Hi, I thought it would be a good idea to do a masterlist of my fics/posts. So here it is!
The Hunger games Sunshine and Roses Universe:
Sunshine and Roses: Eight years after surviving the 66th Hunger Games, Ember Chance has built a fragile life alongside her only friend and —reluctant husband in nothing but name— Haymitch Abernathy. But as the 74th Games set something dangerous into motion, both Ember and Haymitch find that the Panem isn’t the only thing changing, and no matter how hard they fight it, it might be futile.
(Covers The Hunger Games, Catching Fire and Mockingjay era of Panem)
Anxiety, creeping up on me. -One month after returning to District 12, Ember Chance learns more of what the price of being a victor entails.
Happy Birthday Haymitch - On her first reaping as a mentor, Ember Chance unfortunately learns why you don’t say happy birthday to her former mentor. However, ten years later Haymitch eventually learns comes round to it. Sort of.
The 69th Reaping- Four months after a horrific event in the Capitol, the reaping rolls around and in a one off event Haymitch has to be the one to pick up the slack for the first time in years on his birthday.
Until Death Do Us Part- The wedding day of Haymitch and Ember Abernathy.
SAR Asks:
Ask prompt post
Ember’s upbringing and children
When did Ember and Haymitch realise they were in love?
SAR Lore Posts:
Snow’s wedding control
Capitol Fashion in the 66th Games
Ember’s Chance Connection
Other stuff:
SAR posters
Dandelion In The Snow: A Sunshine and Roses prequel- when 15 year old Ember Chance is Reaped into to the 66th Hunger Games, she doesn’t expect to win, but she might find that fate has other plans…
Chapters- prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, Haymitch Interlude #1 , part 4, part 5, Haymitch Interlude #2 (part 1), Haymitch Interlude #2 (Part 2), part 6, part 7 (finale)
Haymitch: Saying things that make me wanna kiss the hell out of you.
I have no idea where this quote is from I was just messing around with a quote generator but this is peak Haymitch & Ember relationship vibes if I ever saw them.
A/N: Happy birthday Ember! To celebrate here’s what happened on the second most infamous birthday Ember experienced; the year of the 68th games.
Sunshine & Roses: Masterlist
I wake before the sun reaches my windows.
For a few seconds, I don't remember where I am.
The sheets are too soft. The ceiling is painted with drifting clouds that move ever so slightly. Somewhere beyond the glass, fountains sing instead of birds.
Then it all comes rushing back to me.
I'm eighteen today.
It’s day two of the Sixty-Eighth Hunger Games.
And it’s the day I marry Haymitch Abernathy.
Each thought settles over me like another blanket, heavier than the first. I don’t have time to think too hard however as a knock comes at my door.
It opens before I can do anything other than sit up.
Haymitch stands there, still wearing yesterday's clothes beneath a hastily buttoned jacket. His hair tangled, I can smell the drink on him from across the room before I even see the bottle. He stumbles in the room almost tripping over his own two feet as he stumbles towards the bed.
That is not a good sign.
"Kid’s gone."
I close my eyes.
Fourteen years old.
She made it through the bloodbath. Through the first 18 hours, but she’ll never see another morning.
Neither of us says anything for a long moment.
Yesterday we'd already lost our boy. Dead before the bloodbath had even really started, the first kill of the game this year.
Now they're both gone.
Two more children.
Two more boxes going back to District Twelve.
Haymitch rubs the back of his neck.
"Sorry”
I nod because I don't trust myself to speak.
Instead, he just gives my shoulder one awkward pat before turning away.
"I'll... see you later."
He stumbles back out, and the door clicks shut.
Silence fills the room again.
I stare at the ceiling unsure whether to cry or not until the sun fully rises, and another knock comes,
This one is brighter.
Lighter.
The door flies open.
"Ember!" Effie Trinket sings, sweeping inside in a cloud of lavender perfume and perfect curls. "Happy birthday, darling! Oh, what a glorious day!"
She stops the instant she sees my face.
"Oh..."
Her smile softens.
"I heard."
I nod once.
"They're both gone."
"I'm afraid so."
For a second, the Capitol escort disappears, leaving only a woman whose eyes genuinely ache for two children she'd only known a handful of days. I like that about Effie, she may not really have the comprehension of the games being this awful event but she isn’t heartless, she knows how much this stuff affects us in the moment and she’s always a friend when something happens.
"Oh, my dear..."
She crosses the room, taking both my hands.
"I know this is simply dreadful timing. Really dreadful, nobody could have expected it." Her voice is gentle. "But... we haven't a single moment to lose."
I don't move.
"I don't think I can."
"You can."
"I don't want—”
"President Snow has invited half the Capitol, they’ll all be showing up for you.”
I let out a breath that almost becomes a laugh.
Of course he has.
Effie squeezes my fingers.
"You only have to get through today, all you have to remember, you’re marrying the love of your life. Even if it is Haymitch."
Even if it is Haymitch. She says that as though it’s a pre game meeting, as though today isn't my forever.
“Come on, chin up! It’s breakfast time!”
Breakfast arrives. Fresh Fruit and bread and tiny pastries covered in edible gold with cream.
But I can't touch a single thing.
Effie doesn't force me.
She merely sighs.
"Can you at least manage some tea?”
I manage half a cup before another whirlwind enters my room.
"My darling!"
Fabricia.
She's dressed in layers of shimmering cream that somehow resemble clouds and champagne all at once.
She claps her hands.
"Our bride!"
I wish they’d stop calling me that.
Her team follows carrying racks of fabric, boxes of cosmetics, jewellery that sparkles brighter than the chandeliers.
For hours I become less and less myself.
Powder to my skin, pins in my hair and lots of lavender and vanilla smelling perfume.
Every curl is positioned.
Every eyelash examined.
Someone dusts glitter over my shoulders.
Then comes the dress.
"It's magnificent," Fabricia breathes.
I think it looks like a cake.
Layers upon layers of white satin rise around me until I can barely see my own feet. The skirt stretches so wide I have to turn sideways through the bedroom door, the corset pulls so tightly I have to relearn how to breathe.
Fabricia steps back.
"There."
Everyone applauds.
I hardly recognise the girl looking back from the mirror.
She looks like someone the Capitol invented.
Not the girl who swam in the lake deep in the forest of District Twelve, not the girl who turned sixteen in an arena.
Just Panem's princess.
Exactly what they want.
Ma arrives shortly before we're due to leave carrying a sponge cake and some goat cheese, Daisy’s cheese. I smile at that but I don’t know if I can still eat despite the comfort the gesture gives me.
She's wearing the nicest dress she's has ever owned; no it’s not one she owns, just one that looks like it; it’s the blue floral dress made out curtains except the curtain material is an airy cotton and the flowers are embroidered in gold. I wish pa was here to see her.
Even so, she still looks completely out of place among all the silk and jewels.
"Oh..."
Her hand covers her mouth.
"You look beautiful."
"I feel ridiculous."
She laughs quietly.
"You look like one of Otho’s creations"
I can’t help but laugh. Great minds….
She comes closer, adjusting one sleeve that doesn't need adjusting.
She looks around the room in quiet amazement.
"I've never seen anything like this."
“I know”
She grows quieter.
"I still can't quite believe..."
She doesn't finish.
It must be strange for her, me marrying Haymitch and all that. My choice of husband is she grew up with, I don’t know how much contact they had but given she and dad mentioned the Abernathy’s a few times when they thought I was asleep, she probably knew him well enough.
She studies me.
"Are you happy?"
The question catches in my chest.
I can't answer it honestly, everyone has to believe it, including ma, Haymitch made that very very clear, or Snow will undoubtedly do something worse than sell me.
So I give the answer everyone wants.
"I'll be all right."
She kisses my forehead.
"I know you will.”
I wish I believed it.
“He’d be so proud of you, you know.”
That’s enough to bring me to tears. But I can’t cry, the Capitol won’t allow it sad ones.
Not today
The venue rises from the Capitol like something carved from ice.
White marble, gold towering columns, with banners of a sort of fuchsia.
Crowds press against barriers just to catch a glimpse, cameras trained and ready to follow my every movement.
People cheer when I step from the vehicle.
Music swells.
Everything is too polished, too clean, when children are actively dying in horrific ways for entertainment. I hate it immediately.
Inside, the ceremony hall glows beneath several crystal chandeliers.
The ceiling disappears into painted clouds.
More flowers, pink and purple, cover every surface.
Capitol citizens fill row after row, people with elaborate hairstyles and terrible clothing, a young man with cerulean hair pushed back with so much gel I’d be concerned if he was anywhere near a candle and a teal and gold jacket to match, sticks out, his white teeth grinning at me as he watches like he knows me, likewise, I don’t recognise most of these people, presumably having bought the privilege of watching this part of Hunger Games history. But there are a few faces I do:
Effie is the obvious one, she stands proudly at the front, next to my fellow victors:
I spot Finnick almost immediately. He’s in a suit the colour of sea glass. He catches my eye and gives me the smallest smile. As if he's reminding me to breathe. He’s next to last year’s winner, Augustus Braun, the Chevalier Career. That placement seems intentional, the quintessential Capitol darling and Panem’s favourite son sat together. I wonder if I wasn’t the blushing bride I’d be between them or if I’d be demoted for blowing up a lake.
