A hand on my shoulder wakes me up. "Katniss."

I pull open my heavy eyelids and find myself looking into Cato's blue eyes. "Hi," I mumble. "What time is it?"

"Midnight."

I start to stretch my arms and legs, but then they stick out of the blanket on top of me, so I curl back up again. "And you're not dead. That's good," I observe sleepily.

"Yeah." He almost smiles. "I guess that is." His face gets serious again. "Did you hear anything while you were out?"

"Yeah, something about President Snow?" I frown. "Maybe? I smelled him. Is he here?"

"No. But he was."

"What'd he want?"

Cato doesn't answer. "Can I…" he starts to ask.

"Yeah, sure, come sit down."

He sits next to me again, but he's not loopy anymore. He's very serious. "Do you really not hate me?" he asks.

"Yeah, no, I don't."

"How much do you not hate me?"

"Why does it matter?" I try to smile, to lighten the moment, but it doesn't work.

"It does, okay, it just… does."

"Just tell me what you want me to do," I sigh, slightly annoyed with how weird he's being.

"I, um…"

"Where's Haymitch?" I am definitely frustrated now. Without waiting for his answer, I get up and walk straight for Haymitch's bedroom. "Haymitch!" I shout, exasperated, ignoring Cato, who's following me.

"It's for your own good," Haymitch says, without turning to look at me.

I glare at him. "What the hell are you talking about? Is there something going on that I don't know about?" I ask him and Cato, crossing my arms.

"No," Cato says.

Haymitch rolls his eyes. "You didn't even tell her?" he says to Cato.

"I didn't have the chance."

"Tell me what?" I say dangerously.

"Calm down, sweetheart," Haymitch chuckles.

I am not calm. For the second time, my mentor and a boy are talking vaguely about me. "Just tell me what you want me to do," I repeat, taking several deep breaths.

"Alright. Remember our long-term plan?" Haymitch asks, deadpan.

"Friendship?" I say hopefully.

"Oh great," Haymitch sighs. "Not this again." He turns to Cato. "She's been in denial about this love thing from the start. With him and with you."

"I'm not in love with-"

He stops me. "Maybe you could try listening, sweetheart." He's definitely saying that sarcastically; I've made him upset. He needs me to be insightful. He needs me to be smart here.

I remember the plan now, the one he told me about quickly before the interview. I have to be love-struck. I have to be in love with Cato. Guess I blocked that somehow.

But he'd said we'd work up to that. He said I'd have time. He said I had to be in mourning. "The plan," I say shakily. "But what about Peeta? I have to… get over him."

"Okay," Cato nods.

"And what about our credibility? They'll know we're faking it."

"Kidding me? You've been doing nothing but setting the stage," Haymitch snorts.

Figures he would've had me doing what I needed to do without my knowing. "Why are we doing this now, though? I thought we had time," I say, as a last-ditch effort.

"We did have time. Now we don't," Haymitch says abruptly, and takes another drink. "Do you trust me?" he asks before I can argue with him.

I look into his eyes. Grey eyes. Seam eyes. Eyes like mine. "Of course."

"Then don't make me explain. Trust both of us."

"And do what?" I ask for the third time.

"Shower and get dressed. Look nice, but not too nice. Then go with him."

I don't know what to make of Haymitch right now, of him planning with Cato and being so clear and direct with his orders. So I look to Cato, but he just looks at me, his face carefully emotionless and serious. Something about him is begging me to believe in him, though, to believe that he wants to keep me safe.

"Fine," I say abruptly. "Give me ten minutes." I don't wait for their answer.

Abruptly, I pivot on my heel and head to my bathroom. I almost have the knobs figured out now, so there's no strange foams or scrubs sprayed on me. Just rose-scented soap and a buttery-feeling conditioner to make my hair smooth and shiny.

I throw on the first pair of comfortable, nice-looking clothes that my closet gives me; a deep green sleeveless shirt and tight black pants, like before, on the train. Somebody put my mockingjay pin on the side table by my bed after we won, but I only notice it now. So I pin it on, remembering how comforting it was before the games, how reassuring. I try to grab onto that feeling again, but I can't find it.

