[iydiamartinx]

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Redwyn! Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @rmstitanics & @uzmacchiato & @pepsipoet word count: 2.6k synopsis: You are brought to court for a proper marriage with Gwayne Hightower but Daemon Targaryen has another plan in mind. a/n: Can we tell that I love writing for Daemon and I may have a favourite trope with him.

You were a daughter of House Redwyne of the Arbor—born to sun-drenched vineyards that perfumed the Reach and to ships that carried gold, wine, and quiet influence across the narrow sea. The Arbor’s wealth flowed through your veins as surely as its legacy, measured not only in coin, but in power carefully cultivated over generations.

Your name alone opened gates that remained firmly closed to lesser houses. A Redwyne dowry could fund fleets, sway councils, and secure loyalties. Your bloodline was spoken of with respect in council chambers and counting houses alike.

And now the time had come for you to use that name, bargaining piece to secure an alliance worthy of House Redwyne’s standing, to bind your legacy to another house powerful enough to match your own.

Your family’s arrival at the Red Keep was received beneath banners of deep burgundy, the sigil of your house rippling in the breeze as Otto Hightower and Viserys I Targaryen themselves came forth to greet you. 

Yet the one face you searched for—silver-haired, sharp-eyed, and even sharper tongued—was nowhere to be found.

By the time supper was served, the Red Keep was thick with whispers. It did not take long for the rumours to reach you: Otto Hightower had set his sights on you. A match for his son would bind Oldtown, the Arbor, and the crown in one elegant stroke.

The knowledge did not surprise you.

You had known the purpose of this visit long before your ships ever left the Arbor. Your father had made it clear that the time had come for you to marry. He did not seek merely a highborn husband for you, but one of consequence. House Redwyne possessed wealth in abundance, but your father wanted more than gold. He wanted more power and influence.

And what better match than Gwayne Hightower, son to the Hand of the King—honorable, influential, and perfectly positioned to elevate your house still further?

It was a sensible arrangement.

And yet, when it came to matters of the heart, sense had never been a thing you possessed. For what other explanation could there be for your continued folly—this forbidden tryst you refused to abandon, even knowing it placed everything you held dear at risk?

He came just after supper, when the Red Keep began to settle and courtiers drifted toward their chambers, wine-heavy and complacent. He had been absent from every gathering thus far, a deliberate omission that had gnawed at you all evening. Only beneath the cover of darkness did he finally appear, slipping into your room through one of Maegor’s hidden passages—the same secret entrance he had shown you years ago, back when you were reckless enough to believe the world could be bent to your whims and desires.

Your breath caught the moment you saw him.

“You cannot be here,” you whispered fiercely, crossing the space between you in two quick strides. Your hand pressed flat against his chest, half intent on shoving him back through the passage. “If anyone sees—”

“They won’t,” he replied, scoffing as his fingers closed around your wrist.

“You take too much for granted,” you scolded, wrenching free and turning away to smooth your night robe, as though a false sense of composure might somehow restore order to the moment. “My reputation—”

“—has survived me since the first time you gave in to me,” Daemon cut in smoothly.

You turned back just in time to catch the way his gaze raked over you—slow and unapologetically hungry.

“Barely,” he added, with a predatory smirk.

You glared at him. “I am here for proposal negotiations.”

He only hummed in response, arms crossing loosely as though the notion amused him, his attention never leaving you.

“You have no regard for propriety,” you huffed, turning your back once more, as if distance might dull the effect he had on you.

“Never have,” he replied lightly.

You had barely taken a step when he was behind you, his hands settling at your waist, firm and unyielding, drawing you back against his chest. His breath brushed your ear, lips grazing the shell of it as he spoke again, voice low and intimate.

“It’s what drew you to me in the first place.”

You tensed, breath catching despite yourself. “I will be married soon.”

His laugh came soft and dismissive, vibrating against your skin. “Ah yes,” he murmured. “To the lord of piety. A remarkably dull choice.” There was a sharp edge to his tone as he added, “You truly couldn’t do better than that cunt’s dutiful little heir?”

“It’s not as though I have a say in who I marry,” you snapped, twisting slightly in his hold. Then, more defensively, “And you don’t know him. He seems a decent man.”

He scoffed softly. “I know you,” Daemon said, and the certainty in his voice was the most unsettling thing of all. His lips brushed your neck, lingering there as he spoke again, “You don’t want a decent man. You want a man with fire. You want a dragon.”

Your lashes flutter as your body begins to melt into him. “Daemon…”

The protest died on your lips.

His hands traced slowly upward along your sides, familiar and sure, while his mouth followed the graceful line of your throat. One hand rose to your neck, guiding your head just enough for him to claim your lips, stealing your breath before you could remember why you should resist.

Sense deserted you entirely as you surrendered to the pull of him, to the ache of wanting that had lived in your chest for far too long.

You scarcely registered following him down onto the bed as he drew you down with him. His shirt had fallen open beneath your wandering hands, your fingers tracing familiar scars and hard-earned muscle, mapping what you already knew and lingering over anything that felt newly discovered.

Daemon kissed you with a hunger that unraveled you, coaxing soft, breathless sounds from your throat as though they belonged to him alone. And in that moment—caught between fire and ruin—you could no longer tell where he ended and you began.

His hands slipped beneath the hem of your nightdress, tracing a slow, incendiary path along heated skin. Your mouth parted, a plea forming on your tongue—

A knock.

You froze as though doused in ice water, your eyes flying open, heart slamming violently against your ribs.

“My lady?” your maid’s voice came from just beyond the door.

Daemon stilled instantly.

Panic snaps you back to sense. You shove Daemon down before he could react, dragging the blanket over him. your hands shaking as you snatched a pillow and pressed it firmly to your lap  just as the door cracked open.

“Yes?” you answer, far too bright.

Your maid stepped inside, head bowed. “Apologies, my lady. Your father asked me to deliver a message.”

You nodded, forcing a smile as you prayed. Prayed she did not notice the odd rise beneath the covers, prayed that the candlelight was kind.

Beside you, pressed close to your side, Daemon smirked mischievously. Forever incorrigible and unrepentant.

You felt it the moment his fingers began to wander—sliding slowly along your bare leg, tracing an unhurried path back toward the hem of your slip. Your breath caught.

You nearly flinched, eyes widening as you felt what he was doing. Your leg kicked out subtly, a silent warning but he did not stop.

Your maid continued, unaware. “Lord Otto wishes to negotiate the terms for your hand. Your father asks that you attend the meeting tomorrow, just past breakfast.”

You nodded again, trying—failing—to focus as warm lips brushed the lowest edge of your sternum.

Your breath stuttered. 

“Of course—thank you,” you said quickly, forcing a steadiness you did not feel. “Please let him know I shall be ready.”

You swallowed, heart hammering as his lips began to shift lower.

“Y-you are dismissed,” you added, voice jumping despite your effort to control it. You cleared your throat. “Goodnight.”

Your maid hesitated, her gaze sharpening just a fraction, suspicion flickering across her features.

Then she curtsied.

“As you wish, my lady.”

The door closed softly behind her.

You tear the blanket away, fury blazing. “You are impossible.”

Daemon only smiled.

He pushed himself up, his mouth claiming yours—stealing the words from your lips, the anger from your hands. Your protest dissolved the way it always did, melting into him despite your better judgment, despite every reason you had to resist.

“Don’t deny you haven’t missed me,” he murmured against your mouth, voice low with quiet certainty.

You should have denied it.

But the lie caught in your throat before it could be spoken.

Instead, you pulled him closer, surrendering to the truth you had never been able to escape. And while Otto Hightower plotted alliances and the Reach counted its wine casks and gold, Daemon Targaryen had already claimed what everyone was seeking—you. 

By morning, Daemon was gone—vanished without a trace, as though the night itself had swallowed him whole. You woke to cool sheets and the unwelcome return of reality.

Breakfast was an exercise in restraint. Your father spoke at length about duty and advantage, about how vital this match was for House Redwyne, reminding you to comport yourself as a lady befitting your station. You nodded where expected, answered when addressed, and swallowed the weight of his expectations along with your food.

When the negotiations began in earnest, you found you scarcely cared what value Otto Hightower placed upon you. Titles, alliances, dowries—it all blurred together into a tedious recital. Your interest in the proceedings was thin at best; your heart was not present in the chamber at all.

You sat beside your father, hands folded neatly in your lap, posture flawless, while Gwayne Hightower sat across from you beside Otto. When your eyes met, he offered you hopeful smiles—earnest, polite, well-mannered. You returned them as best you could, though your attention waned with every passing moment. You listened, nodded when expected, and endured the discussion with practiced grace.

By all accounts, Gwayne was an excellent match.

He was no bloated lord grown soft with age and indulgence, but a knight in his prime—handsome, capable, and sincere in his intentions. He would make a fine husband. A proper one. The sort of man your mother would praise and your father would trust without reservation.

Unfortunately, your heart had never been so sensible.

And as you sat there, composed and compliant, you could not help but think that fire had spoiled you for anything less.

You blinked from your thoughts when your father cleared his throat.

“We are agreed, then,” he said carefully, fingers steepled before him. “The terms are… acceptable. Provided certain details are refined.”

Viserys nodded, offering a conciliatory smile. “That is precisely why we are gathered—to ensure all parties depart satisfied.”

Otto smiled with measured approval. “My son would make a devoted husband,” he said smoothly. “House Hightower values loyalty above all.”

Your father hummed in agreement. “A fine quality.”

You drew in a quiet breath and turned toward Gwayne, offering him a small smile, the most you could manage. You hoped it appeared bashful rather than strained, hopeful rather than resigned.

You opened your mouth, ready to offer some meaningless pleasantry about duty and anticipation, ready to play your part at last—

When the chamber doors slammed open. The sound cracked through the chamber like a thunderclap, reverberating off stone and gilded pillars alike.

Every head turned at once.

“Gods—” Otto snapped, half-rising from his seat.

You looked up, heart stalling in your chest as Daemon strode in as if he owned the hall. Silver hair loose, expression sharp with determined intent.

“Brother,” Viserys said, startled, pushing to his feet. “This is a private council—”

“I know,” Daemon replied coolly. His gaze swept the room before settling, unmistakably, on you. “That’s why I’m here.”

Your father stiffened beside you. “Prince Daemon—”

“I will be brief,” Daemon said, cutting him off.“I have come to make an offer…For your daughter’s hand.”

The room erupted at once.

“That is highly inappropriate,” Otto snapped, rising fully to his feet. “Negotiations are already underway.”

“And lacking,” Daemon countered without hesitation.

He turned back to your father, voice calm, assured—dangerously so. “I offer more. Gold enough to rival the Arbor’s own vaults. Lands, favour at court—” his gaze flicked briefly to the Iron Throne before returning to you, “—and my name and station.”

A murmur swept the chamber.

Viserys stood abruptly. “Daemon, you cannot simply barge into a council and make such a demand—”

“I can,” Daemon said evenly.

He did not look at his brother. He did not look at Otto. His attention remained fixed on you alone, as if the rest of the room were little more than background noise..

“And I am.”

Your breath hitched. Beneath the table, your fingers curled into the fabric of your gown as you fought to keep the sudden, treacherous spark of hope from showing on your face.

“Lord Redwyne came to the Red Keep to secure the best possible match for his daughter,” Daemon continued calmly, as if stating a simple truth rather than upending the room. “And I am the best match.”

“My marriage to Lady Redwyne,” he went on, unhurried, assured, “is far more favourable to the crown than any union she might make with Otto’s boy.”

It was not something Viserys could easily refute. He hesitated, mouth parting as if to speak—then closing again, the weight of Daemon’s words settling heavily.

Beside you, Gwayne shifted, making to rise from his seat. Otto caught his arm at once, fingers biting into the fabric of his sleeve as he scoffed derisively.

“This is not how alliances are made,” Otto said coldly.

Daemon turned his head at last, violet eyes sharp, his mouth curving into a thin, knowing smile.

“No,” he agreed softly. “This is how they are taken.”

Silence stretched—heavy, stunned.

Your father swallowed, fingers tightening against the arm of his chair. “This is… unexpected,” he said at last, voice measured but strained.

Daemon stepped closer. “Is it unwelcome?”

The question was not directed at you, yet his gaze flicked briefly in your direction—just long enough to steal the air from your lungs.

Your father hesitated. You saw the calculation play across his face: risk weighed against reward, caution against ambition. At last, he exhaled shakily.

“If—if the prince is serious,” he said, choosing his words with care, “then I would be a fool to refuse such an offer.”

Otto’s face darkened instantly. “You cannot mean—”

“I do,” your father interrupted, firmer now. “House Redwyne did not come to court to settle for less than the strongest possible alliance.”

Viserys closed his eyes briefly, rubbing at his temples as though warding off a headache. “Gods,” he muttered. Then, louder, resigned, “If all parties are agreed… then the crown will not stand in the way.”

Otto let go of Gwayne’s arm, his jaw set hard with fury, but he said no more.

Daemon’s smile was slow and triumphant.

Before you could so much as rise from your seat, he crossed the distance and swept you up without ceremony, slinging you effortlessly over his shoulder. The suddenness of it stole the air from your lungs.

“Daemon!” you gasped, a sharp cry of surprise tearing free as you instinctively tried to wriggle from his grasp.

“Easy, my future wife,” he said lightly, one arm tightening to secure you in place. “You’re mine now.”

“This is outrageous!” Otto shouted after him, his voice sharp with fury.

Daemon did not turn back, leaving the four lords to their arguing.

He carried you from the chamber as though the matter were already settled, his boots echoing against the stone corridor while your heart thundered in time with each step. Scandalized murmurs followed in his wake, but he paid them no heed.

And as the doors closed behind you—sealing away alliances, negotiations, and the life that had been chosen for you—you knew one thing with absolute certainty:

Daemon Targaryen had never intended to let you go.

[arabellasleopardcoat]

The girl with the pearl necklace (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: You marry Daemon to secure an alliance. But surprisingly, you find a haven in him.

Warnings: Fluff. Smut. Oral (F receiving) Talks of race, colorism, racism, and self-esteem issues.

A/N: This has to be my most personal fic. It might not be as universal because it is part of my personal experience with race as a mixed person living in what is essentially a mixed region. I hope I do not get a bad response, but I will remind you what the title of my blog says.

“YOUR HAIR IS ugly.” The girl says, displeased. She is trying to comb through your hair with some coconut oil, but instead of curling prettily, your hair just falls flat. She has been at it for at least half an hour, her tugs to your hair getting increasingly more painful.

This time, you cannot hide the flinch. Pain, you had excused with being her first day. Making a mess, with her being unused to your hair. But calling you ugly? She was but a serving girl, she had no right.

The girl looks horrified at what she has just said. She is barely fourteen. But yet again, you are too. You have never called anyone ugly to their faces. You keep those kinds of thoughts to yourself.

“She is young, milady.” The older maid, the one that is supposed to supervise her, says. She smooths your hair back, trying to fix it. Her touch gets more and more desperate the more she tries. Your hair will simply not obey. The younger one has put so much product on your hair, it looks greasy and unwashed.

You stare at your features in the mirror. The lighter skin, the shock of unruly hair, not quite a wave, not quite a coil, but rather something in the middle. Bad hair, your previous maids called it. You wonder why you bothered trying with maids again.

It is your cousin’s wedding. A lovely young woman, with beautiful dark hair that you bet never reacts this way.

“I am sorry, milady.” The younger maid offers.

Your eyes are still fixated on your mirror. You wonder if your mother ever has these troubles too. With her sleek hair, and foreign features, you doubt anyone dares call her ugly. She may not have a title, as you do, but she was once regarded as the most beautiful woman in Lys.

But you. Oh, you. With your too wide nose, but too upturned to be a dornish one. With your high cheekbones in a short face. With dark eyelashes, purple eyes, and hair that is not quite right.

It screams outsider. It screams, not here, not there. Not a famed beauty in Lys, not quite the Sword of the Morning.

“Get out.” You say, to the serving girl. “Get out, both of you.”

You need to wash your hair three times for all the product to come out. You are late to the wedding.

The serving girl is relocated to the kitchens, where no one needs to talk to her. The older one is sent to tend to your father. You pass her sometimes, in the hallways of Starfall, and wonder if she is thinking your hair is ugly too.

You wonder the same thing on the day your fate changes. You are getting dressed when you see her, an ill omen in the middle of Starfall. Prince Qoren has summoned all the unwed noble ladies of Dorne to Sunspear, wishing to announce something. You think it can’t be anything good, considering he has refused to use a royal proclamation to do so.

The travel to Sunspear is taxing. You travel to the capital accompanied by your mother, a day before the actual meeting is set to take place. It allows the two of you to spend the night in a manse before having to meet the royal family.

She doesn’t know how to fix your hair. Your mother’s hair is pale silver, easy to manage and twist in the ways women up north prefer. She had tried hard to tame yours as a child, spraying it with water and stretching the curls with a brush so it laid flat. It never seemed to work as it did in hers.

You pin your hair up, a clip made of pearls and amethysts keeping it up. You do not have the same texture most women here have, that ensures gorgeous volume, so you play to your strengths, showcasing the deep color you have and using it as a backdrop for gorgeous accessories.

Your dress is chosen with great care. A deep lavender, with a tasteful cleavage, held at your shoulders by twin brooches of falling stars. Not even hearing your mother say you look beautiful eases your anxiety. You had seen her, the servant. She only appeared in your life when something was about to happen.

You are not the superstitious kind, but when you stand in a line in front of Prince Qoren’s throne with all the noble maidens of Dorne, you know you were right. That woman was a bad omen.

Prince Qoren smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I am glad all of you chose to accept my invitation.” He stands. All the women in the room drop into a curtsy. “When I look at you, I see the best this Kingdom has to offer. It makes me proud. And it makes me confident enough to know I can ask this of you.”

You tense. Whatever he is going to ask is something bad, you can already tell. Some of the more clueless girls in the room look flattered by the delicate compliment, but it is a tactic you know well. You have been mocked enough to know that when someone compliments you so elaborately, a but usually follows. And it tends to be devastating.

His kind demeanor isn’t fooling you. Not in the least.

“We have never coddled our women, as the other Kingdoms do. War is coming for us, and we need strong allies. The Iron Throne offers us their support, but as always, it comes with a price.”

War. Of course it comes down to it. You have heard your parents whispering about it when they think you cannot hear. How Prince Qoren is thinking of sending his troops, instead of his money. How he expects your brother or father to lead them, sometimes against the Triarchy, sometimes against the Iron Throne.

It seems he has made his choice. Against the Triarchy. Your heart is seized by the sudden terror of the thought of your father going to war and not coming home. His sword, Prince Qoren called him.

Your house has been Dorne’s sword for decades. Ever since the first Dayne picked up their sword from the heart of a flaming star, you have defended the Kingdom against their enemies. Your very home once burned because of it.

Amongst the tales of flaming swords and fallen stars, you had never thought war would touch your home. Your brother was the current wielder of Dawn. Your father the head of your house. They would have to fight.

“A marriage pact. From a daughter of Dorne, to a Targaryen Prince. To bind our kingdoms, to ensure peace in this new alliance we embark. Dorne must remain unbowed, unbent, unbroken. House Martell has no daughters of their own to offer, so we ask one of you to go on our stead. It’s us who will pay your dowry, and you shall always have a home here.”

His words barely register as you brood about the upcoming war. You have heard of the Crabfeeder, and his brutality. You think of your kind, kind brother, and his sweet smile. He is a few years younger than you, untested in battle yet.

Some girls cheer. You look at your mother and notice she has the same stricken look you must be sporting. Some of the other parents talk animatedly between themselves, calculating the potential such a match offers their daughters. None seem to realize what it means.

War. War will come for Dorne, and the situation might turn out so bad, proud Prince Qoren will need the dragons’ help. The once unbowed man is being made to bow so low his forehead is touching the floor.

Prince Qoren raises a hand, quieting the hall.

“I am not asking for volunteers. I simply wished to gaze upon you myself, and decide who will marry Daemon Targaryen.”

Mumbles start again, some girls sounding disgruntled. Others preen and titter, trying to attract the Prince’s gaze. You keep your eyes firmly trained on the wall in front of you.

You would rather not marry this Daemon Targaryen. The politics in the other kingdoms are not your forte, but you have a vague notion of him being the brother to the current King. He must have a dragon, of course. And you think he is the one who has been in the conflict at the Stepstones, so he must be some sort of warrior.

No matter how much of a catch he might be, you wish to stay. If war is truly coming, you cannot bear to think of being separated from your family. Your mother will need you, when your father and brother are called away. And you don’t imagine yourself in a foreign land, waiting for news about them on your own.

Prince Qoren makes his way down the line of maidens. You barely spare him a glance, your mind thousands of miles away. But he pauses in front of you, looking at the shooting stars in your shoulders, the deep lavender of your dress.

“I hear Daemon Targaryen likes his women fair.” He comments. “And you are the fairest of us all.”

You swallow, throat suddenly dry. It takes all of your willpower not to fidget under his gaze. You give him an awkward smile.

Prince Qoren reaches to touch the brooch. His hands are elegant, fingers long and lean. He is about your mother’s age, and wears it just as well.

“Lady Dayne, is it?”

“Yes, my Prince.” You say, meeting his eyes. You may not be a classic dornish beauty, but you were still raised by the most charming woman in Lys. There are hardly any other women with manners as refined as yours, and you know all about the games men in power enjoy playing.

You cannot fawn over him. You cannot show him weakness. Because if you do, you will be common in his eyes, unespecial. It is not about beauty. It never is. That thought has given you great comfort during the years.

“How fitting. My dearest sword will be the one to defend her kingdom.”

Your hands begin to sweat. His choice is predictable. It is the same thing you had been thinking about your father and brother, House Dayne is the sword of Dorne. And swords, even more feminine ones, are only useful when war comes.

It doesn’t make it easier, that you should have expected it. It only makes your chest hurt. You do not dare look at your mother.

Instead, you drop into a curtsy and look at Qoren Martell as if he has made you the happiest woman in the world.

“I will be honored, my Prince.”

He smiles.

“Please, call me Qoren. We are to be family now.”

You look at your mother, insides turning to ice. You wonder how long until he takes you away from her.

In the end, it only takes a month. Qoren had been eager to depart and fix the realm’s issues. You now know plenty about the war in the Stepstones. Apparently, your future husband had secured the victory, giving the killing blow to the leader of the opposing army. But while won, the threat to your Kingdom remains. The Triarchy shall always reform, and not even the death of the Crabfeeder can stop them. Like one of those awful serpents from myth, you cut off its head and two more appear.

Pulling your support as the Triarchy was losing had been a bad move. They blamed Dorne for their defeat, and the Iron Throne thought the dornish were cowardly, only making their choice when it was clear who would lose. To avoid petty revenges and more bloodshed, Dorne needed new allies. And you needed them fast.

“We negotiated a new title for you.” Qoren tells you, as the carriage takes you from the docks and towards the Red Keep. “When you marry, you will become a Princess too, instead of remaining a Lady.”

“That sounds exciting.” You give him a bright smile. It's a very genuine one. Hearing yourself announced in such a manner would please you. “It will be strange, of course, changing it.”

“Nonsense.” Qoren laughs. “Only the best for my daughter.”

You falter, and decide to peer out of the window to hide your expression from him. You do not want him to think you are ungrateful.

The night is awfully cold, but you barely feel it. You are dressed in a purple velvet dress, still amazed by the material. You had never worn something so expensive, or made of such a warm fabric. It has the traditional dornish cut, with a plunging cleavage, but you find the added long sleeves fascinating.

The royal family had spared no expense in preparing your trousseau. As a daughter of House Martell, only the best would do. Obviously, all in their colors. This purple velvet gown was one of the few purple items you had been allowed to bring. It saddened you, having to forsake the color. You had always felt pretty in purple, since it matched your eyes.

You weren’t too sure how you felt about everything. Being sent to protect your kingdom and, by extension, your family from war was a great thing. But you were also being asked to leave your identity behind.

Never having left Dorne before, the journey had excited you, but also made you feel acutely lonely. And the thought of having to let behind your family, your colors, and even your name, only served to make you feel worse.

Your father would not be the one giving you away during your wedding, nor would your maiden cloak be the one of House Dayne. Instead, you would wear the sun and spear of House Martell.

But at this moment, as Qoren gets out of the carriage and extends you a hand, you are a Dayne. The purple dress acts a beacon, attracting the gaze of every servant in the vicinity. You stand tall, a star pendant hanging between your breasts.

You will enter decked on your colors. You will greet your future husband as you are, dressed in royal purple. Be a Dayne one last time, before war takes even that from you.

You breathe in and out, the polluted night sky so different from the beautiful stars in Dorne. This is it, you think, a chance to start over. To be whoever you wish to be. These people do not know what a dornishwoman should look like, or how she should behave. They do not know your hair is odd, and so are your eyes. They will only know what you want them to know.

“Go change, my sword. Your maids have selected a dress.” Qoren places his hand between your shoulder blades, pushing you towards the Red Keep. Your smile falls. For a second, you had thought you could attend the feast as you were, draped in your familiar purple and silver. “Make us all proud.”

You should have known better. But it is no matter now. A new life awaits you. Not even Qoren can sour your mood. You square your shoulders and smile.

So focused you are on your inner motivational speech, you do not notice the man watching you, his features covered by a black hood.

The day of your marriage, Daemon presents you with a beautiful pearl necklace. It is made of the purest pearls, with the biggest one you have ever seen right in the middle. It is bigger than the fingertip of your thumb, a perfect circle, roughly the size of a gold dragon.

“My cousin helped me commission this.” He says, during the wedding feast. He presents it to you in a small box, insides lined with velvet. As you reach for it, Daemon closes it, nearly catching your fingers with it. You laugh, startled. He grins at you. “Ah, I want to help you put it on.”

Your fingers fiddle with the simple silver chain you wear, star pendant hanging between your breasts. The hesitation must show on your face because Qoren, at your side, answers for you.

“She is honored, I am sure. Such a gorgeous jewel, to sit in the neck of the greatest beauty Dorne has to offer.”

You smile, trying not to let the sudden flare up of bad memories the words bring you. You remember a young girl, calling your hair ugly. Your grandmother’s face, sneering as you passed her in the hallways. Half-breed, she says, after having too much wine. Not quite right.

The subtle, more hidden, cruelties of girlhood that made your heart ache. When you did not make the list of the most beautiful girls some page was making. How much of a late bloomer you were, by dornish standards. How you had to wait so long for your first kiss, when it seemed like all the other girls were having them already.

Will this be all your life will ever be? Looking for the poison dripping from each word? Doubting every compliment?

You give Daemon what you hope is a seductive look, from beneath dark lashes. You are not good at seduction, having been an observer most of your life. But you are good at pretending.

It has worked, so far. Your arrival, on Qoren’s arm and with an honor guard fit for a Queen, had made people look at you differently. Men, specially, look at you as something exotic. They whisper about your Lyseni mother, and the tricks you must know how to perform. It fills you with dread because once again your looks set you apart, and you don’t quite feel like a person. You had hoped things would be different here.

And they are. Their attention is different, but it’s still wrong and you don’t quite believe them. They only want you because of the novelty, because of rumors about dornishwomen, about how your mother trapped your father. Not because you are beautiful or desirable. It’s sickening.

“Come, husband. Take my necklace off.” And Daemon obeys you, coming to stand behind you. Before he can begin to fumble with your hair, you reach for your hair on your own and lift it to expose your nape. You twist it into a pretend up do, holding it up with your hand.

The gesture is as languid as you can make it, highlighting the curve of your arm, and the elegance of your movements. The cold air hits your neck, making the hairs there stand up.

You both feel and hear Daemon’s sigh. He blows a soft puff of air against your hair, the noise very loud in the small table that seats only Qoren, Daemon, and you. The Queen has already retired, her sickly husband in tow. The Princess and her husband are dancing merrily between the tables.

When you had met Daemon, your first impression of him had been that he was very Valyrian looking and surprisingly whole for someone fresh out of war. And then, he had looked at Princess Rhaenyra and you had understood what Qoren meant when he said he liked his women fair.

Your stomach had turned, back then. Valyrian indeed. Rhaenyra was all milk white skin, light lashes and soft features. You couldn’t compete, you had thought. But then, you had noticed how his eyes followed little Laena Velaryon and you had known there was a chance for you to succeed too. It wasn’t skin color, but Valyrian heritage.

You have been trying to seduce him, with various degrees of success. The attention men pay you is helping you, and so are your purple eyes. You hope tonight goes well. You think you have just about enough Lyseni blood in you to keep him hooked.

His hands gently unclasp your pendant. He pockets it, you think. A memento or because he intends to give it back to you? You feel as his fingers whisper against your collarbones, and this time it’s you who sighs.

You are dramatic about it. Your lips part, as if about to be kissed. Your head tilts back.

“Beautiful.” Daemon whispers, in your ear. He kisses the shell of it.

“It is a gorgeous necklace.” You reply, feeling your face heating up. You feel drunk already, and you have not drank a single goblet of wine yet.

“No. You.” And the kiss against your ear becomes open-mouthed, his heavy breath filling your hearing. His hips brush against the backrest of the chair, searching for closeness. This is something that cannot be faked, you think. Not this kind of desire.

He wants you. He wants you, and you only wish to close your eyes and let him take you right here at this table. You are no blushing maiden, for sure, but you still are new to intimacy. Too many hang-ups about your body and not quite pleasing attempts have not contributed to building a vast knowledge of it. The fact that he wants you so badly makes you wild.

“I think that is my cue.” Qoren says, breaking you out of your stupor. He drains his cup, clearly in preparation for leaving. You had never felt such a connection with someone, not even in Dorne, where pleasure was loud and open. You press your hands to your face, ashamed of having forgotten he was there. Daemon simply chuckles.

“You don’t have…”

“Dearest sword.” He says, as he plants a kiss to your forehead. “You are as tempting as your husband is selfish. He doesn’t seem in the mood to share you.”

“I am not.” Daemon agrees, squeezing your shoulder. He exchanges a look with Qoren over your head. You can only see Qoren’s answering smirk.

“I think I should call for the mummers early.”

You and Daemon slip away as a company of puppet masters from Dorne make their grand entrance, throwing colorful powders in the air.

Later that night, as he sleeps in your shared rooms, you slip on a robe and stand in front of the mirror. Daemon has a massive one, right at the foot of the bed. Mirrors have always scared you, and sleeping so comfortably as he does with one reflecting him is unfathomable. You only intend to cover it.

Mirrors are supposed to be portals to other worlds, your mother used to say. The thought is stuck in your head, so you have grabbed a linen and are ready to place it over it when something catches your attention.

Your reflection. She is glowing, barefoot and in a simple robe, but still wearing the necklace your husband has given you. It should look gauche. It should look too much. But somehow, the necklace looks just right in your neck. You remember Daemon’s eyes, filled with desire when you had bared your neck to him. The sensual way he had touched you tonight, cradling you in his arms, rolling around in his bed. The necklace on the nightstand.

You look at the way the pearls light up your face. For the first time, you feel beautiful.

You make your first mistake a few days after.

It’s the first day of the week, and the Queen has asked you to have tea with her. You go, happily. After Qoren’s and the guards left, you began to feel lonely. There is not much to do here, either. Most of your usual entertainments are considered too sinful or crass. You can not even go for a walk around the city because they deem it too dangerous.

The meeting with the Queen is sour. She is trying, you can tell, but you still hear the disdain in her voice when she talks about your customs, or your people. She eyes the necklace you wear with distaste.

You get the feeling she buys the tales about you. That you are some dornish beauty, exotic and trained in the arts of seducing men. She comments on your mother, on her luck for marrying up, and you have to remember yourself to bite your tongue.

From what Daemon tells you, she is very lucky herself. Going from Lady to Queen is almost as impressive as going from merchant’s daughter to Lady, and you know which one of them did not need to spread her legs for it, and it’s not her. Not if you judge by her plain face.

You look at her, scandalized and pious as she is, ranting about acceptance of bastards of all things, and you surprise yourself at your own cruelty. You should not have thought that. But you are just so angry…

You take a deep breath and look away, trying to calm down. It is then you notice. In the door of the solar, standing to attention, is a man who looks like you.

He has inky dark hair, and olive skin. His eyes are dark, and he has a light stubble, probably because when you have hair as dark as he does, it is difficult to hide body hair. He wears armor and a white cloak. Kingsguard, you think. Why hasn’t anyone told you there was someone else from Dorne here, too? How could you not know?

Queen Alicent follows your eyes, suddenly noticing you are not paying attention. Your eyes are glued to the knight. She frowns in disapproval.

“That’s Ser Criston Cole. My sworn shield.” She stresses the word my. You grab your teacup and take a sip, to hide your smile. Is the pious Queen in love with her knight? “And a member of the Kingsguard.”

She is reminding you of his vow of celibacy. You almost laugh. If she wasn’t so repressed, she would realize she is the one who wants to jump his bones. The only interest you have in him is the fact that he might become a friend.

“Do your guards always stand inside your rooms?” You ask her, doing your best to sound puzzled. “The King’s guards stand outside his, and so does the sworn shield of the Princess.”

“…” Queen Alicent blushes, and averts her gaze. There are no further invitations to have tea with her.

You spend a lot of time staring at Ser Criston. He never returns your gaze. You seek him at mealtimes, you greet him in the corridors, but he always manages to evade you before you can properly start a conversation.

Daemon notices. He always does. He is finely attuned to you, his perfect wife. His prize after the war, his star. A study in contradictions, brazen and bold one moment, shy the next. He seems to like you even more for it. What he doesn’t seem to like is your sudden fixation on Criston Cole.

“You should stay away from him, star.” Daemon whispers, when he catches you staring at him once more. His voice sounds irritated. Accusing. As if you have done something wrong. It makes you bristle immediately.

“I am doing nothing wrong.”

“No one said you are. But Cole is….” Daemon shakes his head. “It is unwise. That’s all I mean to say.”

“What is unwise?” You scowl. You are glad that the table is long enough that no one else overhears you. Knowing Daemon, things are about to get nasty. He will throw in so many insults, Ser Criston would beat him into a pulp if he heard. No matter how competent your husband is, you still worry. “Trying to talk to him?”

“He is a cunt.” He says, cutting your meat for you as if you were a child. From your place in the dais, you seek him once more. Ser Criston is standing on the entrance of the hall, watching carefully as his Queen dines with the King and the two of you.

As if sensing your gaze, he looks towards you. Then, he quickly averts his eyes.

“I merely wish to speak with him.” You say. “He is like me. Dornish.”

“Ser Crispin will only disappoint you. Both in personality and in prowess.” Daemon warns. He pushes his goblet closer to you. “Here, try this. Arbor gold. How does it compare to the swill you like to drink?”

You take a sip of his goblet. You scrunch up your nose, The wine is cloyingly sweet, lacking the strong notes Dornish Reds always have.

“Ugh.” Your lips pucker up in disgust. Daemon laughs, and steals a kiss from you, licking into your mouth for good measure. But before you can begin to properly enjoy it, Queen Alicent coughs. You push Daemon away, even though you are doing nothing scandalous. “You taste like it too.”

“And you taste of that swill you dornish call wine. Yet, I am not complaining.” He takes a sip of his goblet.

“Are you jealous of him?” You ask, suddenly. You have heard about the rivalry between the two of them. Everyone knew of how Cole had obtained his position. He had been a simple knight, until Daemon had lost to him during a tourney. The act had caught Princess Rhaenyra’s attention, and secured him a white cloak. “Ser Criston?”

The thought of Daemon thinking you want to invite Cole to your bed is enough to amuse you. While in Dorne, paramours are more common than here, you are finding monogamy pleasant. You had never been much for sex without love, after all. Only one taste had been enough to satiate your curiosity.

“You shouldn’t toy with fire.” He growls, perhaps confusing your amusement with a deliberate attempt to tease him. It only makes your smile widen.

“Did you know…?” You begin, with an airy tone. Daemon sets down his cutlery. He turns to look at you, licking his lips. “My ancestor, Ser Joffrey Dayne, crossed paths with Queen Visenya. She burned Starfall, after he attacked Oldtown.”

“House Targaryen has always defended the Highcunts, it seems.” Daemon’s brows furrow together. It is no surprise he knows about it. One of the things that have bonded the two of you together is the fact that both of you are obsessed with family history. What he doesn’t know is why you are referencing it now.

You smile. One of your hands goes to toy with the necklace he has given you and that has become your constant accessory, bringing attention to your neck. It is a deliberate move. You intend to be ravished tonight

“I do not fear fire. We Daynes got Dawn from the heart of a falling star. “

Daemon kisses your temple.

“Oh? And I cannot wait to see you burn.” And he is pulling you to your feet, and you are slipping outside with a hurried curtsy.

Despite Daemon’s warnings, you still decide to approach Criston Cole. It takes you almost a week to build up the courage to do it, and another more to mention it to Daemon.

You do not want him to feel blindsided, so you include him in your planning. It is only when he shows up at the Sept that you realize Daemon intends to go with you.

Even the Septon pauses when he sees the two of you enter the Sept. Considering the court thinks you a temptress, and him a rogue, you are not surprised.

You are not particularly pious. While you had been educated on the Faith of the Seven, Dorne practiced a much diluted version. You had not attended a service in quite some time, but you try to focus on it to keep your nervousness at bay.

The plan is to intercept Ser Criston when the service ends. Daemon is under strict instruction to remain sitting, as to not unnerve the other man. But of course, things do not go according to plan.

As soon as the Septon gives his last blessing, you sprung up and step closer to the knight.

“Ser Criston, a word?” You ask him, your voice soft and nonthreatening. It is not as if you want to impose your presence on him, but you are unsure of why he flees rooms when he sees you. Perhaps he is shy, or perhaps you have offended him, but you will never know if he doesn’t speak to you.

“Do not talk to me!” He snarls, getting up from the bench. You try to reach for his arm, but Cole is quicker than you, grabbing your wrist tightly. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Daemon getting up from the bench where he was waiting for you.

“Ser… I only wished you to invite you to have tea with me.”

“I will not get into your bed, Lady Targaryen.” The man snarls at you. “Perhaps it is allowed in Dorne, but I assure you, here we do things differently than your people. Propositioning a man is…”

“I am not propositioning you!” You say, hotly. The words he is spewing at you leave you bewildered. You have never heard another dornishman speak so. “What do you even mean by that? Your people! You are dornish too.”

“I am not.” But before he can give you an explanation, Daemon is stepping in, and unsheathing his sword. He places his body between Ser Criston and you.

“I would suggest you unhand my wife.” His voice is cold. “Or you will lose the hand.”

“And you! You support her… Her… She should be sent back to Dorne, but she doesn’t even belong there, does she?” And Ser Criston stomps off, clearly unwilling to engage Daemon in what would probably end up as a fight to death.

Daemon looks willing to go after him, but you make a pitiful noise that is a cross between a sob and a whine. The rejection hurt more than usual, having grown unused to cruelness during your stay on King’s Landing. And the remark about you not belonging in Dorne?

It stung. You had not heard that insult in ages. It made you think of the serving girl, and your grandmother muttering you had bad hair, of your odd little features and strange coloring. Not quite Andal, not quite Rhoynar, not quite Lyseni.

Ser Criston looked like you. Of everyone, you would have expected him to understand. To see you.

You had only wanted a reminder of home. Careful with what you wish for, indeed. Your eyes feel suspiciously wet.

“Oh, that cunt. I’ll cut off his dick and feed him to Caraxes…” Daemon mutters, a thunderous look in his purple eyes. He then presses his forehead to yours, giving you an impish grin. “Not that it would be much food, would it? Like a worm, I bet.”

It makes you laugh, despite yourself.

“There you are.” Daemon smiles, brushing your tears away. “Come. I need you to see something.”

He takes your hand and leads you towards your shared rooms. You frown, slightly. Does he have some sort of present to give you? It’s unusual to be going there so early in the morning.

When Daemon opens the door, a maid is still sweeping the room. He barely spares her a glance, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. The girl looks disgruntled. You offer her a silver dragon for her troubles as she leaves, noticeably cheering her up.

The bed is freshly made, and the room smells of lavender. Outside the windows, the birds chirp. You see nothing unusual.

“What was I supposed to see? You interrupting the maid? Poor girl.” You mutter, kicking off your shoes. “Do try to make her life easier.”

But he doesn’t answer, choosing instead to pull out the chair in your vanity. It is a rarity, the whole set a gift from Qoren to furnish your new rooms. It has a beautiful mirror attached that reflects you from the waist up when you sit in front of it.

“Come.” Daemon says, simply. So you do. You know better by now than to disagree with him when he is in one of his moods.

You sit in the chair, dutifully. Your reflection looks a fright, so you try to avoid looking at yourself too much. He stands behind you, hands caressing your shoulders lighty, prompting you to look up.

“I have noticed.” Daemon starts, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “That you are always self-conscious when I look at you for too long. Or when I take your clothes off.”

You avert your eyes. It is true. You feel strange when Daemon looks at your body. The awe he holds in his gaze is both exciting and humbling. You never feel worthy of such worship.

“I would say we are past the maiden’s modesty.” He chuckles. “We made sure of that, didn’t we?”

“I…”

Daemon begins to unlace your gown. The presence of the mirror is making you self-conscious, so you reach for your bodice, and hold it up with one hand.

He pauses. He studies your expression, before dropping a kiss to your curls.

“Don’t cover yourself, wife. I love looking at you.”

You take a deep breath. You want to tell him the truth, for once. Daemon has started to suspect that despite how much you enjoy intercourse with him, something is wrong with your self-esteem. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have staged this intervention.

“I just don’t like how I look much.” You keep your voice low. Shame begins to freeze you up, making you tense and unable to speak. Your heart beats loudly in your ears.

“Madness.” Daemon laughs. He kisses you, slow and sweet. His lips move tenderly against yours, coaxing you out of your shell. You wonder how such an impatient man can have such infinite patience when it comes to you.

The thought makes you melt. Daemon smiles against your mouth and pulls back. He comes back to standing behind you.

“Look.” He orders. And you, helpless under his spell, cannot disobey.

You look at your reflection. Your hair is in even more disarray than before. Your lips are red and kiss swollen. And your eyes… You look dazed.

“We are just getting started.” Daemon promises, his hand coming to caress your collarbones. This time, when he pulls down the bodice, you do not fight it.

He kisses your head.

“You asked me once, if I was jealous.” You turn towards him, confused at the sudden change of topic. Daemon shushes you, squeezing the back of your neck as if you were a misbehaving pup. You look at yourself again, knowing there is no point in disobeying. Daemon always gets his way.

“I am jealous.” His voice is firm. He leans in, and kisses the top of your hair. His talented, skilled hands, take the pins off from it, so it frames your face once more. You fight the urge to fix it, to give more volume to your roots. You don’t like how limp it falls sometimes. Daemon presses a kiss to your earlobe, and whispers. “Of the very breeze against your hair.

Your eyes widen. You do not dare take them away from the mirror. On it, you watch as he presses a kiss behind your ear, as he mouths at your neck, just barely reaching the necklace that sits there.

“Of the pearls you wear, for holding on to your neck. “ You feel his words against your skin, making you shiver. He wraps it around one of his fingers, the pearls tensing just so to feel more restrictive against your neck.

Your lips part in a sigh. The tension of the pearls makes you think of a collar, and his deft handling of them a leash. Ownership.

“Sometimes, when I see you around court, I imagine this.” He tugs the pearls upwards, placing them between your lips. You watch, in a daze, as your reflection parts her lips more, welcoming him in.

He places the biggest pearl between your teeth. You find yourself mesmerized by this stranger you are watching, being turned into an artwork in front of your very eyes.

“You are exquisite.” Daemon gives the pearls a tug, pulling them slightly up. They catch on your hair, contrasting beautifully with the dark curls. There is something haunting about the image, something that tugs at you and makes you see yourself from his eyes.

Like this, with him calling you exquisite, pearls adorning your face and hair, you can almost believe it.

“Do you know what I think of more, when I see these pearls?” Daemon chuckles. It’s a dark, masculine sound. You are unable to form a word. “Hm. Perhaps I should show you.”

He finishes pulling the necklace from you. Over your head and out they go. Suddenly able to speak, you find yourself at a loss for words.

Daemon kneels behind you. He meets your eyes in the mirror, again.

“I am jealous of the moon, and the sky, and this damn mirror even.” It sounds like nonsense. It should sound like nonsense, but somehow, it is disarming, this newfound honesty of his. The one where he stumbles over words in his eagerness, in his need to call you beautiful, to call you his. “Because you want to gaze at them. Your eyes should be only for me.”

He cradles your face in his palm, forcing you to keep eye contact with your reflection. His thumb brushes over your lips. You just stare.

“And even of the wine you drink, when you wet your lips.”

You kiss his thumb. Your eyes sting. This is quickly turning unbearable.

“Daemon… Please…”

“Oh, but your eyes.” He praises, sounding almost drunk. He begins to kiss a path down your collarbones and towards your breasts. “I love your eyes. They are maddening to me.”

He continues to kiss your skin, inhaling deeply. The closer he gets to your breasts, the hungrier he becomes. Daemon is gorging himself on you, biting and nipping at your bosom, sucking at your nipples until you cannot help the moans coming out from your mouth.

Liquid, molten pleasure, begins accumulating at the base of your spine. Warming up your body, making you sweat with the exertion of keeping still.

“You are so beautiful, I fear anyone will want to steal you away.” Daemon whispers, grabbing your hips in an almost bruising grip. “And I fear if I don’t hold tight, it will be my fault.”

