-* Aftermath. Day 10. Intermission. *
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of relentless photo ops. Cameras flash rapidly, capturing Cato and Peeta from every possible angle. The lights are blinding and disorienting, and before long, Cato's vision is dotted with spots. His head pounds from the constant barrage, and his face aches from the forced smiles he's had to maintain.
By early evening, when they finally wrap up, he feels utterly drained. But there's no reprieve. They head straight to dinner with their prep teams and escorts. The dining room is a whirl of laughter and conversation, mostly from Eros, Gabriel, and Samuel. Their exaggerated gestures and animated chatter about fashion and Capitol gossip fill the space like an over-the-top show. Everything they do feels performative, designed to keep the energy light, to drown out the weight of reality.
Cato watches them with mild detachment, his body at the table but his mind elsewhere. The plate of roasted loin in front of him looks delicious, perfectly cooked, but every bite feels tasteless. There's a dullness in his senses now, like he's trapped beneath the surface of something he can't quite touch. So many unanswered questions swirl in his mind—about Peeta, the Capitol, and everything they've endured. But nothing can be spoken aloud.
He drinks his wine silently, feeling its warmth spreading through his veins but doing little to settle the unease that simmers beneath the surface.
At some point during dinner, Cato hears murmurs about Seneca Crane's death. The news floats through the room like any other casual gossip—delivered in an offhanded, almost dismissive way. The official story is that Crane had suffered from depression, that he had taken his own life after the Games.
Cato doesn't react outwardly, but a cold certainty settles inside him. He knows it's a lie. Seneca Crane wasn't depressed. If anything, Crane had made a fortune off the bets he placed, riding high on the twisted excitement of the Games. The man had overseen the very arena that turned Cato and Peeta into victors.
No, Crane didn't die by his own hand. The Capitol had taken care of him. It's what they do to those who fail, to those who no longer serve their purpose. It's their way of maintaining control—removing the inconvenient, silencing those who challenge the narrative.
As the others around him murmur about Crane, shock and sadness rippling through the conversation, Cato keeps his expression neutral. His fingers tighten around the stem of his wine glass, but he doesn't let his mask slip. He knows the weight of the unspoken threat hanging over him, and he knows, without a doubt, that if he isn't careful, his fate could easily mirror Crane's.
After dinner, the mood shifts as a medical attendant and nurse from the hospital arrive to fit Cato and Peeta with their new prosthetics. They lead Cato to Katniss's room, where the walls flicker with holographic images of a serene forest. Cato removes his shirt, revealing the temporary appendage that has served as a stand-in for his missing arm. The cool air touches his skin, but what lingers most is the phantom sensation of his absent fingers—a constant reminder of what's been lost, as though he could still move them.
The nurse and attendant work in silence, their hands practiced as they carefully detach the temporary appendage. The cold metal is removed, leaving behind the healed stump, though it remains concealed. The nurse assures him that everything has healed well, but her words barely reach him. Cato's thoughts are elsewhere, distant, lost in the haze of memories, as they prepare him for the next step.
"This one is top of the line," the nurse explains as she attaches the new prosthetic. Silicon flesh covers most of it, making it look almost real—except for the joints, where the metallic skeleton peeks through. "It'll take a few weeks for it to integrate with your nerves, but you should regain some feeling."
Cato stares at the arm, nodding absentmindedly. "Peeta's getting the same treatment?"
"Yes," the nurse replies, applying a numbing gel to his arm. He watches, waiting for the expected pain as the pins are inserted into his bicep to secure the prosthetic, but he feels nothing. Instead of pain, there's just a strange, empty detachment.
The new arm clicks into place with soft, mechanical sounds. Cato is told to move his fingers, to test his grip, and clench his fist. He watches as his new fingers respond perfectly, but they feel... foreign. Hollow. There's no sensation, no connection. It's unsettling how precise and efficient it is, and yet it feels like a part of him is still missing. The absence of feeling gnaws at him, a quiet disappointment.
The nurse and attendant finish up and leave, their task complete. Cato pulls his shirt back on, the weight of the prosthetic heavier in his mind than on his arm. The nurse's words—it'll take time—echo in his head, but they offer little comfort.
He heads downstairs, and as soon as he steps out, he's greeted by a familiar, sarcastic voice.
"Going somewhere, Romeo?" Haymitch is leaning casually against the banister at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed like he's been expecting this. He's blocking Peeta's door like a bouncer at some Capitol club. "No conjugal visits tonight."
Cato sighs, frustration bubbling up. "I just want to see Peeta," he says, not bothering to hide his irritation.
Haymitch gives him a knowing look, raising an eyebrow. "And you'll see him tomorrow," he says, barely moving from his spot. "Go to bed. Try not to sneak out, though I know you'll try."
Cato sighs again, more dramatically this time, and trudges back inside his room. He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning as the hours crawl by. Sleep doesn't come easily, his mind tangled in thoughts.
Eventually, unable to resist the urge any longer, he decides to sneak downstairs. He tiptoes through the hall, hoping to avoid another encounter with Haymitch. But as he reaches the base of the stairs, he finds Haymitch sitting there like he's part of the furniture—whiskey bottle in one hand, today's paper in the other, and a chair pulled up like he's been there for hours.
Haymitch doesn't even bother to look up. "Well, well, well," he drawls, his voice laced with amusement. "If it isn't the sneaky lovebird. You know, I could use a little more effort here. At least try to keep me guessing."
Cato groans, rubbing a hand over his face. "You really don't sleep, do you?"
"Not when I've got two star-crossed lovers sneaking around like teenagers at a slumber party," Haymitch replies, smirking as he flips the page of the paper. "Now go back to bed before I decide to actually do my job and lock you in."
Cato throws his hands up in defeat. "Fine. You win."
Haymitch raises his whiskey bottle in mock victory. "Good night, kid. Don't let the Capitol bugs bite."
With another resigned sigh, he shifts back into his room. The exhaustion from the day, the weight of the prosthetic, and the constant watchful presence of Haymitch pressing down on him. He collapses into bed, staring up at the ceiling again, hoping that sleep will finally claim him—even if it's a restless one.
When Ophelia Daytide makes a plan, she really commits. That's the first thing Cato thinks when he sees the 11-item itinerary, she's printed out for them on pastel-colored paper. At least it's scented like oranges.