Caesar Flickerman has a front row seat, no doubt for media coverage of the event. There’s a feline looking woman I recognise as the stylist who saw me before my interview with Caesar before the games, stood next to my ma near the centre of the front row, where family presumably are meant to be, if you have any. Tigris, I recall, was dropped from the games almost two years ago, I’m not sure l why, but it was shortly after the head gamemaker was…. faced with the fate of most of the Head Gamemakers of The Games, they might be connected but I think I messed up a lot of people’s lives that year by annoying Snow that it probably isn’t. Next to her is Plutarch Heavensbee. I feel a prang of annoyance at that, I don’t know why that bothers me; Plutarch in my experience is nice enough but there’s always a look as if he’s playing chess or something about him and I don’t know if I like that about him or not.
President Snow appears at a balcony.
He offers one small approving smile.
One nod. Signalling the go ahead. I force myself to look away from him.
The entrance Music begins.
My legs feel wobbly like the jelly we had for pudding last night.
Each step echoes beneath the skirt.
The aisle seems endless.
Then I see him properly.
Haymitch, that is.
Waiting at the end of the carpet.
He looks uncomfortable in formal clothes, Effie clearly made her impression on him too.
The white suit, embroidered with gold fits perfectly, completed with a pink and purple flower pinned to the lapel. His hair has been brushed and tied back into something almost respectable and…. he’s shaved. It’s the oddest thing, seeing a clean shaven Haymitch, it’s unnerving, really.
He’s barely smiling at me.
At least that’s typical of him.
But there is something there for the camera. It reminds me that this reality is not just mine, but his too, he’s just as much as a participant in this as I am.
We’re in this together.
When I reach him, he quietly offers his arm to me.
"You still with me?" His voice is low when he speaks, he doesn’t smell like the liquor he was nursing this morning and that’s even more unnerving.
Regardless I give a small nod.
His mouth twitches “you’ve done the hardest part.”
I’m not sure I believe him. And I’m not sure he believes himself either.
I feel like I'm underwater,
Voices blur together. Questions and Promises are spoken;
My heart pounds so loudly I barely hear my own answers.
Haymitch answers steadily as if he's practiced this a thousand times.
Like he's not carrying both of us through this awful, terrible thing.
And then—
"You may kiss."
Everything stops in an instant.
The Capitol seems to lean forward.
Every camera.
Every eye is on us.
Haymitch was wrong; this is the most difficult part of the day.
I've never kissed anyone, and I’ve never been kissed by anyone. I never had the chance before the games, there wasn’t really someone I could kiss, Chester?, maybe but the thought never crossed my mind and at school I wasn’t really eye candy for the boys. I remember when Briar came to me all excited that she’d been kissed by some boy in our class, Wiley, and how exhilarating it felt. I remember feeling jealous that she had had that but I couldn’t get a single boy to even look at me in that way.
Haymitch looks at me, but not as my 16 year older husband. But as my mentor turned friend, his eyebrow raises in an unspoken question; you good?
I give the tiniest nod despite my trepidation. He can see through that immediately.
His hand comes up slowly.
Warm but rough fingers rest against my cheek, careful as if I’m something made out of porcelain.
His thumb brushes once beneath my eye.
Then he leans in.
I don't know what I'm supposed to do.
I close my eyes because that feels right.
His forehead almost brushes mine first.
His lips meet mine.
They’re softer than I expected.
The world disappears.
The cheering.
The cameras.
Everything vanishes except the warmth of his hand against my face.
He tastes faintly of mint.
Fresh enough that I know he'd realised this would happen and actually made the effort but beneath it lingers a trace of alcohol.
But this is Haymitch, liquor and him go hand in hand, so I can not say I’m surprised.
The kiss lasts only a few seconds.
Long enough to convince everyone.
Long enough that it doesn't look staged.
He barely moves, careful, almost hesitant, letting me find the rhythm rather than forcing it.
My heart is racing so hard I wonder if he can feel it, my stomach twists but but I do my best to force myself to reciprocate, to give them what they want.
When he pulls away, we're still close enough that I can see every line around his tired eyes.
"Good job, Sunshine."
People stand.
Cheering.
Clapping.
Throwing flower petals.
Somehow against all the odds, we’ve succeeded in our persuasion.
Outside, the celebration grows louder.
Music fills the enormous garden.
Tables overflow with food.
The Capitol celebrates as though nothing else exists.
As though there isn't an arena still running.
As though children aren't still dying.
Then someone releases the doves.
Twenty of them, white-grey wings burst into the afternoon sky all at once.
The crowd gasps in delight.
The birds circle overhead, sunlight catching every feather.
Beside me, Haymitch goes completely still.
His jaw tightens.
Only for a second.
Then the smile returns.
Anyone else would miss it.
I don't.
I don't know why those birds were the thing to get him.
I quietly tighten my grip around his arm.
Just enough for him to notice.
He glances down.
For the briefest moment, the performance disappears, like he wasn’t expecting that from me, but he gives my hand a squeeze. Then we're smiling again, playing our parts.
The Capitol sees two victors in love.
They see a fairy tale, a wedding, a happy ending as the result of the games.
Only Haymitch and I know the truth.
This isn't the end of anything.
It's the beginning of a promise, of a lifetime spent pretending, of a lifetime traded so mine could still belong to me.
Tag list (if you want to be tagged just let me know, and sorry if I forget anyone): @teffytaytay13 , @maddiesreadinglog , @flornegrastuff , @gabbyella , @aureolinb , @a-cozy-little-home , @aizawas-ray-of-moonlight
Hey! so I’m making a Sunshine & Roses music playlist and I was wondering, to anyone who have read the fic so far are there any songs YOU associate with the fic (so far— this can include Dandelion in the Snow or any of the stand alone fics) with Catching Fire or Mockingjay specifically (I’ve done the Hunger Games portion)? Or any character coded songs you guys can think of that I can add because I am struggling with songs for THG canon characters?
I know I’m the writer of the fic but I’m always curious about what other people think? And I like to include other people in my writing process 😅 (i promise I’ll post the playlist when it’s done!)
Tag list (if you want to be tagged just let me know, and sorry if I forget anyone): @teffytaytay13 , @maddiesreadinglog , @flornegrastuff , @gabbyella , @aureolinb , @a-cozy-little-home , @aizawas-ray-of-moonlight
A/N: Alright first of all Happy Birthday Haymitch. Second of all happy 250th anniversary of independence to all you Americans out there from a Brit. Instead of releasing chapter 25 (which I’m actually working on a bit, it’s just very slow) I thought I’d write something, about the Reaping two years after Ember’s, aka the Reaping after they lost their baby, so trigger warning for that I suppose. It’s a bitter-sweet one so hold on tight. And who said dipping into your own depressive thoughts about being a failure can’t create art!
Sunshine & Roses: Masterlist.
I wake up already annoyed.
Not from drink, exactly but from the pounding, the pounding that is definitely not in my head.
It’s coming from my door and it’s the kind that means somebody’s either dead, dying, or about to make my day real complicated Ember’s really got the nerve to—
“Haymitch!”
That’s too old to be Ember’s voice.
“Haymitch, please!”
I recognise that voice:
“Haymitch!”
That’s Annabel Rose’s voice.
I swing my legs off the sofa, head throbbing and grab the nearest bottle on instinct.
Annabel Rose is standing there, in her apron looking she forgot how to breathe properly. That is not like her. She’s usually sunshine in human form but right now now she looks like a candle that somebody has snuffed the wick to.
“She isn’t up,” she says fast. “I knocked, no answer. Daisy hasn’t been milked. Haymitch—she is always up before dawn.”
That doesn’t add up, Ember doesn’t skip mornings. If the sun rises on the Reaping, so does she.
It dawns on me even quicker than the first thought:
Four months.
It’s been Four months since— never mind my birthday, it’s the first big event since—
My stomach drops.
No.
No.
I don't even grab a jacket, bottle still in hand, I take a swig and I move.
Victor's Village blurs past in long strides. Gravel crunches beneath my boots, I’m running across the grass so fast Annabel Rose has to jog to keep up. My boots hit the stairs of their house, yelling for Annabel Rose to stay downstairs, in case, in case there’s a sight in there nobody should see, and before I know it, I’m at her bedroom door.
“Ember!”
I try the door.
Locked.
I knock once.
Hard.
“Ember. Open the damn door.”
Silence.
“I swear, if you’re messing around to teach me a lesson, you’re gonna regret it.”
Still nothing.
Alright.
Alright.
I back up.
“Fine,” I say. “Fine. We doing this the hard way.”
I slam my shoulder into the wood.
It doesn’t give.
The second hit lands with a crack.
The Third— and the door goes and I’m inside.
And there she is.
Laying in bed, awake, blanket wrapped tight around her.
My chest tightens, but that immediately gives way to irritation.
“You planning on giving everybody in District Twelve a heart attack before breakfast?” I say, leaning in the doorway,
"...Sorry."
I hate it when she says sorry like that.
I take another swig of alcohol. It’s white liquor, the stuff that burns, good. I’m gonna need that.
“Well,” I say. “Ain’t you a ray of sunshine this morning. Your ma’s downstairs about to have a full on breakdown, just so you know.”
