Careful not to disturb the peaceful stillness of the night, I silently slip out of bed and make my way toward the bathroom The soft glow of the nightlight greets me as I begin to brush my teeth. I spit the paste into the sink and lift my gaze to the mirror, a silent witness to the subtle transformations that have occurred throughout the day. My eyes take in every detail, reflecting on the traces of challenges and emotions etched onto my face. A few touch-ups to my makeup add a touch of radiance, subtly enhancing my features. I run my fingers through my hair. I consider leaving it as is, but the insistent tangles urge me to reach for a brush. I brush and pin my hair back into its familiar arrangement and notice the flower— today's exertions have taken a toll, leaving the once-vibrant blossom slightly wilted. Looking at its faded state, I choose not to return it to its spot in my hair.
I take a step back, my eyes fully engulfed in the reflection before me. The subtle but immense adjustments that had been made to my appearance were like brushstrokes on a canvas, each one enhancing my features and revealing a newfound layer of resilience. It was like looking at a new version of myself. I contemplate this transformed image and feel a slight shift in my motivations. While part of me saw this self-care as a response to the intense demands of the day, a silent act of rebellion against the Capitol's expectations, there was also a whisper of consideration for Peeta in the back of my mind. The possibility that my actions were influenced by the desire to present the best version of myself to him can't be dismissed.
I shake my head and grab a pair of boots, mindful not to put them on until I'm out of the room. The loud clunking sound they make could possibly alarm anybody on the floor, and the last thing I need is curious housemates inquiring about my late-night whereabouts. I clutch the boots in my hand, tiptoeing through the hallway with hushed anticipation. As I reach the main door, I carefully twist the handle and gently pull it shut. The door clicks with only the faintest whisper of sound. With a quick glance over my shoulder, I know that I've successfully eluded the prying eyes of the District 4 floor. But now I have to sneak into the twelfth floor undetected.
I approach the elevator with a newfound confidence, my adrenaline high as I ascend to the top floor. When I approach his door, I feel sure that this time my entry will be seamless without the need to pick a lock. He was my ticket inside, ensuring a smooth reunion when the coast was clear. Following his instructions, I softly tap my knuckles on the door three times. But when the door opens, it's not Peeta's familiar smile that greets me. Instead, a pudgy, middle-aged man stands before me, reeking strongly of whiskey.
Reacting instinctively, I duck to the side of the door frame, a futile attempt to evade his gaze. As if this sudden maneuver would render me invisible. If these were my survival skills, I was doomed. The man's intense stare locks onto mine, his slightly agape mouth revealing a mixture of confusion and intrigue. "Sweetheart, I may be drunk, but I'm not dumb," he declares, grasping my arm with an unexpected firmness.
Before I have time to understand what's going on, he ushers me into the penthouse. This unexpected turn of events has left me momentarily disoriented, the confidence I had carried moments ago dismantled and replaced by a sense of vulnerability. The man abruptly shoves me onto the couch, taking a seat in an adjacent chair. He eyes me with a disapproving look, his features hardening with suspicion. "Are you here to spy on my tributes?" he demands, his voice is distrustful and hostile. Does he really think I'm capable of espionage? Someone who can barely fend for herself? Stammering, I attempt to refute his assumption.
"What? No—" I begin to protest weakly, but my feeble words are cut off by the resounding slam of a glass hitting the table with enough force to echo through the room. His voice surges with anger as he repeats the question. "I said are you here to spy on my tributes?"
My body shrinks into the cushions of the couch, trying to seek shelter from the confrontation. This unforeseen situation is unfolding like a nightmare; never could I have imagined something like this happening. If only I had hesitated a bit longer. If only I had exercised more caution, perhaps all of this could have been avoided.
"No, I'm not, I just—" my words still stutter out as I desperately try to navigate my way through this misunderstanding. I can hear the sound of rushing footsteps down the hallway and I feel instant relief knowing that Peeta is coming to diffuse the situation. I turn my head to face Peeta, only to be met with a sharp slap across the cheek.
"Don't you dare look away from me! You're here to gather information, aren't you?" his voice is seething with anger, the scent of alcohol adding an extra layer of hostility to his words. He raises his hand once more and I brace myself for the impending blow.
"Haymitch, stop it!" Peeta's voice booms, now positioned between me and the man he calls Haymitch. "Do you enjoy going around and hitting young girls now?" Peeta's anger radiates off him like heat waves, a level of fury I never imagined from the boy.
"She came to spy on you," Haymitch retorts, his voice laced with bitterness as he takes another sip of his drink, the amber liquid sloshing around in his glass. His eyes are bleary and unfocused, but they hold a sharpness that sends shivers down my spine. "She's no good."
I feel a mixture of relief and gratitude for Peeta at this moment— Haymitch had instilled genuine fear in me, but I feel safer with Peeta around. "Haymitch, you're drunk," he asserts, gently taking the glass from his hand. "She's my ally, not a spy."
The grizzled man's gaze met Peeta's with skepticism, his eyebrows furrowed as if trying to piece together the truth. "From Four?" he asks.
