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It was dark and stormy that night. Perfect weather for the annual reminder of the second rebellion against the Capitol. The rebellion that the good guys had won. Or had it been the good guys? It was that question that would forever haunt Cato’s mind. Had they really been on the good side? After all, it was thanks to him and a couple of others that millions of children had died.
But it hadn’t just been children that had died. His steps were quiet, but not quiet enough to not alert the young woman with the baby in her arms. Annie Cresta turned around once she heard Cato, a ghost of a smile on her lips.
”You’re up late,” Cato commented, studying the quiet girl carefully. She hadn’t been doing so well lately, especially not today. She had been distant and even more quiet than usual. Which anyone could hardly blame her for. This day marked the one year death anniversary for Finnick Odair. And to this day the name still sent sparks of jealously through Cato.
As did the name Clove for Annie. Cato’s arms carefully wrapped around the young woman and child, his lips brushing her forehead. ”You miss him.” It was a soft comment, not an accusation.
”You miss her.” Annie’s reply was simple and right. He did miss Clove. She had been one amongst the young ones to die in the explosion. The explosion Cato helped set up.
Cato didn’t reply to Annie. Annie didn’t reply to Cato’s comment about Finnick. They had both lost loved ones, which is why they had sought each other out eventually. They were both tormented by grief, anger and insanity over losing their soulmates. Which was why they were so perfect for each other now.
They were silent, they didn’t need to say anything. There was nothing to be said. Instead, Cato’s arms held his two girls near, his lips dipping to kiss each closed eyelid of them. I love you. They both didn’t need to say it. But it echoed along with the thunder.