"Why are you always sneaking up on me?" Clove asked irritably.

"Because that's the only way I can get your attention," Cato said, tossing a stone into the river idly. He opened his mouth as though he wanted to say something more, but no words came.

Clove kept her eyes focused on the water. "Well I'd appreciate it if you didn't," she replied tersely. The feelings of vulnerability that he evoked in her made her nervous beyond anything she'd ever felt before. And Clove wasn't particularly fond of feeling weak.

"Since when have I cared what you appreciate or not?" Cato chuckled, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

Clove scoffed, shaking her dark-haired head and narrowing her eyes at Cato. "You should; I could easily kill you with a knife."

Rolling his eyes, Cato smirked as he lifted his own throwing spear. "Yes, and I have a much bigger one plus bigger arms. The knife thing can only protect you for so long."

Clenching her teeth, Clove pressed her lips into a thin line before throwing Cato an irritable look again. "You couldn't kill me if you tried," she retorted smugly. Clove didn't believe he could do it. They joked around about volunteering together and the problems that might create, but she was sure he'd let himself be killed before he had to kill her.

Cato, though, seemed to know her challenge inside and out. Cocking his head to the side, he looked at her for a moment as if to say do you really want me to prove my point? After a moment's hesitation, Cato picked up the spear and grabbed for Clove's ankle just as she turned to run. She'd realized his intentions a half second too late.

"Cato! Let go!"

Smirking, "I could kill you if I wanted."

Clove twisted in his grasp, trying to free her foot but he had a good hold on her. She wasn't going anywhere. Her next move was to somehow undo her shoe laces and slip her foot out, but Cato only noticed that detail as well and moved his grip to her calf.

"Still believe that nonsense, darling?" He barely had to do anything but stand there holding her leg and she couldn't move. It was nothing less than infuriating to Clove.

Nostrils flaring, Clove reluctantly slipped a knife out of her jacket and turned to throw it at him. Cato ducked just in time to see the knife splash into the fast-flowing river behind them. "That wasn't very smart," he chided, clicking his tongue disapprovingly.

Cato released Clove for a split second. In that moment, she dove for the ground in an attempt for freedom, but she realized belatedly that her move was exactly what Cato had been expecting. He lunged after her, trapping her on the ground. Clove stayed on her stomach, face buried in the spring grass.

"Feeling confident now, Cloves?" He growled in her ear. She shook her head defiantly, though her face was still being smothered by the grass.

Lifting her head to speak, "I'd rather you kill me now than give up."

Cato rolled his eyes, "Roll over."

"No."

Ignoring her protests, Cato rolled Clove over, still straddling her legs. "Roll up your sleeve."

"What?"

"Just do it."

"Fine, but don't.." Clove trailed off as she watched Cato open her jacket and slide a clean dagger out. It shone brilliantly in the sun, all traces of its intentions lost to the happy glittering. His gaze had taken on a sharp edge, seriousness carving itself into his features.

"Trust me?"

Clove looked at him skeptically for a moment, wondering what was up before nodding her head in assent.

Lowering the knife to her upper arm, Cato locked his gaze on hers for a second before touching the cool blade to her skin. He applied a little pressure and Clove gasped in return. "Trust me," he murmured, eyes never straying from the dagger. Cato traced a small four-leaf clover on her skin with the knife, little bubbles of blood forming in the blade's wake. When he was finished, he swiped each side of the dagger in the grass, effectively cleaning off any remaining splotches of blood while Clove inspected his handiwork.

"What do you want to wish me good luck for?" She asked, wiping the blood off with her sleeve before tracing the red lines with her index finger. It looked relatively good, nothing crude or ugly about the small design. She felt no anger at him for what he'd done, only obvious confusion at the suddenness of it all.

"The Games," Cato replied simply, blinking at her before handing the dagger over. He handed it to her in a way that implied it was her turn though, and not just for her to slip it back into her jacket.

Taking the handle wordlessly, Clove sat up as Cato moved off of her, finally letting her have some freedom back. She shifted her weight so that she was kneeling on her knees next to him, fingers gingerly pushing up his sleeve.

Clove took a moment to think of something to mark Cato with, something that held meaning. Though their scars would pale and become hard to detect, Cato and Clove would know they were there and know exactly what design made up the intricate lines of scar tissue. Clove traced a four leaf clover onto Cato's upper arm, but left two of the leaves missing.

"From Clover Nightingale, District 2."

"So is that my good luck charm? You?" Cato laughed, and Clove pulled the dagger away from his arm before she accidentally stabbed him with it, though her quick thinking had her instantly lunging back at Cato. Cato rolled backwards, caught off guard by her attack. She held him down as well as she could, silver blade pressed to his throat.

"You couldn't kill me if you tried." She repeated from her earlier accusation.

"Nice change of subject, Cloves," he murmured, trying to keep his breathing low enough to save himself additional scarring.

"I had to prove a point; you really can't."

"Maybe not, but we if don't get ready for the Reaping, I'm sure the Peacekeepers will have no problem killing the both of us."

They gave each other a knowing look, and silence settled over the pair. Clove looked down at Cato before slipping the knife back into her jacket as he stood up. They exchanged one last look before heading in opposite directions. It was time for the Reaping. Clove smirked, hand fluttering over the front of her jacket as she headed home; let the Games begin.