Bellamy. The boy from Twelve's name was Bellamy. Clarke knew, not because he had graced her with it, but because it was currently flashing beside his stony face on a wide screen before her. Accompanying it in great silver print was the number 10.

10! Clarke frowned, wondering how he had managed to get such a high score. Perhaps he scowled and insulted them until they raised the number. She was still bristling from their interaction the previous day.

The third day of training had been better, and worse. It was better because Atom showed her how to use a spear with accuracy, it was better because she finally managed to hit the target with her knife from ten feet away, it was better because Anna had given her a smile rather than a scowl. But it was worse because it was the final day of training, it was worse because Bellamy's eyes had latched onto her with a loathing so intense she could've fainted, and it was worse because whenever she looked at Wells his face was full of sorrow.

On the plush sofa he seemed a thousand miles away despite being just the other side of Diana's body. When Clarke dragged her eyes from Bellamy's angry mask and his ridiculous score, she risked a glance at her district partner, her best friend. All that faced her was his profile, his long nose and long lashes, lips turned down in a frown so slight that Clarke doubted he even knew he was doing it.

He was prone to frowning ever so slightly, but usually it was in disapproval that something Clarke had done. Don't climb that tree, Clarke. Don't skip school to find that plant you've been talking about, Clarke. Don't talk back to the teacher, Clarke. To Wells's eyes, Clarke was always doing something foolish, something gutsy and potentially dangerous; usually for the sake of curiosity or sometimes for justice. Back home, he would be forever chastising her, warning her, giving her his most disapproving glance; but he always caved and ended up going with her. Someone's got to make sure you don't get yourself killed, he'd frown and look as stern as his father, the mayor, for a moment. But then he would roll his eyes and take her hand, and Clarke would know he wasn't angry, not really.

Since the reaping, that little signature frown had been less disapproving and instead filled with an actual pain. Sometimes his lips would straighten out, but that was when Clarke knew something was really wrong, for his eyes would take on the sadness that his mouth had given up.

The sight made Clarke's chest tighten with pain and guilt. She knew she had been unfair with him recently, tense and cruel and cutting. She was afraid, more than that, she was terrified. Terrified of fighting, terrified of dying, terrified of Wells dying. It was resentment that she used to hide her fear, resentment for Wells's volunteering, his chivalry, because it gave her something extra to fear. It was wrong to take that out on him, especially when what he had done, he'd done for her. He didn't need to be here risking his life, but he was, for Clarke. Her heart thudded in her chest and she felt her eyes stinging.

She was vaguely aware of Diana and Gloss congratulating them on their scores (a nine for Clarke and an eight for Wells) but only because it made Wells turn his head, his wide brown eyes making him look younger and more vulnerable than ever.

"Wells," Clarke stood up abruptly, "Could I speak to you for a moment?" Her hands twisted the hem of her shirt nervously as four pairs of eyes fixed on her as her mentors, her Capitol escort and Wells's heads all snapped up. Clarke ignored the first three; it wasn't the first time they had given her questioning looks.

"Yeah," Wells stood up, his brows furrowing as he looked over her. Clarke knew that look; he was examining her, trying to figure out what was wrong. "Yeah, okay,"

Clarke nodded, blushing at her feigned formality as she led him to her bedroom and shut the door. The room was dark, the heavy curtains pulled across the window. Clarke didn't like the view; it was busy Capitol streets with colourful pedestrians and cars that spewed out thick clouds of exhaust on roads flanked by pastel fronted houses. It was too fake, all of it, and it reminded her why she was really there; to amuse them. The thought sickened her, so she tried not to think it.

"Clarke, what's wrong?" Wells asked once she had sat down on the bed, the mattress sagging beneath her like her shoulders were sagging beneath the weight of the games.

"Sit," She patted the space beside her as she spoke, her voice sounding cinched and tight as she suppressed tears. Wells obliged her request, but the way he sat was awkward and restrained, his hands in his lap, perched on the very edge of the bed. Clarke swallowed.

"I'm-" She exhaled, her voice catching when she tried to speak. It was stupid, she had it all planned out, how she would apologise for being so selfish, how he would hold her hand and tell her it was fine, just like he always did. But this wasn't like it always was, this wasn't some stupid argument, it was the hunger games, it was life and death. But he'd have to forgive her, wouldn't he? She couldn't do it alone. She couldn't, she couldn't. Something wet touched her hand and she realised a tear had dripped down her cheek into her lap.

"Clarke, what is it?" Wells turned, snatching up her hand in both of his, the sorrow wiped from his face and replaced with concern.