"Alright," I say, walking into the main room where Haymitch is drinking and Cato is just sitting. "Is this good enough?" Reluctantly, I throw my arms out to my sides so they can see me. "Just a warning; if you say no, I'm still not changing."

Haymitch chuckles. "You look fine." He motions me towards Cato, saying to him, "If I don't see you on television in five minutes, I'll kill you."

Cato nods and stands up. I notice he's got a dark blue shirt on that makes his eyes look like two pieces of the sky stuck in his face. Wordlessly, he holds his hand out to me. After only a few seconds, I take it, let him lead me out into the elevator. His eyes are dark and determined, his hand around mine gentle and strong. I almost feel like I can handle anything with him next to me.

"What are we doing?" I ask, only this time, it's more like begging.

"I know you need to get over your guy," he says, looking down into my eyes. "I get that. But they don't. So you've got to do things you usually wouldn't."

"Like what?"

"Like trust me."

"I would've done that anyways," I admit in a very small voice.

He doesn't answer; doesn't remark upon my stupidity. He just stares at me. And then, as the elevator doors open, he leans down and puts his lips over mine.

My brain short-circuits; I can almost see sparks behind my eyes. I don't know what he's doing – I mean, I do, this must be what Haymitch was talking about, but somehow, even staged kisses confuse me. I didn't know he could fake love this well, with his hands gently cradling my face, his fingers getting caught in my hair. And I didn't know I could either, but my hands are drifting up to his shoulders, holding on, partially to keep myself from falling.

Blood is rushing in my ears, pounding frantically, but over that, I can hear the gasps and whispers of a gathering crowd. Lights flash on our faces, throwing Cato's features into sharp relief, and the red lights of a dozen cameras catch my attention out of the corner of my eye. We're going to be on televisions everywhere in seconds.

Finally, he lets go, pulling back a few inches, enough for us to look at each other. I'm breathing heavily after that, and he is too, but less dramatically. We stare at each other in shock – at least, I think it's shock, but I can't tell from him. Eyes never leaving mine, he jammed his finger on the number twelve button. The doors leisurely close, but not before he leans down for a second kiss.

I don't pull away immediately when they shut. Neither does he. And then we separate, but we can't seem to keep our eyes off each other. "You could've just told me I needed to kiss you," I say, trying to sound brave, because that's the best way to be.

"Would you've agreed to?"

"I don't know. Probably." But then again, probably not, because right now, I'm remembering how it felt when there were other lips pressed against mine, warm and sweet. Other lips, on another boy with blonde hair and eyes like the sky. "I still love Peeta," I say without thinking.

"I know," he says simply.

Somehow that answer gives me the strength to nod calmly and walk without faltering out back into the twelfth floor, where Haymitch is waiting at the dinner table, drinking and watching our kiss on television.

"Brilliant," he tells us. "They don't know what to make of you. Both your districts are in an uproar. Well done."

Shit. Caught up in the moment and trying not to cry, I completely forgot the implications. Gale saw that kiss. My mother and Prim did. Everyone at the Hob. In a few hours, they'll surely hate me, if they don't already. I'm going to be a pariah.

Glancing over at Cato, I can tell he's having a similar reaction, granted in a much more silent and manly way. He's going to be widely hated, too.

A more selfish part of me wonders if Haymitch saw this coming, if he might've done this on purpose to get me to this place, with him. Nobody likes him, either, but that's his fault. He probably wanted company when we get back home.

But the rest of me knows that isn't true. He's gruff sometimes, drunk all the time, but he wants what's best for me. He wouldn't be that petty.

"How much of an uproar?" I say out loud.

Haymitch glances at me, and somehow, he knows exactly what I was thinking. "You'll be able to explain it away. Your cousin, though, he might be a little more difficult to convince."

"My cousin?" I frown.

"Dark-haired kid, looks like you. Gale."

He's not my cousin. And him looking like me is a terrible description; most of us from the Seam look alike. Haymitch knows that. "My cousin," I repeat skeptically, feeling Cato's eyes on me.

"Yep," Haymitch nods. "He's a looker, that one. Made for the cameras. His interviews got you more sponsors every time. All those heartfelt stories about your father, his uncle, your schoolyard adventures. Funny, though, he didn't mention the cousin part until later."

