I will write for the above characters. If prompted I will write poly fics including the characters listed above, simply specify which ones. However, unless specifically told if you list characters I will write headcanons/fics for them separately instead of as a unit. I will write nearly anything SFW or NSFW except for things including the following:
Anything with Heavy Blindfolds | Crossovers with Other Universes | Male Pregnancy | Modern Day AUs
My requests are open unless specified otherwise. I will write full fledged stories or simple headcanons. Simply specify which or I’ll choose one myself.
If you’ve followed me for LADs stuff, you can DM me and I’ll send you my AO3 account for it because I decided to move my LADs stuff there since there’s more interaction.
No, cause what do you mean I’ve been thinking of making a TikTok to make edits for Worth Keeping because I can’t get edit ideas for Noah Kahan’s newest album out of my head (I’d just need a face claim for Haymitch’s darling😭) and then I check your page and see you’ve made one for Sunshine. Our minds—
- @am-i-interrupting
great minds think alike!! you’ve also reminded me that i need to post the drafts i’ve been storing up over the last two weeks 😭
whenever/if ever you get to making a tiktok account, please let me know :) i’d love to see what you create! (i’m also looking forward to finally, properly reading your work once i figure out how to manage my free time better lol)
I will absolutely let you know! And I still haven’t started writing Act 3. I have a draft for it but I don’t have it written because exhaustion is a hard thing to fight so take all the time you need to find the free time to read it because frankly, it’s probably not gonna be done soon. Much to my displeasure.
Also, got caught up on your story last night! Right after a friend told me I needed to stop interacting with sad things. I should have known better than to check your page if all places for something to read before bed because I was up until 1 in the morning just crying. Congratulations, you got a reaction out of me.
Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Everdeen!reader, Implied BIPOC!reader
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
They numb him after the first time.
It’s such a freeing sensation, not to feel anything, that Haymitch almost doesn’t recognize it as a punishment. But then the bodies roll in. Tongueless, naked, pressing up against their shared cage with a single gargled moan for help. Don’t they see he’s caged too? Strapped to a table like an animal. Being prepared to join them. Will he still be numb, he hopes, without a tongue?
They let him keep it for longer. The white coats and gloved hands are there to prod his stitches, pour thick liquids into his mouth, switch out the bags of drugs for new ones. Not to cut out his tongue.
Haymitch starts to feel then: the bile burning through his throat like hot wax, the churn of his guts, which shouldn’t be there at all. Completely different from his self-inflicted pain the first time he woke, so he convinces himself it was all imagined. None of it was real. He is not real.
The nightingales return; this time, whole and awaiting their sentencing from the snake in their cage. By the time the last of them is ripped to shreds, feathers floating through the cracks and onto his skin, Haymitch realizes this must be a test. Limbo. If he survives it, if he withstands the cyclical nightmare of the nightingales and all those that follow—the rainbow songbirds, the dove gray bunnies, more mutilated Avoxes—then he will die in peace. Then he will find the heaven he was promised.
His fantasy shatters when the white walls are traded for burnt orange. No more Avoxes in the corner, no defenseless creatures shrilling in his ears, and no choice but to confront the undeniable truth that you are dead.
As the haze dissipates, so does the last of the numbness.
Vaguely, Haymitch makes out Wyatt’s cushion across from him, bereft of sheets. Two makeshift beds lie on the floor, exactly as they were left. The one oddity is the pump in his chest, doling out drugs throughout his body. He smells something sweet as fruit, like the scent that clung to you during your days in the apartment. He turns his face into the pillow, breathes in the leftover sweetness, now as sickening as the arena, and soils it with his tears.
Oh, sunshine.
Little things died when his sisters did. Innocence, shades of pink, the comfort of cotton. Pa took a bigger slice, left a harder pill for Haymitch to swallow: no one was ever going to protect him the way he had. No one was ever going to take care of their family the way Haymitch needed to. When it was Mamaw’s turn, all he had left to give was whatever remained of his childhood. Not much.
Every loss since has chipped away at him one by one. Somehow, Haymitch has remained standing, with fragile pieces of his heart intact.
You take everything. Everything. Except for Haymitch.
The crevices of his soul, the light in every room, the colors of the world. All the details that make up life. He didn’t realize how you shielded him from that before: the dullness of things.
They should’ve let him die—you should let him.
“Just let me go,” he wheezes, voice crackling with the strain of going unused for so long. “Please.”
No one answers. You wouldn’t answer him here anyway.
Acting on autopilot, Haymitch rolls off the bed and lands on his abdomen. He thinks to tear out his stitches but all that’s left of them is an ugly scar. His limbs give out twice as he clothes himself with his old pajamas. Unsteady still as he stumbles out of the room. So quiet, too quiet without Wyatt’s snoring.
The elevator is the first place his wandering feet take him to. He presses the buttons—up, down, up, down—but there’s no response. Three more tries before he calls it quits and rushes to the windows. Each one is impossible to reach through the steel bars.
No clocks to track his isolation, no knickknacks along the walls, no knives in the kitchen. Nothing that could be used to scrape away his skin so it matches his hollow insides.
Only a pitcher of milk and a platter of bread in the fridge. Haymitch consumes both greedily. His hope is fruitless, proved so when the worst that happens is a fainting spell in the living room.
At the very least, he dreams of you.
In your meadow, the wildflowers are in full bloom. You sit among them with your back to him. Your hair is the length it was before the Games, blowing all around you in the wind, wild and free.
Haymitch takes a step forward. “Sunshine!”
Maybe you don’t hear him, so he calls your name louder. Runs towards you when you still don’t turn. Trips over himself and falls onto a blackened patch of grass. You’re gone when he looks up. In your place, Silka lies thrashing with her ax in her skull
Forever a coward, he averts his gaze until he’s sure she’s gone. He lifts his head again, and there hangs Wellie’s above him. Haymitch croaks her name, then yours, caught between begging for forgiveness and seeking out your mercy.
Another voice chimes over the chittering of squirrels, “It won’t be that easy, Itchy.”
Haymitch scrambles for purchase on the grass, finding only a coarse rug. These are not dreams or nightmares. He is wide awake now, replaying every horrid, excruciating detail. Silka’s gurgles. Wellie’s pleas for him to stay. The blood on your lips. Your empty, dead eyes.
Empty and dead. Empty and dead and it’s all my fault.
The memories cycle through like the nightingales and bunnies and Avoxes. For hours? Days? Weeks? He doesn’t care anymore. They leave Haymitch crippled and couch-bound in a room you, Maysilee, and Wyatt once filled. Still alive though.
He finds the will to move into the bathroom, fill the tub to the brim, and sink right in. The camera on the vanity stares at him now, but he doesn’t bother covering it up with another towel. It wouldn’t do any good. They’re watching, if not from that camera, then from another hidden in the walls. They won’t let him die, not yet. Maybe they have a public execution in mind. One can hope.
Despite knowing that, Haymitch dips his head under the water and leans into the way it pushes against his lungs. For a second, the pain of suffocation distracts him, feels good even. His head bobbles up for a whiff of air before going back down. He goes on like this, his skin withering like a prune. Better yet when the water goes cold. Each time Haymitch resurfaces, he meets the camera.
Do they have people on standby to pull him from the brink? Will they try to stop him, send a zap through the pump in his chest, should he not come back up?
If they don’t, you will. You said you wouldn’t force each other to be okay, you said you were on even ground, so why have you forced Haymitch to stay?
“Why?” he cries, swallowing direct mouthfuls of bath water, tugging at his hair until wet strands break from his scalp. “Why? Why?”
You answer him one night—he thinks you do—in a song.
Haymitch doesn’t remember how he went from the bath to the couch again. He doesn’t open his eyes yet to find out, just listens to the melody that can only be credited to you. Except…it’s not your voice. The shape of it is different, though it haunts him awake just the same.
No working elevator or clocks, but the television is just fine now, flickering right in front of him with an image that shouldn’t feel so familiar. Haymitch has never seen this before in his life. The war-era fashioned audience, the static around Panem’s insignia, the rainbow girl who is to credit for the soulful song.
It’s sooner than later that I’m six feet under.
It’s sooner than later that you’ll be alone.
So who will you turn to tomorrow, I wonder?
For when the bell rings, lover, you’re on your own.
Her voice is not yours, and neither is her face, exactly. But that accent, that guitar, that glint in her eyes…
And I am the one who you let see you weeping.
I know the soul that you struggle to save.
Too bad I’m the bet that you lost in the reaping.
Now what will you do when I go to my grave?
She’s not you, yet the words she sings couldn’t be any more punishing. Haymitch failed you, he killed you, he lost you. There’s nothing to do now that you’re gone besides let you haunt him through this rainbow girl.
She drags out the last notes. The camera fades into the awestruck crowd, every one of them wiping the corners of their eyes. Among them, someone shouts, “Bravo!”
By the old-timey clothes and mentions of the reaping and instinct in his bones, Haymitch knows no other role to give her but District Twelve’s first and only victor. And if that’s the case, if this girl really was sent off to the Games and won, where is she now?
Amid the praise of the crowd, she takes a bow and reaches for a shadow in the corner. Hesitantly, a crown of blonde curls steps out. The television goes dark, and Haymitch is left with his own reflection on the screen. He stares at his sunken cheeks and bloodshot eyes, replacing the image with that of the girl again. Her cunning tune, her puzzling demeanor, her bright smile as she beckoned the blonde shadow to her side.
A Covey girl, drenched head to toe to voice in mystery. A songbird, through and through.
But the shadow at her side remains unknown. A Capitol boy, no doubt, if the flash of his snooty uniform was any indication. One close enough to this Covey girl to learn all about their ways, maybe even love them. Maybe even love her.
“Do keep a watch on your songbird. They have the tendency to disappear.”
Who else could it be, if not their good old President Coriolanus Snow?
Again, Haymitch acts on autopilot. He tears through anything and everything in his line of sight. The couch pillows, the tabletop lamp, the wooden dining chairs, the pitcher of milk on the kitchen island, recently refilled.
When the glass hits the opposite wall and the milk spills out, the memories return with a vengeance.
He catches you before you fall. He stops you from hitting the poisoned steam. He sets you down on the primrose under a tree. Not on the glass. He doesn’t let you touch the glass. But it winds up in your skin either way.
Haymitch doesn’t bother dodging the bullets flying through the window. They aren’t aimed directly at him anyway; whoever’s shooting them seems to know that’s what he’d want. A dart flies into his shoulder, not so different from the one that killed Panache. Maybe this is it.
Waddling in zigzags until his legs give out, he falls atop the pillow stuffing. Not the glass. As the tape winds back to the Covey girl’s first verse, he finally hears you:
“Don’t follow.”
Hours, days, weeks later, the ding of the elevators brings a hoard of Peacekeepers and their rifles. Finally, finally, finally. A pair of them haul Haymitch up from the floor and chain his wrists. His feet sting when they make contact with the cool marble, and he realizes they are bloodied. He did stumble over the glass after all. And as expected, you did not grant his wish.
“Well, who’s ready for a big, big, big day?” Effie Trinket, not missing a beat, comes up behind the Peacekeepers. Her prep team trails feet away, exchanging hesitant glances as they take in the wreckage of the apartment and Haymitch himself.
Effie’s eyes widen momentarily, scanning the same. She doesn’t comment on it though, which Haymitch is sure takes a lot of effort. When she grabs onto his hands, he forces himself to focus on her. “Haymitch, I am,” she sniffs, “so sorry for your loss. She was a marvel, and I know she’d be so proud of you.”
You’re far from proud of the mess he’s made of things. But what else can he say to Effie besides, “Thanks.” She’s here to butter him up for the slaughter; for that, he is thankful.
She squeezes his hands and brushes lint off his shoulders. “Now, we have little time and much to get done before your Victor’s Ceremony, so let’s say we whip you into tip-top shape!”
Ceremony. Not an execution.
Effie sends Haymitch to the bathroom. He sits quietly for the prep team to fix him up, more to do with his inability to do much else than any real desire to subdue the Peacekeepers’ guns. They each take on their own tasks: soaping him up, trimming his hair, cutting his nails, bandaging his feet. Turn him from monster to puppet. Is there even a difference?
After brushing his teeth, Effie plucks around the corners of his eyebrows, Haymitch fixates on the pair of tweezers. Less sharp than a knife, but if he were to really press—
“Suit time,” declares Effie with her best mustered enthusiasm. Nothing rattles her, it seems.
His movements are mechanical as they dress him in another black ensemble. Also belonging to Great-Uncle Silius. Effie returns his flinkstriker to him, and he briefly wonders if your bluebird was returned to you.
He doesn’t miss the prep team’s revulsion over his scar, and he can’t blame them. Haymitch is disgusted with who he’s become, too. And honestly, that’s the least of his concerns now, because his eyes are still trained on the tweezers sticking out of Effie’s makeup box.
How quickly can he reach for them before you stop him?
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
Between the two of them, Billy Taupe had the sharper mind for memories. Clerk Carmine credits that to him being older, not wiser. Before the turn their lives took for the worst, before the Covey entered their domino of death, he let his older brother do the remembering for him.
It became routine—a game even, one they’d play on those winter nights when all of them huddled together for warmth in this very room. A room now much too empty, and much too silent.
Lucy Gray would kick them off, as she did on stage. She’d tighten the blanket around Maude Ivory and Clerk Carmine, then sprawl herself across Billy Taupe’s lap. “Pipe down, and listen to your elders.”
“I don’t see any elders here,” Clerk Carmine would quip through the chatter of his teeth. The old miner who’d taken them in and died some winters prior was their elder. Not any one of them, just a handful of years older than Clerk Carmine. Even Tam Amber, the oldest among them, sitting at nineteen at the time with the quiet disposition of a man twice his age, was still practically a kid.
But Lucy Gray had a way of getting them to quiet and obey anyway. It helped when Barb Azure, with those patient but stern eyes of hers, would narrow them at the two. So, Clerk Carmine and Maude Ivory listened. It wasn't hard to cling to Billy Taupe’s tales once he got started. They were broader than the stories he’d tell Clerk Carmine when it was just the two of them. Stories about their parents, their mama’s love of honeysuckle, their papa’s knack for the fiddle.
These ones were all about the Covey’s life on the road. Places they’d been and performed, the freedom of their nomadic culture. More often than not, Maude Ivory would jump to finish his sentences, fill in the gaps she memorized from the very first listen in. Clerk Carmine couldn’t credit that to age, being older than her and all. That was just Maude Ivory.
Times were good then. Good as can be with their way of life taken from them and the threat of frostbite. Took a long time to get a semblance of that back. But eventually, Clerk Carmine did. With Lenore Dove, Burdock, and you. His three little birds—what was left of the Covey’s future, mimicking their past.
The irony isn’t lost on him.
When the three of you were younger, learning to question and stir trouble in your own ways, giving every one of your elders a run for their money, Clerk Carmine didn’t know to be grateful for it. He just knew he couldn’t let history repeat itself as far as he could help it. Hard to do when each of you took up such distinct shapes of their ghosts.
All three of you, always questioning. And with no more Billy Taupe, no more quick-minded Maude Ivory, Clerk Carmine had to churn out his own strength.
No one else will remember their dead otherwise.
He feels Billy Taupe most of all in his Lenore Dove, who carries his accordion and his pipe dreams of a different world. Gentler, softer-hearted than he was. But just as dangerous with her thoughts.
Burdock, capable of charming anyone with a kind smile and an even kinder view of things, is an amalgamation of them all. And though he takes after Sorrel through and through, when he gets to singing, same as you, it’s straight diamonds. Like the voice that once lulled the mockingjays in their woods.
And then there’s you…who will never again burst through these doors, free as wind, or breathe color back into their mournful stage. Whose melodies now solely belong to the birds.
Exactly like before. It’s exactly like before. It’s—
“C.C.?” Tam Amber crosses the doorway softly. He’s been in his workshop for the better part of the last few evenings. Gravestones don’t take much to make supplies wise. The toll they take on one’s heart is a different matter, and Tam Amber’s made far too many over the years.
Clerk Carmine lifts his head, stopping his eyes at his hunched shoulders. He’s scared if he looks straight at him, right into his own grief, he’ll never want to leave this couch. And he has to—for his Lenore Dove, for what’s left of his family. “About time?”
“Just about.”
Tam Amber slips back out to give Clerk Carmine the moment he needs.
Taking to the corners makes one observant. It’s how Tam Amber always knows what Clerk Carmine needs. After losing Billy Taupe, he wasn’t sure he’d ever know what it was to have an older brother again. He’d been slow to see the steady presence that had been there his whole life. Been there for his first words, first steps, first betrayal by the very person whose role Tam Amber filled.
First, but not his last.
The world has taken so much from Clerk Carmine and his people. But the world is not to blame—Coriolanus Snow is, and all men like him.
Clerk Carmine will never know what happened to their Lucy Gray. Twelve-years-old, what power did he have to do anything more than run through the woods with Maude Ivory, screaming her name for weeks on end? To take his screaming straight on down to the Peacekeeper base, in search of the only person with a sliver of influence that he knew? To carry back the news that the person who saved their Lucy Gray had packed up the same day she disappeared?
Maybe she’d been left for dead, maybe she escaped, maybe she found people up north, like Billy Taupe believed there to be. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Now, at fifty-two, Clerk Carmine is no more powerful, but he does know what’s been done to you. They saw it down at the holding cells.
Somewhere in his bones, he knew the Games were coming to their end. Seven mornings ago, during the recap of the night before, five tributes remained. More or less the typical amount left before the Gamemakers stir the pot for their big finale. Last year’s Games were different, not as much fanfare, just like the tenth Games. The earliest one Clerk Carmine makes sure to remember.
He and Tam Amber, as became their routine, marched down to the jail with the same set of pleas on Lenore Dove’s behalf. Only one Peacekeeper was there to listen, most of them on duty or off doing heavens know what in the name of the greater good. Clerk Carmine later learned they were gathering the crowd in front of the Justice Building to watch you die. He and Tam Amber would have to make do with the dingy screen hanging in the waiting area.
It escalated without the Gamemakers’ say-so. One minute you were standing with the Abernathy boy, the next you were lying on the ground with a knife sticking out of you. The sponsor gift that was meant to help you spilled in a threatening pool of steam.
Haymitch ran off without you. To protect the little one you befriended, supposedly. You begged him to go, but he listened on his own accord. Clerk Carmine still doesn’t know which was worse: listening to your agony as you limped through the woods alone, or the later realization that this would be your death march.
The Career from One found the little girl before either of you could. Your efforts to save her were mighty; Haymitch’s choice to leave her, and then you, was plain stupid. The little girl used whatever strength she had left to defend herself with that blowgun. She paid the price with her head. Over and over again, the ax came down until it popped right off. By some miracle, Clerk Carmine remained standing through his nausea.
The Career and Haymitch went at it crazed, with the little girl’s head discarded somewhere behind them. Silka, Wellie. Those were their names. Silka only double-downed in her brutality when you arrived on the scene. Wounded as you were, you didn’t go down without a fight, leading her to that hedge where Haymitch discovered a glitch in the arena’s force field.
Taken out by her own ax, Silka left the two of you injured to the point of death. Except you fared better than Haymitch. Far better, all things considered. Better enough to sit up on your knees and travel to him. Better than your intestines splattered on the floor.
So then why were you the one suddenly collapsing, choking on your own blackened blood while the boy begged you not to go? Why are you dead?
If not for the panic they elicited within him, Clerk Carmine wouldn’t have heard Lenore Dove’s wails from far inside. Unlike the day she was born, when those very cries signified a life her mama no longer had, they did not mend his broken heart.
He had hoped, naively, that she’d be spared from watching the Games in captivity. But there is no corner on earth, no cell restrictive enough, that could save any person from them.
The single Peacekeeper withheld Clerk Carmine from getting to her. He must’ve assumed Clerk Carmine intended a jailbreak. All he wanted was to scoop her up in his arms like he did when she was a babe and coo promises to save her from this world. Tam Amber, frozen in time, could not do much else but gasp out your name.
“We’re here, Lenore Dove!” Clerk Carmine shouted, because that was all the comfort he could give her through the wall of the Peacekeeper and his own tears. “We’re here!”
The Peacekeeper’s heart thawed enough to let them see and hold her through the bars while she cried out for her dear cousin. Suddenly, Clerk Carmine was twelve and thirty-six and fifty-two all at once, weeping for their lost girls. They were sent off with one comfort: Lenore Dove would be out for the funeral.
They still don’t know when that is. The bodies have yet to arrive, and there’s no telling when they will. Lucy Gray was back a whole two days after her Games. But then, everything was different. They were surprised this morning with the news of the crowning ceremony. Seems their victor is all patched up to receive his accolades and tell his tale.
Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber weren’t there for Barb Azure when it happened. She does not hold it against them, though Clerk Carmine does. Still, they have to be there now. He reminds himself of this as he pushes up from the couch.
On the porch, Tam Amber holds out his arm. They walk down the steps together, and Clerk Carmine wonders if the Abernathy kin will be there, too. Willamae, a force of a woman, and Sid, whose sunny smile reminds him so very painfully of Maude Ivory. He wouldn’t put it past Barb Azure to invite them back; he wouldn’t put it past the two of them to extend their own empathy in turn.
Selfishly, Clerk Carmine hopes they turned her down. He doesn’t think he can stand to look at them without keeling over from the guilt of wishing it was you coming home to them. Barb Azure stands it because she’s stronger than him. Tam Amber can too, because he’s incapable of bitterness. And because both of them, now sharing the distinct knowledge of losing a child, could never wish it upon someone else. Three decades now since the smallpox took Tam Amber’s little Henry Russet and his mama. The passage of time will never erase the memory of them dead in his arms.
Clerk Carmine doesn’t want to wish Haymitch dead.
He’s always known him and his rebel roots to be trouble, and he’s certainly tried to will him far away from the Covey children. But Lenore Dove isn’t the only one attracted to danger. When Burdock started bringing him around, when Clerk Carmine started noticing the way you looked at him, the way he looked at you, he knew there was no stopping it. As there was no stopping the others.
Haymitch is just a boy, and deep down, Clerk Carmine knows there’s only so much he can fault him for. One crime he can’t be tried for is disparaging your heart.
Though Clerk Carmine would’ve rather not seen anything at all, he can be honest in admitting Haymitch’s tenderness towards you. Different from the way Billy Taupe lauded Lucy Gray around like she was a tally to add to his list. From the way Snow looked at her like a prize to be won and claimed. Truer than the love that burned her twice, than that given to Maude Ivory by the unnamed Peacekeeper and that Chance boy. Closer to the affection Sorrel holds for Barb Azure; only, made up of more than their friendship. Something far more fatal, for Sorrel would never let their Barb Azure be anything but safe.
The boy is not to blame. Even so…
Tam Amber halts, forcing Clerk Carmine to do the same. They’ve only made it two houses over, about a dozen left til they reach Barb Azure. But when a figure fades in with the early specks of night, Clerk Carmine sees why they’ve stopped prematurely.
Albert is not rash, and perhaps that’s why Clerk Carmine loves him so. He makes Clerk Carmine safe when the way of things says he shouldn’t be. Right now, all he feels as Albert nears is frustration.
“I’ll meet you at Barb Azure’s,” he says to Tam Amber in a rushed whisper.
Tam Amber taps his hand and carries on his path. When he crosses Albert, he accepts his condolences with a saddened hum.
Clerk Carmine doesn’t do the same. “Now ain’t the time, Albie.”
Albert shakes his head. Is he aware they’re standing in the middle of the road? They’re lucky to be on the far end of the Seam, with no one out on their porch right now. “I should’ve come sooner.”
“No, you shouldn’t’ve. You shouldn’t be here now.”
The last they saw of each other was the night Lenore Dove was arrested. They met at their usual spot, where Clerk Carmine confided he wasn’t sure they could meet again in the coming weeks.
Albert cradled his face, pressed a kiss to his nose the way he always did when he wanted to take his pain. “You got a lot on your plate right now. Don’t you fret over me.”
“I always do,” Clerk Carmine murmured against his lips. His dearest love, who keeps him warm and whole. How could he not fret over his Albie?
“I had to see you,” insists Albert. “I had to tell you—”
“I don’t wanna hear it,” snaps Clerk Carmine, feeling the sting behind his eyes.
“—I’m sorry.”
Albert carries on, but Clerk Carmine isn’t here anymore. He’s in the doorway to his room instead, looking down at your sweet face as you weakly attempt to hide the guitar behind you.
“I’m sorry,” you say, scrunching up your nose.
Clerk Carmine kneels. “Whatever for, little miss?”
“I shouldn’t touch what isn’t mine.” You cast your eyes to the floor. “They tell us that in school.”
He peeks past your shoulder to the guitar. It hasn’t felt the touch of music in so very long. Lucy Gray wouldn’t want it that way, holed up in his closet until the day he dies. “It can be yours.”
You meet his gaze then, your hesitation blooming into something much brighter, like the sunflowers Tam Amber planted in their backyard all those years ago.
No one is tending to the sunflowers now. No one. And it’s still too light out for Albert to be here, and anyone could see them, and he should be with Barb Azure by now. But Clerk Carmine lets Albert pull him into his arms anyway.
“I am so sorry, my love,” Albert whispers in his ear, voice cracking in rhythm with his sobs.
Clerk Carmine does not stay wrapped in his comfort for long, though he desperately wants to. He accepts Albert’s kisses to his nose, the wiping of his tears, and somehow, finds the strength to walk away.
The interview has already started when he arrives. Willamae and Sid are there, but they keep to the far end of the room.
Burdock sits between them and Barb Azure, hair unkempt much like Sorrel’s, more ashen than Clerk Carmine remembers him yesterday. Like he’s been ripped in two. Like all that’s left of him is the half that doesn’t work properly.
My poor little bird, with no reason to sing.
Barb Azure, to her credit, remains steady as the show goes on. The way she’d get when any one of them was sick and she’d be forced to balance her fear with care.
They skip over pieces Clerk Carmine swears he saw in real time. Your lullaby on the mountainside and goodbye with the little boy from Three; your fall into the lake during the volcano eruption; the Covey’s funeral song, which you gifted to Maysilee Donner as she left this world. The last one is a particular spite, but there’s little room to ponder it when they near the end.
Sorrel holds his arms around Barb Azure, the only thing keeping her upright, when they play the recap of your death. Sorrel’s own dam breaks then. So does Burdock’s. He clamps his hands over his mouth and rushes to the nearest basin—the kitchen sink—emptying what Clerk Carmine is sure to be next to nothing in his stomach.
Tam Amber follows after him, rubs his back, and soothes his gagging best he can.
In his corner, Sid covers his ears and buries his face into Willamae’s trembling side. Clerk Carmine fights the urge to do the same—to hide like he tried to when Lucy Gray’s name was called all those decades ago—because he has to watch. He has to remember, if no one else can.
This, however, is not what needs to be remembered. The last moments of the Games, the grand finale, are all wrong. The lead-up is much shorter—the little girl you took under your wing is completely skipped over. How you wind up with that pitcher of hot chocolate is a mystery now, one that doesn’t matter in the heat of the final battle. After you’re stabbed by the District Four girl, like Clerk Carmine saw before, you beg Haymitch to leave you for his own sake. Not Wellie’s. And he listens.
When the time comes, you are dead before Haymitch reaches you and delivers what is surely meant to be a beautiful goodbye. It’s not. On Caesar Flickerman’s stage, dolled up for the show, the boy looks sick with himself. Good, Clerk Carmine thinks before he can remind himself better.
They’ve taken your last words, your final chance to hold your head up high, your brave, big heart which no one deserves. Haymitch is framed as the tragic hero, and you, the stepping stone for his victory.
Clerk Carmine breathes in once. He tries to recall Albert’s arms and kisses, tries to steel himself with the reminder that Lenore Dove is coming home, but his mind is caught in a spiral. There is no stopping this. It’s already started. Exactly like before.
How many more of their girls will they take? How many more of you will be erased from history?
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
Haymitch doesn’t speak, but he thinks they like it best that way. Adds to his image. Grieving lover, brooding rascal, tragic hero. Whatever it is they want him to be tonight.
Music blasts from the overhead speakers scattered all around the Capitol zoo. Ironic that they don’t cage him this time. Haymitch should be grateful for that. All he really feels is the ache of your absence and the desperation to keep those he can from the repercussions of his actions.
Seven nights ago, Panem bore witness to the start of his humiliation. Oh, how the Capitol audience ate it up. They were none the wiser to his attempts at rebellion or any one of his posters in the arena. Whoever was responsible for editing the Games saw to that. They didn’t need to change much to display every painfully true way in which Haymitch failed you.
He closes his eyes and sees all he couldn’t protect you from displayed on Caesar’s stage: the horrors of the bloodbath, the volcano, the jabberjays. He remembers your numbness when he found you, not knowing what to credit it to at the time. Why hadn’t he been there sooner?
There was a brief moment before the recap started where Haymitch believed he might get to see exactly how it played out. Did he leave you on the glass or the primrose? Did you drink the hot chocolate or not? Deep down, he knows the answer doesn’t matter, so it shouldn’t change much that he didn’t get one. When all is said and done, there’s no one else to blame but himself.
Everyone back home will. Does. He isn’t certain yet, but he’s got a good inkling on which way it’ll go. Whatever they were shown during the actual Games is a fleeting imagination compared to the reality of their sell-out victor. Twelve doesn’t want him, and especially not now. The only people who might forgive him, who might be willing to see past his mistakes, are Ma and Sid.
When Haymitch opens his eyes again, he’s back on that stage.
Helpless while he watched President Snow’s descent from a floating platform, and his cruel, mocking smile. “What a well-earned victory, Mr. Abernathy.”
“You would know,” Haymitch said, freshly clipped nails dug into his skin. “I guess snow does land on top.”
Snow only smiled wider, as vicious as he was when he first dangled your life in front of him. “Enjoy your homecoming.”
Since then, he’s been carted around the Capitol like a prized dog. From parties to fashion shoots to parades in his honor. Haymitch lets it happen, lets them project whatever it is they expect from him. Pa must be rolling in his grave to see his oldest boy playing into their hands. And Maysilee…
Oh, Maysilee, I have broken my promise to you, too.
She was right: you were much better suited for the task. You are the one who should be going back home. There’s no shortage of people who care for you, who’d believe in you. These past nights, back in the apartment when he’s relieved from his duties of kissing ass, Haymitch thinks about every one of them.
Burdock, Lenore Dove, your parents and uncles. People he’s known you to talk to in passing, trade with at the Hob, offer up what you can to them. Even Sid, who, if he’s still alive to feel it, may very well be overjoyed to see his brother again. He loved you, too.
Initially consumed by his own selfish ache, Haymitch carves out time to remember that he took you from them. As much as he’s lost you himself.
A pair of teal-haired Capitol folk pass him and point his way. Haymitch is not caged this time; he is chained to a corner by the snake pen. Keeps most passersby from approaching too close.
He just has to get through this on his best behavior, even if every fiber of his being is telling him otherwise, because there is no world in which Snow will not punish him for his last attempt to light a fire under him. Because life without you, apparently, is not punishment enough.
It’d be so much easier if you just let Haymitch follow.
His view of the teal pair is replaced by the lens of a camera. Plutarch gets a nice shot from afar, and when his camera lowers briefly, Haymitch catches his narrowed eyes. Meant to express…pity? Judgement? Both, more likely than not.
He could stand Effie’s sympathy, but not Plutarch’s, or any of those who have come up to tell him how beautiful the two of you were.
Though he’s been recording every sordid, humiliating moment of Haymitch’s time in the Capitol, Plutarch has really only tried to speak to him during the crowning after party. He approached his cage, condolences on the tip of his tongue, and before he could speak them aloud, Haymitch crawled over to the cat-eared lady offering him shrimp.
Now, Plutarch gives him space. Even that is a taunt.
Haymitch doesn’t want to accept anything from Plutarch. His pity or his well-meaning distance. What he wants is to smash his camera to pieces and every one of the Capitol’s pillars with it. What he wants is to go home to Ma and Sid, crumble into their arms. What he wants is to feel your warmth pressed up against him one last time.
His throat tightens, and right at the base of it, a lump settles. His bottom lip quivers, which Plutarch must catch on camera. He drops his lens entirely, gives Haymitch a strange look, and walks off the other way. Strange. He wouldn’t have taken Plutarch as capable of expressing any kind of guilt.
Dawn eventually breaks over the scene, prompting most to head on home. Slumped against the corner in exhaustion, Haymitch hardly reacts when the Peacekeepers lift him by the underarms. For the first time in two weeks, he feels something close to relief when they take him down to the train station instead of the apartment.
There, a doctor removes the pump in his chest. The teeth detach, leaving oozy indents in his skin and the aftereffects of whatever drugs they’ve been pumping into him. They wear off quickly, and his scar starts to hurt. Made worse by the deprivation of cushy mattresses or the bunk beds from before.
The Peacekeepers lug Haymitch straight into the room Plutarch once freed him from. Wrapped in Great-Uncle Silius’s champagne bubble jacket, he finds a new corner to wallow in the pain.
Show’s over now, but the train hasn’t budged. A couple hours pass, and the only movement is the Peacekeeper who brings Haymitch a roll and a carton of milk. Snow’s still managing his diet then.
“What are we waiting for?” he asks hoarsely.
“Your friends,” replies the Peacekeeper, with a nod to the window. He goes without expanding.
A naive part of Haymitch hopes he means Mags and Wiress, that they’re coming to bid him farewell and give him the reunion they were deprived of before his crowning. But Haymitch saw the state they were in at the time. The state he put them in just by being their ward.
Haymitch peers out the window of his cell. Sure enough, no Mags or Wiress. Three carts are being rolled down the platforms, each carrying a plain wooden box. Coffins. Your families have been waiting weeks for their beloved children, and all this time, his only comforting belief was that the three of you were already resting peacefully in your family plots. But no, the long shots of Twelve are finishing this journey together.
