-* Aftermath. Day 7. Crowning of the Victor. *
The damp, moldy smell beneath the stage clung to him, thick and suffocating. A cold sweat broke out across his skin, and no matter how much he tried, he couldn't shake the sensation that the boards above his head were about to collapse and bury him alive. His chest tightened, his breaths shallow. It wasn't supposed to feel like this. The arena was behind him, the nightmare over. He'd made it out. He was supposed to be safe now—for the rest of his life. But if Cornelia was right, and she always was, he had never been in more danger than he was at this moment.
It was worse than anything in the arena. Back there, death was the worst that could happen—final, clean, and simple. But out here? Here, the Capitol had all the power. It wasn't just his life on the line. Octavia, his mother, Cornelia—everyone he cared about back home and at the Academy—could be punished if he failed. If he couldn't sell this role, if he couldn't make them believe in the boy driven mad by love.
They still had a chance, though. That's what Cornelia had said. Her words should've been comforting, but they felt like lead in his gut. He kept thinking back to that final moment in the arena, that desperate fight against Luna. He hadn't been thinking about the Capitol or how the world would interpret his actions. He had only been thinking about Peeta—protecting him, saving him. It was as simple as that.
But this wasn't the arena. The Capitol didn't care about noble sentiments or acts of survival. They only cared about control. The Games had always been their weapon, their reminder that no one was stronger than the Capitol. That you didn't get to win, not really. And now, they were trying to spin it, to act like they'd planned it all along, like the almost-suicide was part of their twisted narrative. But none of it would work unless Cato played his part perfectly.
And Peeta... Peeta would suffer too if he got this wrong. Cornelia's words replayed in his mind. Don't have to. He's already there.
Cato knew exactly what she had meant. He remembered Peeta's confession, the raw vulnerability in his voice as he clung to him in those final moments, ready to die in his arms. That pit of guilt opened up in Cato's stomach again, gnawing at him. He hadn't said it back. He hadn't given Peeta the same confirmation, the same assurance of love. Not because he didn't care—he did, more than he could put into words—but because he didn't know where he stood himself.
He hadn't even begun to untangle his feelings for Peeta. It was too much, too complicated. What had grown between them—was it forged out of necessity? A bond born from sheer desperation, from the grief Cato had buried deep after Marcus? Or was it something real, something deeper? Had protecting Peeta become more than just survival, more than just a way to stay sane? Had it become a need, something he couldn't walk away from?
He couldn't tell if it was love, or if it was just what anyone would've done in his position. Was it because for once, he wanted to be someone Marcus would've been proud of? Or was it because, deep down, he couldn't imagine a world without Peeta in it?
These were questions that didn't have easy answers. They weren't the kind of questions you could sort through in the middle of a Capitol performance, with every eye on you, waiting for you to slip up. They were questions to be unraveled in private, when no one was watching, when he could finally breathe again. If they ever got that chance.
But right now, there was no time for any of that. The most dangerous part of the Hunger Games wasn't over—it was just beginning.
The anthem booms in his ears, reverberating through his bones, and he hears Caesar Flickerman's familiar voice greeting the audience above. Every word from now on is crucial. Caesar must know that. The crowd breaks into applause as the prep teams are introduced, and Cato imagines Gabriel, Samuel, and Eros bouncing around, taking ridiculous bows, blowing kisses to the audience. They're clueless. It's obvious they don't grasp the gravity of the situation.
Then come the escorts—Ophelia and Effie. Ophelia has waited for this moment for so long. He hopes she's able to enjoy it, though part of him knows she suspects something's wrong. Ophelia's instincts have always been sharp, and he can't imagine she's oblivious to the tension in the air.
Portia and Angel follow, receiving huge cheers from the crowd. They've been brilliant, of course. They had a dazzling debut, and now he understands why Angel dressed him the way he did. He has to look innocent, boyish, like someone who's not in control of his own emotions. It's all part of the act.
Then, Haymitch and Cornelia's appearance brings the crowd to its feet. The stomping lasts for at least five minutes. It's a first—two mentors who managed to keep their tributes alive.
