Author's Note: Hello Clato fandom - how've you been? I obviously can't stay away from here for too long; I love these two and their dynamic too much. In which case, I'll make a quick comment: I always thought Cato would be the weaker (emotionally) of the two, so I tried to explore that headcanon here.

What If
a Hunger Games (© Suzanne Collins) fanfiction

Clove has never liked "what if"s. She has never dwelled on "what could have been"s or "what should have been"s. She's never cared for hypothetical questions or fabricated possibilities. What's the point of worrying about what never happened? she'd think. It's pointless.

The night before the reaping, Clove and Cato lay on the floor of the District 2 gym, staring up vacantly at the ceiling. "Tomorrow's the day," he announces, his voice taking up the entire room. "Are you ready?" His answer is an unamused snort, so he chuckles. "What if I get picked tomorrow? What if I'm the one standing up there?"

"You will get picked tomorrow," she cuts in steadily, confident.

He quirks an eyebrow as he perches himself up on one elbow to look at her. "How are you so sure?"

She's not even looking at him, still just staring blankly at the ceiling as though it were covered in stars, but she smirks. "I just know. Besides, even if you're not drawn, everyone knows you're gonna be the one standing up there." Cato has long since been determined the male tribute for this year's Hunger Games. "No what if's about it," she murmurs.

"Hm," is all he says before laying back down, so that the crown of his head is up against hers once more. He only allows half a moment of silence before asking, "And what if you're picked?"

This time she actually laughs. "There's no what if about that, either."

His lips press into a thin line, as he finds himself without a reply. He hears her breathing, can almost feel the slow rise and fall of her chest, and before he can stop himself his fingers are playing with the dark strands of her ponytail. "So you're gonna do it," he states softly.

Clove knows that this is her year, that she will be crowned the victor of this year's Hunger Games. All the intensive training she has been undergoing has been for this; she's ready. She can't even fathom waiting, can't even ask herself "What if you just waited one more year?" because this is her year. She and Cato have talked (yelled) about and discussed (thrown things over) it since the end of last year's Games, but Clove hasn't budged, and she certainly doesn't plan to now. Still, she doesn't answer because she doesn't want to get into another argument - not the night before the reaping.

Her shoulders feel heavy when she sits up. "I think I'm gonna get some more target practice in before bed." She can feel his eyes on her as she collects her knives, tries to ignore how uncomfortable it makes her as she aligns herself across from the targets. She zones in on the red, blocking out everything (everyone), and throws.

She doesn't hear Cato stand up, doesn't see the way he looks at her with anguish. She's still destroying targets and "what if"s when he leaves, his heart heavy.

Cato grins when he jumps onto the stage as District 2's male volunteer. Everyone is cheering around him, proud to have someone so strong and powerful as their representative. He waves to the crowd like a celebrity, stands on the pedestal like a god; already he can envision his victory. Not one month from now, he'll be back, in this very spot, waving to the people of his District: the schoolmates who thought they could show him up, the family who has always supported him, the trainers who made him what he is-

"I volunteer."

His grin drops the moment he sees her face emerge from the crowd. He's seen this a hundred times, mostly in his nightmares, but he still can't control the color draining from his face. He can't control the clamminess of his hands or the thudding in his chest, and when she's standing next to him he can't even bring it in himself to glance at her.

"Why?" he wants to ask her, right there on that stage. "Why are you doing this?"

But she's not even looking at him. She's looking straight ahead of her, wearing a quirky little grin that suggests she's hiding a secret. Cato swallows thickly as he clenches his fists, trying to keep himself from reaching over and wiping the grin off her face.

He manages a tight-lipped smile and waves one last time at the crowd.

The train ride is awkward. Though they sit across from each other, they might as well be worlds away. Clove stares vacantly out the window, entranced by the blur of trees, while Cato nudges at the table between them with his foot. Their chaperone and mentor have long since left, leaving them to themselves, and the silence is suffocating.

"You're mad at me." Cato is surprised when Clove is the first one to speak. When he turns his head to face her, she's still looking at the scenery. "But you knew I was gonna do it."

"I guess there was a part of me still hoping you wouldn't." His voice is hollow, causing her to flinch ever-so-slightly.

She runs her tongue over her lower lip before speaking; he takes it as a sign of nervousness. "This is my year," she states calmly. "I can't risk what'll be mine on 'what ifs'. Besides…" For the first time, she raises her eyes to meet his, and he nearly flinches from the intensity in their dark depths. Her confidence and resolve fall - he can see it, the vulnerable girl who rarely showed herself from behind the striking girl with knives - but only for a moment. She shakes her head and turns her attention back to the window. "Forget it."

"Besides, what?" he presses.

He just needs to hear it, some clarification that she still cares, that they can still exist as Cato and Clove, together. He wants her to admit that she's afraid of losing him, that he's more important than coming back a victor.

"Forget it." Her voice is cold and far away now.

Cato narrows his eyes, rage stirring within him once more. Wordlessly, he stands up and stalks out of the room, unable to sit in her presence any longer.

When he's gone, she whispers, "Besides, it's just a game."

It's not fair for her to be jealous and snarky and snippy, especially not when she's the one who suggested they forget everything before the reaping. She shouldn't be scowling when she sees the blondes holding hands, shouldn't be scoffing when they flirt during training, shouldn't even be glaring when they shamelessly flaunt their attraction during the Games. "I don't care, I don't care, I don't care," she repeats in her head, like a mantra. And she doesn't care, because she is going to win, and winners don't need anyone - especially not brutal, bloody, arrogant blondes.

