cato/clove, the cruelest part of life is unsaid, PG-13, 821 words.
The bedtime stories are the old Hunger Games. The walls are plastered with past Victors' pictures. Streets are named after their Victors; buildings are anointed with them too. Shadows of old victories, old arenas, old games follow the children from birth until they cannot be Reaped anymore. No matter where they turn, they cannot escape.
It is what Cato grows up with. At age 6, he gets into his first fight at school. He intimidates the other boy so that the boy takes the blame, although it is obviously Cato's. At 10, he begins training for the Hunger Games. If he is chosen as tribute in 2 years, he will still be the strongest of the bunch. (He knows he won't go in two years; there are many other volunteers who are itching, striving, hoping, socialized to go.) The first whispers of brutal are attached to his name. (There he is, that's Cato. Everyone's scared of him. He's brutal.) He soaks up the words as attention, builds up his strength like armor, shows everyone how brutal he can be.
Clove is younger than Cato, but far more deceiving and manipulative. She is smaller and faster, more sly and more disingenuous. (Cato has no pretenses; he is stony and violent and built.) She is vicious. It is she who leads the training groups in District 2 in agility and handiness. No one matches her skills with knives. She wears her accomplishments like badges of honor, refusing to allow anyone undermine her, or underestimate her.
Cato makes the mistake of equating her size with presumed lack of skill. It is before he sees her clutch her knives as if they are extensions of herself (aren't they; both are quick and sharp and much, much too painful), before he sees those knives hit every target straight in the center, before she is sitting on his chest, somehow pinning him down despite their difference in weight and height, the edge of the knife pressing dangerously, deliciously close to the muscle that flexes his neck. She leans close, dragging the knife downwards slowly, lightly - yet still enough to open a line of blood, the rich color trickling down - and he does not dare move.
The knife is cold and all he can do is glare at her; it is his fault the line of blood deepens as he jerks back slightly in response to her high giggle. She is mirthful and youthful, yet dangerous and cruel in the entertainment she takes in at his expense. Clove draws the knife back, examining the blood closely before turning around slightly and throwing it in the air, seemingly at nothing, until he realizes that she has hit a target straight in the center. Cato does not know the sensation of being impressed, but he is taken aback by her skill.
"That was fun," she says, her voice still young, her eyes dark brown. She leans down and uses her finger to trace the blood, pressing more deeply than she needs to, just to watch him wince.
He is left alone a few minutes later, still lying on the ground, staring into empty space.
In her age, Clove is the acknowledged best. She will no doubt be a Volunteer tribute, if not a tribute (and Victor, they hope) herself. She will win with her knives, her speed, and her cruelty. Those are the words the training leaders whisper as they mark her progress.
In his age, Cato is the acknowledged best. He will no doubt be a Volunteer tribute, if not a tribute (and Victor, they hope) himself. He will win because he is the strongest, the most vicious, the most skilled with any sort of weapon. The training leaders make these notes.
No one asks them if they want to be tributes. It is a presumed affirmative.
Clove loves knives, but she loves the setting sun more.
Cato is brutal, but he does not do well alone.
The Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games reap Clove. She walks up the stairs, onto the stage, with the air of confidence, her smirk pressed into place, her dark brown hair shining and flowing. She does not look like a threat, but everyone knows she is. No one remembers the boy who is chosen at first because brutal, bloody Cato volunteers and sweeps aside any familiarity with the boy's name. The crowd hushes as he ascends the steps, taking his place next to Clove, towering over her. She turns to him with a smile, her eyes flickering to the spot on his neck where she drew blood. He meets her eyes with an unsaid challenge; she blinks slowly in response. They shake hands, and the crowd goes wild.
The sun sets as they depart for the Capitol, and from then on, they are expected to win. One of their victories will be the stories that are told in their district; it will be an ascension into legend as they bring glory to a gloried past.