His body shakes uncontrollably as he imagines the state of the bodies. Violated by blades and birds and poison. Your body—multilated by his own broken promise. There’s no indication to make him believe it, but he’s confident the last one is yours. Empty, dead, and all my fault.
Muffled thuds and nearby door hinges signify the coffins are being loaded in the next car over. Haymitch jolts, rushing to the wall separating them. “Wait!”
There’s a murmur on the other side, and he bangs on the wall to get them to shut up and listen.
“I want to be with her,” he chokes out. “I want to—”
But this is part of his punishment, to never be with you again.
“Take me with her!” Haymitch slams his whole body against the wall, hoping to break it down completely. He’s too weak and too hurt to cause any real damage to anything but himself. Doesn’t stop him from trying, or screaming your name, or bringing his knuckles to the steel in an attempt to get to you. Even after the train rolls onward.
Even after his knuckles split open and blood spools out.
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
Calla no longer searches for Burdock in his room. Yours is much dearer to her now. She hasn’t left it in the last two weeks. Not to wander as is her routine. Not when he tries to coax her to come out. She refuses each attempt of his, curls into a ball atop your bed, and licks at her paws lazily.
He’s fairly certain it’s her way of mourning you.
Even now, as Burdock sinks onto the floor beside your bed, a pair of scissors in hand, she pretends he isn’t there. Fine by him. Her lack of company is in keeping with what he needs right now.
Every wall in this house is rotten with grief, except for these four. On that, he and Calla can agree. Mama and Papa, on the other hand, aren’t ready to come in here yet. Burdock can’t fault them. To feel your presence, in the freshness of the loss, is as much an agony as it is a comfort.
It’s a strange thing, to be born into the world with a piece of your soul waiting for you on the outside. Stranger still to find a way to function without it. In the weeks you were away but alive, Burdock hadn’t lost the tether that kept you connected. Changed and thinned, but still thrumming with life.
Things will be different, once you’re back, returned to them and the earth. Burdock will know you’re at peace then, amid the birds in the sky. He and Papa will wash each other’s hair over the sink. They will begin the process of remembering your life instead of simply mourning your death.
But for now…you are away and dead, and the only place Burdock still feels your tether is this room.
He grips the dull edges of the scissors, examining the tip of the blade. Papa told him not to rush it. Didn’t need to be rushed, with no set funeral date anyways. But Papa took out his braid, cut his strand at the nape of his neck, that very evening. Funny how Papa could nip his piece of hair so soon but can’t come into your room. Funny how the reverse is true of Burdock.
There was no need to do this when your grandparents died because there were bodies to bury in the Everdeen plot. His papa explained, soon after his mamaw’s death, how that wasn’t always the case. Many patches of their family’s land were empty, save for what they could give their kin.
There will be a body to bury with you, technically. But every one of them knows you wouldn’t want to be stuck in one place for eternity. Restless bird that you are. A piece of you will be with the Everdeens; your spirit with the rest of your people, free in the woods.
Find the willow. Talk to the birds. They have not taken you, my stubborn, bright twin.
Burdock’s breath comes out in shudders. He tries to stop the worst of it by biting down on his cheek, but the resulting throb in his chest refuses his attempts. A whisker brushes his neck. Seems Calla has finally noticed his presence. Though she’s done it plenty of times to him, he’s sorry for disturbing her.
“Burdock?”
He looks over at his mama, at her blurred, sorrowful figure, holds up the scissors, and blubbers, “I’m ready.”
She doesn’t hesitate to cross the doorway, dropping onto her knees beside Burdock. Mama pulls him close and rubs circles on his back to get him to stop shaking. He focuses on the steadiness and rhythm of her hands, ties them back to the old lullaby she’d sing the two of you to sleep.
She’s been falling back on it as of the last few days. Hums it under her breath whenever she’s in the kitchen, or waiting on the porch for Papa to arrive from the mines. Burdock waits with her, the way he would when you got it in your head to do the same all those years ago. You were terrified that one day the mines would get him, and nothing could convince you otherwise until you saw him making his way home for yourself.
Burdock doesn’t think Mama’s scared in the same way. It’s more about reminding all three of them that there are still people in this home. Wasn’t easy coming back to it on the day they watched you…
The Gamemakers must’ve planned for it to be the last day of the Games, because Papa received word he wasn’t to work, and most of the Seam was given the directive to head on to the Justice Building. Peacekeepers rolled down the streets in their tanks after the morning recap, calling through the speakerphones for all available and able-bodied citizens to report.
They’ve never done that before; usually, they watch the end from wherever they are, and that’s that. But it’s a Quarter Quell, and the Gamemakers are always looking to build on their spectacle, and it’s not like everything else about these Games hasn’t been unusual. It wasn’t until they saw the cameras perched around that Burdock understood why they wanted a reaping-sized audience.
District Twelve has never had a tribute make it to the last day, let alone two of them. Well…not in the last forty years. Burdock wondered, at the time, what she’d make of the erasure.
A pair of Peacekeepers identified him, Mama, and Papa as the Everdeen clan. Promptly, they brought them to the front row, right next to Willamae and Sid. Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber were down seeing about Lenore Dove’s release, and good thing. If it weren’t for the cameras, Burdock might’ve found it a comfort to be surrounded by his people.
There was no comfort in watching you die like that.
Every gasp and murmured curse in the audience rang in his ears. The don’t leave her’s shouted at Haymitch’s departure from Wellie, the groans rippled in the air after you took Maritte’s knife to the abdomen. Worst of all—more than Willamae’s shriek for Haymitch when the ax sliced him, more than your dying wheezes, more than Haymitch’s scream for you—was Mama’s reaction.
She was a pillar through all of it, as she’d been at the reaping. Those cameras on the stage were looking for a reaction she, Papa, and Burdock would not give. When it came to pass, when the screens went dark immediately after the victor’s announcement, Burdock almost slipped. He pinched the skin around his nails to keep from throwing up, crying, both.
Willamae, who kept a sobbing Sid held within her arms, turned to them after the news set. Her tears fell freely, with joy and remorse in equal measure. “Barb Azure, I…”
Mama shushed her, mustered a weary smile, and squeezed the hand not stroking Sid’s hair. “Your boy’s coming home.”
Once home, Mama’s collapse was immediate. With a thud to the floor, she let out a sharp, agonizing cry, as if she were being swallowed by the earth. Burdock thought it a miracle she held it in for so long. He and Papa followed her down.
She hasn’t wailed like that since, but she hasn’t hid her sadness either. It seeps through in the way she holds Burdock a little tighter now, cooing gentle assurances. “Let it out, baby.”
The tremors stop long enough for him to draw a full breath. On the next inhale, Mama loosens her grip, and Burdock sections a bit of hair at the nape of his neck.
“You can grow long hair if you really want to,” you tell him, brows pinched up.
Burdock points the brush at you. “Mine doesn’t grow as quick as yours.”
He keeps the strands pinched between his fingers when the scissors cut through.
“It could.” You shrug.
“Just turn around, will you?”
Mama hands him the string he let fall from his lap. He’s not shaking at all as he ties it around the piece of hair.
You roll your eyes and let him get to work. When the braid’s done, you smile at him. “I still think you can.”
It rests on the floor between them. She wipes his face, waiting until he calms completely to say, “Asterid’s here to see you.”
“She is?” Burdock’s seen Asterid every day for the last two weeks, but his surprise comes from the hour in which she’s chosen to visit him now. The miners, his papa included, have long since begun their day, but it’s much too dark out for her to be here.
“I can ask her to come back later.” Mama rubs his shoulder.
She’s been outside for who knows how long, and Burdock isn’t about to let her go off without whatever it is she came here for. Besides, he needs to see her. He pockets the piece of hair and hands the scissors to his mama. “No, that’s okay. I won’t be long.”
She nods, watching him stand. When he doesn’t feel her behind him at the doorway, Burdock looks over at her again. She’s turned away now, her head resting on your bed as she reaches a hand towards Calla. Pesky little cat nuzzles into it.
Burdock breathes out and resumes his trek.
Really, it’s a good thing Asterid’s here so early. She’ll give him the strength he needs to finally pay a visit to Willamae and Sid. He hasn’t seen them since they watched Haymitch’s crowning together. A whole week now, which, for Burdock, has consisted of taking to the woods, staying in your room, or seeking out Asterid.
He hasn’t meant to avoid them, just as he’s sure they haven’t meant to do the same. On the night of the crowning ceremony, he overheard Willamae tell his mama she’d be there for them in whatever way she could, as his mama has been there for them. She wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t true, but he reckons Willamae believes what they need most right now is the space.
Sid’s reaction after the ceremony concluded must’ve been what planted that thought.
Sweet Sid was a wreck when they watched it live in the square. Covering his ears while Silka sliced off Wellie’s head, then his eyes as you took the brunt of her hysteria, turning green when Haymitch’s guts spilled out. Rewatching it—changed and warped as the Capitol made it out to be—wasn’t any better.
Sid ran out the second the recap ended, and before Willamae could lift off, Burdock did. He was already standing, no longer hurling into the sink. Sid stopped right down the steps, planting his feet into the dirt pathway like that might help keep him steady. Burdock grabbed onto his arms, in case it didn’t.
“I didn’t want her to die,” Sid blurted and sniffled. “I didn’t. But I—I really want to see Haymitch.”
His confession was laced with a guilt that shouldn’t belong to someone so soft-hearted and young.
Burdock swallowed down what remained of his nausea and embraced him. “I’m glad he’s coming back,” he whispered into Sid’s hair, meaning each word. He thought for sure neither one of you would survive. Not after the realization of how deep your feelings ran for each other. And especially not after you found little Wellie and all but swore to get her to the end.
He was relieved one of you made it out. He is. But that relief can’t exist without the voice in his head wishing it were you. Burdock knows if the roles were reversed, he’d feel as guilty as Sid. He already does.
The porch creeks under his boots. Asterid turns to him, staring into his eyes long enough for him to catch on to her exhaustion. In the sky, specks of stars are gearing up to turn into sunlight soon enough.
“I’m sorry I made you wait.”
“I don’t mind waiting.” Asterid holds up a glass jar of what Burdock immediately recognizes as sleep syrup. “I imagine you haven’t been sleeping well.”
Burdock accepts the jar, motioning for Asterid to sit beside him on the porch steps. “Have you? Been sleeping?”
She hesitates as she settles down and smooths out the sides of her skirt. “Mr. and Mrs. Donner gave me Maysilee’s canary. She sings quite early in the mornings. Earlier than I need to get up to open the shop.”
For all their natural animosity, it seems there’s little distinction between cats and canaries when it comes to grief.
“She probably misses her. Needs time to adjust to her new environment.” Needing to soothe the pain he knows Asterid keeps hidden, wanting to believe time really can bring healing, Burdock adds, “She will eventually.”
“I thought I might just set her free.” Her chin wobbles. Easy to miss for anyone not paying attention, but Asterid always holds his. “But I figure, if she’s so used to living in a cage, will she even know how to survive outside it?”
“Birds are stronger than people give ’em credit for.”
She stews in his words while he stares at the side of her face, taking notice of every detail of her from this angle. Fine as she seems now, Burdock remembers the way she shut down the day Maysilee died. A reaction as volatile as any other.
Horrific and merciless in nature, Maysilee’s death was no easier to watch than yours. Those birds came out of nowhere, and they only had eyes for Maysilee. You and Haymitch fought them off, but by the time her throat was ripped wide open, the best either of you could do was stay by her side and hold onto her.
Burdock was far from friends with Maysilee, but she mattered in her own right, and she was dear to Asterid. Dear to her own twin, who is no doubt carrying an empty weight similar to the one in Burdock’s chest.
Hearing you sing your people’s funeral song to her, there was no doubt in his mind that Maysilee meant a whole lot to you, too. Haymitch, Maysilee—you sure fooled the lot of them with your declarations of hate. When Burdock thinks back on it now, on every interaction you and Haymitch have ever had, he sees it clearer. The love. Makes it even harder to think of the state Haymitch will return in. Makes his own lungs ache.
They erased the song you gifted Maysilee during the recap, among other things. Shortened moments, scrapped details, warped happenings. It was almost a completely different Quell than the one they watched live. Shouldn’t be so surprising, given how the reaping turned out. Given that watching it live still left things up to the imagination. Like why your blood was black in the end, if you never touched the arena’s poison.
Burdock rationalized it with the assumption that Maritte’s knife was dipped in lake water or sap, like Maysilee’s blowdarts. It was bad enough that they changed anything at all during the recap. He didn’t have the mind to unravel their web then. If he really thinks about it now, he’ll drive himself crazy trying to make sense of it all.
His efforts are better spent making sure you’re remembered for who you are, not how you died. Taking care of those who remind him he is still needed in this world, and life will be good again one day. You’d damn him if he didn’t.
“Asterid?” Burdock scoots over until their shoulders are touching.
“Yes?”
He slips his hand into hers, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles as her eyes begin to well. “Thank you for the sleep syrup.”
She squeezes his hand and exhales slowly.
He wants to say so much more about how much he misses you, and how her grief isn’t secondary to his, and how he wants them to heal together, in whatever way that might look like. But the ash raining down from the sky, thicker than the kind that normally exists in Twelve, stops him short.
“Help!”
Burdock shoots up to his feet. Asterid isn’t far behind.
“Help! Help!”
The voice is coming from at least a half dozen houses over, muffled by the blanket of ash and the sinking realization of what’s happening.
Burdock turns to Asterid. “Stay here.”
She furrows her brows. “If someone needs help—”
“It’s a fire, Asterid.” He hands her back the jar. “Please stay here until we put it out.”
Reluctant, she nods once. Burdock takes off. Even if he didn’t recognize the house as the very one he grew up visiting, the shrieks coming from inside confirm it for him.
Their words are distorted, but Willamae and Sid are not quiet as they burn.
Fire catches quick around these parts, and so, the house is already engulfed when Burdock catches up to the crowd. Cayson McCoy, who’s to credit for the hollers for help, is wide-eyed and frazzled as he calls out, “Their cistern’s empty. What do we do?”
“Use the pump from the next house over,” demands Burdock, rushing to fill a bucket. Blair runs up behind him and fills his own. Every neighbor in direct proximity rushes to their own houses and begins the labor of putting out the flames. He yells out, “If we can clear out a path, one of us can run inside to get ’em. Now c’mon!”
They target the window on the side of the house which Burdock knows to be the main bedroom. Without any direct instructions, people fall into distinct roles: a group of them fill the buckets, the fastest runners transport them to Burdock, Blair, and the older neighbors, who fail to make a dent in the fire.
He can’t tell how long they’re at it, but they don’t give up. Not one of them throws in the towel, even if Willamae and Sid are no longer yelling.
“Ma!”
Oh, please, no. Burdock and Blair run towards Haymitch’s voice. They catch him right as he attempts to cross into the fire-drenched doorway. He puts up a fight, but the two of them manage to drag him onto the ground.
“Let me up! Let me loose, you—”
Burdock pushes him down forcefully, sitting on top of him and clamping a hand over his mouth to get him to listen. He’s vaguely aware of the dried blood on Haymitch’s fists. What were they doing to him? “It’s too late, Haymitch. We tried. It’s too late.”
In response, he sinks his teeth into his palm. With a hiss, Burdock retracts his hand and puts more weight on his chest. Haymitch only wails louder, “Ma! Sid! Maaaaa!”
Blair tightens his grip on his right arm. Tears streak down his soot-stained face. “We’re so sorry, Haymitch. We tried. You know we did. We just couldn’t save them.”
Haymitch refuses to hear it—or maybe he can’t. Burdock’s ears are still ringing, too. “No! Let me go!” He thrashes under them, screaming and pleading just like he did in that arena for you. Burdock doesn’t let up, though his own body is trembling again. “Let me go with them! Please!”
The fire is finally dying, a slow and stubborn process. As it dwindles, Burdock knows no one could have survived that. He should’ve come sooner.
Today’s sunrise is a harrowing one, putting the last fourteen to shame. The ash tinges the yellow of the sky with two more deaths on top of the three they’ve already been mourning. Haymitch refuses to let up, hysterical to the point where there’s a good chance he’ll hurt himself.
Burdock sees Asterid rushing over, and he forces himself to breathe. “Can you help him?”
She looks between the fire and Haymitch, her face bunched up. Kneeling beside his head, she unscrews the bottle of sleep syrup. “Drink this, Haymitch. Drink until I say when.”
He listens and parts his lips when she brings the bottle to them. She pours the syrup down his throat. “One, two, three, four, five—okay, when.” She pulls back the bottle and caresses his hair. “That’s right. That’s good. Try to rest now.”
Haymitch blinks languidly. “What…?”
“Just some sleep syrup.”
“Ma… Sid…” His hazy eyes find Burdock again, and he whimpers your name.
Such a small, pitiful sound, and yet, it breaks Burdock clean in half. He stumbles back.
Asterid glances at him, pained, then continues to reassure Haymitch. “I know. I know. We’ll do what can be done. You go to sleep now. Sleep.”
As Haymitch fades into unconsciousness, Burdock fleetingly thinks to take him back to his home. Mama wouldn’t deny him that, and neither would Papa. But Burdock… He has so many questions he wants to ask about things he saw and things he didn’t. Questions about your last moments and why you aren’t here. Questions that are his burden to bear, not Haymitch’s. When he wakes, he’ll have to reckon with what’s happened this morning, and with what happened while he was away.
In the freshness of his own loss—one they share in different ways—Burdock doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stick to that understanding. He doesn’t know how not to ask.
So, when Blair poses the problem of where Haymitch should go, he takes him to the McCoy’s.
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
The wide eyes that greet him are kinder than any of the creatures who haunted him in the Capitol lab. Much sadder, too. “Hi, sweetheart.”
“Hi, Hay.” Louella brushes a curl out of her face. Past her shoulder, there are three other beds in the room. She moves from the floor to the edge of his mattress. “I’m real sorry about your ma, and Sid, and…”
His chest only responds with a slight pang. He’s almost entirely numb again, and he guesses the sleep syrup is to thank for that. “Do you know what happened?” To his ma and Sid. Everyone already knows what he did to you.
“Cayson saw the first kindlings. Shouted us all awake. We all ran to help any way we could. Well, they didn’t let me close enough to do much, but I tried.” She plays with the end of one of her braids.
“I’m sure you did, sweetheart,” he says with as much sincerity as his heavy heart allows. She did try. More than anything he ever did for them.
Mrs. McCoy walks in with a steaming mug of tea cupped in both hands. “Good, you’re up.” She shoos Louella off the bed. “Time to get ready, honey. Go put on your dress.” Haymitch accepts the mug, noticing the bandages around his knuckles. She sighs. “Sorrel brought a suit for you to wear. I reckon you want out of that.”
He glances down at Great-Uncle Silius’s champagne jacket. “Why do I need a…” The dread is instant. He thought he slept through the funerals.
Mrs. McCoy breathes in. “We really did try, Haymitch. But the pump was slow, and your cistern was dry. Nothing else we could do once the house was aflame.”
“My fault,” he mumbles. He didn’t fill up the cistern, he didn’t listen to Snow, he didn’t save any one of you.
“You’ll be thinking everything’s your fault for a long while. But that’s gotta wait. We bury them today. You know what your ma would want. You got others who need you today, too.”
Too numb to do anything else but listen, Haymitch gets out of bed. He dresses in your pa’s loaned suit, a blue as dark as the night sky, not the shade of your bird’s wings. The cuffs are lined with purple detailings. Each piece of cloth is a whip to his back.
Ima, their eldest daughter, comes in with the champagne ensemble clean and folded. Her eyes are filled with the same sympathy as Louella’s, as Effie’s, as all those back in the Capitol who’d come up to mention you. Punishing in opposite ways. “We’ll leave this here for now.”
Haymitch gives an absentminded nod. With his own clothes burned to ash, he’ll have to reuse that suit for the coming weeks. He tucks his flintstriker under his shirt.
Outside, a single pine coffin awaits them. Mr. McCoy clamps a hand over his shoulder. “They had hold of each other. Thought we’d let them stay that way.”
Ma and Sid clinging to each other for eternity. It’s all the comfort he’ll ever get.
Burdock comes by with your parents. In the light of day, his urgency faded to nothing, Haymitch sees him clearly. His hair looks unwashed, and the bags under his eyes give away the sorrow his stoicism attempts to hide. Your ma and pa share the same weariness. Each of them are dressed in dark colors, but not complete black.
Sorrel glances over at Haymitch, who immediately ducks his head. Barb Azure gives a gentle call of his name, and he pretends not to hear it.
He doesn’t deserve to see the faces who gave you yours.
Burdock and Sorrel help carry the coffin, alongside Blair and Mr. McCoy. Yours must be at the graveyard already. Haymitch’s shame grows tenfold. He took them from you, and still, they are here for him.
He limps behind them as they proceed. Mourners from every corner of the Seam join them. By the time they reach the graveyard, there are a couple hundred of them waiting. Most, if not all of them, should be at work. They’ll call in sick, come up with some excuse. But they all need to grieve together now.
Haymitch scans the crowd, avoiding the eyes flickering over to him, which are no doubt casting their judgement for how he did you wrong. He focuses on the four graves already dug, on the other three coffins spread throughout the hill. One for Maysilee, one for Wyatt, one for you. Yours is next to Wyatt, though, which doesn’t make sense. Neither does the fact that Burdock and Barb Azure are still by his side while Sorrel takes a shovel to the Everdeen plot. And why is the rest of your kin missing? They should be here for you now.
As Burdock steps back from Ma and Sid’s shared coffin, Haymitch finally gathers the will to speak to him. “Where’s Lenore Dove?”
“In jail.”
Seems he is capable of something other than shame right now: panic. “What?”
Burdock tugs him closer by the elbow and whispers, “She’ll be there for the burial. My uncles are getting her home now.”
“I don’t—” Haymitch meets his eyes, a different shade than yours, and yet all he’s met with is your reflection.
He doesn’t explain further. Instead, he points to the pine coffin beside Wyatt’s and asks, “Who’s the other one for?”
A woman behind them answers, “Jethro Callow. Hung himself yesterday when his boy returned. Couldn’t bear the shame.”
No money to be made off Wyatt’s death then. Good.
The mayor arrives to speak over the departed. Haymitch can hardly understand him. He listens to the birdsong instead, searches for your melody among them, tries to stand with dignity as Ma would want.
For a horrible moment, he sees Maysilee across the graveyard, dressed in her District 12 black, and calls out to her. She bursts into tears and buries her face into a handkerchief. Merrilee. Mr. Donner sobs beside her.
Haymitch recoils. More eyes fall on him again, taking in their deranged, selfish victor. Blair helps him back into his place. He keeps watch on those around the Donners. The mayor’s son, Asterid, Otho. Oliver Schmidt, downtrodden and crying like the rest of them.
Would he have let this happen to you? Probably not. Oliver Schmidt, with all his niceties, would’ve given you a better shot at life.
Coffins are lowered into the ground. Dirt falls atop them with rhythmic thuds. Burdock and Barb Azure join Sorrel by the small hole he dug, kneeling together. Sorrel retrieves something from his pocket that Haymitch can’t make out from here. He lays it into the dirt, and all three of them patch up the hole with their hands.
A kind soul lays wildflowers on each mound. Sorrel follows with willow tree branches. The sight of them, the wailing, the lingering scent of ash is all so wretched, Haymitch wants to run and hide away.
But then Burdock begins to sing, and the nearby mockingjays fall silent. What choice does Haymitch have but to do the same?
He floats through the first verses in that clear, sweet voice of his. Despite the pieces his heart must be in now, he doesn’t waver. He is as steadfast and open as when you sang for Mamaw. For Maysilee. His strength latches onto the mourners, who’ve all quieted by the time he reaches the end.
When I’m pure like a dove,
When I’ve learned how to love,
Right here in
The old therebefore,
When nothing
Is left anymore.
Unlike the Covey girl, Burdock’s melody doesn’t haunt Haymitch. As the mockingjays pick up the tune, he only thinks of the hereafter in his song. Your other world, where you’re surely free now. Where Ma and Sid are, too.
Person after person begins their goodbyes to the dead. Haymitch presses his three middle fingers to his lips and raises his hand high, like everyone else. He glimpses at your family, now enveloped by stray mourners who’ve wandered, not to offer their condolences, but to cherish who you were.
Once it’s over, his numbness returns. The McCoys usher people back to their place. Blindly, Haymitch starts after them. Burdock stops him, pulls him away from the crowd and towards his parents. It’s unbearable to be near them. He doesn’t want, nor need, the reminder that he has no parents anymore. He doesn’t need to know the pain he’s caused yours in order to feel it.
He bites down on his tongue when Barb Azure pulls him into an embrace. She smells of blackberries and the dirt where some piece of you was just buried. Haymitch will not, cannot, cry. He has no right to force her into a position of comforting him.
She pulls back and holds his face in her hands, giving him no choice but to look at her. He sees you in her eyebrows, and nose, and the way she holds herself a little taller as she says, “Come along now.”
Haymitch can’t deny her, or any of your family, a thing. So, he forces his legs not to crumble as they start the trek out of the graveyard. He expects to see your house on the horizon, but they head the opposite way. Right towards the Covey home.
His feet stammer, and Sorrel lifts him up before he can trip over a rock. To the side of their garden, right next to the porch, is your coffin. “I-I can’t.”
“I know, son,” Sorrel says, choked.
It’s too late to run when Lenore Dove comes out the door in a red dress, much darker than the one she wore to the reaping. She spots him and somehow manages to smile through her tears. Scurrying down the steps, she hugs Burdock, who immediately drops his head onto her shoulder. She doesn’t give Haymitch a chance to refuse as she reaches for his wrist and ropes him in too.
For what seems like hours, they stand there, wrapped in their love for you.
Haymitch lifts his gaze and sees your uncles up on the porch. Tam Amber is carrying something wrapped in a blanket. It’s more fascinating to him than Haymitch; he’s careful not to look at him. Clerk Carmine, however, can only seem to stare at the boy he always knew to be trouble. Turns out he was right.
Burdock peels off first, and Haymitch finds himself face-to-face with your coffin again. Your parents and uncles are whispering beside it. “We’ll meet you by the fence.”
Lenore Dove nods, leading Haymitch through the meadow. The geese are free roaming, but not one of them stops to honk at him. Even they find him unworthy of anything more than indifference. Or maybe they’re too stricken by their own grief.
Once they reach the fence, he sinks down to the grass. She kneels in front of him. Part of him wants to ask why she was in jail and if she’s okay. But it’s clear she’s not. There’s no turning off the faucet of her sadness. The only thing he can do to help is to tell her what he was too much of a coward to say to Burdock directly. “I couldn’t save her. I tried, and I couldn’t, and I’m—” His voice catches, and Lenore Dove grabs his hands.
“Oh, Haymitch.” She shakes her head. “I don’t blame you. None of us do, and she’d be furious if you believed otherwise.”
How does he begin to explain to her that Clerk Carmine does blame him, and so does everyone else in Twelve, and it’s only a matter of time before the odd ones out fall in line? He cannot say anything to hurt her further. So, he only murmurs, “She’s already angry with me.”
“For what? Pulling her name from that bowl? Creating the Hunger Games to begin with? Because if that’s the case, then we’re all to blame.” She stifles a sob and wipes her face. “You didn’t make things the way they are, Haymitch, but every one of us is responsible for finding a way to change them. Now more than ever, don’t you see that?”
He does. Of course he does. He fought to make things better. All it got him was a pool of blood on his hands that started with Ampert and ended with his own family. “She’s dead, Lenore Dove. She’s dead, and I can’t change that. I can’t change anything, because it is my fault. Every one of them—I killed them.”
“No,” is all she says as the others near. She stands, sniffling. “You didn’t.”
Yes. I did.
Lenore Dove and Barb Azure pry the opening in the fence for them to slip your coffin through. They cling to each other as the others carry it. Haymitch trails behind, as useless as he was earlier with his own ma and Sid. Why is he even here?
Clerk Carmine doesn’t want him around, that’s always been clear. Tam Amber hasn’t even acknowledged him. Your parents have brought him because they’re good people. Burdock’s allowed it because he’s still committed to the friendship Haymitch broke. Aside from Lenore Dove, the only person who may have genuinely wanted him here is you. But you don’t.
“Don’t follow.”
They’re your kin. Haymitch is nothing but the reason you’re dead.
“Don’t follow.”
He wants to. He wants to be free in your heaven. He wants to be with you and his whole family. He wants to beg your forgiveness, and that of everyone else who’s surely angry with him too. Instead, he’s here. Wading through the woods with those who loved and knew you best.
“Don’t follow.”
The illicitness creeps up on Haymitch. He’s fourteen and carrying you to them again, listening to the Covey sing, intruding on something he hasn’t earned the right to witness. Up front, the blanket slips off the item in Tam Amber’s right arm, revealing the edges of a gravestone.
“No,” Haymitch mutters, stumbling.
Lenore Dove turns around. Everyone stops. “Haymitch, what is it?”
“I can’t,” he repeats. “I can’t be here. Can’t follow.”
“You can be here,” she insists, reaching for his hand again. “We want you here.”
He shakes his head, trying to ward off the chill in his spine. Everything’s already blurred around the edges. “Can’t,” he mumbles one last time. He lets go of Lenore Dove’s hand and makes a break in the opposite direction.
“Haymitch, wait!” Burdock calls out for him.
He hears Clerk Carmine chide Lenore Dove as she joins Burdock’s attempts to stop him. Haymitch doesn’t wait to see if they’re running after him, picking up his pace to get far, far away. He doesn’t retrace his steps back to Twelve. He’s better off finding his own hole of earth to crawl into and die.
The trees fade around him, and his dizziness is as much to blame as the haze of his eyes. Effectively lost, Haymitch crumbles to his knees and gags. Nothing comes out. His stomach contracts, thrumming with a hunger he didn’t think he was capable of anymore.
He dry heaves once. Then again. And again and again. The sobs are instantaneous. He digs his nails into the dirt and rocks, slamming his head downward. He’ll wither away out here, starve to death, and that’ll be just fine. Maybe a coyote will find him and speed up the process. Or a wolf. Or a snake. There are any number of things that can put him out of his misery.
I can’t be here.
“What’s the matter, peach?”
His head snaps up, searching high and low until he finds the maple tree. Finds you. Perched on a branch, in your colorless arena outfit, hair wild and free in the wind. Glass sticks out of your abdomen. The next sob lodges itself in his throat.
You tilt your head, pouting. “Thought you wanted to be with me.”
Haymitch keels over and spills out his empty stomach.
Further revising my outline for Act 3 of Worth Keeping & I just realized in Mockingjay Haymitch is going to have to be to Katniss what his darling was to him and I’m just gonna leave you with that.
Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Everdeen!reader, Implied BIPOC!reader
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
There’s an absence where your warmth was minutes ago. Haymitch springs upright, nearly tilting over the hammock and falling the thirty feet it’d take to reach the ground. Where are you, where are you, where are you? His head swerves from side to side, treetop to dirt floor, any and everywhere as far as his eyes can see in the dark.
It hasn’t been that long—the sky still littered with stars, the howling wind quieted to a murmur, the blanket splayed over his legs, doing nothing to shield him from the cold the way only you can. Haymitch would’ve woken up to a cannon if you—
Where are you?
You couldn’t have gone far. You were just here. In his arms, breath tickling his neck, heartbeats in sync. Now, his gives an uneven patter. It stalls, then quickens, then stops altogether while he rushes to begin his descent.
The blanket slips off his body, off the hammock, and lands on its target with a hmph. An exceptionally loud target for a stagnant one.
“Watch it.”
Haymitch peers down. Past the spindly branches and crops of leaves obscuring you from direct view, your head pops out from the blanket. You stare up at him, your eyes, heavy as they are with grief and exhaustion, rivaling the starlight above. He blows out a puff of air and scampers down the trunk.
You meet Haymitch where he lands, oddly calm despite nearly sending him to an early grave. Down here, out of the branches and on even footing, Haymitch sees clearly how little hours have passed since you climbed up together. He tightens the blanket around your shoulders when you shiver, and searches for meaning across the slightest spasm of your expression. Your cheeks are silver-streaked and the tip of your nose is pale, but you haven’t been crying again. His own face feels sticky with dried tears.
“I couldn’t sleep,” you say before he can ask properly, wringing your fingers so roughly he has to take them within his own to get you to stop. You let him and sigh. “Thought I’d get a head start on finding Wellie.”
Haymitch frowns. “You were going off without telling me?”
You knit your brows together, hands freezing up. “I wouldn’t do that.”
His heart gives a guilty pang. No, you wouldn’t. He would. He runs his hands down your arms in apology. Your goosebumps, as stubborn as the rest of you, don’t yield to his touch. “I know. I shouldn’t’ve—”
“It’s okay,” you brush him off, pointing to a patch of dirt by the tree trunk opposite you. “I was making a map.”
The blanket droops down your shoulders. Haymitch fixes it again. “What for?”
“To rule out everywhere we’ve been so far.” You squat in front of your sketch.
He crouches beside you, squinting down at the dirt. “You think the arena’s a diamond?”
“Just a guess.” You shrug and pick up a stick. “If the north and south come to a point, I figured so would the east and west.” You tap the stick against the tipped edges of the diamond map. “Wellie wouldn’t back herself into a corner. Maysilee was right about that.”
He doesn’t miss the way your voice catches saying her name. Doesn’t miss the pit in his stomach when he looks over your head and expects Maysilee on the other side. Even more chilling than the gap she’s left is how deeply he misses her. Never before would Haymitch have guessed Maysilee Donner, of all people, to wind up someone he loved this much.
You sniffle but don’t linger on your sadness. You draw an oval above the sketched treeline, just below a large dot, which he assumes to be the cornucopia. It’s hard to tell with the limited light. “That’s the meadow.” Another oval encompasses the space below the treeline, closer north. “That’s around where we were yesterday. If Wellie made it to the woods before the rain and mudslide, this is where she’d be.”
“We would’ve found her then if she were there,” Haymitch reasons, shuffling when his thighs start to burn.