“I know.”
“The goat’s throwing a fit.”
“I know.”
“I know, I know,” I repeat. “Now you just going to lie there or are you gonna tell me what’s caused you disrupt my valuable drinking time?”
She shrugs a little. I grab the chair and drag it to the edge of her bed and sit on it backwards. “Not a request, Sunshine. Talk.”
Silence.
Then:
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“No.”
“Try again.”
Her eyes flicker up for half a second, searching mine.
Then they drop again.
“I’m a failure.”
I exhale through my nose. Notice her hand on her stomach for the first time since being there, clutching at still swollen skin.
Yeah, I was right about what this is about.
“No, you ain’t.”
“I am.”
“No.”
“I should’ve—”
“You should’ve what? Stopped it with your bare hands while you were half dead yourself?”
She flinches.
I stand.
“Alright. Enough.”
She looks up at me now.
Finally.
“Don’t do that,” she says.
“Do what?”
“Make it small.”
I snort.
“I ain’t makin’ nothin’ small. I’m makin’ it survivable.”
Silence again. Then:
“The Capitol will ask about him.”
It’s so quiet, I almost miss it. That, lands, and I find myself removing the chair between us, dragging it to where it was by the window and placing my bottle down on the window sill next to it, and I crouch down by her bedside again.
“Yeah, they will.” I say, hand on the bed by her head “and they won’t ever stop asking. This year it’ll be getting sympathy, next year and every other year it’ll be when. Are we trying again? Will there be other attempts?.”
Her jaw tightens.
“I can’t—”
“—no, We just have to do what we always do. We lie, we spin the story, we keep Snow happy and each other alive” I cut in “You don’t have to be pretty about it, you just gotta say the right words.”
She gives me a sour look. Yeah that didn’t sit but she knows I’m right.
I lean back on my heels.
“Listen to me. You go out there standin’ like this, they’ll chew you up and spit you back out. You hear me?”
“I don’t think I—”
“You can,” I say again, sharper. “And you will. Because I am not mentorin’ tributes alone again, I’m too old for that shit.”
I point at her.
“Now. Up. Move.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, standing, “we can’t always get what we want.”
She huffs, sitting and swinging her legs over the bed, she stands, slowly, but she stands.
“Good,” I say.
Annabel Rose calls something from downstairs—
“She okay?” she shouts.
“Define okay!” I shout back.
“Haymitch!”
“She’s vertical!” I call. “That’s improvement if I saw one!”
I hear a shaky laugh from below.
Good. The world isn’t ending yet. The goat bleats outside. Ember can’t do both today, I know that, there’s no way she’ll manage with grief wrapping round her head like this, so I make a decision I’m almost certain I’ll regret.
I turn back to Ember and point down the hall.
“Go make yourself pretty or something. I’ll deal with the goat.”
"No."
"Yes."
"She hates you."
“Feeling’s mutual."
"She'll bite."
"I'll just bite back."
"Haymitch."
"I'll improvise. It’s gotta be pretty easy if you can manage it with only one hand. What could go wrong?”
Turns out, a lot can go wrong with a goat.
Outside, Daisy is already waitin’.
And she’s the type of goat that’s got opinions, bad ones at that. She hates everyone in Twelve except Ember and I don’t know why but she’s always had a particular vendetta against the district drunk.
Unfortunately, that role has been designated to yours truly since before she was born.
She sees me coming as I enter the pen and I immediately feel like I’ve been cornered by a pack of mutts.
Her head hits my thigh.
"Yeah okay, you want her."
Another shove.
"You tiny little—"
She stamps.
"You ain’t getting her today."
Another stamp.
“You’ve got me, Ember’s a little preoccupied and I you think happy about it either?”
The bucket nearly goes flying.
"This is why we eat goat down the hob."
She bleats loud enough to sound personally insulted. She rams me again, I grab for the bucket, she twists, I twist, she twists again and tries to bolt, I catch her, but she drags me halfway across the makeshift pen like I weigh nothing.
“You are a terrible animal,” I tell her.
“…Daisy,” a voice calls softly.
That goat pauses and looks up, I follow. face appears.
She’s got dark circles under her eyes, still pale, but she looks… more there now. Her hair is wet. She whistles soft. “Be a good girl for Haymitch, he’s alright really.”
“Thanks a lot Sunshine.”
Daisy turns instantly like I wasn’t just assaulted for ten minutes. Milking goes smoother after that but as I leave she still decides to try and kick me for good measure.
Stupid goat. I don’t know what Ember sees in her.
I glance back up at the window. She’s not there anymore. We work well as a team, me and her, and I hate what the Capitol has done to jeopardise that.
By the time I get back upstairs, smelling like goat, she’s standing by a mirror in a towel.
She’s not fixed.
Not fine.
Just… still upright.
I toss my jacket on the chair.
“Still standing,” I say. “Good. But we ain’t done yet.”
I turn my back.
“Next step: Get dressed. I ain’t lookin’ but I ain’t leaving’.”
“I know.”
Good.
Rustling behind me.
Silence stretches.
“You done?” I ask.
“…Yes.”
I turn.
The dress is white and fluffy in a way makes her look like cotton, complete with shoes as white as snow.
I hate it.
But at least it hides the remnants of the bump.
I remind myself to quietly thank Fabricia for that design choice next time I see her.
Ember smooths creases over the skirt.
She doesn't look at herself in the mirror for long.
"...Well?" she asks quietly.
I lean against the bedroom door, arms folded.
"It'll do."
One eyebrow lifts.
"'It'll do?'"
"You look..." I scratch at the back of my neck. "...alright....and that’s the best you're gettin' outta me."
A tiny huff escapes her nose.
"I know."
"It's a compliment.'"
"I know, a rare one."
“It’s called marriage.”
Silence settles between us.
Comfortable enough.
She catches me still looking.
"What?"
"Nothin'."
"You’re thinking.”
"Bad habit."
She glances down at the bodice.
"I still..."
The words stop there.
She tugs gently at the fabric around her waist instead.
That thought doesn’t need finishing, but before I can say anything else, she scrunches her nose.
"...Haymitch."
"What?"
"You smell."
"It’s called being alcohol dependent."
"No."
She points.
"You smell like goat."
I sniff one sleeve.
"You need a shower."
"We got the reaping in less than—"
"You still smell like goat."
"I also smell like booze."
"Well, I wasn't going to mention that part."
"appreciate it."
"But you can't walk onto that stage smelling like livestock."
"I've done worse."
"I know."
She folds her arms. I sigh.
“Back in five."
"Take longer."
"You’re not my ma."
"No but I am your wife!”
Guess her sense of humour is still intact.
Annabel Rose meets me outside the bathroom carrying with her some clothes:
White shirt, dark trousers.
A pressed jacket.
They aren't mine, I know that, but I know whose they were.
She hands me them with a towel.
"They should fit."
"I can’t take them."
"They've been sitting in a wardrobe for two years."
I hesitate.
"You sure?"
She nods once.
"I'd rather someone wore them than the moths gettin’ them."
Well, it’s not the first time I’ve taken something from a Chance.
"...Thanks."
She smiles.
Not the warm smile she usually wears.
Something quieter.
“I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”
The water hits hard.
Cold at first, then the warmth we’re afforded as Victors.
I stand there longer than I probably need to; I scrub until the goat smell mostly disappears, then rinse.
The bruise Daisy left on my shin is already turning colors.
"Little shit."
Steam fills the room.
Makes it easier not to look at myself in the mirror.
Thirty-five.
How did I reach that?
I don’t think much about my age anymore or mark it, I try to drink the pain away, but calendars always remember the date even if I try not to.
Thirty-five.
I’m the same age my own ma was that year.
Water runs over my face.
I wonder what ma’d think if she saw me now, she’d probably tell me to shave.
Definitely tell me to quit the drink.
She and Sid wouldn't recognize the man standing here now, and I think they’re better off for it.
My thoughts drift next door.
White dress.
Gentle eyes.
A Dandelion illuminated by sunshine.
She's eighteen, nearly nineteen.
She should be worrying about boys, and gossip around the district. Typical girl stuff.
Instead she’s here, in the world of winners who never really win anything.
Ma wasn’t much older than Ember when she first gave birth. Funny how these things happen.
I think of the way Ember’s hands clenched the fabric round her stomach.
They're going to notice, Capitol thinks everything that can be corrected quick.
Someone'll smile, offer help, a specialist, some miraculous procedure to get her back to model measurements.
Back to their idea of perfection.
I shut off the shower firmly.
That’s not happening, they don't touch her,
not if I can help it, they won’t touch her in that way again.
The clothes fit close enough, the sleeves are a little long, and the shirt a little snug but the jacket hangs better than mine ever has.
I catch myself in the mirror.
I’m cleaner than I’ve been in weeks, but I still look like trouble that peacekeepers probably have no reason to be worried about exactly, the unwilling trouble maker, now the tidier type trouble. I swing by for the bottle I left in Ember’s room. It’s half empty, good, I can finish it.
When I step off the last stair, Annabel Rose looks up from the kitchen
"It suits you." she calls.
I find Ember standing by the sitting room window, hands folded, watching out the window even though there’s nothing there.
