#thg clove | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

heliads · 1 year

Note

Request for Clove x reader! Y/N is a young peacekeeper in their home district, District 2, by the time the rebellion reaches its borders. As the source of many of Panem’s peacekeeper recruits and the District with the closest ties to the Capitol, it’s no surprise D2 is the last one still controlled by loyalists… Fortunately, if Y/N defects, their inside knowledge could help the rebels gain more ground. It’s also a personal thing, the perfect opportunity to retaliate against the Capitol for indirectly causing their girlfriend’s death. UNfortunately however, on the night Y/N planned to defect to the rebels, they are suddenly plagued with second thoughts. Fears of the future. The consequences of turning away from their life’s calling as a Peacekeeper, betraying D2 values they’ve been taught since childhood, in order to see a new Panem where all-powerful men no longer reign and the Games no longer exist. There is no ever going back from treason; win or lose, they’ll have to commit to the rebellion until the very end. Y/N’s terror refuses to fade, so Clove’s ghost — a victim of a lifetime’s indoctrination, regrettably molded into a Career Tribute eager for glory — shows up to nudge them towards a decision. How much of her motivation is simply “I don’t want you to end up on the losing side” lol. Maybe their reunion is real, maybe it’s a dream after Y/N accidentally dozed off, that’s up to you! .…. okayyy so this may be a little too much, i’m sorry if I went overboard! Of course, feel free to add or remove any details you want! One last thing, can there be an exchange of “I love you” or “I’ll always love you” between Y/N and Clove before Y/N leaves Thank you very much in advance!!!

anon...this idea is incredible...bless you for giving me such exquisite angst inspo

masterlist

The silence lets you know that it’s time to leave. It has been unfathomably loud this entire time, booming noises and crashing dins ever since the war began. You’ve been doing your best to tune it out, but your attempts were never met with much success. Maybe it’s because you knew you could never really pretend that the earth shattering explosions weren’t there. It is impossible to ignore the war, even when you’ve got your head so far buried in the sand that you’re choking on the force of the lies.

Perhaps you tried so hard to pretend everything was fine because it had always worked before. The Capitol had protected you all your life, how could you not follow the scent of their riches like a guiding lantern through the dark? Even as the light reflected off of the sight of gaudy baubles that could pay for enough food for your entire family for months, you still thought that the glow was worth chasing. You always had.

Everyone had. In District Two, the Capitol is everything. You’ve heard it said before that Two is the closest thing the Capitol’s ever had to a friend amongst the rest of the districts. While the rest are busy throwing fits and holding revolts over things they’ll never be able to change, Two stays strong. That is the way of the world, you suppose, Two holding firm while everyone else crumbles to ash.

It’s certainly what the Capitol would like you to believe, at any rate. There’s a big chance that it was never true in the slightest. The rest of the districts could have been just as stringent loyalists, making Two just as ordinary as the others. Were it not for the fact that you’ve watched years worth of Hunger Games and been able to notice just how visible the starving bones of the other contestants are as compared to your golden, glowing tributes, it might almost be real.

Right now, Two’s fortitude might be the honest truth. The revolution has been baying at your doorstep for quite some time now. It was always coming, even if no one wanted to admit it. There was no way that the rebels with their stolen guns and bloody screams could ever ignore you for long. To topple Two was to bring the war to the very gates of the Capitol. Your home district was just one grand domino to be taken down before the finale.

You would have hated that thought once. You’ve been a Peacekeeper for a few years now, one of their best and brightest. It’s difficult to ascend in this career field due to the widespread corruption and the irresistible allure of a good bribe or two, but you’ve managed to make it work nonetheless. People have always wondered what gave you the spirit to keep going, but no one has ever figured it out. Can you keep a secret? It’s the same reason that you have to leave tonight.

It’s because of Clove.

There is a girl buried in foreign soil some miles away from you, if they ever bothered to bury her at all. They did not bring back Clove’s corpse to you, not in a way that they could ever recognize. You saw what happened in the Games, how those mutts looked eerily like past competitors. You don’t know what they did to Clove, your Clove, but whatever became of her body is in no way available to you.

Clove was the best of you. You can say that with a free conscience. It might be one of the only truths capable of being spoken without regret. Clove studied her entire damn life to win the Games, and she didn’t. There is no greater failure than that. Never mind the fact that she did everything right, that she killed everyone in her path and made alliances with the finest fighters there. In the end, Clove didn’t make it out, and that is akin to treachery in the eyes of everyone but you.

Some part of you wonders if no one talks about Clove’s death because no one expected it to happen. When Cato and Clove were reaped, everyone in Two clasped hands over ill-bought drinks and grinned to themselves over the thought of another Games victory in their laps. It was impossible that either of them would not win. The thought had not occurred to anyone but you.

You were terrified when you first heard that your girlfriend was entered into the Games. You had rushed to find Clove the moment visitors were admitted to the newly reaped tributes, hardly aware of anything but the pounding in your head. You believed in Clove more than anything, but even the microscopic chance that something might go wrong was far too much for you to bear. After all, you loved her, and sometimes that’s enough to rob you of any trust left in the world.

Clove told you not to worry. She wasn’t afraid in the slightest, you could see it in her face. As you watched, her eyes lit up with the thrill of the challenge. Two weeks and she’d be back with her laurels, she promised you. If you were good, she might even let you stay in her house in the Victor’s Village when she returned.

It was a joke, of course, and one made in good fun. Everyone in Two knew that Clove couldn’t go anywhere without you. The two of you were inseparable on the training field, in the streets, in your homes. The thought that she would ever live without you by her side was unthinkable.

It made no sense, then, that Clove would go and die and leave you alone forever. You saw her death on the screens with absolutely no preparation. It came out of nowhere. One moment, Clove had her knife to Katniss Everdeen’s throat, ready for another successful kill, and then Thresh appeared out of the blue and smashed her skull in with a stone.