He reads over the bullet points, each one more over-the-top than the last. Capitol Skyline Gardens. Futuristic Fashion District. The Hall of Past Victors. A never-ending parade of lavish destinations and weird, Capitol-centric indulgences. It's so extra that it makes him tired just looking at it.
Ophelia beams at them as if she's just handed over the sacred roadmap to the most glamorous weekend ever, which... okay, she probably thinks she has. Meanwhile, Cato's stomach is sinking at the thought of parading around like Capitol dolls for days.
Then Haymitch shows up.
Angel and Portia finally make their appearance too, fashionably late, of course. Cinna, calm and collected as ever, hands Haymitch a bottle of water and a pill, likely something to ease the headache from whatever hangover Haymitch has been nursing. Meanwhile, Angel is already fussing with the wrinkles in Haymitch's suit, straightening his jacket like he's trying to make him presentable.
Haymitch glances at the itinerary and his face contorts into a mix of disbelief and barely concealed horror.
"Well, aren't we living the high life," he mutters, fishing a pen out from the pocket of his rumpled suit. Without even bothering to sit down, he starts crossing out items on the list. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
Cato watches as Haymitch casually knocks off everything that sounds remotely exhausting or pretentious. Capitol Skyline Gardens? Gone. Virtual Hunger Games Arena? Nope. The Exotic Zoo of Panem? Not happening.
Ophelia's face falls, her perfect Capitol composure cracking slightly as she watches her meticulously planned dream day turn to dust in Haymitch's hands.
"Excuse me, but that was carefully curated!" she says, her voice sharp, cutting through the air like one of the Capitol's pristine sculptures.
Haymitch barely looks up, still marking things off the list. "I just did you a favor, sweetheart," he drawls, his voice as dry as the paper he's vandalizing. "I took off the stuff that's boring."
Ophelia opens her mouth to retort, but Haymitch cuts her off with a wave of his hand, still holding the pen like a conductor in the middle of some disastrous symphony.
"Trust me, nobody needs to watch a glowing panther walk in circles or see liquid metal freeze in midair for three hours," he says with a grimace. "They can do that at home."
Cato can't help but bite back a laugh as Ophelia's frustration bubbles over. "Boring? BORING? The Capitol's finest attractions, boring?"
Haymitch shrugs nonchalantly. "Only if you like staying awake," he quips. Then, without even pausing for effect, he crumples the paper into a ball and tosses it to Cato. "There, now it's fun. You're welcome."
Ophelia looks like she's about to faint from sheer indignation, and Cato has to physically restrain himself from breaking into laughter. Even Peeta, who's been quietly watching this whole scene with bemused amusement, gives a half-smile.
Angel, still fussing over Haymitch's collar, finally steps in to smooth things over. "How about we meet in the middle?" he suggests, his tone sweet and diplomatic. "We could do some of the more... lively options and save the extravagant ones for later?"
Ophelia huffs, crossing her arms in defeat, though not without a dramatic eye roll. "Fine. But only because I'm so accommodating."
"Right," Haymitch mutters, pocketing the pen like a man who's just saved the day, his bottle of water in one hand. "Accommodating."
Cato shakes his head, grinning. He may not be looking forward to the Capitol's itinerary of nonsense, but at least with Haymitch in charge of vetoes, it might just be survivable.
They're escorted out of the visitor center to a pair of sleek black SUVs, paparazzi already swarming the area like flies around a carcass. Peacekeepers hold them back, acting as a human barricade against the relentless flashing cameras. Cato squints through the chaos, catching snippets of shouted questions and the snapping of pictures. Angel and Portia join them in the first SUV, while Haymitch is practically shoved into the second one by a flustered Ms. Trinket and a huffy Ophelia.
As the car pulls away, they drive down the Avenue of the Tributes, and Cato can't help but be thrown back to the parade—standing in that chariot, the deafening roar of the crowd, the way their cheers seemed to shake the ground. He still feels it, their voices echoing in the corners of his mind like ghosts.
The silence is finally broken by Angel, who turns in his seat with a smirk. "First stop on the list is the artisan district. I've got a friend who owes me a fitting, and you both need new suits for President Snow's wedding."
Cato, still caught in his own thoughts, responds more sharply than he intended. "Too busy to make them yourself?"
Angel waves the jab off, clearly unbothered. "Actually, yes. Keeping you two entertained is a hands-on job, and between all the interviews and magazine covers, I barely have time to breathe."
Cato raises an eyebrow. "Glad to see you've made it big."
Portia laughs softly from the front. "We all have. Thanks to you two."
They drive past a Peacekeeper checkpoint, the atmosphere in the car shifting slightly as Peeta looks out the window, frowning.
"What's going on?" he asks, his voice careful.
Portia glances back over her shoulder. "Just a precaution," she explains. "Our reporters want to capture you in more intimate moments. It's hard to do that with screaming fans."
Peeta's face tightens, and Cato can see the tension creeping into his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches ever so slightly.
Without saying a word, Cato slides his prosthetic hand over to Peeta's, letting their fingers brush together. The small gesture seems to work as Peeta's posture softens, his grip tightening around Cato's hand. They sit like that in silence until the car finally stops in front of an immense building on the corner of a busy street.
Angel and Portia step out first, their arms linked, as the reporters' snap photos of them. It's quieter now, more controlled, but the flashing cameras are still there, capturing every move like it's part of a grand performance.
Cato follows, stepping out of the SUV and holding his arm out for Peeta. Peeta steps down but stumbles slightly, his cane slipping on the pavement. His weight falls against Cato's chest, and for a brief moment, Cato's arms instinctively wrap around him to keep him steady.
"Thanks," Peeta mutters, his face flushing with embarrassment as he straightens himself, using the cane for support. The cameras go wild for it, of course, a picture-perfect moment of vulnerability and strength.
But for Cato, the moment is far from perfect. His stomach churns as he helps Peeta find his balance. Their wounds—visible and invisible—will always be on display and be exploited for the Capitol's entertainment.
They walk hand-in-hand toward the building, the flashing cameras fading behind them as they pass through the door. The interior is awash in warm light from a grand, golden chandelier hanging above, casting a glow over the fur-clad mannequins that lined the entry. Everything here screamed Capitol luxury.
Angel and Portia embrace a woman waiting for them—her face striped with tattoos, her nose flattened, and some of the longest whiskers Cato had ever seen on a Capitol citizen. She prowled forward like a tiger, her sharp eyes gleaming as her fingers grazed across Cato's face, studying him like he was a canvas yet to be painted.