He thinks about Cornelia's warning. What if she hadn't said anything? Would he have acted differently? Would he have flaunted their victory, not understanding the Capitol's rage bubbling beneath the surface? No, he doesn't think so. But he could have been less convincing, less prepared for what's to come. Now, every move, every word has to be perfect.
The plate beneath his feet begins to rumble, lifting him toward the stage.
Blinding lights. The deafening roar rattles the metal under his boots. He blinks into the brightness, and then he sees Peeta, standing just a few yards away. He looks healthy, clean, his features softened by Capitol polish. He barely recognizes him. But Peeta's smile—warm and genuine—is the same, whether in the cave or the Capitol. When Cato sees it, something snaps. He takes three quick steps, flinging himself into Peeta's arms.
Peeta staggers back, nearly losing his balance. That's when Cato notices the slim metal cane Peeta's holding to support himself. The sight of it tugs at something deep inside him, but there's no time to dwell on it. They cling to each other as the audience explodes into cheers. Peeta presses his lips to Cato's in a kiss, his hands warm on Cato's back, and all Cato can think is: Do you know? Do you know how much danger we're in?
After a few moments, Caesar Flickerman taps Cato on the shoulder, trying to remind him they need to move on with the show. But Peeta, without even sparing Caesar a glance, just shoves him aside, and the crowd absolutely loses it. Whether Peeta knows or not, he's playing the Capitol perfectly, as he always does.
Finally, Haymitch steps in, breaking the moment with a friendly shove, guiding them toward the victor's chair. Except, it's not a single chair this time. The Gamemakers have prepared a plush red velvet couch, luxurious and sprawling. Cato sits so close to Peeta that he's practically in his lap, but as he glances over, Cornelia's expression tells him it's still not enough. He wraps his arm around Peeta's shoulders, pulling him in even tighter. Peeta responds in kind, resting his hand on Cato's thigh, just like in the cave. They're back there again, seeking comfort from each other in a world that wants to tear them apart.
Peeta's shirt matches Cato's, that same soft yellow fabric that makes them look innocent, but Portia has dressed him in long black pants and sturdy boots, grounding him in something solid, something unbreakable.
Caesar keeps the audience entertained with a few jokes, light-hearted and carefully calculated, but Cato's not really listening. The lights dim, and the seal of Panem fills the screen. This is it. Three hours of reliving the Games. Three hours of death, violence, and the Capitol's twisted sense of entertainment. It's required viewing for everyone.
As the film begins, Cato's chest tightens. He's not ready. He's not ready to watch twenty-two tributes die, not again. He saw it all the first time, many of them at his own hand. His heart races, the urge to run flooding his system. How have the other victors survived this? Sitting here, reliving it, watching themselves kill?
Occasionally, the cameras will cut to show their reactions, boxed into the corner of the screen, so the audience can see how the victors feel about their own highlights. He remembers previous years—tributes pumping their fists in triumph or sitting in stunned silence. Right now, the only thing keeping Cato anchored is Peeta, his hand intertwined with his, holding him steady.
Condensing the days of the Games into a three-hour spectacle is no small feat. The editors have to choose the narrative, and this year, they've chosen a love story.
Peeta and Cato. From the very beginning, it's clear the Capitol is fixated on their relationship. The film lingers on every interaction, every touch, every glance. Cato's relieved in a way. It reinforces their story—the crazy-in-love narrative that will keep them alive. And, with so much focus on their supposed romance, there's less time to linger over the deaths of the other tributes.
The first half-hour covers the pre-arena events—the reaping, the chariot ride, their training scores, and interviews. An upbeat soundtrack plays beneath it, which only makes the whole thing more twisted because most of the people on-screen are dead.
Then they reach the Cornucopia bloodbath. The camera lingers on the chaos, the first deaths. Cato can barely watch as the filmmakers cut between tributes being slaughtered by him and moments of him and Peeta, emphasizing the bond that supposedly carried them through it all. It feels surreal, the way they're twisting it into a romance for the Capitol to eat up. Cato's actions, his every move, carry this narrative on his shoulders.
