[comfortcharacterwrites]

𖹭 ͛ `` ᵃ ʰᵉᵃʳᵗ-ᵉʸᵉᵈ ᵍⁱʳˡ ᵗʳʸⁱⁿᵍ ᵗᵒ ᵏᵉᵉᵖ ᵗʰᵉ 'ᵘⁿᵈᵉʳᵃᵖᵖʳᵉᶜⁱᵃᵗᵉᵈ ᶜʰᵃʳᵃᶜᵗᵉʳ' ᶠᵃⁿᵇᵃˢᵉˢ ᵃˡⁱᵛᵉ ``

ꨄ︎ ❛ ccw to some, fivi to the ogs! ❜

and of course,

͛REBLOGS ARE ALWAYS WELCOME !

<3 to those who did, I love you forever

ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 𝗺. 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁 ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 𝗳𝗶𝗰 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝘀

currently fixated with hp, and thg (again) 🪶

current wip(s)𓂃✍︎

skate to your heart - g.w.

⸝⸝ 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐠𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 ◞

[comfortcharacterwrites]

𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖗𝖞 𝖕𝖔𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖋𝖎𝖈 𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖉𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓

𖤝 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

ɢʀʏʄʄɨռɖօʀ

george weasley ◞ fred weasley ◞ ron weasley ◞ oliver wood ◞ harry potter

ֆʟʏȶɦɛʀɨռ

draco malfoy

★〃 ─── ✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧ ───〃★

ᯓ legend

𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 ִֶָᐟ

(ᵏⁱⁿᵈˡʸ ᵗᵃᵏᵉ ⁿᵒᵗᵉ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᴵ ᵒⁿˡʸ ᵈᵒ ᶠᵉᵐ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ ˣ ᵇᵒʸ ᶜʰᵃʳˢ)

[comfortcharacterwrites]

Library Meetings - D.M.

sum - after Lucius Malfoy finds out that his son had been failing Charms, he assigns a tutor to Draco, whom he inherently dreads meeting — that is, until he falls in love with you

word count - 3.3k

content - no warnings, just pure fluff! he fell first, he fell harder, peeves being chaotic as usual, and reader is a ravenclaw

note - realized I hadn't yet written anything about my beautiful blonde slytherin so I wrote this!! also I'm kinda in love with the tutor x tutee trope so

masterlist

Draco Malfoy was a person who didn't love a lot.

He does love some things. Like those treacle tarts that sometimes appear at breakfast (though he hates the cream on top and would put it aside). He loves talking to Theo, because Theo was just so easy to be with. He loves Quidditch, loves how the wind blows at him while he's in the air. He loves green — not just because he's Slytherin but because it's so pleasing to the eye, or so he says.

Charms wasn't one of them.

Yet here he was, sitting in the library and ‘studiously poring’ over Quick Magicke Spells when he would much rather be practicing catching the Snitch or making fun of Pansy's ridiculous haircuts.

"This book is ridiculous." He muttered to himself. He hated that his father found out about the failing grade he'd received from Flitwick last week just because he'd forgotten to do his homework — even if it was four times in a row. Four times wasn't that bad, was it?

And now Lucius had assigned him a tutor. A tutor.

Draco felt astronomically offended.

And yet- and yet he sat here in the library, twisting his fingers under the table as he glared at the yellowed pages in front of him. His tutor was late— and worse, she wasn't a Slytherin. The only reason Lucius chose to take a Ravenclaw was because she was a pure-blood, and he valued that far more than house placement.

People who were late pissed Draco off, even though he himself often was.

And then he saw you heading his way, a small, controlled smile on your face as you stepped lightly to the table he was sitting in. Draco froze.

You were beautiful.

Beautiful wasn't a word Draco just threw around carelessly. He found his mother beautiful as a child, and even up 'til now; he'd never quite looked at any other girl the same way. But then here you were. Looking dazzling and radiant, yet soft and feminine. A small flame flickered in him as he fixed his hair and subconsciously sat up straighter.

"Hi Malfoy," you greeted him once you reached him, and he wasn't surprised to hear that your voice was just as pretty as you were. "I'm your tutor, Y/N."

Despite the desire for Draco to leap up and do something stupid, he remained seated on his chair, his knee bouncing as he feigned icy displeasure in his voice. "Hello."

A bit taken aback, your eyebrows raised in the slightest. Nonetheless, you took a seat from across him, offering him a smile despite his aloof aura. "I see you've already started without me."

"Let's just get this over with." He sighed, fighting the blush that threatened to rise on his cheeks as you nodded and hummed.

"Alright then."

—

Surprisingly, the session didn't go as bad as Draco thought it would. You were very patient, taking care to answer all of his hesitant questions, pointing out the wrong things he may be doing and helping him to fix them. Strangely, it felt... natural, easy to be around you, in a way that he felt like he was at home — and he's only ever felt that when he'd talk to his mother, or tell things to Kreacher, who was actually a quite good listener.

And then somehow Draco found himself looking forward to the next session.

And the next.

And... the next.

Before he knew it, he had attended four already and was beginning to soften up to you. You'd throw him a smile, he'd give you a small, hesitant smile back, his heart skipping a beat whenever your fingers would brush his.

"Position your wand like this," you whispered in his ear, your chest impossibly close to his back. He drew in a deep breath, biting his lip on concentration, his eyebrows furrowed, before he casts the spell. He felt you hold your breath.

"Accio!"

The textbook flew into his hand, and he staggered back slightly from the force of the impact, a small, surprised breath leaving his lips. For a moment, he and you remained silent.

And then he felt you jump, squealing quietly and clapping, and then he was grinning at you, a genuine, wide grin. Your arms were suddenly around his neck, and you bounced lightly up and down on your feet, and he buried his face in your neck and shouted out a small, "Yes!"

After a moment, you broke away from the hug, a timid finger brushing your hair behind your ears. You cleared your throat, and Draco fixed his hair quickly, a blush adorning his handsome features.

"Ahem," you cleared your throat, stepping back. "Sorry, just... guess I got excited."

Draco felt a soft smile on his face — which was rare. "It's alright," he said quietly. "Let's just... let's get on with it."

"Right," you breathed, flustered. "Anyway, the strength of the spell is..."

But Draco wasn't listening anymore. All he could think of was how you felt in his arms, giddy and pretty, and everything he never knew he could want before he met you.

—

Not long after, Draco realized that — scarily — he liked you. Not in the way that he'd liked Pansy before because she gave him attention. In the way that he'd stare at you during sessions, unable to focus. In the way that he'd feel butterflies shivering up his spine whenever you'd laugh at something he says. In the way that he'd purposefully try his best to excel in the spells you'd teach him — to learn them quickly — just so that he could coax that rare proud smile out of you.

And it scares him how much he suddenly cares. How, when you'd gotten sick one day, he asked your friend for you and visited you in the hospital wing. He'd even asked his mother how to cook chicken soup, practiced for the whole night, and came up the hospital wing the next day with dark bags under his eyes and a tired grin, holding a bowl of his own homemade chicken soup in his hands.

"It's probably not that good," he shrugged timidly, which was extremely off character, as he held out the bowl.

It wasn't spectacular, that was for sure, but it tasted of home. And the fact that it came from Draco himself, out of his own goodwill, was enough to make your insides warm, and a gentle smile to spread on your face.

—

Draco dreaded the end of your sessions.

The summer of his fifth year, he arrived back at the Manor with flying colours in Charms and a giddily beating heart.

Narcissa was very proud of him, going so far as to telling his father that he'd aced Charms under your tutelage. Lucius gave him a rare smile, and Draco thanked his lucky stars for you.

"Very good, Draco." Lucius had said as he sliced a piece of meat and slid it in his mouth, chewing slowly. "Since you've already caught up with the setbacks, I'll contact your tutor to cancel the rest of the classes. You'll do on your own from now on."

The blood left Draco's face. His mouth felt dry.

"What?"

"Yes," Lucius gave him a small smile. "Aren't you pleased, Draco?"

The blonde swallowed, hard. He had to make sure the next few words wouldn't reveal what he truly felt about the ordeal.

"Yes father. Very much. Thank you."

As he left the dinner table that night, Narcissa cast him a concerned look he failed to see.

—

Draco stared at his green four poster silk curtains, feeling his slow heart beat against his chest. He blinked, swallowing, and tried not to think of your smile.

It wasn't working. He was looking forward to your next class, excited to see you again after summer, but now that his father was going to cancel the rest of the classes, how was he supposed to see you again?

There would be no more library meetings. No more staring at you while you teach him a spell. No more exchanging smiles when he gets something right. No more brushing of hands, or straying away from the subject and talking about the most mundane things.

It had just begun to feel natural, and then it was snatched away.

Now what was he supposed to do? Approach the Ravenclaw table in his green robes? He'd just embarrass himself, absolutely not. Send you a message? Salazar, what a great idea, seeing as he didn't even know where to find the Ravenclaw dorms much less your particular one.

He just wanted more time with you.

Draco sighed, feeling his mouth curve down into a frown. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head as he ruffled through his trunk to unpack. Clothes and garments blurred beneath him, his eyes glazing over as he remembered how beautiful your face was whenever you'd grace him with a smile.

A sudden knock on the door jolted him aware. Draco startled, carefully rushing over to open the door. "Mother?"

"Draco, dear," Narcissa Malfoy smiled at her son kindly, entering the room. "Would you like some help to unpack?"

Draco's head dropped. He knew it then — that his mother knew how he felt about Lucius's cancellation. Narcissa was always keen on things like that.

He nodded, and stepped aside to let his mother walk over to the bed and set aside the curtains, smiling gently at him and gracefully patting the spot beside her. Draco took it, averting her gaze.

"Draco," she said, folding a sweater. "Come now, you can still see her around Hogwarts."

Draco gulped, shaking his head. "She's a Ravenclaw, mother." He shot a sad sneer at the artfully carpeted floor. "It would be a disgrace to Slytherin."

The blonde boy tried not to notice the sad look his mother sent his way.

For a long moment, silence reigned in the air, save for the slight ruffling of crumpled robes. And then Draco spoke.

"Mother..." he started in a murmur. "Is it wrong that I like her?"

Narcissa shook her head lightly, sighing through her nose. "Oh, Draco. I know your father places much importance on houses, but really. As long as she's right for you, go for it."

Biting his lip, Draco kept his gaze on his lap. His heart rate elevated slightly.

"Draco, look at me."

And he did, and what he saw in his mother's eyes was enough to hope for the best.

—

The universe seemed to be against Draco starting with the time he arrived at King's Cross.

For one, he was late for the train, barely climbing on before it took off, all because a house elf had spilled all over his father's hair and he just had to clean it before apparating.

And then came the sorting, where he craned his neck to find you amongst the bobbing heads of the hall — well, that is, until Pansy shot him a suspicious frown, coating her words in faux sugar as she asked what he was doing. Draco had to stop for the rest of the night, afraid his friends might find out about his attraction to you.

His searching for you was delayed another week, as Slughorn had assigned him to do some extra Potions work for accidentally blowing up a cauldron. It wasn't his fault he startled when he smelled vanilla and roses in his Amortentia — which was unmistakably you. Because of his sudden movement, the wooden spoon had tilted the cauldron, the fire touching the liquid, and it exploded in his face, singeing his blonde hair — which he had meticulously styled that morning in expectation of finally finding you — and embarrassing him in front of the whole class.

But Draco wasn't much of a quitter. Sure, he was a whiner, oftentimes more bark than bite, but he didn't like leaving his work when he'd already persevered for it. What a waste. So he vowed that today was going to be the day he took action.

—

"Hey, Lovegood, is it?" Draco hissed. When the blonde girl nodded dreamily, looking mildly surprised that he was even acknowledging her. He silently congratulated himself for finding the right girl, remembering that he'd sometimes see you eating lunch with her. "I need to pass on a message to Y/N. She's, uh, my tutor. Do you know where to find her?"

Draco's eyes darted around, nervous that somebody might see him talking to the 'loony' Ravenclaw student. He couldn't be caught dead by his fellow Slytherins, no matter how much he stuttered out an explanation.

"Yes," Luna finally answered, her voice light and melodic. "She told me she was going to head to the library. Something about looking for her History of Magic book. Be careful though. I heard there might be some Nargles lurking there today."

"Uh," Draco's brow puckered, but he decided to move on quickly. "Right. Thank you... Lovewood."

He was too much in a hurry rushing out of the classroom to even bother to hear Luna correcting him. It was a good thing they had a free period for the next hour or two, because admitting how he felt about you — or even just talking to you — might end up as a complete and utter disaster.

Draco crossed his fingers. And then boom, suddenly there you were, in front of him, rushing through the hallway and dodging the small crowd of students. You were holding a stack of books on your hands, your bag half-open; it flopped every time you took a step. Draco followed close behind, trying not to be too obvious.

And then it happened. Peeves the poltergeist flew above you, cackling wildly. He dropped something from his puffy fingers, a wicked smile stretched across his face as he did so. The object — shiny, shaped like a ball — fell, and exploded in front of you.

The results carried out as if they were in slow motion. You recoiled instinctively, but too slow, and the little bomb swept you off of your feet, landing you flat on your face as glitter showered on every student in that area.

And the worst part? Everyone continued to carry on, save for a small group of Hufflepuffs that oohed at the sight of the sparkling air.

Draco's breath hitched at the sight of you feebly sitting up on the floor, groaning quietly. You held your head, looking dazed as you tried, clumsily, to collect the books that had scattered all over. You were unaware of the small gash on your temple and the thin trickle of blood that ran down your cheek.

Without another thought, he rushed over to you, worry creasing his brows. Draco knelt on the floor, helping you to pick your books up. "I got it," he muttered, wondering if other students might judge him, a Malfoy, for helping you. Well, screw that. He wasn't going to be just another bystander who averted their gaze.

"Draco?" You asked, blinking. He nodded, swallowing heavily at the sight of your pained expression.

"Come on," he urges you, taking your hand and helping you to stand. "Let's take you to the Hospital Wing."

—

Fortunately, Madame Pomfrey made quick work of your cut, stopping the bleeding and handing you a cloth smelling of herbs. "Dab at it," she instructed briefly, and then left to take care of an injured Quidditch player.

So there Draco was, with you, in the room, alone together. He watched as you, seated atop the white marble counter, carefully patted your temple, failing to smother your little winces.

"You're doing it wrong," he murmured, and a small smile appeared on his face when your lips turned down and pursed.

"Why don't you do it then?" you huffed.

"Gladly," answered Draco, surprising you. That was... out of character. And the next thing he did was even more out of character.

Draco walked forwards slowly, took the cloth from your hands, stepped in between your outstretched legs, and gently dabbed. Once. Twice. Three times.

You blushed. "What are you doing?"

"Helping you," Draco responded calmly, his touch careful and deliberate. Your breath hitched at seeing him this close. You could see every speck in his sage green eyes, every blonde strand that seemed to glow golden in the sunlight, every sparkle of the few glitters that had clung to his eyelashes. He was handsome, you knew that, but he had never really been... this handsome. Acknowledging this in your head brought more heat to your cheeks, stole your breath away, made you want to giggle and avert your gaze like a flustered little girl, all of which you held back.

In the same way, Draco was holding his breath. He had never had a girl this close to him before. Of course, he wouldn't admit that, but he certainly couldn't hide the faint flush of his cheeks, the catch in his normally steady breath, the way his leg wanted to bounce up and down in a nervous jig.

He had to tell you. It was the perfect time. But why is it that the words couldn't get past the prominent lump in his throat?

Finally, he managed to choke out," (Name)." He cleared his throat, subconsciously gripping the cloth tighter.

You hummed, peering at him. You were closer than ever now, your face only a few inches above his as he stared up at it. The hand holding the cloth was still now, and Draco somehow managed not to look at your kind eyes.

He cleared his throat again. "Thank you," he quietly said, a small smile on his lips. "For helping me with Charms. And I... Uh- I just wanted to say that..."

What was this? A Malfoy does not stutter. He could practically hear Lucius snapping at him to have some dignity. He squared his shoulders. Took a deep breath. Opened his mouth.

"Look, here's the deal." You tilted your head, curious now. "I... I like you, (Name). I'm not sure why. I mean, I get that I'm a Slytherin and you're a Ravenclaw but... there's something about you that I just can't resist. Somehow."

There! He said it. Draco let out the rest of his breath in a slow whoosh, then gave you a smile. A charming, very much good-looking one. My goodness.

You froze, staring at the blonde man in front of you. Your mouth was a little open, your breath stuck in your throat.

"You're joking," you cautiously said.

"I'm not," Draco laughed lightly.

"Then prove it." You crossed your arms, your pulse escalating.

The edge of Draco's mouth curled upwards. He was confident now, you can see it. For some reason, it made your heart flutter. "You sure?" he said, his voice low.

"I'm sure," you whispered, swallowing. He was so close.

And then his lips were on yours. You didn't even have time to think. The only thought on your mind now was how his hand fell against your sides, pulling you closer as your palms rested warmly on his neck. You leaned down a little, at a better angle, and buried your hands in his messy hair, rendering you both breathless.

"I think I'll take that as a valid proof," you whispered against his lips once you pulled away. Draco smiled- no, beamed, and for a moment, you felt like you were floating.

"Can't be right in everything, darling" Draco said quietly, his voice low teasing. Your heart skipped a beat at the nickname. "Just because you're good at teaching Charms-"

You shut him up, leaning in to steal another kiss, wound forgotten, and Madame Pomfrey's cry of indignation ignored.

Well, it was safe to say that, even if you both had to serve a detention after, it was all worth it.

[ladyredspider]

Secret Boyfriend

Draco Malfoy x Gryffindor Reader

Synopsis: Everyone wants to know who your boyfriend is, and they end up finding out by accident when Draco saves you from a Venomous Tentacula.

W.C: 700 words

Masterlist HERE

I'm currently unemployed and people won't hire me because I have a disability and a transplant. So if you'd like to help, you can leave a tip or buy a commission HERE

"Please, at least a hint," your friend insisted, clinging to your arm as you walked across the courtyard. "Is he in another house?"

Ever since you accidentally let slip that your boyfriend helped you with your Potions homework, your love life became the hottest topic in Gryffindor. It started as curious questions and ended with a betting poster in the common room that had at least twenty candidates. The funniest thing was that no one had put any money on your actual boyfriend.

"If you want to know, you'll have to guess," you said.

"If he's in another house, he has to be a Hufflepuff or a Ravenclaw." Ron joined the conversation. "Slytherin is definitely out of the question."

"Why can't he be a Slytherin?" You raised an eyebrow, clutching your books to your chest.

Everyone around you burst out laughing, some nearly choking.

"You too, Neville?" You turned around, looking at the boy who immediately lowered his head.

"Slytherins are arrogant and rude," Hermione commented. "And you're one of the nicest people I know. Besides, you were raised by your Muggle mother; Slytherins only have horrible things to say about us."

If only they knew. You smiled, thinking how sweet your boyfriend was despite your Muggle blood.

"Maybe Slytherins aren't as bad as you think." You quickened your pace, arriving at the greenhouse first.

