it's not your games this year, they tell him.

he accepts that. he's almost glad, even.

that night she tells him: they've chosen me to be the candidate this year, with mist in her eyes.

and he puts an arm around her shoulder, his mind whirling. i'll always take care of you, he murmurs. to her, it's only a sweet nothing; he's said it too much for it to hold any meaning. but for him, it's a renewed promise.

it's not your games this year, they tell him, when he goes to them and pleads. it's not your games this year.

.

"you know, sometimes i wish we could be training partners forever and ever. and the training would never have to end," she'd told him, when they were eleven.

"we'll always be partners," he'd said to her, "and i'll always take care of you."

.

so after she volunteers, he holds his breath until the next name is called, and he shouts i volunteer as tribute—the words feel like they rip themselves through his lungs—before the real candidate (whoever he is) can speak. and he runs onto the platform and takes her hand, and they're led away from stunned silence.

(but she's smiling as their backs are turning. he knows, because his eyes never leave her face.)

.

the punishment for disobeying the rules in district two is something like death. but where they are going there are no rules, and cato thinks that his death might be worth it if he plays it to save clove's life.