Fluid Heart, Firey Soul (Peeta Mellark x Reader)

Chapter 1 - District 4

The weight of my bag presses down on my shoulder as I make my way along the cobblestone street, scanning the area for any potential traders. My stomach grumbles at the thought of scoring some fresh bread from District 4's bakers. They have a peculiar habit of shaping their bread into fish as if we don't see enough of those creatures every day. But I can't deny that it's incredibly delicious, and if my name is called at the reaping, I at least deserve a loaf of the stuff before I go.

"Hooks, lures, nets!" I call out to the people on the street. "You know you want them!"

A small crowd begins to gather around me, eyeing my wares with interest. With a flourish, I pull one of the nets out of my bag and stretch it between my hands to display its strength. A few satisfied nods and I know I've hooked them. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a cart filled with loaves of bread only a few yards away. I quickly grab my fishing rod and attach one of my father's hooks to the end of the line. Without a word, I cast the line toward the cart and hook a fresh loaf, reeling it in. The spectators are mesmerized now. Grinning, I repeat the process, this time snagging two loaves at once with my dad's newest hook. The baker is stunned, the audience erupts into applause, and I feel a surge of triumph.

"Every trade comes with a sample of bread!" I announce, holding the loaves high above my head and giving the baker a playful smirk as the crowd eagerly drains us both of every last morsel. My bag is now filled with not only read but also squirrels, berries, grouse, and even some skeins of yarn; more than I could have hoped for. As the spectators slowly disperse, the young baker makes his way over to me.

"Nice one," he says, giving me a slight jab with his elbow. Wren Oliver, my friend since childhood, always knows how to make me laugh. He's one of the few people I can truly be myself around. With him, everything flowed naturally and effortlessly. I let out a long exhale and feel the tense muscles in my body finally relax.

"So then," I start. "Show me your bounty."

He grins, his eyes dancing excitedly as he reveals his mountain of animal meat and furs. This has always been our tradition on reaping day. When the town square is packed to the brain with anxious citizens, we put on a show, and every time we're rewarded with bountiful trades from the townspeople. So far, we've managed to avoid the reaping but just in case, we wanted to make sure our families would be stocked up with enough supplies to last until the Games are over.

Wren breaks into his stash of berries, his fingers eagerly plucking the fruits. "You know, I never understood why people volunteer for the Games," he mutters, popping a blackberry into his mouth.

"For the glory," I say with a snort, "To show off for the slight chance of victory. I mean, who wants to live a long life when you can die showing off your sweet muscles?"

Wren's expression brightens. He flips his messy brown hair and flexes his arms, revealing lean muscles underneath his white long-sleeve tee. In District 4, we're known for having skilled volunteers who've trained a good majority of their lives for the Games. But we're not like them; risking our lives for glory wasn't worth it. I'd prefer a humble life over a flashy death any day.

"We've only had, what, three victors?" I add, "Yet people still willingly throw themselves into the reaping almost every year."

"Ah but (Y/N), don't you see?" Wren exclaims with mock enthusiasm, exaggeratedly raising his fist. "For the glory!" His boisterous hooting echoes through the trees, mimicking the cheers of a crowd for the winning tribute.

Wren and I seem nonchalant making jokes about the Games, mocking them, but our laughter is forced, a facade to mask the terror that grips our hearts. But what's the point of being afraid? It's been this way for 74 years, so why be scared now?