Orange dress, white high heels, dark hair. The contrast is beautiful, and everyone else wears matching outfits: Glimmer, with her golden hair and her provocative golden dress paired with a pair of golden sandals. Marvel with his blue suit, his blue fedora, and his bright blue shoes. He is gaudy, but he matches.

Clove Orion is different.

She answers her interview questions easily: Who do you see as a threat? No one. Do you have yourself a special someone yet? Yes, but they will die soon, too. Who are you winning for? Myself.

They are not even questions. They are lines in a play and she shoots back instantly.

Clove Orion knows the script.

Later that night, she lays in his arms, his hands on her waist. The wind is gentle, that night, and he whispers into her ear, suggestive words that are not to be repeated. He tells of the things they will do in the arena, things that will never be televised. He tells of how he's going to take her around the world and back again, and he tells of how he'll hold her when they're draped in their blankets again.

And in the middle of his onomatopoeia, she shuts him up with a kiss.

The kiss goes a little bit farther, his hands drifting past her waist, past her hips. She reaches behind her for the railing, for something, anything to clutch while he does the things he told of a moment ago. Her hand finds the forcefield, which presses them both forwards. She lands atop him, clutching his collar and gazing into his eyes.

Clove Orion is every bit as seductive as Glimmer.

The next morning, they find each other in the circle of pedestals, dark eyes meeting dreamy, perfect blue eyes. They shoot off of their plates at the exact same moment, like stars aligning.

The last night Clove can breathe, the air is warm. The grass is like the grass in the meadows of District Two. It is the evening before the feast will begin, and their hands are clasped together, and Clove knows there is nothing in their way. They will win this together, and they will win this at dawn.

The feast comes at the time that it should: the table arises from in front of the cornucopia at the moment the sun breaks over the horizon. The mysterious, redheaded girl escapes with her pack into the woods before anyone can kill her, and though it hurts, he and Clove fight the urge to run after her. Then the vile cretin comes into view, creeping out of the woods.

A smirk falls onto Clove's face, her eyes narrowed.

"I love you," she says to him. It is a goodbye for just a moment. She will be back.

A moment later she is screaming his name, begging for him to come to her side. Her head burns. Everything burns. And everybody got away. No one is without their pack. None of this went as it should.

As the world swims in front of her eyes, blurred by tears and blood, she reaches for his hand.

"Kiss me, Cato. I want your lips to be the last thing I feel," she begs, attempting to sit up.

She fails, hearing only the words, "I love-" before the world falls silent around her.

Clove Orion is dead.

Rowan, this is pretty long for a snowball-drabble, but here's a snowball ;) Rated T for not-so-subtly implied sex.