A/N: Thank you to everyone who has patiently waited for my updates! I greatly appreciate all of you for the love and support you've given me through this story, and we're so close to finishing it! I started writing another fic, and got inspired to finish this one! I hope you enjoy!
Your humble storyteller,
FLUX
-* Aftermath. Day 1. *
There isn't a light when you die. It's just black—like a cold abyss of the night that swallows you whole. Cato had expected something—anything. A tree, a field, clouds, a gentle hand to guide him—but there was nothing. He had heard stories at the Academy, whispered myths shared in the dead of night about what happens when you die. Some said your soul was given back to the universe, that in those final moments, you'd see your life flash before your eyes, every memory, every choice, all leading to the end.
But whatever this was—it wasn't death. It wasn't pain. It was just empty. Hollow.
Maybe this is what happens to bad people when they die, Cato thought. Maybe this is the punishment, the curse for all the lives he took. Maybe all the blood on his hands had stained his soul too deeply for there to be any light left. Perhaps he was doomed to this—to lay here, unable to move, unable to speak, just staring into the unending darkness forever.
He tried to reach for something, anything to break the silence, but his body felt distant as if it wasn't his anymore. No sound came, no breath filled his lungs. There was no sense of time, no feeling of space, just the oppressive weight of the void pressing in on him.
This was the afterlife. Not fire. Not brimstone. Just nothing.
Cato doesn't know how long he's been drifting in that weightless, empty limbo, only that the silence is suddenly punctured by the rhythmic beeping of a machine. Slow and steady, the sound grows louder, more insistent, until it starts to feel like it's pulsing through him. For a moment, it's almost funny. He was certain he was dead—so why can he hear his own heartbeat?
Maybe this is it. Maybe he's losing his mind.
As time passes, a dull ache spreads across his body, dragging him back into some semblance of consciousness. The pain is distant at first, creeping in like a fog, but as it sharpens, so does his awareness. His eyelids flutter, and after what feels like an eternity, he manages to pry them open.
The world around him is a blur, a sickening swirl of white light and vague shapes. He blinks hard, trying to focus, but the fluorescent lights burn his eyes, forcing them shut again. Slowly, painfully, he opens them once more. The room is stark and windowless, bathed in sterile light, the walls almost painfully white. It feels like a nightmare—too bright, too real.
A voice cuts through the thick haze in his head, soft but steady. A woman's voice. As his vision sharpens, he recognizes her—the same nurse from the training center. Freckles across her round face, dark hair pulled back in a neat bun. She's saying something, but her words are muffled, as if he's hearing her through water.
He tries to move, to lift an arm, but nothing responds. His limbs are numb, heavy, like they've been chained to the bed. Panic flares in his chest, but his body doesn't listen—he's trapped in his own skin, completely powerless.
The nurse turns to another attendant, her voice clearer now, slicing through the fog. "Inform President Snow of Cato's status. More tests are required to determine the extent of damage."
Damage.
The word rings in his mind like a warning bell, louder than the heartbeat still echoing in his ears. What damage? What had happened? He tries to speak, to ask, but his throat is dry, his voice stuck. Desperately, he looks down, forcing his gaze to move along his body—and then he sees it.
His left arm is gone.
Cato's heart hammered in sync with the relentless beeping of the EKG. He'd thought about it before—losing a limb, losing part of himself in the arena. Everyone who entered knew that possibility, but it always felt distant, a concept he could shove into the back of his mind. Now, the reality of it hit him with a force stronger than any blow he'd ever taken. His left arm was gone. Tears welled in his eyes, not from physical pain, but from frustration, from the raw, helpless ache that settled deep in his chest.
He wasn't supposed to feel this broken.
The nurse moved around him quietly, checking his vitals, adjusting his IV, but Cato barely noticed. His entire world had shrunk to the sight of the stump where his arm should be. It was gone—cut clean just above the elbow. Bandages wrapped tight around it, blood still seeping through the edges. Beneath them, his skin was pale, the stitching grotesque. Stitches crisscrossed his chest, his shoulder, his remaining arm—a map of how close he'd come to death, and how much they'd taken from him in the process.
He tried to look away, but his eyes kept drifting back. It didn't feel real. His mind couldn't grasp that it was truly gone.
Hours passed, a blur of drugs pulling him under, then shoving him back into the harsh, white reality of the room. The sterile lights burned, the silence suffocating. His thoughts were sluggish, every breath feeling heavy, like the weight of his questions was pressing on his chest. Too many questions, too much confusion. Was Peeta alive? Was he dead? That thought gnawed at him, making his stomach twist.
