The girl was small. Too small. The straight brown hair whipped across her face, slapping at her freckles and framing her black eyes, daring, always daring, the entire district to step forward and oppose her. No one did. How could they?
She was a volunteer, as many in Two were. Before the name of the chosen female had even been read, she had leapt up, spewing, demanding that they take her, take her instead, please, please let her go, let her kill, let her win. And in that moment, he was sure, along with the rest of the district, that she could, that she would. For some unknown reason, this was pleasing.
She dared him, and he glared right back, her clear white skin glowing, her freckles staring, small brown dots marring the perfect surface, dripping with hatred. His hands reached out, fingers itching, begging to stroke them, to caress them, to punish them for forcing him to care.
He has never seen her before. How was this possible? He was a career, and he knew all the others. He ought to have grown with her, wrestling with her, scarring that flawless skin with the blade of his sword, watching the blood squeeze out until it ran from her cheeks, fleeing the hard cold sword staring into those hard black eyes. Someone calls her name. Clove. Clove, and he smiles. Finally, he smiles.
On the stage, lips parted, her small sharp teeth show, her eyes never changing, please God never changing, in what he thinks may be a smile, a jolt of laughter, but one only for him.
He almost forgets to volunteer.
You didn't have to, his mother whispers, tears running from her face, the blood escaping before it can hurt. In The Games, she would already be dead.
Good man, his father says, slapping him on the shoulder. The blood drips from the handprint, warming his back, and his teeth bare, but this time, it's no smile. His father walks out.
Boy after boy troop in. They smile, high five him. See you on the other side, they shout, running out before they can look at him, before they can understand He doesn't move.
He glances over. Only feet away, he can feel her gaze, unblinking. No one has come to visit her, no one has said goodbye. For this first time in his life, he feels envy, and she sees it, creeping up his strong cheekbones, his toned, perfected muscles. And for the second time that day, her laugh shakes his very foundations.
This time, he's sure it's all for him.
She understands him. How does she understand him? The days pass in a blur of practice, of tired muscles, of hearty meals, of her. He is entirely in his element, doing exactly what he does best. Proving his strength, proving his greatness. He can see the fear in their eyes as he roams the room, but he hardly cares. He notices only her, her daring eyes, still daring. What is it they want him to do? Fight? Kill? Win? He plans on doing it all.
She's not scared of him. Why is she not frightened to her bones, flinching at the sound of an unsheathed sword, slicing the air, making it bleed? He does, he makes it all bleed, and the blood runs in rivers, from his veins, the very earth, and he trails it in footprints, in puddles, in oceans. They all do, the tributes. It coats their clothes, their food, runs from their mouths as if words, forever forever forever bleeding, always the blood. He doesn't mind, he's been bleeding all his life, yet she's clean, so squeaky clean she sparkles, without a drop of the beautiful thick dark black red awful irresistible unfathomable infinite liquid. He sees it everywhere.
He doesn't understand her, that's for sure. She's clean, so so clean, and he is quite the opposite. She's inhuman, and he is too much so.
The first time they speak alone is after a day of training. He's exhausted, he can't wait for tomorrow. She perches upon the midnight colored couch, watching, always watching, teeth bared as if she would like to pounce. He's sure she would. He sharpens a sword. She watches.
Why, she asks, the question vibrating from every fiber of her being, her attention directed toward his sword, never looking directly into his eyes.
And he knows exactly what she means, but it's not a good question, not a good one at all. Because I've been training.
But why, she's persistent.
Why? Because he always has. He's been training since forever, that's why. He's doing it because after training, one volunteers, and that's all. His muscles have not been toned to perfection for use in stonework, or even to become a Peacemaker, they have been toned to kill. He's doing it because he was born in District Two and because he is expected to win. No, he's doing it because he will win, and finally, when he does, there will be no more training, there will be no more killing, there will be no more death. He's doing it because maybe, just maybe, once he wins, there will be no more blood. There will be only fame, glory, and those words, those two words he is sure he will hear once more when he returns home. Because I'm a Good Man, he finally says.