When she finally turned her sights on Peeta, he stiffened, visibly overwhelmed by her presence. Her gaze lingered for a moment before she sighed, clearly unimpressed.
"You're asking a large favor of me, Angel," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "I usually don't waste my time designing something so… mundane."
Angel chuckled, running his fingers through the furs on a nearby mannequin and arranging them in a way that made them look even more opulent. "Oh, I'm well aware, Tigiris. But seeing as how it's your favorite cousin's special day, I know you'll oblige us."
The corner of her mouth lifted in a reluctant smile, though Cato could sense the simmering irritation beneath it.
"Fine," she muttered, stepping back from Peeta and gesturing toward the dressing rooms. "Let me take your measurements."
Cato and Peeta were led away, each to their own fitting room. It was clear they weren't meant to see each other until the big reveal. Tigiris, meticulous as ever, measured Cato to the finest detail, ensuring his tuxedo would fit perfectly. The suit was simple and understated—just a sleek black tuxedo. No Capitol glitz or glamor, no outrageous designs. Just clean lines and classic tailoring.
As he waited for Peeta's fitting to finish, Cato found himself lost in thought. His reflection in the mirror was familiar, yet foreign at the same time. The man staring back at him felt like a version of himself he barely recognized. Everything felt different now. The Games, the Capitol—it had stripped him down, piece by piece. He wondered if there was even a part of the old Cato left, or if he'd been swallowed by this new life entirely.
Angel returned before he could dwell too long, straightening Cato's bow tie.
"Let's go,' he said, his voice soft but insistent.
In the main room, Portia entered with Peeta, dressed in a matching black tuxedo. For a brief moment, Cato couldn't move. Peeta looked incredible—the tux fit him perfectly, accentuating his muscular frame, and even the cane couldn't detract from his presence. Cato's breath caught in his throat, and for a second, all the day's tension faded away.
Angel grinned, clearly amused. "Well?" he prompted, teasingly. "What do you think?"
Cato blinked, pulling himself from his daze. "I... uh, I like it," he stammered, his face flushing warmly.
Peeta smirked, his blue eyes dancing with amusement. "You clean up pretty well yourself," he said, taking a few steps closer, leaning on his cane.
Without thinking, Cato closed the gap between them, pulling Peeta into a kiss. For that brief moment, everything else disappeared. The cameras, the Capitol, the Games—it all melted away. It was just them, their lips meeting in the quiet, shared space they had somehow carved out.
A loud, exaggerated cough broke the spell.
They turned to find Haymitch standing a few feet away, fiddling with one of the furs draped over a mannequin, while Ophelia and Ms. Trinket swooned in the background, cooing over them like proud mothers.
"Hate to break up the love fest," Haymitch drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "but we've got places to be. Some of us aren't getting paid to stand around making goo-goo eyes."
Cato groaned inwardly, reluctantly pulling away from Peeta. There was always something on the agenda, always somewhere they had to be. But as he glanced at Peeta, still close by his side, he figured that maybe—just maybe—they could steal a few more moments like this along the way. Moments that were just theirs, away from the Capitol's gaze.
After leaving Tigris' shop, they continued down the bustling street, navigating between lavish boutiques and vibrant market stalls. Ophelia led the way with unwavering enthusiasm, her voice cutting through the hum of the crowd as she insisted they admire every piece—from gaudy antiques to cutting-edge fashion.
Cato trailed behind, his attention drifting until a glint from a display case caught his eye—a pair of simple rings, silver bands with intricate patterns etched along the sides. For a fleeting moment, he toyed with the idea of buying them, imagining how they might look on Peeta's hand. But he quickly dismissed the thought. There were too many unanswered questions between them, too many unresolved issues. And with everything else hanging over their heads, now wasn't the time.
Their group eventually made its way to a quaint café for lunch, Ophelia gesturing animatedly as they were led to a private, sunlit terrace. The paparazzi snapped a few shots as they settled in, the cameras clicking just long enough to capture the perfect image of the victors enjoying a leisurely meal. Angel, beaming with pride, informed them that the café was one of the oldest establishments in the Capitol, steeped in tradition and exclusivity.
Cato couldn't help but wonder how much money had exchanged hands—or what threats had been made—to clear the place out for just them. The thought soured the food slightly despite the luxurious spread before them. Plates of cured meats, cheeses, and delicacies he'd never even heard of were placed on the table, all carefully arranged to look as extravagant as possible. But as he nibbled at the offerings, it all felt strangely bland, like the champagne he sipped without much thought. His palate, dulled by the weight of the Capitol's games, seemed to reject the richness of the meal.
He glanced at Haymitch, who had already polished off most of a bottle, ignoring the lively conversation happening around him. The prep team and escorts chattered away, gushing over the shops they had visited and the luxurious items they had ogled. It was all background noise to Cato.
Beside him, Peeta was fully immersed in the experience, sampling bread and pastries with wide-eyed curiosity, like a kid in a candy store. Each new dish seemed to fascinate him, his face lighting up with genuine excitement. At one point, Peeta tore off a piece of a sweet roll, the curls of brown sugar and cinnamon glistening under a layer of sweet cream, offering it to Cato.
"Try this," Peeta said, his voice warm, his eyes sparkling with joy.
Cato accepted, chewing slowly and nodding in approval. The sweetness was rich and comforting, but the taste barely registered compared to the warmth of the gesture.
He knew he should be enjoying this more. There was so much to appreciate—so many fleeting moments of peace and indulgence. But the weight of the coming days pressed down on him, creeping into his thoughts. He forced a small smile, trying to shake off the dread in his chest.
Cato chewed thoughtfully, watching Peeta as he reached for another pastry. Peeta's joy was almost infectious, but Cato couldn't shake the shadow hanging over him. He swallowed, then raised an eyebrow at Peeta.
"Do you even know what half of this stuff is?" Cato asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Peeta laughed, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "Not really, but does it matter? It's food. And it's free." He popped a piece of fruit into his mouth and shrugged. "Might as well enjoy it."
Cato leaned back in his chair, glancing at the extravagant spread before them. "I'm glad to see you're enjoying yourself. Must be nice,"
Peeta's expression softened for a moment, but then he smiled again, this time gentler.
"Who knows when we'll get to sit down at a table like this again?" He gestured around them. "Might as well appreciate the small stuff while we can."
