I liked Cato so much more before he got me pregnant.
Although even then, I never really liked him all that much.
I wish I could get him pregnant so that he could understand how fucking miserable it is. I swear with every passing hour I can physically feel the life being sucked out of me more and more.
The doctors have been saying I could give birth "any day now" for like ten days. The self-serving part of me (which is a very big part of me) cannot wait to push this baby out so that I can finally start feeling like my body belongs to me again. The other, smaller part of me wishes I could keep my baby safe inside me forever. Safe from a world where it will either be forced to fight to the death in the Hunger Games or fight for its life in a war that I may have accidentally started.
The Capitol offered to let us travel to one of their state-of-the-art hospitals to have the baby, but I didn't really feel like having a camera in my face five minutes after giving birth, so we decided to stay in Two. We have plenty of capable doctors here who are quite possibly even more experienced than the doctors in the Capitol due to years of sewing up training center wounds. If the kid inherits Cato's big head and rips my vagina straight through to my asshole, I trust them completely to be able to stitch me back up before I bleed out.
The universe must feel bad for all the shit it has put me through lately, however, because when I finally do give birth, it goes more smoothly than I could have ever expected.
From start to finish, the whole thing is over in a couple hours. It hurts of course, but I am so focused on pushing and breathing and pushing some more that I forget to even be mad at Cato for putting me through all this. I know for a fact my hormones are all out of whack when they hand me the baby and I start crying. Realistically, I know it probably looks like a disgusting little alien, but I swear in this moment it is the most beautiful baby I've ever seen.
"It's a boy!" I hear the doctor announce, and I catch Cato's eye. He is radiant with joy like I've never seen before, staring down at me and our son unabashedly. His overall demeanor is generally pretty aggressive and egotistical (although I can't exactly fault him for that because, well, so is mine), but standing here now he just looks so...normal. Happiness suits him.
"You're incredible," he mouths to me, his facial expression bordering on what I can only describe as pure awe. He looks like a young god standing there with his perfect face and sparkling blonde hair and giant fucking muscles. And he is looking at me like I'm his goddess.
I gaze down at the little tiny baby resting his head on my chest, and I can't believe Cato and I somehow created something so sweet and innocent and perfect.
We name him Cassius.
The first few months of parenthood pass us by in a haze.
There are days where I am certain I've never felt so blissfully happy before. Cato and I lounge around the house taking turns admiring how perfect our child is. His dark black hair and striking blue eyes and gleeful little laughs make us feel a love so strong they need a new word for love. We stare at him for hours, memorizing every little piece of him, and if that ever gets old (which it never does), we stare at each other, pointing out all the different parts of each other that we passed on to him. My nose, Cato's chin, my ears, Cato's toes...
Then, there are nights where I am so overwhelmed, anxious, and exhausted that I start to miss life before Cassius - and then I immediately feel guilty for having thoughts like that. The pungent scent of baby spit up and dirty diapers fill my nose, my room, my whole entire house with no escape. My sleep schedule is even more erratic now than it was in the arena. Every hour (and sometimes more) the sound of a screaming baby startles me from my sleep, and nine times out of ten it is me (not Cato) who has to wake up to care for him. Cato tries, he really does, but unfortunately I'm the one with the milk-supplying boobs and therefore the kid only wants me in the middle of the night. Some nights, he screams so loud for so long that I start to scream with him. I let myself get so worked up thinking about how envious I am of Cato, but then I get back in bed and he pulls me close to him and presses a kiss to my neck in his sleep and the whole world melts away.
We are lounging on the couch of our home in Victor's Village (well, technically Cato's home - mine has been sitting abandoned across the street for almost a year now), Cassius sleeping peacefully beside us, when the Quarter Quell announcement is made.
"On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."
It's tempting, I must admit. A chance to prove that I am the best of the best. And it sure would be satisfying as hell to finally silence all the cynics out there who say my win doesn't count because it was shared.
One glance over at Cato tells me he's thinking the exact same thing.
It takes a meager five minutes (maybe less) before Brutus and Enobaria are letting themselves into our house to strategize.
Without a doubt, it's going to be a fight between the boys over who gets to volunteer. Brutus and Cato are practically foaming at the mouth over the prospect of being victor of the victors, and I'm certain there are several other male victors in Two at home feeling the same.