The fear of not knowing clawed at him, more painful than the sight of his missing arm. If Peeta was gone, if he had fought through all of this just to lose him, then what was the point?
The door creaked open, shattering the silence, and a familiar voice broke through.
"Well, I'll have whatever you're having, slick."
Cato blinked, struggling to focus through the haze, his eyes narrowing on the figure leaning against the doorway. Haymitch stood there, as disheveled as ever, flask in hand, a smirk tugging at his lips. But there was something softer in his eyes, something that almost looked like concern, buried beneath the sarcasm.
"Didn't expect to see me, did you?" Haymitch asked, taking a long drink from his flask as he sauntered further into the room. His eyes flicked over the machines, the bandages, the sterile white walls. "Looks like they've got you pretty doped up."
Cato wanted to respond, wanted to say something, but his throat felt too raw, too dry. The words wouldn't come. Instead, he just stared at Haymitch, the weight of everything pressing down on him, making it hard to breathe.
Haymitch's smirk faded a bit as he looked more closely at Cato, his tone softening. "Tough break, kid," he said, glancing at the bandaged stump where Cato's arm had been. "But you're still here. That counts for something."
Cato swallowed hard, his mind screaming with questions, but his body was too heavy to do much. His thoughts spiraled, panic rising in his chest. He had to know. He had to know if Peeta was alive. The words clawed their way up his throat, dry and barely audible.
"Peeta?"
It was a whisper, but it was enough.
Haymitch's gaze softened even more, the usual sharp edge to his words fading. "He's alive, Cato. You both are." He paused, letting those words sink in. "We'll talk more when you've had time to recover. There's… a lot we need to discuss."
Cato's chest heaved, a wave of relief washing over him, but it barely touched the ache still sitting there, heavy and painful. Peeta was alive, but what now? How did any of this end?
Haymitch turned toward the door, his flask dangling from his fingers as he looked back over his shoulder. "Congrats, son. You won."
The words hit Cato like a punch to the gut, echoing in the sterile room. He had won. But as he stared at the empty space where his arm used to be, the tight stitches on his skin, the stark reality of it all pressing down on him, he didn't feel like a winner.
Not even close.
Cato doesn't know how long he's been in the white room before they move him. The days blur together, filled with nothing but the slow drip of medication, the echo of his heartbeat, and the sterile light that never dims. When they finally relocate him, the new room is smaller, with large windows that overlook the Capitol. The view is stunning, the sprawling city below bathed in gold and silver, but it does nothing to stir him. The meals they bring him are decadent—rich meats, sweet fruits, delicate pastries—but he barely touches them. The flavors are lost on him, his appetite buried beneath the weight of his confusion, his grief.
Two more days pass like this. He drifts between the fog of sleep brought on by the meds and staring blankly at the city below, trying to make sense of it all. The quiet is thick, suffocating. At one point, he manages to stumble into the shower, the warm water stinging his stitched-up wounds. He stands there, letting it burn his skin, feeling something—anything. But even that fades, leaving him hollow.
It's that afternoon, as he sits on the edge of the bed, staring out at the Capitol, when there's a soft knock on the door. He turns, slow and weary, to see Ophelia standing there, framed by the doorway.
She's dressed immaculately, as always, in an elegant gown of white and black. Her platinum wig gleams in the light, perfect and styled, but it's her eyes that catch his attention—glassy with unshed tears. She steps into the room, her voice soft as she approaches him.
"Cato… I'm so glad you won," she says, her voice trembling with emotion as she gets closer. "We've been so worried. You look… well, you'll look better soon. We'll get your arm fixed before the interviews. Don't worry—Angel has a lot of work to do, but we'll have you looking perfect again."
Her words barely reach him. Cato's eyes drift past her to the window, the city beyond it. He can see her mouth moving, but her comments are lost in the noise swirling inside his head. Her relief, her worry—none of it touches him. The only thing he feels is the heaviness in his chest, the questions that have been eating away at him since he woke up.
He cuts her off, his voice hoarse, "What's going on?"
Ophelia pauses, startled by his tone.
"Where's Peeta?" he continues, turning his gaze back to her, eyes narrowed. "Why haven't I seen him? Where's Cornelia?"
Ophelia's smile faltered, her perfectly poised demeanor cracking just slightly as Cato's questions hung in the air. She hesitated, blinking rapidly as if trying to regain her composure. For a moment, she stood frozen, the silence between them thick and oppressive. Then, she slowly approached him, her delicate fingers reaching out as if to comfort him, but she stopped short.
