A/N: Hey. I know the world is crazy right now, and no matter what I say, I can't change the flow of time. I just want my readers to know you're safe here. You are loved here. We will get through whatever storm comes our way. I hope my story gives you the escape you need, and that you find love and community in the times to come.
Your humble story-teller and LGBTQ+ ally/member,
FLUX
-* Aftermath. Day 11. Rehearsal. *
After eating, it wasn't long before Cato and Peeta found themselves descending the elevators of the Tribute Center, stepping into the chaotic scene that awaited them outside. A line of black SUVs stretched along the curb, with swarms of reporters held back by stoic Peacekeepers. Cato felt an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu, his mind flashing back to the day prior when they set off to explore this luxurious hell.
The cameras flashed like a frenzy of fireflies, but Cato kept his head down, his hand brushing against Peeta's as they made their way toward the waiting SUV. They climbed in silently, joined by Angel and Portia, who exchanged glances but said nothing as the vehicle pulled away from the center.
The ride through the Capitol was tense. Cato couldn't shake the feeling that something was off, though he didn't know what. His hand instinctively reached for Peeta's as they passed through a blockade of Peacekeepers, the buildings outside blurring together as they drove through the city's heart. He tried to focus on the comfort of Peeta's hand in his, but his mind kept flashing back to the uneasy sensation crawling up his spine.
When they finally arrived at the train station, Cato was struck by how empty it was. The vast hall, which should have been bustling with activity, lay eerily quiet. His mind flickered to the first time he'd set foot here, arriving with Clove, her sharp eyes filled with venom as she fought the withdrawal from Refrain. She had been so angry with him—angry at everything. He missed her, more than he realized.
But the melancholy feeling that weighed on his heart was quickly replaced by anxiety as they turned a corner. Peacekeepers—an entire garrison of them—lined the walls of the station. A lone video crew was setting up near the platform, cameras trained in the center of the room.
And there, standing in the middle of it all, was President Snow, with Cornelia on his arm.
Cato's heart stopped. Snow looked the same as always, a picture of cold elegance in a crisp, black suit, his white rose pinned neatly to his lapel. Cornelia stood beside him, equally striking in her opulence, her gown made of delicate, sheer fabric that shimmered with every movement, like liquid silver cascading down her frame. Her posture was as regal as ever, her expression unreadable.
Cato's grip on Peeta's hand tightened. Anxiety bubbled up inside him, a creeping fear that maybe this was all a trap—that Snow was going to have them executed right here, right now. His mind raced with possibilities, every scenario darker than the last. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his pulse as they approached Snow and Cornelia.
"I'm so glad you could make it," Snow said, his voice dripping with false warmth.
Cato swallowed hard, his throat dry. He forced a tight smile, the words stuck somewhere in his chest, too heavy to form. Thankfully, Peeta stepped in.
"We wouldn't miss this for the world," Peeta said, his voice steady despite the tension hanging like a blade.
Before Cato could fully grasp the exchange, the sharp screech of train brakes echoed through the station, the metal-on-metal sound loud and jarring. His heart hammered in his chest as the train pulled into the station, the mechanical hiss of the doors sliding open, sending a fresh wave of unease through him. His grip on Peeta's hand tightened reflexively, bracing himself for the inevitable. He could almost hear the sound of rifles being cocked, bullets spinning in their chambers.
But instead, all he heard was the gentle clicking of cameras.
A small figure emerged from the open doors of the train. A little girl with bouncing blonde curls skipped forward, her bright eyes lighting up as she ran straight toward Cornelia.
"Ouma!" she squealed, her voice echoing joyfully through the station as she launched herself into Cornelia's waiting arms.
The ice in Cornelia's eyes melted instantly, her entire demeanor softening as she knelt to embrace the girl.
"Oh, my sweet Octavia," Cornelia murmured, her voice tender as she held the child close.
Octavia pulled back just slightly, enough to show off her dress—an adorable creation in pale pink tulle, dotted with delicate flowers that made her look like a little princess. "Look, Ouma! Do you like my dress?"
Cornelia's smile deepened as she gently brushed her fingers through Octavia's golden curls. "You look absolutely beautiful, darling."
Cornelia then gestured toward Snow, who knelt to meet Octavia at eye level, his expression softening in an almost grandfatherly way. "This is Coriolanus, dear. He's going to be your Oupa. Can you give him a hug and say hello?"
With no hesitation, Octavia beamed and threw her arms around Snow's neck, giving him a sweet hug. Snow smiled as he hugged her back, his expression unreadable but kind on the surface.
"My, you're just as beautiful as your grandmother told me," he said gently. "My granddaughter, Calista, is so eager to meet you. I'm sure you'll become fast friends."
"Does she play chess?" Octavia asked, her wide-eyed curiosity matching his smile.
Snow chuckled softly. "Of course, my dear. You'll have to play a match when you meet."