"As if," Harry murmured, and everyone nodded.

You didn't blame them for thinking that. Before the fateful day Professor Slughorn assigned Draco as your tutor, you too had believed Slytherins were ruthless and cruel. It took a couple of encounters in the library for you to realize he wasn't so bad. Three months later, you were crazy about Draco Malfoy.

Just seeing him enter the greenhouse made your heart race and feel your face getting hotter.

He made sure to walk behind you and brush his arm against your back, that was the only kind of touch you could have in public without raising suspicion. You had to be very careful about everything you did, from avoiding eye contact in the hallways to sitting separately; but that afternoon Draco broke the rules and chose the table next to yours.

"What are you looking at, Y/LN?" Draco feigned disgust.

"Just ignore him." Your friend patted your shoulder. "He's an asshole."

You hid your smile with your book and glanced to the side, finding your boyfriend winking at you.

You could barely pay attention in class. Your teacher's voice talking about Venomous Tentacula was background noise while images of Draco flooded your mind.

You should have paid more attention; if you had, you might not have ended up trapped by a deadly plant. Everything happened so fast you didn't even register the grip on your arm when someone stopped the plant and severed the tentacle.

"Love, are you okay?" Draco cupped your face, his blue eyes filled with concern. "Did it bite you?"

"I'm fine." You smiled like an idiot, leaning into his touch.

"What were you thinking? You could have died. I've told you a thousand times you need to pay more attention. One of these days you're going to give me a heart attack. I swear by Salazar I'm going to lock you in the dungeons until you learn to..."

You cut off his rambling with a kiss. Draco could be over the top sometimes when it came to your safety, and when he got out of control, only your lips against his could calm him down.

"Merlin. Malfoy has a heart," your friend froze behind you.

You broke the kiss and glanced around. Everyone was just as surprised as your friend; some even seemed disgusted by the scene.

"Shit, sorry." The secret was out. Draco would be in trouble with his parents because of you.

You tried to push him away and pretend nothing had happened. Maybe if you blamed the Tentacula, they'd believe you.

"Do you have a fucking problem?" Draco pulled you into a hug and kissed your forehead. "You're not going anywhere. Let them say what they want. I was tired of hiding anyway."

And that's how no one won the bet, and the rumors about you only got worse.

[comfortcharacterwrites]

the ending's so funny to me idk why

[comfortcharacterwrites]

Fivi? You moved? OMG, I'm so sorry for not knowing. I missed you though. 💓

nooo it's okay dollie!! I decided to delete my jjk works for personal reasons, but I'm defo still here!! Missed you too 🫶🫶🫶

[comfortcharacterwrites]

Hii!! <3 Just sending some love 💞

i just realized you moved here, sorry for never keeping up with anything T-T

noo that's okay!! hi zigreth. just happy you remember me haha 🥰 sending love back <3

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[comfortcharacterwrites]

Hey, so I saw your recommended fic list, specifically the Fred Weasley one, and I had a question. So before every fic, there's a T or a W, and I wondered what those meant. Thank you!

oh okay thank you! so T means a fic from tumblr, W means one from Wattpad, and A is from AO3!! hope you enjoyed those fics nonetheless 🫶

[sundrop-writes]

Saint

George Weasley x Fem!Reader

And heaven can wait. But you ought to be a saint, I got your very best intentions - Helping me along. Well take it from me, My baby's a Saint.

Summary:

You and George have been best friends for as long as you can remember. He has always been a wonderful part of your life - your source of laughter, an unexpected surprise, your sweet George. So when you are threatened with losing him, you have to tell him the secret that you've been keeping for far too long...

George Weasley x Fem!Reader. Childhood Friends to Lovers. Fluff (with very slight Angst). Set during Deathly Hallows with childhood flashbacks.

Word Count: 6,600

Harry Potter Masterlist | AO3 Link

Full list of warnings and author's note below the cut.

Warnings: this is a fem!reader fic but, the reader is mostly referred to using you/yours throughout the fic; there are no descriptions of the readers looks, including no descriptions of her race, hair colour, body type, etc; the reader’s Hogwarts house is not mentioned, so you can just imagine that it’s yours, whichever one that is; it is mentioned that the reader is the same age as Fred and George and would be in their year at Hogwarts, and would have been childhood friends with them before Hogwarts, growing up nearby The Burrow; discussions of dark themes that occur during Death Hallows - including death, killing, and near-death experiences; mentions of George being taller than the reader (under the assumption that he would be taller than most people); the trope of ‘making up a guy to get mad at’ (reader dated a guy that cheated on her and Fred and George pranked him in revenge, and he’s technically an OC); mentions of blood and the gory details of George’s canon injury; Hinny is implied as a background ship and so is Romione; I think that’s it in terms of warnings, because this is just meant to be fluff.

A/N: This is just a nice little fluff getting together fic in the same vein as Kisses Like Fire Whiskey - the title comes from an Elton John song of the same name, and of course, it's a reference to the 'saint-like' line in the scene, and it's also a reference to the fact that Fred and George are pranksters and they are absolutely not saint-like at all. And it's a reference to the fact that here, George goes through a near-death experience and the reader presses that 'heaven can wait' because she doesn't want to lose him. Overall, I had a lot of fun with this fic, as I always have fun with 'getting together' stories. I hope you guys enjoy it, especially you George girls who are aching for some stuff that is not Fred centric.

...

You had always loved The Burrow.

Growing up so close by, you had always considered it one of your favourite places on earth. A place where all your best friends lived, your second home.

The Weasley family home was always so welcoming, especially thanks to the people inside of it. Charlie and Bill, who were like older brothers to you. Percy, who was always strict, but fair, and lovingly tried his best to keep you out of trouble. Fred and George, who were your very best friends from the time you could walk. And Ron and Ginny, the funny, sweet, sometimes annoying younger siblings that you never asked for but loved all the same, always tagging along on your adventures where you didn't want them. People who you loved as dear friends more and more as time went on.

You felt lucky that you had grown up just a short walk from them, and that your two families had always been so close because of it. You had no blood related siblings, but growing up nearby them was like being a part of the large brood.

In all the times you had been inside the large, somehow overbearingly cozy family home, you had never been so anxious in all your life. The relaxing aura of Molly's hand-knit throw blankets and the baked in scent of tea within the walls was doing nothing to help soothe you on this night.

You were sitting on the front porch, your hands shoved into the pockets of the cardigan you were wearing, fighting against the oddly chilly summer night as you stared up at the starry night sky. You were still amazed by just how many stars could be seen in this picturesque, isolated country. It was breathtakingly beautiful, but it did nothing to ease your tense anxiety as you continued to worry about your dear friends – people you considered to be family after all these years of being so terribly close with them. 

Tonight was the night that The Order was moving Harry from his long term home in Surrey, trying to avoid alerting the Ministry of Magic and therefore, any Death Eaters that could be hiding in their midst. Trying to avoid accidentally tipping off You-Know-Who, who was eager to see Harry exposed and vulnerable, out in the open and ready to be killed. It was an incredibly dangerous operation that involved six other people disguising themselves as Harry using Polyjuice Potion to become potential decoys. Of course, they were hoping that the decoys would mean nothing, because the moving operation would never been seen or discovered. And ultimately, those decoys were risking a lot, seeing as so many people wanted to murder Harry Potter… 

Ultimately, you were thinking about one person in particular. One person that you hated risking his life through all this. You had been sick with worry ever since you had found out that George Weasley had volunteered to be one of the decoys on the mission. He insisted that it was nothing, no big deal, that it was the least he could do to help out. He was completely ignoring any potential risks. Just like he always did. But this wasn't some stupid prank where the worst thing that could happen was a few weeks detention if he ended up getting caught.

This was his life on the line here, and he didn't seem to fully care about that. Or he was too cocky and sure of himself to believe that his life was ever at risk.  

And his stupid, too-sure attitude left you sitting on the stoop like a lost little girl, staring up at the sky, waiting for him to come home. Just like your days back at Hogwarts when he was dumb and reckless – one of you had to be the one to worry about the consequences. One of you had to be the one carrying the anxiety.

“A watched cauldron never brews.” Ginny sighed as she sat down beside you. 

You had been so swept up in your worried thoughts that you hadn’t even heard her coming, and you were slightly startled by her presence. 

“What?” You gaped, confused by her choice of words. 

“They’re not just going to spontaneously appear if you keep staring up there, waiting for them.” She insisted. “You're too wound up.”

You wanted to argue that they were coming toward the house no matter what, and they had to arrive sometime. It was a sure thing. But you landed on different words instead.

“How fast do brooms travel?” You asked, knowing that this was likely a dumb question. 

“Most aren’t made for long distance flights.” She reminded you. “They have a lot of ground to cover from Surrey to here. And you're used to George popping around everywhere anyway. I don’t think he’s used anything but Apparition since he and Fred turned seventeen.” 

Something about her words caught you off guard, causing a nagging knot in your stomach that was a bit more than the anxiety you had already been feeling.

“Why mention George specifically?” You asked. “You must be worried about all of them – Bill, Ron, Fred, Harry especially-” 

“I’ve learned not to be worried about Harry anymore.” She shrugged, sounding far too confident for your liking. “He’s good at getting deep into trouble and not getting killed. I just have to trust that he'll come home.”

You scoffed out a surprised laugh at this, wondering how she could be so calm. 

“I brought up George because I know you’re thinking about him. It wouldn't take a genius to figure that out.” Ginny told you, a certain glint of mischief in her eye that looked all too similar to the twins. “He’s always been your favourite Weasley-” 

“You’re my friend. You’re like a sister to me.” You insisted. “I don’t like you any less.” 

You rushed to combat against her words, hating where the conversation was going.

“Not quite what I meant.” Ginny continued on, a deeply knowing smirk painting across her lips. “I’m just saying, if I was off on the mission, I don’t think you’d be out here, staring at the sky, shaking your legs hard enough to bring down the house.” 

She put a hand on your knee, and it was only then that you realized how roughly you had been bouncing your knee due to the sheer anxiety flowing through you. 

She didn't say the words outright, but both of you knew that she didn't have to. It was more than implied, and she was more than clever enough to have figured it out without you telling her. Damn her and her observant mind.

“Are you ever going to tell him how you feel?” She asked, a natural curiosity seeping through her voice. 

You let out a harsh, defeated sigh.

“Now probably isn’t a good time.” You shrugged, your eyes naturally drifting back to the sky, eagerly hoping to see some trace of movement, hoping to see someone land. “With everything that’s been going on, all the danger-” 

“And what’s that got to do with anything?” Ginny laughed. “Mum is inside right now slaving over a giant gaudy cake because we’re having a wedding despite ‘everything that’s been going on’. If anything, now is exactly the right time to tell him. Don’t wait around for something to happen.” 

“And you expect something to happen?” You bit back, the anxiety snapping to worry as she brought up the one topic that you feared the most – George potentially getting hurt.

“No.” Ginny said confidently, laughing brightly as she shook her head. “But clearly you do, and it'll be worse if something does happen and he doesn't know how you feel.”

Before you could reply, another voice disrupted. 

“Ginny!” Molly called out through the open kitchen window. 

“Yes, Mum?!” Ginny hollered in return. 

“Come and give me a hand with this, dear!” 

“It’s not even my wedding…” Ginny complained under her breath, bitterly annoyed as she stood up and stomped back inside. 

You smiled to yourself as you heard more of Ginny’s complaints through the window, and your eyes drifted out to the boundless, grassy fields that lead from The Burrow to your family home. It was a place where you and the Weasley siblings spent much of your childhood playing and causing trouble. You thought back on one particularly fond memory, realizing that George had always been incredibly special to you. Despite what you had said, he had always been your favourite.

… 

“Promise me this isn’t a trick.” You whined as you walked through the tall, overgrown grass on the edges of the property, following George's lead despite knowing that it likely wasn't a good idea.

It was a place off the well-beaten path between your home and The Burrow, a space filled with long whipping grass that was bound to hold anything from small field mice to nipping garden gnomes to something tricky and explosive that the twins had planted there. Something in your gut told you to run off, but your curiosity was also getting the better of you.

You were the same age as the twins, not off to Hogwarts for another year, so none of you were allowed to use magic freely yet. But those boys got their hands on joke products and other tricky things they could set off, usually fiery or explosive – things they could use to shock and awe while bending the rules around underage magic use. You worried for what life would be like when they officially got their wands. 

“This isn’t a trick.” George sighed, sounding exasperated trying to convince you, seeing as this was the third or fourth time you had nagged him about it during the long, winding walk through the grass. On top of the fact that he had a hard time convincing you to even follow him out this far in the first place.

Truthfully, the only reason you had even begun walking in his steps was because Fred was nowhere in sight. The twins were lethal together, and a bit easier to deal with apart. But still, not entirely safe when standing alone, so you still found yourself using caution as you walked, staring at George's back.

He could feel your weary expression fixated on the back of his head, and he easily added on: 

“Come on, when have I ever been known to play pranks on innocent, unsuspecting victims?” 

He tossed you a wicked smirk over his shoulder, and it was then that you knew you had made a horrible mistake. 

“I’m going home.” You announced, your voice full of regret.

He was quick to grab your wrist, holding you tightly and keeping you from turning around and bailing completely. 

“It’s not a trick this time.” He sighed, sounding entirely defeated. “I promise.” 

You felt a pang in your chest, and oddly enough, you found yourself putting some stake in his promise and the sweet twinkle in his eyes. He was too cute for his own good.  

“Come now, we’re nearly there.” 

He took you to the edge of the woods where the grass turned to taller trees sprouting up, and when he crouched down on his knees, hiding in that tall grass, you followed his lead. You wondered again what the two of you were supposed to be doing here. 

“What-?” 

“Shh.” 

The moment you moved to ask, George hushed you, making a dramatic motion with a finger tight over his lips, and using the other hand, he pointed out into a small clearing between the trees. When you followed his attention, you were amazed by what you saw.

A tall, beautiful creature came creeping into the clearing. It was a furry mammal, almost deer-like – light brown fur, four spindly legs with dainty hooves, but it was so much more magnificent than a common deer. Its head was adorned with sprawling antlers that must have been six feet wide, and those antlers were covered in rich, luscious, living green moss. The moss spread all down its back, even starting to grow beautiful pink and purple flowers in some places. The creature came to a spot in the clear with a set of lush berry bushes and began eating, living its life so gently, so close to your own home.

You sat in amazement, easily understanding why George had brought you here to see this. 

“I think he’s been living here for a while.” George noted in a hushed whisper, obviously afraid to scare the creature away. 

“She has.” You corrected, seeing another, much smaller and paler creature with no antlers begin to stumble through her tall legs, coming out of hiding. “She’s a mother.” 

“Fred owes me a Chocolate Frog.” George announced, grinning in victory. “He said-” 

Just then, there was a loud explosion in the distance, a disturbance that scared the creatures into running off. 

Your head whipped toward the noise, and only a moment later-

“FREDRICK GIDEON WEASLEY! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE-?! Where-?! WHERE IS HE?! WHERE IS YOUR USUAL PARTNER IN CRIME?! GEORGE! GEORGE!” 

George let out a bright chuckle, and then grinned at you. 

“Gotta go.” He said, seemingly entirely amused as he rushed back to his feet and raced back to the house, clearly prepared to share the blame with his 'partner in crime' for whatever plan had gone off while he was out of the house. 

You let out a small chuckle yourself, and moved to go back to your house in the opposite direction. 

… 

Years later, George was still the same. At Hogwarts, he pulled off many similar schemes, and him and Fred quickly became known for their pranks. You easily thought of an incident during your fifth year with them – a time when Fred and George pulled off a particularly epic, satisfying prank in your honour. 

You had been walking toward the Ravenclaw common room, heat in your heels, on your way to give someone a piece of your mind. Tears forming in your eyes as you thought of the way you had been wronged, distracted by the wave of emotions overwhelming you when someone reached out and grabbed your arm. Next thing you knew, you had been pulled into a tight, stuffy broom cupboard. 

You let out a huff, confused and offended, especially when that person put a hand tightly over your mouth to keep you quiet. But you couldn’t stay upset for too long when a familiar voice rang out from above you, making himself known through the darkness, towering over you with his height in the small space. 

“Oi, calm down, I was saving you.” He explained quickly. “You almost walked right into the trap.” 

“Trap?” You gaped in confusion as he pulled his hand away to allow you to speak, and through the oppressive darkness, you saw a brilliant flash of white teeth that you knew had to be a mischievous grin. 

George leaned across you, making you all too aware of just how closely his body was pressed up against yours in the tight space, moving to open the door once again. But he only opened it a small crack, allowing you to turn around in order to get a look out into the corridor you had just been walking through. You tried your best not to pay attention to how warm his body was against yours, pressed tightly up against you as he took a position above you, also eagerly peering out of the crack. You were even more confused when you found yourself looking upon a nearly empty corridor that was one of the many paths leading toward the Ravenclaw Tower, with seemingly nothing of note happening. 

“George, what exactly am I supposed to be seeing?” You asked, your voice slightly annoyed and impatient. 

“Patience, love.” George insisted, the cutesy nickname causing your cheeks to flame with even more heat than the tightness of his presence near you. “Any moment now.” 

You easily knew what he meant when you heard more voices coming down the hall – one of them being Fred’s, and the other being the exact person who had made you upset, the entire reason you had been storming down here in the first place: a fellow fifth year Ravenclaw boy named Daniel Rottman. 

“She’s very torn up about the whole thing, see, and she just wants to talk it out with you-” Fred explained, using a voice that you knew from experience was more faux-sincere and scheming than it was true. 

“Of course, of course, I’d love to explain myself. I was very ill that morning, you see.” 

You scoffed and rolled your eyes at this, and George poked your side, obviously not wanting your sarcastic sounds to give away your position. 

Daniel had been very flirty with you for a while now. You hadn't really known him or paid attention to him, but he had asked to be your partner for a Potions project and you said 'yes' on a whim, and you found working with him to be quite fun, and on top of it, the two of you received top marks. Recently, he had asked you on a date to Hogsmeade, claiming that he had fancied you for a while and he had been working up the courage to finally ask you out.

You didn’t necessarily feel that romantic spark with him (and no, not because you were hung up on a certain redhead…) but you found yourself being talked into accepting the date by your giggling dorm-mates because he was just 'so dreamy' – so you agreed. Only to receive an owl from him on the morning of saying that he couldn’t make it because was under the weather and had to stay in bed. 

So Fred and George invited you to Hogsmeade with them for the usual sort of day – a trip to Zonko’s, a browse around Honeyduke’s for sweets that you didn’t need, and some warm Butterbeer at the The Three Broomsticks to treat you against the cold. And while you were all crammed into a booth inside the busy restaurant, you saw Daniel cozied up in a different booth with a Hufflepuff girl, very much not sick in bed like he told you he was. 