For the first time, he understands what the audience saw, how they watched him kill the tribute from District 10, not to revel in the victory, but to spare Peeta from the guilt. The jealousy in his eyes when Glimmer taunted Peeta, offering her body in the rain. The cold defiance when he stood up to Luna, refusing to let Peeta play the poisoned chess. And how, despite everything, Cato let Peeta go, knowing full well the other Careers wouldn't hesitate to kill him.
The screen shifts to Clove next. The tidal wave sweeping them down into the tunnels. Mutations chasing them through the dark. Cato feels his hand tremble, but Peeta holds him tight, steadying him. Together, they watch as he and Clove fought the mutations on the dunes. Then the song—Cato singing softly to her, his voice breaking on every note as he sang to her dying body. Something inside him shuts off completely. Watching it feels distant, like he's seeing strangers, not himself, not Clove.
Then the camera turns to Peeta. How he carried Cato through the forest with Rue, how they stitched his wounds in that dim cave. Cato watches Peeta and Rue burning up the supplies, fleeing from Marvel, Rue taking out his eye with a precise shot from her slingshot. He watches how Peeta fought to protect him, even as they were separated in the forest, Peeta leading the dangers away to keep him safe. Meanwhile, Cato fought off Reef and Luna in that hellish temple surrounded by animated statues—battles Cato can barely remember now.
The screen shifts again, this time to Rue's death. They play the scene in its entirety: Cato killing Marvel, Rue dying in their arms. He feels his heart clench as he watches the girl draw her last breath, but he can't help but notice something's missing. The flowers. They didn't show Peeta covering Rue's body in flowers, didn't dare let that image spread. Too rebellious. Too dangerous.
After that, things seem to pick up for them. Peeta nursing Cato back to health after Marvel's attack, the moments in the rain when Cato hugged him, confessed how Peeta made him a better person. The moments they kissed, shared intimate touches, moments of quiet that gave them both hope in the madness. The Capitol laps it up, the crowd giving approving sounds at every romantic gesture. Cato can feel his face flush despite the numbness creeping over him.
Then, the final showdown. The mutations, the climb up the plateau. Reef stabbing Peeta. Cato's brutal fight against Reef, the mutation taking him out in the end. They play Katniss's death in full, Peeta's hand squeezing Cato's tightly as they watch her fall. The screen lingers on the last three: Peeta, Luna, and Cato. They play out the final battle in agonizing detail, showing Cato's hard-fought victory as the sun rose over the arena.
And then, the moment with Peeta. The confession. The Capitol hushing themselves, not wanting to miss a word as Peeta spoke of love, holding Cato as though his life depended on it. The tension is palpable as they watch him pick up the blade, holding it to his throat. They've cut out the words, but he knows what he heard. They all know it. Cato feels a strange wave of gratitude to the filmmakers as they end the recap not with the victory itself, but with Peeta pounding on the glass door of the hovercraft, screaming Cato's name as the medics worked to revive him.
It's the only moment all night that feels real.
In terms of survival, it's the best moment of the night.
The anthem plays yet again, and the crowd rises to their feet as President Snow takes the stage. He is followed by a little girl, her small hands clutching a cushion with the victor's crown. Only one crown. Cato can hear the murmurs of confusion ripple through the crowd.
Who will wear it?
Then, with a subtle twist of his hands, Snow splits the crown into two gleaming halves. The first piece is placed on Peeta's brow with a smile so practiced, so perfect, it doesn't reach his eyes. The second half is settled onto Cato's head, but this time, Cato feels the weight of Snow's gaze up close. His eyes, cold and unforgiving, lock with Cato's, and they're as merciless as a serpent's.
But it's not just Snow's eyes that chill him to the bone. It's the smell—that smell. Blood and roses. The nauseating sweetness curls in Cato's nose, sending a wave of dread through him.
"Congratulations," Snow says, his voice smooth, his smile sharp.
Cato barely manages a shaky, "Thank you."
In that moment, it all clicks. He was supposed to die in the arena. Peeta's act of defiance wasn't spontaneous; it was Cato's survival that sparked it. His decision, his will to fight alongside Peeta, had turned them both into symbols. And now, it was Cato who would be held responsible. He would be the one to face the consequences.
Snow's gaze drifts down to the necklace hanging around Cato's neck. His fingers reach out, brushing against the pendant. "What a lovely necklace," Snow says, his tone deceptively light.