As the scene unfolded before him, Cato's stomach churned. The tender display—the image of Snow and Cornelia embracing his sister—felt like a twisted play, something carefully choreographed for the cameras. His chest tightened, bile rising in his throat. It was all wrong, so wrong, yet the Capitol had a way of making everything look like a beautiful lie. His instincts screamed at him to get Octavia out of there, but he was trapped, just as they all were.
His breath hitched again as his mother appeared, walking gracefully across the platform. She wore an elegant gown of deep purple satin, the material shimmering as it caught the light. Every step she took was calculated. The fabric clung to her with a regal air, her sharp features framed perfectly by the subtle, practiced smile she wore.
Cato's eyes flicked between her and the rest of the scene, but one small detail brought him a brief, fleeting sense of relief—his father was nowhere in sight.
His mother approached President Snow and Cornelia with a practiced curtsy, her expression pleasant but guarded.
"Ah, and you must be Diana," Snow said as he stood to meet her, his voice smooth, refined. He leaned forward and placed a calculated kiss on the back of her hand. "I'm so glad you both could attend our special day."
Diana gave a sweet, practiced smile, the same one Cato had seen her use with his father countless times—a smile designed to hide her fear. "I wouldn't miss this for anything in the world," she replied smoothly.
Snow nodded, smiling in return, but his gaze had an unmistakable edge. "And we're so fortunate to have our wondrous victors here with us. Surely, you must be proud of all his accomplishments."
Before his mother could respond, a familiar voice pierced the air.
"Cato!"
Octavia ran toward him at full speed, nearly knocking him over as she threw her arms around his waist. The force of her embrace almost took him off balance, but he quickly knelt, scooping her up into his arms. A wave of relief flooded him, a rush of emotions he hadn't let himself feel since the Games ended. Seeing her again—alive, safe—was surreal.
"I knew you'd win!" she squealed, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "I knew you would!"
Cato swallowed hard, his throat tightening with emotion as he held her close.
"That was my wish, too, Octavia," he whispered, hugging her tighter, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. He couldn't break now, not in front of them. But the sight of his sister made it nearly impossible.
She pulled back slightly, her wide eyes sparkling as she spotted Peeta standing nearby. "Hi, my name's Octavia! You must be Peeta!"
Peeta knelt beside them, his voice gentle. "Nice to meet you, Octavia. I've heard so much about you."
She tilted her head, eyeing him curiously before blurting out, "He's cute, Cato! Are you guys gonna get married?"
Cato's face went red instantly, the bluntness of her question catching him completely off guard. He stammered, trying to come up with a response as Peeta let out a soft laugh.
"Uh, I— We—" Cato looked at Peeta, flustered beyond belief, and felt his mother's gaze on him. The air hung heavy with awkwardness until she stepped in.
Before Cato could fumble further, his mother approached, her steps silencing the awkwardness. A soft smile played on her lips as she looked down at her daughter.
"Octavia, dear. Stop teasing your brother," she chided gently.
Cato's chest tightened as his mother drew closer. He hadn't seen her since the Reaping, and now, seeing her here—among Snow's soldiers—it felt surreal. A thousand emotions flickered behind her eyes: relief, fear, love, and something deeper he couldn't place. But she held herself together, even as her hands trembled slightly.
They stood frozen for a moment, both unsure how to bridge the gap the Games had carved between them. Cato felt the weight of everything they had endured—the distance, the trauma, the fear—pressing down on him, suffocating him. His mother had always been strong, but she hadn't seen the version of him that came back from the arena. He wondered if she would even recognize the person standing before her now.
Without a word, his mother wrapped her arms around him, holding him close as if she feared letting go might cause him to vanish. For a heartbeat, Cato remained stiff, overwhelmed by the rush of emotion. The familiar scent of lavender, mixed with something faintly sweet, enveloped him, pulling him back to memories of simpler times. Slowly, he closed his eyes and let her embrace pull him in, his body relaxing into her warmth.
"I didn't know if I'd ever get to see you again," his mother whispered, her voice breaking despite her efforts to keep it steady. He felt her tears soak into his suit, her body shaking against his. "I'm so proud of you, Cato. So proud."
The words hit him like a wave, and something inside him crumbled. He hadn't realized how much he needed to hear her say that. For so long, he had carried the weight of the arena, survival, and expectations placed on him. Now, standing in his mother's arms, he felt the dam inside him threatening to break.
"I missed you," he murmured, his voice rough, barely audible as he buried his face in her shoulder. His breath hitched, and he swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. His chest tightened, the emotions crashing down on him like a storm.
His mother pulled back slightly, her hands cupping his face as she studied him. Her eyes, red from tears, scanned his features like she was searching for the boy she had known.
"You've grown so much," she said softly, pride and sadness in her voice.
He nodded, his eyes glistening, unable to speak past the knot in his throat. He wanted to tell her everything, how hard it had been, how much he had changed. But the words were stuck.
Just then, a cheerful voice broke through the tension.
"Peeta! You're part of our family now!" Octavia's bright eyes sparkled with excitement as she ran to Peeta, tugging him toward them. "You can hang out with us all the time!"
