Most Grievous Fault
Cato/Clove slightly R
Cato did not believe in forgiveness, but he believed in sin. In his head, he listed all the ones he committed and the ones he were yet to, counting them when he could not sleep.
The day he first saw Clove, he added ten to the list. Seven of which became cold, hard truth by afternoon.
The remaining three, he told her, he would leave for the Games.
"I feel special," she said, with a smile that cut better than her knives.
—-
He chose a dark night for the third.
Everyone slept as his right hand traveled under her shirt and into her pants. His left trapped a gasp in her throat. Her fingers tried to crush his wrists, but they were too late.
When she had moaned for release, he slowly dragged his nails up, up her abdomen.
He made her watch as he kissed the marks.
—-
The second came when there were only four.
She was alive in his arms. With each struggle, he triumphed.
"I hate you!" she had spat before he slapped her.
The rage in her eyes glinted like newly forged steel, while his pride swelled with the bruise on her cheek.
—-
The last he had saved for when they were finally alone. But they never were.
As he cradled her deformed head in his arms, he counted all the other sins he would never make. Even if she had let him.
"I feel special," she had whispered.
He did not have time to close her eyes.
That last night, he dreamt that she still watched him. With that same sharp smile, she waited for him to pay for his sins.
Fin