When Clove first discovers her soulmate, she is eleven and he is fourteen. It is the first day of real training, now that she and the others in her age division are considered mature enough to handle more than wooden swords and ropes courses. She's waiting in line for the knives when he slumps down in the middle of the path, eyes closed as he drinks from a bottle of water. She curls her lip at his stunning lack of manners but doesn't say anything. She's picked up quickly enough that this boy, Cato, is the trainers' pet, arrogant and entitled and privileged. If he wants to sprawl in everybody's way after a treadmill session, nobody will challenge him, and if they do, they'll get punished.

So instead of her usual actions toward someone irritating (usually a good kick to the side, maybe a flash of her knife if they're obstinate), she gingerly picks her way around him. But she must have been careless, for the side of her leg accidentally brushes against his arm. Her world instantly morphs into one filled with color, from the startling scarlet of the training uniforms to the misleadingly soft blue of the walls, and in her shock she jerks away from him. The color vanishes, and her heart plummets with it.

For as long as there have been stories, humans have had soulmates, perfect other halves designed to complement and complete themselves. Direct physical contact is the only way to ever find one's soulmate, and it's only evident when both develop color vision. The color is short-lived, lasting barely as long as the physical contact itself, but its presence or absence can destroy lives. The soulmate phenomenon is just one of the many reasons why the Districts are so strictly segregated. Soulmates are legally required to have the option to live together, so the Capitol decided long ago that it was preferable to keep everyone from finding their soulmates in a separate District.

It turns out that Clove doesn't have to look that far.

There's no sign he's noticed anything, though she can't imagine he would have, with the way his arm is flung across his eyes as if to ward off the light. Her hands are shaking too badly to throw a knife, so instead she leaves the line and splashes some water on her face. What can I do?

There's only one option for her, if she wants to live a normal life. The next time Cato meets her gaze, she feigns total indifference. Clove accustoms herself to a life of silent solitude at the utter lack of hurt on his face. She means nothing to him. She'll make him mean nothing to her.

Her tactics work well for a few years. Avoid eye contact, stab the dummy, switch stations when he approaches, lift weights, duck around him, throw the knife. It's a routine as soothing as it is safe. It lulls her into a false sense of security, one that envelopes her through most of their training. She thinks she's nearly forgotten about him, but sometimes she can't help but stare at him. He's so strikingly powerful, this bulky, brooding man who wields a sword like an extension of his arm. She thinks sometimes, when her gaze is inexorably dragged to him, that he looks rather like she does with her knives: cold, efficient, chillingly competent.

She wonders what they'd look like as a team, how they'd turn on one another in a glorious finale, and shivers. They're so evenly matched, speed against strength and wit against brute force. Sometimes she takes him by surprise and slits his throat, sometimes he pins her down and snaps her neck. No one ever wins in her dreams. No one ever backs down. She's met her match at last, and he doesn't even know who she is.

(When she looks away, his gaze follows her.)

Four years after that fateful day, the escort sings her name to the crowd. She's been Reaped. She makes her way slowly up the stairs, assuming that this year's female tribute will rush up and volunteer as she's been told to do. Fifteen is certainly not too young to compete in the Games, but the odds are much more in her favor if she's closer to seventeen or eighteen, long enough to bulk up and take instruction on how to flirt or charm or posture so that she's fully prepared for the rigor of interviews.

Clove reaches the top of the stairs, flicks a glance over the motionless audience, not rippling with the movement of a tribute pushing her way to the front, and slinks over to the podium. Cato's already waiting for her, smirking at the cameras and seemingly unfazed by this turn of events. The escort, a giggling tower of feathers and glitter with cheeks painted white, gestures for them to shake hands. He sticks his hand out, and, reluctantly, she curls hers inside of his. Even though she's braced for it, she still flinches at the sudden onslaught of color that bursts to life before her eyes. He drops her hand like he's been burned and stares at her, all that nonchalance gone, but she doesn't meet his eyes.

(His eyes are blue like the sky.)

