Love is a weakness.
Obviously.
Clove has never loved anything in her life. Not her father (resented), not her friends (appreciated), not her knives (admired).
And Cato is no exception. She's known him since they were ten years old, bright-eyed and naïve and ready to take on the world with their childish grins and their shiny new weapons. He was her first friend, her first partner, her first victim. She'll never forget the first time she scarred him, a jagged, bleeding mark left on the underside of his arm, her first real taste of violence.
He only grinned back at her, congratulated her, "So you've finally cut me, how does it feel?"
As she grows older she learns more.
Don't love.
Don't feel.
Don't care.
Be heartless, be cruel, be ruthless, be victorious.
She's never loved anything in her life. She won't allow it.
Love is a nuisance.
Obviously.
Cato has never experienced love. Not from his parents (pressure), not from his friends (fear), not from his sword (trust).
And Clove is no exception. He's known her since they first started at the academy, ready for any challenge the trainers could throw at them, competitive and determined and prepared. He always thought she was beautiful in a way. He'll never forget the first time he bruised her, an ugly purple thing right on the underside of her jaw, his first taste of victory.
She only sneered back at him, congratulated him, "So you've finally beat me, how does it feel?"
As he grows older he learns more.
Stop loving.
Stop feeling.
Stop caring.
Be bloody, be brutal, be vicious, be victorious.
He's never experienced love. He isn't allowed to.
Cato and Clove certainly do not love each other, for neither of them really even know what the word means, besides weakness and nuisance.
They always meet somewhere in the middle, after dark and in the shadows and away from curious eyes. Their lips will bruise and their teeth will clash and their tongues will bleed and she'll scar him and he'll bruise her and it's so completely them that they don't even consider the consequences. It isn't love, after all, because love is a weakness and love is a nuisance and love will only get them hurt.
Cato and Clove certainly do not love each other.
The Games have been harrowing, but exciting nonetheless. She made the first kill. He's made the most kills. Together they have been unstoppable, violent and terrifying and beautiful. And now they can win together, go home hand-in-hand with bloody grins and crowns of gold and neither says it out loud but maybejustmaybe they can ignore weaknesses and nuisances for the rest of their lives.
The Feast is here and they're ready to go and they're ready to win. She'll go in, she's always been faster. She'll kill the Girl on Fire and she'll give everyone a show, and she will make it the most beautiful, most glorious kill the Games have ever seen.
He wants to hold her again before she goes, and she wants to kiss him again before she leaves, but both of them know that they can't and they won't and so they ignore these feelings and decide to save them for after they've won.
"Be careful," he says.
"I know," she replies.
It's the closest they'll ever get to "I love you."