You shake your head. “Not if she kept west or east. We only walked straight down the middle. And she’s just as likely to have found a hiding spot high up as she is to have found one in the meadow.”
He considers your logic and consults the map one more time. “You really think that’s where she is?”
“We’ll have to cross it anyway to get to the meadow,” you say, dragging the stick left to right. “Might as well take a look around. Only, I can’t decide if she’d be east or west.”
“East.” When you look over at him, he expands, “She’d want to head towards the sun.”
“East it is then.”
Haymitch stands and, with laced fingers, pulls you up with him. His hands travel back up your arms, all the way to your cheekbones, where he rubs away the tear stains. If the dried drool on his shirt collar is any evidence, you at least slept some. But clearly, you’ve been on edge for longer than you’ve been down here. “You could’ve woken me sooner.”
“It was only a few minutes,” you say dismissively. “You looked comfortable.”
He traces your jawline. “Sunshine, that’s ’cause you were there.”
Your skin finally warms a little. “Besides, you were fast asleep. Chatting up a storm this time.”
Ah, right. You ungraciously informed him of his murmuring habits back in the apartment. Feels like years ago now. Haymitch is lucky not to be a snorer like Wyatt, but he drew the short end in other ways. “What was I saying?”
You shrug, biting down on your lip. “I couldn’t make it out.”
By the way you duck your head, a strange combination of flustered and smug, he doubts that’s true.
“C’mon.” You step out of his grasp. “We need to get a move on.”
You’re a quick climber—and one dead set on your current mission—so you reach your end of the hammock before Haymitch slinks up the parallel tree. Once untied, you meet each other back on the ground. You take to folding it, along with the blanket, despite the chill still visibly coursing through your body. He condenses the materials from each pack into one, and rifles through Maysilee’s in search for anything that might prove helpful for the journey.
A jingle sounds from the bottom of the bag, under a tarp and the now empty bottle of ointment. Haymitch pulls out the potato battery kit. Huh. He figured she already made use of it at some point.
You, on the other hand, don’t seem surprised to see it. Maysilee must’ve clued you in on her possession of the kit. “Might be good to have some light to guide us.”
“It might. But it’ll cost a potato,” he says, looking up at you with an arched brow.
“Well,” you suck your teeth, “I’m willing to pay the price if you are, peach.”
His lips twitch into a near smile.
You kneel in front of him, close enough to nearly bump your foreheads together when he reaches for the sliced potato in your hand. He lays out the pieces of the kit on the floor. Copper coins, metal wires, a single lightbulb. He has to squint real hard to get a good look at the inventory. Funny thing, needing light to make it.
“You remember how to assemble it?” you ask patiently, forming the cuts where Beetee taught you.
Haymitch nods. “More or less.”
He hands you the supplies while you work nimbly to forge the battery. When he loses a coin among the dirt and sticks, he supplements it with Maysilee’s copper flower. Just as easy to use your bluebird, but it’s already melded itself into his skin. He’d rather not sully your gift in front of you, either. Even if you’d be willing to sacrifice it, he’s not. And this way, it feels like Maysilee’s still part of the fight.
Together, you manage to replicate Beetee’s instructions in the darkness. Haymitch attaches the final wire to a tiny lightbulb, and a dim glow flickers across your faces. Hardly anything, but it’s enough to get him to hope.
You readjust the woven cord, now detached from Maysilee’s medallion, back around his neck. Your hands linger there, and Haymitch uses the proximity and the light to take stock of your well-being. You wince slightly when he cups the back of your head. He presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, “Still hurting?”
You nod, swallowing down the threat of fresh tears. Your head, your knee, your heart—they’re bruised and battered in more ways than one. You don’t have time to wallow in your grief, to slip through the cracks Maysilee left behind. Not yet. But you allow yourself to lean into Haymitch’s comfort for just a second. Or two. Or three. Definitely more than that.
Slowly, the pressure pushing against your skull whittles down to a mere throb. You stay put a second longer. One hand travels from the back of his neck to your bluebird, which reflects the faint flicker of the lightbulb. You rub the charm between your thumb and forefinger, feeling the difference in its weight and its eyes. Its time in the arena has taken a toll—you don’t know to credit the change to anything else.
“Take it back, if you want to,” says Haymitch.
“I don’t. It suits you.” Plutarch’s request for the charm, Ampert’s reasoning behind passing it along, are long forgotten. You want him to keep it. He could take every last bit of you for all you care. Do whatever he wants, and you wouldn’t bat an eye. He’s already made himself the most precious piece of you. “And I still owe you your birthday present anyway.”
“I don’t know,” he whispers, leaning back a bit. “I think you’ve given me plenty.”
You haven’t. No amount of presents, no amount of perfect words sitting right on the tip of your tongue, will ever be enough to express everything he is to you. Or how deeply you wish you were in one of those better worlds with him right now. But you can try. You give the bluebird a light tug, beckoning Haymitch to you.
A shiver sparks down your spine when your lips collide, but you aren’t very cold anymore. You can’t be, with Haymitch heating you up from the inside out. Your fingers find stability in his hair. Familiar curls tangled between calloused skin. His hands glide up your back, pulling you so close that you’re surprised you haven’t heard the crack of a broken lightbulb yet. You doubt you’d hear it anyway over the thumping of his heartbeat against yours.
There is no space between you, no room to question, even for a second, what a world without him might feel like. When his tongue swipes your bottom lip, your body tingles from the top of your head to the tip of your toes. All your senses narrow down to this. Haymitch, and his devotion, and everything he elicits from you in turn. Was there ever a time where you felt anything but love for Haymitch Abernathy? You’re hard pressed to remember.
You part briefly before he chases after you again. Your resulting gasp spurs him on. Haymitch sighs into your mouth; it reverberates inside your chest. He kisses you with the certainty of all you’d give him if he asked, if he didn’t. You kiss him with the intent to ease his desperation, only to make your own worse. In the end, neither of you knows how to let the other go.
“Haymitch,” you pant against his lips, intertwining your hand with his where it rests against your cheek. When he tries to close the distance, you place the other on his chest. “We don’t have time to waste.”
He blinks, drawing your attention to those pretty blue-gray eyes of his. In the dark, pupils blown out, his irises lean navy. “Right,” he breathes out. “Wouldn’t call this a complete waste, though.”
You snort. Unable to resist yourself, you run a finger down the bridge of his nose just to hear his breath hitch again. “I’m sure you wouldn’t.”
Your knee lets out a bitter crackle as you stand. Every inch of you is still buzzing, but the wind creeps back up your skin, snuffing out your need.
He passes you the light before following you to your feet. “You ever gonna tell me what you got me?”
“It was supposed to be a surprise.”
“Supposed to be. But you might as well let me know now.”
Might as well. There’d be no harm in telling him. No jinxes or spoilers. But…
If you don’t tell him, then you can pretend there’s still the hope of giving it to him yourself. You can live frozen in time. In the moment before the Games, before the reaping, when everything you loved was within reach. Not back home, or dead, lost to you in either case.
You sling your bow onto your shoulder, wanting one hand free to hold onto Haymitch in the dark. Because he is within reach. “Maybe once we find Wellie.”
He leans into your side. “I’ll wait then.”
It’s tricky retracing your steps in the dead of night. Sid’s stars are helpful as can be at first, until you remind yourself of the fact that they aren’t Sid’s. These aren’t the real thing, no matter how much you want them to be. You’ve long since shed the ability to be lulled by the arena’s faux beauty. Plutarch did say the arena’s sky would be synced with yours, all but swore it. A lot’s changed since then. It’s likely the Gamemakers have switched things up to throw you off course. Rile you up like a caged bird.
So, you fall back on your papa’s methods and your familiarity with the plants along the walkway. Must be past midnight by the time you reach yesterday’s terrain. You recognize the tiger lilies and alder trees, the latter eliciting the memory of Maysilee’s curiosity. Your eyes begin to sting. You wonder—fleetingly, because there is no time to wallow—how things may have turned out had you become friends sooner, instead of playing enemies.
Enemy, ally, friend.
None are the right words to encompass all she meant to you, and continues to mean. Against all odds, Maysilee Donner wove herself into the fabric of your soul. No one can take that from you, or her. Knowing that doesn’t make you miss her any less, but it won’t be long now until you see her.
Haymitch squeezes your hand, grounding you, like he can sense your mind skirting the edge of a spiral. “Once we pass the bee balm we’ve hit the eastern woods.”
“Okay.” You let him lead you from that point on. He’s covered most of the woods’ expanse, and you’ve mostly avoided that neck since the jabberjays. You pick up the pace. “Do you think Silka and Maritte made it over the mud by now?”
“Maybe one of them,” he whispers back. “I doubt they’re allies anymore.”
Silka did seem upset with Maritte the last you saw of them, which is putting it lightly. There’s been no cannon, meaning they’re both still alive. So, either Maritte escaped Silka’s vengeance, or Silka took it easy on her. Regardless, their alliance isn’t looking too bright. “Probably best that way. For us, and them.”
“I see how it works in our favor. Not sure how it helps them.”
You shrug and glance at him. “It wouldn’t be any easier for them to kill their allies. Careers or not.”
Under the dim lighting, you catch the confusion across Haymitch’s expression. “I’m pretty sure they plan for that kind of thing.”
“Maybe, yeah. I just—” You exhale slowly. “I don’t know. Forget it.” When he opens his mouth to press on the subject, you point ahead. “There’s your bee balm.”
That gets you both on track to what matters most again. Haymitch stops, tilting his head up towards the sky. “What’s the plan now?”
You chew on the skin of your cheek. If Wellie is high above, as you suspect, then there’s only one way to narrow down which tree to climb. “Wellie!”
“Shit—”
“Wellie!” you call out louder, Haymitch’s hand clamming in yours. You let go of him and scurry through the trees. “Wellie, where are you?”
His footsteps aren’t far behind yours, echoing your hollers. “Wellie! It’s Haymitch!” He supplies your name, too.
“We’re here to help, Wellie!” You take in your surroundings: the speckled stars and jagged oak trees and Haymitch calling for her. No sign of Wellie, though. You can keep traveling east, until you hit the corner she’s unlikely to be in. Or you can pivot to the meadow where, as Maysilee assumed, she probably is.
Haymitch throws off your mounting concerns. “Did you hear that?”
You shake your head. One more time, you shout pitifully, “Wellie!”
“There it is again!” he exclaims, pointing north. “It’s coming from that way.”
You seal your lips and listen for the sound. Faintly, hardly audible over the whistling wind and rustling branches and miles of distance, you hear it.
Ring, ring!
“Is that a…?”
“A bicycle bell.” Haymitch pauses like he’s waiting to see if it was a fluke of the imagination.
Ring, ring!
That’s a bell, all right. Credited to human hands, not nature. Just like the kind attached to the bicycle you and your group of friends found by the road once in Twelve. Or the matching pink bikes Maysilee and Merrilee rode around the square to show off their wealth. The very kind of bell Wellie brought as her token from home.
You yank Haymitch in the direction of the bell. The ringing leads you back through where you came, forces you to retrace your steps north. Nearly all the way to where Maysilee died.
The two of you reach a simultaneous halt beneath a large sweetgum tree. What appears to be a sweetgum tree, at least. From the red veins along the trunk, you figure it’s another Capitol concoction. The bell rings louder. Even with the lightbulb catching shadows of the branches above, Wellie is too high up to make out.
“It’s okay, Wellie,” promises Haymitch, voice lowered back to a whisper. “We’re right here. You can come down.”
You wait until the lack of response kickstarts the alarms in your head. All of ten seconds. You pass the light Haymitch’s way and begin the climb.
The height of the tree is of little concern to you—you’ve scaled taller back home, ones as spindly and sinewy as this one. But between the distance from the ground, much larger than where you slept in the hammock earlier, and the delicacy of the branches, it seems an impossible feat for someone as small and frail as Wellie.
Even smaller and paler than you remember her to be by the time you reach her hiding spot.
“Hi, little bird.”
She squeaks out a breath. You don’t feel any relief seeing her now, just the guilt of not finding her sooner. Wellie’s cheeks are hollow and gaunt, her entire body shivering like the last leaf on a twig. You try to steady yourself on her branch and immediately retract when it creaks like it’s about to snap. Across from you, the lightbulb pops up. Haymitch’s head follows.
Wellie fixates on the light. A hint of life flashes across her face, which is next to nothing in her state. Haymitch sets the light in front of her. She chases it with her eyes like a cat would a ball of string. You liked playing those kinds of games with Calla. Sometimes you’d use yarn, others you’d tie a tiny bell that jingled, not rang, to a twig. Sid liked to play with her, too, while Haymitch watched from your kitchen table on the days they were invited over.
He remembers the first time he ever met Calla, within a week of you finding her. Haggard little thing wouldn’t stop hissing at him, even in her good-as-dead condition. Not so different from Wellie’s appearance. Belly down, crack-lipped, and glassy-eyed, her bell tucked under her chin and a child-sized knife clutched in one hand. If she was scrawny before, she’s practically skeletal now. Too fragile to be moved, too scared to do much else but stare at the bulb.
Haymitch wedges himself between a branch and the trunk. You’ve found purchase on a sturdier spot. As he searches for the remaining water jug in his pack, he can feel your worry sticking to him. Reaching over Wellie’s branch, you lend a hand when he tries to unscrew the jug with only one of his. He pours some water into the cap.
“Try to drink a little, Wellie,” you whisper gently as you bring the cap to her lips. “Just a little.”
Over the next few minutes, Haymitch pours, you coax, and Wellie swallows no more than a handful of droplets. Most of the water spills out the side of her mouth and down her chin. There’s no chance of getting some potato in her right now.
She manages one mouthful of water, then two. Haymitch brushes her hair back while you get her to drink some more. “There you go, Wellie.”
She drifts off, but sleep doesn’t erase the fear etched all over her. Haymitch sticks the water jug back into his pack and hugs the trunk when he feels the branch beneath him tremble. You shoot him a wary look.
Clouds move in across the sky, hiding the moon from view. The air grows heavy, and it smells like the early tell of rain.
“We can’t let her sleep up here like this,” you murmur. “We should at least set up the hammock.”
“The branches on this thing aren’t steady enough,” says Haymitch, planting his boots firmer against the bark to make his point. The thought of a rainstorm making things slippery doesn’t help.
You motion to the tree opposite your left. “I can get to that side and tie one end to the trunk.”
You could, theoretically. If the branches from either tree formed a nice, ideal bridge. If they weren’t one wrong move away from snapping off entirely. If the likelihood of you falling and hurting more than just your ankle weren’t very, very high.
Haymitch doesn’t like your plan. He doesn’t like it one bit.
But, to absolutely no one’s surprise and least of all his, you’re off before he can stop you. Crawling on your hands and knees without a care of slipping off. Haymitch doesn’t relax until you make it across and settle on a thicker branch, near parallel to his own spot. Even then, he isn’t in a relaxing mood.
There’s about six feet, give or take, between the trunks. It takes three tries of tossing before you catch one of the hammock strings. Haymitch copies your movements, tying his own end around the tree. The first raindrops begin to patter on the leaves by the time you finish adjusting the hammock. “Pass one of the tarps.”
Carefully, Haymitch does as you command. This time, you catch the corner on the first try.
The rain does little to slow you as you slink another two feet up the tree. Haymitch watches with bated breath. Your hair grows damp, and some pieces stick to your neck and bare arms. His own curls feel flat and weighted against his head, the tips poking at his eyes. He doesn’t think to wipe them back, too focused on your movements—on your swollen lips, a mirror to his own—to be bothered by anything. Too consumed by the intensity of your earlier kiss, by the older memory of you bathed in sunlight, the brightest thing he’s ever seen—
“Peach.”
Not the time. “Right, sorry,” he mutters, and climbs up to fasten the other edge of the tarp.
The two of you make something of a roof to ward off the rain. A few drops still manage to sneak into your shelter, courtesy of the wind, but it’s as good a cover as you’re going to get.
Haymitch perches back on his branch, a smidge below Wellie’s. You crawl across the hammock this time, and he pretends his heart isn’t two seconds from giving out when it wobbles like it intends to throw you over.
You stop right next to Wellie, propping up on your knees. “Okay, little bird,” you whisper, rubbing her shoulder. Her eyes blink open, once again drawn to the light. “We’re gonna move you somewhere more comfortable now.”
As cautiously as the lack of space and the threat of falling to your deaths will allow, you pry Wellie off the branch. Haymitch holds up the potato light while you guide her onto the hammock. He has to bite down on his tongue to keep from flinching when she lies on her back and reveals her ribs protruding through the dove gray uniform. From the sunken look on your face, he can tell you’re feeling no less nauseated with guilt.
You wring the knife out of her grip and trade it with Haymitch for the light. Wellie, weak as she is, manages to hold it in one hand, and latches onto you with the other. When the hammock wobbles again from the movement of her squirming into your arms, you lie back too, effectively stilling her.
You look over at Haymitch and motion to the pack. “The second hammock—”
“It’s okay,” he says over the uptick in rainfall, which grows so heavy he worries the tarp will collapse in on itself. And the three of you. “I’m fine right here.”
When your lips press into a thin, unconvinced line, he makes a show of cutting up pieces of tarp and tying himself to the branch. He’s screwed if it breaks off the tree, but at least he won’t have to worry about rolling over. While he’s at it, he hands you the blanket, which you immediately try to pass back to him.
“For Wellie,” Haymitch urges, knowing that’s the best way to get you to do anything that might benefit yourself too.
Without further argument, you accept the blanket and drape it over the both of you. Wellie’s eyes begin to flutter shut again. Her head comes right up to your chin, and Haymitch lingers on the sight of you resting a cheek against her.
You glance his way, the tears on the cusp of your lashes passing on a clear message: keep Wellie alive, that’s the plan now. The only one that matters, that’s anywhere near attainable. Her condition poses a difficulty, but the task of saving her isn’t as much of a longshot as Haymitch’s hopes of bringing down the Capitol.
Twice now, he’s failed. The second time wasn’t as catastrophic as the first, but it led to a loss all the same. Maybe if Haymitch had been less fixated on the hedge, less taken by his hopeless intent to end the Games, Maysilee would be here. Or maybe not. Those birds were a pointed attack, one the Gamemakers probably had in their arsenal for days beforehand.
Still…Haymitch has wasted so much time playing rebel with no real success.
He fiddles with the bluebird, moistened by the rain, and drags it across the cord with a rhythm that soothes his thoughts. You’re already fading into sleep alongside Wellie. A familiar chime reels him back before he can fully succumb himself.
The rain has shifted into a light mist. Haymitch reaches for the parachute and pulls out its contents. A cup of warm vanilla pudding and a packet of chocolate balls wrapped in crinkly festive paper.
Someone in the Capitol has a heart, after all.
Haymitch takes up the effort of feeding Wellie. You sit her up in your arms, keeping the blanket secure on her. With patience, he coaxes bits of pudding into Wellie. She’s able to take more pudding than she did the water. A lot of it still falls down her chin. He catches what he can with the spoon and scoops it back into her mouth.
Save for the after effects of the rain and Wellie’s wheezing, it’s mostly quiet. Haymitch shifts slightly on the branch when he feels himself going sore from the position. Getting another bit of pudding into Wellie, he takes notice of the leaves dangling behind you. Same as the ones on his branch, of course, except they’re a darker shade of green. Not maple leaves, but close in size and shape. More star-like, though. He tugs at a vague memory of you gifting Sid a leaf like these once. He kept it on the windowsill of their kitchen even after it shriveled into a brown clump.
“Remind me, sunshine,” he whispers as he points to the leaves, “what kinda trees are these again?”
“Sweetgum. They seem different though,” you say, brows knitted as you stroke Wellie’s hair.
“Hm. No surprise there.” He scrapes the last of the pudding around the cup rim. Wellie parts her lips. “Sid, my brother,” he tells her, “would like ’em. He loves anything remotely related to the stars.”
She swallows the entire spoonful this time. You clean the dribble that sticks to the corner of her mouth. Haymitch breaks a chocolate ball in two with his teeth.
Suddenly, in a broken croak that reminds him of a frog, Wellie mutters, “I like the stars.”
Haymitch smiles slowly, sliding a chocolate piece into her mouth. “You’d get along with Sid then.”
He doesn’t miss the way your lips curve upwards, too. To his relief, you don’t deny yourself the chocolate when he slips two pieces your way.
Wellie smacks her lips lightly after he feeds her another bit of chocolate. You unwrap your pieces and savor them. It isn’t much longer before the two of you are fast asleep. Haymitch stays awake a few more minutes, chewing on his own ball of chocolate. Usually reserved for birthdays or special occasions, it’s rare to splurge on it in the Seam. And this stuff’s top-of-the-line, melting in his mouth and warming his empty stomach with its sweetness.
He leans back against the bark and reaches for the second tarp. Repurposed as a blanket, it saves him from the worst of the cold. He’s halfway to mind-numbing sleep when another interruption snaps his head up. A sob this time. Sounds nothing like yours, and you and Wellie are still lost to the conscious world. Besides, the cry is coming from below.
Glancing down, Haymitch notices what he assumes to be a tuft of yellow hair. Silka? He’s too blurry-eyed to fully tell. She’s not attempting to scale the tree or attack, despite the fact that she more than likely knows the three of you are up here. You may be far up, but if he can hear her, she can most certainly hear you.
And yet, she’s just there. Sobbing and shaking all over. Haymitch never took her as a crier. Then again, what does she have to be happy about? He thinks back to your comments on Silka’s alliance with Maritte. There’s no deep-sea uniform anywhere near now, so he was right about them splitting up. As Silka’s sobs rack up, your own point dawns on him.
Silka is entirely alone, and for all her bite, she’s probably scared, too. Alone, scared, grieving whatever losses she’s had in here. Because Haymitch doesn’t have a monopoly on that, does he? Every one of you, Career or not, have lost enough allies, friends, kids, to last a lifetime.
Silka isn’t his ally, but she isn’t his enemy right now either.
Haymitch digs into his pocket. He rolls the chocolate ball in his hand before he drops it Silka’s way. Her sobs putter into confused hiccups. Briefly, he worries that he dropped it in the wrong direction, but then he hears the crinkle of the wrapper. The hiccups turn to sniffles until they’re nothing at all.
The Capitol would have every last person in the districts believe otherwise, but for what’s left of the night, you’re united in your struggle. Haymitch closes his eyes and finally falls asleep with a strange sense of pride.
Not a bad poster at all.
His next comes unexpectedly, at the turn of sunrise when the morning light momentarily blinds him. Once Haymitch gathers his bearings, he checks on you and Wellie. She’s curled into your side, and you—you look strangely peaceful. The most you’ve been in the last weeks, since long before the reaping. No need to wake either of you yet.
Silka’s gone, which isn’t shocking. Her vulnerability was a one-off—Haymitch guesses District One frowns upon their Careers exhibiting any trace of humanity. She might’ve gone to the Cornucopia for supplies or set off to hunt Maritte. But she’ll be back to kill you soon enough.
He steals another glance at you. Still cold to the touch when he reaches over to brush your hair back. Haymitch tucks the blanket firmer around you and Wellie. One of your arms is wrapped around her; the other tucked beneath your chin, which is smudged with black ink instead of drool.
Huh.
Haymitch touches your wrist, tries to unfurl your arm to find the trail of ink, and is instantly thrown off track when he notices the smudges on his fingers. They didn’t really register in the dark, and they can’t be credited to the tree bark. Or the tarp. What else did you both work with last night? The potato battery, sure. Maybe that’s it, but…
Absentmindedly, Haymitch holds the bluebird between his fingers. Its beak indents the skin of his thumb, reminding him of how you held it, held him. The way you pulled him in for that kiss. That brain-fogging, breathtaking, one-of-a-kind kiss. The bluebird’s dry now, but the cord still feels slippery from the rain.
A whole bunch of light bulbs flicker inside his head. Ampert’s possession of the bird to begin with, the residue on his hands after he rigged the fuse at the tank, and Beetee’s final advice at the buffet—
“In the event a backup is needed, or if Ampert fails to show at all, we’ve planned for two failsafes—”
Peeling his hand back, he pretends to fiddle with the water jug lid. Sure enough, his index finger and thumb are both covered in black residue. Did you know their intent with your charm? You must’ve, and that’s why you gave it away. The timing of when is still an issue, but that’s the least of his concerns now. Haymitch wonders what other pieces of the plan you know that he doesn’t. He figures he’s privy to some that you aren’t.
Maybe the two of you can fill in each other’s blanks. Maybe you can make something of this parting gift. One last chance to blow the Capitol sky high. There’s one sunflower left, after all.
He can’t be one hundred percent sure until he can unwind the cord and check for the blasting cap. Until he ensures you are on the same page. Until he figures a way to keep Wellie from the fallback, because there is no longer a world in which you and Haymitch aren’t doing this together.
He unravels the charm out of the cord, then himself from the branch. Quietly, so as to not wake Wellie, he murmurs your name.
Your eyes adjust to Haymitch before they do to the sun. He’s got a tight grip on the trunk, boots dug into the bark.
You frown, too hazy from sleep to fully register much else but the sight of him readying to leave. “Where’re you going?”
“To get firewood,” he answers softly. “The only way we’re getting some potato into Wellie is if we boil it. Couldn’t hurt to warm her up, too. And you.”
As if responding to his words, goosebumps prick the skin of your neck. Not like they ever left anyway. You’ve been freezing all night. “Yeah, okay. Don’t go too far.”
Haymitch nods and slides something into your free hand. “I need you to hold onto it again for me.”
“And why’s that?”
He taps his collarbone, where all his cords rest. Except the one previously attached to the bluebird. “They’re starting to tangle together. Don’t know how Miss Donner managed hers, but the cord fell when I was trying to detangle it.”
That’s about the lamest excuse he could give. You tighten your hold on your bluebird anyway, a little more awake now. “All right.”
“I’ll be real quick.” He presses a quick kiss to your temple and scales down the tree.
You try your hardest not to spiral when he disappears from view. Especially when Wellie wakes minutes later and asks, “Did Haymitch leave us again?”
“He went to get firewood,” you tell her quietly. “He’ll be right back.”
Panic flashes in her eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” you promise, rubbing her arms to generate more heat on her skin.
She doesn’t seem very convinced, but she leans closer to you without another anxious word. Her joints poke your abdomen, and it takes even more effort to not recoil from the shame of ever letting her get this bad.
You pinch the bluebird between your fingers and listen to the sound of Wellie’s halfhearted breaths. No way did Haymitch lose that cord. You look around for something long enough to be used as a substitute. A vine, ideally. You wind up picking three leaves from a branch within arm’s reach, and scrape them until all that’s left is the stem. It’s no different from making wildflower crowns, the very kind you’d weave with Lenore Dove and Burdock on the days it was just the three of you cousins in your meadow. Perfect days, you used to call them.
Once they’re tied together to form a makeshift necklace, you loop them through the ring atop your bluebird’s head. Momentarily, you’re thrown off by the black smudges on your fingers. You look closer, seeing that they’re splotched around the copper. It’s not dirt. This is thicker, more fluid, like mud but not exactly. Nothing close to the dried splotches from yesterday’s mud bath. Closer to pen ink, or oil. But even then…neither is quite the right texture.
You’ve dirtied your hands plenty. In the woods, in class. Digging roots from the ground, or drawing with charcoal, or breathing in the soot that covers just about everything in Twelve.
You remember when you were little, after the mine explosion that took Haymitch’s papa and others with him, how much you hated watching your own go out that door. You’d wait on the porch all evening for his return, only moving when prompted by your mama to eat or bathe. If it got real late, the promise of her lullaby was all that’d get you to bed. Burdock would wait with you, both because he shared your concern and because he never really left you alone in those days. Except when it was time for his own bath. Sometimes, Lenore Dove would wander over, and she’d soothe your nerves with an exchange of poems.
Whenever you spotted your papa heading down the walkway to your home, tall and mighty, it was like catching the first rays of light after a storm. He’d laugh as you threw yourself into his arms. “I’m getting coal dust all over you, maple leaf.”
“I don’t care,” you always said in return. As if you weren’t already perpetually covered in dust by living in the Seam. You were just happy to have him home. To be lucky enough to still have your papa.
Your heart gives a heavy pang, weighed less so by the familiar longing for your family and more by the grief you realize they’re in for. They’ll carry on without you, keep you with them in whatever ways they can, you’re certain of it. You just…don’t want to be a smudge on their lives.
“That’s pretty,” mutters Wellie, a weak finger lifting to point at the bird.
“My uncle made it,” you tell her. “Where’d you get your bell from?”
“My mom,” she whispers sadly. “It was a defect from the factory, so they didn’t want it. But I like it.”
“I like it, too.” You get the feeling it’d bring her more discomfort to talk about it, so you don’t pry about her family or District Six.
You run your thumb over the bluebird’s face, attempting to clean the mysterious residue. It only winds up smeared across the wings. As stubborn as soot, sullying Tam Amber’s craftsmanship. You’ll need water to wash it off. How’d Haymitch manage this anyway? There hasn’t been another volcano or cloud of ash. Not a person or inch of land would’ve been spared if it there were. Instead, the residue is isolated to the bluebird and your fingers.
The bluebird and your fingers.
You jolt upwards, rumbling the hammock and Wellie, who lets out an eek.
“Sorry,” you say immediately. “Sorry.” But your mind is moving too fast to catch up with whatever comes out of your mouth.
Your thoughts come in flashes, in images and memories: the coal dust on your papa’s face, those field trips to the mines, your teacher’s brief lessons on explosives. Above all, Plutarch dangling a free world like a ripe carrot right in front of you.
You’ve been north, you’ve cut through the hedge in search of some missing piece to some secretive rebel plan, and you’ve come up empty. Until now.
So, this is how you blow up the arena. This is how you end the Games. With your bluebird, which doesn’t look anything like an explosive. There would’ve been no time to rig it into one in a single night, either. Then again, you don’t have Beetee’s mind for tinkering. But you highly doubt that’s the case. So then what’s—
The cord! It has to be. How, you have no idea. You only know Haymitch made a show of “losing” it for a reason.
You chew on your bottom lip. Haymitch hasn’t gone off to complete this task—through whatever means, you still aren’t completely sure—on his own. Not this time. You made a deal, one you trust him not to back out of. And he wouldn’t have clued you in like this if he didn’t intend to see the plan through together.
Yet…the longer he takes, the worse your head hurts. And the louder Wellie’s stomach growls. Your own isn’t exactly quiet. It grumbles and collapses into itself with an ache so familiar you have to shut your eyes to wish it away.
“Anyone in the mood for a baked potato?”
You look over at Haymitch, grateful to whatever angel has answered at least one of your wishes. “If that’s the best you’ve got.”
He grins. Slowly, he hoists Wellie off the hammock with your help. She stares at him wordlessly, like she’s surprised he came back at all. He gives her a reassuring pat on the head before maneuvering her over his shoulder. It’s not the most ideal carrying position, but it’s the only way you’re getting her down the tree.
You stretch your limbs as soon as you’re back on solid ground, shaking away the stiffness in your bones.
Haymitch sets Wellie down against the trunk and gets to work on the fire. You take a seat beside her, lifting the blanket over her each time it slides off her shoulders.
The potato is nice and baked within minutes, soft enough that it melts with ease when Haymitch uses a fork to mash it into easier pieces for Wellie. To your relief, she’s responsive to every bite. And though she requires a break halfway through eating, what she’s managed to keep down does her wonders.
You watch Haymitch nurse the fire as you chew on the chocolate ball he forced into your hand. It’s all you’re willing to take. Wellie needs the fuel more than you do. He pokes at the fire with a twig and bounces back when a spark flies near his feet. You stifle a snicker.
“Breakfast and a show,” you muse, leaning over to Wellie. “Aren’t we spoiled?”
“Very,” deadpans Haymitch, dropping the twig into the flames.
Wellie, whose color is slowly returning to her, giggles. The sound lightens both of your shoulders. Taking a deep breath, you reach into your right pocket. Now’s as good a time as any to broach the subject.
You tilt your head, staring straight at Haymitch. “You got dirt all over the bird, you know.”
All he does for a second is blink your way, caught between the relief that you’ve picked up on what he has, and the dread of realizing there really is no way to keep you out of this. “I’ll take better care of it from here on out.”
“You better.”
“I found the cord though.”
“Did you?” You hold out a necklace made of stems and your bluebird. “I already made you a new one.”
“I like it.” He takes it from you and loops it over his head.
You shrug. “No point letting the other one go to waste.”
Agreed. He pats his pocket where the unfurled cord and blasting cap rest. “Got it right here.”
You nod and turn back to Wellie, who's been eyeing you both curiously. “Ready to try some more?”
She sniffles. “Aren’t you guys hungry?”
“Oh,” you pretend to grimace, “I’m stuffed from all that chocolate.”
“Me too,” Haymitch groans, throwing his head back. He mashes more bits of potato. “It’s all yours, sweetgum.”
Wellie wrinkles her nose, unconvinced, but doesn’t argue against the next bite of food. She’s much more agreeable than you are, that’s for sure. As she swallows down the potato, Haymitch thinks of how to best steer the conversation. It only took close to a decade, but he’s finally got a hang of your riddled manner of talking.
“Silka was skulking around here last night,” he says nonchalantly.
Wellie tenses up. You soothe her by running your fingers through her hair. “She was?”
“Skulking’s not the right word.” Sobbing in a fit of anguish is a more accurate description. “But yeah, she was here.”
“We should move then,” you sigh out.
“And head where?”
“Where do you think?”
“I’m between the meadow and the hedge. What’s left of it anyway. I never did get to show you my trick with the force field.” At the reminder of why that is, at the memory of Maysilee’s bloodied body, his fingers clench. Clearing his throat, he continues, “But if we head to the meadow, we can scour the cornucopia for food.”
You hum pensively, toying with your pearl charm. “Well, the cornucopia should have something left. We could at least get a show, if not more breakfast.”