When they get on the train, he barely waits for the doors to close before he grabs her hand. She jumps at the shock, a jolt of electricity coursing through her as the train turns all sorts of colors- pale green walls, scarlet carpets, bowls of fruit so vivid it hurts to look at them. "I knew it," he breathes, and she knows that he's seeing the same beautiful, terrible world.

Clove snatches her arm away and immediately misses the dizzying array of color she's so quickly become attached to. "I don't know what you're talking about," she snaps, holding her chin haughtily and narrowing her eyes like she's looking down on him even though he's easily a foot taller.

"I've always known." He's not even listening to her, his eyes dazed as he repeats himself, tasting the words. "I've always known."

"Known what, boy?" Brutus shoulders his way into the room, then notices their proximity and curses. "Oh, fuck no. Please tell me you're joking."

Clove takes a step away, unnoticed as their voices begin to rise. She tunes out most of the yelling and concentrates on slipping out of the room, but Enobaria is already blocking the door with no small amount of amusement baring her fangs in a grin. "Don't leave just yet," the Victor drawls, snickering to herself. "I can already tell this is going to be a fun year."

After Brutus has yelled himself hoarse, he snaps for all of them to gather around the table so they can "discuss this ill-timed abomination". He's surprisingly articulate for a man she's always regarded as all brawn and no brain. She leans back against the solid wooden frame of her chair and watches the conversation through lidded eyes until it turns to her.

"Well, the secret's out. What are we to do about it?" She keeps her eyes firmly averted from where Cato sits at the opposite end of the table. He's watching her.

Brutus rubs at his forehead. "Keep it quiet, I guess," he says. "We can't present you as bloodthirsty and romantic at the same- too much conflict. The Capitol focuses best on single-faceted tributes, and you're expected to fulfill the vicious trait, what with your skills. We don't want to confuse them by presenting you as dynamic during your interviews."

"They're going to love you," Enobaria singsongs. "So strong and brutal, both of you, and you have that hint of madness about you. Killers. Winners. They love what they can relate to."

Oh, and they do. Her prep team bustles about her, gasping with fluttering excitement as they dab cream on her face, paint patterns on her eyes. One knowing smirk and they'd been completely entranced by the girl from Two: So beautiful. So fierce. So dangerous. They trace the lines of her muscle almost enviously, chattering all the while about her dress, her training score, her lithe frame. "We're betting on you!" one of them trills as they forcibly shove her back into the main room, where a massive mirror catches her eye. She's so fixated on whatever creature is reflected back at her that she barely even notices when Cato slips over to her.

She is striking in the world without color, such a tiny thing with her freckles stark against the paleness of her skin, framed by the near-black of her hair. She knows she turns heads for more reasons than sheer curiosity of the fragile, deadly tribute. But she is unprepared for the girl she sees when Cato takes her hand. The first thing she notices is her dress, a slash of clinging scarlet with a gauzy gray bow around her waist. Her legs are visible from nearly the tops of her thighs down, ending in a massive pair of heels that are silver like the liner curling around her eyes. And her eyes- oh, she's always wanted light eyes, but there's a ring of gold around her pupils she's never seen before, and it makes her look almost feral.

Clove stares into the mirror beyond any semblance of self-control as Cato smiles softly at her reflection. "You're beautiful," he murmurs, and for once, there's no sarcastic mask clouding his words. She tears her gaze away to look at him. He's even more handsome in color, all golden hair and pale blue eyes, dressed in a blue suit so dark it's nearly black. He looks down at her, grins to catch her staring, and winks. "Let's go light this Capitol on fire."

When they return to their rooms hours later, Clove can't sleep. She's still thrumming with energy absorbed from the fervor of the crowds humming in her veins. So, restless, she starts to climb the stairs. Exercise has always helped to clear her mind before, and the night before the Games, she needs all of the peace she can get. She runs up and up and up until she finds herself on the roof.

She's miraculously alone, at least until the door opens behind her. She whips around only to find Cato staring at the sky. She pretends not to notice when he moves to stand closer to her, restraining her jolt when he brushes against her arm and the city becomes a whirlwind of color. The sun clings to the edges of the horizon, bleeding pink and orange as it is slowly but surely overcome by the night. She watches it in silent awe when he finally begins to speak.