"What are you thinking, kid?" Enobaria says to me. She is as impossible to read as ever. I can't tell if she is excited or pissed or worried.
"I'm thinking that you and I are the youngest female victors from Two. We have the best chances of winning," I say matter-of-factly.
"You're right, but I'm not letting you go into that arena three months postpartum, and especially not alongside the father of your child. Only one person is walking out of that arena this year, Clove. The Capitol never makes the same mistake twice."
I put up a bit of a fight, but I am really pretty relieved when Enobaria insists that she will be the District Two female tribute this year. The handful of other female victors certainly don't have any qualms with it either, most of them more than happy to continue simply spectating the Games each year. My mind flashes to Katniss in District Twelve, without anyone there to volunteer to take her place. She will be going back into the arena whether she likes it or not (and I'm pretty damn certain that she does not). I wonder whether it will be Peeta or Haymitch who receives the misfortune of accompanying her.
The male victors decide to hold a sparring match to determine who will be reentering the arena in a few short weeks, which Cato of course dominates. They do it tournament style, with six of them total fighting for the chance to volunteer. It comes down to him and Brutus, and with a salacious grin Cato delivers the "fatal" blow after a solid half an hour of going back and forth. It is a big moment for him, to beat the man who has mentored and trained him for this very moment. Brutus is pissy about the loss for a few minutes after, but leaves the training center that night beaming with pride.
It doesn't truly hit me until we're lying in bed the night before the Reaping that Cato will be entering the arena alongside Enobaria, and only one of them will be coming out. Enobaria, who has been my trainer, my mentor, and most recently, my most-trusted confidante. I could never root against her in the Games, and the thought of navigating a world without her leaves me feeling deeply uneasy.
Perhaps it's selfish of me to even think, but I wish Cato wouldn't volunteer. Brutus would take his spot in a second if he asked him to.
We have a baby, after all.
As if on cue, I hear a soft whimper coming from the bassinet beside our bed. I reach over and grab my son, soothing him back to sleep with ease, but I can't stop my mind from racing.
How many more people that I love am I going to have to send off into the Hunger Games over the next 50 years?
Will Cassius eventually be one of them?
The more I lay there brooding about it, the more I piece together just how sick and twisted this whole Quarter Quell really is. The victors know each other well, many of them having developed close friendships over the years from mentoring together - how many of them arejust going to suddenly be okay killing each other? Cato may be at somewhat of a disadvantage going into it without any prior relationships, but once he reaches a certain point in the Games, that will be the greatest advantage he could possibly have. Where the others may hesitate to turn on their friends, Cato will not - because he won't have any friends in that arena.
He has all the capability and motivation he needs to make it back home, and it is for that reason and that reason only that I'm able to resist shaking him awake and begging him not to volunteer.
The morning of the Reaping is an absolute scorcher. The sky is crystal blue, not a cloud in sight, and the sun is clearly working overtime to make up for the brutal winter we had this past year. On the short walk from Victors Village to the Town Square, beads of sweat form on my upper lip and forehead and start to trickle down my face. I wipe them away aggressively, not wanting to look as anxious as I feel.
Cato's sister Salem stopped by early this morning to pick up Cassius; she will be watching him for us while we're away for the Games. Although there is no one else in the world who I trust more with the job (after all, she just had a baby herself not long ago), I can't seem to get rid of the lump in my throat that formed as soon as she walked out the door with him. It feels so inherently wrong being apart from him, especially while he's still so little, but my presence is expected in the Capitol.
Given that the pool of potential tributes is exponentially smaller this year, they have all the victors stand up on stage for the reaping.
I join the rest of the female victors on the right side of the stage, while Cato continues past us to the left. Looking out into the throng of District Two citizens gathered in the Square, I recognize many familiar faces. A few 18-year-olds from our training class who are undoubtedly pissed off that they've missed the opportunity to volunteer after a lifetime of training. Some enthusiastic, younger trainees who I remember from a beginner knife-throwing class I hosted months ago. And of course Adelina, looking smug as ever with a new guy on her arm (who is, notably, half Cato's size).
Rhiannon glides out onto the stage in a dress that is strikingly similar to the one I wore in my interviews last year, only it's black instead of orange. She looks older, her once jet black hair starting to show intermittent streaks of gray, but she is still just as beautiful.
