a dream, but then it would be an illusion
{the guilty pay with their minds. the innocent pay with their resolve. the broken pay with their hearts}
inspiration helms from the gavin degraw song "not over you" / au: cato wins the hunger games
...
He wasn't supposed to be happy, and he certainly wasn't supposed to be enjoying himself, nor was he supposed to radiate as he was. The crown, the cold of it that would reflect his emotions in the near distant future, bestowed upon his head only reinforced his enjoyment. He relished in the moment, in the attention, in the pride. He had won. He was victor. He would not forget that.
and finally I'm forced to face the truth
He was immediately showered in gifts, admirers, lovers, and commendation upon his return, still beaming from his win. The post-game glow, however, would wear off the moment he stepped upon the stage in front of the Justice building, a victorious glint in his eyes as he scanned the crowd. His blue eyes analyzed the sea of people, looking at one particular section rather intently, his eyes burning holes into the empty space before him. That's when it hit him.
She wasn't waiting for him, ready to congratulate him after his win. She wasn't there, she wasn't there. Maybe she was late, but she wouldn't dare to be tardy to such an event - then perhaps she was waiting for him backstage, backstage to see him privacy. Maybe, just maybe, she was somewhere else and he would soon see her in the dim light of the moon. He was right, though, she was in another place indeed, but certainly not the place he had in mind. No, she was dead. A thin, nearly invisible veil of transparent liquid brimmed at the edge of his eyes, quickly blinked away as he realized what he was doing. Crying was for the weak, crying was for those who weren't victors, but crying was also for those who had lost, and he certainly did.
He lost himself.
-~-
i would lie and say that you're not on my mind
Someone tapped his shoulder, the signal for him to step off the stage. Walking to the beautiful tent in which a feast was to be held, he was reminded of where he was, and who he was.
"You're not thinking of her, are you?" a voice asked, arms crossed, a serious look plastered on the person's face.
"No," he whispered, not daring to look the other into the eye.
"Look at me," the person commanded, slapping him, the hand making contact in the place a scar should have remained, a scar that should have served as a reminder of what had happened.
He tilted his head up, allowing his blue eyes to stare into the green orbs of the other, slowly collecting enough courage to shake his head.
"You lie," the person accused, raising an eyebrow as if challenging him and pointing a shaky finger.
But of course he was thinking of her. She was lingering in his mind, never to disappear, never to leave, something sure to stay in the world of twisted horrors. She was omnipresent; he was thinking of her each time he breathed, each time his heart beat, each time he closed his eyes to escape the world before him. Pressing his lips into a thin line, he looked away and walked away from what may be the last tangible remainder of her: her father. As if the limp, quick temper, and those impenetrable green eyes didn't give it away, it was the spite at which the other person looked at him that revealed the person's true character.
"Congratulations," the person hollered at him, very well knowing this would provoke him, knowing this would stir the anger he had tried so hard to keep in. Turning back, he clenched his fist and punched the other square in the nose, and for extra effect, in his right eye once more. As the person fell, he kicked, once, twice, maybe for even an eternity if he was not dragged away by two others.
"It's her," one of them said, the tone clear and matter of fact.
"Don't lie," the other said, handing him a handkerchief to clean the blood off his hand.
"I'm fine," he grumbled, waving them away. Of course, the statement "I'm fine" can be used in so many ways, in so many versions, but at the end of the day, is anyone truly fine? Is anyone truly fine in this never-ending game in which you're always stuck as a pawn, raised for the slaughter, a game where blood serves as your only lifeline?
-~-
dreams, that's where I have to go to see your beautiful face
The first night he dreamed of her. The second night he did the same. The third night he realized what was happening. Her green orbs, the beautiful mass of brown hair that lay atop her smirking face would visit him, and he stared on with intrigue, not daring to reach out a hand for what may happen.
It was too much. He couldn't handle it; he doubt he ever could and he never would.
The world shattered, shattered like the mirror he broke on the fourth night, when he couldn't sleep, when he couldn't see her. No, he was off in the Capitol, involved in other misgivings. He couldn't drift off to sleep with memories of her still dancing around in his head, could he? How would it appear, how would it seem, if he accidentally mumbled her name under the thick Capitol sheets?
-~-
Congratulations for what? For killing her, for watching the life slip away from those emerald orbs, for being alive and dead at the same time? What had he done to deserve such laudatory applause? Becoming victor was certainly not it; it was far from deserving a note of congratulatory words. The word resonated in his mind, reverberating with each heartbeat, with each shaky breath he drew.
...
but it was all a dream.
her dream.
their dream.
the illusion of life; the illusion of pain; the illusion of love.
and broken people don't exist in dreams, do they?
because that would be one fucked up dream.
[A/N: It's rather embarrassing that this is the first file from my bulging folder of documents that has been posted considering the eons of time I've spent on this website. My use of eons was not an exaggeration, just to note. Who knows why I took so long to post something, but at least it's Cato/Clove and it's rather fitting when I take into account the date. I hope this wasn't too terrible; I find that this portrays them in a fluffier and lighter perspective than usual. Nontheless, you're officially welcome to supply your opinion, and in return, you'll get a bunch appreciation from me and a nice box of cookies will find a way to you.]