"I never wanted this, you know." She shouldn't be crushed at this, but she is. How can she already regret losing something she never had? "The soulmate thing, I mean," he clarifies. "It's… messy. Attachments aren't good to have in the Games."

Suddenly unable to listen to him any longer, she shifts away so that the world reverts to gray. "I didn't exactly ask for any of this, either," she snaps. "I wasn't supposed to be Reaped. You weren't supposed to be my… No one was supposed to be my soulmate. We're Careers; we're not supposed to love." Her throat is tight as she forces out the words.

She can tell by the stiffness of his shoulders that he's hurt but trying to conceal it. All those lessons on suppressing their emotions might work wonders on the other tributes, but they leave certain tells that anyone who's been through the program can easily pick up on. He makes as if to respond, then turns away from her and continues to watch the skyline, resolutely ignoring her. She bites her lip. Is this unfamiliar feeling regret?

Now would be the best time to slip away, while he's so clearly offering her an opportunity to do so without sabotaging his own pride. The icy, pragmatic side of her says yes, that she needs to leave now to get rest before the Games, and she begins to step away. But the other part, the one long-buried by years of training, hesitates.

Somehow she finds herself at his side. His eyes are still coldly fixed on the horizon, not even flickering over to her. Maybe he thinks she's come back to deliver one last parting shot. She takes a breath, squares her shoulders, and grabs his hand.

He jumps backward in shock, but Clove doesn't let go. "What are you doing?" Cato sputters.

She shrugs a little uncomfortably. Feelings have never been her strong suit. "The Games are a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. So is this. One of us- possibly both of us- will die in the next few weeks. We might as well take advantage of this while we still can."

He snorts, but doesn't drop her hand. "That's the least romantic thing I've ever heard."

"Sorry. You're stuck with me," she deadpans with a tiny smirk. They stand there on the rooftop for a few minutes of companionable silence before she speaks again. "For what it's worth, I'm glad it's you."

"Me too." They're both a bit surprised at his admission, but he keeps talking. "I always thought I'd end up like my parents. They're… I love them, but the whole reason they've stuck together is because they're supposedly soulmates. Compatibility doesn't mean they're actually good for each other, but you and I…" He spits out a curse. "I'm going to tell Enobaria to kill Lyssa. She was supposed to volunteer this year, but she chickened out. If she had volunteered, I could've come home and we… it's not guaranteed, but we could've been happy."

"Maybe the rules will change," she offers optimistically. "Stranger things have happened." They both know she's lying, but it feels good to be hopeful, just for a moment.

"Like two District partners being soulmates," he snorts. Clove laughs, and he squeezes her hand. "Hey, whatever happens, we'll work through it together, right?" he asks.

She looks up at him, her smile a little vulnerable beneath the moonlight. "Of course."

And they keep that promise throughout the Games, even as their alliance crumbles around them and the tide of favor begins to slowly turn from them to focus on the other pair of soulmates, for what Brutus failed to realize is that given brutality and purity, the Capitol is inexorably drawn to hope. The only hope in the Careers' story is their own.

But somehow they persevere, supporting each other, keeping the other safe during the night as they sit close enough to brush skin. "Do you believe in fate?" he asks one night. They're lying side by side on the ground, hands the only point meeting between them. They're both sick of caring about the cameras, but they're far too practical to go against their mentors' demands. They stick instead to subtle acknowledgements of their relationship.

Clove laughs. "Well, I sure didn't choose for any of this to happen." She stares up at the stars as they burn overhead. Each one has its own hint of color, a hue of orange or blue or red. She's constantly amazed at all of the tiny details she notices when she's with Cato. "But I'm glad it did." Perhaps the Capitol will find her words an amusing challenge. Gossip shows will unravel her sentences and expose any existing meaning and just make up the rest. They're more accurate than they know.

Trumpets blare. She sits bolt upright, fingers instinctively curling around Cato's even as her other hand finds her knife. But it's not an announcement of a feast like she'd expected. No, Claudius's slippery voice informs the arena of a rule change. She meets Cato's gaze in the darkness. Neither is sure who moved first, but somehow they're tangled together beneath the light of the moon. Secret's out, she thinks, but she doesn't care.