She begins her usual spiel about the war and the dark days and blah blah blah. I tune her out, wondering who Enobaria will be volunteering for. For egotistical reasons, I find myself hoping it's not me. The last thing I want is to look like some damsel in distress who needs saving from the Hunger Games. Hopefully she will pull one of the older victor's names, so that -
"Clove Kentwell!"
The sound of my name rolling off Rhiannon's tongue snaps me back into reality.
Ugh. I guess I'm going to be Enobaria's damsel in distress after all.
I don't move from where I'm standing as I wait for her to volunteer in my place. When a few seconds pass in awkward silence, I glance around the stage to make sure she is here. We wouldn't have started the reaping without her, right?
No, she is definitely here; I locate her exactly three victors down the line from me. She catches my eye and gives a barely perceptible shake of her head, and I swear I physically feel my heart descend to the depths of my stomach.
She is not going to volunteer for me.
The first thing I feel is complete and utter betrayal. I was not at all mentally prepared to become a tribute again today.
Immediately after comes the confusion. Enobaria would never do something like this. Something really awful must have happened for her to completely abandon the plan.
Finally, I feel the familiar sensation of panic rising in my chest. Cato. He is supposed to volunteer. Everyone is expecting him to, and I know he wants to, but we can't go back into the arena together. Enobaria said it herself the night the announcement was made - only one person is making it out of there this year.
"Clove?" Rhiannon repeats.
Fuck. I've just been standing here like a deer in headlights for who knows how long.
I lift my chin a few inches higher and walk confidently to the center of the stage beside Rhiannon, hoping to convince the sponsors that this was the plan all along, that I want to be going back into the Games. That I am not paralyzed by the fear of possibly never seeing my son again.
"Now, for the boys!" She makes a big show of fishing her hand around the bowl, which is much smaller and emptier than usual, before plucking out a single slip of paper. "Cato Hadley."
You've got to be fucking kidding me.
I pray, beg, and plead with a god I hardly believe in for someone else to volunteer in his place. Any of the five other victors who were desperate for the chance to volunteer a few weeks ago, now is your time to shine!
But no one does.
Cato maintains his external composure much better than I did, but when he looks me in the eyes to shake my hand, I see the same whirlwind of emotions that I am experiencing mirrored back at me. Betrayal, confusion, panic, repeat.
So this is how it feels to be reaped, huh? No wonder the other districts fucking hate the Hunger Games so much.
The Peacekeepers force us onto the train as soon as the Reaping is over, completely bypassing the usual Justice Building goodbyes. A bright and shiny "fuck you" sent directly from President Snow, if I had to guess.
No one says a word when we first load onto the train - not me, not Cato, and not Enobaria or Brutus, who will evidently be mentoring us again - but the air is thick with tension.
"Does anyone want to explain to me what the hell just happened?" I decide to break the silence.
Brutus and Enobaria exchange a knowing glance. It's not much, but it's enough to really piss me off, given the circumstances.
"Fuck that, actually," I say exasperatedly, shooting daggers at my mentors. "There's nothing either of you could possibly say to me that would make what just happened okay."
I'm overcome with the urge to throw a knife. My eyes dart around the train car in search of one but come up short. I rub the tips of my fingers together anxiously and settle for pretending that there is a blade between them.
One look at Cato tells me he is even worse off than I am. If this were a year ago, he would be throwing lamps and smashing vases and breaking chairs in a blind rage. And honestly, I would prefer that over the look of absolute despair on his face right now. For quite possibly the first time in his life, Cato Hadley is speechless.
"They threatened Cassius," Enobaria says bleakly. "Said if both of you didn't end up back in the arena, he would be dead by the time either of you could make it back to Two."
And there it is. The one thing Enobaria could, in fact, possibly say to make me okay with going back into the arena alongside Cato.
Cato. My heart twitches at the mere thought of going back home without him. He is so upset that he can't even look at me, but I can't look away from him.
"I need to be alone right now," he finally mutters, his eyes distant.
I watch as he heads off toward the back of the train, mentally debating whether I should follow him or not, and before I can decide against it, I take off after him. The motherfucker is fast though, and I don't catch up with him until I reach the very last car on the train, where I find him sitting in a chair with his head in his heads.
"What part of the word alone did you not understand?" he snaps, still staring at the floor.
"Look at me," I demand, refusing to back down from him.
