a/n [This style of writing was not my idea, but I forget where I saw it from, sorry. For Brookie's contest (Last Words) at Caesar's Palace; sorry if I twisted your prompt around a bit, but this idea just came to me and I had to go with it. It's based off the theory my English teacher told me that one event is cased by all of the ones before it.]
Play.
He was playing in a game all by himself. She told him to win.
Rewind.
They're lounging on the couch side by side, pressed up against one another so tightly they're almost one. He's got a lazy arm wrapped around her hip, and her head's lying on his chest. When she looks up at the ceiling, she sees stars flashing across the sky in an array of glimmering patterns. She wants to stay there forever. When he looks up at the ceiling, he just sees the wavy motif the lights cast against the dark gray paint. He wishes they were in his bed instead.
She sighs, and he pokes her in the side.
"Bored?" he asks with a lazy tone in his voice.
"No."
She never elaborates on anything. It's his least favorite part about her, but he doesn't always mind.
He pokes her side again.
"Then what?"
"Do you ever lose yourself in thought?" she responds, being evasive as usual.
"No."
He's always so blunt about everything. It's how they contrast. It's why they're so perfect for each other. She loves it.
Rewind.
"Do you ever lose yourself in thought?"
The first time she asks him that question, she's looking at the stars. Her legs are hanging off Laker's Ledge, and his arm's around her waist. It's a cold night, but she feels warm. His breath skates down her neck.
"I try to think as little as possible."
She laughs at his joke, and he smiles, pleased. His lips are drifting towards her neck. She doesn't notice.
"I like to think about the possibilities."
"What possibilities?"
But it's an unfair question to ask at that time, and he knows it, too, because just as she's responding, he's kissing her. Her forming words never reach the air. She loses herself for a moment there, but pushes him away with a blink, coming to her senses.
"Cato!" She shrieks a little bit, but she's not really mad, just surprised.
Pause.
They fell in love two summers before her seventeenth birthday. Two summers before their big fight.
Play.
He laughs slightly and tugs on her hair.
"Sorry," he says, but he isn't really.
She knows that of course, so she shoves him, forgetting they're sitting on the edge of a cliff. Luckily, she's not strong enough to shove him too far. But, to play with her, he pushes her a little bit forward, until most of her lower body is over the void, and then holds her.
She's screaming and laughing all at once. Her arms wrap around his tightly, and she's threatening him to not let her go, even though she loves the thrill of being at his mercy.
She loves him.
She tells him so.
Fast forward.
He's leaning against a skinny tree, and she's leaning against him. They're talking loudly, not really caring about the situation or the consequences. They're too caught up in each other.
They're waiting for sunrise, for the big feast that will supposedly give them what they most desire. Cato wants a gun, but he knows he'll never get it, so he doesn't know what to expect. Clove just wants him.
Pause.
They were going to get armor, one pair for him and one pair for her. She never got to wear hers.
Rewind.
The train is running smoothly down the tracks, which is greatly different from the rusty mine carts from deep in the smaller mountains that his dad always complains about. Clove's father works in the Nut. It's one of the best places to be.
She's sitting at the dining table, eating pork because it's her favorite and not eating the steak because she's never had it before. Cato was going to take a quick shower, but he hasn't come out yet. She's not worried. The escort is.
He's biting his nails that are probably worth more than Cato's house—not Clove's, though, because she's rather well off and his nails don't cost that much, do they?—and saying how they're going to be late if Cato doesn't come out soon.
They don't even arrive in the Capitol for another hour. Clove doesn't understand why he's so worried. She does understand that she's going to throw Cato out the window the first chance she sees, and then she'll pull him back in and kiss him until he can't breathe.
Rewind.
There are no bodies of water in District Two. All of the district's usable water comes through a maze of underground pipes from lakes on the other side of the mountains. In some places, the dirt above the pipe has worn away, so you can sit on top of the cool metal with your legs hanging off. It's a popular place for teenagers.
One of those places is behind Cato's house, isolated. He visits the spot every day and usually has the whole area to himself.
But one day when he goes down, there's a little brown head bouncing from pipe to pipe, back and forth. He watches her for a minute before he gets mad.
Pause.
He'd never seen her before; they lived on opposite sides of the district. He never did figure out why she came down there that particular day.
Play.
"Who are you?"
"Who are you?" she questions back.
"Cato." He's not the type to bicker about who said what first.
"Clove," she says. Her feet stop on two different pipes.
"What are you doing here?"
"What are you doing here?"
He scowls, but answers her question. "I live here."
She doesn't say anything to that.
Fast forward.
He plans on volunteering for the 74th Games. So does she.
They argue about it all night long; their voices are angry, but they don't shout. They never shout at each other.
"It's my last year, Clove!" He's used this reason many times in the past half hour. He hasn't really got any others.
"It might be mine, too!" She's worried about the upcoming Quarter Quell, and that she won't get to volunteer.
"I've wanted this for forever."
"So have I."
"My forever is longer."
"That doesn't even make any sense!"
"It doesn't have to be this way, Clove."
"What other way can it be?"
