Stupid Cupid: A Modern Clato Fanfiction [Completed]

Chapter 5

*Dedicated to my mother and our family friend, Chris. Who, in Noah's (Chris' son) words, have a pair of matching Birthday Machetes.*

When Clove opened up her front door, the first thing she did was burst out into a fit of laughter. "Oh my gosh!" she exclaimed, eyes wide. "You made me a cake?" 

Cato nodded sheepishly, his cheeks turning red. "Yeah, my mom helped me. So, it shouldn't be that bad." Clove opened the door wider so that Cato could step inside from the cold. He wiped his feet on the small area rug laying in front of the door, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on a hook. 

Cato felt completely at home when he was over at Clove's. She always had some sort of music playing from the speaker in her room. The genre depended on her mood for that day. Based on her song selection, she was in a happy state of mind. 

The boy followed his friend into the kitchen, sitting on one of the bar stools by the counter. Clove placed the cake box on the counter, getting out two plates and forks. She then pulled out a rather large knife. It was in a green holder, and when she unsheathed it, you could see the detail. The blade was white, with a very colorful "Celebrate" printed on both sides. There were also little images of confetti adorning it. 

Cato chuckled as he helped Clove slip the cake out of its box. "This must mean you're in a good mood," he said. "You're using the infamous Birthday Machete." 

The Birthday Machete was a gift from Cato's mom to Clove on her twelfth birthday (Also known as the year Cato gave Clove her locket). Clove had this weird obsession with knives ever since she got back from a camping trip with her relatives. Her aunt gave her a small dagger, in case she ever needed to protect herself or if some emergency occurred. it was a gag gift, and was the knife Clove used to cut her cake ever single year. 

Clove let out a chuckle, dishing two pieces of cake. She frowned when she saw the inside of the dessert. "No red velvet? And please tell me at least the frosting is cream cheese." Clove rolled her eyes at Cato's smirk. 

"I knew it! I told my mother," Cato said. Clove took a seat next to her best friend, nudging him in the ribs with her elbow. "Clearly," Clove stated, "She doesn't know me at all." The two laughed at this, especially Cato. Seeing as that was exactly what he told his ever so caring parent. 

Cato took a bite of what he baked, Clove at the same time. Clove swallowed with a bitter expression. Cato raised his eyebrows, turning his body to face her. "So, what do you think?" 

"Did you make the frosting?"

"Yeah, why?"

"It sucks." 

Cato gasps and puts his hand up to his heart, mocking being hurt. "I'm wounded, Cloverfield," he breathed. Clove stuck her tongue out at him in a playful manner. "I speak the truth," she giggled. 

Here's the thing about Clove: She never giggled. Like, ever. Except when it came down to Cato. Only when she wass alone with him, would she occasionally let one slip out. It wasn't a very common affair, so Cato would take all that he could get. 

"Fine, fine," Cato sighed. "I guess I'll just have to drive you over to our dear old friend Peeta Mellark's family and get you some cheese buns." Clove immediately perked up at the mention of the Mellark's Bakery. 

She bolted up from her seat, grin on her face. "On one condition." Cato narrowed his eyes at her. There was always a catch. "What?" Clove acted nonchalant, slowly walking out of the room. "You pay," she called over her shoulder. 

Cato huffed, but agreed. "Sure, whatever." The two got on their winter gear and headed out to Cato's car. 

Clove usually was the radio controller, which Cato didn't mind much. She wasn't like most girls, so they very scarcely listened to girly pop music. Oddly enough, Clove had a knack for country tunes. She always pleaded her parents every year to go down to Nashville, but they never actually did. 

Cato was thinking when she turned twenty one to take her. They'd do some sight seeing, eat some  barbecue. And, since they'd both be of legal age to drink, do a pub crawl. Cato was almost certain that their friendship would last long enough for that to happen. 

Clove nodded her head along to the song on the radio, murmuring the words. Cato tapped her arm, causing her to come back to the real world. She raised her eyebrows, wondering why he touched her. "Sing louder," he told her, gazing back onto the road. "I like your voice; It's nice." 

Clove nodded, and the two teens spent the whole car ride belting out country lyrics. Cheese buns, Clove thought. Here we come.