I sit up in the sleeping bag, groaning and rubbing my eyes tiredly, still trying to get over the events of the previous day. Gally died. Beth and Teresa didn't kill us, despite meaning that it could allow one of them to win the Games quickly and easily.
I sigh. My brain hurts until I look at the sleeping boy beside me, who calms my nerves slightly, but gives me shivers that run along my spine at the same time, especially after admitting to him what I did yesterday. I run my fingers through his hair and notice the clumps of dirt in the long, tangled blond locks. Looking over at the waterfall only a few metres away, the thought occurs to me that we should probably wash today.
I lean over and press a kiss against his warm forehead. He groans and nuzzles his face further into the sleeping bag hood, clasping his fingers around my wrist at the same time.
"C'mon, Newt," I say, pulling at his hand. He doesn't respond. "You know, we're lucky no one came to kill us last night," I say conversationally.
"What do ya bloody mean, love?" he asks, his head still buried in the sleeping bag.
"No one kept watch," I respond, and attempt to prise his fingers from my wrist.
"Well, who would come kill us?" he asks blearily, sitting up and looking me in the eyes.
"Well-" my voice breaks off as I realise I have nothing to say to that. Who would come kill us? If Teresa and Beth wanted to slit our throats, they would have done it when Gally died. And apart from that, there are only four other tributes left; Frypan from Five, Aris from Ten, Zart from Nine, Ben from Three. And then it hits me.
There are only eight of us left.
Eight.
Top eight means families interviewed back home. Top eight means you start to get important to the Capitol. The only other tribute from District Twelve that has ever been in the top eight is Minho.
Top eight means you have a chance.
A chance of going home. A chance of seeing your family. A chance of District Twelve, of the Seam, of the town, of the woods, of Victor's Village.
And then a sinking feeling forms deep in the pit of my stomach. There can only be one victor. One. And it's going to be Newt. I'll make sure of it. It means I'll never see Chuck, or Father, or the woods ever again. But Newt will.
A desire to lean down and kiss Newt as if I'll never see him again overtakes me, and so that's what I do.
"Love?" Newt asks curiously. "Not that I don't bloody love kissing you, but what was that for?"
"Just-" I break off and my voice chokes up. "Only one of us can win, Newt, and I-" I break off again and bury my face in my hands.
Newt carefully removes my hands from my face, and directs his eyes to mine. "Love, we'll find a way for us to both be together. I promise."
My eyes flicker up to his and hold his stare. "Good that," I reply.
His arms envelope me in a hug, and I rest my rest in the crook of his neck. I rest in his embrace for a little while, him holding me and me holding him, until we're interrupted by Claudius Templesmith's voice ringing out around the arena.
"Ladies and gentlemen, tributes of the Hunger Games!" he calls out, and I don't pay much attention. It's not uncommon for him to call out an announcement, for a feast during a particularly difficult Games. These Games aren't the hardest there's ever been, but maybe some of the other tributes are struggling. Either way, it probably won't make much difference to me.
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The Tributes of Twelve | Newt x Reader
Fanfiction(y/n) (y/l/n). A girl from the Seam in District Twelve. She lives under the control of the Capitol with her father and younger brother Chuck. She has avoided the Hunger Games her entire life and has instead focused on putting food on her family's ta...
