Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dreamstate

It always began the same.

Her laughter, sharp, almost manic, rattled through the metal walls of the Cornucopia like broken glass in a tin drum. She’d done it. The girl on fire, right beneath her. Pinned. Powerless. Exactly where she belonged.

“Smile for the Capitol, Fire Bitch,” she taunted. “They do love a good show.”

Let them watch. Let them see her. The mud on her knees, the glint of metal at Twelve’s throat. Let them see. Twelve, cracked and splintered, crushed beneath her knee. Her kill. Her finale. Her spotlight. Hers!

The sponsors wanted drama? She’d give them blood.

Twelve had been stupid enough to scream for Lover Boy, like he was going to limp out of the woods and save her. As if! He’s not stalking anyone. He’s probably not even walking.

“Still waiting on him?” Clove sneered, grinding her knee into the other girl’s chest. Katniss choked, the wind knocked clean out of her lungs. “He’s not coming. Cato knows where he cut him. You’ve probably got him strapped up a tree while you try to keep the blood in him. What’s in the pretty little pack? Bandages? He’ll never see them.”

She tilted the knife, admiring how the sun kissed and glinted off the edge. The leather grip found her palm the way breath found lungs. 

Give them a show. Give Cato a show. She’d promised him this kill…promised her best. She didn’t break promises. She didn’t lose to Twelve.

Katniss bucked beneath her, eyes flashing through rage, then fear. Useless. And so, so pathetic.  

Clove’s smirk widened further, a feral glint flashing across her eyes. Fire Girl needed to break. And she knew just where to press. “Cato gutted him days ago. You were too busy tripping on venom to notice.” That was what he’d told her, anyway. She hadn’t seen the body, but she didn’t need to. The blood trail had told her enough. “Pretty picture, isn’t it?” she added. “Him bleeding out while you sang to flowers. It’s just so romantic.”

The wind whispered around them, stirring dust and distant ash. The trees rustled with ghost-quiet movement, the leaves trading secrets just out of sight.

“Don’t worry,” she murmured, letting the cold metal kiss hot pulse. “You’ll be with him soon.”

Katniss didn’t flinch, still all clenched jaw and hatred. Still? Seriously? Fine. She’d dig the scream out herself.

“Forget it,” Clove hissed, resting cold metal on warm pulse. “We’re going to kill you. Just like we did with that pathetic little girl. What was her name… Rue?”

Katniss thrashed beneath her, rage and desperation flaring in her blue eyes. Clove felt the change ripple through her like lightning. A reaction. Perfect. The Capitol would eat this up. That little girl’s memory had been a brilliantly sharpened dagger. 

Even through her murderous glee, the girl’s name burned, souring in her throat. What the fuck was she doing? This was so unlike her, especially in a situation like this. To brag in her opponent’s face, drag the whole thing out, to taunt, to play with her kills. Vaguely, her promise to Cato before the games, in his bed, her head on his chest, echoed somewhere in the back of her mind. 

“...you have to promise me you won’t do anything reckless out there tomorrow,” he’d whispered.

“Yeah, I promise,” she'd responded. He’d been far too comfortable of a pillow then for her to say anything else in the moment. Not when either of them could’ve been dead in less than eighteen hours. 

Okay, well… maybe she could break a promise. Just this once. Besides, this was Twelve. Fire Bitch. She’d earned this. Every single bit of it. 

Her focus zeroed back in on Fire Bitch. Ugh. It was pitiful, really. This foolish, naive girl. Still thinking she could win. Coming from a backwater district like twelve? It really was laughable.

“Where to start…” she breathed, thumbing the hilt of a second blade, nerves humming with anticipation. The soft whisper of steel against her calloused fingers made her blood sing. This really was always the most satisfying part. ”I think… I’ll start with your mouth. Blow him one last kiss?”

Katniss stiffened, but didn’t look away. That defiance almost impressed her. Even now. Even trapped and helpless and beneath her. Maybe she really did earn that score of eleven.

“Alright then,” Clove whispered, pressing the tip to Katniss’s jaw. “Let’s–”

The shadow slammed into her before she even registered the footsteps, hard and fast. She was ripped sideways, slamming into the dirt. The world flipped, then flipped again as air tore from her lungs in a violent gasp. Her head cracked off stone, sharp, white-hot pain cracking her vision.

