Author's Note:
The first Hunger Games anything I've written and I hope it's okay. Also, this is the first thing I wrote in liiiike months, so I hope it's alright, haha.
Fragile
a Hunger Games (© Suzanne Collins) fanfiction
Clove had never been fragile.
The first time Cato saw her was in the gym, where the parents of District 2 often brought their children to train for the Games. She was standing in the corner - his corner - running a thin finger along the blade of his sword. "That's mine," he announced, approaching her from behind.
She looked unimpressed. It infuriated him. "Cool," was all she said before directing her attention back to the weapon. "Your blade's dull."
Rage began stirring within him at the simple comment; she was calling him incompetent. Within the blink of an eye, his large hand reached out and grabbed her wrist, yanking it away from his sword. It was so small, he noted, so fragile.
She didn't blink, didn't gasp or jump back or scream like anyone else would have - should have. Instead, she merely looked up at him, refusing to break eye contact. He could feel his own glare wavering when she did not back down, and he gave her wrist one painful squeeze (he was sure he could break her wrist, if he wanted to) before letting go. He identified the finger-shaped bruises on her soft skin with a small feeling of gratification.
After that, she said nothing, only smirked, and walked away. He glowered at her, even after she was long gone and after he had had his blade sharpened.
They met a number of times after that, usually at the gym, but he didn't learn her name until the seventy-fourth year of the Hunger Games. Only two months were left until the reaping came, and anyone hoping to become tribute was dedicating all of their time to training. Cato knew he was a shoe-in for male tribute; he was the best in the District, and he doubted anyone really had the courage to say otherwise. There was still a search going on for female tribute, though.
"Hoping to be picked this year?" he asked the girl with the braid as she began setting up her station.
"I know I'll be picked this year." He snorted at her arrogance, but she simply smirked in reply.
He folded his arms across his chest and watched silently as she moved targets around in her space. She was slight, probably no taller than 5' 4", and her body lacked the curves that most girls had already acquired at sixteen. He remembered her wrist, how he could wrap his fingers around it twice almost, how small it was. Small and fragile.
The sound of knives piercing through wood drew him from his thoughts, and when he looked over he found nine blades buried into their targets and a very pleased-looking girl. "Don't think you're the only one who has a shot at winning, Cato," she stated plainly, looking up at him with the same lack of fear that bothered him the first time they met.
His laugh, loud and boisterous, echoed through the gym. For the first time, he spotted irritation (and was that anger?) on her face. "I wouldn't be so sure," he chided, grinning as he ruffled her hair. "I won't lose to a little g-" Before he could even finish his sentence, the last knife in her hand seared through the air, clipping the skin below his cheek before planting into the wall.
"My name's Clove," was all she said before walking out of the gym, with a little bounce in her step.
It was then, he decided, that he found out the little girl was no more fragile than him.
When it was finally time for the reaping, Clove boldly stepped onto the platform before a name could even be called. There was no fear or contemplation on her face, only confidence and what he was sure was excitement. When it was his turn and he stood next to her on the platform, they shared a small, short grin.
When he saw her in the arena, he knew she was made for this.
He watched with intrigue as she tore into the other tributes at the Cornucopia. After the initial bloodbath, when they and the Careers from District 1 gathered up the goods, he laid a hand on her shoulder in a sort of congratulatory notion. She glanced at the hand (which nearly engulfed her entire shoulder), shrugged it off, and smirked before walking off.
They kept each other alive, though neither would ever admit it to the other or themselves. There was a small part of him, however, that realized he needed her more than she needed him. She proved it when the idiot from District 3 failed to keep the food safe and he went ballistic, screaming and cursing. She pinned him down, held a knife to his throat, and threatened to slit it if he didn't calm down and focus.
Sometimes, he thought, maybe he was the fragile one.
Clove was strong, and he trusted her. When she announced she was going to the Cornucopia for the Feast, he let her; he knew she would get the job done, and she would probably get rid of one or two other tributes in the process. She would be fine on her own, and he could protect what was left of their supplies.
Fifteen minutes went by, and he knew something was wrong. Clove was no fool, but she was no coward either. If she was confronted with a battle, she'd go into it despite any disadvantages she had. Abandoning the fire he had been working on, Cato jumped to his feet and ran.
"Cato!"
He was too late; she never would have called for him otherwise.
"Cato!"
"Clove!" That voice couldn't have been his. His voice had never been that weak, that fragile and broken.
"Clove," he croaked as he kneeled down by her body. Her face was pale, contrasting with the blood and the bruising on her head. She moaned when he carefully cradled her head and moved the dark braid out of her face. "Hey, Clove," he called softly, trying to control the shaking in his voice. "Hey, it's me."
Her fingers shook violently as she tried to hold onto his hand. When he looked into her eyes, which were growing duller by the second, he saw that they were inlaid with tears. Clove had never been fragile, but any movement now would result in her immediate pain. Her body was no longer hers. "I don't want to die," she breathed shakily. "Cato, I don't want to die."
No cool smirk, no haughty grin, no scream announcing that she didn't need anyone's help. If he weren't holding her, he wouldn't have known that this was the girl who'd come from District 2 with him.
"You won't die. Stay with me, Clove. Hey, stay with me," he pleaded.
"I don't want to die." Her lower lip began to tremble, and in act of comfort (whether it was for himself or for her) he ran his thumb along it tenderly. "Cato, please don't go." It was then that he knew she needed him just as much as he needed her.
"I'm right here, aren't I?" She almost smiled, and he tried to return one, though it was more of a grimace. Clove remained silent, choosing to rest her head against the sturdy body that protected her. The fighter had died, replaced instead by the small, fragile sixteen-year-old who was afraid of death. Cato, who saw such vulnerability as a weakness, only held her closer.
He watched as the light in her eyes died, held on even when her fingers grew slack in his, brushed back her hair even though he knew she wouldn't feel it. When the cannon fired and her body was retrieved, Cato stood up mechanically, somehow managing to keep himself up. Despite the painful throbbing in his chest and his head, he looked on with determination and walked forward.