Cato's heart pounds in his chest. "Thank you, it's from my district."
Snow's smile doesn't waver, but his eyes cut right through him. "They must be very proud of you," he says, the underlying threat clear as day.
Cato holds steady, but inside, his stomach churns.
Snow leans in just slightly, his voice dropping so only Cato can hear. "I know you must be eager to return home, but I would be honored if you and Peeta would indulge me by attending my wedding. It would mean the world to Cornelia."
Cato nods, feeling like he has no choice. "Of course," he says quietly.
Snow's smile widens, but it feels more like a wolf baring its teeth. "Good. I'll see you soon." With that, Snow steps back, Cornelia gracefully taking his arm as they move to the side of the stage. Caesar Flickerman's booming voice announces the winners of the 74th Hunger Games—Peeta Mellark and Cato Marcellus—with all the fanfare the Capitol demands.
The crowd erupts into wild applause, the sound almost deafening as people cheer and bow. Cato waves, his arm growing sore from the effort, but he keeps it up. There's no choice. He's a victor now. He's expected to smile and bask in the glory. Yet all he can think about is the ominous weight of Snow's words.
Finally, Caesar bids the audience goodnight, reminding them to tune in tomorrow for the final interviews. As if they had a choice.
As soon as they're off the stage, Peeta and Cato are whisked away to the President's mansion for the Victory Banquet. The night blurs into a haze of faces, flashes of cameras, and Capitol officials tripping over themselves to get pictures with the victors. Some are sober, their faces serious as they congratulate them; others are tipsy, giddy from the alcohol that flows freely through the room.
The food is plentiful—extravagant spreads of roasted meats, fruits, cheeses, and strange dishes Cato can't even begin to describe. Grey pastes that taste like heaven, bright orange sauces that flicker between sweet and sour. The Capitol wine flows generously, its rich flavor barely registering on Cato's tongue as the endless flood of faces washes over him.
Occasionally, Cato catches a glimpse of Haymitch, leaning heavily on a pillar, drunk but still alert enough to offer a nod of reassurance. Angel is dancing with a man Peeta points out as Cinna, Katniss' designer. Ophelia and Effie are clinking tiny flutes of clear liquor, laughing with the prep teams as they toast to survival.
And through it all, Peeta doesn't leave his side.
Cato grips Peeta's hand like a lifeline, the one solid thing in this whirlwind of noise and lights. Peeta's presence is comforting, his warm hand grounding Cato in the chaos of the Capitol's celebration. But even with Peeta beside him, guilt gnaws at Cato's insides. With every glance, every soft look Peeta gives him, it grows harder to keep his own feelings at bay.
The more they drink, the more Cato feels the weight of everything pressing down on him. The lies they'll have to keep up, the uncertainty of their future. The looming threat of Snow and what might happen next.
But then Peeta looks at him, his hazel eyes soft and steady, and something inside Cato cracks. Without thinking, Cato cups Peeta's face in his hands, his thumb brushing gently over Peeta's cheek before he leans in, pressing his lips to Peeta's in a kiss that feels like both an apology and a promise.
The crowd cheers around them, voices rising in approval.
Let them watch. Let them see— because for a brief moment, the world around them fades away. For a moment, Cato allows himself to believe that maybe—just maybe—they can survive this.
The sound of someone clearing their throat cuts through the haze of cheers, pulling Cato and Peeta apart. Cato blinks, his head heavy, the world around him spinning just a little too much. He feels the alcohol buzzing in his veins, warm and dizzying, making everything softer around the edges. When he turns, Cornelia is standing beside them, a vision in a deep emerald gown that hugs her figure, her blonde hair piled into an intricate updo with loose curls framing her face. There's something different about her—a gentleness in her eyes that doesn't match the gleaming Capitol world she moves through so effortlessly.
"Forgive me for interrupting," she says with a soft smile, her voice smooth and measured, "but I was wondering if one of the victors would permit me a dance?"
Cato hesitates, glancing at Peeta. His head is still swimming, but Peeta gives him a nod, a small smile of encouragement that cuts through the fog. He knows this is his chance to talk to Cornelia alone. He's got questions, and this is his shot.
