Don't tell me about love, I can't take its sweetness
I'm hiding from the world and my weakness
~ Love & Hate, by Doomed

"They're kind of sickening, aren't they?" Cato's voice asks from beside her. They're both staring up at the screen, where the interview is broadcasted. In the next few moments, a new image surfaces onscreen. It's the girl from Twelve, her face consumed with an embarrassed blush. Clove thinks the whole thing is stupid—they're going into the Games tomorrow, why waste time with this silly love fest?—but one look at the crowd tells her all she needs to know. The stupid Capitol people are eating it up. Clove wonders how they'll feel when the two star-crossed lovers are lying dead together on the floor of the arena, and her lips curl into a smile. That is something she can look forward to.

Out loud, she answers, "Yeah. Almost as disgusting as you and Glimmer." She can't resist the barb. Riling up Cato is one of the few things she enjoys, and she's trying to make the most of it because weeks from now she plans on being the one who gets out alive. Which means no more Cato.

Cato grins cockily. "Now Clove, there's no need to be bitter."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, I'm not," she snaps. "I just hope you won't be bitter when it gets down to us Careers, because her pretty face is the first thing that's going to go."

He shrugs. "See if I care. It's not like I'm in love with her." His eyes dart to the screen, which is still an image of the lovesick girl from Twelve's face. "Love's a useless emotion, anyway. But tell me, Clove, who's next on your hit list after her?"

"Marvel, of course," answers Clove. And then you. But she doesn't tell Cato that. It doesn't need to be said, either. They both know it. Besides, the feeling is mutual. Clove knows that she'll need to watch her back around Cato when it gets down to the final stretch of the Games. For now she can play pretend and act somewhat civil, but no amount of dresses and makeup is going to cover up the bloodlust boiling in her veins. She's itching for a fight already.

Soon enough the interviews are over, and then she's all but running back to her room.

"Have a good night's sleep, Clove," calls Cato mockingly.

o.O.o.O.o.O.o

Clove's about ready to fly into a homicidal rage right now. Damn girl from District Twelve and her stupid tracker-jackers. The edge of Clove's vision is blurry. Whether it's from anger or venom, she can't tell. She grits her teeth as she pulls out the stingers and pours the cool, soothing water over her wounds while she glares at Cato.

"You idiot!" she screeches. "Why'd you listen to Lover Boy? It was all a trap!"

Cato's furious, too. His eyes are murderous as he raises them to meet her glare. "You're blaming me? If you had such a problem with it, maybe you should have camped somewhere else!"

"Oh, so you can finish me off faster, in my sleep?" seethes Clove.

"Don't you think I would have killed you by now if I wanted to do that?" challenges Cato. "We have this alliance for a reason."

"Go die in hell," spits Clove, but some of her anger fades as she acknowledges the truth of his statement. She knows she could stick a knife in him right now and make a run for it, but in the end it doesn't benefit anyone. First, they have business to take care of—the stupid girl from Twelve. "Lover Boy has probably run off to join his girlfriend," Clove realizes.

"Guys! Can we just keep moving?" interjects Marvel, annoyed by the whole spat.

Cato's blue eyes are level and unwavering as he answers Clove. "Don't worry about Lover Boy. I know where I stabbed him."

A slow grin spreads over Clove's face. It's the best news she's heard all day.

o.O.o.O.o.O.o

Their pack is down to two now. Cato personally finished off the boy from three, and they've just seen Marvel's face staring down at them from the sky. Clove doesn't know how he met his end. She can't find it in herself to care.

Then the announcement comes: the rules have changed. There's a possibility for two victors. The words don't completely sink in, and Clove finds herself staring out into the night, trying to make sense of what has happened and why.

After a while, she snorts. "Good news for the star-crossed lovers."

"Good news for us, too," reminds Cato.

Clove stops short at that. She doesn't know what to say, so she just pulls her pack higher on her shoulders and adjusts her night-vision goggles.

"Yeah," she agrees. "I guess it is."

o.O.o.O.o.O.o

They slowly make their way through the forest, trying to track the others while remaining unseen and out of reach.