Cato scoffed, though there was no real edge to it. "You're way too optimistic for your own good, you know that?"
Peeta chuckled and nudged him with his elbow. "Maybe, but someone has to be."
Cato was quiet for a beat, watching the ease with which Peeta smiled. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so at peace, if ever. Peeta made it look effortless, as if the Capitol's chaos hadn't scarred him as deeply as it had Cato.
Peeta offered him another piece of pastry, this time a flaky, golden square drizzled with honey. "Come on, just one more. You can't scowl your way through dessert."
Cato huffed, shaking his head, but he took the offering anyway. "I don't scowl."
Peeta grinned, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Yeah, sure. And I'm not stubborn."
"You're definitely stubborn," Cato shot back, a rare smile creeping onto his face.
"And you definitely scowl," Peeta teased, his voice soft and warm. "But I think I'm getting used to it."
Cato met Peeta's eyes, and for a moment, everything else faded into the background. "You're impossible, you know that?" he muttered, though there was no real bite to his words.
Peeta's smile grew, bright and genuine. "I've been called worse."
Cato shook his head, but he couldn't suppress the smile that tugged at his lips. "I bet you have."
Peeta's eyes glimmered with amusement as he leaned in closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "And I bet you've called me worse."
Cato gave him a sideways glance, playing along. "Oh, definitely. In my head. Many times."
Peeta laughed, his shoulders shaking lightly. "Glad I'm keeping you on your toes."
The warmth between them was palpable, and for a brief moment, Cato let himself forget about everything—the Capitol, the Games, the looming weight of the coming days. Right now, it was just him and Peeta enjoying the simple pleasure of sharing bites of too-sweet pastries.
"You know," Cato said, leaning back in his chair, his tone light and teasing, "you could've made a killing in the Capitol. The whole 'innocent baker boy with a sweet tooth' act? They'd eat it up."
Peeta raised an eyebrow, feigning shock. "Innocent? Have you been paying attention at all?"
Cato snorted. "Okay, slightly less innocent, but still. They'd love it. You'd have people lining up to feed you."
Peeta chuckled, popping another piece of fruit into his mouth. "Guess I missed my calling."
Cato's gaze softened as he watched Peeta laugh again, the light from the hanging lanterns catching in his eyes. There was something about Peeta that always seemed to find the good, even in moments like this—amidst all the weight of everything hanging over their heads. It wasn't just optimism; it was hope. It was infectious.
"You know," Peeta said after a moment, his tone casual but his eyes locking onto Cato's, "I think you're getting the hang of this."
"Of what?" Cato asked, raising an eyebrow.
Peeta smiled, softer this time, almost shy. "This… us. Being normal, having fun. Just… being."
Cato felt his heart thump a little harder in his chest. He hadn't thought about it like that, but Peeta was right. It was rare, this kind of ease between them, the chance to exist without the weight of survival pressing down on them.
"Don't get used to it," Cato said, his voice low but affectionate. "I'm not exactly the 'fun' type."
Peeta's grin turned playful as he nudged Cato's foot under the table. "Oh, I don't know. I think you've got potential."
Cato rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched up in a grin despite himself. "Yeah, well, don't tell anyone. It'll ruin my reputation."
Peeta leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Your secret's safe with me."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the clinking of dishes and murmured conversations filling the air around them. For a moment, the world outside seemed to disappear—the Capitol, the Games, the weight of everything they'd been through. It was just the two of them, sitting in this rare pocket of peace, sharing a quiet meal and the kind of silence that didn't need to be filled with words.
Next, they're loaded into sleek black SUVs, the engines purring as they glide through the streets of the Capitol. The vibrant heart of the city begins to fade as they head toward its far edge, where towering skyscrapers give way to a different kind of opulence. Their destination looms ahead—a grand museum, its facade a shimmering blend of marble and glass that reflects the sky like an ethereal monument.
The museum, they're told, holds works from long-forgotten eras, relics of a time before the Great War when nations existed independently, and the Capitol was nothing more than a fledgling idea. The cost of admission is staggering—more money than Cato can even fathom—but they're granted an exclusive tour, ushered through the private entrance as if they belong among the elite.
Inside, the air is cool and still, the silence only broken by the hushed footsteps of their group and the occasional murmur from their guide. They walk through the exhibits, each one more exquisite than the last, the guide offering snippets of history and knowledge as they pass. The artwork spans centuries, and many of the pieces are unfamiliar to Cato—masterpieces he'd only ever read about in the scarce history books of District 2, or in some cases, not at all.
He can't help but feel a flicker of suspicion. There's so much the Capitol keeps hidden from them, so much they've been deliberately denied. He imagines the gaps in his education and the knowledge withheld from people like him, all part of a larger plan to keep them docile and obedient. To keep them from questioning and understanding what the world once was.
As they move from room to room, Cato watches Peeta more than the art. Peeta examines each painting with quiet reverence, his eyes tracing the flow of every brushstroke, studying the details with an artist's appreciation. There's a light in his expression, something deeply engaged, as though he's trying to absorb the soul of each piece.
"Maybe your artwork will be in here one day," Cato remarks, his voice soft as they stand before a massive oil painting of a distant field.
Peeta's lips press into a thin line, and he shakes his head. "No, I don't think so."
Cato raises an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "Why not? They're great."
Peeta glances at him, then back at the painting, his eyes thoughtful. "I wouldn't want them somewhere where everyone couldn't see them," he replies quietly.
Cato falls silent, taking in Peeta's words. There's a truth in them that sinks deep—an unspoken understanding that Peeta's art, like the world they've fought for, belongs to everyone, not just the select few who can afford to bask in luxury. The art here, while beautiful, feels distant and untouchable, locked away behind marble walls and Capitol control.
The afternoon drifts into early evening as they leave the gallery behind and make their way to the Capitol's grand aquarium next door. Cato hadn't expected to be so taken aback by its sheer scale. Towering glass tanks hold creatures he's never seen before—massive, luminous fish, delicate jellyfish that pulse like living lanterns, and strange, otherworldly beings that seem to glide effortlessly through the water. He should be fascinated like Peeta is, but instead, a heavy feeling starts to press down on his chest.
The sight of so much water brings back the memory of the arena, and the near-drowning incident starts to overwhelm him. He can't shake the image of water rising, filling his lungs. The room feels like it's closing in, the air growing thicker, and his pulse quickens as if he's right back in that moment, struggling for breath.