"Oh Wells," Clarke used her free hand to scrub at her eyes before she turned to him. "I'm so sorry, I – I pushed you away when I should've let you in. I was so scared, Wells. I still am. All I can think about is how scared I am, I was selfish I-" Once she had started she couldn't stop, the words came tumbling past her lips, as free as her tears which were now staining her cheeks.

"Shh, hey, shh, it's okay," Wells released her hand, wrapping her up into his arms instead and pulling her close to his chest. It was warm there, safe. Clarke let out a loud sob, pressing her face into his shirt to muffle it.

"You don't need to apologise for anything, Clarke."His long-fingered hands teased at her hair as he pressed gentle kisses to the top of her head. "I'm right here with you. I'm not going anywhere, okay. You don't need to be scared, I'm right here, and no one is going to hurt you on my watch," His voice was so soft, so sure, that Clarke let herself believe it, just for a little while.

She pulled back, her body still shaking with sobs, her eyes raw and her nose red from crying. She looked a state, she knew, but the way Wells looked at her she might have been the most beautiful woman in the world.

"I can't do this alone," She murmured, her lip trembling as she reached up to stroke his face, her fingertips tracing his high cheekbones, his strong jaw where a hint of stubble was just pushing through.

"You're not alone," He lifted his hand to hold hers to his face. "I'll never leave you alone,"

"Promise," Clarke whispered. He was so close; their noses could've touched if she'd wanted them to. He smelt fresh and clean and he felt strong and warm, like home, like comfort, like safety. "Promise me," she said again. Wells's dark eyes were staring at her so intently she felt he could see right through her. The way the light hit their surface, she could see her reflection in them. She wondered briefly what she looked like to him, though in her heart she knew. She'd always known.

It had never been that way for her, but now, with mere days before they might meet their ends, with his hands gripping her waist with a strange mixture of force and fragility and his full lips parted as he surveyed her face, it was different. She was different. And he was all she had left.

"I promise," He murmured back. Clarke could see him swallow as her chest heaved with the weight of her sobs and heavy breaths. Her hand was still on his cheek.

"Oh God," She groaned, and moving her hand to cup his neck, she dragged his mouth to hers giving him the kiss he had always wanted, and the one she hadn't known she wanted until now.

His lips were gentle at first, taken by surprise, but she pushed against them until he started to kiss her back, his hands clutching at her shirt.

"I love you, you know that," She sobbed between kisses. He had to know, had to. "I love you,"

"I know," He replied and Clarke wound her fingers into his hair.

When Clarke rubbed the sleep from her eyes and squinted in the daylight, she saw Vivian Yule looming over her, hands on her cinched waist and a disapproving look plastered across her made-up face. Clarke groaned, feeling her skin flush red. Wells was gone, but the look on Vivian's face made her sure that he had still been there when she entered the room.

Nothing had happened. Not really, they had kissed and cried and fallen asleep together. It was completely innocent, as innocent as can be between two people who are being trained to kill, but it was clear that Vivian had an entirely different idea of what had occurred.

"It wasn't, we weren't-" Clarke began stammering as she sat up but Vivian only pursed her inflated lips.

"It's interview day today, Clarke. Diana sent me to wake you, she wants to start work as soon as possible, so I'd get dressed if I were you," With a glance over Clarke's sleep worn appearance, Vivian turned and left, pulling the door shut firmly behind her.

Once her clacking footsteps had retreated, Clarke put her head in her hands and sighed, her brain whirring despite having just woken up. Thoughts whizzed through her head, competing for centre stage; Wells, the interviews. It was too much. She pulled her shirt over her head and slipped out of her underwear, the hot water will wash it all away, she told herself. But the heat only made her agitated and the bubbles from the tap stung her eyes when they washed through her hair. And that will probably be the best part of my day, she thought miserably. The last day before the games was never going to be a bright one, she knew that, she knew what she was in for, but it didn't make it any easier.

At least she wouldn't have to see Wells for most of the day. The more she dwelled on it, the more their night seemed like a mistake. What she had said was true, she did love him, so much that it was painful. But it wasn't the kind of the love he wanted, no matter how many kisses she gave him. Oh well, we'll all be dead soon and then it won't matter, Clarke's eyes stung once more, but not from soap.

Diana was waiting for her with her narrowed eyes on her watch as Clarke approached. The breakfast table was empty save for her mentor; Wells and Gloss must have taken their talk somewhere else. Clarke wasn't sure whether or not she was glad for that fact, ignoring a chat with Wells about her feelings was high on her list of priorities, but spending time alone with Diana was not.