Peeta chuckled softly, though Cato could see the tension lingering behind his eyes. Peeta knelt beside Octavia, giving her a genuine smile.
"I'd like that, Octavia," he said, though his voice wavered slightly.
Cato couldn't help but smile, feeling a small flicker of relief. Octavia's innocent joy lightened the heaviness in his chest, if only for a moment. At this moment, it felt like everything might be okay.
But reality wasn't far behind. The sharp click of heels against the marble floor signaled Snow and Cornelia's return, and with it, the weight of the world pressed back down on Cato's chest. He felt his anxiety spike, but he kept his hold on Octavia firm, her tiny body resting against his hip.
"Ah, how heartwarming," Snow's voice cut through the air like ice. "I trust this little reunion has been... pleasant."
His eyes flickered toward Peeta, a glint of amusement in them. "Peeta, I must say, we sent an invitation to your parents in District Twelve. But, alas, it seems they had other... obligations."
Cato felt Peeta tense beside him, his grip on Octavia tightening slightly. Peeta's calm facade cracked before he composed himself, offering Snow a polite smile.
"Thank you for inviting them, President Snow," Peeta replied, his voice controlled, though the strain was clear. "I'm sure they appreciated the gesture."
Sensing the tension, Octavia squeezed Peeta's hand again, smiling at him. "Don't worry, Peeta! You've got us now!" she said confidently.
Peeta's expression softened, a real smile finally breaking through the mask. He glanced down at her, and Cato could see the gratitude in his eyes. "Thanks, Octavia. That... that means a lot," Peeta said, his voice quiet but genuine.
Cato watched the exchange, his heart swelling with a strange mix of emotions—gratitude, relief, and something deeper he couldn't name. For a moment, Octavia's innocence made everything seem almost... normal.
But the moment was short-lived.
"Why don't we give you all a few hours to unwind from your long journey?" Snow's voice interrupted the fragile peace. His eyes shifted between Cato, Peeta, and Cornelia as he smiled, the gesture as cold as ever. "Cornelia and I will send for you this evening for dinner and the rehearsal."
Cornelia nodded, her voice soft but commanding as she added, "That sounds like a wonderful idea, Coriolanus."
As they turned to leave, Cato held Octavia closer, her weight against him, the only thing keeping him grounded. The comfort lingered momentarily, but the familiar unease crept back in. Snow was still watching, still pulling the strings. And he knew the reprieve wouldn't last forever.
As they were ushered back into the SUVs, Octavia squeezed herself between Cato and Peeta, her legs swinging as she took in everything around her. Her excitement bubbled over, her wide eyes darting from person to person before landing on Angel.
"Angel, I love your hair!" she squealed, reaching out as if to touch it. "It's so shiny!"
Angel grinned, glancing back at her. "Well, thank you, darling. Maybe I'll make you a wig just like it."
Octavia beamed, her energy barely contained. She quickly turned to Portia. "And your dress! You look like a fairy princess!"
Portia smiled, gently ruffling Octavia's hair. "You're too sweet. Maybe we'll find you something just as pretty when we do your fitting."
Her enthusiasm was boundless as she leaned against the window, gawking at the towering Capitol buildings. "Everything's so big! It's like we're in a whole other world!"
Peeta chuckled beside her. "It's definitely different, isn't it?"
Cato exchanged a brief glance with Peeta, a knot tightening in his chest. His sister was mesmerized by the Capitol, the very place that had tried to kill him. He squeezed Peeta's hand, a silent reassurance for himself as much as for Peeta.
When they arrived back at the Tribute Center, Portia and Angel excused themselves to get ready for Diana and Octavia's dress fittings. Inside the suite, lunch had already been laid out—a warm meal of roasted chicken, scalloped potatoes, broccoli, and buttery rolls, the comforting aroma filling the air. It felt almost… normal.
As they gathered around the table, Octavia eagerly piled food onto her plate, immediately digging into the chicken with gusto. "This is sooo good!" she mumbled through a mouthful, grabbing more before she had even swallowed.
"Don't eat with your mouth full, Octavia," Diana scolded gently, wiping her daughter's chin with a napkin.
Octavia gave her an exaggerated wide-eyed look, all innocence. Before anyone could say anything more, Haymitch, sitting across the table, cut in. "Kid, you keep stuffing your face like that, you're either gonna choke, or you won't have room for dessert."
Cato blinked in surprise. He hadn't expected Haymitch to engage with Octavia, especially not in such a playful way. The old drunk, with his gruff exterior, seemed the least likely person to get along with kids—especially a kid from District 2.
Octavia's face lit up. "Dessert? What kind of dessert?"
Cato chuckled, shaking his head. "You've got a one-track mind, Tav."
But Octavia ignored him, her eyes fixed on Haymitch, leaning closer as if he held all the secrets of the world. "What's for dessert?" she asked again, this time with more urgency.
Haymitch smirked, biting into his roll. "Oh, I think I saw something chocolate in the kitchen earlier. But first, you've got to get through your broccoli."
Octavia's face fell. "Broccoli?"
