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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The Capitol air crackled with a manic energy. Yesterday's quiet introspection in the apartment felt like a lifetime ago as Azalea stood backstage, the roar of the crowd a physical presence. Unlike yesterday, where she'd only seen the other tributes through video screens, here they were, a flesh-and-blood representation of the brutal reality that awaited them.
It was tribute parade day. The commencement ceremony for the Hunger Games that would be hosted in two weeks.
Other tributes, their faces etched with anger or fear, wore costumes that seemed more like outlandish costumes than survival gear. Their districts' identities were on full display – a desperate attempt to win favor with the fickle Capitol audience.
She almost pitied them, these tributes caught in the same twisted game as her.
Azalea, however, stood out from the crowd. Bloom had defied expectations. He hadn't turned her into a caricature of District Four.
Instead, Azalea's gown was a breathtaking creation inspired by her namesake. Delicate silk, the color of a summer sky, cascaded down her form, each fold adorned with meticulously crafted silk flowers – roses, lilies, and a smattering of vibrant azaleas that seemed to bloom with an ethereal luminescence. Her makeup, natural and elegant, accentuated her features without masking them.
Glancing at Callum, she couldn't quite contain a satisfied smile. Clad in a costume that looked like it had been salvaged from a Capitol citizens closet, Callum sported a mishmash of shells and netting that seemed more practical than stylish. Azalea couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in surprise. Bloom, catching her expression, swept past with a dramatic sigh.
A mischievous glint sparkled in Azalea's eyes as she leaned closer to Bloom, the rhythmic clopping of the horses a steady beat in the background. "You did marvelous, Bloom." she whispered, her voice barely audible above the cheers of the crowd. "He looks... well, very different in comparison."
Like anyone who met the girl, Bloom had fallen in love with Azalea Rose immediately upon meeting her. So yesterday in their fitting, when she'd opened up about how much she hated Callum and what a bully he'd been her whole life whilst discussing their clothes for the parade, Bloom took it upon himself to mischeviously help Azalea out, even if only with clothing.
The idea of Bloom, with his flamboyant sense of style, deliberately making Callum look like a walking disaster zone was too delicious to resist.
Bloom told her he couldn't promise it could work out, but that he would try his best to be at least a little mischevious when choosing Callum's outfit in the next hour. She'd never expected their plan to be executed so perfectly.
Bloom stifled a snort, his flamboyant cape billowing dramatically behind him. "Oh, my dear," he wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. "It was practically effortless! The man practically designed the monstrosity himself. All I did was... nudge him in the 'right' direction. A touch too much makeup, an emphasis on that... impressive chest development," he gestured vaguely towards Callum's torso, "and voila! A caricature of a district four citizen attempting, and failing miserably, to appear Capitolesque."
