This is it.
Cato and Clove have just won the 74th Hunger Games.
The mutant dogs are gone, daylight has returned, all twenty-two of the other tributes are dead and gone, and Cato and Clove have won.
Cato and Clove have won the 74th Hunger Games.
And it feels amazing. This is what Cato has longed for his entire life, has trained for, has worked for, has fought tooth-and-nail for. He finds himself cheering and yelling and fist-pumping the air; he even grabs Clove and pulls her into a hug, although she doesn't seem to appreciate it.
Cato and Clove have won the 74th Hunger Games. Together. The star-crossed lovers of District 2, that's what they are. Cato thinks that has a nice ring to it and grabs Clove's hand, raising their entwined fingers to the sky.
They've won the 74th annual Hunger Games. Holy fucking shit.
The sound of a microphone test fills the arena, and Cato prepares for a voice to come over the loudspeaker, prepares for the intercom to announce that Cato and Clove are this year's victors. Prepares to smile and wave at all the cameras and at all his adoring fans, prepares to finally have his moment of glory.
But his moment of glory never comes.
In dream-like slow motion, a man's voice comes over the speaker and informs them that there has been a slight rule change—only one tribute can win. Although the meaning of this does not sink in at first, he feels Clove pull her hand out of his, feels how cold his palm is without hers, and realizes that one of them is going to have to kill the other.
Everything is still in slow motion, everything becomes silent, as Cato locks eyes with Clove, waiting to see her reaction. For what seems like forever but is probably only a few moments, Clove does not move, does not give Cato any signal as to what her next action will be. And Cato doesn't move either, completely unsure of what to do.
And then, abruptly, the slow motion ends, because Clove pulls a knife from her jacket and sticks it into Cato's heart.
Or, at least, what would have been his heart, had his reflexes not been so refined that he moved away before she could even touch him.
In that moment, Clove has made her decision, and Cato now has no option but to make the same decision himself.
With the speed and precision of somebody who has been receiving combat and weapon training his entire life, Cato pulls out his own knife and sends it in Clove's direction, but his aim is off, and Clove is fast, so he misses by nearly three feet. Damn it.
Clove, fury and passion and fire in her eyes, throws three more knives from her seemingly bottomless artillery; Cato dodges them all, even catches one in his right hand, earning himself a hateful glare from Clove.
Giving up on being able to kill Cato from a distance, Clove jumps him, and then everything is completely hands-on; everything becomes kicking and hitting and hair-pulling and biting and shoving and pushing and slapping and bruising and beating and scratching and bleeding.
Cato is reminded of all those times, back in District 2, when they fought like this at the training center, when they made love like this in their bedrooms, when they grappled each other and tugged each other and hurt each other, but loved each other, even though they never actually said it out loud.
Cato wonders whether Clove still loves him now, as she tries to murder him.
Punch, kick, shove, scratch.
Clove is on top of him now, somehow has climbed onto his shoulders, and she's digging her boots into his sides, and damn that hurts.
Shove, bruise, hit, beat.
Cato has Clove off him, has her stumbling backwards. He has the upper hand now.
Push, slap, bleed. Thud.
And now Clove is on her back, on the ground, and Cato is on top of her, one hand pinning her down, the other holding his knife to her neck. Cato studies her face, her eyes, trying to figure out what she's feeling.
And Cato sees that Clove seems scared. And it tugs at his heart strings, just a little bit, and makes him move the knife a few millimeters back; because Clove is never scared. Cato has known Clove his whole life, and she has always been vicious and sadistic and sarcastic and emotionless: even when she got into nasty fights with other kids, even when she volunteered for the Games, even when Cato kissed her for the first time, she was never scared, and fear isn't an expression that fits her.
Cato hesitates, starts to remember things, and hesitates even further.
Cato remembers late nights at the training center, fighting and training and joking and laughing. He remembers warm summer evenings, walking and talking and whispering and trying to get Clove to open up to him. He remembers complimenting her outfit and getting a punch in the stomach, remembers taking her hand and getting a kick in the shin, remembers smiling anyway because that's just how Clove is.
Cato remembers delicately pulling a strand of hair out of her eyes and finally breaking her: finally pressing their mouths together, finally getting her to kiss him; he remembers how her lips tasted and how her hands felt in his hair and how her fingers felt on his neck. He remembers the heat and the sweating and the passion when they finally took off their clothes and Clove allowed Cato to go inside her; he remembers how soft her skin was and how it felt beneath his hands and how their bodies pressed so tightly together.
Cato remembers how happy he and Clove were when they volunteered together, how happy they were when they fought in the arena together, how happy they were when the rules were changed and two tributes could win how happy they were just being together.
And Cato realizes how sadistic, how brutal, how spiteful their relationship has always been, and realizes that he is not surprised Clove has attacked him here. Clove has not fallen out of love with him; rather, this is how they've always shown affection—through fighting and through violence and through pain. And that's why Cato loves Clove so much.
Beneath him, Clove shifts a little, bringing Cato back to reality and his current predicament. The fear has left Clove's eyes, replaced by the usual apathy there, and she's smirking at him, and Cato knows now that she was faking her earlier terror, effectively making him hesitate in killing her off.
Clove has never been afraid of Cato, and she is not afraid of him now. Now, she has a plan.
In a series of kicks and shoves, Clove gets Cato off her and throws him onto the dirt, tears the knife from his hand, and plunges it into his heart.
But her trajectory is not quite right, just slightly off, and gives Cato enough time to tug the weapon out of his own chest and force it into Clove's.
Because Cato and Clove are violent, and crazy, and madly in love, and they do everything together.