One day, as she tosses twigs into the fire, Clove asks Cato, "What do you think the two lovebirds are doing right now?" She can't explain her fixation on them. It has gone deeper than revenge—she's genuinely curious, but she'll never admit it to herself, much less out loud.

"Probably sucking face," Cato comments dryly. They both crack up laughing because the thought is so disgusting and so funny they can't find it in themselves to stop. When the hysterics finally subside, Clove rubs at the corners of her eyes where tears of mirth have actually leaked out.

"When we get them, we're gonna give the audience a real show," she decides.

Cato smirks. "Better than any lame love stories or whatever it is they're doing."

Clove tosses another log into the fire, sending up a rush of sparks. The wicked gleam in Cato's eyes matches her own.

"It'll be great," says Clove.

o.O.o.O.o.O.o

It's freezing outside. Inside the cave isn't much better. Clove wishes she had something to stuff her sleeping bag with to trap the heat, but there's nothing so she just curls in on herself and locks her jaw. She will not let her teeth chatter.

"I'll bet the two lovers are nice and toasty from sharing a sleeping bag," remarks Cato. Somehow, their conversations always turn towards the two from Twelve, and almost immediately afterwards they're planning ways to make the two lovers' deaths as slow and painful as possible. It brings a sick glee to Clove.

"Yeah," manages Clove, still trying to disguise the shivers running up and down her spine.

It's quiet. Just when Clove thinks Cato has fallen asleep, he speaks. "Are you cold?"

Clove's eyes fly open in astonishment. It's not like Cato to care, but for a brief second he sounds unguarded, probing. Careful, Clove, she warns herself. No need to get worked up. They're treading on new ground, here, and Clove knows she has to be careful.

"No," she replies.

"Are you sure?" And there it is again, what Clove has been waiting for—that telltale smugness characteristic of Cato. "You can climb in here with me, if you want." She can hear the mockery in his voice.

"In your dreams," Clove answers spitefully before scooting a couple inches away from Cato. The temperature seems to drop even lower, but she tells herself it's only her imagination. She's not a weakling, and she especially doesn't need anyone else to keep her warm. She can take care of herself.

"Suit yourself," comes Cato's sleepy reply. In a few moments he's out, while Clove stares blankly ahead, trying to will her eyes to close.

o.O.o.O.o.O.o

"What are you going to do when we go back home?" asks Clove, flicking her knife in and out lazily.

"You sound awfully sure about us going home," answers Cato.

Clove sits up and stares at him. "What, you don't think we're going to win?"

Cato won't look at her. He stares at the fire. "I just think it's a little too early to be sure."

She wants to go over and shake him by the shoulders. This isn't Career talk. This isn't Cato, either. He's supposed to be overconfident and self-assured and cocky, but instead he's staring into the fire pensively. Please, like he even has a brain to think with. Still, Cato's sudden doubt is disarming and alarming, so Clove does the only thing she can think of.

She laughs. "You're ridiculous," she sneers disdainfully.

In a flash, Cato is on his feet with his sword in his hands. "Don't laugh at me," he growls.

"Why not?" Clove asks. "Am I hurting your feelings?"

"Watch it, Clove," warns Cato.

"Fight me!" Clove is teetering on the edge of insanity, and she knows it. Suddenly, she has an urge to stab President Snow, as penance for all he has taken from her, her humanity being one of those things. But she can't do that because she's in this damn cave with this boy who is supposed to be Cato but isn't acting like it at all, and she wants to cry because she's confused, except she has forgotten how to. She has forgotten everything except the urge to kill and the urge to win.

"I'm not fighting you, Clove," says Cato, repeating Clove's name as if it will bring her to her senses.

"Scared I'll beat you?" asks Clove, spinning her knife around in her fingers, the blade flashing brightly from the firelight.

"No! I'm not scared!" Cato's chest is heaving, now. "I just don't want to be a part of these stupid games!"

The silence is deafening. Clove's eyes widen. So do Cato's, the full realization of his words finally hitting him. In a minute he's scrambling to recover his façade. "I mean, you and your stupid games! You're such an amateur—don't you know that you should be saving your energy for the fights that really matter? Like taking down the other tributes? I'm not wasting my time or energy on fighting you when it doesn't even count for anything anyway."