Apparently he had been making rounds with a lot of different girls, and simply using them for help with his homework. He had been telling them all the same story about how he fancied them and he had been too shy to tell them previously, and then dropping them like an icky Gobstone the second he had gotten a good mark in whatever class they had helped him in. Daniel still had a lot of your notes for Potions, and you were beyond pissed about it. Ravenclaws being smart? More like clever enough to scheme to make their way to the top. 

“Yeah.” Fred choked out as they came into view, clearly growing impatient. “I’m sure she would love to hear the details. She’s waiting for you in the courtyard.” 

Of course, they weren’t going to make it to the courtyard. 

You were excited to see whatever it was that Fred and George had planned.

Fred used his long legs to take a few extra strides ahead of Daniel, and when he was sure that their victim was in just the right spot, he took his wand out and fired a spell over his shoulder. 

“Felis decipula!” 

This set off a chain of amazing events. 

A large bucket that had been nestled up in the rafters, hiding, fell down perfectly and covered Daniel in thick, yellow paint, and then, seemingly from nowhere, a plume of bright white feathers appeared to become stuck to the paint, completing his appearance as a horrible, icky, sticky chicken. And then, a wonderful enchantment that Fred and George must have spent hours working on engaged, and Daniel was lifted into the air, his feet hovering high off the ground as he was tossed about in a sickly, dizzying manner, and he began to scream. 

“Weasley! Weasley, you awful prat! I’ll get you for this!” He screamed. “Petrificus Totalus! Densaugeo! Furnunculus!”

He took out his wand and began firing curses, none of which actually landed as he continued to flail in the air, his aim completely thrown off by the horrible, sickening jinx that Fred and George had put on him. Either way, Fred wasn't waiting around for him to get a lucky shot, and he took off running down the corridor, cleanly passing you and George in the broom closet. You were having a very hard time containing your laughter, and George pulled you back inside and fully shut the door once again in order to continue hiding.

“Oh Merlin, that was amazing.” You whispered, holding your stomach tightly as you began to cramp with how harshly you were holding in your laughter – little wheezes and whips making it through your nostrils. “His face was so red – at least what you could see past the bits of paint. How long do you think he’ll be stuck up there?” 

“The charm should wear off in a few hours. If no one comes to get him.” George explained, a wide grin spread across his mouth. “I suspect he’ll kick up quite a fuss until someone does get him down.” 

“What if Peeves finds him?” You thought aloud, knowing that the mischievous poltergeist would likely take advantage of it as an opportunity to taunt someone already in pain. 

George let out a snort, and rushed to cover his mouth, not wanting the noise to cause the two of you to be discovered. 

“We never even thought about that.” He explained, his grin getting even wider somehow. And then he simply shrugged. “Oh well.” 

You rolled your eyes at this. 

“You are so awful.” You sighed, a bright fondness in your voice and your own smile denoting that you didn’t find this to be such a bad thing. 

“Me?” George replied, putting a hand on his chest, faking shock. “You must have me confused with my brother – see, I’m practically a saint.” 

You let out another bright laugh at this stupid joke, shaking your head. 

“Well come on, that’s what he gets for messing with my girl.” He added on, a proud puff in his chest. And then, he rushed to cover up the fond, affectionate, loving words. “Well – my friend. Nobody messes with my best friend. My best… girl… friend.” 

Your heart was pounding in your chest, and you were feeling the intense whiplash of emotions, going from bright and happy to feeling nervous and sweaty as you stared at the outline of him through the darkness. Should you say something? Was now the right time?

George then cleared his throat loudly, clearly feeling awkward. He was willing the moment to pass on, and you let it, swallowing down anything you might have been gearing up to say.

“We... we should go and find Fred.” He added on. “He shouldn’t have to take the heat alone when ole Chicken Boy does get down from there.” 

“Yeah.” You added on easily, nodding. “Right.” 

…

That was just one of many days that George put butterflies in your stomach, that he made you believe you should have told him how you felt a long, long time ago. But something always disrupted the moment or made you lose your nerve. Something greater always made you feel like it just wasn’t the right time, or made you think that if you finally did speak up about how you felt, for some dumb reason, he wouldn’t feel the same. Some small voice in the back of your head was worried that if you told him how you felt, you would just be falling on your face, and it would ruin your amazing, years-long friendship. 

You couldn’t afford to lose George. He was the best friend in the world, and even if you were so, so terribly in love with him… you would always put those feelings aside in favour of being his best friend. 

… 

Naturally, you were drawn from these thoughts when there was some movement in the sky above. The thing you had been so eagerly anticipating was now finally happening – everyone was arriving home safely. You leapt to your feet without even thinking about it, squinting your eyes to see who the figures were. It was a streak through the night that seemed out of control, going far off to the side rather than coming toward the house. Ultimately, whoever it was landed far off in one of the fields, and a short while later, Hagrid and Harry – or rather, a Harry came wandering through the tall grass, soaking wet. They must have landed in the bog on the far side of the property. 

You weren’t surprised when Ginny eagerly shoved you out of the way and ran towards who must have been the true Harry, pulling him into a tight hug. 

Molly hung back by the door, a nervous energy about her as she had yet to see any of her sons or her husband safely arrive yet. She was craning her neck, attempting to look around Hagrid, which was quite a task, as though he was hiding several Weasleys behind his back.

“Thank Merlin, you’re safe.” Ginny commented brightly, sounding entirely relieved, finally letting on how worried she had been about Harry now that he was back in her arms. She hesitantly let him go and held him at arms length, beginning to inspect him for injuries while a terribly haunted look overtook his features.

“The others aren’t back?” Harry gaped, looking around, clearly displeased to see only the three of you waiting to greet them. 

You felt a sickly pinch in your stomach at the tone of his voice and the look on his face. 

Molly shook her head. 

“They must be alright, though...” Molly said, a dusty kind of hope in her voice that clearly she was too tired to believe in.

Hagrid gave a dull grunt, and a barely traceable shake of the head, and you felt your ribs threaten to crush your lungs.

“They were on us, right from the start-” Hagrid began to explain, and your terrible feeling began to worsen. 

The nausea you felt came to a true head when another pair Apparated onto the grass – Lupin, holding onto another Harry who was quickly morphing into someone else. When you saw the terrible sea fresh, bright red blood gush down across the side of his head and over his shoulder, you selfishly hoped that he wasn't yours, but red hair was quickly sprouting on the top of his head – oh, dear god.

“Help!” Lupin yelled. “Over here!” He was struggling, having trouble lugging the dead weight along as the potion wore off and Not-Harry grew taller and weighed more. 

As his nose and eyes and forehead came into shape, that terrible twist in your stomach formed a full knot and you fought not to throw up across the grass due to the intensity of the emotions hitting you all at once. Instead, found yourself shouting out in horror.

“George!” 

It was a terrible, grief-filled cry as you sprinted across the yard as fast as your legs could carry you, even knowing that Lupin was trying to carry him toward the house anyway. 

“George, George, George!” 

You grabbed his other arm without hesitating, in the back of your mind knowing that you probably looked like a sobbing fool, but having no room to care as you were too worried about him. You were blubbering, shaking horrendously trying to help carry him toward the house. You had no clue how you actually managed to get him onto the couch, but you squeezed yourself tightly beside him, collapsing onto his chest in a hug, holding him tight. You let out another shuddering breath of relief when you felt his heart beating under your palm and felt his rattling breath against your cheek.

It was so much blood. You truly thought he had been dying. 

George reached an arm around your shoulders and back and held onto you tight, his grip quivering slightly, from blood loss or his own panic, you weren't sure. But he seemed entirely hesitant to let go of you in return.

Lupin was screaming at Harry for some reason your brain didn't have room to comprehend, and everyone except for Molly – who stayed close, petting along George’s hair, clearly just as worried as you were, shuffled outside when others began to arrive. But George was all you could think of. You couldn't bear to part from him anytime soon.

“‘m fine.” He mumbled out, slurring from his barely conscious state. 

“This is not fine.” You choked back, trying to sound angrier than you were past your tears. “You are not fine. You’re bleeding everywhere-” 

“You’re here.” He insisted, clutching tightly onto your shirt. “That means ‘m fine.” 

You tried not to scold him too heavily for flirting right now, now of all times, because at least it meant that he was feeling like himself. You sat up to further inspect him, a deep ache going through you when you got a good look at the sight of his ear – bits of mangled flesh, blown apart and barely recognizable from what it once was.

“George-” You sighed, the worried tone evident in your voice, and he quickly cut you off.

“Don't tell me how bad it is.” He said. “Your face says it all. And you're a terrible liar.”

“Someone had to keep us honest.” Fred's comment alerted you to the fact that the others had come inside.

There was another terrible sting through your chest when you saw the horrified, hurt look on his face as he shuffled closer, slow and hesitant, as though terrified that he might somehow further hurt George by getting too close.

“He says he’s fine.” You told Fred, reaching up to wipe away the thick trails of tears wetting your cheeks. You weren't sure if you were trying to reassure him or reporting on the lie – perhaps leaving Fred to judge it for himself.

“Yeah?” Fred prodded, a terrible twinge of sadness in his voice that didn't suit him. “No worse than when you broke your leg during the game against Ravenclaw during our fifth year?” 

It was something the three of you remembered well. Daniel Rottman had been a Beater on the Ravenclaw team, out for revenge after the ‘chicken’ incident. And like most people, he couldn’t even tell the twins apart properly, so he had gone after both of them relentlessly for most of the game – it had only been poor luck that George had been on the receiving end of a bratty, poor sportsman swing of his bat right down on George's calf at the end of the game after Ravenclaw had won. Some healing potions and a few nights in the Hospital Wing and George had been right as rain, but you had fussed over him just as much back then, especially because you had felt guilty that Daniel had only been on their radar because of you. 

“That was worse.” George easily lied. 

“You can’t keep getting injured and scaring the pretty girl, Georgie. Despite what our big brother says, that’s not how you get their attention.” Fred told him, grinning through his own wet tears, obviously referring to Bill being attacked the previous year and how much Fleur had fussed over him when he had been in the hospital then. 

“You've foiled me. That was my plan, all along.” George mumbled dully, forcing a small smile.

You shook your head, a dull laughter escaping your throat, knowing that, of course, you would be stuck to George's side attending to his every need for however long it would take him to heal from this.

“How are you feeling, Georgie?” Fred pressed, needing to hear him say it. 

“Saint-like.” George said, a tired grin spreading across his lips. 

“What?” Fred prodded. 

“Holy.” George insisted, using a bloody hand to motion toward his gory, blown apart ear. “Get it? I’m holy. I’m saint-like.” 

Fred let out a tired rasp of a laugh, and you rolled your eyes.

“Honestly? The whole wide world of ear-related humour, and you go with ‘saint-like’?” 

“This is why one needs to avoid getting hit in the head.” You sighed. “It affects your ability to think cleverly.” 

“No kidding.” Fred added on. 

… 

A while later, after the chaos had died down, and after almost everyone had arrived safely and been accounted for, you were sitting on the couch with George. Of course, sticking right by his side, just as you had promised yourself. His ear had received a few healing charms, ones that could do the minimum that could be done, and he had drank a blood-replenishing potion, and he was now sporting a rather cartoonish bandage across his forehead to hold a wad of gauze to the side of his head where his ear used to be. He was looking a lot better, his cheeks a bit pinker with the blood-replenishing potion in his system. But he was concussed, and it was your job to keep him awake at least through the night to ensure that no permanent damage was done. 

You were busying yourself with cleaning the blood off his face and neck, trying to ignore the fact that Fred had helped him out of the Harry sport jacket and shirt and he was now laying there completely shirtless, his beautiful Quidditch built body on display. He was beautiful, even if he was scarier when he was covered in blood.

He was staring at you with discerning, thoughtful eyes while you gently wiped a wet cloth across his skin, doing your best to gently clean off the blood. The blood that had been so frightful and terrifying to you just a short time ago, a sight that made you think he was dying, that he was about to be taken from you. Now you could take care of him, help him heal, and you hoped that this meant you had a lifetime's worth of time left with him.

“How did you know?” He asked, the question so sudden and confusing with a lack of context. He was tired, his voice more than reflecting that, but it was your job to keep him awake, so of course, you had to engage him in the conversation. 

“How did I know what?” You asked, fishing for more context. “I’m gonna need a little more to go on, Georgie.” 

The corner of his mouth rose in a tweak of that telling signature smirk, the one that said he was the only one in on the joke. (Usually, the only one aside from Fred.) If he wasn’t bodily incapacitated, you might have been scared about what was coming next. 

“Sometimes Mum can’t even tell us apart…” He mumbled, almost as if he was thinking aloud to himself. “But I suppose that was the whole point of tonight, wasn’t it?” 

“What are you on about?” You pressed on further. 

“You called my name.” He declared, an intense fondness in his voice. “You called me George, right when you saw me.”

“That's because you are George.” You chuckled, still unsure what his point was.

“Exactly.” He declared firmly. “That's something that's so difficult for so many people, and you were so sure. You always are.”

That struck a cord deep inside you, causing you to freeze. Suddenly, you felt caught.

“You called my name. And that’s how I knew I was home safe. I heard your voice, and you calling out my name… that's how I knew the danger was gone. You were with me. So sure, right beside me, like you always are.”

There was a crack in his voice, and a single tear fled from his eye, rolling down across the side of his face that wasn’t covered in half-cleaned blood, falling down sideways where he was laying down. It was only then that you realized how terrified he had been, scared for his own life, scared that he was going to die out there, surrounded by strangers who were more than hungry to see him die in pain… 

You reached out for his hand and gripped it tightly, and he squeezed it right back. 

“Georgie, you must have been so terrified.” You lamented.

“I'm fine.” He assured you, swallowing down his tears, clearly not wanting to talk about it.

You took a moment to process the words. He was George. He was your George, he always had been. Yes, others, even their own mother sometimes struggled to tell them apart because they were identical twins, and it was a laugh of a gag that they often played into. But something in your heart always looked at him, from a time when you were so young, and you just knew him. You felt him in a way that could never be mistaken. 

“How did you know?” He prompted again, partly curious and partly driven mad looking for the knowledge, wanting to know what set your eyes apart from everyone else’s when you looked at him. 

He had a theory as to why, but even he couldn't be bold enough to assume. He had to hear you say it.

There was only one simple answer to the question. One that you could no longer easily hold back. 

“George, I-” You took in a sharp breath. “Of course I know the man that I’ve been in love with since I was nine years old.” 

George’s firm, serious mouth broke into a blistering, pleased grin. As in sync as the two of you had ever been, he used his free hand on the back of your head to pull you down into a kiss as you leaned into him. You were still weary to hurt him even with a pain-dulling potion in his veins, and you placed your free hand in the middle of his warm chest to support yourself as you finally got to kiss him for the first time. He held you there tightly as he cradled the back of your neck, sighing into your mouth with wonder and need, loving every second of this. You let out a sweet gasp at the taste of his lips, loving the feeling so much. 

“Finally.” 

Ginny’s voice came from behind the two of you, startling both of you apart. 

She was tying up her dressing gown, staring at you with her own knowing, Weasley smirk. 

“I just came to get a glass of water, don’t let me interrupt.” She explained. “Fred owes me a Chocolate Frog, though.” 

“Everything has to be a bet.” You huffed out, rolling your eyes.

George chuckled. “Of course it does.”

“You knew about this?” You gaped.

“No, otherwise I would have been in on it, and I would have kissed you sooner.” He said with a wink. “But there's a pool on when Ron and Hermione will finally wise up and get together-”

“If at all.” Ginny added on sharply as she headed back toward the stairs.

You let out a small laugh.

“You have to say it too.” You reminded George. “Otherwise it doesn't count. Please don’t make me look like a fool-” 

“I love you.” George said promptly. “I’ve been in love with you since we were eight years old, so technically – I win.” 

“Everything is a competition with you Weasleys.” You hissed, picking up the cloth and going back to cleaning up the blood. 

“Which is why you’ll make such a great addition.” George smirked. 

You didn’t say anything, loving the butterflies that fluttered through you with the implication of these words, wondering how George still managed to make you feel like a giggling school girl.

...

A/N: Please keep in mind, this is a oneshot, and there will not be a continuation or a 'part two', so please do not ask for one in the comments.

I personally find it rude and stressful when people ask for a 'part two' immediately after finishing a fic, especially one that I explicitly state is already completed. If you enjoyed this fic and you want to show your enthusiasm, you can do so by reblogging it, or commenting about the existing plot and characters. I love to have discussions about the characters I write about with fellow fans.

And if you really enjoyed my writing and my style and you want something else to read, you can check out my other Harry Potter fics or you can check out all my other works from my other fandoms.

It only takes a moment to reblog or leave a comment, and that kind of thing makes an author's day, and I am always, always appreciative when people do!

Happy Reading,

Sunny ☀️

[obaewankenobis]

hi lovely, hope you're well! i was wondering if you could write a young! haymitch x reader inspired by "halloween" by phoebe bridgers?

like he's arrived home after the games, ma and sid have died, and so in an attempt to keep her safe from snow, he isolates her and keeps her away. she's distraught and keeps trying to see him, she confronts him (not knowing why he doesnt love her anymore) and he lets slip why he's doing it. you can decide whether they make up or not <3

i also quietly love the symbolism of the victors village being the 'hospital' in the song

halloween; haymitch abernathy

a/n: ohhh you cooked with this one, i love phoebe DOWN i love this album and i love angst!! i had sm fun writing this and i hope you enjoy!! <33 also tried to proofread but like i didn't i'm sorry

pairing: haymitch abernathy x reader (rare/no use of y/n, 99% sure it's gender neutral)

word count: 9.5k

warnings: the usual hunger games warnings, angst, bittersweet ending, alcoholism (...)

When you think of home, you think of the Seam. 

You think of a tiny house, of a bed you share with your younger sister. With the walls worn down from years of heavy winter snow and simmering summer heat, of the creaks and squeaks of the floorboards and doors.

Your mother and father were probably home by now after another grueling day in the mines, breaking their backs to carry heavy buckets of water to the tub, or bundles of firewood to light the stove for dinner and a bath. 

A dreary place to call your home, but it was yours, even if it was in the most undesirable part of the most undesirable District. It’s nothing like the monstrosity before you. It feels insulting to call this place a home.

The lawn is meticulously maintained, with freshly mowed grass and uniform shrubs that line the paved pathway to the front door.

Your hand looks dirty and out of place as you grip the shiny brass knocker in the shape of the lion and knock. It sits on dark, polished wood of heavy double doors that are several feet taller than you; it’s all so heavy and imposing you shudder.

It’s lifeless, too. There’s no rumble of conversation around the table or light laughter from the neighboring houses like there is in the Seam around this time, when the workday has ended and workers have trekked home.

There are no flickers of light from the fires in people’s homes as the sun sets and they prepare dinner. There’s not even the song of a fiddle or two to break the eerie silence.

When you don’t get any response after your second knock, you just decide to push against the doors and hope they open. 

To your luck, they creak open, letting what little sun is left from dusk scatter in a bit of light inside. You have no desire to be intruding here, but your mind keeps flashing images of last night, the funeral where six bodies descended into five graves. You think of the pure devastation and agony on Haymitch’s face, how he’d looked right through you, his eyes so familiar in color and shape but so foreign in their emptiness. He hadn’t even said a word to you since the day his family died.