He's trying to give me a message; Gale's become my cousin at some point during the games, and no one can know that he's not. It makes sense, I guess. It's a good way to explain his closeness to my family to those in the Capitol, those overfed babies who have never been thrown together with someone out of a need to survive.

"What did he say about my father?" I ask, because I'm really quite curious as to why the hell Gale was talking about things better left off national television.

Cato gives me an especially sharp, worried glance, and I remember that he knows about my father being dead. Haymitch does, too, of course, and he answers with a little more care than he normally takes. "Nothing that mattered. Just lines designed to get you sympathy points. He's a smart kid, I'll give him that."

Impatiently, I walk over to the television, turn it on and find the interview footage from my friends and family. It's not hard; they're still playing them around the clock for those that might've missed them the first time around. I stop the first time I see Gale's face.

"Oh, yeah, she was always great in school. Really smart girl. I'm not at all surprised she made it so far in the games. I wouldn't be surprised if she won the whole thing," he says smiling at the interviewer. My heart thuds unsteadily in my chest, because I've missed that smile. I've missed him. He's got the other piece of my heart in his chest.

"See?" Haymitch says from behind me. "Smart guy."

Gale's still talking. "She's a lot like her father. They've got the same voice when they sing, the same… spunk," he finishes with a wry grin. As always, I know what he's thinking about – one of the countless times I overreacted and yelled at him for something small, until my shouts dissolved into giggles and both of us were laughing.

They're asking him about my father now. "Oh, yeah he was a really great guy, a nice dad. My father and him were close, even though they weren't blood related." Truth. "He loved kids. This would've broken his heart, to see his daughter like this." Also truth, but striking too close to home for me. My father is mine, not the Capitol's. They don't deserve him.

I turn off the television. "He shouldn't have said that," I grumble.

"He's the reason you're still here. Those handcuffs things you got last minute, he got you those with that exact interview. He bought you the time to convince this one." He jerks a thumb at Cato. "Since it was obvious you weren't going to finish the job."

"Is that a bad thing?" I ask defensively.

"Just a thing, sweetheart." He motions me over to the table. "Eat things. Together."

So Cato sits down next to me and we eat. The games haven't changed my favorite foods here; goose liver and puffy rolls. I order them in droves, piling them up on the table and picking away at the stack.

It's bittersweet now, though, because bread reminds me of Peeta. All bread does, and always will. I love them both. Tears start dripping down my face as I chew on the light bread, but I'm not really sad.

I wave away Cato and Haymitch, who both look worried. "I'm fine," I insist, and I am.

"Yeah? Well. Bread so good it makes you cry; that should be someone's slogan," Haymitch snorts, raising his eyebrows.

It could've been Peeta's. "It should be," is all I say.

Beside me, Cato's eating food I'm unfamiliar with; slices of a light purple melon and delicate pink pudding. I suspect that everything he's eating is healthy – I have no reason particularly to suspect that, it's just a feeling. That's what the rich kids can afford to do, be picky about what they eat. I'm sure he's never had dog meat.

"If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go field a lot of phone calls about your relationship," Haymitch says grandly, getting up. "Don't leave this floor. You'll probably have another interview before you leave for home tomorrow. Well, later today." He glances out the window at the dark sky, and I remember it's nighttime. "Don't do anything stupid," he warns me, and leaves.

Funny, I'm not even a little bit tired. Well, it's not so funny, because I did take a four hour nap. But Cato, he should be at least a little sleepy. He didn't sleep at all. "If you need to sleep," I start to say.

"I don't," he cuts me off. "It's okay."

"You don't need to sleep?" I say skeptically.

"No. I'm fine."

"But that's not good for you. You should sleep," I tell him. "Especially since we have so much to do tomorrow. Just a couple of hours, even."

He puts down his fork and looks straight ahead, clenching his jaw. "I'm fine."

"Alright, then do it for…" I almost say for me, but then I don't. That would assume personal obligation. "Do it so we stay safe. You'll be able to concentrate better if you've slept," I say, trying to be persuasive.

It works. "Okay," he says. "Maybe for a couple minutes."