And she nods, because she was there and she understands him.
The next time, he doesn't know she's there until she is right behind him. He doesn't feel her until she reaches out one long finger to rest upon his shoulder. She smiles, a real one this time, and he yearns to fall to his knees, writhing, bleeding, because what else is he supposed to do?
Why did you do it, he asks instead, genuinely curious for the first time in his memory.
Because, she answers, a smirk playing on the corners of her mouth, Because I needed to. And that's that. With a light tap to his nose, she's gone, and then the blood pours out, everywhere, from the training mat, from the midnight couch, from every surface he has ever touched, but not from his nose. No, never again from his nose.
He's already walking to the door of his room, the one given to him by the powers that be, those who hold his life in their hands for the next weeks, when he hears the soft knock. She's there, of course she's there. When she holds out her hand, he doesn't dare hesitate for a moment. A slight bow, a gesture, anything for her, please he'll do anything for her just let him show it, just let him prove it, and he's leading her to his bed, to crawl beneath the sheets, never to return again. And they do. And she does.
He doesn't bother to fumble with buttons and zippers, but suddenly the clothes are on the floor, and they're moving, together as one, again, yes, please don't stop.
She smiles the whole time, all for him, only for him, and he drinks it up selfishly, as he would normally the blood, holding her, caressing those freckles, consuming, his fingers no longer itching, only loving her, touching her.
He has never hated her more.
He doesn't sleep. He holds her, wondering, thinking, knowing, though in all honesty, he doesn't know much. She did it because she needed to. Why did she need to. Why did she want to. He sees her lunging up, a ball of passion and fire and power and sweat, leaping, running, volunteering, begging to hold a knife, to kill. He thinks, yet he knows nothing of her, not really. Where is her family, her parents, her friends? He has grown up surrounded by others, yet she has not a one. Really, it doesn't matter where they are, what happened to them. It doesn't matter that she has no one, not really, not anymore, because where they're going, it will all be the same in the end.
When she awakens, the sun lighting up in her grimy eyes, she starts, shoving him away, leaving his body cold, alone. She jumps, grabbing the sheet with her, and runs, runs from his room before anyone can see.
There his is left. Alone, cold, completely naked. Arms empty of all they had held, held for hours in the dark, secret, perfect hours of night. He lies, wondering, thinking. She has no one, but really, if he's being perfectly honest, neither does he. A former victor father, a mother who starts at the drop of a dish, who cries at a stumble on the stairs. Friends who lie in wait, crossing their fingers for the moment he will win The Games and they will finally be rewarded. This is how Two works, and he had no choice in volunteering, he finds himself defending to her first question.
Yes, she whispers from across the flat, back in her own room. Yes you did.
And she's right. It - he - does not have to be this way. He could be like her, volunteering for herself, not for a father with impossible expectations. Volunteering for what? The pleasure of killing, of death? What had happened to make her this way? To make her so alone, so desperately alone that she creates blood, yearns for it, where he merely sees it. Left to her own devices, he knows that they would be dead. All of them.
He asks her the next night when she returns, embracing her, holding her, telling her he'll never ever let go. Why? Why do you need to? And she tells him, and he listens. To a story of death and destruction, blood, blood that this time he knows is real. The story of a girl, small and loved, watching as a hovercraft consumed her home, lighting it in a fit of heat and fear, the fire roaring and the happiness felt upon seeing parents, coughing and choking, but out safe, safe safe safe, running from the burning house and into the open nets of the craft, screaming, crying, reaching for her as they are lifted from sight, blood raking from her fingers as she screamed, scratching, pushing everything, swimming through black air to reach them until the bodies were dropped at her feet, impaled, blood still warm, the Capitol emblem shining over the scene. The story of a girl, left to feed herself, to care for herself her entire life, so afraid of being alone, forever, infinitely alone, so terrified of ever reaching the fate of her parents that she has nothing to lose, nothing to gain but the sweet, metallic taste of another's blood.