She fell like an angel, wings cut by bloody palms. You had the perfect view as that spark of adrenaline blinked out of her eyes. Clove called out to someone before she went, you think. The audio from the recording made it seem as if she was screaming out to Cato before she died, but you watched her lips and you saw another word spoken aloud: Y/N. You. Unreachable, but somehow still the one she wanted before she went.

The Capitol wanted Two’s classic loyalty to stay firmly ensconced in the depths of the Games, so they edited you out of Clove’s story. In the end, you wonder if anyone will ever remember you with her, or if Clove will go down in district history as the solitary paragon of every virtue they had ever worshiped by knifepoint. Will your memory die with her? Perhaps, love, perhaps.

Clove was supposed to live, of that you were certain. You cannot even blame Thresh for throwing the stone, nor Katniss for being so damn good at inspiring loyalty that she could convince anyone to fight her battles for her. In the end, they were just kids trying to survive. Is anyone truly guilty of such an act?

Your anger, then, was towards the Capitol. Clove stuck by their rules, and what did her perfection bring her but death? Fine, then. If they want death, you will bring it to their door. The rebels arrived some months ago, this time not by force but by way of lightly creeping footsteps and secrets. They were scouting out potential allies. As it turned out, you would be one of them.

You did not anticipate switching sides at the beginning. You were fully prepared to die for Two. It would connect you to Clove one last time, if nothing else, and the thought of betraying the Capitol after all you have done for them was unthinkable.

The rebels’ arguments were good, though, and you know why they were so keen on appealing to you. As a Peacekeeper, you have access to information that the rebels would kill to have. If they could manage to convince you to join their side, they could gain a much needed advantage just before their fight brought them to the Capitol. With you, they can win.

Tonight’s silence marks your time to leave. There’s an informant waiting for you in the wilderness surrounding District Two. If you can manage to get there without being noticed, they can lead you to the rebels and you’ll have made your choice for good. You think you made your decision some time ago when the girl you loved died, but it’s something entirely different to commit to it like this.

It’s starting to gnaw at you, the weight of what you’re doing. You are turning your back on the Capitol for good, and by extension your district, your home. Your family are still staunch believers in the Capitol. They were the first ones to congratulate you when you first joined the Peacekeepers. Like you, they bitterly mourned Clove’s death. Unlike you, their faith in Snow was never shaken.

Are you the problem, then? If everyone around you has no problem with the way the district is run, why should you raise a different concern? Your entire life has boiled down to following the whims of the Capitol. Who are you to be so hurt by this war that you would turn your back on everything?

After all, that is what treason means: no more home, not until the war is won. You help the rebels crush Snow beneath their bloody heels or you die. There are only two ways you could ever return to District Two once you leave it. You’ll either be a victorious rebel or a dying martyr. Triumph or execution, those are your fates. For once, there is no Capitol-issued road map directing you as to which choice you could make, which is of course why you’re having such trouble with it now.

Your shoulders shake. The house is dark. No one else is here; you bought your own place with your Peacekeeper earnings, so there’s no one here to suspect you. Only the shadows watch and listen, only the restless pacing of your feet indicates that there might be someone here.

Then again, perhaps you aren’t so alone after all. The moonlight shines through a window onto a wrinkled photograph that’s been attached to a nearby wall. The pearlescent glow falls onto the face of a girl who’s been lost to time. It makes her eyes shine again, and although you haven’t seen them move in quite some time, you swear they wink at you now.

You shouldn’t be this indecisive, you know. Make up your mind and go.

It would be just like her to say such things, wouldn’t it? Clove always had a quicker temper than you. She’d snap like a wire in the second, forever the first one to attack. You have a thousand memories of her charging at you, knife in hand, ready to take you down. No matter how many rounds you went, she always came up swinging. Always. Always, until the one time she didn’t.

“It’s not half that easy,” you complain aloud, “I am throwing away my entire life on a feeble hope that this might pay off. It’s not something I can decide in a moment.”

Then make it something you can decide in a moment. You have no time to waste. If you get caught trying to decide which side, that’ll be the most stupid way you could ever die.

“I’d see you, then. Wouldn’t it be worth it?”

Clove’s ghost scoffs in your mind. It’s been more than a year since you saw her last, but you can still replay the echo of her derisive laugh in the back of your mind. Boots scuffing on a wooden floor, a knife sharpened on a whetstone, you can hear her everywhere you go.

Don’t play the martyr, it was never your best trick. You already know what you’re doing, don’t you? Just make up your mind and go along with it for once. There’s nothing left for you here.

You let out a sound halfway between a gasp and a laugh. “Not you? My whole life is here. Everything we ever built was in Two. You think I can leave it just like that?”

I did.

It’s said simply.

I did, and look where it got me. I chose the wrong side.

“You chose the Capitol.”

It chose me.

That’s the truth, isn’t it? Clove was a product of the Capitol in every single way. She was molded into a Career from the moment she was born. All of you have been harboring some illusion of self control, but there is none in this world, not really. You do your best to survive on the path that has been given to you, and if the thought occurs to you that you will live and die without ever making progress, you make the sound of violence in your head so loud that everything else is drowned out.

“So what, you want to protect me? Keep me from following in your footsteps?”

I want you to win.

It’s said with the usual sort of savage sneer that Clove had always mastered so well. You bite back a laugh despite the circumstances.

“That’s generous of you. Tell me, does your superior advice go any deeper than for me to stay on the winning side?”

It’s all we’ve ever needed. What, do you suddenly need a moral compass to guide you? It’s not like either of us ever had such a thing as a conscience.

She’s not wrong. You and Clove were the deadliest pair to ever hit Two. The district swore that its children grew more and more bloodthirsty with every subsequent generation, and the two of you certainly proved that right. That changed when you lost her, though. You couldn’t keep up the spirit when it was just you.

“I didn’t need it when I had you.”