The woman uncrossed her long legs and leant forward, positioning her elbows on the table beside a stemmed glass of dark red wine. Clarke resisted the urge to raise her eyebrows at her mentor's choice of drink so early in the morning.

"Clarke," Diana smiled politely. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine,"

"You're lying," Diana took a sip from her glass, "Lie better." Clarke swallowed and sighed, forcing her features into a smile.

"Oh I'm wonderful, thank you; the beauty and generosity of the Capitol is enough to make anyone smile!" The words tasted like bile in her mouth, but they were what her mentor wanted to hear; what the Capitol audience would want to hear that night when Clarke took to the stage, so she said them with feigned happiness and tried to hide the dullness from her eyes.

The dress stuck tightly to her figure, but it was at least, marginally more comfortable than that which she had worn to the parade. Clarke examined her reflection with her teeth scraping at her bottom lip, worrying the plum coloured lipstick that her prep team had generously applied.

Her interview outfit was less ostentatious than her parade outfit, but not by much. It was made of layers and layers of purple mesh with a huge ruffle about her shoulders and at the hem which fell at her knees. Jewels weighed down her ears and throat and fingers, and her shoes were much too tall for her to stand still in let alone walk or manoeuvre stairs. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a golden mess and there was so much dark makeup around her eyes that she could barely see them.

"You look nice," A voice came from behind her and Clarke spun to face him. She hadn't seen him since their impromptu tryst and anxious though she had been, she found herself flooding with relief at the sight. Wells was dressed in a dark grey suit, no stupid outfit for him.

"Don't lie," Clarke pressed her hands to her face, "I look like one of them," she lowered her voice as she said it and Wells chuckled slightly.

"Yeah, but better looking," He stepped toward her with a dazzling smile and Clarke found herself giggling despite herself.

"Well, thanks," She rolled her eyes, her voice dripping with sarcasm and at first she didn't notice that his hands were fitted to the bend of her waist. But when she did, her heart beat twice as fast. "Wells," She said softly, unsure how to finish the sentence.

"Don't even think about ruining that lipstick," Vivian's high-pitched voice saved her from having to as the flamboyantly dressed woman strode through the door. "Time to go you two, Clarke, you're up first,"

The queue of tributes waiting for them was almost as frightening as the prospect of going on stage, almost. The tributes from Two looked as alarming as ever and the Capitol fashions did nothing to help their aesthetics. Atom was dressed in a gaudy green suit and he winked at Clarke as she walked past, telling her she looked wonderful. Anna looked more sour than usual at his flattery and Clarke found herself ducking her head to avoid the girl's glare. And of course, Bellamy's angry stare couldn't be avoided. He was all the way at the end of the queue, scheduled to go last, but his eyes seemed to burn through all the bodies until they reached Clarke, making her feel as though she might burst into flames. She was sure that once the claxon sounded, she would be the first one he sought out to kill. The thought made her shudder. She couldn't believe she had offered him her help. Don't think about it, she told herself, think about your interview.

Someone clasped her hand, squeezing it briefly before letting go.

"It'll be okay," Wells mouthed when she looked back at him. She wished he didn't let go of her hand so fast, but it was risky enough around the other tributes, besides, the commentator was already calling her name.

"Please welcome the bejewelled Princess from District One; it's Clarke Griffin!" The sound filled her ears, almost as loud as her beating heart. Princess, someone else had called her that. Not that it mattered.

Her legs felt numb as she stepped out into the bright lights and colourful crowds of the Capitol. She stretched her lips in a wide imitation of a smile and even went so far as to give the crowd a flirty wave. Ceaser Flickerman, the vibrant host, had his usual armchair placed centre stage but he stood to welcome her, kissing both of her cheeks with a grin so broad it put Clarke's to shame. This year his hair and lips were stained a grass green that in Clarke's opinion made him look rather ill.

"Clarke!" He beamed at her as he gestured for them both to sit. Clarke tried to keep her eyes on his bizarre face for surely if she looked at the crowd she would collapse with panic.

"Hello, Ceaser," She smiled coyly, tucking a loose curl behind her ear and risking a look at the sea of Capitol faces. You're pretty, Diana had told her, show them. Clarke wasn't so sure of her aesthetic appeal, but she hoped Diana was right. Attractive tributes usually gained more sponsors and thus, lived a little longer.

