"This story is not meant to have a happy ending. Your story is not meant to have a happy ending. You might as well repeat it after me, trainees. Every last one of you filthy rotten pigs is going to have a miserable lot in life, and you're going to be okay with it, because that's how it is. Now, Elmer, repeat after me: My story is not meant to have a happy ending," Enobaria says, and the moment she stops speaking, her tongue begins to trace over the points of her teeth. Clove loves it when she does that. It's mesmerizing to watch.
Elmer, a blond girl with a constantly stern face, repeats the somber expression for what it is.
"And you, Rex." And so, like this, Enobaria continues down the line of female trainees. It cannot be presumed that Brutus is doing the same with the males, because Enobaria has a mind of her own. She follows nobody's plan except her own and the Capitol's.
It is on purpose, for sure, that she leaves Clove for last.
"And you, Clove. Repeat it after me. My story is not meant to have a happy ending."
With the slightest smirk, Clove says the banal phrase, knowing that if she were anyone else, Enobaria would have her on the ground exercising away whatever impulse caused her to smile. However, she isn't anyone else, and Enobaria has always done her best to demonstrate that in ways that didn't matter. Clove gets preferential seating in the cafeteria, first choice of weapon, and can get away with slightly more than the others. She does not test these fragile limits. Enobaria is a fountain that runneth over, and Clove knows better than to look a Cornucopia in its mouth.
Trainer-trainee romances, though not strictly prohibited, are frowned upon severely and likely to get you killed before you can ever go into the Games. When the trainer figures out who killed their lover, that person is likely to never have a chance at being a tribute or having any other notable position in town again, but there's always that one vengeful dumbass who's willing to take one for the team. However, even the dullest knife on the knife rack knows better than to challenge Clove Bayer, and anyone who would think about coming at Clove is scared shitless of Enobaria. Besides, they've been smart enough to cover their tracks. Any perceived leniency on Enobaria's part can be explained away as being a result of the fact that Clove is almost certainly this year's tribute.
"Not sure why I'm still wasting my time on training these assholes." Enobaria says. At the young age of 20, stress and hypervigilance have made her look at least 10 years older. Even then, she is still far too attractive, Clove thinks. "It's clear who our real winner is. If they would just let me work one-on-one with you 24/7—"
"We'd never get anything done." Clove says, laughing and reaching across Enobaria to snag the crust off her sandwich and swallow it down without chewing.
Enobaria frowns and Clove mentally sighs.
"Are you out of food again, Clove?" She asks, taking in the girl's pallor and trembling hands.
"No." she mumbles under her breath, eyes dropping to stare down at the tablecloth. Enobaria grips her chin roughly with one hand.
"You know better than to lie to me. I better not catch you doing that shit again. Now look, you're gonna need to drop this prideful shit and tell me when things are getting rough so I can feed your ass and keep you in mint condition for these Games. Go in my cabinet and take some granola bars and trail mix. Anything filling that you see goes with you. No exceptions."
"But—"
"No but's. I have nothing but money to waste. Feeding a future Victor is not a bad investment. Now, that dresser full of lingerie in there? Terrible investment!" she calls after Clove, who giggles from the kitchen. Enobaria knows that so long as she politely looks away, Clove will take what she needs.
That night, Clove sleeps in Enobaria's bed. Enobaria's strong arms coil themselves around her and they stay up whispering for at least another hour. Then, they slip into sleep, but they both know from experience that it will be erratic at best.
That night, like many others, Enobaria's nightmares crash down on her like waves. She wakes up and clutches Clove like a life vest. Sometimes, she screams the names of her Allies; sometimes, the names of her victims. Every once in a while, Clove hears a name she doesn't recognize, one that sounds vaguely Capitolite. The two of them have a "don't ask, don't tell" policy: Clove doesn't ask, and Enobaria doesn't tell.
After a few minutes or maybe half an hour of exhausted silence, Clove whispers into the dead of night "What about you, 'Baria? Does your story have a happy ending?"
Enobaria's arms tighten around her, an unspoken response.
No, but this is the closest I'll ever come.