"I'd be honored," Cato replies, offering her his hand, the words slurring just a bit.
Cornelia's fingers are warm as they slide into his. "Thank you," she murmurs, her grip steady as they make their way toward the dance floor. The crowd parts for them, whispers trailing behind.
The music swells, a sweeping waltz carried by strings that fill the room with an elegant, haunting melody. It's intoxicating, the sound wrapping around Cato as they move into position. Cornelia looks at him with a knowing smile. "I'll lead," she says, her voice almost teasing.
Cato tries to smirk, but the alcohol muddles his response. "Not surprised," he mutters, trying to steady himself in her grip. His head spins slightly with every step.
They begin to waltz, Cornelia's movements precise and practiced, guiding him through the dance floor with ease. Around them, couples twirl and spin, but Cato barely registers their presence. His mind is clouded, but not enough to forget what he needs to ask.
"What's going on with Snow?" he whispers, his voice barely audible over the lilting music.
Cornelia's face doesn't change, her steps never faltering, but there's a tightness in her grip now. "I wish I could have told you everything in person," she says quietly, her voice carrying only to his ears, "but I'm doing this for our family."
Cato frowns, the words twisting in his drunken mind. "I didn't ask you to do that," he says, his voice rougher than he intended.
She meets his gaze for just a second, her expression soft but filled with something deeper—something that feels like a goodbye. "No one ever asks for fate to intervene, Cato. But here we are."
The violins reach a crescendo, filling the air with a bittersweet melody, and for a moment, it feels like the world is spinning faster around them. Cornelia's eyes lock with his, her grip softening slightly. "I love you," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the music. "And I hope… I hope you and Peeta find happiness. You both deserve it."
Before Cato can respond, before the weight of her words can fully hit him, Peeta appears at their side. His expression is soft, uncertain, as he speaks. "Mind if I steal him away?"
Cornelia offers a charming smile, kissing Cato gently on the cheek. "Of course, darling," she says, stepping back and fading into the crowd, her gown trailing behind her like a wave of green silk.
Peeta takes Cato's hand, his touch grounding in the chaos. "I'm not really sure what to do," Peeta admits, his voice quiet and almost shy.
Peeta's hands fumble to fix the loose button on his sleeve. Cato chuckles, the sound more tired than amused. "Just follow my lead," he says, giving Peeta's hand a reassuring squeeze.
Peeta looks at him, his gaze steady and filled with something unspoken, something real. "Always," he whispers.
They sway together, slower than the waltz, their movements uncoordinated but intimate. The music hums softly in the background, its once grand and dramatic notes now fading into a softer, quieter rhythm. Cato can feel Peeta's warmth, his body close against his, and for the first time in what feels like forever, it's just them.
There's no Capitol. No Games. No crowd watching their every move.
Just the two of them, swaying gently in each other's arms as the violins play on, their melody blending into the background. Cato leans his head against Peeta's, his fingers tightening their hold as he closes his eyes. His mind, still foggy with drink, is filled with conflicting emotions—guilt, fear, but also something softer. Something he hadn't let himself feel in so long.
For this moment, everything feels calm. For this moment, the world is quiet.
As the evening wears on, Cato finds himself caught in a whirlwind of handshakes, forced laughter, and the constant need to appease the sponsors and Capitol officials. They're everywhere—clinking glasses, making toasts, taking pictures, their smiles gleaming under the bright lights. He's half-drunk, half-numb, moving through the motions like an actor stuck in a never-ending performance. Every word he says feels rehearsed, every laugh too loud, too fake.
But he keeps going. He has to.
His gaze sweeps the room, catching sight of President Snow in the distance. The sight of him sends a cold shiver down Cato's spine. The man stands there like a statue, his eyes hard and calculating, watching everything, watching him. Cato quickly looks away, his heart pounding in his chest. But even as he forces a laugh and thanks another sponsor for their generosity, the knot in his stomach tightens.
The terror lingers, like a cold hand on the back of his neck, but he keeps smiling. Keeps shaking hands. Keeps posing for photos as the flash bulbs pop in his face. Every time the fear threatens to pull him under, he tightens his grip on Peeta's hand.
That's the one thing he doesn't let go of.