"Hours."

"Whatever." He looks away. "Do you want me to leave? I should probably spend some time in my own room."

"If you want." I'm not going to argue with him, but I guess I was kind of expecting to spend this last night we have left together.

He looks at me. "You could come with me. If you want. I don't know," he mumbles.

"Sure," I agree after a second. "Sure. I will. I mean, do you want me to?"

"I don't care," he says, sitting very still at my side.

"Okay," I decide.

"Okay, you'll come?"

"Yep."

"Oh." He sounds surprised. "Okay. Do you wanna…"

"Sure, let's go now." I stand up. "Just as long as we're back before the interviews in the morning."

So we get in the elevator and he presses the number two button. "If my mentor is here, I'm… I'm really sorry. Don't pay any attention to her," he says.

"Okay. Don't worry about it. I'm sure I can handle anything she throws out," I assure him.

"Yeah… well she's different. Just be careful." He's got nervousness practically rolling off of him in waves, and that worries me.

"Sure." I try to sound confident, but when he offers me his hand, I don't hesitate to take it.

The doors open on an apartment that has the exact same layout as mine. The only difference is the furniture; everything soft is removed. There's hard chairs and benches, shiny ceramic floors, glass tables, and edges, corners everywhere. "Did this come like this?" I ask, trying to be polite.

He knows what I won't say. "No. The mentors changed it, to keep us sharp," he says, with a tight smile.

"Nice guys," I mutter in an undertone.

He leads me through the apartment, which mercifully seems to be empty, into his room. It's where Peeta's was, but it couldn't look more different. The floor is concrete, the walls programmed to prison-cell grey, and instead of a bed there's just a mattress on the floor.

He's waiting for my reaction. Carefully, I make myself stay quiet until I can say something neutral. "You're not gonna go soft in here," I finally say, smiling at him. It's occurring to me that maybe I'm not the only one in this room who's known what it's like to sleep on the ground, catch a few minutes wherever you can. Maybe I misjudged the Careers.

He relaxes, smiles back. "You can change the walls," he says, picking up the remote from a low table and handing it to me. "I don't care."

So I change them, cycling through aquariums and landscapes until I get to a forest that looks like home. Tall trees, rustling in the bushes, birdcalls. It's beautiful, peaceful, and Cato tenses up, looking around. He gives me a deeply suspicious look, and I realize – it looks like the arena.

"Oh, no this is the woods at home, how they look," I explain quickly. "I can change it, sorry, I didn't realize-"

He stops me. "Don't worry about it. I can sleep anywhere." He lies down on the bed, looking around the room instinctually, checking for danger. It almost would look silly, but I know that feeling. I know that paranoia.

Slowly, moving very deliberately, I sit down next to him, leaning against a tree on the wall. I can almost feel the bark against my back, smell the dirt and leaves. I take a deep breath.

"Aren't you going to sleep?" he asks me, rolling over onto his side to look at me.

"No. I don't know which would be worse, dreams or reality. I haven't dreamed yet, and I don't want to." I feel like I said too much from how he looks at me, but it's the truth. I'm not sure how else I should've responded. "Is that the wrong thing to say?" I ask

"No. It's… you're being really honest. Why is that?"

"You are, too," I try to deflect.

"When I was exhausted and on drugs. You do it when you don't have to."

"I've never had much of a filter when I'm emotional, and that's all I've been since we got out," I say, trying to explain.

"You were pretty filtered before the games."

"Because I was around enemies."

The conversation dies out, and I realize that I just said he wasn't my enemy. I don't take it back – it's true, after all. He hasn't been my enemy for days, days that feel like centuries. He's the one person left alive that I've trusted with my life, the one person who's been with me through all of the terrible things that have happened. Haymitch doesn't count – he's practically family by now. But Cato, he's something completely different, something I don't have a name for. I think that might be what he's trying to work out himself.

He looks at me, searching my face for something, and then he pulls himself up on his arms and presses his lips against my shoulder. While I'm still in shock, he lies back down, facing me, curled around me, his eyes shut.