Diana chimed in, a pointed look on her face. "You heard him, young lady. Eat your broccoli first, and then maybe we'll see about dessert."
Haymitch leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Broccoli gives you superpowers, you know. That's how I survived the Hunger Games."
Octavia's mouth dropped open in awe. "Really?"
Haymitch nodded, his face completely serious. "Absolutely. Made me invisible and everything."
Octavia hesitated, then, in a show of bravery, picked up a forkful of broccoli and took a tentative bite, her nose scrunching as she chewed. "It's… not working yet," she muttered, clearly disappointed.
Peeta chuckled softly, his voice gentle. "Maybe you need a few more bites."
Determined, Octavia took another bite, her face still scrunched up in distaste but powered by the promise of superpowers. Cato couldn't help but laugh quietly, watching his sister try to choke down her vegetables.
As lunch wound down, Cato felt the need to escape the stuffiness of the suite, a growing restlessness gnawing at him.
Octavia tugged on his arm and Peeta's, bouncing on her toes as she blurted out, "Can we play chess? Please, please, please?" She was already halfway to the cabinet, dragging out an old wooden board before either of them could respond.
Cato glanced over at Peeta and immediately noticed his expression shift—small, but unmistakable. Peeta's eyes lingered on the board just a second too long, and his smile faltered. Cato recognized that look. It was the same one Peeta had when the memories of the arena crept back in, uninvited and unwelcome. He understood it because sometimes, without warning, Cato still felt the sting of Luna's trident piercing his arm. The arm that had been replaced by metal, wires, and polyacrylic flesh.
Cato quickly intervened, masking the tension with a grin. "Hey, how about we check out the garden on the roof instead? It's a nice day out, and I think we could all use some fresh air."
Octavia's face lit up immediately, easily distracted. "Yes! Flowers! I wanna see the flowers!" She turned to Peeta, her wide eyes filled with excitement. "Are you coming too?"
Peeta hesitated for a second, like he was still trapped in a memory, but then he smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, I'll come."
The elevator ride was quiet, with Cato's mother standing alongside them, lost in her own thoughts. But Octavia, never one to stay quiet for long, stared at Peeta's cane.
"Why do you use a cane?"
Peeta's jaw tightened, but before he could answer, his mother gently reprimanded her. "Octavia, that's not polite."
"It's fine," Peeta replied quickly, shaking his head to brush off the moment, though the tension still lingered.
Sensing the unease, Cato knelt beside Octavia, rolling up his sleeve to show her his prosthetic hand. "See? I've got one too. Sometimes we just need a little extra help, that's all."
Octavia's eyes widened as she inspected his arm, her tiny fingers lightly tracing the smooth surface of the prosthetic. "Does it hurt?" she asked in a quiet, almost reverent voice.
"Not anymore," Cato replied, offering her a gentle smile.
Satisfied with his explanation, Octavia grinned, and the tension in the room softened as they stepped off the elevator into the warmth of the rooftop garden. The air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers, and the sky stretched clear above them. His mother gave him a small, knowing smile before gently tugging Octavia toward the greenhouse ahead, giving the boys some space.
Cato watched as Peeta wandered toward the gazebo—the one where they had first met, where they had shared their first kiss. He felt a heat rise to his cheeks at the memory, everything that had changed between them swirling in his mind. How was it possible that only nineteen days had passed since then?
Peeta sat down heavily, his gaze distant as he stared out at the Capitol. Cato followed him, sitting down beside him.
"Sorry about Octavia," he said after a moment, breaking the silence. "She doesn't always get social cues. I know the chessboard..."
Peeta gave a small smile, though it was tight, strained. "It's okay. I'm getting used to it."
But Cato could still see it—the flicker of something dark that lingered just beneath the surface. The Capitol had taken so much from them, and it was clear that Peeta was still wrestling with his own ghosts. They both were.
"You sure you're okay?" Cato asked, his voice softer now.
Peeta was quiet for a moment, his eyes still locked on the city below.
"Yeah," he finally said, but there was a heaviness to the word, like it carried more weight than he wanted to admit. "I like your mom and Octavia. They're really nice. Part of me just wishes my parents could've been here." He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Not that it would've gone well."
Cato frowned, leaning a little closer. "It couldn't have been that bad."
Peeta didn't respond, the silence stretching between them, his fingers absently tracing the edge of his cane. Cato could feel the tension in him, the way he was holding something back.
"Look," Cato said softly, his hand brushing against Peeta's. "If you ever want to talk about it—your leg, your parents, whatever—I'm here. We don't have to right now, but... when you're ready."
Peeta glanced at him, his eyes softening as something unspoken passed between them. "Maybe later," Peeta murmured, his hand gently brushing against Cato's.
Before they could say anything more, Octavia's voice rang out from the greenhouse. "Are you guys coming or what?"
Cato chuckled, shaking his head as he called back. "Yeah, we're coming!"
Before standing, Cato turned back to Peeta, leaning in to press a quick, soft kiss against his lips. It was brief, but enough to make Peeta smile, a real smile this time.
