A/N: This has been sitting around on my computer too long, and I'll probably publish every Saturday or so. Credits to the lovely Estoma who has been my beta throughout this entire process - she has contributed much more than I could've ever hoped or wished for, and I am filled with gratitude towards her immense wisdom in writing, without which this could not have been possible.
Older men declare war, but it is youth that must fight and die - Herbert Hoover
11.
Twang-
The steel wire snaps through the branches, destroying my poorly-built snare and all hopes of getting a passing grade in field-craft. I slouch on a boulder and stare at my latest failure, wondering if I should've disregarded my parents' advice and gone to a District school like all the other kids.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me!" Enobaria yells, stomping through the leaves in my direction, "Could you get someone to help you instead of fucking it up over and over again?"
I leap to my feet and stand to attention before her. My gaze turns to the other fifth graders happily paired up for field-craft exercises, and I sigh.
"I'm...s-sorry ma'am," I stammer, staring at the leaves and hoping she won't hit me, "my field partner's in the Infirmary with a broken-"
"God-fucking dammit!" she curses, shoving her clipboard at my chest and marching off into the other section of the woods. As her lean, muscular frame disappears between the trees, I hear her calling out Brutus' name.
Oh god, I hope she doesn't get Brutus to teach me field craft, I think, recalling how long the last kid under Brutus' personal instruction spent in the Infirmary.
My eyes wander up and down Enobaria's clipboard, looking for my name. To my surprise – the scores I've achieved so far are nothing short of stellar, marred by ugly red ink next to the field-craft and interviewing exercises. I sigh and sit on the ground again, trying my best to untangle the mess I've created. A knot begins to form in my throat as I realise even this too is useless. I set my ruined trap upon the leaves and press my face hard into my hand, trying to stop the tears; since crying would undoubtedly get me a beating. There probably wouldn't be any food for me either – unless I can miraculously pull myself together and pass field-craft.
I utter a muffled gasp as heavy footsteps start clomping in my direction; Brutus' no doubt. There's the noise of some scuffling and the sound of a thump as someone's pushed to the ground before me.
"Help her," Brutus grunts, "don't come back until you're done or I'll smash your face in."
My eyes open to the sight of a pair of bruised hands taking my ruined snare and picking apart the stuck bits of wire and twigs. I stare into my babysitter's face, taking in his boyish features and short-cropped blond hair.
Pretty face, I think, I doubt he has the strength to –
Crack.
The boy snaps a thick branch in the palm of his hand. He looks at me and his lips curl into a smirk, half-expecting me to gush over how strong he is. I force a frown at him and his smile intensifies to the point where his blue eyes come alight with life. However, before I can get a better view of them, he looks down at the now-untangled snare and resumes fixing it. The knot in my throat disappears, and I find myself thinking of something to say that'll make him look at me; just so I can catch another glimpse of his eyes.
"You won't have to do this anymore in seventh grade," he mutters without looking up, "we only train with weapons and how to kill."
"You're in seventh grade?" I ask, unbelieving that his voice could've broken at such a young age. I would've guessed eighth or ninth because of his height, and with his broad shoulders, he possesses the imposing presence of a Reaping Candidate.
He nods slowly and flashes me a look with his eyes - not enough to make my heart flutter, but just enough to make me want more. There's a half-healed bruise on his cheek and scars on his hands – undoubtedly from hours of sparring in the fight pit.
"You any good with weapons?" he asks, "Since you obviously suck at this."
"Knives," I reply, recalling how well I managed to hit the targets with those rubber blades they let us play with.
"I would've thought archery," he mocks, "you don't look like someone brave enough to get up close."
"Shut up," I hiss, chucking a fistful of leaves at him, "I'll take you on any day."
"I'd love to see you try," he sneers.
Twang – the rebuilt snare implodes in his hands, sending branches flying everywhere.
"Well aren't you useless at this too?" I scowl, silently glad he's staying to show me one more time.
To my surprise, the snare's failure doesn't frustrate him; he simply picks out the broken branches and tries again without even breaking his smile.
"Haven't done animal traps for a long time," he chuckles, and for some reason, I do too.
He looks up and catches me smiling at him. By this time, I haven't got half a heart to look away.
"You're a completely different girl when you smile," he chirps, and it takes all the strength in my face to force my lips back into a scowl.
But deep down in my heart, the angst over my field-craft scores is gone, replaced by a deep-seated fascination over this boy, and those mysterious blue eyes he possesses.
13.
Crack.
Another knife joins the dozen others I've nailed into the target's centre. In the corner of my eye, I can see Enobaria talking to Brutus with a clipboard over her mouth. My lips curl into a smile and I walk back to the twenty yard line, hurling another knife at the board.
Crack.
"Clove, for fuck's sake, tidy up the goddamned target!" Enobaria yells from the stands, "You're going to wreck the handles at the rate you're going!"
I smile at her, knowing she's impressed at my skill. While other seventh graders are still fumbling around with the mechanics of a knife's tumble and failing hard – I'm destroying target after target. It won't be long now before I progress onto qualifications and secure my progression into the reaping stream well ahead of time. I retrieve my knives and stroll back to the thirty-yard line, aware that some of the older kids have gathered in the stands to watch me.
"You weren't kidding," a voice chimes behind me.
