Fluid Heart, Firey Soul (Peeta Mellark x Reader)

Chapter 1 - District 4

I'm awoken by the soft whispers of dawn tiptoeing through the stained-glass window, the gentle light painting patterns on the wall. It was really a beautiful sight for a not-so-beautiful day. Today marks a day that has been occupying my mind for weeks: the reaping.

I shift myself upwards in my bed, feeling the weight of anticipation and nervousness settle in my chest. Through the small sliver of light creeping in from underneath the door, I can tell it's still early. My eyes flicker to the gold-rimmed clock that hangs crookedly on the faded walls of my bedroom. It reads 7:45, just fifteen minutes before the shop opens.

My great-grandfather was only twenty years old when he forged his legacy. It was a story he loved to share, filled with determination and entrepreneurial spirit. He would often regale us with his tale, speaking of the sun-soaked days spent by the shore where he discovered his passion for fishing and the art of luring in an elusive catch. His ambitions led him to transform an old weathered shed by the water into his sanctuary, his haven— the birthplace of his beloved bait and tackle shop.

He poured his heart and soul into this rickety building, painting every crevice and lining the shelves with an array of hooks, lures, and rods. His shop became a cornerstone of our town, attracting fishermen from near and far in search of top-of-the-line gear. As time passed, my great-grandfather passed down his legacy to his daughter, who then passed it down to her son— my father. If everything goes as planned, it will be mine someday too But first, I must survive today's reaping and the few more that come after.

With a heavy sigh, I swivel my legs over the edge of the bed and let my bare feet meet the cold touch of the hardwood floor. The familiar sensation brings a sense of calm to my morning routine, telling me that today is just another ordinary day. I sit up and make my way to the closet, peeling off my pajamas and selecting a pair of worn jeans and a soft, light blue sweater. Slipping into a pair of boots, I turn to face the mirror.

My hair is wild and unruly, sticking out in all directions. I reach for the brush on my nightstand and attempt to tame the tangled mess. But it only gets worse as the bristles get caught in my (H/C) locks.

"Damn it," I mutter under my breath, yanking on the brush until it finally breaks through the stubborn knots. After what feels like a torturous eternity, I manage to smooth out all the tangles and take a step back to examine myself in the mirror. Still not satisfied with how I look, I consider trying braids. Returning to the nightstand, I grab two hair ties and carefully weave each segment of hair into two identical braids. However, after turning my head from side to side, I quickly grow frustrated and undo them. I impatiently throw my hair up into a ponytail and give up on trying to style it anymore. Sometimes I wonder if it would be easier to be bald like my father.

"Good morning, Gup," my dad spoke. The scent of freshly cut wood and polished metal greeted me. My father's calloused hands were deftly working a piece of string around a shiny lure, his eyes focused with intense concentration. I had learned how to make these lures when I was younger, and now it was expected of me to help out in the shop since I had turned seven. I didn't mind, though: spending time with my father was always a welcome break from the monotony of our district. His shop was a hub for trade and bartering, and he often sent me out to strike deals with other members of District 4. After all, everybody needs lures if they want to eat.

Today was one of those days. My father had already prepared a leather bag overflowing with hooks and lures, nets spilling out from the inside. "Subtle," I mutter sarcastically, slinging the bag over my shoulder before grabbing a fishing rod and making my way towards town.

A small laugh echoes behind me as I shut the door. He always had the right idea when it came to advertising his shop and making a profit. And on a day like today, when the town was flooded with peacekeepers and citizens desperate for food, it was crucial to have an advantage. We may be considered a wealthier district, but selfishness still runs rampant. Food is something we fight for and keep for ourselves.