Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to own any part of the Hunger Games trilogy, whether that be its characters, storyline, or anything associated with the Hunger Games series. All of that belongs to the amazing Suzanne Collins, nor any of the songs and the lyrics that I include as what I used for inspiration for each chapter of the fanfiction.
AN: I'm not exactly sure how long this story will be, but I plan on it being a multi-chapter fic. It will be told in flashbacks that Cato and Clove have during their fight, so the events of their final battle may be spread out within the chapters. An important thing to know: the flashbacks will NOT be in chronological order, rather, they will be in sequential order.
Just to let everyone know, this is not going to be some lovey-dovey fic. I am writing this to show how effed up the Clato relationship and the Hunger Games world is. There will be no blushing from cute embarrassment and silly school-girl crushes. Makeout scenes (which there will be) are going to be violent and dark and animalistic and will probably include some form of blood and/or biting. However, there will be moments in which both Cato and Clove show weakness, but not all of them are directly to or in the presence each other. In conclusion, I'm going to write the characters as Mrs. Collins portrayed them in the book: ruthless, vicious killers, but children nonetheless.
If you cannot deal with and/or are triggered by gore, violence, very descriptive fighting scenes and intense depiction of wounds, vulgar language, angst, death, or anything similar, then this is probably not the fic for you, and I would highly suggest turning back now.
Anywho… The version of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" I listened to during the chapter was the cover by Think Up Anger featuring Malia J, which is my favorite cover of the comment and follow! Thanks and I hope you enjoy this!
"With the lights out, it's less dangerous
Here we are now, entertain us."
- Nirvana, "Smells Like Teen Spirit"
Bloodied and bruised, Cato and Clove met once more at the Cornucopia, ready to face off in a final vicious battle. Both held hesitation in their eyes, but still stayed fierce and determined, their animalistic killing sprees having not come to an end just yet.
Clove pulled the remainder of her knives from her jacket, making a point to show each and every one of them to Cato. When she finished, she removed her jacket and dropped it to the ground, afraid of any bodily restrictions it may cause. She picked up two sleek, sliver daggers, each blade as long as her forearm and deadly sharp, discarding all the other weapons. I'm going to win this, she thought with a sense of confident finality, but then a slight sadness pierced her thoughts for a quick moment. No matter how much it kills me. She walked to closer to where Cato stood, her legs shaking almost imperceptibly, and gestured casually with one of her daggers to the bodysuit he was wearing over his tribute uniform. "C'mon Cato," she taunted with a cruel smirk. "Let's make this a fair fight."
"Only for you, Clover," Cato scoffed as Clove wrinkled her nose indignantly at the nickname. He began to strip the netted suit from his body carefully, taking his time. He set his sword on the ground, knowing Clove would not attack him until he was finished. Their trainer had always told them to put on a show, and both he and Clove both intended to do just that.
When he was finished, he retrieved his sword and stalked towards the girl who was almost a foot and a half shorter than him. She's so tiny, he thought amusedly. Doubt struck through him. It wouldn't take much to snap that slight, delicate neck. Cato stepped closer to her, forcing the petite girl to strain her neck to look him in the eye. His lips turned up into a sadistic grin as he stared down at her, trying his best to hide the nervous anticipation that the subtle twitch of his little finger betrayed. He looked her up and down, pretending to analyze the best way to move forward, but even Clove knew that wasn't what Cato was doing. In reality, he was memorizing every part of her, every freckle and scar, all the curves of her body no matter how slight they were. He memorized the blood under her fingernails, even the violent, wild gleam in her dark eyes.
Clove however, only focused on one thing: Cato's eyes.
The blueness of them had always mesmerized her, stunned and paralyzed her. She felt their gaze bore holes into her body, carve tunnels into her skin like bugs under sand. Clove almost shivered from the intensity, but straightened her shoulders and stood stock still, trying her best to restrain herself. She just glared back at his eyes, to the point where they started to burn and tear up, almost like she had been staring for too long when it had been maybe a few moments.
Then the bloodlust returned to both of their eyes and their stances, and their blades started swinging.
Clove dodged punch after punch, each one missing her by an inch at most. Sweat dripped down her forehead, clouding her eyes and rolling down her neck, but she blinked it away, determined to continue winning this fight. Brutal fists rocketed towards her, trying to make contact with any part of her small body. She danced around the ring, her trainers standing outside the ropes and looked just as annoyed as usual. Clove noticed a flash of color out of the corner of her eye and a set of knuckles cuffed her jaw and then glancing off the bone at a crude angle and snapping her head around. Dizzy and black dots and colorful swirls dancing in her vision, Clove collapsed to the ground in shock, her ears ringing. Two knees pinned her wrists to the training mats and strong, rough hands encircled her neck, tight enough to cause discomfort, but not enough to strangle her. A heavy body set itself over her abdomen, trapping her against the floor. A pair of soft lips ghosted over her ear.