It's too much. He stops abruptly, leaning against a railing for support, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts. His vision blurs at the edges, the people around him disappearing into a fog. He can feel his face flush with embarrassment as he struggles to breathe.
Peeta's voice cuts through the haze, concerned and gentle. "Cato, what's wrong?"
Cato forces a word out, barely a whisper. "Water."
Haymitch, standing nearby, takes one look at Cato and understands instantly. He glances toward Ophelia with a slight nod. "I think we'll skip the zoo," he says dryly, his voice light but knowing. "I'm suddenly famished."
Angel, ever quick to adapt, nods. "There's a rooftop restaurant over on Madison and Marquette that's positively divine," he quips, offering a seamless diversion.
Cato pulls himself together as they usher him out of the aquarium. Once he's back in the SUV with Peeta and their stylists, Cato exhales shakily, turning toward Peeta.
"Thank you," he whispers, the moment's heavy weight on his chest. "I almost drowned in the arena... being back there just—" His voice trails off.
Angel and Portia, aware of the tension, chat quietly among themselves in the front, giving Cato and Peeta a brief reprieve from the Capitol's omnipresent eyes. Peeta squeezes his hand, grounding him.
"It's okay," he says softly.
But deep down, Cato knows it's not okay. There's so much beneath the surface that words can't quite reach.
The drive back to downtown is short. The streets are bustling with people heading home or out for the night. It feels like the city never sleeps. As they pull up to their next stop, Cato realizes Angel had left out a key detail—the restaurant is perched atop Capitol Couture, the Capitol's most prominent fashion magazine.
It's immediately clear that no one was expecting them. A crowd gathers around the SUVs, pushing forward as security tries to hold them back. They slip past the throngs of people and into the building's elevators, but Angel and Portia hold Cato and Peeta back, keeping them from the main group.
"Go ahead," Angel says, giving Haymitch, Ophelia, and Ms. Trinket a mischievous smile. "We'll catch the next one up."
Haymitch smirks knowingly. "Don't take too long," he says, hitting the button to send them up.
Once the elevator doors close, Angel and Portia share a look before pressing a button with a small star at the bottom. The elevator hums as it starts descending.
Cato glances at Peeta, then back to Angel. "Where are we going?" he asks, curiosity creeping into his voice.
Angel grins slyly. "Someplace... a bit more fun. But first, let's make you both a little more casual. You'll blend in better."
Angel and Portia remove their jackets without hesitation, passing them to an attendant who steps into the elevator as they hit the bottom floor. Cato and Peeta follow suit, shedding the formality as the doors open, leading them into a dimly lit service tunnel.
The unfamiliar space makes Cato's instincts flare. His hand tightens around Peeta's as they move through the tunnel, the unease in his chest growing. Angel glances back at them with a smile. "Keep up, boys."
They push through a set of double doors, stepping out into an alleyway before rounding a corner. Suddenly, the atmosphere shifts. The air is warm, filled with the scent of street food and the low hum of conversation. A vibrant open market stretches before them, food stalls and bars lining the street, bustling with locals who laugh and drink in the fading evening light.
Angel leads the way, his stride confident, while Portia links arms with him, laughing as they grab drinks from a passing tray.
"Try this," Angel says, offering Cato and Peeta glasses filled with a bright pink liquid.
Cato takes a sip, surprised by the sweetness that washes over his tongue—watermelon, with a hint of alcohol that lingers afterward. It's refreshing, cutting through the heat of the crowded street. He undoes the top button of his shirt, feeling more at ease as they wander from stall to stall, sampling food and drinks with a freedom they haven't felt in ages. There are no cameras, no Capitol fanfare—just the occasional onlooker who gawks at them in recognition.
Despite the peace, Cato can tell the stall owners know exactly who they are. There's a deference in the way they speak to them, a careful politeness that reminds him they're still very much in the Capitol's spotlight. But the warmth of the evening, the buzz of alcohol, and the laughter surrounding them make it easier to ignore.
Angel eventually guides them to a small, nondescript building at the end of the market. "A real hole in the wall," he calls it with a smirk.
Peeta, ever earnest, frowns in confusion. "Why would we want to go to a place with a hole in the wall?"
The entire group burst into laughter, the tension melting away as they enter the building. The neon sign above the door glows softly in the twilight, spelling out a single word: Euphoria.
As they step inside, the atmosphere immediately shifts. The lively energy is palpable, filled with laughter and music that reverberates through the air. As they head upstairs, they pass a small stage where a bearded man in a wig and an extravagant gown lip-syncs passionately to a song Cato doesn't recognize, though the crowd is fully immersed, cheering and dancing with wild abandon as if it's the best performance they've ever seen.
The soft glow of ambient lighting casts warm hues across plush, velvet-lined booths, and the scent of spices and incense lingers in the air, adding a touch of mystery to the space. Though bustling, the room still maintains a sense of privacy—no one seems to stare too long or pry.
Angel leads them to a cozy, semi-private booth upstairs, still smirking from Peeta's earlier confusion. "Now the real fun begins," he teases, sliding into the booth first.
Cato follows, sinking into the velvet seat, feeling it swallow him in its softness. Peeta takes the spot next to him, close enough that their legs brush. The casual contact is comforting. Cato doesn't pull away, and Peeta, looking almost relieved, leans in a little more.
Portia flags down a server, ordering something not even listed on the menu. Soon, a tray of brightly colored drinks appears before them, each one glowing softly, like captured starlight swirling in crystal glasses.
"To a night without cameras," Angel says with a grin, raising his glass in a mock toast.
Cato lifts his drink and takes a sip. The incredible sweetness lingers on his tongue, but there's a sharp bite underneath that makes his chest warm. He leans back into the booth, letting the alcohol ease some of the tension he's been carrying. Peeta nudges him playfully, his lips curving into a small smile.
"You're relaxing," Peeta notes softly, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
Cato chuckles, glancing over at him. "Maybe you're rubbing off on me."
Peeta's quiet laughter is contagious, making Cato's heart stutter. The soft glow of the room, the laughter from the tables below, and the way Peeta is looking at him—it all feels so distant from the Capitol's ever-watchful eye. For once, it feels like they can breathe, like they can be.
More drinks arrive, and Angel and Portia keep the mood light, teasing and telling stories that have everyone laughing. Cato finds himself more at ease, even cracking a few sarcastic remarks.
Angel grins at him. "Didn't know you had such wit, Cato. Thought you were all brooding looks and brute strength."
