Cato keeps waiting to hear the canon. Clove hasn't opened her eyes since the bastard from 11, Thresh or whatever the fuck his name is, smashed her over the head. Cato didn't actually see it happen but he heard the screams, heard Clove calling out for him. He'd seen Thresh run off, had seen the bloody stone on the ground. He should have left Clove, should have chased down Thresh and killed him immediately. He could practically hear his mentors screaming at him to go. It would have been dramatic, him seeking revenge for his district partner (that's all she is in the arena, after all). The match would have been a good one, two monstrously sized boys locked in a duel to the death. Good content for the Capitol audience. But Cato decides that they can wait. He can't leave Clove to die alone. She'd cried out his name with palpable, painful desperation. He'd been too late to save her.

The minutes pass and Clove keeps breathing. She still lays on the ground beside the cornucopia. Cato wants to move her, find some cover, some shade. But he decides against it, not wanting to cause her any unnecessary pain. Besides, he'll be break the neck of anyone who dares to appear in his line of sight right now. He'll protect Clove as she dies, like he should have protected her from Thresh. He hadn't wanted her to go to the feast alone but she'd begged, pleaded and he'd finally relented.

"You're getting all the glory," she'd complained, not looking at him as she sharpened her favorite knife (the one with the black handle). "We're going to get home and no one will even know my name."

"They'll know your name," he'd told her, trying to keep his voice light. Trying not to sound like he cared for her too much. "We'll be so rich, I'll pay someone to paint a giant mural of your face in the square back in Two. And you'll be all over the television. We'll have our victory tour."

Clove had shaken her head. "You know what I mean. It'll be all about Cato...oh and that girl."

He'd tried one more time, lowering his voice. "We'll be home, Clove. And we'll have each other. Isn't that enough?"

Clove had finally looked up, meeting his eyes. She always managed to transfix him with her intense, dark stare. She always could wrap him around her little finger, even when they were kids. It was her secret weapon and she knew it. "You know it isn't," she'd said. That was all. And she was right, he did know that. If Clove were content with the idea of being sidelined, if the idea living out her life as his lover and support network was enough, she would have stayed back in 2. Like him, she'd fought tooth and nail to get here. She'd been chosen out of all the girls at the academy to volunteer this year. He had to let her prove herself or she'd never forgive him. He'd nodded and she'd smiled, the real genuine smile that he loved so much. He'd barely suppressed the urge to gather her into his arm, to kiss her the way he did back home. But he hadn't. He regretted that now. He regretted every single second he hadn't been kissing her.

He sits on the ground beside Clove's crumpled form, hoping his large frame is providing her some shelter from the hot sun. Not thinking about the cameras, not thinking of anything really, he takes hold of her limp hand. It's warm, not particularly soft. Her hands have been rough with calluses as long as he's known her, from her knives and other blades. His hands look the same, just on a much larger scale. She'd asked him once, right after they'd starting meeting up in closets and quiet corridors, if he wished she were softer. More feminine. Prettier. The idea hadn't even crossed his mind, he'd answered the question with a kiss and the issue was never brought up again. Suddenly, he wished he'd been better at expressing himself, wish he'd told her how beautiful he thought she was, how fierce. She so rarely allowed herself to be vulnerable like that and he hadn't even bothered to give her a real response.

Clove moans, suddenly, snapping Cato back from his past regrets. "Clove?" he says, barely above a whisper. "Can you hear me?" It's hopeless but he tries anyway. "Clove?" Then, even softer, "Baby?" He only ever called her that when they were alone, behind locked doors (or occasionally on the training grounds, to aggravate her). She makes another noise, a sound that breaks Cato's heart. She's in pain, lots of it. "Clove, I'm here." He has nothing else to offer her. If they were back in Two, he could rush her off to the hospital. Their trainers could do something. They could call their parents. But here, they're alone. No help is on the way. There's no one to call. The mentors could send something for the pain but he knows they won't. The sponsors will want their money going towards a victor, not a dying girl.

Clove's eyes slide open. She opens her mouth but doesn't seem to be able to form words, she just gasps. "Clove!" Cato leans over her, afraid to touch or even breathe too close to her face. All he's ever been good at is causing pain but he can't stand the idea of hurting her. "Stop trying to talk," he tells her. "Breathe for me." Clove takes a few shaky breaths. "There you go," he says, trying to keep his voice even, calm.

Clove's dark eyes are glassy and wet with tears. She struggles to focus, then seems to see Cato standing over her for the first time. Her lips form his name. She squeezes his hand ever so slightly. Noticing her shivering, Cato takes off his jacket and lays it over her like a blanket. "There," he says, unsure of what else to do. He gazes down at her, wondering if he should try to immobilize her head. That's what they always did with head injuries at the academy. Last year, Augustus Langford hit him from behind after they were finished sparring (fucking prick) and he'd gotten a concussion. His instructor had made him lay still on the floor in a ridiculous neck brace and asked him questions. Desperately wanting to feel like he's doing SOMETHING, he tries to do the same with Clove. "Can you tell me your name?" he asks.

"Clo-" Clove manages to choke out. "Clove." She sounds like she's drowning.

"Do you know where you are?" Cato isn't sure what he's hoping to accomplish here but he has to try.

Clove looks at him, clearly dazed. Maybe she doesn't know. She makes a noise that sounds like a wheeze. "That's alright!" Cato says, hating how shaky his voice sounds. "We'll try another one. Do you know my name?"

A tear rolls out of one of Clove's eyes, down her cheek. "Cato," she whispers.