She turns as I enter the room, and looks me up and down.
"...that’s better."
I nod.
Neither of us says anything else. I just finish my drink, and nod towards the door.
Her ma follows us out, I hold the front door open for the both of them, Annabel Rose thanks me, Ember does not.
"You with me?" I ask
She takes one slow breath.
Then another. I can see her doing her stupid list in her mind.
Finally...
"Yeah."
"Good."
She steps through the doorway.
I fall into step beside her.
District Twelve gathers like it always does, in the square. Children are trying not to shake, Parents around the outside pretending they're fine and not wondering who’s kid is offered up to slaughter, and Peacekeepers pretending they don’t have a conscience.
Ember’s steps are slow but steady.
That’s new.
Usually she’s the one dragging me through mornings like this. I take the chance to lean closer.
“Hey,” I mutter, low. “Whatever happens up there, you don’t freeze. You don’t float off somewhere else. You stay right here. You got me?”
She nods slightly.
We climb the steps to the stage.
The noise settles into that awful silence that only exists on Reaping Day. At some point
Effie starts speaking.
I don't hear a word.
Neither does Ember.
I can tell.
She's staring straight ahead.
Hands clasped so tightly bunching in her dress by her stomach, her knuckles have gone white.
I can tell she’s thinking about everything she's trying not to think about. The eyes on her that aren’t really on her.
So, without looking at her...without saying anything...
I reach across the small gap between us.
My hand finds hers.
She startles, I can tell in my periphery, she’s looking at me wide-eyed.
I keep my eyes fixed on the crowd, like I don't notice.
Like I grabbed her hand by accident.
Like I'm just some half-drunk victor who doesn't know where he's putting his hands.
My thumb shifts once against her knuckles.
Grounding. Her cold fingers hesitate for a second before they curl around mine. I don't squeeze back.
Wouldn't do to make it obvious that I’m still kind of sober. Ember's breathing evens out beside me.
Just enough.
"Mm," I mumble from the corner of my mouth, words softened by the liquor still hanging around. "S’alright."
I stand there with my shoulders slouched and my expression halfway to bored, looking every bit the district drunk the Capitol expects.
Effie chirps another line we’ve heard with that bright, polished smile.
A glass bowl catches the scorching sun.
Her hand disappears inside.
She unfolds the first slip.
"And now," she sings, "the female tribute from District Twelve..."
A girl.
Fourteen, maybe.
Small enough her reaping dress hangs off her shoulders.
She doesn't move when her name is called.
Her mother makes the sound first.
Not a scream.
Worse.
Like something tearing.
Peacekeepers are already walking.
The girl's legs finally remember how.
She climbs the steps looking like she's apologising for existing.
Ember's fingers tighten around mine.
I don't look at her.
Effie reaches into the boys' bowl.
One more slip.
One more life.
A boy this time.
Sixteen.
Old enough to understand exactly what his odds are.
Young enough to still look for his father in the crowd before he starts walking.
He squares his shoulders anyway.
The anthem starts.
I keep staring out over the square.
Still slouched. Still half-drunk.
Still holding Ember's hand where nobody can see.
But we both know we won't be bringing either of those kids home.
Tag list (if you want to be tagged just let me know, and sorry if I forget anyone):
Okay so since I’ve been pretty quiet on here, I feel like I owe you guys a bit of an explanation:
Does the A03 writing curse affect Tumblr users? I feel like I’ve finally been hit with the A03 writers curse.
In all seriousness, due to some not great personal circumstances with my family (and my mental health going into the toilet and me starting therapy for it but that’s a whole other rollercoaster I don’t want to touch) I’ve had to delay the writing of Sunshine and Roses. it’s not been canned, it’s going nowhere, it will be back, I’m determined that much for it to be back I’m not abandoning it, but the circumstances means I haven’t and probably won’t be able to write properly for a while beyond small fillers for this universe. This means unfortunately chapter 25 won’t be out on the 4th July as I wanted it and had planned for it to be and I don’t know when it will be out. I’m going to try and get at least something out for Saturday (the 4th) but it won’t be a chapter in the main fic.
I’m sorry, this isn’t the update I wanted to make and I feel like I’m letting all you guys who have read the fic this far down, but I’m going to try and get the next chapters out as soon as I can as I still love writing it and the characters and I can’t wait to see where the story takes us.
Sorry, if this is ridiculous but I just saw a Instagram reel about Haymitch having to ride home with Maysilee, Wyatt & Louella (really hope they keep that in the movie) and now all I’m thinking about is this passage from Dandelion In The Snow:
‘I did ask what was in the other carriages on the train, just to make small talk, Haymitch wouldn’t answer that.’
Obviously not every carriage had a tribute in there was probably other things she wasn’t allowed to know about, but Ember had to ride home with Chester too, and I think the closest carriage to the carriage where her room was, was where Chester was kept, and Snow likely ordered that on purpose, to try and rattle her, not really thinking that because Haymitch likely saw this coming, he resorted to refusing to tell her that Chester was even there though she figures it out anyway, in an attempt to lessen the trauma of that and was an attempt at protecting her from Snow’s psychological torment.
I might go into stuff that happened directly after Ember’s games in a separate post if anyone wants that, because some of the stuff that happens directly after Ember’s games unseen by Ember & Haymitch is actually quite interesting, especially in terms how Snow tries to gain control a certain narrative.
Let me know if people would be interested in that?
The morning air bites. Cold enough to sting, not enough to burn. I tell myself that every time I step outside this time of year. Frost beads along the fence rails of the pen, tiny glass needles catching the first gold of sunrise. The world feels dipped in silver, quiet except for the soft clink of the tin pail between my knees and the rhythmic squelch of Daisy’s milk hitting metal.
Daisy huffs steam at me.
“Easy now, girl,” I murmur, steadying the pail as she shifts her weight. The prosthetic hums faintly where it connects just below my shoulder, the gears adjusting for the movement. The cold sometimes makes it stick, and the sound always spooks Daisy. “Don’t start,” I warn, half-laughing. “You know the drill.”
She gives a grumpy meh and flicks her tail. I grin. “Yeah, I know. You’re the real victor here.”
The sun climbs a little higher, bleeding pink through the gray. Across the square, the other Victor houses glow soft and gold through their frosted windows. Katniss’s chimney is already smoking; I can smell the coal on the wind. Guess she’s up. It’s Sunday so she’s probably heading to the woods to meet Gale for the last time for two weeks.
Today’s the start of her and Peeta’s Victory Tour—the one the Capitol drags all the way through the districts to remind everyone it’s a celebration.
But this year’s different.
This year, two kids from Twelve won. Together.
But the Capitol hates being outsmarted. Snow hates it.
And I hate snow.
The weather, I mean, I am not aloud to admit that I despise the president, that’s a death sentence.
My fingers tighten around the tin cup I’m filling. The metal’s freezing, slick with condensation. It’s the kind of cold that crawls right under your skin, straight into the bones, the kind that still makes my stomach twist. My body remembers before my mind does—snow, the smell of charred flesh, the hiss of something melting against ice.
No. Not today.
I focus on Daisy’s steady breathing, on the rhythmic sound of milk hitting metal.
I’ve learned to manage it. Nearly nine years since the arena and most mornings like this I can trick myself into thinking the cold is just weather, not memory as well.
Haymitch calls that survival.
Across the courtyard, Haymitch’s house sits dark and quiet, curtains drawn tight but I can see one coming loose from its railing. He’s probably passed out with a headache the size of the Capitol, though he promised he’d “stay respectable” for today, I know him well enough to know that’s not happening.
The wind shifts, carrying woodsmoke and the faint sweetness of my mother’s baking from across the way. She could bake through a blizzard and still have a smile for whoever wandered in. I swear, the woman was born with sunshine for blood. Sometimes I think she keeps the whole village warm by sheer willpower.
“Ember!” Her voice drifts through the air, sing-song, from our kitchen window.
“Coming!” I call back, but Daisy gives me that look—the one that says she’s not done with me yet. I scratch between her horns, where the hair’s softest. “Fine. Five more minutes.”
the cameras will be here soon, that there’ll be speeches and parades and train whistles.
It’s supposed to be a day of celebration, but that’s what they said about mine, too.
I swallow the thought. Today isn’t about me, it’s about them. Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, the girl and boy who beat the Capitol at their own game. Part of me still doesn’t know how to feel, hopeful, maybe? Scared?. They’ve stirred something dangerous, something that might finally matter.
Something that Haymitch and I have to help them control.
I grab the pail and start toward the porch.
“Be a good girl and try not to terrorise Lady whilst I’m gone. Or anyone else for that matter.”
My boots crunch through the frost-stiff grass, when something catches my eye. Flowers. The ones Ma planted by the fence last spring. She swore they’d never survive the winter frost, but somehow they did—small yellow blossoms still clinging to life, defiant in the chill. I set the milk aside and crouch down, careful with the prosthetic. Pick a few of them.
They’ll be perfect for my plan this morning.
As I step up onto the porch, the boards creaking under my boots, I glance once more across the courtyard toward Haymitch’s house. Still dark. Still quiet. For now, that’s enough.
I take a breath that tastes like frost and woodsmoke, then push open the kitchen door and step inside.