Cato snorts. "I can multitask."
Portia leans forward, raising an eyebrow. "So, you do have hidden talents. And here I thought Peeta was the only one surprising us tonight."
Peeta, laughing, reaches for another drink, but his hand brushes against Cato's as they both go for the same glass. Their fingers linger for a moment longer than necessary, neither pulling away. Cato feels a warmth that has nothing to do with the alcohol as he intertwines their hands beneath the table.
"So," Portia asks, leaning forward with a mischievous smile. "What do you two think? A little different from the Capitol fanfare, huh?"
Peeta nods eagerly. "I like it. It's… real. Definitely different."
Cato smirks, glancing around the room. "It's a nice change of pace. Better than another interview, for sure."
Angel laughs, throwing an arm around Portia's shoulders. "Exactly. No cameras, no Capitol nonsense—just this. Enjoy it while you can."
And for once, Cato does. He lets himself relax, soaking in the moment. The noise of the outside world fades, and all that matters is the closeness of Peeta next to him, the warmth of their hands clasped beneath the table.
Trays of food arrive soon after—spiced meats, fragrant rice, and flatbread so soft it almost melts in his mouth. The rich aroma fills the air, but as they dig in, Cato notices Peeta, eyes widening in shock, taking a bite of something far too spicy.
Peeta's mouth falls open as he fans his face frantically. "Oh—oh my God, what is that?!" His voice comes out hoarse, as if the heat has stunned him into silence.
Angel bursts into laughter, doubling over as he watches Peeta struggle. "You found the hot sauce!" he cackles, pointing.
Cato can't stop laughing as he hands Peeta the glass of water. "You're supposed to eat it, not set your mouth on fire, genius."
Peeta takes the glass eagerly, gulping down the water, his eyes still watering. "I feel like I just licked a volcano," he mutters, but a playful smirk pulls at the corners of his mouth.
Everyone around the table erupts into laughter, the day's tension dissipating completely. The warmth, the humor—it's something Cato didn't realize he missed so much. He leans closer to Peeta, their shoulders pressing together, and the weight on his chest lifts for the first time in a long while, if only for a moment.
"You'll survive," Cato teases softly, his voice warm.
Peeta grins through his embarrassment, still catching his breath from the spice. "Barely," he repeats, his voice rough, but a twinkle in his eye tells Cato it's more than just the heat from the food.
And just like that, in the glow of the booth with Peeta beside him and the laughter echoing around them, Cato feels a fleeting sense of normalcy—something real, something theirs.
The evening stretches on as more drinks arrive, their soft pink and purple glow casting a dreamy light, like holding bottled twilight in their hands. Cato feels the alcohol loosening his tightly wound thoughts, and for the first time in ages, the ever-present weight on his shoulders doesn't seem so heavy.
"Shouldn't we be heading back soon?" Cato asks eventually, his mind briefly flickering to Ophelia and the inevitable search party she'd deploy if they were out too long.
Angel smirks, swirling the glowing liquid in his glass before taking a slow sip. "Relax. We'll catch up with them soon enough," he says, waving a hand dismissively. He nods toward the small stage below, where the spotlight is shifting. "Besides, the real show's about to begin."
Peeta, always curious, leans closer, his brow furrowed. "What kind of show?"
Cato instinctively wraps his arm around Peeta, his prosthetic hand resting against his shoulder as the warmth of Peeta's body presses into his side. His touch leaves his skin feeling hot as he unbuttons another button from his shirt.
Portia, with a glint of mischief in her eyes, leans forward. "Oh, trust me, this is a Capitol classic. You're going to love it."
Angel rolls his eyes in mock annoyance, leaning back and crossing his legs dramatically. "They call it art," he says, voice dripping with exaggerated disdain. "But it's so much more than entertainment."
The crowd begins to hush as if on cue, the woman on stage taking the microphone with a commanding presence. She steps into the spotlight adorned in a breathtaking, floor-length gown that seems to be made of liquid rubies. The fabric ripples like molten lava, shimmering with every move.
Her makeup is a marvel of Capitol opulence: eyes outlined with glittering red and black diamonds and impossibly long lashes curling like flames. Her lips are painted in the darkest shade of ruby, glistening with a metallic sheen, while her cheekbones are highlighted to look razor-sharp. She wears a massive headpiece shaped like a phoenix atop her ebony hair.
"Beautiful children of Euphoria," she purrs, her voice smooth as velvet. "I am your hostess, Vermillion Couture, and tonight, I want you to get those wallets ready as we welcome to the stage… the one, the only… Ms. Venoma Voxx!"
The room explodes with wild cheers, the energy infectious. The lights dim for a brief moment before the stage is bathed in a dramatic glow, revealing a performer dressed in a shimmering, snow-white gown that instantly reminds Cato of President Snow—but with a twist: a towering wig, bold makeup, and glittering sequins that reflect every light.
Cato's jaw drops, his brain struggling to make sense of the surreal scene. A drag version of Snow? The absurdity of it is overwhelming, but also undeniably entertaining. The performer, Ms. Venoma Voxx, strides across the stage, her scepter held high as she strikes pose after pose, soaking in the crowd's adoration.
Peeta doubles over in laughter, his face buried against Cato's chest as he tries to control his amusement. The sound of Peeta's laughter—free, unrestrained—vibrates through Cato, filling him with a warmth he hasn't felt in a long time.
Angel and Portia squeal with excitement, their eyes wide as they hang onto every exaggerated move and sassy flourish from Ms. Venoma Voxx.
"She's absolutely serving!" Angel exclaims, throwing his arm around Portia. "Snow wishes he had this much flair."
Portia laughs, pointing at the stage. "I'd pay to see this Snow eating like this a tribute parade. I would be absolutely gagged."
Cato can't help but chuckle at the ridiculousness of it all. "I mean… she's kind of terrifying," he mutters, glancing at Peeta. "But in the best way."
Peeta wipes away tears of laughter, his breath still hitching. "I can't believe this is happening," he says, his voice a mix of disbelief and glee.
Ms. Venoma Voxx struts confidently across the stage, twirling her scepter like a regal baton. The song playing is upbeat, and her lips sync to the lyrics with precision, her eyes glinting with mischief as she waves grandly to the audience. Every movement is exaggerated and extravagant, from her sweeping gestures to how she throws her head back in mock triumph. The crowd eats it up, clapping and cheering along with every beat.
