingly.
"I'm not staring," I lie, taking my chance to look up at the sky before he checks; which he does. I feel Cato's eyes linger on me briefly, but I push the thought out of my mind, focusing inward instead.
The silence stretches out between us. Cato is aggravatingly comfortable in it. In fact, he looks more peaceful than I've ever seen him. Part of me feels like that – deeply connected for the first time in my life, yet questions also bubble up to the surface of my mind. I wonder how long he's been planning this – or if he even thought of it at all until that moment. I don't know if it was a strange blip in our friendship or the first spark of a fire. It feels like a spark. Something in me ignited that I'm afraid to let burn, but uncertain if I can stop.
I want to reach out and touch him for reasons I can't explain, but I don't. Instead, I let myself rest in the oddly-wrought calm of his presence. Since I was twelve he's been my only shelter and my companion, and we have always been connected, but somehow this is more. It runs deeper; like something inside my chest reaches for him and pulls at my heart while it does, leaving a tangible link invisible through the air between us, drawing me to him. I'm not alone in this either, if the serenity of his expression tells me anything.
I close my eyes and banish my questions; banish everything that just transpired. This moment is tranquil and perfect –a rarity in my life– so I let it soak in and stretch on endlessly.