You’d known him your whole life, and aside from the Games themselves, this was the longest you’d gone without talking. His father had worked with yours in the mines, his mother had once chatted with yours on walks into town, and his brother Sid had even played with your own little sister with the other Seam kids during recess.

“Haymitch?” You called out quietly, making your way through the house. “My mom made some soup for you, I brought it here.”

You nearly leap out of your own skin in surprise and drop the pot in your hands as you’re met with a response that is definitely not Haymitch, “He’s out cold, Asterid said he’d be up soon, though.” You whirl around to see Burdock sitting on one of the couches in the living room, eyes groggy and hair mussed from sleep. 

Blair is fast asleep on the other couch, light snores echoing throughout the room. You realize with a pang of guilt that they must’ve been here all night, while you’ve been tucked into your own bed in the comfort of your family’s home. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurted out. “I didn’t mean to sleep so late, I meant to come here earlier, and I didn’t mean to wake you, I —”

Burdock waves your apology away with his hand. “You haven’t missed much. He’s been knocked out the whole time, ever since…”

Ever since the funeral, where he’d been near hysterical and had to be dragged off by Burdock and Blair to this beautiful, sterile prison he’s meant to call home.

“Has he talked to you?” You ask, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. Burdock shakes his head, and you can’t help but feel even more anxious at this news. It would be simpler for him to be mad at you for some abstract reason, than admitting he was mute from the sheer shock and trauma of it all.

All of a sudden there’s a stab of pain in your chest so powerful it knocks the breath out of you. Haymitch is your friend, you’ve known him since you were both in diapers, and despite everything, there’s nothing you can do to make him feel better.

“All we can do is be there for him,” Burdock says gently, as if your thoughts are loud enough for him to hear. “He should be waking up soon. I was going to find Asterid to get some more sleep syrup, if you want to check on him. Upstairs, third door to the left.” 

You nod and step out of the way as he moves towards the door, grabbing his leather jacket and shoving on his boots.

Now the house is back to being eerily silent, save for the snores coming from Blair as he continues to sleep peacefully on the couch.

Deciding to make yourself a little useful, you place the pot of bean and ham hock stew your mother made on the stove to warm it up, stirring occasionally. You marvel at the luxury of how quick the whole process takes. At home, it would require gathering wood or affording coal for a fire, but here, it’s a simple turn of a knob and the pot instantly begins to warm.

Ladling enough for a hearty meal into a bowl, you take a deep breath to steady yourself. When you’re sure you won’t cry in front of him, you grab the bowl and slowly make your way up the grand, spiraling staircase to Haymitch’s room.

Your knuckles rap quietly against the door, and you hear him begin to stir into wakefulness.

“Haymitch?” You called out, ever so softly. It’s cruel to tear him away from a drugged sleep, knowing it’s the only respite he has, but he needs to eat, and the medicine will be wearing off soon anyways. “Haymitch,” you repeat, a little louder, “I’m coming in, I have food.”

When the door creaks open, Haymitch is sitting up, back leaning against the headboard, looking out the window. His head doesn’t even turn when you step inside. He looks dreadful.

Physically, you think he’s still as handsome as you remember him, despite what the Capitol has put him through. His hair falls against his forehead in soft blonde curls, and his blue eyes as bright as the afternoon sky. But the signs of his dishevelment are hard to ignore. His lips are dry and cracked. The sheen of sweat makes his hair stick to his forehead and stick out in all directions. His eyes are empty as they stare into the distance, glazed and unfocused. The dark circles underneath are confusing, because he’s been sleeping nonstop for the past two days.

You remember running your fingers through those same curls in grade school, begging him to let you braid them. You remember those eyes that would light up with mischief when he suggested ideas that would surely give both your mothers a heart attack. You remember how it felt to have those piercing eyes on you, to have his pure, undivided attention, and how giddy it made you feel.

You try to stop the memories there, to save yourself the heartache of remembering things any further, but it’s too late. Now you’re thinking of the first time he’d kissed you, the winter right before that fateful Reaping.

It was all red noses, flushed cheeks, and snowflakes stuck to eyelashes. Nervous giggling and the puffs of your breaths that were visible in the frigid air.

His lips had been warm, and so easy to get lost in. The way his hand had come up to your face, gloved thumb ghosting over your cheekbone. How, when you’d leaned back, the cold, red tip of his nose brushing against yours, you felt hot all over when he looked at you.

You especially tried not to compare it to his lips against yours two days ago, hours before the house fire. Soft and sweet, but with an underlying need and desperation. How his hand had squeezed your waist and drawn you closer, impatient after being apart for so long. That’s as far as you let yourself remember, because if you think about it for much longer, and compare his expression now to how you remember, you’ll lose it.

It’s hard to forget, though, how nothing was said. How you still don’t know where you stand with him, and how none of that matters now, because his whole world has collapsed. His Ma. Sid. Any questions or feelings you might have will remain buried for a long, long time. However long it takes him.

He looks as if the Capitol had killed him and an imposter was using his skin — he looked the same on the outside, but it’s like he’s still missing.

You walk towards him slowly, placing the bowl on the nightstand, and gently wave your hand in front of him. It takes everything in you not to grab his hand, which is still fisting the sheets in a tight grip, and hold it in your own. 

Your mouth opens and your jaw hangs loose in the air before you shut it, because really, what can you say to him? You can’t ask if he’s okay, because you know he’s not. You can’t ask if he needs anything more, because all you can offer him is soup and perhaps some company. But anything he really, truly desires — like his family — you cannot give him. 

“Please eat something,” you begin quietly, holding out a spoonful of the soup up and hoping its familiar scent will coax him out of this catatonic state. Desperation creeps into your tone for any sort of acknowledgment that you exist. “Burdock will be back soon with more sleep syrup, but you need to eat before they give you more. Asterid says it’s hard on your stomach.”

Although it’s not violent or forceful, it’s not gentle either the way he shoves the spoon away from his face. You yelp as the hot liquid spills on your arm and burns, and that finally seems to get a reaction out of him.

For a split second, you catch a glimpse of him as he glances at you, a flash of worry on his features before it disappears so quickly you thought you’d imagined it. 

When he returns to the same blank expression as before, you want to yell at him. “Just eat, please, Haymitch. And then I’ll leave you alone, I promise.” 

“Go away,” he mumbles, shoving his head back down into his pillow. Short of trying to grab him by the shoulders and shake him — which you’re tempted to do — there’s nothing else you can do.

The look in his eye haunts you on your entire walk home. It was scarier than the hysteria from last night, or even the pure defeat as he was carried off by Blair and Burdock. 

The emptiness was worse than uncontrollable sobs, or yelling and screaming, because at least you knew he was still him, he was still feeling something. This? This was terrifying.

Days turned into weeks, which turned to months, and the people around Haymitch start dropping like flies; there’s only so much hatred people can handle getting thrown their way before they give up.

You don’t remember the last time you’d seen Haymitch sober. Every time you came to his house he was either passed out, incoherent, or yelling at you to leave. 

Burdock and Blair had stuck around, too. It was comforting to know you weren’t alone in dealing with him, that there were still others who cared if he lived or died. Not that Haymitch himself seemed to care.

Until they didn’t. Blair had hugged his final goodbye a couple months in, telling you and Burdock there really was nothing more any of you all could do. Since he’d left, you found yourself at Haymitch’s more often to pick up the slack. Someone had to make sure he was eating, and with Burdock off somewhere with Asterid, that duty had fallen upon your shoulders today.

His room was a nightmare. Bottles that reeked of liquor clutter his nightstand, and the room is beginning to smell. You wrinkle your nose and set the plate of eggs down on the edge of the bed before opening a window.

“I brought you something,” you said tentatively. There was no response, so you continued. “Everyone's worried about you.”

Maybe if you started to name names, he would look at you. “My mom and dad, of course… and so are the Everdeens and Hattie, and—” you take a deep breath. “I’m worried about you, Haymitch.”

When he looks at you, a wave of relief washes over your body because he’s ablaze, but staring straight at you.

“Are you deaf? Or just stupid?” His tone surprises you with how much venom there is. When you don’t move, stunned into silence, he raises his voice ever so slightly. “Did you hear me? Get out of here!”

“Haymitch,” you finally began, a little panicky, “I know things haven’t been easy, but can you please just talk—”

“I said, get out of here.” He’s practically yelling now, throwing back the covers and frantically getting out of bed, searching for a way to get you out of his room. “I don’t want to see you.”

“Okay,” you breathe out, taking a step back. “I’ll come back later—”

“No,” he spits harshly. This can’t be the same Haymitch. While he’s always been a bit spirited, it’s never been directed towards you and he’s never been mean. “I don’t need a couple days. Don’t come back. Not now, not next week, ever. I hate you, I wish I’d never met you. You won’t leave me alone and it’s pathetic.” 

“There’s nothing you can say to any of us to make us abandon you, Haymitch!” You practically shriek, fighting back tears at his words. You don’t want to cry, you will not cry right now. He’s drunk, and heartbroken, and he doesn’t mean it. “Don’t you get it? We love you, I love—” 

A scream cuts off the end of your sentence, and you barely have enough time to duck as he chucks the plate on his nightstand against the wall. The ceramic shatters everywhere, and all you can do is remain frozen, staring at the plate on the floor. As you turn your head back to look at him, he chucks another bottle of beer in your direction. This time, when it shatters, you feel the sharp sting of pain on your cheek that completely stuns you.

“What’s going on?” You hear Burdock’s voice, and two sets of footsteps. The sound of his voice sends Haymitch into another rage. 

“Tell them they can get lost, too,” Haymitch snarls. His hands are shaking so badly but you can’t if it’s from rage or panic or something else entirely. “I hate all of you, why won’t you just leave me alone?”

It’s the sound of more footsteps in the hallway that snap you out of this. Pushing past both Asterid and Burdock, who both are asking what happened, you run. Down the hallway, the stairs, until you’re outside and gasping for breath. This isn’t the Haymitch you know — your Haymitch is sweet and charming, and so gentle with you. Even traumatized and grieving, you didn’t know him to be capable of this.

The sobs wracking your body are so violent and consuming you don’t even hear Asterid come up behind you until she sits down next to you on the porch and wraps her arm around your shoulders. 

“He didn’t mean it,” she tries to soothe, rubbing her hand up and down your arm, “He’s just… going through a lot. He loves you, we all know it. He’s been crazy about you for years.”

In an alternate world, where none of this had happened, her words would make you giggle and deny bashfully as a blush crept over your cheeks. Now, you don’t even believe them.

You shake your head vigorously and wipe the tears from your eyes. “I don’t care, I’m done. Let him kill himself for all I care.” You sniff, your words coming out in short gasps. “Which I don’t.” 

That night, your brain wants to torture you, because you dream of that magical winter. Where you and Haymitch would sneak out into the woods after school and make angels in the snow, kissing until both your lips and his were swollen. Where you’d sit and talk for hours, shivering in the snow, but it was worth it because you were both truly free — as free as anyone from Twelve could be, anyways.

He’d notice you shivering and wrap his arms around you, trailing kisses down your neck and insisting you were so cold because you refused to wear a scarf. He’d always insist on wrapping his own around your neck, a pretty blue handmade by his mother, and intertwining your fingers within his. You’d marvel at the warmth and the scent of him as it surrounded you.

When you wake up the next morning, you’re reminded of reality, and it’s odd. You’ve never grieved someone who’s still alive.

It’d been months since you’d seen Haymitch, and you’d all but forgotten about him. At least, that was the lie you told yourself.

Burdock stuck around a while longer, but after Haymitch had thrown a rock at Asterid’s head, his visits had ceased, too. You try not to think about him all alone, boarded up in that awful house, drinking day in and day out.

That sticky summer of misery had cooled into autumn, the vibrant greens fading into pretty shades of orange and yellow and red. As the days got cooler and the sun set earlier, you still tried not to think of Haymitch. 

What he was doing. How he was doing. If he was even alive. 

Those thoughts kept the days flying, and before you knew it, it was like that perfect winter all over again. Before everything had gone wrong.

The trees, barren of the once colorful leaves, glisten with icicles, and a powdery blanket of snow has settled on every surface in Twelve.

The Victory Tour dampens the natural beauty of winter with the arrival of the Capitol. Every mention of it sent a stab of pain that buried itself deep within your chest, knocking the wind out of you and leaving you struggling to breathe.

At least it will all be over tomorrow. Haymitch would return to solitary confinement far away from you in the Victor’s Village. He was poisonous, he burned everything he touched; it would be better this way. 

A sharp knock at your door startles you out of your thoughts. Your heart begins to speed up, palms becoming slick with sweat, because you’re not expecting any visitors. Though you haven’t done anything wrong, it’s nearly one in the morning and the Capitol has a heavy presence over the District tonight.

“I’m coming,” you grumble, hoping your family will remain asleep as the knocking becomes more incessant.

The moment you open the door, confusion strikes you. You’ve never seen this man before, though he reeks of liquor and smoke in such a way that can only mean he’s from the Hob. 

He asks your name, and when you give it, the man nods, like he’s sure he’s in the right place.

“He can barely stand. Won’t listen to anyone,” the man begins gruffly. Then, seeing your confusion grow, adds, “Haymitch. Won’t stop mumbling your name, he’s near blackout. Hattie said you lived around here.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t… I can’t help you.” Because that’s the truth, you have long since given up trying to help Haymitch. He’s made it clear he’s content right where he wants to be, alone and miserable.

The man shrugs, turning on his heels in the direction of town. “Just figured you’d want to deal with it before the Peacekeepers do.”

That sends a shiver of unease up your spine at the idea of the Peacekeepers dealing with Haymitch, and your heart splits in two. None of this is fair to you. 

Your mind wants to reiterate to this man that you can’t help him. You don’t speak to Haymitch anymore, you don’t think of him. The logical part of your brain is screaming at you to hold your ground, that this will only hinder your progress in forgetting him, but your heart wins over.

“Wait!” You call out frantically, shoving your arms into the winter jacket that was once your mother’s, thin with patches sewn on all over.

Deep down, you suppose, there’s a part of you that will always care about him, even if he’s hurt you, because you know how deeply hurt he is himself. 

He looks worse than the last time you saw him, slumped over a counter with a bottle in his hand. His suit, although a fine specimen from the Capitol, is wrinkled and stained and gives him an overall disheveled appearance. 

His hair, you can tell, had been styled earlier in the night, but the products had seemed to have given up a couple hours ago and it now falls over his eyes.

“Get up, Haymitch.” You’re surprised by how bitter you sound, each word sounding like you’d forced yourself to spit them out in between profanities.

His head jolts up at the sound of your voice, breaking into a wide grin that’s inappropriate given the circumstances. He calls out your name with glee, but when he leans in for an embrace, all you can focus on is trying not to gag at the stench of white liquor on his breath. 

He looks confused, rejected, sad— you can’t quite put a finger on how exactly he’s feeling when you shove him away. He stumbles back, nearly losing his footing and crashing down on the floor in front of you. 

“My girl isn’t happy to see me?” Haymitch’s eyes are bearing into yours with such ferocity you have to look away. His eyes are red rimmed and glassy, and his speech is so slurred you can hardly make out what he was trying to say.

My girl. The way he says it so casually, like he’s always meant to have said it, like there’s nothing out of the ordinary of you being his and he being yours.

“I’m here to take you home,” you tug at his arm, to get this over with as quickly as possible. This whole night has reminded you so much of every painful detail about you and Haymitch. When he doesn’t make any moves to follow you, you ask, “Can you walk?”

“’Course I can. I’m not an invalid,” he grumbles, though when he tries to take a step forward, he nearly falls flat on his face.

You suppress a sigh that works its way towards your lips, shoving your arm under his own to steady him on his feet. His body weight makes your knees buckle as he immediately leans into you, but all you can do is grimace and grit your teeth. It takes about twenty minutes for a person not severely inebriated to cross town from the Hob to the Victor’s Village. In Haymitch’s state, and given the weather, you’re guessing it’ll be closer to thirty. 

Your home in the Seam, on the other hand, was quite close and tempting.

“Let’s go to mine. We can’t walk all the way back to yours like this,” you grunted as he swayed on his feet. Immediately, you’re met with resistance; he digs his heels into his shoes and yanks his arm out of your grasp, untangling himself from you.

“No,” he says vehemently, and you’re taken aback by how forceful he is, like you’ve just asked him to kill a puppy. “I’ll walk back my—” he hiccups, “—myself.” 

That’s clearly never going to happen, but he’s so much bigger and stronger than you that trying to force him in the direction of your home isn’t happening. Why did he always have to make everything so difficult? Did he want to torture you with his presence? To keep you trapped with him for a whole half hour, pressed against him, just to torture you? If that was the goal, he was already succeeding. 

“Let’s just go,” you mumble quietly, pulling your jacket tighter around your shoulders before you brave the elements. You would never admit it but it’s nice to feel his hand on your waist, or your cheek against his chest, despite the context. It’s like your body aches for this contact so strongly it overrides your common sense. 

Haymitch stumbles alongside you, one hand settling on your hip bone and squeezing occasionally. You hate it, hate how good it feels to see him, to be acknowledged by him; it makes every day in the past six months that much more agonizing. To know you’ve missed out on this every single day, and it’s not even your fault. 

He mumbles incoherently, his tone ranging from sing-songy to near teary in the span of a sentence. This cycle repeats itself nearly the whole walk home and you’re not sure whether this is a blessing or a curse.

You try not to pay him any mind, not when you’re so busy with your own thoughts, but the sound of your name rips you away back to the present moment. 

“Hmm?” You finally glance at him, hating how warm you felt when he flashed you a smile. You scowl. “What?” 

His smile disappears instantly, replaced by a look of pure anguish that seems more fitting given his circumstances. “Missed you,” he sighed simply, though it seems to be a thought said out loud rather than a statement directed at you.

Still, these words make your blood run cold and you stop dead in your tracks, because how dare he?

“There’s your house,” you shrug his arm off your shoulders and take a step back, hoping he doesn’t see your chest heaving at his words. You want to scream at him how horrible he is, how cruel it is to say that to you when he’s the reason for this distance in the first place. You’re so furious you’re nearly trembling, and you don’t care if he’s piss drunk because it’s just not fair.

You stand at the edge of the paved walkway as he stumbles up the long path, at least making sure your work wasn’t in vain and he didn’t get swept away in this snow storm before he made it to the porch.

He fumbles with the key for a good five, ten, fifteen seconds before groaning in frustration and collapsing on the stoop. 

The only thing that soothes you is the thought of skinning him alive as you make your way up the path to his door and snatch the keys from his hand. 