"I've been waiting all morning to do that," Cato said with a teasing grin.
Peeta's smile lingered, his eyes warmer now. "Me too."
Together, they stood and walked toward the greenhouse, where Octavia awaited eagerly.
Stepping inside, Cato was hit by the familiar warmth of the greenhouse, the earthy, fragrant air wrapping around him like an old embrace. It was just as he remembered—the soft hum of life all around him, the sunlight streaming through the glass ceiling, casting gentle, dappled patterns across the lush greenery. The scent of blooming flowers mingled with the soil, creating a peaceful, almost dreamlike atmosphere.
But as soon as they entered, memories flooded back. Cato could almost taste the way their lips had crashed together. His mind dragged him back, vividly reliving the moment when he had bent Peeta over the workbench, the breathless moans that had filled the air as their bodies melded together—the memory of it burned through Cato like wildfire, his cheeks flushing with heat.
But the thought was quickly interrupted by Octavia's bright laughter.
"They have wish flowers!" she exclaimed, darting ahead with boundless energy, tugging excitedly on Peeta's arm. The sudden force nearly toppled him, but he quickly caught his balance, laughing softly.
Peeta steadied himself, his smile warm and patient as he allowed her to pull him toward the delicate patch of dandelions, their fluffy seeds swaying in the faint breeze. "Oh, that's what they're called?" he asked, crouching beside her.
Cato followed behind, watching with a soft smile as Octavia animatedly explained the importance of the wish flowers, as if she were revealing the world's greatest secret. Peeta listened carefully, his guarded expression replaced with something lighter. It was moments like this—small, quiet moments—where Cato was reminded of who Peeta truly was, someone gentle and kind despite everything.
Peeta pulled his notebook from his back pocket and flipped through the pages. "I've drawn these before," he said, showing Octavia a sketch of the dandelions he had captured with incredible detail.
Octavia's eyes widened in awe. "Wow! Can you teach me? I wanna learn how to draw flowers like you!"
Peeta grinned, handing her the pencil with a patient smile. "Of course. We'll start with the shape, like this…" His voice was soft as he guided her pencil along the page.
Cato watched them for a moment longer, a tender smile tugging at his lips. He felt a warmth spread in his chest at the sight—his sister and Peeta, two people he cared about more than he knew how to express. Eventually, he turned to join his mother, who stood nearby, her fingers lightly brushing over the soft petals of white roses. She hadn't said much since they arrived, her presence quiet but steady.
"They're beautiful," Cato murmured as he approached her, standing beside the rose bush.
His mother nodded, though her gaze remained distant, lost in thought.
"I wish I could grow these at home," she said softly. "But the desert soil would kill them in an instant."
Cato's eyes drifted to her hand, catching sight of the fresh bruise on her forearm, barely concealed under a thin layer of concealer. His stomach was clenched with unease. "What happened after I left?"
She didn't meet his gaze, carefully plucking one of the roses from the bush as she pruned its thorns with her fingers. He thought she wouldn't answer for a moment, but then she spoke, her voice steady but wavering with emotion.
"We left, like you told us to," she began slowly. "We stayed with my friend in the Polis for a few days. It felt safe… for a while. But after four days, the Peacekeepers came."
Cato's jaw tightened, the familiar tension building in his chest, but he stayed silent, waiting for her to continue.
She glanced briefly at Peeta and Octavia, still deep in their drawing, before lowering her voice. "Your father… he wasn't going to let us go. He got angrier after you were hurt in the Games. He threw bottles, broke the kitchen table... I had to send Octavia to stay with a friend. I couldn't let her see what was happening."
Cato's fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms.
"Did he hurt her?" his voice came out rougher than intended.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head slightly. "I kept her out of the way. But nothing I did could calm him. I've never seen him like this."
He had feared this—what had kept him up at night, even while fighting for his life in the arena. His father's anger had always been a looming shadow, but hearing the reality of what had happened made the guilt twist painfully inside him.
"I know he doesn't approve," she said, stepping closer, her voice trembling slightly, "but I do, Cato. I always will."
Cato's throat tightened, her words hitting him like a wave of emotion he hadn't prepared for. He wrapped his arms around her without thinking, pulling her into a tight embrace. She was stiff in his arms for a moment, but then she melted into him, her head resting against his chest.
"I'm glad you're safe," Cato whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
"I'm glad you're here," she murmured, her grip tightening as if she feared letting go.
Their moment was interrupted by Octavia's cheerful voice. "Cato! Look at my flower! Peeta showed me how to draw it!"
Cato pulled back slightly, smiling as he glanced at his sister.
"Did he now?" he asked, his voice lighter as he approached her.
Kneeling beside her, he examined her drawing, nodding with approval. "That's really good, Tav. Maybe you'll be an artist, too."
Octavia beamed up at him, her eyes wide with pride. "Maybe! Peeta's a good teacher!" she said excitedly, bouncing on her toes.
Peeta laughed softly, standing and brushing the dirt from his hands. "She's a quick learner," he added, smiling at Octavia before glancing at Cato. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and in that look, Cato could see the same flicker of warmth and connection that had always been between them.
