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heliads · 6 months ago

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promise me - cato hadley

Cato promises you he won't volunteer for the Hunger Games, and then he does. When Plutarch Heavensbee offers you a chance to get back at the Capitol for taking your boyfriend away, of course you're going to say yes.

masterlist

Cato is dying. So they say. You haven’t been watching.

It sounds bad. It is bad. But you had made your boyfriend promise that he would stay as far from the Games as he could, and you’d actually believed him when he said he would, that he’d live to old age with you. Cato has been wanting the Games as long as he’s been alive, but you’ve been wanting him to stay with you for about that long, anyway. It took forever to wear him down enough for him to say he’d give up his dream of being a Victor, and just when you felt sure of yourself, he’d gone and volunteered.

It was stunning how quickly everything fell apart. You’d heard the representative from the Capitol read out the name of the male tribute, and when you didn’t hear your boyfriend’s name, you thought you were safe, you were fine. Another year guaranteed. Before you could even take another breath, though, a familiar voice rang through the town square. In your nightmares, you’d seen Cato volunteer a hundred times over. It was fitting, somehow, that when he volunteered in real life, it was exactly like every other time you’d seen it.

He’d looked at you from the stage, tried to find you in the crowd. You weren’t smiling. And, when they’d asked for the last visitors to see the tributes before they were shipped off the Capitol to die in glorious combat, you’d never even had the chance to talk to him. You’d tried to go to him, but the small holding room was swamped with adoring fans. You know Cato saw you over the heads of all the people saying how proud they were, how they were so sure he’d win. He saw you, and he saw you shake your head at all the people cheering for his imminent demise, and he saw you go.

You regret it half the time he’s been gone, leaving so early. It wasn’t like you would have been able to talk to him anyway; by the time you were turning around, the Peacekeepers were already starting to usher people out, and Cato, breaking another promise, hadn’t kept a space clear for you to find him. But, at the end of the day, you didn’t just leave because it was impossible to get to him. You left because you couldn’t stand to hear everybody praising him for going to his death, and you couldn’t stand to hear one more word about how his betrayal would make him a better man.

At the end of the day, you almost saw it coming. Winning the Hunger Games is Cato’s big dream, and it has been since you were kids. Even when you were small, you remember him staying late to train. He was proficient in the sword before most kids got their first kiss. You had always hoped that he would love life enough to stay away from that arena of death, but the last of your hopes were gone when he volunteered.

You don’t watch a second of his Games, you can’t stomach it. You try to picture watching your boyfriend die live on camera, your own falling face broadcasted live to the Capitol. Would your neighbors approve of your reaction when the love of your life was run through or shot or poisoned? It makes you want to throw up, so you stay at home and try to stay away from the screens, but nothing works. Even clamping your hands tight over your ears doesn’t stop you from hearing the roars of the crowds outside when something happens.

You have to assume Cato is doing well, but recently, people have been saying it looks bad. When Clove died, the mood shifted in the entire district, and that sense of jubilation over a seemingly guaranteed District Two victory has never returned. They say Cato is hurt, maybe. They say Katniss and Peeta are going to kill him.

Night falls when someone gets you, tells you that you have to head to the square, now. You get there just in time to see Cato on top of the cornucopia in the dark, trapping Peeta with the baying hounds below him. Katniss shoots. He falls. The cannon rings, and you’re dead along with him.

You’re numb for days. You don’t even remember the laments around you, strangers you’ve seen on the street telling you how sorry they are as if that does a damn thing when they pushed him to this. You get home, apparently. You get to bed. Somehow, you live when he doesn’t. You wouldn’t know how it happens. You don’t know a thing at all.

You stop leaving your room. You don’t want to see anyone, or have to witness the awkward guilt when they recognize who you are and why you look like the whole world has burned to ash around you, because to you, it has. Your parents try to bring you food, and you eat it, tasting nothing. You drink water and wonder why you bother when it just lets you cry again hours later.

When someone knocks on the door, you don’t bother answering, assuming it’s your family. The knock sounds again a few seconds later, smart and unavoidable. It doesn’t really sound like the tentative rap of your parents, so against your better judgment, you rise and answer.