You still do.

Neither of you were much built for kindness. This rare scrap of it now makes you want to cry and scream at the same time. In the end, you decide to use it as motivation to stand up and straighten your spine.

“They’re waiting for me,” you whisper. It’s not a goodbye. You don’t think you could manage it anymore.

I’ll watch your back.

You swear you can hear her smile. The two of you always had each other’s sixes when training for a fight. Even now, when you’re running to reach the rebels before you get shot by the other Peacekeepers, she’ll keep up the familiar rhythm. It’s enough to convince you what the right choice will always be.

“I’m going to miss you. I already do.”

I’m still with you, obviously. You’ll find me soon enough. I’ll wait.

You take one last shuddering sigh and walk over to the wall where her picture hangs. You tear it down with trembling fingers. Once the light is off of the photo, her eyes no longer shine, and you realize that time has long since dulled all details of her usually sharp countenance.

“I’ll always love you,” you say, and leave. The house is empty when you go.

Outside, the sky splits with alternating stars and plumes of smoke from errant bombs. The earth shakes with every other step. The silence is long gone now, but your window of time is not yet up. Your run becomes more sure with every growing second, and soon enough you’re slipping away from Two and into the unnameable wilderness. The fire in the sky above grows, engulfing your old world.

If there are any ghosts watching your progress, they grin to see you finally make your stand. Tomorrow, Two will wake up and learn that the last of its believers has abandoned it. The war will come, its hope will fall. You will be there to see it crumble.

hunger games tag list: @w1shes43

91 notes · View notes

clatoera · 1 year

Text

Chapter 2 Always Remember We’re Burned For Better: Still, the Yearning Stays

Hey y’all! Thank you for your endless kindness and support on the first chapter of this fic. I apologize for the delay in chapter 2. Initially this was going to cover far more than it does, but when I crested 35 pages, I decided to break it into a few extra chapters to cover her games so that I could do them the justice they deserve. This segment along ended up being 18 pages, and thus is may be easier to read on AO3. Thank you all for the comments and feedback. It literally means the world.

AO3 Link to this chapter: Still, the yearning stays

Thanks y’all, and enjoy!

If you need chapter 1 the link is right here!

Master Post of Chapters here

once again, thanks to @ms1818 for screaming with me all the time about the besties.

The minute the doors are shut behind him, Enobaria’s grabs Cato around his arm and pulls him quickly into the first side room on the train.

“Listen to me.” Enobaria practically hisses, peeking her head out to ensure that the entourage, and most importantly Clove, is out of earshot.

The look in her eyes is frightening, which is not a feeling Cato is used to having. Something tells him, though, that this is not the last time this week he’ll be feeling his heart race a little faster just beneath his skin.

“You do not touch her this week, got it? She has gamemakers and sponsors to impress, interviews to nail, and not to mention other tributes she needs to intimidate.” Enobaria releases his arm only when he tugs it out of her hand, his strength alone overcoming her sharp grasp. The mentor does not waver in the way she stares into what feels like the depths of his soul, something akin to a threat in her body language. “She doesn’t need to be distracted. That will get her killed.”

She looks into the long hallway again, knowing it won’t take long for Clove to notice the absence of the two people on the train she’s most likely to miss.

“I didn’t even want you to come this year.” Enobaria is nothing if not honest, especially when it comes to Clove and Cato. “You aren’t ready to mentor, Cato, and you’re a liability to her.”

“That's the whole point, I’m here to learn from the best.” He flashes a smile that tiptoes the line of a smirk, and the second he opens his mouth again Enobaria knows which category the expression is supposed to fall into. “Oh, and you. Brutus and you. Come on, you just know your time as a mentor is numbered. Give us a few years, it’s going to be Me and Clove by the 77th.”

Enobaria hits his chest lightly with the back of her hand, though it nearly comes off as playful. If he notices the way her face falls just a little at the mention of Clove’s future, he doesn’t mention it.

“I don’t want to hear your mouth this week. We have one goal, got it? It’s her. It’s getting her sponsors. It’s making sure she nails her interview. We do whatever we have to do to make her favorable for the win. That’s your first lesson. You do what you have to do, to get your tribute out. To get our girl out.” Enobaria gives him a pointed look, one that tells him the phrasing was no mistake. They were on the same page, at the very least, with the same priority. Clove.

“I think she can handle making herself a favorite to win-” Cato argues, arms crossing over his chest, ready to defend, when that oh so familiar voice can be heard all the way across the train car.

“Will you just shut the fuck up already?” Comes from the girl, indifference with just the slightest edge seeping out of her voice.

Enobaria rolls her eyes before pushing past him, and Cato can’t help the little swell of pride in his chest as he follows her out. He told their escort the same thing, a year ago exactly, when she had rambled on about different districts and what results their reapings yielded.

When he enters the dining area, only steps behind Enobaria, he realizes her ire is not aimed at the escort at all, but rather her fellow volunteer.

Great start, Clove.

“Alliance is off to a great start, I see.” Brutus grumbles as he enters the dining car from the opposite entrance of Enobaria and Cato. “Cheery as usual, Clove.”

Enobaria does not even bother with trying to get the story out of them, knowing that doing so was poking at a bomb on the edge of detonation. Not what they need right now. “Listen. I don’t care if you two like each other.”

“Clove doesn’t like anyone.” The boy– what the fuck was his name, anyway? Cato should probably know, he’d been in classes with him for half a decade– tries to refute.

“I might hate you less if you weren’t an idiot.” There’s venom in that voice now, and from the way Clove stabs through a cinnamon roll with a knife intended for slicing meat, Cato knows that she is biting back far worse insults.

“Stop. Save it for when you’re the final two, the whole world will be ready for that show.” Brutus suggests, though it’s an empty suggestion. Two from the same district rarely, if ever, end up in the final showdown.