They spent over an hour on the rooftop, lost in the calm of the flowers, the quiet above the chaos of the Capitol, but Cato knew better than to trust it. When they returned to the suite, the fading sun painted the apartment in warm, red-orange light. His mother and Octavia had been taken away for their dress fittings, leaving only him, Peeta, and a heavy silence.
Cato's mind raced, stuck between the looming threat of Snow and the more immediate fear of seeing his father again. He'd handled fear before, but this wasn't the arena. This wasn't a fight he could win with brute strength.
The low murmur of Caesar Flickerman's voice from the TV filled the room, recounting the Capitol's version of their reunion at the station. It all felt fake—an emotional display manufactured for entertainment. Haymitch sat nearby, sipping his whiskey, eyes dull but attentive to the screen.
Angel's arrival snapped Cato out of his thoughts. The stylist waved him over, taking him to his bedroom, quickly dressing him in a sleek black suit and slicking back his hair. Cato disconnected from the moment as if he were being prepared for something more sinister than just a rehearsal dinner. Angel's blunt tone didn't help.
"Winners don't frown, Cato," Angel reminded, pressing concealer onto his face.
Cato tried to ease the tension in his expression, but the unease in his gut wouldn't go away. He hated this part—the polish, the display. It felt like putting on armor that wouldn't protect him. Angel didn't offer any distraction or comfort. There were no reassuring words, just practicality and realism.
Back in the living room, Haymitch, Ms. Trinket, and Olivia waited. Ms. Trinket was dressed in an elaborate golden gown, pearls woven into her hair like some Capitol royalty. Olivia, in a sleek silver dress, stood quietly, her eyes calm and observant.
Octavia was busy drawing in her notebook, oblivious to the tension around her. His mother sat nearby, sipping her wine, her cream-colored dress matching Octavia's.
Cato's gaze shifted when Peeta walked out, dressed in a suit almost identical to his. Their eyes met, and the weight on Cato's chest lightened for a brief moment. Peeta smiled softly, and Cato returned it, a flicker of warmth in the middle of everything. But it didn't last.
"Come along, everyone! The cars are waiting," Ophelia's sharp voice broke the silence, her hands clapping for attention.
The elevator ride down with his family was silent. Cato's stomach tightened as they descended. Outside, a single SUV waited in the quiet of the evening. The sky was red, casting long shadows over the street, and the lack of reporters or cameras only made it feel more ominous.
They climbed into the SUV—Cato, Peeta, his mother, and Octavia as Ophelia waved them off. The city passed in a blur as they headed toward Snow's mansion, the silence in the car heavy.
As they turned onto the presidential drive, the mansion loomed ahead—grand and intimidating. The iron gates swung open, revealing a pristine cobblestone path lined with glowing fountains, their waters shimmering purple and blue. Everything about the place screamed power, control— luxury.
A pair of Avoxes opened the doors for them as they stepped out. Their faces were blank, as always, guiding them wordlessly toward the mansion's entrance. Cato's eyes scanned the estate, noting the perfect landscaping, the soft white lights casting a glow over the manicured hedges and flowers. It was beautiful, but the perfection felt wrong.
What unnerved him most was the absence of guards. After the heavy security at the train station, the emptiness here made his skin crawl. Every step up the marble stairs felt heavier, each one reminding him of the danger lurking behind the Capitol's façade.
Inside, the mansion was grander than anything Cato had ever seen. The checkered marble floor gleamed under golden sconces, and the massive windows framed the room with dramatic shadows. Statues lined the walls, their stone faces cold and lifeless.
Above, the ceiling was a work of art—a swirling mosaic of clouds with an eagle soaring through the center. The details were so vivid it looked like the sky could swallow them whole. Even in its beauty, the space felt stifling, as if all the grandeur reminded them, they didn't belong there.
Cato barely had a second to breathe before the sound of footsteps echoed against the marble. His pulse quickened, knowing who it was before he saw him.
His father.
His rugged hair was slicked back, giving him an older appearance while still radiating the same hard, commanding presence. His formal peacekeeper uniform was spotless—polished boots, gold epaulets gleaming under the dim light. His face wore an unreadable mask of sternness, but Cato felt the weight of his father's disapproval without exchanging a word.
Before Cato could react, his mother stepped forward, wearing a carefully rehearsed smile. "How was your tour, darling?"
His father's gaze lingered on Cato a beat longer before he finally answered. "Fine,"
The tension between them was palpable, broken by the click of heels. Cato recognized her immediately from the Capitol broadcasts—Egeria, Minister of the Interior. She looked over them all with a calculating gaze.
"Follow me," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Cato glanced at Peeta as they walked through the mansion, their footsteps echoing in the long, quiet hallway as they followed the group.
The hallway opened into an expansive garden, transformed into something breathtaking and unnerving for the wedding. Rows of plush cream chairs lined the grand aisle leading to an ornate altar. Soft golden light from the setting sunbathed everything in a surreal glow, while twinkling white lights adorned the trellises overhead like tiny stars. It was beautiful, painfully so—like a dream trying too hard to be perfect.