"Cato," she began softly, her voice careful, almost too gentle. "You've been through so much. I know this is all overwhelming, but—"
"Where is Peeta?" Cato interrupted again, his voice sharp and cutting through her attempted reassurances. The numbness that had dulled him was gone, replaced by a raw, simmering desperation. He needed answers. Now.
Ophelia glanced down, avoiding his gaze for a moment, and then looked back up at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. "Peeta is… recovering, just like you," she finally said, her voice low. "He's in a different room. You'll see him soon."
Her words felt hollow, as if there was something she wasn't saying. Cato's fists clenched at his sides, his mind racing. The distant promise of seeing Peeta wasn't enough. Something about the way she said it—like she was trying to keep him calm, trying to keep the truth hidden—made his skin crawl.
"And Cornelia?" he pressed, his voice almost a growl now.
Ophelia's polished exterior crumbled further as Cato's questions came at her, sharp and unrelenting. She was already beginning to retreat emotionally, trying to stay composed, but his words clearly rattled her.
"Have you…" she hesitated, her voice quieter than before, "have you seen the news?"
Cato shook his head slowly, his brow furrowed in confusion. He didn't have the patience for games, but the way her voice wavered as she asked made his stomach churn. Without waiting for his response, Ophelia turned to the wall and grabbed a sleek remote, pressing a button to turn on the television mounted opposite the bed.
The screen flickered to life, and immediately, the gaudy smile of Caesar Flickerman filled the room. His powder-pink hair practically glowed under the studio lights, his bright suit dazzling as he stood against the sparkling set. The sound of applause echoed faintly in the background as Caesar finished his recap.
"…and what a stunning turn of events it was! Ladies and gentlemen, a Hunger Games for the ages, wouldn't you agree?" He flashed that familiar, toothy grin, and the audience cheered in response. Caesar beamed, soaking in the attention for a beat before continuing. "We're all eagerly awaiting a date for our champion's exclusive post-Games interview—oh, and believe me, I have so many questions for our victors! But… that's not the only news on everyone's lips today. No, no! We have something much more exciting to share."
Cato's eyes narrowed, his heartbeat picking up, already sensing something wrong.
"It's the event of the century, folks!" Caesar announced, his voice dripping with excitement. "An event so prestigious that only the elite will have the privilege of attending! That's right, my friends—none other than the wedding of President Coriolanus Snow to the soon-to-be First Lady Cornelia Snow!" He gestured grandly, as if the announcement itself deserved fanfare.
The screen shifted to a montage of President Snow's chillingly regal figure standing next to a woman Cato had known his entire life. Cornelia, her face solemn yet composed, stood by Snow's side, dressed in a lavish gown of white and gold. She looked like a queen, a puppet queen, frozen in her own nightmare.
The room spun.
Cato felt the air leave his lungs, his chest tightening as if someone had just punched him in the gut. He stared at the screen, disbelief washing over him in waves. The words crashed into him like blows—Cornelia Snow.
"What the fuck?" Cato's voice was raw, the words slipping out before he could even process them fully. His mind couldn't wrap around what he was seeing, what it meant.
Cornelia—is marrying him?
Cato sat there, numb, watching the screen like it wasn't even real. Cornelia—his Cornelia—getting married to Snow? It didn't make sense. The woman who had trained him, raised him in a way, taught him everything he knew about survival and strength, was now standing at the side of the man responsible for all of this? His mind just couldn't process it, the pieces of the picture didn't fit. His gut twisted into knots, and bile rose in his throat. This was wrong.
Ophelia stood beside him, but her presence barely registered. Her voice sounded distant, like it was coming from underwater. "Cato, I… I didn't want you to find out like this."
Cornelia's face was still plastered across the screen, frozen in that vacant, elegant mask she always wore when she had to. But this time, it was different. She looked… hollow. He knew her better than anyone. There was no fire behind her eyes, none of the grit that made her Cornelia. This was someone else, someone broken, and it tore something in him apart.
"Why?" Cato's voice came out cracked, barely above a whisper. "Why would she…?" His throat felt tight, like he could barely breathe. He wanted to scream, to throw something, to do something. But all he could do was sit there, drowning in a mess of anger and confusion. None of this made sense.
Ophelia shifted beside him, clearly uncomfortable. Her usual smoothness was gone, replaced by awkward pauses and a tightness in her voice. "I don't know," she muttered. "They kept her away during the last days of the Games. I didn't see her. Then, two days ago… the announcement came. Just like that." She sounded frustrated, but it wasn't enough for Cato. Nothing was.
"I need to see her." His voice was stronger now, edged with desperation. He wasn't going to sit around and accept this. "I need to see Peeta."