He slurs a thank you that you don’t acknowledge, slowly rising unsteadily to his feet. His speech is getting worse and you realize, in dismay, that the peak of his drunkenness hasn’t even hit. It unfortunately makes sense, given how he must’ve been drinking since the Capitol dinner and never stopped. He’ll probably wake up several times tonight in a cold sweat, hurling up the buckets worth of white liquor he’d drunk. Maybe that would be punishment enough; you’ve never seen him in such a state. He’d never been much of a drinker, though you supposed after everything he’d gone through he deserved to get drunk every once in a while. Maybe the Victory Tour had done a number on him.

Whatever the reason, you didn’t care. You’ve made it this far, all you need to do is see it through and then you can go back to how things were. Painful, but manageable if you didn’t think about anything but the task at hand. He would go back to being out of your sight, a mere wisp of a memory at best. But you were here now, and you could at least pretend for a moment things were different.

At least that’s what you told yourself as you shucked his shoes off and coaxed him up the stairs, out of his clothes that were now wet from snow. Running your fingers through his hair as he retched into the toilet, shaking and shivering in his undergarments. Pretending not to notice the tears staining his cheeks as he sat hunched over the bowl. From emotion or the physical strain of throwing up so much, you didn’t ask. 

Almost done, you willed yourself to go forward. Applied a warm washcloth to his face, wiping away the remnants of the night. Helped him into clean pajamas so he would stop rattling from the coldness of this vast, empty house.

As he slid under the heavy quilts of his bed, he’s already fighting sleep. You dare hope that he won’t remember any of your kindness in the morning when he wakes up sober and violently hungover. Because how pathetic is it, to chase after a boy who made it clear he’s disgusted by you, that he wants nothing to do with you. 

A squeeze of your hand around his is the only goodbye you let yourself have. But as you make a move to pull away, he tightens his grip on your wrist.

“You have to leave.” 

You’re immediately taken aback by his words, and a mix of shock and anger and betrayal hit you all over again. You move to yank your hand away but he maintains his grip, and that’s when you look into his eyes. They’re not malicious, the way they were the last time you saw them. This expression reminds you more of the look he had at his family’s funeral: borderline hysteria. 

“If President Snow knew you did this, if he knew you were here—” his knuckles are turning white and you’re beginning to lose circulation in your hand, “—he can’t.” He shakes his head furiously, nearly yelling at himself. “Not like Ma, not like Sid. I can’t, I can’t.”

“Haymitch,” you finally wring yourself free of his grasp. “You’re scaring me, go to bed! Nobody’s out to get me. I’ll leave right now.” But you don’t believe your words. 

On the frigid walk back to the Seam, his thoughts echo in your mind, pieces of a puzzle that don’t seem to fit anywhere. What does he mean? Why would you be of any importance to President Snow? You were a nobody, but the look on his face frightened you.

If President Snow knew you did this, if he knew you were here…

The next time you see Haymitch, it’s a year and a from that. In that time, you’d slowly started to move on, and the tightness in your chest had begun to loosen. 

Your thoughts weren’t plagued every day with thoughts of him anymore, and he rarely visited you in his dreams. Your heart begins to ache a little less every day, and you keep yourself busy so it stays that way. It’s easy to do, because survival is the only thing on your mind. Desperate to avoid the fate of being a coal miner like your parents, you’d taken up cleaning homes of the merchant class after school. And when you’d turned eighteen, it’d gone from after school to dawn until dusk. 

It’s back-breaking work with unreliable hours, and the money you receive is less than enough to survive on your own, but you manage. You just have to get through one more Reaping, and then you’ll be free and able to breathe a little lighter. 

Sometimes, though, there are reminders. Like that time you walked past the beautifully iced cakes in the bakery window, and nearly stopped breathing at the sight of a painted blue cupcake, the exact shade of the old scarf Haymitch used to give you. 

Or when you passed by someone on your walk to work, and caught a trace of cheap laundry soap Willamae used for washing from a passerby. The scent had filled your lungs and set them on fire, burning and crushing your insides.

And now, here he sits a few feet away from you at the stall that sells liquor, looking worn down and unkempt with a bottle already in his hand. 

In your attempt to forget about him, you’d forgotten how much he would have to frequent the Hob to maintain his alcohol consumption, though now you want to pinch yourself for being so stupid. He’s a drunk, liquor is illegal, of course he spends his days here. 

This was a bad idea. You’ve clearly not thought this through. All you wanted was to buy something nice for your little sister’s birthday, a wild turkey or a few crayons, that you’d spent months saving up for with your cleaning job. 

At first, your instinct is to pretend like you haven’t seen him, but it’s too late, his eyes are burning into you so intensely you nearly flinch. You don’t know where you stand with him, not sure if he wants nothing to do with you, or if he misses you like he said that winter night you dragged him home. 

Then, your shoulders relax, because you notice he’s wasted. He’s just returned from the Capitol after both District 12 tributes had died, neither of them making it past the bloodbath. You knew some people blamed him for it, because the same thing happened last year, and once is a mistake but twice is a habit. It didn’t take a genius to realize he was probably drinking to cope with those events and the whispers about what he could’ve done better or the sour expressions shot his way at every turn.

It’s not really fair to put the blame all on him, but you add it to the list of things to be angry with him about anyways. 

You wonder if he was allowed to be drunk if he was a mentor, if he’d been forced to abstain in the Capitol and wasn’t used to how strong the home-brewed stuff was, and that’s why he was the drunkest you’ve ever seen him.

Or maybe that’s just been his progression since the last time you saw him, when he also happened to be near blacking out.

Either way, I don’t care, you remind yourself. Even if you know it’s a lie.

He stands up, calls out your name, and your heart sinks into your stomach at the sound of his voice, which is more of a garbled rasp. Biting your lip, you make your way over to him, knowing him well enough that if you were to ignore him, he’d follow you and cause a scene.

“Yes?” It’s difficult to muster a tone of neutrality, but it works well enough that he looks taken aback by the lack of emotion. 

“I’ve missed you, my pretty girl,” he slurred, reaching his arms to throw them around you. You back up so quickly your back hits the counter of the alcohol stall behind you, ducking to avoid his embrace.

“What do you want, Haymitch?” A hint of frustration seeps into your question and you hope you’ll be able to hold it together, at least in front of all these people. 

“Why’re you being soooo mean?” He sighs, taking a large swig from the bottle in his hand. “I want—” he hiccups loudly, “—you. Obviously. But that can’t happen,” he lowers his voice and leans in, and you can smell the alcohol on his breath but can’t help but inching towards him, "because of Snow.”

You recoil immediately, trying to create as much distance as possible. Your head is spinning so much you feel dizzy, and a bile is rising in your throat at his words. It would’ve been so much easier if he’d slapped you in the face, so much better if he’d told you how much he hated you. 

“I—” What are you even supposed to say? Truly, you were at a loss for words. “Go home, Haymitch.” With a firm shoved that lacked the conviction you wish it did, you stepped past him and tried to think about what you were going to get your father.

Over dinner, your mother comments on how distracted you seem, how you’ve barely touched the food on your plate, and you can barely entertain her comments because you’re too busy thinking about what Haymitch had said.

Your mind is itching to know what he meant by that, though. Was Haymitch given orders by Snow to avoid you? But that wouldn’t make sense, why would Snow care about you of all people? You were a nobody, just another half-starved kid from the Seam who’d survived by the skin of their teeth.

A memory floats to the front of your mind, of the last time Haymitch was piss drunk. Of what he’d said when he’d all but shoved you out the door: if President Snow knew you did this, if he knew you were here. The terror in his eyes. The choke of emotion that cut him off.

You have to find out what he meant.

It’s the last thing you think of before drifting off into a fitful slumber.

When you wake, the sun hasn’t risen yet. Hopefully Haymitch is still sleeping off his intoxication, and won’t have time to start drinking before you get there. You need him to be sober when you interrogate him.

Part of you hates him for reigniting the feelings you’d tried so hard to ignore in the past year. Part of you hates him for how he’s treated you. But there’s another feeling, buried deep down inside, that still yearned for him so intensely it ached—desire.

A desire for him in so many ways it was overwhelming. A desire to feel his arms wrapped around yours, sturdy and grounding. To hear the sweetness of his laughter tinkle in your ears, to see his whole face light up when he smiled. For his lips to caress yours with a tenderness you’d never felt but longed for. 

The cool breeze is a welcome sensation on your skin as you make the journey to the Victor’s Village, the sticky July heat already settling over the day, despite the sun just peeking over the horizon.

And here you are, in this horrible, empty, lifeless house you know Haymitch will never call home. His home is in the Seam, in the small, poorly built house that’s filled to the brim with love from his Ma and Sid. 

You hate it here.

The roaring of blood in your ears is so loud you barely hear the first knock on Haymitch’s door. Your hands are sweaty and you know it’s not from the weather. When he doesn’t answer, you knock again, and again and again until the door swings open and he snarls “What?”

You don’t answer right away, pushing past him until you’re blasted with the icy chill of his air conditioned home. You whirl around to face him, squinting to observe the level of sobriety he’s at; if you had to guess, he’s sober, but nursing an extreme hangover.

“What does President Snow have to do with me?” You stand in front of him, arms crossed, demanding an answer. 

He rolls his eyes and gives a little scoff. “Get out of my house.” He starts walking back towards the kitchen and you immediately follow, knowing he’s in search of another bottle. 

“Haymitch,” you gritted your teeth and willed yourself not to cry, hating how your tone bordered on pleading. Whether the tears were spurred by frustration or sadness you couldn’t tell. “Answer me!”

When he doesn’t, you grab his forearm and yank him towards you, which only lights up his temper. “You can’t get the hint, can you? Get out.” He jerks his arm away, the force sending you stumbling backwards a bit.

“Stop being such a hypocrite!” He looks surprised by the shrillness of your voice, your words coming out in a full on yell. “You don’t get to be all happy and smiley to me and call me all those nice names when you’re piss drunk, and then turn around and behave like this when I want answers.” 

He’s stopped cold in his tracks and stares at you. Never in your life have you ever seen Haymitch Abernathy speechless. If the circumstances were different, you’d make a lighthearted comment about it to ease the tension, but you’re both past that.

Taking his silence as permission, you continue. “Why have you driven everyone in your life away? You had so many people looking out for you.” You think of him, all alone of his own volition, when it didn’t have to be like this. “You had Hattie. You had me and Blair and Burdock. You know my parents would’ve checked in on you. Why did you do this?” 

Your voice has dropped into a whisper, your last sentence bordering on desperation.

“Stop asking questions you won’t like the answer to,” he says gruffly, and you almost let out a high pitched scream of frustration. 

“No, Haymitch. Please, tell me what we did that was so horrible you had to shut us out? What did I do?” Your voice rises in pitch with every word. When he doesn’t respond, you press further. “Why do you keep bringing up Snow whenever you see me?” At the mention of Snow, his features darken and he snarls, “Get out of here, I don’t want to see you! I never want to see you, not then, not now, not ever.” 

The loathing, the hatred in his tone makes you take a step back. You blink, the words hitting you like a ton of bricks square in the chest. He hates you. He well and truly despises you, for no other reason than the words themselves.

“Answer my questions and I’ll leave,” you say after a moment, voice hoarse from yelling. “Answer all of them, and I’ll turn around and never come back. I promise. And you can hate me for the rest of your life,” your voice trembles at that, but you push forward, “but you have to answer me. Why?” 

“No,” he says, though this time he’s much quieter, with less conviction.

“What did Snow do?” You take a step forward, and he takes one back. “What did I do?” Another step. Another one back. “Why won’t you answer me?” Step. There’s a thud as Haymitch hits the counter behind him and is effectively trapped. 

He says your name like a warning, but you press on. You’re so close to him you have to tilt your head back to look into his eyes. 

“Why did you push everyone away?” Though your voice is shrill, it’s still a frantic plea for some — for any explanation to the heartache you’ve endured throughout the past year.

“Because he’d kill everyone until there’s no one left!” He finally bursts out, then immediately clamps his lips shut, but it’s too late. His eyes are wild with panic at the mistake he’s made, at letting too much information slip.

Silence. Nothing but the sounds of both of you breathing hard. It’s in this moment you realize how close the two of you have become, chests brushing together with every inhalation. Every moment of contact sends a jolt through your body, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. 

Your mind won’t stop whirling at the revelation. Snow would kill everyone Haymitch cared about? But why?

“What?” You’re shocked at how calm you sound. The pieces of the puzzle are beginning to fall into place, but your brain is still scrambling to put them together.

“Just forget about it. Forget I said anything.” He tries to brush it off and take a step back, before being reminded he’s trapped between you and the counter.

“No, I will not let this go, Haymitch, please. Just tell me what’s going on.”

There’s a beat, a moment where you think he’s going to shove you away and tell you to get lost, or even throw a plate at you like he did in the first few months of his return, but he doesn’t. Instead, his hand finds your arm and he twists you around until it’s you who’s against the counter, the edge digging into your lower back and blocked in by his frame.

You have no time to react before his lips crash onto yours and you’re consumed by him completely.

The hands on your arms that trail upwards to your cheeks, goosebumps trailing in his wake. The softness of his skin as they settle on your cheeks so he can cup your face and pull you closer. The smell of that familiar cheap laundry soap, the intensity of the kiss that makes you dizzy. 

Immediately you reciprocate, your hands finding your way into his blonde curls, entangling your fingers in them until your nails are scraping at his scalp. The sound of a small sigh of contentment escapes his lips for a moment before it’s swallowed by you. 

It reminds you of that last kiss before the Reaping, all needy and desperate, his lips working in fervor to convey what words cannot. He deepens the kiss, his hands sliding down from your face, back to your arms, before settling on your hips. His fingers curl around the meat of your hipbone as he tries to tug you even closer like he wants to consume you completely. 

It feels so good, so right, you almost forget the circumstances. Why were you here in the first place, the situation that’s brought you here. With a reluctance that causes near physical pain, you pull away, instantly missing the warmth of his lips that felt just like that first one in the woods that winter long ago. He lets out something between a sigh and a whine at the loss of contact, leaning forward to chase his lips with his own, that weakens both your knees and resolve. 

You allow yourself to melt into another kiss, indulge yourself just this once, and relish in the ways this one differs from the first. Less desperate, with that tenderness you’d always craved but never felt. When his tongue parts your lips and you open your mouth, you realize you’re just as desperate as he is to be closer, impossibly closer. You wrap your arms around his neck and feel his hands move from your hips to the backs of your thighs, lifting you slightly until you’re sitting on the counter.

“Haymitch,” you finally breathe out, splaying your hands against his firm chest to stop him as he instinctively tries yet again to close the gap. His hands have returned to your hips and he squeezes them in near frustration, but he must know you have to talk about it. Still, he says nothing.

The silence, the stillness, lets you take in his appearance. At his breaths, which are bordering on pants; at his lips, which are red and swollen and slick with spit. And his eyes, the clearest you’d seen since the Reaping.

“Not here.” His voice is rough with emotion. He shakes his head as he speaks, little ringlets falling against his forehead in the process, and you have the sudden urge to brush them away with your fingers with a suppressed desire of affection that’s fought its way back to the surface. 

And so you follow him blindly, out the doors and past the walls of the Victor’s Village, through the town and the Seam, until you’ve reached the woods. Haymitch hesitates for one, two moments, before sliding through the wire of the fence. The two of you walked and walked until the forest grew dense with trees and your feet began to hurt.

Walked until he’s sure nobody has followed you.

When he’s sure the both of you are safe — which you know because he halts at a small clearing, warmed with the buttery afternoon sun — he finally speaks.

“They’re watching me. And listening. Everything I do in that… place,” you know he’s referring to his home in the Victor’s Village, “It’s not safe.”

This doesn’t surprise you because that’s the Capitol’s nature. A ruthless, iron fist on all its citizens that’s designed to suck the soul out of every single district person.

Your hand sits on his lap, your fingers are still interlaced with his own, like you’re going to slip through them if he dared let go.

Your shoulders brush. You suck in a breath and peer at him. When he doesn’t shy away, when he holds your gaze, he finally continues.

“I tried to do something, in the arena. Not just to win, but… to stop all of this. The Capitol. The Games. I—” Haymitch sighs, heavy and weary, “But they were stronger. Smarter than me.” You lift your head up to look at him curiously. “And that’s why they punished you.” 

He doesn’t tell you everything — it’s clear he’s holding some moments to himself, memories too painful to say out loud or even remember in his own mind. But Haymitch tells you enough that paints a picture so horrid it’s nauseating.

“Why couldn’t you just say this when you came back?” 

He swallows hard once, twice. “I was trying to protect you. You wouldn’t stay away if you knew.” And he was right.

“That’s why we’re here.” In the middle of the woods. After two years of misunderstanding and separation. Of constant heartache that could only be dulled, never cured. And yet…

“I love you.” It slips out so naturally you don’t even have time to regret what you’ve said, because it’s the truth.

The look he gives you splinters your heart into a thousand tiny shards that cut up your insides and makes them sting and bleed. A sad smile ghosts over his face, his lips curved upwards but his eyes are glassy with tears.

You know the answer before he speaks, but it’s still a knife to your gut.

“Pretty girl,” he whispers. “I can’t let you do that.”

“I know.” Is all you can manage to say without your voice cracking. 

A tear of your own escapes your eyes and slips down your cheek. Immediately you move to wipe it away, burning with embarrassment at how easily he’s made you cry when he’s been through so much worse and has yet to shed a tear.

You say it because you do know what he means. He can’t let you pine after him for the rest of yourself, to damn yourself to a lifetime of loving him, knowing it could never be expressed the way either of you deserved. Knowing that if the Capitol found out, you would be killed and his blood would be on your hands.

You didn’t care, you would throw everything away if it gave you a life, no matter how horrible, with him. He would never let you, not after what he’d witnessed with his family, or in the Capitol. Your death mattered little to yourself; you’d narrowly escaped it through the Reaping and were rewarded by the suffering existence that is being from District 12. For Haymitch, your death would be world ending, and you would not be the one to torture him any further. 

He catches your arm before you can wipe away your own tears, and gently sets it back down so it rests in your lap. 

With a hand of his own that trembles ever so slightly, he smooths his thumb over your cheek and gently brushes the tears away. His touch is featherlight, and the gesture is so intimate it only sends a whole flood of tears down your cheeks.

Your hands find his on your face and you grip onto him, knowing that whatever is said next will be the beginning of a goodbye — even if it takes all night. When you press a small, featherlight kiss to the corner of his hand that still rests against your face, you know from the feeling you get and the expression on his face it will take all night. 

The soft yellow hues of the sun have already begun to set, drenching the small clearing in a light of deep apricot that will eventually fade into blackened starlight. Despite wanting to, you know neither of you can stay here forever, and the invisible clock has already started. 

When morning comes, you will have to return. When morning comes, you will have to say your final goodbyes to not only Haymitch but the deep stirring you feel in your chest when you’re near him, the love that is crippling and all consuming. When morning comes, Haymitch will return to his home, the pristine prison the Capitol had built for him. He will pick up a bottle and drown out his thoughts with alcohol until he can no longer think of the atrocities of his arena, until he can no longer hear the voices of his Ma and Sid as they whisper to him in the cold wind that sweeps through that awful, empty house.