"Dead," Cato whispered smugly, his teeth grazing the shell of her ear. Clove could hear the smirk sitting on his lips.
His fingers tightened around her throat, and once Clove's vision was clear again, her eyes flickered to his, and she could see the wicked malice that his blue irises sealed in constantly. She started to struggle, wriggling against his hold, snarling and baring her teeth at the boy. He was far too large for her to lift him off of her; Cato was probably over a hundred pounds heavier than her. They were almost nose to nose, and Clove just wanted to reach up and rip his throat out, be it with her teeth, nails, or knives. Cato just smiled psychotically down at her, his hands tightening even further. Clove began to gasp for breath when finally —
"Alright that's enough, you two. Get up." Tenebrae, Clove and Cato's female trainer, spoke out, a dry, unimpressed tone evident in her voice. Then again, Clove reasoned, she's always like that.
Cato released his hold on her neck, not bothering to hold out a hand to pull his partner up. He headed towards the locker rooms, picking up his water bottle from the side of the ring on the way out. Clove hopped up, her fists clenched and teeth grinding and gnashing, small growls escaping her bruised throat. She made to pounce after him and tear his flesh to ribbons with her knives, but their other trainer, Venor, stopped her.
"Clove, quit letting things distract you. It'll get you killed in the arena," he shot out gruffly. "And Cato, goddammit, quit leaving bruises on your sparring partners. Everyone's getting evaluated soon, and if one of the possible tributes looks even slightly weak due to the marks you've left instead of the after-effects of the performance round and doesn't get chosen, it might cost us the Games. And if that happens, I swear…"
Cato threw up a hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. C'mon, Clover. Let's go." The trainers rolled their eyes and walked away, neither of them in the mood to pick a fight.
Clove bristled at the unwelcome nickname, her patience for Cato's antics quickly wearing thin. Resignedly, she snatched up her own water bottle crossly, making sure that the (admittedly small) pounding echoes her tiny feet made as she stomped down the fighting ring stairs resounded throughout the building, muttering choice words as she marched towards the locker room. Clove heard Cato let out a laugh, the deep, throaty chuckle floating right to her ears and making her even angrier. She stormed into the locker room, flung open her locker door, yanked out her change of clothes and slammed her locker door shut. When she turned around, Cato stood less than a foot from her, and she snarled, dropping her belongings and springing up to rake her nails down his face. Cato anticipated the action and with a smirk, caught her thrashing hands and pinned her wrists to the metal lockers with one of his, throwing her small body up and into the door aggressively. Clove grunted, and he leaned in, their lips less than an inch apart, and once again, that smug half-smile cursed his lips. He brought up his other hand and trailed his fingers along the hand-shaped bruised that folded over Clove's neck, the skin red and yellow and purple.
Cato examined the bruise almost curiously, then genuinely smiled at his handiwork. Clove growled and squirmed, and threw up a knee to hit Cato in the groin, but he stepped closer in, their bodies pressed together, and suddenly he had all the advantages.
Cato laid his forehead against Clove's, blue eyes staring with pleased, sadistic entertainment into her sage tinted orbs. His thumb brushed over the bruise on her throat and he said quietly, "You know, Clover, Venor is right. You should pay attention or else you could really get hurt." Then, his lips came closer to her own until they brushed over the corner of her mouth and Clove took her chance and ran with it.
She bared her teeth and clenched down on Cato's bottom lip, expecting him to yell out in pain. She didn't exactly get what she was hoping for, though the look of momentary shock on Cato's face did please her. Clove threw her head wildly, her teeth still buried in the skin of his bottom lip. Cato let out a grunt, desperately trying to unhinge himself from her teeth, but Clove didn't stop until her tongue met the familiar salty, metallic taste of blood. Cato ripped away from her, clutching his bloody lip, small bits of chaffed skin hanging from his mouth. "Fuck!" he yelled, blood dripping through his fingers and down his shirt. "God fucking — what the actual fuck Clove, are you out of your damn mind?" He shouted.
Clove merely raised an eyebrow at him. "Really, and you aren't, Cato?"
"I didn't fuckin' draw blood!"
"But you left a bruise."
"Goddammit, Clove!" Cato growled, a deep, guttural vibration that Clove could practically feel in her own chest. Cato grasped Clove by the shoulders and slammed her back into the locker again, her head bouncing off the metal and rattling her senses. But this time, his hold wasn't as strict and Clove slipped out from under him, slid a knife from her bag, and stuck the pointy end right at the hollow of his neck. "Move, I fucking dare you," she muttered dangerously. Cato growled low in his throat, but relented. The anger, however, stayed in his eyes, violent intentions visible in the rigidness of his joints.
And there they stood, Cato looming over Clove with her knife pointed at his throat, each acknowledging just how dangerous the other was.