Warmth hits me as soon as I close the door behind me. The kitchen’s full of it—steam curling off the kettle, the smell of cinnamon and yeast, sunlight pooling on the worn wooden floor. The walls hum faintly from my mother’s voice. She’s standing by the stove, humming one of her old Covey songs, low and lilting.
“Smells good,” I say, setting the milk pail on the counter, pulling my gloves off and turning on the tap to wash my hands.
She glances over her shoulder, flour on her cheek, eyes bright. “It’s the cinnamon rolls. They’ll be done in five.
“Can’t,” I tell her. “Promised breakfast with Peeta and Haymitch. Maybe Katniss too, if she doesn’t bolt before the kettle’s boiled.”
Ma laughs softly, the sound light as air. “Poor girl, Cameras haven’t even shown up yet, and she already looks like she’d rather be in the mines.”
“She’d definitely prefer to take on the mines than this,” I say.
My mother crosses the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She moves around me like it’s instinct, straightening the stack of dishes I left crooked yesterday, sliding a jar of preserves back where it belongs. The small, constant fussing of a woman who can’t sit still when she’s worried.
“Coffee’s fresh. Or tea, if you’re pacing yourself.”
“Coffee’s fine.” I pour a cup and sit at the table, wrapping both hands around it. The heat seeps into my palms, chasing off the bite of the morning.
“Seems like ages since we had a proper chat.”
“Yeah, it does.”
She watches me for a moment before leaning against the counter. “How are you and Haymitch doing?”
The question’s gentle, but I still feel my shoulders tighten. It’s habit really over anything else, she likes to check in on me and I know she doesn’t trust Haymitch completely, even though she thinks I don’t know, but she’s trying she’s always trying, always choosing to see the best and that’s the good thing.
“We’re… good,” I say “been busy”
“Busy is good. You two have a lot ahead.”
“Yeah.” I take a slow sip of coffee.
“How are you feeling about it?”
I don’t think she means being with Haymitch.
“Feels….strange” I stare into my cup, watching the steam curl and fade. “We’re back in the spotlight earlier than usual. So… yeah. Strange.”
She smiles, but it’s a little too tight around the edges. “At least you’ve got Haymitch with you.”
“They’ve got a new love story to latch onto now”
“It’s the new and the old, honey” Ma says, “at least the tour might be easier this time, now you’re not in the spotlight”
Easier? What about this is easier? Snow is going to be watching our every move, the eyes will be on us, on Katniss, on Peeta, making sure we’ll behave.
“Yeah, should be.”
She tilts her head, studying me the way only a mother can. “You’re happy, though? Really?”
Right, back to Haymitch.
“Yeah.” I manage a small smile.
“That’s good. And he keeps you from overworking yourself.”
I snort. “Because keeping him from drinking to death isn’t overworking myself.”
Her laughter fills the room — soft, unbothered. For a moment, it’s easy to forget the world outside this kitchen. Easy to forget that later today, the square will be crawling with cameras and Peacekeepers, and that Katniss and Peeta will have to smile and wave and pretend they’re not already breaking under the weight of it.
Reaching across the table, I grab a scrap of paper and start scribbling a quick list. Firewood, pantry check, sweep the chimney before the snow thickens.
“I fold it once and leave it beside the milk pail.
She glances at it, smiling softly. “You and your lists.”
“I know you don’t need it, I just—someone’s got to keep us on track.”
“I suppose so.” She brushes a lock of hair from her face.
“Anyway, I’ve got to go.”
“I’ll be back before the interviews. I’m stopping by the graveyard after breakfast.”
Her hands still on the countertop. For a moment, her expression shifts — a flicker of a painful memory. Then she exhales and straightens. “Say hello from me, and you tell your pa I’ll be along later. And for breakfast,” Ma says, moving toward the counter, “take these with you.” She picks up a small basket covered with a towel and hands it to me. “Used that recipe Peeta wrote down for me, the one with the honey glaze.”
I lift the towel and inhale, sweet and savoury hits my nose and makes my stomach growl. “These smell incredible.”
“Tell him thank you again for me,” she says. “And give Haymitch one before giving him a bottle”
Her eyes soften again,
“You’ll be all right with the Tour?”
I adjust my coat collar, “I’ll manage. We’re Chances, we always do.”
“You’re a good girl, Ember. You always were.”
I lean over and kiss her cheek, smelling flour and lavender soap. “Love you, Ma.”
“Love you more” she smiles “now go on. And mind the ice on the steps — I nearly went flying this morning.”
“Yes, ma!”
I pull my gloves from the side, sliding them on one-handed, the motion practiced.
“Oh, and tell that goat of yours she’s not allowed in my flower garden again,” Ma calls over her shoulder.
“She listens better to you than she does to me!” I call back.
“I doubt that very much.”
I laugh.
Her humming starts up again—gentle, bright, filling every space in the little house. The kind of sound that makes it hard to believe the world outside is as cruel as it is.
I take one last look around—the worn table, the mug still steaming, the sunlight catching the dust in the air—and then open the door.
Cold rushes in, sharp and clean.
I step out into it, basket in hand, flowers tucked safely against my heart.
The frost crunches beneath my boots as I cross the courtyard, the basket swinging at my side. The sky’s a pale, washed-out blue now, and the smoke from the chimneys drifts thin and silver in the air. Daisy’s bleating fades behind me as I pass the fountain at the center of the Victor’s Village.
Buttercup’s perched on the stone rim like some gremlin guardian, his yellow eyes tracking me. His fur’s matted, tail twitching with suspicion.
“Morning, handsome,” I say, stepping around him. “You keeping an eye on things?”
He hisses.
I keep walking, the cold nipping at my ears. Haymitch’s house sits at the far end, big and empty-looking from the outside, though I know inside it’s warm enough — or at least smells like last night’s whiskey and the wood stove he forgets to feed.
A figure steps out from behind one of the hedges — dark braid, grey jacket, boots crunching softly on frost. Katniss Everdeen. She’s paler than usual, eyes sharp as flint even in the half-light.
She nods at me, jaw tight. “You might want to prepare yourself.”
“For what?”
She just shakes her head, lips pressing thin. “You’ll see.” And then she’s past me, heading toward her own house without another word, the hem of her coat brushing frost off the grass.
I sigh. “Good morning to you too.”
By the time I reach the porch, I can already hear movement inside — muffled voices, something clattering. I nudge the door open with my elbow.
“Hello?”
No answer, except for the unmistakable sound of someone grumbling.
I hang my coat on the hook by the door, tucking the flowers deeper into the pocket so the petals don’t catch. The smell of the house hits instantly — old boiled cabbage & dirty old socks, woodsmoke, stale liquor, and the faint trace of soap someone’s clearly forced Haymitch to use.
“Haymitch?”
I step into the dining room — and immediately burst out laughing.
Haymitch Abernathy is standing in the middle of the room, shirt plastered to him, hair dripping onto the floor, holding a towel like it personally offended him. The table’s half set with plates and coffee mugs, but most of the attention’s on the puddle spreading beneath him.
“What happened to you?”
He points a finger toward the door I just came through. “The girl on fire decided I needed a bath.”
I set the basket down, still laughing. “Katniss?”
“Unless there’s another teenage girl running around with a jug of water, yeah,” he mutters. “Damn near gave me pneumonia.”
“Almost?” I say, grinning.
“To be fair,” Peeta says from his seat at the table, voice mild but amused, “she did warn you. Said if you wanted a gentle wake up, you should’ve asked me.”
Haymitch glares at him. I can’t stop laughing now. “Well,” I say between breaths, “she’s not the first person to do that to you.”
Haymitch groans. “Don’t. Just—if you bring up Reaping day I’m throwing you out onto the lawn”
“You said it not me.”
Peeta leans forward slightly, curiosity getting the better of him. “What happened on Reaping Day?”
“Nothing,” Haymitch says quickly, too quickly.
“The usual stuff. He passed out in the living room, and I was out of patience.”
Peeta’s brows lift. “So?”
“So,” I say, “I woke him up with a cup of cold water…..to the face. He swung a knife at me, swore at me, the whole nine yards.”
Haymitch drags a hand down his face. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”
“Only because I learned my lesson that getting stabbed by a butter knife isn’t pleasant” I roll my eyes affectionately and cross to the seat next to him, handing him the basket on my way there. “Here. Muffins. From Ma.”
He eyes it like it might be a trick, then peeks inside. “You’re really set on bribing me with these aren’t you?”
“Oh of course.” I grin. “They’re the honey-butter ones Peeta gave her the recipe for. Said I better make you eat them before you have a proper drink”
At that, Haymitch brightens just slightly. “Too late for that, but tell your ma she’s a smart woman.”
“I’ll pass it on.” I lean forward, brush a damp strand of hair off his forehead, and press a quick kiss there.
He huffs, something softer slipping through the cracks. “Yeah, yeah. Sit down.”
Peeta catches the exchange and smiles faintly, but there’s something tired behind it. He’s been smiling like that since the Games ended — quiet, careful, like he’s holding himself together with kindness.
He pushes a plate of bread toward me, steam rising from the loaf. “It’s still warm.”
“Thanks,” I say.
He nods. “You eat yet?”
“Not yet.”
“You probably should.”