There’s a man looking back at you, one you’ve never met before. He’s in his forties, maybe, his hair an early white. He looks Capitol, but you can’t fathom why he’d be here. He invites himself in, taking a seat at your desk and looking back at you once he’s settled himself.

“You should close that,” he says, gesturing to the door.

You’re not really energized enough to start arguing, so you do as told and sit down on your bed, hands clasping at nothing in your lap.

“Who are you?” You ask, voice scratchy from tears and lack of use.

The man glances once at the windows, once again at the door, and finally a quick scan of the room before he speaks quietly. “My name is Plutarch Heavensbee. I’m going to be the new Head Gamemaker.”

You eye him dolefully. “I didn’t realize the Head Gamemakers did personal apology tours for the dead tributes.”

He chuckles dryly. “We don’t. To speak plainly, I’m here because I need something.”

His honesty, however brutal, is a relief after all the saccharine half-meant apologies from the rest of Two. “What could I possibly give you?”

Plutarch steeples his fingers together, thoughtful. “Your unwavering loyalty.”

You laugh, now. It’s a far colder sound than his. “You and your Games killed Cato. Why would I ever follow you again?”

Plutarch’s eyes lock onto yours. “I may make the Games, Y/N, but I do not believe in them.” It’s a radical statement, and he lets it hang in the air for a few seconds before he continues. “We have a possibility of taking a stand against the Capitol. I’m looking for inside sources. You’re the perfect fit.”

You arch a brow. “I have no connection to the Games. How could I possibly help you?”

“Your lack of connection is the exact reason we need you,” Plutarch argues. “You’re not on the Capitol’s radar as anything more than a grieving ex-lover. Two is valuable to us.”

You lean back, considering this. “You want me to be a spy so I can get revenge on the Capitol for killing Cato. That’s it?”

“That’s it?” Plutarch scoffs. “You have no idea of the risk we all suffer just by meeting. Let me be clear, Y/N, what I am about to ask of you is dangerous to you and everyone you have ever known. The Capitol will butcher you and display your rotting body as a lesson. This is not something you pick up to pass the time. This will become your life, or you do not join. I want you here because you want to get back at the Capitol as much as the rest of us, but I will not permit you to be near us if I suspect you are not fully committed to the cause.”

His voice is steely, and it cuts through the haze of your grief like one of Cato’s knives. Briefly, the anguish gives way to fierce, bitter pain. You miss Cato with everything you have. There were a thousand things you were supposed to do, places you were meant to visit together, people you were supposed to become. You have been robbed of everything in the world. This is your chance to get the Capitol back, and you– you are going to take it.

“I’m in,” you say before you can stop yourself. “I want Snow gone.”

Plutarch’s thin lips curl into a smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”

He stands, but pauses before he gets to the door. “We’ll be in contact. Keep your eyes open, and stay safe. Spies don’t have a long life expectancy. We’d hate to lose you before you even start.”

You nod grimly. “You as well.”

He almost smiles, then sweeps from the room. You can hear the distant sounds of him thanking your parents for the visit, and expressing his sincere sympathy for the loss of Two’s tributes this year. Then he’s gone, and you’re left wondering what you’ve done to yourself.

Your parents are thrilled when you get a job offer from the Gamemakers later that week. You’re able to pass off Plutarch’s visit as a last interview/congratulations before your new position begins. You’ll work in Two, mostly, deep within the district government, but you’ll have weekly meetings in the Capitol to update the Gamemakers on your progress.

In reality, you’ll be gathering everything you can and checking in with Plutarch once a week. The first time you take the train to the Capitol to meet him, you can’t help but wonder if this is how Cato felt, too, watching home rush away from him, knowing that success or death would await him in the Capitol. Your throat burns by the time you get there, torn raw with unshed tears.

Plutarch is careful, always careful, but as the weeks wear on, he trusts you little by little. He confesses eventually that having a spy in Two was crucial to his future endeavors. He won’t mention what those future endeavors are, not completely, but you understand why. It’s too risky to spill everything to someone he’s only just met.

