Everyone else on the train was long asleep when Clove slipped into Cato's room. Every light was off but she knew he was awake. He always was. This had become a routine over the years, the two of them talking in the darkness of the night about subjects they could never mention in the light of day.
She moves slowly as she nears him, intently going through the motions of sitting on the bed and tucking her knees to her chest. If Cato didn't know better he'd think the time of the night had made her uncharacteristically weary. But he did know better. There was something on her mind and she was stalling.
They sat together in silence for a few minutes, before Clove gained the nerve to break it. "Do you ever question what your life would have been like had you not been a career?" There was a part of her that still held a fragment of humanity. It wasn't truly gone, just hidden deep inside. She'd show it to Cato in the darkness of the night where no one else could see. He was the one person who seemed to understand that even behind the killer she'd become was a scared fifteen-year-old girl. He understood because he wasn't all killer either, the bloodlust had taken over him the same as her.
"We never had a chance to be anything else," Cato answered her question as if she had asked him his name. It was a basic fact, even if it wasn't answering her question. It was not her wishing they had made a different choice somewhere but a wish for a different life.
She knew they never had the chance to be anything but killers. If you treat a child like a loaded gun and teach them to fight, they'll become a monster. Their fate was set in stone. She knew that. But in the dark of the night, she couldn't help but question what if it hadn't been.
They had lost their youth long ago. When the other children were learning to read chapter books they were learning to be killers. Little Cato wouldn't have hurt a fly and was barely strong enough to lift the sword he now swings with ease. Clove was afraid of her own shadow and found joy in picking the wildflowers out of the meadow. They came into the training academy one day as children and left as killers.
Her eyes were downcast, staring at her bare feet on the silky bedspread. She wasn't even sure why she brought up her midnight thoughts with him. Other than for the fact that she didn't want to be alone with them. "Trust me. I know. I just wonder about the people we'd be if we weren't made into killers. If we had different lives. We weren't born monsters. At one point, our youth wasn't dead. We could have been something else." Maybe she was lying to herself but she truly believed that they weren't naturally this cruel. That they were a product of circumstance.
He finally sits up in the bed, pushing himself up with his left arm and leaning on it to get a better look at her. "We could think about a million different circumstances, Clover, but it wouldn't change the fact that a month from now at least one of us will be dead." Her eyes have adjusted to the darkness so she can now see his eyes as he talks. His statement is blunt, but his blue eyes are the kindest she's seen them in ages. In its rashness, she knows it's his attempt to comfort her.
Clove can't seem to hold back an empty laugh. "How morbid is it that the thing comforting us is that our problems will be solved in a month because we're either dead in a wooden box or a victor all alone? I can only assume that's not normal." Clove knew well that she could be the one in a box before the month's end even if she'd never admitted it. So she made jokes about it as the only other positive choice was to ignore it and she wasn't very good at ignoring her problems.
They were careers if they failed. No one would shed a tear at their deaths, they would chant in triumph as their contestant became another step closer to victory. Likely whichever one of them was still standing.
If they lost they would become 'almosts' that future careers would study footage of. An example of what they should and more importantly shouldn't do. A dehumanized training tool for the production of future killers.
They're quiet for a few more moments, only listening to the sound of the other breathing. Until one of them breaks the silence. "I remember the first year we had to go to the tribute funerals. They were after the 65th games but it still feels like yesterday." It's Cato that breaks the silence this time, admitting the moment that stuck with him every day of his life in no more than a whisper.
If they lost, they too would receive a funeral surrounded by future careers, but there would be no real mourners as they were lowered into the dirt. No tears would be shed on them. The stars would hold the only memories of the innocent children they were before the world had made them cruel.
They'd come back in wooden boxes rigid and cold. The funeral would be formal and emotionless. Throughout their decade of being a career, they had seen enough funerals after the games to know. They would have failed. Years of training down the drain with nothing to show for it.
Clove doesn't respond. She knew Cato had more to say. The look in his eyes alone said a million words. If she could only see those eyes and nothing more, she'd think she was face to face with an innocent child instead of whatever they were. "There were two that year, we didn't have the victor. It was the year the young boy from 4 won. The male tribute had died early on, he couldn't have placed higher than thirteenth or fourteenth. The female tribute came in second. Their funerals couldn't have been more different. He was treated as a disgrace in death while she was a source of pride. His funeral was nothing but the necessities while hers was ornate. I remember thinking that day, that if I didn't win, that I wanted my funeral to be like hers. Something the district could take pride in."
This time there was nothing for Clove to say. At least one of them would be coming back in a box. A comforting statement for Cato would be saying that she was sure he'd not have to worry about his own funeral but that would mean she'd be the one coming back in a box. Instead of trying to think about either of them becoming a funeral, she slipped under the covers, knowing only one way to comfort them for the night.
She nestles into Cato's side flushing up against his bare chest, close enough that she could feel his heartbeat. One arm is under her pillow while the other is with his. Cato is on his side, leaning slightly over her small form, his right arm over her back. They felt inexplicably safe together. It was as if two wrongs did make a right.
Neither of them was a comforting person but to each other, to each other they were perfect. Too rough for everyone else, being the same kind of broken made them perfect for each other. Best friends out loud, but so much more unsaid.
Their mentors would find them together in the morning but they both knew they would face nothing more than a scolding. A scolding that seemed minuscule in comparison to what they were about to face.
The next morning they'd be back to the monsters everyone expected them to be, but for the night they were two scared children finding comfort in each other.