Everything rang. Her vision smeared sideways.

What–?

She rolled, coughing grit and blood, the sun cutting a cruel halo overhead. Knives skittered from her vest.

And there he was.

Eleven. Thresh. Fuck.

Towering. Furious. The very manifestation of death. 

She’d imagined her death every day for the past few weeks. It would have been Cato, that stupid pained grimace on his face as he snapped her neck. Or stabbed her chest. He’d make it quick. She’d make sure of it. She’d trained for it, steeled her nerves as much as was humanly possible. But nothing could have ever prepared her for the feeling of her stomach dropping right to the ground as she stared her death straight in the eye. 

No. Not him. Not now! This wasn’t the script! She can’t die here! Not like this! 

Eleven loomed above her like a chiseled mountain, chest heaving, arms corded, veins bulging with righteous fury. One fist clutched a rock the size of her head, and the other flexed and trembled menacingly.

“You kill her?” he growled.

“What?” she gasped, lungs still stuttering inside her. No! Don’t pin that twelve year old on me! “No– I didn’t—I didn’t touch her—”

“I heard you!” he roared. “You said her name!”

Panic tore loose. Her nails raked the dirt. Blood surged in her ears like a drumbeat. She scrambled backwards, the sky tilting above her. Mud slicked her palms, and her shoulder screamed from where she’d landed on it wrong as she’d flipped. The sun caught the edge of his rock like it had her blade and somehow, the blunt object was far more terrifying than any sharp object she’d ever been on the receiving end of. 

Every bit of instruction and training from the academy flooded her mind. Bigger opponent. Don’t go first. Read, wait, counter. Wait for an opening. When they’re vulnerable, strik–

It all meant nothing. It was all useless here. He’d already decided. And he was far too close.

He was going to do it. She knew it. She saw it in his eyes.

She had plenty of kills behind her, the ghosts of dead tributes clinging to her skin. And she would die here, like this, an insect crushed beneath someone else’s grief. 

“CATO!” she screamed, voice tearing. “CATO— PLEASE!”

She’d only just realized their mutual feelings. Her best friend, her anchor, her rival, her goddamn gravity. And they had just figured it out. Some part of her still hated that it took them that long. Maybe then they would’ve had more time together than… Well, it didn’t matter now.

For a single, hopeless breath she thought she heard him. His voice, faint and desperate, shouting her name through the chaos. But he was too far away. Too far away to matter. 

The rock came down.

Pain, white-hot and searing, tore her skull apart. A sickening crack echoed in her ears. Her body convulsed, twitching helplessly in the dirt, and her vision fractured into shards of light and shadow and nothing.

Time unspooled itself.

Maybe this was death, or maybe just the corridor towards it. Either way, she was falling.

Warmth caught her.

Strong, trembling arms wrapped around her, pulling her against a chest she knew. The smell of him. His heat.

She forced her eyes open, barely, and the sight gutted her. Brilliant blue eyes shined wet, wide and full of terror. Blue that only ever softened for her.

Blue. Beautiful, frantic, breaking.

Don’t let this be what he keeps. Don’t let him be stuck with this version of me.

“Stay with me, Clovey. Stay–please–” His hands were slipping red over her skin, his breath breaking apart. His voice shook with a kind of fear she’d never heard from him before. 

Everything was just so heavy. Each breath felt like a mountain pressing down on her chest. Through the pain pulsing through her battered head, she lifted her hand. Because she had to, because he would need something to hold that wasn’t just blood. Her blood. 

Fingertips brushed his cheek. Heat, stubble, the instinctive lean he always gave her touch. She pressed in lightly, memorizing the feel of him, the touch of him, the way he…

Softened. Even now. Even bleeding. Even breaking. He still melted under her touch like he always had.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice barely there. “I didn’t want it to end like this.”

He shook his head violently, eyes swimming. “You’re not going to–. You’re not—Clove, don’t. Come on...”

His palms pressed in like pressure alone could keep her together.

She tried to smile. “You’re always so loud.”

His face cracked. “I can’t do–,” Cato breathed, his voice ragged. “None of it means anything if you’re not here.”

Her eyes fluttered, and her limbs trembled. “You have to,”  she whispered. “You’ve always…” her voice trailed off as she swallowed thickly, her throat going dry. 

