Catra's body can't tense any more, and she's curled so tightly there's nothing else she can do. She just holds her breath, pretending that shreds of her heart aren't tearing themselves off while she waits for Adora to give up on her.
Except she doesn't, because she never does. Catra's fingers grip tighter on her pillow, digging in and tearing through the already-repaired materials. (This isn't the first time she's stowed away up here, and isn't the first time she's accidentally destroyed her bedding. The survival skills they learn include sewing and uniform repairs, and Catra's pillow got its first clumsy stitches a long time ago. She can feel them still, ugly bumps underneath her fingers.)
And then Adora's warmth is against her back, following the brush of cool air that the lift of her blanket exposes her to. Catra continues to hold her breath until her chest shudders with the effort; and she turns herself over, pressing her face into the crook of Adora's neck.
She won't apologize. She never apologizes, and she's never going to. But she feels -- so bad, and she wants Adora to hate her so that she has validation for her own self-loathing, but Adora doesn't. Adora never hates her. Adora never learns.
"...Does it hurt?" She croaks, voice quieter than a whisper. Her face is the only part of her that she allows to touch Adora, and when she sucks in a rattling breath it comes with Adora's comforting smell, and the scrunch of Catra's eyes doesn't stop tears from spilling over. One day, one day Adora is going to stop doing this. One day Adora will learn, and she won't come after Catra; she'll leave her alone to be miserable, and weak, and worthless, and she'll finally achieve all of the great things that Shadow Weaver always says she will. One day, Catra's going to curl in her bed, and know that Adora won't ever be warm against her again.
She should break it off now, for her own sake. Should put an end to it. Should stop hungrily drinking up Adora's attention. Should stop breathing in her scent. Should stop dedicating every beat of her heart to her.
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Catra's body can't tense any more, and she's curled so tightly there's nothing else she can do. She just holds her breath, pretending that shreds of her heart aren't tearing themselves off while she waits for Adora to give up on her.
Except she doesn't, because she never does. Catra's fingers grip tighter on her pillow, digging in and tearing through the already-repaired materials. (This isn't the first time she's stowed away up here, and isn't the first time she's accidentally destroyed her bedding. The survival skills they learn include sewing and uniform repairs, and Catra's pillow got its first clumsy stitches a long time ago. She can feel them still, ugly bumps underneath her fingers.)
And then Adora's warmth is against her back, following the brush of cool air that the lift of her blanket exposes her to. Catra continues to hold her breath until her chest shudders with the effort; and she turns herself over, pressing her face into the crook of Adora's neck.
She won't apologize. She never apologizes, and she's never going to. But she feels -- so bad, and she wants Adora to hate her so that she has validation for her own self-loathing, but Adora doesn't. Adora never hates her. Adora never learns.
"...Does it hurt?" She croaks, voice quieter than a whisper. Her face is the only part of her that she allows to touch Adora, and when she sucks in a rattling breath it comes with Adora's comforting smell, and the scrunch of Catra's eyes doesn't stop tears from spilling over. One day, one day Adora is going to stop doing this. One day Adora will learn, and she won't come after Catra; she'll leave her alone to be miserable, and weak, and worthless, and she'll finally achieve all of the great things that Shadow Weaver always says she will. One day, Catra's going to curl in her bed, and know that Adora won't ever be warm against her again.
She should break it off now, for her own sake. Should put an end to it. Should stop hungrily drinking up Adora's attention. Should stop breathing in her scent. Should stop dedicating every beat of her heart to her.
...But she really, really doesn't want to.