Nevertheless, when they're sitting at the campfire one night, when Glimmer's cuddled up against Cato's side, she can't help but sharpen her knives with particular aggressiveness.

Lover Boy is sitting next to her, eyeing the sharp instruments with caution. "You don't seem to like them very much," he comments casually.

She almost glares at him, but the intensity of her gaze is focused on the gleaming metal. "I don't know who you're talking about," she replies coolly. When he chuckles, she actually does glower at him.

"Sorry, sorry," he apologizes, holding his hands up defensively. "It's just… You don't really act all that friendly to either of them." They both look over at the lovebirds, who are so entranced in their own conversation to pay any attention to them. The boy from District 1, she notices, is sitting off to the side with a glum look. "I'd think two people who came from the same district would get along, at least."

"Oh yeah? And is that why you're sitting with us right now, Lover Boy?" she asks, seething, and he smiles sheepishly. "Look, it doesn't matter what district you're from - 'cause in the end, only one person wins. It's stupid to let yourself get attached; it'll just hold you down. You need to look at everyone like they're target, otherwise you'll become one." With a flick of her wrist, she embeds one of her beloved daggers into a passing lizard. "Because this is all a game anyway."

Across the campfire, Cato turns his eyes away from Glimmer's glittering ones, hoping to steal a glance at his district partner. He frowns when he sees her sitting and talking with the boy from 12; it deepens when he spots a smile. Her smile.

"Cato?"

He forces his gaze back down to the pretty girl beside him, tries to smile. "Sorry. I thought I saw something."

She bites back a cry when he pushes her against the tree by her shoulders. Cato's eyes are on fire, and there's something on his face - passion, fear, anger, excitement - that absolutely terrifies her. For once, Clove feels small. "What the hell is your problem!" she growls, too aware of the hitch in her voice.

"You!" he screams, shattering her attempt at a strong front. "You're my god damn problem!"

"Cato, stop it!" She tries to make it sound like a demand, but it comes out as a plea.

But his eyes are still harsh, as though he doesn't hear her. "Why did you do this? Why are you doing this?" She shakes her head, unable (or just unwanting) to understand his words. "You could have just waited another year. You could have just waited." His fingers are digging into her skin now, forming round bruises into her white skin. "You knew I was going to volunteer this year - you helped me during training. But why did you…"

"Why did I, what?" she spits. "Why did I volunteer? Why didn't I wait? Why didn't I wait for you?" Something flashes in his gaze when she directly addresses him. "Because, newsflash, Cato, not everything is about you. I did this for me. I did this so I could win. This is my-"

"This is your year, I know, I know!" he yells, shaking her. "But god dammit…" She jumps when his forehead connects with her shoulder and his body slants against hers. "You've always been so freakin' selfish." There's nothing accusatory or unfriendly in his voice, but something soft and almost despairing. He leans his forehead against hers, so that for once they are on the same eye level; her heart leaps to her throat.

"Because that's what this world is, Cato," she says. "It's selfish, and if you don't act on your own, it'll eat you up. You can't wait on fantasies or 'what could have been's or 'what if's. You have to do it yourself."

"Yeah, I know." The initial rage is gone, and its wake is the broken, vulnerable boy. The conversation has taken on a too serious tone, jarring both of them. "But what if we both won, huh?" There's the joking Cato, the smug teenager who always teased her when her knives barely missed the mark - the friend she spent so much time with at home.

She allows a small laugh as she pushes him away lightly. "Yeah," she mumbles, "what if."

They were supposed to go home together. They were supposed to parade through the districts holding hands, were supposed to grin and smile as banners waved around in the air. They were supposed to meet again on the same stage, were supposed to present themselves to District 2 as their victors. They were supposed to win.

But suddenly everything is spinning and it's hard to breathe and all Clove can see is red. Someone is yelling at her (for her?), but she can't move, can't reach out to them, can't ask for help. "You don't need to ask for help, you stupid girl," screams a voice in her head. "You don't need help. You can do this yourself. You have to do it yourself." But she can't do it herself because everything is just so heavy and keeping her eyes open has gotten so hard.

"Clove!" There it is again, the voice. She's engulfed in warmth in familiarity, but she doesn't recognize what it is until she sees the blue in the sea of red.

"Cato," she wants to say.

"Stay with me, Clove!" Such a beautiful blue, she wants to drown in it. "Clove, please."

Clove has never liked "what if"s, but in her final moments her thoughts are filled with them.

What if I hadn't volunteered?

What if I had waited for Cato to come back?

What if he came back the victor and we got to be together?

What if I had killed the Girl on Fire?

What if I hadn't gone to the Cornucopia?

What if what if what if what if what if-

"God, Clove, please." She can hear him sobbing as he clings to her weak body. "You said you'd come home with me, remember? You said we'd both win." His fingers dig into her jacket, seeking signs of life. "You've always been so freakin' selfish."

She tries to smile, because she doesn't want his last image of her a bloodied, grimacing mess. She tries to say his name, tries to apologize for being so selfish and wanting so much, but the weight on her chest has gotten so heavy. The last word on her lips is a pathetic whisper of his name. Then she lays to rest all that could have been.