You don’t know that Plutarch is truly certain of your loyalty, though, for another three months. By now, you’ve had several close run-ins with curious Peacekeepers, and transmitted enough information to feed Plutarch’s flames for years. As a reward, he takes you down to a secret room in the hidden headquarters of the rebellion, and in those cool, dimly lit rooms, he says something that transforms your life completely.

“We have Cato.”

At first, you think they mean the coffin. He was buried in the Capitol, they all were. There’s a broadcasted ceremony every year for all the tributes. That one, you watched. They wouldn’t let you or his family come. No one was by his side when he entered the earth. You sobbed for hours.

Plutarch shakes his head, though. “He’s still alive.”

You have to lean against the wall to steady yourself. “Impossible.”

“Not impossible,” Plutarch says. “We grabbed his body before rigor mortis set in. He’s been in a medically induced coma for months while our medical staff stitches him back together. It’ll be a while before he’s even conscious, and longer before he can walk and talk, but he’ll be back.”

You feel dizzy, head rushing from loss of blood. “They would have noticed,” you fight to say. “He was dead, Katniss shot him. The Capitol would never let him go.”

“They don’t care about the dead,” Plutarch says. “Not yours, not mine. I collected him.”

You glance up sharply. “You wanted him as a bargaining chip, didn’t you? If I didn’t agree so easily, you would have told me that you had my boyfriend.”

Plutarch nods, paying no mind to the storm in your heart. “I would have done anything to secure a spy in Two. You know that. I would go to any lengths to do it. Even, yes, hold Cato over you. That was the whole point.”

Of course it was. Clever, plotting Plutarch, would always have a second option. If he had doubted your loyalty back in your house in Two, he would have ensured he had a safety net to stop you from going to the Peacekeepers the second he left. You hadn’t needed it, so he’d kept his ace up his sleeve until now.

“Why tell me, then?” You croak. “You don’t care what happens to Cato. What do you want from me now? I’ve given you everything.”

“Not everything,” Plutarch muses thoughtfully. “Not your life, not yet. The time may come. But you’re right, Y/N, I do want more. You’ve been with us a long time. Long enough to grow complacent. I want to ensure that you will remain just as sharp as ever. As we draw closer to the Quarter Quell, our plans will accelerate. I need to know that you will guarantee our success.”

“I would have done that without you threatening to kill Cato a second time,” you spit.

Plutarch just sighs. “I can’t guarantee that.”

You can’t stop staring around the room, trying to find a curl of blond hair, a wicked smile, any sign of the boy you’ve loved for so long. “Where is he? I want to see him.”

Plutarch nods, gesturing for you to follow him. “I wouldn’t expect you to just take my word for it.”

He leads you through a series of locked doors to a small care unit. There’s a body encased in a blue cell, the encircling glass walls just large enough to thread the limbs and chest with tubes pumping some sort of liquid throughout. Through the misty aqua glow, you can make out a face.

You stumble. You’d know Cato anywhere, even almost dead, even almost back to life. You stare at him, eyes wide, and a tear falls from your face and drips onto the glass. You didn’t even realize you were crying again. You didn’t think you could, anymore, but this hope– it brings you back to life along with him.

“When will he be awake?” You ask, breath harsh in your chest.

Plutarch straightens up from where he’s been glancing at a nearby readout. “A month or two, perhaps. He’ll be functional by the time of the next Games, which is good. If all goes well, we will need to run.”

You look up at him. “Tell me what you need me to do and I’ll do it. Anything.”

His lips curve up into a smile. In the ghostly blue light of Cato’s healing cell, he looks like a phantom. The ghost of Games gone by, perhaps. The ghost of the tributes to come. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

With that, you let the rebellion consume you. Not a day goes by that you aren’t traveling between districts, gathering information, and spreading contraband from rebel group to rebel group. Plutarch keeps you busy. Most nights, you don’t sleep for more than a few hours at a time, any rest caught in brief snatches between train rides. If you ever had a home, it’s no more than a memory now. You don’t stay in any place long enough to remember it. You’re certain Peacekeepers have been following you for days now, but maybe you just can’t tell the difference between the white-armored soldiers in every district.