You look at yourself. At the half lidded eyes, the softness of your chest. At the attitude of surrender, as your thighs part, and you feel him bury his nose on the roses of your mound. As he inhales, trying to memorize your touch, your smell, your sounds. As he decides to drink from you, making your face go slack, brows pinched together, eyes glassy and absent.

Beautiful, you think, as you reach your peak with a scream so loud you fear the rest of the Red Keep might have heard.

Daemon laughs, doing his best attempt to suck a bruise on your thigh.

“And you haven’t even seen what I plan on doing with the pearls.”

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Calvary (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: In which, after the battle of the Gods Eye, Daemon’s body IS found. Unfortunately, he is very much alive and your problem now.

A/N: I went out and got a new keyboard. I was posting today even if it killed me. @just-some-random-blogger if you want to read?

Warnings: Mature language, canon level of violence, pigtail pulling. Enemies to lovers? Ehh, close enough! Welcome back, Jaime and Brienne.

YOU WONDERED WHAT you had done to offend Cregan Stark so. Perhaps he had become infected with his wife’s matchmaking spirit. Perhaps you had not bowed low enough when his army had passed your father’s lands.

When the events that would later be called The Hour of the Wolf transpired, your family had rejoiced. With your liege in power, you would finally, finally benefit from backing Queen Rhaenyra after what felt like years of enduring losses. Instead, you reflected, this was another punishment.

As if the taxes were not enough.

You watched in dismay as the Stark men lowered trunks and coffers. There were far too many for your tastes. Enough to know they were expecting him to stay here. Forever.

Cregan himself approached, dragging a thin, blonde man with him. He looked battered, but he was dressed in even finer clothes than you were. The dragging seemed a bit unnecessary, as the man was not opposing any resistance.

“Lady Dustin,” Lord Cregan grabbed your hand and kissed it, as if you were some great lady. He stank of guilt. “My condolences for the death of your father.” A bit late, his condolences. A year late, in fact. Your father had died fighting those damn Hightowers back in Tumbletown. Your grief was now a dull, small thing, shrunk by time and too many moons spent worrying about what you would do if the greens decided your lands, with no man to defend them, were now a suitable target.

“Lord Stark.” You curtsy to him because no matter how much he bows down to kiss you, he is still your lord. Guilty or not. You do not reply to his condolences, though. You still have some pride left.

Cregan fumbles for a few instants, not quite sure how to lead on from there. You agree that going from condolences to a marriage isn’t exactly the smoothest transition.

“I... Yes, I am deeply sorry. However, we must move on.” Cregan attempts to get back on topic.

“Yes, you know a thing or two about that.” You mumble under your breath, prompting a snort from the man next to him. The sound startles you into looking at him, and you have to face the unfortunate reality that he is very much real and not going away. So far, you had been doing great at pretending he didn’t exist.

The man stares at you, dark purple eyes fixed into yours. He is as tall as Cregan is, though much less broad. His war had cost him quite a lot, it seemed. But not enough to stop him from being handsome.

You stare back, unwilling to cower before him. He cannot hurt you, you remind yourself. He no longer has a dragon, he is old, and he has no grievances with you.

“Be as it may,” Cregan says, in a far more stern tone. “This will be good for the two of you. Moving on is what the Seven Kingdoms need. Your marriage will give Prince Daemon a dignified…” He struggles with the wording. You do too, inside your head. Imprisonment? Dungeon? Hiding hole?

“You can call it by its name, you know?” Prince Daemon turns to Cregan. “I will not be offended, boy. Exile. I have been in it enough times to not shy away from it. And here I thought northerners were made of sterner stuff…”

“And what will it give me?” You say, sharply, not wanting them to be derailed and being unable to let your protests be known. “A more likely chance of being murdered in my sleep?”

“As I said in my letter, Lady Dustin, there will be a monthly stipend for his upkeep, and you will get back the lands in…”

“Oh, come on!” Prince Daemon laughs. “I never murdered anyone in their sleep. Did I?” He turns to look at Cregan. You pinch the bridge of your nose.

You know for a fact that he ordered to have a child murdered in the middle of the night. Does it count?

Cregan keeps talking to you, as if Daemon had not interrupted.

“Again, you have made your grievances perfectly clear. Still, it is my will that you marry. You have been widowed for far too long, and you hold lands in a strategic position…”

“And you think I cannot defend them without a man?” You scoff. “How am I supposed to defend myself when he tries to murder me, then? Or when he flees? Am I supposed to stop it?”

“Oh, great, you are one of those types.” Daemon mutters. “Don’t tell me you wear breeches, too?”

“Whatever I wear is none of your business!" You round on him, incensed. You do not, in fact, wear breeches, but are now considering getting a pair if only to spite him.

“Oh, but it is! How else will I undress you later tonight?” He taunts, making your face heat up. You think the veins in your forehead must be throbbing, with how enraged he is making you.

It is then, perhaps sensing your heightened murderous intent, that Cregan intervenes. He grabs Daemon by the collar of his cloak and hisses in his ear. Unfortunately, the northern lord has a rather loud voice, and you hear it anyway. “Do try not to antagonize her. If this doesn’t work, it is the Night’s Watch for you.”

“I think it would be a terrible omen to have the father of the king at your wall, wouldn’t it?” Daemon answers through clenched teeth. It is clear that it bothers him more than he is comfortable showing. Or perhaps he objects to the rough treatment, unused to being disrespected.

They always say that the higher you are, the more it hurts to fall. And no one has ever been higher than Daemon Targaryen, Prince Consort of Queen Rhaenyra and father to the boy king Aegon.

And now, because of him, your watch begins.

THE SUN SETS early this time of the year. The snow, shining like crushed diamonds, crunches under your feet. It is more ice than anything else, yet it looks beautiful as the sun sets and night begins.

Your Godswood looks beautiful. You had asked the servants to place a few torches alongside the path to the heart tree, and the guests carry some as well. The clear sky, alight with a thousand stars, makes it the ideal night for a wedding.

It feels anything but ideal, to be getting married tonight to a man you despise. You had never been one to put stock in rumors alone, but Daemon had already shown you his colors. No man who truly loved his wife would be as apathetic to her passing as he was showing himself to be. Suddenly, the fact that he betrayed the Black Queen made a lot more sense to you.

Before the heart tree, Cregan stands next to Daemon. Never one to be ruffled, your future husband stands, indolently leaning against your sacred tree. In contrast, the lord of Winterfell looks as stern as always, and his voice is loud and clear when you approach.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?”

“I do.” You say, trying to sound firm. You had no one left to give you away, except for your liege. Since Cregan was needed to officiate the ceremony, the two of you had to improvise. “I come here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. I come to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim me?” You feel the wording is awkward, but clearly not as much as Prince Daemon does. Neither of you are strangers to weddings, but it isn’t your first time marrying under the Old Gods.

He steps forward.

“Daemon, of House Targaryen. Prince of the Realm and father of the King. Who gives her?”

“Myself.” You state, meeting his eyes in open defiance. His lips twitch, as if amused.

“Lady Dustin, will you take this man?” Cregan asks you.

You hesitate for a few seconds, only to make Cregan sweat. Your decision had been made before even setting foot on the Godswood. Traitor or not, you would marry him because your liege ordered it so. But your loyalty to the Starks didn’t mean you couldn’t make them suffer a little for asking such a sacrifice of you. “I take this man.”

Daemon kneels in the snow, and so do you. He offers you his hand. It is the first time you will ever touch him, your mind tells you. You don't understand why you fixate on that detail, but you do.

His hand is warm and big around yours, with a few calluses. He is sweaty, despite the cold. Nervous, though his face doesn’t show it. You close your eyes, silently praying for a good, calm life. When you open your eyes again, he is already looking at you.

He tugs you to your feet. He removes your cloak and hands it to Cregan before taking his off and putting it around your shoulders.

You thank the Old Gods no one has dared to put a kiss in the script all weddings seem to follow. You reach for his hand, to hopefully walk hand in hand to your hall, but only find empty air. Much to your surprise, Daemon is bending his knees and getting ready to…

You yelp when you are suddenly lifted in a bridal carry.

“What are you doing?” You hiss.

“I hear this is the traditional way to ensure good fortune in marriage.” He replies, loudly, to the cheers of the guests and even Cregan.

“You are insane. I am not a maiden anymore, and you are getting on in years too, cease this ridicule.”

“What, you think I’ll strain my back? I have lifted barrels of ale heavier than you.”

“Yes, when you were twenty years old, perhaps!” But you cannot continue to spout your disbelief because you are already reaching the hall. Showoff that he is, he sets you down only after reaching the dais.

The feast prepared for the occasion is lovely. Plates filled with delectable dishes and cups overflowing all over the hall. It is as extravagant a wedding as they had been before the war started, much to the joy of your guests. Nothing else would do, after all, for the father of the king.

Widow that you are, you do not dread the bedding. As the lady of House Dustin, you do not hold to those dreadful southron customs, and your guests know it. No one will call for it, and consummation itself doesn't scare you.

When the last dishes are being cleared away, Cregan clears his throat, giving a pointed look to your husband. Daemon stands up and takes your hand.

Instead of addressing or saying anything to you, he turns directly to Cregan.

“I am sure my bride and I will be the happiest couple in the Seven Kingdoms.” Then, as if an afterthought, he seems to remember your existence. “You could change your words. The most happy.”

You smile at him, barely containing your urge to insult him. Instead, you breathe in and try not to embarrass yourself.

“Perhaps you shall change yours, husband.” Your smile is as tight as it gets. “To the most blessed. Our wedding was beautiful.”

Daemon scoffs. He begins dragging you out of the hall, still holding you by the hand. Since he has no idea where your rooms are, he has to stop once in the hallways of your castle. Too proud to ask for your help, he simply glares at you until you begin leading him to your room.

Once inside, he looks around, eyes lingering on the soft furs covering your bed, the desk full of books and papers, and even the small loveseat by the window. His gaze feels malicious. Judgmental.

“I assume I will have my own quarters.” Daemon states, clearly finding yours lacking. It's fine by you. You would rather not sleep with the enemy, and you do not wish to have him lurking in your private space. No matter what Cregan says, you have too much common sense to believe he might not slit your throat as you sleep.

“There is a set of rooms on the northern tower that has been arranged for you.” You inhabit the southern one. You have placed him as far as you can.

Daemon steps closer to you, smiling. It unnerves you. He hasn’t smiled at you before, only smirked. But he only leans in and tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear.

“You remind me of someone.” His voice is low. Intimate. His tone sounds seductive, and despite yourself, you can feel your resolve to hate him weaken. It makes you think of how charming he must have been, once, before all the realm knew of his treachery.

“Whom?”

“One of my wives. She was… Fierce. She rode as well as any man.” His eyes unfocus for a moment, as if he were truly remembering her. You wonder who he is talking about. Lady Laena, perhaps? You cannot help being curious.

“What happened to her?”

Daemon leans in, embracing you. His arms circle your waist and pull you in. His body feels firm against your own, despite his gauntness. Only when his lips kiss your hair, right above your ear, he whispers.

“I killed her.”

Your blood goes cold. Your stomach feels heavy, and you cannot move. It feels as if you have been turned into stone. The feeling only intensifies as Daemon releases you and leaves the room, leaving you unable to even ask where he is going. Instead, you stand alone on your wedding night, with the feeling your watch has just begun.

CONTRARY TO POPULAR belief, Daemon does have some sense of self-preservation. He wouldn’t even attempt to go outside the castle walls with that damn Stark still prowling around, sticking his snout where it didn’t belong. While he would like to go whoring, burying his pain into warm bodies, he couldn’t. Instead, he makes his way to his new rooms.

He had plenty of nights to explore the nightlife of the town after he left. He had only promised to stay put in your lands, not to not go outside the castle. The town was under your supervision, after all, so visiting would not betray his word.

Gods, he wished he could be with Aegon now. Only the Old Flames of Valyria knew what nonsense they were filling his head with. That Daemon was craven and a traitor, and had forsaken his mother when it mattered the most.

Lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling, Daemon could feel his eyes sting. To think that Rhaenyra was gone… It was not right. His girl had always been so bright, so full of life, burning hotter than dragonfire. To think the usurper had killed her in such a gnarly way broke his heart. But to know he had been too old, too injured after facing Aemond to be able to do anything that helped her, hurt him the most.

Here is a truth for you: Daemon had never betrayed his queen. He would have never done so. Nettles had been there, yes, and it was only natural that things had transpired as they did. By then, his relationship with Rhaenyra had been strained, between the war and the miscarriage, and they had no longer been sharing a bed. It meant nothing.

Clenching his eyes tightly, Daemon willed himself to sleep. He would not cry. He refused to give his enemies the satisfaction. His age and the injuries he had sustained had emasculated him enough. No longer was he the proud warrior he had once been, having lost even his very sword. He would not continue degrading himself further.

The night seemed an eternity. He tossed and turned, unused to the unfamiliar stillness of your castle. When the sun rose, Daemon felt almost relieved. He got out of bed, dressed, and made his way to the training grounds. The space seemed in disuse, as was to be expected when a woman was leading the castle. Daemon would soon change that.

Between angry parries of his sword against a target, and drilling himself into exhaustion, his grief bled out. Just like an infected wound, it needed to bleed constantly, lest he become mad with it.

Daemon had a feeling it wasn’t quite working. He had always been mercurial, but now, he had moments where he didn’t recognize himself. It frightened him. Because if there was one thing Daemon had been known for, it was being sure of who he was, and proud of it.

Suddenly morose, he threw his sword down and walked back inside, leaving some unfortunate page to pick it up. Without even washing himself, he went straight to the hall. There, he found you, scowling at your pudding. You didn’t bother to greet him.

A shame you were such a beautiful woman. It would be easier to ignore you if you had looked like Rhea. Instead, you reminded him of another woman who had ruled her lands, and dared to stand tall, another who was as proud as she had been beautiful. It was fucking awful.

“Do you always scowl while you eat? Or is the food here just bitter by vocation?” He asks, sitting next to you. He serves himself some eggs, making sure to plaster his body to yours, so you can feel exactly how sweaty he is. In his head, he can already hear your screeches when you realize, a soothing, grounding melody to start his day. There was a certain pleasure in scandalizing ladies.

This morning, though, you do not take his bait. It makes him frown. Thinking it a fluke, he decides to try again.

“I must say, marriage does become you. That look in your face, as if it physically hurts you to breathe the same air as me…. Almost romantic, really.” He serves himself even more eggs, wolfing them down as he speaks and showing the worst table manners known to man. Still, no reaction, beyond scooting yourself away from him. “Did the glare come with the dowry, or is it an extra that Stark asked you to throw in just for me?”

When you still do not respond, Daemon feels his eyebrows raise. Yesterday, you had not struck him as someone who would take all these insults and crassness lying down. It seems strangely out of character, how quiet you are behaving.

Set on making a pest out of himself, he keeps talking.

“You will forgive me, of course.” It is said as if it is a given. He reaches for the teapot, and you flinch. Interesting. Are you afraid of him? “I have not eaten with a lady in such a long time.” And just to test his theory, he slams the teapot back down after he serves himself, making you jump nearly a foot in the air.

You fear him, Daemon thinks, an amused smile stretching his lips. How funny, that a quick-witted little thing like you had been so frightened by his words alone that you became meek. Yet the road you chose is not to please him in all things, but to ignore him.

If there is something that Daemon cannot stand, it is to be ignored. It hurts his pride. Once he had been the man every single woman wanted, and the one all men wished to emulate. Now, branded a traitor by those sheep like Stark, he couldn’t even hold the attention of his own wife. It was unacceptable.

He would make sure you never ignored him again.

His plan starts as soon as you are finished breaking your fast. Instead of exploring your lands, as he had thought of when rising, he decides to follow you without you noticing. He watches in the shadows as you mount your horse and ride out. After a few inquiries, he is informed of the time of your arrival and makes sure to give you a proper welcome.

“Ah, lady wife. There you are!” Daemon says, as he pushes aside a page who was attempting to help you dismount. Instead, he is the one to grab you by the waist and aid you in descending. “I wasn’t aware you could mount a horse with such dignity. I almost knelt.”

You do not react, but it is fine. Daemon has played the game of making a nuisance of himself long enough to know it takes patience. He had done it to Viserys before, and the experience had taught him one had to play the long game.

From then on, he becomes your shadow. There is not a single second of the day in which you are alone. He follows you around the castle, not giving you a single respite, unless you are in the privy or your rooms.

When you are filling a jar with flowers in your solar, Daemon materializes by your side.

“Are those flowers for me, dear wife? You shouldn’t have bothered. How fast did you surrender to my charms.”

Or when you are reading by the fire, inside the library of your keep,

“Is there a reason for reading in hiding? Or is it to hide you have feelings?” He sits down next to you, draping an arm over your shoulders. When you get up, and close the book, in annoyance, he shouts after you, cackling. “No need for that, my lady wife! I so enjoy your company. Or your disdain. They are one and the same, really!”

Daemon can tell he is wearing you down, and it amuses him to no end. As you sup together, at his insistence, he fills the silence with chatter of his own.

“How lucky I am to have a wife who hates me in silence. What every man desires.” He says, as he slurps at his soup obnoxiously. He gestures to a dish near you. “Serve me, please, wife. No, not that one. That. Yes. No, a bit to the left.” It is finally too much for you. He watches in amusement as your face grows more and more furious, filled with righteous indignation.

“By the Gods, I thought you northern women were at least good at domestic…” But before he can finish his phrase, you stand up.

“Die, you deranged worm!” You shout, finally losing your temper. Daemon only laughs. You storm off, with him laughing behind you.

And because he cannot stand not to have the last word,

“If you are about to poison my dinner, at least stay to watch. I like having an audience!”

Daemon remains seated, eating his dinner with much improved manners now that you aren’t there to watch. It is so delightful to irritate you. Especially because now that you are actually answering his taunts, focusing on toying with you might help him focus on something else than his past and all those he left behind.

TODAY, YOU SEEM set on not being found. A few moons have passed since your marriage, and Daemon has grown used to your presence. He spends a good part of his day chasing you around the castle, seeking your company and your sharp tongue. When he is not training the pitiful lot you call your men, he is by your side. Yet today, you evade him.

After finishing a training session with the fools that, given enough time, could shape up to be decent guards of your household, Daemon had set out to find you. It was always so delightful to verbally spar with you and see you grow more and more indignant as he intruded into your life as best he could.

Daemon reasoned you didn’t hate him as much as you claimed. After all, you kept going to where you knew he could find you. Whenever he wished to see you, he just had to visit your solar, where you would be hard at work answering your correspondence. Or visit the library, where you would be reading curled up in a windowsill. Hells, you even spent time seated at your own hall, listening to the inane chatter of your tenants.

They were mostly public places, accessible to all your servants, guards, and him. It wasn’t as if you locked yourself in your rooms. Then Daemon might have believed you didn’t enjoy his company as much as he enjoyed yours.

There was something refreshing in how awful you were to him. Unlike most, you didn’t belittle him for being a traitor. Instead, your insults of his character consisted only of digs at his stupidity, appearance, or manners. Not once had you mentioned the war during your verbal spars. And best of all? You didn’t single Daemon out. He clearly remembered seeing you offer similar verbal lashings to that damn Stark pup. You would employ your silver tongue against anyone who taunted you. He just happened to do it often.

He had spent the whole time he had been running your men through drills thinking of what he would say once he saw you. Perhaps something about those murderous eyes of yours? No, he had already complimented them yesterday. It would be unoriginal and might give you the wrong idea. It wasn’t as if Daemon liked you. You were just amusing.

You did have beautiful eyes, though. Lethal, even. He liked that your eyes were always honest, he supposed. Everything and everyone had been so guarded during the war that it was refreshing to look at someone and know exactly what they thought.

Your eyes, though, took it further. They were soulful in ways lesser women could only hope to achieve. A single glance and Daemon could gauge exactly how angry or amused you were.

But just as he had thought of the perfect argument conversation starter, he realized he could not find you anywhere. You weren’t in any of your usual haunts. Daemon had even checked your rooms, which he never did, but you were not there either.

Questioning the servants only earned him disdainful looks. While he had earned the respect of your guards, the maids were a wholly different story. Loyal to you to the very end, they didn’t seem as willing to forgive past mistakes. Not even if he was the father to their king.

His boy. His chest squeezed painfully to think of him. Baela and Rhaena were women grown, married, and with lives of their own. But his son, forced to wed that green cunt, as mad as her mother and treacherous as they come. Daemon’s heart ached for him.

As he wandered the castle and determined you were not inside, he thought of how much he missed Rhaenyra. She wouldn’t set him on this foolish errand, not even if she had been upset with him. His little dragon preferred to make her displeasure loudly known, just as her mount did. She would never hide away from him.

The two of you were so different it pained him to even compare you. You had nothing to do with the other, and yet, when you stood your ground, or when you directed the pitiful men you had, you looked so much like her it was uncanny.

Not like the Rhaenyra of the end, twisted by mania and distrust, trapped inside her own mind. Like the little girl he had cradled in his arms, the one he had taught everything she needed to know about love.

Perhaps it was that thought, or it was luck. Maybe even instinct. But something told him to search for you in the goodswood. And there you were, just as Rhaenyra had once been in a very different keep, sitting under a tree.

Yet, instead of reading or indulging in sweets, you were crying quietly. You were not at the heart tree at the center of it, but tucked under another weirdwood, a bit out of sight. Had he not been looking for you, he would have missed you entirely.

This was why the servants had not answered. They either didn’t know, or didn’t wish to disturb their mistress in her secret shame. Who else cried in hiding, but someone who didn’t wish to let anyone find out she was crying?

Your shoulders shook, back turned to him. You were muffling the sobs with your hands, and your hair, much too dark, was in disarray. This time, he thought of Nettles, and her face when she had mounted Sheepstealer for the last time. Her thin body, limbs much like those of a delicate frog. She had been no dragon, and yet…

Slowly, and making sure his footsteps made no noise, Daemon approached you. He placed a hand over your nape, making you startle. You looked over your shoulder, features exquisite even when struck with grief. Perhaps, made even lovelier because of it.

And your eyes, glassy and with lashes that clumped together from the wetness of your tears, pierced him like a bolt straight to the heart.

“I am not in the mood, Daemon.” You hiccuped, sobbing too hard to manage more. It was the first time you called him by name, and he savored it. “Not today.”

“Why not today?” He asks you, voice pitched low. He squeezes your nape once more. Fatherly. Reassuring. He would rather not think of the last time he did so.

“If you must know, it is my father’s nameday.” You say, and Daemon finally understands. Grief, of course. The insidious bitch. Not even here, up in the North, could he escape her.

He hesitates. He feels any of his jokes would fall flat. So would his more hurtful thoughts. But to attempt to soothe you… Is it even his place to comfort you?

Soft, still doubting his ability at it, he begins to speak.

“I knew your father.” Daemon starts, his tongue suddenly heavy in his mouth. He finds it difficult to speak. To think of those times, of the war, and the death and all the grief that came with it. Of the chill that clung to his bones and hadn’t allowed him a moment’s respite since. “Roddy the Ruin, the men called him.”

You give a wet, shuddery chuckle.

“Aye, they did.” And you look up at him, with those devastating eyes of yours. “He was so proud to fight for the dragon queen…”

Daemon flinches. He doesn’t mean to, but to hear one of her monikers in your mouth spooks him.

He has been neatly dividing his life. His past with Rhaenyra. His present with you. Both exist at separate points in time and space, never crossing. While near you, he tries not to think of the before, and you are so engaging it nearly works. And now, his two lives collide, her name in your mouth, his lips speaking about a war that he tries pretending is a faded dream.

“We won in the end.” Daemon squeezes your shoulder. As you look at him, a sad smile playing on your face, he thinks of what to say to soothe you. Daemon has been the sword so many times, he has forgotten how to be a light in the darkness. “Her claim still lives. Our son sits on the throne.”

“With a Hightower Queen.” You wrinkle your nose. “A pyrrhic victory if there ever was one.”

“Don’t be so sure.” A look at your face, and he thinks you so painfully young, yet so strong. It causes him to have confusing feelings. Unnerving ones, that make him think of Nettles, and a young Rhaenyra, and tell him to protect, to shield, yet to destroy. Kill the threat before it can hurt him. “No one remembers queens.”

“But you do.” Then, softer. “You are allowed to grieve for her, husband.”

Daemon doesn’t answer. He grabs you instead, and kisses you with bruising force. He can barely taste the salt of your tears before you move your head away. Somehow, the tender rejection hurts more than if you had shoved him off you.

YOUR HUSBAND IS behaving oddly. You watch him from the corner of your eyes, as he slowly, but surely, attempts to steal your seal from your desk without you noticing.

After that day at the godswood, you have stopped trying to run from him. All the fear he inspired had evaporated, leaving behind an odd sense of pity. Daemon behaved erratically, you realized, because he was grieving. His antics were much easier to tolerate knowing it.

Unfortunately, now that you were ready for his scathing sarcasm, he had chosen to leave it behind. No more of his usual taunts were heard. Instead, he escalated.

It had started yesterday, when you had come from your morning ride to find your room full of the most awful, sickeningly smelling flowers you had ever seen. When you had grabbed them and thrown them out, a task that had taken nearly an hour because the damn things were everywhere, Daemon had nearly smiled.

Now, he was attempting theft.

“I thought you were a Gold Cloak once.” You muse, as you reach for your seal. His hands are still on it, and yours barely brush them when he moves it out of your reach. “How did you catch thieves if you cannot steal to save your life?”

“Considering I still hold it, I would consider myself successful.” Daemon smirks. “Do you want it back, little wife?”

“Keep it.” You scoff, and continue to write your letters. With a shrug, Daemon pockets it. And waits. Patiently, which is not a word you would have used to describe him before.

You continue writing letters. You have always been methodical about it, writing them all before placing them in envelopes, addressing them, and then sealing them. It makes the task more efficient, which you appreciate, since it can be the dullest part of being a lady.

Hence, why it takes you so long to notice you cannot finish your letters unless he relinquishes the seal.

“Husband.” You try, hoping he has forgotten. “Could you hand me the seal?”

“I don’t know, could I?” He asks you, leaning back in his chair. He has the look of a satisfied cat. The whole morning, Daemon has just been sitting across from you, toying with the knickknacks on your desk. It had made no sense to you, but now it does. He had been waiting for a chance to make a nuisance out of himself.

“May I have my seal?” You stress the word my, because it is your seal, and you need it now.

“No, you may not. “ Daemon smirks even more. His eyes crinkle up in that way you hate, infuriatingly handsome. “Though congratulations on your improved grammar. It only shows that I am an extraordinary teacher.”

“Husband. The seal.” You say, through gritted teeth.

He sits up and reaches for your face. Cupping your cheek in his hand, warm and big, he smiles. You tense. It is the first time he touches you so, with such proprietary softness.

“I am feeling generous. Give me a smile, and I’ll give it back.” Daemon brushes his thumb over your lower lip. “Come on, sweet thing. Smile.”

Much to your chagrin, you feel yourself slowly begin to get shy. To cover it up, you scowl.

“Really?”

“I guess you do not really want it…” Daemon speaks with such smug satisfaction, you know you have been unsuccessful in hiding how much he is affecting you.

“Hand me the damn thing!” You say, standing up and looming over him. He tuts, jumping up with far too much agility for a man of his age, and raises your seal over his head.

“Now, now, wife, what sort of manners are those?” He clicks his tongue at you, as if you were some unruly child. “Say please. Or give me a pretty smile. Both will soothe my aching heart.”

“Daemon, I swear to…”

“A kiss then?” He interrupts, purple eyes shining with amusement. “Let it be known I am a generous creditor.”

You glare at him, feeling yourself grow even more embarrassed. Then, knowing that Daemon is capable of dragging this nonsensical conversation on for hours if he so pleases, and that you need to finish your task, you give him a tight smile, with closed lips.

“Come on, love, put a bit more in it, will you?” Daemon leans forward, and fixes your smile with his hand. You bat it away, annoyed. It is all so absurd that you cannot help but laugh. When you grin, Daemon does too, and places the seal back on your desk once more.

WHAT DAEMON HATED more in young knights was the sheer arrogance of them. He shuddered to think he had been one himself, in what felt like a lifetime ago. And even then, really, he had been justified in being so. Daemon had been born a Targaryen Prince, closer to Gods than to men.

The silly things you had in your service had probably been born from a donkey and a sow, though. They had no reason to be as cocky as they were.

To even claim that you were too lovely to be married to a traitor and that Daemon didn’t deserve you. The nerve! So of course, Daemon had to show the arrogant little shit exactly why Cregan Stark had given you to him. He might have lost his dragon, but he was still the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. He was more capable of protecting you and your little keep.

And look, back in Daemon’s day men were made of sterner stuff. When they got injured during friendly sparring, they didn’t run crying to their daddies.

“Lord Husband, would you be so kind as to explain why Lord Whent is claiming you attempted to kill his son in the courtyard?” You say, in what you believe to be a frightening tone, but sounds rather cute to his ears. You round on him, skirts opening like a flower in full bloom, face askew in the most delectable little frown.

Daemon sighs. Knights these days, by the Fourteen Flames.

“I didn’t attempt to kill him.” He explains to you, as his hands find their home in your hips. You squirm a bit, surely mad at him, but he only holds more firmly onto you. “Besides, isn’t he a bit too old to go sniveling to his father? By the Gods, he acts as if I cut his sword arm off.”

“Daemon, you took three of his fingers!” You say, in absolute exasperation. Your lower lip sticks out in a tempting pout. He taps it with his thumb, distracted.

“Put that away before I have to bite it.” He threatens you, absolutely fascinated by the give in the plush flesh. When you only scowl more, Daemon sighs. “Oh, right. The Whent boy. Well, it isn’t my fault he doesn’t know how to hold a sword proper. If he did, he would still have his fingers.”

“By the Old Gods…” You mutter, sounding astonished. Daemon would be too, if he were faced with such a useless excuse for a knight. “He is a knight. He knows how to hold his sword.”

“Which only shows how lax the standards for knights have fallen, because no, he doesn’t.” He protests. He continues to rub your lower lip, until you get annoyed and move your face away. Instead, he focuses his attention on pulling you even closer. Only when the two of you are nearly hugging, and his chin is perched over your head, he speaks. “Even if he did know how to hold a sword, no northern man would begrudge me for what I did.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Ask the Whent boy what he said about you. I was only defending our honor, I assure you.”

You sigh. It is charming. Daemon likes the shape your lips form when you do it. You abandon the discussion in favor of rummaging through your desk’s drawers. He hates it. He wishes to hold all your attention, all the time. But before he can voice it, you turn to look at him again, holding a jar of ointment in your hands.

“Come here.” You demand. “Shirt off.”

“Why, Lady Wife, won’t you offer me dinner first?” He teases you, even as he obeys. You have that effect on him lately. He cannot resist a chance to indulge you.

“Don’t be stupid.” You mutter, even as your eyes stray to his naked chest. Daemon preens under your hungry gaze. “I noticed you favor your left side. Did you get injured while defending my honor?” Little disrespectful thing that you are, you continue. “Perhaps, pulled a muscle? Must be your old age.”

Daemon had, indeed, pulled a muscle. He had already been training the whole morning when he had sparred with the Whent whelp, and he might have overdone it. Not that he will ever admit it, of course.

You warm some ointment between your hands and carefully begin to rub his ribs. You do not touch him often, not out of your own will. That you are seeking contact on your own, and doing him such a kindness, is telling.

He has you right where he wants you, Daemon thinks to himself, as he enjoys the touch of your warm hands. You apply just the right amount of pressure to make it both an ache and a relief. Soon, the pain in his side is diminishing, and he can stop overcompensating for it by leaning left.

“Thank you, lady wife.” He tells you, placing one of his hands over yours. You look up at him, as if finally realizing what you are doing.

“Do not mention it.” You step back, stumbling in your haste to pull distance between the two of you. “I just don’t want to have to explain to our king that his father was killed in an accident while defending my honor.”

Daemon smiles. For once, the reminder of his son doesn't sting as badly. He knows it then. He needs to have you as the dornishmen need water. Nothing less will sate him.

THE MESSENGER COMES when you are busy tending to your tenants. Your hall is full of petitioners, and you are attempting to settle a dispute over two herds of sheep that got mixed up after a fence fell. Daemon has retired already, with a charming remark about not even your presence being enough to lure him into debating the merits of more humane branding methods.

You read the letter. Once. Twice. Then, in the firmest voice you can manage while shaking in your boots, you give the order.

"Seize him.” The guards, trained by your husband, and loyal as dogs, do not hesitate. They pounce on the man, dragging him away even as he protests. "The hearings are postponed. You are all dismissed.“ You tell the petitioners, as you rise, clenching the parchment in your fist. It bears the royal seal. Inside, the message is simple. Sparse. Three lines, communicating the death of the Queen and that Prince Daemon Targaryen is wanted for questioning.

You wish to rush to Daemon’s side and tell him about it. You wish to question the man that now sits on your cells. But there is no time. Instead, you rush to the courtyard, and order your men to prepare for a siege.

Soon, the chaos begins. Your servants remember well the horrors of the war. Maids are sent running into the town, to buy all the supplies they can without leaving the smallfolk with a shortage. The maps are brought out, the river is cut, a curfew is established.

Amidst the panic, you refuse to explain your reasoning. It is too dangerous. If you do, they might ask you to surrender Daemon. And you cannot do it.

Once, during the war, you had prided yourself on being a lady who did everything for her subjects. You had been willing to marry for convenience, to set aside your hopes and dreams, to spend every waking hour attending to the affairs of your lands. Now, you cannot.

It is said that the men of the Night’s Watch vow to take no wife and father no children because love is the death of all duty. Because when you love, you turn selfish, suddenly unwilling to sacrifice everything, including your very life or the life of those you love, for the cause.

Summoned by the unrest, Daemon appears by your side while you are overseeing the posting of the guards. You pass him the parchment you still hold, without a word. He stands next to you as he reads, eyebrows raising.

You do not need to say anything. The sight of the bridge being readied to be pulled up at a moment’s notice speaks for itself.

“So you are going to war.” Daemon crosses his arms over his chest. Then, voice full of derision. “You silly girl.”

“Would you prefer to die?” You ask him, sharply. You turn to look at him, hands on your hips. “I wasn’t aware the rogue prince was anything more than a selfish bastard.”

Your words are harsh. He would probably strike any other person who dared utter them at him. But with you, he only smiles.

“My parents were married, as you well know.” He grabs you by the nape, pulling you close, until your foreheads touch. Until you are sharing the same breaths. “Stupid girl. You should just do as they say. Save yourself. There is no need for martyrdom, no dishonor in abandoning a lost cause.”

“Is that how you see yourself?” You ask him, feeling a strange pity blossom in your chest. Daemon’s eyes meet your own. He looks tense, as if fighting an inner war. But he doesn’t look as a man who has no will to live would. He isn’t broken. Instead, he looks as if he cannot bear to think of a world without you in it. “You want me to live.” You realize. “You want me to live, to be safe. Even if…” Even if he has to die for it.

You remember then that this is not the first time Daemon has willingly walked to his death to spare a woman he loves.

“Do not look at me like that.” Daemon barks, his hold on your nape turning harsher, tugging at your hair. His face twists into a snarl. “Stop it.”

You cannot help it. You smile. Despite the pain in the back of your head, despite the fact that he is looking at you like he would like nothing more than to murder you.

“Like what?” You challenge, eyes soft.

“Like you care.” He growls, low and threatening. “Like you understand.”

You grab his hand, taking it in yours.

“But I do.”

He pounces on you, kissing you as if his life depended on it. It is harsh, all teeth and spit, and absolutely no finesse. Daemon’s hands find your hips, and he squeezes, acting like a man starved. And you, scared to death that they will take him from you, do the same, nails digging into his shoulders to keep him here. With you. Where he belongs.

That is precisely why you miss Cregan’s entrance. When you part, lips kiss swollen, and panting for breath, you see him standing there, an amused look on his face. He must have ridden for hours to reach you so soon after the news broke.

“I see the two of you are getting along.” He comments, in that infuriating tone of his. “I come to inform you there is no danger to your husband, Lady Dustin. I handled the matter as soon as I found out.”

You wipe your mouth, suddenly embarrassed. Daemon, as always, looks shameless and even proud of himself.

“Thank you, my lord.” You say, fighting the urge to run and hide under your covers, and never again daring to show your face in front of Cregan Stark.

“The two of you are under my protection.” He says, as he turns towards the stairs. “I do not take kindly to uppity southrons daring to order around my bannerwoman.”

“How do you know I didn’t do it?” Daemon calls after him, frowning.

“Oh, Prince Daemon. You didn’t believe I would just leave you alone and unsupervised with Lady Dustin?” Cregan looks from between your stunned face to Daemon’s angry one. “I take care of my people. The North remembers, after all.”

You watch him disappear, mind still reeling. Of course Cregan would never allow you to be in any actual danger. But this meant that he probably had a spy in your household and had heard all you had been up to these last few moons. Gods, you wanted to die from embarrassment.

[dracarysdream]

“and then there were no new posts in the _____ x reader tag”

[beljude]

[girls2gods]

need that alternative ending chapter in my desk like right now

sooo what would you say if i told you the alternative ending chapter has actually become a full-blown series spanning into the trilogy timeline?

oh and also this is the opening of chapter one:

The hereafter is louder than you thought it’d be.

You didn’t picture complete silence—wouldn’t have welcomed it if so—but the noise that finds you now feels excessive for a place built on serenity. Expectations of birdsong and wind chimes and the fluttering of nature are filled by mechanical clangs. What sounds like beeping and clinking against metal.

One thing’s the same as you imagined though: you aren’t alone when you come to. Familiar voices lull you out of the haze of limbo. Maysilee, Ampert, Wyatt, even Wellie, who you’re surprised would want to welcome you. Then again, her goodness exceeds your betrayal. But the voice that snaps you wide awake, that gets your dead heart racing anew, is Haymitch’s.

[abernathysangel]

ur haymitch fics r sooo YUMMY !! i desperately need more my beautiful angel writer 🥹🙏🪽 perhaps him having a one night stand with u and then saying ur name during sex with his partner (maybe effie??) 🥹🥹 and then having to go to u and explain why he got kicked out 🥹🥹🥹

hope this delivered!!! req open if anyone (or you) wants to req something else <3

The Wrong Idea

Summary: One reckless night with Haymitch was supposed to stay just that: one night. But when he starts hovering- checking if you’ve eaten, watching you from across rooms, finding excuses to be near you- you mistake it for regret and sympathy. Convinced you were just a drunken mistake, you push him away, while Haymitch fails spectacularly at moving on himself- going so far as to say your name while with Effie. Turns out he isn’t feeling guilty at all; he’s acting like a man who accidentally started caring far more than he meant to.

Warnings: smut, consensual drunk sex, bathroom counter sex, age gap, kissing, making out, mentions of oral f!recieving, mentions of fingering, sex flashbacks/daydreams, a little angst, misunderstanding trope w/happy ending, saying the wrong name, drinking, unprotected sex, riding, creampie, some fluff

  It was a horrible idea, fucking Haymitch in the bathroom at a Capitol party. The worst of ideas, you thought as he pushed the skirt of your dress up to your hips and hooked your underwear down your legs until he could pocket them in his suit jacket. It didn’t seem to matter to either one of you what was right, good, bad, wrong, when he kissed you, tongue deep in your mouth as you fumbled with his belt and buttons.  

You’d both been drinking; that was what you’d lean on. You were about half his age, but he fucked you like he wasn’t double yours, parting your legs and pushing between with a smug grin on his face. Like he’d been waiting for this. Like he knew this was a bad idea too, but that was half the fun, anyway. 

Your vision blurred both from the drinks and from the tears as he filled you completely and perfectly, functioning rather well for a man who drank day in and day out. He was big, thick, stretching you out, calling you pretty names as he thrust in and out of you. It all happened so quickly; all you could remember was that one moment he was fighting with Effie, and the next, he was kissing you as he locked the door to the big porcelain bathroom. 

Your hands clutched his clothes, your legs wrapped around him, his eyes gazing down hungrily, watching himself disappear inside of you. It was messy, dirty, blurry, but so good. Too good. He made you come twice just from penetration alone, which was a feat nobody had ever reached with you, not even on your own. But it wasn’t just that, when he’d come on your thigh for safety, he cleaned you himself with the towels in the bathroom, bending to his knees as he did, but then ending up with his mouth to your flesh, then higher, until he was eating you out right then and there. You came twice more on his tongue, and then, he seemed to be finished, finally. 

It had taken a while, being drunk made it more effort, but he didn’t seem tired at all, whatsoever. More proud of himself, but still checking to see if you were okay. And you were more than okay. Blissed out, drunk, slightly sweaty. He helped you off the counter, held your hand as you braced the side of it, legs shaking from everything that had just occurred. He could not wipe that smug grin off his face for a second as he did his pants back up. 

He left, staggering your exit nonchalantly, while you fixed up your hair and makeup, before you re-entered the party. You’d gotten a good amount of sponsors for the night, which was his cause for such an elaborate celebration. You found yourself still dazed, still high on passion alone. You’d never thought that would happen, but you were now reeling in the middle of the place. 

“Y/N, it is not… particularly ladylike to be… off your face at something like this. Thought with Haymitch around you’d know better, but… hm.” Effie chastised you, approaching from behind. “Have you seen… Haymitch, by any chance? We have business to attend to, personal… business.” 

Effie liked Haymitch. You knew that. She didn’t really hide it all that well, smiling when he acknowledged her, grinning when he made an insulting little quip that he meant lovingly. They had a long-time bond, you knew that too. But you had just had Haymitch inside of you so that you couldn’t find a good enough answer. “Might have turned in,” you hummed, smiling and tucking your hair behind your ears. “I’m about to as well, don’t worry.” You added. 

“Good. You do look a little… dishevelled, but I’m sure you’ll sleep it right off!” She did a little clap, glancing around. “How’s my lipstick, by the way?” 

She pouted her heart-shaped lips at you. “Stunning, Effie.” You meant it. 

You grabbed a tall glass of water on your way out, stopping only for a second to remember where your underwear had gone before you remembered Haymitch slipping them into his pocket. Cheeky. 

You and Effie rode the elevator up to the penthouse in silence, as Effie fluffed her hair and blotted her cheeks in the mirror. It was past midnight now, and you wondered why she was putting effort into putting more on, and you had a slight suspicion she might be seeing Haymitch in a similar way that you just had. 

You were too drunk to think properly about it, but it did hurt a little that you were a quick, passionate bathroom counter fuck, and that he might very well be in bed waiting for Effie to climb on him for the remainder of the night in his bed. It made your head hurt. 

You’d suspected they were together when you met them. That was a good few years ago, and that came with suspicions that doubled on themselves, then thoughts that sometimes ruled the theory out, but if they were doing anything, they were having sex. And as unsafe as that was for you, you trusted Effie wasn’t the type to just give herself freely- they’d known each other a long time. 

The elevator doors opened, and you made a beeline for your quarters, throwing ‘goodnight’ behind you as you launched yourself into your room and shut the door. As appreciative as you were for ‘good sex’ and the best sort of bad ideas, it was weird to imagine he needed more, after you. Like that wasn’t enough. 

You had a quick shower before getting in bed, sipping more water until the room stopped spinning. A one-night stand was a loose term for what you’d done in that bathroom. He’d wanted you, you’d wanted him, you were drunk, it was easy for a moment. And then he would crawl into bed with Effie, and there was nothing more to say or feel or want. 

It hadn’t meant anything, of course not, but it made your heart squeeze just a little. You went to bed feeling a little more disposable than you had that morning prior. If you shut your eyes, you could feel everything all over again. His hands felt as if they’d burned into your skin, leaving white-hot imprints where he’d grabbed so desperately just an hour before.  

The rest of your time awake, you spent spinning and trying your best not to ruminate, until you fell asleep. 

The morning headache wasn’t as bad as you’d expected. A light pulse in your temples, perfectly bearable and would most likely go away with a bit of food and water. The events of the night slowly flooded back to you before you could lift your head off the pillow, and suddenly, there was a worsened pang at the back of your head. 

You’d had sex with Haymitch. Your co-mentor. Haymitch. Who was twice your age. More than sex, actually, you remembered, looking at the hickey he’d placed on your inner thigh. That was right- and then he disappeared, off to a room with Effie. 

Ugh. 

You pressed your hand to your temple and pulled yourself out of bed. There were tributes to tend to in their desert arena, and you were thinking about this. You turned on the bedside TV, checking the nightly recaps, and sighed when you found that both your tributes were together and alive. Doing well, actually. That was a small relief. 

You fixed your hair, got dressed, and headed down into the main space. You were the first up, breakfast laid out by the Avox, which you thanked. You were barely there, though. Replaying. Thinking over every detail. Hot mouths, hot hands, frenzied sex, hands in his hair, his hands in your mouth. And all that, just for… what? To go and sleep with Effie? 

You leaned on your hands, shaking your head, trying to get rid of the image. It was good; there was not an ounce of regret to the passion it took. You’d been into him, but he’d never been yours. Never been anyone’s really, just happenstance that you collided the way you did. Passion, drinks, fuelling it. Stupid girl. 

It wasn’t long before Effie came trotting down. You blinked a few times. She looked rough- but not ruined. Tiredness beneath powder, lipstick that appeared hastily applied. 

Her mouth was pinched the way it was when she was ticked off, but you watched her notice you, then plaster on her winning grin. Had she come from Haymitch’s?

 “Morning,” you said, smiling her way. 