The sun is just peeking over the horizon when they finally stumble back to the twelfth floor of the Training Center. Cato is exhausted, a little drunk, and desperate to get a moment alone with Peeta. But as soon as they step off the elevator, Haymitch intercepts him, insisting that Portia needs him for a fitting for tomorrow's interview.
Cato frowns, his words slurring. "Why can't I just talk to him for a minute?"
"Plenty of time for that when we get home," Haymitch replies, firm but not unkind. "Go to bed. You're on air at two."
Frustration bubbles up in Cato's chest. Going back to his suite alone feels unbearable after everything they've been through tonight. "I don't want to stay in that room by myself," he mutters, his drunkenness making him more honest than usual.
Haymitch sighs, glancing down the hallway. "Fine. Take the vacant room in our suite. Better than wandering around drunk."
Cato doesn't argue. He follows Haymitch to the second floor of the suite, his feet dragging. As he steps inside, a strange familiarity hits him. It's Katniss's room. The walls are adorned with holographic projections, serene scenes of a doe wandering through quiet woods. The peaceful display makes the pit in his stomach uneasy. But at least Peeta is close—just on the other side of the wall.
For hours, Cato tosses and turns in the strange room, thoughts swirling with the alcohol, the anxiety, and the need to be near Peeta. Finally, he slips out of bed, determined to see him. Moving quietly, he steps into the hallway.
His first thought is the roof—it's where they've always found some peace. But when he pushes open the door, the rooftop is empty. The city below is eerily quiet, the streets deserted after the night's festivities. His heart sinks. Peeta isn't here.
Returning to the suite, he paces for a while before deciding to try Peeta's room directly. It feels reckless, but the need to see him overrides everything else.
When Cato reaches the door, he grips the knob and tries to turn it.
It doesn't budge. Locked.
He jostles the knob again, harder, hoping it's just stuck. But it still doesn't open.
"Haymitch," he mutters under his breath, immediately suspecting him. But as his heart pounds in his chest, a darker thought seeps in. The Capitol. He stands there, frozen, wondering if they're watching him— monitoring him. Have they been confining him this whole time?
His heart pounds in his chest, and he stands frozen, his mind racing. It feels different now—more personal. Like he's being imprisoned for a crime he didn't even know he committed.
But after a few more attempts, the knob gives way, and the door finally clicks open. Cato stumbles forward, pushing it gently, relief flooding his veins as he steps inside. His heart is still racing, but the panic starts to ebb away.
Peeta is lying on the bed, fast asleep, his face soft and peaceful in the dim light. Cato closes the door behind him quietly, the click barely audible. He stands there for a moment, just watching, letting the sight of him calm the swirling thoughts in his mind, watching the steady rise and fall of Peeta's chest.
He moves toward the bed and sits on the edge. His hand instinctively reaches out, brushing a hair lock from Peeta's forehead. At the touch, he stirs, his eyelids flutter open. His sleepy gaze finds Cato, and a slow, warm smile spreads across his face.
"Cato?" he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep. "What are you doing here?"
"I couldn't sleep," Cato admits, his voice quiet. "I needed to see you."
Peeta shifts, making room for him without hesitation. Cato doesn't need an invitation—he lies down beside him, their bodies close, Peeta's warmth seeping into him. They lie there in silence for a while, the comforting quiet wrapping around them like a blanket.
Cato wants to talk—he wants to tell Peeta everything that's been clawing at him, but he's exhausted. His body feels heavy, his mind too foggy to form the words. Instead, he rests his head on the pillow, his eyes tracing Peeta's face, committing every detail to memory as sleep slowly pulls at him.
Peeta's hand finds his, their fingers intertwining naturally. Cato holds on, his thumb brushing over Peeta's knuckles. There's no need for words. Just this—just the closeness, the comfort, the silent understanding between them.
For the first time in hours, Cato feels his body relax, the tension slowly melting away. His grip on Peeta's hand doesn't loosen, even as sleep finally claims him.
By the time Effie Trinket comes knocking, her cheery voice cutting through the quiet, he is already awake, staring blankly at the ceiling, realizing that Peeta is no longer beside him.
