I’m not bothered by the issue of “Team Peeta versus Team Gale”. Do you know why?
Because in reality, it has nothing to do with Twilight.
The notion of a team is simply that it connects one to a particular group which shares a common value or ideology, and, when it comes to characters or ships, it does predate Twilight. Have none of you ever seen a late 1990s forum board littered with “Team Spike” and “Team Angel”? Because I have. The concept of claiming to be part of a particular team is only associated with Twilight because of its popularity.
Think of it this way: it’s just another marketing technique designed to trigger a sense of familiarity for people not within The Hunger Games fandom, to cling to. It’s enticement, because it’s the promise of a romantic element to the film. However, once this audience captivated by a new opportunity to ship actually sees the film, it’s realized that the romance is understated and is not pivotal to the plot. Teams don’t romanticize the story, or blur its intention. They simply broaden the audience.
I have no problem with teams. In fact, I’m very solidly Team Clove.
It was strange, really, how someone so pitiful as he was could influence her so profoundly.
She could see right through him; his guise of resilience and his feigned disregard. By day he would trail behind their pack, spear in hand and a darkness on his face that would only be broken by the flicker of their modest campfire, when he’d roll over in his sleep and utter his beloved’s name.
Katniss. Over and over, he’d say it, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Katniss, Katniss… Katniss.
For all he tried to fool them, there was no doubting that Peeta, the lover boy from District 12, was inescapably bound by the girl on fire. And, as much as Clove detested it… she yearned for it.
She’d lay wide awake with a knife clutched in her hand, listening to Peeta’s occasional mutterings. She’d wonder how he allowed himself to be so weak in the face of death, when rightfully his mournful voice should be tinged with crimson resentment. How he’d outright lie to the strongest contenders to save the life of a plain, ditzy girl who was bound to die sometime anyway. Clove would curse him over and over, wishing to drive that knife right through his throat to silence his weakness once and for all. She came close more than once - but always stopped short when that first syllable hit his tongue, and, just for a moment, he’d wear the half-moon smile of a boy in love.
And Clove would shove her knife in the dirt, roll back over, and continue her watch.
In those lazy hours when she found herself the only one awake, she could be alone with Peeta in his lovers’ haze. Clove would listen tranquilly, hung on every breath, and wonder if Katniss’ chest stirred as hers did every time Peeta spoke. She wondered if she got weak at the knees and lost her resolve, and couldn’t bring herself to kill no matter how much she genuinely wanted it. She wondered that if, after all these years of feeling nothing but the blossoming of a bruise or the searing pain of a stab wound, she’d finally given in to the kind of pain she couldn’t handle.
But this, Clove didn’t need to wonder. She knew.
So as she threw herself into the lake to sate the pain of her stings, and saw Peeta bound into the forest to undoubtedly rescue his little lover, Clove latched on to Cato - for just a moment - to give Mellark a head start.
Because sooner or later, love was going to prevail in this world. God knows, it already had in Clove.
A little something dedicated to glorious and radiant Sam, who requested Clove/Peeta. I found this pairing SO hard to write because WHAT. So we had a touchy-feely moment for Clove! :D But seriously, go and love Sam. She’s perfect.
I know. It was meant to be a head canon. But I cannot contain feelings to a mere 200 words!
You’re standing on the metal plate, looking around at the other 23 tributes. You’re debating whether or not to go in for at least a little bag or to flea into the woods as fast as you can. The countdown starts and your hands start getting sweaty and your mind starts clouding. Which way do you run?…
You’re a career. You’re just another person from a rich District, trained, conditioned, inspired to relish the kill. Every grinding agony of every joint is euphoric because you know it means you’re pushing yourself to move faster, hit harder, throw further. Ten hours a day, seven days a week you’ve been so involved in this dizzying dance of training that when you finally step forward to volunteer, you couldn’t be more sure of yourself. Your parents couldn’t be more proud, or more determined for you to return home with a crown. So you’re swept off the the Capitol, dressed to perfection, polished and presented in all your glory for the world to see. You push yourself even harder in training because you’re going to establish you’re better than everyone else. Your score attests to your bravery, and the crowd goes wild when you flash them a single smile. And then, as if your entire time on earth has all been a dream, you’re suddenly sober, suddenly so aware that you’re standing in a tall metal tube and daylight is cresting above your head. There are the weapons. There are your targets. And when it comes time… you fly. You fly to that sword and you sling it up high, and pursue every tribute in sight. You cut them down and your heart pounds for every drop of blood you spill, your face dotted with crimson as you plunge that sword further in. For days you power through the arena, unhinged and free in this lawless world. And you’re so close to victory with just three remaining when… you take a fall. Your wound is infected. You’re slowly losing your power. And when that scrawny boy from the poor District ceases to cower, and realizes you’re hurt, you can hear the condemning growls of your parents, your friends, your mentors… you’re weak. They know it. Your opponent knows it. You know it. And suddenly you hate yourself… because something as pitiful as nature has bested you. You can’t win; and if you can’t win… what was the point?