I stumble backwards in shock, stepping on his foot and clutching at his shirt for balance. It's him; the boy I met in the woods. He's taller now, and more muscular. I've seen him with his grade, but never had the chance to be this close to him; so close I can smell the scent of leather and metal on his skin. His blue eyes haven't lost a fraction of the spark I saw two years ago, and right now they stare back me, waiting for a reply.
"What're are you doing here?" I scowl, shoving him away, "The range is booked for seventh graders."
"Looks like it's just you today," he says, gesturing at the empty throwing lanes where my classmates have left for a break, "and me."
"Go away," I scowl, glaring at the target in front. Immediately, I regret my words, and I look over my shoulder to see if he's gone.
He hasn't left, but has taken three steps behind me, presumably to give me space to concentrate. But it's impossible with those blue eyes seared into my mind and the magnetism of his presence bearing down on my head.
I ignore the trickle of sweat running down my forehead and throw a knife at the target, striking dead centre.
"Not bad," he says, picking up one of my knives, "let's see if I can do better."
He leans back and I know right away the knife will be off-centre; he hits the bottom corner of the target.
"Holy shit," I smirk, "you suck at this."
"Well, let's see you try again then," he comments, moving right up behind me. My heart begins to pound as his breath glances across my ears and settles upon my collarbone. I can barely feel the knife between my quivering fingers.
I'm going to miss! I'm going to miss and he's going to mock me with that snide, sarcastic chuckle of his.
I give the knife a half-hearted hurl and to my horror, it lands next to his attempt on the bottom corner.
"Wow, someone likes me!" he chuckles. Blood rushes to my face and the rest of my knives clatter to the floor as I stomp off.
"Hey, where're you going?" he calls out.
"Piss off!" I yell, unsure I meant it.
15.
Clang
The satisfying ring of a bell shatters the silence; punctuated earlier by sounds of my panting. Beneath me lies fifty feet of brisk spring air above a lake, flanked by an enormous rock wall.
"I win," I call out over my shoulder as I haul myself over the top edge, "how about that pie now, bitch?"
"Alright, alright!" Cato yells, still yards away from the bell, "I'll pay up if I finish this in one piece."
I unhook my line from the anchor point and dangle my feet over the edge, taking in the sight of a star-lit night sky. Reaping day isn't far off now, just four more months. The thought of sitting on a cliff in the Arena and watching my kills light up the night sky makes my skin crawl with anticipation.
I look over the edge of the wall and chirp, "Having trouble sweetheart?"
There's no answer. Cato looks over his shoulder at the height separating him from the water. When he looks back at me I can see the shudder in his lips.
"Fuck," he curses beneath his breath, eyes frozen in fear at the next hold.
My lips curl into a smirk. I've never seen Cato so out-of-control like this. He's usually suave and confident, always having a sarcastic reply to everything I do and say.
C'mon Cato, just a little more.
He looks over his shoulder again.
"For fuck's sake Cato stop looking down," I shout.
"Fuck, I can't-"
"You have to. I want my goddamned pie!"
"Clove I-I-" he stammers,
"What the fuck's the matter with you? Are you-"
"I'm scared, alright?" he confesses, "I'm scared of heights and I was a fucking idiot for doing this!"
Despite every instinct in my body telling me to mock him while pouring a bottle of water onto his terrified face, I don't. Not because I feel sorry for him, but mostly because of how incredible it feels to conquer the hardest rock wall course, and I want him to share the moment with me.
"Look at me!" I yell, leaning over and slapping the rock wall, "You're going to have something else to be scared of if you don't get your ass up here!"
With a loud grunt he lifts himself up to the next hold, and looks down again.
"Fucking pussy, I'll dig your eyeballs out the next time you look down!" I yell.
Cato snaps his head towards me and his eyes light up with fury. He clenches his teeth and powers through the next three steps, until one last hold separates us.
"You fuck-" he pants with exhaustion, "I'll fucking-"
I contemplate holding out my hand to help him up; but Cato deserves his own victory. So I lean over the edge of the wall and hold out my middle finger. With a ferocious roar he yanks his body up and takes a swipe at my face. I duck and he misses, striking the bell instead.
Clang.
"You made it, pussy boy. Time to pay up," I say as he hangs from the top edge of the wall.
"Don't you fucking call me-" he growls,
I see his fingers slip from the hold before he realises what's happening. Without thinking, every muscle in my shoulders surge forward and I latch my fingers around his hand. But he falls, and Cato drags me over the edge like a ton of bricks. The next second flashes past my eyes in a blur, and by the time it's over – I'm dangling fifty feet over the water with my fingers turning pale beneath his vice-like grip. His rope had caught in the anchor point, and starts to creak under our combined weight. Cold sweat springs out of every pore in my body when I realise the severity of our situation.
"Fuck," I spit, flailing my legs around wildly, "you fucking idiot!"
"Why the fuck did you catch me?" he yells.
Because we're supposed to protect each other.
"Well, why the fuck did you fall, dumbass?" I scowl, trying my best to keep my eyes fixed on his.
Glistening trails of sweat run down his hand and into mine. The morning breeze flutters through my hair, and with every swing we make – the rope lets out an ominous creak.
"Cato," I whisper, "you have to let me go."
"No," he whispers back. The fear has left his eyes, replaced by a grim determination as they search the wall for a spot to hold onto.
"I'm not going to let you go, Clove."