A striking woman in a shimmering silver gown stood at the entrance, her blonde hair styled in loose waves. She exuded an unsettling grace, a smile too smooth, too polished, one that made Cato's skin crawl. Beside her stood a young girl, maybe a year or two older than Octavia, her dark curls falling over her shoulders as she clasped her hands in front of her.
"This is Vespera Snow," Egeria introduced, gesturing toward the woman. "And her daughter, Callista."
Vespera's smile widened, almost predatory in its warmth.
"What an honor to have you all here," she said, her voice syrupy. "Especially you, Cato, and Peeta, so glad you could make it."
Cato nodded, forcing himself to hold her gaze, though her overly bright demeanor made him uncomfortable. Callista barely looked up, offering a quiet, almost shy nod.
As Egeria began explaining their roles in the ceremony, Cato's mind drifted, trying to ignore the weight of his father's glare.
"The ceremony will start with Cassius escorting Diana down the aisle," Egeria explained steadily. "Then, Cato will escort Vespera. Octavia will be the ring bearer, and Callista will be the flower girl. After that, Cornelia will make her entrance."
As Egeria continued, Cato could feel the tension between him and his father growing, like a rope being pulled taut. His father's stare burned into him, full of silent accusations, but Cato refused to acknowledge it.
They practiced their procession, and every step was measured and choreographed. By the end, Cato stood beside his father, the silence thick with unspoken bitterness between them.
Then, without warning, his father leaned in close, his voice low and filled with venom. "You little queer. You made me the laughingstock of District Two," he hissed.
Cato's fists clenched at his sides, his nails biting into his palms as he forced himself to stay still. The insult landed, but he didn't flinch, he didn't give his father the satisfaction of seeing him react. He stared straight ahead, jaw tight, as the bridal music played softly in the background.
Just as the practice run concluded, his father's hand shot out— delivering a sharp blow to Cato's side, just beneath his ribs. The pain was immediate and sharp, but before Cato could react, his father pulled him into a forced embrace, the movement hiding the violence from anyone watching.
"Just because you're a victor," his father whispered coldly into his ear, "doesn't mean I can't remind you that you're the dirt beneath my boot. Faggot."
Cato bit down hard, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth as he clenched his jaw. The pain in his side burned, but he held still, fighting the urge to shove his father away. He couldn't. Not here. Not now.
Egeria's voice cut through the tension. "Everything all right?"
His father released him, turning toward her with a beaming smile, all traces of cruelty gone. "Oh yes, perfectly fine. Just so proud of my son,"
Cato straightened, swallowing the pain, forcing his expression into something neutral. His eyes flicked to Peeta, standing across the garden. The concern in Peeta's gaze was clear, but there was nothing either of them could do right now.
The show had to go on.
Cato felt a dull ache in his ribs as he trailed behind the group with Peeta, who kept glancing at him, concern etched on his face.
"You okay?" Peeta asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah," Cato muttered, forcing a nod. "Let's just get through this dinner."
Peeta nodded, though the worry lingered in his gaze. They followed the others into an opulent dining room dominated by a massive round mahogany table, its polished surface gleaming in the soft candlelight. Egeria gestured for them to take their seats, and Cato glanced at the placeholders. He was seated between Peeta on his right and an empty chair for Cornelia to his left.
Across from him, his mother took her seat next to Peeta, his father beside her. Octavia sat next to Snow's granddaughter, Callista, who looked quiet and reserved beside her mother, Vespera. The awkward silence stretched as Egeria left the room, broken only by the quiet conversations Octavia struck up with Callista and the soft, rhythmic steps of Avox servants filling their wine glasses.
Just as Cato's glass was poured, the distinct echo of heels on marble approached the closed door. Everyone glanced up as it opened, revealing President Snow and Cornelia, both dressed in formal black attire. At once, the table rose to its feet.
"Please, please," Snow said, gesturing with a smile as he helped Cornelia into her chair. "Sit. This is a family dinner, not a ceremony. No cameras here, I promise."
The slight chuckles from the others felt forced, and Cato forced himself to sit, though his back remained tense. Snow settled beside Cornelia, his eyes sweeping over the table.
"I want to thank you all for being here tonight. It means the world to Cornelia and me to have our families with us for such a special occasion."
Avoxes set down plates of meats and cheeses, but the tension was thick, and everyone seemed to wait until Snow began eating to lift their forks. Cato poked at his plate, the anxiety in his stomach making food feel like a foreign concept.
Snow turned to Vespera, his smile indulgent. "And you, my dear? I trust everything has been to your liking?"
Vespera tilted her head, her tone both sweet and faintly displeased. "Mostly, Father. Although, I must say, the sheets in my room were not quite as fresh as I'm accustomed to."
Snow chuckled lightly, patting her hand. "I'm sure you'll manage, dear."
