Because Cato and Clove's relationship was ALL WRONG in the movie. Their characters were brilliant, but where was Cato when Clove was dying? I am not impressed. I do not own The Hunger Games and blah blah. Feedback is fun :)
(Also I just want to take this space to say that Isabelle Fuhrman was amazing as Clove. Like holy moly.)
Born and raised in the unforgiving world of District 2, you grew up in a different kind of Hell. You are raised with the ideas of honour and glory pounded into your head. All your father wanted was to raise a winner; something his disability ensured he would never be. You were just the runt. "Too small," they'd say when you turned six. "She wouldn't last a day."
You were always determined to prove people wrong.
You sign up to train as a Career out of defiance, out of pride, out of a desire to be something more than a runt who will never do her District proud. On your eighth birthday, you show up for your first day of training. They laugh in your face. Your face starts to burn, but you hide the hurt behind a sardonic smirk and throw your first knife (one day, it'll be your signature). In the Hunger Games, it's not enough to quietly go about your business. To catch the attentions of sponsors, you must be unforgettable, deadly, striking. Each District fills a specific role, and nobody wants a soft career. You're not stupid. You prefect your persona. The games have already begun.
You sleep with a knife from now on.
You train with your older brother everyday because he worries about you (and maybe if you weren't so proud, you might to). He was the favourite: cunning, muscular, and brave, but he always had time for his little sister. He teaches you more than you could ever learn in the Training Center; he teaches you how to manipulate the audience, the sponsors, the other tributes. He teaches you to close your heart. In the games, he tells you, shadows in his eyes, feelings get you killed. It used to scare you when he did these things, but he would always throw a smile at you and ruffle your hair. Then you would race. There's no time to waste. Preparing for the games is a full-time commitment.
The Games are an honour, but you know the risks. Training never stops; one skill left imperfect can spell your death in the arena. Because the odds are never really in your favour.
He volunteers when you are 12, and you truly believe he'll come back. He is formidable, the best of the best. But the Gamemakers tried something new that year, and he is one of the 14 that die from the cold. Your father forgets he existed. You shed your first and last tear for him, and seal the remains of your heart away where it can shrivel up and die. You lock your fears with it, and throw yourself into training. You become the ruthless machine your father always wanted, but it's not enough. Not yet.
It pays off, and you begin to carve yourself an identity. You become the girl with the knives. No longer the runt. When you hear them whispering about you, you turn, throw a cutting remark, and smirk. Despite your size, you have become as formidable as your brother. When you walk through the Training Center, the other kids clear a path for you. They speak your name with respect and fear. By the time you turn 15, you have bested every tribute in combat (you turn your size into your advantage, you are quick and clever and wicked with your knives), and you throw with deadly accuracy. You never miss.
You planned to volunteer at 18, but when you are called in the reaping at 16, you smirk and strut to the stage like you own it (because you will soon). It doesn't matter that you're going in two years early; you are the most skilled of the possible tributes. You expect the Cato boy to volunteer, and he doesn't disappoint. He's the favourite among the boys, and (almost) as feared as you. When you're ordered to shake hands, he crushes yours, and you retaliate with your signature smirk and dig your pointed nails into his palm.
You ignore the shadows in his eyes. It's too familiar, and you wiped that look from your memory years ago. It unsettles you, and you imaging carving those eyes out to clear your head.
"I'm going to kill you," he growls, his lips barely moving.
You laugh in his face.
He sneers. You smirk.
What happens next is unexpected. His eyes soften ever so slightly, and your smirk turns into more of a grin. You come to the realization that you don't really want to kill Cato.
You snort in disgust. These are the feelings you were warned about, the ones that get you killed.
You form the Career alliance because it's expected, and it's a smart initial strategy. You watch all your allies closely in training, watching for their strengths and weaknesses. Cato grabs your attention right away, proving himself more powerful than the Tributes from 1 or 4. He's deadly, but he's sloppy, you notice. His style is brutal and bloody, yours has been perfected to an art. You know where to cut to cause instant death, and what paths lead to slow agony. You feel prickles up your back when you throw your knives, and you know he's watching you, too.
