Fluid Heart, Firey Soul (Peeta Mellark x Reader)

Chapter 5 - Impulse

Each set of tributes is given an entire floor in the Training Center, corresponding with whatever district you come from. For each of the tributes, this floor is a temporary home away from home. It also serves as a reminder, however, that this will be the last place 23 of us will get to call our home. The walls are embellished with crests and symbols from our districts to remind us where we come from. The four bedrooms, two bathrooms, kitchen, dining room, and living room are filled with lavish furnishings and fancy gadgets, a disconcerting blend of comfort and cruelty. As I settle into the couch, my feet sinking into the soft carpet beneath me, Victoria and Finnick join me with beaming smiles. They congratulate me on my performance in the parade.

"Brilliant, (Y/N)!" Victoria exclaims with genuine excitement, her words carrying through the spacious room and echoing off the walls. "You had the crowd in the palm of your hand! I have no doubt you'll attract some sponsors!" She turns to me with a wide smile, her eyes lit up with pride. But beneath her kind words lies a bittersweet feeling, reminding me of the impending doom that hangs over me like a dark cloud. I muster up a soft smile and thank Finnick and Victoria, trying my best to sound gracious. I notice that Fletcher looks annoyed by their praise, but I do my best to ignore him; he's never been one for socializing anyway. At least I can pretend to be.

"I think I'm going to head to my room for a bit," I mutter to them before slipping out of the room quietly. I don't want Fletcher to endure any more discomfort by having to listen to their praises. But admittedly, a moment of alone time sounds incredibly appealing. As I make my way down the hallway, the sounds of chatter fade away, replaced by a sense of calm and quiet. Once in the bathroom, I peel off the dress I've been wearing since the parade. The high-tech shower in front of me beckons with its array of buttons and knobs. Though my prep team has left me pristine, I can't resist the temptation to try out this shower before the Games.

Pressing the buttons tentatively, exploring the different options at my disposal— water pressure, temperature controls, an assortment of soaps and shampoos, and even scents and oils. We don't have anything nearly like this back home. As the warm water cascades over me, I let out a sigh I've been holding all day and take this chance to shut my mind off. I'm so tired of thinking about what's going to happen. Stepping out of the shower, I'm greeted by another strange device. Instead of reaching for a towel, a bath mat blows warm air across my skin, effortlessly flicking away any lingering droplets of water. These Capitol showers are like nothing I've ever experienced before.

Navigating the closet, I settle on the simplicity of a plain black shirt and jeans. The soft fabric of the shirt falls against my skin, providing me with a sense of comfort and familiarity. It's nice to wear something that isn't flashy for once. As I finish dressing, a gentle knock breaks through the silence. Victoria's voice floats through the door, signaling dinner is ready and my stomach grumbles in agreement. Coming out of my room, I find Cass and Seraphina deep in conversation with Fletcher's stylist. Their presence here means that dinner isn't just about satisfying our hunger— we're about to fine-tune our strategy for the upcoming interviews. The annual interaction with Caesar Flickerman, the host of the Hunger Games, is crucial. How we present ourselves in these moments could mean the difference between life and death, sponsorship or abandonment.

Finnick and Victoria are deeply engrossed in conversation with their respective stylists, each chattering and exchanging praises for our opening act. Seraphina, with her flamboyant demeanor, can't contain her excitement. "(Y/N), Darling, you were absolutely stunning out there!" she exclaims, her hand gently patting mine. I offer a quiet "thank you" between bites of the garlic butter steak I piled onto my plate. My eyes sweep the room, taking note of the lack of recognition for Fletcher's contribution. Despite the tension between us, I feel compelled to speak up.

"I thought Fletcher did a great job up there, too," I say, "I know he didn't interact with the crowd much, but given the circumstances, I understand why he wouldn't want to. No offense, but at least one of us in this room is going to die— we have every right to be angry."

The words tumble out of my mouth instinctively, a strange mixture of empathy and a sense of obligation. I shouldn't feel obligated to help him. He's been nothing but cold and rude. But the weight of his unnoticed presence gnaws at me. Maybe he resents me, but I understand his resentment all too well. I meet his gaze and he gives me a small nod of what I think is appreciation. A heavy silence settles after my comment. We continue to eat, the clinking of cutlery filling the void, tension simmering beneath the surface of the seemingly normal dinner.

We finish our meal and move into the living room to watch a replay of the opening ceremonies. My attention is immediately drawn to the screen when Fletcher and I make our grand entrance. Our attire, a display of sheer artistry commands attention— a spectacle of fabric resembling fluid water cascades around our forms as the chariot glides through the parade. Fletcher, as Cass had suggested, maintains a proud stance with his chin held high, yet there remains an underlying impassiveness in his expression.

As I watch our performance, I can't help but notice the dissonance between Fletcher and myself. While I'm enthusiastically engaging with the crowd, there's a notable disconnect emanating from him. He seemed so different from when he first volunteered to now. It's clear that we need to find a balance, a middle ground in our presentation for our upcoming interviews. The Capitol thrives on personas, and ours must be cohesive if we stand any chance at garnering sponsor support.

As the scenes unfold before us, the living room is a mix of contemplative silence and occasional comments about the tributes' presentations. Amidst the parade of chariots, District 12's display is the only one, apart from our own, that captivates my attention. Cinna, whom Cass had named him, has outdone himself with their costumes. The boy and girl engulfed in flames, stand hand in hand, a striking and symbolic image that captures the essence of their district. It's refreshing to see that they didn't opt for the usual coal miner outfits this year.

As the meeting with Finnick and the others comes to a close, his words linger in the air. "Tomorrow morning, our rendezvous point is here for breakfast. We'll go over strategy then," he instructs, dismissing Fletcher and me to confer with the stylists in private.

Fletcher and I make our way down the corridor when he suddenly stops, causing me to stumble slightly in surprise. He turns to face me, his usually confident demeanor replaced with an uncharacteristic sense of vulnerability. He extends his arm towards me and mumbles, "Thanks for that back there. I know I'm not the easiest person to get along with, but it'd be nice to get some sort of recognition." His words are unexpected. And despite the recent tension, there's an underlying understanding of our shared predicament. I grasp his outstretched hand firmly and shake it. "We're in this together," I assure him.

There's a flicker of something in his eyes, a glimmer of acknowledgment that seems to understand our predicament. He nods in unspoken agreement, a fragile truce between two competitors. Then Fletcher makes a suggestion that catches me off guard. "You want to check out the roof?" he asks, a small but unmistakable hint of excitement pulling at the corners of his mouth. "I was going to go after this meeting by myself, but since we're kind of friends now I thought I might ask."

My initial reaction is one of caution, unsure about breaking rules so blatantly. "But isn't the only entrance to the roof through the penthouse?"

He shrugs nonchalantly, undeterred by my concerns. "So what? We're just two kids on an adventure."

"But what if we get caught? Or killed for trespassing?" My concern is understandable. They've killed and tortured people for much smaller things. Fletcher seems unfazed by my concerns.

"If we're going to die anyways, why not die doing something fun?"

His words carry a reckless edge, both unnerving and intriguing. My heart races as I struggle to process his offer, but before I can fully grasp the situation, Fletcher's sudden resolve takes hold of me. A mix of reluctance and curiosity drives me to follow him towards the elevator. Stepping into the confined space, I feel my senses come alive with the thrill of the unknown and the danger of potentially breaking Capitol rules. Each passing floor brings another rush of excitement. Despite my reservations, I'm excited to do this with Fletcher. Our decision feels impulsive, a momentary departure from the structured rules of the Training center, a rebellion against our controlled confines.