She doesn't cry, but he does. He cries blood.
She returns, night after night, and they sleep less and less. Sometimes they talk, whispering through the darkness, breaking through all they had previously known. Sometimes they just lie in each other's arms, holding, touching, thinking. Slowly, quietly, secretly, the blood recedes until it's only at the edges, watching and laughing, waiting for The Arena. But for now, for the time being, he's safe from it, safe from all and every harm. Safe until he enters it.
As she, if she, returns, night after night, he is safe.
Her interview is spectacular, at least to him. He doesn't bother listening to her words, he simply watches, letting the flow of her hands, the drumming of her fingers on her bare knees, nails red as the blood dripping from her voice, warning all that she knows why she is here. Her sole purpose is to win and she will succeed. For a moment he believes it. He believes she will beat even him.
His interview is unremarkable. He talks, speaks of his family's victor legacy, his need to make his father proud, to bring glory to his district. He used to believe it. Two weeks ago, his own words would have convinced him, but now, looking at her, he knows it never will again.
The interviews continue, droning on and on. A small girl squeaks with excitement. He could crush her with one finger. In fact, he would love to do so, to feel her bird-like bones splintering into a dust so fine it floats into the wind, blood everywhere. A tall, dark haired beauty captivates the audience, lighting it afire. She reminds him of another, his other. Clove. They have the same ferocity, the same dedication to winning, yet this girl speaks of her sister, her voice breaking. His would never show such weakness. His has no such weakness.
Yet it is the boy after her that out-speaks them all. He professes love to the dark haired girl, the girl on fire, and he fills with regret, the blood threatening to spill from the peripheral of his vision. He has a girl back home, too. She is here with him as well. He should have said it, why didn't he say it, now she will never know, now they will never know. He is still on stage, he must remain calm, he must not shout or hit or kill the pathetic blonde boy who thought his love was worth saving.
She sees his discomfort and holds out her hand, promising that she knows, and for now, her smile and a small squeeze are enough. But not for long.
Nothing lasts forever. He knows this, he always has. But why not, why the hell not? Finally, the blood is gone. The air is clean, he can breathe without it seeping from the pores of his very being, draining him of the will he has left. And it's due to her. And she knows it.
Their last night before The Games, there is no speedy undressing. No nakedness, no urgency to fulfill, to be fulfilled, to love. They lie beside one another, arms touching, eyes open. Her skin glows, her freckles vivid in the otherwise porcelain terrain. The ferocity of which she was once bursting is now gone, and only the empty shell remains, free of all thirst for blood and death, yet full, somehow more full than it ever has been before.
Suddenly, the night before The Games, he doesn't want to win anymore.
When he first hears it, he freezes. Something went wrong, horribly, horribly, wrong. She's in danger. She's scared. She's hurt. It's his fault. Then he's running, running, running, he'll never stop running, fuck fuck fuck why did he ever let her go alone, why did he ever leave her alone for one second, why were they ever apart. He runs to her, and somehow, he knows just what he'll find.
Cato!
She calls again, and he's crying, screaming, spitting, hurting, fighting, loving, pushing through the leaves until he finds her. Lying. Blood, real blood, this time he's sure, and it's everywhere, shimmering in a halo around her dark hair. He won't reach her in time he'll never say goodbye it will all be for nothing all for nothing why God why couldn't it just last a little longer why.
But he does, he gets there in time, in time to lie next to her, grasping her hands, holding them, praying, but knowing it's useless. It's all so useless. It's then that he realizes. This is not a love story. His will not end in happiness, no, never again will it be happy.
Clove, he whispers, tears dripping onto her wound, until she's still, blissfully still.
And he knows, finally, that the blood will never again return.