romeo wilder's interview (4m / 8th games)

/ romeo wilder's interview /

♪  district four male   ♪

harlan

romeo

Romeo has yet to rest in any form more than simply languishing with his own philosophical thoughts.

He attempts to quiet the growl of his stomach by playing a soft, wordless melody on his guitar. In music, there is so much more to hear than just the hitch of a breath, the fidget of nervous fingers — the hard reality that in a matter of days, he will be forced to stare down the edge of a blade, and he will have nowhere left to run. What that first cut will reveal to him, he has no way of knowing. But he tries to make his peace with his fate while he still can. He is a being made of wanting.

And he wants nothing more than to survive this.

When they come for him, he gazes up calmly, ending his song and swiveling the strap deftly so that his instrument rests securely on his back. He finds himself grateful for the intrusion to the monotony, rising to his feet and following where his captors direct him. He is wise enough to know that biting the hand that isn't feeding him is just as much of a risk as the alternative. When he takes his position on the stage across from Harlan, he offers a cordial smile, testing the waters of their exchange.

"I couldn't help noticing that you came to the Capitol with a guitar.
You must be pretty talented for them to let you keep it, no?"

He does not blush, but there is a modesty to his voice. In the anxious moments, there has always been a pull to perform, to distract from any potential chinks in his armor. He feels secure in his abilities as a musician, but he isn't foolish enough to think that's the reason he was given this small mercy. For all these strangers know, he might be the worst artist in the world.

"It's probably more that they trust I don't intend to cause any trouble."

His laugh is a bell ringing, choosing humor over terror.

"Not to any of you, at least. But, yeah, I've been playing since I was eight."

Romeo will allow the years to speak for themselves. He doesn't feel inclined to say whether or not he is talented, only that he has dedicated more than half of his life in pursuit of this passion. It would feel terribly cruel for the race to end so soon before the finish line.

"How did you discover your love of music?"

"I won it at a school fair." He reaches to rotate the guitar until it rests on his lap, grasping the handle and propping it up for the silent audience to see more clearly. "It was the first thing I ever won, actually. And I didn't have anyone to teach me how to play it, so yeah. That's why I've been practicing for the last ten years." He runs his fingertips over the strings, strumming a few notes for the crowd. This is the most familiar he has felt to himself since his name was called. "I guess you could say it discovered me."

"I also noticed that you are listed as homeless.
You aren't on speaking terms with your family, then?"

Impulsively, he glances down at his calloused hands, considering his words more deeply than trying to come across as charming. "Not homeless. I have this van that I renovated into a place to stay. I pushed it to the top of a cliff, and now I have the best view of the ocean in Four all to myself." He smiles, knowing it will soon fade. "I count myself pretty lucky." His inhale sounds something like a sigh. He is a boy eclipsed by his own trauma. "In regards to my family, they know what my independence means to me." He says this as a prisoner in chains. "On that end, Harlan, there is nothing more to say."

"Who, then, do you think you'd be fighting for in there?"

Romeo considers this for a moment, taking the lull in conversation as his chance to sweep his gaze across the sea of quiet faces, processing his thoughts. He is left with a lone, resounding realization even before Harlan draws attention to it.

"... It's okay if the answer is yourself."

"I'm the only person I need to get out of there, so I would hope I'd be my own choice." He imagines what he must do to achieve victory, and the price that he will have to pay. "Yes. The answer is me."

"Pardon my forwardness, but I wonder:
Are you willing to do anything it takes to survive?"

He gazes at the director of this film he has been forced to star in, dark irises burning with ambition, gleaming with hope. In this lighting, all the puzzle pieces of himself seem dimmer somehow, like a supernova being quieted. He holds his jaw high, and he holds it steady. "I will not die without a fight. That much I can say." Nothing within him has ever intended to go quietly.

"Any parting words?"

He positions his guitar, his eyes glancing down. "Only a song." And knowing it might be the last time, he shares his love for the one thing he has always been the most terrified to lose. And he sings.