They used to be almost laughable. His way of calling her back, teasing her, when her mind was wandering. When she was off in daydreams, basking in the warm sun during free hours at the Academy.
But those words haunt her memory. They don't frighten her, but they remind her. Of another sunny day, of another patch of grass. Of that strange feeling of being half asleep. Of knowing she was just so, so tired. Of strong arms trying to keep her from what had proven to be the inevitable.
She looks at him and then moves. Uncurls and shifts. Off the chair, forward, to clutch at him and bury her face in the crook of his neck. She tries to hold back another sob, tries to pretend she's not quivering.]
I'm not mad at you, Cato. [It's muttered, a choked assurance.] I screwed up, not you. I'm not mad at you.
[It's strange for her to want to be held by him, but Cato doesn't care. He doesn't hesitate when she flings against him and holds him tight. He won't say anything because he's scared she'll leave. He doesn't say anything at all, he just cups her head in his hand and lets himself breath without fear of her running.]
...What?
[He's confused, yeah. A lot confused. Because he didn't know why she acted the way she did, and after thinking for a long time it was because of something he did...he doesn't know what to think.]
[Clove bites her lip, tries not to cry. She buries her head further into his shoulder, clutches at him tight enough to feel the strain in her fingers. It's the way she's found herself holding onto her knives sometimes. Usually right before she realizes they're cutting her.
But if she lets go, Cato might decide this is too much. That he doesn't want this.
Her lips move a few times before she finds the words she wants. She hates them, resents every thought that has brought her to this point. That has brought them to this moment.]
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shenevermisses) wrote2020-01-15 12:32 am
no subject
They used to be almost laughable. His way of calling her back, teasing her, when her mind was wandering. When she was off in daydreams, basking in the warm sun during free hours at the Academy.
But those words haunt her memory. They don't frighten her, but they remind her. Of another sunny day, of another patch of grass. Of that strange feeling of being half asleep. Of knowing she was just so, so tired. Of strong arms trying to keep her from what had proven to be the inevitable.
She looks at him and then moves. Uncurls and shifts. Off the chair, forward, to clutch at him and bury her face in the crook of his neck. She tries to hold back another sob, tries to pretend she's not quivering.]
I'm not mad at you, Cato. [It's muttered, a choked assurance.] I screwed up, not you. I'm not mad at you.
no subject
...What?
[He's confused, yeah. A lot confused. Because he didn't know why she acted the way she did, and after thinking for a long time it was because of something he did...he doesn't know what to think.]
no subject
But if she lets go, Cato might decide this is too much. That he doesn't want this.
Her lips move a few times before she finds the words she wants. She hates them, resents every thought that has brought her to this point. That has brought them to this moment.]
I'm scared.