"That's it!" Cato forces himself to smile. To his horror, he feels a tears beginning to gather in his eyes, too. "How many fingers?" he asks, holding up three. They'd asked him the same thing at the academy. Later, when Clove came to visit him at home (trying very hard not to look too concerned) she'd crawled into bed beside him and held up one solitary finger in the middle of her hand.

"How many fingers, Cato?" she'd asked, with the cheeky grin that always made him melt. But now, she just looks up at him with confusion and frustration. She doesn't seem to understand the question.

"Can you move your toes?" he asks, determined to push forward.

Clove furrows her brow, then tries to shake her head. The movement must hurt because her face contorts in agony. Tears spill down her cheeks. She moans again, sounding like a wounded animal. Helpless. Terrified. Frustrated. She's in agony and there's nothing Cato can do about it. "It's alright," he tells her. "You don't have to move. You can stay right here. Right here." He reaches down gently and smooths her dark hair back from her face. She always liked it when he played with her hair, though she never liked to admit it. "I'll take care of you. And then we'll go home. They can fix you up." They can fix anything in the Capitol, right? He just has to kill the others quickly and he can get her help.

"Cato," Clove gasps. She squeezes his hand again. "Cato."

"Yeah. I'm here." Cato squeezes her hand back. He'll sit here with her for as long as he can. Then he'll have to find her someplace safe to wait, while he takes care of the others. He can't wait to bash in Thresh's skull. He'll carve Clove's name into his skin and listen to him scream.

"Please," Clove whispers. "Please, Cato." She's crying harder now, nearly hysterical. She wants something but doesn't seem to have the words for it. "Please."

Cato sits there for a moment, stroking her hand and listening to her pleas. The thing that Clove wants, she wants it desperately. Wants, no needs, him to provide it for her. "You'll be alright," he tells her. "We'll both be alright." He knows that he doesn't sound convincing. He also knows, deep down, what Clove is asking him to do. They've never needed words to communicate, things have passed unspoken between them since the day they met. Two of a kind. Soulmates. Clove has never had to tell him what she needs. This is no exception. Cato just doesn't want to admit it, doesn't want to acknowledge her horrific request. But he can't keep ignoring Clove's tears, her pain. And he can't keep ignoring the truth, can't keep pretending that there's any hope for them at all. He and Clove aren't going home together. Clove is in agony. Thresh dented her skull with a rock. Sure, maybe the Capitol doctors could heal her given the chance but they aren't here. He can't take care of Clove. She's going to die a long, painful death unless he does something. She wants him to put her out of her misery. Wants him to put her down gently, leave her behind. Wants him to go off and win for the both of them. If he stays here, crying over her the way he is, he's going to lose. Clove is making him weak, something she would never stand for.

"I know," he finally says. "I just don't want to do it." He struggles to control his tears, swallows hard before speaking again. "I don't think I'm strong enough." He's never said those words before, never admitted weakness. But this...this might be too much. If this is what it takes, he's not sure he wants to win. Not sure he wants to live at all, if this is the cost.

Cato studies Clove's hand. He has certainly never thought of her as delicate before (she would have killed him if he had) but her hand seems so tiny in his. There's a small "c" carved into the inside of her left wrist, he put it there three years ago with a pocket knife. There's one to match on his, placed there by Clove on the same day. It was a stupid thing to do, they'd both bled more than expected and they could have lost their arms in infection but it always gave Cato a small thrill to see the mark. Mutual ownership, a secret they carried together. It made things feel permanent, even though they both knew they weren't. And now that Clove is going to die, he's glad to know he'll have the scar for the rest of his life. If it fades, he'll reopen the wound himself.

He brings Clove wrist up to his lips and kisses her scar. "I love you so much," he tells her, not caring who might hear him. He doubts anyone is paying attention at the moment anyway. He and Clove were never the lovers they wanted to see. "So much, Clove." Too much to let her keep suffering like this. He'll do what needs to be done.

Cato takes the jacket off Clove, he balls it up in his left hand. He's holding Clove's hand in his right. "I'll love you until the day I die." He has given up trying to control the tears, they flow down his cheeks and land on Clove's face. She blinks up at him, looking much more calm now. In fact, he doesn't think he has ever seen her look so tranquilize. He leans down to kiss her, once on the forehead, once on the lips. She's the only girl he ever kissed (it'll stay that way, though he doesn't know it yet). He can't put it off anymore. "I'm sorry," he tells her. "I'm so sorry." He holds the crumpled up jacket over her mouth and nose, using enough pressure to get the job done but hopefully not enough to add unnecessary pain. He cries while he does it, makes the most embarrassing sobbing noises. He shouldn't be acting this way, he knows that. There was always a possibility that he might have to kill Clove, he knew that going in. But thinking about it and doing it are completely different things. His soul is ripping in half. Whatever humanity he had left will die with her. Nothing could be worse than this. He'll destroy 11 for this. He'll destroy 12, both of them. He'll inflict the worst pain they could ever possibly imagine and it still won't be enough. They'll die with integrity. When Cato dies, whenever that might be, he'll die with Clove's blood on his hands. The person he loves most in the world. He wishes they'd never come here. He wishes they'd never met. It hurts so much.

Cato waits longer than is probably necessary, just to be safe, then releases his hold on the jacket. He leaves it on Clove's face, to cover it up. It isn't very logical but he doesn't want her to look at him and he doesn't want to look at her. Clove's canon booms. The sound rings in his ears. One down, he thinks. A sad echo of his earlier sentiments. His foolishness. "I love you," he says again. One last time. "Until the day I die."