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shenevermisses) wrote2020-01-15 12:32 am
shenevermisses) wrote2020-01-15 12:32 amContact - [ IC ]
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shenevermisses) wrote2020-01-15 12:32 am
december 20th; action
I - I don't...
[He can't bring himself to go to her and cling like he wants to. He's rooted to the spot, trying to register the differences in his memories. Cato remembers her dying...and living. Remembers killing Katniss at the top of the Cornucopia with Clove -- and being finished off by her arrow.
He remembers the ceremony and the Victor house and the years they had together. And a child.
There is nothing to contrast that with. Only his memories here.]
december 20th; action
It doesn't even hurt right now. Not her own sense of loss or watching him deal with it. She remembers the family portrait, hidden away high up in the closet where Cato can easily reach it but will never think to look. The first reveal of their then month-old daughter. A picture to satisfy the Capitol and the people of Panem, to keep them enamored with the couple who beat the odds. But it doesn't hurt. There's nothing left in her to hurt.
So she walks toward him but goes around. She doesn't touch him; she turns the dials on the stove to turn off the burners.]
Careful. [There's almost nothing to her voice.] You'll burn yourself.
[Says the girl with a few cuts on her palm where her knife's bitten in to her flesh when she needed to remind herself how real this all was.]
Re: december 20th; action
Don't want to do that.
[The stove was sturdy and built into the counter but the metal creaked nonetheless.]
Clove.
no subject
[It's not even mean, the way she says it.
Though that's all it takes. Her name said like that by him. The raw pain is back. Cutting. Worse than Twelve's arrows against her flesh. Worse than anything she can ever do to herself.
She wants to scream. Wants to shatter every piece of glass and china in the cabinets. Everything that makes this apartment look "normal." That makes it look like they have some life here. Rather than just pretending.
She wants to cry. To fall into his arms and just sob.
But Careers don't cry. She doesn't cry.]
no subject
[Like the laugh it just comes. It's easy and safe and much better for him to react than to let himself break like he started to. So he reels on her, lets himself burn and spit with anger that wasn't in him for days but now it's back in full force.]
Fuck you! Don't tell me to shut up when I just - [and he chokes. Why can't he say it? That he can't make things separate in his mind. When he isn't sure which one is the truth and which is the lie? Because he knows which one he wants.
But he's not sure.]
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So she lashes out. She swings a slap for his face. She doesn't want to hurt him. To really do damage. But she wants to do something. She wants to cut and claw. Anything. She wants to see blood. But she can't.
She's gotten too weak in this place. Too attached. Too many talks with Twelve.]
Don't you dare speak to me like that.
[It's a growl, her eyes narrowed.]
no subject
And there's a silence where he doesn't move or even breath as she speaks.
He, for a moment, is caught between pushing himself to do it, and being unable to stop. But his hands wrap around her small wrists easily and he twists, throws his weight into it so he has her hands on the counter and his body over hers. He knows, in an instant, all the ways she can attack from here. And he fucking welcomes it; the little outburst just now helps...
Being domestic would make him sick.]
Don't.
[It's quiet, but solid. His grip tightens and heat crawls up his spine. It's comforting; this anger. He doesn't know why he tried letting it go.]
no subject
Back in a week. And then what?
It's an excellent plan, and her eyes shine with it. With the lust for blood. Because that would be so much easier.
But she stays tense. She can't do it. She can't attack. She can't kill. Not him.
And the shine takes on a different tone. Tears, rather than murder. Sorrow more than rage. Yet a deep anger because she can do nothing with that pain.]
I hate you.
[Yet, even as she says it, her voice nearly breaks. She wants to cry; she wants to hit him. Anything to make this stop.]
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That'd be easier than doing this. Playing house and pretending that love is something they do. It's so stupid, especially in hindsight. Why did he think they could do this? Because there's nothing else here?]
I don't care.
[And it's the truth. He could give less than two shits if she hates him. He hates mostly everything on a good day. Maybe the months of peace and learning to accept this is his future had rubbed off on him, because he realizes that he's contemplating killing her. Killing her of all people. And he lets go.
Cato backs away and doesn't stop till he's out the door and going to the lake. Moving by route.]
no subject
She grabs the counter and pulls herself up. The pots and pans on the stove are spared. The glass bowl the noodles might have been served in? Isn't. She throws it, the thick glass barely breaking, even when it hits the wall. Not far enough to go to pick up enough speed. So she sees the glasses set out for drinks with dinner.
Those break much more easily.
A plate. Then two.
She steps over the shards, ignoring them. She wants to run. But he'll go to the camp. That can't be her haven here. But he might come back. She doesn't want to be here when he does.]