𝗚𝗔𝗦𝗢𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗘¹, clato [catching fire au]

viii. haze

008. | haze

❝𝘪'𝘮 𝘢𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪 𝘢𝘮

𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘯 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥 ❞

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐖𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 with a pounding in her head so strong that she was sure there was a parade ignited inside her brain, she knew she had messed up.

Something very bad had happened last night, something so terrible she wasn't sure if she could ever forgive herself - she had opened up to Cato Hadley. No, not only had she opened up, but she had embarrassed herself beyond belief. Suddenly, she couldn't even feel sorry for herself over the pounding pain inside her head, because she knew she undoubtedly deserved it.

And this was before she had even realised where she was.

When had she gotten home last night - and how? Clove couldn't even bring her brain to attempt to comprehend the journey back from Cato's sofa to her own bed, or what hour they had finished their drinking session and called it a night, and she wasn't sure she would ever come to the correct conclusion considering how clouded her memory felt. And then, she attempted to roll over and found herself met with a face full of red velvet, and the shocking realisation hit her like a truck.

This was not her house.

The plush material underneath her skin felt like what she was used to lying on at home, but the sighting of the crimson fabric made several memories come flooding back. Of course, her sofas at home were not this colour at all - her sofas at home were blue.

She was on Cato Hadley's sofa.

It was almost fitting, when she thought about it. The deep red cushioning, in the home of one of the most brutal victors the nation had ever seen - the colour of blood. The thought of it somewhat pleased her, and yet suddenly she had the overwhelming urge to be sick.

Clove groaned and buried her head in her hands. This was quite possibly the worst place she could possibly have chosen to spend the night.

Suddenly, being back in the arena didn't sound like an awful idea.

And worse than that - her mind was not only hazy from the abundance of liquor that had entered her body last night, but her mind was completely empty. She remembered nothing. Evidently, the boy had been right when he taunted her for being a lightweight, or being unable to handle the alcohol. She was sure she couldn't have consumed that much in such a short space of time without completely passing out, and so there was no way she had drank that much at all - right?

The empty glass bottles gathered at her feet begged to differ, and she groaned again. Perhaps she really was just pathetic.

"Good Morning Sunshine", a familiar voice called from across the room, and Clove buried her head deeper into her hands, certain she wouldn't ever remove them. Hopefully, if she stayed there long enough he would disappear, or perhaps she would disappear herself - either option seemed equally appealing.

"Please", she mumbled, muffled by the hands covering her face, "Lower the volume, you're practically shouting".

Instead of responding, or lowering his volume, Cato's only response was to burst into a hysterical fit of laughter that made her ears bleed. As somebody who was so adapted to the after effects of excessive liquor, her lack of tolerance was extremely amusing to him. That was, until she attempted to push herself into an upright position and seemed as though she was about to throw up all over his velvet sofa.