Ophelia's eyes flickered with something, maybe pity, maybe regret, but her voice was cautious. "You'll see her tomorrow," she said, like it was supposed to calm him down. "At the crowning ceremony. Peeta will be there too."
Tomorrow? Cato's fists clenched, his knuckles turning white. He needed answers now. Waiting until tomorrow wasn't an option. He needed to see Peeta, he needed to understand why Cornelia had ended up in Snow's hands. The questions swirled in his mind, making his head spin, but he was too exhausted to move, too broken to do anything but sit there and stew in it all.
Ophelia must've seen the frustration building in him because her voice got softer, trying to soothe him. "Look, right now, you just need to rest," she said gently. "You've been through hell. Later, they'll fit you with a prosthetic for the ceremony. Then, we'll deal with everything else."
He didn't answer. His thoughts were racing too fast, but none of them made any sense. The idea of being dressed up like some Capitol puppet made him sick to his stomach. He'd won the Games, but it felt like he'd lost everything. Cornelia was about to marry Snow, and Peeta… Peeta was still out of reach. And tomorrow, they were going to make a spectacle of them. Again.
Ophelia lingered by the door for a second, her voice softer now. "I'm glad you made it, Cato," she said, but the words didn't reach him.
He didn't even look at her as she left.
As soon as the door clicked shut, the silence pressed in. The screen flickered, still showing the images of Cornelia standing next to Snow, like it was some fairytale wedding. Something inside him snapped. Rage boiled over, and before he even realized it, his hand closed around the remote. With a grunt, he hurled it across the room. It smashed into the TV, shattering the screen with a satisfying crack, sparks flying as the image of Cornelia and Snow finally disappeared.
He slumped back onto the bed, his whole body shaking, his breath coming in harsh, ragged bursts. The silence that followed felt suffocating, wrapping around him like a noose as his head sank into his pillow.
Later that afternoon, the nurse from before reappeared, her movements methodical as she began removing the stitches and IV from Cato's arm. The tug of the needle pulling through his skin felt like a dull throb—nothing compared to the constant ache that had settled into his bones since he woke. She worked silently at first, her face a calm mask of professionalism.
"You're healing well," she finally said, breaking the silence as she wrapped fresh bandages around his arm. "But we'll need to wait a few days before we can permanently attach your prosthetic."
Cato nodded stiffly, not entirely sure how to respond. The idea of having a prosthetic felt surreal. His arm was gone, and yet they talked about it like it was something that could be fixed. Replaced.
She continued, "For the ceremony tomorrow, we'll fit you with a temporary one. It'll help you… get through it."
He didn't care about the ceremony. He didn't care about any of it. There was only one thing clawing at his mind: one person.
"Can I see Peeta?" Cato asked, his voice rough.
The nurse hesitated, her hands pausing over his arm for just a moment. She glanced up at him, her expression unreadable. "I'm not at liberty to discuss other patients," she said softly, her words rehearsed.
Cato clenched his jaw, his frustration bubbling up again. "Please," he pleaded, his voice cracking. He hated how desperate he sounded, but the need to see Peeta overpowered his pride. He needed to know if he was okay—needed to see him, to apologize, to do something to make this all real.
The nurse didn't respond right away, but as she finished wrapping his arm, something shifted in her eyes. A flicker of sympathy, maybe. She stood, her gaze lingering on him for a second longer than it should have.
"Down the hall to the left," she whispered. "Three doors down. You have ten minutes."
Cato's heart raced as she left the room, and for the first time in days, he felt a flicker of hope. His body ached, every muscle sore and stiff as he swung his legs off the bed. His bare feet hit the cold tile floor, sending a shiver up his spine. The room spun briefly as he stood, but he forced himself to move. He wasn't going to waste this chance.
Opening his door slowly, he peered into the hallway, the sterile light casting long shadows against the walls. It was quiet, too quiet. He slipped out, his body sluggish but determined, each step heavy as he made his way down the hall. He counted the doors until he reached the third one, his hand hovering over the handle for a moment. His heart pounded in his chest as he pushed it open.
Inside, the room was dimly lit, almost peaceful. And there, lying in the bed, was Peeta. Asleep, his face pale, dark circles etched under his eyes. Cato approached slowly, his breath catching in his throat as he took in the sight of him—alive, but battered, worn down.
Then he saw it. Peeta's left leg, or rather, the absence of it. A clean bandage wrapped around where his knee once was, now gone.
Cato's chest tightened, guilt overwhelming him. This was his fault. He should've done more, should've been there, should've stopped it. He swallowed the lump in his throat and gently placed a hand on Peeta's shoulder, shaking him awake.
