Fluid Heart, Firey Soul (Peeta Mellark x Reader)

Chapter 11- Private Sessions

Peeta places his plate down next to mine and takes a seat beside me at the table. The tension in the air is palpable, and I can sense that Fletcher is not happy with Peeta's presence. His eyes narrow into icy slits, and if looks could kill, Fletcher would win the Games. He needs to let go of this grudge against District 12— I've lost people too, but directing his anger towards Peeta who has done nothing wrong is unfair. It wasn't Peeta who killed his brother.

"So, how's training going so far?" Peeta tries to break the ice.

"Fine," Fletcher responds coldly, barely sparing Peeta a glance. It's obvious that he doesn't want to engage in small talk. At least not with Peeta. I offer Peeta an apologetic smile. I can't help but feel sorry for him, trying to navigate Fletcher's frosty reception. But Peeta seems like the kind of person who always sees the good in others, even when it's not immediately apparent. I had seen that goodness in Fletcher before, but it seems like he won't show it to Peeta without a fight.

"Hey, maybe Peeta can show you some of his camouflage techniques," I suggest. I'm hoping that maybe if they spend more time together, they'll be able to connect. I like both of them and I don't want to be forced to choose sides. Fletcher looks at me and responds with a grunt, his body language communicating his unwillingness to budge.

"Fletcher," I implore, locking my eyes with his and silently pleading for him to let go of the past. To open up, even just a little. To give Peeta a chance. With a heavy sigh, Fletcher relents.

"Yeah, sure," Fletcher mutters, "I guess he can show me how to paint or whatever."

The three of us spend the rest of lunch together, our conversation lacking in liveliness but at least Fletcher seemed to be making an effort to speak with Peeta. I was the one mostly keeping the conversation flowing between the two of them. But there were moments where I wasn't needed. When we're dismissed, Fletcher and Peeta head towards the camouflage station, and I'm left alone. I decide to continue practicing my throwing skills, hopefully increasing my distance. And as I keep throwing, I finally notice a small figure observing from a distance. It's the girl from District 11, the one ho had caught my attention during the reapings. Up close, she seems even younger than her age— no more than ten years old. I think her name is Rue, just like one of those flowers featured in the plant test.

Since I caught her watching me, I've become more aware of her presence. Has she always been watching me, and it was only now that I took notice? This little girl intrigues me and in return, I begin to watch her. She's clever for her age. She's incredible with plants and can climb any surface with ease. She's fast, too.

After our training sessions are over, we return to our floor. As soon as we enter, Finnick and Victoria bombard us with questions about our training, the other tributes, and who may have been watching us work. Their voices melt into a cacophony of advice and directives and after about ten minutes, my mind is checked out. They still talk, but my mind fails to register their words. I'm absentmindedly letting out a series of "mhms" and "yeahs" and nod along to their conversation without truly processing it. Both Fletcher and I are exhausted after today, that much is clear. And we desperately need a break from the lectures. Finally around nine, we're able to escape to our rooms, seeking much-needed rest.

As our final day of training rolls on, anticipation is growing for our private sessions with the Gamemakers. At lunch, they call each tribute out one by one, starting from District 1 and working their way to 12. The male tribute is called first, followed by the female. Marvel, the boy from District 1, is called first, followed by Glimmer, the girl. Each tribute exits the room and once they're gone, they don't return. This pattern continues until it's Fletcher's turn.

"Make sure to show them a bit of everything," I offer. "You're strong and have great aim. Impress them with both."

"Thanks," he nods and leaves the room. I nervously fidget in my seat, waiting for my own turn. After fifteen minutes, my name is finally called. I take a deep breath, smoothing down my hair and trying to stand as tall and confident as I can.