I honestly don't know exactly what to do here, because he's trusting me completely here, voluntarily making himself vulnerable when he doesn't have to. And the kiss was so different than the other two I've had from him. Soft, sweet, and spontaneous. I'm not his enemy anymore, either – I think that's what he's trying to tell me. So I put my hand on his head, smoothing down his blonde hair.

He stiffens right away, looking at me in a moment of terror, and then, just as instantly, he relaxes, twitching his lips up into the ghost of a smile for a second. And then he closes his eyes again, lets me run my fingers through his hair. Then I take my hand away, because this whole thing is feeling really weird.

"Hey," he complains, opening his eyes again. He snags my fingertips under his hand, trapping them against the mattress. I smile at him, and let him hold my hand.

And as we sit there and he sleeps – or pretends to, at least – I get a quiet moment to remember the other boy who wanted to hang onto me while he slept because he was scared he'd lose me. I get to miss Peeta in my own way; quietly, in the woods, alone.

He sleeps for about twenty minutes, and I begin to relax, drifting into a really peaceful place of listening and thinking. And then his hand tightens around mine and he mumbles things that I can't make out. He starts shaking next, trembling like he's terrified.

I don't try to wake him up at first, out of a kind of nervous hesitance. He needs his sleep, right? But it soon becomes clear that he's not going to sleep. This nightmare won't let him – he's not screaming out, like I do when I dream of terrible things, but he's just as scared. He's clenching his teeth so hard, I'm scared he'll break his jaw, and every muscle in his body is tightened. So I take my free hand and shake his shoulder gently.

He wakes up instantly, letting go of my hand to clamp his fingers around my other wrist, stopping me from moving my hand. For a moment, we lock eyes, his panicked, mine surprised. I break the silence. "You okay?"

"Yep," he says immediately. "I'm fine." But his chest is heaving, and there's a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his hand is suddenly hot.

"What was that about?"

He just shakes his head, like he can't talk.

"Did somebody die?" That's usually what mine are about.

Again, he shakes his head. "That wouldn't have… that would be okay."

"Then what?" I ask gently. Yes, I kind of want to know what he's really afraid of. It's a good thing to know. But also I want to help him, make him feel better since he's done the same for me so well.

He hesitates. "It doesn't matter."

"It does. Let me help you," I say very quietly.

He frowns, and then relents. "You were there," he says reluctantly.

"What did I do?"

"You were just… yourself," he says with a tiny sad smile, and moves on. "I was back in my district. My trainers and parents were there, too. And they were… they were just telling me how I should've done better."

That can't be it. "What else?" I prompt.

"Nothing. It's over now," he says. "It doesn't matter."

I don't push the issue, and he goes back to sleep. Then, everything repeats; the sitting, relaxing, him freaking out and jerking awake. I don't say anything this time, just squeeze his hand tightly and try to be comforting. I guess it works, because he's out again in minutes.

And then again, the cycle: he sleeps, he dreams, he panics, and he wakes. "You need to talk about this," I say, matter-of-fact. "Or you'll keep getting sleep in twenty-minute increments."

"I'm used to that."

I don't think about how ridiculously terrible that is for him to be used to, and say, "Doesn't mean it's good for you."

After these three times, he's damp and shaky; his shirt is soaked through now, and he doesn't stop shaking even after he's woken up, but he still doesn't want to say a word. He's not going to open up; I can tell it.

"You don't have to look at me," I suggest as a last-ditch effort. Maybe that'll work, that throwback to the last time he talked to me honestly.

It does. Suddenly, he flips over, putting his enormous back to me and letting go of my hand. "It's been the same every time," he says very quietly. "You're there, and my trainers and my mom and dad. I'm in the main training room, back home, and you're all… yelling at me, telling me every single thing I've done wrong. For my whole life."

"Wait, I'm doing that?"

"Yeah, with them, saying things you've got no way of knowing. You all did that. And you're all really big and I'm not. And then…" he stops for a really long time, and I think that maybe he's not going to finish telling me. "And then. You turned into a muttation. Like the bread kid. You attacked me. Tore me apart."

"What about the other people?"

"They all… attacked me, too," he says cagily, and I'd get the feeling that that's not the truth. But what he did tell me is bad enough.

"I attacked you," I repeat. 'And what did I say?"

"You said… well, you only said the truth."