The rest of the tributes are menial. The girl from 5 stands out, though. She reminds you of you, if you were weak and totally incompetent with weapons. Clever. Quick. The boy from 10, you almost feel sorry for. Surely he has no chance with that leg. But he reminds you of your father, and you know whose face you'll picture when you slit his throat. The boy from 11 is an obvious threat, but you glance at Cato and remember the time you bested him. You've already proven to your District that size isn't evereything. And the girl from 12. You'd bet your knife she's hiding something. District 12 has never had a volunteer before.
When she pulls in a score of 11, you exchange a look with Cato, the meaning clear.
Mine.
You nearly had her at the Cornucopia, but you let her leave, knowing abandoning the alliance for a single kill won't do you any favours. Your knives fly true, and you can't help but exchange a sadistic grin with Cato when the bloodbath is over. It isn't wise to forge more connections with him when only one of you can come out (and you know it'll be you), but you understand him, and he understands you. Besides, you tell yourself, it's just for the Games. The Capitol will love it, and you need to take any advantage to lure sponsors away from the Girl on Fire. Just the thought of her makes your blood boil.
You and Cato do everything together during those first days, against your better judgment. You continue to lie to yourself, saying there's safety in numbers and he's a good hunting partner (it crosses your mind that you never go with Marvel or Glimmer, but you ignore that). Neither of you love words, but you learn about each other through observation. Cato learns that you creep through the woods like a wildcat, sleep with a knife, and wake up to the same nightmare each night. You learn that Cato knows more about plants than he lets on, hates the dark, and passes the tedium by sharpening his many weapons.
One time, after a kill, Cato turns to you and says, echoing his earlier words, "I'm going to kill you."
It's conversational, casual almost. You laugh in his face again, but it doesn't have the same malice. He smiles at you, an honest-to-God smile. It's small, but it's there.
As if you both realize the danger in these actions, you jog back to the lake silently, always alert for danger, but never glancing at the other.
You realize that this is worse than you thought, because you have no idea how you're going to kill him. He reminds you of your brother, is the excuse you repeat to yourself. It worries you that your excuse doesn't give you a means of killing him easily. You stomp on the feelings as hard as you can, squashing them before they can get you killed.
The tracker jacker attack was a disaster, and you are the only girl with the sense to drop everything and sprint to the lake. The nest practically lands on you, however, and you've been stung four times before you make it far. You're smart enough to rip the stingers out, but you can feel the hallucinations already and you know you aren't at the lake when you collapse, and you pray to someone that you made it far enough. Through the haze, you think you feel yourself sliding through the dirt, and you can't tell if you splash into the lake or a green pool crawling with cockroaches a moment later. But you squint, and you can just make out Cato dropping you. Then you pass into a full scale hallucination, and put the incident to the back of your mind.
It's a mutual, undiscussed decision to split after Marvel dies and the supplies are blown sky high. The constant fight against whatever this was was draining you, and Cato doesn't look his best either. You split the remaining supplies and run in opposite directions, he towards 11's liar and you after the elusive girl from 5. You hunt well on your own, making good use of your stealth and speed, but you don't find 5. The ones you find on the way only feed your irritation. You don't worry about him, but you can't help but search the sky for his face the nights when you hear a cannon you didn't cause. Curiosity, you call it. Checking on the remaining competition. It's just good strategy.
When the announcement comes, you know it's meant for 12, but your traitorous heart can't help but jump at the thought of him coming home with you (because of the extra glory and honour for District 2, you tell yourself, nothing more). You start looking for him that night, but you remember not to get your hopes up too much. You don't trust the Capitol or the Gamemakers.
You find Cato less than a day later, and you silently sneak closer before you lean against a tree, smirk, and quip, "I'm going to kill you."
He whirls around with his sword in hand, recognizes you, and sneers back. The tension you felt when you split up dissipates. "It's not smart to provoke a Career, Clove."
You laugh in his face for a third time, but it's familiar this time. Almost warm.
You're both hungrier than before, but you've managed well, and his small knowledge of plants prove valuable over the next days. You hunt together at night, and alternate watches during the day. Just like old times.
