"The fallen angel" and "the devil in disguise"
Two names Ares Aristo was known for, a boy who had more to him than originally met the eye. Charming the capital with his kind facade, it was only in the games did they realized just how far an angel ca...
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𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.
( the fallen angel )
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Ares had always been very good at hiding things. When he's scared in the middle of the night and doesn't want to wake up either of his father or grandmother with his worries, when he's somehow hurt himself at school and doesn't want to waste any of their money on bandages or ointment, when he's nervous about upcoming reapings but doesn't want it to transfer it over to his grandmother who would only worry herself into a grave. He knows exactly how to hide it, to cover it up in a facade of calm, happiness, and nonchalance. Like nothing could bring him down from his place perched atop the sun, radiating warmth and perpetual sunshine at all times.
Before his interview, Ares does just that, sitting in a tiny suffocating room with Velvet who was watching the other interviews and letting out little snide comments every so often, Callum who was pacing with his arms crossed and an endless glass of malt whiskey in his hand, and Pandora who was doing nothing to hide her own anxiety about what was to come.
Ares wondered why Pandora, of all people, would even be anxious. She wasn't the one everyone was worried about. She wasn't the one destined to fight for both of them and secure the love of the audience and sponsors while doing it. She wasn't the one who initially craved victory.
No, that was all Ares.
He could practically taste the thick copper of victory on his tongue now, coating the backs of his teeth and filling his mouth as he watched every tribute before him get interviewed and took note of every single detail about them that could help him later. How they sat, which hand was dominant, and which act they were going for. It all mattered. Everything they were doing was calculated, and if it wasn't, then it was a weakness.
However, the closer the games got, the more he was beginning to feel the weight of the reality crush against his shoulders. It was the reason why he couldn't bring himself to smile at Pandora's small jokes anymore, or at Velvet and Callum's bickering. The weight of what he had to do in a days time was tearing its ugly head.
The weight of what he needed to do.
It didn't help that Callum kept glancing over at him when he thought he wasn't looking, scrutinizing his every action. Apparently, Ares wasn't even allowed to hand over a plate of steamed potatoes when Pandora asked because the simple act seemed to trigger a scowl on Callum's face, who, having identified Ares' kindness as his Achilles' heel, constantly admonished him. The message was clear—softness had no place in the arena.
The games started the moment your name was called, and they won't stop until you're dead.
It didn't help, though. The more Callum reminded Ares that he was alone in the arena, the more worried he became. And now everyone was afraid that he'd crack during the interviews. That he was one wrong step away from bombing the whole thing and ruining everything they've built up in the past few days of nonstop training and interview practice.