“Good morning,” Effie said, coiffing her hair, her heels clacking against the steps as she joined you. “You… recovered nicely. Beautiful night, hm?” 

There was an undertone to the way she spoke. Sharp. “Mhm.” You nodded back. Breakfast commenced in near-silence; you were too busy trying not to imagine what had happened between Effie and Haymitch, and Effie was too busy with whatever made her so upset this morning. 

It was then that Haymitch strolled in, holding a mug he’d most likely forgotten he’d poured. “Morning… ladies.”

Your eyes locked with his as he entered, walking in wearing a vest yet to be buttoned over his usual white cotton shirt. He let that eye contact linger as he walked around behind you, to where the liquor cart was. Blue-grey eyes settling on yours, as he remembered too well what you’d done. Like his gaze itself initialized a new replay in your head of how he’d looked at you in that bathroom- like he couldn’t get enough. 

You hated how a horrible heat crept up the sides of your neck and onto your cheeks. You gripped your fork a little harder. 

“You alive?” He asked you- you could hear the liquid pour, splashing into the coffee in his mug. 

“Somewhat,” you answered quietly. 

“Drink water,” he said, pulling up a chair across from you as he settled somewhat triangulated with you and Effie. He moved the jug from where he sat to in front of you. A gesture. 

You poured yourself a glass. “Thanks, doctor.” 

“I mean it,” he added, a little gruff, but well-meaning. 

Effie cleared her throat harshly from the other side of the table. Both you and Haymitch turned to look at her, puzzled as to what the ungodly noise was, but Effie just stuck her nose in the air and continued eating. 

The two of them looked the same level of dishevelled. Effie, usually prim and proper, looked wilted, whereas Haymitch looked like he’d missed a night of sleep- more than he usually did. You wondered what led to that. A night of sexual escapades or something different? As if you needed a reminder that you were a quick fuck. 

You ate the rest of your meal in silence, then excused yourself as soon as you were done. 

You threw yourself into mentor duties as the day went on. Morning into mid-morning, you’d already spoken to a few wealthy Capitol citizens rich enough to agree to supply water and a balm that would protect against the hot desert, a victory. You watched the games for a bit, not long, your tributes were well-hidden, just as you’d advised. 

Haymitch seemed to do the same, but there was something different. A way he’d linger. Eyes locking with yours across the halls, leaning up against a doorframe. You didn’t avoid him yet; you couldn’t either way. He swaggered over eventually, sitting next to you as you sorted through some written instructions from a lady with cotton candy-coloured hair on strictly when to send in a gift. 

“Doing well, hm?” 

“Managing,” you nodded. “What about you?” 

“Wrangled two into small sums,” he responded, sitting next to you. “Not much, but it adds up with yesterday’s.” 

“Mhm,” you nodded again, like it was all you could do. “Good job.” You bit your lip, not looking up at him. If you looked at his mouth, you could feel it on the inside of your thigh. You didn’t want to. Not if it was nothing. 

“How’re you feeling?” He asked. 

“Not bad. Sober.” 

“Mmm, can’t say the same for me.” 

You nodded a third time, “Assumed so. You look tired.” 

“I look as bad as I feel, then?” 

I hope so, you thought. But then you took it back. It was Haymitch. When did he ever genuinely feel bad? This was a man who lived his life in indulgence. “Worse.” 

He chuckled at the slight. “Most likely. Didn’t get much sleep last night.” 

You stood up abruptly, everything flashing in your mind again, bringing that terrible not back in your stomach. Disposable, easy, not enough. You couldn’t sit with it, not with his scent in your nose the way it’d been when he was on you, yesterday. “Catch up on it tonight,” you advised bluntly. You glanced at him long enough to watch his brow furrow, understanding your tone. “I'd best get back to this. I’ll see you at lunch.” 

You left him there, hearing how his hand hit his knee defeatedly. You knew he remembered last night. You knew he could think back to it if he wanted to. You blinked the imagery away.  What did he do with your underwear? 

But it kept happening. Two more times, then before lunch, he was lingering nearby, talking to folks around you, making eye contact when you looked over- he was always already looking at you. You tried your best to hide the heat that came back every time, flushing your skin. 

“You okay?” He nodded your way. 

“Mhm, you?” 

“Sure.” 

And more interactions like that. Coming over, asking about what you were up to, or where you’d been, or who you’d been talking with and if it had been any sort of success. Caring. Hovering. Asking things. 

He came over to you another time, joining in on persuading rich folk, helping, but also talking to you, with the excuse of a group conversation. You tucked your hair behind your ears, feeling his eyes on you. You glanced sideways at him, finding his eyes settled on you. Was he not ashamed? Eyes roving you, a grown man staring with his hand under his chin, set in thought. 

Don't look at me like that. 

Not if you’re going back to Effie again. 

Don’t. 

But you couldn’t say that. You just moved on. 

Lunch was the same. You, Effie, and Haymitch sat at the long table, the television on in the corner playing the games on mute. You glanced up at it, then back down at your food. The game had been still for a while, which meant they’d send a mutt somewhere soon. You couldn’t watch. 

“Gonna eat somethin’?” You looked up at Haymitch as he took another bite of his food, gesturing to you with his fork. “Just… pushing your food around.” 

“Thinking,” you replied. 

“How was getting sponsors?” Effie asked. “Successes, I expect?” 

“Some,” you replied. 

“Not sounding very… enthusiastic. Anything is good news, good for our tributes. I’m sure by now you have nearly enough for a full gift.” 

“Actually, I managed to get two gifts, and Haymitch has been gunning for enough for a third. Water and sun balm.” 

Haymitch didn’t seem to know about that. On a regular day, you’d debrief that with him, but your mind was elsewhere. His brows raised, and a grin crossed his face, “Yeah?” 

You nodded, “Mhm.” You pushed your food around more, looking back down at it. 

“Nice work, angel,” he tapped his fork on the table twice. “Proud of you.” 

Usually, you’d be glad he was impressed. You’d learned from him. You’d leaned on him for that. “Good work indeed,” Effie breathed, a huff a little too strong. Lack of sleep never looked good on her, either. You assumed their late night had something to do with it. 

It was hard to read, but you didn’t want to think about it. You looked up at Effie, tight-lipped and watching Haymitch, whose eyes were on you. Did she know where he’d been last night? Or were you just imagining explanations in the complicated, jumbled scenario you were in? That quite possibly made things worse. Effie was older than him by a good few years. You were younger than him by about two decades. Complicated was an understatement. 

After lunch, you pretended not to hear the buzz of their conversation. It wasn’t loud, just low enough that you could hear the vibration of their voices back and forth. Something about a tribute, then something about food, typical until it came closer down the hallway. 

“Don’t drink when I’m talking to you, please,” Effie sighed, heels clacking after his heavy footsteps. 

“You take too long to get a point out,” he responded.

“You’re awful today,” she answered. Harsh. “This is silly. There are tributes to worry about.” 

You heard him stop, “Then worry. Doesn’t make a difference for them in there.” 

That silenced her. And Haymitch made his way to his own quarters before Effie clicked her way into the room you were working in, writing down stat numbers and running odds. They looked promising, but Effie’s mood darkened the room. She knew exactly how to do so, with a false cheeriness that reeked of a lie. 

“Keep at it!” she quipped, manicured hand coming up beside her head, but she herself knew it was fake-sounding, so she hurried away into the elevator. She was back about an hour later with a new hairdo. 

The day went on. Mutts were released, as you’d expected, but they’d attacked tributes on the North end of the arena, maiming a career from District One, and killing a smaller tribute from District 4. You didn’t watch, just read the recaps. Your tributes were on the move, which made you anxious, but they were doing exactly as needed, covering their steps in the sand until they reached another patch of cactus to hide in. 

Haymitch appeared again. It was beginning to irritate you, the lack of a break you got from him. You’d made eye contact with him and the bruises he’d left on intimate places enough for one day. Your heart picked up as he neared, bringing the scent of apple whiskey and his cologne with him. It made you dizzy, putting you right back on that counter. 

“How’re they doing?” He asked, standing above you, closely. 

“They’re alive. Both of them. Together.” 

“Good, that’s good. Send in the gifts when they go through tomorrow, then?” 

“Mhm,” you answered, not looking at him, but at your papers. 

He stood there, still. One hand on his stomach, the other cradling the drink he was nursing. You could feel his eyes on you. 

“Yes?” 

“Hm?” 

“You’re staring at me,” you replied. 

“Am not,” he shot back. 

“You are.” 

His mouth pulled upward a little, “Maybe.” 

He said it so casually. Was this teasing? Was his intention to make you ruminate, wonder, and think about how it had unfolded last night? He’d been friendly at the party, but his hand was on your back while you talked about your tributes to potential sponsors and by the wall, when he’d gotten close to your face to talk to you, compliment you, you’d kissed him. You did that. 

Drunk, but you had done that. You had initiated everything, and then it was a matter of minutes before he pulled you to that bathroom. He was into you; that was obvious. 

He’d fucked you so hard, he had to put his hand over and in your mouth to keep you quiet. Even with the music and the buzz of the people out there, if he hadn’t, you were sure they’d have heard how good he’d made you feel. 

Your eyes dipped down to his hand on his stomach, just briefly. All that and for him to disappear after, having Effie fix her makeup just so he could fuck it up all over again. He’d fucked up yours. He had glitter in his beard when he went down on you. Lip gloss on his fingers when they’d dug into your hips so he could dip his tongue further inside you. It was all fuzzy, but real. And hot. And he stood next to you as if none of it had happened. So casual, in admitting he was staring. 

“You still didn’t eat,” he added. 

“Sorry?” 

“Lunch,” Haymitch clarified. “Turned your peas to mush, didn’t take a single bite.” 

“Lacking my appetite today,” you responded, breathing out, bringing your eyes from his hand up to his face. “I didn’t think you’d care to notice.” 

“Course I do,” he said coolly. “Need your energy in a place like this. Drains you.” You hated the heat that kept creeping back, spreading over your skin like wildfire. “Plus, gotta take advantage of it while you can. I asked for some bread and butter, it’s on the table if you feel like it… eventually.” 

You dropped your gaze. 

Another gesture, sweet. Was this just… pity? Was he sorry he fucked you? All this checking in, gentle praise, pity disguised as care? You wouldn’t put it past him. He was drunk, too, but he did have morals. And Effie. And he knew you knew that. An ache spread through your hands, pulsing in your fingertips. Pity. 

It wasn’t even the gesture itself that bothered you. It was the weight of it. His sweetness. 

“Thank you,” you said softly, packing up your papers. Your chest lurched. 

“For what?” Effie chimed in, walking in unannounced. You hadn’t heard her coming, which you usually did. Her nose was up in the air, her lips pinched into a heart shape again. You took a deep breath. 

“Nothing, really,” you said, shaking your head. “Just about bread and butter.” 

“Didn’t eat,” Haymitch added. 

“Kind of you,” Effie nodded. “Haymitch?” 

He didn’t answer. You looked up at him, eyes on you. You glanced over at Effie. 

“Haymitch,” you said, lower. That seemed to bring his attention back. “Effie was talking to you.” 

He turned haphazardly, “Hm?” 

Effie waved her hand, “Never mind.” 

The tension in the room was off balance. Unbearably so. You almost winced as they picked up their conversation, feeling how Effie adjusted to the fact that he’d not paid attention to her because of you. What was his problem? 

Everything was different now, it felt. The air was thick. It was hard to share a room with the two at the moment, so you excused yourself. 

Avoiding them was harder than you’d thought. Effie was in the halls, Haymitch, where there were sponsors and/or drinks. When you’d settled on the couch, he put the basket of bread in front of you before pouring himself another glass of whatever it was he drank past noon. 

“You gotta eat somethin’,” he said. “C’mon.” 

You grabbed a roll to satisfy him and continued. It was weird not feeling the ability to talk to him the way you were used to. So stupid that he got your heart racing. He was so… casual. “Haymitch.”

“Mm?” He seemed inclined to listen, leaning against the wall. “Tomorrow at dawn, the money should be processed, and we can send the sponsor gifts. I’m writing the notes, sponsors didn’t specify anything- is there anything you wanted to say?” 

“Not… particularly,” he responded, pushing off and coming over to you. You almost winced again as he hovered behind you on the couch. He passed his drink forward for you, and you took it, taking a swig. It was bitter and a mistake, because it tasted like him. “Got something in mind?” 

You passed him his glass back, his hand brushing yours as he took it back. You didn’t look behind you; you wouldn’t. Couldn’t. The tension was already putting heat in your wrists. “Words of encouragement. Something easy. Short and sweet.” 

“You’re better at that than I am,” he said. You could feel his breath on your neck. He was so close, “Trust you’ll think of somethin’.” 

“I’ll brainstorm,” you bit your lip and gestured for the drink back again. You took it again, finishing the rest of it. Maybe it’d make it all easier if you ignored the intimacy of the action. No. 

Misjudgement, Effie walked in again. And theAnd then she put her hands up and walked right back out. Haymitch didn’t even see her, it seemed. Usually, he’d make a ‘hm’ noise or something of the sort, but there wasn’t any acknowledgement. Her heels today made little to no noise, you were finding out. This wasn’t good. 

Haymitch took his glass back and refilled it at the small bar behind you, and before he left the room, maybe after Effie, after all, he placed it down beside your papers. “Eat first,” he said, then left. This care, the extra effort, rubbed you wrong. If it were genuine, you’d want it, welcome it, reciprocate it. Guilt was an awful fabrication of him. 

He wasn’t Effie’s. They were friends with benefits at best, not even all that often, you reckoned. But he was much less yours. 

You’d thought about it before, which made the sex so easy. Who wouldn’t think about Haymitch like that? He was witty, smart, and a pretty big man, loaded with a quip or a compliment and a sense of humour. He had his flaws, but then again, which victor doesn’t? 

He was hot, very. With nice hands, too. You blinked away the imagery again, then sipped the drink he’d poured, which he’d added a mixer to this time, for you. Sweet. Quite literally. Sex was sex to him, you assumed, or he’d have brought it up by now. You knew him well enough to know that. Effie or you, both, if you were right about last night. Your stomach churned at the thought.   And again, at the reminder that he was being so nice because he felt bad. 

You jotted down the best notes possible before packing everything up for the day before dinner. You checked the games once and downed your drink before going to lie in bed for an hour. They were safe; that was all that should matter. 

Dinner was quiet, at first. Effie and Haymitch were already seated by the time you arrived, and there was a noticeable air to the room that alluded to something happening before you’d arrived. 

“Nice of you to join us,” Effie quipped, lips pursed. 

“She’s two minutes late, Effie, hold your horses,” Haymitch said, putting up a hand. A defence you didn’t need. “Not like we were waiting to start.” He gestured to Effie and the meat she’d cut into tiny pieces on her plate. She stabbed one, making a small screeching noise on the plate. 

“Sorry,” you said, taking your seat. 

“No, don’t be sorry. Not a big deal.” 

Effie made a little noise of disapproval, but you didn’t listen to it; instead, you served yourself and began to eat. You could feel Haymitch watching you, still. “How’s your head?” 

“Fine,” you replied. Another short answer when your head buzzed with words. 

“Keep drinking, and you’ll never be hungover, the key.” 

“Oh, Haymitch,” Effie reached over and rapped his knuckle with her fork like a scolding mother. “Not everyone wants to be as miserable and drunk as you.” 

Her words had bite, but they rolled off him like water. You nearly choked on the food you ate. She could be nippy at times in a bad mood, but that was particularly vicious from her. You just watched his jaw tighten as he pulled on a sardonic smile and nodded back, “Kind of you, Effie, thank you.” 

Your eyes darted between them as she tipped her nose up further and ate another bite. The silence was louder than the harsh words. Just the three of you eating. To make things worse, before you could even ask for the pepper, Haymitch was already handing it to you, like he’d read your mind. Your heart beat fast in your chest, pulse jumping to pressure points. He just met your eyes, with a look you wanted to be yours alone. 

His eyes wandered to you, wondering how to fix a mistake he’d made. That he felt responsible, that he was at fault, that he crossed a line. 

You kissed him. You’d wanted him so badly you took what you wanted, and he gave it to you. Hard. You physically shook the thought out of your head. 

Haymitch looked up at you. “You alright?” 

“Mhm. Caught a chill.” 

“You’re cold?” He asked. He reached around himself to grab his jacket off the chair, and you stopped him, putting your hand out gently. 

“I’m okay, truly. Came and went.” You didn’t mean to sound so alarmed. “Thank you.” 

“You sure?” 

“Haymitch.” This time, you didn’t mean to make it sound like a warning. But it was. It would make the tension worsen. “Please.” 

Do not do this for me. You don’t have to. 

Your eyes met again. Differently. Aligned in a way that almost made your head spin again. He backed off, shaking his head. And the rest of the dinner was avoiding Effie’s glare and Haymitch’s pitiful eye. 

And you wanted him. Which was the ache that began to fill your chest again. At the fact that there was pity. That he regret it. You were too young, too inexperienced, too… stupid. Drunk making bad decisions based on bad ideas. It was always going to be just sex, you couldn’t let yourself think otherwise. 

You finished your food, picked up your things and brought it to counter yourself, beginning to wash things out of the sight of both of them. Best to get away from it all. Maybe in a week this would pass over. You and Haymitch could forget all about it. 

You retreated to your room after that. Which would have been a nice escape if not temporary. A few hours to yourself, without the face-to-face worry about the whole mess of it. The want. The ache. The way you so desperately needed it all back. 

A knot tied itself in your stomach. Unsettling. It was evening when you’d had enough and decided to get some air. You put on a sweater and took the elevator up to the roof, taking slow, paced breaths as you did your best to keep your mind off of it. 

And you were still alone, up there. But the air was more breathable. You took time looking out over the city, keeping your mind focused on a plan for the next day, then the beauty of the city, then the softness of the breeze. It was cleansing. 

It blew your hair around your face. The city was so colourful, so beautiful. Shame it wasn’t full of anything good. 

You were up there thirty minutes when the silence broke. Elevator doors. You jumped, pressing your hand to your chest. But it was just Haymitch. 

Your stomach fell to your feet. 

“Scare you?” He asked, eyes landing on you. 

“Something like that,” you said. You turned back to the city. This wasn’t happening. He’d found you again, and this time there was no escape but jumping off the roof, and that would be no use. 

“You came up here a bit ago,” he said, strolling over. You could hear his soft pace. “You doing okay?” 

No, I’ve been thinking about you all day. And against my will, I can’t stop thinking about how it felt to be yours, even for a second. 

“As much as I can be,” you answered him. 

“Left dinner pretty abruptly,” he remarked. You stayed silent. He continued to approach. “You shouldn’t listen to Effie when she’s in a bad mood. You heard what she said to me.” 

“It’s not Effie.” Well, not all of it. “Just not feeling particularly… social.” 

“You’ve not been feeling ‘particularly social’, a good chunk of today.” He moved closer. Too close. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d been trying to avoid me.” 

He stepped beside you, hands on the edge, patting it twice. He looked out for a moment with you, then turned and again, you could feel his eyes. Roving. Checking. Wondering. Picking apart your expression. You didn’t want to be short with him, but it was all so overwhelming, hard to avoid the pressing words on your tongue and the weird urge to cry from frustration. 

You put your fingers to your temple. “Haymitch.” 

“Hm?” 

“I don’t want this. I can feel you hovering around me all day.” 

“Hovering?” 

You shook your head, looking out at all the buildings around you, “Checking if I ate, had water, if I’m cold, about… sponsors. Following me around, looking at me like-” 

You stopped yourself, looking at him. He was quiet, nodding, listening. 

“You don’t have to do all that.” 

He ran his tongue over his teeth as his eyebrows knit, like he was trying to decipher you. 

Your voice shook and you hated it. It was so embarrassing- the whole thing was. “You don’t have to feel bad about last night.” 

You watched his face change completely. His eyes widened gently, his jaw clenched, and everything softened. The words bouncing around your head all day had let themselves out and into the air between you. You couldn’t take them back or rephrase them. They were laid out, plain for him. 

“Feel bad?” He questioned, setting his drink on the ledge. 

“It happened. And it was fun, but you don’t need to check on me all day. There’s nothing I want you to feel guilty about. I wanted it.” 

He interjected, holding out his hand, “Guilt? That’s what you think this is-” 

“What else?” You laid on top of that. “I was drunk, but I’m not mad at you or the fact that it happened. I wanted it. I started it.” 

“You think I-” 

“Haymitch,” you stopped him before you broke further. “It was sex.” 

“No,” he shook his head. “You’ve got the wrong idea-” he stopped himself this time, seeming to be lost for words. “You make things way harder than they have to be, you know that?” 

You bit your lip, fighting the horrible pit that was turning itself into nausea in your stomach. The city blurred gently in your sight as you looked away from him. “It was a bad idea. Don’t think I don’t know better, Haymitch, I know bathroom sex isn’t a ‘forever’. I’m not that naïve, I promise.” 

An ache flooded your body. It made you cold and hot at the same time, made your palms sweat. Your head spun again, and not in the good way. His jaw shifted when you looked back at him. You wondered if he could read your mind. 

I know what I was to you. I won’t ask for more. 

Silence.

You expected him to say something. A joke, maybe. Some smart little comment to smooth over the embarrassment of it all. Nothing came. Haymitch had gone still. His eyes weren't on you anymore. They were fixed somewhere out over the city, jaw tight enough you could see it shift.

“Right,” he said, breaking that silence. It was laced with defeat. “Sure, then. Sure.” 

“Okay,” you nodded meekly. “Just didn’t want you worrying about it.” 

“No, you’re right.” He said, picking up his drink again. “Though you really don’t get it.” 

You sighed heavily, blurting from frustration and discomfort, “What is there to get? It was nothing. Meant nothing. I get that.” 

“Yeah, okay,” he grit. Your stomach dropped again, the confirmation pulling on your heart, too. “Right, then. You’re right. Bad idea.” 

Your voice cracked unwillingly. You didn’t really believe that, so it was hard to hear it back from him. “Then go?” You said incredulously, “Effie is probably wondering where you are.” 

“Effie?” 

Your eyebrows furrowed. You knew how hurt you looked; your expressions betrayed you. “Don’t think that I don’t know what happened. There’s no use in it. We can move on with our lives; meaningless is meaningless.” 

“Angel.” He softened for only a moment. Like he wanted to explain. 

But you couldn’t let him. “Don’t.” 

Your fingertips hurt with the pressure of the ache. 

“Fine.” He said, retreating. “Fine, then. Bad idea.” 

And he walked away, just as you’d asked him to. You pressed your hands to your face, eyes blurring again. Your chest was tight, and your stomach churned heavily. He’d agreed with you. And that was that. 

Guilt no more, but now there was nothing else. Just a horrible memory of something good making a mess of everything. 

Haymitch took the elevator back to the penthouse with a heart full of guilt that had not been there before he’d been accused. 

He shook his head to himself and downed his drink. Effie would be waiting. And that would be easier. Less thought and effort needed. He was defeated and full of regret for the way he’d handled things on the roof. He was a liar, and once again, his avoidance had gotten the better of him. It was not easy, even finding the emotion to label it for himself, let alone you. 

He poured himself something stronger. Drank it all in a matter of seconds, slugging off to his room to sulk and let the drinks hit him well. He would follow orders, yours. It wasn’t a pretty situation, but he was used to ugly. 

Last night’s fight with Effie had been hours of going in circles, but he was confident enough that she’d pass the time. Take his mind off of you. If that was awful of him, so be it. Wasn’t anything new. 

Effie knew he was complicated- and it’s not that she was incredibly lonely, he just happened to be a casual enough person to give her what she needed, time and then. Last night wasn’t that, though. And tonight, he needed it to be, or he might never get the images of you on that counter out of his head. 

Two dizzy hours passed, the evening pushing into late night. He found Effie exactly where he thought, reading a Capitol magazine on the couch, the games on the TV. He checked the stats: one death, from District 7, then cleared his throat. “Busy?” 

She ignored him. 

“My room, 10 minutes?” 

That perked her head up. “Really, Haymitch?” 

“Askin’,” he replied. “Can say no.” 

“You really think after spending your day orbiting your former tribute, barely casting a glance my way, I’m going to get into bed with you?” She shut her magazine. 

“Won’t you?” 

“Maybe.” She said, a little weaker. “If you’re not too busy being oddly invested in the livelihood of Y/N.” 

Haymitch huffed, imagery burning hot in his mind at the mention of your name. In his hands, too, if he focused. Fuck.

 “‘Oddly invested.’ When’s the last time you’ve seen me invested in anything but the location of a strong drink?” 

“Don’t lie to me, Haymitch Abernathy,” she tsked. “I don’t know what that’s about, and quite frankly, I don’t think I want to. That’s your mess.” 

Mess, it was. What was he about to do with her, with you in his head? “She had a rough night.” That was a half-truth, if you focused hard on the adjective. 

“And you suddenly care ten times more that she’s eaten? I don’t think you’ve cared about my meals in the decades I’ve known you. And it’s more than meals. Waiting hand and foot to supply what she needs, Haymitch, it’s… something else.”

He looked away, tensing his jaw. “-And who is it I’m asking for right now, hm?” 

“Well, me,” she blinked. 

And Haymitch accepted the answer like he hadn’t asked the question. He was cruel tonight. Effie was just… easy, in ways that his life was never. A familiar thing, and now a familiar distraction. It was really only her he could disappear on, return worse to, and still have something to do with himself. This was always easy for him, because she understood that what they were doing together was just to keep him company without the intimacy of much real conversation. 

So why did this feel so hard to do? Like he was standing in shoes that didn’t fit, all of a sudden. This easy, this company, was not truly what he wanted. It was what he needed to cleanse his palate. Of you. Your taste, your scent, your sounds. You talked nicely, and you never took his rough edges personally. And you were year-round company, so maybe this was different because it was you. And maybe those usual shoes of cruelty and true meaninglessness had shrunk because they’d narrowed themselves to fit something else. Someone else.  

Effie was a broad-scale thing, but you, you were pointed. As was his focus on you all day, which was new and different. An urge he’d not had in many years, to care more, was born from some flood of emotion like you’d broken every dam that held him to himself and his bad habits. And in the grand scheme, no, it wasn’t a good idea to do what he did, but you were right. You had pulled him in first. And good company became great company when he realized he wanted you to come more than he wanted to finish himself off, to be crude. 

“Haymitch,” Effie yanked him back from his thoughts, snapping her manicured fingers. 

“Mhm?” 

“Well, come on then. Before I change my mind.” Her voice and face still held irritation, but she stood and smoothed her skirt as the edges of her tone softened. They always did. And he should have felt relieved. But no, instead, his stomach sank. 

And he just followed her down the hallway, using the wall to prop himself up. What else was there to do? You, yourself, had told him to go. You looked at him with eyes that held hurt, despite what you said with your voice shaking like it was. You weren’t jealous or even fully angry, it seemed. 

 You looked at him as if you’d already pushed yourself aside before he could. 

He wouldn’t have. 

He followed her into her room, locking the door behind himself, as if that was a problem. He couldn’t remember when he’d poured what he had, but he drank it anyway. Effie moved around naturally in her quarters, heels getting set to the side, wig off to a mannequin head, lipstick wiped away. 

And he just stood there. If this were maybe four years prior, he’d be helping. Strategic with his kisses, but he just stood at the door, like he would find it in him to unlock it and leave. He couldn’t do that now. He’d have to drown out the thought of you with liquor and really meaningless sex. 

He wasn’t even looking at Effie, now. Just dead ahead. 

Your voice had been so shaky on the roof. And you’d been so determined on thinking he was feeling guilt or pity that he’d done what he’d done with you. He let you believe it, in the end. Despite how wet your eyes got, reflecting the thousands of city lights. Your hair had blown around your face, and he wanted to push it away, tuck it behind your ears like you always did when you were nervous. 

He had also wanted to kiss you up there, which was strange, because Haymitch hardly kissed anyone. Not even Effie. Usually, it was a few pecks and diving into the need portion. And yet last night, you’d kissed him against the wall at the back of that party and all good sense was thrown out the door. All normalcy with it. At least, what was normal for him. 

He was made cold by pain and time. So to feel warmth… it spawned a new sort of addiction in him. And he’d chased it all day.  

Effie’s room was cold. It pricked up the hairs on his folded arms. 

Effie took a seat on her bench, taking off the bright blush that painted her cheeks. His eyes darted to the clock. How was it almost midnight, already? Time passed strangely when you spend it all drunk off your ass. 

He’d remembered the clock from last night, glancing at it before and after being in that bathroom with you. An hour and twenty minutes that he would not forget until he buried it under the rest. Your hair had fallen in your face then, too, but it stayed that way because your hands were too busy rooted in his. 

Your eyes had been glassy, then, too, but not with any sadness. All of it came back in flashes: your smile, the giggle that slipped out when he’d picked you up to put you on that counter in the first place. Warm, all warm. 

“Haymitch,” Effie’s voice was cold, sharp, cutting into his daydream. 

“Yeah?” 

“You haven’t moved,” she pointed with her comb as she unpinned her hair. So begrudgingly, Haymitch moved slowly to sit on the edge of her bed. He could feel Effie watching him. “What is this, Haymitch?” 

“I don’t know,” he deflected. “Tired, I guess.” 

“Too tired for this?” She quipped. He didn’t even look at her. “Haymitch.” 

“Sorry,” he tsked, letting the ice in his glass numb his hands. “No, no, I’m not. You done undoing yourself?” 

That made her lip twitch, “Might need some help on the upper half,” she said, quieter. “Care to lend a hand?” 

He was nauseous, but he set his glass aside and crossed the room to her, his feet feeling like they’d each had a bag of bricks attached. The same feeling he’d had leaving you on the roof, so pretty and so ailed by his ways. Did you think that you were just a… stray in his path of destruction? 

Did you think of yourself as just another woman to have? Not that Effie was- it was more so that this was friends with benefits. Nothing serious. Is that why you thought it was meaningless? With drinks mixed in, it wasn’t exactly thought out. It was frenzied, almost. He’d never been so turned on in his life. The way you touched him, like his age and his body, were not the ugly things he thought them to be. The way you let him touch you, so soft and delicate, so wet for him before he’d even touched you. 

When his hands unclasped Effie’s necklace from around her neck, he was hard. Undeniably so. But it wasn’t for her, which disgusted him. He was yours, even here, with someone else, he would sink himself into to drown out the way his mind only thought about you, your lips, your waist, your smile. Fuck. 

Effie’s pink nails slid up his forearm, accidentally pulling the hair on it. “What should we do first?” She asked, like she knew this was transactional. It always was. There was no real heat. Just bodies doing what they’re meant to with their anatomy. The opposite and complete contrast to how fucking you felt. “I’ll be yours tonight.” 

“Good,” he said, low, his hand sliding over her shoulder. She shut her eyes and tilted her neck as if she expected him to kiss it, but there was no natural progression in this. Erect, but without any present emotion. It was completely deranged and revolting of him. Like every time he blinked there was you, flashes from home, flashes from the party, before you’d even kissed him, even today, when he’d stood behind you like this, and watched you drink from his glass. 

Against everything in him telling him not to, he did lean to kiss Effie’s temple, then the place beside her ear, then her neck, as she’d wanted. Once, twice, slowly, so that maybe he could wade into the life he wanted to get back to before you’d pulled him in and into another version of himself. She smelled powdery, and when he used his teeth, he could taste the chemical of where she’d applied it. This was all wrong. 

Her hand curled around his wrist as the kiss made it to her mouth, once, twice, and in between, he had a glance out the window. And that was all it took. A look at the city, the same skyline that had fuzzed behind you when you had looked straight into his eyes and had said, ‘It was nothing. Meaningless. I get that.’

And he didn’t reply with anything he wanted to say. Just shut down in the face of vulnerability. 

He kissed Effie, and she pulled him in closer, with wide gaps between kisses, her eyes roaming his face, as if still trying to decipher him. And he said her name, softly, willing himself to want. 

But she went stiff, under his mouth. Froze, like she’d turned to ice. 

“Effie,” he repeated as she pulled back, blinking. Her eyelashes hit his cheek; she hadn’t removed the false ones yet. 

“What did you just say?” 

“Didn’t say a thing,” he replied. 

“No, you-” he put her hand between them, forcing Haymitch to rise to his height and step back. “You did, Haymitch. You just did.” 

“What happened?” 

She looked at him incredulously, “You really have no clue?” 

“Not a clue. Care to drop a hint while I stand here, guessing?” 

“You are unbelievable, Haymitch Abernathy.” She laughed once, but it lacked amusement. “And to think, for a moment, I believed that maybe I was just imagining things, but you… You are different, and it is all about her.” 

“Who?” 

“Y/N,” she responded sharply, glaring at him. “I don’t believe it. You really have made a mess, haven’t you? Calling me by her name, Haymitch. I know you’re drunk, but what a stupid, stupid mistake you just made.” 

That stopped him in his tracks. He understood now. And fuck, it was those intrusive replays that had screwed him over. “Effie,” he started, but what would come after that? He couldn’t apologize. Explaining would make things worse if he admitted he needed this to forget about you, for a moment. So he was quiet. And that also made things worse. 

“Wanting my company, things I have to offer, but not wanting me, Haymitch, it’s low, even for you.” She said. “Don’t try to lie your way out of this.” 

She pointed to the door, “Out.” 

“Effie,” 

“No. No Effie here. I won’t have it. Get out, Haymitch.” 

“C’mon,” his heart pulled, not at the exile, but at the fact that you were present in this room, even when you physically were not. And at the impending doom that was knowing you had ruined him for his old ways, and he may never be able to forget a single thing.  There would be no getting out of this, or away from this, if he were completely honest with himself. 

“Take your glass with you.” 

And he didn’t fight that. He did what he was told and left with a simple, “Goodnight.” 

If his liver failed him tonight, he wouldn’t be angry; he understood. 

You had come down from the roof about forty minutes ago. You’d had enough time to shower, brush your hair, and check in on the games. Most were sleeping soundly, and your tributes were okay. Time on the roof had allowed you to decompress, but his words echoed gently around your head. It was much worse than having the replays of the night flash in and out of your head. 

You lay on your back, hand on your stomach, wondering if anyone would ever make you feel the way he had, so effortlessly. Your heart continued to ache, despite the amount of time that had passed. It was a dull pulse in your system, soft, but there. 

You wanted him. How unfortunate. You rolled onto your side, hands under your head, as if to roll from the thoughts. He’d denied you knew the answers. He told you that you had it wrong. But he’d gone to Effie, for sure, as you’d said. 

You rolled back onto your back, your hand dipping toward your thigh, where you could see the now-faded love bites he’d left between them while his fingers coaxed your hips to the edge of the counter with a gentle, curling pump. In and out. Messy. Loud. Obscene, really. He’d already made you come twice at that point. 

It was addictive, almost, to hear the slap of his skin against yours as he fucked into you the way he did. Angled, holding a leg of yours so he could bottom out and fill you as much as possible. You’d clutched his shirt, absorbed his every heavy breath. It was hot, so very hot, so incredibly, overwhelmingly hot. Every second of it. 

You stopped your own hand from rising higher. It wouldn’t compare. It was all silly. There would be no distraction from this for a while. For now, it was just a mess of feelings and understandings and-

There was a knock at your door. It was quarter-past midnight, now, an odd time to call on you. Part of you worried it had to do with a tribute, so you stood quickly in your cotton nightgown and opened the door to face Haymitch. 

He looked rougher than usual. Worse than you’d seen him before, on the roof. His blue-grey eyes met yours and settled, while he ran his hand over his beard and gestured to you, loosely. Like he’d meant to say words, but nothing came out. 

His eyes dropped to your nightgown as your heart began to pump hot blood through your body. His shirt was wrinkled. His vest was undone. He had no drink in his hand. Just himself, standing outside your door, shifting his weight from heel to heel. 

You tucked your hair behind your ears and folded your arms over your chest. You were mildly aware that your nightgown, though white, was see-through. Not that he hadn’t seen what was underneath, already. 

You just stared at each other for a moment. 

“Effie kick you out?” You asked, blinking a few times, attempting to stand your ground. 

He ran his hand over his facial hair again, and the silence came thick, heavy. You turned, scoffing. 

“No, it’s not…” he jumped in, clearly unsure of what to say. “Not like that. Don’t-“ 

“No?” 

His jaw tensed, “No. Never was.” 

You hated how his words softened you. You didn’t want to avoid him or hate him or what had happened. “Well, then… what?” 

“Gonna let me explain this time?” He looked at you through his brow. 

You hadn’t earlier. You were too frustrated with him to listen, and you knew that. It was hard enough to get the words out then that you couldn’t take his in. “Are you going to be honest with me?” 

He nodded once, mouth pressed in a line. He looked just as defeated as he had on the roof, but also as if he’d been battered around for the past three hours. You moved out of the way for him to come in. He didn’t go far, just far enough to help you shut the door behind him, eyes not leaving yours. 

“If you’re here because she cast you away, then that’s fine, but I don’t want any details. My imagination has been filling in the gaps just fine.” You said. “And I will listen to you otherwise, but no excuses. I know what I was to you.” 

“Clearly, you don’t,” he cut you off, looking around your room casually. “Got anything to drink in here?” 

“Haven’t had enough?”

“Liquid courage, angel,” 

You laughed, but it was kept short, “That’s new.” 

“All is,” he agreed with you, eyes dragging up your body to get back to the eye contact that seemed to bore holes into your mind. “I’ll do without.” 

“Good.” 

His shoe scuffed the ground, “It’s not all what you think it is.” 

“What isn’t?”

“Will you let a man talk?” He huffed, but it was not unkind. The room was growing hotter by the second, it seemed. It was familiar, how he spoke to you, but there was an undertone that laced you with that urge to lean in and listen. To soften further, to him. You just nodded as he continued, “With Effie. And with you.” 

You nodded again. 

“Wasn’t hovering today out of guilt. I’ll say that much.” 

“Then what?” 

“Patience, woman,” he tsked, getting just the slightest bit closer to you, like he hadn’t meant to. He smelled good, still. Your eyes flickered over his hand, eyes subconsciously tracing the veins on the backs of them, the one that travelled up his pointer finger to his mid-knuckle. “I did hear you, on the roof. But I don’t know how much of it you meant.” 

A panic rose in your chest now. Caught. If your blood could pump hotter and faster, it did. You wished you had something to drink in your room right now. “Is that a question for me? I feel I… was pretty clear on how I felt.” 

“Meaningless is meaningless,” he quoted. And it stung, hearing it from him, so you knew it was fake on both ends, “I tried, you know. Following that advice, you ended with.” He wagged his finger as he spoke; his expressions were all his own, casually, but his eyes swept the floor. 

“Tried what?” You whispered now, chest tightening. 

His expression changed, softening with yours, but his jaw hardened like the words were fighting against leaving his tongue. Steely-eyed, rugged, and raw, he looked at you in a way you could only describe as aching. He’d always looked tortured, but this was a look that carried something for you only. 

You’d seen it last night in flashes, between looks of hunger and desire. You’d seen it when you looked into his eyes as he thrust into you, whispering your name. You bit your lip then, as you did now. 

You knew that Haymitch struggled with laying emotions out. He rarely did. He just let them come and go, splash across his face and move on, ignoring any questions about it, but he put his hands up as if to surrender. 

“Went back down here. Tried pretending that this-” he gestured between the two of you, “-really was nothin’. Drunk mistake.” Your chest swelled, and your breath hitched. You hoped he wouldn’t notice, his eyes on the floor between the two of you. 

Your arms gently unfolded. “And?” 

“Found Effie. Like you said.”

Your body winced, bracing for him to get the words out. “And? Haymitch, please.” 

“And couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you.” 

His eyes found yours, no doubt reading the second hitch of breath as well as how still you went. He nodded once and looked off to his right, away from you. Your lips parted gently, unsuspecting of the confession. Your head swam with questions. 

Then he laughed under it, as if he was ashamed of himself, “Wanted to put you out of my head. Almost succeeded, to tell the truth, but hell, I walked into that room with you on my mind. And it was all day, too.” He stopped himself there. “Honest enough for you?” 

  You blinked quickly, trying to wrap your head around that perspective. “All day?” 

“And all night. Since it happened, essentially. All last night, through to tonight.” 

“With Effie?” 

“Fought with her, nothing else, then a sleepless night of just… you. Tonight was… different.” 

For some reason, you couldn’t wrap your head around it. This rewrite. The hovering was for the same reason as your avoiding him- The inability to get last night out of your head. You wondered if he’d been having flashbacks the whole day, the same way you were. “And she did kick you out? Just now?” 

“Yes.” He admit, jaw clenching. “Thirty minutes ago, not that it’s important. Didn’t make the decision to come here lightly.”

“Why?” You pressed, eyes wide, heart pounding.

“To which?” 

“Why did she kick you out, Haymitch?” 

He swallowed hard, sliding his finger under his nose casually, as if the gesture would bring less impact to his next words.

“Said your name before I even touched her,” he deadpanned, letting his eyes find yours again.

It was like the floor dropped out from under you. That was grave, a good mistake, a heavy one, one you hated that you loved. He and Effie hadn’t had sex last night. Only you and him, which was a relief by itself, but also meant you were not just a meaningless fling for him. He’d chosen, and from what he was saying, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you. 

Haymitch Abernathy. Thinking about you. That was so… Your eyes fell to his mouth, unconsciously. In the same way it had the night prior. Something warm bloomed under your ribs, watching his tongue dart out to sweep his lips, waiting for you to say something. He had said your name while with Effie. He was waiting for you to say something. 

“I’m…” you pushed your hair behind your ears again. His eyes were soft as he waited. “Really?” 

“Mhm.” He nodded, swaying gently, not from nerves but his usual imbalance. “Wasn’t a mistake, to me, angel. Was hovering because I couldn’t stay away from you- Not my… usual way about things, but just… somethin’ in me wanted to.” He admitted, eyes falling on your form as you leaned on the foot closer to him and moved closer, just a little. 

“Yeah?” A smile tugged on your lips, a wave of relief washing over you again, warmer. Forgiveness, with it, possessing you to reach for his wrist. “Haymitch.”

“Didn’t mean to hurt you, earlier.” He replied, coming closer to you as well. Your skin burned hot, a flush crossing your shoulders, a blush crossing your face. “I don’t think… either of us meant much of what we said. Would I be…” he took a sharp inhale, “-Right?” 

“It wasn’t meaningless to me if it wasn’t to you,” You answered, voice quieting as his hand slid across yours gently, so that his large hand wrapped around your wrist. His skin was so warm, it was almost like it melted you. Misunderstanding… “I just said that so maybe it’d be less… embarrassing.” 

“Wasn’t embarrassing.” 

He wanted you. Then, now. 

And it couldn’t have been easy for him to admit. Wasn’t like him, not that you’d foreseen. Yes, you knew bathroom sex was never forever, but there was no confirmation that it was ever his intention to have it be a one-time thing. He wouldn’t say he was sorry, because he wasn’t. 

You breathed out, hard as he pulled your wrist to his mouth. You could feel his facial hair graze it, tickling, as he pressed a tender kiss to the pulse at your wrist. 

“Said my name?” 

“Pointless to try and bury you when I still can’t stop thinking about the way you sound when I…“ he kissed your wrist again, eyes flickering upward to watch your lips part. “And how it feels to…” 

You bit your lip, which made him smile against the soft skin of your wrist, “-Kiss you.” 

“Haymitch,” you whispered, letting yourself get closer. “You thought about me because the sex was good, or thought about me because-“ 

He kissed your palm, then your curled fingers, “You. Just you. All you.” You breathed out shakily as he pulled you toward him, slow, steady, hot. “I’m not all that good at the… romantics, of it. But it’s there, against my will.” 

You smiled gently again, “What changed?” 

“You opened a door and… I haven’t felt this way in a long time, angel. I don’t take it lightly.”

Which made your smile widen. “I’m just that good?” 

“Whoa, woah, woah-“ he teased back, your regular groove and banter beginning to return. The wall of ice and assumed regret had melted. He didn’t feel bad for what he’d done; he had no reason to. He was coming back for more. Not just of your body, but you. “Not an implausible theory. Enough to have my mind wrapped around your pretty-“ he kissed your knuckles again, “-little-“ another kiss, “-finger.” 

You couldn’t breathe. Being drunk yesterday had made it all so much easier, the eye contact, the pressure and the graze of his mouth on your skin. It’d all been so quick, too. No time to think about anything but what I want. 

This was, in many ways, the same. The same heat, same desire, same intimacy, just painfully drawn out so that you could feel every single prick of his beard as he kissed down to your wrist again. “Wanted to… be around you, today. It’s a strange thing to feel the pull of a magnet at just the sound of your laugh. Sight of a smile.” 

“Poor Effie,” you sighed, letting him pull you closer. 

“She’s got better prospects,” he mumbled. 

You should have felt more guilt, but the gentle kisses were just… completely wiping your brain clean of anything from today. “Thirty minutes…” You whispered.

“Hm?” 

“If she kicked you out thirty minutes ago… Spent the time practicing, then?” 

His mouth twitched, fending off a smile as he looked over your face now, low-lidded. His hand came up your arm and gently cupped the side of your face. The gesture dizzied you, and you felt yourself melt into it. “You’re enjoying this too much.” 

“Maybe,” you hummed, his knuckle then gently grazing your cheek, then your jaw, then the underside of your lower lip, eyes not leaving you once. 

“Cruel thing,” Haymitch muttered. 