Cato strategically settles himself directly across from Clove, in the seat between Brutus and Enobaria, who sits herself as the head of the table.

Clove’s scowling at her pastry, and when he lightly nudges her shin with his shoe, that scowl shifts directly to him. He raises his eyebrows at her for a fleeting moment, the briefest exchange that she instantly understands, communicated by the tiniest hint of a smirk on her lips. Years of training together made it so they could practically read the other's mind, to know what they’re thinking without ever even saying it. Right now, they’re in agreement. That final show will be hers, and she better make it a good one.

Enobaria catches the exchange, if the glare she directs towards Cato is any indication. Whatever. After a quick shake of her head directed at the pair, clearly a direction to cut it out, she decides to intervene in the argument at hand.

“Alright. We know you’re both skilled fighters. You’re the best of two’s current pool of trainees. No need to waste time talking about skills, just go to training and you make sure everyone knows who the one to fear is.”

Clove notices she did not say which district to fear.

“We’re just going right into this, starting with strategy. You–” Enobaria points at the boy and asks his name, but it is so inconsequential to Cato that he doesn’t even care to learn it. Not a chance in hell that he’ll even mention the boy when he’s working on sponsors and publicity. “What’s your angle?”

“I’m going for a classic, strong-”

The boy doesn’t even get to finish his plan when Clove cuts him off with a sharp laugh, and the way she rolls her eyes shows everyone exactly where this boy stands. “Oh you’re even stupider than I thought.”

“Clove, that’s not-” Brutus tries to interject.

“No, It’s a stupid fucking idea.” Clove pulls her knife out of her cinnamon roll, waving it around as she speaks. “Strong. That was Cato’s angle.” She directs the tip of her knife in Cato’s direction, waving it up and down to emphasize where he sits before her. “You want to be compared to him? Everyone remembers him, he’s literally the most recent victor. You can’t hold a fucking candle in comparison to him, anyway.” She stabs a strawberry with the steak knife, making a point to bite it right off the tip of the blade. “Four entire years you never beat him once. You weren’t even second best, that was me. Sounds like suicide to be compared to Cato, if I were you.”

Cato doesn’t even try to hide the cocky smile that graces his face, bringing his right hand to rub under his jaw as he looks down and away from her. He knew what the look in her eyes would be, and he wasn’t in the place to see that mischievous glint. He even bites his tongue from pointing out that she admitted that she was only second best.

“And Cato will actively be doing those Victor interviews, the recap, commentary, all that stuff they do between broadcasts. He’s still in everyone’s face.” Clove twirls the silver knife between her fingers, letting it toss out of her palm before landing in the center of a croissant. “You look like a district 12 kid next to him anyway.”

“Let me guess, you’re going for bitch who has no personality other than being a little psycho with knives?”

“Enough.” It is a snarl this time as it comes from Enobaria, who gives Brutus a look that the man clearly understands. They have their long mentoring partnership that lead to a silent communication of their own, it seems.

“Come with me.” Brutus stands abruptly, gesturing to his tribute. “We’ll talk in the bar car. It might be for the best anyway, keeping your strategies separate.”

The boy throws back his chair and nearly stomps down the hall following Brutus, his footsteps drumming in an angry beat as he follows his individual mentor. The second they are behind closed doors, Enobaria whips her head towards Clove.

“You have to play nice, he’s your district partner, Clove.”

“He’s one more body between me and victory.” She reaches across the table now, plucking a strip of bacon directly from the plate that had been placed in front of Cato by an Avox. “besides, I wasn’t wrong.” Clove emphasizes with a crunch on her stolen treat. “He’s half a foot and forty pounds lighter, to start with.”

“You would know what I weigh wouldn’t you-” Cato taunts, this time he reaches over and steals a piece of jam covered toast off of the plate before her, evening the score. He takes a single bite before handing it back, earning him a slap to the hand.

“I actually have to go compete for my life, I need the extra food.” She argues, though it’s not as cold as it may have been if she said it a year or two ago.

Clove leans back in her chair, stretching her feet out in front of her under the table. This time it’s her foot, out of her shoe and bare, that finds his calf. Her flexible leg easily trails up over his knee and to his thigh. He shifts, and when she thinks she’s won, he grabs her foot and holds it in his lap, refusing to let her slip away.

“This is what I meant when I told you not to get distracted, Clove. The two of you need to stop whatever the fuck you two have going on for the next week. Clove is here as a tribute, and Cato is here as the most recent victor. Period. That's it.” Enobaria leans back in her own chair, arms over her chest, and when she notices the way Cato smirks at Clove, and the girl narrows her eyes in response, she says nothing.

Pick your battles, Enobaria.

“Clove, we have to talk about something.” She redirects, angling to face Clove directly, as both Cato and Clove turn to listen to her.

“Are you going to tell me to play nice with the other kids at school?” Clove nearly jumps when Cato’s thumb presses abruptly into the space right underneath the ball of her foot.She goes to tug her foot back to herself, but he’s got her ankle easily held in his other hand. “Asshole.” She murmurs, but stops her fidgeting regardless.

“They’re going to try to bring up your mother.” Enobaria drops like a bomb, not having it in her to continue addressing the two of them and their behavior.

It appears the phrase causes a tone shift in Clove, her whole body language shifting from whatever playful competitiveness she was showing Cato, to something that is somehow both defensive and stunned.

“I’m not talking about my mother.”

“What would they say about your mom?” Cato cocks his head, but the way his hands hold her shifts as well. This touch is hidden to Enobaria, of course, but Clove notices how his thumb strokes little circles over her ankle in an attempt to comfort whatever distress she must be showing. “She isn’t even around, why would she talk about her, Enobaria?”

Clove directs her attention back to the food spread, suddenly finding much more interest in dicing a kiwi into perfect little cubes. “My mom was a tribute.”