You’re stopping by the rebel headquarters in the Capitol to bring news of the developments in Thirteen when Plutarch asks you to stay a while longer. You assume he wants you to take on another project, but instead he tells you that Cato has woken up. He couldn’t risk mentioning it through the usual comms, but he remembers his promise just as you’ve remembered yours.

You fly down the stairs to the med center, flying around the corners until you’re back in the care unit. The blue glass cell is gone, replaced by a hospital bed. A patient is sitting up and arguing with one of the doctors. You notice he’s been cuffed to the rail of the bed, and can’t help a small smile. That’s your Cato, isn’t it? Always a fighter.

He falls silent when you enter, eyes wide. For a moment, you wonder if the healing damaged his brain, if he might not remember you, if anything would ever be the same, and then a tentative hope enters his voice as he says, “Y/N?”

You’re across the room in a moment, and then you’re in his arms again, and maybe everything will be okay again. His free hand, the one that isn’t cuffed to the bed, is pressed against your back, drawing you ever closer to him.

“Y/N,” he says in a choked whisper, “Y/N, I died.”

“No,” you murmur, drawing back so you can see his face. It’s the same face, somehow. Still him. Still Cato. “They brought you back. You’re going to be okay.”

“How is that possible?” Cato asks, raising his free hand to touch your face lightly as if he can’t believe it’s you.

“Don’t ask me,” you chuckle weakly. “All I know is that you’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Cato glances warily at the doctors, then returns his gaze to you. He looks more carefully now, taking in the hollows under your eyes, the scars and scrapes on your arms. “What have you done, Y/N? What did they make you do?”

You choke on a laugh before you can stop yourself. “The star tribute is asking me what I did? I haven’t been in the Games, Cato. I’m not the one who signed themselves up to die.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” he says. “You’ve got– you look like us now.”

Dully, you realize what he means. There’s a sort of innocence in the faces of people who haven’t had to take a life. Even the hardiest of the careers still have it if they haven’t been in the Games. Cato sees it now in you. The last year has destroyed you.

You let out a slow breath, taking his hand in yours. “Losing you destroyed me, Cato. I had to do what I could.”

Cato looks around the room again, his hunter’s eyes taking in the details of the workers, the sparse decoration of the room. “We’re not with the Capitol anymore, are we?”

“No,” you admit, “we’re not.”

Something savage twists his face. “Good.”

You weren’t sure how he would take the news that you were working with the rebels, but surprisingly, Cato is in favor. He’s mad about what they did to secure Katniss’ victory. The whole point of the Games was that the strongest would win, he says, but they interfered. All that hard work to get to the Games, and then the Makers cheated him out of it.

What Cato doesn’t realize is how deeply entrenched you are in the workings of the Rebels. Cato isn’t allowed to go back to normal, obviously, Panem thinks he’s dead, but he hadn’t counted on you joining him in that fate. They find Cato a place in Thirteen where he can help train the soldiers; it’s good for him to stay busy, and he tries to work his body to the limits so exhaustion will fight off the nightmares of dying for him, but Cato wants you there with him.

Only, that isn’t the case. Plutarch didn’t give you Cato back so you could stop working with the rebellion. If anything, it makes you work even harder. Now that you have Cato, you finally have the brief, glimmering hope of a better life, but you won’t get it if the Capitol still exists.

By now, you’ve been clued in to Plutarch’s master plan for the Games. The rules for the Quarter Quell were announced a few days ago. The dominoes have started to fall. All that’s left to do is make sure the ruin runs where you want it.

Cato doesn’t see it that way. Every time you’re at Thirteen, you make time to see your boyfriend, but it’s never enough. It never will be, not until the Capitol is gone, not until the war is over. For Cato, though, he’s already died. He wants to stop running.

You’re with him now, tucked into his arms on his bunk with your back up against his chest, pretending that you won’t have to leave again in just a few hours. He’s tracing absentminded circles on your forearms, and when he speaks, his breath buzzes against the top of your head.

“Stay with me,” he says. “They’re going to kill you if you keep this up. Stay here.”

“You know I can’t,” you sigh. “Not until it’s done.”

Cato blows out sharply, annoyed. “Let them die, not you. You’re better than that.”

“All our deaths are the same,” you contradict. “Might as well be me.”