The Avoxes returned with the main course: plates of beef tenderloin, roasted vegetables, and a creamy garlic purée. The rich aroma filled the room, but Cato barely tasted his first bite, too aware of Snow's gaze sweeping the table, lingering on each person as if evaluating them.
At the other end, Snow turned to Cato's father. "Cassius, I trust you found our Peacekeeper facilities to your standard?"
Cassius gave a curt nod, his tone respectful but rigid. "I did, sir. Your forces are impressive. I look forward to bringing District 2's strengths to the Capitol."
"Excellent," Snow replied, a glint in his eye. "I have no doubt you'll bring about the changes we discussed."
Cato took a quick swig of wine, forcing down a slice of beef, but the words caught him off guard. He couldn't tell if he'd misheard or if Snow's tone was as deliberate as it felt.
"It was generous of you to offer Cassius a position here in the Capitol, dear," Cornelia said, dabbing her mouth with her napkin. Her voice was gentle but edged with something deeper, something unsettling.
"My dear Cornelia," Snow replied smoothly, placing his hand over hers. "Your happiness is my top priority." His gaze shifted toward Cato, his smile too calm, too calculating. "And I know how much your family means to you."
The words felt like a blade, the threat barely concealed in politeness. Cato's pulse raced, his eyes shifting to his mother and Octavia.
Everything he'd done, all the bloodshed, all the sacrifices—it had been to protect them. And now, he felt Snow's grip tightening, like every step he took drew them deeper into the Capitol's web.
He glanced at Peeta, and for a moment, their eyes met. He saw the worry reflected in Peeta's hazel gaze, as though he, too, felt the trap closing around them.
The silent question hung between them, pressing, inescapable.
What becomes of us now?
Cato's hand trembled slightly as he lifted his wine, the panic sinking in as he watched Snow's smug expression across the table. Peeta's hand rested against his leg under the table, a quiet attempt to ground him, but all Cato could see was Snow's satisfaction, the amusement flickering in his cold eyes as he chewed.
The thought twisted inside him—a fleeting image of taking the knife in his hand and driving it into Snow's throat. How long would it take for Peacekeepers to storm in? How long until he was restrained, a gun pressed to his head?
But the reality was harsher. If he made a move, it wouldn't be just him; everyone in this room would pay. The vision of his father holding a gun to Peeta's head clenched Cato's stomach.
The scrape of an Avox changing his plate broke his trance. He wrapped his fingers around his wine glass, taking steady sips, anything to suppress the rage and nausea creeping up. An unspoken tension thickened the air, the question no one dared to ask hanging heavily between them.
When dessert was cleared, Snow's gaze slid to him, a glint in his eyes as he addressed him directly. "Cato, Cassius, would you indulge me with a drink? I have a whiskey I think you both will appreciate."
Cato nodded stiffly, aware he had no option but to agree, as did his father. Cato felt the warmth slip away from his leg. His heart hammered in his chest as he looked at Peeta, catching a flicker of fear in those familiar hazel eyes. Peeta's face was carefully blank, but that subtle tension said it all.
Cato gave a faint nod, hoping it would be enough to reassure him, but his anxiety was gnawing through any semblance of composure.
Rising from the table, Snow leaned to kiss Cornelia on the cheek. "We won't be long, my dear."
Trailing behind Snow, with his father by his side, Cato could feel the tension simmer between them. Snow led them down a grand hallway to a pair of mahogany doors, heavy and imposing.
Inside, the office was as grand as he'd imagined—a vast red carpet adorned the floor, leading to a marble desk. The scent of polished wood and leather hung thick in the air, and in the shadows, two Peacekeepers stood at the ready, unmoving at the room's edge.
Snow led them to a marble bar, the shelves lined with crystal decanters filled with amber spirits. He poured whiskey into three glasses, lifting one to the light.
"Ah, whiskey," he mused, swirling the glass thoughtfully. "An art, really. Only the finest oak, and the heat… the pressure. It molds the spirit into something extraordinarily refined. Much like you, Cassius. And you, Cato. If either of you were a drink, it would be whiskey—burned, tested, but still strong."
Cassius scoffed, taking a defiant sip. "I wouldn't call this faggot refined. We should throw his ass back in the barrel,"
Snow's smile barely faltered as he took a slow sip from his glass.
Then, with a mere nod, the peacekeepers seized Cassius, shoving him into a nearby chair, stripping him of his uniform jacket in swift, mechanical movements. Cassius barely had time to curse before a gag was secured around his mouth.
Snow looked at Cato with a soft chuckle.
"That's where you and your father differ, Cato," he murmured. "You've matured, developed into something worthwhile. But your father's barrel? It's long since rotted—nothing left but a bitter sludge. Something that needs… correction."
Cato watched, frozen, as the peacekeepers drew their batons. His father's eyes blazed, fury and fear barely concealed, but the relentless strikes quickly swallowed his muffled screams. The sound of flesh-meeting wood echoed as Snow turned away, focusing instead on Cato.
"Come, Cato," Snow murmured, gesturing toward the polished desk across the room. "We have much to discuss."