“That was my thought, too.” The horn of plenty for some, a symbol of despair for all. How glorious it’ll be to set it aflame.
You boop Wellie’s nose. “What do you say, little bird? You up for the trip?”
She squirms, and though Haymitch isn’t fond of seeing her so nervous, he’s grateful she’s gaining some movement back. “We’re staying together, right?”
He locks eyes with you, and he’s brought back to your shared helplessness last night. Protecting Wellie is still the priority.
“For as long as possible,” you say. It’s all you can guarantee. Even without an underlying rebellion, you and Haymitch would have to leave her to take up the victor mantle on her own.
Wellie gives a nod, loosening up slightly.
“The cornucopia it is,” declares Haymitch, clasping his hands together. “I’ll start packing.” Not that there’s much to pack. Just the hammocks and tarps. Maybe he should leave the fire going, create a diversion for Silka while you find somewhere to hide Wellie.
“Okay. I want to check the snares around here before we head south. Maybe try to find game, too.” If you’re to leave Wellie while you carry out the plan, you need to make sure she has some sustenance. Really, you and Haymitch need to eat, too.
“Why?” he blurts out, unable to conceal the wrinkles between his brows.
“I assume we won’t be coming back north, and it’d be nice to take protein for the road,” you say casually, trying to alleviate the anxiety on his face.
“You think we caught something?” he asks, eyes flickering to Wellie as she takes the last bite of potato. She might be able to handle something heavier once the potato’s settled as much as it can in her stomach. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to find some meat for her sake. But—
“Worth checking.” You clean the fork and hand it over to Haymitch.
When you move to stand, Wellie grabs onto your wrist. “You can’t go,” she whispers.
Haymitch stretches a hand out in her direction as if to say, Thank you, Wellie!
“We don’t know if there’ll be any food at the cornucopia,” you tell her gently, easing her into releasing her hold on you. “I need to at least try to find us some now.”
“Then take us with you,” she says, frowning.
“I’ll be quicker on my own.”
Yeah, okay, that’s true. Haymitch is well aware that Wellie still has a ways to go before she’s even halfway recovered from her emaciation. She can’t go with the two of you, and she’s not going to get any better without more food. Or at least something to hold her over until the Games end and there’s no other choice but to declare her the victor.
You tighten the blanket around Wellie, tying two corners together to keep it properly secured. Your efforts do little to reassure her—you can tell by the way her shoulders refuse to drop—but you try to leave her with the promise of a speedy return regardless.
Haymitch pushes up on his feet when you stand with your bow. “Are you sure—”
“You got the firewood,” you say, pointing between the two of you, “I’ve got the snares.”
“Checking the snares will take longer. ’Specially if you plan on hunting, too,” he counters.
“It won’t be as long as you think.”
“Well you shouldn’t go off alone.”
“Hi, Pot, have you met Kettle yet?” Your own hypocrisy isn’t lost on you, but you care more about getting Haymitch to let you go right now.
“You’re hilarious,” he snipes.
Tugging him by the elbow, you pull him a foot away from the fire and lower your voice. “Wellie will only slow me down, and someone needs to stay with her.” He opens his mouth, and you bulldoze over his next argument, “And I’m the better shot.”
Haymitch clamps down a scoff, because for all that you’re right—you are a better shot, you will be quicker without extra bodies to carry, you can hold your own—he only cares about all the things that might go wrong without you by his side.
You rub the crease between his brows. It’s a tall order to ask him not to worry. Your thumb stops short of the bridge of his nose before pulling back entirely. “I’m not going back on our deal. I’m asking you not to follow me this once. Please.”
He bites his tongue, runs the tip of his teeth along the buds. “Okay,” he relents in a grumble.
You extend your pinkie. At his hesitation, you take a step closer into his space. It’s a second longer before he loops his own around yours. With a sigh of relief, you peer past Haymitch to shoot Wellie a soft smile. “Keep an eye on him for me, yeah?”
She tries to return your smile.
Haymitch is staring at you with wounded, pleading eyes when you focus on him again. Lighter in color this morning—no longer navy, but a muted wild blue reminiscent of a gnatcatcher—they pull you back to his warmth. All-encompassing and dizzying. He reads your thoughts, follows them all the way down to your lips. You allow yourself the indulgence. For both your sakes.
Full of an entirely different need from last night—one built on promises both spoken and unsaid, on hopes tender and steadfast—the kiss seals your resolve.
You pull back right as Haymitch lowers his arm to cradle your waist. Suddenly, the urge to give him more, the instinct to stow him inside your heart next to all those little things you cannot yet say, overcomes you. Swallowing down the instinct in exchange for a more necessary directive, you brush your forehead against his. “Look after her. I’ll be back before you can miss me real bad.”
“I’m holding you to that,” he murmurs, kissing the tip of your nose.
It takes all you have to suppress the shudder creeping down your back. Even more to walk away.
Haymitch doesn’t move an inch. You leave him with another quick smile over your shoulder, then you disappear entirely. Deadweight on legs, he takes your place on the ground next to Wellie. She doesn’t need his wayward worry infecting her, so he tries to sound confident as he says, “Think we can hold the fort down?”
Wellie nods, not torn up as he expected. Instead, she comes off incredibly amused for someone still one strong wind gust away from blowing off.
“What?”
“I thought you weren’t together,” she says, her mouth twitching.
Haymitch clicks his tongue. “We weren’t.”
“But you are now.”
“Sure we are.” How else does he explain to her that it’s complicated, and you haven’t really defined things past kissing, and under different circumstances he’d ask you properly to be his? It’s true enough to just say yes. You’ve been entwined by your roots for longer than either of you have cared to admit.
Wellie regards him suspiciously. “Relationships are weird.”
He snorts and throws another dry branch onto the fire. “Tell me about it, kid.”
Seconds trickle into minutes. It was much easier not to jump to the worst conclusions when Maysilee was here. In between distracting Wellie and fueling the fire, Haymitch keeps his attention on the gaps between the trees, willing you to return.
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
The sun beats down on your face mockingly, as if reminding you of those counting on you to come back to them soon. Time racks up to longer than you anticipated. Longer than you promised you’d be.
You shouldn’t be surprised when there is nothing in most of the snares you set, but you are disappointed. No game of any kind in sight, no trails to track down. You know it’s a message from the Gamemakers: they’re growing restless and bored.
They’ve drawn things out long enough. In their minds, that is. It’s only been a week, and Games past have lasted longer with fewer tributes. Forty-eight children, and forty-three dead in seven days. How could they possibly be bored?
You retrace your footsteps to the very last snare, not too far from where you’ve left Haymitch and Wellie. A halfway point between them and the scene of Maysilee’s death. You call it quits when you come up empty again.
If you were back home, or if it was just a couple days earlier, you’d spend more time venturing the terrain. Patience is a virtue for most, and a necessity for hunting. Your papa always made sure to remind you of the fact when you’d groan about Burdock’s prodigal talent. So did Clerk Carmine when he first passed on your guitar. Lucky thing you picked up on that much quicker.
Impatient as quicksand, Haymitch is surely expecting you back by now. You’ll have to settle for the hope of another sponsor gift. This time, you wouldn’t be too upset with a feast.
You keep your bow clutched in one hand, crossing another over to rub away your goosebumps. They fade to nothing, but your bones stay frosted over. Today’s sun is only for show, it seems.
Mags and Wiress must have a way of reading your mind, you decide, when a parachute floats down from above. Instead of a feast, nestled in a snowy linear napkin, you find a pitcher. A brilliant white china, resting within a spiral staircase. An eagle sits atop the lid. You press the eagle’s tail, and the lid pops open. Hot chocolate steam curls up your nose.
You fall back on the familiar pattern of those first days on the mountainside, on the inclination to riddle-solve, and make quick work of connecting the dots. Plutarch’s final message couldn’t be any clearer: you’re right where you need to be, finally doing something of substance, making an actual rebel of yourself. His past instructions were a stepping stone for what’s to come. What you now know to be the real plan.
Holding the pitcher in the nook of your elbow, you quicken the pace back to Haymitch and Wellie.
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
Haymitch grows restless by the fourth story he tells Wellie. He’s already detailed everything there is to Twelve that makes it worthwhile. It was a short run-down. Every time he asks her questions about Six, or anything she’s fond of, she supplies him with minimal details and the request for him to keep talking. You’d be much better suited to fulfill her wants.
But you’re not here. The fire’s fickled down to pure billowing smoke now. And still, you aren’t back.
He distracts them both with another memory, recounting the day Sid was born, the happiest baby to ever grace the Seam. Born on the sunny side, Mamaw used to claim.
“Your pa was the same when he was little,” she once told Haymitch while putting him to bed. “All smiles and optimism and mischief. You got that last part from him.”
Haymitch believed her. Hard not to. His pa was a fortress of a person, steady and strong and constant. He was soft in all the ways that mattered, too. For all that the world whittled down on him, it never could harden his heart. It never could change who he was and what he believed.
He feels certain that you would’ve gotten along. You would’ve understood each other to that extent, at least.
Pa only met you once before he died. Haymitch was more likely to pay your household a visit than Burdock was to play at his in the early years of their friendship. And when he did trickle on over, it’s not like you’d ever want to. Even though you and Burdock had yet to outgrow the need to go wherever the other went, Haymitch’s house was the one place you’d never willingly travel to. On account, of course, of Haymitch being there. You made that plenty clear.
One evening, when Barb Azure was teaching Burdock and Haymitch to play a game of cards, you spent most of it on your porch steps. That was your routine whenever he was present: you’d find somewhere else to be. Halfway through the game, with Haymitch in the lead, Sorrel breezed through the kitchen with a tiredness in his posture. Exhausted as he was, he rallied to greet them with a smile.
He kissed Burdock’s head, then Barb Azure’s cheek, and patted Haymitch on the back. “Your pa’s here, son.”
They finished the game within minutes. If his pa was in a rush, he would’ve called out for him. Haymitch won, leaving with spoken thanks and goodbyes and the anticipation of telling his pa all about his victory.
He never got to, his plans interrupted by a strange, melodic sound that grew louder as he walked outside: your laughter.
Out on the porch, his pa was kneeled on a step below yours, staying eye level with you. Upon seeing Haymitch, he smiled widely, and you dropped yours completely. Jaw dropped, Haymitch could only peel his eyes away from you once prompted by his pa saying, “There you are. Let’s head on home.”
He had to manually remind his feet how to work. They remembered pretty quickly once you glared daggers at him for blocking the doorway. You walked back inside, bidding his pa farewell with a lighthearted wave and Haymitch with a sour, “Night.”
On the path to their house, Haymitch worked up the guts to voice his curiosity. “How’d you get her to laugh?”
His pa gave him a peculiar smile. “I told her about my day.”
“What was so funny about your day?” asked Haymitch, scratching his nose.
“Nothing,” he said, “but then she told me about her day. And you. Had a lot to say about you, that one.”
“Me?” Oh, he could only imagine all the insults you spewed about him. It was plenty fine when you directed them straight at him—he took them in stride, in gratitude when coming from you—but he didn’t want his pa converted to your side. “What’d she say?”
“Not a thing I don’t already know.”
Haymitch blanched. How could he say that? “Pa, she hates me.”
Pa laughed, a hearty, joyful melody much like yours. “Oh, my boy. You’d be surprised.”
His laugh sounds different now in Haymitch’s head. Faint, muted by too many years gone by without hearing it. He wonders if that’s what’ll become of him in Sid’s memories, and Ma’s. A distant illusion.
The thought cracks his chest wide open. He wants so badly to be home with them right now. Home with you, too.
“She’s been gone a while,” murmurs Wellie drearily, following his line of sight. “You don’t think…”
“We would’ve heard a cannon,” he reminds her, and himself.
A haze falls over her eyes. “Atread was dying a long time before his cannon went off.”
Wonderful point. What a vivid image it produces. He clamps his eyes shut, and when he pictures Atread, another of his soft-spoken doves, you pop up too. Writhing in pain, dying alone. “I’m gonna go get her,” he blurts.
“Okay,” she agrees and wiggles out of the blanket to stand, only to immediately buckle down.
He catches her instantly. “No, Wellie, you have to stay.”
She wheezes, panicked, “Don’t leave me.”
Haymitch squeezes her shoulders lightly to calm her. “It’ll just be to bring her back. I’ll make sure you’re good and hidden.”
“Don’t. I can’t be alone again. I’ll go with you.” Her bottom lip wobbles.
“It’s okay. You’ll be okay. Look what I’ve got for you.” Haymitch hangs Maysilee’s blowgun around her neck. “This was Maysilee’s. It’s all loaded. All you do is take a deep breath, blow real hard in this end, and a poisonous dart comes flying out. She killed Panache with this. Saved our lives.”
“Maysilee’s dead now, too.” Wellie hugs her knees.
His throat tightens. “Yeah, she is. But she’d want you to have this. She thought you’d make a good victor.”
“She did?” Her eyes widen. “What did she mean? A good victor?”
A great question, an even harder one to actually answer. “It means that you’re good to your core. You never stop being a Newcomer.”
Wellie tears up, ultimately settling into her determination. “I can do that. For the others. For her.” She whispers your name. “Hide me.” She holds out her arms for Haymitch to carry her.
Nearby, he pinpoints a tree almost hidden by wild grapevines. Tucking Wellie behind them, he arranges the cascading vines into a curtain that’ll conceal her.
“Remember,” he tells her. “You’ve only got one dart, so make it count.”
She lifts the blowgun to show him she understands how to use it.
He taps her chin with the knuckle of his index finger. “Atta girl. Now, sit tight and I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.”
He intends to make good on his parting assurance. And when he spots you after covering a half-mile of woods, he’s relieved to know he will.
You’re not carrying any game, but you aren’t empty-handed. Haymitch can’t quite tell what it is you’re holding from afar—he knows to credit it to a sponsor gift. You are also evidently, expectedly seething when you notice him.
“Why are you here?” you demand, not bothering to keep your voice quiet.
“I got worried,” Haymitch answers candidly as he approaches you.
Of course he did. That’s expected, understandable even. The absence of your ally, however, is not. “And Wellie?”
“She was worried, too.” His eyes hone in on the pitcher, and he goes completely still.
“Was she?” you snap dryly. “If you’d waited a few more minutes, she wouldn’t be, because she’d have both of us there.”
He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even look at you, more taken with what you have in your arms.
You stomp your foot, childish and petty and completely warranted in the heat of your frustration. “Honestly, Haymitch, is it gonna take a real blood oath to get you to listen to me?”
He snatches the pitcher from you suddenly. “You didn’t drink any, did you?”
Are you kidding me? “No,” you scoff. “Obviously not. I was bringing it to—”
Your huff comes out muffled against his chest. Haymitch holds you close, tight enough to stop the breath in your lungs. “What the hell?”
His lips brush the shell of your ear, and the shudder that passes through you, too involuntarily to contain this time, almost quells your anger. Almost. What really does it are the words he whispers: “It’s not from who you think.”
Pulling back, you search for answers in his expression. He gives you the one you need, the one you already assume deep down, with a quiver of his chin and a furrow of his brows.
You take a deep breath and plaster on a scowl. “I don’t think you should get any hot chocolate.”
He blinks, then pouts. “Oh, come on now.”
“You don’t deserve it,” you say sharply. “I mean, you accuse me of hogging it.”
“I only asked if you tasted it without us. That’s a fair question.”
“And you left Wellie after you agreed not to.”
Haymitch tucks your hair back. “I missed you too much, darling.”
A cover or not, your stomach bubbles. “And you’re just plain annoying me right now, peach.”
He laughs, tugging you to him when you take another step away. “Forgive me.”
You narrow your eyes, a smile playing on your lips. “I—”
It all happens so fast from there. Too fast for Haymitch to pick up on the details. He only hears the way you cut yourself off. Only notices when you whir around, notching an arrow on your bow and lodging it into Maritte’s collarbone. Only sees when her knife flies into your lower abdomen at the same time. Only feels the drop of the pitcher, the fear clawing at his ribcage, the weight of his dagger before it finds the space of her neck, finishing her off.
Haymitch catches you before you hit the floor, before you land on the pile of broken glass and spilled hot chocolate. He props you against a berm of primrose. Blood spools around the dagger like the tendrils of a poppy. The black of your uniform can’t hide the shape, or the texture of the crimson. Thick as strawberry juice.
“What do I do?” He all but spits out. “What do I—”
“Get Wellie,” you gasp, feeling nothing but the urgency to get Haymitch back on track.
“Do I pull the knife out?”
“Get Wellie,” you repeat through gritted teeth.
“No, you’ll bleed to death.” His voice cracks on the last syllable. “How do I stop the bleeding?”
“Haymitch.” You dig your nails into your palms to keep from wincing. “If it hit anything important, I wouldn’t be speaking right now. Go get Wellie.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not leaving you alone.”
“Silka’s around here somewhere.”
“Exactly why I can’t leave you!” he exclaims, exasperated and scared and on the verge of something far more painful than tears. “I can’t.”
“Haymitch, you promised!” you choke out through the lump in your throat.
The threat of your scrunched nose, the evocation of his promise—that absolute, binding pinkie promise—cuts through him.
“Please,” you croak, finding solace in the dirt beneath you, scraping the underside of your nail bed with rocks and twigs. “Go.”
Your face begins to blur, and Haymitch realizes he’s in danger of breaking out into those horrible, wretched sobs that only overcome him when someone’s died. And he can’t let that happen right now because you need him. Wellie needs you both. “I’m getting her and coming right back, you hear me?”
You nod. “Go.”
He cradles your face and presses a long kiss to the crown of your head as if that’ll bring his wishes into existence. Your hands clutch him, pushing him away. You shove your own dagger into his grip. It’s only after Haymitch backs off, running with all his might through the trees, that you allow yourself to cry.
Every breath you take inflames the bursts of ice shooting up your side. You can feel the blade brushing against your insides, forcing you to confront just how much pain you’re in.
It sits right above your hip, perfectly content where it is. You’re no Asterid, this is not a deceptive laceration, and it hurts a hell of a lot worse than a sprained ankle. But you can’t pull it out. Haymitch wasn’t wrong—you’ll bleed out, send yourself to an earlier grave than the one you’re already in, if you do.
You try to slide up the trunk, push yourself to your feet, but your limbs protest angrily. They resort to going numb, a roundabout paralysis where you still feel every single sting.
Shedding the numbness, your mind detaches from your body entirely, guided first and foremost by the boom of a cannon.
Hissing, you push forward and hold out your hands before you can collapse face-down.
“Ah!” You lift a hand back, burned by the hot chocolate, no less steaming than how you received it. You wipe yourself on your pant leg and assess the spillage, laid out in a stream of glass in front of you. You’re quickly reminded of the river at the base of the mountain, of the snake swallowed by its own foamy blood, of the frail man perched on a frail throne.
“It’s not from who you think.”
And if you were wrong about that, if it’s from who Haymitch would have you believe…
What’s the point in dwelling, in waiting, in trying to redecipher some grand rebel plan that isn’t going to save you now? Silka is alive, and so is Haymitch. It’s a feeling as true and palpable as the stinging.
You pocket a piece of hot chocolate soaked glass and lift yourself off the ground.
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
That cannon wasn’t for you. He just left you, breathing and alive. Injured but alive. You’re right—you wouldn’t be talking if the dagger was lodged anywhere truly fatal. You’d be gone by now, and you aren’t.
You’re not dead, you’re not dead, you’re not dead.
But Wellie is when he reaches her. A dead, headless baby dove. Another casualty of a broken promise. Another image he’ll never be able to scrub clean in his memories.
“What did you do?” he hisses.
Silka holds up Wellie’s head defensively, drawing attention to the blood spatters on her snot-green uniform. “She attacked me.”
Haymitch notices the poison dart hanging from her blousy sleeve. Wellie tried to protect herself, tried to stay strong, tried to uphold the Newcomer honor. And as she feared he would, Haymitch abandoned her. Oh, Wellie, what have I done to you?
“She had to go. You have to go,” Silka continues robotically. “It’s the only way I get back to my people.”
“We all have people. You think yours will ever be able to forget this? I know mine won’t.” He hopes Sid disowns him, curses his weakness, spits whenever he hears his pathetic brother’s name.
“I’ll tell it how it was, when I get home,” she says.
“Oh, you’re not going home, Silka.” He pulls the ax from his belt. You should hate Haymitch all over again—you will. You’ll hate him when you return home for letting this happen, for leaving Wellie behind in the first place, for forcing you to fulfill Maysilee’s deathbed demand on your own without so much as a goodbye. And he’s at peace with that. It’s what he deserves.
Silka tosses Wellie’s head aside, no regard or compassion for her even in death. Her callousness does wonders for Haymitch’s resolve. Even more so when she spews, “Where’s your ally?”
“I’d worry more about yours,” he seethes. His ax feels right at home in his hands. “Who do you think that first cannon was for?”
Nostrils flaring, eyes welling, Silka’s first stroke comes straight down at his head.
The clash of metal echoes across the woods. You follow the sound with an agonizing hobble. The clangs and grunts lead you back to your campsite, ravaged in the wake of a hateful battle. Beyond Silka’s attempt to dislodge her ax from a tree, and Haymitch’s quick swipe at her thigh, and her retaliation, Wellie’s head lies detached from her body.
Your feet stammer, and a low hanging branch provides stability. Nothing in your stomach but a knife, you force yourself not to keel over.
Later. There will be time to feel it, to hate yourself, later.
“Hey, snot-face!” you call out, raising your bow. Your papa would chide you for startling your prey, but you want her looking at you when you land the arrow.
Silka shrieks when it strikes through her shoulder, immobilizing her left arm. You grab another arrow, but she runs your way, rams your body to the ground, and sends the arrow aimlessly through the wind. Your bow slips from your grasp.
At the impact, the tip of the blade digs deeper. Your yelp is cut short by Silka’s forearm pressing down on your throat. You claw at her face, taking chunks of skin and blood, but the only thing that gets her to let up is a dagger to her eye. Her howl comes with a blind swipe behind her back, in the direction of the culprit.
Haymitch, consumed by his rage for Silka and distracted by his one-track-mind for you, fails to jump back. He pays the price with a giant gash across his lower abdomen. His grip loosens on his ax as he scrambles to keep his guts from spilling onto the floor.
You elbow Silka in the nose and make a dash for Haymitch. “Nice eye!” you shout over your shoulder as you yank him away.
Wounded and weaponless, his intestines twisting in his fingers and your abdomen burning with each step, your sprint sputters into a staggered zigzag. You come to a stop where the alder trees make way for the burnt hedge.
Haymitch leans back against one of them, his legs shaking like they’re about to give out. You hold him up, keeping your attention on his eyes, his nose, his lips. Anywhere but the very fatal injury.
“What’s the plan?” he strains to say.
Your chest heaves. “Force her to split her attention.”
He can’t fathom leaving you again for more than a second, doesn’t want to, but there’s no good alternative. You’re running on fumes and borrowed time. Haymitch knows that as well as you do. Why couldn’t you just stay put?
Why couldn’t he?
He gives a curt nod and dashes towards the cliffside, both hands cupping his wound now. You find cover among the trees, where he hopes you’ll be safest.
Back pressed against the jagged bark, pinecones dropping overhead, you look down at the only weapon you have access to. You wrap your trembling fingers around the handle of the blade. Like ripping off a bandaid. You don’t stifle your cry; you need Silka to find you.
And she does, with a fist to the face, paying you back for bloodying her nose. One eyed and all, Silka is a master at regaining the upper hand. You swipe the knife at her throat; she strikes your wrist and knocks it out of your grip. Knuckles will have to do then. You lift them and swing, spent as you are, because you’ll drag her down with you by any means before she ever gets the chance to reach Haymitch.
Silka doesn’t bother with her ax. She punches you instead, square in the jaw. You go down, but not without punting her in the shin. Dodging your next attempt, she grabs a fistful of your hair. You shriek with indignation as much as with pain.
Dragged like a rag-doll by the roots, you go kicking and screaming the entire way through the hedge’s boundary. Up until you’re both feet away from Haymitch.
“Let her go,” he coughs out. “Let go!”
With a curse of her name, a shout of yours, Haymitch tries to run your way, only for his knees to buckle entirely. He resorts to throwing whatever rocks in his vicinity at her. Does she plan to make him watch? Is she so sick in the head, so poisoned by the Capitol’s need for spectacle, that she needs to draw it out for them, even now?
Silka throws you down, unphased by the stone that hits her in the chest. Weakly, you lift your head, hold it up high, and spit out a curdle of blood. Right at her feet. She’ll have to look you in the eye and live with whatever shame she’s capable of. Same as the very people who’ve turned each of you into pawns.
But she doesn’t care about you right now. No, not at all. Silka has another target in mind. A different, equally vindictive parting act.
She wants you to see Haymitch die first.
“Kill me,” you croak, rolling onto your stomach, pushing up on your forearms. Kill me, kill me, kill me. Not him. You make a play for her ankle, and Silka steps on your fingers, cracking them in half.
Your scream doesn’t stop her ax as it flies through the air. It never reaches its target, though. Haymitch falls forward on his face before it can, narrowly dodging the impact. You breathe out, relieved. What a pity she’ll have to settle for you.
Silka stands over you, her hand against her eye socket, seemingly contemplating how you should go. Her momentary setback hasn’t derailed her confidence. She has time, the upper hand, and—
The ax lodges in her head with a sickening squelch.
She writhes on the ground across from you. Your head snaps Haymitch’s way, in the direction of the glistening illusion of a force field behind him. Some trick.
You scramble onto your knees to get to him. You fall back down when Silka stops gurgling, the cannon sounds, and it sinks in that the worst of your fears has come to pass.
Haymitch is alive…but so are you.
Your fingers are surely broken, and you’re set to bleed to death any second now, but you’re a lot better off than Haymitch. Still face-down feet away, his guts splattering out of his body, good as dead.
He’s as good as dead.
So you don’t think about home, or about notions of revolution, or about Wellie’s decapitated body, or about the millions of things you have yet to feel and do.
You just reach for your failsafe.
Haymitch is slipping, literally. In-and-out of consciousness, intestines coiling around his palms like a snake. You should be by his side right now, yelling at him, scolding his audacity, kissing him goodbye. You wouldn’t deny him a deathbed wish. And yet, you’re nowhere near.
He raises his head, feeling the weight of a dozen dumbbells threatening to push him back down. He finds Silka’s dead body, the reflective ax sticking out of her head. And you. Slightly closer, curled on the ground, frozen completely.
Why aren’t you moving?
His incoming death means nothing now. Haymitch comes to his senses, alert and desperate as he drags himself across the dirt with one hand.
Your tears, trickling out the corners of your eyes, are all Haymitch sees after you roll onto your back and he props up on an elbow. He’s slow, too slow—he shouldn’t be this slow—to notice the change in your blood. From crimson to pitch black, same as the veins running in spirals across your abdomen when he lifts your shirt. An abnormality credited to foul play. To poison.
No. No, no, no, you said you didn’t drink the hot chocolate. You didn’t have any. You didn’t—you would’ve already been dead. And you weren’t. You aren’t.
Sunlight glistens off a piece of glass stuck to the edge of your wound. How did—
Haymitch was careful setting you down, wasn’t he? He’d been panicked and frantic, but he was careful.
You rasp, “H-Haymitch, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, sunshine,” he croaks. “You aren’t—” You aren’t dying. You can’t be dying. You can’t—he can’t—how can he stop this? He needs to stop this, needs to save you, needs to—
Your fingers twitch like you’re attempting to grab him. Attempting to wipe away those telltale wrinkles. “Should’ve…said it sooner.”
He shakes his head. “Just—just wait.”
“Should’ve shown it,” you breathe, a ragged whistle of a note.
“You did. You do,” he says hopelessly, truthfully, piecing the fractures of your puzzle. “B-but you gotta hold on. You have to stay with me.”
You try to tell him that you won’t be apart, not really. You’ll be with him forever. But the promise comes out in a strangled sputter, which he leans in to will away. Your bluebird brushes your shoulder, reminding you there was never a chance of escaping this. Not from the second Haymitch was damned to your side. There is peace in accepting your fate. There is freedom in the world that comes next, where every last one of your people awaits. Where the ones around your neck will find you someday.
My sweet family, my formidable kin, know I fought like all-fire. Know we’ll meet in the meadow.
You can’t make out his pleas anymore, just his horrid, haunting gasps of air. It’s all that hurts you now. Whatever strength you have left is used for one last attempt to tell Haymitch all he means and all you want for him in lieu of a life together. “Don’t follow.”
The sun fades around the corners of your vision, leaving you with only Haymitch. I love you forever, in every world, and then some.
Haymitch presses his lips to yours, trying to breathe into you, attempting to give you what’s left of his life because it’s yours anyway. He’s yours. Everything he is, everything he feels, belongs to you. “I love you.” He tastes salt mixed with metal. “Please don’t leave me,” he pleads against your frozen skin. “I love you, I love you.”
He opens his eyes to the empty look in yours. Once brilliant, now lost to him forever. The agony builds and builds until it scratches his throat raw with an unending scream. But it’s not enough to numb the rest of him. He sobs, closes your eyes with shaky fingers, buries his face into your hair. “I’m sorry.”
And it’s in the despair of the words that Haymitch realizes it’s okay. It’s going to be okay. This hole in his heart, this anguish in his body, is temporary. Because he has a much more fatal, much more literal gap dragging him down beside you. Even ground, right?
The hovercraft fades in from afar, no announcement of the victor as far as Haymitch is aware. But it’s coming. They’ll drag him out of here, resuscitate him from the brink, stop him from following you. Just like you want.
He acts on pure instinct when he digs for the makings of the bomb. The sunflower, the blasting cap, the quartz, his flintstriker. Thank you, Ampert, Wyatt, Maysilee, Lenore Dove, for laying the groundwork. The Gamemakers’ warnings fall on deaf ears and a grief-stricken heart. Keep your head up, Sid. Don’t fret for me now, Ma. I won’t fail again, Burdie.
Haymitch manages with one hand and his set of teeth. He rolls onto his back, tears the blasting cap, shoves it into the sunflower, dodges the stray bullets from above. Driven by a sole purpose, and the bonus of another.
Forgive me, sunshine, for I cannot live without you.
He’ll tell you himself when he meets you again. He’ll take your anger in stride, as he always has, because he knows where it comes from. And it won’t matter so long as he has you. You and everyone else who’s found their way to your heaven. Losses of old and those yet to pass. Pa, Mamaw, his unnamed sisters. Haymitch believes it, he feels them all waiting. Any second now.
When he launches the sunflower into the canyon, it’s for every loose cannon, every person back in Twelve, every life the Capitol has tried to twist into nothing. It’s for you.
Black specks dot his eyes, blocking out the arena’s artificial light, and so, he finds you. The last thing he ever wants to see in this world, the first he’ll wake to in the next.
His brilliant, dazzling sun, keeping him warm, singing him home, as the earth crumbles beneath him.
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
Haymitch wakes later, not to the lull of your voice or the greetings of his lost loves, but to stark white walls and gloved hands on bare skin and half-eaten nightingales filling the absence of your warmth. The sorrow he sought to ward off, the loss he fought with all his strength to avoid, crashes into him at once. Permanent, wretched, vengeful. Inevitable. And he knows you have not forgiven him.
Hey, do you remember back before season 2 released there was a vox x reader fic of Vox possessing a TV in the overworld (reader's tv) and then he had a dynamic with reader then she died and ended up at the hazbin hotel since she stole a candy bar as a kid
Do you know what it’s called or remembered it? I remember reading it around when you started your Vox x Alastor's daughter Reader series
Oh god, I know exactly what you’re talking about but I can’t for the life of me remember what it’s called or who wrote it. I looked through my reblogs because I normally reblog something if I read it but I couldn’t find it. Doesn’t mean that it’s not somewhere in there though, tumblrs search feature just sucks. I can’t 100% promise you it is there though.
Maybe someone else will know who wrote it & what it’s called.
Worth Keeping | Haymitch Abernathy x Everdeen!Reader
Prologue— Rewritten
Summary: For the first five years of mentoring, Haymitch was not numb but indifferent to these new tributes, on their way towards death. This year, he's forced to change that approach when his childhood friend's little sibling is called at the reaping.
It was the day of your very first reaping where you would not be watching but within the children participants in front of the cameras. You hadn’t slept a wink.
Your mama braided your hair as Burdock was helped by your pa with the finicky buttons of his clothes he rarely ever wore. Reaping day, in spite of being the day in which two children (or in this case four) were taken off by the grim reaper which was the Capitol, was a day you were expected to dress your best under the threat of a beating by the proclaimed peacekeepers.
“You’ll won’t be reaped this year,” your mama said as she tied off your braid, speaking her intent out for your ears to hear.
It soothed you in a way but not completely. As you were separated from your brother, your heart began to race once more. Your blood was pricked, your fingerprint taken. You were tossed into the pen like some kind of pig for slaughter.
You felt the bump at your side before you saw her, Louella McCoy. Her hair was braided similarly to yours in her hand me down clothes and dirt still on her nose.
“You’ve got your token,” she said, grabbing the thread around your neck.
“Yeah,” your hand touched hers as you moved to feel it, “I’m still sorry about yours.”
“It’s okay,” she said.
It wasn’t.
You acted like it was anyway. You licked your thumb and raised it to her face. “You’ve got—“ she tried to shy away from your touch but you held her firm with a grip on her jaw— “dirt on your nose.”
She made an exaggerated noise of disgust as she turned from you when you’d finally rubbed it off in spite of her squirming. “The cameras won’t pick it up! What’s the point of wiping it off?”
“The peacekeepers’ll get you,” you told her, like that was a real threat to the either of you who had both had your shares of run ins despite your young ages. Peacekeepers just didn’t like minding their own business.
“Yeah, and?” she grumbled, crossing her arms.
“And they’ll be taking me with you so you better behave yourself because I don’t want my mama yelling at me again,” you replied. In a lower tone you added, “She’s still mad when I yelled at them for kicking rocks at Lenore Dove’s geese.”
