~i don't even need your love; but you treat me like a stranger and that feels so rough~
Her mouth softened slightly in her sleep, the severe lines fading into an almost-smile. Not the kind of smile Glimmer used, the seductive tug of the lips that spoke volumes about her intention. Nor was it the kind of smile other girls threw his way, shy and soft and all too feminine. Even in sleep, Clove's mouth retained the perfect discipline of a trained Career. She smiled like a murderess.
And it was that smile, as though she was dreaming of a blood filled paradise, that made him fall in love with her all over again.
He left her behind, walking away while she was half asleep. He suspected that she noticed, because Clove was the type of girl to sleep with her eyes wide open, and it hurt that she didn't lift a finger to stop him. But Clove was Clove, and he was Cato, and neither of them shared that kind of sentimental relationship. It just didn't work out that way.
He couldn't deal with it anymore, this insane tangle of hatred and love and pride and selfishness. This tiny girl, one whose frame was so slight he could've easily crushed her with one hand, had stirred up the strangest mix of feelings within him.
He didn't want to kill her.
But at the same time, breaking her into a million pieces seemed like the only thing he had ever wanted to do.
It seemed like the only thing that he was born to do.
It was easy, too easy. The giant from District Eleven had fought him nail and tooth, but his primitive rocks were no match for Cato's shining armour. He stood in the middle of the storm-ravaged field, his opponent dead at his feet, and wondered about her. The girl with the knives. His girl.
There had been a rule change two days back, announcing that there could be two Victors if the last two standing belonged to the same District. He thought about looking for her, because after all a team of the best from District Two meant guaranteed success. But she wasn't there, not at the place he left her nor at the places they've camped.
Not a sign of her. Not a single sign.
But now, with only three left in the arena, he knew he had to find her.
With only three left in the arena, counting himself and Clove, she could be his again.
The churned earth surrounding the Cornucopia was showered in blood as he came a second too late. He had wanted to make the final kill, to plunge the blade of his sword into Fire Girl's stomach. But she had beaten him to it, the wild sliver that was Clove. From afar he watched as she bent over District Twelve, her bony knees locking the larger girl firmly to the ground. With the tip of her knife, the one that she had picked out as her favourite since day one, Clove sketched patterns into the other girl's face, swirls of red and crimson blooming across the captive's skin.
It sent adrenaline shooting through his veins, watching Clove. The bright glint in her eyes, the way her fingers controlled the knife as she drawled over her masterpiece shot shivers down his spine. The cruelty of it all was exhilarating, and the pure enjoyment in her eyes made the experience a thousand times better. He watched as she carved their way into history, the first ever joint Victors of the Hunger Games.
And when she finally had enough, when she decided to insert her blade neatly through her victim's ribcage, the hairs on the back of his neck were standing stiff like soldiers.
It reminded him of all the time they had spent together before the Games, of all the sleepless nights and the struggle for love. They were never ones to be gentle. The sight of the bloodied ground reminded him of their bloodied sheets, tangled and sweat-stained after the nights they shared. In a strange way, this very place was like a shrine for all the moments they shared.
And this girl, with blood caking her fingernails and her hair like a raven's nest, was the queen of it all.
She didn't spare him a single glance, looking away when he sauntered towards her. The cannon for the last tribute had sounded and faded, and he stood by her side as they awaited the hovercraft. He reached for her shoulder, thinking to give it an encouraging squeeze, but she brushed his hand away. When he tried to speak, she spun around to slap him hard. She didn't say it, but he could read her thoughts in her burning eyes. Don't think you can leave me and then say sorry, bastard. So she didn't know that night, the night he left. She didn't know at all.
When he tried to grab her shoulders, she had kicked him firmly in the groins, sending him doubling over. He's fuelled the fire, and now she was cursing him with every single terrible word that came to mind. And even though he was the one who left, it stung him badly.
There was no sight of the hovercraft.
She crashed into him, her knives at the ready. There was no time for consideration, no time for thinking at all. The minute the rule change was revoked, she was at his throat like a crazed lioness. They rolled around on the churned ground, tearing at each other in a way that was frighteningly familiar to the way they acted back home. This violence was the foundation of their relationship, and even when they loved it was with an edge of destruction and pain. They both wanted to survive, to outlast the other, to show the world what they were made of. The feelings they had between them meant nothing, not even the love that he had for her.
Or so he told himself.
He realised that it was not love he felt. Rather an all-consuming desire to have her, this perfect counterpart to his own soul, to take her and challenge her and make her feel the same way. He wanted to destroy her, because it was his nature to break everything within his touch.
He wanted to break her up in a million pieces, so that she'd be just like him.
Broken glass, body and heart tattered like a true champion.
A mess and a tangle of soul mates.
They battled on, hell bent on simultaneous destruction, until the Gamemakers have had enough.
"Let's give it up for the Victors of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games," yelled a panicked voice that stopped the pair in mid-fight, "Clove and Cato!"
They board the hovercraft, limping and broken. They had nothing to say to each other, not after that fight to the death.
She was still angry at him for leaving, for opposing her, for everything.
And he was guilty as hell.
They packed their suitcases, each stubbornly ignoring the other. The only words they've exchanged were the barest pleasantries as they stood up on the stages of their Victory Tour, because neither of them had forgotten their fight of all fights. Wheeling out their suitcases from the lobby of the Capitol hotel, they headed down to the train station.
Standing on the empty platform, they waited for the one way train that would take them back to their place in the world. Although the pretended to be strangers, although they tried to fool themselves that they did not need the other, their 'his and her' suitcases said otherwise. When the sleek silver train stopped before them, he helped carry her suitcase aboard. And although she told herself that he was a fool, that she didn't need his attention (or his love for that matter, if one could truly call their rocky relationship love), she let him carry her dark blue suitcase to her room.
They were coming home again.
Maybe they could start again.