"Yes, the girl from Four, remember?" he responds calmly. "There's nothing to worry about. Now lay down. You've had too much to drink." Peeta guides Haymitch to recline in his chair, being firm yet gentle with the man. He replaces the contents of Haymitch's glass with water before draping a blanket over him. As the inebriated man succumbs to sleep, Peeta gestures for me to follow him to the rooftop.
We climb the stairs in silence until we reach the top, where I can't help but notice something that wasn't there before. Peeta had arranged a blanket and a small basket filled with an assortment of fruits and rolls. There was a soft light of a lantern glowing in the corner, illuminating the space. A small radio plays a soft tune that I don't quite recognize, but it seems to fit the atmosphere perfectly.
"What's all this?" I chuckle, taken aback by his unexpected gesture.
"Figured if we don't make it out of here in a few days, we might as well make the most of it," he responds with a warm smile. He takes my hand and leads me to the blanket, guiding me down to the ground. He reaches into the basket and hands me a fish roll.
"How did you manage to get these?" I ask him.
"Snuck them in my pocket at lunch," he admits with a laugh.
I can't help but laugh at his antics. The tone becomes more serious when he touches his hand to my cheek. His touch is very soft and he looks at me with concern. I feel my heart begin to beat faster after he does this, but I'm unsure as to why. "Are you okay?" Peeta asks. "He hits hard, smacked me the first day I met him. I guess it's kind of his thing."
"Yeah, I'm okay," I assure him. My eyes shift to the distant lights of the Capitol, flickering in every color imaginable. "Is he always like that?"
Peeta sighs. "Well, he does drink a lot, but I think he might've had more than usual tonight. He's been stressed about the Games. Probably more than I am."
"You aren't stressed out?" I question.
"No, not really," he confesses, reclining on his back. "I think I've come to accept that I won't make it out of here alive. I'm not a fighter. Never have been. I don't want to have to kill anyone."
My voice is barely above a whisper when I ask, "Would you... kill somebody?"
"I think if it came down to it I would. Just like anyone else. But never of my own free will," he tells me, looking at me with a seriousness that I'd never seen before. "I want to die as myself. I don't want them to change me in there, turn me into some kind of monster that I'm not. I keep wishing that I could think of a way to... to show the Capitol that they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in their Games. Does that make sense?"
I nod and lay down beside him. "Yeah, it does make sense," I tell him. "I kill fish, not people."
He chuckles at my remark. I'm sure he's grateful for the distraction from the heavy conversation prior. "Doesn't seafood get boring after a while?" he asks.
"Definitely. But I have bread from Wren and sometimes I can trade for other things like squirrel or rabbit," I say. "What about you? You must have plenty of sweets as a baker."
"I suppose, but I don't eat them. My mother gets upset if she sees me eating them," he says. A flicker of sadness crosses his face, reminding me of the night before when his mother had been mentioned and the sorrow in his eyes when he thought back to the memory of her.
"She doesn't sound like a good person," I remark.
Peeta's gaze lingers on me before shifting to the vast expanse of stars above. It seemed like he wanted to agree with what I had said about his mother, but was held back by an unspoken sense of guilt. The mere thought of living a life where one's own mother seemed so against them leaves me feeling a profound sadness for him. He breaks the silence with a gentle turn of his head, his blonde hair glinting in the moonlight. "What's your family like back home?"
I hesitate for a moment before responding. "Well, my mom passed away when I was young. She was ill, but she fought for as long as she could. After that, it's just been me and my dad. He's a great man. Owns the tackle shop just outside of town. Everyone loves him. I'm just worried about who will take care of him if I don't come back."
"You're making it back there, (Y/N)," Peeta declares, sitting up and facing me, "I couldn't imagine anyone else winning the Games."
A small smile graces my lips and I close my eyes, allowing the soft melodies from the radio and the distant sounds of the city life below to create a calming symphony. "Stand up," Peeta's voice interrupts my moment of tranquility and my eyes open to see him standing above me.
"What, why?" I ask him.
"Just trust me," he responds.
Curiosity gets the best of me and I rise to my feet. Peeta promptly takes my hand in his, the other finding its place on my waist. I start laughing as he begins to sway to the music.
"Peeta, what are you doing," I say, unable to contain my smile.
"We're making memories! Dance!" he declares with enthusiasm, twirling me around in a circle. Peeta and I sway to the music, our movements awkward yet full of life. Neither of us are skilled dancers. I think we know that. But it doesn't matter. If anything, our lack of proficiency only adds to the charm of the moment. I'm embracing the awkwardness, embracing something uniquely our own. The last notes begin the fade away and I find myself cradled in Peeta's arms. My fingers are gently intertwined at the back of his neck as we continue to dance to the lingering music in the background. Lost in the depths of his beautifully blue eyes, I feel a sense of peace wash over me. They mirror the serenity of the sea, offering a comforting reflection of home.
A soft smile adorns Peeta's lips as we continue to dance, a silent acknowledgment of the connection growing between us. It's a mutual understanding that surpasses the need for words. I rest my head on his chest and close my eyes, continuing to move to the gentle rhythm, feeling truly happy and content in his arms.
Quick A/N
Just wanna say thanks to the (probably) three people reading this book, I'm having fun writing it and it makes me happy knowing that you few enjoy reading. I know it's not as popular as a few other fanfics, but if you guys like it then I will absolutely do my best to keep the story going! :)