Peeta stirred slowly, his eyes fluttering open, confused at first before his gaze landed on Cato. There was a brief moment of silence, then Peeta reached up and pulled Cato into a tight embrace, his arms trembling.
"Cato," Peeta whispered, his voice thick with relief. "You're alive."
Cato held him tighter, his breath shaky as he whispered back, "I'm so sorry, Peeta. I'm so, so sorry." The words came out in a rush, all the guilt, the regret, everything he'd bottled up finally spilling over. He had failed him. He hadn't protected him the way he should have.
Peeta pulled back slightly, his blue eyes searching Cato's face. "You don't have to apologize," he said softly, his voice still groggy from sleep. "We're here. That's all that matters."
Cato shook his head, his throat tight with emotion. He glanced down at Peeta's missing leg, the words catching in his throat. How could Peeta be so calm when he had lost so much? When everything was so broken?
"We survived," Cato repeated, his voice barely a whisper, but inside, it didn't feel like enough. Not with everything they had lost.
Peeta reached for his hand, giving it a small squeeze. "We won, Cato. That's all we can hold onto right now."
Cato sat in silence, feeling the weight of everything—their survival, their losses, the world outside the walls of this room—pressing down on him. Peeta's steady hand rubbed small, soothing circles into his back, and for a moment, Cato allowed himself to just be. No Capitol. No Games. Just him and Peeta, breathing in the same air, holding on to each other amid so much chaos.
After a long pause, Cato finally broke the silence, his voice low and almost hesitant. "I only have a few minutes," he said, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I need to know… what happened in the arena?"
Peeta flushed, his cheeks reddening as he looked down at his hands. "I… I threatened to kill myself. If they didn't save us." His voice was soft, but the words hit Cato like a punch to the gut.
Peeta flushed, his face turning pink as he shifted slightly. "I… I threatened to kill myself. If they didn't save us." His words were quiet, hesitant, but they hit Cato like a knife to the chest.
"You what?" Cato's voice cracked as he pulled back slightly, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Peeta, you could've died. They could've—"
"I couldn't do it without you." Peeta's voice cut through his spiral, steady and sure. "I wasn't going to let them have you."
Cato's chest tightened, his thoughts spiraling. "You should've let me die."
The words slipped out before he could stop them, heavy and raw. "You should've just… let it happen. You almost got yourself killed because of me." His voice broke, thick with guilt and frustration. "I wasn't worth it."
Peeta's grip on him tightened, his eyes searching his face, filled with something deep and unwavering.
"Don't say that," Peeta whispered. "You were worth it. You are worth it."
Cato shook his head, his throat burning as he tried to swallow the lump that had formed there. "You lost your leg because of me, Peeta. I couldn't stop him. I couldn't protect you."
Peeta's hand cupped his cheek gently, forcing Cato to meet his eyes.
"Cato, listen to me," he said firmly. "You saved me in ways you don't even understand. I couldn't do this without you. Not then, and not now."
The conviction in his voice made Cato's chest ache even more. How could Peeta see anything good in him after everything that had happened? After all the things he had failed to do—all the things he's done.
His thumb brushed softly against Cato's skin. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you," he whispered. "You didn't let me die. And I wasn't going to let them take you from me. Not like that."
Cato's breath caught, the weight of Peeta's words crashing over him. He wanted to believe him, wanted to trust that what Peeta was saying was true—that he had done something right. But it was hard. So damn hard.
A tense silence lulls between them, filled with upspoken fear of the coming day.
"What happens now?" Peeta asked quietly. His voice was soft, and uncertain, and for the first time, Cato saw the same fear in Peeta's eyes that he felt in his own heart.
"I don't know," Cato admitted. "But we'll figure it out tomorrow…"
He glanced down at Peeta's leg again, guilt rising in his throat, threatening to choke him. "I should've stopped Reef," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I should've—"
"Stop," Peeta interrupted gently, his hand squeezing Cato's. "You've already saved me. More times than I can count. You don't have to keep punishing yourself."
Cato's gaze lingered on the bandaged stump of Peeta's leg, but the look in Peeta's eyes stopped him from sinking too far into the guilt. "Besides," Peeta continued with a soft smile, "they said I'll get a prosthetic. I'll be okay."
Before Cato could respond, a soft knock came from the door, signaling that his time was up. He let out a long, shaky breath, the weight of everything settling in his chest. He didn't want to leave, but he knew he had to.
"I'll see you in the morning," he whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss to Peeta's forehead. The gesture was filled with more emotion than he could express.
Peeta's eyes fluttered closed as he leaned into the kiss, his hand squeezing Cato's one last time. "I'll be here,"
With one last glance, Cato stood, his body aching as he made his way to the door. His heart felt heavy, but Peeta's words lingered in his mind, a small light in the darkness. Tomorrow, they'd face whatever came next.
