Fluid Heart, Firey Soul (Peeta Mellark x Reader)

Chapter 41 - Happy Hunger Games

Despite my face being projected on the screen in a close-up, I make no effort to conceal my surprise. My mind is reeling as I try to process what Peeta's just said. That I am pregnant. It's brilliant, it's genius, and I can already feel the anger towards the Capitol bubbling within the people if they don't cancel the Games after this revelation.

Caesar struggles to control the chaos that has erupted in the stadium after Peeta's words. They don't even stop when the buzzer sounds, signaling the end of Peeta's time on stage. Peeta simply nods goodbye and returns to his seat without another word. I can see Caesar's mouth moving, but the noise of the uproar drowns out his words. Finally, we're silenced by the anthem blaring from the speakers, its volume so loud that it reverberates through my body. Instinctively, I rise from my seat and reach for Peeta's hand. Then, on impulse, I also reach for Chaff who sits beside me. He accepts my gesture and my fingers lock around the stump that finishes his arm.

One by one, the other victors join hands along our row. Some, like Beetee and Wiress, do it without hesitation, while others seem unsure but eventually give in to the display of unity. And once the anthem nears its end, all twenty-four of us stand together in an unbroken line— a display of harmony between the districts that hasn't been seen since the Dark Days. As we stand there linked hand-in-hand, it becomes clear that our message has been heard loud and clear. Even as the screens begin to fade to black, it's too late— they couldn't cut us off in time. We've been seen, united as one against the Capitol.

The elevator doors open and Peeta and I step out, both of us silent as we make our way to meet the others. I can feel my heart beating swiftly in my chest as I wait for them to show up. After a few minutes, only Haymitch appears. "It's madness out there. They sent everyone home and they canceled the recap of the interviews on television," he says.

I rush over to the window, desperate for any glimpse of what's happening below in the streets. "What are they saying, Haymitch?" I ask, my hands gripping the windowsill as I peer below. "Are they asking him to stop the Games?"

"I don't think they even know what to ask," Haymitch responds with a heavy sigh. "The whole situation is unprecedented. Even the mere thought of opposing the Capitol's agenda is confusing the people here."

"Snow's not going to cancel the Games," Peeta says, his voice resigned.

I know he's right. The rational part of me understands that President Snow could never back down now. Not after everything that's happened. The only choice he has is to strike back and strike back hard. "The others went home?" I ask.

"They were ordered to leave," Haymitch confirms. "Though I don't know how much luck they're having trying to get through the crowd."

"Then I guess we'll never see Effie again," Peeta says. "Didn't even get to say goodbye before last year's Games either. Please give her our thanks, will you?"

"I suppose this is where we say our goodbyes as well," I say quietly.

Haymitch nods and pulls each of us into a quick embrace before he can no longer bear it. "Any final words of wisdom?" Peeta asks.

"Stay alive," Haymitch replies simply. My mind goes back to last year's Games when Finnick gave me this same bit of advice. "As a good friend of mine would say, stay alive."  Finnick and Haymitch must go back farther than I thought.

"Take care, Haymitch," I say to him before we cross the room and make our way down the hallway slowly.

My hand rests in Peeta's, our fingers intertwined as we enter my room. The moon casts a faint glow through the window, illuminating Peeta's figure as he steps into the doorframe. The way the light hits him, he looks so genuine, so delicate. The way he looks now, the kind, gentle boy in the moonlight, solidifies my choice to keep him alive tomorrow. Though we're both exhausted, the night is restless, neither of us finding much sleep. We lay entwined, caught somewhere between slumber and wakefulness. Not a word passes between us, afraid to break the fragile peace and lose even a few moments of rest.