Rewind.
Despite the distance, they both try to find a way to see each other every day. It's hard at first, trying to reach past barriers and find times that work for them. Actually, it's almost impossible.
One day, Clove gets an idea. They'll sign up for training at the same recreational building. There's only one that's almost exactly between them, and it's the Center, the toughest one of all. The both try-out, and they both make it in.
Nothing's ever been better.
Pause.
They signed up at the earliest age possible. Clove had to lie a bit about her birth date to be let in. Once the trainers found out, there were no consequences. They didn't want to kick out their best student.
Play.
First years are trained to use each type of weapon. At the end of the year, they keep the two they're best at. If they don't have two, then they're kicked out, simple as that.
Right away, Clove takes a liking to the knives. Cato likes the swords. Clove practices sword fights with him, but he doesn't have the right skills to help her. She laughs every time he tries, so he wrestles her to the ground.
They pass the first year easily.
Fast forward.
"Come on, Khione, is that the best you've got?"
"Shut it, Martinelli. It's an off day."
She disarms him and holds his fallen sword at his neck. The blade is a bit too heavy, so she has to use all of her strength to keep it from falling and slicing open his skin.
"Surrender already."
"Not today." He smirks before bringing up his foot and kicks her in the stomach, not too hard, so she falls backward. While she's stunned, he grabs his sword back and takes hers, positioning them both at her chest.
She smiles slightly. "Best two out of three?"
Fast forward.
A girl's name is called, Clove doesn't hear who, but as soon as the name is uttered from the escort's mouth, she's saying the two words she practiced in front of the mirror last night.
"I volunteer!"
And luckily, the dressed up man hears her loud and clear. She's beckoned up to the stage before the reaped girl even leaves her section.
"What's your name?"
"Clove Martinelli."
Fast forward.
The girl is whimpering, scared. Cato laughs before poking her arm with the point of his blade. She stops shaking and holds her breath as if one false move will cause the blade to rip through her flesh. It annoys Clove immensely. She nudges the girl forward with her foot, causing the sword to prick her. She screams.
"Patience, Clove," Cato says.
"I want to kill her now, though." She pouts.
The girl screams again like she's calling for help. Cato laughs again.
"Glimmer," he says, his smug voice tugging up the corner of his lips, "aren't you jealous of her hair?"
Clove grits her teeth silently, jealous that her Cato is giving Glimmer the glory instead of her. Jealous that he called her out while he praises One.
"It's so smooth," Glimmer agrees. She grabs the girl's ponytail with one hand. "Better than my messy curls."
Her curls are flawless, Clove thinks. More beautiful than my stringy hair.
Glimmer saws slowly through the girl's hair with the blade of her arrow.
Rewind.
It takes a while for the announcement to set in. They're still a bit on edge with each other. They know only one of them will come out of this alive, and they're too selfish to wish that it's the other.
But the announcement? It changes everything. Cato understands immediately. He picks her up and kisses her lips with full intentions to never let go.
Clove laughs once and allows him to hold her so tightly.
They're in the middle of a battle to the death, but right now, they're free.
Rewind.
He sees her up on the stage but thinks nothing of it. She had no right to volunteer when it was his year to shine.
He's too angry to think straight, so he volunteers as soon as he can, walking up onto the stage before anyone can even invite him up.
The escort looks a bit unsettled. District Two has always been wild at the Reaping, but he's never seen someone be this straightforward.
He asks for the volunteer's name.
"Cato Khione."
Pause.
It took Cato awhile to realize his mistake.
Fast forward.
Everything's happening so quickly that Cato doesn't have enough time to react. First, he's watching her attack Twelve. She's winning, obviously, and Cato grins at the sight of his girl slowly killing his greatest enemy.
He's caught up in his thoughts—imagine that, Clove was right—thinking about the future they'll have when this is over. The two victors of the 74th Hunger Games. No one will ever be more famous than them. They'll live together, of course, in a house big enough for them and several children. He'll train them to be the best tributes, and they'll enter the Games and all come out. His name will be in history books.
Her screams break him out of his reverie.
He scans the field first, his disbelief the only thing keeping his feet in place. She's on the ground, on her back, and Eleven's in front of her, leaning closer to her. She howls in pain.
And she's screaming his name.
It's too late, he knows that in the back of his mind, but he runs to her anyway.
Pause.
That was the only time when he truly thought of someone before him.
Play.
She's motionless on the ground when he reaches her, but she's still breathing. There's no one nearby as far as Cato can see. He looks into her eyes and is surprised when he finds them tearing up.
She takes a shaky breath in and whispers, "I love you."
Cato bows his head at that. He's never done much to deserve her love.
"I love you, too." He's whispering as well, but he doesn't know why.
Her eyes close, and Cato's sure this is the last moment he'll ever have with her again. He leans down and presses his forehead to hers. He doesn't kiss her. This doesn't seem like the right moment. It will never be the right moment again.
Clove's got one last breath in her, though, and she uses it well.
"Win."
Her body falls limp, and Cato doesn't cry.
He lifts himself off the ground and moves onto his next target.
Stop.