And she felt it, the second he shattered.

“No,” he begged. “Don’t say—. Don’t—don’t you fucking die here, Clovey.”

She was slipping fast. The black at the edges of her vision pressed in, hard and heavy. Still, her fingers gripped his one last time. His forehead brushed hers. Her final breath ghosted against his lips.

“Love you.”

And the world slipped into nothing. 

Except the nothing had teeth. Quite literally. 

She awoke inside hunger. It wasn’t the ache of an empty belly, the kind she’d felt so often as a child. No, this was very different.

This was purpose.

Teeth. Claws. Heat. Rage.

The first thing she remembered was the taste of blood.

Not the sharp bite of her own split lip. Not the satisfying metallic tang of victory. No. This was raw, wet, and hot. The kind of blood that steamed on your tongue and gurgled in a throat not your own.

The world screamed around her in scents and sound, pure, unadulterated chaos. Blood. Metal. Panic. Hunger. The sharp tang of fear slicked across her tongue, heady and delicious. She could smell the way flesh tore, hear the pulse in their throat just before it gave out. Every heartbeat around her thudded like war drums, calling her forward.

She ran on limbs that weren’t hers. Her paws— wait, paws? –struck ground like thunder, claws meeting rock with feral rhythm. Her muscles moved without command, and yet they knew. 

They remembered how to fight. How to pounce. How to kill.

Something inside her laughed, cruel and familiar. She leapt. Somewhere above, the moon burned cold. But her veins ran molten, hot and wrong.

Kill. 

It beat in her skull louder than any thought. Not a voice. A law. One she couldn’t disobey.

They’d hollowed her out and stuffed a monster with her ghost. A mutt built off their blood. Off hers. A finger-prick at the Reaping was more than enough. 

She tried to scream, but her throat only growled. The body wasn’t hers. Not in any physical sense of the term. But the pain? Oh, that was still hers. That was all hers. The fear, the anger, the heat that lived under her skin like fire? That was hers too.

And she was trapped.

The Cornucopia rose sharp against the starless sky, a mess of steel and shadow. The scent of prey lured her forward. She knew it like she knew her own name.

Cato.

The word flashed behind her eyes, meaningless and yet full of meaning.

A boy screamed somewhere behind her. Not prey–not prey! –but her limbs responded anyway, claws digging in the dirt, jaws unhinged, surging forward towards it, just a cannon sounded. The pack snarled around her. Twenty of them. Creatures like her. Creatures made from them.

Another mutt materialized out of the ground, joining the pack as they raced, growling viciously, towards the clearing. Atop the Cornucopia, Cato had the baker boy in a chokehold. Blood sheeted down his arm, fresh and bright. A gash across his cheek spilled open, the red liquid staining his jacket and body armor a deep maroon. Unsteady, he swayed on the edge like a broken tree in a storm. 

Fire Girl glared at him from the other side of the horn, bow drawn, teeth gritted, shaking with rage. Or desperation. It didn’t really matter. 

And Cato? He fucking laughed.

But there was no joy in it. Only something cracked, hollowed out, something approaching resignation. His bright blue eyes? Wild. His usually confident voice? High and bitter.

“Go on. Shoot.” He barked the words at Twelve, like a dare, almost a plea. “Then we both go down and you win. Go on. That’s what they want, right? The big finale?”

His mouth twisted as he tasted the blood running from his face, and his grip on Peeta tightened. “Go on! I’m dead anyways.” His voice broke on that word, and he snapped back into fury, sucking in a sharp breath. “I was the minute she–” His voice choked, a distinctly un-Cato-like sound escaping. He shook his head violently, and Peeta barely managed to stay on his feet through the strength of the motion.

“No. No, I can still do this. One. More. Kill. It’s the only thing I know to do. Bring pride to my District.” The words spat from his mouth, caustic in their sarcasm. Blood dripped, thick and fast. “Not that it matters without—”

Twelve’s arrow flew.

Cato’s cry of pain tore the air. His fingers slipped from Peeta’s throat, and his legs slipped out from under him on the slick metal of the horn. 

And he fell, tumbling down the side of the metal structure. Right into their mouths. Right into her.

