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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
may 5; action
For a week and three days he didn't leave his room.
He's only just started to talk to Clove (or anyone) again, started to be himself again but he's still...much more quiet than he was before. He takes pains to not make noise now - whether out of consideration towards Clove, fear towards her, or simple paranoia...he's not himself.
It's a late night for both of them, and he's leafing through a cookbook, halfheartedly marking pages for recipes he might want to try when he feels like it. He's followed Clove into the main room and sat himself in front of a chair on the ground.
He's been thinking - this whole long time after the wolf attack.]
Are you mad at me?
[His voice is hoarse, telling of how little he's been using it to shout.]
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But the last few days, he's at least been elsewhere in the apartment, and she's been staying in a little more, reading the Journal or just sitting around.
Tonight, she's curled up in an armchair near the window, letting the warming breeze come in. Open and able to be slipped out of in a moment. It's already heating up, despite the late hour. But Clove doesn't care. She has on long pants -- no shoes or socks -- and a loose jacket over her t-shirt. She doesn't want the teeth marks and scratch marks on her shoulders and arms -- all still wrapped up -- visible. She doesn't want it obvious she's hurt. Physically.
She looks over at him at the question then looks back out the window.]
No.
Why? Should I be?
[She doesn't want to talk. But she can't just ignore him. She can't just refuse to speak to him.]
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[He's sort of impressed with how little his voice is raising. He just doesn't have the fucking energy to get loud and mad. He really doesn't.
Cato keeps leafing through the book, not even looking at the pictures now just ... doing anything but looking at her even if he knows he should.]
You're angry at me and I want to know why. What did I do?
[What didn't I do? His mind will always, always, always go back to the day she died. Because he sees that as his greatest failure.]
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[And it's true.
She's been angry at everything else. Angry at Twelve, angry at Lover Boy, angry at Glimmer, angry at Marvel, angry at Thresh, angry at the Capitol, angry at the Games, angry at the Malnosso. She's been angry at Cato, too. When they had the time and energy to argue here...
She isn't angry at him now.
It's an old... twinge. Like a wound that never healed right. She'd learned about those, usually from mining accidents. Things that didn't get to a doctor fast enough or just couldn't be helped. Something that just didn't heal right and still hurt. It was the same kind of... sort of not-pain that she felt toward Twelve. Just worse.
A lot worse.
Thresh. The refugees. The wolves.
Too late. Not there at all. Almost too late.
But they're Careers. They protect themselves. They don't need to protect one another. That's not how she and Cato work. She can take care of herself; he can take care of himself. They don't really care.]
You almost got yourself killed. [It bothers her, thinking about it.] Don't do it again.
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[He sounds confused and his face matches; brow furrowed and mouth turned down in an attempt of understanding. It's inflection he hasn't had before and it sounds as foreign to him as a strangers voice.]
You don't want me to die?
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The words are almost screamed inside of her, but none of them come out. She just tucks her knees tighter against her chest and forces herself to shrug her shoulders. Curled up like that in the chair, she looks even smaller than she is.]
Not in a stupid way like that.
[But her voice is quieter than it usually is; there's a tremor deep in it.]
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Cato huffs a small breath, trying to figure out how to say things.]
Look I know we don't... [Augh, no. This wasn't going to work. It wouldn't work because they didn't do this whole talking thing and maybe - maybe he should just...]
shit.
[It's not that fucking hard, just say what you want to say and get it over with. If you do this you don't have to do it again.]
talk. Not really.
[He's at the point where he just feel exhausted and is sorely tempted to just stand up and go to bed to sleep a while. He tells himself no though, because they need to fucking talk.]
But I kind of wish you'd tell me what you're thinking sometimes.
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[It's not sharp, it's not dismissive. There's a real question there, and she sort of turns her head to look at him. If anything, she almost looks ready to give an accusation.
Something just on the tip of her tongue.
And it's in her voice, like the wolf bites are fresh and he's trying to help her wrap them. ...Except she wouldn't let him then. She'd been stubborn, insisted on doing it herself.]
What good does that do, Cato? It doesn't change anything. It doesn't make it better.
Talking about it doesn't fix anything. Doesn't do or undo anything.
So why bother?
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So I can just know, okay?
I'm not saying it'll fix everything and make it all better. I'm not even saying that I want to.
I just want to know.
[So I can avoid it in the future. If there even was a future.]
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She doesn't uncurl from her chair, but her eyes do steady on him.]
I'm not mad at you. Why do you think I am? What have I done?
[Because she needs to explain it to herself. To make a pattern out of the behavior. Because she's not angry at him. So, she needs to understand. Needs to know what she's doing to make him think she is. That way, she can talk about it.
Can explain.
Hopefully.]
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It's ... It's not what she's done really. He doesn't know how to explain this.]
I - [I don't know.]
I dunno. [You don't trust me. But that's ridiculous. Why would she ever trust him? Since when did they trust each other? Since when did he trust her?]
You...It's like I'm not here.
[He doesn't know how to fucking explain this. Why is it so difficult to say I don't think you've forgiven me for letting you die.?]
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[There is anger. She can't help it. One fist clenches, and she wants to fly at him. Wants to hit him. Wants to scream. But it's late. That might bring knocking to the door.
Running? He might follow. Worse? He might not.]
Like you're not here?
[She's still curled up, but she's glaring. She shifts just a little, pulls her jacket to the side a bit, showing one of the bandages on her arm.]
I wouldn't have this if you weren't here. If I didn't know you were here.
[She doesn't mean it to be blame. It's not his fault she got hurt by the wolves. But it was for him. To protect him. Even when he'd never really protected her.
Because she wasn't strong enough or smart enough to leave him to his fate.]
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[He doesn't look away from the bandages on her arm, he feels like that would be worse if he did like he wants to. It's a horrible fucking reminder exactly because of what it looks like - not even because of what it is. The spotting on the white bandages are in the shape of teeth and it makes him shiver.
But that's all it takes for him to square his jaw and decide: no. No I'm not doing that today.
Cato forces himself to look at her face.]
I know it's because of me.
[He sounds steady enough, and that's a good thing on it's own.]
What I meant was that...[He's trying to avoid the words 'I feel' because he hates them.]
Drafts, hunting, fighting, anything we do together...we're not really doing it together are we?
[Holy shit he sounds like an idiot. A fucking moron. His face turns red and he's so ready to just get up and hide in the fucking bed like a lunatic.]
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[She has to look away. To curl tighter in on herself.
It's safer alone. It's safer to be the Career. To not admit to wanting to bury herself in his arms, let him hold her and protect her from the places her mind goes.
She wants to tell him everything. Every fear and nightmare and secret. Killing Twelve. Being terrified of Twelve's allies. Everything.
But she can't.]
Because there isn't a together. Not for us. You know that, Cato. We both do.
[She wants him to go to sleep. She wants to go out the window. She wants to find a way to make her chest stop feeling like its trying to collapse in on itself. She wants to scream.]
We're looking out for ourselves. Just ourselves. We're not looking out for each other. [But those wounds on her tell a different story.] We don't expect anything; we don't owe anything. Whatever happens to us, it's our own fault. Not each other's.
[A sixteen-year-old who can't forgive a passive betrayal. She would've forgiven a sword slash to her head or back. Clove would have met it with a fierce fight. But she can't forgive herself for dying screaming for his help, and she can't forgive him for letting her die like that. For not being close enough to help when she let herself believe he would be.]
That's how we are.
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[Cato can't help how bitter he sounds. He blames it all on the Malnosso. It goes squarely on their fucking shoulders because every single bit of...anything they've had together has been because of them.
The chocolates, the memories, the fact that they were alive. It was all them. Literally everything about them that had made him think he cared about her was basically the result of a crapton of lies.
It made him feel a little sick. But whether it was hearing her say it or realizing that about them, he couldn't tell. Cato rolled up to his feet and stood, stretching in that familiar way he always did.]
It was stupid.
[He feels stupid thinking about it, really fucking stupid; but all he can play through his brain now is asking Clove to marry him and holy shit that was just the icing on the cake now wasn't it?
It's just enough to make something snap in him. Maybe for the better because before where he felt almost nothing he feels anger and sadness and - wow that's a new combination. It's so much so he can't resist getting in one little bit more before he walks into the kitchen to sit at the table and just...look out the window.]
They're over, Clove. The Games are over for us.
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She has no one to blame. It's her own fault.
This, Thresh, Twelve. They're all her mistakes.
Clove ducks her head, pushing her forehead against her knees. He won't hear her. If he hears her, he won't care. A sob catches in her throat, and she lets out a quiet, pained groan. It has nowhere to go, no outlet. The tears sting her eyes and cut her cheeks as they fall, but she sits in the chair, curled up in her own misery. Because she just told him they do things alone, even when they're together. Because that's what they are.
That's what she is.
It's her fault she's here alone.]
They're never going to be over. This is just another Arena. I want to go home.
[It feels like whining. Maybe it is whining. Soft vocalizations that escape between sobs. Between the silent screams she opens her mouth to let out, only no sound escapes. He won't hear her from where he is. If he does hear her, he won't care.
Because she's been trying too hard to be alone. And now she finally is. And it's just her fault.
She isn't even sure if it comes out. Maybe it does. If so, it's quiet, pathetic, needy, and frightened:]
Cato.
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It's all very easy to separate their little breakdowns from one another.
Until he hears his name. It makes him jolt upright in his seat, suddenly much more awake than he had been.
He doesn't even remember getting up from his seat, but he does and he's kneeling in front of her now. He's within an arms length of her and it's hard not to reach out and pull her in - it's hard not to comfort her but he remembers how she died and how she gets when he surprises her like that. He's not sure so he just crouches in front of her.]
Hey. Hey. Clove? Stay with me.
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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.
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...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.]
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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.