Caesar's looking particularly stupid today.

What, with his pure-white hair, berry-blue skin, and golden lipstick, he looks fake, a faulty imitation of the midday sky. Despite his unnatural appearance, he looks full of life, nearly bouncing out of his seat, light in his eyes.

Clove hates him.

Hates his happiness, loathes his ability to be carefree, abhors his cheerful mannerisms and fluffy way of speaking, can't stand the way he looks at her like a little girl, helpless and small. But despite his annoying vocal tics and brainless Capitolite slang, Caesar's gentle gaze is leagues better than that of the audience, who inspect her body as though it is a piece of meat. They size her up within their heads, inspecting her figure, her skin, her breasts, her buttocks, never ceasing judgement burning through her every second in public.

It hasn't even been two days since they managed to get out of the arena, drawing blood from each other's bodies until they heard Claudius Templesmith's panicked voice telling them to stop, yelling that they were both victors, that they could both stay alive.

It's been a blur since.

First they separated Clove from Cato - the cameras missed out on her sobbing on the floor of the ship in relief, thank God - then they put her under with some hazy drug to make her sleep, injecting a bunch of medications and stimulants into her body to fight away the undernourishment and injuries of the arena while she slept.
When she had come to, her stylists quietly bathed her, plucked her, shaved every inch of her while looking at her with their empty eyes. She had already been naked in front of those imbeciles, but she felt even more exposed now that they had seen her scream, seen her beg, seen her cry.
When one of them tried to congratulate her on her victory, she growled and lunged towards the rail-thin man with lime green skin, securing her hands around his neck only to be pulled back by her mentor Delphine, who slapped her cheek.

"Cut it out, idiot, you're not in the arena anymore. Control yourself," Delphine growled, glaring daggers at her. "Fuck Clove, I knew getting you through would be hard, but it seems like the challenge is just beginning."

She stayed silent while they clipped and polished her nails, while they styled and fixed her hair, while they put her in a mockery of underwear - tiny lace panties and a see-through bra - only speaking up when her fashion team, led by the insufferable Quintius, tried to put her in a slip of a red dress - almost sheer fabric that barely covered the apex of her thighs.

"I look like a whore," Clove said aloud to no one in particular. "I am not going on national television looking like a fucking hooker."

Quintius looked at her again and sighed, rolling his lizard-like eyes until they focused on her again.

"Listen... Clover," she stiffened at his nickname and the purr his voice took on. "I didn't choose this, I have taste. But I'm under orders from Snow. He chose to put you in his, not me." Quintius shook his shoulders, left eye twitching while they stared each other down. "You and Cato, whatever he is to you, you're too close. You both lived. Breaking the rules - especially as a pair - is dangerous."

"What the does that even mean?" Clove asked forcefully, arms folded over her breasts in order to keep some level of modesty.

"It means," Quintius said, his eyes narrowing, "that they'll do anything to break you."

Delphine had managed to get her a shrug to wrap around her shoulders and cover her breasts, but could do nothing about the bottom half of the dress except cross her legs tightly and keep her knees together.

Ah yes, my vagina is being seen by all of Panem. Lovely.

Though the audience's eyes on her are uncomfortable, what really made Clove's skin crawl is Cato's fingers ghosting over her knuckles, on her back, his left hand tight on the nape of her neck. He couldn't hide his surprise backstage when he saw her in the mockery of a dress Quintius had her wear, but surprise quickly turned into a lewd grin and a slap on her ass.

"Fucker," she had mumbled.

"Bitch," he responded.

"Asshole."

"Slut."

Rainer and Delphine quickly stepped between them as their escort, Amabel Marley, listened on in horror.

"That's enough, Cato," Rainer had said lowly, pushing them towards the stage. "You too, Clove. You're on. Play nice."

After they had walked on, Clove loosely hanging on to Cato's arm, they were met with heavy applause and cheers led by Caesar onstage. The crowd only got louder when they each took their respective victor bows, then quieted again while Caesar led them back to the hot seats.

While Caesar asked Cato about how he ended up killing that traitor and his girlfriend from Twelve, Clove surveyed the audience. The front row was mostly former victors, watching the new additions to their exclusive club, all with different reactions. Rainer and Delphine were smiling triumphantly, the drunkard from 12 was nursing what looked to be his fourth bottle of absinthe, and Finnick Odair, in all his perfectly-highlighted and toned perfection, sat on the aisle seat, staring at her.