-* Aftermath. Day 7. *
The next day, he doesn't see Peeta. Instead, Cato is escorted from the hospital to the rooftop, where a cold wind greets him as he's pushed into a hovercraft. The Capitol skyline blurs beneath them, and before he can catch his breath, they're already descending toward the Tribute Center. A pair of Peacekeepers flank him as he exits, their presence making the air feel even heavier.
As the elevator doors open to his suite, he's engulfed by a whirlwind of noise and bodies. Gabriel, Eros, and Samuel are on him in seconds, their voices overlapping in excitement, talking so fast he can barely make out what they're saying. But the sentiment is clear—they're thrilled to see him.
Cato smiles faintly, but it's distant, more reflex than emotion. He's happy to see them, sure, but not like he was to see Angel. This feels different. It's like the relief you feel after a long day when you're greeted by a trio of affectionate pets. It's warm but not deep.
They sweep him into the dining room where a meal awaits—real food, not the hospital gruel he's been fed for days. Roast beef, peas, and soft rolls. His stomach grumbles, the smell alone making him realize how hungry he is. He digs in, the food rich on his tongue, though he's hardly paying attention to the flavors. It's just fuel.
When he asks for seconds, though, Gabriel waves a finger at him. "No, no, no. They don't want it all coming back up on stage."
Still, Eros slips an extra roll under the table to him with a conspiratorial grin.
After the meal, they return to his room, and the energy shifts again. Angel disappears while Samuel, Eros, and Gabriel prep him. Gabriel tsks with envy as he runs his hands over Cato's arms and chest.
"They didn't even give you a full-body polish," Gabriel says, almost disappointed. "Such a shame."
Cato glances at his reflection in the mirror, taking in his body for the first time in days. He's skinny, ribs poking out sharply against his skin, his muscles lean but fragile. He knows he must've looked worse when he first came out of the arena, but still—this isn't him. He feels like a shadow of himself.
The prep team takes care of the shower settings for him, chatting non-stop as they work. They chatter so incessantly that he barely has to respond, which is good, because he doesn't feel talkative. They prattle on about the Games, about where they were or what they were doing when certain events happened.
"I was still in bed!" Eros exclaims dramatically, scrubbing at his nails.
"I'd just had my eyebrows dyed," Samuel adds, his voice overly cheerful. "I swear I almost fainted when they announced the final three!"
Everything is about them. Their experiences, their emotions. Not about the dying kids, not about the blood-soaked arena he crawled out of.
Cato lets the noise fade into the background. He's used to this by now—the routine of being prodded and primped like a doll to be paraded. He doesn't flinch anymore. He's learned to bury it all deep.
Samuel and Gabriel worked swiftly, their hands deft as they removed the hair from Cato's body, buffing away the scabs that clung to his skin. They spread the cream, cold and numbing, across his chest and arms, dulling the constant ache that had become a part of him. It was supposed to make his scars less noticeable, to smooth over the jagged reminders of his survival. But Cato didn't care. Let the Capitol see what they'd done to him. Let them see the marks that would never heal, no matter how much cream they slathered on him.
Eros hovered nearby, meticulous as always, his fingers plucking at Cato's eyebrows with a precision that made him wince. His voice cut through the quiet, light and airy, like they were talking about something inconsequential, not the arena.
"You and Peeta… oh, it was so romantic," Eros said, his tone dreamy, as if he were narrating a fairytale. "I couldn't stop watching. It was like something out of a movie."
Samuel chuckled from the side, his laughter soft but filled with admiration. "Right? The whole thing had me tearing up," he said. "I mean, who wouldn't want someone to love them that much?"
Cato sat rigidly in the chair, the words floating past him like distant echoes.
Romantic? Was that what they saw when they looked at him and Peeta struggling to survive? Was that what the Capitol called it? Love? His mind felt twisted, tangled with the conflicting images of the blood-soaked arena and the softness in Peeta's eyes that had made him feel human again, even if just for a moment.
As Eros moved closer to shave the stubble from Cato's chin, his voice took on a more casual tone, as if what he said next was just another piece of trivia. "This cream we're using? It'll stop your facial hair from growing back. Gotta keep you looking camera-ready for when you return home."
Home. The word slammed into Cato like a physical blow, stealing the breath from his lungs. What home?
Eros didn't notice the change in his demeanor, didn't see how Cato's body stiffened. "You ready for Peeta to meet your parents?" Eros asked, his voice bright. "I remember when my partner met mine. Total disaster."