It's a lame attempt at a cover-up and they both know it, but Clove hopes for Cato's sake that the audience won't see any of this footage. To her credit, she plays her own part well.

"Fine!" she huffs, throwing her knife down on the ground before storming over to her corner of the cave.

"Fine," Cato echoes hollowly before tossing his sword on the ground and collapsing with relief.

o.O.o.O.o.O.o

As soon as the announcement about the feast at the Cornucopia ends, Clove jumps to her feet. She needs to get out of this cave, before the tight space starts getting to her like it has to Cato (because that's the only explanation for his outburst the other day—he's getting antsy, just like her).

"Twelve is going to be there." The minute the words leave her mouth, she's utterly sure of it.

Cato looks up at her, briefly. "No duh."

Clove only rolls her eyes at him as she straps on multiple knives. "She's mine."

For once, they don't argue about it. As Clove finishes outfitting herself, she glances at Cato. "You coming?"

He's staring moodily into the fire again, but he nods. "I'll bring up the rear."

That's all she needs to hear. She's as good as gone, already turning to head towards the Cornucopia, when he calls her back.

She's never noticed how blue his eyes are. She thinks that maybe if they weren't Tributes, if she was just a girl and he was just a boy, maybe they'd have a chance at…something. She half-considers grabbing his face right there and kissing him, because wouldn't that be a curveball for everyone watching? Wouldn't it be funny to see his expression? Just as quickly, she shakes the thought of her head, because she has no time to be entertaining such thoughts, as pleasurable as Cato's discomfort may be. Love is a useless emotion, Clove reminds herself as she waits for Cato to speak.

"Oh, and Clove?" he requests. "Make sure to give them a good show."

She grins wickedly, tossing her braid over her shoulder. "I promise."

o.O.o.O.o.O.o

'Bring up the rear' my ass, Clove thinks as she hits the ground, because it's easier to be angry than to succumb to the sheer panic seizing her limbs. Oh, god. I'm actually going to die.

She hears footsteps crunching in the grass and somebody calling her name, except she's never heard it like that before. She has never heard her name sound so broken, so fragile, so laced with emotion. She can't decide whether she likes it or not.

Suddenly Cato is gripping her fingers. As Clove's gaze flicks upwards, she can't tell whether the blue she's staring into is the sky or Cato's eyes.

"No, Clove, no," chokes Cato, squeezing her hand so tightly Clove thinks it's going to snap. "You can't leave me. Not after all of this. Not when…not when I…" He sobs, and that alone should give Clove a heart attack and jerk her awake, except she's too far gone.

Cato bends over, almost choking with pain. "I hate you!" he explodes, his shoulders—broad, sturdy, strong—shuddering now. "Damn you! You can't just leave! Stay with me! Do you hear me, Clove? I said stay with me, dammit! I hate you!" Cato doesn't know what this is, this awful, coiling, churning feeling welling up deep inside him. He's never felt pain like this before, and so he decides to call it hatred, because hatred is something he knows and something he can understand, and this feeling is so powerful and overwhelming and something like rage (except maybe a little sadder and maybe a little deeper) that it might as well be hate. Hate for everything, but most of all hate for what he is and what he has become and what he will never be again (a teenage boy with a chance at a life).

Clove's grip slackens, and just like that Cato knows she's really gone. There is no more girl with the knives—just a dead, glassy-eyed girl. He allows himself one more sob before he wrenches himself to his feet. Some primal scream tears its way out of his throat and into the air. "I hate you!" he bellows again, and this time he's yelling at the Capitol, at these awful, bloody, heart-wrenching games.

Then he grabs his spear and charges into the forest, his anger, bloodlust, and hatred (bright, burning hatred) drowning out everything else.

o.O.o.O.o.O.o

Don't tell me about love, I can't take its sweetness
My tears are mixed with your blood and I'm hiding from weakness

A/N: My first Hunger Games fic! I barely noticed them the first time I read the series, but after reading the first book again, the Clove/Cato pairing has grown on me immensely. It's a tragedy we weren't given more to work with, but hey, that's what fanfiction is for, right? Please let me know what you think of this piece-constructive criticism is always welcome! I'm hoping to write more for this fandom, but I'd like to hear some feedback first (yay? nay?) :)