Haymitch snorts. “Yeah, it’s a good idea to eat now. Effie’s about to turn this place into a parade float.”
“Okay how would you know that? you broke your house phone.” I ask
“It’s Effie” is all he replies, picking at a muffin the same way I did on the train to the Capitol months ago. “She’s probably halfway here already with a team of Capitol do-gooders”
“We’ve got interviews first thing after breakfast,” he goes on, “You two are the star-crossed lovers, so try not to look miserable. Me and Ember—” he gestures lazily between us, “—we’re the supporting cast. Capitol loves the old fashioned romance angle.”
Peeta leans forward. “Will it be the same setup as the victory interview?”
“Pretty much,” Haymitch says. “Only this time, no surprises. Smile when they want you to smile, hold hands when they want you to hold hands, improvise if you have to.”
Peeta’s mouth twists into a wry smile. “That’s a relief.”
“After that,” Haymitch continues, “it’ll be the train. Effie’ll want you polished enough to see your reflection. District Eleven’s first.”
Peeta glances at me. “You’ve done this before. What’s it like?”
I think for a moment. “Loud. Bright. Everything’s dressed up, and people cheer like they know you or are expected to cheer like it. But it’s… hollow. You just do what they expect.”
Haymitch snorts. “You’ll be fine. The Capitol eats this stuff up.”
“Do they ever not?” I mutter.
Peeta lets out a soft breath, almost a laugh. “Doesn’t seem like it.”
Silence settles over us for a moment — just the clock ticking and Haymitch unwrapping another muffin like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.
I glance at Peeta again — his fingers trace the rim of his mug, distant.
“Katniss give you grief already?” I ask gently.
He exhales, a humorless huff. “Something like that.”
“It was extremely frosty earlier,” Haymitch adds dryly. “I’ve been to funerals with a warmer reception than those two”
“She’s got a lot on her mind.” I reason
“Peeta looks down. “Apparently I’m most of it.” He shakes his head. “Sorry. I don’t— I’m not trying to make it sound—”
“You’re fine.” I offer a small smile. “She’s still figuring out what’s real and what isn’t. Capitol made sure of that.”
He looks at me, grateful but unconvinced. “You and Haymitch seem to handle the Capitol just fine.”
I almost laugh, but it comes out softer than I intend. “We’ve had years of practice.”
Haymitch glances up at that, something unreadable passing through his expression, mutters “Yeah. That’s one word for it.” before he looks away again back at his coffee.
The clock ticks louder now. Peeta straightens his jacket, already in that poised, Capitol-ready way he’s perfected.
“I should get going,” he says. “Portia and the team will be here any minute.”
“Peeta?”
He pauses.
“You’re good at this,” I tell him. “Better than you think. You’ll keep her grounded today.”
He hesitates, then nods. “I’ll try.”
And then he’s gone, footsteps fading toward the front door.
The house settles into a heavy quiet once he’s out. Haymitch leans back in his chair, exhaling.
“Haymitch leans back in his chair, exhaling. “Kid tries too hard.”
“You really should get dressed before Effie gets here.”
He looks down at himself, then back at me. “What, this doesn’t scream Capitol charm?”
I glance at him — damp jumper clinging to his shoulders, hair sticking down in every direction, puddle under his chair. “Not unless you’re aiming for ‘recently drowned victor.’”
He snorts. “Might start a trend.”
“Effie will have a heart attack.”
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened this week,” he mutters, “I’ll change in a minute.”
I start clearing plates. “You might want to make it sooner than that. She’s probably timing us right now.”
“Let her try,” he says, dragging the tea towel I throw at him through his hair. “What do you think they’ll do for the interviews?”
“Something dramatic, probably. They’ll want Katniss and Peeta to look like the Capitol’s favorite love story, and us as… the seasoned, respectable ones.”
“Respectable,” he repeats, a dry laugh slipping out. “That’ll be a first.”
“They’ll probably want to make this place look more ‘liveable,’ too,” I add. “Ma’ll bring over a few things in a bit most likely,” I say. “She won’t be able to help herself.”
““Yeah,” he says. “She’s got that fixer instinct.”
“Runs in the family,” I tell him, rising and heading to the sink, turning on the tap and rinsing the dishes.
He lingers a second, watching me. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Clean up after me.”
“Somebody has to.”
He huffs. “I was doing just fine before you showed up.”
The water’s warm, and the rhythm of it — wash, rinse, stack — is grounding. It’s one of those small, ordinary moments I cling to when the rest of life feels anything but ordinary.
Haymitch wanders toward the hallway, probably going to change, but I keep washing until the sound of the water and my thoughts blur together.
Then, like a drop of ink in clear water, something else seeps in.
District to district. Stop to stop. Then the train will take us to the Capitol.
My hands still.
The Capitol. Snow’s mansion.
Corso will be there.
The thought comes fast, sharp, like a reflex. I can almost smell the perfumed air of that place by the elevator, hear the laugh that haunted the edges of every dream for months after it happened. Six months since the incident, and still the memory lingers — his grip on my arm, the way his breath hitched against my ear, the sickly sweet taste of fear that’s never really left.
I tell myself I’ve compartmentalised it, that it’s locked away where it can’t hurt me. But every time the Capitol comes up, it pushes at the edges of the box I keep it in.
The plate in my hands slips.
shatters against the sink, porcelain scattering like white ice. The sound is so sudden it knocks the air right out of me.
“Ember?”
Haymitch’s voice is sharp and worried. He’s up and beside me before I can blink.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, too quickly. He grabs my hand anyway, turning it over, checking. His grip is steady, grounded. His thumb brushes over my palm “Hold still.”
“Didn’t nick me,” I say, my pulse is still too fast. “Just startled myself.”
He doesn’t let go right away. His brow furrows, that rare seriousness that only surfaces when he’s sober enough to mean it. “You look like you just walked back out of the arena,” he says, quieter now.
“Guess I’m just nervous.” I try to pull my hand back.
He keeps it a second longer. “About the tour?”
“Yeah, the cameras, people, all of it.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Well. Cameras are the easy part.”
Silence fills the room for a couple of seconds.
“You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”
“Of course.”
He studies me, not convinced, his eyes stay on mine, sharp and measuring in a way he usually hides before he ultimately decides not to push. “All right, just don’t go breaking any more of my dishes to get attention. I’m now down to three.”
I look down at our hands. I know I should say something — I know I should tell him what happened with Corso— but the words won’t come. They sit somewhere heavy in my chest, tangled up with everything I’ve spent months trying not to think about.
So instead, I look back up at him and smile softly, the kind of smile that asks him not to push, before my eyes catch the basket on the table and I remember the object in my coat.
“I’m going to make a quick trip to the graveyard before the interviews, if you want to…”
“No.”
It comes out sharper than he means it to. Immediate. Instinctive.
Haymitch’s grip tightens just slightly around my hand, like he’s bracing for something, then loosens again just as quickly. His jaw shifts, eyes flicking past me instead of at me, already putting distance between himself and the place I just mentioned.
“I can’t.”
There’s more in those two words than he’ll ever say out loud.
The graveyard has neat rows of names that shouldn’t be there, faces that never got the chance to grow old. Too many of them are familiar. Too many of them are the Tributes he trained. kids he watched get on that train, knowing most of them wouldn’t come back, some names he barely had time to learn. Others… he remembers too well.
And then there’s the other part.
The part he never even gets close to, the part I barely know anything about and more than that.
“Okay,” I say simply, as gently as I can.
I don’t push against his decision, I never have, never will do.
Instead, I shift forward and press a hand lightly to his chest, nudging him back a step, steering him toward the staircase like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Right, go, shower, dress & I’ll see you in a bit.”
He lets me move him, even if he pretends it’s his idea, dragging his feet just enough to make it clear he’s not being ordered around.
“Let me see you out.”
I playfully roll my eyes as he follows me towards the door anyway, close behind. “You’re stalling.”
“I’m saying goodbye to the woman I love.”
That earns him a look over my shoulder, one brow lifting. “Oh you love me do you?”
He shrugs, reaching past me to grab my coat from the hook, he helps me into it even though he doesn’t need to before grabbing my basket and he hands it to me. “You’re the most tolerable person in a fifty-mile radius.”
He says that like it’s the easiest explanation in the world as he pulls open the door, cool morning air slipping in around us.
“That’s love, far as I’m concerned.”
“Okay, when did you get all romantic?” I lean up and kiss his cheek, lingering just a second longer than I usually would.
“I’ll have you know I’m plenty romantic”
Up close, I can feel it — the tension he tries to bury, the weight he carries like it’s just another part of him. His stubble brushes my skin, and for a second he stills, like he might lean into it.
“Now go and shower.”
He huffs under his breath, but there’s no bite to it. “Yeah, yeah.”
I step back out onto the porch, pulling my coat tighter around me as the chill settles in. The sky’s pale, the kind of early light that makes everything feel quieter than it is.
I take a few steps down before glancing back.
He’s still in the doorway.
Not saying anything. Just watching.
There’s something in his expression, something unguarded, just for a second, before it slips away again behind that familiar, careless edge.
“Go on,” I call lightly. “Effie has to be appeased”
He snorts, shaking his head, but finally steps back inside. “Just don’t take too long.”
“I won’t!”