For a while, there’s nothing but silence. You try to soak in the last of light and heat as the sun casts its final rays before it dips below the horizon. Try to soak in the smells and sounds of the forest, trying to commit this moment in time to memory. The scent of pine and flowers and the dirt beneath your feet. The whistles of the birds, the rustle of the leaves, the rhythmic beat of Haymitch’s heart against your ear, strong and steady. 

Though you can tell by the light dusk that’s settled over the District that it hasn’t been that long, it seems like eons before Haymitch speaks.

“There’ll be someone after me.”

This causes you to frown and lift your head from the warmth of his chest. “What do you mean? Who?” 

“Someone who does what I tried to do,” he explains, and you know he means what he did in the arena. You don’t know what he did — and assumed he didn’t tell you because the less you knew, the better. Still, you know he tried to fight back. Resist the carefully crafted game the Capitol tortured everyone with for nearly half a century. 

“I hope it happens in our lifetime.” You hope that happens so badly it hurts. 

You allow yourselves to talk about what that would look like, a world without the Capitol or the Games. The two of you debate the philosophy and politics of this better, brighter future for hours before you ease into something lighter. You tell him about irrelevant, childish things that don’t matter anymore, but are a welcome distraction. Updates about their old classmates, drama about who dated who or where they were now.

For a moment, you can almost believe you’re sitting at lunch with him during school, chattering away with Blair and Burdock and several of your own friends around the table.  

The two of you remain in the forest until the first echoes of dawn start to seep their way into the sky. Neither of you have slept; not that you could’ve, given the circumstances.

Your heart seems to weigh down your limbs when you finally rise to your feet, for your legs are heavy and sluggish and you struggle to move quickly back to the District. It’s like your mind’s reluctance to return has manifested physically onto your body so now it too, resists.

Haymitch isn’t much better; you know him to be strong and in good shape, yet his pace matches yours and he makes no effort to speed up.

“It’ll happen one day,” you whisper, squeezing his hand as the wire of the border fence comes into view. It being the last Reaping, the world you’d discussed with him all night.

He nods and pulls you towards him for another long, lingering kiss neither of you are willing to end in a hurry. You try to commit everything to memory: the taste of him on your lips, the scent of him surrounding you, the feeling of his hands roaming your body. 

When you finally, finally pull apart, you know it’s the end. He presses one kiss on your nose, two on your cheeks, a small trail of them down your neck. When his lips finally make their way back to your own, you know this will truly be the last one. The grip you have on his shirt is so tight he has to physically work the fabric out of your fingers. 

“Goodbye,” you whispered, not ashamed anymore by the tears that streamed down your face. You love him, and he knows it now.

You know he loves you too, even if he can’t dare say it out loud. For him, love is synonymous with loss, with devastation.

Only when the sun has set on the last Reaping would he dare say it back.

[rorybelly]

kitay & rin in sinegard

[comfortcharacterwrites]

best platonic siblingship duo ever

[girls2gods]

Chapter Sixteen, We All Still Die

If The Sun Don’t Rise Series Masterlist

Chapter Fifteen

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. 

Taglist: @lovemiss-vale @aureolinb @mqrieshrt @bueburgers @dem1dearest @nikki-is-a-nerd @lovelylittlelesbianlore @jjloveshotch @inneedofcaffine @poetsandroses @kindsleybooks @ivyhaec @x-gabrielle-x @ghostlythinggoingaround @happiness2112 @sundawn1990 @starryjeongyeon @kuurbyfun @lenteheure @cursedskins @wertyuizxcvbnm @shiftingf1 @sarcasm-n-insomnia @defnotbrooklyn @harrypedro465@rinatzsstuff @whimsybeth @youraggedybitch

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

[comfortcharacterwrites]

Maysilee's death is so not easier the second time

[iiimasblog]

what the reaping left behind

a story about Haymitch Abernathy, and the girl who knew him before

HAYMITCH A. / READER

The View Between Villages by Noah Kahan — for everyone who has ever been a minute from home and felt so far from it. for haymitch abernathy, who has been between villages his whole life, and never found his way back

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟

i.

the summer before everything

TWO YEARS BEFORE THE 50TH HUNGER GAMES

You learn Haymitch Abernathy the way you learn a crack in the wall of your bedroom — by staring at it so long it becomes the only thing you know how to find in the dark.

He is fourteen and already too loud for the Seam, too sharp-tongued for his own good, and completely, stupidly reckless about it. You are the same age, same grey dust on your boots, same hollow ache behind the eyes that every kid from the Seam carries like a second spine. You have known him since you were both small enough to fit under the same porch during a summer thunderstorm, and he talked the entire time, even then. Even at seven years old, Haymitch Abernathy could not bear silence.

You sit on the fence behind the slag heap and watch him throw rocks at a rusted sign until one finally goes through the middle of the letter O, and he turns around with that grin — the one that doesn't quite belong to him yet, the one that's still trying on the shape of his face — and says, "Told you."

"You said you'd do it on the third try," you say. "That was eleven."

"Details."

"Haymitch."

"Y/N."

He says your name the way people say things they mean to come back to. Like a corner turned down on a page. And you hate it, a little — hate how it works, hate that you notice, hate the whole stupid geography of knowing someone too well to pretend you don't.

That evening, walking back through the Seam with the sky going red and wrong overhead, he bumps his shoulder into yours once. Doesn't say anything. Just — once. And you bump back. And that is the whole of it. That is every unsaid thing between you stacked into the width of a shoulder, and you both pretend not to know it.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

The tension between you has no name because you've never given it one. That is the agreement — unspoken, unbreakable. You fight the way people fight who know each other's worst angles. He calls you stubborn; you call him careless. He tells you that you worry about the wrong things. You tell him he doesn't worry about anything at all.

"Someone has to," you say once, sharper than you mean to.

He goes quiet in that particular way he has, where the grin drops just for a second and something real shows through underneath, something that looks almost like I know, and then he puts it away again, and the grin comes back, and the moment seals itself shut like it was never open.

You don't push. You have learned not to push.

That is the other agreement.

ii.

the morning of the reaping

THE 50TH HUNGER GAMES. REAPING DAY.

You wear your mother's dress because it is the nicest thing either of you owns and it smells like her still, faintly, even though she has been gone for two winters now. You stand at the mirror and do not think about the tessera slips. Yours are in the bowl eighteen times. You know this. You have known this since before you were old enough to count.

You find Haymitch near the well before the march to the square, and he is already doing the thing where he stands too still, which is how you know he is scared. Haymitch in motion is Haymitch comfortable. Haymitch standing still is something else entirely.

"Hey," you say.

"Hey," he says.

You stand beside him and look at the same middle distance, the same dirt road going nowhere particular. This is also an agreement. You have so many agreements, you and Haymitch, and none of them were ever negotiated out loud.

"It won't be us," he says. He doesn't sound like he believes it.

"Probably not," you say, which is honest, which is the most you can give him.

He looks at you then — fully, directly, in a way he almost never does anymore, not since you turned fifteen and something shifted between you like a floorboard giving. His eyes are grey. Almost everyone in the Seam has grey eyes. But his are the specific grey of sky before a storm that hasn't decided yet whether to break.

"If it's me—" he starts.

"Don't," you say.

"Y/N—"

"Don't."

He closes his mouth. He looks back at the road. His jaw works once, the way it does when he's swallowing something he's decided not to say, and you are so close to him you could count the pulse in his throat if you wanted to. You don't want to. You keep your eyes forward.

His hand finds yours for exactly three seconds. Knuckles against knuckles, not even fingers properly, just the side of his hand against the side of yours like it happened by accident, like the road tilted slightly and you both slid that direction. Three seconds. Then he steps forward and the space between you opens up again and you both walk toward the square like nothing happened at all.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

Today is his birthday. You thought about that this morning while you were getting dressed, the way you think about things you can't do anything about — pointlessly, insistently, turning it over like a stone. Sixteen years old today. You had plans for that, quiet plans, nothing he'd have been comfortable with if you'd named them out loud. A walk, maybe. The fence behind the slag heap. You were going to say something. Finally. You had decided.

Then the Capitol's reaping ball rolls and the world narrows to a name that isn't his.

Woodbine Chance.

You know Woodbine. Everyone in the Seam knows Woodbine — broad-shouldered, seventeen, always had a laugh too big for his face. You watch him go pale the way people go pale when something cold moves through them, when the body understands before the mind does. He steps forward out of the boys' section. One step. Two.

Then he runs.

It happens so fast you almost don't track it — he breaks left, toward the gap between two Peacekeepers, and for one half-second you think go, go, run, get out— and then the square fills with the sound of it and Woodbine Chance goes down and he does not get back up.

The silence afterward is the worst thing you have ever heard.

Then his mother screams.

She comes out of the crowd the way grief comes — all at once, unstoppable, past the point of calculation. She throws herself toward her son and the Peacekeepers close around her and the altercation happens quickly and brutally in front of the whole district, batons and shoving and her voice breaking apart in the air, and everyone stands very still because standing very still is what you do when the Capitol is hurting someone and there is nothing you can do—

Except Haymitch is not standing still.

You see him move before you understand what he is doing. He is out of the boys' section and crossing the square and putting himself between two Peacekeepers and Woodbine's mother with his hands up and his mouth going, saying something you can't hear from where you're standing — not aggressive, just present, just a sixteen-year-old boy deciding that someone had to and it was going to be him. The Peacekeeper with the baton turns on him instead and you feel the crowd hold its breath as one organism.

On the stage, you see it happen. Drusilla — severe face, something cold and assessing in her eyes — leans toward the man beside her. She is pointing at Haymitch and her expression is not difficult to read even from a distance: she wants him dead. She wants to make an example. She wants the square to understand what happens when a Seam boy steps out of line at a reaping.

But the other one — the man with the unusual hair, the one who looks like he is cataloguing everything he sees — puts his hand on her arm. Stops her. Says something that makes her mouth press flat with fury.

Plutarch Heavensbee. You will learn his name later. You will learn that he argued, quietly and efficiently, that killing the boy they needed to replace a dead tribute would create a problem; that Haymitch Abernathy was already half-reaped by his own actions; that the Capitol could use this. Turn it. Let the district watch what happens to boys who play hero and end up in the arena anyway.

You don't know any of that yet. What you know is that the Peacekeeper lowers the baton. What you know is that two other Peacekeepers drag Haymitch back, roughly, toward the stage, and Woodbine's mother is on her knees in the dirt beside her son, and the escort straightens her papers with that same blank smile and announces it to the square like it is simply the next item on a list:

Haymitch Abernathy. District Twelve's second male tribute.

His chin goes up. Eventually. It takes a second — one honest, unguarded second where you can see everything — and then it goes up, and his hands go loose at his sides, and he finds the mask. You watch him find it from twenty feet away and you think you will never forgive the Capitol for making him need it.

You think: of course he did it anyway.

You think: that is the most Haymitch thing that has ever happened.

It is not funny. You are not laughing. But somewhere underneath the terror there is something that is almost — almost — the specific ache of loving someone so thoroughly you can't even be surprised by them anymore, not even now, not even here.

They call the girls next. The Quarter Quell means two of each — double the grief, double the spectacle, the Capitol wringing everything it can from the occasion. Maysilee Donner's name comes out of the bowl and she walks up with her chin high too, merchant district composure, and you think distantly that she is braver than she looks. Then Louella McCoy, whose little sister is standing three rows ahead of you and makes a sound that you will hear in your sleep for a long time after.

Wyatt Callow for the boys. He volunteers nothing. No one does.

Four tributes from District 12 where there are usually two, because the Capitol decided this anniversary deserved something extra, and that is what this world is — a place that marks its anniversaries in children.

You will spend a long time hating yourself for the half-second of relief that moves through you like cold water. It will be one of the things you never tell anyone. Not even him. Especially not him.

Haymitch doesn't look at the other tributes. He looks at the crowd. He finds you, because of course he does — you are standing in the girls' section, second row, and you have not moved and you are looking right back at him with everything you didn't say this morning still sitting in your chest like a stone you can't put down.

He holds your gaze for one long moment and his face is doing nothing. Absolutely nothing. And that is the worst thing you have ever seen. Haymitch with no expression is Haymitch with too many.

You mouth his name. Just his name. No sentence around it. Just: Haymitch.

He looks away first.

iii.

goodbyes they don’t let you finish

ONE HOUR BEFORE THE TRAIN.

The Peacekeepers give family first. Then — if the tribute allows — friends. You are not family. You wait in the hall of the Justice Building with its peeling paint and its smell of old wood and old fear, and you press your hands flat against your thighs so they don't shake, and you wait.

His mother comes out with her eyes ruined. His little brother is still inside. You know this because you know his family the way you know your own — by proximity, by years, by all the small trespasses of growing up together in a place too small for secrets.

When they let you in, there is almost no time left.

He is sitting on the velvet bench — District 12's version of velvet, which is thin and rubbed down to almost nothing — and he looks up when you come in and for a moment, just a moment, he doesn't put his face back on. You see the whole of it. Sixteen years old and terrified and trying so hard not to be either of those things.

Then the mask goes back up, and he smiles, and it is the worst smile you have ever seen him use on you.

"You don't have to look at me like that," he says.

"Like what."

"Like I'm already dead."

The room is very small and very still and you cross it in four steps and sit down beside him and you say, "You're not going to die."

"No," he agrees, which is not the same as believing it.

"Haymitch." You turn toward him. "Look at me."

He does. He always does, when you say it like that — not soft, not gentle, just steady, the way you've learned to be when everything else isn't. He looks at you and his eyes are doing the storm thing again and you are so angry at the Capitol, at Panem, at the whole grinding machine of this world that has decided to take him away from you before you ever got to figure out what he was to you, or what you were to him, or whether any of it was going to become something you could finally name—

"I'm angry at you," you tell him. "For getting reaped."

A breath of something that is almost a laugh. "That's fair."

"It's completely irrational."

"Also fair."

You look down at your hands. His are right there, close enough. You don't reach for them. You should. You know you should. Later you will know you should have, and the knowledge will be something you carry in your sternum for a very long time.

"Come back," you say. It is not a request. It is barely even language. It is just the only thing left in you.

He doesn't say I will. He knows you too well for false promises, and you have always hated people who make them. Instead he says, very quietly, with his shoulder pressed against yours on that thin velvet bench: "Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

"That's my line," you say.

"I know. I'm borrowing it."

The Peacekeeper opens the door. Time.

Haymitch stands. He straightens his shirt — the same shirt, the collar slightly wrong, the one his mother pressed last night when she still thought she could do something useful — and he looks at you one more time, and you memorize it, you can't help it, you memorize the whole of his face the way you have always memorized things you were afraid of losing, and he says:

"Y/N."

Just your name. Like a corner turned down. Like a page he meant to come back to.

Then he walks out.

iv.

watching the Games

DURING THE 50th HUNGER GAMES

You watch on the screen in the square with everyone else because you don't have a television and even if you did you're not sure you could watch it alone. The crowd presses around you and you press back and you keep your eyes on the screen and every time the cameras find him — alive, still alive, moving through whatever horrors the Capitol has decided constitute entertainment this year — you breathe.

He is clever. You always knew he was clever, but you watch the Games and you see the specific shape of it: how he reads people, how he plays to the crowd, how he calculates angles while pretending to be reckless. Every joke he makes for the audience, every performed bravado, every grin — you know each one. You know the real version. You know what's underneath.

It is the most terrible thing, knowing someone so well you can see the performance inside the performance.

Wyatt Callow dies on the third day. You don't know the boy well — a year above you, merchant-adjacent, someone you'd passed in the square a hundred times without speaking — but Louella McCoy's sister is standing beside you in the crowd when it happens and you put your hand on her shoulder without thinking and she lets you, and that is the whole of District 12, isn't it, that is the only language anyone has left.

Louella goes not long after. You watch it happen and you think about her name coming out of the bowl, that high chin, the composure. You think: she deserved better than this world. Everyone from District 12 does. That is the specific tragedy of it — not that the tributes are weak, but that they were never weak at all, and it still doesn't matter.

Maysilee Donner is the last one from home besides him. You watch the two of them moving through the arena sometimes, uneasy allies, and you think: she is keeping him human. You think: thank you, Maysilee Donner, for keeping him human.

When she dies — the pink birds, the way it happens, the way he holds her hand — you watch Haymitch watch it happen and you see, very clearly, something go out in him. Not his face. His face is already a mask by then, already sealed. Something deeper. Something structural.

You press your fist against your mouth.

The woman next to you — old, Seam-grey, someone's grandmother — puts her hand on your arm without looking at you, and you let her, and you stand there in the square with the whole of District 12 around you watching a boy you know die slowly by surviving, and there is absolutely nothing you can do except witness it.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

When he wins — when the forcefield trick works, when the Capitol realizes what he did and the crowd in the square goes from stunned silence to something complicated that is not quite celebration, not quite grief — you don't cheer. You can't.

You watch the camera on his face in the moment the victory is official. You watch him stand in that arena, sixteen years old, the last one alive, and you watch him understand what that means. What it costs. What it will always cost.

He doesn't look triumphant. He looks like someone who has just realized the shape of the cage.

You already knew that shape. You have lived in it your whole life. But there is a difference between the cage you're born into and the one they put you in on purpose, and what the Capitol did to Haymitch Abernathy in that arena was put him in one that was built just for him, with his own hands, with his own cleverness, and they are never going to let him forget it.

You press your hand flat against the cold screen, just for a second. Stupid. No one sees you. Or maybe someone does and doesn't say anything, because District 12 understands things that don't need to be said.

Come home, you think. Come home and I'll say it. All of it. Every unsaid thing in that stupid hall, every three seconds of knuckles against knuckles, all of it, I swear.

Just come home.

v.

what comes home

AFTER.

Nobody goes to the station.

That is the thing you will think about later, in the dark, when you are trying to understand what happened and why it happened in the order it did. Nobody goes to the station. There is no crowd, no welcome, no district turning out the way districts are supposed to turn out for their victors. The platform is empty when the train pulls in. Whether that is because the Capitol didn't announce it, or because District 12 has learned by now that welcoming things is how you lose them, you don't know. But the platform is empty.

He steps off the train alone.

You are not there. You are in the Seam, two streets over from his house, when the smell hits you — not coal smoke, not the familiar grey lung-coating of District 12's daily air. Something worse. Something that has wood and walls and a whole life inside it.

You run.

By the time you get there, the neighbors are already gathered in the road. A loose cluster of Seam people with that particular expression they get — not quite shock, because nothing truly shocks you after a while in District 12, but a kind of witnessed-grief, a we-are-here-for-this-even-though-we-can-do-nothing. Old Mrs. Parton has her hands pressed over her mouth. Two men have given up on the bucket line. The house is past saving. The house has been past saving for a while.

You stand in the road and look at what is left and you think: his mother. His brother.

And then the crowd shifts, and you see him coming up the road from the direction of the station — alone, on foot, the way you walk home when there is nobody waiting for you, the way you walk when you are sixteen years old and a victor and the train just dropped you off at an empty platform and you had to find your own way back to the Seam. He is still in the clothes they put him in for the Capitol broadcast. He looks wrong in them. He looks wrong in everything right now, because he is in between things — between the arena and whatever comes after, between who he was and who the Capitol has decided to make him — and he is walking home.