Cato’s grip around you tightens possessively. “I’d let all of them die before you.”

You shift slightly so you can look up at him. He’s frustrated again, jaw tight as he tries to control himself. “I have to do this. All of our work depends on the Games going in our favor. If we give up now, it was all for nothing. I can’t let that happen.”

Cato shakes his head tersely. “Promise me you won’t get hurt. Promise me you won��t die for them.”

The twisting guilt of deja vu curls around your stomach. You can’t help but remember a similar moment, a similar promise, almost a year ago exactly. You had said almost the same thing to Cato when he was talking about volunteering. At the time, it had seemed so easy. All Cato had to do was stay with you, and he would have been safe. But Cato had to go, it would have killed him not to go. And it’ll kill you to stay. Both of you know this. It doesn’t make it any easier.

You kiss him once, twice. For past and present. “I’ll see you soon.”

You won’t. You’ll be in the Capitol until after the Games at least, and although Plutarch has promised he’ll get you out with the rest, there’s always the small chance that it won’t work out.

Cato pulls you up in his arms so you’re eye to eye. “Soon,” he says.

“Soon,” you repeat. This close to him, you’re sure he can feel your pulse thundering in your veins, carrying with it the weight of this lie. He would know how to sense it, too. All that time in the arena, he’d know how to tell when someone was about to die.

Cato doesn’t want to let you go, but he has to, piece by piece, second by second, letting you go in the bed just to crawl off and hold you by the door, then walk you to the jet, then hold you again one last time before you’re taken away. You watch through the window as he shrinks away to nothingness, one arm still raised. You’ll see him again, or never at all.

Plutarch is waiting for you in the Capitol. “It’s time to play,” he says.

“It’s time to win,” you return.

He smiles without meaning it and turns back to his screens. There’s a lot of data to get through. Some of the tributes you weren’t expecting, but you have who you need. Finnick knows, Johanna knows, but you can keep Katniss and Peeta in the dark for as long as possible.

Thus, the Games begin, and, electrifying as an arrow in the night, they end. You watch Katniss looking down her bow at Finnick, then turning her weapon towards the sky. Plutarch slips away from Snow long enough to get you, and the two of you hurry towards a transport that will take you back to Thirteen in the dead of night. Voices are hushed. The tributes get out, but not all of them. Peeta, you think, was left behind. Johanna too. Still, it’s a better collection than you’d hoped.

And, when the jet docks in Thirteen, there’s someone waiting for you in the hangar, your golden boy. Cato comes running over before the landing gear is even fully tucked away. He waits, impatient as a coiled spring, while the doors open, and then he’s rushing inside and pulling you into his arms.

“No more separation,” he says against your temple. “We fight together now.”

“Together,” you whisper back, and you mean it, too.

Whatever happens after this, the cards are all on the table. Cato can come back to the public eye. You’ll fight in the war side by side. If you die before the rebellion wins, you’ll do it together. Some would call that tragic, but all of this is a tragedy. At least you’ll have him. Two is gone to you, so too is any dream of normalcy, but Cato– Cato, you will always have. That, at least, is your victory.

hunger games tag list: @w1shes43, @ilovexavierthrope

all tags list: @wordsarelife, @supervoldejaygent

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inej-ruination-ghafa · 9 months ago

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anti-hero - c

maroon | snow on the beach | masterlist

Warning: blood, character death

Summary: the one where he realises too late the real price of the games, your life.

Worcount: 2.1k

You couldn’t help the laugh that broke out between your teeth as you sat there, “You’re an idiot, I’m surprised you made it this far,” you patched up the small wound on his side, his t-shirt lifted up as you tended to the wound, dabbing it with water and some of the medicine that had been sent.

He shrugged away at your teasing, trying to hide the smile that was growing on his face, “Shut up,” he would never admit that he was the problem but everyone else would agree in the Captiol; he didnt care, he was still tipped to be the winner.

He watched as you tipped your head back and laughed. There was a smile on your face that he hadn't seen since training. He was sure that he would never get to see you in your happiness and there was an ache in his chest at the thought.

You looked back at him to see him gazing at you, “What’s that look for?” You teased.