She snorted to herself but turned to face the stage. Her hand went up to her mouth in a habit you knew all too well. You grabbed her by her knuckles and forced her hand down to prevent her from making her fingernails bleed from her nerves.
You still held it when she was the first person to be reaped for the second quarter quell.
Her big grey eyes turned to you, wide in shock and surprise. Terror was imbedded in them and there was nothing you could do to stop it.
You squeezed her hand tight and hard, knowing it would be the last time you would do so. She squeezed it back with just as much force and emotion behind it.
You wanted to take off your necklace and wrap it around her neck, give her something from home but there was no time.
“I love you,” you told her.
“I love you too,” her voice was smaller than you’d ever heard it before.
She let go of your hand and walked towards her death. Her posture was more perfect than you’d ever seen it before and she had on such a brave face. The last time you would see your best friend she had unshed tears in her eyes.
Then Maysilee Donner, Wyatt Callow, and it ended (or rather should have) on Woodbine Chance.
But the thing about Woodbine Chance was that he was a trouble boy and a really fast runner. He won every race there ever was with the only person who ever came close was your brother’s best friend and cousin Lenore Dove’s boyfriend, Haymitch Abernathy.
So he ran and he ran fast and hard and not quick enough to stop a bullet going into his head, spraying everyone in the vicinity with blood. His blood.
Chaos followed.
Everyone wanted to move. Woodbine’s mother tried to go towards him. Gunshots were fired off. People were ordered onto the ground.
You had listened. At first. Then you heard Lenore Dove’s voice. You lifted your head to see her next to Mrs. Chance trying to help her grab her son who with no doubt no longer had a heartbeat to help himself up.
Your body moved before you could stop yourself. Your mama had always said you were too reckless when you were around your cousin. The two of you fueled each others flames and that was no different here. As soon as Lenore Dove noticed your presence near her, she seemed to double down in her efforts to help.
Haymitch started moving after you but he got to her just as you did, when the butt of a gun was raised to hit her in the head. He took the brunt of it instead. Being closer to him, you were the one he leaned on as he tried to steady himself but failed to and fell onto his knees.
“Hay,” you called out as your cousin yelled his name, still trying to help Mrs. Chance carry the weight of her dead son.
Druisilla, the escort for District Twelve, curled her fingers around Haymitch’s chin as your hand still rested on his shoulder to keep him upright. She proclaimed she had found a replacement. Your heart sunk to your toes and into the earth.
“No, no, no,” you started muttering because Haymitch Abernathy mattered to you.
He mattered to you, as much as the two of you bantered about the other being an annoyance. You couldn’t let them take away the boy who you had to help teach to climb trees despite him being older than you or the boy who would buy you candy with spare coin he had or the boy you always found yourself drawn to even though you never knew why.
There were words about “killing the girls” but it was rebutted by some man in a purple pantsuit. Your mind couldn’t pay much attention to it.
Lenore Dove yelled out, pleading with them about how it was her fault, her mistake, they needed to punish her. Your mind agreed and yet at the same time it broke because no one should be punished. She didn’t do anything wrong.
Druisilla had the reaping scene done once more. You didn’t even realize that there was a camera in front of your face capturing the pained, anguished expression as the two most important people in your life that weren’t blood related to you walked into a train headed for a station at death’s door. You wanted to walk towards them. Your foot made want step to cross that threshold with them but the other remained in place.
Your mama was who dragged you away from the scene as the train doors closed. “Come on, let’s go,” she said to you.
Numb to the world, your hands (which had been stained with Woodbine Chance’s blood by the mere second you had your hand on his body) were cleaned for you.
When you returned to the world, your hands were gripping your bow and a quiver of arrows as you slipped out the door.
“Where are you going?” Burdock asked as you arrived outside.
Your eyes darted between him and your weapon. No real answer because you didn’t really have one. He nodded like he understood what you were saying though.
“I’m sure Willimae and Sid could use some help with food for. . .” he paused before settling on, “the next little while.”
“Yeah,” you agreed, voice as small as his was drained.
The next couple of days were just a bunch of motions. It wasn’t until you heard song that you were brought back to District Twelve.
A few odd people were already gathered around the stage leftover by the reaping as Lenore Dove played her music box. It was a rare and radiant sight to see Lenore Dove perform, even now when she was so clearly pissed.
You recognized the song as it shifted instantly. A banned song. A song that wasn’t supposed to be played ever because it wasn’t supposed to be sung.
Naturally your voice was the first to join hers as a result of this.
“The law locks up the man or woman
Who steals the goose from off the common
But leaves the greater villain loose
Who steals the common from the goose”
One banned song after another played, rapidly gaining the attention of nearby peacekeepers who originally came to see what the crowd had formed for and then ran for backup because of a girl singing some words.
She still sang as she was hauled off by the peacekeepers. Burdock’s favorite forbidden melody on her lips.
In the small pond of people (as seas didn’t really exist in Twelve), you were lucky to be able to slip away unseen or uncared for with several squirrel attached to your belt.
“Are you, are you
Coming to the tree?
Wear a necklace of hope
Side by side with me”
You made it to the Abernathy residence. It was right beside the McCoy’s. Your heart ached funny in your chest.
There was an empty box abandoned on the side walk. You grabbed it and tossed several squirrel in there. Then dragged it in front of the McCoy’s door. You knocked on it but didn’t wait for an answer as you went back to the Abernathy’s. Still, you heard it creak.
You didn’t knock on Willimae’s door. You simply pushed it open and walked through familiar walls.
You’d been in Haymitch’s home more times than you could ever dare to count. You knew where you needed to go and where what you needed to find would be.
“Um,” you didn’t have to turn your head to know that it was Sid who gawked at you, “Ma!”
No one really ate the food.
“What happened?” you dared to ask. “Lenore Dove was real upset when I came back in through town.”
“The scores came in today,” Willimae told you. Your eyes darted towards her, “Louella scored a three.”
“What about Haymitch?”
“A one.”
The interviews gave away much. The main thing being, that was not Louella McCoy. At the very least, not the one you knew.
Louella was no stranger to nature. She loved all sorts of things but a large snake around her neck that was nearly the size of her was one tick of something not being right. The other was the way she was acting, not talking, hissing, like she didn’t know where she was.
Maybe she’s done something and was drugged out of her mind to keep her subservient. Maybe something happened to her and she just wasn’t right in her head anymore. It would be years before you’d know the truth.
Either way, you felt a little better because maybe you wouldn’t cry when she died.
That was such a selfish thought.
You intended to sleep on the couch. That was until Sid snuck into the living room and nudged you until you woke.
“What is it, Sid?” you asked, rubbing your eyes.
“It’s too quiet in my room,” he answered. “Can you come sleep with me?”
You nodded your head. His grip on your hand led you to his shared bedroom with Haymitch where the other boy was nowhere to be found.
There was always something so eerily quiet about District Twelve (and perhaps all the districts but you would never know) during the build up to the games. Usually there was talk and commotion. Even during the dark of night one could still hear the bustle of life. When the games began, all that could be heard was the whistle of the wind and the haunting songs of birds.
If haunting songs were what wanted to be heard, you could do that.
You sat beside Sid and drew memories of your mother. She sang so little, it was hard to think of times she did but when she sang it was so beautiful.
“Deep in the meadow, under the willow
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow
Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes
And when again they open, the sun will rise”
You continued to sing until Sid fell asleep. You propped your head on your knees, deep in thought.
The games would begin tomorrow. There had been a streak of rebellion in you since you’d first truly learned what the games were and what they meant. Only two years prior, in preparation for you to understand what it truly meant to be reaped before the opportunity for it to happen to you came, you had been forced to watch the games.
Never again had you sat in front of a projector or television to do so. The only glimpses you got were forced upon you by having to go through town and seeing it on the projectors.
Now, the first time you would watch the games of your own accord, it would be with your two best friends going to the slaughterhouse, even if one only seemed to look like herself and not act like it.
They would have no meadow to go to. They would all get buried in the cemetery. A meek, dreary thing that always had shadows cast upon it and never a glimmer of sunlight.
The games began.
Wyatt Callow died instantly within the bloodbath. Saving Louella.
You wanted to bow down and grovel to him for such an act because everyone knew it would be pointless to save her. She was going to die. She was thirteen years old and the only fighting experience she had was with her siblings.
Haymitch ran. He ran faster than anyone else like he had a plan in mind and he darted off into the forest.
Very little of him would be shown during the length of the games in spite of how long he survived. The people controlling the footage for twelve had more of a liking to Maysilee Donner or Louella. That was until either of them found him and then the clips would be shown sparingly as they took to showing more clips of different tributes from other districts.
“Is that normal,” you asked Willimae, “for them to not show us our tributes so much?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s not.”
Something wasn’t right. Something was very wrong and you had no idea nor could you do anything about it.
You were wrong about not crying when Louella died.
Sid called out for you as you ran out of the house. His ma held him back.
You hadn’t eaten much during your time at the Abernathy home so it wasn’t a very big pile of vomit which ended up on the ground. It also didn’t matter how much your body heaved, nothing else came out.
Three doors down, you heard similar sounds of anguish. Ima McCoy similarly stood at the back of her home. Her head was tilted up as cries of despair left her. It fell down as she was choked on her tears.
Her skin was blotchy with the different colors it had turned. Her eyes were red rimmed. Her face was puffy from irritation.
You had no doubt you were in any better of a state.
Without really knowing why, you walked forward. You walked towards her. You knew the McCoy family vaguely, in the way you know any friend’s relatives.
Louella much preferred to come to your house than for you to join her at hers. Her plethora of siblings made it a very chaotic time whereas you only had one sibling and a cousin who popped in from time to time.
And now you were thinking of Lenore Dove. Hopefully they’d let her out already and if not, maybe soon. It wouldn’t be the first time that she’d been taken to jail and likely wouldn’t be the last with her fiery spirit.
Either way, you knew Louella’s siblings enough to tell them apart and not really much more. Maybe there was a quirk or two you’d learned from stories she told you or quick passes of time you’d spent with each of them.
It didn’t mean you had any real reason to go over to Ima.
It took your boots coming directly into her line of sight for her to realize you were there. Her eyes turned to you.
You didn’t hesitate to hug her. Her hands gripped you like a lifeline but neither one of you could support the other enough and you collapsed onto the dirt together.
Maysilee Donner had her vocal cords ripped out by pink birds in an act so vile even though you had disdain for the girl through the fact your cousin disliked her, you couldn’t help the rolling within your stomach.
That just left Haymitch from District Twelve.
The last night no one slept. Not really. Sid dozed a couple times purely because of the exhaustion which came with the constant worry.
He had a chance.
Haymitch had the chance to get out of the games.
A little girl from District Six and a career were all that was left besides him.
You didn’t know that the girl’s name was Wellie and in her dove colored outfit and mild mannered way, she reminded Haymitch of you. When you were younger and Louella McCoy’s shadow, Lenore Dove’s little helper, and Burdock Everdeen’s secretly snarky sibling.
All you knew was he was taking such a big risk sleeping next to her.
In the morning, her head was gone.
Not from Haymitch. No, it would have never been from Haymitch, but from the career girl which was left.
Willimae’s grip on your hand was so tight several hours later, you would find bruises on them. Her other hand was wrapped around Sid’s head and it covered his eyes.
It wasn’t an even match. Haymitch was strong but he was not a fighter. For the most part though, he seemed to be fairing well. Hope was not lost.
The career came down for his head but he managed to block it and give a swift slice to her leg in retaliation. It seems to anger her further as her strikes become more ferocious.
Axe heads clipped against one another in brutal motions, coming back more bloodied with each swing.
Her axe got caught within a tree as he dodged her. He cut at her hip. She hit his thigh. He bashed her face so hard with the butt of the handle that several of her teeth went flying.
Why the handle? Why not the blade?
She wields the axe above her head, doing several looping patterns. Mentally you scream at him to strike now, while she’s vulnerable! Do that and come home! Just come home, Haymitch!
He doesn’t.
She disarmed him and gutted him in a singular move. His hands moved to his wound. Her hands moved to lock his head between her arms.
For a moment, there was a sinking feeling that settled inside you. He lost. He was going to die. You were watching your friend die in front of your eyes again and there was absolutely nothing you could do about it.
Then his eyes shot open and he grabbed a knife from his belt. He dug it into his shoulder. The career girl shrieked as she released him.
And Haymitch had always been one of the fastest runners in District Twelve. Only ever outran by Woodbine Chance. Even now, even injured and holding his insides outside of his body, he ran fast.
He ran to a burnt hedge maze. Only there did he turn to face his pursuer. Her eye gone, mangled and dripping with deep red blood. She seethed at him through gritted teeth.
There was no hesitation in her movements as she threw her axe. It missed though. Haymitch fell to the ground as adrenalin began to wear off and shock began to settle in.
Willimae’s hand tightened on yours even when you thought it no longer could.
The axe flew back and hit her in the face. A canon went off moments later but Haymitch was still moving in the camera frame.
“Did he win?” Sid asked, throwing his ma’s hand off his eyes at the sound of a canon.
And yes, Haymitch was still alive but his family wouldn’t be for much longer.
The first thing you did was run to the jail. There was a blind spot by the windows that would allow for people to talk without being caught.
“Lenore Dove!” you called out in a whispered shout. She responded with an ask of your name. “He’s coming home. Haymitch is coming home.”
There was nothing and then her face was pressed up against the window that really should be far too tall for her to get to. “He is?” she asked.
“He’s coming home,” you repeated to her with tears welling up in your eyes.
This was supposed to be a victory and yet all you felt was a wrenching sadness.
It didn’t feel right to leave the Abernathy house until Haymitch was back so you stayed. The district was still quiet. Even with this so called win, there was no celebration.
Three children were dead, four including Woodbine Chance. You knew in your heart that there would be people who would look at Haymitch now and only see this horrific year.
You brought food for Willimae and Sid. Both were in far better moods now, though they weren’t exactly what one would call happy.
You slept in the living room once more. Now that Haymitch was guaranteed to come back, it seemed Sid no longer thought his room was too quiet and needed company in the night.
It was late in the night or perhaps really early in the morning you woke up the sounds of something outside. For the rest of your life, you would berate yourself for not waking Sid and Willimae but really, you had just thought it may be some raccoon or opossum going through bins outside.
Then you cracked open the door and went around back to look. You saw someone. You had no idea who. They wore completely black clothing and covered their face.
The fact that you could walk by this person every day and never know would haunt you.
Clearly they weren’t expecting you as they startled for a moment. Then they did something no person did in District Twelve without extreme precaution, lit a match. It was tossed towards the house.
With that they were gone.
Flamed engulfed the borders of the home instantly. Not a single exit was left without flames.
You screamed and yelled for help as you tried for the pumps. Once people realized what was happening, they all rushed to help. But no matter how much water was doused on the fire, there was no stopping it. It roared on.
Willimae and Sid screamed alongside you. Their voices etched in your mind. They screamed for you and that was something you would never forget.
Haymitch came into view when the screaming stopped. You’d been sat on a stump, covered in soot and ash, told not to go anywhere. But you couldn’t not move when you saw him.
He looked so out of place in such a nice suit and squeaky, smoothed sole shoes. But he was Haymitch.
“Let me up!” he yelled from the ground as he was pinned with one person holding every limb and your brother sitting on his chest. “Let me loose, you—“
Burdock’s hand clamped over his mouth as you drew closer. “It’s too late, Haymitch. We tried. It’s too late.”
It wasn’t a moment later that Burdock jerked his hand back, shaking it in pain.
“Ma! Sid! Maaaa!” Haymitch continued to bellow as his voice cracked.
“We’re so sorry, Haymitch,” Burdock and Haymitch’s shared friend named Blair said. “We tried. You know we did. We just couldn’t save them.”
“No! Let me go!” His struggle went on even as his strength failed him. “Let me go with them. Please!”
And you’d thought you’d cried as much as you could bear to. It felt like your body had no more tears left within it. But as Haymitch vocalized the exact same feeling you felt, you were proven wrong.
It was second nature, muscle memory, to push Burdock off of Haymitch. You replaced him on top of your friend.
“I’m sorry, Haymitch,” your voice broke as tears spilled from your eyes. “I should’ve woken them up. This is my fault.”
And Haymitch, whose ability to struggle had begun to fade, looked up at you.
The words of one of the Chance girls he’d gotten ahold of when he saw the fire rang through his head.
You’d been the one to see the fire first. You were the one who knew they were still in there. Out of everyone surrounding him, you had so much soot on your face that even where there were obvious tear stains, there was no clean skin visible. You also looked like you’d lost weight and if there was one thing he knew about Barb Azure was even through all this, she’d make sure you were taking care of yourself but. . . His own ma might not if she was so worried sick she could barely manage her own.
It clicked with your words, you’d been staying with his family.
Fight returned to him once more as he struggled against the hold on him but with renewed vigor, this time he managed to be free.
His arms wrapped so tightly around you, you could barely breathe but you held onto him with just as much force.
“Can you help them?” Burdock’s voice asked over the two of you.
Five graves were dug into the ground for six people. Jethro Callow; lost to his own pride. Willamae and Sid Abernathy; lost to a fire but not one another. Maysilee Donner and Wyatt Callow; lost in the games. Louella McCoy; lost to something you didn't know.
As the dirt settled, Burdock looked at two of the faces of people he loved. Both empty and numb.
He grabbed your hand and squeezed it, prompting you to look at him. He held your gaze for a moment before he looked back at the graves.
“You're headed for heaven,
The sweet old hereafter,
And I've got one foot in the door.
But before I can fly up,
I've loose ends to tie up,
Right here in
The old therebefore”
You joined his singing with a voice more cracked than his.
After the funeral, you go to get Haymitch different clothes. You weren’t asked but you were itching, needing to be useful.
He wasn’t with the McCoys anymore which you expected. They had questions and frankly so did you but you doubted he wanted to answer them.
That left really one place for him. Victor’s Village.
Burdock was opening the door as you went for the handle. “I guess I won’t be getting clothes then,” he said.
He patted your shoulder as he left.
You didn’t know Blair anymore than you knew the McCoys. He was a newer addition to Haymitch and Burdock’s inner circle, even if he’d been there for years. He hadn’t been there since some do your earliest memories.
You gave him an awkward half attempt at a half smile. You handed the clothes to Haymitch who quickly went to change.
“It’s my fault,” you told him. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “it’s mine.”
He hesitated for a moment before he grabbed your hand. His fingers went to wrap around the river stone token necklace you still hadn’t taken off yet.
For some unknown reason to you, he bowed his head, “I’m sorry.”
The next day Lenore Dove was dead too and you felt like you may as well be.
Haymitch started to retreat to himself. He stopped answering the door. He said to your face and others to go and leave him be. He threw things, hard things, rocks that hit Asterid.
You left him alone. . . when he was cognizant. You would come in when he wasn’t and stock his food pile with money he didn’t keep well hidden. You noticed the growing bottles of sleep medication.
Then one day, while selling your bounty, you saw him in the hob. He was. . . buying liquor.
Things got worse from there.
Some days you didn’t want to see him ever again. If you didn’t see him, you wouldn’t have to acknowledge everything that had happened and everything which had changed. If you never saw him, you could still be a kid with Louella, running around as he teased the two of you with your own special nicknames.
He didn’t call you anything but your name anymore.
Other days, you would sit with him as you penciled in school work, ignoring his ramblings on about how you needed to leave.
There were many times you argued, fewer times when you agreed. But mostly there was just silence, if one excluded the sound of the Capitol News which he had ever playing in the background.
People started to come to you on the occasion he wandered into town and couldn’t wander back to his house or worse, he started some kind of fight.
Mostly he’d end up slumped somewhere rambling about nothing.
“Come on, Haymitch,” you said as you grabbed his hand. “Get up!”
Those same people would ask you why you never gave up on Haymitch Abernathy and the answers you have never satisfied.
You'd known him all your life. Everyone knew everyone.
You were his friend. Well, he certainly wasn't yours. Not anymore. He was no one's friend but his bottle's.
You were one of the few who knew. You couldn’t say that one though.
You didn't know all of it, not even most of it, but you knew. You knew he was never supposed to be in those games. You knew that Louella McCoy, his sweetheart, was not who entered that arena. Whether her body was alive didn't matter.
You knew that Willamae and Sid were scheduled to die when he would see it. You knew Lenore Dove did not sick.
You knew every year he was forced to relive it all by being dragged up to the capital.
You loved Haymitch Abernathy and you always had. In what ways, it never mattered. You couldn't imagine you in which you stopped loving Haymitch Abernathy.
You kicked him regardless.
"Get up! I will drag you if I have to! Don't think I won’t do it!”
Sad thing: I still care about the genshin characters, they just added unnecessary stuff to the game which caused it to lag too much and I couldn’t keep playing.
Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Everdeen!reader, Implied BIPOC!reader
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
Whatever you and Haymitch are hiding, whatever your obsession with heading north, Maysilee is sick of blindly following behind. It was fine back in the apartments, during training, when she had Wyatt to combat the exclusion and to help her make fun of your oblivious pining. It was fine before Haymitch showed up, when you were moping and high-strung, because you weren’t excluding her. Entirely, that is. It was fine yesterday, having to deal with the full-blown, lovey-dovey flirtation, which is admittedly much worse than the pining. But at least it meant you two finally got your heads out of your asses. Even if said heads have mused together to form a single brain.
Now, as she trails a foot behind, watching you and Haymitch brush fingers and clonk arms together in some secretive, moralistic language, it is not fine. Not at all.
It’s only been a mile, maybe close to two, and neither of you have said a word out loud. Neither of you have bothered to give Maysilee any reasonable explanation as to why you want to test your luck with the hedge again. For all that you’re pretending not to notice, Maysilee recognizes the path you’re taking. The Gamemakers’ message couldn’t have been any clearer: stay out.
And yet, out of complete carelessness or absolute arrogance, you’ve chosen to ignore that message. Despite claiming otherwise after the colossal failure that was your first attempt. And despite the fact that five more Newcomers are dead. Only one remains outside the three of you. Maybe the odds swing in your favor, numbers wise. Maysilee has a feeling that even so, it’ll be a close fight against snot-faced Silka and fish-breath Maritte. If they find Wellie first…she has no chance.
As skewed as your priorities are, you aren’t careless or arrogant, and neither is Haymitch. Your nature is to care, to do good by people, most often at your own expense. It’s as concerning a quality as it is annoying. It’s also how she knows you want to find Wellie, and you have a reason for putting it off. Maysilee figures you do, the same way she knew you didn’t let Ampert leave without compromising the core of who you are.
Yet.
Up ahead, four feet away instead of one now, Haymitch turns his head sideways to steal what he probably thinks is a subtle glimpse of you. Maysilee sees it, but you feel it. You glance up at him, reflecting the same nauseating devotion in his eyes. Not mirror images, but a package deal all the same.
Maysilee bites back a scoff. She’s once again the stale marshmallow they jack up for promotional value. If she stopped following, it’d probably take you another mile to notice.
“I’m changing my vote.”
Like puppets on the same tangled string, you both come to an exact halt. You turn your full body, so of course, Haymitch does the same. You have the decency not to subject her to further disgust and put some distance away from him.
“What?” he asks, either playing deaf or dense.
“You heard me,” says Maysilee, crossing her arms. “Wellie isn’t up here.”
You mimic her stance. “We don’t know that yet.”
“The arena narrows to a point up north, right? Like it did in the south?”
“Not right away.”
“But it does.” Maysilee props a hand on her hip. Wouldn’t Wellie just feel trapped?”
“Or safe,” you counter, pointing a finger absentmindedly. “No one would be able to sneak up on her.”
“But she wouldn’t be able to escape, either,” she says.
“The Careers wouldn’t think to look around here,” cuts in Haymitch. “It’s like you said, it’d be too narrow a space for ’em.”
She narrows her eyes. “You’re wrong. Wellie would stand a much better chance in the meadow than she would up here. Little thing like her, she could disappear into that grass. It goes on for miles. Lay low and look for food at the Cornucopia. They’d never find her. Even if she did come to the woods, she’s too smart to risk getting herself penned in like that.” She takes a pointed step in your direction. “And you know that.”
You press your lips into a line, regarding her blankly. You aim for neutral, but it’s always clear when she’s struck a chord with you. Your eyes get twitchy and your fingers spasm like you’re itching to throw something at her. It’s your tell. And the feeling’s mutual. “I think it’s best we rule out the north first.”
“Why?” she demands, clamping down her scoff when you look at Haymitch.
Another not-so-covert meeting of eyes occurs between you. Haymitch receives your illicit message with care before he answers on your behalf. “The hedge. It’s worth another look.”
Bingo. “Ugh.” Maysilee shudders. “Even if I had a quart of blood to spare, why on earth would we do that?”
“Because the arena has to end somewhere, right? It can’t go on forever.”
“What do you expect to find? Because it sure won’t be Wellie.”
You twist one of the charms around your neck. The wooden butterfly, Maysilee’s favorite. She wonders if you remember her saying so. You probably do. “Maybe, maybe not. We can still find a way to use the maze to our benefit.”
“How?” she questions.
“Make it into a trap for the Careers,” suggests Haymitch. “Lure them in, drop a tarp of ladybugs on them, get them lost in there. If we play our cards right, it could help us.”
He lifts his brows, like he’s trying to urge her to heed your request. You don’t bother making an attempt to clue her in through a gesture. Maysilee shakes her head. “That’s not good enough. So unless you can give me one real reason why I should agree, I’m not convinced.”
She waits, gives you the space and time to say anything of real substance. Because this pursuit of yours has to be credited to something important, on the same level or greater than Lenore Dove’s paint jobs. Maybe she wouldn’t believe it, maybe you wouldn’t, but Maysilee would never rat her out. She knows what would happen to Lenore Dove if she did. Plus, she likes having the ability to make her squirm. As much as Lenore Dove hates her, as much as she can’t stand her in turn, they’re equal in that way.
Maysilee doesn’t want to hold anything over your head now; she only wants to matter in equal measure.
She watches the two of you closely, rolls her eyes at the way you drift together like magnets, again, and a thought clicks into place. Haymitch broke his alliance with the Newcomers for safety reasons, so he claimed. True that may be, but so is the fact that his score hasn’t changed, and neither has his lack of popularity with the Gamemakers. Presumably, he’s still a threat—still a mutt-magnet, as he put it—but here he is.
If he were really concerned about the danger of his proximity, he’d tear out the limb that prevented him from leaving you, all in the name of keeping you safe. Instead, he’s by your side, and you’re by his, and Maysilee is on the very outs you cursed Haymitch for pushing you to.
She huffs, glaring daggers at you in the hopes of drawing out your own. “You’re such a hypocrite.”
You keep steady and unflinching. Not for the first time, nor the last, Maysilee longs for the days before the arena. When Wyatt was here to keep her balanced, when the four of you were a real team, when it was easy to get a reaction out of you. To get you to care. “Maysilee—”
“I’m changing my vote,” she repeats, louder. She shifts her feet. The only thing that keeps her from walking off is your voice.
“Then we’re at a standstill,” you say, motioning to Haymitch. “We haven’t voted yes to heading into the meadow.”
Maysilee glowers at you. “Maybe it’s best we break off now then. There’s only six of us left anyway.”
“Oh, come on, Maysilee,” Haymitch scoffs out. She doesn’t acknowledge him—this isn’t between them right now.
You stare at her with what you intend to be an unreadable expression, but hidden as the meaning may be, she sees what you feel. You take a breath. “We’re not splitting up. We’ll try the meadow.”
“But going north is—” Haymitch’s breath sputters when you glance his way, without demands or coded pleas. Just the way you always look at him, like you want to fold him into your heart. Ew. “—not the plan now.”
So much for no coercion. Then again, since when do you have to try very hard to get people—most of all, Haymitch—to do your bidding. A one-note whistle, and there go the dogs to your feet. Maysilee lifts a shoulder. “Okay then.”
You acknowledge her with a bored blink of your eyes.
Haymitch gestures for her to go on. “Lead the way, ladybug.”
She shoots you one more glare before turning on her heels. You and Haymitch are the ones falling behind in steps now, murmuring to each other under your breaths before going completely silent.
When your giggle cuts through the few minutes of peace and quiet, Maysilee feels her jaw wind up like the handle of her grandmother’s old music box. She looks over her shoulder. “Keep up, will you?”
You pretend to salute her. Haymitch gives a curt nod. “Yes ma’am.”
Maysilee takes a deep breath, crunching a pile of twigs and dried leaves beneath her feet. Her skin absorbs the sun’s heat, arms turning red and glistening with sweat. Whatever marks remain from the ladybugs’ attack begin to sting in response. It’s much hotter today, air turned up to a degree above sweltering, or maybe Maysilee’s stamina is simply beginning to wane.
The hike into the woods didn’t seem this long when she was searching for you in the aftereffects of the volcano. She’d been running on fumes, same as now, but things were different three days ago. Her morale was different; shot but still there, still confident that she had people counting on her. She can search high and low for it all she wants—she’s not getting that back.
Following nearly the same path she used then, Maysilee recognizes the shaded trees dangling pinecones above your heads. You’re a few miles from the tree line, but once there, it’s a one step walk into the meadow.
Her stomach begins to vibrate, soft and low, before crescendoing into a louder roar. She clutches it, hoping to soothe the grumbling.
You chime directly behind her, “Lunch time?”
Maysilee has half a mind to give you a taste of your own hard-headed medicine and refuse the offer. But then her stomach clenches painfully, as if trying to consume itself in order to placate the hunger. How have you and Haymitch and anyone dealt with this? It didn’t seem possible.
Sure, back home, she’s noticed the bodies made up of all bones and no meat. She’s seen the faces of despair that linger longer than the soot trails they leave behind. She’s picked up on the way the smallest ones like Wellie can barely hold their own heads up. She isn’t blind, nor numb, to the stirring that goes on in her chest when she really considers it. But before now, she had other things to be angry about. Her old concerns are all so trivial by comparison.
Maysilee stops when you reach a small clearing. “This is as good a place as any for lunch. What do we have?”
You and Haymitch settle down on the floor with her. One by one, you lay out what’s left of your food supply.
She reaches for three of the bread rolls and slices them in half. The fourth she knows to save for Wellie before you even say so. There’s just enough nut butter to spread on both sides of each roll, cushioning some slices of banana between them. Wrapping them in individual handkerchiefs, she hands one to each of you.
Haymitch takes a bite and his eyes go wide. “This is prime.”
“Mhm,” you agree through your mouthful.
She shrugs. “Well, I am responsible for the more innovative flavor combinations at our shop. Did you ever try our hot pepper cherry taffy?”
“I did!” Haymitch livens, nudging your elbow with his. You beam his way in response. “That was Mamaw’s favorite!”
Maysilee retrieves her knife and fork to cut off a piece of her roll. “That was mine. Also, the cream cheese cinnamon balls and the lavender suckers. The mayor was partial to those.”
You nod. “He keeps an entire bowl of ’em in each hallway.”
Does he? She’s only been inside the mayor’s house a handful of times, and there are much nicer things there to take note of than bowls of candy. The longest visit being on his most recent birthday. Her family received an invitation to the celebration on account of her father’s budding relations with him. It was a night when you joined the rest of the Covey, the only three who did perform live. With Lenore Dove on the corner piano, Tam Amber with his mandolin on one side, Clerk Carmine polishing his fiddle on the other, you and your guitar took center stage.
You performed most of the songs instrumental, save for the birthday song. The crowd, made up of no more than a couple dozen people, some of whom had even been dancing to your tunes, took up the task of filling in the lines. Afterwards, when the cake and piles of dessert were brought out, you seemed about done.
Lenore Dove stayed seated on the piano bench, frozen like if she concentrated real hard she might magically poof off stage. Funny how someone capable of such daring protests could succumb to such stage fright. Tam Amber and Clerk Carmine seemed more equipped for the act of performing, be it due to years of practice or natural comfortability. Even so, there was something that stopped them from enjoying themselves.
Nothing stopped you—you were having fun. The stage lit you up as much as you did it. All the Covey were born with music in their blood. That’s Maysilee’s guess, anyway. But you took to the performance like it was a sixth sense. Why didn’t you do it more often?
The answer didn’t matter much to Maysilee then. She only noticed because she was watching you the whole night, and she’d only been watching because there was nothing better to do. She and Merrilee were given direct orders not to do anything. Sit there and look pretty, their mother all but said aloud. They wanted to make sure they were invited back next year. The mayor had a son around their age, after all.
Before any one of you could walk off, the mayor’s wife scurried to the foot of the stage, beckoning for you to crouch down. When you stood back up, you mouthed something to Clerk Carmine, who passed the message along to Lenore Dove while you asked a silent request of Tam Amber.
The opening notes of your guitar started soft, accompanied by the harmony of a hum. A slow song for a slow dance. Her mother was so happy when Merrilee was asked to dance by the mayor’s son that she agreed to sully her new shoes on the tile floorboards with her father. The two pairs were joined by others in a matter of seconds.
Maysilee sunk back into her seat, uncaring of her posture without her mother around to remind her. She just wanted to get the night over with. She closed her eyes and listened to the rhythm of your instruments, expecting no more than them. Then you opened your mouth, and the words glided right out.
You come home late,
Fall on your cot,
You smell like something that money bought.
Maysilee’s eyes snapped open, zeroing-in on you and the song you were playing. She carried on unmoving while bodies swayed around her table through two more verses. Your eyes fluttered shut, grounding yourself in the song, not lost in it like she was.
The moon don’t wane and wax for you,
You think so, but you’re wrong,
You cause me pain, you make me blue,
I’ll sell you for a song.
You drew out the notes, rounding and smoothing them out, vocalizing when there were no actual words left to sing. More haunting than the message of the song itself.
