AN: MWAHAHAHA, I'M SO ADDICTED TO THIS COUPLE YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW.

Okay, so I decided to do something different regarding the Catoniss/Kato pairing. These are drabbles and I have to do one each day (per rules: if I don't, someone gets to whack me and I like my head bruise free). I had LOTS of pairings in mind from all sorts of fandoms that I adore to pieces but I chose these two. They're really winning in all aspects of life. XD

To those who read my Kato/Catoniss fics: Thank you so, so much for the support! I'm nothing but a rabid dreamer without you. ;_;

Let's get started!

DISCLAIMER: Never did it before for this fandom… Ahem. I do not in any way, shape, or form, own— I CAN'T WRITE IT, THE PAIN, THE PAAAAIINN…. My Catoniss/Kato dreams, fluttering into the arms of Miss You Wish and Sir Shan't Ever Happen…. I am very much hurt.


Beginning

"Watch those movements; make sure that you block the attack!"

Dodging the blow, the young boy darts down and rolls to his right, managing to keep himself from tumbling too far. He then crouches, and thrusts out his weapon, for his opponent has left themselves wide open for a strike and he imagines his sword penetrating through the flesh, and he can practically see red.

His father falls down upon the ground, stiffer than a corpse.

"Good job, Cato." His mother says from the viewpoint.

Cato grins and turns to face her. She is trying hard not to smile at his boyish charm but he can tell when he's won her over. He looks over to his father who continues to lay on the earth, tongue lopping out and when he gets closer, he grabs Cato and whirls him down, rubbing his knuckles into the boy's scalp, both laughing.

"Honestly, dear, this isn't a game," snaps the woman.

This comment sobers the males. It's true—what they're practicing for isn't a game at all.

She sighs and looks to her left. "Your turn to try,"

The young girl steps out from behind the wall, where she had watched quietly.

Cato eyes her carefully, assessing her closely and this causes her to turn down her head. He wonders if she's blushing—there's red staining her cheeks but he ignores it. This girl has always been peculiar. But he's never questioned it, they've known each other since they were children.

"Katniss, remember that you have to hold the weapon carefully—it's an extension of yourself,"

"Yes, ma'am,"

Cato moves past her, standing next to his mother who pats his shoulder. He takes relief in it. They seem to be in a jovial mood today, they're not normally so amorous. They're affectionate and doting parents, but it has been decreasing with each year that runs into his life. As though they're preparing themselves for the worst pain imaginable and it's true when he thinks about it. He already put his name into the bowl last year for the first time.

"Watch your feet," his mother states and he looks down at Katniss' legs, thin and long. If she keeps tripping over them she'll fall.

She falls.

Cato hears his mother sigh as his father ceases his flurry of attacks by prodding Katniss in the chest, reminding her that this is serious and she should never underestimate her opponent, no matter who they are.

"Cato managed to stab me today and I'm his own flesh and blood,"

"But I'm not Cato!" she yells, frustrated with herself.

"Then learn to be like him!"

Cato finds this command to nettle him sorely. He's not sure why, but he doesn't like the way it sounds.

Katniss sighs heavily as she takes their practice weapons and scurries off to put them away. It's like this all the time—she cannot seem to get into fighting and she knows that she must if she is to survive in the arena. She put her name in along with Cato not too long ago. She stops and turns around, watching the trio talk before Cato's parents walk away.

She waits.

Cato runs up to meet her and he jabs her in the shoulder. "You're going to need to try harder,"

"It's easy for you to say. You're born with the ability to fight."

He shrugs. "Everyone is born with that ability. It just takes time to access it right,"

"Your parents tell you that?"

"No, I am just philosophical sometimes," he tells her, winking.

"Oh please, you probably can't even spell 'philosophical.'"

"And it doesn't matter if I do or don't—spelling isn't exactly an event in the arena."

He's right. She sighs and hangs her head.

"Hey, we'll be fine."

She hopes so. Because she is utterly hopeless.