"Rise and shine, darling! Big, big, big day ahead!" Effie sings as she enters the room, her voice all sugary excitement.
Cato groans, sitting up, rubbing his face as if trying to shake the remnants of sleep away. He barely has time to gather his thoughts before Effie is bustling him into the dining area, where a steaming bowl of hot grain and stew waits. He has about five minutes to eat before his prep team descends.
"The crowd loved you!" Samuel gushes, his hands already fussing over Cato's clothes, smoothing them out, as Eros touches up his hair. Their voices merge into one long stream of Capitol excitement and flattery. Cato doesn't need to respond; he just nods, giving them a few tired smiles.
When Angel arrives, he waves off the prep team, taking over the finishing touches himself. He dresses Cato in a white, gauzy suit paired with soft brown shoes, his fingers quick and deliberate as he adjusts Cato's makeup until he's practically glowing under the lights.
As Angel works, they exchange small talk, meaningless chatter about the day ahead. But Cato can't shake the weight pressing down on him—the feeling of eyes watching, always watching, monitoring his every move. He wants to ask Angel what's really going on, to spill the frustration and unease sitting like a stone in his chest, but he doesn't. Not now. Not here, with the Capitol's eyes and ears always lurking.
He keeps his thoughts to himself, smiling faintly as Angel steps back, admiring his work.
"Perfect," Angel says softly, a hint of pride in his voice.
Cato nods, forcing himself to relax. But that tightness remains, that gnawing feeling of being trapped, a prisoner in the Capitol's game. Waiting for judgment, waiting for the next move in a world where safety always feels just out of reach.
As Angel worked on the final adjustments to Cato's suit, Cato couldn't shake the thought that had been lingering in his mind. He glanced at Angel through the mirror, deciding to ask.
"Do you know anything about the wedding?" His voice was softer than intended.
Angel paused, meeting Cato's gaze through the reflection. "It's in three days," he said lightly. "Cornelia's been all over the place, but my fiancé is the one really making it happen. He's working tirelessly on a gown that'll be perfect for the occasion. Trust me, it's going to be a grand celebration."
Cato nodded, trying to absorb the idea of Snow's wedding looming over them. But it felt distant, disconnected from him, despite Cornelia's involvement. He hesitated a moment before asking, "And your wedding? Will it be the same?"
Angel chuckled softly, shaking his head. "No, not at all. I want something much smaller. Intimate, just close friends and family. Well, the ones who still care to attend," he added with a wry smile. "Some marriages don't always get the support you'd think."
Cato found himself smiling faintly. "That sounds… nice."
Angel's eyes softened. "I hope you get the same. Something that's real."
The mention of his own wedding—inevitable, haunting—sent a strange ripple of discomfort through Cato. "What are we supposed to do while they prepare for Snow's wedding?" he asked, wanting to steer away from his personal future.
Angel smirked, mischief flickering in his eyes. "Oh, Ms. Daytide has a whole itinerary planned for you and Peeta. She'll make sure you stay busy."
Then, leaning closer with a conspiratorial grin, he added, "But if I have my way, I might steal you both away for a bit. Show you the real Capitol. Not just the glitzy version they parade around."
Cato's laugh came out easier than expected. "I'd like that."
With the finishing touches complete, they made their way down the hall to where the interview would take place. The sitting room had been transformed—vases of red and pink roses surrounding the loveseat, their scent heavy in the air. Only a few cameras were present, which brought some relief, knowing at least there wouldn't be a live audience this time.
Caesar Flickerman arrived with his usual charm, pulling Cato into a warm hug. "Congratulations, Cato! How are you holding up?"
"Nervous," Cato admitted, managing a half-smile. "Not really good at these interviews."
"Don't be," Caesar said, patting his cheek reassuringly. "We're going to have a fabulous time."
Oh, Caesar, if only that were true, Cato thought, but the tension of knowing Snow was watching—perhaps already planning something—gnawed at him.
Then Peeta appeared, dressed sharply in red and white. He pulled Cato aside, his voice low and frustrated. "I barely get to see you," Peeta muttered. "Haymitch seems bent on keeping us apart."