"And what was that?"

"Not important."

But his huge shoulders are shaking harder. "Tell me," I say.

He doesn't.

And I can't be mad at him for that. I know what it's like to have such terrifying dreams that just talking about them seems unbearable, like maybe they'll happen. If I'm going to ask him to, the least I can do is try the same. "I have this one dream," I begin quietly. "It used to happen every night. Now it's every week or something. Or it was, before the games. My father died in an explosion. Mining accident."

I remember that day clearly, the fear, my mother's all-encompassing sorrow. Maybe I would've felt something like more like that about Peeta if I'd known him longer. Then again, maybe I never would've felt like that. Maybe he wasn't the love of my life. I'll never know.

"That was the worst day of my life. But I had to keep it together, for my sister, Prim. For my mother. And I guess everything comes out in those dreams. I'd be calling for him, standing at the top of the mine elevator and watching him go down. And I couldn't stop him. And then it would explode…"

My unconscious mind works up new horrors to end each dream; sometimes I got coated in coal dust, or splattered with blood. Something of his would land at my feet, miraculously intact, like a boot or something, and I'd just know that his foot was in it. It got worse each time, because I wouldn't know what to expect, just that it would be terrible and it would make me wake up in a cold sweat, screaming.

"I'd wake up knowing I could've saved him in the dream, if I'd been a little louder or something. I mean, in real life, no, but I could've stopped myself from watching him from dying every night since. But I wasn't ever… enough. And I if I go to sleep, I know that I'll have the same kind of dream about Peeta. I'll see him getting eaten alive, dying in a bunch of terrible ways. Those are the kinds of dreams I have."

He's kind of stopped shaking now, or at least he's shaking less, and he seems slightly less tense. Listening to other people's problems can do that for a person. He doesn't turn around though, even still, but he does talk after a second.

"You said that I was a monster and you should've killed me, thrown me over the side to the dogs. And you hated me because I didn't save my sister like you did. Alright? That's mostly what you said."

I don't know what to say, and then I think that maybe saying something isn't the right move. I should do something. So I give up on the words and pull on his shoulder to turn him over. It's like moving a really heavy rock – takes a little momentum, but he starts to slowly move after a second. He won't look me in the eyes, doing his best to look pissed, but I can still feel tremors through his shoulder.

But I get him turned over, lean down over him and kiss him on the cheek, lightly, the way he kissed my shoulder. "I don't hate you," I say firmly. "I told you that, and I mean it. I did before, but I don't now. The things in the arena… they don't count. Remember?"

"You saving my life. That counts. It counts big time."

"Fine, then the bad things don't. And I still don't hate you."

"Awesome." He falls onto his back and looks up at the ceiling. "That's one."

I'm not going to lie to him and say that he's universally liked, so I don't say anything at all about it. "You think you can sleep now?"

"Worth a shot," he says grimly, and he moves around on the mattress until he's lying on his side, arm outstretched towards me. I take his hand again, putting each of my fingers between each of his.

He does fall asleep again, holding onto me, and I spend a couple minutes just looking at him. He's got a face that's made of angles; cheekbones, eyebrows, chin, nose. Everything is sharp and unfriendly, but somehow, he looks a lot less hostile asleep. Briefly, I wonder if that's true for me, too. But I've never seen myself sleep. Guess I'll never know.

Nothing scares him awake this time. I wait anxiously for a half hour, expecting something to happen, but nothing does. Only then do I relax again, leaning against the wall and closing my eyes for a second.

-xXx-

A/N: Lots of replies today – I got thirty reviews for this chapter, and several new very insightful readers that I'm pumped have joined this group.

Tally Jennifer Youngblood: Nope, Cato's definitely being protective :) And you'll see

Peenis0314: I agree with you that the public's reaction to the relationship is gonna be notable, but I don't think we're actually going to get to see a lot of that, because of the limitations of first-person writing. Maybe in Haymitch's POVs, I could do a piece about that, but the rest of them don't really know that much about it. Actually, the more that I'm thinking about it, that's super-cool and definitely something I'm going to write. Thanks for the idea!