Cato exchanges a glance with Peeta, both of them caught in a moment of shared disbelief and pure enjoyment. It's a strange feeling, finding joy in the Capitol's excess, but this—this is different. It feels harmless, even liberating.
"This might be the weirdest thing I've ever seen," Cato mutters, leaning in close to Peeta, his breath brushing against his ear.
Peeta tilts his head back, meeting Cato's gaze with a grin that's as bright as the lights on stage. "It's incredible," he whispers, his eyes gleaming with amusement. His laugh is soft but warm, filling the space between them with a quiet joy that Cato wishes he could hold onto forever.
As Ms. Venoma Voxx hits the final chorus, the crowd erupts into applause, credits and flowers raining down onto the stage as she takes a deep, dramatic bow. The applause is thunderous, and she soaks it in with a flair that only the Capitol could produce, blowing exaggerated kisses to the audience as she sashays offstage with a final, flamboyant wave.
"Worth every second," Portia says with a satisfied sigh, leaning back into the booth as the lights dim again.
Angel grins, finishing the last of his drink. "I told you," he says, his voice playful. "Capitol entertainment at its finest."
Cato shakes his head in disbelief, a grin tugging at his lips. The absurdity of the night, the unexpected lightness, feels like a reprieve from everything else weighing on them. Sitting there, with Peeta by his side, surrounded by laughter, glitter, and a little bit of Capitol madness, he realizes that, for once, he doesn't want to be anywhere else.
Peeta's hand squeezes his under the table, and Cato feels like the world outside can wait for the first time in a long while. For tonight, this is enough.
As more drinks continue to flow, Cato decides it's time to switch to water. He's reached that tipping point where the alcohol is making his self-control slip, and frankly, he can't keep his hands off Peeta. The blonde has practically plastered himself to Cato's side, his laughter bubbling out in soft bursts that make Cato's pulse race. Every time Peeta leans in, his scent—like cinnamon and something undeniably Peeta—hits Cato with a rush that sends heat straight to his core. His blood boils with want, but he forces himself to keep his hands where they belong, though it's getting harder by the second.
The shows have only grown more outrageous, each act topping the last with dramatic flair—performers swinging from giant, glittering wrecking balls to risqué flight attendants dancing on stage with suggestive winks. The entire crowd is swept up in the madness, and Cato can't help but get lost in it too.
Angel and Portia keep the atmosphere lively, their witty banter cutting through the haze of laughter and music. Every now and then, Portia leans over with a quick, teasing quip about Cato and Peeta's obvious chemistry, making Peeta blush and Cato roll his eyes.
Before long, Vermillion herself approaches their booth, her radiant presence drawing attention even in the dim lighting. She greets Angel and Portia first, planting kisses on each of their cheeks. "I thought I saw two old, sad Queens up in my rafters," she purrs, her voice dripping with exaggerated affection.
Angel doesn't miss a beat, his smile sharp. "Oh, honey, if we're sad Queens, what does that make you? Vintage?"
Portia lets out a cackle, swatting Angel's arm, while Vermillion laughs with them, clearly relishing the banter.
Then Vermillion's eyes land on Cato and Peeta, and she offers a grand, playful curtsey. "And it's my honor to have our star-crossed lovers in our midst tonight."
Cato, still buzzing from the drinks and Peeta's nearness, nods, smirking. "The show's been... eye-opening," he says, trying to keep his tone casual despite the way his skin feels like it's on fire.
Peeta, cheeks flushed from both alcohol and the closeness of Cato, grins widely. "It's been incredible. Honestly, I've never seen anything like it."
Vermillion's eyes twinkle with delight at their responses. "Good! That's exactly what I like to hear." She leans in just a bit closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "If there's anything you need, darlings, just say the word. Tonight, you two are my guests of honor."
Peeta blushes deeper, but smiles warmly. "Thank you. We're just enjoying the night."
Vermillion gives them both a wink, standing up to her full height once more. "Well, loves, keep enjoying yourselves. The night is still young."
With one last flourish, she glides away, leaving Cato and Peeta in their cozy corner. Cato's arm tightens slightly around Peeta, his fingers brushing the soft fabric of his shirt as the moment lingers between them.
"Guests of honor, huh?" Peeta murmurs, turning to look at Cato with a playful glint in his eye.
Cato shrugs, but his heart is pounding. "Guess that makes us special." He leans in just a little, his voice dropping. "But I already knew that."
Peeta's smile widens, and Cato can't help but think that, for this one night, the Capitol feels a lot less like the enemy and a lot more like freedom.
As the vibrant atmosphere inside Euphoria settles into a calm lull, the stage goes dark for intermission. The wild energy of the performances gives way to a quieter hum, and the patrons return to their booths and drinks, their excitement temporarily paused. Angel and Portia exchange a knowing glance before they excuse themselves, "We're going to powder our noses, darling," Portia says with a wink, linking arms with Angel. "And maybe smoke something fabulous."
"Don't get too bored without us," Angel adds with a smirk, waggling his fingers as they slip into the crowd, leaving Cato and Peeta alone at the booth.
Cato watches them go before turning his attention back to Peeta. The soft lighting bathes everything in a warm, intimate glow, and Cato can't help but notice the flush in Peeta's cheeks. Whether it's from the alcohol or the laughter, Cato isn't sure. He leans back into the velvet seat, eyes on Peeta.
"You know," Cato says with a lopsided grin, "I've never heard you laugh this much."
Peeta tips his head back slightly, his movements loose and easy with a slight buzz from the drinks. "I could say the same about you," Peeta teases, his grin warm and playful. "I don't think I've ever heard you laugh before. I like it."
Cato raises an eyebrow, smirking. "Even when I'm laughing at your misfortune?"
Peeta rolls his eyes playfully, nudging Cato with his shoulder. "Either way, it's perfect," he says, the words coming out without hesitation, his voice warm and sincere.
The air between them feels charged, thick with something that hasn't been said but has been lingering all night. Peeta shifts closer, his knee brushing against Cato's under the table. He glances up at him through his lashes, a soft, nervous smile on his lips. And then, as if drawn by an invisible force, Peeta leans in and presses his lips against Cato's.
His touch is sloppy at first, fueled by too much alcohol and too many stolen glances throughout the night. The moment Cato feels the warmth of Peeta's lips, and whatever fragile restraint he had left shatters. His hands grip Peeta's waist harder than intended, pulling him close, his balance swaying but not caring. Peeta stumbles into him, his fingers already in Cato's hair, tugging a little rougher than necessary, making Cato's blood boil.