Cato glanced around, aware of the Capitol's omnipresent ears. "Yeah," he agreed softly, "he's gotten very responsible these days." But they both knew Haymitch was just trying to keep them alive.
Peeta sighed, his expression softening. "Well, after this, and the wedding, we can go home. Then Haymitch can't hover over us all the time."
A strange shiver crept through Cato at the word "home," but there was no time to dwell on it. They were called to start the interview. They sat somewhat formally on the loveseat, but Caesar waved a hand, flashing his familiar, charismatic smile. "Go ahead and curl up next to him if you want. It looked very sweet the last time."
Peeta didn't hesitate. He leaned into Cato, pulling him closer. The warmth of his body felt like a shield, a comfort, as they settled in. The cameras rolled, and the interview began.
Caesar, as always, was perfect—teasing, joking, shifting the mood effortlessly. He already had a natural rapport with Peeta, and Cato let the two of them take the lead, content to smile and nod, only speaking when absolutely necessary. But eventually, Caesar steered the conversation toward Cato, pushing him into the spotlight.
"Well, Peeta," Caesar started with a grin, "we all know from the cave that it was love at first sight for you, wasn't it? From the Tribute Center?"
Peeta didn't miss a beat, smiling warmly. "From the moment I saw him."
Caesar turned to Cato, his grin widening. "But, Cato, the real excitement was watching you fall for him. When did you realize you were in love?"
Cato's heart skipped a beat. The question made him freeze for a moment, his mind racing. His hands fidgeted in his lap, buying time. "Oh, that's a hard one…" he said, his laugh coming out breathy. Help.
"Well, I remember when it hit me," Caesar offers kindly. "That night in the rain when you shouted Peeta's name."
Thank you, Caesar, Cato thinks, clinging to the lifeline. "Yeah, I guess that was it. Until then, I tried not to think about it. My feelings... they were confusing, and it only made things harder if I cared. But after that, everything changed."
Caesar leaned forward, encouraging more. "Why do you think that was?"
Cato hesitated, then the truth slipped out. "Maybe because, for the first time, there was a chance I could keep him."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Haymitch exhale with relief. Caesar, moved by the moment, dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief.
Peeta leaned in closer, pressing his forehead to Cato's temple. "So now that you've got me, what are you going to do with me?" he whispered.
Cato turned, their faces inches apart. "Put you somewhere you can't get hurt," he said softly.
His lips brushed against Peeta's, and the sigh that rose from the room was audible.
From there, Caesar guided the conversation toward the injuries they sustained in the arena. They talked about cuts and bruises, but the moment Caesar mentioned the mutts, Cato forgot the cameras were even there.
"How's the new leg working out, Peeta?" Caesar asked.
Peeta pulled up his pant leg, revealing the metal and plastic device. Cato hadn't seen it up close until now, and it hit him harder than he expected.
"Cato, you look surprised?" Caesar asked gently.
Cato shook his head, words escaping him.
"I haven't had time to show him," Peeta explained with a small shrug.
"It's my fault," Cato said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't stop Reef in time."
Peeta smiled softly. "It's your fault I'm alive."
"He's right," Caesar chimed in. "Reef or Luna might've killed him if you hadn't acted so quickly."
Cato nodded but felt the weight of it all pressing down, and for a moment, he thought he might cry. Instead, he buried his face in Peeta's shirt, inhaling the familiar scent of vanilla and chamomile. The comfort of Peeta's presence calmed him, and it took a few minutes for Caesar to coax him back out.
Finally, Caesar asked the question that everyone was waiting for.
"Cato, I know this is a lot, but I have to ask—when Peeta pulled your sword to his throat, what was going through your mind?"
Cato paused, feeling the weight of the moment. He could challenge the Capitol, but instead, Peeta spoke the simple, raw truth.
"I don't know," he whispered. "I just… couldn't bear the thought of being without him."
Caesar nodded, then turned to Cato. "Cato? Anything to add?"
Cato's gaze never left Peeta. "No. I think that goes for both of us."
With that, Caesar wrapped up the interview. The room filled with laughter and hugs, but Cato stayed quiet, unsure if he had done enough.
Finally, when he reached Haymitch, he whispered, "Okay?"
Haymitch smiled, his eyes softening. "Perfect."
