Merry (early) Christmas, everyone! Hopefully the world doesn't end tomorrow XP. Sorry for the wait, hopefully I can write more over break.
Here we go!
"Well, aren't you just the cutest thing ever?"
Self control, self control, self control…
Clove tries, she really tries to calm down, but these…people flocking around her are making her so damn difficult.
"Really, it's a nice change, don't you think?" A woman with atrocious purple teeth comments.
"Usually we get all the…er, big girls from District 2," a man who is even shorter than Clove explains to her. "They're all so hairy," he shudders, physically repulsed by the thought, "And so…masculine and muscled. People don't understand how hard it is to dress the District 2 tributes. Making the females look feminine is a right challenge," he titters. "Oh, but you. Small, petite…very nice."
There are at least five of them, hovering around her. They're prodding her face, smoothing her hair, tsk-ing at her clothing…
Clove's hands are balled into fists, and one stylist forcibly uncurls her fingers and gasps in horror. "My, my!" He exclaims in an unnaturally high voice. "Oh, your hands! Oh, my dear Somnia, do come here!"
A lady with bright orange hair that's piled up high rushes over, takes a look at Clove's nails, and looks like she's going to faint. "What have you done with them, sweetheart?"
Clove looks at her hands. She doesn't bite her nails or anything, can't really understand what the fuss is about. "What are you talking about?" She asks bluntly.
The man with the falsetto voice explains, "Dear, dear, just look at all these blisters and calluses you have. This simply won't do. And oh, is that blood?"
Huh. Damen must have nicked her while handing her the knives.
"We'll be right back," Hair-lady exclaims, and she rushes off with about three other assistants. The rest of them scatter, unsure what to do without their leader.
Clove wants to scream. She sees Damen stroll into the room, looking highly amused.
"Damen!" She calls.
He comes. "Enjoying yourself?"
"Fuck you," she hisses. "Are you sure I can't stab them?"
He winks. "Injuring your stylists? I'm pretty sure that will get you disqualified from the Hunger Games."
"They are turning me into one of them." She enunciates each word, hoping to get some pity. "I've been stripped of all my body hair, scrubbed, and prodded and made fun of. The next thing you know, I'm going to be walking around with blue hair."
"Well, wouldn't that be a sight to see?"
She's desperate. Clove needs to have him help her. "Please," she whines. "Please, just say I can leave. I won't even hurt them, I'll just leave and never come back. I've never asked you for anything, Damen. This is fucking terrible."
He chuckles. "Terrible? Clove, this is high-end right here."
"Yoo-hoo!" A voice calls out, and they both turn their heads to see Somnia, the orange-hair lady walking towards them. In her arms, she's carrying about 15 bottles of lotion. For Clove's hands, she presumes.
Somnia breaks out into a grin as soon as she sees Damen.
"Oh, my dear boy! Why, I remember making you over when you were a tribute!" She winks at Clove. "This man here, he was a real struggle. You wouldn't believe how hairy he was, oh, it took hours just to get it all off. But, in the end, it all worked out, and he's quite a handsome man, no?" Somnia looks about ready to pinch Damen's cheeks, and Clove's getting some satisfaction seeing the flash of terror in his eyes.
"Well, it was nice talking to you, Somnia," he says stiffly, all joking tones wiped from his voice. "If you'll excuse me." Damen swiftly walks away.
Somnia turns back to Clove, and she wants to die.
The Careers can literally make another tribute shit their pants by just glancing at them, but they're still terrified of the stylists.
...
"No." Clove's tired of being nice to them. She's spent the whole day being "styled". She's done. Clove could be practicing with her knives right now.
"Clover, you must."
"It's Clove."
"My dear, you must wear it. Otherwise, it reflects poorly on us," Somnia pleads, while the rest of the stylists nod furiously like the air-heads they are.
"I'm not wearing a fucking dress."
"Such language!"
"I'm wearing the same shirt, pants, and shoes that I was wearing when I came in here."
"But, Clover, you look stunning in it."
Clove leans in to Somnia. "Look, lady," she hisses out. "That dress is uglier than your hairstyle, which is saying a lot. If you force me into that thing, I can tell you that it will be the last thing you ever do. Do you know what I can do with a knife? Because let me tell you, after I'm through with you, your face will look like a fucking Jigsaw puzzle. A Picasso painting."
Somnia huffs, and storms out of the room. The other assistants scurry after her, leaving Clove alone in the small room.
She acts fast. Clove debates ripping off her itchy hospital gown that she's currently wearing, but that would mean she would have to put on the dress that is currently hanging on her chair. It's absolutely hideous. It's poofy and sparkly and green ("To go with your eyes, dear." *insert giggling and laughter and handkerchief waving and a murderous-looking Clove in the corner*) and it looks like something a leprechaun shit out. A gay leprechaun. A gay, drunk-off-his-ass leprechaun.
So Clove keeps the hospital gown on. She can't find her shoes, because the fucking stylists almost clawed them off her feet when they first got a look at her ("Those shoes do not compliment you at all.") and now she has no idea where they are. Screw it. She's running out barefoot.
Clove jumps out of the cot that she's been forced on (she had to lay on it for hours while they examined every inch of her body) and begins slowly padding for the door.
It opens, and Clove curses.