Laughter filled the room, the prep team sharing stories about awkward family dinners, about their personal lives. They talked and laughed, their voices blending together in a continuous stream of noise. But Cato couldn't focus. His thoughts were spinning, unraveling faster than he could keep them in check.
What home did he have left? District 2 was a place that revered strength, brutality, victory without mercy. He had shown mercy. He had allied with Katniss, with Rue. He had saved Peeta.
What would his district say? What would his mother think, or Octavia, or his father? Would they see him as a victor or as a failure? A traitor to the legacy they had drilled into him since he was a child?
And Peeta—where did he fit into all of this? Could they survive outside of the arena, away from the blood and chaos? Or was it all just a moment of desperation, something that would shatter under the weight of the real world? What happened to Cornelia?
The questions swirl, but he's learned to keep his mouth shut.
He doesn't say anything. He couldn't. To keep from hating his oblivious prep team, he tuned them out, their voices becoming nothing more than a faint hum in the background.
Because for now, he had to focus on surviving this part, too. He had to bury it all down, just like he'd done in the arena. Keep it hidden until it was safe to let it out. If it ever would be.
As Gabriel attaches the prosthetic to Cato's left arm, it feels strange—alien, almost. The sleek black plastic and cold metal seem at odds with his skin, like something that doesn't quite belong to him. He flexes his fingers, watching the mechanical movements with a quiet discomfort. The arm moves well, but it's a reminder, not of victory, but of what he's lost.
They dress him in a crisp white suit, pairing it with a yellow button-up that flickers like candlelight with every step he takes. It's too clean, too perfect, as if they're trying to mold him into something he isn't. His hair is slicked back, gelled just enough to make it look like he belongs in the Capitol, not like the boy who crawled out of the arena alive.
When Angel enters the room, the air shifts. He waves his hand, and the prep team immediately files out, leaving just the two of them. Cato watches himself in the mirror, not recognizing the person looking back at him. The reflection shows someone innocent, softened, but inside, he feels anything but.
Angel steps closer, his gaze appraising as always.
"For someone who's won it all," he starts, a dry smile pulling at his lips, "you look rather miserable."
Cato lets out a scoff, the emotion bubbling under his skin. "The more misery, the better, right?" he retorts, the sarcasm barely masking the storm inside him.
Angel chuckles, but it's a sound without real humor. "That's the spirit."
From his pocket, Angel pulls something small and delicate—a necklace. "This was damaged when they pulled you out of the arena," he says as he moves closer. "We thought you'd want it back."
He drapes the silver chain around Cato's neck, letting the pendant settle against his chest. The weight of it is immediate. Cato looks down, his eyes tracing the design. It's a blend of things that shouldn't be together but somehow make sense. The wings are unmistakably from a mockingjay, but instead of holding an arrow, the bird clutches a dagger entwined with a turquoise gem. Marcus's gem. Clove's dagger.
His heart twists at the sight of it, a strange mix of pain and nostalgia pulling at him. This necklace—it's a reminder of them, of everything that happened, of everything they lost.
Angel steps back, examining the necklace on him. "My fiancé came up with the idea," he says, his tone softer now. "I thought you'd approve."
Cato stares at the pendant, the weight of everything pulling at his chest. It's not just a piece of jewelry. It's a tether to the people he cared about, to the memories of the arena, to the promises he couldn't keep. The overwhelming feeling presses down on him, like he's still fighting to breathe, still fighting to survive.
"What's wrong?" Angel's voice is gentle now, a tone Cato isn't used to hearing from him.
Cato swallows hard, his throat tight. "I still feel like I'm there," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "Like I'm still in the arena… fighting for my life."
Angel steps closer, his gaze sympathetic but firm. "That feeling… it disappears with time," he says quietly. "And more importantly, with love."
Cato shakes his head slightly, his thoughts a mess. "I don't even know what's going to happen to us," he mutters, his voice thick with uncertainty. "We barely knew each other for three days, then we went through eight days of hell, and now they expect us to… what? Live happily ever after?"
Angel is silent for a moment before asking, "Do you love him?"
The question hits Cato like a punch to the gut. His mind races. He doesn't answer, his eyes dropping to the floor.
"Peeta said it to me," he finally admits, his voice strained. "But I didn't say it back."
Angel studies him for a long moment before asking softly, "Why?"
"I don't know," Cato's voice cracks, frustration leaking into every word. "Maybe it's because my feelings are the only thing they can't take from me. I want to tell him… but when it's just us. When it's real."
Angel's expression softens even further. He places a hand on Cato's shoulder, his grip firm but reassuring. "You have all the time in the world," he says, his voice steady.