He hit hard and rolled, coming up swinging. He tore one of the mutts off by the throat. He elbowed her, bone on muzzle. He kicked another, the dog flying several meters from the strength of it.

It was all useless. The pack was endless, and so was she.

Her mind howled. Not him. Not him! It changed nothing. The thought dissolved as the scent of blood and fresh meat wafted into her nostrils, hot and metallic, turning her stomach and stoking her hunger in the same breath. The copper tang clung to her tongue, burned her lungs, until every desperate plea inside her drowned beneath the animal frenzy.

Her claws raked into him first. Her teeth hit shoulder. Then his ribs. Then his thigh.  He scrambled, crawling toward the Cornucopia’s base, screaming her name now. 

Too late.

Her jaw clamped down on his back. Hot copper filled her mouth. The taste should have sickened her, but the bloodlust rampaging through the mutt body only drove her deeper. She tried to pull away, to wrench her body back, but her muscles only locked tighter, every drop of blood feeding the frenzy.

He sagged underneath her, still breathing, still fighting, still very much alive. She raked claws across his stomach, and he coughed blood.  His hands found her shoulders, tried to shove her off. Still breathing, still alive, if only barely. His touch lingered on her, like his body recognized her even if his brain couldn’t.

He stared up at her through the blood pooling above his lashes.

“Clove…?”

The world stuttered and froze as memory slammed into her. His voice. His fingers in her hair. His promises. His kiss. His love. All of it crashed back in, sharper than her kni– her claws. 

And none of it mattered. Because this body refused to listen. The blood drowned every plea, every memory, every shred of herself. She was already killing him.

The pack dragged him down. His screams shortened, his movements slowed. The fire in his eyes went out by inches, hour after hour as the night crawled on. He lived too long.

She stayed. She watched him die. She helped him die.

By her teeth. By her claws. 

By her love. 

When the cannon finally boomed near dawn, it echoed like the world itself was breaking.

And then her body went still as the urge to kill receded from her tortured, twisted mind. She looked down at her bloodstained claws, her ragged breath steaming in the air.

She had killed him. Not because she wanted to. Not because he deserved it.

Because the Capitol made her.

And worst of all? She’d been good at it. Her cage of a body nearly made her enjoy it.

And the reality–the truth of it all– slammed through the overrides, ripping past the programming, the enhancements, the chains of Capitol code like a fire through dry grass. And from somewhere deep below the surface, the ghost of a lost girl howled. 

Present

Clove woke with a scream so sharp it ripped her throat raw, like something living inside her was trying to claw its way out. 

She thrashed in the tangle of blankets, body still caught in the pack’s rhythm, claws and teeth that weren’t hers tearing flesh that should have been. His flesh. Her chest convulsed violently, dragging in air too shallow, and far too fast. 

Where was she? Wait, when was she? There was only the smell of blood, the only sound was his voice–Cato’s voice– begging, breaking, dying beneath her teeth. 

Her hands were still claws, still dripping, still soaked in the sticky warmth of—

No. 

She… she had… he had… 

It was then that something–someone– touched her skin. Sixteen years of training kicked in like a bad clutch. She didn’t think so much as react on instinct.

“Clove?” The voice was familiar, but it couldn't be. He wasn’t…he had…she had killed— No. This wasn’t real either. Just another fucked up punishment from the Capitol. Never again!

Her hand flew under the pillow, and the blade was in her hand before she even registered drawing it.

A shape loomed in the dark, too close, too fast for the panicked girl. She slashed at the shadow desperately. If she could just get out, escape this nightmare, everything would be–

Blood splattered against her face, and a real, furious, and decidedly human cry of pain ripped through the air. 

“Ow! Shit– Clove! What the fuck?!”

The lights snapped on. Her eyes burned and blurred with tears, and she blinked against the flood of brightness, frozen, shaking. The mutts were gone. The arena was gone. But the blood, his blood, was very much not. An angry red line bloomed across Cato’s bare shoulder where the knife had connected. He clutched at the wound, teeth bared, eyes blazing more from shock than pain.

Breath punched out of her in a ragged gulp.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” His voice cracked like a whip, and she flinched at the anger in it.