Peeta's tongue is insistent, tracing his lips like it's a game, and Cato responds without thinking, his body acting on pure need. Their mouths crash together, messy and uncoordinated, the taste of alcohol sharp between them, but underneath, there's that sweetness—pineapple and something else that's all Peeta. It drives Cato wild, his head spinning from more than just the liquor.
Peeta's hand slides lower, brushing against Cato's thigh and tenting member. A groan slips out of Cato's mouth before he can stop it, louder than he intended. Peeta's breathless laugh against his lips sends a shiver down his spine, and then their tongues meet in a hot, frantic tangle.
Cato can't get enough, his hands roaming Peeta's back, pulling him tighter as if he could crawl inside his skin if he just held on hard enough. His hand dips below Peeta's waistband, squeezing the firm mound of flesh he could devour. Everything about this is fast, messy, and drenched in the hazy fog of drunken desire.
Peeta's fingers graze Cato's neck, sending sparks of sensation that make him gasp into the kiss, both of them breathless and stumbling. It's reckless and raw, their lips colliding again and again, hands wandering with no direction, just need. The world outside blurs, forgotten, as they lose themselves in each other, drowning in heat and desperation.
Then, without warning, a loud cough breaks through the haze.
Cato jerks back, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his lips swollen and tingling from the intensity of the kiss. His heart pounds in his chest as he glances up to see Haymitch standing at the foot of the booth, a drink in hand, and a look of pure amusement plastered across his face.
"Well, well, well," Haymitch drawls, taking a leisurely sip from his glass. "Glad to see you two are still alive and... very well, I see."
Cato's face flushes crimson, his stomach twisting with a mix of embarrassment and lingering desire as he pulls his hand from Peeta's pants. Peeta bites his lip, clearly trying to keep from laughing out loud, but his eyes are sparkling with amusement.
Haymitch gives them a once-over, raising his glass lazily in their direction. "Ms. Daytide's throwing a fit outside, in case you're wondering. Says she's 'concerned about your well-being.'" He smirks, his gaze flicking between them. "Not that I can see anything wrong."
Cato groans, sinking lower into his seat, while Peeta's quiet laughter spills out despite his best efforts to hold it in. Haymitch just shakes his head, looking far too entertained for Cato's comfort.
"Anyway," Haymitch continues with a dramatic sigh, "you might want to freshen up before heading back. Don't think the Capitol's ready for that version of the star-crossed lovers."
With a parting smirk, Haymitch turns on his heel and saunters back into the crowd, leaving them in stunned silence. Cato glances at Peeta, their faces still flushed, and suddenly, the absurdity of the moment hits them both.
Cato lets out a laugh, shaking his head. "I swear, that man lives to torment me."
Peeta grins, his head resting against Cato's shoulder. "He's definitely enjoying himself a little too much."
Cato lets out a long breath, rubbing his hand over his face in an attempt to shake off the embarrassment. He glances sideways at Peeta, who's still grinning, his cheeks flushed from both the kiss and trying to suppress his laughter.
"I swear," Cato mutters, "he gets way too much enjoyment out of this."
Peeta chuckles, his voice soft but full of mischief. "Maybe we're just his favorite form of entertainment."
Cato groans, dropping his head back against the booth. "I thought we were supposed to be the ones getting a break from all the attention tonight."
Peeta turns to him, his smile gentle now, less teasing. "Hey, if that's the worst thing that happens tonight, I'd say we're doing pretty well." He nudges Cato's foot with his own playfully. "Besides, I don't mind Haymitch getting a laugh at our expense. It was worth it."
Cato raises an eyebrow, looking over at Peeta with a slight smirk. "Even with him catching us like that?"
Peeta's smile softens. "Even then." He leans closer, their faces inches apart again. "I don't think anything could ruin this night for me."
For a moment, the world feels still again, the hum of the crowd fading as they hold each other's gaze. Cato's heart thuds in his chest, the warmth from Peeta's touch radiating through him. He can't help but smile, feeling lighter than he has in ages.
They leave Euphoria hand-in-hand, the warmth of the evening still buzzing between them as they step out into the cool night air. Angel and Portia wave them off from the dance floor, still caught up in the vibrant energy of the club. Cato shoots them a playful salute, watching as they fade into the colorful crowd behind them.
Inside the SUV, the mood shifts slightly. Ophelia sits across from them, arms crossed, her eyes narrowing in disapproval as she launches into a mini tirade. "Running off like that! What if something had happened? Do you have any idea how many reporters have been trying to get a shot of you two?"
But neither Cato nor Peeta is paying much attention. Instead, they exchange subtle glances, their hands still finding each other between whispered words. Every brush of their fingers feels like a stolen secret, and Cato smirks as Peeta's hand playfully lingers on his thigh. They barely stifle their laughter as Ophelia continues, too caught up in their own little world to care much about her lecture.
The playful mood lingers as they finally pull up to the Tribute Tower. They step out of the SUV, still walking close together, their shoulders brushing. Inside the building, Haymitch greets them with a weary look, clearly unimpressed with their late-night escapade.
"Alright, lovebirds," Haymitch mutters, gesturing toward the staircase. "You've got an early morning. Go to bed."
Ophelia trails off with Ms. Trinket, the two of them already enjoying a glass of wine, too absorbed in their conversation to care much anymore. Cato watches them disappear into the kitchen before turning to Peeta, their eyes meeting in the dim light of the loft.
Cato presses a soft kiss to Peeta's hand. "Goodnight," he whispers, his voice low and warm before pulling away to head upstairs to his room. Peeta gives him a soft smile, his eyes lingering on Cato as he ascends the steps.
Inside his room, Cato kicks off his shoes and strips out of his shirt, feeling the weight of the night's events settle into his muscles. He peels off his pants, letting them drop to the floor, and steps out of his socks before walking toward the bathroom. The thought of a hot shower sounds like the perfect end to the night.
But just as he's about to open the bathroom door, there's a firm knock at his room door.
Cato rolls his eyes, already guessing who it might be. "Don't worry, Haymitch," he calls out as he moves toward the door, "I'm staying in for the—"
He's cut off the moment he opens it, his words dying on his lips as Peeta stands in the doorway, eyes dark and filled with intent. Without a word, Peeta steps forward, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat.