C x C

𝖡𝖮𝖭𝖣

Warnings: Hardcore smut, the consumption of alcohol & vulgar language.
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"I can't believe you said that on national television." Clove giggled, tipping her head back as she emptied more of the bottle's continents into her mouth. About five minutes after they had arrived back at the District 2 penthouse, Cato and Clove had raided the bar in a moment of stupidity. They had just been crowned Victors of the 74th Hunger Games, and decided they needed what they referred to as a celebration. The liquor they'd spent the last hour and a half consuming had begun effecting their brain no less than an hour ago, however that hadn't stopped either of them.

"I don't care." He slurred, retrieving the bottle from Clove's  hand. "He deserved it." He added, taking another large swig from the almost empty bottle.

"You're crazy Cato." She sighed, sinking onto her back beside him.

"Here's to..." Cato began, but slowly began trailing off. "Clove Kentwell, Victor of the 74th Hunger Games." He chuckled lazily, raising the bottle into the air.

"Well, here's to Cato Hadley, second Victor of the 74th Hunger Games." She mumbled, unable to stop her head from lazily sinking into the pillow. While Clove was momentarily distracted, Cato took the opportunity to briefly examine her. Cato frowned as a strange feeling began brewing in his stomach, there was something oddly comforting about the look of satisfaction and contempt she wore. At first Cato had mistaken her expression for peace but had quickly corrected himself upon further inspection.

The Hunger Games had messed both Cato and Clove up, more than they cared to admit. At first neither of them would admit it, but after a bit of thought, the pair of them came to the honest decision that lying would get neither of them anywhere. It had been something neither of them wanted to admit at first, but had become something they'd eventually come to terms with. Cato knew clove wasn't happy, he hadn't expected her to be, especially after having murdered a handful of children. But he at least expected her to feel some sort of relief, when he'd briefly spoken to her in the infirmary, she hadn't even shown the slightest bit of relief which had worried Cato at first. After a while, it had stopped bothering him, upon the realisation that he felt the exact same way she did. Neither of them could feel anything, after having lived the trauma of the game, not even relief.

The most the two of them could feel was contempt. That's the look Clove wore on her face.Her features were relaxed, and her breaths were steady. That's when she looked most beautiful to him. Her eyes were barely open, but still shined just as brightly, and her hair was still glossy from all the product her stylist Guenivire had put into her hair hours prior. Her face was bare of any makeup, which exposed the hundreds of freckles that darted her nose and cheeks, which Cato usually enjoyed counting. During their time in the arena, Clove had developed the bad habit of chewing on her bottom lip, which eventually caused it to become swollen. Her lips were still slightly puffy, but were just as appetising to him as they were before. "What?" He heard her ask softly, causing him to snap out of his train of thought. "Is there something on my face?" She said with a slight smile. Just as Cato opened his mouth to respond, he once again found himself transfixed by her. His heart clenched slightly at the sight of her small, and soft smile, it wasn't often she smiled but when she did it had to be the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Beautiful." He mumbled.

He watched as a frown of confusion, slowly overtook her features. "What?"

"You're beautiful." He said, in a moment of weakness. He had almost instantly regretted his decision to repeat himself when Clove let out a deep, and almost regretful sigh.

"You're drunk-"

"I mean it." He argued back.

"You're drunk, Cato." She insisted, pulling herself up into a sitting position.