Gladiators -- Clato

-Acceptance-

hello everyone, i'm back! honestly these last months have been a whirlwind, but i fully intend to post regularly now and im even working on a new Clato story for you guys! I hope you enjoy this chapter (;
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The shock sends me into a state of complete stillness. I can't meet Cato's gaze, can't look him in the eye, can't accept what he said is true.
"Don't say anything. Just think about it," He says, interrupting the stillness. "You don't have to-"
"Cato!" I yell, still averting my eyes. "You...we...we can't-"
"We can't what?"
"It's impossible. I mean, we're still in the arena. We need to focus on winning right now." I sigh, glancing at him for a moment, His face is emotionless, almost vacant of any sort of suggestion that my words faze him.
"I don't think it's impossible," He responds slowly.
I finally muster up the courage to look at him, and the meeting between our eyes sends a wave of something resembling nausea through my entire stomach. I blink a couple times, and sigh.
"You know I... I also...care, about you," I say quietly. "But you know what we've been taught about those things." I chose my words carefully, and Cato dips his head in agreement.
"I knew you would say that."
"Did you?"
"Yeah. You've always kind of liked to follow the way things were."
Cato's right. I like rules. They set guidelines, pathways for what's right and wrong, what is acceptable and not. There was actually an official rulebook back in the Academy, and I read through the whole thing at least a few times before bed. One of the rules, typed onto the yellowed pages in big, bold black letters: Do not become attached to those who fight alongside you.
It's obvious I've broken that rule. Probably obvious to everyone back in District Two right now, let alone the whole nation of Panem. Our tributes are tough, unsympathetic, and indifferent to emotional connections. I mean, even if we can win this thing, what kind of ridicule and disappointment will we be bringing home to our DIstrict?
"Why?" I ask, the only question that seems like it could have an answer now. "Why, Cato? And for how long?"
He chuckles, and although he's acting nonchalant, I know that the exact same thoughts I'm having are also plaguing his mind.
"You're really dumber than you look." He adjusts the injured part of his body into a more comfortable position. "Remember when I came to watch your tournaments, every day? Or how I took you into the square on your birthday?"
"Wait, that was-"
"How about all the times we trained together? Or that I would give you my coat on cold days?" Cato continues. I feel my heart swell with some kind of strange feeling, and I desperately want it to stop.
"Cato-"
"Going to the quarries? Riding the rattler home?" His voice picks up intensity with each new memory. "Come on Clove. Hell, you almost died today. What more do we have to lose?" He holds my gaze now, jaw set in a hard line. "Don't try and tell me it meant nothing. I know it didn't. It meant something to me."
I bite my lip, considering my next course of action. Cato's right...
I move over to him. Close enough to kiss him, but just barely. He looks at me intently, like he's trying desperately to figure me out. And then I lean close to his ear, my lips brushing the tips of his hair:
"It meant everything to me," I whisper, and then move back, meeting his gaze once more. He knows why I said it quietly. He knows that there are cameras and speakers nestled in every corner of this arena, desperately trying to pick up the slightest bits of conversation. But this? No, this is something they cannot have. It's between Cato and I.
He laughs incredulously, almost like he can't believe that I've actually admitted this to him. Yes, the hard-headed, mean-spirited, and spiteful Clove Kentwell is capable of tenderness as well.
"I really want to kiss you right now," He mutters.
"Do it, then," I smirk, and then Cato presses his lips to mine.
Now that everything's out in the open, I feel the freedom to deepen the kiss, but carefully as not to hurt Cato. He takes my hand in his, pulling me closer, slipping his tongue into my mouth, much to my surprise. He's an insanely good kisser, and honestly I'm probably doing something wrong, but he seems to be enjoying it enough.
"I swear, kissing you is nothing like I expected," He says breathlessly when we break apart.
"In a good way?" I ask, sounding shy.
"Absolutely. Let's do it again."
And so we do. Over, and over, and over again, each kiss better than the last. I let myself get lost in it, get lost in him, even though the two of us are covered in days-old sweat and considerable amounts of blood. But I really don't think either of us care.
When we finally break apart for the last time, it's only because the weather has begun to turn cold and we need to conserve our heat. We manage to eat some dinner and cuddle up in one sleeping bag, pressed against one another in a warm embrace.