The door shuts and just like that, it’s quiet.
I move past the row of houses, boots crunching softly against the path, the basket tucked against my side. Smoke curls from a few chimneys in the distance, and somewhere farther off, I can hear the faint hum of the district waking up.
By the time I reach the edge of the village, the air’s sharper.
Colder.
The path into town is familiar — worn dirt, scattered stones, the occasional footprint pressed deep enough to last. I’ve walked it more times than I can count, but today it feels heavier somehow.
Maybe because I know what’s waiting at the end of it.
The buildings start to gather closer together as I near town — the Hob won’t be open yet fully open, but a few early risers move quietly through their routines. No one pays me much attention.
I keep walking. past the last row of houses in the Seam before you reach my intended destination, I adjust my grip on my bag strap, steadying myself without really thinking about it, and just keep moving forward.
The graveyard is silent this time of morning, it’s just me and the cold stones of those long gone and more recent, a lot of the graves aren’t kept up to high condition, mainly because those in the Seam can’t afford it, but there are a few outliers where some effort has been kept. I step into the grass, the crunch of frost and snow loud in the quiet, it feels colder here, and though I understand it’s all in my head, this morning instantly feels more somber.
I pass Mr Everdeen on one of the rows, or rather what’s left of him after the explosion that caused several families to splinter and one of Haymitch’s worst binges of drink, and I can’t help but wonder, what he’d think of where his family are now, he’d undoubtedly be proud of Katniss, Prim too, but what would he think of the cost of their minor increase in wealth? What would he say? I send him a small salute in passing, and hope he knows I’m looking out for them like he looked out for me and ma all those years ago.
My first stop is the Chance plot. It’s one of the cleaner plots, as one of first things I did with my winnings was pay for a new marker, even then there’s still general wear and tear that I don’t think even the most skilled of us could fix, I like it though, it allows us Chances to maintain the notoriety are known for in 12. There are 4 names on the grave, my uncle Woodbine, my grandparents Sylvie & Everest, and then my pa, Alder.
“Hey pa, just thought I’d swing by and see how you were holding up as I’m doing the rounds.” I say giving a pathetic little wave to no one “Ma’ll be over in a bit, she’s okay. We both are, well, we’re as okay as us Chances can ever be. We miss you and I love you. All of you.”
I pull out a single flower from the basket and place it by the stone. I would stay longer, I always try to, but unfortunately with the Capitol breathing down our necks today it would be unwise for me to linger with my respects, so it’s a flying visit, ma’ll make up for the time later.
Luckily or unluckily for me, my target destination is not far away but it’s a sight that always makes me falter in my step.
The Abernathy plot. It’s situated by some trees in the graveyard, as if it’s sheltering the stones from harm, next to a handful of graves of names I know from passing them by; Donner, Callow, McCoy. Names I don’t really question where they came from, probably people unconnected who were just there by chance.
Likewise of the names on the Abernathy plot are of people I don’t recognise in life, one of them must be Mr Abernathy, who from what I can make out from conversations overheard in my childhood between my ma and pa about the mines, met an end similar to Katniss’ pa. And then there are also two girls names I can’t place where they’d fit in with the Abernathy family, aunts of Haymitch, perhaps? Maybe cousins?.
Finally, there are the names I know purely by association,
Willamae & Sid Abernathy.
Haymitch’s ma & brother.
These are all names of people I’m connected to but never got the fortune of knowing, but the emotional weight is the same as if I did, because they’re a part of Haymitch and the people laying here made him who he is now so in a way, I suppose, I do know them somehow.
I turn away and find the one grave closest to Haymitch’s ma and brother. Smaller & separate from the rest, its dove white, upright rather than flat, with clear carving in the stone, only covered a little by moss. But I know the name on there, I know it better than my own.
Because I gave it to him.
I drop besides the stone, crouching slowly and reach out to remove the plantlife growing on the stone, it’s cold and smooth to the touch so that it sends a shiver down my spine, regardless I find a sad smile playing on my lips.
“Hi baby,” I whisper “I brought you something”
I pull the flowers gently from my pocket and place them in front of the stone, replacing the dead ones I left on his birthday a few months before the Reaping.
“I thought maybe you’d like the colour of these” although I’ll never know what his favourite colour actually was. “Your Pa says hello. I’m sorry he couldn’t be here, it’s not that he doesn’t want to see you, he loves you, I know he does, it’s just, coming here is difficult for some people, and he’s one of them but that doesn’t mean you are less loved by him.”
There’s a vague crunch on the show behind me. I pay it no mind.
“Your pa and I are going away for a little bit, so you better behave yourself for your mamaw whilst we’re away, don’t go causing her or your uncle too much trouble”
My fingers brush the top of Ash’s stone once more, a quiet, grounding touch, before I shift my weight and ease to the side, turning toward the other Abernathy grave.
“Hi” I murmur.
I swallow, rubbing my hands together briefly, as if I could warm them before speaking to ghosts.
“I don’t…” I start, the words careful, respectful. “….I don’t know if you would’ve liked me much.”
A faint huff of breath escapes me—almost a laugh, but not quite. My gaze flickers back toward Ash’s stone, then returns.
“But I’m still taking care of your boy,”
There’s a pause, the kind that stretches just long enough to feel like it might be answered if I waited longer.
I don’t.
“I’m trying, anyway. But you know Haymitch, doesn’t make it easy.”
My arms fold loosely across my middle, more for comfort than anything else.
“What I said to Ash applies to you too, it’s not that he doesn’t care. You should know that. He cares too much, if anything. It just…. sits too heavy on him, being here.”
A breeze stirs the edges of my coat, tugging lightly at the fabric. I let it settle before continuing.
“I just wanted to ask—” I hesitate, then shake my head slightly. “I just wanted to say… thank you. For watching my boy.”
My lips press together briefly.
“So if you’re still listening—if that’s something you can still do—I’d be grateful if you kept an eye on him a little longer, cos I don’t like the idea of him being alone.”
I glance back toward Ash again, my chest tightening in that familiar, quiet way. The words hang there, heavier than I intend.
“And… I should probably say thank you for him, too,” I murmur, almost as an afterthought, though it isn’t one. “For Haymitch. For making him who he is.”
A faint, sad smile touches my mouth.
“He doesn’t always think that’s a good thing. But I do.”
The crunch comes again, clearer this time, closer.
I pivot, brushing dirt from my hands out of habit more than necessity. There’s a figure standing a few paces behind me, it’s familiar in a way that settles uneasily in my chest, like a memory I don’t quite trust.
Briar.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
She still looks… different. Looks closer to 30 to her 24 years. She looks harder, like the edges of her have been sharpened down to something that cuts if you get too close. There’s still something of the girl I knew in the way she holds herself, but it’s buried under layers that weren’t there before.
Trauma does that.
I know that better than most.
Her gaze flicks from me to the stones and back again, her expression tightening slightly.
Her brow furrows. “You didn’t even know them.”
There’s no accusation in her tone, not exactly—but there’s something else. Something sharp.
I tilt my head in confusion, she lets out a short breath through her nose, shaking her head slightly as she steps closer, boots crunching against the ground.
“You come here,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward the stones, “and talk to people you’ve never met.”
Her eyes lock onto mine, something more pointed slipping into them now.
“But not him.”
Not Chester.
That’s what she means to say.
For a moment, I don’t respond.
I just look at her.
“It’s for Haymitch,” I say, keeping my voice even. “He doesn’t come. So I do.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
A small silence stretches between us.
Then, because I know this conversation isn’t going anywhere good if I let it sit there, I shift it.
“Are you married?” I ask, despite knowing the answer.
The question catches her off guard—that much is obvious in the way her expression flickers.
“What?” she says.
“Are you married?” I repeat, calm and direct.
Her jaw tightens.
“No.”
“I couldn’t,” she adds after a second, her voice lower now. “Not after Chester died.”
I didn’t expect the explanation, but it still takes me off guard for another reason, I can’t help but thinking it’s… strange.
People grieve in different ways. I know that. I live that every year, every day even. But there’s something about the finality in the way she says it that I can’t quite reconcile.
Still, instead, I nod.
“Well,” I say, “that’s why what I’m doing doesn’t make sense to you.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “What?”
“I’m seeing my husband’s family because he can’t,” I explain, gesturing lightly back toward the stones. “They’re his family and they’re Ash’s. And I guess that makes them mine too by marriage.”
Her expression doesn’t soften, but it shifts—just a fraction.
“I would love to see Chester,” I continue, my voice quieter now, more honest. “But I barely had time to visit my pa’s stone today.”
Her face loosens in understanding.
“And,” I add, nodding back towards the white stone, “I had to pick and choose, I barely have time to see my son today.”
She softens more than a bit at that.
“Why don’t you?”
“Because Effie Trinket’s coming with an arsenal of fashion artists and media,” I say, already stepping back slightly, the urgency starting to creep in at the edges of my thoughts. “I’ve got twenty minutes before we’re supposed to be in front of half the Capitol pretending everything is fine.”
“It’s tour day?”
“It’s tour day.” I confirm.
“I didn’t realise.”
“I’ll visit him. It’ll just have to be when I come back in two weeks.”
I meet her eyes again, firm now.