LvR93: Go ahead, tell me about all the errors! Actually, what happened is I've had quite a bit of this written in advance and that all was much better proofed. The Cato chapters/what I'm posting now from Katniss is newer and less inspected. Sure, point out every mistake! I'll edit the chapters and fix them. I'll keep my eye out for them now. And I super-appreciate your offer of proof-reading, but right now, I'm going to respectfully decline. My email's being weird and that's a fun fiasco to handle. So how about I let you know in the future if it'll work out? Thanks so much though! And OH. MY. GOSH. Cato's face is perfect. PERFECT I tell you! I can't wait to see the rest, it's truly beautiful. And I'm very sorry - both these costumes are like possibly the worst textures to draw. I am following you :) Yay Tumblr buddies!

ILove2Write13: I have a weakness for characters not talking to each other about important moments, I guess because it happens IRL so much, so that moment didn't happen, but it may in the future

ngochan: I agree with you that Cato isn't good at lying to Katniss, but it's not because he's not able to, it's more like because he doesn't want to. Katniss is always measuring herself against Peeta, and she feels like a bad person in comparison to his actions. I think Cato does kind of the same thing, except that he's almost better than Katniss, in a way, because he sees her "goodness" and wants to change. Hence the not lying. The kiss thing he lied about because he wasn't sure she'd do it otherwise. Poor thing's got low self-esteem. And thus ends the unnecessary rant on my part.

MsCassity: GAHHHH STOP THANK YOU. That's EXACTLY what's going on with Haymitch – he finds himself liking Cato, but he doesn't want to/know how to/is scared to because the last boy he let himself like died despite his and Katniss' best efforts, and he can't help but worry that's going to happen again. So yep, you're right. And IKR? The "Cato being gifted at manipulation" thing is totally canon, but nobody ever uses it. He's a Career, I'm sure they trained him to know what people are thinking and decimate them. I'm trying really hard to keep him not squishy, so it's nice to hear that I'm doing well.

munroxochika: STOP MAKING ME WANT TO CHANGE MY PLAN. Believe me, I totally want him to go back with them. But that's not the most realistic thing to do right now, and I hate it. But there will be scenes with him and Gale, Prim, and everybody else in 12. I promise. Be patient! (My real name is Anna btw)

elea121: Nope, I was talking about the girl by the fire, from District 8 if my memory's working. Katniss went up to her and said to put it out, but the girl said she was cold, so Katniss was like "whatevs but ur gonna die" and hid in a tree. Then the Careers+Peeta killed the girl and walked under her tree and she heard them. Y'know what I'm talking about?

Jawsome: Not gonna lie, I got super-excited about the possibility of 9 reviews from you. If you have the time to do them, that'd be amazing. I feel absolutely awful that Peeta had to die, but I tried to do it the best way possible. Totally sucks though. I'm glad I haven't irked you – and yeah, I'm all for a slow relationship development, though I guess I could understand the weird obsession turning into something more. (Wouldn't be surprised if Suzanne put it in there for the fanfiction, troll that she is) I DON'T LIKE GALE EITHER, I mean I like what he was for Katniss before the games, that he was there for her or whatever, but he just cannot change or accept the fact that he doesn't automatically get dibs on her or whatever. So my writing of him may be a bit colored by that. And Haymitch is fun to write. Unreliable narrators always are. And thank you so much, I'm so happy you like this story!

Revot20: That's true. Where did I say something different?

Thanks to londoneyedgirl, geranium08, ..Attic, TheFaceOfTheRebellion(LIV IT UP), FYInichole, bookworm191, books-n-cookies, Bubbleboo28, Dra9onf7yz, princezzmaya, Bloodredfirefly, Yeddi, ariaadne, RacheRox12, Morpheus357, Shelber, sarah23ilu, Speares, Tirbute-Directioner-Demigod(Nancy the Anon), and LaBellaVita212 for the reviews. Again, I feel like such a bad person for not having the time to individually reply to your ridiculously nice compliments. Just know that I make weird noises and smile like an idiot with each new review I get. (fact)

The lovely LvR93 is drawing fanart for this story, as I've mentioned before. Here's the initial sketch of Cato and Katniss during the victory parade, which already looks fantastic: . Check it out and give her some love!