She flinched like the words hit her physically. The knife slipped from her fingers, clattering against the floorboards. “I—fuck—shit—I didn’t—” The words strangled out of her, useless. Her chest heaved like it was going to collapse. “I didn’t mean—”

He stared at her. Then at the knife. Then back at her. Blood slid hot over his fingers, pattering to the wood floor. 

“You were screaming, Clovey,” he said, lower now. The edge was still there, mixing with the hurt. “You wouldn’t wake up.”

She couldn’t stop shaking. Sweat chilled down her spine, and her hands wouldn’t open all the way, still curled like she expected claws to spring out instead of nails.

“Don’t,” she rasped.

“What?”

“Don’t—” Her voice broke as her gaze dropped to the floor. “Don’t you fucking touch me.”

Something in his face stuttered, and he lifted both hands, palms out. He didn’t move closer. “The fuck’s wrong with you? I’m not—”

She flinched anyways, jerking backwards until the bedframe dug into her spine. No. No, he didn’t—he wasn’t—she had—no!

“Clove…”

His voice cracked something open in her. She couldn’t stay. She couldn’t. Not when he–

She bolted. Her feet slapped against the floorboards as she ran, the hallway spinning, then down the stairs, through the cold wood of the front door against her shoulder as she shoved through it. She didn’t even think to grab shoes or a coat. The cold night air ripped her raw, ice stabbing her lungs, snow biting into her skin, the cold seeping in through the cotton of her socks. She didn’t feel any of it.

The streets blurred past in streaks of white and shadow. Snow crunched under every frantic step, sharp and dry, scattering behind her like a trail the mutts could follow. The cold tore her throat raw, but she didn’t care.  She could hear nothing except the screaming echo of his voice as she tore him apart.

Her feet carried her without thought, past shuttered windows and silent streets, until the hulking shadow of their old training center rose up through the snow. The gates groaned when she shoved through, rusted hinges straining under the weight of the giant metal doors. The center was different now, stripped of weapons, scaffolds still clinging to the walls where the rebels had started tearing parts of it down. But she knew it. She knew every inch of it.

The old bleachers loomed empty and forgotten, frosted silver in the moonlight. She staggered up a few steps, every breath tearing in her chest, until she dropped onto the bench seating. The wood was hard and frozen, the same place he’d once sat next to her after their fight on that damn flight of stairs, arm in that absurdly bulky cast, shoving half his sandwich in her direction like it was a peace offering. Like it meant something. Maybe it did. Actually, it definitely did. 

Now, the snow stung her skin where the memory had warmed it. She curled in on herself, shaking, alone on the bleachers where they’d first stopped being enemies and started being… whatever the hell they were.

Clove didn’t know how long she sat there in the frigid air of District Two’s winter, perched on a bench that she swore used to be bigger. The cold gnawed at her, the kind that went all the way to the bone, but she didn’t move. She sat hunched on the frozen third row of the bleachers, shivering, lungs dragging in frosty air that burned with every breath. The track below was a pale scar under the snow, half erased by time, but still the place where it had all started. Where they had started, all those years ago. Her throat ached at the memory of his voice and the phantom taste of blood, even if it was only a dream. 

God, she was fucked.

Chapter Text

The crunch of footsteps in the snow cut through the silence, heavy and familiar. She didn’t need to look. 

“Clove.”

Her jaw clenched. Of course he’d show up. She refused to meet his gaze, instead just scrubbing her hands on her face. God, why couldn’t she stop shaking?

“Go. Away.” She spat the words like they were blades, each one tasting like acid in her mouth. 

Instead, he climbed the steps. She heard the wood creak under his weight, smelled iron and sweat under the cold. Then he was there, towering over her, blood still dripping slightly from his hastily bandaged shoulder.

“You wanna tell me what the fuck that was?”

She shot to her feet, shaking, hair plastered damp against her cheeks. “No.”

“That how you say good morning now? Stab first, talk later?”

Her jaw clenched. She scrubbed her hands over her face, refusing to let him see her break. “You shouldn’t have gotten that close.”

He gave a short, bitter laugh, iron and sweat sharp on the cold air. “We live together, Clovey. How the hell am I not supposed to?”

“Then maybe you’re an idiot,” she shot back, rising to her feet. “Go the fuck away, Cato.”

“Yeah?” He scoffed, stepping closer, crowding her. “Make me.”

