hoping at the gates they'll tell me that you're mine, cato/clove, pg (book!relationship)
eleven.
Cato’s first girlfriend is pretty.
She’s pretty the way he is handsome, blonde hair and smiling eyes, a charming ease in the way she walks.
She is his girlfriend by title: they hold hands sometimes, kiss at others. She likes to talk about how things will be after he wins the Games.
fourteen.
She is scrawny, lithe and sharp-limbed, the first time he sees her. She looks breakable.
“I wanna win,” she tells him, ten years old but already her eyes are so hungry. “Show me how.”
“S’easy,” he says, sparing her a glance. “You just have to want it.”
Her shoulders shift backward, chest thrusting forward, showing off nonexistent breasts. “I want it,” she says.
And he believes her.
sixteen.
She kisses him first, out of the blue.
He can do nothing but blink at her. “The hell, Clove?”
“Teach me,” she says, her mouth still a breath away from his, her eyes dropping to the knife in one of his hands.
Cato shakes his head, but he does not tug away. “Why don’t you go hang out with the kids your own age?”
“Because you’re the best,” she says, her voice airy, her eyes unblinking.
He can’t help his laughter, can’t help tilting her chin up, pulling her mouth to his again. “Flattery, huh?”
Her eyes stay open and they never stray from his. “Truth,” she whispers back.
(not) nineteen.
Victory in the arena is nothing compared to this: he asks will you? and she says no with a roll of sharp eyes and a scoff that means yes.
thirteen.
Clove is nothing more than a nymph at the edges of his vision.
He is busy chasing older girls, girls who will let him put his hands under their shirts and his tongue into their mouths. He feels hungry for unnamable things, conquest of a different sort.
Girls are easy for him. Girls of his age, the ones who desire his attention, they come without being called. He doesn’t need to chase girls, because they are all chasing him, vying for his attention, for the privilege of being his once he is a Victor. His fate, they think, is set in stone.
None of them know what the future will hold. They do not yet know of the twist in the story, of the girl whose hunger rivals his, the one heart he’ll never quite be able to hold.
Her knives zip through the air around him, quieter than whispers.
hoping at the gates they'll tell me that you're mine, cato/clove, pg (book!relationship)
seventeen.
In Two, where children are raised as warriors, Cato is at his prime. He is a hero during the Games; next year, he will conquer.
He has been groomed to perfection. Everyone is in awe - everyone but the girl who will stand beside him in the arena.
She doesn’t pay much attention to him anymore. She is the only one.
fifteen.
He’s exhausted the pretty girls by the time he’s three years from his Games.
He is restless, teetering on some impossible edge, needing to pick a poison, and he ends up with Clove.
She doesn’t truly need him. She doesn’t need to be trained. She was born with skills that most people can only dream of, Cato included, if he is being honest.
Their training is of a different sort. He teaches her to kiss, hours of practice in the darkest of corners, her teeth digging lightly into his lips from time to time. Her hands press against his chest, fingers curling into fists occasionally, her palm pressed over his heart, a heavier weight than it should be.
He likes the way she looks afterward, her lips red and raw, two high spots of colour in her cheeks, her pupils blown, her eyes hazy.
He loves it, the way she looks alive.
twelve.
It is the first time he’ll ever see her.
He is at the cusp of adulthood, of the moment he will stop being a child, and the four-year age gap between them seems infinitely large. She is too young to be reaped, too young for him to pay attention to, too young to be of concern.
She is darling, at eight years old. Her lashes are long and dark over her eyes, hiding secrets that Cato will never learn.
It doesn’t matter then.
It will later.
eighteen.
He is there when she dies.
His knees dig into the dirt, his heart hammers too hard in his chest.
“Clove,” he says, too quiet to be heard in the Capitol. His fingers curl around hers, limp and rigid all at once.
I AM SLAIN. SLAIN. holy shit thank you for building this beauty for my prompt ;alskdjf;alsdfjk. THE FUCKING ENDING I CANNOT THIS IS SO WONDERFUL. i love the piecemeal history and vicious, beautiful baby clove ahhhhhhhhhhh! their energy and their messiness and their drive, it is all there. lovelovelove.
eleven.
Cato’s first girlfriend is pretty.