The two of you had been working together since the career pack had fallen apart and he had been watching you since he saw you in the Capitol. There was something there that he had never felt before.

He shrugged, trying to act nonchalant, “What look?” He replied and you could feel the tension brewing between the two of you.

He leant in slightly and that’s when he really took in your face, the small freckles littering your skin, the exact colour of your eyes, the curves of your cheek. He wondered if in another life, he would be able to stare at you forever.

“You’re doing it again,” you said, voice quiet this time as you watched his eyes flick between your eyes and your lips.

Nobody had ever looked at you like this, like they could stare at you for years and years and never get bored.

This was not where you were expecting to be when you had been reaped. Your heart racing in the woods as a boy your age looked at you like that. You had joined the career pack for necessity, not because you wanted to be with them. Now here you were, your own group.

You had joined the anti-hero of the year. He wasn’t someone anyone wanted to work with but everyone at the Capitol believed he would win. One day you would have to watch as he left.

A part of you knew that this would have to end soon.

You didn't care as he leant in and you could feel his breath on your face, “Cato,” you muttered.

He hummed in response, a hand coming up to rest on your cheek, “Yes,” he replied, voice soft and quiet like he wanted this moment to be just between the two of you.

“What are you doing?”

He smiled, eyes flicking back down to your lips, “I was gonna kiss you,” his voice sounded deeper than it had been moments ago.

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest as you thought about it, “Okay,”

You closed your eyes as he pressed his lips against yours, soft and delicate like he was worried he would break you if he pressed against you too hard.

The hands cupping your face had killed several people, blood staining both of your skin and yet here you were, letting him kiss you gently in the middle of the woods.

You both knew the game. One of you would have to die to win. Yet, you didn't care as he pressed his lips harder against yours like it was the only time he would ever get to. He could kill you right now. He could snap your neck like you had see him do but you just let him hold you tighter, your hand going to his hair to pull him closer to you.

You laughed as you pulled away, eyes still baring into his.

He laughed like a kid, giddy and excited. You looked at him and wondered why that was so hard to believe - maybe because he managed to cover up the fact that he was still just a child so often that you almost believed he was an adult.

It felt like a dream that you were going to wake up from soon, screaming for it all to be real.

You pressed another kiss to his lips before standing up. He reached a hand out to stop you, “I have to collect berries,”

”We could head to the lake, try and catch fish,” he suggested. He didn't want you to go off alone.

You shrugged your shoulders, “I will be fine. And its too exposed by the lake,” you walked off and he watched, leaning against the rock.

A few minutes passed and he stood up, a nervous feeling in his chest like it was constricting in on itself as he thought about where you had gone. You shouldn’t have been gone for so long.

He picked up his knife as he walked through the woods, calling your name out like you would reply. You didn't.

He turned the corner when he heard a noise and that’s when he saw the scene in front of him, his stomach sinking.

Clove had you, one hand wrapped around your throat and the other holding a knife against your neck. She had ambushed you as you gathered the berries and had knocked you over the head - that’s where the blood on the side of your head was coming from.

“Don’t move, lover boy,” Clove spat the words out. She knew what that comment would mean, how it would get under his skin.

“Cato,” you somehow managed to squeeze the words out and Clove just tightened her grip around your neck.

Your eyes were wide as you looked at him, pleading for help. A part of you wondered if he was just going to let you go. One of you was going to have to die at the end anyway so why wouldn't he cut his losses now.

His jaw clenched at the sight in front of him. This was not how it was supposed to do.

He took a tentative step towards Clove and she tutted, holding the knife closer to your jugular, “I’d hate to cut her pretty skin,” she pressed the knife slightly into your flesh and you hissed out in pain as she broke through, “Oops,”

“Let her go, she has nothing to do with this,” he watched as the blood bubbled up to the surface, spilling down your collarbone.

Clove chuckled, an evil sound coming from her throat as she tightened her grip on your throat. He watched as you gasped for air slightly at the action and his fist tightened.

He had to do something soon or else you wouldn't make it out. A part of him always knew that he would have to watch you die or vice versa but it had felt so far away.

You tried to say his name again and she squeezed tighter, black spots coming into your vision, causing you to close your eyes.