“What?” How wouldn’t he know, she’s a victor’s daughter? Her mother must not live in the village, or he’d have seen her by now, surely. “I didn’t know your mom was a victor, It makes sense but-”

“She was a tribute. She didn’t win.” Clove replied in a clipped voice, but it isn't the kind of snark he is used to hearing from her. “She had me when she was fifteen, volunteered when she was eighteen.”

“There’s more to it, and you know that. The Capitol loves a good story, and they’re going to bring up the fact that she-” Enobaria tries to explain, but the firm head shake from Clove stops her.

“I’m not talking about my mother. I got here on my own. I will win on my own, with no help from her.” Clove snaps, effectively ending this topic of conversation. At least for now.

Cato narrows his eyes towards her, trying to read the expression she is desperately trying to conceal.

“When you win they’re going to bring her up.”

“Enobaria, I’ll remind them that I'm sitting there as the victor that she isn’t.” Clove untangles her limbs from Cato’s and stands. She smooths the hem of her dress, and for a moment she remembers the year before, when Cato ran his fingers over the white lace on the dress she wore, as if he were trying to remember how she looked for the rest of his life.

“I’m going to check out the rest of the train.” Clove announces, seeing herself off before either Cato or Enobaria could intercept her.

He watches her go, and once she has shut the door behind her, Cato turns his body and his attention to Enobaria.

“I didn’t even know she knew who her mom was, she doesn’t talk about her. Ever.”

“I mean, you see why. I remember her mother, she was a few years older than me in training. It’s a terrible story, and I'm not telling it. If she wants you to know, she’ll tell you. It’s not for me to say.” Enobaria sighs, leaning back on the metal chair, rocking it onto the hind legs so she can balance briefly before falling back forward with grace. “We’ve got our work cut out for us with those two. Welcome to mentoring.”

“She’s our priority, she is our winner.” Cato reminds, though Enobaria isn’t sure if he intends it as a warning or as a reminder.

“Of course she is. But I can't say that part yet.” Enobaria realizes that brunch has unceremoniously ended. “Don’t go to her room. You also have to arrive in one piece.”

And while Cato knows it’s for the best to give her space (Clove was always particularly volatile when she was angry), it doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to soak up every moment he has with her.

Enobaria bans Cato from the opening ceremonies and tribute parade. Something about how he needed to stick to the reigning victor narrative, to network himself and lock in support before throwing his complete and total allegiance behind Clove.

“Let her prove herself. She’s got the skills, let her draw in the sponsors, and then you lock them in.” She had instructed him, before she sent him up to the District Two suite on his own.

Enobaria knew what she was doing. He trusts her.

As he watches the parade of tributes, he intends to make note of any competition, any realistic allies. One is a given. Neither tribute looks particularly impressive, average size for careers dressed in head to toe sequin monstrosities, but they are careers nonetheless. Four hasn’t deserved to be considered a career district since Finnick Odair back in the 65th, if someone were to ask Cato. Even Annie Cresta’s win back in the 70th, felt more like luck than training. There’s a large boy from 8, not quite as big as he is, but still significantly larger than Clove. Most tributes are significantly bigger than Clove, but rarely is size a factor against her. After all, she had trained against him for their entire teenage life. A knife doesn’t care how big you are, she’d always taunt when she got him down.

Cato runs his hand on the back of his neck, the other hand on the back of the couch as he watches the parade wrap up, eyes locked on a certain dark haired girl. The angle for District 2 seemed to be inspired by ancient empires, again. Last year it was heavy gold plates, he can remember the stylist calling it gladiator or something along those lines. This year though, they clearly went a different route, one he can actually place on his own.

Clove, at least, is in a shimmery golden fabric that looks nearly liquid as it clings to her. The fabric gathers over her left shoulder, and falls all the way to the ground. There’s a golden band around her waist, made to resemble the laurel wreath that eventually becomes the crown of the victor. A thin gold band wraps around her upper right arm, and when Cato looks close enough he can tell it almost resembles a snake of sorts, crawling up her skin.

They left her hair free flowing down her back, though it is not the typical askew waves and occasional curls no, the length of her hair was meticulously styled to all lay exactly the same way across her back. Most striking though, is the way a piece of bright golden metal, or maybe ribbon, is laced around the crown of her head. It’s bold on the behalf of District 2 stylist, to so clearly emulate the look of a Victor’s crown around her head. Good. Let her competitors see how she’ll shine once they’ve all been sent home in their unmarked pine boxes.

It’s clear that this year they modeled them after the imagery of those ancient Greek and Roman Gods.

With the way her eyes shine from beneath long eyelashes, and the knowing, coy smirk on her tinted lips, Cato believes she looks all the bit the goddess she is meant to symbolize. And, while he can’t remember the exact school lesson that talked about the names of those ancient gods of victory or war, he is sure that it certainly should have been Clove.

As much as it pains him, he obeys Enobaria’s direct orders.

He does not go near her, does not follow her into her room under the cover of night, knowing full well he would never forgive himself if he did distract her. Clove would call him stupid to even suggest that she could be distracted by him, as if they haven’t been playing this game together for over three years.

He goes to his own interview with Caesar, and brags how he is sure that District 2 will be bringing home the win for the second year in a row. If anyone notices that he slips and says that she is the best tribute he’s ever seen, noone comments. A compliment like that from a victor is worth its weight in gold, be it ‘unintentional’ or not.

When her odds jump from 7-1 to 5-1 the next morning, Cato is not reprimanded for his ‘accidental’ slip.

Score release goes as well as expected.

The five of them sit in the circular couch pod in front of the screen, the gaggle of styling teams and the D2 escort babble amongst themselves, trading plans for the final interviews tomorrow.

Clove sits close enough to Cato that with her legs crossed under her, and his legs splayed, their knees faintly brush each other. It’s innocuous to the majority, and even Enobaria bites her tongue when she notices. It’s harmless enough. The scores start and Cato finds the knee touching hers is bouncing, and he is shocked to realize the nervous habit is stemming from himself.