Before then, before that last night on the mountainside, she only heard you sing in full—not in snippets or muffled filters—once. At her grandmother’s funeral. With a melody most could only conceive in dreams, you and Burdock filled the gaping absence her grandmother left behind. No doubt, you both could do a load of damage with your talent if you chose to. Maysilee was surprised her mother, a stickler for by-the-book thinking, always preoccupied with how things appeared than with how they were, allowed it without complaint. She must’ve been truly overcome with grief. Or maybe she knew not to overlook the rarity of your gift.
“I liked the cinnamon balls,” you continue, perking up, drawing Maysilee back to the present. “They’re my favorite after—”
“The maple creams,” she and Haymitch finish at the same time. Maysilee purses her lips; Haymitch narrows his eyes. They’ve been spending way too much time around each other.
You snicker a little. “Yup.”
Haymitch clears his throat and addresses Maysilee. “Sounds like the job wasn’t all bad.”
He has no idea of her mother’s expectations, grueling in spite of their shallow nature, poorly masked by her sweetness. No idea of the walls that close in on her, or the way her pulse pushes against her skin and stretches the tissue taut whenever they do. No idea how lucky the two of you are to be as free as you can in this world. Free enough to feel like yourselves.
She sighs. “Ironic is what it was. I don’t even care much for candy. So many more interesting things to make. When you’re not stuck behind a counter, that is.”
She focuses on the roll before her. The real irony is that in trading one cell for another, Maysilee has found something akin to freedom. She wondered sometimes, when you and Burdock would come into the shop to trade or sell something, what it was like out in the woods. Out there, would she have found a life of no expectations, no confines, no hiding behind a half-baked identity? She’ll have to be satisfied with only a taste.
You hum thoughtfully. Maysilee glances up at you in time to catch the curious way you tilt your head, like you see straight down to her soul. She hates that ability of yours. Hates even more that, despite her efforts, she is not invulnerable to the exposure. You tear off a piece of your sandwich and say, “A cage is no place for a bird.”
Maysilee frowns, accustomed to the snides you and Lenore Dove have made in passing about her canary. If that’s the hill you want to die on now, your priorities are more than just skewered, they’re pathetic. “I’ll have you know Lou Lou is very well loved.”
You grin. “I wasn’t talking about the canary. Though now that you mention it…” You pop the torn piece into your mouth.
Her throat tightens, the vulnerability curdling inside her, which she tries to ease by cutting another bit of the roll and shoving it into her mouth. Less gracefully than she otherwise would’ve liked. One thing she and her mother can agree on: appearances can make a world of difference.
You and Haymitch have wolfed down your sandwiches in just over a minute. He helps you pack the remaining food. Not that there’s a whole lot to haul off.
“Looks like we’re having sardines and potatoes for dinner,” he comments.
Maysilee regards you casually, though her words escape with grit as she says, “You two could always make out again. Maybe get us another sponsor gift.”
Haymitch frowns, but he isn’t off-put by her quip. The real kick-to-the-gut is your reaction. Scrunched nose and wary eyes, like she’s just spat on an exposed nerve, and she doesn’t understand why you’re looking at her like that when this isn’t the first comment she’s made along the same lines. And it isn’t the first time the Games have featured something like this anyway.
A few years back, there was a boy from Four and a girl from Eight who flirted shamelessly the entirety of their alliance. The boy, Kai, ditched the Careers and went rogue with her. They broke it off when it got down to seven, and in a cruel twist of fate, they wound up being the last two left. All affections were gone; in their place was a desperation to go home. Maysilee can still picture that final shot of them on their knees, both bloodied and wounded and too exhausted to charge at each other further. With a foot of space between them, the girl leaned forward and kissed him. Even distracted, Kai beat her to the final stab.
The Capitol had a field day with the replay footage; Maysilee’s mother had a field day acting appalled. Most everyone in town was completely scandalized by their lack of decorum. Horrified by a kiss, not the circumstances that led a boy to kill a girl he liked. Penny was her name. Maysilee remembers it now.
What must they be saying about you and Haymitch? The Capitol must be foaming at the mouth, and her side of Twelve must be beside themselves with the scandal. Maysilee can applaud your impact at least—you’re sure to have caused a stir. But you can’t possibly be upset about being judged by those back home. People’s opinions are of little consequence to you. What you really care about is how you’re perceived. There’s a difference, and Maysilee knows it well. They can think all they want of you, so long as they see you. So long as their perceptions don’t muddle who you really are and what you really feel.
Oh.
She waits for you to snap at her, expects it, wants it. Instead, you break your stare. Turning to Haymitch, you muse, “It couldn’t hurt. What do you think, peach? Wanna give it a go now?”
Haymitch shrugs, grinning. “If you think it’d help, sunshine.”
“I was kidding,” Maysilee says in offering to you, half-disgusted and half-apologetic. She sticks her fork through the remaining bread.
You give her a pointed look as she chews on her last piece. “Hm.”
Haymitch ducks his head close to your ear. Your hair hides half of his face, but not the lilt in his voice as he murmurs, “I wasn’t.”
She nearly gags on her bite. You laugh, and Haymitch breaks off into his own alongside you. Rolling her eyes, she cleans her utensils with a handkerchief. “Oh, I get the point.”
Maysilee leads again after lunch; this time, the three of you walk in sync through a crop of tiger lily bushes. By her estimate, it’s past noon, and there’s still a good distance of woods to cover. But it only takes another half-mile before she sees the tree line fading into view far ahead.
It’s relieving enough to know there will still be plenty of daylight to find Wellie. So relieving, in fact, that Maysilee doesn’t so much as flinch when you reach a thick stream of mud where a clearing once stood. It stretches out from east to west, endless as far as the eye can see, having toppled a number of trees in its path.
“There must’ve been a mudslide,” you observe. “Between the volcano and the rain, we’re just lucky to have missed it.”
Maysilee lifts a brow. “Lucky thing dealing with those ladybugs instead, huh?”
You click your teeth. “Very.”
Haymitch touches the muddy shoreline with the tip of his boot. “No way around it. Unless we head back north?”
“Nice try,” she huffs out and points to the fallen trees forming a zigzag across the mud. “We’ll get across faster on those.”
The closest trunk is about five feet away—an impossible jump with an easy solution. Haymitch cuts down a nearby branch, a narrow thing, but it trims the amount you’d have to jump to a mere hop.
Maysilee is surprised you’re still allowing her to take charge. She walks across the trunk with the same practiced delicacy she would use clicking in heels back home. Filed into a single line, you and Haymitch follow behind. She traces the ragged lines of the trees, some of them distinct in pattern and texture, but she has no way of telling the difference in their type.
You’re halfway through the clearing, balancing on one of the shorter trunks when you ask, “Did y’all feel that?”
Maysilee drags a foot across a branch to her right. The mysterious sensation doesn’t come for her. “Not a thing.”
“Me neither,” says Haymitch. “What was it?”
“Felt like an earthquake coming,” you say, and Maysilee can hear the frown, can sense the memory of the volcano sneaking up her own spine like the threat of paralysis.
The trunk shakes beneath her feet, a soft rumble that feels attributable to the wind. Or to her mind playing tricks on her. Maysilee stops abruptly. “I felt it now.”
She looks at you, finds you stiff and tight-fisted around your bow, and waits for another tremble.
“I hear something.” Haymitch shifts his body in the direction of the noise. “It sounds like—” His left foot slips, and he tumbles off the trunk.
Haymitch falling into a vat of mud would be typical under different circumstances. Comical, even. If he weren’t slipping right through the surface like he was being dragged under by an invisible pressure.
“Haymitch!” you cry out, catching his wrist before it sinks down with the rest of him. Maysilee rushes to grab onto your waist and nearly skids over the trunk herself when you fall onto your stomach, dangling above the mud. But you don’t loosen your grip on Haymitch for a second, so she doesn’t let go of you either. The pressure anchors him below the mud, threatening to tug you into the abyss with him even as you pull with all the strength you have.
No cannon signifies that Haymitch has succumbed to suffocation. That doesn’t stop your panicked, watery hiccups, spurring on Maysilee’s anxious tremor. She wraps her arms around you and pulls harder.
When his head bobs back up, you sputter out a breath of relief. He coughs up spittles of mud and saliva and probably stray twigs too. The lower half of his body is still stuck, but he reaches for the trunk with his free hand, taking some of the weight from you and Maysilee. Between your combined efforts, he manages to lift one leg out of the mud.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the runts.”
Maysilee’s grip on you falters for a second. She seethes in the direction of Silka and Maritte, on the opposite end of the clearing. Little Miss Snot Face hauls herself onto the trunk closest to her end. Silka swings her axe with a determined vengeance. Maritte’s trident twinkles under the sunlight beside her.
“Maysilee, go,” you choke out through the exertion of maintaining Haymitch above the surface. She only tightens her arms around your waist. “Go.”
Through his mud-stained eyes, throat still clogged, Haymitch urges her similarly. To run, to take you with her kicking and screaming if she has to. Which she would, to ever get you to leave him.
Maysilee lets you go with a scoff and whips out a dart from her pack. Graceless as ever, Silka and Maritte stumble over the trunks, slowing what they probably hoped to be a quick kill. Loading up her blowgun, she pouts at their pitiful efforts. “Is that really the best you can do, Silka?”
Silka sneers, an ugly sight to behold, and kicks off into a sprint across the trunk. She slips into the mud when the rumbling from before returns with greater fervor. Coming from the east, a large lump of mass slinks through the mud with a single destination in mind. Quick and determined, leaving no time for Maysilee to steady herself for the impact. Between one of the gaps in the fallen trees, a head pokes out, pink and clammy and eyeless, upturning the world beneath her, too.
She lands on a solid patch, not a splotch of hidden quickmud. Her fingers twitch as she pushes upward, whipping around in the direction of your yelp. You’ve landed on the opposite end of the trunk, a distance away from Haymitch, who’s only barely managed to hold onto a branch. She tries to run towards you, thrown off course when the worm slithers directly under her and catapults her into the air.
Maysilee takes the blunt of the impact to her nose. Bark digs into her stomach and scratches up her forearms.
“Maritte!” Silka calls out from somewhere to the left of Maysilee. She lifts her head and pinpoints Silka’s voice, strangled as she sprints with ragged effort. Following behind her like a chemtrail, the worm weaves in and out of the mud.
Huh. Maysilee coughs up a laugh. Only a slimeball could attract another slimeball.
Silka shouts for Maritte again. About two stumps away, on safe, steady ground, Maritte lifts herself up. The trident is back in her grip within the blink of an eye, brilliant and deadly and aimed directly at Maysilee. Sea green eyes flickering from her enemy to her ally, Maritte can’t seem to decide which is more worth her time.
“What are you waiting for?” Silka cries. “Kill her!”
Maritte hesitates, Maysilee reaches for her blowgun, but the only target either of them hits is the worm making a beeline towards Silka. Maritte’s golden trident sticks out of its skull, visible for all of a second before it dips below the mud.
Silka trips over herself, and to Maysilee’s disappointment, doesn’t fall into a sinkhole. “No! Why would you do that? Don’t you want to go home?”
“Still chasing that sad little dream, Silka?” Maysilee sits up on her knees. “I almost feel sorry to kill you now, Maritte. Maybe you should’ve thought twice before hooking up with a Capitol toady.”
Maysilee raises her blowgun anew, and Maritte pulls her knife before spinning around and disappearing into the trees. Silka screams ragefully and runs off for Maritte. To scold her or kill her, who knows? Who cares? She’s distracted, and right in front of Maysilee, and an easy target for a moving one. A shot just about anywhere will do.
Something yanks Maysilee by the arm before she can go in for the kill.
“What the hell?”
Haymitch drags her in the direction of the northern woods. He staggers over the trees, ignores Maysilee’s protests, forces her to keep up even when he almost causes her to trip over a branch.
Slouched on the floor, covered head-to-toe in mud, you force yourself to stand when they land back on your side of the clearing. What the hell? Haymitch reaches for your hand and doesn’t let go of either of you. Running for his life and yours when Maysilee was so close to ending Silka’s.
Around her, pastel berms blur together like tufts of cotton candy. Her lungs burn from anger, exhaustion, both. But Haymitch doesn’t stop, doesn’t release you and Maysilee, until you’ve reached the campsite from last night. She props herself against a tree, digging for her handkerchief. Your feet stutter like you’re about to pass out.
Haymitch wipes the mud from his nose. He steadies you with a hand on your back as you fold over and hack up whatever’s lodged itself in your throat. “What was that about being worse off with the ladybugs?”
Maysilee’s jaw ticks. She swishes the mud in her mouth and spits it out. “At least we didn’t lose a quart of blood this time.”
“No, we were only almost eaten by a giant worm. Much better. Thanks for that, Maysilee.”
“Right.” She kicks a rock from her path. “Because I wanted that to happen.”
He shakes his head, flinging mud across the ground. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry”
“Didn’t you?” She scoffs. “And what was that? We could’ve taken Silka. I could’ve taken her.”
“I was more concerned with getting out of there before another mutt popped up,” defends Haymitch.
“Can we not—”
Maysilee bulldozes over you. “Oh, sure. You know, maybe you should be the victor, Haymitch. It’d give you time to grow a proper backbone.”
“Watch it,” you snipe, standing upright. There’s no doubt you two are equally, nauseatingly protective over each other, but you are so very vicious about it. More than Haymitch is, that’s for sure.
“Now you have something to say?” Maysilee coos. “Is that all you’re good for? Defending your boy?”
Your fingers inch towards your dagger. “You wanna see what else I’m good for, Maysilee? Say the word.”
There you are. Why didn’t she try this method sooner? She grins coolly and fiddles with her blowgun. “You’re all bark. The only thing more pathetic than your threats is the dimwit behind you.”
You seethe, muffling Haymitch’s scoff. “You sure it’s not the one standing in front of me?”
“I’m not the one who’s nearly gotten us killed. Twice.”
“What do you call what just happened?” You throw your hands up in the air. “You walked us into that death trap.”
“I was looking for Wellie.” Maysilee spits out another mixture of saliva and mud. “You know, our ally? Or do you not care about her anymore?”
“We care about finding Wellie,” you say, voice trembling and dropping in pitch.
“You two can’t even come up for air long enough to think about anyone but yourselves.” Her fury is bubbling to the surface now, red and hot and tearing through her veins with a deeper sting than the chemical burns. “I thought we were a team!”
You reel back, eyes still creased around the edges, hand still dangerously close to the handle of your dagger. You drop it at your side.
“No!” Maysilee screeches. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you haven’t been casting me aside again. Don’t take back what you did!”
Haymitch places a hand on your shoulder to pull you back. He mutters your name, but you only shrug him off and take a step closer, steeling yourself again. “I’m not taking back a thing.”
“Good,” she hisses.
“Great.”
“I’m taking all the sardines!”
“Fine by me!” You throw the food bag in front of her feet and stomp off. You only make it two steps before Haymitch stops you.
“Where’re you going?” he asks, concerned.
“I’m checking the snares,” you answer, less sharp than you were a second ago. Your knuckles are paled from how tightly you’re gripping your bow.
Maysilee squats down to rifle through the bag, her movements harsh and uncaring. She doesn’t glance your way as you speak, but she can tell Haymitch is fidgeting nervously by the way you rush to get out, “I’ll be fine on my own. Just stay here. Make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid.”
“Then who’ll stop you from being stupid?”
“Bite me, Maysilee!”
Whatever you whisper to keep Haymitch from following after you, it works against all odds. He sits down a respectable distance away, quiet and huddled in on himself, which only makes her all the more annoyed.
“I don’t need a babysitter, Haymitch,” she lashes out, “so if you want to go with her, by all means, go.”
He holds his hands up in surrender. “Got it.”
Maysilee tears open the can of sardines and slurps one into her mouth. It tastes of olive oil, and a little of mud from her fingers, utensils long forgotten in the heat of betrayal. She chews on the second, trying to stifle Haymitch’s noises. His stomach is racking up a storm, made worse by his incessant foot-tapping.
It’s only been a few minutes. There hasn’t been any screaming or cannons. Maritte and Silka ran off in the opposite direction. So unless the Gamemakers have released more mutts, you should be fine. You should be.
Staring down at the four sardines, Maysilee rolls her shoulders until they relax. She peers at Haymitch, whose head is turned downward in a poor attempt to hide his worry, and slides over the can.
He traces the movements and reaches out instinctively, then stops himself. “You don’t have to.”
“I don’t want to.” She leans back on her hands. “I’d rather make good on my promise.”
His eyes drop down to her pack of darts. “You couldn’t.”
Maysilee stares at him as he takes the can and eats his share. She brings her knees to her chest. “Thanks for that.”
Haymitch covers the remaining sardines, folding the edges of the lid with delicate precision. “She knows you couldn’t, too.”
“Yeah. I know.” His reassurance soothes the burn in her chest. She couldn’t care less about your opinion, but she does care about you. And, dreadfully, about Haymitch. Somehow, someway, you’ve become more than begrudging allies. Much, much more. “It wasn’t right of me to say all that. And I’m sorry for calling you a dimwit. You aren’t.”
“I knew you were just trying to get a rise out of her with that one. Nice going, by the way,” he compliments, hollow and sardonic. Maysilee shrugs. He continues, “You were right about the backbone part, though.”
“No,” she shakes her head, “I wasn’t. You’ve done your part. More than most.”
“I left the Newcomers,” he reminds her.
“For good reason.” She takes a breath. “One I suspect has to do with why you’re being so cagey now.”
And with whatever it was that caused the malfunction back on the mountain. It was him, wasn’t it? Maysilee can’t fathom how he managed that, and sure, she could just as easily credit the Gamemakers’ incompetence. But she doubts, for once, that their idiocy and cowardice is to blame. You’ve both been stirring pots since the reaping, showing up the Capitol with posters of your own making. That hasn’t changed since entering the arena.
Haymitch’s abandonment, Ampert’s departure, the malfunction, your mask of indifference—it’s all connected somehow.
“It is for a poster, isn’t it?” Maysilee shuffles closer. “The hedge?”
Haymitch draws a spiral into the dirt. “Yeah, it is.”
She copies the image, adding lines around it to resemble sunbeams. You aren’t back, but it’s only been a few minutes. No screams, no cannons, no need to worry.
“I meant what I said yesterday,” Maysilee murmurs. The trees rustle with the mid-afternoon breeze. They sway from side-to-side, shaking themselves free of the dead leaves on their branches. “It needs to be one of us. I know where I’m casting my hopes, and I’m betting they’re the same as yours.”
Maysilee doesn’t want to die, but what happens if it’s only the three of you left? Neither you nor Haymitch could finish the job any more than she could. She doesn’t doubt that. Even on the outskirts, she never did. Maybe Haymitch is right about the Gamemakers releasing more mutts. Maybe she really should take off. Or maybe she and Haymitch should come to an agreement now.
He squiggles lines around his own spiral. “How ’bout we stick to all of us staying alive for now?”
Maysilee hugs her knees. “Deal.”
You return empty-handed but with lighter footsteps than you used to leave. “Nothing,” you breathe out, plopping down to the floor. Your eyes land on the sardine can placed in front of you by Haymitch. You don’t pick it up, instead folding your legs into a criss-cross. “I’m sorry.”
Maysilee chews on the inside of her bottom lip. “So am I.”
“We are a team,” you say softly. “It wasn’t fair of us to act otherwise.”
She scrapes the mud under her nails. “Look… If the hedge is really that important to you both, that’s all I need to know for now. You’ll fill me in on the rest later.”
You crack open the lid again, bridging the distance between you in the process. “Okay.”
Five more minutes of recovery, and you declare yourself ready to trudge up to the hedge. You clean yourselves best you can, the mud dried to dirt, before heading off. Like yesterday, the beauty of the hedge’s tranquility is deceptive. Be that as it may, Maysilee finds herself lured closer by a spiderweb on a bush. “Look at the craftsmanship. Best weavers on the planet.”
“No doubt,” you agree.
Haymitch snorts. “Surprised to see you touching that.”
“Oh, I love anything silk.” She rubs the threads between her fingers, reveling in the cooling sensation. “Soft as silk, like my grandmother’s skin.” She finds the locket at her neck and pops it open for you to see the photo. “Here she is, just a year before she died. Isn’t she beautiful?”
“She is,” says Haymitch, and you hum in agreement. “She was a kind lady. Used to sneak me candies.
Maysilee laughs. “She did that with everyone. Even after she got chewed out for it.” She cups the locket, cradles it with the same care her grandmother would use to kiss her temple at night. “No one ever loved me more. I always hoped I’d look like her one day. Never going to see myself grow old, I guess.”
“Maybe.”
“No. Not now.” She runs a finger along her grandmother’s mischievous smile. Strange to look down on it instead of up. “She used to say, if I was afraid, ‘It’s okay, Maysilee, nothing they can take from you was ever worth keeping.’”
Haymitch leans into your side. You bite down on your lip.
Maysilee furrows her brows. “What?”
“That’s from a song,” you answer, wrapping your arms around your torso.
“Is it really?” She smiles, thinking of that voice of yours, how much her grandmother loved her music box, what a treasure she would’ve thought it if she ever got to hear you for herself. “Hm.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Maysilee snaps the locket shut. “Let’s visit your hedge, shall we?”
You drop your arms. “We shall, Miss Donner.”
Haymitch tears off two large branches and lights them aflame for each of you. With the blowtorch from Hull’s pack, he kicks off the bonfire. You and Maysilee aren’t far behind, torches in hand, scorching the ladybugs in your path until the ash of fried insects wafts up your noses. Like a real team, singing that old schoolyard rhyme, the three of you make quick work of burning down the hedge.
A ray of light peaks through the tunnel you’ve carved by the time all threats are extinguished. Maysilee beats out the sparks on her shirt. You run up to join Haymitch on the cliffside.
Maysilee calls out, “So, did we reach the end?”
“Yeah,” says Haymitch, inching closer towards the edge. “This is the end of the road.”
She stops on your other side. At the bottom of a near hundred feet drop, there’s nothing but jagged rocks and a gigantic, purring machine. “That’s all there is to the arena.” Maysilee slinks away from the edge. “Let’s go back.”
You and Haymitch stare at each other, conveying some kind of request, and to her surprise, she isn’t bothered by it this time.
“Not yet,” he says, finally.
The silence stretches longer than the drop. “All right,” Maysilee decides softly. “May as well say goodbye now anyway.”
You swerve around with a scoff. “Goodbye? What was all that earlier then?”
“I don’t want it to come down to us,” she admits, reaching behind her neck to soothe a dried ladybug welt.
You’re unfazed. “Oh, bullshit. We're a team, aren’t we?”
Maysilee should've known that would come back to bite her in the ass. She and Haymitch lock eyes. With your own searing holes into each of them, they give a short nod.
“That settles it then.”
Sure it does. For now.
Haymitch turns back to the horizon. He asks you, “Do you still have that jade?”
You dig into your left pocket and hand over a stone.
Maysilee draws a steady breath. “I’m going to get the potatoes.”
“I’ll go with you,” you offer, and even more surprising than her lack of annoyance with the two of you is Haymitch’s lack of resistance. He only reaches out to run a hand down your arm, and you give him what’s likely meant to be a reassuring squeeze of his hand.
You and Maysilee match each other’s footsteps as you walk back through the hedge. Another set of pinecone trees litter the pathway.
“Do you know what those ones are?” asks Maysilee.
“Alder trees.” You wrinkle your nose. “Weird. They normally grow by streams, but they’re all over here.”
“No weirder than everything else in here.”
“You’re not wrong.”
Maysilee steals a glance at you. “Are there any in Twelve?” In the woods?
“There’re a few down by a spot I know.” You sigh wistfully, like you’re picturing yourself back home right now. “You’d like it there.”
Maysilee imagines what it’d be like to visit that spot of yours, filling in the vagueness of your description with her own desires, and she feels certain you’re right. She scratches the back of her neck, irritated by the growing heat of her skin. It blooms up to her cheekbones, splattering her face with blotches of red, no doubt.
You take notice of her insistent itching. “Do you have any more ointment?”
She shakes her head. The welts on your collarbone are still healing like hers, but they don’t show up as noticeably on you. They don’t seem half as infected either. “Just whatever’s left at the bottom of the barrel.”
“Might be worth scraping up if they’re bothering you that much,” you suggest.
Maysilee shrugs off her pack and hands it over. You motion for her to turn around, which she does with pursed lips. Brushing her hair to the side, you rub what little ointment is left with a gentle glide of your fingers. She holds her breath until you’re done.
“Thanks.” Maysilee spins back around.
You lift a shoulder, close enough to brush hers in the process. “Any time, ladybug.”
She searches your face for any sign of resignation, any indication you’re willing to leave her be and go back to Haymitch without her. She only finds you staring back with the same intensity. Her eyes drop to your collarbone, to the indiscernible ladybug welts, to the butterfly charm and the missing one beside it, now possessed by Haymitch. The bluebird’s been gone since your first days on the mountain, so when on earth did you hand it over? And why? Another blank for you to fill in later.
“My papa made it out of the bark of a maple tree,” you say, picking up on her curiosity and sidestepping it with the offer of another precious detail. What a change from your sealed lips back in the apartment. “Burdock has one, too.”
“Your papa did good,” she compliments earnestly.
“Tam Amber showed him how to carve the details.”
There’s no malice or bite in your tone, no self-righteous offense that normally comes with the mention of Tam Amber. She focuses on the indents in the wings, forming a symmetrical pattern, and reaches out to touch them. She won’t be able to give that mockingjay pin another chance, but maybe someone will put it to good use for her. “He really does have a gift.”
“So do you, Maysilee,” you say offhandedly, and some dark knot inside her chest unfurls. “We should head back. Get Haymitch, then cook up the potatoes for dinner.”
“He isn’t leaving that cliff.”
“Oh, he will,” you say, certain of your influence, and begin to walk off. “We’ll just come again tomorrow. Maybe something will’ve changed by then.”
Maysilee snorts. “The only thing that will have changed between now and then is that Silka’s grooming habits will have worsened.”
You laugh, shoulders shaking with genuine amusement. Maysilee smiles and takes a step towards you. For a moment, there’s only the contentment of your laughter, your care, your friendship and then some.
As content as one can be in this hellhole, she doesn’t even see the flock of bubblegum pink feathers descending upon her.
The first beak swipes across her lower back, and the scream tears through her before she can stop it.
“No!” you cry out and send an arrow through one of the birds biting off a chunk of her arm. “Get away from her!”
Maysilee pulls out her dagger and fights off those in her periphery, trying to protect you as you are her. But you aren’t their target. The pretty pink birds only have eyes for Maysilee. This is her end, and hers only. Amid the pain, she feels a pang of gratitude. It won’t be the three of you in the end, after all.
Another lash to the abdomen. One more to her shoulder. She goes down when one carves out the skin of her ankle, but she doesn’t scream again. She will not give them that satisfaction. She will not let them see her as less than who she is. Appearances are everything, her mother would say.
Don’t worry, Mama. I’m making you proud.
Haymitch slashes through a pair of birds in one go. When did he get here? You resort to your own dagger, fending off those pecking at her face.
Let me go, Papa. I’ll be okay.
You shout for her, desperate and crackling around the vowels of her name. Somehow, that hurts worse than the lashes. Worse than the tear of her throat.
From cradle to grave, Merrilee. Beyond then.
You and Haymitch fall to either side of Maysilee. She sees the anguish on your faces, the tears in your eyes, the totality of her loved ones’ grief.
Be happy, sweet Asterid.
The sun warms her skin instead of burning it. The flickering light blinds her, weakens her, but she rallies one last time. Maysilee finds your pinkie, then Haymitch’s.
Tear down their posters. Set fire to them all.
You interlock your fingers, giving her what is, in fact, a reassuring squeeze. From deep in her imagination, your voice floats into reality.
I'll catch you up,
When I've emptied my cup.
Maysilee sees her grandmother’s smile tucking her into bed.
When I've worn out my friends,
When I've burned out both ends.
Sees Wyatt laughing so hard it catches him off guard.
When I've cried all my tears,
When I've conquered my fears.
Sees Ampert looking to her as a sister; the fallen Newcomers looking to her as a friend. You and Haymitch looking after her until the very end.
Right here, in the old therebefore,
When nothing is left anymore.
Maysilee closes her eyes. As content as one can be.
The cannon ripples through the air; the hovercraft arrives. Be it paralysis or fear, you can’t move. Neither can Haymitch. When he does, it’s to remove the blowgun and a copper flower from her neck. He doesn’t clean her. Neither do you. You won’t take her final poster from her.
Overheard, the hovercraft whirs with a warning sound.
“We have to leave,” he croaks, and you nod. You think you nod. You can’t really tell, having lost all feeling in your body except for your right hand, where Maysilee’s is still interlaced. She’s warm. Too warm for a dead person.
“Sunshine, we need to leave.”
You think you nod again, but you’ve accepted you’re no longer in control of your movements. Maysilee’s warm, dead fingers are limp. Warm, dead, limp. Even so, she lies with her head held high. Just like she wanted. Her consolation prize for never getting to grow old.
The next warning is louder, a honk like that of the birds who took Maysilee. A taunt like that of the jabberjays who haunt you, especially now.
You’re brought back to sensation by a steady pulse in your left hand. Warmer, real, alive. In a voice so gentle and mournful it cuts straight through your bones, Haymitch murmurs against your temple, “I’m sorry, darling.” You try to tell him it’s okay, but it’s not. So you simply let him lift you to your feet by the elbows.
Haymitch holds you upright about ten feet away. He’s scared to let go, knowing that if he does, there’s a real possibility you’ll try to join Maysilee on that hovercraft. There is a very real possibility he will, too.
The guilt is as palpable as the fear. His deathbed promise to Maysilee, one you share as you do all others, is binding. More than any blood oath. Still, the temptation to wither up and die calls to him like the lilt of your song. He’s selfish enough to want you with him if that happens. Selfish enough to ask you to stay while he goes.
He doesn’t. He won’t. You wouldn’t listen anyway, and he can’t leave you now. Once you find Wellie, he’ll have to. So will you. There’s no doubt about that. The hedge was a bust, and so was his hope of tearing up the generator. No more tricks up his sleeves, no more grand plans, no more certainties. All Haymitch really knows is that he cannot survive the loss of you again.
So when you find Wellie, and you will, you’ll have to come to some sort of agreement. Like Maysilee wanted to. She and Haymitch already shared an awareness that a goodness like yours deserved to make it out over them. The same rings true of Wellie. She's plenty smart, too. Smart enough to find her footing as a victor of the people.
Maybe you and Haymitch can go at the same time, staying on even ground like you swore. Maybe you’ll give Haymitch the gift of allowing him to die first.
In the distance, the hovercraft flies off into the setting sun. It’s then you finally speak. “We should save the potatoes for Wellie.”
He nods, having no more appetite than you do. You move out of his arms but don’t try to leave. You only sink down to the floor, and he goes with you. Fiddling with the copper medallion, he holds it out in your direction.
“No,” you murmur, touching the cord around your neck, “you keep it. You’ve got a collection going.”
Haymitch swallows down a lump of tears and wipes the flower clean of Maysilee’s blood. You’re right—the copper flower joins District Nine’s sunflower, Wyatt’s scrip coin, Lenore Dove’s songbird and snake, and your bluebird. Why, he’s almost as decorated as Miss Donner herself.
Her blowgun is loaded with a single dart. Haymitch will have to make do. He attaches it to his belt with a bit of vine and eyes you cautiously, painfully aware of the way you’re curled in on yourself. Your song lingers in the back of his mind. Haymitch slips into the comfort of your voice, the promise of reunion, wanting so badly to believe it possible.
“You think it’s real?” he asks, numb yet hoarse. “A world where they’re all waiting for us.”
“Well,” you say absently, like a piece of you really was taken away on that hovercraft, “this can’t be all there is.”
“It might just be.” His heart clenches painfully, because a piece of him is gone, too.
You tug your knees closer. “I think it’d be real sad if there wasn’t at least one world out there where we end up better than here.” You know it in your bones to be true. What happens after death, where you’ll go, doesn’t frighten you. There’s only one thing that does. “It can’t come down to the two of us, Haymitch.”
He reaches out to interlace your hands. You look at him, and he presses his forehead to yours. “It won’t.”
You want to believe him, you need to, and so you do. You can’t spare any more grief; you can’t lose Haymitch. And you’re certain you won’t. You know what you’ve done, the alarms you’ve signaled, singing that song to Maysilee.
Once upon a time, there was a lost Covey girl with rainbows in her eyes and melodies for smiles. She was torn apart by greed and envy, and pieced back together by a man who concealed he was made up of the same. She came back changed but not misshapen, with the man on her arm and the weight of a thousand on her heart. All was well, for a time. Until the lost Covey girl was led astray once more. Torn apart by the man, as much a mystery as her fate, who packed up by sunrise.
Lost but not forgotten, the Covey girl left behind her rainbow eyes and melodies for all the little birds to pick up in secret. Careful, so very careful, to never let them fall into the clutches of another greedy man.
You’ve surely disappointed her now. And soon enough, you’ll have to face her.
Haymitch will follow you, though you do not want him to. But if you find Wellie, if you manage to keep her alive, you accept that’s what has to happen. You accept you’ll have to let him. Just as he’ll have to let you go first. Because you’re selfish and scared—too selfish and too scared to survive even a second without his steady pulse in your hand. You only hope he’ll forgive you for that.
Your promise to Maysilee won’t go unfulfilled, though. If, when, you find Wellie, she’ll take up the task of a longshot, problem victor just fine. You’re sure of it.
You need to believe that. So you do.
A parachute floats down, and you hope it’s not another feast. Hungry as you are, you won’t be able to keep anything down right now. Haymitch opens the attached basket, revealing two containers. A basin of strawberry ice cream and a lidded mug of black coffee. He lets you have the first sip, and you take it with a murmured thanks. Bitter and bold, the coffee singes your tongue. You force it down, not taking Mags’s comfort, or the delicacy of coffee, for granted. Maysilee would have a fit if you did.