The two locked eyes for what seemed to be an eternity until Clove heard Caesar say her name and jolted back to reality.

"What?"

"What I asked, Miss Mowriyah, is what are your feelings on Cato?"

"Cato?" Clove asked, eyebrow cocking.

"Yes, Cato, the one you screamed for when that boy from Eleven tried to smash your head like a watermelon. The Cato sitting next to you. I presume you know him, yes?"

Clove's face went hot. "Yeah, of course I know Cato. We were... Friends back in Two. We spent a lot of time together. In school."

"He's three years older than you though, right? Were you friends?"

"Yeah, we went to a boarding school. For being Peacekeepers and all that. He was in my History of Panem class. I don't know if we're friends, but we're close."

"What does that mean?"

"He's a great fighter. We were lucky to have each other in the arena. He saved my life, and I owe him for that."

"How lovely. Now, Cato, do you regret partnering with Peeta Mellark of Twelve?"

Caesar's attention off her, Clove looked back into the crowd, where Finnick was staring at her with an even more confused look than before. He cocked his head to his left and looked over while pointing to himself, then her. She stared at him warily, until she realized he wanted to talk to her later, and nodded slightly in response.

The rest of the interview passes quickly, with Clove sticking to short answers and allowing Cato to take most of Caesar's questions. He always was the better public speaker, she reasoned.

Caesar's last question is addressed to both of them, but Cato answers first.

"Do I like Clove? I mean, she's a badass. I admire strength, but she's got skill. I think we make a good team," he said quickly, obviously censoring himself.

Clove, however, took a bit longer to answer.

"Cato is interesting, for sure. He's a great fighter, I think I already said that. But he's talented and strong. It was an... Honor to be in the games with him, for sure. He's a great partner. I trust him."

He looks at her with something strange - tenderness? - while Caesar closes the Victor interview himself. The lights dim, the cameras stop, and Clove can finally slump down in her seat and crack her knuckles, yawn and stretch her arms.

"Great interview, you two!" Caesar says cheerfully. "You have a great connection, good banter too. You work perfectly together. Some victors aren't so well-spoken, it was fun to talk to you two."

"Thanks," Clove mutters as she covers herself in Delphine's shawl, taking tiny steps in the ungodly heels that Quintius had forced onto her feet, attempting to hurry off the stage as fast as her waddle would take her.

When she nearly stumbled over a wire on the stage, it was Cato that caught her. Instead of just helping her move along, he picked her up in that skimpy slip of a dress bridal-style and carried her off, much to her chagrin.

"Put me down!" she said, banging her fists on his back while he grabbed her even tighter. "Cato, I swear, you are such a dick."

"Come on, Clover. I'm just taking you back to your dressing room, duh. And anyways, you love my dick."

"Shut the fuck up, I don't. Anyway, I'm half naked, starving, and all I want to do is put on some actual underwear. And don't call me Clover."

"Yeah, I know you're half naked. That's why I'm taking you, to change clothes."

"Why is that?"

"Because I'm the only one who's allowed to see you like that."

She popped her head off his shoulder momentarily and glared at him. "And what is that supposed to mean? You don't own me, Cato."

His voice became low, almost a growl. "First, it means you look like a skank. Second, I don't like people looking at what's mine. Finally, I might not own you, but I was the first to kiss you, the first to fuck you, the first to save you, and the first to almost kill you."

Her eyes widened and breath hitched, and she consciously tried to ignore the feeling of heat rushing in her stomach and below. Clove kicked her legs wildly, trying to get out of his grasp, but it only spurred him to walk faster, further away from that stupid stage and stupid Caesar and stupid -

He set her down gently, then rose to his full height, towering above her. Tilting her head up, she still had to go on her tiptoes to look him fully in the face, and when he took a step forward, she was trapped against the door of her dressing room.

"So," he said, crouching down to talk to her, causing a deep frown to form on Clove's face. "You trust me, huh?"

She nodded silently, and mustered up all of her courage.

"Probably more than anyone."

His eyebrows raised and he took a step back, leaving Clove the perfect opportunity to stop it all. She opened the door handle and stumbled into the darkness of her dressing room, certain Cato was going to follow her.

And though he did, he also turned the lights on, stopping them both in their tracks.

Finnick Odair was laying on the gilded chaise lounge chair in the middle of the room, a bowl of chocolate covered strawberries next to him.

"Oh," he said, flashing a brilliantly white smile, "I've been waiting for you two."