A/N: Hi all! It's been just under a year and a half since I first began to write this fanfiction. And while I'm under no illusion that people have been waiting on the edge of their seats for the next chapter while deeply caring about my life, I do want to explain that I had distractions in my life that were too overwhelming to balance with writing a fanfiction. Well, I'm back now with no distractions, and I won't be updating this story for a while. Only because I plan to rewrite what's already been written. I tried to encapsulate Suzanne Collin's writing style in this, and I still plan to do that, but I'm not completely happy with what I have and I want to overhaul it before continuing. Especially the first chapter.

You might notice that there's a chapter underneath this note, and feel free to read it if you'd like, but it's a rough draft of something I'd written all the way back in April 2023. It's not what this chapter is going to be in the future, and I've only included it because according to the TOS, I can't just write a chapter that's only an A/N and while I'm not sure how strictly they enforce this rule, I don't particularly want this story taken down. Anyways, that's all from me, thanks for reading, and I hope you read this story when I feel that it's better written 3

Chapter 8: Prospero

I approach Prospero cautiously, the condensation on the cool glass of water Priscilla offered glistening in the dim light. As I draw closer, I realize that I never thought I would see this side of him again. Yet here he is, sprawled out with his back against the paneling, drunkenly mourning a number that, by all accounts, should be celebrated. Why has he put so much pressure on himself to be perfect?

"Prospero?" I call out gently, careful not to startle him. He flinches, attempting to erase any trace of his previous tears. An act that is in vain, as fresh ones quickly cascade down his cheeks.

"What do you want, Quinn?" He asks, his voice harsh and bitter.

"Priscilla told me to give you this." I settle down beside him, the scent of salt and alcohol filling my lungs as I place the glass by his leg. "It's water."

"I don't want it." He growls in response, swiping at the glass with a limp hand. When he realizes he'd have to sit up to reach it, he quickly abandons the attempt.

I've witnessed people in Prospero's current state on the streets of District Three. They huddle over, their faces flushed and tear-streaked on a Friday night, still garbed in their factory uniforms. Personally, I've only ever had to deal with it once. The night after mother died, father had found some beer - not wine, I don't think I've ever seen that stuff in District Three - and drank himself into a stupor. He was hunched over the dining table, cradling his head in his hands, and weeping as if he'd never exhaust his supply of tears. I was young. I didn't know what to do, but I had to try and help.

I just remember the water eased him out of it, and I have to attempt to do the same now. "It'll help."

"I don't want their damn help!" He exclaims, slamming his fist into the paneling beside him with a forceful bang, which cracks the glass. "I want to go home!"

Everything in my body is screaming for me to leave him here, but I can't. Through the shouting, sour attitude, and violent outburst, I can see the pain and desperation etched into his face. I have to stay until he's okay. Even if he hates me.

"Tell me.." He says, his voice quivering. "How? How did you get an eight?"

I shrug my shoulders with caution. "I just got lucky.. That's all."

"You just got lucky?" He replies through gritted teeth, his words dripping with over-exaggerated sarcasm. "Thanks, Quinn. That makes me feel a whole lot better."

The humming cars of the city pass by as we sit silently, the palpable tension filling the air with a heavy weight that almost feels suffocating. I fidget with the hem of my shirt, feeling a knot form in my stomach form in my stomach as I try to think of something to say that won't anger him further. I've never been good at talking to people, let alone comforting them. It's like there's a wall between me and everyone else, and I don't know how to break it down. Why did I decide to come out here in the first place? Priscilla was the one who got him drunk. Beetee is his mentor. Wiress has comforted him before.

I let out a deep breath and decide to try anyways. "I'm sorry," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Just give me the fucking water," He snaps, scowling as I pick up the glass and offer it to him.

He snatches it with an aggressive swipe and drinks it in one long gulp, his hand trembling ever so slightly. Some of the water escapes from the corners of his mouth and dribbles down his chin, only wettening his tear-stained shirt further.

"I- I just thought I'd do better. Be better." He confesses, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. "I trained so hard, only to be overshadowed by you. The girl who tripped up on the chariot."

I know I should feel offended, but I push that feeling aside for now. This isn't about me, but about Prospero and his pain. I need to keep trying.

"A seven is still a high score," I grasp for something to say, anything that might help. "You should be proud."

He laughs bitterly, shaking his head. "A seven isn't enough for me to walk out of that arena victorious. You got an eight. That's them saying you have a fighting chance, while I'll probably die in the top ten."

"You're being too hard on yourself," I say, trying to reassure him. "I saw you with that mace in the Training Center. You're good."

"No! I'm not!" He growls, his emerald green eyes blazing with anger. He quickly collects himself with a few deep breaths, then looks away from me. "You don't understand."

I throw my head back and close my eyes with a deep sigh. He's right, I don't. Since he was reaped, he's carried himself in a way that seems like he already knows he's going to win. He's charmed The Capitol, gained skill in a weapon, and has a strong alliance. Perhaps a seven isn't what he wanted, but it's not bad enough to discredit himself fully. There has to be something more to this, and if I want to help him, I have to find out what it is.

I open my eyes and turn my gaze toward him, sympathetically putting a hand on his forearm. "Then help me understand."

He hesitates for a moment, his breathing deep as he stares ahead at the balcony door. Then, he turns to look at me and gravely nods.

"I was supposed to be married by now," His voice breaks as he speaks, and the tears return. "My girlfriend and I.. were supposed to marry the day after the reaping. Our final reaping. I'd already bought the ring.. And made the arrangements.. We were going to be so happy.."

Suddenly, I remember the day we said our goodbyes inside the Justice Building. There was a girl wailing in agony who had to be ripped away from him by three peacekeepers. I remember the way she clawed for him, as if he were the last piece of bread in the district. That girl was his fiancée.

"But then you were reaped," I finish for him. "I'm so sorry, Prospero."