“Let's see if you’re as good as you think.” Cato teases her, leaning back with his arms stretched over the back of the couch on both sides. If one so happens to be behind her shoulders, so be it. “You’re looking at a perfect 10 from me, of course. I’m sure you remember.”

“Scores go up to 12. Far from Perfect.” Clove leans back, brushing against his arm, testing the proverbial waters of just how far they could push.

“Noone scores higher than a 10, it’s a formality to make 11 and 12 feel like relevant districts. I was also a perfect score.” Brutus reminds, giving Cato a knowing nod. He did score perfect, as far as an actual grading scale would go. “Enobaria you were a 10, too, weren’t you?”

She nods, and takes one of the tall stemmed glasses from one of the passing Avoxes. The purple liquid within is unidentified, but clearly Enobaria reaches for something that will calm whatever nerves she may be feeling. Cato can understand. It’s oddly stressful, waiting for the scores of the person you are rooting for. It's almost worse than waiting for his own.“Most Victors from two have had a ten. I can only think of one person who’s ever scored a ten and didn’t win. At least from two.”

The escort, Cato thinks her name is Elena, quiets them. “Shh, it’s starting, it’s starting!”

Caesar’s theme blares through the room as the host introduces himself yet again, as if all of Panem does not know his name. He gives the typical explanation. Three days of evaluation, score 1-12, and so on and so forth.

District one is first. Both the male and female tribute receive nines, strong starts for the career alliance. Clove reminds them that they both chose spears, something that will put them in competition with each other for tools.

The boy is next. When his face flashes across the screen, Caesar announces yet another nine.

“A solid score.” Brutus remarks, though the previous conversation of the value of tens still hangs in the air.

“Also from District 2. Clove.” Cato can feel the way his jaw clenches, and Clove’s whole body tenses as they both lean forward in anticipation. Enobaira has the drink to her lips, bracing for the score. Not that anyone doubts Clove, but the pressure is still mounting.

“With a score of…Ten.”

Clove’s body relaxes and a beaming smile graces her face for the briefest few seconds before it falls into a smirk. The way that smile grabbed at his heart and yanked it towards her is something Cato can think about later.

“What was that about Victors with tens?” She asks in a voice that is feigning sweetness, though drips with venom. She’s out for blood, now.

“Welcome to the Tens Club, kid. You’ve earned it.” Brutus grabs her shoulder, to give it a firm but proud shake.

Enobaria finishes her drink in a quick tilt of her head. The stress is lifted. Clove has more than proved herself a fierce competitor, despite her physical size and overall feminine appearance.

The look she gives Cato, communicating with nothing more than her eyes, is a clear message. Go for it, brag about her to the world. Enboria stands, and walks around the back of the couch, pausing to lean between the two of them and whisper. “That's our girl.”

The rest of the scores pass without anything of note. The big kid from eight gets an eight, but no one other than him and the career pack score above a six. If Clove relaxes when she leans back, just enough that her arm brushes against his and rests there, well she’s just letting herself relax after a high stress week.

“High score of the year.” Enobaria announces the moment the presentation ends, and she actually bears those razor blade teeth in a frightening smile. “Good work.”

“She’s the best.” Cato agrees, and when he looks down at her over his shoulder, he cannot contain his smile.

The next and final night is the interview. Enobaria and Brutus have already made their way down with whats-his-name, leaving him alone to wait for Clove’s team to release her. Cato slides his hands into the pockets of his navy blue blazer, leaning against the wall that holds the elevator. He crosses his left foot over his right, and leans back, chuckling to himself as he hears Clove openly voicing her distaste over some detail he cannot discern.

“I really need to get going–” Which is Clove’s kind way of saying ‘it’s in your best interest to let me leave.’

He hears them trying to fight her as she steps away, clearly wearing some sort of heel by the way he can hear the clicking of her light footsteps across the marble tiled floor.

Her steps came to a halt right as she began to crest the connecting threshold from her room to the rest of the suite.

“I don’t want to hear a single word from you.” Clove warns as she crosses into the living space, hands firmly on her hips as she makes her way towards him in long, sure strides.

Cato can’t help it though, when the second he sees her he tilts his head back and gives half of a laugh. He shakes his head as she quickly crosses the distance between them, and he takes a single step forward that nearly closes the distance entirely. At the last minute, though, he heeds Enobaria’s warning.

That doesn’t stop him from reaching out a hand to run the horrific orange fabric at her waist through his fingers.

“You look like a little marigold.”

“Shut your mouth.” Clove snaps, though she glances down at herself. The orange ruffles at the top of her dress do slightly resemble flower petals, the more that she thinks about it. Sure, the orange satin at her waist is flattering, but the layers of tulle that fall all the way to her feet are doing nothing to make her look intimidating or fierce or any of the other attributes she wanted to express. “I look like a child playing dress up.”

Cato wisely chooses not to comment as he reaches out to touch the various twists and floofs in her hair, shaking his head as he tries to understand what girl they are trying to portray in front of him. “They’re going for unhinged, maybe?”

She smacks his hand out of her hair at that comment, crossing her arms over her chest in a way that yeah, maybe looks a little insecure. Despite the dress covering her feet, she felt so incredibly exposed in this strapless piece.

“Not funny, Cato. They’re going to make me look stupid like this.”

His hand finds her chin, stylists be damned, and he tilts her chin up to look at him. He wants to comment on how the color at the very least makes her eyes look particularly green, but there’s something different about her face that he can’t quite place. Cato narrows his eyes when his thumb runs along her cheekbone, and there must be a look of distaste on his face for Clove to react to.

“What are you looking at- hey!” Clove leans her neck back, knitting her eyebrows together as she scowls at her…her Cato. “They’ll come after me with makeup brushes to fix whatever you’re fucking up, and I don’t want to be disqualified when I kill my stylist team”

He lifts his thumb, and notices both the pale powder on his finger, but also the patch of freckles he’s revealed underneath. “They covered your freckles…then painted more on?” There’s evident disgust in his tone, as he wipes the offensive makeup on the side of his leg.

