Fluid Heart, Firey Soul (Peeta Mellark x Reader)

Chapter 12 - Personas

"That has to be a mistake. Why would they give me such a high score?" I turn to Finnick, hoping for some sort of explanation.

"Maybe they liked your guts," he suggests, a wry smile playing on his lips, "the Games are all one big performance. They need to put on a good show, and with some heat like yours, they just might be able to."

"Pretty girl like you with some attitude; the Capitol will eat that up," Cass chimes in. "You'll be their shining star, especially after they see you in your interview dress." I smile to myself, realizing there might be an advantage in playing the Capitol's game.

"More water?" I ask.

"Sort of," he responds, a mysterious glint in his eye. I know that's the best explanation I'm going to get, so I don't bother pushing him further.

Fletcher and I exchange congratulations once more, and after returning to our rooms, I change into my pajamas and climb under the blankets. Despite my exhaustion, my mind refuses to quiet down. Frustrated, I roll out of bed, grab a jacket, and venture out. Still, in my pajamas, I slip on a pair of shoes and head out of my room, hoping that a breath of fresh air might clear my head.

I head to the elevator and press the twelfth button; I approach the door at the top and tentatively knock, hoping it won't be Haymitch answering this time.

Silence.

Curiously, I try the doorknob and to my surprise, it opens. It seemed they had forgotten to lock it. Silently entering the pitch-black room, I assume everyone must be asleep. A twinge of guilt tugs at me for trespassing on their floor again, but my intentions are harmless. I just want to borrow their view of the Capitol and quietly leave, no disruption necessary. I hurriedly climb up the stairs, careful not to disturb the sleeping occupants.

Approaching the banister, I gaze out over the city, taking in the intricate architecture of each building. My mind wanders to the countless lives below, wondering how many of them will tune in to the Games, make bets, and root for children to get killed. It strikes me how casually they accept the brutality, finding entertainment in the sacrifice of 23 innocent lives. I yearn for a world where such macabre games don't dictate our existence, where the shadow of fear doesn't loom over our lives.

My thoughts shift to Wren and Bea. It's Saturday night, which means they'd probably be at the bakery— Wren always welcomed us after hours. We'd revel in the leftover bread and sweets, savoring their warmth as we delved into life's discussions. Now, as I stand on the rooftop overlooking the Capitol, I can't help but wonder if they miss my presence as much as I miss theirs.

My memories drift back to the time when I was about ten, the day I first encountered Wren at school. It was a cold Wednesday in January, and my morning had been spent fruitlessly fishing in the sea. Usually, whatever I caught would become our meal, but on this particular day, I returned empty-handed. Dejected, I trudged to school, feeling the gnawing emptiness in my stomach— it had been three days since my last catch. Although District 4 is considered more prosperous, it didn't guarantee a full stomach for everyone, and hunger was an unwelcome companion that day.

A tap on my shoulder startled me as I turned to find a boy reaching into his bag. He handed me a small dinner roll, admitting it wasn't much but that he wanted me to have it.

"Thank you so much," I said, barely audible.

Curious, he asked for my name, and I replied, "(Y/N)." He told me his name was Wren.

From that day forward, Wren made it a point to bring me a roll to class every day, a small but significant gesture that spoke volumes about his kindness. With Wren came Bea— an inseparable duo. Wherever Wren went, Bea was sure to follow. The three of us quickly formed a tight-knit trio.