Cato glances up at him, uncertainty clouding his gaze. The necklace feels heavier than before, like a physical reminder of everything he's holding onto.
Angel gives him a final look before stepping back, his presence still commanding even as he turns to leave. "You'll figure it out," he says over his shoulder. "You always do."
As the door closes behind him, Cato's eyes drop back to the necklace, the pendant catching the light. It's more than just a necklace. It's everything that's left of the people he's lost, of the fight he thought was over, but maybe isn't.
His hand brushes against the cold metal of the pendant. Maybe Angel's right. Maybe, in time, he'll figure it all out.
But for now, all Cato knows is that the fight isn't over. Not yet.
Cato and his prep team take the elevator to the floor beneath the auditorium. It's customary for the victor and their support team to rise from beneath the stage. First, the prep team, then the escort, the stylist, the mentor, and finally, the victor. But this year, with two victors and their respective teams, the Capitol has had to rework everything.
Cato stands alone in a poorly lit area under the stage. A brand-new metal plate has been installed to lift them up. The smell of fresh paint lingers in the air, and small piles of sawdust scatter the ground like remnants of hurried construction.
Angel and the prep team peel off to change into their costumes and take their positions, leaving Cato alone in the dim light. He glances around, spotting a makeshift wall about ten yards away. Peeta's probably behind it, waiting just like him.
The sound of the crowd builds steadily, rumbling louder with anticipation, but Cato doesn't notice Cornelia's presence until he feels a hand on his shoulder.
He jumps, startled, still half-anchored to the arena's endless adrenaline. His mind flares with instinct, unsure if this is another fight. For a split second, he's back in survival mode.
Cornelia watches him closely, her expression unreadable. "Easy, just me," she says, her voice calm but firm. "Let's have a look at you."
Cato hesitates, his breath steadying, and lifts his arms for her to inspect. He turns slowly under her gaze, his movements stiff. "Good enough," she mutters, her approval lukewarm, as if her mind is elsewhere.
Her eyes flick around the dim space, and Cato senses something's off. "But what?" he asks, his voice betraying the tension coiled inside him.
Cornelia steps closer, her voice dropping to a whisper as she casts a quick glance around. "But nothing," she says, though it's clear from her tone that she's about to say something important. "How about a hug for luck? My beautiful grandson."
Cato hesitates. It's a strange request, coming from her, but after everything, maybe this is just what victors do. Maybe a hug is normal now. He steps into her embrace, but the moment his arms close around her, Cornelia tightens her hold, trapping him in place. Her whisper is quick, urgent, her lips hidden by her hair.
"Listen closely," she says, her tone sharp and quiet. "You're in trouble. The Capitol's furious with you. They don't like being made fools of, and right now, you're their biggest joke."
Cato feels dread coil in his gut, but he forces out a laugh, as though Cornelia's whispering some sweet, familial encouragement. He can't afford to break his facade. "So what?" he whispers back, trying to sound unconcerned.
Her grip tightens further, her nails digging slightly into his back. "You're going to have to sell it. You need to convince them you were so madly in love that you couldn't control yourself. Everything you did in that arena, you did for Peeta. It wasn't about defiance—it was about love."
Cornelia pulls back slightly, her hands smoothing out his jacket like they're having a casual, affectionate exchange. "Got it, sweetheart?" Her eyes lock onto his, silently conveying the urgency of the situation.
Cato swallows, feeling the weight of her words press down on him.
"Got it," he murmurs, though the words feel foreign in his mouth. "Did you tell Peeta this?"
Cornelia gives a short nod. "Don't have to. He's already there."
Cato frowns, trying to mask the confusion and frustration bubbling up inside him. "But you think I'm not?"
Her eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of something hard passing through them. "Does it matter what I think?" she says, her voice light, though the sharpness of her gaze betrays the weight of her words. "Better take your places."
Before he can respond, she steps back, composing herself once more. "And about the wedding," she adds quietly. "It'll be a grand event. I can't wait for you to be part of it."
Cato stiffens at the mention of the wedding. He knows what she means. There's no time for her to explain, but he trusts her. He has to.
She leads him to the metal plate that will carry him up to the stage. "This is your night, sweetheart. Enjoy it." She kisses him on the forehead before disappearing into the gloom, leaving Cato standing there with the weight of her words swirling in his mind.
He tugs at the sleeves of his jacket, hoping it will somehow cover the trembling in his hands. His whole body feels like it's shaking, and no matter how much he tries to steady himself, the rising panic won't subside. Maybe they'll think it's just excitement. Nerves, maybe. He can only hope that's what it looks like.
But deep down, Cato knows this night isn't his at all.