She’s pretty the way he is handsome, blonde hair and smiling eyes, a charming ease in the way she walks.
She is his girlfriend by title: they hold hands sometimes, kiss at others. She likes to talk about how things will be after he wins the Games.
fourteen.
She is scrawny, lithe and sharp-limbed, the first time he sees her. She looks breakable.
“I wanna win,” she tells him, ten years old but already her eyes are so hungry. “Show me how.”
“S’easy,” he says, sparing her a glance. “You just have to want it.”
Her shoulders shift backward, chest thrusting forward, showing off nonexistent breasts. “I want it,” she says.
And he believes her.
sixteen.
She kisses him first, out of the blue.
He can do nothing but blink at her. “The hell, Clove?”
“Teach me,” she says, her mouth still a breath away from his, her eyes dropping to the knife in one of his hands.
Cato shakes his head, but he does not tug away. “Why don’t you go hang out with the kids your own age?”
“Because you’re the best,” she says, her voice airy, her eyes unblinking.
He can’t help his laughter, can’t help tilting her chin up, pulling her mouth to his again. “Flattery, huh?”
Her eyes stay open and they never stray from his. “Truth,” she whispers back.
(not) nineteen.
Victory in the arena is nothing compared to this: he asks will you? and she says no with a roll of sharp eyes and a scoff that means yes.
thirteen.
Clove is nothing more than a nymph at the edges of his vision.
He is busy chasing older girls, girls who will let him put his hands under their shirts and his tongue into their mouths. He feels hungry for unnamable things, conquest of a different sort.
Girls are easy for him. Girls of his age, the ones who desire his attention, they come without being called. He doesn’t need to chase girls, because they are all chasing him, vying for his attention, for the privilege of being his once he is a Victor. His fate, they think, is set in stone.
None of them know what the future will hold. They do not yet know of the twist in the story, of the girl whose hunger rivals his, the one heart he’ll never quite be able to hold.
Her knives zip through the air around him, quieter than whispers.
[con't]
Reply
seventeen.
In Two, where children are raised as warriors, Cato is at his prime. He is a hero during the Games; next year, he will conquer.
He has been groomed to perfection. Everyone is in awe - everyone but the girl who will stand beside him in the arena.
She doesn’t pay much attention to him anymore. She is the only one.
fifteen.
He’s exhausted the pretty girls by the time he’s three years from his Games.
He is restless, teetering on some impossible edge, needing to pick a poison, and he ends up with Clove.
She doesn’t truly need him. She doesn’t need to be trained. She was born with skills that most people can only dream of, Cato included, if he is being honest.
Their training is of a different sort. He teaches her to kiss, hours of practice in the darkest of corners, her teeth digging lightly into his lips from time to time. Her hands press against his chest, fingers curling into fists occasionally, her palm pressed over his heart, a heavier weight than it should be.
He likes the way she looks afterward, her lips red and raw, two high spots of colour in her cheeks, her pupils blown, her eyes hazy.
He loves it, the way she looks alive.
twelve.
It is the first time he’ll ever see her.
He is at the cusp of adulthood, of the moment he will stop being a child, and the four-year age gap between them seems infinitely large. She is too young to be reaped, too young for him to pay attention to, too young to be of concern.
She is darling, at eight years old. Her lashes are long and dark over her eyes, hiding secrets that Cato will never learn.
It doesn’t matter then.
It will later.
eighteen.
He is there when she dies.
His knees dig into the dirt, his heart hammers too hard in his chest.
“Clove,” he says, too quiet to be heard in the Capitol. His fingers curl around hers, limp and rigid all at once.
She wanted to win. She’d told him once.
He sees her eyes in the mutt that kills him.
[fin]
Reply
Reply
I AM SLAIN. SLAIN. holy shit thank you for building this beauty for my prompt ;alskdjf;alsdfjk. THE FUCKING ENDING I CANNOT THIS IS SO WONDERFUL. i love the piecemeal history and vicious, beautiful baby clove ahhhhhhhhhhh! their energy and their messiness and their drive, it is all there. lovelovelove.
Reply
Reply
that last line.
I don't know how writers manage to wring out more of these heartbreaking scenarios, but you did it. that twist. guh.
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment