a/n: clato drabble, for bella (the belle of the ball x), because she asked me (read: blackmailed and begged for months) to write something for this fandom. This is for you, bels, I hope that all your months of persuasion were worth it. you're brilliant girl.

maybe i just want to fly
i want to live i don't want to die
maybe i just want to breath

- oasis, live forever

You are the girl with the knives and the heart of stone, the girl with the hair as black as your heart and the sadistic grin that can make people shiver. You are the girl with the eyes of fire who is never going to fall without a fight and who swore she would make it to The Capitol one day.

You are Clove and you are not ready to die.

You are Clove and you have never been ready to die and you aren't going to die in this arena, not if you can help it. You are Clove and you aren't going to let a giggling girl with a dress made out of flames and silver arrows stop you. She is the girl on fire; the girl with the flames that caress her skin lovingly and the hair that shines like candlelight and you suppose that you are the girl with the knives; with your sharp silver tongue and your eyes of razors.

You are the girl with the knives and you are not ready to die.

You are the girl with the knives from the district of masonry, you are from the land of grey stone and overcast clouds, you are from the land void of greenery and life and you are stuck in a world of mossy greens and brown and forests and you're not used to this – the world is different, and the world has changed. The only things that are still the way they have always been are the reflection of your hard, black eyes in the fluid blade of your silver knives and his golden-brown eyes, forever roaming, searching.

You are stuck in place in a world that's moving forwards and you are not ready to die.

You are sat in the green field of the arena and he is next to you. Just as he always has been, he is near, examining his sword in the sunlight, his strong hands caressing the smooth edge of the blade, stroking the curve of the sharp, sharp metal and you instantly remember the feeling of those hands running along your body, his fingers following the curve of your spine, just as they follow the smooth edge of the blade. You remember how his eyes roamed your body, how he took in every little freckle, every fleck of green in your irises, how he could read your expression like a book, and now, you think about how his eyes constantly roam, searching for tributes and people he can pick off instead. You remember how his eyes used to search and land on you, how they would brighten at the sight of your dark hair and dark eyes and now, you think about how they brighten at the sight of fresh meat, at the sight of a new kill.

His eyes haven't changed but the Cato you knew (and maybe even loved) has.

You are the girl whose love has been claimed by the Games and you are not ready to die.

Cato puts his blade down and his eyes search again. They finally meet yours and his left eyebrow curves upwards ever so slightly and, for the first time in months, you feel like Clove-and-Cato again, not just two tributes or the Careers or anything else. You feel like you. You feel like the girl you are – the girl with memories of strong hands tracing ribcages, freckled honey skin, golden eyes in a barren landscape, silver blades and platinum smiles, blonde boys sparkling in cerulean lake water, knives that always hit their targets and brown eyes that are always watching.

His brown eyes are watching you now, just as they always have and just as they always will and you realise, that you want to be held by that gaze for all of eternity. You realise who you are and what you want.

You are Clove and you are not ready to die.