Her fist flew before her brain caught up, slamming into his chest. The impact jarred up her arm, but the satisfaction was instant, even if it twisted her stomach a little. If it hurt him at all, he didn’t show it. He barely moved at all. 

His eyes flashed in confusion, then anger, before he shoved her back. Her back cracked against the railing, air blasting from her lungs. She came off it like a spring, teeth bared, fist arcing for his jaw. He caught her wrist, wrenched her arm behind her back, and shoved her down into the bench.

He cursed and his grip loosened as she drove her heel into his shin and twisted free, landing a sharp jab to his ribs before he could recover.

“You think you deserve this?” she hissed, breath ragged, though her voice shook on the edges. She wasn’t sure who she meant now. Him? Herself? Maybe the entire fucking world.

His face twisted, half snarl, half disbelief. “What the fuck does that mean? You almost slit my throat in your sleep!”

Her stomach twisted hard and she fought the urge to hurl, instead baring her teeth to hide it, forcing steel back into her voice. “Maybe you should’ve left me alone.”

She lunged at the taller blonde again. They collided in the narrow aisle, boots slipping on the frost, fists and elbows snapping. He landed a hook across her shoulder that spun her half around. She came back swinging, knuckles splitting on his jaw, the taste of copper in her mouth. She couldn’t tell if it was his or hers. 

“Stop fucking running!” he barked, catching her around the waist, dragging her down. They hit the bleachers hard, wood groaning under them, snow scattering under their grappling forms.

“Get the hell off me!” she screamed, thrashing. Her nails raked across his forearm, leaving bright welts.

He pinned her wrists above her head, breath heaving, chest pressed to hers.  “Not until you fucking talk to me!”

“Fuck you, Cato!” Her vision blurred with tears, fury and terror knotted so tight she couldn’t tell them apart. “Sorry I didn’t ask before stabbing you in your beauty sleep.” She bucked against him, bit his good shoulder hard enough to taste blood, kicked until her heel caught his thigh. He snarled and slammed her wrists harder into the wood, shaking with the effort of holding her down.

“You’re fucking insane,” he spat, voice guttural.

She snapped her teeth, spitting blood from her split lip into his face. “Better than being your dumb muscle.”

His hand clamped her jaw, forced her eyes to his. “You think you’re the only one who wakes up screaming?”

Her laugh came out sharp and jagged. “You don’t scream, Cato. You don’t fucking feel. You hit things until they shut up. That’s all you know how to do.”

That got him. His grip slipped just enough for her to twist her wrist free. Her elbow smashed into his ribs, hard enough to make him grunt and roll halfway off. She lunged for him, fist slamming into his cheekbone, but he caught her in a bear-like tackle, dragging her back down to the ground again. They grappled in the snow, both of them breathless and bloodied, eyes wild.

“Fucking hell, Clove. You’ll kill me in my sleep next time?” he taunted through gritted teeth and the blood streaking from his nose. 

Her laugh was half-sob, half-snarl. “Maybe I already fucking tried.” And she had. She knew it. The flash of the blade. The heat of blood. She didn’t even remember waking up. The words ripped out before she could stop them, and her hands shook as she clawed at his shoulder, reopening the slice she’d given him earlier. Satisfaction flashed when he hissed through the pain, though it turned hollow and sickening the same second it came. 

His eyes widened, just slightly. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I don’t know!” she shouted. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

She wanted him to hit back, maybe just throw her off and call her a monster, because maybe then it wouldn’t feel so much like she was breaking apart in his hands.

He shoved her back into the snow and pinned her down, hard. Both wrists were yanked painfully above her head. Every bit of his one hundred eighty-five pounds of muscle pressed down, digging into her chest and legs.

“Clove, what is actually wrong?” he asked, voice low and shaking. “Are you trying to scare me or what?.”

She stared up at him, breath fogging between them. Her body was trembling again and she couldn’t blame the wind this time.

“I wasn’t trying to scare you,” she said. “I was trying to shut you up. Before I…”

Before I make it worse. Before I fall apart. Before I say something I won’t be able to take back. Before I ki–

He saw it, whatever it was simmering below the surface. He saw it and went still.

She bucked again, desperate now, not to hurt him, just to get away.  From him, from this, from the disaster she’d become.

He didn’t let her. His grip tightened around her wrists and he pinned her down harder.