“Couldn’t last a day…” You teased him now, partially to mask how heavy your breathing had become under his gaze. “You like me then, hm? I changed you, this is 

“Unfortunately,” he smiled, teasing you back with a tap under your chin. The tension was almost unbearable. The pace he was going, the prolonged eye contact that only broke when his eyes dipped down to your mouth. It was tantalizing, torturous, almost. You’d both spent the day all wrong- or at least you had, with the wrong idea in your head. It seemed now, at this moment, he was determined to undo every negative thought that had bounced around in there today. 

You blushed hard, having to break eye contact yourself. “Funny,” he added, turning your head back to him by a gentle push of your chin. “Don’t remember you being this shy last night.” 

Your knees nearly gave out. “... Or quiet,” he added, with a smug grin. 

You rolled your eyes, deserved, but still bashful. “Shame the day was spent on silliness,” you said, quieter. His fingers and eyes traced your lips and a hot ache spread through your stomach. You knew what both your minds were on, having spent the past 24 hours ruminating, remembering, replaying… 

It was intense, how quickly they all came flooding back, all-consuming- the memory. The imprint of his hands on you, the scent, the heat. “Could spend the night differently,” you added, looking for his reaction. 

“Not expecting a thing from you,” he added, voice gruff and firm. 

“Just gonna stare at me?” 

“If you let me,” he reasoned. “Busied by it, actually. But you’re feeling okay, now? … Wanted?” 

“Yes. Though I could do with some proof.” You shrugged, easing a smile from him again. 

You watched him run a hand over his beard again, and drop it to his side, like he was debating. “What kind?” 

“i think maybe you could kiss me, to start,” you said, despite your nerves, despite how your pulse jumped and your heart thumped harder by the second. He raised his eyebrows, again pretending to debate, which you tapped him on the arm for. “If that’s something you want.” You added, shaking your head. 

“Should definitely… check,” Haymitch answered. And Haymitch himself had you on the mind, thinking about how strange it was to want to kiss and the notion that just kissing you might be enough for him. His hand settled at your waist, his hand gently slipping over your hip until he had a good grasp on you, two of his fingers finding a place to rest just under your shirt. “You sure?” 

“Don’t joke,” you tsked, grinning. “The whole day goes away if you kiss me now. Here.” 

“I kiss you?” He teased, drawing it out. 

“It’s your turn, isn’t it?” 

“Mmm, guess so, then,” his tongue gently swiped his lips as his hand slid back over your jaw, and to the back of your neck. “Might be rusty.” 

“We kissed last night,” you giggled gently, pressing against him now purposefully. You stood right under his nose, trying to out-smug him. “That wasn’t rusty.” 

“No, far from,” he agreed. “Though it wasn’t me who kissed you first, was it?” 

You rolled your eyes again, “Are you stalling?” 

“Told you I was busy looking at you.” 

“So you don’t want to kiss me?” 

“Never said that,” he quipped, fingers gently digging into your hip. The hand at the back of your head lightly curled into your hair. “Occupied is all.” 

“Mhm,” you smiled, pulling him impossibly closer by the loop of his belt. “Kiss me, please.” 

His smirk was devastatingly attractive, weakening your knees as he looked over your face. “You sure?” 

“Mhm,” you nodded. 

He leaned in, but you were too busy studying his eyes to notice. “Completely sure?” 

“Yes,” 

“Really sure?” His low-lidded eyes flickered over your eyes and mouth. 

“You are such an assh-“ and he kissed you. Not hard, like yesterday. Just enough to quiet you. Was just like him to, anyway. But this was slow, still. Impactful, but slow. Soft. 

Your hands immediately grabbed at his vest, his shirt as he kissed you. It was completely perfect, mouthes meeting like you’d known how to forever. It melted you, open-mouthed kisses and perfect alignment. His hand slid around to your back, pressing you close, keeping you close. 

You moaned softly, tasting the drink on his tongue as it dipped gently into your mouth. Your hand slid up his chest, feeling what was familiar to a drunken memory, this time- sober. There was time to take in how opposite this was to the frenzy of last night, how the heat lingered, and goosebumps spread over your skin when his hand slid back over your neck to the front of it, just placed there to hold you where you were. 

Poor Effie, you thought for a moment. But then his other hand lowered down your shoulder, and another wave of goosebumps washed away the thought. 

Your hand moved up his chest and to his jaw, grown-out stubble against your hand and mouth. It shouldn’t have been so addictive, but it was.

His hand began to travel down to the top of your dress, fingers gently running over your collarbone. You kissed him harder, the slightest bit faster, and he matched your pace with ease. You angled your hips against him, and he breathed hard into your mouth, reactive in the best way. 

“You want that?” He asked, between kisses as they became increasingly fervent. 

“Please,” you breathed, grinning against his mouth. 

He let out a sound like a sigh, tongue slipping over your lower lip, intoxicatingly. And you kissed him again, hard. Harder, tilting your head as you curled into each other. Both his hands braced your back as your arms came up around his neck, the two of you stumbling back a few steps. 

His hands roved up your back, your nightgown rising up your thighs. You’d not been expecting company, let alone an apology- there was nothing underneath, and he knew that. Unfair. 

Your hands came down his chest, and he shrugged off his vest and tossed it while you started on the buttons of his shirt. This would be new. Last night, you’d only undone the top few before immediately, desperately unbuttoning his pants, but this was different. 

He kissed you, then the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, distracting you while you undid the buttons over his stomach. You grinned, breath hitching, “Haymitch-“ 

“Hm?” 

He turned his head, and you kissed him again. This time, he groaned into your mouth, succumbing to it like he’d been starved. Your fingers brushed the hair on his stomach as you finished the last of his shirt buttons, but he didn’t take it off. 

You grabbed him by the open shirt and used it to pull him close again while he undid his belt. You kissed and kissed and kissed, like there was nothing more you both could ever want. It was such a trap to fall into, the sound just as sweet as the taste. 

You slipped from him now, out of his full grasp, but enough to keep him chasing, large hand keeping at your waist as you pulled him toward the end of your bed. 

He pulled his belt off as he followed, eyes hungry and dark as you sat on the bench at the end of your bed. “You are…” he groaned as you pushed your hair behind your shoulders, hissing in a breath at the sight of you perched for him. “-Much too beautiful for me.” 

“No,” you hushed, watching him undo the top button. He was hard; you could see it before he even opened it. The way it bulged and gently imprinted the fabric. You bit your lip, looking up at him and raising your hand. Pure want pulsed hot in your veins. “Can I-“ 

“Mmm, no,” he said, shaking his head. Your eyes traced his open dress shirt, over the dark hair that spread upward of his boxers, the shape of him, the size of him in his pants. You almost giggled, but bit your lip a little harder. “What’s funny?” 

“Can’t believe you fit in me,” you confessed, reaching out despite his ‘no’. He didn’t fully mean it- he knew you knew that too. 

He chuckled, “Oh, yeah. Tight fit though.” He teased back, tapping the underside of your chin again. Fuck, it was dirty. He was dirty. It was all dirty. Except this time, the only logical answer would be to double down on what was previously a bad decision. Now… you couldn’t want anything else. There was a pulse where he should be, throbbing and in need of contact, friction, anything. 

“Haymitch,” you stood up, still under his gaze as you turned around him. 

His smirk stayed, unsuspecting, but still knowing. “Yeah?”

“Fuck me.” 

He arched his brow, “Big ask.” 

“It’ll fit,” you replied, walking him backward until the backs of his knees hit the bench again. “You want me, I want you. Seems… logical.”

“Mhm,” he answered, quiet as you backed him into sitting on the bench. Now he looked up at you. It was reverent, his look. The look of a man newly opened by feeling, after repressing for so long, after burying what felt like inappropriate attraction at the bottom of a bottle or in another. There was a need, in both of you, to prove that the other was wanted. Beyond some drunken fling. 

“Will you?” 

“And more,” he answered, two large hands slipping over the silk of your nightgown, down your hips and over your ass. “Tell me again.”

You whispered, cusping confidence, “Need you to fuck me. Here. Now.” 

He groaned again at the words, fingers dipping into the flesh through the thin layer of clothes. “C’mon,” he pulled you closer, and you ran your hands over his shoulders, squeezing gently as he pulled you onto his lap. 

Your nightgown rolled up at your thighs, high enough that his hand could follow and nearly touch where you needed him. But it didn’t. Not yet. 

He kissed you again. And it was hot, so hot. Like an explosion, like rough impact, but all wrapped up in a slow, hungry kiss that made you feel more than devoured, but savoured. 

And his hand dipped between your legs, but only to grab himself. To move things out of the way enough to pull out his dick as you kissed him, his head tilted back to meet you at your perch, now on his lap. This would be new, but you ached for it, already more than soaked. 

“You want this, angel?”

“So badly,” 

“Familiar phrases,” he teased, still, though it was breathless. His hand stroked himself about three times before he raised himself higher to gently tap the tip against your clit. It sent more goosebumps over your skin, eliciting a sharp breath shared from both of you as you attempted to keep kissing through it. 

He tapped it there a few times, testing, oddly gentle. And then he began to drag it through your folds, so slowly you almost lost your mind at the anticipation. “Your turn,” he said, almost a callback to your quip about kissing first. And it was true. He’d fucked you last night. “And I’ll do whatever you want me to, after.” 

You nodded and grinned against his mouth, squeaking as he teased you with it, getting closer to slipping inside every time. The sound it made was vulgar, wet on wet. “Oh my god-“

“All for me, angel? This wet before I’ve even laid a finger on you. What ruminating does to you…” 

“You were, too. Come on,” you tried to taunt back, but your voice was too shaky. “What caring does to a man.” You added. 

He tsked, “True.” Then paused, voice gruff, “Gonna show me how it feels?” 

You kissed him again, and that’s when he positioned himself exactly at your entrance, letting you sink down on his length. Both of you moaned, his more of an impressed hiss as he pushed into you, filling you to the hilt. “Oh, fuck,” you whispered, kissing him again. 

His tongue ran over your lower lip again, “C’mon now, pretty girl.” Hands returned to your waist, starting to guide you as you moved up and down on him, slow, steady. “You feel so good. So good.” 

“Uh-huh?” 

“Taking me well, princess. So good for me.” You barely remembered how he spoke to you last night, drunkenly focused on the action rather than this, but combined- felt like a climax already. “That’s it.” 

He helped you gain pace, “That’ssss it, pretty girl. Just like that.” 

You moaned, the sound taken by Haymitch’s kiss, facial hair rough against your open mouth. He held you close, deep, one hand coming up behind you to grab your ass again as he coaxed your hips to roll against him as you rode him. 

He groaned every time you sank on him. Deep, guttural, stronger than you’d remembered from the night before. You’d ached to have him inside you all day, but this was much more intimate. You could feel every inch of him as you picked your pace up gently, working to earn the sound of his approval, starved for more. 

You kissed the best you could, still seeking each other's mouths, despite how messy and sloppy it was beginning to get. He felt good, thick, stretching you, hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars. You ground against him, making him moan, breathing heavy into your mouth. 

You picked up the pace, softly moaning, but starting to bounce a little, between grinding on him, finding an alternating pace that made him grip you harder. “Fuck, babygirl. So good at this- too good at this- gonna make me come like this.” 

“Yeah?” You grinned, biting his lower lip and pulling softly on it. He groaned louder than he had the whole time, so you ground on him, deep. 

“Trying to kill me, too,” he huffed, kissing you again, before diving into kissing your jaw, ear, and neck. Every little action was compulsion to keep rocking on him, keep pressing, keep pushing, keep- “Fuck, angel.” 

“Fuck,” you echoed. “Haymitch-“ 

A sweat pricked your skin, passion overtaking stamina. He kissed your skin, and you were going blind from pleasure alone. “Gotta ease up, angel, or I’m not lasting long-“ he gruffed. Voice low. “Gonna come.” 

“Come, then,” you whispered. 

“Mmm- too- fuck- dangerous, sweet… girl.” 

“I need it,” you whispered, bouncing harder. There was nothing between you now. No misunderstandings, no one else, just everything you’d both been thinking about all day. “Please.” 

His hands grabbed your ass so hard they were sure to leave fingerprints for bruises, but you just kept going, unrelenting, just as he’d been for you. “Mmm- Fuck. Can you take that?” 

“Uh-huh,” you moaned, kissing him messily. It was wet, sticky, warm; his tongue back in your mouth made you dizzier and dizzier. 

“Pretty little slut,” He mumbled against your lips. The words were sharp, but landed with a kiss and a sweet, soft, new wave of pleasure. You hummed, rolling your hips so you took him as deep as he’d go. “Yeah, you like that?”

“Mhm.” 

“Never used that one-“ he managed, groaning through the sentence. “Slipped out.” 

“Never?” 

“All yours,” he said, too focused to be smug. The way his body tightened as you rode him was telling. “Fuck, I’m close. You sure you can take it?” 

You just kissed him, hearing his breath shake through his nose, the heat of it on your skin. “Take all of it like slut you are, then, hm? You have no… idea… how badly I wanted to last night.” 

You grinned, “Wanted you to, then, too.” 

“Yeah? Been thinking about me fucking you raw, all day?” 

“Again,” you rolled your hips, making him wince and coil further. “I know you have, too.” 

“Oh, yeah,” his smirk only half-returned as you kissed him, feeling how close he was. “You feel so good, I’m gonna come, angel.” 

“Uh-huh,” you squeaked, putting all the extra effort you had into fucking him harder, faster, grinding low, feeling him deep inside you. 

“Such a pretty little…” He couldn’t get it out, which made you smile, endeared and enthralled, “Slut. Fuck- I’m coming, angel- I’m-“ 

It was with a deep grunt that he pulled you close to him, only making so that you could grind against him, see him through it. You felt him coil as if to wind up before you felt it seep, deep into you. His groan was broken and beautiful, breathless, and followed by a string of breathless pet names. You remembered that from the night before. 

It was hot, hearing and feeling every detail instead of having them all blur together. You just grinned, kissing the corner of his mouth sweetly as you ground him through it. 

His left hand moved upward, just to brush the hair from your face, then cup your cheek. “You are…” he trailed off, eyes meeting yours. “All I’ll ever need.” 

You just smiled, looking down between the two of you. “So I was that good, then, hm?” 

“Oh, better,” he huffed, kissing your jaw, neck, making you giggle softly. “You are… life-changing.” 

You smiled widely, both of you gasping as you pushed off of him, but he had hold of your waist, so it was easy for him to rise with you, pick you up off the ground and put you down on the bed. “Round tao?” You asked, laughing. 

“Mmm, no,” he replied, tucking himself away. “Round one, for you.” 

“For me?” 

“Of many.” 

You bit your lip as he gently moved onto the bed, hand at your knee, before parting your legs, “Haymitch…” 

“Well-deserved, I feel. Plus, not sure you’re all good on ‘proof’ yet.” He joked, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. Then slowly, pulled your nightgown up as he kissed down your thighs. “Mm- already been here, I suppose.” He mumbled, referencing the love bite left on your thigh. “This okay?” 

“Please…” was all you could make out as his mouth connected with your clit. Hot. Hungry. 

And it was round one of many, in fact, it was your turn for a sleepless night with Haymitch- by the time you’d both been completely satisfied with what you’d given and taken, the sun was already rising. 

You smiled, head on his chest, after taking a brief shower with him. You’d denied temptations, though he’d almost gotten his way there, too. He was always so warm. 

“Should probably check on our tributes… have breakfast,” you said, hand tracing the hair on his stomach. 

“Five more minutes,” Haymitch said, pulling you just a little closer. “The day can do without us five more.” 

“What about Effie?” 

“She’s done fine without me before. I’m not the only one she lets visit for company.” He assured you. “And I won’t go back, I want you to know.” His hand smoothed over your arm, up and down. 

“Aren’t you romantic?” You smiled. “Five minutes, starting now.” You grinned, turning to cup his jaw and kiss him. “Six more.” He mumbled against your mouth, kissing you back. 

He was a little awestruck by the way a single person could make him feel. The shift was warily welcomed, but overtook him slowly. There was nothing sweeter, and he wouldn’t give it up, now that it was found. In you, he hadn’t expected. There was a shift, welcomed. Nothing between the two of you but a sheet, now. No words or actions. 

This could be something worth getting used to. As long as communication was kept wide open. 

Thank you soooo much for the request, I love writing what I know you guys want to see! Thank you for reading, as always. REQUESTS OPEN! In need of some new ones now lol <3

taglist: @peach97, @three-times-over, @beccieboo333, @a-pensivegirl11

[girls2gods]

Chapter Eighteen, Bird on a Spit in His Heart

If The Sun Don’t Rise Series Masterlist

Chapter Seventeen

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Everdeen!reader, Implied BIPOC!reader

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

They numb him after the first time. 

It’s such a freeing sensation, not to feel anything, that Haymitch almost doesn’t recognize it as a punishment. But then the bodies roll in. Tongueless, naked, pressing up against their shared cage with a single gargled moan for help. Don’t they see he’s caged too? Strapped to a table like an animal. Being prepared to join them. Will he still be numb, he hopes, without a tongue? 

They let him keep it for longer. The white coats and gloved hands are there to prod his stitches, pour thick liquids into his mouth, switch out the bags of drugs for new ones. Not to cut out his tongue. 

Haymitch starts to feel then: the bile burning through his throat like hot wax, the churn of his guts, which shouldn’t be there at all. Completely different from his self-inflicted pain the first time he woke, so he convinces himself it was all imagined. None of it was real. He is not real. 

The nightingales return; this time, whole and awaiting their sentencing from the snake in their cage. By the time the last of them is ripped to shreds, feathers floating through the cracks and onto his skin, Haymitch realizes this must be a test. Limbo. If he survives it, if he withstands the cyclical nightmare of the nightingales and all those that follow—the rainbow songbirds, the dove gray bunnies, more mutilated Avoxes—then he will die in peace. Then he will find the heaven he was promised. 

His fantasy shatters when the white walls are traded for burnt orange. No more Avoxes in the corner, no defenseless creatures shrilling in his ears, and no choice but to confront the undeniable truth that you are dead. 

As the haze dissipates, so does the last of the numbness. 

Vaguely, Haymitch makes out Wyatt’s cushion across from him, bereft of sheets. Two makeshift beds lie on the floor, exactly as they were left. The one oddity is the pump in his chest, doling out drugs throughout his body. He smells something sweet as fruit, like the scent that clung to you during your days in the apartment. He turns his face into the pillow, breathes in the leftover sweetness, now as sickening as the arena, and soils it with his tears. 

Oh, sunshine. 

Little things died when his sisters did. Innocence, shades of pink, the comfort of cotton. Pa took a bigger slice, left a harder pill for Haymitch to swallow: no one was ever going to protect him the way he had. No one was ever going to take care of their family the way Haymitch needed to. When it was Mamaw’s turn, all he had left to give was whatever remained of his childhood. Not much. 

Every loss since has chipped away at him one by one. Somehow, Haymitch has remained standing, with fragile pieces of his heart intact. 

You take everything. Everything. Except for Haymitch. 

The crevices of his soul, the light in every room, the colors of the world. All the details that make up life. He didn’t realize how you shielded him from that before: the dullness of things. 

They should’ve let him die—you should let him. 

“Just let me go,” he wheezes, voice crackling with the strain of going unused for so long. “Please.” 

No one answers. You wouldn’t answer him here anyway.  

Acting on autopilot, Haymitch rolls off the bed and lands on his abdomen. He thinks to tear out his stitches but all that’s left of them is an ugly scar. His limbs give out twice as he clothes himself with his old pajamas. Unsteady still as he stumbles out of the room. So quiet, too quiet without Wyatt’s snoring. 

The elevator is the first place his wandering feet take him to. He presses the buttons—up, down, up, down—but there’s no response. Three more tries before he calls it quits and rushes to the windows. Each one is impossible to reach through the steel bars. 

No clocks to track his isolation, no knickknacks along the walls, no knives in the kitchen. Nothing that could be used to scrape away his skin so it matches his hollow insides. 

Only a pitcher of milk and a platter of bread in the fridge. Haymitch consumes both greedily. His hope is fruitless, proved so when the worst that happens is a fainting spell in the living room. 

At the very least, he dreams of you. 

In your meadow, the wildflowers are in full bloom. You sit among them with your back to him. Your hair is the length it was before the Games, blowing all around you in the wind, wild and free. 

Haymitch takes a step forward. “Sunshine!” 

Maybe you don’t hear him, so he calls your name louder. Runs towards you when you still don’t turn. Trips over himself and falls onto a blackened patch of grass. You’re gone when he looks up. In your place, Silka lies thrashing with her ax in her skull 

Forever a coward, he averts his gaze until he’s sure she’s gone. He lifts his head again, and there hangs Wellie’s above him. Haymitch croaks her name, then yours, caught between begging for forgiveness and seeking out your mercy. 

Another voice chimes over the chittering of squirrels, “It won’t be that easy, Itchy.” 

Haymitch scrambles for purchase on the grass, finding only a coarse rug. These are not dreams or nightmares. He is wide awake now, replaying every horrid, excruciating detail. Silka’s gurgles. Wellie’s pleas for him to stay. The blood on your lips. Your empty, dead eyes. 

Empty and dead. Empty and dead and it’s all my fault. 

The memories cycle through like the nightingales and bunnies and Avoxes. For hours? Days? Weeks? He doesn’t care anymore. They leave Haymitch crippled and couch-bound in a room you, Maysilee, and Wyatt once filled. Still alive though. 

He finds the will to move into the bathroom, fill the tub to the brim, and sink right in. The camera on the vanity stares at him now, but he doesn’t bother covering it up with another towel. It wouldn’t do any good. They’re watching, if not from that camera, then from another hidden in the walls. They won’t let him die, not yet. Maybe they have a public execution in mind. One can hope. 

Despite knowing that, Haymitch dips his head under the water and leans into the way it pushes against his lungs. For a second, the pain of suffocation distracts him, feels good even. His head bobbles up for a whiff of air before going back down. He goes on like this, his skin withering like a prune. Better yet when the water goes cold. Each time Haymitch resurfaces, he meets the camera. 

Do they have people on standby to pull him from the brink? Will they try to stop him, send a zap through the pump in his chest, should he not come back up?

If they don’t, you will. You said you wouldn’t force each other to be okay, you said you were on even ground, so why have you forced Haymitch to stay? 

“Why?” he cries, swallowing direct mouthfuls of bath water, tugging at his hair until wet strands break from his scalp. “Why? Why?” 

You answer him one night—he thinks you do—in a song. 

Haymitch doesn’t remember how he went from the bath to the couch again. He doesn’t open his eyes yet to find out, just listens to the melody that can only be credited to you. Except…it’s not your voice. The shape of it is different, though it haunts him awake just the same. 

No working elevator or clocks, but the television is just fine now, flickering right in front of him with an image that shouldn’t feel so familiar. Haymitch has never seen this before in his life. The war-era fashioned audience, the static around Panem’s insignia, the rainbow girl who is to credit for the soulful song. 

It’s sooner than later that I’m six feet under. 

It’s sooner than later that you’ll be alone. 

So who will you turn to tomorrow, I wonder?

For when the bell rings, lover, you’re on your own.

Her voice is not yours, and neither is her face, exactly. But that accent, that guitar, that glint in her eyes…

And I am the one who you let see you weeping. 

I know the soul that you struggle to save. 

Too bad I’m the bet that you lost in the reaping. 

Now what will you do when I go to my grave?

She’s not you, yet the words she sings couldn’t be any more punishing. Haymitch failed you, he killed you, he lost you. There’s nothing to do now that you’re gone besides let you haunt him through this rainbow girl. 

She drags out the last notes. The camera fades into the awestruck crowd, every one of them wiping the corners of their eyes. Among them, someone shouts, “Bravo!” 

By the old-timey clothes and mentions of the reaping and instinct in his bones, Haymitch knows no other role to give her but District Twelve’s first and only victor. And if that’s the case, if this girl really was sent off to the Games and won, where is she now? 

Amid the praise of the crowd, she takes a bow and reaches for a shadow in the corner. Hesitantly, a crown of blonde curls steps out. The television goes dark, and Haymitch is left with his own reflection on the screen. He stares at his sunken cheeks and bloodshot eyes, replacing the image with that of the girl again. Her cunning tune, her puzzling demeanor, her bright smile as she beckoned the blonde shadow to her side. 

A Covey girl, drenched head to toe to voice in mystery. A songbird, through and through. 

But the shadow at her side remains unknown. A Capitol boy, no doubt, if the flash of his snooty uniform was any indication. One close enough to this Covey girl to learn all about their ways, maybe even love them. Maybe even love her. 

“Do keep a watch on your songbird. They have the tendency to disappear.” 

Who else could it be, if not their good old President Coriolanus Snow? 

Again, Haymitch acts on autopilot. He tears through anything and everything in his line of sight. The couch pillows, the tabletop lamp, the wooden dining chairs, the pitcher of milk on the kitchen island, recently refilled. 

When the glass hits the opposite wall and the milk spills out, the memories return with a vengeance. 

He catches you before you fall. He stops you from hitting the poisoned steam. He sets you down on the primrose under a tree. Not on the glass. He doesn’t let you touch the glass. But it winds up in your skin either way. 

Haymitch doesn’t bother dodging the bullets flying through the window. They aren’t aimed directly at him anyway; whoever’s shooting them seems to know that’s what he’d want. A dart flies into his shoulder, not so different from the one that killed Panache. Maybe this is it. 

Waddling in zigzags until his legs give out, he falls atop the pillow stuffing. Not the glass. As the tape winds back to the Covey girl’s first verse, he finally hears you: 

“Don’t follow.”

Hours, days, weeks later, the ding of the elevators brings a hoard of Peacekeepers and their rifles. Finally, finally, finally. A pair of them haul Haymitch up from the floor and chain his wrists. His feet sting when they make contact with the cool marble, and he realizes they are bloodied. He did stumble over the glass after all. And as expected, you did not grant his wish. 

“Well, who’s ready for a big, big, big day?” Effie Trinket, not missing a beat, comes up behind the Peacekeepers. Her prep team trails feet away, exchanging hesitant glances as they take in the wreckage of the apartment and Haymitch himself. 

Effie’s eyes widen momentarily, scanning the same. She doesn’t comment on it though, which Haymitch is sure takes a lot of effort. When she grabs onto his hands, he forces himself to focus on her. “Haymitch, I am,” she sniffs, “so sorry for your loss. She was a marvel, and I know she’d be so proud of you.” 

You’re far from proud of the mess he’s made of things. But what else can he say to Effie besides, “Thanks.” She’s here to butter him up for the slaughter; for that, he is thankful. 

She squeezes his hands and brushes lint off his shoulders. “Now, we have little time and much to get done before your Victor’s Ceremony, so let’s say we whip you into tip-top shape!” 

Ceremony. Not an execution. 

Effie sends Haymitch to the bathroom. He sits quietly for the prep team to fix him up, more to do with his inability to do much else than any real desire to subdue the Peacekeepers’ guns. They each take on their own tasks: soaping him up, trimming his hair, cutting his nails, bandaging his feet. Turn him from monster to puppet. Is there even a difference? 

After brushing his teeth, Effie plucks around the corners of his eyebrows, Haymitch fixates on the pair of tweezers. Less sharp than a knife, but if he were to really press—

“Suit time,” declares Effie with her best mustered enthusiasm. Nothing rattles her, it seems. 

His movements are mechanical as they dress him in another black ensemble. Also belonging to Great-Uncle Silius. Effie returns his flinkstriker to him, and he briefly wonders if your bluebird was returned to you. 

He doesn’t miss the prep team’s revulsion over his scar, and he can’t blame them. Haymitch is disgusted with who he’s become, too. And honestly, that’s the least of his concerns now, because his eyes are still trained on the tweezers sticking out of Effie’s makeup box. 

How quickly can he reach for them before you stop him? 

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

Between the two of them, Billy Taupe had the sharper mind for memories. Clerk Carmine credits that to him being older, not wiser. Before the turn their lives took for the worst, before the Covey entered their domino of death, he let his older brother do the remembering for him. 

It became routine—a game even, one they’d play on those winter nights when all of them huddled together for warmth in this very room. A room now much too empty, and much too silent. 

Lucy Gray would kick them off, as she did on stage. She’d tighten the blanket around Maude Ivory and Clerk Carmine, then sprawl herself across Billy Taupe’s lap. “Pipe down, and listen to your elders.”

“I don’t see any elders here,” Clerk Carmine would quip through the chatter of his teeth. The old miner who’d taken them in and died some winters prior was their elder. Not any one of them, just a handful of years older than Clerk Carmine. Even Tam Amber, the oldest among them, sitting at nineteen at the time with the quiet disposition of a man twice his age, was still practically a kid. 

But Lucy Gray had a way of getting them to quiet and obey anyway. It helped when Barb Azure, with those patient but stern eyes of hers, would narrow them at the two. So, Clerk Carmine and Maude Ivory listened. It wasn't hard to cling to Billy Taupe’s tales once he got started. They were broader than the stories he’d tell Clerk Carmine when it was just the two of them. Stories about their parents, their mama’s love of honeysuckle, their papa’s knack for the fiddle. 

These ones were all about the Covey’s life on the road. Places they’d been and performed, the freedom of their nomadic culture. More often than not, Maude Ivory would jump to finish his sentences, fill in the gaps she memorized from the very first listen in. Clerk Carmine couldn’t credit that to age, being older than her and all. That was just Maude Ivory. 

Times were good then. Good as can be with their way of life taken from them and the threat of frostbite. Took a long time to get a semblance of that back. But eventually, Clerk Carmine did. With Lenore Dove, Burdock, and you. His three little birds—what was left of the Covey’s future, mimicking their past. 

The irony isn’t lost on him.  

When the three of you were younger, learning to question and stir trouble in your own ways, giving every one of your elders a run for their money, Clerk Carmine didn’t know to be grateful for it. He just knew he couldn’t let history repeat itself as far as he could help it. Hard to do when each of you took up such distinct shapes of their ghosts. 

All three of you, always questioning. And with no more Billy Taupe, no more quick-minded Maude Ivory, Clerk Carmine had to churn out his own strength. 

No one else will remember their dead otherwise.  

He feels Billy Taupe most of all in his Lenore Dove, who carries his accordion and his pipe dreams of a different world. Gentler, softer-hearted than he was. But just as dangerous with her thoughts. 

Burdock, capable of charming anyone with a kind smile and an even kinder view of things, is an amalgamation of them all. And though he takes after Sorrel through and through, when he gets to singing, same as you, it’s straight diamonds. Like the voice that once lulled the mockingjays in their woods. 

And then there’s you…who will never again burst through these doors, free as wind, or breathe color back into their mournful stage. Whose melodies now solely belong to the birds. 

Exactly like before. It’s exactly like before. It’s— 

“C.C.?” Tam Amber crosses the doorway softly. He’s been in his workshop for the better part of the last few evenings. Gravestones don’t take much to make supplies wise. The toll they take on one’s heart is a different matter, and Tam Amber’s made far too many over the years. 

Clerk Carmine lifts his head, stopping his eyes at his hunched shoulders. He’s scared if he looks straight at him, right into his own grief, he’ll never want to leave this couch. And he has to—for his Lenore Dove, for what’s left of his family. “About time?” 

“Just about.” 

Tam Amber slips back out to give Clerk Carmine the moment he needs. 

Taking to the corners makes one observant. It’s how Tam Amber always knows what Clerk Carmine needs. After losing Billy Taupe, he wasn’t sure he’d ever know what it was to have an older brother again. He’d been slow to see the steady presence that had been there his whole life. Been there for his first words, first steps, first betrayal by the very person whose role Tam Amber filled. 

First, but not his last. 

The world has taken so much from Clerk Carmine and his people. But the world is not to blame—Coriolanus Snow is, and all men like him. 

Clerk Carmine will never know what happened to their Lucy Gray. Twelve-years-old, what power did he have to do anything more than run through the woods with Maude Ivory, screaming her name for weeks on end? To take his screaming straight on down to the Peacekeeper base, in search of the only person with a sliver of influence that he knew? To carry back the news that the person who saved their Lucy Gray had packed up the same day she disappeared? 

Maybe she’d been left for dead, maybe she escaped, maybe she found people up north, like Billy Taupe believed there to be. Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

Now, at fifty-two, Clerk Carmine is no more powerful, but he does know what’s been done to you. They saw it down at the holding cells.

Somewhere in his bones, he knew the Games were coming to their end. Seven mornings ago, during the recap of the night before, five tributes remained. More or less the typical amount left before the Gamemakers stir the pot for their big finale. Last year’s Games were different, not as much fanfare, just like the tenth Games. The earliest one Clerk Carmine makes sure to remember. 

He and Tam Amber, as became their routine, marched down to the jail with the same set of pleas on Lenore Dove’s behalf. Only one Peacekeeper was there to listen, most of them on duty or off doing heavens know what in the name of the greater good. Clerk Carmine later learned they were gathering the crowd in front of the Justice Building to watch you die. He and Tam Amber would have to make do with the dingy screen hanging in the waiting area. 

It escalated without the Gamemakers’ say-so. One minute you were standing with the Abernathy boy, the next you were lying on the ground with a knife sticking out of you. The sponsor gift that was meant to help you spilled in a threatening pool of steam. 

Haymitch ran off without you. To protect the little one you befriended, supposedly. You begged him to go, but he listened on his own accord. Clerk Carmine still doesn’t know which was worse: listening to your agony as you limped through the woods alone, or the later realization that this would be your death march. 

The Career from One found the little girl before either of you could. Your efforts to save her were mighty; Haymitch’s choice to leave her, and then you, was plain stupid. The little girl used whatever strength she had left to defend herself with that blowgun. She paid the price with her head. Over and over again, the ax came down until it popped right off. By some miracle, Clerk Carmine remained standing through his nausea. 

The Career and Haymitch went at it crazed, with the little girl’s head discarded somewhere behind them. Silka, Wellie. Those were their names. Silka only double-downed in her brutality when you arrived on the scene. Wounded as you were, you didn’t go down without a fight, leading her to that hedge where Haymitch discovered a glitch in the arena’s force field. 

Taken out by her own ax, Silka left the two of you injured to the point of death. Except you fared better than Haymitch. Far better, all things considered. Better enough to sit up on your knees and travel to him. Better than your intestines splattered on the floor. 

So then why were you the one suddenly collapsing, choking on your own blackened blood while the boy begged you not to go? Why are you dead? 

If not for the panic they elicited within him, Clerk Carmine wouldn’t have heard Lenore Dove’s wails from far inside. Unlike the day she was born, when those very cries signified a life her mama no longer had, they did not mend his broken heart. 

He had hoped, naively, that she’d be spared from watching the Games in captivity. But there is no corner on earth, no cell restrictive enough, that could save any person from them. 

The single Peacekeeper withheld Clerk Carmine from getting to her. He must’ve assumed Clerk Carmine intended a jailbreak. All he wanted was to scoop her up in his arms like he did when she was a babe and coo promises to save her from this world. Tam Amber, frozen in time, could not do much else but gasp out your name. 

“We’re here, Lenore Dove!” Clerk Carmine shouted, because that was all the comfort he could give her through the wall of the Peacekeeper and his own tears. “We’re here!” 

The Peacekeeper’s heart thawed enough to let them see and hold her through the bars while she cried out for her dear cousin. Suddenly, Clerk Carmine was twelve and thirty-six and fifty-two all at once, weeping for their lost girls. They were sent off with one comfort: Lenore Dove would be out for the funeral. 

They still don’t know when that is. The bodies have yet to arrive, and there’s no telling when they will. Lucy Gray was back a whole two days after her Games. But then, everything was different. They were surprised this morning with the news of the crowning ceremony. Seems their victor is all patched up to receive his accolades and tell his tale. 

Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber weren’t there for Barb Azure when it happened. She does not hold it against them, though Clerk Carmine does. Still, they have to be there now. He reminds himself of this as he pushes up from the couch.

On the porch, Tam Amber holds out his arm. They walk down the steps together, and Clerk Carmine wonders if the Abernathy kin will be there, too. Willamae, a force of a woman, and Sid, whose sunny smile reminds him so very painfully of Maude Ivory. He wouldn’t put it past Barb Azure to invite them back; he wouldn’t put it past the two of them to extend their own empathy in turn.

Selfishly, Clerk Carmine hopes they turned her down. He doesn’t think he can stand to look at them without keeling over from the guilt of wishing it was you coming home to them. Barb Azure stands it because she’s stronger than him. Tam Amber can too, because he’s incapable of bitterness. And because both of them, now sharing the distinct knowledge of losing a child, could never wish it upon someone else. Three decades now since the smallpox took Tam Amber’s little Henry Russet and his mama. The passage of time will never erase the memory of them dead in his arms.  

Clerk Carmine doesn’t want to wish Haymitch dead. 

He’s always known him and his rebel roots to be trouble, and he’s certainly tried to will him far away from the Covey children. But Lenore Dove isn’t the only one attracted to danger. When Burdock started bringing him around, when Clerk Carmine started noticing the way you looked at him, the way he looked at you, he knew there was no stopping it. As there was no stopping the others. 

Haymitch is just a boy, and deep down, Clerk Carmine knows there’s only so much he can fault him for. One crime he can’t be tried for is disparaging your heart. 

Though Clerk Carmine would’ve rather not seen anything at all, he can be honest in admitting Haymitch’s tenderness towards you. Different from the way Billy Taupe lauded Lucy Gray around like she was a tally to add to his list. From the way Snow looked at her like a prize to be won and claimed. Truer than the love that burned her twice, than that given to Maude Ivory by the unnamed Peacekeeper and that Chance boy. Closer to the affection Sorrel holds for Barb Azure; only, made up of more than their friendship. Something far more fatal, for Sorrel would never let their Barb Azure be anything but safe. 

The boy is not to blame. Even so…

Tam Amber halts, forcing Clerk Carmine to do the same. They’ve only made it two houses over, about a dozen left til they reach Barb Azure. But when a figure fades in with the early specks of night, Clerk Carmine sees why they’ve stopped prematurely. 

Albert is not rash, and perhaps that’s why Clerk Carmine loves him so. He makes Clerk Carmine safe when the way of things says he shouldn’t be. Right now, all he feels as Albert nears is frustration. 

“I’ll meet you at Barb Azure’s,” he says to Tam Amber in a rushed whisper. 

Tam Amber taps his hand and carries on his path. When he crosses Albert, he accepts his condolences with a saddened hum. 

Clerk Carmine doesn’t do the same. “Now ain’t the time, Albie.” 

Albert shakes his head. Is he aware they’re standing in the middle of the road? They’re lucky to be on the far end of the Seam, with no one out on their porch right now. “I should’ve come sooner.” 

“No, you shouldn’t’ve. You shouldn’t be here now.” 

The last they saw of each other was the night Lenore Dove was arrested. They met at their usual spot, where Clerk Carmine confided he wasn’t sure they could meet again in the coming weeks. 

Albert cradled his face, pressed a kiss to his nose the way he always did when he wanted to take his pain. “You got a lot on your plate right now. Don’t you fret over me.” 

“I always do,” Clerk Carmine murmured against his lips. His dearest love, who keeps him warm and whole. How could he not fret over his Albie? 

“I had to see you,” insists Albert. “I had to tell you—”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” snaps Clerk Carmine, feeling the sting behind his eyes. 

“—I’m sorry.” 

Albert carries on, but Clerk Carmine isn’t here anymore. He’s in the doorway to his room instead, looking down at your sweet face as you weakly attempt to hide the guitar behind you. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, scrunching up your nose. 

Clerk Carmine kneels. “Whatever for, little miss?” 

“I shouldn’t touch what isn’t mine.” You cast your eyes to the floor. “They tell us that in school.” 

He peeks past your shoulder to the guitar. It hasn’t felt the touch of music in so very long. Lucy Gray wouldn’t want it that way, holed up in his closet until the day he dies. “It can be yours.” 

You meet his gaze then, your hesitation blooming into something much brighter, like the sunflowers Tam Amber planted in their backyard all those years ago. 

No one is tending to the sunflowers now. No one. And it’s still too light out for Albert to be here, and anyone could see them, and he should be with Barb Azure by now. But Clerk Carmine lets Albert pull him into his arms anyway. 

“I am so sorry, my love,” Albert whispers in his ear, voice cracking in rhythm with his sobs. 

Clerk Carmine does not stay wrapped in his comfort for long, though he desperately wants to. He accepts Albert’s kisses to his nose, the wiping of his tears, and somehow, finds the strength to walk away. 

The interview has already started when he arrives. Willamae and Sid are there, but they keep to the far end of the room. 

Burdock sits between them and Barb Azure, hair unkempt much like Sorrel’s, more ashen than Clerk Carmine remembers him yesterday. Like he’s been ripped in two. Like all that’s left of him is the half that doesn’t work properly. 

My poor little bird, with no reason to sing. 

Barb Azure, to her credit, remains steady as the show goes on. The way she’d get when any one of them was sick and she’d be forced to balance her fear with care. 

They skip over pieces Clerk Carmine swears he saw in real time. Your lullaby on the mountainside and goodbye with the little boy from Three; your fall into the lake during the volcano eruption; the Covey’s funeral song, which you gifted to Maysilee Donner as she left this world. The last one is a particular spite, but there’s little room to ponder it when they near the end. 

Sorrel holds his arms around Barb Azure, the only thing keeping her upright, when they play the recap of your death. Sorrel’s own dam breaks then. So does Burdock’s. He clamps his hands over his mouth and rushes to the nearest basin—the kitchen sink—emptying what Clerk Carmine is sure to be next to nothing in his stomach. 

Tam Amber follows after him, rubs his back, and soothes his gagging best he can. 

In his corner, Sid covers his ears and buries his face into Willamae’s trembling side. Clerk Carmine fights the urge to do the same—to hide like he tried to when Lucy Gray’s name was called all those decades ago—because he has to watch. He has to remember, if no one else can. 

This, however, is not what needs to be remembered. The last moments of the Games, the grand finale, are all wrong. The lead-up is much shorter—the little girl you took under your wing is completely skipped over. How you wind up with that pitcher of hot chocolate is a mystery now, one that doesn’t matter in the heat of the final battle. After you’re stabbed by the District Four girl, like Clerk Carmine saw before, you beg Haymitch to leave you for his own sake. Not Wellie’s. And he listens. 

When the time comes, you are dead before Haymitch reaches you and delivers what is surely meant to be a beautiful goodbye. It’s not. On Caesar Flickerman’s stage, dolled up for the show, the boy looks sick with himself. Good, Clerk Carmine thinks before he can remind himself better. 

They’ve taken your last words, your final chance to hold your head up high, your brave, big heart which no one deserves. Haymitch is framed as the tragic hero, and you, the stepping stone for his victory. 

Clerk Carmine breathes in once. He tries to recall Albert’s arms and kisses, tries to steel himself with the reminder that Lenore Dove is coming home, but his mind is caught in a spiral. There is no stopping this. It’s already started. Exactly like before. 

How many more of their girls will they take? How many more of you will be erased from history? 

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

Haymitch doesn’t speak, but he thinks they like it best that way. Adds to his image. Grieving lover, brooding rascal, tragic hero. Whatever it is they want him to be tonight. 

Music blasts from the overhead speakers scattered all around the Capitol zoo. Ironic that they don’t cage him this time. Haymitch should be grateful for that. All he really feels is the ache of your absence and the desperation to keep those he can from the repercussions of his actions. 

Seven nights ago, Panem bore witness to the start of his humiliation. Oh, how the Capitol audience ate it up. They were none the wiser to his attempts at rebellion or any one of his posters in the arena. Whoever was responsible for editing the Games saw to that. They didn’t need to change much to display every painfully true way in which Haymitch failed you. 

He closes his eyes and sees all he couldn’t protect you from displayed on Caesar’s stage: the horrors of the bloodbath, the volcano, the jabberjays. He remembers your numbness when he found you, not knowing what to credit it to at the time. Why hadn’t he been there sooner? 

There was a brief moment before the recap started where Haymitch believed he might get to see exactly how it played out. Did he leave you on the glass or the primrose? Did you drink the hot chocolate or not? Deep down, he knows the answer doesn’t matter, so it shouldn’t change much that he didn’t get one. When all is said and done, there’s no one else to blame but himself. 

Everyone back home will. Does. He isn’t certain yet, but he’s got a good inkling on which way it’ll go. Whatever they were shown during the actual Games is a fleeting imagination compared to the reality of their sell-out victor. Twelve doesn’t want him, and especially not now. The only people who might forgive him, who might be willing to see past his mistakes, are Ma and Sid. 

When Haymitch opens his eyes again, he’s back on that stage.

Helpless while he watched President Snow’s descent from a floating platform, and his cruel, mocking smile. “What a well-earned victory, Mr. Abernathy.”

“You would know,” Haymitch said, freshly clipped nails dug into his skin. “I guess snow does land on top.”

Snow only smiled wider, as vicious as he was when he first dangled your life in front of him. “Enjoy your homecoming.” 

Since then, he’s been carted around the Capitol like a prized dog. From parties to fashion shoots to parades in his honor. Haymitch lets it happen, lets them project whatever it is they expect from him. Pa must be rolling in his grave to see his oldest boy playing into their hands. And Maysilee… 

Oh, Maysilee, I have broken my promise to you, too. 

She was right: you were much better suited for the task. You are the one who should be going back home. There’s no shortage of people who care for you, who’d believe in you. These past nights, back in the apartment when he’s relieved from his duties of kissing ass, Haymitch thinks about every one of them. 

Burdock, Lenore Dove, your parents and uncles. People he’s known you to talk to in passing, trade with at the Hob, offer up what you can to them. Even Sid, who, if he’s still alive to feel it, may very well be overjoyed to see his brother again. He loved you, too. 