"What a warm welcome you have received! And I'm not surprised; no one could stay silent at a beauty such as yourself!" Ceaser flattered her and Clarke batted her lashes. The last thing she wanted to do was be reduced to silly, giggling girl whose only redeeming quality was her appearance, but it couldn't help to act pleased by his compliments. "Tell me, Clarke, what can we expect to see from you in the games? Nine, a very respectable score, more than respectable, outstanding! What's the secret behind the pretty face?"

"Well, Ceaser, there's more than meets the eye to everyone isn't there?" Clarke teased, grinning at the audience, hoping she wasn't overdoing it. "People may look at me and think, well, she's not a fighter, but I'll tell you a secret;" She paused for effect whilst Ceaser leaned in close in anticipation, "There are more ways to fight than with your fists or a sword," She made a show of winking, giggling as she did. She could imagine the sickened looks of the other tributes, the pure hatred that would be emanating from them. But this wasn't for them, it was for the Capitol, and they seemed to love it.

"Very cheeky, very cheeky! Could you, Miss Griffin, be referring to a natural weapon?"

"Plants are good for more than just eating, Ceaser," She raised her brows and lowered her voice in an effort to appear sultry. If the crowd's reaction was anything to go by, she had done a good job.

"My, my!" Ceaser pretended to fan himself, "Well, best of luck to you! Ladies and Gentlemen; Clarke Griffin, our very own poison Princess!" He took her hand and held it high before her time was up and she was being ushered from the stage.

Clarke exhaled, it was over, it was done. She touched Wells's arm gently as they passed one another, and he gave her a reassuring smile. Once she was back into the tribute waiting area she leant against the wall and sighed, settling in a place where she could watch the screens and see Wells in his seat.

"Nice one, Clarke. Poison Princess! Devilish," Atom grinned beside her and Clarke tried to smile back, but all her smiles had been used up on the people of the Capitol, so it might have looked more like a grimace. Atom didn't seem to mind.

Onstage, Ceaser was asking Wells about why he volunteered. Spew something about the glory of your district, Clarke found herself urging, say anything, anything as long as it's not about me. She knew the Capitol audience would adore the idea of a doomed love, but it would make them a target for the other tributes and for the game makers. Splitting up the happy couple would make for such good television.

"Well, it was Clarke, really," No. "We've been best friends ever since we were little, I knew I had to protect her," Wells looked so endearing then that Clarke could almost forgive the fact that he was baring their relationship for hundreds of strangers to see.

"Just friends?" Ceaser prompted, a wicked gleam in his eye. Clarke's heart thudded against her ribcage.

"Yes, best friends," Wells nodded.

"I smell a rat! What do you think folks?" Ceaser gestured to the audience, who cheered ecstatically, but he let it drop for the buzzer sounded and Wells's time in the spotlight was over.

The other interviews were a whole mix of angles; the tributes from Two went for ferocity, of course; the boy from Three, a kid called Monty, was clearly a genius; Atom was charming, Anna was the nicest Clarke had ever seen her but her attempts at flirting paled against her male counterpart; the boy from Seven was sullen and cruel looking and the rest were mediocre at best. That didn't mean they wouldn't be cruel killers though, Clarke knew better than to think that.

Lastly it was Twelve's turn, and the tiny girl stepped up and retold a heartbreaking story of how she was orphaned that had the audience in tears. And then it was Bellamy.

Clarke found herself holding her breath even seeing him from a distance. The boy didn't even attempt to put on a happy face for the audience, but Clarke hadn't suspected him to. He too, had a sob story; about leaving his little sister behind, the only person in the world that he truly loved. But Ceaser had a hard time prying it out of him. The only information Bellamy would give away was her name and a tiny anecdote about a hair ribbon, though only when forced. Ceaser drew it from him when he pointed out a sliver of red tied tight around Bellamy's wrist.

"She gave it to me, as my token. She said that I should be brave for her, but she's the bravest person I know," Bellamy looked up when he said that and Clarke knew it was for his sister's benefit, back in District Twelve, rather than anybody in the crowd. She felt a pang in her chest at the thought of a little girl who looked like Bellamy, anxiously waiting for him to return. Clarke wondered whether the girl would cheer when Bellamy killed her. Not that it mattered, Clarke would never know.

Beside her, Wells squeezed her hand, and Clarke pushed the thought from her mind as the anthem started up. In that moment, she could've believed that all that existed was the soft swell of music and the familiar pressure of Wells's hand in her own. It was a nice sort of thought. Clarke held onto it.

A/N Oh Clarke and Wells! I liked this chapter, so I hope you do too. Next chapter - the games begin! Please leave me a review to let me know what you think :) - J x