Before you can help yourself, a sob wracks your shoulders, and a splash of coffee spills onto your thigh. The burn is insignificant compared to the fracture of your heart, to the outpouring of love with no more place to go. In an instant, Haymitch takes the mug from your trembling fingers and pulls you into his arms. He holds you as you do him, fingers digging into his arms while his own tears soak through your hair.
Once the coffee and ice cream are gone, so are the tears. You’ve shed them all, gluttonous with your mourning. Haymitch cleans the spoons, wipes your face with his thumbs, and fetches a hammock.
Tonight’s memorial shows Maysilee, brilliant and defiant and golden in the sky. Wordlessly, you and Haymitch agree to sleep in the trees. Both too exhausted to keep watch; both in need of each other’s warmth. A reminder that you’re still alive. For the time being, the both of you are still alive.
You cling to each other with no intent of letting go—your nose in the crook of his neck, his hand resting on the small of your back, holding each other closer and closer until you’re in alignment. Because there is no grief between either of you left to spare.
A/N: one more maysilee pov for the road… goodbye maysilee donner, whom i always loved. definitely don’t listen to “breathe me” by sia after reading and think about this chapter
So like, if I made an edit for Worth Keeping would we want Kiawentiio or Shawnee Pourier as Haymitch’s Darling? I’m kinda leaning toward Shawnee Pourier but that’s just me.
Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Everdeen!reader, Implied BIPOC!reader
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
Haymitch’s upside-down face fades into view as your eyes adjust to dawn. You remember the kisses last night vividly. You remember Haymitch finally convincing you to lay your head down, more than you do actually falling asleep. Clearly, you must’ve.
The left side of your body is stiff from lying on your side, and your arm is numb from serving as a pillow for your head. You can feel the back of your skull pulsing angrily. Growing more tender from rest, not less. The makeshift bed made out of Haymitch’s hammock does little to cushion you from the graveled ground. Especially not when the lower half of your legs are digging into rocks and dirt.
And yet, you haven’t slept that easily in a long, long time.
You take a deep breath. Haymitch is stretched out in the opposite direction, his nose leveled with yours. His lips are parted as he murmurs incoherently. You’re drawn to the movement. To the warmth of his mouth, which is now permanently imprinted on yours. Of all the stupid, impulsive indulgences you’ve allowed yourself in the last two weeks, letting Haymitch kiss you, kissing him back and then some, is among the worst.
Giddiness rises inside your chest and spreads throughout your body. You trace every detail of his face, perfectly visible even from your upturned angle. The slackness of his jaw to the curl of his eyelashes.
An involuntary smile breaks free. The worst indeed.
“Don’t you look cozy.”
Your smile drops. You push up on your numb arm, sending sparks across the limb. You give it a shake to jumpstart the feeling in it again. Nothing is easy or comfortable or giddy anymore. You’re still in the Games, still as good as dead, still sharing a campsite with Maysilee Donner.
Maysilee stares at you with judgmental eyes and an overly smug grin. “Sleep well?”
“Slept fine,” you grumble, gathering your wits to combat whatever retort she has brewing up her sleeve. Your wits fail you, as does the entirety of your brain, when you catch a whiff of something maple-scented and honeyed. More prominent than Wiress’s custard cakes.
You look past Maysilee’s judgement and onto the picnic she’s laid out on her tarp. A stack of flapjacks, fresh strawberries, a tray of bacon, even a new gallon of water. More than enough for all three of you. It’s a full, real breakfast.
You scramble over, ignoring the throb of your knee and head. They seem to be working in tandem to disable your body. “When did this get here?”
“Not so long ago,” answers Maysilee. “I’m surprised the noise didn’t wake you, but I figured you should sleep while I fixed it up for us.”
“How considerate,” you say, teasing but earnest. Your stomach gives an impatient growl. As comforting as a bowl of bean and hammock soup is, it’s not filling for very long. Less so when split between three people.
“Yeah, well, the two of you stood guard for most of the night.” She tilts her head towards the picnic, and you pretend not to notice the steel behind her curious gaze. “Seems like the sponsors have taken a quick liking to us again. I wonder why.”
You reach for the corner of the tarp, smoothing it out. The steam of the flapjacks wafts up your nose. A gift of this caliber wouldn’t be rare under different circumstances. If it weren’t so soon after the pot of soup you received last night. If it weren’t this far into the Games. If the only other gift you’ve received with no riddle and a hearty meal weren’t timed off your reunion with Haymitch.
You know what the sponsors have taken a liking to, and you’d rather not name it out loud. You shrug. “Me too.”
“Uh-huh,” chimes Maysilee suspiciously. She motions to Haymitch over the dead hearth. “You think he’ll sleep much longer? I need to eat.”
“I think he needs food more than sleep right now, too.” You shuffle around the burnt firewood. Haymitch is still resting on his right side, one hand twitching near the space you left behind. You run a hand down his arm. “Haymitch, wake up.”
His eyes blink open, squinting before they land on you. He stares at you for a beat. His lips curve upward slowly. “Morning.”
Your heart rate picks up. Calm down. You point to the picnic. “We got a delivery.”
Haymitch sits up and follows the movement of your finger. He whistles. “No kidding.” His hunger is etched all over his face, secondary only to his concern when he turns to you again. “How’s your head?”
“Fine,” you dismiss, only caving when he frowns, unconvinced. “Sore, but not too bad. Honest.”
“And your knee?”
“Still bruised.”
“I have more ointment if you need it,” offers Maysilee, reaching for the bottle in her pack. She tosses it to Haymitch while you pull your pants leg up above your knee. The bruising shows up in patches now. Purple and black in some spots, faded to umber in others. Barely noticeable to anyone not looking closely. Unfortunately for you, Haymitch is.
He applies the ointment delicately. You don’t bother insisting that you can do it yourself. You motion for him to hand it over and grab his injured arm. Maysilee’s stitchwork is, unsurprisingly, perfect. You reapply the ointment onto the wounds with similar precision.
“Thanks,” he says, leaning forward a little.
“Any time.” You have me, I have you.
Maysilee groans, gesturing to the piles of food. “It’s great you two kissed and made up, but can we eat now?”
Your shoulders roll back at the same time as Haymitch’s. Shades of red dust his skin, reflecting the warmth on your own face in a much more obvious manner. You exchange amused looks, failing miserably to suppress the secrecy between you.
“Oh, you didn’t actually—” Her eyes dart between the two of you, realization sinking in. She shudders. “Eugh! Seriously? I was sleeping right here. You were supposed to be keeping watch!”
“We were keeping watch.”
“Exactly why we didn’t think you’d mind.”
You nudge Haymitch with your elbow.
Maysilee rolls her eyes at your simultaneous answers, face contorted with disgust. “You’re lucky you got us breakfast and not killed.”
“Since when do you eat breakfast anyway?” questions Haymitch.
“Since now. I’m a real breakfast-lunch-and-dinner gal.” Maysilee presses a hand to her stomach, derailed from her annoyance. “Never knew what it was like to be this hungry before. It hurts. And it scares me.”
Something neither you nor Haymitch are strangers to. With a sigh, you nod. “Let’s dig in then.”
And you do, in the most refined manner possible for three people starved of consistent meals. After all, you’re not animals.
You come to a consensus that the strawberries are the best part. Following Maysilee’s lead, you rip off the stems and top your syrup-infused flapjacks with them. You collect the leaves into a pile—they’ll come in handy in case you run into any poison-induced digestive problems. Sweet and tart, the strawberries cool your tongue with each bite you take.
By the time the three of you have declared yourselves shockingly, actually full, there are still enough strawberries leftover for later. You take in—really take in—the quantity of the meal, just as spectacular as the quality. Leftovers. What a marvel. And a joke. All this for a stupid kiss. Two stupid kisses. Fine. Three stupidly good kisses.
Maybe you’re reading too much into the timing, but you doubt it. If the audience was in an uproar to see you during the interviews, they’re likely to be in an even bigger tizzy over your actions last night. Except one was a performance, and the other… Well, it’s all a matter of spectacle to them anyway, isn’t it? But there’s a stark difference between a blown kiss and a real one.
Horrified, your thoughts wander to those back home. Your elders, Burdock, Lenore Dove, Willamae and Sid—You wonder what they make of last night, as they’re just as likely to have witnessed your pathetic declaration as the rest of Panem. Ugh! Surely, they know it was honest and true. Unless they think it was all for show, or that you’ve lost your mind, or that you’re using Haymitch. Yes, that’s just as likely. Willamae and Sid probably think you only see him as a stepping stone to freedom, as if it wasn’t bad enough you’ve taken him. Haymitch may have given you his forgiveness, but you’re not entitled to theirs.
Whatever their thoughts, you know the implications of what you’ve done. Your fingers spasm at your side, desperate to hide your face and the mortification rising like steam.
There’s only so much room for embarrassment when you catch Haymitch staring. It evaporates as quickly as the aftereffects of rain under the rising sun. Is he thinking the same? Does he know if he tries to kiss you again that you’ll let him? Does he feel as shameless about it as you suddenly do? He grins, a quick, concealed gesture, and you have your answer.
“We should try to locate some of the Careers’ packs,” suggests Maysilee once you’ve packed up camp. “They must’ve hidden them somewhere around here before they hunted you.”
“Good thinking, but we shouldn’t linger too long,” says Haymitch. “We need to keep moving.”
Maysilee crosses her arms. “Towards where, exactly?”
“North,” you answer, shooting Haymitch a knowing look. “That’s where we were heading before Panache and his buddies caught us off guard.”
“North?” she echoes. “Whatever for?”
“Just a feeling.”
“Hm. Some feeling,” she says dryly, staring at you with the intent to see through your words.
It’d be easier to just tell her why you want to go north, but you don’t even know what you’re looking for yourself. Haymitch is the one with the answers, and you’re starting to doubt he has very many. Regardless, you aren’t mad at him for it any more. You can understand the secrecy, to some extent. And he isn’t trying to stop you now. That has to count for something. It does.
“I go where the wind takes me,” you say, tacking on a half-hearted shrug.
Haymitch snorts. “C’mon. Fifteen minutes, then we go.”
Maysilee narrows her eyes. “I haven’t voted yes.” And yet, she reaches for her pack.
“You need help?” you offer.
She shakes her head. “You gave it to me to carry.”
“You ripped it off my shoulder,” you correct.
“Same difference.” She throws it over her body so it sits opposite her pack of darts.
Your search starts at the scene of yesterday’s fight. Locating the Career’s stash is a breeze—most of their things are tucked under a rock shelf not far from the hedge. You find three backpacks containing a bottle of medicine, two empty water jugs, a hammock, and a tarp. Food and handkerchiefs, too. Best of all, a blowtorch like the kind Tam Amber uses for welding.
Haymitch starts fiddling with the second tarp, folding it into a crooked funnel of sorts. You watch him collect a couple of vines and tie them around the base.
Maysilee laughs from beside you. “Making yourself a hat, are you?”
He spares her a glance. “This, I’ll have you know, is a first-class water catcher.”
You snort. “Stick to fire-building.”
“You’ll eat those words. Both of you,” he says, nose turned up.
“Will we?” retorts Maysilee. “Exactly how are all the raindrops supposed to find that tiny opening?” She raises a valid point. There’s hardly room for the rain to enter and nothing to keep the funnel sturdy.
“More surface area, you thinking?”
“I’m thinking.” Her solution is to punch a whole in the middle of the tarp; Haymitch’s is to offer up the stem of the grape juice glass as a tube of sorts. You follow Maysilee’s suit with her own tarp. Between the three of you, you manage to rig them both into something close to real water catchers.
Haymitch motions to the second makeshift barrel. “No tube for this one.”
“We’ll make do,” you say, to which Maysilee agrees with a nod.
She loads your creations into her backpack, along with the hammock and blowtorch. “With a second hammock, maybe we can all sleep up in the trees.”
You pinch your brows. “How—”
“You two won’t mind sharing with each other, I assume.” Maysilee lifts a shoulder, batting her eyes naively.
Hmm. You respond with similar mockery, quirking your head and smiling. “No, we won’t.”
She stifles what seems to be both a scoff and a laugh. Rolling your eyes, you leave her to finish packing and approach the found food a few feet away.
Haymitch comes up behind you, brushing your shoulders together. Your heart gives another lurch. Is it going to keep doing that for the rest of your life? “You know, it would be safer to sleep up in the trees.”
“We wouldn’t have to keep watch,” you add in agreement. Your eyes scan the pile. It’s a pitiful thing, made up of one banana, four rolls, and a tub of nearly-empty nut-butter. The Careers left little behind, but there are enough scraps to make something edible. Ideally, you’ll find game somewhere along the way, in one of your snares. Or another generous sponsor.
“More comfortable in a hammock than on the ground, too,” he continues to reason.
“No doubt about it.” You wait a beat, squatting to collect the food into one of the spare packs. “Haymitch?”
“Yeah?”
“Not happening.”
“Okay.”
You spin around, which is a dumb move on your part. You’re hit with a wave of nausea, and the strawberries from breakfast rot in your gut.
Haymitch grabs ahold of your elbows before you can trip over your own feet. “What’s wrong?”
“Just got dizzy for a second.”
“Well, your head’s still banged up.” His eyes flit over your face. He looked so much more relaxed earlier. Maybe he’d ease up if you kissed him again. “You sure you’re fine to head north?”
“I’m sure,” you say firmly, but he lingers in front of you like you’re one step away from passing out.
“We going?” cuts in Maysilee, approaching you impatiently. “Or are you not in a rush anymore?”
You twist your mouth to the side and step out of Haymitch’s hold. “We’re going.”
Haymitch lets you take the lead for most of the hike, taking over after your second break—as against your wishes as the first. At least Maysilee uses the brief downtime to reload on poison.
By the time you reach the hedge again, it’s midday. The hedge seems less daunting now that you’ve put time and distance between you. It looks exactly the same, which makes you think nobody else has attempted to go through it since you and Haymitch.
Maysilee sighs. She approaches the hedge cautiously, assessing its height and width. “What’s the plan now?”
“We left marks along the way. If we take the opposite paths, maybe we’ll actually wind up somewhere,” you suggest.
“That’ll take too long,” says Haymitch, pointing to the gap between the bushes. “I say we cut straight through.”
“We’ll spend just as long hacking away,” you counter. “The branches are too thick to make an easy headway.”
“Still worth a shot.”
You purse your lips, regarding him and his plan and his irritatingly pretty blue-gray eyes from an objective standpoint. “Fine. We’ll try your way first, and when it fails, we pivot to my plan.”
“We’ll already be on the other side by the time your plan becomes relevant.” He takes a step closer.
Your jaw clenches. “And you’ll be one head too short by the time you put it to good use.”
He grins and looks over his shoulder. “What do you think, Miss Donner?”
“I think Miss Everdeen has one over you, Mr. Abernathy.” Maysilee doesn’t tear her attention away from the holly berries. Triumphant, you stick your tongue out at Haymitch. She continues, “I also think there’s something weird about this hedge. But that’s nothing new.”
“We were in it for hours yesterday, and the worst we got was lost. I think that’s its purpose,” he reassures her, but not without aiming his last sentence at you.
You roll your eyes and reach for your dagger. Maysilee pulls out the one she took from Barba. The three of you slip into the opening and walk until the path begins to curve into the maze.
“Here. This is where we should go in. Probably the faster the better.”
“Gotcha.” Maysilee steps up on the other side of Haymitch. “On the count of three?”
“Guess so.” You prod at one of the leaves with the tip of your blade. Unlike yesterday, when it responded to the graze of your fingers with complete stillness, a lone ladybug pops out from the bush. It crawls up the edge of the blade and onto the back of your palm.
Haymitch begins the countdown. “One, two—”
“Hold up.”
“—three!”
The ladybug explodes right as Haymitch and Maysilee make contact with the hedge. Your blood ricochets onto your tongue.
Dozens upon dozens more ladybugs flutter to life and latch onto any inch of exposed skin. Haymitch reacts before you do. He whirs around and grabs your wrist, pulling you away from the herd. There’s no time to think about where to hide, or how much your knee hurts with the pressure, or anything besides getting away.
Between the buzzing and exploding and unanimous hollering, you can hardly hear a thing. The ladybugs swarm your vision, too, making it so you can barely catch sight of Maysilee zipping out of the hedge. Haymitch pushes you through ahead of him.
All three of you run in circles and zigzags, attempting to claw the bugs off. Once they’ve dug their mouths into you, the only way they’re coming out is by exploding. And they do. They detonate one after the other, taking chunks of skin and blood with them. Each explosion makes you loopier.
“Pluck!” Maysilee orders. “Pluck!”
You plant your feet on the ground—going in circles only causes the dizziness to flare up—and tear those you can reach. A few of them have made their way up your pants legs and down your shirt. Same goes for Haymitch and Maysilee. Chanting and panicking alongside them both, you strip down to your undergarments to reach them.
“My back?” asks Maysilee. Sure enough, there’s another half dozen ladybugs there. You know you’re hardly better off, especially when you feel a stab to your left shoulder, but you focus on helping Haymitch pull the things from her skin.
You’ve got the last one off when your skull compresses your brain tighter and tighter and tighter. Your vision goes spotty. You vaguely see Haymitch’s hand reaching towards you.
“Sunshine—”
He catches you before you hit the ground. Even so, his heart nearly gives out. Another ladybug explodes on your collarbone, splattering his face with your blood. As if the mess of his own weren’t horrible enough. Your eyelids flutter like you can’t decide to stay in the realm of consciousness or not.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he rushes out, sinking to the floor with you sideways in his lap, panicked and in search of any more bugs where he can see them.
Maysilee rushes around you. “I’ve got her back.”
Haymitch holds you upright and she pulls off the strays before any more explode. As soon as she’s done, he helps you sit on your own. “Still with me, sunshine?”
You give a weak nod. “My head hurts.”
“I bet,” he murmurs, cradling it between his hands, trying to find any sign that you’re worse off than you seem.
“You could always kiss it better,” you suggest, oddly hopeful.
Haymitch smiles, letting out a breath. “And there’s the blood loss talking.”
You furrow your brows and pout. He goes woozy with more than just his own blood loss. If you really insist—
Maysilee gags. “Here I thought it couldn’t get any worse.”
Tilting your head back to look at her, you shrug. “You could kiss it better, too, if you want.”
The click of her jaw cuts through clogged ears. “You’re insufferable.” She steps away. “Stick to lover boy.”
“Okay.” You slump forward until you’re resting on his shoulder again.
Haymitch opens his mouth to ask Maysilee for help, but she’s one step ahead of him. No surprise there. She pulls out the three jerky sticks from his pack and hands them over. He props you up. “Here,” he gives you one and holds the other out for Maysilee. “Get some iron in your blood.”
“Even or nothing,” you say, frowning when he breaks the third in half to split between you and Maysilee.
He purses his lips.
“Even or nothing,” echoes Maysilee.
Haymitch retracts the broken pieces. “I’m sorry, this was my fault. Talking big like I knew what I was doing.”
“You couldn’t have known,” you say, still leaning against him. Not that he minds. It’s probably better for you both anyway. You need the support, and he needs to feel that you’re still alive. “But at least we know my plan was better.”
“Oh, sure,” he deadpans, “that’s the bright side.”
“Well, I don’t think the Gamemakers want us going through the hedge at all.” Maysilee bites into her piece of jerky.
“Message received.”
Time passes slowly, or maybe it’s the exhaustion messing with his perception. The three of you eat in silence, pairing the jerky with olives and savoring the strawberries for dessert. The crown of your head brushes his jaw as you reach for another strawberry. Haymitch gets the sudden urge to press his lips to it.
He doesn’t, and he won’t with Maysilee in front of you. He supposes it doesn’t make that big of a difference who’s watching, considering all the cameras picked up on what happened last night. How did that go over with the audience? Not horribly, if the gift you received this morning was any indication of the sponsors’ affections.
His stomach clenches. How did that go over with Burdock? Your parents? Clerk Carmine? If he didn’t like Haymitch before, his opinion must be half-past rotten by now.
You slouch back into the crook of his arm. Well—Haymitch isn’t breaking any promises. He only hopes Burdock knows that.
Clouds move in across the azure-blue sky. Haymitch’s muddled brain hones in on the sound of rainfall. “The tarps!”
Shakily, each of you find your feet and stretch out the tarps, making posts out of the surrounding branches. Almost immediately, a slow trickle of water runs off them into the gallons below.
The rain intensifies. It’s as close to a shower that you’ll get in here. At the very least, Haymitch is thankful for the opportunity to wash the blood off his skin and clothes. Soon after you’re all declared as clean as possible, the rain stops and the clouds roll back.
“Well, we don’t have to worry about making blood oaths now,” muses Maysilee once fully dressed again. “I swallowed enough of both of yours.”
Haymitch passes her a water jug. “About a cupful each.”
You hum, clearly returned to your senses. “If I recall correctly, you and Burdock tried your hands at a real blood oath once.”
“Would’ve done it, too, if you hadn’t gone tattling.” He recalls the memory of your pa towering over him and Burdock with a look of disappointment that rivaled his ma’s. At nine-years-old, it was more than enough to snap Haymitch’s head back into place.
“It’s my job to stop my brother from giving himself blood poisoning,” you say with a shrug.
“You’ve got me there.”
Maysilee huffs out a laugh. “Either of you ever want a sister instead?”
You shrug. Haymitch answers, “I had two for a short time. Twins like you and Merrilee. They didn’t make it.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know.”
“No reason you should. It was before school and all.”
She shuffles her feet. “I keep wondering, will Merrilee still be a twin, after I’m gone?”
“Always,” he says immediately. If Sid is watching right now, Haymitch hopes he doesn’t think of himself as an only child.
You inhale slowly beside him. You fiddle with the charms around your neck. “I certainly don’t plan on leaving Burdock alone from beyond the grave. Don’t see why Merrilee wouldn’t get the same treatment.”
Her mouth twitches. “This is going to be hard on her.”
“It is hard on all of them,” you observe, blunt but not unkind. You’re right. Their grieving started from the moment each of you stepped onto that stage. Maybe even before then. The fallout of the Games is a peculiar kind of nightmare, but the lead-up…
Haymitch thinks of his ma, the extra workload she picks up in the last weeks of June, claiming the extra money necessary for his special day. Really, it’s just a way of keeping her mind too busy to assume the worst of it. Still young and tender for this world, Sid has no way of distracting himself from his grief. “I worry about my brother, too.”
“He comes in the shop sometimes,” says Maysilee, tilting her head. “Loves his taffy. Sid, right?”
“Yeah,” he confirms, touched that she even knows this about him.
The canon goes off twice.
Startled, Haymitch looks over at you. “I guess it’s too much to hope it’s Silka and Maritte.”
“That’d leave only Newcomers,” you say, exhaling a low puff of air.
“And then what?” asks Maysilee bleakly.
“Another meeting, like you mentioned in the Capitol,” he suggests. What other option would there be?
“And if we agree to stay true?”
“More mutts.” That’s the obvious answer. You promised none of you would turn on each other back in your interview, and Haymitch knows you meant it as much as he intends to keep it. “Another volcano eruption.”
“Hopefully it doesn’t come to that,” you say, voice shaking for a split second. You take a deep breath, and it seems to ground you. “Now, let’s get a move on.”
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
You don’t make it very far before you run into another threat. About fifteen feet away from your current hiding spot, Buck and Chicory lie writhing on the ground. Hull is just as bad, a slew of gold, silver, and bronze quills sticking out of his thigh.
Lenore Dove has a soft spot for the porcupines back home; you respect them from a distance. This one, giant and lethal and rageful, has your fear more than it does your respect.
Hull’s cries of pain mingle with the porcupine’s squeals. You flinch at the grating harmony, taken back to the jabberjay’s cruel, torturous taunts. “We need a plan,” you manage through your quickening breaths.
“Can’t you just shoot it?” Maysilee asks beside you, bordering on frustration.
“I can’t get a clear shot of its underbelly from here.” Though you keep your bow at the ready. “I won’t do much damage otherwise.” Its quills are made of the same steel as your arrows—they’ll only lessen any impact you intend to make.
“We can get you closer,” she says.
Haymitch’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. “Are you insane?”
“What other options do we have?”
A cannon sounds; another ally gone.
“None,” you say, tight-throated.
“We could try soothing it,” Haymitch suggests, motioning to the bawling creature now waddling mindlessly towards your vicinity. The stench of musk and roses nearly makes you gag. “Like you would a baby.”
“Sing it a lullaby maybe?” Maysilee deadpans. They both look at you.
“I’d rather it shoot me,” you snap. “We’re only wasting time here.”
You stand from behind the bush. Haymitch hisses your name, but you’re already running across the clearing. You make it a few feet without being detected by the porcupine, finding coverage behind another bush. You peer over the branches and leaves. It’s still throwing its tantrum with its back to you. You notch an arrow. If you angle it correctly, you’ll land it right—
An olive hits the side of the porcupine’s head. Your grip nearly falters out of shock. It gives a short wail, then runs its snout along the forest floor and snarfs up the olive. A couple more land in front of its nose, forming a trail in your direction. You turn to your left, spotting Haymitch and Maysilee poking up from behind their own bush. He pulls his arm back as he meets your gaze. You give a quick nod and raise your bow.
The next olive flies through the air. Anticipating the treat, the porcupine stands on its hind legs. In an instant, your arrow pierces through its underbelly, straight to its heart. You duck right as a dozen quills shoot out in a sunburst. There’s another cannon and a dying squeal of indignation. Then nothing.
You’re at Hull’s side in a matter of seconds, meeting Maysilee there. Haymitch checks for Chicory’s and Buck’s pulses. A noble but useless pursuit. He joins as you and Maysilee try to coax some syrup down Hull’s throat, plucking the quills from his leg.
“Come on, Hull,” she tells him. “You’ve got to drink this down. Come on, now.”
He’s trying. Really, truly trying. The veins of his neck pop out with the effort, but the antidote only bubbles back up and spills down his chin.
You hold onto his hand. “Just a little bit, Hull. That’s all you need.”
He chokes out a gurgled sound, squeezing your hand back in response. His grip is strong, even after the third and final cannon sounds. Maysilee doesn’t stop coaxing, Haymitch doesn’t stop plucking, you don’t stop holding his hand. Until finally, finally, you’re forced to accept his death.
A pointless death in an already long list of them. So why does it feel so much more shocking? Hull was young and strong, deserving of life and by all accounts a worthy contender to win the Games. But you know that’s not why this end feels wrong for him. Hull had given you his friendship, a precious gift now severed at the knee.
Your eyes fall on Buck’s and Chicory’s lifeless bodies; your thoughts wander to Ampert and Wyatt. To the losses that have hit you the hardest. Not because they matter more than others, but because you know if you had tried harder, you could’ve prevented them. Even if you hadn’t, you could’ve tried.
Your fingers brush the bracelet on his wrist. Somewhere back in Eleven, pretty-faced Clementine mourns the love she’ll never have the chance to confess. Letting go of Hull’s hand, you reach out to close his eyes.
You push up on numb legs. Neither your head nor your knee protest. Maysilee and Haymitch are just as silent, but when they stand, they help you arrange your allies’ bodies properly.
On the edge of the clearing, you watch the hovercraft circle overhead, the claw beginning its descent. A memory overcomes you. The first funeral you can recall ever attending had been your papaw’s. There was no funeral song to perform then—your mama had yet to teach it to you and Burdock. You only remember the ache in your chest, bits of the mayor’s speech, and the salute which was Twelve’s tradition.
Then, it was started by a man you only briefly recognized from visits to the Hob. A man you never knew to be your papaw’s friend. He may not have been. You still don’t know for certain. Yet, he offered his condolence, his admiration, and his love as if he were. Everyone followed suit, as they’d done for every funeral before, and as they’ll continue to do for every funeral after your own.
Just like the man, just like all your people in Twelve, you press three fingers to your lips and lift them. To every one of your losses, even those you’ve hardly known, for they’ve all held a fraction of your love. Out of your periphery, you see Haymitch and Maysilee do the same.
Your head begins to throb again as the hovercraft collects the last body. It bypasses the dead porcupine, and your heart spurs with something akin to guilt. You haven’t felt that when shooting an animal in years. Your papa taught you early on that every piece of an animal is revered and handled with careful necessity. Their deaths are never a mindless feat. Not like this one. Poisonous, the porcupine will only go to waste. And really, you don’t want to see it dead any more than you do your so-called enemies in here.
You lower your hand. “I need to sit,” you confess in a murmur. Without a glance their way, you leave the clearing, and another piece of you behind.
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
Haymitch tries to be subtle, but he’s positive you can feel him watching you. Between your allies’ deaths and the subsequent pang in his chest, there’s not much to say. Not much to do, either, besides watch out for your physical well-being, and Maysilee’s, and hope the pang subsides soon enough.
The three of you find solace in a patch of katniss. Side by side, completely done in, you take turns checking your allies’ discarded supplies. They must’ve received a parachute recently, because one pack holds crackers, baked beans, and raisins mixed with nuts and candy. There are other practical supplies, too: a blanket and a half-full water jug.
Haymitch gets a fire going, and Maysilee heats up the beans. The trail mix, she calls it, serves as a fine dessert.
It’s a cruel shock to see Ringina and Autumn start off tonight’s anthem. Buck, Chicory, and Hull follow after them.
“Five gone,” reports Haymitch.
“Besides us, it’s Silka, Maritte, and Wellie,” says Maysilee, dejected.
You clear your throat. “We’ll look for Wellie tomorrow.”
Haymitch nods. “Tomorrow.”
“Right,” mutters Maysilee. For a long stint, the only sound in the air is the chirping of crickets. But then she whispers, barely audible, “One of us has to win this thing.”
“Why’s that?” he whispers back.
“One of us has to be the worst victor in history. Tear up their scripts, tear down their celebrations, set fire to the Victor’s Village. Refuse to play their game.”
He remembers his Pa in that corner room of the Justice Building. “Make sure they don’t use our blood to paint their posters?”
“Exactly. We’ll paint our own posters.” She extends her pinkies in either of your directions.
“Sounds as good a plan as any,” you say in earnest, and loop one pinkie around hers, the other around Haymitch’s.
He mimics the gesture with both of you, locking your pinkies tightly. More binding than any blood oath, as permanent as his promise to you. They’ll never let him be the victor, he knows that. But he can swear to protect Maysilee, to prioritize her life along with yours. As best he can. He doesn’t want to think about what’ll happen if it’s just the three of you in the end.
When Maysilee lets go, she sniffles a little. “I’ll keep watch. You two sleep first tonight.”
To Haymitch’s surprise, you don’t protest. You hand him the blanket, and he wraps it over her shoulders. “Wake me next,” he tells her. She gives a short nod in response.
He makes two hammock beds beside each other for you and him. He curls on top, leaving a couple inches of space between you. You’re lying on your back, eyes still wide open. “How ’bout that lullaby?” He actually gets a snicker out of you. “Miss Donner?”
She snorts. “You don’t want to hear what’s running through my head. It started back in the maze and just won’t quit.”
“The only cure for an ear worm is to pass it on,” you say, shuffling onto your side to glance up at her.
“You asked for it.” She scoffs and begins to sing an old schoolyard song about ladybugs and houses on fire.
Once she’s passed on a verse, you roll back to look at Haymitch. He arches a brow and grins. “We did bring that on ourselves, sunshine.”
“We did, didn’t we, peach?”
“Oh, shut up,” says Maysilee, stifling a laugh. It wins her over in the end and drags you both into fits of your own laughter. Though it’s tainted by grief, the noise lasts until you fall asleep. Haymitch isn’t far behind.
Save for the starlight, it’s dark when Maysilee taps him in. She takes his spot on the hammock by your side.
He must last a couple of hours before you settle down next to him without an inch of space between your shoulders and knees this time. You allow him to stare at you uninterrupted and appreciative. Tonight’s fake stars brighten the details of your face as if they were real.
“Get some sleep,” you finally whisper.
“I can stand guard with you,” he offers.
“It’s my turn.” Looking him up and down, you add, “And you could use the sleep.”
He brushes a strand of hair out of your face. “You’ve seen better nights.”
You snort, but he wants to hear you laugh again. He wants to see you smile. He wants to make it better. “Did I tell you I saw a nightingale the other day?”
“No. Did you really?”
He nods. “At least, I think it was a nightingale. Could’ve been a different breed.”
“I think you’re right,” you say, staring at him with that same raw, all-consuming gleam. “I think it was a nightingale.”
Your eyes well as you adjust the bluebird around his neck. Haymitch can tell you’re thinking of home, of today’s loss, and of him. You lean in hesitantly, giving him time to pull away. Strange that you think he would.
When you kiss him, it’s less frenzied than last night. Softer and slower, like a free world is still within reach instead of actively shattering. A little sadder, too. He can feel it in the tremor of your fingers where they’re woven in his hair, taste it in the salt on his tongue. Sad as you are, you steady him as he does you.
You pull back, wrapping your fingers around his wrists to pry them off of you. “Go to sleep, peach.”
He hesitates and wipes the stray tear by your chin. When you rub your forehead against his, he relents with a nod. The only comfort he can give you now is understanding. Securing the blanket around you, Haymitch indulges one more time tonight. He presses his lips to the crown of your head. You smile gently, and he carries the sight back to the hammock.
Morning comes with a warm breeze. Haymitch wakes to a picnic less bountiful than yesterday’s, but you were right—you’ll make do with what you have. And you won’t catch him complaining about a breakfast of fresh cornbread and peaches. From Haymitch’s view, still on the ground, there’s a carton of buttermilk, too.
You and Maysilee have set the food on a tarp again. She’s teaching you how to fold the handkerchiefs into flowers, and you’re taking turns infecting each other with her ear worm. Your voice flows out purposely nasally, but he can still hear the shape of the real thing.
Ladybug, ladybug fly away home.
Your house is on fire, your children are gone.
All except one, who answers to Nan.
She’s hiding under the frying pan.