Initially consumed by his own selfish ache, Haymitch carves out time to remember that he took you from them. As much as he’s lost you himself. 

A pair of teal-haired Capitol folk pass him and point his way. Haymitch is not caged this time; he is chained to a corner by the snake pen. Keeps most passersby from approaching too close. 

He just has to get through this on his best behavior, even if every fiber of his being is telling him otherwise, because there is no world in which Snow will not punish him for his last attempt to light a fire under him. Because life without you, apparently, is not punishment enough. 

It’d be so much easier if you just let Haymitch follow. 

His view of the teal pair is replaced by the lens of a camera. Plutarch gets a nice shot from afar, and when his camera lowers briefly, Haymitch catches his narrowed eyes. Meant to express…pity? Judgement? Both, more likely than not. 

He could stand Effie’s sympathy, but not Plutarch’s, or any of those who have come up to tell him how beautiful the two of you were. 

Though he’s been recording every sordid, humiliating moment of Haymitch’s time in the Capitol, Plutarch has really only tried to speak to him during the crowning after party. He approached his cage, condolences on the tip of his tongue, and before he could speak them aloud, Haymitch crawled over to the cat-eared lady offering him shrimp. 

Now, Plutarch gives him space. Even that is a taunt. 

Haymitch doesn’t want to accept anything from Plutarch. His pity or his well-meaning distance. What he wants is to smash his camera to pieces and every one of the Capitol’s pillars with it. What he wants is to go home to Ma and Sid, crumble into their arms. What he wants is to feel your warmth pressed up against him one last time. 

His throat tightens, and right at the base of it, a lump settles. His bottom lip quivers, which Plutarch must catch on camera. He drops his lens entirely, gives Haymitch a strange look, and walks off the other way. Strange. He wouldn’t have taken Plutarch as capable of expressing any kind of guilt. 

Dawn eventually breaks over the scene, prompting most to head on home. Slumped against the corner in exhaustion, Haymitch hardly reacts when the Peacekeepers lift him by the underarms. For the first time in two weeks, he feels something close to relief when they take him down to the train station instead of the apartment. 

There, a doctor removes the pump in his chest. The teeth detach, leaving oozy indents in his skin and the aftereffects of whatever drugs they’ve been pumping into him. They wear off quickly, and his scar starts to hurt. Made worse by the deprivation of cushy mattresses or the bunk beds from before. 

The Peacekeepers lug Haymitch straight into the room Plutarch once freed him from. Wrapped in Great-Uncle Silius’s champagne bubble jacket, he finds a new corner to wallow in the pain. 

Show’s over now, but the train hasn’t budged. A couple hours pass, and the only movement is the Peacekeeper who brings Haymitch a roll and a carton of milk. Snow’s still managing his diet then. 

“What are we waiting for?” he asks hoarsely. 

“Your friends,” replies the Peacekeeper, with a nod to the window. He goes without expanding. 

A naive part of Haymitch hopes he means Mags and Wiress, that they’re coming to bid him farewell and give him the reunion they were deprived of before his crowning. But Haymitch saw the state they were in at the time. The state he put them in just by being their ward. 

Haymitch peers out the window of his cell. Sure enough, no Mags or Wiress. Three carts are being rolled down the platforms, each carrying a plain wooden box. Coffins. Your families have been waiting weeks for their beloved children, and all this time, his only comforting belief was that the three of you were already resting peacefully in your family plots. But no, the long shots of Twelve are finishing this journey together. 

His body shakes uncontrollably as he imagines the state of the bodies. Violated by blades and birds and poison. Your body—multilated by his own broken promise. There’s no indication to make him believe it, but he’s confident the last one is yours. Empty, dead, and all my fault. 

Muffled thuds and nearby door hinges signify the coffins are being loaded in the next car over. Haymitch jolts, rushing to the wall separating them. “Wait!” 

There’s a murmur on the other side, and he bangs on the wall to get them to shut up and listen. 

“I want to be with her,” he chokes out. “I want to—” 

But this is part of his punishment, to never be with you again. 

“Take me with her!” Haymitch slams his whole body against the wall, hoping to break it down completely. He’s too weak and too hurt to cause any real damage to anything but himself. Doesn’t stop him from trying, or screaming your name, or bringing his knuckles to the steel in an attempt to get to you. Even after the train rolls onward. 

Even after his knuckles split open and blood spools out.

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

Calla no longer searches for Burdock in his room. Yours is much dearer to her now. She hasn’t left it in the last two weeks. Not to wander as is her routine. Not when he tries to coax her to come out. She refuses each attempt of his, curls into a ball atop your bed, and licks at her paws lazily. 

He’s fairly certain it’s her way of mourning you. 

Even now, as Burdock sinks onto the floor beside your bed, a pair of scissors in hand, she pretends he isn’t there. Fine by him. Her lack of company is in keeping with what he needs right now. 

Every wall in this house is rotten with grief, except for these four. On that, he and Calla can agree. Mama and Papa, on the other hand, aren’t ready to come in here yet. Burdock can’t fault them. To feel your presence, in the freshness of the loss, is as much an agony as it is a comfort. 

It’s a strange thing, to be born into the world with a piece of your soul waiting for you on the outside.  Stranger still to find a way to function without it. In the weeks you were away but alive, Burdock hadn’t lost the tether that kept you connected. Changed and thinned, but still thrumming with life. 

Things will be different, once you’re back, returned to them and the earth. Burdock will know you’re at peace then, amid the birds in the sky. He and Papa will wash each other’s hair over the sink. They will begin the process of remembering your life instead of simply mourning your death. 

But for now…you are away and dead, and the only place Burdock still feels your tether is this room. 

He grips the dull edges of the scissors, examining the tip of the blade. Papa told him not to rush it. Didn’t need to be rushed, with no set funeral date anyways. But Papa took out his braid, cut his strand at the nape of his neck, that very evening. Funny how Papa could nip his piece of hair so soon but can’t come into your room. Funny how the reverse is true of Burdock. 

There was no need to do this when your grandparents died because there were bodies to bury in the Everdeen plot. His papa explained, soon after his mamaw’s death, how that wasn’t always the case. Many patches of their family’s land were empty, save for what they could give their kin. 

There will be a body to bury with you, technically. But every one of them knows you wouldn’t want to be stuck in one place for eternity. Restless bird that you are. A piece of you will be with the Everdeens; your spirit with the rest of your people, free in the woods. 

Find the willow. Talk to the birds. They have not taken you, my stubborn, bright twin. 

Burdock’s breath comes out in shudders. He tries to stop the worst of it by biting down on his cheek, but the resulting throb in his chest refuses his attempts. A whisker brushes his neck. Seems Calla has finally noticed his presence. Though she’s done it plenty of times to him, he’s sorry for disturbing her. 

“Burdock?” 

He looks over at his mama, at her blurred, sorrowful figure, holds up the scissors, and blubbers, “I’m ready.” 

She doesn’t hesitate to cross the doorway, dropping onto her knees beside Burdock. Mama pulls him close and rubs circles on his back to get him to stop shaking. He focuses on the steadiness and rhythm of her hands, ties them back to the old lullaby she’d sing the two of you to sleep. 

She’s been falling back on it as of the last few days. Hums it under her breath whenever she’s in the kitchen, or waiting on the porch for Papa to arrive from the mines. Burdock waits with her, the way he would when you got it in your head to do the same all those years ago. You were terrified that one day the mines would get him, and nothing could convince you otherwise until you saw him making his way home for yourself. 

Burdock doesn’t think Mama’s scared in the same way. It’s more about reminding all three of them that there are still people in this home. Wasn’t easy coming back to it on the day they watched you…

The Gamemakers must’ve planned for it to be the last day of the Games, because Papa received word he wasn’t to work, and most of the Seam was given the directive to head on to the Justice Building. Peacekeepers rolled down the streets in their tanks after the morning recap, calling through the speakerphones for all available and able-bodied citizens to report. 

They’ve never done that before; usually, they watch the end from wherever they are, and that’s that. But it’s a Quarter Quell, and the Gamemakers are always looking to build on their spectacle, and it’s not like everything else about these Games hasn’t been unusual. It wasn’t until they saw the cameras perched around that Burdock understood why they wanted a reaping-sized audience. 

District Twelve has never had a tribute make it to the last day, let alone two of them. Well…not in the last forty years. Burdock wondered, at the time, what she’d make of the erasure. 

A pair of Peacekeepers identified him, Mama, and Papa as the Everdeen clan. Promptly, they brought them to the front row, right next to Willamae and Sid. Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber were down seeing about Lenore Dove’s release, and good thing. If it weren’t for the cameras, Burdock might’ve found it a comfort to be surrounded by his people. 

There was no comfort in watching you die like that. 

Every gasp and murmured curse in the audience rang in his ears. The don’t leave her’s shouted at Haymitch’s departure from Wellie, the groans rippled in the air after you took Maritte’s knife to the abdomen. Worst of all—more than Willamae’s shriek for Haymitch when the ax sliced him, more than your dying wheezes, more than Haymitch’s scream for you—was Mama’s reaction. 

She was a pillar through all of it, as she’d been at the reaping. Those cameras on the stage were looking for a reaction she, Papa, and Burdock would not give. When it came to pass, when the screens went dark immediately after the victor’s announcement, Burdock almost slipped. He pinched the skin around his nails to keep from throwing up, crying, both.  

Willamae, who kept a sobbing Sid held within her arms, turned to them after the news set. Her tears fell freely, with joy and remorse in equal measure. “Barb Azure, I…”

Mama shushed her, mustered a weary smile, and squeezed the hand not stroking Sid’s hair. “Your boy’s coming home.” 

Once home, Mama’s collapse was immediate. With a thud to the floor, she let out a sharp, agonizing cry, as if she were being swallowed by the earth. Burdock thought it a miracle she held it in for so long. He and Papa followed her down. 

She hasn’t wailed like that since, but she hasn’t hid her sadness either. It seeps through in the way she holds Burdock a little tighter now, cooing gentle assurances. “Let it out, baby.”

The tremors stop long enough for him to draw a full breath. On the next inhale, Mama loosens her grip, and Burdock sections a bit of hair at the nape of his neck. 

“You can grow long hair if you really want to,” you tell him, brows pinched up. 

Burdock points the brush at you. “Mine doesn’t grow as quick as yours.” 

He keeps the strands pinched between his fingers when the scissors cut through. 

“It could.” You shrug. 

“Just turn around, will you?” 

Mama hands him the string he let fall from his lap. He’s not shaking at all as he ties it around the piece of hair.

You roll your eyes and let him get to work. When the braid’s done, you smile at him. “I still think you can.” 

It rests on the floor between them. She wipes his face, waiting until he calms completely to say, “Asterid’s here to see you.” 

“She is?” Burdock’s seen Asterid every day for the last two weeks, but his surprise comes from the hour in which she’s chosen to visit him now. The miners, his papa included, have long since begun their day, but it’s much too dark out for her to be here. 

“I can ask her to come back later.” Mama rubs his shoulder. 

She’s been outside for who knows how long, and Burdock isn’t about to let her go off without whatever it is she came here for. Besides, he needs to see her. He pockets the piece of hair and hands the scissors to his mama. “No, that’s okay. I won’t be long.” 

She nods, watching him stand. When he doesn’t feel her behind him at the doorway, Burdock looks over at her again. She’s turned away now, her head resting on your bed as she reaches a hand towards Calla. Pesky little cat nuzzles into it. 

Burdock breathes out and resumes his trek. 

Really, it’s a good thing Asterid’s here so early. She’ll give him the strength he needs to finally pay a visit to Willamae and Sid. He hasn’t seen them since they watched Haymitch’s crowning together. A whole week now, which, for Burdock, has consisted of taking to the woods, staying in your room, or seeking out Asterid. 

He hasn’t meant to avoid them, just as he’s sure they haven’t meant to do the same. On the night of the crowning ceremony, he overheard Willamae tell his mama she’d be there for them in whatever way she could, as his mama has been there for them. She wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t true, but he reckons Willamae believes what they need most right now is the space. 

Sid’s reaction after the ceremony concluded must’ve been what planted that thought. 

Sweet Sid was a wreck when they watched it live in the square. Covering his ears while Silka sliced off Wellie’s head, then his eyes as you took the brunt of her hysteria, turning green when Haymitch’s guts spilled out. Rewatching it—changed and warped as the Capitol made it out to be—wasn’t any better. 

Sid ran out the second the recap ended, and before Willamae could lift off, Burdock did. He was already standing, no longer hurling into the sink. Sid stopped right down the steps, planting his feet into the dirt pathway like that might help keep him steady. Burdock grabbed onto his arms, in case it didn’t. 

“I didn’t want her to die,” Sid blurted and sniffled. “I didn’t. But I—I really want to see Haymitch.”

His confession was laced with a guilt that shouldn’t belong to someone so soft-hearted and young. 

Burdock swallowed down what remained of his nausea and embraced him. “I’m glad he’s coming back,” he whispered into Sid’s hair, meaning each word. He thought for sure neither one of you would survive. Not after the realization of how deep your feelings ran for each other. And especially not after you found little Wellie and all but swore to get her to the end. 

He was relieved one of you made it out. He is. But that relief can’t exist without the voice in his head wishing it were you. Burdock knows if the roles were reversed, he’d feel as guilty as Sid. He already does. 

The porch creeks under his boots. Asterid turns to him, staring into his eyes long enough for him to catch on to her exhaustion. In the sky, specks of stars are gearing up to turn into sunlight soon enough. 

“I’m sorry I made you wait.” 

“I don’t mind waiting.” Asterid holds up a glass jar of what Burdock immediately recognizes as sleep syrup. “I imagine you haven’t been sleeping well.” 

Burdock accepts the jar, motioning for Asterid to sit beside him on the porch steps. “Have you? Been sleeping?” 

She hesitates as she settles down and smooths out the sides of her skirt. “Mr. and Mrs. Donner gave me Maysilee’s canary. She sings quite early in the mornings. Earlier than I need to get up to open the shop.” 

For all their natural animosity, it seems there’s little distinction between cats and canaries when it comes to grief. 

“She probably misses her. Needs time to adjust to her new environment.” Needing to soothe the pain he knows Asterid keeps hidden, wanting to believe time really can bring healing, Burdock adds, “She will eventually.” 

“I thought I might just set her free.” Her chin wobbles. Easy to miss for anyone not paying attention, but Asterid always holds his. “But I figure, if she’s so used to living in a cage, will she even know how to survive outside it?” 

“Birds are stronger than people give ’em credit for.” 

She stews in his words while he stares at the side of her face, taking notice of every detail of her from this angle. Fine as she seems now, Burdock remembers the way she shut down the day Maysilee died. A reaction as volatile as any other. 

Horrific and merciless in nature, Maysilee’s death was no easier to watch than yours. Those birds came out of nowhere, and they only had eyes for Maysilee. You and Haymitch fought them off, but by the time her throat was ripped wide open, the best either of you could do was stay by her side and hold onto her.

Burdock was far from friends with Maysilee, but she mattered in her own right, and she was dear to Asterid. Dear to her own twin, who is no doubt carrying an empty weight similar to the one in Burdock’s chest.

Hearing you sing your people’s funeral song to her, there was no doubt in his mind that Maysilee meant a whole lot to you, too. Haymitch, Maysilee—you sure fooled the lot of them with your declarations of hate. When Burdock thinks back on it now, on every interaction you and Haymitch have ever had, he sees it clearer. The love. Makes it even harder to think of the state Haymitch will return in. Makes his own lungs ache. 

They erased the song you gifted Maysilee during the recap, among other things. Shortened moments, scrapped details, warped happenings. It was almost a completely different Quell than the one they watched live. Shouldn’t be so surprising, given how the reaping turned out. Given that watching it live still left things up to the imagination. Like why your blood was black in the end, if you never touched the arena’s poison. 

Burdock rationalized it with the assumption that Maritte’s knife was dipped in lake water or sap, like Maysilee’s blowdarts. It was bad enough that they changed anything at all during the recap. He didn’t have the mind to unravel their web then. If he really thinks about it now, he’ll drive himself crazy trying to make sense of it all. 

His efforts are better spent making sure you’re remembered for who you are, not how you died. Taking care of those who remind him he is still needed in this world, and life will be good again one day. You’d damn him if he didn’t.

“Asterid?” Burdock scoots over until their shoulders are touching. 

“Yes?” 

He slips his hand into hers, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles as her eyes begin to well. “Thank you for the sleep syrup.” 

She squeezes his hand and exhales slowly. 

He wants to say so much more about how much he misses you, and how her grief isn’t secondary to his, and how he wants them to heal together, in whatever way that might look like. But the ash raining down from the sky, thicker than the kind that normally exists in Twelve, stops him short. 

“Help!”

Burdock shoots up to his feet. Asterid isn’t far behind. 

“Help! Help!”

The voice is coming from at least a half dozen houses over, muffled by the blanket of ash and the sinking realization of what’s happening. 

Burdock turns to Asterid. “Stay here.”

She furrows her brows. “If someone needs help—”

“It’s a fire, Asterid.” He hands her back the jar. “Please stay here until we put it out.” 

Reluctant, she nods once. Burdock takes off. Even if he didn’t recognize the house as the very one he grew up visiting, the shrieks coming from inside confirm it for him. 

Their words are distorted, but Willamae and Sid are not quiet as they burn. 

Fire catches quick around these parts, and so, the house is already engulfed when Burdock catches up to the crowd. Cayson McCoy, who’s to credit for the hollers for help, is wide-eyed and frazzled as he calls out, “Their cistern’s empty. What do we do?”

“Use the pump from the next house over,” demands Burdock, rushing to fill a bucket. Blair runs up behind him and fills his own. Every neighbor in direct proximity rushes to their own houses and begins the labor of putting out the flames. He yells out, “If we can clear out a path, one of us can run inside to get ’em. Now c’mon!” 

They target the window on the side of the house which Burdock knows to be the main bedroom. Without any direct instructions, people fall into distinct roles: a group of them fill the buckets, the fastest runners transport them to Burdock, Blair, and the older neighbors, who fail to make a dent in the fire. 

He can’t tell how long they’re at it, but they don’t give up. Not one of them throws in the towel, even if Willamae and Sid are no longer yelling. 

“Ma!” 

Oh, please, no. Burdock and Blair run towards Haymitch’s voice. They catch him right as he attempts to cross into the fire-drenched doorway. He puts up a fight, but the two of them manage to drag him onto the ground. 

“Let me up! Let me loose, you—”

Burdock pushes him down forcefully, sitting on top of him and clamping a hand over his mouth to get him to listen. He’s vaguely aware of the dried blood on Haymitch’s fists. What were they doing to him? “It’s too late, Haymitch. We tried. It’s too late.”

In response, he sinks his teeth into his palm. With a hiss, Burdock retracts his hand and puts more weight on his chest. Haymitch only wails louder, “Ma! Sid! Maaaaa!” 

Blair tightens his grip on his right arm. Tears streak down his soot-stained face. “We’re so sorry, Haymitch. We tried. You know we did. We just couldn’t save them.”

Haymitch refuses to hear it—or maybe he can’t. Burdock’s ears are still ringing, too. “No! Let me go!” He thrashes under them, screaming and pleading just like he did in that arena for you. Burdock doesn’t let up, though his own body is trembling again. “Let me go with them! Please!” 

The fire is finally dying, a slow and stubborn process. As it dwindles, Burdock knows no one could have survived that. He should’ve come sooner. 

Today’s sunrise is a harrowing one, putting the last fourteen to shame. The ash tinges the yellow of the sky with two more deaths on top of the three they’ve already been mourning. Haymitch refuses to let up, hysterical to the point where there’s a good chance he’ll hurt himself. 

Burdock sees Asterid rushing over, and he forces himself to breathe. “Can you help him?”

She looks between the fire and Haymitch, her face bunched up. Kneeling beside his head, she unscrews the bottle of sleep syrup. “Drink this, Haymitch. Drink until I say when.”

He listens and parts his lips when she brings the bottle to them. She pours the syrup down his throat. “One, two, three, four, five—okay, when.” She pulls back the bottle and caresses his hair. “That’s right. That’s good. Try to rest now.”

Haymitch blinks languidly. “What…?”

“Just some sleep syrup.” 

“Ma… Sid…” His hazy eyes find Burdock again, and he whimpers your name. 

Such a small, pitiful sound, and yet, it breaks Burdock clean in half. He stumbles back. 

Asterid glances at him, pained, then continues to reassure Haymitch. “I know. I know. We’ll do what can be done. You go to sleep now. Sleep.” 

As Haymitch fades into unconsciousness, Burdock fleetingly thinks to take him back to his home. Mama wouldn’t deny him that, and neither would Papa. But Burdock… He has so many questions he wants to ask about things he saw and things he didn’t. Questions about your last moments and why you aren’t here. Questions that are his burden to bear, not Haymitch’s. When he wakes, he’ll have to reckon with what’s happened this morning, and with what happened while he was away. 

In the freshness of his own loss—one they share in different ways—Burdock doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stick to that understanding. He doesn’t know how not to ask. 

So, when Blair poses the problem of where Haymitch should go, he takes him to the McCoy’s. 

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

The wide eyes that greet him are kinder than any of the creatures who haunted him in the Capitol lab. Much sadder, too. “Hi, sweetheart.” 

“Hi, Hay.” Louella brushes a curl out of her face. Past her shoulder, there are three other beds in the room. She moves from the floor to the edge of his mattress. “I’m real sorry about your ma, and Sid, and…” 

His chest only responds with a slight pang. He’s almost entirely numb again, and he guesses the sleep syrup is to thank for that. “Do you know what happened?” To his ma and Sid. Everyone already knows what he did to you. 

“Cayson saw the first kindlings. Shouted us all awake. We all ran to help any way we could. Well, they didn’t let me close enough to do much, but I tried.” She plays with the end of one of her braids. 

“I’m sure you did, sweetheart,” he says with as much sincerity as his heavy heart allows. She did try. More than anything he ever did for them. 

Mrs. McCoy walks in with a steaming mug of tea cupped in both hands. “Good, you’re up.” She shoos Louella off the bed. “Time to get ready, honey. Go put on your dress.” Haymitch accepts the mug, noticing the bandages around his knuckles. She sighs. “Sorrel brought a suit for you to wear. I reckon you want out of that.”

He glances down at Great-Uncle Silius’s champagne jacket. “Why do I need a…” The dread is instant. He thought he slept through the funerals. 

Mrs. McCoy breathes in. “We really did try, Haymitch. But the pump was slow, and your cistern was dry. Nothing else we could do once the house was aflame.” 

“My fault,” he mumbles. He didn’t fill up the cistern, he didn’t listen to Snow, he didn’t save any one of you. 

“You’ll be thinking everything’s your fault for a long while. But that’s gotta wait. We bury them today. You know what your ma would want. You got others who need you today, too.” 

Too numb to do anything else but listen, Haymitch gets out of bed. He dresses in your pa’s loaned suit, a blue as dark as the night sky, not the shade of your bird’s wings. The cuffs are lined with purple detailings. Each piece of cloth is a whip to his back. 

Ima, their eldest daughter, comes in with the champagne ensemble clean and folded. Her eyes are filled with the same sympathy as Louella’s, as Effie’s, as all those back in the Capitol who’d come up to mention you. Punishing in opposite ways. “We’ll leave this here for now.” 

Haymitch gives an absentminded nod. With his own clothes burned to ash, he’ll have to reuse that suit for the coming weeks. He tucks his flintstriker under his shirt. 

Outside, a single pine coffin awaits them. Mr. McCoy clamps a hand over his shoulder. “They had hold of each other. Thought we’d let them stay that way.”

Ma and Sid clinging to each other for eternity. It’s all the comfort he’ll ever get. 

Burdock comes by with your parents. In the light of day, his urgency faded to nothing, Haymitch sees him clearly. His hair looks unwashed, and the bags under his eyes give away the sorrow his stoicism attempts to hide. Your ma and pa share the same weariness. Each of them are dressed in dark colors, but not complete black. 

Sorrel glances over at Haymitch, who immediately ducks his head. Barb Azure gives a gentle call of his name, and he pretends not to hear it. 

He doesn’t deserve to see the faces who gave you yours. 

Burdock and Sorrel help carry the coffin, alongside Blair and Mr. McCoy. Yours must be at the graveyard already. Haymitch’s shame grows tenfold. He took them from you, and still, they are here for him. 

He limps behind them as they proceed. Mourners from every corner of the Seam join them. By the time they reach the graveyard, there are a couple hundred of them waiting. Most, if not all of them, should be at work. They’ll call in sick, come up with some excuse. But they all need to grieve together now. 

Haymitch scans the crowd, avoiding the eyes flickering over to him, which are no doubt casting their judgement for how he did you wrong. He focuses on the four graves already dug, on the other three coffins spread throughout the hill. One for Maysilee, one for Wyatt, one for you. Yours is next to Wyatt, though, which doesn’t make sense. Neither does the fact that Burdock and Barb Azure are still by his side while Sorrel takes a shovel to the Everdeen plot. And why is the rest of your kin missing? They should be here for you now.

As Burdock steps back from Ma and Sid’s shared coffin, Haymitch finally gathers the will to speak to him. “Where’s Lenore Dove?” 

“In jail.” 

Seems he is capable of something other than shame right now: panic. “What?”

Burdock tugs him closer by the elbow and whispers, “She’ll be there for the burial. My uncles are getting her home now.” 

“I don’t—” Haymitch meets his eyes, a different shade than yours, and yet all he’s met with is your reflection. 

He doesn’t explain further. Instead, he points to the pine coffin beside Wyatt’s and asks, “Who’s the other one for?” 

A woman behind them answers, “Jethro Callow. Hung himself yesterday when his boy returned. Couldn’t bear the shame.” 

No money to be made off Wyatt’s death then. Good. 

The mayor arrives to speak over the departed. Haymitch can hardly understand him. He listens to the birdsong instead, searches for your melody among them, tries to stand with dignity as Ma would want. 

For a horrible moment, he sees Maysilee across the graveyard, dressed in her District 12 black, and calls out to her. She bursts into tears and buries her face into a handkerchief. Merrilee. Mr. Donner sobs beside her. 

Haymitch recoils. More eyes fall on him again, taking in their deranged, selfish victor. Blair helps him back into his place. He keeps watch on those around the Donners. The mayor’s son, Asterid, Otho. Oliver Schmidt, downtrodden and crying like the rest of them. 

Would he have let this happen to you? Probably not. Oliver Schmidt, with all his niceties, would’ve given you a better shot at life. 

Coffins are lowered into the ground. Dirt falls atop them with rhythmic thuds. Burdock and Barb Azure join Sorrel by the small hole he dug, kneeling together. Sorrel retrieves something from his pocket that Haymitch can’t make out from here. He lays it into the dirt, and all three of them patch up the hole with their hands. 

A kind soul lays wildflowers on each mound. Sorrel follows with willow tree branches. The sight of them, the wailing, the lingering scent of ash is all so wretched, Haymitch wants to run and hide away. 

But then Burdock begins to sing, and the nearby mockingjays fall silent. What choice does Haymitch have but to do the same? 

He floats through the first verses in that clear, sweet voice of his. Despite the pieces his heart must be in now, he doesn’t waver. He is as steadfast and open as when you sang for Mamaw. For Maysilee. His strength latches onto the mourners, who’ve all quieted by the time he reaches the end. 

When I’m pure like a dove, 

When I’ve learned how to love,

Right here in 

The old therebefore,

When nothing 

Is left anymore.  

Unlike the Covey girl, Burdock’s melody doesn’t haunt Haymitch. As the mockingjays pick up the tune, he only thinks of the hereafter in his song. Your other world, where you’re surely free now. Where Ma and Sid are, too. 

Person after person begins their goodbyes to the dead. Haymitch presses his three middle fingers to his lips and raises his hand high, like everyone else. He glimpses at your family, now enveloped by stray mourners who’ve wandered, not to offer their condolences, but to cherish who you were. 

Once it’s over, his numbness returns. The McCoys usher people back to their place. Blindly, Haymitch starts after them. Burdock stops him, pulls him away from the crowd and towards his parents. It’s unbearable to be near them. He doesn’t want, nor need, the reminder that he has no parents anymore. He doesn’t need to know the pain he’s caused yours in order to feel it. 

He bites down on his tongue when Barb Azure pulls him into an embrace. She smells of blackberries and the dirt where some piece of you was just buried. Haymitch will not, cannot, cry. He has no right to force her into a position of comforting him. 

She pulls back and holds his face in her hands, giving him no choice but to look at her. He sees you in her eyebrows, and nose, and the way she holds herself a little taller as she says, “Come along now.” 

Haymitch can’t deny her, or any of your family, a thing. So, he forces his legs not to crumble as they start the trek out of the graveyard. He expects to see your house on the horizon, but they head the opposite way. Right towards the Covey home. 

His feet stammer, and Sorrel lifts him up before he can trip over a rock. To the side of their garden, right next to the porch, is your coffin. “I-I can’t.” 

“I know, son,” Sorrel says, choked. 

It’s too late to run when Lenore Dove comes out the door in a red dress, much darker than the one she wore to the reaping. She spots him and somehow manages to smile through her tears. Scurrying down the steps, she hugs Burdock, who immediately drops his head onto her shoulder. She doesn’t give Haymitch a chance to refuse as she reaches for his wrist and ropes him in too. 

For what seems like hours, they stand there, wrapped in their love for you. 

Haymitch lifts his gaze and sees your uncles up on the porch. Tam Amber is carrying something wrapped in a blanket. It’s more fascinating to him than Haymitch; he’s careful not to look at him. Clerk Carmine, however, can only seem to stare at the boy he always knew to be trouble. Turns out he was right. 

Burdock peels off first, and Haymitch finds himself face-to-face with your coffin again. Your parents and uncles are whispering beside it. “We’ll meet you by the fence.”

Lenore Dove nods, leading Haymitch through the meadow. The geese are free roaming, but not one of them stops to honk at him. Even they find him unworthy of anything more than indifference. Or maybe they’re too stricken by their own grief. 

Once they reach the fence, he sinks down to the grass. She kneels in front of him. Part of him wants to ask why she was in jail and if she’s okay. But it’s clear she’s not. There’s no turning off the faucet of her sadness. The only thing he can do to help is to tell her what he was too much of a coward to say to Burdock directly. “I couldn’t save her. I tried, and I couldn’t, and I’m—” His voice catches, and Lenore Dove grabs his hands. 

“Oh, Haymitch.” She shakes her head. “I don’t blame you. None of us do, and she’d be furious if you believed otherwise.” 

How does he begin to explain to her that Clerk Carmine does blame him, and so does everyone else in Twelve, and it’s only a matter of time before the odd ones out fall in line? He cannot say anything to hurt her further. So, he only murmurs, “She’s already angry with me.” 

“For what? Pulling her name from that bowl? Creating the Hunger Games to begin with? Because if that’s the case, then we’re all to blame.” She stifles a sob and wipes her face. “You didn’t make things the way they are, Haymitch, but every one of us is responsible for finding a way to change them. Now more than ever, don’t you see that?” 

He does. Of course he does. He fought to make things better. All it got him was a pool of blood on his hands that started with Ampert and ended with his own family. “She’s dead, Lenore Dove. She’s dead, and I can’t change that. I can’t change anything, because it is my fault. Every one of them—I killed them.” 

“No,” is all she says as the others near. She stands, sniffling. “You didn’t.”

Yes. I did. 

Lenore Dove and Barb Azure pry the opening in the fence for them to slip your coffin through. They cling to each other as the others carry it. Haymitch trails behind, as useless as he was earlier with his own ma and Sid. Why is he even here? 

Clerk Carmine doesn’t want him around, that’s always been clear. Tam Amber hasn’t even acknowledged him. Your parents have brought him because they’re good people. Burdock’s allowed it because he’s still committed to the friendship Haymitch broke. Aside from Lenore Dove, the only person who may have genuinely wanted him here is you. But you don’t.  

“Don’t follow.” 

They’re your kin. Haymitch is nothing but the reason you’re dead.  

“Don’t follow.”

He wants to. He wants to be free in your heaven. He wants to be with you and his whole family. He wants to beg your forgiveness, and that of everyone else who’s surely angry with him too. Instead, he’s here. Wading through the woods with those who loved and knew you best. 

“Don’t follow.”

The illicitness creeps up on Haymitch. He’s fourteen and carrying you to them again, listening to the Covey sing, intruding on something he hasn’t earned the right to witness. Up front, the blanket slips off the item in Tam Amber’s right arm, revealing the edges of a gravestone. 

“No,” Haymitch mutters, stumbling. 

Lenore Dove turns around. Everyone stops. “Haymitch, what is it?” 

“I can’t,” he repeats. “I can’t be here. Can’t follow.” 

“You can be here,” she insists, reaching for his hand again. “We want you here.” 

He shakes his head, trying to ward off the chill in his spine. Everything’s already blurred around the edges. “Can’t,” he mumbles one last time. He lets go of Lenore Dove’s hand and makes a break in the opposite direction. 

“Haymitch, wait!” Burdock calls out for him. 

He hears Clerk Carmine chide Lenore Dove as she joins Burdock’s attempts to stop him. Haymitch doesn’t wait to see if they’re running after him, picking up his pace to get far, far away. He doesn’t retrace his steps back to Twelve. He’s better off finding his own hole of earth to crawl into and die. 

The trees fade around him, and his dizziness is as much to blame as the haze of his eyes. Effectively lost, Haymitch crumbles to his knees and gags. Nothing comes out. His stomach contracts, thrumming with a hunger he didn’t think he was capable of anymore. 

He dry heaves once. Then again. And again and again. The sobs are instantaneous. He digs his nails into the dirt and rocks, slamming his head downward. He’ll wither away out here, starve to death, and that’ll be just fine. Maybe a coyote will find him and speed up the process. Or a wolf. Or a snake. There are any number of things that can put him out of his misery. 

I can’t be here.  

“What’s the matter, peach?” 

His head snaps up, searching high and low until he finds the maple tree. Finds you. Perched on a branch, in your colorless arena outfit, hair wild and free in the wind. Glass sticks out of your abdomen. The next sob lodges itself in his throat. 

You tilt your head, pouting. “Thought you wanted to be with me.”

Haymitch keels over and spills out his empty stomach. 

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A/N: and y’all thought we wouldn’t see sunshine again?

[milliesfishes]

౨ৎ꣑ৎIT'S LATE౨ৎ꣑ৎ

꣑ৎHaymitch helps you fall back asleep꣑ৎ

fem reader x haymitch abernathy thank you @phantomamour for proofing!! <3

Luxury wasn't something you were sure you could ever get used to. It was hard when your mind drifted to the outside world. How could you enjoy your fresh bread with butter and jam when so many in your district had never known the feeling of being full? Snuggled up warm and cozy in your comfortable bed, you couldn't help but imagine the mat on the floor you used to sleep on. Haymitch was more accustomed to it than you were. You knew it bothered him too, but he had four years of practice. You had one.

He told you it would get easier. Every time you woke up shivering, you weren't so sure.

Tonight, Haymitch had gruffly coaxed you into eating most of your dinner, and you were grateful for it. Going to bed with an empty stomach would make the anxiety worse. He dressed for bed quietly along with you, pulling you under the covers at his side. An elbow at your waist, his arm crossed diagonally up your front, his fingers tracing your collarbone gently. "Close your eyes, sunshine."

Your defenses were torn down with him, and so you did what he told you without a second thought. Fingers finding his arm, you held onto it like a teddy bear. His other hand reached for your far hip, grazing the edge of your sleep bottoms, tips of his fingers on your skin. When he started to stroke up and down, your eyes filled with tears and a sniffle escaped.

It was so easy for your memories to fog your senses like smoke, voices telling you that you were too much, your burden too heavy. And here he was being gentle, sleeping beside you because he didn't want to be away. This man who didn't seem to like anybody at all, except for you, whom he adored. He spoiled you to no end and followed you on your doctor-mandated walks into the woods. Made sure you fed yourself. Held your hand on the Reaping Day you both were forced to attend. You cursed the day for what it had become, but loved it for birthing him.

The reality of it all hit you all at once, and you tried to hold back your hot tears, but failed yourself with a whimper. Haymitch used his hand to nudge you until you were lying on your side, face pressed to his chest. He kissed your head before tucking your head under his chin.

"Haymitch…" you stuttered, but he shook his head, lifting your hand to his hair. He knew you loved to run your fingers through his hair and play with each curl. The familiar texture soothed your rapidly beating heart, and you played with his hair until your eyes were dry, falling shut in heavy blinks.

"It's okay," he murmured, letting your hand stay in his hair. "You're okay. You're safe with me." Since you were practically wrapped up in him, there was no choice but to believe him. He would never tell you anything that wasn't true.

When another wave of anxiety rushed over you, causing your nails to dig into his arm, he reached up to your hand in his hair, rubbing your knuckles and encouraging you to keep stroking his curls. When your fingers started moving again, he secured that arm around your waist, rubbing under your shirt. His other hand found yours on his chest, thumb moving up and down idly. "I know, sweet girl. You're okay."

He repeated it over and over like mantra, and you counted it like sheep. Your hands grew limp, your tired body molding against his. Haymitch rewarded you with a kiss to the top of your head as you drifted off to sleep.

At this point in time, he was an expert at calming your storm. You often wished you were as good at guiding him through his. Haymitch insisted you helped more than you thought, but you knew it wasn't enough. You couldn't guide him away from the bottle or prevent his nightmares. The Reaping has been a particularly awful day that ended in tears. He had been sharp with you when you meekly pleaded with him to put his drink away for the night. You'd needed him and he'd been lost in his memories. Needing you too, but not knowing how to say it.

"You're the only thing holding me down," he'd whispered that night, drying each of your tears with his thumbs. "My whole world, baby."

Your dreams tonight began with that moment, sitting in front of the fireplace with him. His hand, gentle on your cheek, his soft eyes. Quickly though, it shifted into the cold darkness of the arena. Teeth chattering, you tried to pull your legs to your chest, but they wouldn't move. Mutts darted at you from every direction, and when you screamed, nothing came out.

Reaching out for Haymitch, you only found the dark, shameful embrace of the Victor's title, twenty-three faceless ghosts watching you below your platform. The winning crown grew spikes that dug into your skull, and you choked on your own blood as you cried.

Plummeting back to earth, your eyes flew open, chest heaving. You tore out of Haymitch's arms, your lost cry in your dream wrenched from your mouth. It was too vivid, so much so that you could feel the sticky blood still on your skin. It was cold, burning trails into you.

Haymitch muttered your name frantically, corners still blurry with sleep. You listened to the rustle of the covers as he sat up, warm hand finding your back. "It's not real. You're safe, baby."

You were breathing so deeply that your throat was itchy with soreness, and Haymitch rubbed the back of his neck. "Honey, what do you need? What can I do?"

"I don't know," you gasped, looking at your hands. They were quivering atop your thighs even as you tried to grip the fabric of your sleep shirt to make it stop. Outside there was a deep crack of a sound and you gasped, shaking your head. "The…the…"

"No," he soothed, shifting toward you. "Sweetie, there's nothing there. It's just the thunder."

A shuddering sob worked its way from your throat, and tears poured down your cheeks like rain. Haymitch ran his fingers up and down your spine, trying to inject calm into you. "How about we get up? Let's walk around for a minute."

"No," you begged weakly, but he ignored you, standing and lifting you up carefully to stand beside him.

"Just for a minute. C'mon." Haymitch steadied a hand at your lower back, intertwining your fingers with his other. "One step at a time. You've got it, sunshine." His pet name coaxed you to move, and then again. Before you knew it, he was flipping the bathroom lights on, lifting you to sit on the counter. You didn't ask what he was doing.

Scratching his head and turning to hide a yawn, he moved sluggishly to the shower. Gripping the knob, he twisted the handle to the left, the hiss of the water breaking through the ringing in your ears. Haymitch padded back, his fingers at the hem of your sleep shirt, his eyes bleary, but the question clear. You nodded, and he lifted it with care, bunching the fabric in his fists. Raising your arms as he worked your shirt off, goosebumps ran veiny paths over your skin when the cool night air hit.

Haymitch kicked off his shorts, helping you from the counter and into the shower. You sighed involuntarily as the warm water rained down your body. You turned around in time to see his curls flatten over his forehead, and darted into his chest, ear flat over his damp skin.

"Shh," he hushed, and you let the water drown everything else out. This was the safest place in the world because you were both bare and it was warm and you were so surrounded by noise that you could hear his gentle voice. "Just breathe for me. In, out."

Obeying, you let the steamy air pass through your lungs, untensing your shoulders and slowing your quickened heartbeat. He stroked down the line of your hair, holding you to him. "Just relax."

You sniffled, hand on his chest. "Haymitch-"

"Baby," he cut in, shifting you closer to the soap. "Can I wash your hair? Might feel good." His tone was sweet, and so you nodded, arms tightening around him.

"Here-" He carefully lowered you to sit on the shower floor with him. You shivered at the feel of the cool tile, and he pulled you so you weren't sitting on the drain, flush against his chest. It was cozy between his legs, and you settled as he reached up to retrieve the soap. "Lean forward for me- atta girl." His gentle fingers scrubbed at your scalp, and you sighed. "Feels good, huh?" Nodding, you let him lean you forward so he could rinse out your shampoo.

He repeated the motions with your conditioner. More than a year after your first time being primped by the prep team at the Capitol, and you still weren't quite used to the idea of having multiple soaps. Haymitch had it memorized though, and you swore your hair was always softer after he washed it.

You sat sideways between his legs while he ran a razor over each of yours with the precision of a surgeon. Your eyes were on him instead of his motions, taking in his concentrated stare. He tapped the razor against the drain once more before capping it. Turning around to face him sitting on his leg, you brushed a curl from his forehead. "Can I do you?"

He waved it off. "Washed my hair yesterday-" he cut himself off when your lips turned down, amending, "-so yes."

You straddled him while you scrubbed his hair, taking care of each hair on his head. His eyes never left your face, the tiniest of smiles gracing his lips. When you wanted to rinse him, he scooted forward into the spray with you still in his lap. You giggled, holding onto his shoulders, his arms clasped around your waist.

Haymitch kissed your forehead, rocking back and forth. "How're you feeling?"

"Better," you mumbled, hiding your face in his shoulder.

"You hungry?" he asked softly, palm at the crown of your head.

"Little bit."

"Mkay." He helped you stand up, turning off the shower and getting you out in the blink of an eye. Retrieving one of your fluffy towels, Haymitch dried you off and you let him, even though you weren't shaky anymore.

He paused when he noticed a little cut from the razor on your leg. You opened your mouth to downplay it, but he laid the towel on the counter, lifting you to sit on it. Rifling around in the cabinet, he ripped open a bandaid and dabbed at your skin with a tissue before smoothing the protectant over the wound. You smiled, and he rose from his knees, setting his hands over your thighs and rubbing lightly. "You okay?"

"Hungry," you reminded him, and he nodded, kissing your nose.

"Alright, sunshine." He retrieved your shirt. "Lift your arms." When you complied, he worked it over your head and pulled it over your thighs. Haymitch made quick work of his sleep shorts, and you reached for him with both your arms and legs. His smile was like sunlight to you as he brought you into a hug, mouth buried in your hair.

"Let's get you some food, huh?" You nodded into his chest. The thunder crackled outside but you paid no mind, lost in the scent of him. When you pressed a kiss to his chest, he rubbed his thumb over your crown. "You're my angel, y'know?"

"Then you're mine." When you pulled back, he was making a face, and you lifted your thumbs to drag the corner of his lips up into a smile. "Yes."

He surged forward, lifting you off the counter and spinning you around once much to your delight. Shrieking, you buried yourself in his neck, holding on for dear life. "Haymitch!"

Laughing, he held you up as he walked to the kitchen. You smiled into his skin, fully aware that he could feel it.

"You're scaring the nightmares away," you mumbled, watching from the counter as he opened the refrigerator. Rain was pounding at the roof, and you were beginning to see the beauty in it. The cozy sound of muffled chaos outside, your lover right in front of you, buttering your bread.

He was the perfect picture of domesticity as he put down the knife and reached for your hand, lifting it to kiss your knuckles. "If that's all I'm good for, I'd be happy."

When you bit into your slice of bread, he leaned against the counter at your side, munching on his own. You took his free hand. He squeezed it so you'd know he was there.

Thunder rattled the windows, but you didn't hear it, his whisper overpowering it.

[milliesfishes]

౨ৎ꣑ৎFormalities ౨ৎ꣑ৎ

fem reader x haymitch abernathy

thank you my darling @francixoxoxo for proofing!!

Nervous was an understatement. Haymitch was practically quivering where he stood at the end of what felt like the longest aisle in the world. He’d wanted something simpler but those who knew both you and him had other ideas. He supposed a part of him was grateful they wanted it to be special, but that part was silenced in the wake of his fear.

If only his mother was here. Her presence may have offered something resembling comfort, at least familiarity. Or even Sid; goofy, lovable, with that unseriousness that resided in young boys. With a pang he began to miss them, not bothering to shoo the feeling away. It distracted him from the eyes prying into him from the rows of seats he was facing.

Burdock was at his side, but he was moon-eyed staring at Asterid sitting in the front row. No help at all. Maybe it didn’t occur to his friend that he would be nervous. At Burdock’s wedding he’d not shown the slightest hint of it. Haymitch remembered the event fondly, a night spent tipsy and swaying under the stars with you between his arms.