Her voice cracked under his weight. “Let me go.” The unspoken please hung in the air.

“No.” His hands refused to move. “Not this time.”

“Why not?”

His eyes were wild and wet and furious. “Because you’re mine, and I’m not watching you disappear again.”

“I never asked you to stay!” She hated how her voice shook, but she hated that she was still lying with her back in the snow and couldn’t get up more. 

“I don’t care.” He leaned down, nose to hers. “I’m staying anyway.”

“Then you’re a fucking idiot.” She bit the words off like they might save her. Push him. Make him leave before you break again.

He nodded slowly. “Maybe. But you’re the one who said it.”

Her breath caught, and her stomach twisted up like it always did when she remembered that moment. The finale, the chaos, the way she’d looked at him and known, somehow, they would die or live together. Just as it had always been. 

“What?”

“Together or nothing,” he said. “You said it. In the arena.” He paused for a moment, searching her eyes, and she was shocked to see… desperation glaring back at her. “Did that mean anything then?”

Her blood ran cold at the memory. “Don’t you dare put this on–”

“Damn it Clove, answer the question! Did. You. Mean. It?”

“I…” she whispered.  I meant it. That’s why I can’t–

“Do you still mean it?”

She shut her eyes tight. Her whole body stung, her hands were raw and bleeding, and her heart felt worst of all. “I just…” Say it. Say what you mean. Say you can’t breathe without him and hate yourself for it. “I didn’t want to need you this much.”

“I didn’t want to need anyone either. But I do. I need you here, Clovey.”

She swallowed thickly and defiantly fought off the tears that threatened to well up again. “So… what the fuck do we do now?”

His voice dropped, raw and low and tired out from the fight. “We survive. Just like we always have.”

Her fingers twitched in his grasp, and she stopped struggling. Tentatively, ever so slowly, his grip loosened, and he let go. For a second, she thought she might fall apart anyway.

For once, neither of them had anything left to throw.

“You’re insane,” he muttered, voice raw.

She huffed out a broken laugh, tilting her head just enough that it brushed his. “Apparently, you love it.”

For a moment he just stared at her, chest still heaving, blood on both of them, like he was trying to memorize every inch before it slipped away. Then he leaned in, his mouth close to her ear, his voice a low growl. “Yeah. I fucking do.”

His mouth found hers, rough and clumsy and still tasting of blood. She bit him once, just to remind him who she was, and he grinned against her lips like that was the most familiar thing in the world. When she pulled back, her breath steamed in the cold.

“Okay. Off. You’re heavy.”

“And you’re freezing,” he realized suddenly, looking down at her feet sunk in the snow, skin already blotched red. “You’re gonna lose your damn toes if we don’t move.”

She tried to scoff, but it came out slurred and weak. “Better frostbite than your whining.”

He snorted, ugly and humorless, and hauled her up anyway, keeping one arm iron around her waist when her knees buckled. “Yeah, well, you’re stuck with it. Come on.”

The snow swallowed their footprints as he half-guided, half-dragged her back toward home, both of them limping, bloodied, leaning into each other because neither could walk straight alone.

Clove kept one hand curled in his jacket trying to keep herself from trembling, though whether it was from her frayed nerves or cold she wasn’t quite sure. She didn’t want to think about what had almost happened, about how close her blade had come. How close she'd come. The snow burned her skin now, but it was easier to feel that than… anything else.

Cato’s arm stayed tight around her waist, grounding her like he knew she’d bolt if he let go, and part of her hated that he was right.

The lights of the house glowed faintly through the storm. The promise of a heat, shelter, and shower hot enough to thaw the ice gnawing at her skin sounded positively heavenly, given their current physical states. He muttered curses under his breath the whole way, but he never loosened his grip.

She didn’t fight him.

Together or nothing. She clenched her jaw and kept walking. Maybe that was the problem. Since the reversion of the two victor rule by the twisted gamekeepers, she hadn’t figured out how to stop choosing nothing. 

But he wouldn’t let her anymore.

Together. Never nothing. Even if it meant grappling in the snow, bleeding into each other’s fists and carrying each other home, bruises and all.

Even if it meant this, whatever this was, happened again and again and again.

Because it was the only way they knew how to love. And they’d do that together too.