He lifts his head in my direction, then immediately lowers it back into his hands. "I can't," he says weakly.
"Don't shut down on me, Cato. Not now. Not after everything we've been through."
"I can't just watch you die!" he shouts suddenly, and it takes me by surprise but calms me down at the same time. An angry Cato, I can deal with. "I would kill anyone who tried to hurt you, including myself."
My breath hitches. "Don't say that."
"Why not? It's the truth. For fuck's sake, Clove, I'm in lo-"
"Don't!" I cut him off, tears in my eyes. "Please, I don't want you to say that you love me. It'll only make everything more complicated."
We are closer now, only inches apart, when his strong arms wrap around me protectively. "But I do," he mumbles into my hair. "And I know you love me, too."
I exhale completely, giving in to him softly, finally. "Of course I do. How could I not?"
"What are we going to do?" he asks, but it's rhetorical.
We both know well enough that there's nothing we can do.
"One of us has to make it home, Cato. He needs us," I say, my voice cracking at the thought of our son growing up without us there.
Cato simply nods in agreement.
We settle onto the couch and are silent for a while. I curl up into his arms the way I did for so many nights before we had Cassius. My legs flung across his lap, his arm wrapped tightly around my back, and my head resting comfortably on his rock solid chest as it rises and falls rhythmically.
I can feel it when the corners of his lips twitch upward into a teasing smile. "You said you love me," he taunts.
"You said it first!" I reply defensively.
"We've never said that out loud before," he points out, his smile refusing to falter.
"We've never needed to," I point out. "I've always just known."
"Yeah, me too," he says with a sigh, before jokingly adding, "I mean you made it pretty obvious, slitting your throat for me and all."
"Oh please! Like the whole world didn't see you begging me to 'stay with you' at the Feast," I retort.
It is not lost on me how casually we are able to dance around our near death experiences. How easily we are able to pretend that they did not leave us with nightmares and panic attacks and little orange bottles on the nightstand. It's the District Two way, I guess, to pretend that everything is fine until it's not. Kind of like what we are doing right now.
"I love you," he says it again, but his eyes are darker this time. Hungrier. Reckless even.
"Prove it," I say back to him with a smirk, and that is all it takes for him to flip me onto my back on the couch and crash his lips onto mine.
And boy does he prove it.
Heat pools low in my stomach at the feeling of his calloused hands grazing the skin under my shirt and his soft lips pressed against mine.
"The door's unlocked. Anybody could come in and see us," I protest weakly as he pulls my pants down at the waistband, a rabid look in his eyes.
"Don't care," he responds, well, carelessly.
"And the whole back wall of the train is glass," I point out, motioning to the outside world that seems like it's flying by.
"Doesn't matter," he says curtly, pushing my underwear to the side and rubbing his thumb gently over my clit.
"And we really should use protection," I add.
"That's-" he starts to disagree, then pauses, "...actually that's a good point."
He fumbles around his pockets for a minute before pulling out a condom and sliding it on quickly.
I feel him pressing at my entrance, teasing me for a second. We have played this game enough that I know he wants me to beg for it. A fire starts to build under my skin, and I need him inside of me right fucking now.
I look up at him defiantly with a smirk on my face, knowing exactly what will push him over the edge. "I love you, too, Cato."
With that, he plunges inside of me, and I moan loudly, wrapping my legs tightly around his waist. We don't hold anything back, both of us fully and painfully aware that this could be one of the last times we ever do this together. We move from the couch to the floor to a chair across the room, exchanging I love you's like the words are going out of style.
"I'll love you forever, baby," he whispers in my ear. "Nobody compares to you."
"I'm yours, Cato. No matter what happens. I'll always be yours," I respond breathlessly, and I mean every word.
We never say these things to each other, but after today it is apparent that if we don't say how we feel now, we may never get the chance to. So we suspend our pride for a minute and allow ourselves to admit that we can't live without each other, even though we will have to.
I stare into his cool blue eyes as he somehow pushes even deeper inside of me, and I realize he is everything to me. I see every flaw of my own reflected back at me through him, but I somehow love him more for it. His ability to kill without remorse? I know it's fucked up, but I understand because I do it too. His sharp tongue that can cut me to the core worse than any weapon? I'm the one who taught him how to fight like that. And his raging temper? It's annoying as hell but simultaneously so fucking sexy, especially because I know I'm the only one who can quell it.
With every thrust, I feel myself getting closer to the edge, and I can tell he is right there with me. Desperately, he grabs my leg and lifts it up, making more room for him to fill me, and I fucking lose it. My vision starts to blur and my toes curl and I scream his fucking name as loud as I can. Overcome with more energy and emotion than I've ever felt before, we move as one feral unit as the whole entire train car around us shakes. Glasses shatter to the ground from the table across the room from the sheer velocity of our bodies slamming into one another.
And I swear nothing has ever felt more right than when we reach our peaks at exactly the same moment in a puddle of moans and sweat and satisfied sighs that probably only lasts a few minutes but I swear feels like hours, days, years even, before collapsing onto each other breathlessly in a pile of limbs.
We lay there together for so long that I lose track of time completely, barely even noticing when the sun goes down and leaves us in darkness. Cato falls asleep on me at some point, as evidenced by the light snoring coming from beside me. I sigh. We need to get up and face the others. We'll be arriving in the Capitol soon, I'm sure. The train ride from Two isn't very long at all.
Reluctantly, I nudge Cato awake. "Get up," I whisper semi-urgently. "We're almost to the Capitol."
He groans, his eyes tired and one side of his face bright red from sleeping on it. I stifle a laugh, adding, "Pull yourself together, Lover Boy."
"That's not my name," he warns me playfully. "But speaking of, I wonder if he and Katniss had as bad of luck at their reaping as we did."
We both already know the answer to that, considering our "bad luck" wasn't really luck at all. Snow ensured that our names would be pulled at the reaping today just as well as he ensured nobody would be jumping up to take our place. I highly doubt they fared any better in Twelve. The President wants us all dead, that much is obvious.
Once we are wearing all our clothes again and looking only mildly disheveled, we set out in search of our mentors.
Unsurprisingly, we find them exactly where we left them hours ago. Enobaria is absentmindedly filing her nails into claws to match her teeth, and Brutus has a short glass sitting on the table in front of him that is notably empty.
"Rough day?" I ask with a smirk, motioning to it.
His shoulders relax slightly when he hears the jest in my tone. I almost forgot they think we hate them.
"Want me to pour you one?" he offers. "That is, assuming you and Lover Boy over here didn't just create another tribute in there."
"That is not my name!" Cato protests more forcefully this time, and the rest of us reply with a chorus of laughter. "And I'll have you know there definitely will not be any more baby tributes this time around."
"Finally learned how to use a condom, did we?" Enobaria butts in snarkily. "About time."
"He better have," Brutus scoffs. "I only gave him about a hundred."
I stifle a laugh at the hint of red that starts creeping up Cato's neck at the comments of our mentors, and he shoots me a glare. I hold his gaze defiantly, lifting my chin, and I watch as the familiar face of lust creeps back into his eyes.
"Maybe you can wait until we reach solid ground before you go fucking like zoo animals again," Enobaria jokes.
"Seriously, the entire fucking train was shaking," Brutus mutters under his breath.
"I haven't heard you scream his name like that since...last year's Hunger Games," Enobaria adds with a smirk.
I nearly choke on the water I'm sipping, pink flushing my own cheeks this time. "Okay, enough talk about our sex lives," I say definitively, shooting daggers in Enobaria's direction, who is looking annoyingly amused by the whole situation. "We'll keep it down next time."
"No you won't," Brutus quips, and I groan frustratedly, desperately wanting this conversation to end.
But when we finally make it to the Capitol, I don't even bother pretending to go into my own room. As usual, we have the first night off while we wait for the other districts' tributes - or I guess this year, victors - to arrive, and Cato and I spend it together in bed. And in the shower. And in the middle of the night when we're sure no one else is awake, on the dining room table.
The sex between us is too fucking earth-shattering for us to waste a single night between now and the Games.
I know unequivocally that I will never feel the way I feel about Cato with anyone else ever again. Hell, I wouldn't want to. He is it for me, so fuck it if I want to spend every last moment with him before one of us heads off to certain death in a few days.
When the sun rises in the morning, we will have the torture that is the Remake Center and the godforsaken Tribute Parade, and I know from experience how quickly time moves after that. So tonight I give him all of me, and hope that it will be enough to last one of us a lifetime.