Shifting, he stared down at his tight shoes, a loose curl falling onto his forehead. His clothes were new and he felt like a stranger in them. That didn’t help the tightness in his chest. Taking in a breath, he turned his head to look at the wildflowers carefully twined over the arch he was standing under. Pink. Your favorite. Thinking of you helped him calm, and so he shut his eyes, imagining what you might be doing at this very moment.

Maybe you were hugging your sister or smacking your brother’s arm because he’d made a snarky comment about your choice of groom. Haymitch’s lips twitched up. He couldn’t blame him, really. Had he a younger sister he’d have likely done the same.

He hadn’t seen your dress yet due to your insistence. He also hadn’t seen you since yesterday even though he’d protested the tradition. What, a man couldn’t wake up on the day of his own wedding with his girl in his arms? A flawed practice in his opinion.

There was a long day ahead of him, what with the toast and the reception, but at least you’d be with him for that part. This would be the worst of it, waiting and trying not to think about everyone staring at him. It was a sunny day, thankfully perfect. Birds twittered nearby, and he relaxed his shoulders. They reminded him of you, the way you’d hum moving around his house.

If it weren’t for you he didn’t know how he’d stand living in the shiny lodgings provided by the Capitol. It was too new, too much of a reminder of all he’d been through. This was the prize. If his old house was still standing he’d have opted to live there.

For the first few days after everything he’d been slumped over a table dead to the world. You’d arrived swiftly and pried the glass of white liquor from his hand, forcing him into the shower and setting up the beginnings of a meal at his brand new stove.

He’d been toweling off when you entered the bathroom quietly, brushing off the fact that he was naked and wrapping your arms around his middle, face pressed to his chest. With the scent of you filling his nose, he began to sober up.

“Baby,” he breathed, mouth sinking into your hair.

You shook your head, fingers spread wide across his back. “I’m sorry.”

Haymitch shook his head back. The thought poked its head from the inner parts of his mind. Marrying you. But he didn’t dare utter it aloud until years later.

You’d seen him like this and you still wanted him. Still loved him. You were a miracle, and he didn’t believe in miracles anymore.

Every nightmare, every bad day and you’d stuck around. He found comfort in spoiling you with the Capitol-stamped checks that came for you every month, making sure you had all the pretty things you could want. You decorated his house and made it feel more like a home than a lifeless shell. The smell of your cooking filled the kitchen every night and he lingered in your shadow to ‘help’ (clumsily chopping vegetables, pressing kisses to the back of your neck, cleaning dishes, threading his arms around your waist from behind while you stirred).

Haymitch didn’t know why he’d been shocked when you said yes. In his head you were practically married already but still he had found himself trembling pulling out the pretty ring he’d acquired for you.

Now here he was at the end of the aisle, folding his hands in front of him and hoping he wouldn’t faint before you appeared. Was it a common ailment for grooms? Maybe the new Mrs. Everdeen had a tonic on her. He’d been sober since yesterday but maybe a drink this morning would have calmed his nerves.

Burdock finally tore his eyes away from his wife and faced him, giving him a not-subtle-at-all thumbs up. Haymitch found the energy to lean over and shoulder him lightly, earning a grin in return.

The man who’d be marrying the two of you arrived (Haymitch could never quite remember his title) and took his place in the center of the arch. They were getting closer. He wondered where you were, if you were as nervous as him.

Burdock elbowed him, nodding toward the back of the aisle. When Haymitch looked, his breath was stolen. He could only see a glimpse, but what a sight. You, hair loose, wildflowers threaded through it, holding more bunched in your hands and tied with a pink ribbon. Your mother’s necklace sat at your collarbone- he could see the familiar pendent he’d twisted between his fingers on so many late nights from here. Your white dress was simple- half of its beauty came from the wearer. It was all of this that overwhelmed him: your ethereal glow, the context, you. You looked so happy. It was hard to believe he was the cause.

When you began to walk closer, his breath fled him again. All of this just for him. His wife. You clung to your brother’s arm as you made your way down the aisle, smiling at the guests on both sides. Your bare feet occasionally peeked from under your hem- you loved the feel of warm grass on your heels.

When you finally looked at him he realized he was smiling, so much that it might hurt later. Your brother caught his eye, giving him a knowing look that he nodded ever so slightly at. It was clear: take care of her or else. There was nothing else in the world he’d rather do.

Your brother was supposed to put your hand into Haymitch’s and then he was supposed to lead you under the arch to stand in front of him. When your brother gave him your hand, Haymitch instead pulled you forward, crushing you to his chest. He heard a sigh from somewhere in the audience, likely your sister who’d been up since dawn primping you for today. You didn’t seem to care one bit, wrapping your arms around his middle and tilting your bouquet against his back. Surely you could feel his rapidly beating heart but you didn’t let on. He kissed your hair, your flowery scent filling him. When he pulled back, he noticed a loose flower and fixed it back where it had been tucked behind your ear.

“Hi,” you whispered, and his face split into a grin again.

“Hi, angel,” he breathed, watching your eyes light up. Stepping back, he adjusted your dress as you stared at him adoringly, not bothering to straighten his own clothes.

Standing up straight, he held out his hand, melting when you placed your soft one in his palm. Your sister stepped forward to take your bouquet, giving Haymitch a pointed look, but he didn’t care.

His girl was here, about to be his wife.

For once, the drink wasn’t the reason he didn’t remember something. Haymitch’s eyes were glued to you all through the ceremony, his lips moving when they needed to. He’d already pledged everything he was to you. This was just a formality.

When the man declared you husband and wife, he seized you around the waist, lifting you up so you were level with him. He waited until you leaned forward to kiss you back. Your first kiss married. One out of infinity.

Sweeping you up, he secured an arm under your legs to carry you down the aisle much to the crowd’s delight. You wrapped your arms around his neck happily and leaned your head on his shoulder.

He went through the motions of the toast, the reception all while keeping his eyes on you, a hand on your waist. Maybe it was possessive but he had rights. You were his wife. It felt so good on his tongue. You were just as clingy, hand practically glued to his chest.

Haymitch held you as it grew dark, the stars the only light. The music was slow and smooth, and he swayed back and forth with you, brushing a strand of hair from your face every now and then.

You pressed a kiss over his heart. “Did I tell you yet how handsome you look?”

“Couple times.” He watched you fondly straighten the handkerchief around his neck. “Did I-?”

“Yes,” you laughed, and he grinned, picking you up to spin around once.

“Didn’t let me finish,” he teased, reaching his thumb up to brush your cheek. “Did I tell you there’s a bug in your hair?”

“Funny.”

“No, really.” He used his hand to lift it from one of your flowers. A ladybug. Maybe it’d been there the whole time. “Make a wish.” It was something you’d taught him, that they were good luck. He used the little sentiment to drown out what they’d come to mean in the arena.

“I wish…” you trailed off, meeting his eyes. Standing on tiptoes, you whispered in his ear as he clasped your hand with his other. “…that we’ll be this happy forever.” Both of you turned to watch just in time to see the ladybug unsheath its wings and fly away.

His eyes inevitably turned back to you as you watched the bug take flight with wonder in your face. Special things like you weren’t meant to happen to people like him. But here you were, glowing under the gaze of the moon and stars, choosing to be with him. He’d choose you right back every single time.

Lifting your hands to his lips, he planted a kiss on your knuckles, right by your ring. “Your wish is my command.”

[sleo00]

F-F-F-Falling [H.A.]

pairing: haymitch abernathy x d12!gn!reader

word count: 2.6k

content warnings/contains: spoilers for sunrise on the reaping!, fluff, angst, talks of the hunger games and the arena, talks of death and violence, the capitol and snow are their own warning - as always, i think i kept it neutral - if i slipped somewhere feel free to tell me, more fluff than angst hopefully, tense family relationships, can be read as established relationship or not, not proofread, grammatical errors - probably

requested: yes

a/n: so, i'm currently working on finishing all the requests i already started and just haven't finished because i literally disappeared for a few months. this has been requested ages ago, i hope the dear requester might come across this by chance and still find to enjoy it <3

link to masterlist

The past few days had been anything but enjoyable.

No one from the Districts really associated the Capitol with anything positive at all. Despite the humongous amount of propaganda they shared, advertising it as something so great and glorious, only they themselves were actually dense enough to believe it. Everyone else was glad to stay as far away from it as they possibly could.

A lot of people would rather live in poverty, wondering every day if they’d go to bed hungry or not, than even step foot into the Capitol. Countless people did. Snow and his team had been brainwashing the entirety of Panem for decades. With some, it worked. With some, it didn’t. Surprisingly enough, it seemed to be more effective in the lower districts, the ones closer to the Capitol. The ones that were already quite rich themselves.

Alright, maybe it wasn’t that surprising.

Unfortunately, there were times where going to the Capitol was inevitable.

The worst of them all was getting reaped for the annual Hunger Games. And even worse, if you happened to be the lucky person to return back home, it wouldn’t be the only time you’d ever stepped foot in the Capitol. Though lucky might not have been the right word.

The peace and quiet that was promised to the victors of the Hunger Games never truly comes. Year by year, they need to return to the Capitol, stepping in as mentor for two more unlucky kids that would most likely need to lay their life down way too early. Or to attend the parties and galas President Snow loved to host.

And despite masking these events as peaceful get-togethers, to let the Capitolites and the victors connect, they knew it was punishment wrapped in silk and riches. There was no backing out of the Capitol events. If Snow called, you answered. And if you didn’t, he’d make you feel it. Regret it.

Returning from these type of trips always left you hollow, a shell of who you once were. That small part of yourself that the arena hadn’t been able to erase, to steal from you, it always dimmed and flickered each time Snow called for your presence. The talking to the journalists, having to relive the worst moments of your games all over again. It wrecked you. Each and every single time.

And by seeing the silent smugness and satisfaction on Snow’s face at these galas, you knew he revelled in the suffering of his precious victors. He thrived in it.

How you wanted to drive an axe through his head.

Despite everything, you called yourself lucky. As lucky as you could be, in a world like this. With a fate like yours. Said luck came in the form of two words. One person.

Haymitch Abernathy.

He had won the Hunger Games two years prior to you. And arguably, he’d had a fate worse than yours. The 50th Hunger Games. The second Quarter Quell. Twice as many tributes. Only one victor.

You could remember watching his games, watching one of the boys you’d seen around the district countless times, fighting for his life, losing people that he considered friends and family. Having to become a murderer for the sake of survival.

He’d won, barely alive by the time the last cannon had fired, announcing the end of the games.

And as soon as he’d returned home, his suffering only worsened. His house burned down, his mother and little brother right with it. It was adamant that it certainly wasn’t an accident.

Snow must have had a personal vendetta against him. And after having returned from your own victory tour with him, he’d explained to you that he’d tried to destroy the arena. End the Hunger Games. That they’d manipulated the footage to make it seem like nothing happened.

That explained Snow’s actions. Explained, not justified. Because this type of cruelty could simply not be justified.

It had been four years since the 50th Hunger Games. Two since the day you’d miraculously made it out of that hellhole alive.

And now that boy had become your pillar. The reason you hadn’t completely lost yourself to the grasps of insanity that tried to wring their hands around your neck and squeeze every last ounce of your soul out of your being until nothing but a hollow shell remained.

And you’d be as bold as to say that you were the same for him.

Despite having two different houses in the victor’s village, most of your time was spent together in one of the two estates. Mostly his. Because as tragic as it was that he was forced to live alone, no family left to keep him company, you needed exactly that from time to time. Only him, no one else.

Your family, bless them, felt overbearing a lot of the time. They treated you as if the arena never happened. Which, technically, was a good thing. You didn’t want to be coddled or hovered around. You just wanted to be yourself. But that was the problem. “Yourself” had changed after the Hunger Games. The person you were before the Games did not exist anymore. Not in the same way.

And that was something your family struggled to accept. They just wanted their child back. Which you understood. More than you let on. You wanted nothing more than to be who you were before your name was called on that day. Before you were forced to endure and watch unimaginable horrors and survive them.

So, whenever you reacted to something not with the same enthusiasm you would have several years ago, when everything was still much simpler, your parents struggled. They didn’t know what to do with you. Sometimes, they got all quiet and tense, avoiding eye contact as they barely recognized who sat in front of them. You knew that feeling, better than anyone, every time you looked in the mirror.

Other times, they got angry. Mostly your mother. It was mostly because she was hurting, you knew. You knew she just wanted you to return to who you were before. When you were happier, more carefree. But you couldn’t. As much as you wanted to. Because being reminded of what happened each night when you closed your eyes made it difficult to let go.

Being forced to return to that wretched place every year made it impossible.

Tonight has been one of those nights.

Your mother had cooked dinner, something she came to enjoy greatly in the high quality kitchen from your house in the Victor’s Village.

She had cooked your favourite. What you could have eaten every single day as a child and never grown bored of it.

You hadn’t had the energy to eat one bite of it.

You’d just returned from the Capitol that morning, forced to attend one of Snow’s Galas. So eating was the last thing on your agenda. It made you nauseous to even think about. You felt sorry for your mother. She thought she could cheer you up with it. But you weren’t in a state to be cheered up.

You know she hadn’t meant any harm, that it was only her own frustration bubbling up as well, but when she had snapped at you, called you ungrateful as you didn’t even try and touch the food on your plate, you needed to get out. Get away from them.

Without a word, you had pushed back the chair, making a beeline for the door.

You walked a straight line across the street and up the front porch steps. You didn’t bother to knock. You pushed the door open and walked inside.

“Haymitch?” you called out, feeling your voice trembling in the slightest. You hated it.

When no answer came, you wandered further into the house, until you reached the living area. There he was, sprawled on one of the couches, head hung low. A glass of whatever liquor rested in his hands, still half full.

You sighed, lowering yourself onto the couch next to him. He startled as he felt the couch dip, his head turning to face you. “Oh, hey.”

“Hey.” you returned quietly, leaning back into the pillows.

You nodded towards his glass. “How many?”

“First one. I know, unbelievable.” he muttered, taking another sip.

You squinted, sceptical. For you, it was highly unlikely that this was only his first glass. You took in his face, his eyes, and found that indeed, he didn’t look drunk. At all.

“Why’re you here?” he asked then, his expression twisting into something almost concerned.

“My mother.” you responded, averting your gaze slightly.

“She cooked my favourite. Couldn’t even get one bite down. And she got angry.” you explained further.

“How fucking useless can I be?” you exclaimed, the frustration and all the suppressed emotions from the past few days coming back.

“My mother cooks me a meal. My favourite. And I don’t even eat it?”

You could hear how Haymitch sighed in response, setting the glass on the coffee table.

“It’s okay. Doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful or some shit. You’re just exhausted. Don’t break your head over it.” he tried to reassure you, soothe you slightly.

But by the way your breathing stayed as shallow, by the way your eyes stayed glassy, he knew it wasn’t working.

Another sigh.

“Okay, come on.” he said, standing up. “You’re staying here tonight.”

He held a hand out to you. When you only blankly stared at it and didn’t take it, he beckoned with his fingers impatiently. “I don’t got all night, so up with you.”

A small groan escaped him. “I’m trying to help you here. So just indulge me, hm?”

When, finally, you placed your hand in his, he pulled you to your feet and over to the stairs. He led you up and into the nearest bathroom. He sat you down on the edge of the bathtub.

“Alright, wait here.” he gave you a look before vanishing from the bathroom. Barely two minutes later, he came back with some of his clothes. A shirt and some pants. He held them out to you.

“Here. These should fit you. Get changed. Shout when you’re ready.”

It seemed your brain and your body had trouble catching up with everything he was currently doing for you. Your mother’s anger had left you rattled, so Haymitch caring for you felt completely absurd to you right now. Even if he often did. Subtly, you would have pay attention to notice it. But he always did.

He placed the clothes in your lap when you didn’t take them. “Get changed.” he repeated, before leaving the bathroom and pulling the door closed behind him.

With slow and almost sluggish movements, you slowly got changed. Pulled his shirt over your head, the black and soft fabric nice against your skin. Pulled the pants to your waist, securing them with the string.

Not being able to muster up the energy to call out for him, you simply reached for the doorhandle and opened the door, seeing him waiting, leaning against the opposite wall. He came back in, reaching for a spare toothbrush. He wet it under the running water, put some toothpaste on and once more, held it out to you.

“Think you can manage that?” he asked.

He sounded disgruntled. Every thing he said left him with a tone that suggested this was a burden to him. And in your state, it should have unsettled you further, should have made you shrink into yourself even more. But it didn’t. Because this was just… Haymitch.

He pretended like this was some great obstacle for him. Like nothing annoyed him more than caring for you. But you both knew he didn’t. Not enough to send you away. If he truly didn’t want to help you, take care of you, he would have told you to get out.

But even if he didn’t admit it. Didn’t have the courage to, after everything that happened to everyone he loved, he cared for you. More than he let on. And that is why he was doing this.

Why he was practically offering you to even brush your teeth for you. Why he asked if you could do it on your own, instead of just thrusting the toothbrush into your hands and telling you to get it done with.

You managed a nod, reaching to take the toothbrush from him.

He retrieved his own, and got to brushing his own teeth. The eye contact through the mirror, his attentive eyes on you the whole time, it calmed you. Like his presence always did. His a little bit grumpy behaviour, as if all of this was torture for him – even if you knew it wasn’t, not entirely, at least – it made you lean on him even more. Just as he did on you.

After brushing your teeth, he took your hand once more, leading you to his bedroom. He switched the bedside lamp on, casting a dim and warm light over the room. Nothing overwhelming, nothing too bright. Neither of you could handle it right now.

“Lie down.” he said it like it was an order. And in some way, it was. But not one with severe consequences, would you not obey. Not like it was with Snow. Or the Capitol. Where you would lose everything precious to you if you didn’t listen.

You moved to sit on the mattress, and Haymitch assisted you to get comfortable under the thick sheets.

“Good?” he asked. You nodded.

“Alright. I’ll be in the guest room. Shout if you need me.”

He was just about to turn and leave when your hand shot out, fingers curling around his wrist. He looked at you with a mixture of shock and curiosity. You had slept in his house more than once. A lot of times, actually. He had accompanied you until here before. But never had you done this. Reach for him before he could leave.

“Stay?” you simply whispered, almost as if you were afraid to ask.

The look in his eyes softened remarkably at that, part of his façade slipping.

“Stay? You sure?” he asked, moving his hand so that your fingers weren’t around his wrist but rather encased by his.

You nodded. “Yeah, please.” you whispered. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Okay.” he whispered back. He moved then, walking around the bed and getting under the sheets on the other side. He turned to face you, his blond hair sprawling across the pillow below him.

“Better?” he asked, reaching for the hand he’d been holding before, intertwining your fingers once more.

“Better.” you whispered, the touch of his hand soothing, grounding. It tethered you to the moment, rather than letting you stray to that dark place that existed in your head. It kept the demons at bay, letting you focus on his touch, his presence, rather than anything else.

And unbeknownst to you, it did the same to him. When you were with him, everything felt a bit lighter. Not easy, not entirely gone. But it stayed away for the meantime, lingering somewhere in the shadows but not coming closer. It felt manageable, controllable. It didn’t feel like a wild whirlwind of emotions that came crashing in like a giant wave and dragged him under. It felt like quiet sea. Where he could step in and it wouldn’t drown him.

And so he kept your hand in his, the both of you tethered to each other’s grounding presence and keeping the memories and terrors of the Capitol exactly there. In the Capitol. Not here, in District 12. At least for a few hours.

song: f-f-f-falling - the rasmus

[girls2gods]

You and Me, We’ll Get By

If The Sun Don’t Rise Series Masterlist

Based on this Request <3

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Everdeen!reader, Implied BIPOC!reader

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

“No deal.” 

“Oh, c’mon!” groans Hemlock, the tailor who you’ve been haggling with for the last twenty minutes. 

Hemlock does more than sew—his business in the Hobb sways towards the selling of clothes and fabric, not the mending of them. You could fix up a piece of cloth quicker than he can, but the silks and tulles at his display keep you coming. And you need a very particular one right now to finish a trade with Cindy, who deals in more luxury goods. 

Dealing is an art. You’ve spent years observing and picking up on your papa’s approaches, developing your own. You also learned early on that each seller requires a personalized touch. In Hemlock’s case, he responds better to playing hardball. Gets a kick out of good banter, and always knocks the price when you give it to him. 

So that’s what you do now. “You want me to cough up twice the worth of tulle, the jar of honey, and the blackberries? You know how hard it was to find ripe blackberries this time of year?” 

“You know what tulle is worth, girl?” says Hemlock, propping his palms on the table and rattling the coins. 

“I know you’ve charged me less for more in the past,” you snipe. But he’s being especially difficult now, and it has more to do with his current gripe with Cindy than with you. 

The two of them have been on-and-off for as long as you’ve been coming down to the Hob with your papa and Burdock. At the moment, they’re off again. They’re well into their thirties, but they act like a pair of teenagers when it comes to one another. That’s what Hattie said once when you dropped by to pick up a bottle for a different trade with Asterid. 

“Ain’t gossip if it’s true,” she said when you chided her for spreading their business around. Everyone in Twelve was guilty of it—gossip, that is. Seam folk, for all their integrity, always patched up their chatter of others with a simple who are we to judge? Or some variation of Hattie’s dismissal. Not like you didn’t do the same. How else are things meant to get around if not by word-of-mouth? 

Haymitch was there at the time, lugging in the carts and helping set up shop. He caught wind of your conversation because apparently he had nothing better to do than eavesdrop. His shit-eating grin only grew as he chimed, “You’re the one who asked what terms they were on today, sunshine.” 

“Was I talking to you?” you snapped. He laughed and laughed until Hattie sent him back to work. 

They’re not here yet, and good thing. You made sure to time your excursion around their arrival. It’s a Saturday, so there’s no school. The miners aren’t off until Sunday, meaning the Hob’s got a steady flow but it’s not bustling with business. Hattie and Haymitch won’t be here until mid-morning. 

That’s how it is every Saturday, save for those rare occasions when the mines are closed for upkeep. They set up at normal time then. On Sundays, they arrive even earlier, and during the weekdays, Haymitch helps her pack on Tuesdays and Thursdays. 

You’ve memorized the schedule because it serves you to know when Hattie’s around to trade—white liquor can buy you just about anything with most shopkeepers. Not because you care about Haymitch’s whereabouts. 

Well—you do right now. If he sees you still at Hemlock’s by the time he's off, then he’ll wander over to pester you. And once he’s planted himself, there’s no uprooting him. So then you’ll have to come Monday to finalize things. By that point, Hemlock and Cindy may have reconciled, and the price she offered—one yard of sheer silver tulle she’s too stubborn to ask for herself—will have tripled in actual money. 

Hemlock breaks your staring contest with a huff. “Times are hard, girl.” 

“No harder for you than everyone else,” you say, scooping up the coins. 

“All right.” He holds up a hand to stop you. “I’ll knock off the honey for double the change.” 

Any other day, he’d give you the yard for blackberries alone. “No deal.” 

“You gotta be—” 

“No. Deal.” You spit out each word intentionally. 

Hemlock throws up his arms, exasperated. 

“There a problem over here?” 

You don’t have to look over to know which of the sleazeballs is talking. 

Slater has been here for seven months now, enlisted at the age of twenty-two from District Two, an alliteration you’re not fond of. He’s an only child, orphaned at sixteen, and was in the top ten of his class at the Peacekeeper’s academy. But he has to pay his dues if he wants to climb on up the ladder. 

You learned all that through Myrtle, the loose-lipped grandma who lives across from you and insists all the kids call her Meemaw. You like her fine enough to do as she prefers. 

“No, sir,” answers Hemlock, painting on an easygoing smile. 

“And you, doll?” Slater steps closer, tapping your bare shoulder with his knuckle. You suddenly regret choosing the sleeveless blouse today. “He giving you trouble?” 

He’s not the first Peacekeeper to call you that, to look at you the way he does, but he is the first to toy with your boundaries so blatantly. The most frustrating part is that he’s technically subtle—a light caress, a quick bump of shoulders, a lean into your space. Even if he escalated past that, it’d be another thing swept under the rug. 

Sometimes, though, you think of what an arrow  might look like sticking out of his head, not just above it. Now’s one of those times. 

Slater is out of uniform, in casual dress, which is just a plain old jumpsuit. He looks older than his age, but he’s handsome, which you feel certain has gotten him out of plenty. It makes you sick to your stomach. 

“Not at all,” you say sweetly. Slater may be top ten strength-wise, but he’s dense as rocks and too full of himself to ever pick up on the bite in your tone. “Just a friendly haggle.” 

He looks down at the scattering of fabric, steps closer to you. His presence is a secondary feeling to another; out of the corner of your eye, you see Burdock approaching with urgency. Lucky thing Slater’s done poking around. “Hmm. Carry on then,” he says, and leaves you with a wink. 

Burdock takes Slater’s place with a kinder, familiar disposition. His eyes flicker from you to the back of the sleazeball’s fading head before they permanently settle on your face with a silent question. Your smile comes as sincere as can be—relieved and simultaneously intended to brush off Burdock’s concern. But it's wobbly enough that he can tell your feigned ignorance is exactly that. 

“What’s going on?” he says more than asks. 

You sigh. “What’s going on now is Hemlock still won’t budge.” 

The seller in question mutters about difficult customers. 

Burdock purses his lips, but a lift of your shoulder gets him sighing himself. He turns to Hemlock. “Still? You dragging this on all day then?” 

He taps the table. “It’s like I told your sister, boy, tulle’s a hot commodity these days.”

“You had this exact piece last week,” you scoff out. 

“You know,” chimes Burdock, “Zeb said he’d throw in two more bars of soap for half a tray of blackberries.” 

“Did he? I am fond of the jasmine.” Zeb’s is a hot spot on account of him being the only supplier of top-of-the-line toiletries and fragrances. 

“He’ll probably throw in some paraffin too if we give him the whole thing.” 

Feeling Hemlock’s attention grow panicked, you hum contently. “Mama’s been wanting to make candles of late. It’d be a nice surprise for her.” 

“My thoughts exactly.” Burdock clicks his teeth and grabs hold of the tray. “I’ll take ’em to him now.”

You pocket your coins and hold up the honey jar. “What do you think he’ll give us for this?” 

He shrugs, already turning around. “Hand cream, probably.” 

“Fine by me.” 

“Wait.” Hemlock huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose. You and Burdock regard him neutrally as he mulls over his next offer. “I’ll give you the tulle…for the blackberries and first pick of tomorrow’s game.” 

You cross your arms. “Second pick.” 

“First,” he insists. 

“Hattie’s got first,” Burdock says. “It’s second or not at all.” 

Hemlock narrows his eyes. “Okay. Second.” He lets up when Burdock places the tray of blackberries back on the table. With a sigh, he hands over your prize.  

You beam, snatching the fabric. “Pleasure doing business with you, Hemlock.” 

He rolls his eyes. “And with you, sweetheart.” As you walk away, you catch him muttering, “Got me a damn headache now.” 

There’s a victorious smile playing on your lips as you drag Burdock to Cindy’s booth. Your very last stop, where the sixth piece to your puzzle awaits, and then finally, finally, you’ll be done with the collection. 

Burdock spares you a curious look. “You’re going through an awful lot of trouble for this gift.” 

“I go through trouble for everyone’s gifts,” you say dismissively, because you do. Just—

“Not like this,” he says, swiping the tulle from your hands. “Not for Haymitch.” 

Your stomach churns, and the sensation—the fear—of exposure spreads throughout your body. “I got him something last year. And the year before. And the year before that.” 

“Sure, okay.” Burdock waves a hand in the air to keep you from rattling off your tally. “I’m just pointing out that this year you’re real concerned about what to get him.” 

“I am not concerned,” you snap. “Sixteen’s a special birthday.” Made all the more by the shit luck of being born on reaping day. So what if you want to give Haymitch something worthy of the occasion? It’s not a big deal, and it is not abnormal. 

“Not as special as eighteen,” he counters with a snort. The year everyone holds out for. The year you’ll finally be able to breathe. Burdock has a point there. 

You snatch the tulle back from his dusty hands. “Don’t worry, Burdie, all this means is I’ll just put less effort into your birthday gift this year.”

“Ha ha.” He clonks his side into you; you elbow him in return, going on with this back-and-forth shoving until you reach Cindy. 

Never one to dawdle or chitchat, she gets right down to business. “You got what I asked for?” 

You hold up the tulle smugly. Her dull gray eyes brighten. Before she can reach for it, you pull your hand back. “And my charm?” 

Cindy squints your way and digs through a ceramic bowl of beads. She pinches the raindrop-shaped pendant between her fingers. The indigo petals encased within the resin are as vibrant as the day they first bloomed. 

Burdock gapes. “That a larkspur?”

“Shut up,” you hiss, feeling your face burn up. You put the tulle next to a jar of buttons and clips. Cindy drops the charm into your outstretched hand. Sweet and simple. Unlike her better half. 

She smiles as she runs the fabric across her cheek, looking up-and-down at Burdock, who’s still slack-jawed. “What’s the deal with larkspur?” 

“Oh, nothing,” he says with mock neutrality. “Only that—” 

You flick him upside the head. Ignoring his ow! and pocketing the pendant, you clear your throat. “Hemlock misses you.” 

Cindy nearly lets the tulle slip from her fingers. “Does he? Hm.” 

You nod, feigning innocent care. “It’s written all over his face.” 

“Course it is. Maybe he wouldn’t miss me so much if that no good son of a—” She cuts herself off, taking deep, heavy breaths until her composure returns. She folds the tulle and smiles tightly. “Y’all have a nice day now.” 

“Back at ya,” mutters Burdock, rubbing the nape of his neck. 

“Stop exaggerating,” you chide as he continues to nurse the infliction. The two of you round a corner back down where you came up. “It didn’t hurt that bad.”

“You nicked me with your nails. They’re sharp.” He scoffs, then immediately falls back into taunting, “And what was that about you not being concerned over this?” 

“Sometimes a larkspur’s just a larkspur, Burdock,” you say, annoyed. “I read in one of C.C.’s nature books that they’re July’s birth flower.” 

“What’s ours?” 

“I don’t know, I didn’t read that part.” 

“Convenient.”

“My point,” you grumble, “is that’s the reason I picked this one out. No other.” 

“Oh, is that it?” Burdock snickers. “Look, it’s thoughtful of you. All I’m saying is Haymitch is gonna bug you ’bout this ’til he’s blue in the face if he finds out. I know he still gets under your skin.” 

He’s never left it, really. “Good thing you’re not gonna tell him ’bout it then,” you snark. “None of his business anyway.”

You might’ve, very briefly and accidentally, mentioned it once to Haymitch already. When showing him Clerk Carmine’s book, actually. This was a couple years back during lunchtime at school. You’d been reading the book while waiting for Lenore Dove, who had a quiz to retake on account of an absence credited to her second arrest. Of course, Haymitch decided to use the opportunity to pester you. 

To get him off your back, you showed him the page on larkspur. The book, less about nature’s proprieties and technical uses, more about superstitions since shed for others, led him to ask a whole string of questions. From there, your papa’s story of larkspur’s significance to your papaw and mamaw, the sweet details of their loving engagement, spilled right out of your mouth. Such a quick comment in a much larger conversation, you doubt he remembers it. 

Burdock huffs out a laugh. “Shit, you got me rethinking my gift to him.” 

He and Haymitch don’t give each other gifts in the traditional sense. They tend to carve out a time in the day to do something, or impart a gesture, instead. 

“Skinny dipping again?” You don’t hide the distaste on your face. 

“Blair’s joining this time,” he says as if that’s sure-fire proof of a great plan. 

“Fun.” 

“It will be.” 

You roll your eyes, slipping your hand back into the pocket of your skirt. Once you deliver the pendant to Tam Amber, you’ll be free to spend the rest of the day with Lenore Dove and Burdock in the meadow. Maybe even venture into the woods, stir up whatever mischief the day’s left you with. 

Haymitch’s birthday isn’t for another month and a half, which is plenty of time to bind the charms together, and only a third of the time you’ve spent saving for and finding them all. You haven’t minded though, at all. 

The idea struck you soon after finishing Lenore Dove’s birthday gift—a binding of all the loose leaf poetry you’ve found over time—and you weren’t about to ignore it. Any year grown older is special—so what if you want to make it so for Haymitch? Besides, it's high time you stepped up the quality of your presents. It isn’t as odd as Burdock finds it, and it is in no way indicative of anything but the fact that you’ve been somewhat friends for a good number of years now. 

“Hey, Hay!” 

Your head nearly snaps off with the force of how quickly you turn around. Burdock can’t keep his mouth shut long enough for you to walk the two feet it’d take to reach the exit and be home-free? No, of course not. He has to flag Haymitch down as soon as he spots him and Hattie. And why stop there? He’s gotta go say hi to his best friend, invite him to join you later, force you along with him. After all, passing on the opportunity to snipe at Haymitch will only look suspicious. To both of them. 

You get away with only a curt nod in greeting. Burdock’s already got center stage, telling Haymitch all about his own luck trading today.  

“How were the Marches this morning?” asks Haymitch, utterly smug. 

“Lovely as ever.” Burdock shrugs nonchalantly, but there’s no hiding the love-struck grin on his face. 

You snicker. Pretending not to notice the way Haymitch’s eyes flicker your way, or how they look more gray than blue today, you chat up Hattie. “You hear Hemlock and Cindy are on the outs again?” 

Hattie sighs, organizing the bottles on her table.“Damn fool forgot their anniversary.” 

Haymitch lifts another crate. “Which one?” 

“Their original.” 

Burdock shudders. You and Haymitch let out a simultaneous oooh. He wrinkles his nose. “Bad move, Hemlock.” 

Hattie agrees with a short hm, then she narrows her eyes at Haymitch. “Am I paying you to gossip, boy? Finish lugging in the crates.” She looks you and Burdock over. “And then you can get with your friends.” 

Your groan is drowned out by Burdock and Haymitch’s disbelieving smiles. 

“Really?” 

“Well don’t make me change my mind,” says Hattie, motioning to the table. 

Eager to speed up the process, Burdock volunteers, “Here, I’ll help.” He makes a beeline for the heavier crates behind the booth while you drag your fingers across the tablecloth. 

Haymitch, picking up on your discontent, gestures your way and tells Hattie, “She doesn’t like it when you call us friends.” 

She spares you her skepticism. “She’d like what I should call you even less.” 

You frown, your confusion mirrored by Haymitch when you lock eyes. Hattie chuckles under her breath, and instead of asking her what she means like you want, you frown at him, “Don’t talk about me like I ain’t here.” 

He holds up his hands in surrender. “Whatever you say, sunshine.” But the grin plastered on his face says he’s more than happy to keep pushing your buttons. 

You scoff and turn away, waiting for him and Burdock to unpack the last of the crates, the larkspur burning a hole in your pocket. You relent and offer your own help once the irritation wears off. 

“All done, Hattie,” says Haymitch, noticeably vibrating with the anticipation of his dismissal. 

She assesses the work done, the lines of bottles atop the table, the stacks of crates organized behind it. “All right.” She gives his shoulder a pat. “Go on now. Bright and early tomorrow, you hear me?” 

Falling in step with you and Burdock, Haymitch shoots her a thumbs up. He waits until you’re out of the Hob, walking down the spiraling gravel, to ask, “Where’re we going then?” 

“To our uncles’ first,” says Burdock, shrugging. “Day’s up in the air after that.”

“We picking up Lenore Dove?”

“Yup,” you answer, skipping over a rock in your way. “And I have to chat with Tam Amber about something.” You grimace almost immediately, cursing your slip up. Stupid. 

“’Bout what?” 

“Doesn’t concern you, Abernathy.”

Burdock gives you a sidelong glance, his earlier teasing rematerializing across his expression. Concerns him a little. 

You ignore him, readjusting your hair scarf when you feel it slipping down. 

“That new?” asks Haymitch across from Burdock’s head. 

“Mhm. Made it out of an old scrap.” A ripped magenta shirt Tam Amber used around his workshop. 

“I like it on you,” he says, clearing his throat a little when Burdock eyes him judgementally. You don’t know if your brother notices the flush on Haymitch’s cheeks, but you do. “The color, I mean. It’s nice.” 

“Me too.” You wince and add, “Thanks.” 

Burdock exhales a whistle, an indication of gratitude not to be caught in the middle of a catfight like he’s been in the past. You let him take over talking from here to your uncles’ home, passing your own on the way. Like most Saturday afternoons, loose-lipped Myrtle rests on her porch. She warms the three of you with a smile when you let out harmonious greetings of hi, Meemaw.

Lenore Dove is reading on the steps by the time the house fades into your line of sight. You run without waiting for Burdock and Haymitch to catch up. Back turned, she must sense you, because she stands to her feet and whirls around to catch your hands in hers. 

“Don’t you look darling,” you say, planting a kiss on her cheek. 

“Don't you look happy.” She laughs, squeezing your fingers. “I take it that trading went well?” 

“Very.” You reach into your pockets but don’t pull out the charm yet. Can’t risk it with Haymitch nearby. “How’re the geese today?”

“Leslie’s mad at Violet.” Lenore Dove frowns, concerned. “She keeps hissing at her! Won’t even let her get within an inch of her. I don’t know what happened between them last night.” 

You sigh, thinking back on Hemlock and Cindy’s conflict. “Seems to be the common theme lately.” 

Lenore Dove knits her brows together. 

“Tell you about it later.” You tap her elbow and motion behind you, sensing doofus one and two approaching. 

“Oh.” Her eyes go wide with joy when she peeks over your shoulder. She greets with a toothy smile, “Hi, Haymitch. I thought you were with Hattie all day.”

“She thought I deserved the time off,” shrugs Haymitch, just as kind-mannered. 

There’s relief in seeing Lenore Dove’s excitement, one that comes tinged with an old ache—made worse when Haymitch invades the space at your side—that you’d rather not analyze. If you were to do so, if you were to tug on the string and follow it straight down to the cause, it’d only put you on a path you can’t afford. It’s a fleeting sensation, anyway, one you haven’t really felt in a while. One made up of guilt more than want, paling in comparison to your sweet cousin’s wellbeing. 

Clearing your throat, you ask, “Tam Amber’s inside, right?” 

Lenore Dove nods, fiddling with the ring on her thumb. “He’s been waiting on you.” 

“Hold on now,” Burdock stops you halfway up the steps. He pulls the soap bars from his jacket, handing them over. “Take these to C.C., will you?” 

Lenore Dove snatches them before you can. “I’ll take them with you. C’mon.” 

She carries the soap atop the book she’d been reading and dashes up the steps, yanking on your arm. Her eagerness to see the charm slips through her cover. As soon as you’re both inside, she slams the door shut and closes the curtains on the window granting a direct view into the kitchen. 

You scurry to shut the curtains on the other side of the door, peaking out to make sure Haymitch and Burdock are still below the steps. 

“What are y’all peeping at?” 

Your feet skid across the floor, seeking out the voice and greeting Tam Amber with a hug. He looms over the couch where Clerk Carmine is sitting with a book of his own. You lean down to accept his kiss to your hair. He sets his book down on the couch. “Did I hear that boy out there?” 

“He followed us back from the Hob,” you say, picking up his book to smell the pages. Rusted with wood and earth. Just how you like them. 

Clerk Carmine arches both brows, unimpressed.  “Like a stray?” 

“C.C., please,” scolds Lenore Dove, jaw tightening as she turns to you from the kitchen window with eyes both pleading and sympathetic. 

“I invited him to join us,” you lie, because that’s the easiest way to get Clerk Carmine to let up on Haymitch being around. 

He settles back against the pillows. “What’d you do that for?” 

“Felt like it.” You shrug, maneuvering the conversation to better news. “I got the last charm.” 

Tam Amber squeezes your shoulder. “Let’s see it, sunflower.” 

Even Clerk Carmine, whose face is still soured by the knowledge of Haymitch standing outside their home, lightens when you hold the larkspur high above for them to see. You’re certain, by his reaction more than Lenore Dove’s or Tam Amber’s, that your mama has never mentioned the story to them. You’ve never told Lenore Dove, never had reason to, though you have found one to keep it in the Everdeen family now. 

“It’s just like you described it,” says Lenore Dove, beaming. Her attention flickers down to the loot in her own hands. “Oh! Burdock brought these.” 

Tam Amber grabs one of the bars. “Why didn’t he come in?”

“He’s keeping Haymitch company.” 

Clerk Carmine mutters under his breath. 

Tam Amber passes Lenore Dove the bar again. “Put them in the bathroom for me, honey.” 

She nods and rushes down the hall. 

He looks back at you, stretching his hand for you to drop the pendant. “It’s a thoughtful gift you’ve planned.” 

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” You toy with the charms clipped to your skirt’s waistline. They supplement the weight of the larkspur in your hand. “It’s nothing.” 

Tam Amber taps your nose. “Don’t diminish how big that heart of yours is, sunflower.” 

“Bigger than he deserves,” mumbles Clerk Carmine. 

“Hush now, C.C.,” chides Tam Amber with the same scolding tone Lenore Dove uses. 

You swallow down the nerves in your throat, unable and uncaring to figure out why they’re there in the first place. “Do you think he’ll like it?” you ask before you can stop yourself. 

Tam Amber runs a hand through your hair, smiling down at you. To your surprise, it’s Clerk Carmine who answers stiffly, “You could get that boy a lump of coal and he’d cherish it like gold.” 

Though his tone is laced with distaste for Haymitch, something about the words causes warmth to flood your chest. 

Tam Amber closes his fingers around the larkspur. “I’ll put it with the others and get to work tomorrow.” 

“Thank you.” You roll your shoulders until the warmth unfurls, leaving you relieved. 

Lenore Dove rounds the hallway corner, addressing your uncles quickly. “We’ll be in the meadow, okay?” 

Clerk Carmine turns his head back to check the clock. “Uh—” 

“We’ll keep to the boundary line,” you say, another poorly offered fib meant to ease him. 

“Just be careful, yes?” Tam Amber hums. You’ve never known the meadow to be anything but. 

“And be back an hour before sunset, Lenore Dove. Same goes for you and Burdock, little miss,” Clerk Carmine waves a finger at you. “Best not keep your mama worrying.”

You’re already halfway out the door with Lenore Dove rushing behind you. “We won’t. Promise.” 

Your mama does like for you and Burdock to be home before it’s too dark out, unless she knows where you’re off to. But she’s nowhere near as strict as Clerk Carmine is with Lenore Dove. He relaxes more on weekends; on many, he still sets a curfew. 

Down the steps, Burdock and Haymitch are locked into a game of rock-paper-scissors. You whir past them, tugging on Lenore Dove’s wrist and looking over at them. “You standing there all day?” 

The thuds of their boots trail after you to the juniper by Lenore Dove’s rock. You plop down under the shade, one-by-one. Lenore Dove takes to making flower crowns, Burdock and Haymitch fall into uncharacteristic silence, you rest your eyes for a beat. You’d be more than happy to stay like this forever: under the comfort of the meadow, basking in the quiet birdsong, surrounded by your favorite people. 

Not including Haymitch, obviously, who interrupts the serenity by asking, “What now?” 

Burdock lifts a shoulder. “Cards?” 

“I don’t have a death wish today, thanks,” he says, very pointedly towards you. 

“We could play tag?” 

You scrape your nail polish. It’s been years since you’ve played. “Mm, I’m not in the mood. We could do a scavenger hunt.” 

“Gonna make us search for lilies again, huh?” asks Haymitch, leaning back on his hands. 

“Not just lilies. It was honeysuckle and roses, too.” You weave your fingers through the grass. “And no. We could just…agree on a theme.” 

“Like what?” 

“I don’t know. Like,” you shrug, “leaves.” 

“Or bugs,” sighs Burdock, lying flat on his back. 

Lenore Dove passes you a dandelion wish. “We could also do rocks. There’s plenty of themes to choose from.” 

You twirl the stem between your fingers. “Let’s do rocks. Whoever collects the most siltstone from the woods wins.” 

Haymitch rubs his nose. “We going at it alone, or in pairs?” 

“Pairs,” says Burdock. He sits up with a yawn. “Haymitch’s with me.” 

“That’s too easy.” Lenore Dove shifts into a criss-crossed position. “Where’s the challenge if you just pick whoever you think is going to help you win?”

“Well, it's a good strategy. We’re allowed to choose our teams at school,” counters Haymitch. 

“Air tight argument you got there,” you muse, setting the dandelion wish on your skirt. “Your team lost dodgeball yesterday.” 

Burdock snorts. “Got you there, Abernathy.” 

Haymitch nudges his shoulder. “You wanna be paired together now or not?” 

“Here’s what we’re doing,” cuts in Lenore Dove, picking two pink wildflowers and two dandelions. She plucks off the buds. Understanding her intent, you slip off your hair scarf to fashion it into a pouch of sorts. “Pick one.” Lenore Dove drops in the buds and gives the makeshift pouch a shake. “And whoever’s matching will be paired together.” 

Haymitch and Burdock mumble their agreement. “Yeah, all right.” 

Lenore Dove holds the pouch out to you. With a sigh, you lift your wish right up to your lips and close your eyes. 

Oh, wise birds of the heavens, do not stick me with Haymitch. 

The seed heads are still floating around you when you pull out a new dandelion. Yellow-petaled this time. Burdock pulls out the pink wildflower. You cross your fingers and suck in a breath. 

Your wish falls on deaf ears the moment Haymitch shows off the second dandelion, smiling from ear-to-ear. Why do you forsake me, birds of mine? 

Lenore Dove tilts the pouch upside down, and out comes the second wildflower atop her lap. “Should we set perimeters?” She answers her own question, “Anything before the lake is fair.” 

