Fluid Heart, Firey Soul (Peeta Mellark x Reader)

Chapter 37 - The Second Quarter Quell

The train chugs along, carrying me away from District 12 and the life I had come to know. My eyes remain fixed on the window, taking in every fading detail of the District I'm leaving behind. The dusty cobble, the familiar houses, the people I had gotten to know. My father. But it all becomes a blur the further away we get, the landscape morphing into a distant memory. I know that I will never return to this place. My survival in the first Games was nothing short of a miracle, a twist of fate that can never be repeated. Now, facing my return to the arena, I have no illusions about my odds. There can only be one winner this time, and I have vowed to do everything in my power to have that person be Peeta.

In my mind, I had rehearsed what I wanted to say to my father in our final moments together. What I hoped he would pass on to Wren and Beatrice when they eventually send him back to District 4 after my death. They won't need him there to torture me if I'm already gone. But even that small comfort has been taken from me by the Capitol.

"We'll write letters," Peeta says from behind me. "It'll be better anyway. Give them a piece of us to hold on to. Haymitch will deliver them for us... if they need to be delivered."

I turn to face him, my eyes scanning his face. He looks sad and defeated, but he's trying to hold himself together. I nod silently and retreat to my room, feeling a heavy weight settle in my chest. I know deep down that I will never write those letters. They will be like the speech I was supposed to write for Thresh and Rue. I knew what I wanted to say, but once the pen hit the paper, the words never came out right. I was meant to say goodbye to my loved ones with embraces and kisses, but now the only farewell will be my lifeless body in a wooden crate.

So I make a promise to myself— the one thing I can control in this game— that I will keep Peeta alive. Despite the Capitol's rage and hatred towards the both of us, I must stay focused and determined so I can make it happen. And that won't be possible if I'm consumed by mourning for those I wasn't able to say goodbye to. As difficult as it may be, I have to let them go.

Effie's brisk knock on my door jolts me out of my thoughts and back to reality. I reluctantly get up and join the others at the dinner table, absentmindedly piling food onto my plate only to have it pushed around by my fork until the meal is over. Peeta and Effie make half-hearted attempts at conversation, their words falling flat as Haymitch and I remain silent.

"You look lovely with your new hair, Effie," Peeta offers.

"Thank you, dear. I had it styled to match your necklace. We could find a gold ring for (Y/N) and a bracelet for Haymitch, so we can all match like a team," she suggests cheerfully. Evidently, Effie doesn't know that Peeta's mockingjay is now a symbol used by the rebels. In District 8, the mockingjay is a sign of rebellion against the Capitol. But it remains just a playful reminder of an exciting Hunger Games in the Capitol.

"I think that's a great idea," Peeta says. "How about it, Haymitch?"

The older man grumbles in response, clearly not in the mood for this. He isn't drinking, but I can tell he'd rather be. His eyes are dull and glazed over, his body is slumped in his chair. If he were the tribute, none of this would matter. He could be as drunk as he wanted, free from any obligations or expectations. But as the mentor of two tributes, it will take all of his strength to keep Peeta alive in an arena full of his old friends, and I can't help but worry that he'll fail.

"Maybe we could get you a wig too," I laugh, trying to lighten the mood. Haymitch just shoots me a stern look, silently telling me to drop the subject. We continue the meal in silence, each lost in our own thoughts and worries.

Effie delicately dabs at the corners of her mouth with a crisp, white napkin as she addresses us. "Shall we watch a recap of the reapings?"

Peeta excuses himself to retrieve his notebook on the remaining living victors, and we all gather in the compartment with the television, waiting to see who our competition will be. The anthem begins to play as we settle into our seats, our focus solely on the screen as it plays the recap of the reaping ceremonies from all twelve districts.