Their days of training were a complete bore to both of them. They'd both mastered every skill that was taught by the age of 10, but their mentors had insisted that no matter what, they were never to appear tired with it all, as it would break character. At every moment they were to be biting, fierce, malicious, and cocky. They could not let their guards down, not even among their District One allies, Glimmer and Marvel. Their mentors also encouraged them to appear very friendly with them, even to act flirtatiously with them during training and beyond, to ensure their partnership. Glimmer and Cato had taken to this, Glimmer a little too enthusiastically in Clove's opinion, although thankfully Marvel took one look at her and merely nodded politely, much to Clove's relief. It was hard enough pretending not to love one boy; to have to pretend to even like another would have been beyond her abilities.
On the last night of training they had their tribute interviews. They were not coached much during training about these; they had taken a class all that previous year called Presentation where they went over all that they'd have to know. The class was only for the final year students in their Academy and, not surprisingly, they were the only two in the class because so many assumed they would represent their district. In any event, in this class they were given their 'tribute personality' and essentially it was an acting class, teaching how to behave so that no one would doubt their cruelty. As was previously mentioned, nothing, absolutely nothing, was left to chance when it came to the protection of the identity of Two. You played your part or you'd be sorry. That was the unwritten motto, in Clove's opinion.
Their interviews went as planned, Clove seeming talented and deadly and Cato appearing collected but ferocious, and when they exited their mentors greeted them both with assurances of many impressed sponsors. They both went back to their apartment, watching the TVs for the other tributes as they went but neither caring really. The other tributes were never the real competition. They never had been. They were merely obstacles until the real challenge arrived. There both knew there was only one person that could not die in the arena. The difference between them and the other tributes was that for them, that person was not themselves.
They both got back to their apartment by the time the girl from Eleven was on. Clove had been especially taken with her during training, watching her scale things with ease and seeing her expertise with roots and berries. She knew the girl would be one to watch, although she was sure no one else would take her seriously. There was also something about her, about her eyes, which suggested great emotional maturity beyond her small number of years and that, more than anything, was what intrigued Clove. As someone from Two she understood well the importance of this and realized sadly, that if Cato was to come home, the little girl would have to die too. This more than anything got her so emotional that she almost let out a small cry at the inhumanity of it all, that a twelve year old would be sent to die in such a horrific manner. What was wrong with their world that this could happen and no one would try to prevent it?
The boy from Eleven went as did the girl from Twelve, who Clove was not crazy about because she seemed silly and stupid, like she was trying to pretend she was likeable when in fact she was not. Clove knew that she shouldn't judge her, that if it were not for her Presentation class she would not be so skilled at expressing herself, but instead she became cold and vindictive toward her, a small allowance of emotion to stem off the flow she felt within herself at the injustice and depravity of it all.
Finally the boy from Twelve went and Clove knew he was a force to be reckoned with. Not because of his material skills, they were few and she had a feeling that even if they'd trained him, he still would not have had the heart necessary to enact them. But there was something about him, when he spoke, that everyone listened. Everyone believed every word he said. He was charismatic, influential. Clove distrusted him but knew that he would be powerful in the arena, because he seemed to have good instincts and was excellent at both arousing and abating others when he needed to.
"He would be a good negotiator on our team," she thought idly, thinking that maybe she'd tell Cato about him later. But what he then said next shocked her, appalled her, and more than anything, made her want to explode with rage.
This boy, this stupid boy, was on stage, declaring his love for that idiot girl. This was his plan. It was genius. Make the Capitol sympathetic to their plight. Oh the poor hungry kids from Twelve. With their backwards customs and their little love stories. It made her sick. If she thought, if she even fathomed that this could ever work, this would have been their plan years ago. They had every right to use it. It would not even be disallowed because even in Two there was romance, albeit spartan. Clove wanted to smash the TV in with her bare hands. She looked up at Cato, who, though she thought would be angry too, looked at her with such sadness that she'd never seen before. Her heart stopped.
Cato was silent for a moment, just staring at his best friend's sparkling deep brown eyes. Even with rage in them they were mesmerizing, because they were alive. He looked at her with the pain of the world in his and just said,
"That could have been us. We could have used that. No one would have ever questioned us. They would have understood it was to get us home. We could haveā¦"
Cato stopped and stared at the ground. There was a lump in his throat the size of a stone. He tried to swallow it down but it wasn't happening. He tried to breathe evenly, to control his emotions, but it was fruitless. A single tear slipped down his cheek and he let it happen. He didn't brush it away because there was no point. Tears or not, Clove knew him inside and out. She knew what he was thinking. He'd only said it to make it real, concrete. She'd always known. But what he could not have predicted was what would happen next.
Clove reached up her hand and brushed his tear away gently with her hand. Cato's face prickled where she touched it, but he looked at her with such disbelief that she almost cried too. How could the person she cared the most in the world about not know how she felt about him? Why had she let this go so long being unsaid? She cupped her hand around his jaw and looked into his eyes and said what he never thought he'd hear,
"We could have been together," she finished for him.
Cato nodded slowly, still in shock, and Clove smiled knowingly at him. And then she did something that she hadn't done since they were children; she opened her arms to him and gratefully he slid into them. They held each other so tightly that it hurt at first, but then they both relaxed and just swayed, swayed in their places, to the rhythm of their heartbeats. Clove buried her ear into his chest, breathing in the smell of cologne with a touch of brick dust. Cato was still incredulous at what had just transpired, but was elated at this turn of events. Then, without speaking, he took her hand and they went to her room together, to tuck her into bed and kiss her head goodnight, as he used to sneak over to do as a kid.