“Guess they prefer to place them individually, I don’t know.” Clove shrugs, but squints her eyes as he places his hands on either side of her face and wipes the concealer and offending faux-freckles off.

“Fuck that, fuck them.” Cato mumbles, smiling at his handiwork when he realizes he can see the galaxy of freckles on her cheeks once again. “You don’t need all that. You are so, unbelievably–” He’s caught off guard when blue eyes catch green, and it takes the entirety of his resolve not to lean down and catch her lips in his, especially with the way she tilted her head into one of his hands, leaving a long, open expanse of her neck that practically begs him to claim it.

If she rises on her toes to close the space between their lips herself– already shortened by the multiple inches her shoes added to her height– well, who can blame her. It very well could be her last night on Earth, why deprive herself now?

It’s Cato who hesitates though, still cradling her face in his hands he straightens his back and pulls back before they can slip too far into each other. His hands drop from her face in defeat. One free hand now rubs over his jaw as the other slams the down button on the elevator. “After.”

Clove nods in a silent agreement, and they ride side by side down the elevator, arms close enough that they may as well have wrapped them around each other.

As usual District One goes first, playing up glamor or something superficial to an audience who eats it right up. Enobaria is Flanked by Brutus and Cato, standing off stage across from where the Clove will enter in the coming moments.

She is standing in the wings, dress gathered in her hands so she does not trip and make herself look uncoordinated and risk losing sponsors. Clove catches the eyes of the three of them as Caesar begins introducing District Two, specifically being drawn into the approving nod Enobaria gives her as she is called to the stage.

The light is too blinding for Clove to see how Enobaria grabs Cato’s upper arm, giving a firm and reassuring squeeze. They’d been waiting for this.

It feels like a blur, the deafening way Capitol citizens cheer for her. She’s the favorite, evident by the way they go absolutely wild when she flashes them a confident white smile.

Caesar is settling the crowd down as he and Clove sit across from each other. Over the host’s shoulder Clove can see the three of them still watching her with more pride than she’s ever felt directed to her.

He starts his interview by commenting on her knife skills, which she uses as a chance to brilliantly remind him that she is the best.

The audience thrives on her wit, once again rising into deafening cheers when she reminds- not threatens, reminds– Caesar Flickerman that she could kill him from across the stage.

“Now. I hear that you have a birthday coming, is that true?” He leans forward, quirking a blue tinted eyebrow at her.

“Yes Caesar, I’ll be eighteen this week.” She responds in a sweet voice, looking over her shoulder and out towards the audience. “I’m planning to give myself the win as a gift to myself,” she informs them with a coy little grin.

“The confidence! I love it!” He vamps. “I think that would be quite a gift to us all, wouldn’t it?” Caesar, for what it's worth, can certainly work up a crowd. “You had the highest score of the year, no doubt a result of hardwork and practice. I’ve been told that you were the long term training companion to our victor last year, is that true?”

For the briefest minute she catches Cato’s eyes in the wings, and for a moment and only a moment the way she lights up is for him alone.

“It’s true. Between you and I though, he’s lucky he competed last year and not against me.” She pretends as if she shares this secret with the host and the host alone. The audience oohs in response, as if she just shared the hottest gossip in the country.

“Clove, are such a firecracker in such a little package! I love it!”

“You know Caesar, it doesn’t matter how much bigger someone may be. A knife hits them all the same way. And I never miss.”

“Oh I am going to miss this girl!!” The audience cheers in agreement.

“I’ll be back in a few days.”

He ramps the audience up one last time as he holds her hand up in the air. “Ladies and Gentlemen, Clove!”

Clove exits the stage towards Enobaria, Brutus, and Cato, smiling until the moment she is in the wings.

“You killed it.” Enobaria approves, though Clove keeps walking past her, grabbing Cato by the arm as she does.

“I know.”

She continues walking, now tugging Cato by the sleeve for just a couple of seconds until she is sure he is following her.

Clove is not waiting for the other tribute to take the stage, she doesn’t have a fuck to give about any other district either.

When they are out of vision of the others, though she knows the eyes of the Capitol never sleep, it is her fist that slams on the up button of the elevator, it is her who pulls him in by the middle of his button down shirt, and it is her who pulls him to her against the metal wall of the elevator.

He doesn’t resist her this time, they’ve made it to the end of the week. She’s made her name for herself, she’s made herself the favorite. Who is he to deny her– or himself– this.

Cato leans down to meet her half way, hands finding the small of her back and pulling her flush against him. One of Clove’s hands has already begun unbuttoning his shirt, nimble fingers snaking around to latch her nails into the skin of his back.

He’s lifted her up within seconds, her legs wrapping around his hips just as they have a million times. Cato walks them backwards off the elevator when they reach the second floor but as soon as they are inside, he sets her down.

Breathless, his fingers run from her hips to the bubbled segments of her hair “Take this out,”

“Are you fucking serious right now, that’s your priority? Is it this fucking distracting that you would rather that I fix my hair than suck your-”

“Just do it, Clove. Meet me in my room”

Clove storms past him to the nearest bathroom, and instead of painstakingly untwisting each tie, she raises the nearest knife she can find and slices the rubber bands right open. Her hair falls free in loose waves, unbound and covering her bare shoulders. She sees her reflection in the mirror, and takes a few moments to wipe the remnants of makeup under her eyes, the majority of which having been removed by Cato hours ago. Clove kicks off her shoes, before wasting no time in crossing back across the apartment to the room she had been all but formally barred from this week.

“Cato, what are you–”

He’s discarded his jacket, left standing in that nearly entirely unbuttoned black button down shirt and the shining navy pants that matched the jacket. He’s pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, and while she’s always a sucker for those arms, that's not what catches her attention.