You accept the pouch back from her, aptly avoiding Haymitch as you push up. You tuck the dandelion behind your ear. “Whatever you say, cuz.” 

Without wasting more precious minutes on rule-setting, you and Lenore Dove lead the way to the fence. She lets you slip through first, and as soon as she’s on the same side, you pull her far enough from the wire. 

“Can we switch?” you whisper, glancing behind you. 

Lenore Dove tilts her head, her eyes narrowed in disagreement rather than outright judgement. “Why?” 

Why not? Why wouldn’t she jump at the chance to be on Haymitch’s team? She should. Immediately, that horrid, unwanted vulnerability begins bubbling in your stomach again. “You and Haymitch should be paired together.” 

She stares at you patiently, peculiarly, like she’s waiting for you to admit to something. “The pairings are fine as is.” Lenore Dove smiles in that coded way the two of you use whenever you’re trying to let the other in on a secret. Except there is none to share on your end, so the code is completely unnecessary right now. “It’s okay.” 

“Okay for you,” you grumble, rubbing your hands up and down your skirt to soothe yourself. “You’re not stuck with Abernathy.” 

“What was that?” He pops up beside you like the irksome weed he is. 

“Nothing,” you say and reach for his sleeve, giving a light tug for him to follow you. “Just that you better not make us lose.” 

“If we lose, it’ll be on you, sunshine,” he mocks. 

You poke his shoulder. “I know these woods better than you, jackass, so don’t think for a second that you’re carrying us.” 

Burdock snickers, nudging Lenore Dove. “We’re so winning this thing.” 

“Shut up, Burdie,” you and Haymitch spit out at once, which only makes them both laugh. You cross your arms over your chest, trying to sink into yourself. 

Lenore Dove pats your arm. She points at the tallest mountain in the distance. “We meet back here by the time the sun reaches that mountaintop.” 

Couldn’t come any sooner, apparently. Daytime stretches on as far as the eye can see in the woods. Taking to the eastern edge of the woods, Haymitch defers to you to recognize the siltstone. You use your makeshift pouch to carry a good amount of the collection. Haymitch pockets the rest.

“Ten so far.” He counts while you scan for more under the oak you’ve taken a break under. “Not bad.” 

“We’ve got another hour.” By your estimate, that is. Plenty of time to double your loot. And when the sun touches the mountaintop, there’ll also be plenty of light left to make the most of the meadow before Lenore Dove is beckoned home. Before you and Burdock are expected back with her. 

Haymitch twirls a limestone between his fingers. Not relevant to this scavenger hunt, technically, but it was worth picking up to him. You like limestones, anyway. Rare to find them around these parts. “So what’d you get from Cindy?” 

His abruptness falls on you like an avalanche. Your feet forget what it means to actually work, and it takes more effort than it should to remind them how to resume your path casually. “How’d you know I was with Cindy?” 

“I saw you leaving there on the way in with Hattie.” 

“No you didn’t,” you deny instantly. “I mean—” A charm is too much of a giveaway, and he’ll only ask what kind or why you bought one or why you aren’t wearing it along with the others now. You could say a belt, but that doesn’t fit in your pockets, so he’d have seen it. There’s earrings, zippers, all kinds of materials that would be small enough to carry unnoticed and would serve as a satisfactory answer. “Buttons!” 

Haymitch jolts a little, and you’re careful to lower your volume as you ramble on, “Buttons to fix my overalls. That’s what I got from Cindy. And you know, that’s also what I was talking to Tam Amber about. He’s fixing ’em for me.” 

“Oh. Why don’t you fix ’em yourself?” He sputters when you glare at him, “I just— You could, that’s all I’m saying. You know how to sew, and that’s not really his…specialty.” 

“Oh, right.” You always do your own mending, ever since you learned how, which of course Haymitch knows. He always notices these details about you. It’s infuriating. “’Cause of the buckles. They’re made of metal, and that is right up Tam Amber’s alley, so I thought I’d enlist his help. There’s nothing suspicious about that.” You nearly choke on the speed of the words flying out of your mouth. 

Haymitch furrows his brows. 

“I mean, wrong. There’s nothing wrong with asking for his help, and—” You stop in your tracks again. “And anyways, why were you watching me?”

“I wasn’t watching,” he says, his nose turning red. “I only noticed the back of your head. And your skirt. Could spot you a mile away in that thing.” 

You bunch up your skirt. “You insulting my clothes now?” 

His eyes bulge out of his head. “No!” 

“I don’t go around picking at your patchwork,” you point at his shirt, made of blue and brown patches as opposed to your green and pink. “We’re practically matching!” 

At that, the panic in his expression gives way to complete, utter amusement. “We are, aren’t we?” 

Your skin burns, all the way to your toes. You suck your teeth. “There’s a siltstone right over there.” 

He follows your finger to a large splotch of mud. “I don’t see it.” 

“It’s right there. On the other side of the puddle.” 

“That is not a puddle.” 

You scoff. “It’s a puddle.” 

“I can’t hop over it,” argues Haymitch. “You hop over puddles.” 

“You splash in puddles,” you correct.

“Well puddles should be small enough to hop over.” 

“Just go get it already.” You give him a push, and it’s unfortunate he doesn’t see the fallen branch in his way, which sends him face-down into the mud. 

Doubling over, you wrap your arms around your stomach and press down to soothe the laugh aches. He flips onto his back, glowering. “Real funny.” He sits up, patches of mud all over his face and hair. “Help me up.”

“No way.” You drop your arms, keeping the pouch clutched in one hand. “I’m too smart to fall for that.”

“Where’d your bluebird go?” His wide eyes stare at the waistline of your skirt. 

Your heart drops, and your head goes with it. “Huh?” 

Haymitch gives your wrist a yank, and before you know it, mud lodges itself up your nose. 

“Eugh!” You pinch the bridge of your nose and blow it out. You wipe your right hand, where your magenta hair-scarf-turned-pouch was just a second ago, down your skirt. “What the hell is wrong with you, Abernathy?” 

He answers in full-blown chortles and gasps for steady air. 

“Quit it, or I swear—” You can’t even take yourself seriously, your laugh bubbling into wholehearted snorts. 

“You’ll what, exactly?” Haymitch demands through his own delirium. Neither of you are in the position to form exact sentences right now. 

Between the mud coating your bottom lashes, whatever’s spotted on his face, and the tears spooling from the force of your laughter, you can hardly make him out. It’s the details that pull you back in: his sunmarks, the curve of his cupid’s bow, the freckle right above it, the flush peaking out of the mud stains. 

You don’t make it a habit to notice these things about him—to admit you notice—but Haymitch looks unfairly pretty like this. Care-free and young, entirely unburdened by the need to shoulder the weight of the world. 

“Sunshine,” he says, bordering on dazed, and you realize you’ve stopped laughing a good while ago. You hate when he gets like that—stuck in a daydream of sorts, voice so soft you have no choice but to confront the fuzziness he elicits in you. “Are you—” 

“You got mud on your nose,” you blurt out. 

Haymitch reels back, lips curving into a grin. “Might wanna look in a mirror.” 

You bite down on the inside of your cheek. Beneath your palms, the mud squelches as you push up on steadier limbs, extending a hand as an olive branch between you and Haymitch. He doesn’t take it yet. 

“Gimme a second.” He reaches behind, over another foot of mud, and picks up the siltstone. With the same hand, he grabs hold of your fallen pouch as you pull him up. 

His fingers are calloused but warm, albeit sullied from the mud, and you shake off the instinct that tells you to lace your own through them. You dust them clean on your shirt instead, distracting yourself by watching the brown smear across the sage fabric. 

“Eleven now,” muses Haymitch, bending down for the limestone that slipped from his grasp when he did. 

“Let’s keep at it then.” 

You don’t delve further into the woods, though, instead tracing the way back out to your meeting spot. There, seventeen rocks spread across each of your pockets, the eighteenth irrelevant, you collapse downward. 

Flat on the grass, your palms laid on your stomach, now rumbling lightly with hunger, you expect the triumphant declarations of your brother and cousin any second now. Your eyes blur over, an exhaustion credited to an afternoon well spent as opposed to one in the throes of labor. A privilege that grows scarcer the older you get. They’re halfway shut when the glisten of a jagged white stone blocks the sun and steals your vision. 

“This one’s for you,” says Haymitch, motioning for you to take the limestone. 

You pinch it between your thumb and forefinger, letting it catch light before placing it atop your stomach. 

“Think we won?”

You shake your head. “But I guess we’re both to blame.” 

Haymitch wipes dried mud from his cheek. “Guess so. Still…wasn’t much of a loss.” 

“No,” you agree softly. “Not a loss at all.” 

It’d be nice to have a camera on you right now, to capture his picture perfect contentment. No matter, you’ll memorize it. He sighs, “Burdock's gonna be real annoying about this.” 

“Probably,” you laugh. 

One of the clouds merges into another, forming what looks like a blob of cotton candy. You assign the others images too: a duckling, a house, a fish. 

“Hey, sunshine.” 

You peek at Haymitch again. “Hm?” 

He shifts to lie on his stomach, propped on his elbows. “How’s that poem of yours end again?” 

So many poems to choose from, but you know the one he means. “Which part?” 

“The happy part.” 

You think to tell him that all three parts are happy in their own way, as they are mournful. Hope, at the very least, exists in equal measure with sadness, even at the poem’s most bleak. 

Instead of telling him so, instead of ruining the gentle expectation on his face, you recite the lines that make you the happiest. The ones that remind you dawn always comes after night’s darkest hour. 

Beat, happy stars, timing with things below,

Beat with my heart more blest than heart can 

tell. 

Blest, but for some dark current woe

That seems to draw—but it shall not be so: 

Let all be well, be well.

His smile falls a little as the words settle in. “Sounds less happy than I remembered it.” 

“It’s in there.” You turn back to the sun, letting your eyes fall shut. “You just gotta take both.” 

“Both what?”

“The good and the bad.” 

Even with your eyes closed, you feel the drag of his gaze across your face. Not scrutinizing in the slightest—he never is with you—but just as disarming. Under the afternoon sun and his delicate stare, you’re utterly defenseless. 

You don’t even notice who moves first. Only that your arm brushes against his, sending shocks across your skin. They soothe into a calming buzz easily mistaken as peace. Too relaxed to care about much else, you allow the proximity. Haymitch doesn’t seem to mind either. 

“Y’all give up that easily?” Burdock stands over you, words dissolving into snickers when you both sit up to properly look at them. 

Lenore Dove muffles her giggles into her palms. “What happened?” 

You pick at the crusted dirt on your chin. Haymitch sniffs. With an exchange of hesitant glances, you both answer, “A puddle.” 

Suddenly aware of how close he still is, you scoot a foot away. “How many did y’all find?” 

Lenore Dove sits across from you, emptying out her pockets while Burdock does the same. “Twenty-four. We won, didn’t we?” 

“By a landslide,” snorts Haymitch. 

You fall back on the grass, huffing as Burdock’s taunts of told you so reach your ears with a grate. “New game: whoever can find the duck in the sky gets to throw mud at Burdock.” 

“I think we’re done letting you choose the games,” he snipes, much to your amusement. 

No one finds the duck, but you do find a cloud that’s a dead wringer for a larkspur. Burdock sees it, too, wiggling his eyebrows at you, questioning instead of outright teasing this time. 

You don’t think you’d care much if he were poking fun at you now. Long gone is the wretched vulnerability that normally curdles in your gut like soured milk, lulled into a peace only found in your meadow. With your people. For the time being at least. 

Much later on the walk back through the meadow, with the lilac sky waning into night across the Seam, testing Lenore Dove’s curfew, you hope every Saturday to come makes you feel like this one.  

And when you and Burdock arrive home arm in gentle arm, your new limestone finding its place on your windowsill, you feel certain this wish will come true. As true as the sky is blue, as the grass is green, as a larkspur’s just a larkspur. 

Except maybe when it comes to Haymitch. 

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 @petrasbones @wertyuizxcvbnm @shiftingf1 @sarcasm-n-insomnia @defnotbrooklyn @harrypedro465 @rinatzsstuff @whimsybeth @youraggedybitch @poppysrin @watergirl85 @prettyandromeda @gaz0xx@marsupialnoises @madisonosidam @redshinyshoes @comfortcharacterwrites

[avengerstowerarchives]

some protector | haymitch abernathy x reader

word count. 9.9k 

pairing. haymitch abernathy x fem!reader 

summary. overwhelmed by the feeling of caring for someone and fearful that snow will notice, haymitch drives you away. in the years that follow, haymitch still finds himself looking out for you. based on “some protector” by role model.

warnings. sotr spoilers. normal haymitch trauma stuff? mild violence. references to sa within the context of capitol prostitution/slavery (like with finnick and the other victors). mentions of vomiting? 

notes: jumps between present and past–might get kind of confusing, sorry! flashbacks are in italics. if haymitch seems ooc it’s probably because i wrote this when i was sad and didn’t have access to any source material.

part two. | read on ao3. 

—--------------------------

At least he didn’t throw rocks this time. Alone aside from a cluster of empty beer bottles, Haymitch leaned back against his couch and smiled wryly to himself. Getting you to leave without having to resort to violence had been a victory—he knew you’d be more stubborn than the Everdeens. 

His mind briefly returned to Asterid Everdeen and a stone hurled in drunken desperation, and he ignored the shame rising in his throat. It was far from his finest moment, but it was a necessary one. 

Shaking his head, he cracked open another beer, hoping a fourth drink would be enough to help him forget what it felt like to have company.

Every time you came around, curtains stayed open to let the light in and the kitchen smelled like fresh bread, but the alcohol stopped working. Haymitch felt something he hadn’t felt in years—protective. He finally had something worth taking. 

Then the nightmares intensified, and he saw faces he spent a decade too drunk to process—Ampert, Maysilee, Wyatt, and Louella—his sweetheart. But somehow, Lenore Dove and her ballad stopped coming around. 

On his worst nights, all he could see was you: your trembling hand at the District 3 reaping as you volunteered for a weeping twelve year old, your sunshine yellow dress in the Capitol parade, and you and the male District 1 tribute balancing on a thick tree branch, two of your knives attempting to push back a sword. 

In Haymitch’s dreams, you didn’t win that fight. As it had been every year prior, his flask was his lifeline through the 59th Hunger Games. But years afterward, he dreamt of your arena in technicolor anyway. 

And when he dreamt of flames, instead of his Ma and Sid, he saw your third-floor Capitol apartment, too far gone for the firefighters to reach. So Haymitch kept drinking. 

You’d chided him for his alcohol dependency, but he upped the intake—whiskey, wine, vodka, rum, even Teddy Branson’s moonshine again—anything he could get his hands on. Still the nightmares kept coming. 

He mustered up his gruffest facade to drive you away, but you still appeared on his doorstep bearing fruit for the disgusting protein smoothies Effie wanted him to drink and an insistence that his twelfth-floor windows had the best view. You deflected his sharp insults with quick retorts and freshly baked muffins.

But the meadow was the final straw. The night after the 65th Reaping, Haymitch woke up with a drenched brow and his heart thundering in his chest. He blinked away visions of crimson gumdrops and coughed up blood staining blades of grass. Visions of you. Not Lenore Dove, you. It felt like betrayal. 

Haymitch couldn’t let you hang around after that. 

The next time you let yourself into his house—today—he ensured it would be the last. Instead of hurling insults, he resorted to bluntness. He didn’t shout. He didn’t drag you out the door or chase you with a bottle in hand. 

He told you point blank that you weren’t wanted, calling you a bother and admitting that he’d finally had enough. He was lying through his teeth, but his grave expression caught you so off guard that you didn’t think to question it. 

You left his Capitol suite living room with eyes sad enough to make a grown man cry, but all he felt was relief. I’m sorry, Lenore Dove. She’s gone now. 

Though the apology eased his mind a bit, he still couldn’t shake the foreign feeling of guilt. It was like a pebble in his boot—too small to be significant, but still inconvenient enough that it couldn’t be totally ignored. 

Haymitch shook his head again to clear his mind. The condensation on the neck of the bottle dampened his fingers as he tightened his grip. The sensation reminded him of your tears, but he told himself he’d much rather see tears on your cheek than blood on your temple. 

Haymitch glanced at the empty beer case on his coffee table. Should’ve gotten more than a five pack. 

| (Am I guilty? Am I sorry?)

  (Do I miss you at the party?) 

  Yes I am, and I always will

A trio of Capitol women with varying shades of neon green hair shrieked with laughter at the sound of crashing glass. Haymitch barely batted an eye as the horde of Capitol elites jeered at the 65th victor, some teenaged boy from District 4 sitting in an ornamental fish tank. 

Haymitch hadn’t bothered to learn tribute names during the games–he’d learn the winner’s from the victory propaganda. There wasn’t a point in learning the rest anyway. 

“Finnick! Over here!” A man clothed in polar bear fur rapped on the glass of the tank, grinning wildly. “I sponsored you in the games—I sent the steak!” 

“They always—” Haymitch glanced to his left to make a jab at the Capitol elite when he realized the stool beside him was empty. His mouth drew into a grim line before he threw back the contents of his glass and signaled the bartender for another. 

In his defense, you used to stay glued to his side at functions like this since you were the Games’ newest victor. Swapping sarcastic comments with you had become a reflex. Even before you began inviting yourself into his house, you crashed a multitude of his parties. 

On the night the two of you meet, Haymitch finds a spot in the darkest corner of the room before loosening his tie and unbuttoning the top buttons of his dress shirt. 

Once he feels like he can breathe again, he takes a large sip of the brandy in his glass. 

“Heard you know your alcohol. Which one’s the strongest?” Without warning, you appear by his elbow, stumbling into the cocktail table he stands behind. 

If Haymitch wasn’t wasted, he would’ve startled at your voice yelling in his ear to overcome the music blaring overhead. The alcohol makes him immovably apathetic. 

Maybe if he pretends he didn’t hear, you’ll just go away. He did not want the Capitol’s newest darling following him like a lost puppy. Maybe if he pretends he didn’t hear, you’ll leave him in peace. 

The impracticality of your heels have you gripping the edge of the tabletop to prevent it from tipping over. Your stylist had dressed you in an obnoxiously voluminous green tulle dress that was meant to make you look like a forest fairy, or whatever Elodie had called it. The sheer material doesn’t leave much to the imagination. Your tiara slides slightly as you tilt your head, waiting for his response. 

He simply grabs his glass and takes a long sip, rescuing it from the wobbling table. 

Your eyes narrow, accepting the challenge. You needed this advice. Your mentor warned you about what Snow did with the Capitol’s favorites, and you knew only drinking would get you through it. 

Leaning in closer, you raise your voice slightly and force him to acknowledge you. “Just give me a drink to order and I’ll leave you to brood in peace.” 

Haymitch wonders what he possibly could’ve done to make himself look approachable. Was he losing his edge at twenty-five? “Didn’t your parents teach you about ‘stranger danger’?” 

“Bold of you to assume they lived long enough to teach me.” 

Haymitch doesn’t dignify your quip with platitudes, nor does he spare a glance at your ridiculous ensemble. He returns to ignoring you. You kind of respect that. 

Shrugging, you explain, “Look, Beetee refuses to come to these things, but he said you’d be the best drinking partner of the lot.” 

The mention of Ampert’s father has Haymitch’s shoulders stiffening. You notice how his fingers twitch around his glass, but don’t pry. “Come on, Abernathy. Just say a couple words and I’ll be out of your hair.” 

Boy, were you stubborn. “Did it ever occur to you that Beetee might’ve been making a joke?” 

“Do you really think Beetee would make a joke?” 

Haymitch sighs, “Meeks, get the kid a vodka soda. And you—get out of my face.” 

“You ordered me a pop? Seriously?” You ignore Haymitch’s demand that you leave him alone and wrinkle your nose at the drink set before you. He gives you a pointed look, and you raise the glass to your lips, downing half the glass in one go.

Big mistake. 

Haymitch watches, slightly amused at your naïveté as you lean over, coughing violently. “You’ve never drank before, have you? That should teach you to stop bothering me.” 

You send him a nasty look in response, and in a miraculous moment of kindness, he orders you a glass of water. The hit on your pride is immense, but at least you didn’t throw up all over his shoes. “Just you wait, Twelve—I’ll be able to drink you under the table in no time.” 

After that first night, you ran into him at enough parties that you made good on that promise. By the next time you saw him, you could handle your high heels and your alcohol. 

At a sponsor’s party celebrating the 62nd Games, you maintain your tradition of joining Haymitch in the corner. 

“Hey, Twelve.” Once again, you materialize out of nowhere, this time with a whole bottle of bourbon. You know the nickname bothers him–an obnoxious reminder that he is the lone victor of the twelfth district. You use it anyway. 

When he doesn’t respond, you say simply, “Haven’t seen you since the last one.”

Haymitch sighs. “What do you want, Princess?” 

You hardly bat an eye at his biting tone. Somehow his rudeness makes the Capitol’s nickname for you slightly more bearable. 

“Still as charming as ever.” You uncork the bottle before pouring a generous amount into your glass. When you twist it toward him, he accepts your offer grudgingly. “I brought my own drink. Tophir never gives out anything strong enough—he’s stingy.” 

Haymitch raises his glass to you mockingly before taking a sip, but says nothing. Once again, he wonders what in the world you could’ve possibly seen to make you want to talk to him. Finally, he asks, “Did Mags send you over here to bother me?” 

“I’ve noticed that people tend to steer clear of you, and I wanted to use those bad vibes for good.” You roll your eyes before adding, “I love Mags, but not enough to do this out of the goodness of my heart.”

“I doubt anything you do comes from the goodness of your heart.” An image of you volunteering at your reaping pops into his brain. 

To his annoyance, you shrug it off. “Like anyone else here is different. Well, maybe Mags.”

 You finish off your glass and reach for the bottle. Haymitch grabs it before you can, refilling his cup and setting the bottle back down on the table. 

Eyes narrowing, you shoot him a look, though there isn’t any fire behind it. “You couldn’t even pour me one?” 

“Property tax, Princess.” 

“Your company is not worth that much.” 

Haymitch shakes his head. “You’re the one that came over here.” 

Suddenly, a hand rests on the small of your back before trailing up to the back of your neck, cutting off your response. You shudder as one of your regular clients whispers in your ear, “I paid Snow for the rest of the evening, Princess.” 

 He catches you so off guard that you flinch before you can stop yourself. You hope he’ll dismiss your shaking as excitement. The corseted blue dress Elodie tied you into earlier feels suffocating, and you take a slow breath. 

Haymitch remains expressionless, but he feels disgust bubbling in his stomach as he examines the man behind you. The Capitol man’s designer blue suit and slicked back hair reek of arrogance. 

For the first time in ten years, alcohol fails to make Haymitch numb. The worst part of it all is your expression. Immediately, you fix your face and any trace of discomfort is gone, replaced by a forced smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. 

“At least let her stick around till the bourbon’s done,” Haymitch slurs, attempting to play the alcoholic card. 

The other man eyes him warily, tightening his grip on you. You understand what Haymitch is trying to do, and deep down you both know it isn’t going to work. 

Unflinching, you bare your teeth into a forced smile that the man behind you doesn’t seem to notice. “It’s fine, Twelve, I’ll leave the rest of it here with you.” 

It doesn’t matter that Haymitch can’t find words to respond with because then you’re gone. You avoid his gaze, and he looks away as you let the man lead you up the stairs. 

Haynitch downs the rest of the bourbon straight from the bottle, not bothering to pour it into his glass. 

The next morning, you find a brand new bottle waiting outside of your door. No note is tied to its neck, but you know who sent it. Miraculously, your lips crack into a half smile. Maybe Haymitch Abernathy has a heart after all. 

The neon-haired women scream again and more glass shatters, snapping Haymitch out of his reverie. He tore his gaze away from the empty seat beside him before grabbing a full bottle of bourbon by the neck and retreating to his apartment. 

None of the other guests noticed except for one. After watching him slip out of the room, you stepped out of your hiding place and stood near Finnick, who had been moved from the oversized fishbowl into a gilded fishnet. 

The whole affair has you feeling nauseous, but you push aside your panic to slip your hand between the gaps and give his fingers a comforting squeeze. The fourteen year-old shoots you a brief half smile, but you can feel that he’s shaking. 

There’s nothing you can do except comfort him in the morning. Your mouth sets into a grim line. 

Haymitch had the right idea with the bourbon. 

| (Am I dragging this forever? 

   Am I thinking 'bout September?) 

Haymitch kept leaving bourbon on your doorstep on what he knew to be your worst nights, but after he kicked you out of his life, the amount of bourbon on his shelves never returned to normal. He never minded drinking for two…or five. 

His drinking habits remained the same, but his house had certainly changed. Takeout boxes increased, as did piles of dirty clothes. The curtains stayed drawn, the kitchen cabinets sat empty, and he set a personal record for the most alcohol bottles ever accumulated in his living room with every passing day.

All the while, Haymitch pretended he didn’t notice, and his biweekly trips to town to restock his alcohol cabinet increased. 

Victor’s Village had never felt so isolated, despite the fact that he’d been the only resident for fifteen years. Well…for the most part. 

After the 63rd Games, Haymitch spends exactly one relatively peaceful week in solitude before he jolts awake to the sound of a fist pounding on his front door. 

Wiping sleep out of his eyes, Haymitch takes his sweet time getting to the door. If the Peacekeepers want to see him this early in the morning, he plans to make them wait. Haymitch pulls on a shirt slowly, scowling as the knocking grows louder and the throbbing in his skull increases accordingly. 

When he whips open the door, instead of standing face to face with a district peacekeeper, he’s met with the sight of you grinning in a zip-up hoodie and sweats and surrounded by a multitude of paper bags. You lift your chin as a greeting, adjusting the duffle bag on your shoulder and waiting for him to let you in. “Haymitch.” 

“What’re you doing here, Kid? And why so early?” His anger falters slightly at the initial surprise, but it returns at the sight of the slowly rising sun. 

You don’t appreciate being called a kid, but you let it slide. After seeing your interaction with the man at Tophir’s party, Haymitch decided to never call you “Princess” again, and you quietly returned the favor by tossing the nickname “Twelve.”

“Mags sent me. ‘M here out of the goodness of my heart and all that.” You slip past him into the house before he can stop you. 

Haymitch’s neutral but sleepy expression hides his mental calculations. After concluding that sending you away will be more difficult than scaring off the people of Twelve, he crosses his arms and waits for you to explain yourself. 

You slide your sunglasses onto the top of your head and set down several grocery bags before assessing the damage. You note the remnants of sleep in his eyes and the half-conscious scowl on his face. This might just be the most sober you’ve ever seen him. 

Dirty dishes are spread out on the table and overflow in the kitchen sink while empty bottles surround his couch like a barricade. The kitchen looks unused, and there’s even a cobweb growing in one corner of the ceiling.

“Seriously, Abernathy, how can you live like this? You got back from the Capitol last Tuesday!” 

“Mags sent you to babysit? At sunrise?” Haymitch ignores your questions, too shocked to do anything about your unwelcome entrance. You are one of the first people to see the inside of the house since he moved in thirteen years ago. 

“Well, the sunrise part was my fault–I’m an early riser.” You begin emptying the grocery bags, placing ingredients in the refrigerator and cabinets. “I’m supposed to make sure you don’t swallow your tongue or something like that.” 

Haymitch runs a hand over his face. Now he definitely needs a drink. He pushes past you to retrieve a bottle of vodka.

“At seven in the morning? Seriously?” Your left eyebrow rises in disbelief. Shaking your head with a slight grin, you roll up your sleeves and turn on the sink before lathering soap with a sponge. “Mags is right, you really do need an intervention.” 

“Hey!” Haymitch snaps. “You’re in my house at this godforsaken hour and I didn’t tell you to come in, so shut up and get out.” 

Shouting doesn’t scare you anymore. Instead of running out the door, you smile more widely and the glint in your eyes has Haymitch internally bracing himself. “You’re horrifically hungover, aren’t you?” 

His frown deepens as he reaches for a glass of water. He did not like your tone. 

“I’m so sorry, I’ll try to speak more quietly,” You promise, nodding with exaggerated seriousness. Just as he takes a sip from his glass, you bang two pots together, the clang loud enough to fill the room. “Oops.” 

Haymitch scowls, letting out a curse as he lifts his free hand to clutch his head. “Get out of my house!” 

You ignore him and continue scrubbing the dishes. Little does he know that your dispatcher wasn’t Mags at all–it was Effie. The escort admitted she was at her wits end trying to make him presentable during the games, but recently she had begun to worry about his drinking problem and what it meant for his odds of survival. 

She didn’t find your quip that “at least Haymitch is consistent” very amusing. Instead of laughing, she insisted that you might have a better chance at helping him than she did. The bourbon had to count for something, after all. 

Between your growing curiosity about Haymitch’s life outside of the Capitol and Effie’s promise that she would get you out of your night work so that you could watch Haymitch in District 12, you found yourself with an offer you couldn’t refuse. 

While you begin scrubbing a grimy cast-iron skillet, Haymitch’s thudding footsteps leave the room. 

“Keep drinking water!” You call over your shoulder. You start humming quietly while you do the dishes. 

Once you’re finished, you step into the living room and round up his collection of empty bottles. 

Unsurprisingly, Haymitch is nowhere to be found. 

“It’s honestly not as bad as I thought it would be,” You declare loudly. You’re met with silence. A backhanded “compliment” isn’t enough to provoke him this morning. Unbothered, you pull back the curtains for some natural light and get to work cleaning the windows. 

Later, over eggs and toast, Haymitch grudgingly engages you in conversation. He’d hoped that if he ignored you long enough, you’d leave, but he should’ve known by now that you were too persistent for that. 

He scowls, “Did your folks in Three finally have enough? How’d Mags get you here?” 

“Free vacation.” You pointedly ignore his question about your family. 

“Twelve is no vacation, Sweetheart.” The scoff slips out of him so quickly that he doesn’t process the nickname till after he’s said it. 

“This is an intervention, not a proposal, Abernathy.” You dismiss the moment flippantly, and he’s grateful. 

His slip of the tongue has him ready to kick you out of the house again, but before he can usher you out the door, you’re on your feet, venturing further into his house in search of laundry. 

He barks your name from the kitchen. You hear the scrape of his chair as he pushes it away from the table, followed by the slam of his glass as he downs more vodka before following you. “What’re you doing now? Don’t go upstairs!” 

You stop at the base of the staircase, hanging onto the railing as you lean back to look at him. “I’m threatening to do your laundry so that you feel insulted enough to do it yourself. Mags said it might work.” 

That was actually all you, but it was worth a shot.

Haymitch huffs, “You wouldn’t. No vacation is worth that.” 

“Watch me. Anything’s a vacation compared to the Capitol.” As usual, your biting sarcasm reveals a bit of truth. 

Haymitch runs a hand over his face, sighing again. He has a feeling he’ll be doing that a lot. If you’re going to insist on staying Twelve, he’s going to make you pick another house to stay in. Preferably as far away as possible.

Half a bottle of scotch later, Haymitch attempts to bargain, suggesting that you stay in Twelve but lie to Mags and leave him alone.  

His suggestion falls on obstinate ears. You clutch imaginary pearls. “I can’t believe you would cross that line, Abernathy. Mags is an angel, and anyone who lies to her is going to hell.” 

Haymitch can’t tell if you’re serious, but none of it really matters because you’re still here and he has no idea how to get rid of you. He can’t afford to make too much of a scene, and he doesn’t have the energy to bury a body. “Fine. If you’re staying in Twelve, just keep out of my hair.” 

“Are you sure? You look like you might need help wash—” 

“Watch it, Kid.” He cuts you off, shooting you a nasty glare before lifting his glass. 

You smirk, but don’t finish making the jab. “I’m going to take a look at the garden. If I’ll be stuck here babysitting you, I might as well get a new hobby.” 

Haymitch makes no move to stop you, letting out his hundredth sigh of the day as he swirls the liquid in his glass. 

You seem to think that he’s all bark and no bite, and it’s not like he can carry out a threat of violence because you’re a victor for crying out loud. Your handlers have every inch of your body insured. 

You’re stubborn, and Haymitch decides he isn’t sober enough to deal with you right now. Hopefully you’ll grow bored in a couple of days and you’ll leave on your own accord (you don’t). 

Even so, he realizes your position as one of the Capitol’s most prized victors should keep you relatively safe. And it’s not like he cares about you anyway. That’s as safe as you can get. 

One morning in mid-September, Haymitch jolted awake at the crack of dawn. He’d forgotten to close his curtains all the way after falling asleep on the couch, and the early morning sunlight shined through the window enough to disturb his sleep. 

As he watched the sky turn from a dark charcoal to a mix of hazy pink and fiery orange, he found himself half-expecting a knock on his front door. Once he processed the thought, he pulled himself to his feet to retrieve his first beer of the day. 

Muttering to himself, he blamed it on a lack of alcohol rather than the loneliness that had arrived in your absence. 

| (Am I wrecking reputation while you're making reservations?) 

When you suddenly found yourself freed from the responsibility of looking out for Haymitch, you resolved to dedicate all of your energy to your mentees. 

It didn’t take long for you to realize that the most efficient and profitable way to do that was to take advantage of the networking opportunities Snow unintentionally but literally dropped into your lap. 

If the Capitol was going to auction off your body every night, you might as well take some of the profits. So you did. 

Haymitch first witnessed your tactics during the 66th Hunger Games. You’d done your best to fulfill your promise to never bother him again, but the thought of you still left a tightness in his chest. 

At one of the Capitol viewing parties, he caught a glimpse of you from afar, cozying up to a man in a gold suit. Haymitch immediately recognized the heterochromatic blue and brown eyes and cobalt blue hair. 

The sponsor whose wallet you were trying to service is Hyraclis Roman, one of Panem’s wealthiest businessmen. 

Businessman was a generous title, Haymitch thought, because all Hyraclis did was moderate one of the Capitol’s largest betting systems during the Games. He took a steep cut off the wagers and made enough to live less than a mile from Snow’s mansion. Worst of all, Hyraclis Roman used his profits to buy a night with the victors—the children—he bet on, and everyone knew it. 

You hated Hyraclis Roman, so when Haymitch noticed your legs draped across the gambler’s lap and the possessive hand on your leg, he thought he might’ve finally drank his max and gone to hell. 

Haymitch grabbed hold of the vodka bottle on the table to his right before taking a long drink. 

When you threw your head back in a laugh before resting your hand on Hyraclis’ chest and leaning forward slightly, Haymitch’s jaw clenched.

In response, Hyraclis grinned eagerly at you with dark eyes and moved his palm a bit higher. Haymitch shuddered with disgust, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the two of you. 

Though Hyraclis did his best to monopolize your attention, you could feel Haymitch’s eyes on you, and your cheeks flushed with a mix of shame and frustration. 

While you’d prefer for Hyraclis to never have his hands on you at all, Snow made that an impossibility.

If these men were going to put their hands on you regardless of your consent, you were going to take as much of their money as you could. 

You knew that if you could only explain it to Haymitch, he would understand. But you couldn’t, so you sat there and pretended you didn’t see him staring with a bottle of vodka.

Haymitch felt ready to bash Hyraclis over the head with it given the opportunity, but you mistook the blond’s protectivenesss for judgment. 

Naturally, Hyraclis interpreted the red tinge on your cheeks as excitement. When he leaned forward and pressed a long kiss on your neck, your stomach lurched and you turned away from Haymitch. 

Later, you leave the party with Hyraclis’ hand pawing your waist and consider telling Snow that you’ll never do this sort of thing again. 

But when you wake up the next day and Hyraclis writes you a hefty check for you to use for your tributes, you force yourself to be pleasant. 

After a month full of nights like that one, the District 3 male tribute wins the 66th Hunger Games, and somehow you find the strength to endure Snow’s exploitation. From then on, you appeal to the affections of more clients, and Haymitch watches. 

| Yes I am, and I always will

When the male from District 8, Kross, thrust his javelin into the heart of your tribute during the 69th games, you screamed. 

The sound was enough to jolt Haymitch into a state miraculously close to sobriety, and his gaze immediately shifted away from the footage on the flatscreens. 

After ten years as a mentor by the age of twenty-eight, the losses shouldn’t have caught you off guard anymore. Everyone in the room knew that, which is why you’d earned disgusted looks from the sponsors. 

Sure, the kindest mentors like Mags cared for their tributes and equipped them for survival as well as they could, but the seasoned veterans learned how to guard their hearts early into their lifelong sentence. Snow labeled emotional outbursts from mentors as inappropriate behavior. Capitol citizens could cheer and weep; Mentors could not.

Scandalized gasps filled the room as you crumpled to your knees, and a horrified whisper observed that your mascara was running. The lack of decorum wouldn’t do you well in the next support raising cycle.

Your fellow District 3 mentor and District 3 escort froze, unsure what to do, but definitely unwilling to compromise their positions.  

As you stared at the screen, you forgot everything Beetee and Mags had ever told you about shielding your emotions. You were too distraught to realize how this would nullify your flirtation with the sponsors, much less how it might provoke Snow. 

This wasn’t the first time one of your tributes had made it to the top five and been killed, but this kill was particularly brutal. This year’s reaping sent your former classmate’s daughter into the arena—an eighteen year old girl named Tesla, who had been one year away from escaping the reaping forever. She was the same age you’d been when you won your Games.  

Instead of letting one thrust of his spear be enough, Kross wrenched his javelin out of Tesla’s chest before going in for another strike. And another, and another, and another. He used so much force that you could hear it. 

You pressed your palm to your mouth to quiet your screams, cringing at the feeling of bile rising up in your throat. 

Though it had been years since you had spoken more than three words to Haymitch, he found himself crouching by your side as the other mentors looked on, their faces a mix of stoicism and pity. 

Kross’ mentor, Cecilia, sent you an apologetic look that you couldn’t see, and Finnick’s eyes shone with relief at Haymitch’s unexpected display of empathy. 

After Finnick won his Games, you made him vow to never get into trouble on your behalf, but at eighteen, the resilience hadn’t been crushed out of him yet. If Haymitch hadn’t moved when he did, Finnick’s brotherly instincts would have moved him to your side. 

The room filled with loud whispers, but Haymitch cast aside any worries about what they might be saying. His main concern was to get their attention off of you so that Snow would have less to punish you for. 

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the screen, so he grabbed your elbow and pulled you to your feet. “Come on, (Y/n). You gotta move.” He spoke quietly enough that only you could hear. 

He assumed you wouldn’t accept his help, but your body reverted to the old habit of treating him like someone safe, and you weren’t present enough to remember that you avoided him now. 

All of the eyes in the room were on the two of you as he guided you out of the spotlight with an arm around your shoulders, pressing you to his side to hold you up and shield you from view. To the rest of the room, this uncharacteristic softness is almost more scandalous than your screaming. 

Once the two of you made it toward the back of the room, Effie appeared on your other side, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder as she whispered words of encouragement. 

If you hadn’t been on the verge of a breakdown, you would’ve acknowledged her kindness. Effie prioritized propriety, and emerging from the crowd to comfort a hysterical woman was the opposite of that. 

You gagged, “I’m going to throw up.” 

To Effie’s credit, she didn’t flee. Her brows furrowed in concern, and she began ushering you to the nearest bathroom. 

Without loosening his grip on your arm, Haymitch used his free hand to reach for a bucket of champagne on a nearby table, shooting its patrons a forced smile before dumping its contents onto the floor and handing you the bucket.

Just in time. Though your hands were shaking, you were grateful to have something physical to ground you. Unable to shove down the nausea anymore, you raised the ice bucket closer to your face. 

In normal circumstances, you would’ve scolded Haymitch for making a pointless mess for an Avox to clean. Now, you’re too occupied with making sure you don’t throw up on the carpet.

Since the footage had shifted to a different tribute, the attention had been diverted from you. But even if it hadn’t, sickness was more normal than weeping. Viewing parties were no stranger to vomiting caused by alcohol or gluttony. 

Once you made it to the bathroom, you heaved the contents of your stomach into the toilet, shoulders shaking as you gripped the porcelain. You felt fingers lightly brushing your scalp as they gathered up your hair and held it away from your face. You wanted to think it was Effie, but the hands were calloused and free of acrylic extensions. 

The situation felt horribly reminiscent of others from years past. 

“When will you admit that you have a problem?” You wonder aloud as you kneel beside Haymitch, who is currently emptying his stomach in Caesar Flickerman’s guest bathroom. 

Over the last week, Haymitch’s alcohol intake had increased drastically, which was especially alarming when you considered the large number that was his typical average.

You and Effie chalked it up to Haymitch’s characteristic lack of self-preservation, and he didn’t correct you. In truth, his nightmares had gotten worse, but there was no way he was going to tell you that—especially when those dreams featured a certain District 3 victor during the 59th Games.

“Haymitch, you can’t keep doing this to yourself. Effie’s losing her mind.” You resist the urge to smack him on the back of the head. 

Haymitch grunts in response, and you pause your berating to brush his hair out of his face with your fingers and lift it out of the way. He tries to shrug you off, and you chide him. “Don’t be difficult, Abernathy, you know I’ve seen you look worse. This is only partly emasculation–I’m mostly doing Effie a favor.” 

If Haymitch hadn’t been throwing up his dinner of bourbon and scotch, he might’ve let out a grudging laugh. 

When your hand begins to rub his back soothingly, he told himself that he was too drunk to tell you off, even though most of the alcohol in his body had been ejected in the last five minutes.

A few seconds later, he has a moment of respite. After taking a small sip from the bottle of water you offer him, he rasps, “Don’t you have someone else to bother, Kid?”

“Effie booked me for the night to keep you from choking on your vomit.” Despite your flippant tone, you hold his hair back with surprising gentleness. “You know she can’t handle this kind of stuff.” 

Effie really couldn’t handle that kind of stuff, Haymitch scowled. He willed her to come back soon so he could take his hands out of your hair and distance himself again as quickly as possible. 

As usual, Effie didn’t adhere to his will. Her whereabouts remained unknown, and he redirected his attention to you as you stopped retching and began to hyperventilate.

“It’s alright, Kid. Breathe.” Haymitch’s voice broke through your panic, his tone soft. He gingerly turned you to face him, his hands resting on your shoulders in an attempt to ground you. 

You struggled to follow his instructions, inhaling a sharp breath through your nose and gasping an exhale through your mouth. 

“Come on, Sweetheart, you can do it.” He dismissed the use of the nickname as a byproduct of the alcohol again. 

While he slowed his breathing for you, you closed your eyes, trying to match his pattern of a four second inhale followed by a four second exhale. 

“It’s called box breathing,” Haymitch overhears you whisper softly to the fourteen-year-old girl who is the 62nd Hunger Games’s female District 12 tribute. 

Though there were no direct rules against mentors speaking to tributes from different districts, the nature of your interaction pushed against unspoken rules. 

If Snow’s in a bad enough mood, it’s something you can be punished for. Haymitch knows that would be his fault. 

A week earlier, you had lost it on his front porch, demanding to know why he never even tried to give his tributes some advice and railing that he never even offered them basic empathy. 

You even accused him of being just as heartless toward the weak as the rest of Panem. 

Haymitch hadn’t been able to come up with a response, so he remained silent and kept his face as unreadable and emotionless as ever. That night he dreamt of Wellie and the Doves. 

Once the two of you are back in the Capitol, though, Haymitch regrets not telling you off. Though your efforts to help the child are subtle, Haymitch knows that Snow will see the small act of unity as a threat. 

Haymitch tells all of his tributes to steer clear of you after that.

By the time you had your breathing under control, you were too tired to think about Kross or Tesla, much less sit up straight. You slump back against his shoulder, too drained to move. Surprisingly, he doesn’t push you off. 

The two of you sat on the tile floor, the room silent aside from your uneven breathing. Despite himself, Haymitch didn’t want to leave until you felt well enough to curse him out and push him away yourself. 

After what felt like years, Effie reappeared with a glass of water, and once you had taken a small sip, you finally spoke. “Thanks, Effie. Should’ve had more bourbon this morning.” 

You didn’t say anything after that, not even about what had happened after the 65th Reaping. 

| Yes I am, and I always will

  Be some protector

Though Haymitch’s actions at the 69th Games were an indisputable contradiction to the words he used to get you out of his life, neither of you addressed it afterwards, nor did you attempt to revive your friendship.

Haymitch would die before he let Snow use you to hurt him, even as a platonic bond. 

Meanwhile, your motivation for maintaining your distance stemmed more from self-preservation. Your pride prevented you from showing up on his doorstep again, chalking up his actions at the viewing party as an anomaly. 

You reasoned that although Haymitch Abernathy had a heart, he only acted on it every decade or so, and he had just reached his quota. 

The next six games passed with the two of you as acquaintances. When you happened to make eye contact with him at parties, you simply nodded in acknowledgement and kept walking. 

You learned how to barricade your heart during the games. You continued to buy your own bottles of bourbon after rough clients, and Effie replaced you as the person trying to reign in Haymitch’s drinking habits. She proved to be far less successful than you were. 

Haymitch avoided watching you leave parties with horrid Capitol elites, he never acted on the “intrusive” thoughts that dared him to show up at your doorstep, and he never attempted to make contact.  

He didn’t seek you out after the failed rebellion of Johanna’s games, though he secretly wondered what your reaction might’ve been like behind closed doors. 

Likewise, you didn’t knock on his door after Katniss and Peeta left the arena together, despite the fact that you couldn’t stop yourself from studying Haymitch’s expression at the viewing parties. You watched him charm partygoers and round up sponsors, which Mags confirmed was something he’d never done before. 