He stops when he sees the smoke.

You watch it happen on his face from twenty feet away. The understanding arriving. The thing it means, arriving behind it. And then the third thing — the worst thing — the one that has no name except too late.

He moves and someone grabs him — one of the neighbors, just someone trying to hold him back from a wall of heat and collapsed timber — and he fights them the way you've never seen Haymitch fight anything, not with calculation, not with angles, just with every part of his body saying let me go let me go let me go, and the neighbor says something, voice breaking, and whatever the words are they stop him. They stop him the way things stop you when the news is already finished. When there is nothing left to run toward.

His mother is in that house. His brother is in that house.

The fire keeps going.

You stand in the road and you cannot move. You watch his face do something that it will never fully come back from, and you think about President Snow watching this happen from somewhere clean and warm and very far away, and you think about what it means that the house was already burning when the train arrived — that someone made sure it would be. That someone timed it. That the first thing Haymitch Abernathy was meant to see when he came home was proof that the Capitol could reach anyone, anywhere, at any time, and that winning the Games did not make you safe. It made you a warning.

Enjoy your homecoming.

That is what it means. That is the whole message, written in smoke over the Seam.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

Eventually the fight goes fully out of him. The neighbor releases him slowly, the way you release something you're not sure will hold, and he just — stands there. In the road. In the Capitol clothes that don't fit him right. Looking at what is left of his house and his mother and his brother and his whole life before the arena, which is nothing now, which is smoke and char and a message from a man in a clean room very far away.

His chin does not come up this time.

That is the thing that moves you. Not the fire. Not the grief on the neighbors' faces. The chin not coming up — the one habit he has never dropped, the armor he has worn since he was old enough to know he needed it — just not there. Just gone. He is standing in the road and he is not performing anything for anyone and his face is completely, nakedly undone and you have never seen him like this, not once, not in sixteen years.

You move before you decide to.

You are crossing the road and he turns his head at the sound of your footsteps and he sees you — really sees you, not the careful sideways glance he has been giving you for two years, not the practiced nothing-face — just sees you, full and direct and with absolutely nothing between you and what is in his eyes, and something in them breaks open like a seal giving way.

He comes toward you.

You don't know who moves first after that. It doesn't matter. What matters is the impact — the way you slam together in the middle of the road like two people who have been falling toward each other for a very long time and have only just run out of distance. The force of it takes you both down — knees hitting dirt, neither of you catching it properly, neither of you trying to — and you end up on the ground in the road in front of what is left of his house with your hands in his shirt and his arms locked around you and the fire still going behind you and none of that matters, none of it, because he is here and alive and shaking and you are holding him.

Haymitch Abernathy is shaking.

His face is pressed into the side of your head and he is gripping you the way people grip things when they are the only solid thing left, when everything else has burned, when the world has become entirely untrustworthy and there is only this one point of contact keeping them in their body. He makes a sound — not words, not anything that was ever meant to be words — and it goes through him like a current and you feel it in your sternum and you pull back just far enough to look at him, just far enough to see his face, and he lets you, which is the thing that undoes you, that he lets you see it—

You don't decide to kiss him.

You just do. You close the distance because it is there and he is here and you have been not doing this for two years and you have run out of reasons not to, or maybe the reasons don't feel like reasons anymore when he is on his knees in the dirt with smoke in his hair and everything he loved in ashes behind him. Your mouth finds his and he goes absolutely still — one second, two, the held-breath stillness of someone who has just been handed something they had stopped believing they would ever have — and then he kisses you back.

Not gently.

His hand comes up to the back of your head and he kisses you like it is the last thing, like it is the only honest thing left in a world that has taken everything else, like if he stops something terrible will happen — something more terrible than everything that has already happened, which should not be possible but here, in the Seam, in the dirt, with the Capitol's message still hanging in the sky above you, somehow it feels true. He kisses you harder and you grip his shirt tighter and you think: finally. Finally. Two years of not-saying and here it is, here it is in the middle of the worst day of both your lives, of course, of course it had to be now—

And then you feel it.

The shake that starts in his chest. The way his breathing changes against your mouth — catches, breaks, becomes something else entirely. He is still kissing you and he is sobbing, both at once, and it is the most devastating thing you have ever felt in your life, the specific ruin of it, the way the two things exist together — his mouth on yours and his whole body coming apart — and you make a sound against his lips that you have no name for and you pull him closer instead of back, you hold on tighter instead of letting go, because letting go is not something you are able to do, not now, not with his tears on your face and his hands in your hair and the fire going and the smoke and all of it, all of it at once.

He breaks away. Just slightly. Just enough. His forehead drops to yours and he is breathing in shallow pieces and crying the way he cried before — from somewhere structural, from the place where his mother's voice used to live — and you stay exactly where you are, foreheads pressed together, both of you on your knees in the dirt, and you hold his face in your hands and you don't say anything because there are no words for this.

There have never been words for this.

That was always the problem.

I'm here. I'm here. I'm here.

You don't say it out loud. You don't need to. You just stay.

The fire keeps going behind you. The neighbors drift back, quietly, because District 12 knows when to look away. The smoke rises into the pale autumn sky and the Capitol's message hangs over the Seam in grey and black, and Haymitch Abernathy is on his knees in the road with his forehead against yours and you are holding his face like it is something breakable, like if you hold it carefully enough you can keep it from breaking any further than it already has.

You can't. You know you can't. But you hold on anyway.

You hold on until the fire burns down to nothing, and the sky goes dark, and District 12 goes quiet around you, and his breathing finally, finally slows.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

The first week after, you go every day.

You bring food because you don't know what else to do with your hands, with the specific helplessness of caring about someone who is drowning in something you can't reach into. You knock. Sometimes he opens the door and sometimes he doesn't, and the times he does he is hollow-eyed and very still and he lets you put the food on the table and he doesn't say thank you and you don't need him to. You sit with him in the Victor's Village kitchen — all that space, all those empty rooms, a house designed for someone's idea of a life that has nothing to do with the Seam — and you talk about nothing, or you don't talk at all, and you tell yourself this is enough, this is something, you are still here and that is what matters.

You tell yourself that for two weeks.

By the third week, there is a bottle on the table.

You don't say anything about it the first time. You tell yourself it makes sense — it makes sense, it is the most understandable thing in the world, he just watched his family burn and he is sixteen years old and the Capitol owns him now, body and future and every year he has left, and if a bottle makes the nights survivable then who are you to — you tell yourself all of this. You are very good at telling yourself things.

The bottle is still there the second time. And the third. And by the fourth visit it is not one bottle, and he doesn't get up when you knock, just calls out from somewhere deeper in the house, voice already wrong, already blurred at the edges, and you let yourself in because you still have that much — you still have the ability to let yourself in — and you find him in the sitting room in the dark and he looks at you like he forgot you were a person he knew.

It lasts only a second. Then his eyes focus and he finds the version of his face he uses for you and he says, "You don't have to keep coming."

"I know," you say.

"I mean it."

"I know you mean it."

He looks at you for a long time and you look back and neither of you moves and the house is so quiet around you it feels like a held breath, like the whole Victor's Village is waiting for something, and then he looks away first, which is the thing he always does, and picks up the bottle, and you sit down across from him and you stay until he falls asleep in the chair.

You pull a blanket over him. You do not let yourself think about what you are doing or why. You go home in the dark.

You come back the next day.

vi.

what cruelty looks like from the inside

TWO MONTHS LATER.

It happens on a Tuesday in November, which is not a significant day in any way and will remain significant to you for the rest of your life entirely because of what happens on it.

You go to the Victor's Village in the early evening. You knock. He opens the door and you know immediately — you have learned to know immediately now, the way you learn to read weather, the way you learn anything you need to survive — that tonight is different. Tonight is bad. His eyes have that particular quality they have been getting more and more lately, where the Haymitch you know is still in there somewhere but there is a lot of distance between him and the surface, and whatever is at the surface is not the same thing.

"I brought food," you say, because you always bring food, because it is the only script you have left.

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't eaten since—"

"I said I'm not hungry." His voice is flat. Not angry yet. Just flat, and tired, and wrong. "You don't have to do this."

"Do what."

"This." He gestures, vaguely, at the food, at you, at the whole shape of what you have been doing for two months. "Whatever you think this is."

"Haymitch—"

"You're not my mother." The word lands badly, and you both feel it land, and something moves behind his eyes — something that might be horror at himself, something that might be grief hitting a new surface — and then it is gone, sealed over, and he is just looking at you with that flat and terrible nothing-face. "You don't owe me anything. I don't owe you anything. Go home."

"I'm not leaving."

"Yeah you are."

"No," you say, and your voice comes out steady, which is a small miracle, which costs you something you won't be able to account for until later. "I'm not. You can be awful to me if you need to. That's fine. I can take it. But I'm not leaving you alone in this house because you've decided you deserve to rot in it."

Something crosses his face. It is terrible and quick and you almost miss it — something that is almost please, something that is almost don't make this harder than it already is — and then he shuts it away and he steps back from the door and for a moment you think he is letting you in, you think you have won something, you take one step forward—

"You want to know what I think about?" he says. His voice has changed. Quieter. Worse. "In the arena. You want to know what I thought about when I was trying to stay alive?"

You go still.

"I thought about going home." He laughs, once, and it is the most awful sound you have ever heard come out of him. "I thought — if I get home, everything will — I thought there was something to come back to. Something worth the — " He stops. Swallows. "And then I got off that train and my house was on fire and my mother and my brother were inside it, and I stood in the road, and you — " His voice breaks on the word and he covers it fast, too fast, steamrolls over it. "And I thought, right. Right. Now I understand. Now I understand what this is."

"Haymitch—"

"You coming here every day." His eyes find yours and they are fully present now, fully him, and that is almost worse — when the distance is gone and it is just Haymitch, just the real one, looking at you with everything he knows in his face. "You sitting in my kitchen. You looking at me like that. Like you're waiting for something. Like there is something here worth waiting for." His jaw works. "There isn't. There's nothing here. I killed twenty-three people—"

"You survived—"

"I killed twenty-three people and the Capitol owns me until I die and everyone I love is either gone or going to be used against me." His voice has gone very quiet. That is the worst register. You have learned that the worst things Haymitch says, he says quietly. "So stop coming here. Stop bringing food. Stop looking at me like I'm still someone you—" He cannot finish the sentence. He doesn't finish it. "Just stop."

The silence afterward is enormous.

You are shaking, you realize. You didn't notice when it started. Your hands, pressed flat against your thighs the way they were in the Justice Building hallway a lifetime ago, are shaking, and your eyes are burning, and you are not going to cry in front of him, you are absolutely not going to do that, you will not give the Capitol or this house or any of this the satisfaction—

"Okay," you say.

Your voice comes out wrecked. You hate that. You hate that he can hear it.

"Okay," you say again, quieter, more even. Almost even. "I hear you."

He is looking at you and his face is doing something complicated and private and awful, something that is maybe good and maybe I'm sorry and maybe just please go before I take it back, all of it at once, and you memorize it, you can't help it, you have always memorized the things you are about to lose.

You pick up the food from the doorstep. You don't know why. You just do. You hold it against your chest and you turn around and you walk down the path and you do not look back.

This time you mean it. You are not coming back.

You make it to the end of the path before your legs stop cooperating and you have to stand there for a moment, hand on the gate, looking at the empty road, breathing through it. The Victor's Village is so quiet. The whole row of houses, all those windows, all that dark. One lit window. His.

You think about the road in October. The fire. His arms around you and the sound he made when he sobbed — the way it went through him like something structural giving way, the way you thought I will hold this, I will hold all of it, whatever you need me to hold—

You think: he knew, even then. Standing in that road, shaking, he already knew this was how it ended. He held on anyway. He let himself have it for one night, one hour, the length of a fire burning down, and then he started building the wall.

You think: he built it for me. That's the thing I can't stand. He built it for me and I walked into it every day for two months and called it caring about him and he let me because he didn't know how to stop me and tonight he finally did.

You open the gate. You walk through it. You close it behind you very carefully, very quietly, like closing it gently means something, like it is a kindness you can do at the end of all this.

You go home.

You sit down on the floor of your kitchen — not the chair, the floor, because sometimes the floor is the only thing with enough gravity — and you put the food down beside you and you press the heels of your hands against your eyes and you let yourself do the thing you didn't do in front of him.

You cry until there is nothing left.

Then you wash your face. Then you go to bed. Then you lie in the dark and stare at the crack in the wall and you think about a fourteen-year-old boy who couldn't bear silence throwing rocks at a sign until one went through the letter O, grinning like the world was a joke he was already in on.

You think about who he was before the Capitol decided to use him up.

You think: I would have loved that boy so well. I would have loved him so well and so stubbornly and so completely, and he would have fought me on it every single day, and I would have been so happy.

Outside, one window in the Victor's Village is still lit.

You can't see it from your bed.

You know it's there anyway, and that is the worst part — not losing him, not the things that were never said, not even tonight on that doorstep. The worst part is that he is right there, three streets away, and he is unreachable, and he will be unreachable for the rest of both your lives, and you are going to have to learn how to live in a district small enough that you will see him, and remember, and keep living anyway.

District 12 is very good at teaching you to keep living anyway.

You close your eyes.

You are still here.

In this world, you have learned, that is not the same thing as being okay. It is not the same thing as being whole. It is not the same thing as any of the things you wanted, standing on a fence behind a slag heap at fourteen years old with the whole future still ahead of you like something you hadn't lost yet.

It is just still here.

It is just breathing.

It is just the terrible, ordinary, devastating mercy of being alive in a world that keeps going whether you want it to or not.

You breathe.

Outside, his light goes out.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟

author's note: haymitch abernathy, you deserved better. you deserved to be sixteen and stupid and in love and throw rocks at signs and walk home with someone's shoulder against yours in the red evening light. you deserved a future that wasn't handed to you by a system that was only giving it to you so it could take everything else. you deserved to be angry out loud. you deserved someone to stay. i'm so sorry the world you lived in didn't know what to do with a boy like you except use you up.

and here is the thing about haymitch abernathy that i can't stop thinking about: he is fiction, but he isn't. the boy from the poor part of town who gets pulled into a machine that was never built for him — he's real. the child who survives something no child should survive and gets handed a bottle and a house and called a victor instead of a victim — he's real. the ones who punish you for being clever enough to outsmart them, who take your family to remind you who holds the power, who make you go back every year and do it again and smile on television and call it an honor — they're real too. they just have different names. the capitol is not a place. it is a structure. it is the thing that decides some lives are worth protecting and some lives are worth spending. it is the thing that calls poverty a district, calls grief a victor's burden, calls survival a reward. it is everywhere that power looks at a sixteen-year-old kid from the wrong side of the tracks and sees a resource instead of a person. we have always lived in a world with a capitol in it. suzanne collins knew that when she wrote these books. she was always talking about us.

pay attention. to who your systems protect and who they consume. to who gets the victor's village and who gets the burning house. to who has to keep mentoring long after they have nothing left to give.

thank you for reading. be gentle with yourselves. and look up from the screen once in a while and look at the world. really look. 𓆝



[comfortcharacterwrites]

I love the way you said it in the end, the fact that many people truly are like this, countless of them every day. I love how you explained that he wanted to save her, by letting her go because that was the only way now. I love how you wrote his face, masked, cold, and utterly broken

And I hate how much I love this

[elizabethhoneyyy]

The Prefect’s Partner in Crime

You are a Prefect—diligent, rule-following, and determined to keep your house points high. George Weasley, conversely, is your primary headache. The plot begins in your sixth year when you catch George out of bed after hours. Instead of running, he convinces you to help him hide because he’s accidentally stumbled upon a secret Filch has been keeping that could get anyone in the corridor in trouble.

The moonlight filtered through the high arched windows, catching the copper glint of his hair and casting long, jagged shadows across his face. George stood pressed against a cold suit of armor, his large frame suddenly still, looking uncharacteristically small under my gaze. For the first time, the mischievous spark in his eyes had been replaced by a flicker of genuine panic. He looked trapped, his breath hitching as he realized I wasn't just another student I was the one person who could hand him over to McGonagall or, worse, straight into Filch’s waiting clutches.

“What exactly were you doing skulking around Filch’s office this late, Weasley?” My voice was steady, cutting through the silence of the corridor with practiced authority. But as I looked up at him, the firm line of my brow softened. A flicker of confusion must have betrayed me, because my mind couldn't bridge the gap between George’s usual chaos and the shadowy entrance to the caretaker’s den.

“I—I had a detention,” he stammered, the words tumbling out too fast to be true. He let out a shaky breath, his eyes darting toward the floor as if searching for a script. “Yes, that’s it. A late-night detention with Filch. Terrible timing, really.” He sounded less like he was trying to convince me and more like he was desperately trying to convince himself.

“Really?” I arched a single eyebrow, my voice dripping with a dry, sharp sarcasm. “And why, pray tell, wasn't I informed? You’d think the only Prefect on duty would be notified of a midnight detention. Unless, of course, the rules of Hogwarts changed in the last five minutes without anyone telling me.

George lets out a short, surprised huff of a laugh, the sound echoing softly against the stone walls. The familiar mask of the prankster begins to slide back into place, though his eyes still hold that newfound glimmer of respect. He leans his shoulder against the suit of armor, the metal clinking slightly, and gives you a look that is equal parts sheepish and admiring.

"Ah, well, you see," he says, his voice regaining that velvety, teasing lilt. "The Board of Governors is notoriously slow with the paperwork regarding 'Unsanctioned Life-Saving Measures by Ginger Troublemakers.' It’s a real bureaucratic nightmare, honestly."

He takes a step closer, invading your personal space just enough to make the air feel a bit warmer. "And here I was, thinking you’d be impressed by my initiative. Most people just run for a teacher, but you? You stepped into the line of fire with a levitation charm that would make Flitwick weep with joy."

He looks down at your Prefect badge, then back up at your face, his grin turning a bit more wicked.

"So, what’s the verdict, oh Fearless Leader? Am I heading to the dungeons for 'Unlicensed Potion Swapping,' or are we going to pretend we aren't standing in a dark corridor like a pair of terrified first years on a dare?"

"‘Terrified’? Please. Don’t flatter yourself, Weasley I’ve seen Flop-Grobian slugs with more intimidating presence than you," I spat, my voice dropping to a cold, clinical edge. "And where is Fred, anyway? I don't think I've ever seen you out of your twin's shadow before."

"And how exactly did you know I was George?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low, curious hum. He stepped closer, staring directly into my eyes as if searching for a secret. "Have you been spying on us? Or do you just watch me a little too closely? Because even our own mother can't tell us apart... yet here you are, certain as a Seer."