“I’ll add it near the top of my list for when I get back.” I promise “Which trust me, I’m very good at following.”
Briar studies me for a long moment, like she’s trying to decide whether she actually believes that.
“…You’re too damn good for this world,” she mutters finally.
There’s something softer in her voice now. Not soft, exactly—but less sharp.
It’s the closest we’ve come to the past since she arrived.
She shifts her weight, glancing away briefly before looking back at me.
“How is your husband anyway?” she asks.
I almost smile at that.
“He’s alright,” I say. “Still thinks I shouldn’t give you the time of day.”
Her mouth twitches—the closest I’ve seen to a smile in a long time.
“And yet,” she says.
“And yet,” I echo, “I think I still should.”
We stand there, two versions of people we used to be, trying to figure out what’s left to say.
“I really am sorry, for how I treated you back then” Briar admits after a moment.
“It’s water under the bridge,” I reply simply.
Her gaze flicks past me, toward the stones again.
“…Just like that?”
“We were sixteen. Sixteen’s a time for making dumb decisions.”
She nods once, slow, like she’s filing that away somewhere.
I glance toward the path again, the sense of time pressing harder now.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Yeah,” she replies.
I hesitate for just a fraction of a second, then add holding up my fingers in a ‘V’, “Two weeks.”
Briar looks at me.
“Well, I’ll still be here,” she says “in the cesspit that is the Seam.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
“We’ll talk when I’m back,” I promise.
“…Yeah,” she says. “We will.”
I hold her gaze for a moment longer, then turn back briefly—just long enough to look at the stones one last time.
Willamae.
Sid.
Ash.
“I love you all,” I murmur under my breath.
Then I straighten, adjust my coat, and step away.
The crunch of frost under my boots follows me as I leave, the weight of the place settling behind me but never quite lifting.
There’s no time to linger.
I’ve got a performance to put on.
A/N: I’m finally back, and here we are entering the Catching Fire era. Did everyone see the SOTR trailer? What did we all think? I’m SO excited! Anyway as we’re going to be going into the Catching Fire era I’ve got a question, in this AU it’s going to be Ember and Haymitch being thrown into the arena, so that begs the question how do I deal with Katniss being the spark of rebellion when she’s outside of the games? I don’t want Ember to come across as a ‘Mary Sue’ or take away from Katniss’ importance obviously so any suggestions on how to manage this would be appreciated! Thanks, and I hope you enjoy being back to reading Sunshine & Roses, I’m excited for where this is going to go!
Tag list (if you want to be tagged just let me know, and sorry if I forget anyone): @maddiesreadinglog , @flornegrastuff , @gabbyella , @aureolinb , @a-cozy-little-home , @aizawas-ray-of-moonlight
Okay, so I’ll do a proper family tree at some point but for now here’s how Ember is related to each of the known/named Chances in the Hunger Games: Sunshine & Roses universe:
It’s kind of funny how much the Chances directly impact Haymitch and the rest of the narrative of the Hunger Games. It wasn’t my intention at first to make Ember part of such an important family narratively wise my intention was for her was to just be connected vaguely to someone who is connected to Haymitch and I didn’t want her directly connected to Lenore Dove because I didn’t want to overshadow her so picked the Chances because Woodbine was the failed tribute …..yeah turns out I forgot the family tree in the Hunger Games is huge and there are connections I forgot about and remembered too late like Haymitch mentioning that Lenore Dove might be related to the Chances but that’s my bad 😅
(Oh yeah I guess here’s my face claims for Ember & Alder, Daisy Edgar-Jones (this face claim was changed as I feel like this actor fits better than the one I had) and Aaron Taylor-Johnson.)
What if Sunshine & Roses was part of the film series?
Guess what? I made posters for my fanfics so far in the Sunshine & Roses series! I’m still going to use the original banners I made for the fics but I thought it’d be fun to make a couple of posters as if the fic series was an actual entry in The Hunger Games films.
Oh yeah and I guess here’s the name drop & announcement of the prequel I’m planning that is set around Ballad that I’ll eventually get to writing (after Sunshine & Roses so it’ll be a while before I write it but I’ve got a plan cooking up).
Was going to finish writing and post SAR chapter 24 tonight but as I’m completely wiped out from work, writing/editing will resume tomorrow and will be posted tomorrow evening at the latest.
Life happens, it’s frustrating as I want to get back to it, but life happens. I’ll be posting something else I’ve been cooking up to do with the series a little later though as a compromise 😊
So far I’ve managed to convince two of my non Hunger Games fan friends to see Sunrise On The Reaping (one I’ll admit was aided by the trailer)
My plan is slowly working, soon I’ll be dragging them all to the cinema and into the hell that is Sunrise on The Reaping and they’ll finally understand why I’m obsessed .
(Seriously though props to the marketing team for getting two of my friends interested in watching the film when they don’t really like The Hunger Games.)
We’re getting the milk scene, and Haymitch & Lenore Dove screaming at each other, and Haymitch’s infamous ‘stupid’ line and the chariot crash. And don’t get me started on the purple & yellow colour theme like the book cover!!!! I could to ramble about this all day!
Also I screenshotted the countdown at the end of the livestream (before it crashed) and I somehow managed to screenshot it it at 48. There’s 48 tributes in Haymitch’s games. I don’t know I found that a little funny.
The fashion around the 66th Games (in the SAR universe):
Right, with the end of Dandelion In The Snow, and to help me get into the mood for finishing Chapter 24 of Sunshine & Roses (should be out tomorrow!) and the fact there’s a SOTR trailer TOMORROW (yay!) I thought I’d share my vision moodboard thing for some key characters and vibes in the era of the 66th games that I made before I wrote the fic but kind of didn’t elaborate much on within it, so if anyone’s interested in the world building around Ember’s games, you’re welcome to have a look:
The Capitol
Okay so The Capitol at this time I imagined to be in its 90s/2000s phase, because I figured if the Capitol around the 10th games was 50s/60s post war vibes & they’re going for the 70s look with the 50th, it made logical sense that the 90s/2000s would be 16 years after that with how quick Capitol trends change.
Also I wanted a nod to the fashion that was going on when THG was first released in bookstores & growing up in the 2000s I remember a lot of questionable fashion choices 😅.
Glitter and loud colours are the complete vibe of the Capitol, but I imagine this is the period they kind of go crazy with glitter.
This is the year that pink is all the rage for girls in the Capitol, it’s in. So women and girls I imagine would try to pair colours to pink. Boys are more flexible but red or blue seem to be popular.
It’s also not in the board but tattoos and body augmentation is also more popular, though, there are limits to it in terms of what they want to see in regards to that on tv & in the media. For example They’re not above plastic surgery to enhance things or change things but turning your whole body animalistic at this time….its an acquired taste.
Ember Chance
So Ember’s outfits, I couldn’t do a full mood board thing for all of them so I just did this ⬆️
Basically, with Ember, I thought well, she’s from the Seam in District 12 and her mother was Covey so I figured she would still be poor but also have brighter clothing than most in 12 that still kind of keeps a 70s feel similar to the direction of SOTR because a lot of her clothes would have been hand-me downs from her ma from around that age.
You can’t really see it but her boots in her Prologue & Reaping looks are scuffed and falling apart because she’s poor and her parents were struggling at this time with her father’s illness and Ember definitely put her parents before herself in providing for her family.
Haymitch Abernathy
With Haymitch, I kind of wanted to go for a scruffy look. When he’s in the Capitol he’s a bit smarter but when he’s not, he’s incredibly scruffy, Ember even notes that his shirt at the reaping is wrinkled.
I imagine Effie probably got him the new looking shoes for his birthday but sent them over a day early so he could wear them in.
I also kind of imagined that he wouldn’t go for Capitol trends when he’s there willingly, but he’d likely be persuaded to pop in some colour by whoever’s designing his clothes.
President Coriolanus Snow
Snow, I don’t have much commentary for except he’d definitely be in a red suit. I kind of wanted to go for something a little mix of his original trilogy look and that in Ballad so I ultimately settled on this.
The brooch, I imagine is where the sickly sweet perfume comes from.
Effie Trinket
Effie, is described as a ‘sugar blossom’ by Ember so obviously I decided pink was the way to go!
Funnily enough though Effie’s hair is blonde, I still think she’d go for a wig because that is the style.
Obviously Effie is up to date with the latest fashion so she’d have a bit of ✨glitter✨ on her.
Caesar Flickerman
Not much to say about Caesar other than we start to see his colourful hairstyles happen around this time.
He’s still very much all Capitol glitz and glam though.
Beetee Laiter
Beetee, is the only one I really added on the past few days as I had an idea of what he’d look like come the 66th games but I couldn’t really figure out what colour scheme to go with, and then the look back glimpse of Beetee came out and I thought ‘huh the brown works for him’ let’s go with that colour scheme, it gives science-y biopic/ science teacher vibes.
Anyway I doubt Beetee would have been thinking about fashion within the Capitol, and certainly not when his own daughter is in the Games.
Update, I know I missed when I said chapter 24 would be out but life happened, I got a splitting headache on Wednesday (the worst headache I’ve ever had) and my head still wasn’t right on Thursday so that put my writing plan and posting back by a bit. Gonna need a few days to write the second part so chapter 24 should be out this week instead.