Such a terrifying image for such a silly song. The paradox is no longer lost on him as it was when he was younger. His time in the arena has taught him the destructiveness of beautiful things. Nothing is as it appears. Those ladybugs won’t surrender to anything. Except…
Haymitch pushes up on his elbows. He catches your attention as Maysilee picks up your tune. You lock eyes, and that’s all he needs to know you’re on the same page.
What could you use to burn through a maze, if not fire?
Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Everdeen!reader, Implied BIPOC!reader
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
Though you don’t say it in so many words, Haymitch knows you’re still angry with him over his abandonment of the Newcomers. It’s either that, or you’re ticked over his teasing about that forgotten, not-so-forgotten kiss. Knowing you, it’s both.
Instead of punishing him with more scoffs or quips or threats, any of which he’d take in stride, you condemn him to an afternoon of awkward silence. Long, unending, and sharper than the tip of your arrows. He’d rather you shoot him already.
At most, you exchange opinions on which direction to take. You pretend not to hear him when he suggests turning south again. In a display of miraculous restraint, Haymitch bites down on his tongue. It’s better to concede than to repeat himself and waste all his energy doing the impossible: convincing you to listen to him. Stubborn thing.
“Keeping west is best,” you say, and you don’t even smile at the rhyme.
“All right.” He agrees in part because you know what you’re talking about.
He also figures it’s a good idea to head in the opposite direction of the scene of his failure. If you’re heading north despite his protests, best keep away from the entrance to Sub-A. Not that he tells you that particular detail. He does, however, give a general description of the butterflies and bats, and leaves it at that. It’s enough to get you to agree that the eastern side of the woods isn’t worth any trouble at all. By the look on your face, he figures whatever you encountered before he found you would’ve been enough to convince you of that anyway.
Past mid-afternoon, the sky crackles to life. Rain pours down from the sky for what seems like an hour, washing away the remaining ash clinging to the forest. It gives you both the chance to rid the grit under your fingernails and dirt on your skin, too. After the two of you clean yourselves up, Haymitch manages to trap stray rain droplets into his water jugs. No more than a couple of tablespoons, which is as good as it’s going to get without a tarp for rain collection.
To his relief, you make it to sunset without encountering any Careers, mutts, or manufactured natural disasters. To both of your dismays, there are no Newcomers in your path either. Whoever survived, if at all, should’ve made their way up by now. Unless they stayed in the meadow, but you were right about that too: the more distance from the mountain, the better.
Neither of you has the stomach to say it out loud, but with tonight’s memorial inching closer, it seems more and more likely you have no allies left at all.
A shred of hope is delivered in the form of dinner. You’ve settled on a secluded spot for your campsite, and Haymitch has already got a fire going. He can smell the sweet call of food before you even reach for the silver basket. You inspect its contents with an abnormal curiosity, even for you. He figures your sponsor gifts haven’t been very plentiful, less so if they’ve been split between over a dozen people.
You slide over the basket to allow him a glimpse.
His stomach gives a mighty growl. Inside are mashed potatoes, two roast beef sandwiches, and a new jar of grape juice. Napkins and forks, too. No ointment for your knee, but Haymitch takes what he can get—he’s in no position to turn his nose up at a hot meal.
The two of you sit face-to-face in front of the fire and take turns dipping your forks into the tin bowl of mashed potatoes. Haymitch pours a cup of grape juice to pass between you. Dejected by the day and the coldness of your indifference, he doesn’t have the energy to do much else but chew his sandwich and stew in his thoughts.
Except you aren’t indifferent. Not really. Just like during the interviews or back on your first day of training. You’d been angry both times then, too. Both times, you weaponized your silence and wore your indifference like an ill-crafted mask. A believable performance—you’ve never been one to stage things improperly—but exactly that. A performance. One of Haymitch’s least favorites.
The mashed potatoes are gone by the time Panem’s insignia pops in the sky, disrupting the constellations. Fake as they are, Sid would still love them.
Haymitch locks eyes with you, and for the briefest of seconds, he sees your mask fraying at the edges, peeling back enough to reveal just how scared you are. You slot back into your pose when the first face appears. Haymitch breathes deep and takes charge of counting how many are gone now.
All of Two is dead, tanking some of the Careers’ stocks. It’d be more of a relief if Ampert’s face weren’t leading the entirety of his team. Haymitch marks eight lines in the dirt with a shaky finger. He draws another for a boy from Four. You squirm across from him.
He keeps going until he counts fourteen of you left. It’s easier on the heart and tongue to name the day’s survivors. He rubs away the lines. “Maysilee and Wellie are still out there.”
“So are Hull, Chicory, and Ringina.” You sigh wearily, concentrating on who you’re missing. “Autumn and Buck, too.”
“They might all be together.” It’s as unlikely a reality as it is a weak consolation.
“They might.” You shift your body and find interest in the ground beneath your feet. A piece of your sandwich is on the napkin beside you. You fiddle with the edges of the cloth mindlessly.
Haymitch focuses on you and the silence you fall back into. Uncomfortable and exacting, made all the more painful by the fact that Haymitch can feel your grief encroaching upon his own. He has no one to blame for it but himself.
Seven allies dead; six from the volcano. He knows you won’t talk about it, even if he asked, so he doesn’t. Earlier, he was more preoccupied by the fact that you were alive to care about the details of how. But now, he wonders what it must’ve been like to be in the thick of it. He wonders if the fallen Newcomers would still be alive had he been on that mountain with you. Probably not. He can’t give himself that much credit. That’s how he wound up in this mess to begin with. By trying to be more than he is.
No amount of hypotheticals will erase the fact that he wasn’t there.
“I’m sorry I left,” he says, a little too abruptly, because he means it, and you need to hear it, and he’s desperate for you to say something. Anything.
You lift your head. Devoid of the anger he expected, you say, “I get why you did.”
Haymitch reels back. You do…don’t you? He’s had years of practice deciphering your roundabout way of talking to little avail. But he understood what you meant earlier, loud and clear. Despite his best efforts to shield you, through whatever means, you know what he was planning to do to the arena.
He doubts Beetee was the one to loop you in. Maybe it was Ampert, but when? It’s not safe to ask outright under the Gamemakers’ watchful eyes.
“I should’ve told you myself,” he says. “I would’ve, and I was going to. It was just better not to. I thought it was better.” If he’d trusted you with the plan sooner, he might’ve avoided the colossal failure it became. Though it was never a matter of not trusting you.
His gaze drops to the floor. You try to will him to look at you again through sheer force alone, but it’s no use. He can feel your effort, you know he can. His avoidance is purposeful, a punishment directed at himself without realizing you’re in the crossfire too.
“I’m the one who should be sorry,” you murmur. You choose your next words honestly, loud enough to keep his eyes on you. “I am sorry. It’s my fault you’re in here to begin with. You shouldn’t apologize for doing what you need to get out of it.”
Haymitch shakes his head like that’ll help him make sense of what you’re saying. “What are you talking about? It’s not your fault.”
“Of course it is.”
He frowns. “I wasn’t aware you handpicked me to be here.”
“If you hadn’t run up to that stage to help me, they never would’ve noticed you. And I wouldn’t have needed help if I had just—” Kept my mouth shut. Let Lenore Dove and Woodbine Chance’s ma fend for themselves. But then where would you be? Cousinless and bound for slaughter all the same. Your heart grows heavy, sinking down to the floor of your stomach. “I’m so sorry, Haymitch.”
The crack in your voice nearly breaks something in him. Haymitch watches you bring your good knee up to your chest. So reminiscent of how he found you earlier. Small, smaller than you should ever be made to feel, eyes tinged with a shame that isn’t yours to bear.
“You didn’t push me to that stage,” says Haymitch.
You scoff, a broken, pitiful sound.
“You didn’t,” he repeats, firmer so you’ll believe him. “That was my choice. And I’d do it again if it meant keeping you safe.”
“Well you can’t keep me safe, and I don’t want you to,” you snap. “I just want you alive.”
With a huff, you prop your chin atop your knee. Your lips are pressed tightly together, your face is coiled with embarrassment, and Haymitch…isn’t surprised. He isn’t surprised at all by your admission. For the first time, he sees straight through your impenetrable walls instead of waiting for you to drop them.
“I may not have to follow you, but I will,” he says, resolute in his own admission. “Because whether you like it or not, I want you alive. You don’t get to call dibs on wanting to save me more.”
You stare at him and wait for his rescission. You aren’t surprised, or even disappointed, when it doesn’t come. Haymitch is the most stubborn weed you’ve ever known, and he’s rooted deep within you. In spite of how much it terrifies you to admit, however selfish it may be, you want him to stay.
“Fine,” you decide.
Haymitch eyes you suspiciously. “Fine?”
“I accept that neither of us wants the other dead. I won’t force you to pretend otherwise, you don’t force me. We’re on even ground now. Got it?” You extend your left pinkie in his direction.
“Yeah…I reckon that’s a fair deal.” He wraps his pinkie around yours. “I won’t promise not to put your life above mine.” Mine, or anyone else’s. “I can’t.”
“I know.” You really, unfortunately do. “Neither can I.”
It’s the best either of you can offer. Haymitch sighs and lets go of your pinkie. He looks to the fire, which is overdue to be put out, then back at you. On even ground now. “We’ll keep heading north first thing tomorrow.”
You blink, taken aback like you expected him to still be against the idea. “Okay.”
“I’ll take first watch,” he says, and before you can open your mouth to protest, he continues, “I already called dibs, sunshine.”
His eyes zero-in on your lips as they curl up into a near smile. When he catches you mirroring his stare, he knows he didn’t imagine it this time. Funny how memories work. Maybe there’s still a chance you’ll refresh his own.
You give a quick shrug. “All right. Since you called dibs.”
Right. Sleep, keeping watch, that’s what we’re doing now.
As soon as you finish the last bites of your sandwich, Haymitch makes a bed out of his hammock like he did for Ampert. You settle on your side and he sits by your head. He lets the fire die out on its own; his skin is still warm when your hand finds his later in the night.
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
As a sign of good faith, you let Haymitch take on the role of guide this morning. In exchange, he doesn’t push you to use the walking stick again. He also gets you lost.
“We’ve passed this exact bush twice now,” you point out as you come to a stop in front of a bundle of holly.
“No we haven’t,” refutes Haymitch. Hours of wandering under today’s sweltering sun have soured his mood.
You suck your teeth. “Yes, we have.”
“They all look identical,” he says matter-of-factly.
“This one’s got a napkin on it.” You gesture to the piece of cloth tied around a twig. You’ve been using the supply provided in last night’s gift to keep track of your direction. Not that it’s helping much right now.
When Haymitch suggested you find what’s on the other side, you agreed. The arena can’t go on forever, after all, and you’d bet a hefty sum it ends just short of the hedge. Instead of cashing out on your theory, the two of you have been going around in circles. The marks may help you find your way back out, but they aren’t taking you any further.
“Right.” Haymitch wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead. He points to your right. “That way then.”
You keep a steady pace next to him. It’s probably past noon by now, maybe even mid-afternoon if the blaze of the sun is any indication. You haven’t taken a real break since you entered the hedge—unless you count the seconds-long stops to redirect yourselves—which is fine by you. Your knee is still beaten and bruised, but it’s not slowing you as much as yesterday. Haymitch is the one who looks like he’s about to faint from dehydration.
“You should drink some water.”
He keeps walking. “We needa save—”
“Haymitch.” You come to another halt, forcing him to turn around. “Drink some water.”
He twists his mouth to the side and regards you with annoyance. With a roll of his eyes, he takes out the quarter-full water jug. He passes it to you once he takes a swig.
You accept the jug with a murmured thanks, only taking a gulp. Haymitch was right about preserving it for as long as possible. Who knows if another rain shower is around the corner, and it’s not like you have the tarp for collecting purposes anyway. Hopefully Maysilee got good use out of it.
While Haymitch returns the jug to his pack, you survey the greenery. The prickly leaves of the holly bushes omit a mint smell, which mixes with the tartness of the poke-a-dot berries. You’re reminded of Twelve’s traditional New Year’s celebrations, full of brightly red holly berries and stack cake. A sweeter scent, a sweeter memory.
You take a step away from the wall of the hedge to get away from the artificial aroma, noticing a small slab of jade on the floor. Its edges are jagged and reflective of the afternoon sunbeams. Vaguely natural, abnormally so among the manufactured. You pick up the stone and twiddle it between your fingers.
Haymitch comes up in front of you, curious and softened by the water break. “Think Tam Amber would fashion it into something?”
You look up at him with quirked brows. Duh. A jade like this one is a rare thing. Tam Amber could craft it into a gem of his own, even more beautiful, no doubt. Though you’ll never get the chance to see what he’d make of it, you slip it into your pocket. “That, or I’d get a good deal on it from the Schmidts.”
His expression returns to full-fledged irritation. “You would know.”
“Yeah,” you agree. “I would, considering I’ve dealt with ‘em.”
“Some more than others,” he mutters.
You tilt your head, confused. “Not really.”
“According to Maysilee—”
“Oh, yes, the keeper of all knowledge.”
“—you’re friends with their oldest boy.”
“His name’s Oliver,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest. What’s he getting at?
Haymitch bristles. “You are friends then?”
“We talk on occasion.” Hardly a friendship.
“Enough for him to like you,” he accuses. Apparently Oliver Schmidt liking you is crime enough for you to be tried. Does Haymitch think you held an arrow to his head and forced him to tell everyone he was sweet on you?
“I guess,” you say with a snort. “According to Maysilee.”
“The keeper of all knowledge,” he echoes.
Your lips twitch. “So what if he does?”
“If he does, he does,” he says, patching up his indignation with faux indifference. “I’m just pointing out what I’ve heard.”
He’s doing more than that; he’s handing you his heart on a platter so silver it puts the Capital dishware to shame. You note the bow of his upper lip, perfectly curved as he tugs his mouth into a frown. It takes more effort than it should to resist tracing the shape with your fingers.
You shrug, taking a step closer. “I could probably do worse.”
Haymitch gives a quick nod, wound tighter than a yo-yo. You’re surprised his head doesn’t snap off with the movement. “I’m sure you could.”
“Oliver’s nice,” you say. For the little you’ve interacted with him, you do know this to be true.
“He’d meet all your blacksmithing needs,” he adds dryly.
You shake your head. “I’d put Tam Amber out of work.”
He clicks his teeth. “No, you can’t do that.”
“But I’d have an in with the baker,” you muse. Everyone knows they’re as good as cousins on account of Mrs. Schmidt’s and Mrs. Mellark’s lifelong friendship.
“Ain’t a soul in the world who don’t love baked goods,” he says mockingly. As if any of Oliver’s friends would still talk to him for slumming it with a Seam girl. As if this hypothetical world in which you’re back home in Twelve and dating Oliver Schmidt has any merit.
“Exactly.” You match his tone with a biting smile. “We gonna stand and talk about my prospects all day, or are we gonna get a move on?”
Haymitch huffs. “We’re moving.” He squints up at the sky. “I’m throwing in the towel. We need to get out of this hedge before sunset.”
You nod, poking one of the holly bush leaves. Pricklier than Haymitch’s hissy fit. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”
The walk back towards the entrance is surprisingly slower than the venture inside. You blame the heat exhaustion and dizzying effects of the maze. And the hunger.
Last night’s dinner was hefty, courtesy of Mags, Wiress, and whatever generous sponsor took pity on the two of you. For once, it was a normal gift, exceptional only in the fullness of the meal. There was no riddle you could pick up on, and not for lack of trying. Maybe Plutarch’s decided to take a step back now that you’ve found Haymitch and gone rogue. Plutarch isn’t to credit for the gifts themselves anyway, just the buzzing in your mentors’ ears on top of your own.
The hedge’s entrance comes into view, a sliver of space between two intertwined bushes. You sigh. Once you’ve both settled on where to take shelter later, you’ll have to scour the area for tonight’s meal. Here’s to hoping you find something other than squirrels and bunnies.
Haymitch, seemingly in tune with your thoughts, points to the space between the hedge and the floor. “We could set a couple snares around here.”
“Worth a shot,” you say. “Let’s find where to set up camp first.”
He exits through the wedge in the foliage. “Sounds like a—”
The whoosh of a blade cuts him off.
His resulting cry snaps your spine straight. You act on pure instinct. Pushing through the exit, the branches scratching along your arms, you aim an arrow at the girl from Four. Looming over Haymitch, already bleeding from her gut, she takes the arrow to the heart. An instant kill.
You ready another arrow for the District Five boy, who takes up the girl’s efforts, but the impact of metal to your nose sends you backwards into the hedge. Your bow falls from your hand. The tang of copper slips past your lips and assaults your tongue. One of the branches latches onto your pants leg. Glued together by friction, you struggle to separate the branch from the fabric. You narrowly avoid the blow of Panache’s sword when he swipes it at your head.
Before he makes another move against you, Haymitch nicks his left arm with his axe. Panache whirs around with an angry shriek. During the shift, you get a good view of his state. His forearms are littered with burns, the same kind you saw on the District Four boy. Not as fatal, but bad enough to catapult him into a pain-fueled craze.
You pull on your leg, panicking as Panache knocks Haymitch’s axe out of his hand with a single swoop.
C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.
It takes a particularly rough tug and the loss of your bottom hem to free yourself. You barely catch yourself from falling over another branch.
Toying with Haymitch like a sadistic predator would to its prey, Panache is too focused on the game of it all to notice you lunging at him. He roars at the sudden weight of you on his back. Second only, you assume, to the force of your knife in his sword-wielding shoulder.
Panache flails for all of five seconds. Even injured and sullied with burns, he’s stronger than you are. It doesn’t take much to send you flying off his back.
You land head-first. An excruciating pain shoots up the back of your skull, setting off a bomb throughout your body. Your vision crackles with black and white sparks, your ears ring with a grating chime, your limbs feel simultaneously heavy and weightless.
Panache’s voice sounds muffled as he says, “Ladies first then.”
Haymitch’s voice is clearer, a melody of taunts aimed at Panache in an attempt to postpone your death.
Don’t, you want to tell him, in spite of last night’s agreement. Don’t put my life above yours.
You force your eyes open and brace yourself for the inevitable. Your ears pop in time to catch the echo of a zip whirring through the wind. And suddenly, Panache crumbles onto the floor.
How’d Haymitch manage that? He’s at your side in an instant.
You push up on your elbows slowly. There’s a filter over the world, blurred and distorted. Minus the three bodies lying feet away from each other. Blood-stained blue, lifeless orange, Panache in his snot green. He doesn’t look so crazed anymore. Just…empty and dead.
Haymitch tilts your chin up, bringing your attention to him, and carefully touches the back of your head. He sighs. “No blood.”
“But you might have a concussion.”
You blink and turn to the familiar voice.
Maysilee approaches, standing by Panache’s body with her blowgun around her neck and your pack over her right shoulder. Huh. Her ears must’ve been burning earlier.
She arches an eyebrow and retrieves a handkerchief from her pocket. “You look awful.”
“I almost died. What’s your excuse?” you bite back.
Her smile is brief. She turns to Haymitch. “We’d live longer with three of us.”
“Guess you proved that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Allies?”
Maysilee catches your eye. “Sure.” She pats the pouch dangling from her hip, directing her next words at him. “But I’ve got a dozen poison darts left if you’re still feeling exclusive.”
You snort, subsequently wincing. Haymitch rests a hand on your arm. “Noted,” he tells her. “It sure is good to see you, Miss Donner.”
Three canons go off, reminding you of the circumstances of your reunion.
Maysilee stretches her hand out. She and Haymitch pull you up from the ground. As soon as you’re on both feet, your senses begin to slip out of reach. You clutch your head.
Haymitch steadies you. “You really think it’s a concussion?”
“Probably.” Maysilee shrugs. “At least she didn’t crack it open.”
He scoffs. “Oh yeah, ’cause she’s better off with a concussion.”
“She is right here, you know. And I’m fine,” you insist, even though the world is still spinning. Haymitch keeps his hand hovering by your side. Your eyes narrow when you spot the two gashes on his arm. “You’re the one who’s bleeding, peach.”
He shakes his head like his wounds are the least of his worries. “I’m fine,” he mimics.
You begin to push back, “You’re—”
“I can stitch those up,” offers Maysilee, shutting you up. “But we need to get away from here first.” She passes you the handkerchief, motioning to the blood around your nose.
You accept it begrudgingly.
While you wipe your nose clean, Maysilee rifles through the bodies to take whatever she deems useful. Your knife being one of said useful items. Haymitch similarly backs off for a minute to collect his own weapons and your bow.
“Nothing else?” asks Maysilee, surveying the ground once more.
You shake your head. Haymitch copies the movement. “No, I’m good.”
Once you prove you can walk without passing out, the three of you begin your trek back into the woods. Looking over your shoulder, you find the sea blue again. Barba. You couldn’t remember her name until now. The only thing you saw when you looked at her was Haymitch in danger. Taking her life was easy with that in mind. So much easier than the first time. You wish it wasn’t.
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
As loudly as you insist your head isn’t killing you, Haymitch calls bull. He saw how hard you fell, heard the whack against the ground, louder than the thump of his heart in his throat. You probably do have a concussion. Even if you don’t, the fact that you keep grabbing your head and stumbling over your feet isn’t a sign of good health.
He himself is all stitched up now, thanks to Maysilee. He won’t risk what little is left of his pride by admitting it out loud, but, strangely enough, he’s happy to have her around. Lucky for both of you, she knocked off some ointment from a Career she found yesterday. All-purpose, seemingly. It sure helped with your knee and his gashes.
If only it worked for internal wounds. Haymitch is sooner to get you to slow down.
He catches you by the elbow when you stumble like the floor is being pulled out from under you again. “Easy,” he scolds.
“I am going easy,” you huff out.
Maysilee comes up on your other side, arms crossed. “Sure looks like it.”
You scowl at her.
“It’s high time we take a break, don’t you think?” Haymitch asks Maysilee.
“I’d say so,” she agrees.
“We’re supposed to vote,” you say, following up with a scoff. That’s what you agreed on earlier. Splitting supplies evenly, casting votes on decisions like where to camp and who’s in charge of what. “Unanimously. Remember?”
Haymitch groans. Why’d he agree to that? You already strong-armed him into voting yes to setting snares throughout the woods. It was a better idea before you injured your head. He makes eye contact with Maysilee, who looks to be as annoyed as he is.
She lifts a shoulder and mouths, She’s your girl.
Haymitch narrows his eyes and mouths back, Thanks a lot. He moves to stand directly in front of you. “Okay, sunshine,” he starts off casually, “if you can tell me how many fingers I’m holding up, we’ll keep moving.”
You stare at him blankly. “No deal.”
“Because you can’t tell me?”
“Because it’s coercion.”
Hypocrite. He feigns confusion. “I wasn’t aware that a simple test counted as coercion.”
“It’s not a test if you’re trying to trap me,” you counter.
“It’s not a trap if you can tell me,” says Haymitch. “Which you apparently can’t.”
Maysilee snickers. You seethe. “Oh, hold up your fingers already.”
Haymitch grins and does as you demand.
“Three.”
He pops his pinkie up. “So close.” He shrugs. “Oh well.”
Your jaw clenches. That can’t be good for your head. “You lying piece of—”
“Look,” cuts in Maysilee, frustrated and ready to nip this back-and-forth in the bud. “It’s about to get dark soon anyway, and I could use a break. Just vote yes, will you?”
She strikes the exact right cord inside you, because, clenched jaw and all, you relent with a nod.
This neck of the woods makes a fine campsite for now. By Haymitch’s count, there are only two Careers to worry about. Tonight’s show should confirm as much.
“So what’s for dinner?” asks Maysilee as she takes a seat beside you.
“Couple of very fine, very raw potatoes,” answers Haymitch. “We even got a couple of forks.”
One side of her mouth curls up. “I scavenged three slices of dried beef and half a can of olives from the same Career with the first-aid kit.” She bumps her shoulder to yours. “Still got a custard cake, too.”
You sigh, amused. “Then we don’t have to worry about dessert.”
Haymitch retrieves the grape juice from last night’s dinner, along with the glass, which has miraculously survived the day. Tears come to Maysilee’s eyes when she takes her first sip. Evening falls as you take turns passing the glass around, savoring every taste of home.
The anthem plays while Maysilee cleans the glass with her shirt. It’s followed by the faces of the three dead Careers, proving Haymitch’s math correct. “Only two of ’em left,” he says. “Wyatt would like those odds.”
Maysilee falls silent, and you offer a sad hum at the mention of your missing oddsmaker. Haymitch’s chest tightens. Having you by his side, and now Maysilee, it’s been easy to feel like he had back in the apartments. During nighttime, when the four of you had each other’s backs and the Games seemed so far away. In reality, the team is one longshot short, and it will be forevermore.
Maysilee brings her legs inward. “Have either of you killed anyone besides Barba and Fisser?”
Haymitch shakes his head. “No, just them.”
“The younger boy from Four,” you say, hollow and blunt, to his surprise. Expectedly, your expression gives away very little.
“Angler,” Maysilee supplies his name for you. “Panache was my second.”
“Loupe,” you say, well-aware of her first kill, apparently. Haymitch realizes, not for the first time, that he really has no idea what you’ve been through the last few days.
Behind you, a pot thunks on the ground. Maysilee, closest to the gift, detaches the parachute and lifts the lid. Bean and ham hock soup steam clouds the space between you. Tears prick Haymitch’s eyes. He knows this is Mags’s way of reaching out—the three of you are not alone in your pain.
“Like when my grandmother died,” murmurs Maysilee.
“Mine, too,” says Haymitch. He doesn’t list all his dead, but he does find your eyes through the fog. They reflect the sadness welled within his own.
Maysilee unclips three spoons from the lid of the pot. As the night air chills, the soup dwindles down to nothing. Evenly split between three.
Haymitch collects a few sticks of wood. “I’ll get a fire going. Maybe alert the other Newcomers if they’re around.”
Maysilee, whose arms have turned to gooseflesh, nods. “We can handle Maritte and Silka if they sniff us out. Right?”
“They got nothing on the two of you alone,” he says. “I don’t know why y’all keep me around.”
“To build the fire,” you quip.
Haymitch snorts and puts his flintstriker to work.
“Aren’t you a sly dog,” says Maysilee. “Smuggling that in.”
“Well, I like my pretty with a purpose.” He winks at you when you huff out a laugh, and briefly, the sky feels lighter.
You shift closer to the fire. “Y’all can sleep now. I’m good to stand guard.”
Haymitch sits back down. “You sure?”
“I shouldn’t sleep yet anyway in case I really do have a concussion.”
“Asterid says that’s a myth,” says Maysilee, smoothing out a small tarp on the other side of the fire. “You need the rest more, with your head injury and all.”
You roll your eyes. “I’ll rest plenty without your hollering in my ear.”
Haymitch hesitates, but he’s fading fast. By the looks of it, so is Maysilee. Unconvinced as she seems, she’s already laid her head down. “Okay,” he says. He spreads out his hammock on the patch of dirt beside you. “Wake me as soon as you need to switch.”
“I will,” you promise. The reflection of your silhouette in the firelight is the last he sees before his eyes flutter shut.
His chest rises and falls with the shadows of the flames. It isn’t long before his breath evens out. Maysilee, the quietest of sleepers, gives no indication of being awake either. With a sigh, you turn your attention back to the fire.
Truth be told, your head is still throbbing, but that’s a wound easily mended by time. There are no lacerations, no external bleeding, no signs that your brain is less than functioning. The ache will pass; the hole in your heart will not.
Unlike the lives you’ve lost and taken, the hole is permanent. It’s becoming a permanent piece of you. A web spun from guilt and grief and emotions you can’t quite name. Made worse by time, not better. Your only relief is Haymitch.
So is Maysilee, in her own way. Having her here, alive, is a relief. But Haymitch… He eases all the aches, all the pain. He makes you remember you have a heart to begin with. You’ve been so stupid ignoring the hearth he’s made of it when his warmth is all that makes you feel complete. It’s a kind of warmth more permanent than any hole; a warmth you can only credit to the most devoted of loves.
Even when you believed you most hated him. Even when your mama saw it before you did. In the wake of all you’ve done and have yet to endure, what’s the good in ignoring it any longer?
You inhale deeply. Your dread clogs your throat. This would be so much simpler if you were back home. If you’d heard your mama sooner. If you hated Haymitch.
Beside you, he stirs, and you wait for him to still again. He doesn’t.
Haymitch comes to while the fire is at its peak, and he knows not much time has passed. Even so, he sits up and inches close to you. “I can take over now,” he offers quietly.
“You barely slept,” you whisper hoarsely. It sounds like you’ve been crying, but there’s no evidence of tears on your face. “And I don’t want to yet.”
“Okay,” he says. “Neither do I.”
You don’t argue. Instead, you move closer too, until your arm is pressed against his. For a long while, you sit there in silence, leaning on one another, listening to the fire crackling. There’s little space between you, and even though Haymitch is committed to staying awake until you agree to sleep, he feels his head lulling down to your shoulder.
He wakes again when you start talking lowly. “I got separated from the others when the volcano erupted. Obviously. But even before then—”
You come to a halt, flinching like you’ve struck yourself with the memories. Haymitch recalls the feeling that overcame him when he had to tell you about Ampert. He couldn’t even get the words out without a merciless pain seizing his body. You spared him the torture, said he didn’t need to tell you, like you knew what it’d cost him to say it out loud.
It’s a heavy thing to cast one’s burdens on another. And you’re on even ground now. That’s what he promised.
“I don’t need to know right now,” he says softly. Not until you’re ready.
When you turn to look at him, he forgets how to breathe. Your eyes, the rawest he’s ever seen them, threaten to swallow him whole. There have been plenty of times over the last few days where you’ve opened up. Where you’ve let him peer into pieces of your guarded soul. None of those times are comparable to now, and he finally understands why you’ve only ever shown him glimpses. Because this is dangerous. The way you look at him, tender and honest—the feeling you elicit in him—is all-consuming.
And yet, he doesn’t know how to move away.
Haymitch’s breath returns with a sputter as you reach out and rub a thumb along his forehead. You whisper, “You get wrinkles between your brows when you’re worried.”
“How hard did you hit your head?”
You smile a little. “I’m serious. It’s your tell. You ever notice it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” He shrugs slightly. “I notice when I’m worried.”
You retract your thumb and regard him quietly, thoughtfully. “I don’t like worrying you. I don’t wanna be a source of your worry.”
Haymitch, suddenly hyper-aware of his facial expressions, tries not to furrow his brows. “You’re more than that, sunshine.”
Again, you let your eyes speak for you; again, his brain short-circuits.
“I showed up at your house that day,” you begin abruptly. Haymitch knows exactly what you’re talking about before you continue, “’Cause Burdock was sick and Lenore Dove was busy. And I wanted to spend it with someone who made me feel safe. Ironic how I ended up on your porch.”
Gaining his bearings, he snorts. “Very.”
“It was a good day though. Even after I fell out of that maple tree. Especially then.” You glance down at your lap, fiddling with your fingers. “I mean, it wasn’t fun twisting my ankle.”
“Whatever. It wasn’t fun either way. It hurt, and I could tell you were rearing up to say you told me so. Imagine my surprise when you never did. You just…fretted over me. Comforted me in that,” you sigh, “voice of yours.”
“What other voice do I have?”
“And you had a wrinkle between your brows then, too. You were all worried about how much pain I was in, and how much I was crying, and how to make me feel better. Which you did.”
He remembers worrying, that’s for sure. For a long time, that was the most palpable memory of the day.
“You made me feel better. Safe. More than just safe. Like, I don’t know, the worst thing in the world that could happen to me is a sprained ankle, and even that’s not so bad with you around.” Your voice catches, and you steel yourself with a deep breath. “So I guess that’s why I kissed you. It’s all I knew to do with the feeling.”
There it is again. The heat crawling up his skin, melting away all his doubts and fear and inhibitions.
You sputter out a nervous laugh, like you’re readying to retreat back behind your walls. You look up. “Clearly I wasn’t right in the head then. But I am now, and you don’t have to worry about me repeating that mist—”
Haymitch swallows the rest of the word.
The impact is clumsy at first, but your mouth is soft and real and alive against his. He cradles your face with both hands, and your own snake up to the neckline of his shirt. For a second, he thinks you mean to push him away, but you only pull him closer.
His fingers tangle in your hair, careful not to press into the back of your skull. He angles your head up gently, deepening the kiss with a contrasting desperation. The result of all his want finally bubbling to the surface, finally finding its purpose. You kiss him back just as urgently, like he might disappear if either of you stop. He truly thinks he might. It’s very, very possible that Haymitch will cease to exist if you aren’t kissing him.
If the arena exploded right now, he wouldn’t blink twice. Every nerve in his body is already lit aflame. He’s being flayed alive by the sun, and he doesn’t mind one bit.
Eventually, unfortunately, you pull apart for good. Haymitch leans his forehead against yours. Your chest is heaving in rhythm with his, both of you panting for air. His hands inch back down to your jaw.
“I wasn’t worried,” he murmurs in between dwindling gasps for air. He watches as your nose bunches up, then relaxes.
“Oh,” you breathe out. “Well, good.”
Slowly, he smiles, teeth and all. You match it with a smile of your own. Before long, the two of you dissolve into giggles under your breaths.
Haymitch swipes his thumb across your bottom lip. “You really should sleep, sunshine.”
“I’m still not tired,” you murmur, nudging his nose with yours.
Stubborn. But really, Haymitch isn’t tired anymore, either. “Keep me company for five more minutes then.”
“If you insist, peach.”
Who cares that you have no way of tracking when five minutes have passed? Who cares that keeping time in here is obsolete and tomorrow will only bring more misery? Haymitch doesn’t. Not when your lips are on his again, making him believe, for just a second, that the worst that could happen to him is a sprained ankle.
Hey, person who just sent me a request in my inbox and was worried it’d make me uncomfortable. It didn’t. I probably won’t get to it for a while though because I’m going through a massive depressive episode and burnout and hyperfixating on specific topics. Which at the moment is rewriting my prologue for Worth Keeping when I have energy.
Am I Interrupting? @am-i-interrupting - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