They're not even subtle about their hand-holding after that. Let Brutus fret as he will; he can gripe when they both come home to Two. She's perpetually in awe of the color that permeates the world, her eyes dancing around the forest as they hunt. His remain fixed on her.

A few days later, they receive another announcement. This one, an invitation to a feast, makes a smile curve across her face not unlike Enobaria's fang-baring grins. "We're one step closer to going home," Cato says, savoring the words. They both keep a list in their head. Four slots are empty. This feast will turn things around, will hasten the end of the Games. He kisses her softly, her vision alighting once more, and then they begin to discuss their strategy.

The next morning, she lies in wait for the girl from Twelve. Cato will lie in reserve for the beast from Eleven, unless the girl from Five with the long red hair happens to run near him. Her world is gray once more, but she doesn't even mind. Once they win, they can spend all the time in the world enjoying one another's company.

The redhead darts out first, as they'd expected, and foolishly runs straight for Cato's section of the woods. Clove licks her lips even as the girl from Twelve, dark braid swinging, flies toward the Cornucopia. She intercepts the girl before she can reach the woods and knocks her down with a knife before pinning her down.

She barely hears the words she's saying. Everything is fogged, dreamlike. Cato would kiss her for her cruelty as she teases the knife about the other girl's mouth. They're remarkably alike, Clove and Cato, so cold and so vicious and so single-mindedly determined. But it's this tight focus that ends up with her back against the Cornucopia as the giant from Eleven bashes her head in. Her body falls to the ground, and she keeps falling down, down, down to nothingness.

She hears feet pounding toward her. There's a muffled swear, then someone drops beside her, resting a hand on the side of her cheek. She lets out an involuntary moan of pain as she moves her head to look at them, but she already knows by the color flooding her vision that it's Cato. "Please, Clove," he begs, anguished. "Stay with me."

It's only fitting that, at the very moment in which she needs her thoughts to be more organized than ever, she just breathes, "It isn't fair."

"Nobody ever said it was," he whispers, one hand clenching in her hair as the other strokes the side of her face. "Being soulmates doesn't grant us a happy ending, it just means we could have found one together."

"I wish we could have." Her throat is closing for more reasons than one. Air is suddenly in precious short supply, but she chokes out, "I love you."

If he responds, she can't hear it. Her hearing is gone, replaced by a low, insistent ringing inside her skull. She'd clear her ears if she could, but her hands won't move. She watches a tear fall from his face to hers, yet she can't even feel it land. She's shutting down. At least it doesn't hurt any more.

Gold, gold, gold. It's everywhere- writhing in the Cornucopia's ridges, splashing in the sun's light, burning in Cato's hair. A whole world of colors, and she gets only the loveliest all for herself, presented to her like flowers on her grave. She thinks she's crying.

Then, she thinks nothing at all.

The color bleeds from Cato's vision, melting into smears of gray. Clove's eyes are glazed. They aren't seeing anything, not any more. He knows even before the cannon fires that she's dead.

Slowly, almost tenderly, he lowers her body to the earth. He brushes a few errant strands of hair away from her forehead, avoiding the dent in her skull. Even in death, she's beautiful. He thinks he's loved her all along, like a shadow, like the sun behind a cloud, like the feeling when you wade out too deep and start to drown, like the fatigue when you give in.

There is nothing beautiful left in the world, nothing to make it worth saving. He stands, grabs his spear, and tries to remember what he'd ever found compelling about it. It's so dull in his hand, just a flat expanse of gray instead of the glossy silver he'd seen each time Clove had been with him. Clove is past-tense now. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to believe that.

He takes one step away from Clove's body, then another. His feet are so heavy. Each step is mechanic, artificial. Far in the distance, he sees the same plains he's avoided this whole time, the ones that ripple with concealed menace. He doesn't feel any unease as he slowly walks toward them. He doesn't feel anything at all.

The world is gray. It always has been.

A/N: This was supposed to be happy, I swear.