Cato steps closer, his golden Victor’s crown in his hands. “I had to bring it for my interviews while you’re in the arena.” He pulls her in by the waist, tilting her chin back up so he can meet the most brilliant jade eyes he’s ever seen.

“I’m going to be the first person to see you crowned.” Cato whispers as he places the golden circle around her hair, his breath caught in his chest the way the gold stands out against her dark hair and pale face. He twists her in his arms so she can see her own reflection, to see herself as the winner she is about to become. It’s a gift, really, to see her crowned in her natural glory before the Capitol will have the chance to paint over her freckles again, or color her lips some dark ruby shade at her own crowning.

This is Clove, in her very own skin, as the victor she was born to be.

His arm holds her across the front of her shoulders, possessive. She’s going to be a victor in her own right, but she is his.

They both look at the reflection of the two of them for a moment, wordless. Her hands hold onto the arm he has across her chest, and she tilts her head as she takes them in. They looked absolutely lethal. Yet, it was as if they were meant to be standing together, the sharp contrast of their appearances making them all the more alluring. It feels like she should be standing directly beside him, in his arms, for the rest of their lives.

Hell, maybe this really was what was left of hers if the odds were not in her favor tomorrow morning.

She twists in his arms, raising her eyebrows in a way that is demanding him to come and get her. He’s a step ahead of her, hands already on the back of her dress, no time wasted as practiced hands finds the zipper.

Clove pushes him backwards until the back of his knees hit the bed, straddling his hips with her own. “I’m keeping it on.” She murmurs, referencing his crown, before leaning in and claiming his lips for herself.

Neither sleep that night, and neither say much either.

Cato stares at the ceiling, drawing circles languidly on the skin over her spine for what seems like hours. Clove faces the window from her place at his side, her cheek using his bare chest as a pillow.

There is too much that needs to be said, and far too little time to do the words the justice they deserve.

“Clove?” Cato whispers as the sun begins to crest the Earth in the horizon, pulling her closer on sheer instinct. Their time is coming to an end all too fast, and Cato would give anything to hold her for another forty years instead of another forty minutes. “Remember when you came to see me, before I left?’

She nods just enough that he can perceive the motion against his chest, his other arm coming to wrap about her torso so that he holds her completely. “I told you that you better fucking come home.”

“And that you’d see me soon.” Cato murmurs into the top of her head, unwrapping one arm briefly to reach into the nightstand just on the other side of the bed. “More importantly though, you gave me this. I think it’s time I return it to you.”

Cato pulls out that silver C, now rethreaded to a much smaller, shorter chain. He clips it around her bare neck, before his hands settle back on the small of her back, rhythmically tapping his thumb in a manner that is meant to calm one of them. He isn’t sure who.

Clove swallows hard, trying her hardest to quell any emotion that dare try to appear right now. This was not the time to go soft. “You’ll see me soon.” She promises, though she cannot dare look up at him and see even a second of fear. In truth, she isn’t sure that it won’t break her resolve and her heart both if she notices doubt in his eyes.

The following silence chokes them, the sun coming up all too fast and burning her eyes. She looks up towards him to avoid the rays of the sunrise, and when he looks down at her the way her heart absolutely pounds in her chest nearly makes her doubt coming to the games at all.

Their time is ending, and it is ending fast.

“Clove..” he starts, trying to build up the nerve to say what he needs to. “Before you go, i have to tell you–”

“No.” Clove stops him, propping herself up on her forearms on his chest. She holds his face with both her hands, forcing him to lock eyes with her. “You can’t do this right now. When I come back… there is nothing stopping us, then.”

“You need to hear it Clove, I need you to know that–”

“I do. But I don’t want to hear you say it just because you think I’m not coming back.” She’s insistent on it, and she stops his argument with a kiss that is borderline gentle coming from her. Clove leans her forehead against his, now hovering over him completely. “We’re going to be all anyone talks about for years, after this. You and I…”

A rapid knock on the door tells them that Enobaria has already noticed she is not in the bed she’s supposed to be in. The knock is a courtesy, one she surely won’t be repeating.

Clove buries her face in the space between his shoulder and his neck, as he holds her tighter for what feels like the last time. She has to be the one to push away and out of the bed, grabbing one of his spare shirts and throwing it on. Not like she could wear her dress from last night out there.

“Clove?” Cato sits up, watching as she grabs for the door handle.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t die.”

She shoots him that brilliant smile, the one he has chased for the last three years at least, before shooting him a knowing smirk.

“Wasn’t planning on it, baby.”

When Clove slips out the door, Cato can’t help but feel like he just watched the rest of his life slip between his fingers.

He isn’t allowed to go to the final send off with her. That is between her and Enobaria, but the send off they had last night well..that’ll be enough until her win.

Cato is alone in the apartment, taking the entire couch up on his lonesome. As the Capitol seal flashes on the TV, and the sixty second countdown begins, he leans his head forward. His knees catch his elbows, and he has to physically hold his head up with his hands. He wonders silently if last year she felt as sick as he does right now. It’s somehow worse, thinking of her in that arena, than when he had actually competed himself.

He sees her instantly. The favorite always gets camera priority, making sure they have plenty of footage for the eventual recap during their post-games interview.

Cato processes the terrain in the same second she does, evident by the wild look in her eyes while he realizes it is entirely white behind her.

A blizzard. The arena is a blizzard.

The look in her eyes when the countdown ends is unlike anything he has seen even in her most intense moments of training.

She is confident. She is bloodthirsty. She is absolutely feral.

As she takes off towards the cornucopia there is not a single soul watching that can deny that this is the moment she was born for.

#the hunger games #the hunger games fanfic #cato #clove #enobaria #cato and clove #clato #clato fanfic #thg cato #thg clove #brutus #THG fanfic #ARWBFB TAG

19 notes · View notes