You both perk up when the Feast is called. Not only do you want the gifts, but at this stage in the game, everybody needs something desperately. They won't be missing their only chance to claim it. You hone your knives during your watch, anticipating them slicing flesh in mere hours.
The night before, you remember the tracker jackers, and your curiosity burns too hot to ignore.
"Cato?"
"What?" he snaps, but you don't take his irritation seriously anymore.
"Did I make it to the lake after the tracker jackers?" you ask. It's blunt, the only way you can think of asking.
Cato sits for a moment. "Almost," he says finally, guardedly. He knows you well enough to know that any sign of your weakness is unacceptable.
That's what you thought. You almost leave it at that, but the next question rips out of you before you can stop it. "Did you come back for me?"
"Yes," he finally says.
"Why?"
It's as much a statement as a question, hard and cold in tone.
Cato says nothing at first, his eyes trailing on the ground until they meet your brown ones. "To protect you," he says, eyes glinting.
"That's bullshit, Cato. You and I both know I don't need protecting," you snap. You have to be angry, the alternative is worse.
"What, no thank you?" he mocks, and you know the issue is in the past, forgotten. You both survived, in any case. It was a non-issue (only it wasn't, it couldn't be).
You trudge back to the Cornucopia and wait for dawn.
The plan is simple, but effective. You're faster, you'll be the one collecting the pack, taking out the others in the way. Cato will wait nearby, ready to hunt down stragglers or (in the unlikely scenario that you need it) come to your aid. The sun rises, the table clicks into place, and 5 has her pack and has gone before you can even think of pursuing her. You almost hiss in your fury, refocusing for 12 or 11's appearance.
Like you predict, the girl from 12 races towards her tiny pack, and with a snarl you launch yourself after her. She's been stealing the spotlight throughout the Games, and the annoyingly small number of silver parachutes sent District 2's way are proof. You hurl a six-inch knife at her, and another when she deflects the first. It opens a long gash on her forehead, and you twist quickly to avoid a fatal hit in return. The arrow buries itself in your left shoulder, and you hiss at the pain, but you don't stop, wrenching it out and tackling the girl to the ground. You're stronger than her, and you select your favourite knife, smirking in triumph. Let the games begin, you think, as you spit words at her with malice, words you know will hurt her as much as the knife you're playing with. You want to be remembered, like Finnick or Johanna, and you're going to make this death the most memorable when something wrenches you from the girl, and you scream your anger as you dangle in the air. When you turn in midair, you expect Cato wants to finish the job, but you come face to face with 11 instead, and your blood runs cold. You have less than a second to hate yourself for forgetting this threat when you remember you're not alone in the arena anymore, and you scream in desperation for Cato.
You kick and struggle, hating yourself for screaming (Careers don't scream for help), hating 11 for his need for revenge, hating 12 for consuming you and making you forget about the other threats, hating the Capitol for it all.
You hear your own name shouted back, and you know in that instant that he's too far, he's coming but it's too late, he can't make it in time, and this is the end but you're Clove, you're the best District 2 has and if you're going out, it's going to be spectacular because you don't know how to do anything else. A million thoughts flash through your head as 11 brings the rock down on your skull with a sickening, blinding pain, but the fear never comes and that makes you proud. The world goes foggy, and you think you hear 11 and 12 leaving, and you're just trying to decide who to follow when your name sounds quietly (or is it loud? you can't tell anymore) above you. Your mind starts to jumble, and you forget the arena and the Girl on Fire and even your all-consuming hate, but you don't forget who crouches above you, begging you not to leave, to stay with him.
Through the fog, you have one last moment of clarity as your life seeps out of you in his arms. You drag your eyes to his, and when you meet them you know you understand each other, and the words you rarely speak to each other aren't necessary. He looks like he's about to cry (you would remind him that Careers don't cry, if only you had the strength), but you see that thing in his eyes, the thing you know is in yours too. The thing you've convinced yourself you can't feel. Love. You blow one last kiss to the cameras (they sure as Hell aren't forgetting about you now), and give Cato one last, signature smirk. Your last breath leaks out, and "Win for me, Cato," is on your lips. You don't know if he could hear. It doesn't matter; he doesn't need to. A cannon fires.