Azalea Rose Willow loves three things above everything else:
summer, the only season that mattered in her mind.
singing, alongside the comforting embrace of her guitar.
but above all, the easy camaraderie with the boy who lives next door to her, and...
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Exhaustion gnawed at Azalea's bones as she crawled into bed after the evaluations. Every muscle in her body ached, a testament to the grueling physical tests. Sleep, deep and dreamless, claimed her almost instantly.
Across the city, Finnick found himself trapped in a gilded cage. Another Games party, another night of forced merriment. Tomas, his ever-watchful mentor, stood guard nearby, a silent shield against the onslaught of fluttering eyelashes and feigned interest.
Finnick felt like a prize boar on display, forced to endure the inane chatter and transparent attempts at seduction from Capitol socialites young and old. Finnick fidgeted, his smile faltering for a brief moment as his gaze swept across the crowded room.
There she was again, Liliana Peacross, perched on a nearby barstool like a hawk watching its prey.
Liliana, the self-proclaimed president of the 'Finnick Odair Fan Club,' was a constant thorn in his side. In every party Finnick attended, there she was. He admired her devotion to him... as a tribute, but her obsessive nature bordered on creepy. He'd seen the way she fawned over him at previous parties, peppering him with questions about his training regimen and childhood memories. He knew for a fact she wasn't interested in him, Finnick, the person. It was all about the image, the golden trident-wielding heartthrob, the victor from District 4. She couldn't wait to report back to the other members of the club tomorrow, how his eyes sparkled like emeralds and his golden locks flowed with the wind.
A splash pierced the monotonous drone of conversation, drawing Finnick's attention. There, in a display of drunken glory, Haymitch was sprawled in the center of a decorative fountain, sputtering curses and flailing about like a beached fish.
A wave of exasperation washed over Finnick, followed by a reluctant chuckle. He excused himself from a particularly persistent socialite and made his way towards the drunken mentor.
"Up you get, Haymitch," Finnick said, extending a hand. Haymitch, his eyes glazed and hair plastered to his forehead, mumbled something about "tributes as entertainment" and "hypocritical society." Finnick heaved him to his feet, a surprisingly difficult task given Haymitch's limp form.
"Come on," Finnick said, slinging Haymitch's arm across his shoulder. "Let's get you somewhere dry before you become an official party decoration."
Haymitch sputtered and coughed, a gout of water erupting from his mouth as Finnick hoisted him out of the fountain. The socialites, momentarily stunned into silence, erupted in a fresh wave of giggles and chatter, their cruel amusement barely veiled. Haymitch, oblivious or uncaring of their disdain, shook his head like a dog emerging from a swim.
"Ugh, these blasted fountains," he mumbled, his voice thick with slurred words. "Always trying to drown a man's sorrows. Especially sorrows brought on by Snow's sadistic idea of a party."
Finnick chuckled, steering Haymitch away from the now-dispersing crowd. "Sounds like you need some water to clear your head, Haymitch," he said, guiding the older tribute towards a nearby table laden with refreshments.