"Get to bed, Weasley. I wouldn’t want Filch to dock any more points from Gryffindor we all know he’s looking for any excuse to favor Slytherin," I snapped, my voice a fraction too high to be truly indifferent. Without waiting for his inevitable retort, I turned on my heel and hurried off into the darkness, my face burning at how easily he’d seen through me. But unfortunately I’d have to speak to him tomorrow to find out why he was out.

The next morning, the Great Hall was a chaos of clattering silver and owls swooping overhead. I spotted him immediately, sitting between Fred and Ron, laughing as he piled extra bacon onto his plate. I took a steadying breath, straightened my robes, and adjusted my Prefect badge until it caught the light.

I walked up behind him, stopping just close enough to be imposing. "A word, Weasley," I said, my voice now perfectly level, though my heart gave a traitorous thump against my ribs.

George didn't look startled. In fact, he took a slow, deliberate bite of toast before turning around with a lazy, lopsided grin. "Good morning to you too, Prefect," he said, his eyes dancing with the memory of the night before. "Sleep well? You seemed in a bit of a rush to get to bed."

"My sleep schedule is not your concern. Your presence on the third floor last night, however, is. Walk with me."

I stood my ground, expecting another teasing remark or a loud "Hurry up, I don't have all day!" to humiliate me in front of the Gryffindor table. Instead, to my utter surprise, George actually stood. He tossed his napkin onto his plate and gave Fred a quick, unreadable look before turning back to me.

"Lead the way then, Prefect," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing some of its playful edge.

I didn't give him the satisfaction of a second glance. I turned and led him out of the Great Hall, my robes snapping behind me as we stepped into the relative quiet of the stone corridor. The sounds of breakfast faded into a dull hum behind the heavy oak doors. I stopped near a high arched window, the morning light catching the dust motes in the air, and spun around to face him. I crossed my arms, trying to regain the authority I’d dropped in the dark the night before.

"Now," I started, my voice steady this time. "You’re going to tell me exactly what you were doing on the third floor last night. And don't give me any rubbish about getting a midnight snack the kitchens are in the opposite direction."

George leaned back against the cool stone wall, shoving his hands into his pockets. He watched me for a long beat, a slow, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"And what if I was just making sure you got back to the common room safely?" he asked, tilting his head. "You looked a bit... preoccupied. Almost like you were looking for someone."

I scoffed, refusing to let his teasing derail me. "Don't flatter yourself, George. I wasn't looking for anyone. I was doing my rounds, which is more than I can say for you." I stepped closer, lowering my voice so no passing students could overhear. "Start talking. Why were you on the third floor?"

George’s playful expression finally flickered and died. He looked toward the Great Hall doors to ensure they were truly alone, then leaned in, his voice a low, urgent hiss.

"I wasn't just wandering, and I wasn't looking for a snack," he said, the mischievous glint replaced by something uncharacteristically serious. "I was watching Filch. I’ve been tracking him for weeks."

I blinked, taken aback. "Filch? Why on earth would you be spying on the caretaker?"

"Because our 'dear' Mr. Filch has a side hustle," George whispered, a grim smile touching his lips. "He’s been meeting people from Hogsmeade in the dead of night. He’s selling illegal potions the kind that the Ministry banned years ago. Third floor, behind the tapestry of Gunhilda of Gorgon... that's where he keeps the stash before the hand-off."

The blood drained from my face. Filch, the man who lived to catch students breaking the smallest rules, was running an illegal trade under our noses. It was a scandal that could rock the school, but it also meant George had been putting himself in serious danger to gather evidence.

"George, if he catches you..." I started, my Prefect instincts warring with a sudden, sharp spike of fear for him.

"He won't," George interrupted, his gaze locking onto mine. The teasing was gone, replaced by a challenge. "But now you know. So, what’s it going to be, Prefect? Are you going to report me for being out of bed, or are you going to help me catch a criminal?"

I stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. My mind raced through the school rules, the legal implications, and the sheer irony of Filch being the one breaking the law. But more than that, I looked at George really looked at him and realized that for once, he wasn't joking.

I let out a long, frustrated breath, my shoulders dropping just an inch as I made my decision.

"If I go to McGonagall now, it’s your word against his, and we both know who she’ll believe if there’s no evidence," I muttered, more to myself than to him. I looked up, meeting his gaze with renewed intensity. "Fine. I won't report you. But I’m not letting you handle this alone, either. You’re reckless, George, and you’ll get yourself expelled or worse if you trip one of Filch’s own traps."

George’s eyebrows shot up, a slow, triumphant smirk spreading across his face. "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting, Prefect? A midnight rendezvous?"

"I am suggesting an official investigation into a breach of school safety," I corrected sharply, though I felt that familiar heat rising in my neck again. "Tonight. Eleven o'clock. Meet me behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy. And George?"

He paused, looking back at me with a playful tilt of his head. "Yeah?"

"If you're late, or if this turns out to be one of your elaborate pranks," I said, my voice dropping to a warning whisper, "I will personally see to it that you’re scrubbing cauldrons until you graduate. Clear?"

He gave a mock-solemn salute, his eyes sparkling. "Crystal clear. See you in the dark."

He turned and sauntered back into the Great Hall, leaving me standing in the corridor, heart hammering. I had just agreed to break a dozen school rules with the biggest troublemaker at Hogwarts.

The rest of the day was a blur of distracted lectures and scribbled notes that had nothing to do with Transfiguration. If I was going to do this if I was truly going to break the rules I spent my life enforcing I wasn't going to do it unprepared.

As the sun began to dip behind the Forbidden Forest, I slipped into the Library. Madame Pince was busy shooing a group of third-years away from the herbology section, giving me the perfect window. I didn't head for the standard shelves. Instead, I moved toward the heavy iron gate of the Restricted Section, my Prefect badge pinned conspicuously to my chest as a shield against suspicion.

With a practiced flick of my wand and a whispered "Alohamosa," the lock clicked. The air back here was different thick with the scent of old parchment and something faintly metallic. I scanned the spines until I found it: Moste Potente Potions.

I didn't need to brew anything; I needed to know what Filch was selling. If these were illegal draughts, they’d have specific magical signatures. I quickly flipped through the pages, my eyes landing on a chapter about Shimmering Shadow-Paste and Liquid Despair potions that were highly regulated by the Ministry for their use in dark charms.

I pulled a small, blank piece of parchment from my pocket and performed a quick Copying Charm, the text bleeding onto my page in a perfect replica of the detection spells required to identify them.

"Find what you’re looking for?"

I nearly jumped out of my skin, slamming the book shut. I turned to find George leaning against the end of the shelf, his red hair almost glowing in the dim light. He’d followed me.

"George! You nearly gave me a heart attack," I hissed, shoving the copied parchment into my robes. "I told you eleven o'clock. Behind the statue."

He stepped closer, his eyes flicking to the Restricted book I was still clutching. A slow, impressed smile spread across his face. "Borrowing from the forbidden shelves? I didn't know you had it in you, Prefect. I think I’m starting to like this side of you."

I felt my face heat up for the hundredth time that day. "It's for the investigation. Now go, before Pince sees us together and assumes the worst."

"Oh, I think the 'worst' is exactly what we're planning for tonight," he whispered, his voice dangerously close to my ear. He gave me a wink and vanished back into the main library before I could even think of a retort.

I stood there for a moment, my heart hammering against my ribs. I had the spells. I had the plan. Now, all I had to do was survive a night in the shadows with George Weasley without losing my mind or my badge.

Back in my dormitory, I spent the final hour before the meeting focusing on the one thing I could control: my composure. I meticulously straightened my uniform, ensuring every button was fastened and my Prefect badge was polished to a mirror shine. I pulled my hair back into a tight, neat style, leaving not a single strand out of place. If I was going to be a rule-breaker tonight, I would at least look like the authority figure I was supposed to be. It was my armor.

I checked my pocket one last time—the copied parchment from the Restricted Section was tucked safely away. I took a deep breath, watching my reflection in the glass. My eyes looked wider than usual, betraying the adrenaline coursing through me, but my expression was a mask of cold determination.

At five minutes to eleven, I slipped out of the common room. The castle was a labyrinth of long shadows and moonlight, the silence broken only by the occasional groan of the shifting staircases. I moved with the silent efficiency of someone who knew the patrol routes by heart.

As I rounded the corner to the statue of Gregory the Smarmy, I saw a tall, lean figure detached from the shadows. George was leaning against the statue's plinth, twirling a small wooden crate opener between his fingers. He looked far too relaxed for someone about to bust a smuggling ring.

He straightened up as I approached, his eyes raking over my perfectly neat appearance. He let out a low, soft whistle.

"Stunning," he murmured, his usual smirk softening into something more genuine. "You look like you’re heading to a Ministry hearing rather than a midnight stakeout. Don't you ever relax, even when you're committing a crime?"

"This isn't a crime, George, it's a sanctioned investigation," I replied, though the 'stunning' comment made my pulse skip. I stepped closer, my voice dropping to a businesslike whisper. "I have the detection spells. If Filch has the potions behind the tapestry, I can identify them in seconds. After that, we take the evidence to the Headmaster."

"Right. Evidence first, glory later," George agreed, his expression turning serious as he checked the corridor behind me. "The coast is clear. Filch just finished his sweep of the second floor. If we move now, we’ll have ten minutes before he circles back to the third."

He held out a hand toward the dark corridor ahead. "After you, partner."

The metallic clink-clink of glass vials echoed sharply against the stone. My heart leapt into my throat. Without thinking, I grabbed the front of George’s robes and hauled him backward into a narrow, shadowed alcove behind a suit of armor.

It was a tight fit. The space was barely wide enough for one person, let alone two. I was pressed firmly against the cold stone wall, and George was forced to lean in close to avoid being seen, his chest nearly brushing mine. The scent of gunpowder and toasted cinnamon—the distinct smell of the Weasley twins' workshop—swirled around me, making it hard to focus on the danger just feet away.

"Shh," I breathed, my hand still gripping his robes as I pressed a finger to my lips.

George didn't pull away. Instead, he braced one hand against the wall beside my head to steady himself, his eyes locking onto mine in the darkness. For a second, the mystery of Filch’s potions felt miles away, replaced by the sheer intensity of being this close to him.

Then, a flickering light appeared on the corridor floor.

Filch shuffled into view, his hunched silhouette elongated by the guttering lantern in his hand. Mrs. Norris prowled at his heels, her lamp-like eyes scanning the shadows. Filch reached the tapestry of Gunhilda of Gorgon and paused, glancing nervously over his shoulder—right toward our alcove. I held my breath, my heart drumming so loudly I was certain the cat would hear it.

He reached behind the tapestry and pulled out a small wooden crate. He fumbled with a key, the metallic clinking becoming louder as he checked the contents.

"Nearly time, my beauty," Filch wheezed to the cat, his voice trembling with a mix of greed and fear. "One more hand-off, and we’ll have enough to get out of this dung-heap of a school."

Beside me, I felt George’s frame stiffen. His jaw tightened, and the playful glint I was so used to seeing was completely gone. He looked at me, a silent question in his eyes: Do we move now, or wait for the buyer?

The silence in the alcove was suffocating, thick with the tension of the secret we were sharing and the dangerous proximity of our bodies. I could feel the heat radiating from George, his steady breath fluttering the stray hairs near my temple. Every time I tried to focus on Filch, my mind betrayed me, centering instead on the way George’s hand was still braced against the wall, effectively pinning me in.

We watched through the gap in the visor of the suit of armor as Filch finally shoved the crate back behind the tapestry. With a final, paranoid look around, he shuffled off toward the North Tower, the light of his lantern fading until the corridor was plunged back into a silvery, moonlit gloom.

I didn't move immediately. I couldn't. My heart was still hammering against my ribs, and George hadn't stepped back.

"He’s gone," I whispered, my voice sounding breathy and far less composed than I intended.

"I know," George replied. His voice was a low vibration I felt more than heard. He didn't move to the tapestry. Instead, he leaned in just a fraction of an inch closer, his eyes dropping to my lips before snapping back to mine. "You're shaking, Prefect. Is it the danger, or is it me?"

"It’s the cold," I lied, my voice trembling. I reached up, intended to push him away so we could get to work, but my hand landed flat against his chest. I could feel his heart—racing just as fast as my own. The realization sent a jolt of electricity through me. "We have a job to do, Weasley. Don't get distracted."

George let out a soft, dry chuckle, his thumb grazing the stone just an inch from my ear. "Right. The 'sanctioned investigation.' You're a terrifying woman when you’re focused."

He finally stepped back, the sudden rush of cool air between us feeling like a loss. He offered a hand to help me out of the narrow space, his fingers lingering against mine a second too long as I stepped out.

I smoothed my robes, desperately trying to regain my "Prefect" mask, though my face was surely glowing red. "The tapestry," I commanded, my voice regaining its edge. "Open it."

George pulled back the heavy fabric, revealing the small wooden crate. I knelt beside it, pulling the Restricted Section parchment from my pocket. My hands were still a little shaky as I pointed my wand at the vials inside.

"If these are what I think they are..." I started, but as the first vial began to glow a sickly, pulsing violet under my detection spell, the reality hit me. "George, this isn't just illegal trade. This is Venenum Tenebris. It’s a base for some of the darkest draughts known to the Ministry. Filch isn't just a smuggler; he’s a supplier for something much worse."

George knelt beside me, the humor completely gone from his face. He looked at the glowing vial, then back at me. "If we take this to the Ministry, Filch is done. But he’s not doing this alone. A Squib can't brew this."

"Which means someone inside the castle is helping him," I finished, the horror of the situation settling in.

I looked at George, and for the first time, I didn't see the class clown or the rule-breaker. I saw a partner. "We can't go to the Headmaster yet. We don't know who the brewer is. If we tell Dumbledore, the brewer will go to ground."

George reached out, gently tilting my chin up so I had to look at him. "So, what you're saying is... the Prefect wants to keep breaking the rules with me?"

"Take one," I whispered, my voice tight with a mixture of fear and adrenaline. "I need to analyze the residue. If I can trace the magical signature of the brewer, we won’t just have the middleman—we’ll have the source."

George didn't hesitate. He swiped a small, corked vial filled with a thick, obsidian-like liquid and tucked it deep into his pocket. He pulled the tapestry back into place, erasing any sign that we’d been there.

"Back to the tower, then," he murmured. "And stay close. If Filch or that cat doubles back, I'm not letting you take the fall for this."

The walk back to the Gryffindor common room was a tense, silent blur. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a scream. When we finally reached the Fat Lady’s portrait, I gave the password with a shaky voice, and we tumbled into the warmth of the common room.

The fire had died down to a low, orange glow, casting long, flickering shadows across the empty scarlet armchairs. The room was deserted, the silence heavy and intimate. I moved toward a table in the corner, but George caught my arm, pulling me toward the shadows of the window nook.

"I think we've had enough 'official' light for one night," he said, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous register again.

I sat on the plush bench, the vial of Venenum Tenebris sitting between us on the mahogany table like a ticking bomb. I pulled out my notes, trying to focus on the brewing components, but I could feel George’s gaze on me. He wasn't looking at the potion. He was looking at me, his head tilted, a strange, thoughtful expression on his face.

"You know," he started, leaning his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand. "I always thought you were just... another badge. Someone who enjoyed the power of telling people what to do. Someone who hated everything I stood for."

I looked up from my parchment, my heart doing that traitorous skip again. "I don't hate you, George. I hate that you make my job impossible."

"Do I?" He reached out, his fingers trailing lightly over the edge of my notes, stopping just short of my hand. "Because tonight, you were the best partner in crime a bloke could ask for. You're brilliant, you're brave, and you look far more beautiful with your hair a bit messy than you ever did with it perfect."

I went to snap at him, to tell him he was being inappropriate or that we had a scandal to solve, but the words died in my throat. The "enemy" I had spent years scolding and docking points from was sitting inches away, looking at me as if I were the most interesting thing in the castle not the illegal potion, not the secret, just me.

"We're supposed to be analyzing this," I managed to say, though it sounded more like a plea than a command.

"In a minute," George whispered. He moved his hand, finally covering mine. His skin was warm, his grip firm and grounding. "Tell me the truth. Did you really hate me all those times you gave me detention? Or was that just the only way you knew how to get my attention?"

I let out a shaky breath, the heat of his palm seeping into mine. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the distant crackle of the common room fire and the frantic drumming of my own heart.

"You were a nightmare, George," I murmured, finally meeting his gaze. His eyes were dancing with that familiar, mischievous glint, but there was a new intensity behind them that made my throat go dry. "Truly. You disrupted every lesson, set off dungbombs in the corridors, and made my life as a prefect a living hell."

George grinned, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles over my knuckles. "And yet, you always knew exactly where to find me. Funny, that."

"I had to find you. It was my job."

"Was it?" He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, rough hum that vibrated in the small space between us. "Because Lee told me you used to smile whenever you turned your back to walk away. Just a little one. Right before you’d go find some quiet corner to write out my name on a slip of parchment."

I tried to look indignant, to find some witty retort about his ego, but the words died in my throat. The truth was written in the way I wasn't pulling my hand away.

"Maybe I just liked the way you looked when you were trying to talk your way out of trouble," I confessed, my voice barely a whisper. "You were always so... vibrant. It was hard to look anywhere else."

George’s grin softened into something real, something vulnerable. He reached up with his free hand, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering on my cheek.

"Good," he breathed, his face inches from mine. "Because I’ve spent seven years trying to get you to look at me. I'd hate to think all those hours of scrubbing cauldrons went to waste."

He didn't wait for a response this time. He tilted his head, closing the final inch of distance, and pressed his lips to mine. It wasn't the teasing, fleeting contact I’d expected—it was firm, warm, and tasted faintly of Sugarplums and mischief, finally grounding me in the way only a Weasley could.

This is my first fanfic so idk if it’s good or not please leave suggestions in the comments x

[comfortcharacterwrites]

Harry Potter

fic recommendation list

T - false alarm

T - love alarm

T - speechless

T - 1000 tears

T - forget me, not

T - it's distracting

T - friendzoned

T - may I sit?

T - media training

T - taken seriously

T - quit following me!

T - back off, bella swan

T - seven minutes in heaven

T - sanctimonia vincet semper

T - give her the life I never had

T - realizations

T - make you mine

T - heartbeat confessions

T - platform coffee and curious boys

T - lost match, mild concussion

T - the dark lord's daughter

T - in the quiet ---

part one part two part three

T - concussions and interruptions m.list

back to fic recs page

[marsti1]

okay so ANOTHER hyper fixation. back in my harry potter era.

this time i’m particularly obsessed with the Weasley twins, George specifically

i don’t know why i just love him, my pookie🫪

everything aside, i hope he looks recognisable because i’m in a style crisis lol

[comfortcharacterwrites]

GEORGIEEEEEEEEE

[marsti1]

gred and forge🧡

okay yes i love them sm.

on another note, i’m studying for an exam tomorrow (lol) but my mind won’t stop thinking about shifting. i’m trying to go to hogwarts y’all any tips? prayers? i rediscovered shifting at the start of this year and i feel like i’m getting just a little closer🥹🪽

[comfortcharacterwrites]

very very very peak art