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.
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]
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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.
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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.
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