“Look at me,” he demanded and your eyes fluttered open again. You could feel yourself getting weaker and weaker every second but you had to see him again. Your eyes met and he stepped forward again, “Just let her go,”

“You have grown weak Cato,” the girl spat out as she looked at him.

She looked down at you, taunting him as she dragged the knife along the vein on your neck. She could kill you at any moment.

“I’m stronger than you,” he said, “Even your parents didn’t think you would win,”

He gave you a look and you tried to figure out what it meant as he cocked his head to the side, almost like he wanted you to make your escape.

That must have hit a nerve because Clove moved the knife away from your neck, pointing it at him angrily, “I will be the victor!” She yelled out, anger booming through the woods.

As she declared that, her grip on your throat weakened and you took this as your chance to escape. You elbowed her and slid down, rolling to the side. She threw two knives at you as you moved away and you tried to dodge them both.

She went to throw another one and that’s when Cato lunged at her, grabbing her and holding her for a second, her back pressed against his front.

”Come on, you knew she would never make it out. She’s not like us,” she said and he shook his head.

there was an anger in him that he didn't even recognise. There was no hesitation as he snapped her neck, watching the life leave her eyes before he tossed her to the ground.

You knelt up, gasping for breath as you tried to understand what had just happened. You looked at Cloves dead body and then at Cato who knelt down next to you, his hands cradling your face, “I told you to be careful,”

“She ambushed me,”

He nodded, “You’re safe now,” as he looked at you, he knew he would die for that girl. If he needed to, he would give his life to make sure that she would make it out of the area, so that she could get home.

He helped you up and you stood up with a wince, his arm wrapped around your shoulders and supporting your body before your knees buckled.

He helped you lie down, your head in his lap. He looked down to see the knife in your side; it was deep and oozing blood at this point.

“Cato,” you called out and he looked back at your eyes. You had never seen so much fear in his eyes before, “Let me go,”

“No, no, someone will get you help,” he promised.

You closed your eyes, already feeling the drowsiness overtaking you from your lack of oxygen. You knew you weren't going to make it out.

“I wish we met in another circumstance,” you said as he grabbed your hand, placing it over the open wound, and applying pressure to it.

“You would have loved my district,” he said, a slight smile on his face.

Your eyes fluttered closed as you thought about the life you could have had, waking up on Sunday mornings and seeing him lying there, still fast asleep, no worry creased between his brows.

He shook you awake and you looked up to see his brows furrowed, that worry plastered all over his face, “Stay awake, I’ll get help,”

He looked up at they sky, hoping he still had somebody out there who could help him. He yelled for someone to help him, for someone to send them something so that he could save her.

You reached up, blood stained hand coming to rest on his cheek and he looked down at you, “We both knew you’d make it through and not me,”

there was silence between you for a second because you both knew it was true. One of you had to die for the other to win.

“Please,” he didnt know what he was begging for. For you to stay alive? For this to have never happened to either of you?

You could feel the tears spilling over your cheeks, running down your cheeks. You could feel yourself slipping away as you looked at him. You took your last few moments to trace the curves off his face, to remember the way his hair fell over his face, to remember the brightness in his eyes.

“I’m glad we got to meet,” your voice was hoarse and he could hear you slipping away, “Maybe in the next life,”

Your hand slipped off of his cheek, going limp in his lap and he called out your name, trying to shake you awake. A sob racked his chest.

He couldn’t remember the last time that he had cried but here he was, holding your body to his chest as he begged someone to save you, for this not to be real.

He had killed people in this arena, their blood staining his clothes, his skin, his soul. Yet here he was, your blood on his face, on his hands. It was everywhere and he let out a scream as he realised that this was the end for the two of you. He couldnt save you.

He screamed and screamed until he saw that the sun was setting even though it had just raised. This was the end of the game and it came with a price. He stood up and took one last look at your body. He pulled his jacket off, laying it over your chest like it would make any different.

Cato leant down once more, brushing your hair out of your face before pressing a kiss to your forehead. He ran away from the scene after that, heading towards the cornucopia with a knife in his hand and blood on his skin. Your blood.

He was going to win.

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