Damen walks in, and a smug Somnia is behind him.
"Why are you here…again?" Clove bites out.
Damen raises an eyebrow. "Your stylist, Somnia, called me. She said you were being…difficult, is that what you said, Somnia?" Somnia, the fucking bitch, nods, smiling. Clove has never hated her stylist more. "Somnia requested my help, as she thought, as your mentor, I might be able to get through to you."
Clove gives Somnia her best death glare, and the woman gulps and shirks away, her orange hair-tower wobbling precariously.
Damen closes the door and comes in, and lets out a low whistle at the dress.
"I hate you," says Clove.
"Not very mature or clever," retorts Damen. "I would expect something more from the female tribute of District 2. But no, I get a call saying that you are throwing a temper tantrum over a dress?"
Clove shrugs. "Go ahead. Give me your best shot. Threaten me. Punch me. You're never going to get me to put that dress on."
Damen just smiles. "Let's talk, Clove. How are you?"
"Terrible."
He ignores her. "Things have been going well today. The other tributes seem pathetic enough, I've checked them out. The food is delightful. My room is very nice… I think I might move to the Capital after mentoring you. Of course, you'll probably drive me mad before the Games are over, but one can always hope, no?"
Clove narrows her eyes. "If this is your way of convincing me to put on that dress, it fucking sucks. It's not even for the Opening Ceremony – they just want me to wear a dress to parade around the fucking building in."
Damen smirks and looks her in the eye. "Oh, I forgot to mention, Cato is done with styling."
"He's done?"
Clove's taken the bait. Damen continues, "Yes. He's wearing a suit."
What. The. Fuck.
"Why?"
"The stylists asked it of him. It's rather nice – it's blue, you know, to match his eyes. The color suits him well. I talked to him shortly before coming here. He says if I see you, to tell you he sends his love, and that he's waiting for your move."
Clove clenches her jaw shut and resists the urge to scream.
No one else would understand. No one but her and Cato.
Every since she was a child, Cato Evans and her were rivals. One year, he crushed a snowman that she made. She shoveled snow off his driveway and into his bedroom. He would pull her braids, tweak her nose, make fun of her aim. She would always try her best to outdo him, but Cato always seemed to have something new up his sleeve. He would always make her feel like an idiot, but she never showed it.
It was always little things that started the competitions. Last month, when all the potential tributes were training for the Games, Clove had shown up to the training center late one day. When she got there, Cato was at her station.
Well, technically, no one had a station. But everyone knew that the knives were Cloves. No one else was allowed to touch them. Cato was standing at Clove's station, fingering one of the knives. As she approached him, he smiled – a big, cheesy grin, and handed her the knife, saying, "You weren't here, so I took the liberty of polishing it for you."
Little things like that, which outsiders would think of as a friendly gesture, really meant the start of a new war. Both Clove and Cato understood the signals as what they really symbolized.
The next day, Cato woke up and found five knives stuck in the mattress – framing his sleeping body. He smiled and removed them, one by one, then brushed his teeth and ate breakfast.
That's the way their relationship was. It was filled with rivalry and competition. The one who did not retaliate against the other, lost the game.
And as for Cato wearing his suit when the stylists told him to – that was a clear signal to Clove. He was starting war with her, presuming that she wouldn't wear the ridiculous outfit that the stylists suggested. He clearly thought he would win this round.
She won't let him win. Can't let him when – not when they're at the Hunger Games, and she needs to be stronger and fiercer than ever.
Clove sighs deeply. "I'm not wearing the heels," she finally says, and Damen nods approvingly.
"I'll tell Somnia." He nods at Clove and leaves the room.
...
"Where were you? I've been looking everywhere." Cato's tone is condescending and Clove has never hated him more.
"Out," she replies simply, not wanting him to know how difficult she was with her stylists.
He eyes her dress. "I see you've decided to play."
She eyes his suit. Huh. Damen was right. Blue does suit him. "I wouldn't miss this game for the world, Evans."
He laughs. "We'll see who will emerge victorious, hmm?"
She tilts her head slightly and smiles. God, this dress is itchy.
"I heard you had some…trouble with your stylists?" Cato starts, folding his arms.
"You must have been sadly misinformed," says Clove coolly. "If anyone had trouble, it must have been your stylists, who must have had to work their asses off just to get you looking presentable."
"May I remind you that I was done with my stylists hours before you were?" Is that some sort of amusement in his voice?
"You may not," Clove bites out. I won't let him win, I won't let him win.
Cato laughs, and the room reverberates with his glee.
"That dress isn't bad, Emerson," he chuckles. "I didn't know you were hiding a figure underneath your cold exterior."
"Get a good look. This is the last time you'll see it again."
Cato raises his eyebrows and his wine glass. "To the Hunger Games," he says. She clinks her glass against his. "To the Hunger Games," Clove echoes.
Both of them know that The Hunger Games aren't the only games being played here.
Thanks for reading, guys!
Ugh, I'm so excited for Christmas, I can't stop singing Christmas carols! (Oh the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful, and since there's no place to go... Let it snow, let it snow, LET IT SNOW!) Sorry, I'm really hyper and bored right now XD. I can't wait for presents. And Santa. And cookies.
Review and tell me how I did?
Kthxbai.