Fluid Heart, Firey Soul (Peeta Mellark x Reader)

Chapter 2 - Goodbyes

A sudden, sharp pain shoots through my chest as if all the air had been forcefully squeezed out of my lungs, leaving me gasping for breath. I never imagined that shock could rob me of something as innate as breathing until this moment. My chest constricts with each inhale and exhale, leaving me feeling light-headed and disoriented.

My name keeps echoing in my head, trying to fully process what's happening. It all feels so surreal until Beatrice jolts me forward with a small shove. I take in a ragged, audible breath, having not breathed for about a minute now, before carrying myself towards the stage. I turn and see the faces of people— some familiar, some strangers— all staring at me with sorry eyes as I drag myself onto the platform. My eyes catch Wren's and Beatrice's, both with pitiful expressions on their faces. It only adds to the overwhelming sense of dread settling in my stomach.

On a day like today, I had hoped for at least one other volunteer to step forward— someone who actually might be able to win the Games. But it seems as though everyone else is just as terrified and resigned as I am. My father's absence only adds to the isolation I feel at this moment; he was back at the shop, likely unaware of what was happening unless he remembered to turn on his radio.

"Come up, come up!" trills Victoria Bloomfield, her voice dripping with cheerfulness as she motions for me to hurry up the stairs. I don't move, instead taking a moment to gather myself, steeling my nerves before climbing the first step.

"We haven't got all day!" she says in that annoyingly optimistic Capitol accent.

I finally reach Victoria's side at the top of the stairs. The crowd in front of me becomes clearer, though my vision is still blurred with unshed tears. I fight to hold them back, refusing to let them fall now in front of everyone.

A heavy silence falls over the crowd, the only sound a distant murmur of whispers and shifting feet. I stand there, my heart racing, seeking solace in the familiarity of their indifference. The crowd of onlookers remains stubborn, unwilling to surrender even a single volunteer. My gaze shifts to the past victors, a mosaic of emotions reflected in their eyes. Finnick, seemingly the only one embracing this twisted lottery of fate, exudes an eerie excitement. Beside him, the two girls stand stoic and unmoving, their faces like masks hiding any hint of emotion.

But amidst this complex tableau of feelings, a silent understanding brews between us— the unspoken alliance of those who have known the cruel embrace of the Games. We are united yet divided by the looming threat of the Capitol's merciless whims.

Victoria's booming voice breaks through the tense atmosphere, her question stabbing at me like a knife. "Tell me, (Y/N). how does it feel to be one of the lucky twenty-four going into the arena?" Lucky? I bitter laugh bubbles up from my chest as I turn to face her, my mouth slightly agape with shock. How could anyone label this event as luck when it will only lead to the demise of 23 lives— including my own— leaving behind shattered families and echoing pain? This cannot be seen as a stroke of fortune in any sane mind.

Victoria's unwavering stare bores into mine, her expectant expression demanding a response that I couldn't muster. My mind races, searching for the right words to break through the barrier of fear and stubbornness that have taken hold of me. But my tongue remains still, betraying any attempts at composure with a single tear that escapes down my cheek. Her impatience flickers across her face, a mix of frustration and understanding as she realizes I'm frozen in place by my own fears.

"Moving on!" she proclaims, trotting over to the bowl that holds the slips for the male tributes. "It's time to pick our tribute for the boys!" Her hand dips into the vessel, the small pieces of paper, each one representing a young life, swirl between her touch until she finally retrieves one, holding it delicately between her fingers.