The relief on his face when the Gamemakers called off the games after the Nightlock stunt had something lightening in your chest, grateful despite yourself that something had finally gone right for Haymitch Abernathy. 

Still, you wondered to yourself if things might have turned out differently if he had fought this hard for his tributes in the years past. You couldn’t work up the courage to ask him yourself.

You don’t bridge the gap, and neither does he. 

Until the third Quarter Quell. 

After Snow announces his vision with a sneer, Haymitch hurls his full glass of rum at the television. True terror pierces his heart at the thought of returning to the arena. Although his rage boils over as his mind goes to Peeta and Katniss, the first face he pictures is yours. 

Peeta and Katniss make respective visits, each begging him to save the other, and he comes to a realization that completely knocks the wind out of him. 

If Wiress’ name is drawn, you’ll volunteer in her place, just as you’d replaced a child in your first games. Beetee will certainly try to stop you, but Haymitch knows it would be futile. 

Haymitch’s plan to volunteer in Peeta’s place won’t work in your situation either. Wiress’ mind is too fractured for her to volunteer in your place. Even if it weren’t, Haymitch knows you would never allow her to go back into an arena.

He runs his hands over his face roughly, dread washing over him when he realizes that there’s no solution. 

Since you and Wiress are the only remaining female victors from District 3, there are no other options. 

Haymitch fumbles in the dark for a full glass of beer. You’re doomed, and he knows it. 

After reflecting on Peeta and Katniss, Haymitch figures out what he has to do. When Peeta’s name is called, Haymitch will volunteer in his place and do everything he can to protect Katniss. And you.

 This is his only solution, so he doesn’t stop to consider what would happen if Effie reads off his name first. 

Meanwhile, when you hear the news, you find yourself praying that Haymitch doesn’t end up in the arena. If the involuntary alcohol detox doesn’t kill him, you’re sure Snow’s mutts will rip out his throat. 

You don’t want to guess who might win the Third Quarter Quell, but something in your gut tells you it won’t be Haymitch.

You hardly stop to think about yourself; sending Wiress into the arena isn’t an option. You crack open a bottle of bourbon and try to distract yourself from the anxiety rising within you. 

You manage to suppress the urge to weep until your mind goes to the rest of your friends, especially Beetee and the victors of District 4. You know that Finnick’s odds are high, but the knowledge that either Mags or Annie will be his partner in the arena has you sobbing till you can’t breathe. 

You jump at the sound of your telephone ringing—no one uses that number anymore. If anyone needs to send you a message, they’ll use their communicuff. 

You grasp the neck of the receiver and twist the cord around your finger. “Hello?” Despite your best efforts, your voice sounds watery. You breathe in shakily before asking quietly, “Hello? Who’s there?” 

You hear a sharp inhale, before the other end of the line clicks. Is this some kind of sick prank? Was it Snow? 

Back in District Twelve, Haymitch slams the telephone receiver back onto its base and tears a trembling hand through his hair. 

He has no idea what had possessed him to call you, but hearing the fear in your voice only worsens the sharp pain in his chest. 

On the day of the Reaping, Haymitch stands stone-faced between Effie and Peeta. While tears fall down Katniss’ face when Effie reads off her name, Haymitch braces himself for Peeta’s name to be called. 

Effie steps lightly toward the glass bowl in her gigantic heels and monarch butterfly dress, and Haymitch wonders frustratedly if she could possibly go any slower. 

When she unfolds the paper, Effie’s eyes flutter with shock. Anyone who didn’t know her well would’ve missed it, but Haymitch notices. That can’t be good. 

There is a nearly imperceptible tremor in her voice as she breathes, “Haymitch Abernathy.”

No. Haymitch’s jaw clenches. His name being called hadn’t been an option—Peeta couldn’t be the one going back into the arena. 

Katniss’ head whips toward them. Do something, her eyes plead. 

Peeta’s chin tilts upward, avoiding Haymitch’s pointed gaze and Katniss’ wide eyes. “I volunteer as tribute.” 

Katniss fails to mask her face when her heart drops. 

Haymitch grabs the seventeen year old boy’s arm and attempts to pull him back. “I can’t let you do that.” 

“You can’t stop me.”

Haymitch sees your face in his mind. To him, this is about so much more than just the star-crossed lovers of District 12. “Peeta—“

Peeta’s brows draw together as he wrenches his arm out of Haymitch’s grip. “You can’t stop me.” 

The words hit like a death sentence. 

Haymitch feels more helpless than he’s felt since the 2nd Quarter Quell. Desperately, he hopes there will be some kind of miracle in District 3.

Once they’re on the train, Haymitch storms around like a madman. After the tablet in his hands is unable to pull up the District 3 Reaping, he hurls it across the train car. “Effie, turn on the TV!”

Peeta and Katniss snap out of their mournful stupor, exchanging a look at Haymitch’s hyper-irritability. This seems like more than just a side effect of being weaned from alcoholism. 

Peeta wonders briefly if he’s the cause, but when Effie follows Haymitch’s instructions with pitying eyes, he senses there’s something bigger he’s missing. 

Effie fast-forwards through a highlight reel of the Reaping broadcast, and Haymitch snaps at her when she passes District 3. 

Instead of chastising him, Effie rewinds the clip and rests her hands in her lap. She twists the ring on her pointer finger distractedly, her posture uncharacteristically tense. 

Effie can usually poker-face her way through a crisis, but not this time. 

As he sits on the edge of the couch, Haymitch grips a glass half-full of brandy, his knuckles turning white. 

Peeta wonders where he got it, but Katniss shrugs it off. They’d spent weeks attempting to get Haymitch to sober up during training, but the last thing they needed now was to deal with detox symptoms. 

Onscreen, the District 3 escort makes his usual quip about ladies going first, and Haymitch feels a wave of anticipatory nausea. 

It feels like years before a slip of paper is selected and a name is called. “Wiress Wright.” 

Before Wiress can move, your hand is already up. “I volunteer as tribute.”

Wiress moves toward you to protest, but Beetee grabs her arm to keep her from stepping forward. He gives you a grim nod that you return with a forced smile. 

The camera pans to you, and you keep your head raised, staring directly at it with a look of quiet defiance. You don’t shed a single tear, and if Haymitch hadn’t been so sick to his stomach he might’ve felt a twinge of pride. 

He can’t watch after that. He thunders to his feet, chucking his glass at the carpet before stomping off to his quarters. He finds it dissatisfying that the cup shatters so easily. 

Stricken with fear on your behalf, all of the color leaves Effie’s face. She wordlessly turns off the television and lets him go. 

In the distance, a door slams and more crashing follows. Peeta leaps to his feet, starting to follow when Effie stops him. “Peeta, just leave him be.”

“He’s going to hurt himself,” Peeta shrugs off the hand on his shoulder. 

“Peeta.” He freezes at the firmness in Effie’s tone. She refuses to leave any room for an argument. “He’ll wear himself out eventually, but there’s no use in trying to reason with him now.” 

The look in her eyes tells him that she speaks from plenty of experience. 

“What’s special about the District 3 tribute? Why does he care?” Katniss speaks up in a flat tone, but she levels Effie with a piercing gaze. She asks not because she’s worried about Haymitch, but because she knows this unknown variable matters. 

If Haymitch has a conflict of interest, it might be the tipping point for Peeta’s odds of survival. 

“She’s an old friend.” Effie says carefully, not wanting to spill open the can of worms, but unable to fully dismiss it all.

“I didn’t think Haymitch had friends.” The words could’ve been a joke, but coming from Katniss, there isn’t an ounce of humor in them.

Effie sighs, shaking her head disappointedly. “He doesn’t.”

Another crash comes from Haymitch’s room. 

 “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go make sure he doesn’t finish destroying his things and start going after my perfumes.” Effie avoids Peeta’s searching gaze, and he and Katniss are left alone. 

| Some protector

That night, after Peeta and Katniss have gone to bed on the Distinct 12 floor of Victors Tower, Haymitch grabs a bottle of bourbon and slips away.  

Against his better judgment, he steps into the sleek elevator and hits the button labeled with the number three. 

He grips the metal railing till his fingers are sore while the elevator makes the nine floor descent. 

He takes a deep breath before hitting the buzzer outside of the District 3 tributes’ apartment. 

Beetee opens the door, unsurprised to see the disheveled blond wearing a horrifically wrinkled shirt with slumped shoulders and dark shadows under his eyes. 

Gruffly, Haymitch says, “I need to see her.” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Beetee remembers the months that followed your final return from District 12. You hadn’t been that withdrawn since your first night with a Capitol client, and it killed Beetee when you refused to explain what had happened. 

Beetee may not be able to spare you from the Games, but he resolves to do his best to shield you from this. “I can’t let you do that.” 

For a moment, Haymitch’s liquid courage falters, and his thoughtless audacity is replaced by some semblance of shame. 

As Beetee starts to shut the door, the weight of the bourbon in Haymitch’s left hand reminds him of his original purpose. “I need to see her, Beetee. We don’t have much time, I can’t—“ 

“It’s okay, Bee, I’ll handle it.” Suddenly you’re in the doorway instead, and Beetee leaves the two of you alone with one last frown sent toward Haymitch. 

“What do you want, Abernathy?” Your voice is tired, but not friendly. This is the first time you’ve really looked at him since he held you against his chest in the sponsors’ penthouse bathroom. 

He doesn’t answer for a minute, distracted by his need to see how you’re carrying on. He notices your hair is let down and unkept, while the bags of sleep under your eyes give away the state of your sleep schedule.  Your pupils are rimmed red, and your shoulders slump. You’re already so different from the bold persona he’d seen on TV the day before. 

“Haymitch.” When you say his name, it’s a warning instead of a question. 

Instead of answering, he drops the bottle of bourbon and pulls you into his arms, all in one motion. One arm wraps tightly around your upper back while the other winds around your waist. 

You freeze, and even though he fully expects you to push him away he holds you more tightly. 

You don’t have the energy to fight him, and you let your forehead drop onto his shoulder. Something in his chest tightens as you practically go limp in his arms. 

The hand he rested on your shoulder slides up to cradle the back of your head, and he rests his chin on the top of your head despite his better judgment. 

Later, he plans to blame it on alcoholism. Now, he forgets about future consequences and focuses solely on you.

You sniff pitifully in response and he stiffens in surprise when your arms wrap around him to return the hug. He softens when he feels your tears dampening his shirt. “I’m so scared.” 

The brevity of your confession and the smallness of your voice reminds him of your surroundings. He gently guides you into your apartment and closes the door behind him. 

He doesn’t miss the fact that he left the bourbon behind, but he’s shocked to realize that he truly couldn’t care less right now. 

Once the apartment door is shut, it’s like the floodgates are opened. Your soft crying turns into sobs, and he holds you up, whispering what he hopes are comforting words into your hair. 

Blanching, Haymitch realizes that you really have carved out a soft spot for yourself in his heart, and he has no idea what to do with that knowledge. He doesn’t even know how to comfort people anymore. 

He doesn’t get picked as a shoulder to cry on, and he certainly doesn’t have any recent experience with being on the receiving end of that either. 

The last time he’d cried in front of anyone was when Burdock led him to Lenore Dove’s grave, and that really didn’t count. 

Haymitch’s pulse is racing, and he can’t tell if it’s because he’s terrified for you or of you.  

Once your weeping has eased a bit, you pull back, cringing. “Sorry, your shirt is covered in tears and snot.” 

Vulnerability is a death sentence in the Capitol, but aren’t you bound for death anyway? You do your best to shake off that thought. 

He tucks your hair behind your ear, and his heart twinges when he realizes it’s damp with your tears. Gruffly, he remarks, “Just try not to do it again.” 

You can tell that he’s joking with you, in his strange Haymitch way. You shoot him a watery smile. “You think you can go get the bourbon you left in the hallway?” 

He scoffs, “Of course you noticed that.” 

The room settles into a more familiar rhythm after that. Alcohol and banter—that’s something you and Haymitch feel better equipped to handle. 

Once you’ve each had a glass, neither of you acknowledge that you’d spent the last fifteen minutes clinging to one another like it was normal even though you hadn’t hugged once during your fourteen years of complicated acquaintanceship. 

By the time you two finish the bottle, the clock tells you that it’s two in the morning. 

Your styling team will arrive in three hours, and you both know that it would be best if they don’t catch Haymitch here. 

“You should get some rest,” He says gruffly, trying to muster the strength to get up and walk out the door. 

You tilt your head thoughtfully, “I think I only slept through one full night before my first Games.” 

Haymitch’s jaw sets and he fights to keep his fury toward Snow and concern for you from getting all tangled up. “(Y/n), I need you to team up with Katniss and Peeta. We need you to take care of yourself, or you guys won’t have a shot.” 

“You know I’ll protect your kids with my life.” You stare at your empty glass, fighting the urge to disassociate. You intend to remain light, but your words sound more like a surrender.

“No.” That isn’t what he wants. 

Your head shoots up at the forcefulness of his voice, and your eyes meet as you watch him silently. 

 “Not with your life. I—we can’t let Snow have that victory. He watches you with your tributes, and you know he’s seen what you’ve done for the other victors.” 

Even if Snow hadn’t punished you for your small acts of kindness, it was common knowledge that he knew every move that the victors made. 

You hadn’t been dragged off for torturing after coaching Finnick through his first panic attack or helping Cashmere recuperate from a cosmetic surgery, but you should’ve known that Snow would respond eventually. 

Haymitch is floored by a sudden realization. Had your name even been in the bowl at the reaping? Snow might have orchestrated it all, knowing that you would always volunteer for Wiress and making it impossible for her to do the same for you. 

“Haymitch—“ You start to argue, but he cuts you off. 

“He can’t do anything when you’re out here because your clients…like you too much, but once you’re in there? Snow’s gonna do everything he can to get you, (Y/n), because you haven’t let him win. You’re still good.” After saying it out loud, he realizes it’s true. He needs another bottle of something. 

Meanwhile, you’re shaking your head bitterly. Is that really how he sees you? You scoff, “You do realize that I’ve killed a lot of people, right? I also raise two new killers every year.” 

Haymitch is taken aback. Did you really see yourself that way? You, a woman who had been pulled into two Hunger Games but never reaped?

His fingers curl and uncurl from the fists he’s subconsciously made at his sides. Between gritted teeth, he spits out,“That blood is on Snow’s hands, not yours.” 

You raised an eyebrow, “You seriously expect me to think you believe a single thing you’re saying? After who knows how many bottles of that?” You gesture toward the empty bottle dismissively. “If you really believed that, you wouldn’t be drinking yourself to death.” 

 Your lack of understanding triggers a sharp defensiveness in Haymitch.

The bourbon no longer warms Haymitch’s system, and the buzz is gone. There’s only numbness in its wake. He wants the ache to stop, and reflexively, meanness slips out. “You’re nagging now? I forgot how much I hated having you around.” 

“Well, you won’t have to worry about that for much longer.” You throw back the retort in a flat voice. It’s the morning in Haymitch’s apartment all over again. You’re not even hurt anymore, just tired. You blink, as if to ward off tears, but you realize you haven’t got any left. “You should go before someone else sees you.” 

Haymitch pales, immediately regretful. He reaches out a hand, but you’re already pulling away. “(Y/n)—”

Suddenly, Beetee is there. “You heard her, Haymitch.” 

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”Haymitch doesn’t stop the nickname this time, desperate for reconciliation. 

You’re already walking away. “Goodnight, Abernathy.” 

“(Y/n), I—” Before Haymitch can try again, Beetee ushers him toward the door, disappointment and anger rolling off of the older man in waves. Haymitch turns to look back at you, but you’ve already disappeared into your room. 

Beetee sends Haymitch into the hallway without another word. The apartment door shuts softly behind him. 

Once he’s in the elevator, Haymitch slams his hand against the wall. Back in the District 12 apartment, he cracks open a beer, on the verge of officially ending his semi-sobriety. 

As he watches the sunrise come up through the window, he scowls. Seventy-five long years of the sun rising on a reaping. And this one had been yours. 

Setting the beer down, he recalls a conversation with Plutarch and fatal affairs discussed in code. Haymitch decides that even if you can’t stand to look at him, he’ll do anything to keep you alive. 

A 75th reaping. If they get this right, yours will be the last. 

| Be some protector to ya

[onlybeeewrites]

A Change of Plans (2/)

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!reader 

Requested: yes!

Word count: 2k

Warning: Mentions/illusions to SA, mentions of blood, gore, mentions of past games.

A Change of Plans: Previous

A/N: OMG I’m alive??? So many people requested a part two and I finally got around to writing. Between how busy life is plus writers block I promise I’m not ignoring the requests in my inbox <3 i appreciate all of your patience and I really hope you enjoy, this was a lot of fun!

      · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You never for one moment had thought that you’d be back here. Not like this at least. Of course you had been a mentor for years. You had did your best to keep the kids alive, to try to at least bring one home each year. But like many of the other districts, not many did.

You remembered their names. Their faces haunting your dreams every night when dreams of your own arena decided to give you a break. 

The dreams started off kind at first. But then as usual, they turned awful. Dark. Bloodied. Murderous. The smell was thr worst part. It all felt so real, that you could still smell the flesh and blood even after waking up. 

All of it reminding you of the failure to save them. Most of them at least. Celia was one of the ones you were able to save. Now a mother, she had her life ahead of her. At least as much of a life a victor could possibly have. 

But that’s why you always kept to yourself. Always. For the most part at least. You always kept your head down. Did as Snow asked of you. Continued to put out clothing lines the Capital thrived off of. Played the happy shy girl until you grew up and the Capital had new toys to play with.

Like Chasmire. 

Like Finnick.

You had been spared. Too shaken too meek. Not desired enough by the Capital to be sold off to. Though you supposed that was a blessing in disguise. A blessing that you didn’t get called on. Used by greedy hands and dropped back off on the train to go home.

But that didn’t protect you completely. Even now, after so many years after your own victory. You still returned to the Capital often. For parties, fashion shows, interviews, collaborations, meetings, work ups. It was exhausting. 

It was always exhausting.

But it Haymitch soothed it. 

It was rough at first. For a few years at least. Both young and scrambling to learn how to live with the content losses. The loose mentoring as the both of you were kids yourselves. Dealing with the aftermath of your own traumas—though dealing in very different ways.

It had taken years for you and Haymitch to become friends. Even longer to be lovers. With knowing how the Capital worked, you both knew Snow would do anything to use each other against one another for something.

So you both kept it close and quiet. 

Your own little peace. A little get away from the bright lights, and the constant cameras. It was something that was purely your own that no one could take.

But somehow, even without knowing? Snow had exactly done just that by putting you in the Games and not Haymitch.

You had known what was being planned by the rebels. Especially being from District 8, you had seen it yourself how fast that fire is spreading. And once the Quarter Quell had been announced? You knew the poor girl, Katniss, who you had been able to see and meet and call, was being thrown back into the games. And sweet Peeta refusing to let her do it alone.

Snow was trying to kill her. That much was clear to you as well. But what was also clear was how important the two kids from the District 12 were. You knew there was something sort of plan being brewed. You just needed to wait to hear what it was. But a gut feeling told you that that plan, didn’t include you as a priority. 

Not that you mind. You didn’t really if it meant getting the kids out and stopping these Games once and for all. It was Haymitch that you were worried about. And you hoped to whatever power was out there 

    · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The metallic scent of polish and artificial roses hung in the air, sharp and suffocating in the way only the Capitol could be. You stood backstage, shoulders pulled back despite the weight of the dress stitched to your body like armor.

District 8’s stylists had worked you into something stark and hauntingly beautiful — a dress made entirely of thread. Fine lines of black, silver, and deep plum wound tightly around your frame, as though you’d been sewn together by the very fabric of your district. 

The skirt trailed behind you in curling stitches, unraveling and reforming with every step, a visual metaphor for resilience. Your bodice was structured like a corset —though it was amusing considering both your and Woof’s outfit were your own design your stylist borrowed. 

Your hair was swept up into a loose bun, tendrils left to fall and frame your face in soft waves. Silver pins shaped like needles sparkled subtly in the Capitol lighting. Your makeup was more subdued — matte lips the color of dried blood in your opinion, and makeup around the eyes lined with a metallic powder. 

You smoothed your skirt with a quiet exhale, not from nerves, but from weariness. The Capitol made everything feel louder, heavier. But you’d been through this before. You knew how to hold yourself without becoming something else.

A familiar voice broke the hum of prep around you.

“Well, well. Look at you.”

You turned, lips tugging into a smile as Finnick sauntered over in his absurd sea-green netting and too-confident smirk. Though you knew it was all pretend—expect for that fond look in his eye that he saved for his true friends.

“I thought they were supposed to make me the pretty one tonight,” he teased, giving you a slow once-over.

You blinked at him, unimpressed. “You look like the garnish on a seafood platter.”

He laughed — loud, bright — and leaned in to bump your shoulder with his. “Good. Then they’ll never see me coming.”

You gave a soft hum, smiling now as he settled beside you. Finnick never stayed still, always pacing or fidgeting. But next to you, he stilled — if only for a few breaths.

“You nervous?” he asked, tone lighter now, but still careful.

You shook your head. “Not for me.”

He nodded, glancing down the hall where all the other tributes laid: older and younger, and the newest additions at the very end of the line. “Yeah,” he said, quieter. “Me neither.”

You reached up, gently adjusting one of the messy strands of hair that fell across his forehead. “Don’t show off too much tonight,” you murmured.

“I make no promises,” he grinned. “But I’ll try — for you.”

You shook your head fondly your heart aching knowing that he, like many here, are hating the fact they they all had to be there agin. Then the horns blared, signaling the parade to begin. 

Taking Woof’s hand, you stepped up into the chariot, and waited to get this over with.

 · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

After the parade was finished you told Woof you’ll catch up with him later on, your heels clicked softly against the floors. You didn’t glance around — not yet. Your eyes found Haymitch immediately, though you pretended they didn’t. They always found him.

Your heart pounded as it had the first time you saw him. And ever time after.

He stood with Katniss and Peeta near the elevators, arms crossed, his usual grim scowl in place. Though he seemed to be talking with him, almost amused.

You kept your pace measured as you walked toward them. Your heart kicked at the sight of him, at the way his eyes swept over you quickly — worried, relieved, proud — before he looked away like it hurt to look too long.

“Smooth ride?” he asked, voice dry.

You nodded. “Crowd still loves a tragedy. All their favorites are in the ring,”

“You’d know,” he said. But there was a faint curl to his lip. Almost a smile. “Though not all their favorites. I’m not in,” he said.

That had earned him an unamused eyebrow raise, “Well unfortunately for you, Abernathy, you haven’t been a capital favorite in a long time. Especially now wi the these two,” 

Katniss’s eyes lit up when she saw you properly, as if the weight on her shoulders lifted for a second. Though it was quickly replaced with that familiar stoic gleam in her eye. The reality that you too, were back in the games.

“Y/N!” she breathed.

You gave her a nod, eyes warm. “Nice to see you again, Katniss. You looked good. Cinna did a great job,”

She laughed under her breath. “You looked terrifying.”

Peeta smiled too, softer. “We are glad to see you. It’ll be good to know someone here,”

You met his eyes reaching and giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Peeta was too good. Too sweet. And especially with his leg gone? These games for him especially would be almost impossible. “I wish I could say the same,” 

The elevator opened then chimed open and you all stepped in. You stood beside Haymitch. You were careful not to brush against him even as your fingers ached to reach for his.

Silence stretched. Capitol gold and steel blurred past the glass walls.

Then the elevator chimed — twelfth floor.

The doors slid open.

You waited until the kids stepped out and headed to their rooms to change before they ate.

“Y/N,” Haymitch started, the moment the two of you were alone. Well, as alone as you could be in those apartments. 

“I’ll find you later. But you know I can’t stay long,” your voice was quiet, but quick as your gaze met your love’s. His eyes, the same tired grey ones Katniss wore. And his messy scruffy dark hair that Effie tried to tame.

How cruel the world was. With how much it look from your Haymitch. And how cruel it was that it just continued to take from him. His friends. His family. You. 

“Nothing changes,”

“Plans change.”

“Do they?” Your eyes, usually so soft, timid were fierce like they had been so long ago. Before the burn out of the games. Before the toll of the losses started to take that light from you one year at a time. 

There was something in your voice that made him turn. His eyes were sharper now, clearer than anyone ever gave him credit for.

“You talk like you’re not part of this.”

You gave him a long look. “I’m not the one that matters in this right now, Hay.”

He flinched. Barely. But you saw it.

“Don’t start,” he muttered.

You stayed quiet for a moment, watching a hovercraft drift past in the distance. Its lights cast brief shadows across your face.

“I know the rules,” you said finally, your voice low, but steady. “I know how this game is played. Who the sponsors will favor. Who else is watching.”

He stared out at the city, jaw clenched. “Don’t make decisions for me.”

“I’m not,” you said gently. “I’m reminding you to make the right ones.”

“You are the right one.” The words escaped before he could stop them. Rough. Unfiltered. Careless.

You glanced around the room. Knowing that all over there are most likely cameras and bugged wires placed and hidden all over. Your eyes fell back to him, and raised your brow slightly, a silent careful.

He let out a breath and shifted, eyes on the horizon now. “There’s a plan,” he said, voice more careful. “A way to keep certain… valuable pieces on the board. To ensure the games win,”

“I know,” you said. “I know the pieces. I don’t need to know all your strategies to know the goal is to win,”

He turned to you, eyes searching. “You’re not just a piece.”

You gave him a small smile. A sad smile that broke his heart. “But I know where I sit on the board.”

Silence stretched again. Not cold — just full of things neither of you could say.

Then, softly:

“They’re good kids,” you murmured, hands tightening on the railing. “Kind. Brave. The kind of good that’s hard to find now. But they’re also incredibly important,”

He nodded once.

“You make sure they win and get out of there,” you said. “You do whatever you have to do.”

“I’d rather not have to choose,” he replied, quiet.

“You won’t have to,” you said, finally looking at him again. “I already did.”

[sleo00]

CRAZY LITTLE THING CALLED LOVE [H.A.]

pairing: haymitch abernathy x d4!fem!reader

word count: 3.5k

content warnings/contains: angst, fluff, typical hunger games stuff, talks of violence, death and injuries, cursing, they both have a drinking problem, flashbacks, slight spoilers for sunrise on the reaping, lenore dove isn't mentioned you can decide if she exists or not but she was never with haymitch for the sake of this fic, use of y/n, probably mischaracterizing the characters (i tried), snow and the capitol are a warning in itself

requested: yes

a/n: i don't think i can write any short haymitch stories. i made reader a district 4 tribute for the quarter quell, so she basically replaces mags. i love mags but this way she's safe and not in the arena and that makes me feel better. anyway, to the requester: thank you for trusting me with your idea and i hope you like it!

link to masterlist

Once – a long time ago – you had actually believed that winning the hunger games was an honour. Something to be celebrated. In District 4, you were automatically named a Career if you happened to get reaped – the tributes with the most training. The ones with the sponsors and the gifts. The Capitol’s favourites. Once upon a time you believed that was an advantage.

Everyone knew it. Careers were the ones with the highest chance at winning.

Correction: Surviving.

Survival. Only when you first witnessed the infamous bloodbath right before your own very eyes, not on a screen at home – did you realize this wasn’t a game. This wasn’t entertainment. This was nothing more than survival. At least for the tributes. Because as soon as the gong announced the start of the hunger games, there was nothing but life and death.

Either you survived or you died. Simple as that.

And if you didn’t take the path the gamemakers deemed fit for you, they made sure you would. Either with a sudden natural catastrophe like an earthquake, a flood or the sudden eruption of a volcano. Or with mutts. Mutts could range from innocent looking bugs programmed to kill you, to outright nightmarish beasts that hunted you down until they got their fangs or claws in your flesh, ripping it apart.

For the 52nd hunger games, you were told you were at an advantage as a career, a young and fresh 17-year-old tribute. And apparently a beauty, at that. That’s what your stylist had told you, at least. And Flickerman, during your interview. Only your mentor, Mags – possibly the sweetest soul you’d ever encountered – had showed you that the only advantage you really had was your previous training. And that even that wouldn’t necessarily count for anything. That if you made one wrong move, the gamemakers would be fast to send whatever they could after you.

She never tried to destroy your hope at surviving the games. But she made sure you went into the arena with a realistic mindset and not some kind of delusion of superiority. And despite assuring both her and yourself that you were well aware of what this would be, that you did look at this with realistic optimism, nothing could have prepared you for the real arena.

When the little platform you stood on rose above the ground, you were met with wasteland. Dry with giant rocks that towered into the artificial sky. Some small hills and others bordering on mountains. Like a Canyon, almost. The only smudge of green were the trees that grew on the very top of said mountains. No water in sight. No rivers and no lakes. Nothing.

Before you were able to think more about your rather unfortunate surroundings, the gong sounded and everyone bolted for the Cornucopia. It was supposed to be camouflaged, made to look like just another rock in the arena. But the extravagance of the Capitol certainly shined through, making it stick out like a sore thumb.

Mags had been clear. Do not run straight for the Cornucopia. It’s a death sentence. Find food and water elsewhere.

Well, considering your arena consisted of wasteland, you feared you had no other choice.

You had barely made it out alive of the bloodbath back then. You’d never forget how you witnessed someone get brutally murdered right in front of you for the first time. A girl – from District 7, you think – was just about to go at you with a knife, when the next thing you saw was blood.

So much blood.

The girl had dropped dead in front of you, her throat and neck practically torn to shreds by the trident of your District partner.

And after having grabbed an axe for yourself, you’d barely dodged another hit, the blade of the sword missing you by mere inches. And in your desperate need to survive – just like anyone else – you’d swung your axe.

You’d always thought you could avoid killing anyone. At least for a few days. In the end you barely lasted three minutes until your count rose to one. And unfortunately, it didn’t stay that way.

As you had sat on the couch in the Capitol apartments for District 4, the memories just wouldn’t stop. In the past 23 years, you had tried everything to just forget. Or to at least move on. Even in the slightest. And you had been doing a pretty good job, actually.

Capitol visits had grown few and far between, you only got called in as mentor every few years and you finally slept through the night again. At least most nights.

But of course, it wouldn’t stay that way.

The third Quarter Quell announcement. You had watched it. An exception. Normally, you didn’t even think about it unless you were once again directly involved in the currents years games.

“As a reminder that even the strongest cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, on this 3rd Quarter Quell Games, the male and female tributes are to be reaped from the existing pool of Victors in each District.”

You didn’t even listen further than that.

Just when everything seemed to fall into place somewhat, this had to happen. You weren’t completely unaware of what had been happening. You knew it was his tributes that moved Snow to do this. Two victors in one year. That was something that had never happened before. And you were certain that Snow wasn’t pleased. The Quarter Quell announcement just proved you right.

The reaping day followed. It had been a fever dream, like an out-of-body experience.

Girls were always first. Guilt had crept up inside of you, but you knew you weren’t the only one that hoped that any other name was called and not their own.

Who would want to voluntarily go back into that hellhole?

The first name was called.

Annie Cresta.

Why her? Anyone but her. The girl was smart and definitely not weak, but you knew she wouldn’t make it through the games a second time. The first time had left her in shambles.

So before you could think any further, you volunteered. Recalling that earlier statement, you did.

And when Finnick’s name was called right after, you were glad that you did. It wouldn’t have sat right with you to have to watch both Annie and Finnick in that arena – where only one could make it out alive – if you could’ve done anything about it.

The days before the games, you had avoided him like the plague. Just like you always did on the rare occasion that you both were simultaneously in the Capitol. On the training grounds, you made sure you were on opposite ends of the centre. During the interviews, you didn’t even dare to look at him. Oh, but how you wanted to.

More than once you’d thought about approaching him, grabbing onto his sleeve and dragging him into the nearest corner to just hear his voice in your ears once more. To finally look at him in person again. And not from a safe distance where he couldn’t see you across the room. You wanted to fall into his arms and tell Snow to properly fuck off and leave you alone.

But the conversation you’d had with the President years ago crawled up your throat every time you even thought about it and suffocated you, stopping any further thought.

You ascended the marble stairs with shaky legs. You had never been the type of person to be easily intimidated or scared. But when President Snow himself requested your presence in his office, now that was never a good sign.

Either he finally found a good way to put you to good use, or he discovered information that he would now use against you. You already feared it was the latter. How stupid could you have been? Of course he would figure it out.

One of the peacekeepers flanking his office opened the heavy wooden door, letting you pass through before shutting it again with a heavy thud. The way it fell shut with a creak felt mocking to you. As if everything in this room and outside it knew that your fate was sealed and laughed at you for your stupidity.

And there he sat, in all his glory. In a blood-red suit, white hair a strong contrast as he leaned back in the chair behind his desk.

“Miss L/N, please, take a seat.” he gestured to the chair on the opposite side of his desk, waiting patiently until you sat down. “A lovely evening, is it not?”

“You requested my presence, President?” your answer was short, monotone. Straight to the case. You knew his attempt at small talk would just be an attempt at lulling you into false security.

“Ah, cutting straight to the point, I see. Well then, let’s not waste any time, shall we?” he cleared his throat before continuing.

“It has come to my attention that you and a fellow victor have grown quite… close.” he paused. An intentional move to let the realization sink in. So he could watch how fear overtook your body.

Yet you kept your guard up. You wouldn’t let him see that you were afraid. He didn’t deserve that satisfaction.

“I’m not sure I’m following.”

He chuckled lowly, quietly. A shake of his head before his stare hardened.

“Do not try and fool me, girl. We are both very well aware of what I’m talking about. Now, I want you to listen carefully. You have family, am I correct? A mother, father. Now, I’m sure they wouldn’t be too pleased to discover that their daughter has been meddling with a measly victor from District 12. Especially if they had guns to their head while they were told, am I right?”

You swallowed thickly. There it was. Threats. And you knew they weren’t empty.

“No, President.”

“Then you know what to do.” a small cough. “Leave me now.”

You had never been able to explain why you suddenly didn’t talk to him anymore. Why you evaded him as if he was the devil himself, coming to take you and drag you into damnation. You couldn’t bring yourself to. Too afraid of what would happen if Snow even caught wind of you being near him.

And you hated it. Gods, you hated it. You wanted nothing more than to drop to your knees at his feet and beg for forgiveness. He had been your only hope after the games. Like any victor, you had returned as a shell of who you once were. And in him, just as broken as you, if not more, you found something worth living for. Something to hold on to.

Once, he had been all you needed. You had needed him like you needed oxygen. Everything seemed to be alright whenever he was with you.

Now, hearing his name – Haymitch Abernathy – only caused guilt and pain.

You heard beeping. Steady. A heart monitor.

When you opened your eyes, you were met with the view of a white ceiling. And white walls. Everything was white. A hospital room, that much was obvious. A spark of panic surged through you. Were you back in the Capitol? Nursed back to health so they could destroy you all over again?

As the beeping of the heart monitor fastened in pace, a nurse came rushing in. She placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, a calming gesture.

“Everything is alright, Y/N. You are not in the arena anymore. They got you out.”

Huh?

“They?” you croaked, throat dry from the lack of water.

“You are in District 13. The plan succeeded. You are safe now.”

The plan? What pl- oh. That plan.

Finnick had told you about it the night before the games. Plutarch and Haymitch’s plan to destroy the arena. To get Katniss out and continue the rebellion. To finally end this hell that was the hunger games. An interesting combination, you had thought. But you had to admit they were smart. Both of them.

Haymitch had tasked Finnick with informing you about the plan. Of course he did. And obviously, you went along with it. You trusted Haymitch. And he seemed to know you still did.

Finnick had given you a second golden bracelet. Also from Haymitch. It was a symbol to show Katniss she could trust you. So she would also consider other allies, not only Beetee and Wiress. As you had looked down at the golden bracelet, running your finger over it, you knew this wasn’t just for Katniss to trust you. It would’ve been more than enough for only Finnick to wear his bracelet. Districts tended to stick together.

He had given this to you as a message. As if to make you aware of his still existing presence. As if you’d ever forgotten it.

Taking a few good gulps of the water the nurse handed to you, it all slowly came back to you. The arena. A smart design this year. A clock, divided into twelve sections. A masterpiece of symbolism, if you will. Thick rain forests, poison fog, some weird monkeys, jabberjays, blood rain. They really went all out.

The lightning bolt. The tree. An explosion, and then – darkness.

And now here you were. Battered and tired in a hospital bed. In District 13.

“The others, are they okay?” you asked then.

“They managed to get almost everyone out. At least everyone that was still alive. But the Capitol got ahold of two of them.”

“Who?”

“Peeta Mellark. And Johanna Mason, I think.”

Shit. Peeta. You had seen firsthand in the arena what close bond the two District 12 victors shared. And that their supposed feelings for each other certainly weren’t just for show, as much as Katniss had tried to pretend they were. You didn’t even want to know how Katniss must have reacted to Peeta now being imprisoned in the Capitol.

And Johanna for sure didn’t deserve this either. Sure, she was smart-mouthed, always spewing insults and remarks left and right, antagonizing the Capitol on more than one occasion. But she was strong. And she just wanted all of this to be over as much as anyone else.

“And Finnick?”

“Still in the infirmary wing, but he is fine.”

You sighed in relief. Good.

You’d promised Annie to get him back home to her. You would.

After a few more tests, the nurse urged you to rest some more. Though you were reluctant, keeping your eyes open any longer proved to be almost impossible. After days of constantly living in survival mode your body needed rest.

“Here, try this. Only decent liquor they got in this shithole.” he slumped down next to you on the couch after handing you a bottle of alcohol. Judging by the poisonous colour of the liquid and the flames on the label – typical Capitol extravagance – you assumed it really must have bordered on poison.

“No glasses? Guess you guys from 12 really don’t have any manners, hm?” you teased, as if you hadn’t spent every possible moment with him the past year. Which frankly, wasn’t much. But it was enough.

You opened the bottle with one sharp turn of the lid.

Haymitch only shrugged in response, a lazy smile forming on his lips. “Oh c’mon love, you know I’m the most chivalrous person out there.”

You snorted out a laugh in response, lifting the bottle to take a sniff, recoiling right after.

“Hell, what is that? Is that supposed to be drinkable?”

“Don’t know. But it stood next to the glasses, so it must be, no?”

You two passed the bottle back and forth as you hid out in one of the backrooms of the Capitol’s gala ballroom, talking about everything and anything.

You’d both been afraid of what was brewing between you two at the start. Both afraid that something could happen to each other if someone even as much as suspected. Especially Haymitch. He’d caused ruckus in the arena back then. 50th hunger games, second Quarter Quell. Double the tributes.

And said ruckus had led him to not only tragically lose all his companions in the arena, but also his family. His mother and his younger brother, deceased in an “accidental” house fire. It had taken a while, but he’d confided in you one night after one too many drinks. He told you everything.

The next time you woke up, you were calmer.

You dreamed of that memory often. Despite having been hidden away and it not taking much to get caught, it was possibly one of the happiest memories you’d had since the games.

You two had laughed that night, tipsy from that godawful alcoholic beverage he’d smuggled with him. You’d talked, about your dreams and hopes. What you’d do if all of this would ever be over. You had come to an agreement. He’d come with you to District 4, where you’d get a little house by the beach. Calm and quiet. Peaceful. Just what you both needed.

And when he had pushed you down on that couch and kissed you like his life depended on it, you’d believed it. Both of you had.

Later that day, you got dismissed from the infirmary, free to do whatever. You’d been given one of those grey jumpsuits, like everyone wore here in District 13. Despite being promised safety and freedom, this felt awfully like a prison all over again. Just different.

You were just walking down the hallway you were told led to the mess hall when you an all-too-familiar voice called out from behind you.

“Y/N?”

You froze, all the air escaping your lungs. You should’ve known you wouldn’t be able to avoid him forever. You felt all the guilt, the pain. It washed over you like stormy waves on the shore. It consumed you.

You didn’t turn around at first, too afraid of facing him. Too scared to discover what emotion his face would hold as he gazed upon you. Would it be hate, for leaving him without an explanation? Or sadness, which would only worsen your guilt further?

You were so caught up in your own spiralling thoughts that you only snapped back to reality when a gentle hand settled over your shoulder. You wanted to flinch, shove it away and escape down the hallway as fast as you could. No matter where, just away from the confrontation you’d been trying to avoid for the past two decades.

But you also wanted to revel in the touch, turn around and pull him into your arms. You wanted to cry, beg for forgiveness and hope that he didn’t hate you half as much as you suspected him to do over the years.

With a shaky breath, you tilted your head enough to meet his eyes. God, how you’d missed looking into those eyes. They always reminded you of the ocean, of home.

He looked older. Obviously. A short beard adorning his face. His blond hair wasn’t as curly as back then. It was straight. And longer, reaching just to the nape of his neck from where it protruded from the black beanie he was wearing.

The two halves of your brain were screaming at each other once more, arguing about what to do. Shove him away and run? Pull him in and not let go?

Despite the fear and guilt consuming you, your body decided on the latter.

You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his neck. It seemed to stun him for a second, and you were afraid he’d push you away, ask you who you thought you even were. But the tension faded just as quickly as it came before you felt his arms wrapping themselves around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer to him. He needed this just as much as you.

For the last two decades, all he’d wanted was a moment like this. He wasn’t stupid. He already suspected that Snow had talked to you back then. Threatened you. He knew it better than anyone. He wasn’t angry at you. It had hurt at the start, yes. But he knew you didn’t do it because you didn’t want him. You did it to protect whoever Snow had threatened you with.

“I’m sorry.” you whispered into his neck, tears welling up in your eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

One of his hands ran soothingly over your back. Up and down in a comforting gesture.

“I know.”

I know. Those two words had more than one meaning in that moment. He knew you were sorry, that you felt guilty about leaving him without explanation. He knew why you did it. That it was Snow who’d pressured you into ignoring the only good thing in your life.

He knew.

And with you two standing in the middle of the deserted hallway, wrapped tightly in each other’s arms, both of you knew it would be okay. Sometime. Somehow.

song: crazy little thing called love - queen

[floatyflowers]

Dark Young Mentor! Haymitch x Weak! Reader

You are going to die.

Haymitch Abernathy knows this with the same certainty he knows the sun will rise over the slag heaps back home, that the Capitol will keep taking children, that the nightmares will never stop.

He has known it since the moment you stumbled off the train, small, sickly, coughing from the coal dust that seems permanently lodged in your lungs. Seam through and through, with that underfed look that marks your people like a brand.

You are seventeen. Same age he was, two years ago, when he crawled out of that arena covered in other children's blood.

"Stop," he says flatly, watching you attempt to throw a knife at the training dummy for the fifteenth time. It clatters to the ground three feet short of the target.

You flinch at his voice. You always flinch. That's the problem. You flinch at everything. The loud noises, the Career tributes' laughter, the Avoxes who move too quietly.

You will flinch yourself right into an early grave the moment that gong sounds.

"I'm trying," you say, and your voice comes out thin, reedy. Pathetic.

"You're failing." Haymitch pushes off the wall where he's been leaning, crossing the training room floor with the kind of deliberate stride he learned to affect in the Capitol. Confidence. Predator, not prey.

"Pick it up."

You bend to retrieve the knife, and he watches you. Really watches you, the way he's been watching you for three days now, the way your hands tremble, the way you catalogue every exit, and the way you make yourself small, invisible, a nothing-girl that no one will remember.

There.

That's it. That's the thing he's been looking for.

"You're not going to win by fighting," he says.

You look up at him with those dark Seam eyes, and something flickers there. Not hope, you're not stupid enough for hope, but attention.

"Then how?"

Haymitch crouches down to your level, close enough that you can't look away. This near, he can see the shadows under your eyes, the way your collarbones jut too sharply beneath your training shirt.

You smell like the soap they give tributes, artificial flowers trying to cover the scent of fear.

"You're going to win by not being worth killing."

➶𓅪➶

The interview is a disaster.

You sit beside him in the elevator afterward, silent, your ridiculous Capitol dress pooling around your feet like spilled blood.

Caesar Flickerman had tried. He always tries. But you gave him nothing. Monosyllables. Downcast eyes. The audience has already forgotten you by the time you walked offstage.

"That was the point," Haymitch says, when the doors close.

You look at him. "What?"

"They don't remember you. Good." He jabs the button for the twelfth floor harder than necessary.

"The Careers are already making lists. Deciding who to hunt first, who's a threat, who'll make good entertainment for the sponsors. You know where you are on that list?"

"Nowhere," you whisper.

"Nowhere." He turns to face you fully. "You're nothing to them. A footnote. Someone who'll probably die in the bloodbath without anyone having to lift a finger. They're not going to waste time tracking you through the arena when there are bigger targets."

The elevator hums around you both, while you're quiet for a long moment.

"You think I can't win."

It isn't a question. Haymitch studies your face, searching for the crack in your composure, the moment you'll break.

But you just stand there, small and trembling and so goddamn fragile, looking at him like you're already dead and just waiting for your body to catch up.

"I think you can't win the way they expect," he says finally. "So we're not going to play their game."

➶𓅪➶

He spends every night of the remaining prep time in your quarters.

Not like that. He isn't that kind of monster, despite what the Capitol has tried to make him. But he sits in the chair by your window and talks. Strategy. Survival.

Every dirty trick he learned in his own Games, a sponsor manipulation tactic, and a way to find water and every plant that will kill instead of cure.

You absorb it all with a quiet intensity that surprises him. You don't complain, and don't cry, you just listen, those eyes fixed on his face like he's the only solid thing in a world gone liquid.

"You're not sleeping," you say, on the third night.

Haymitch pauses mid-sentence. "Neither are you."

"I asked first."

Something twitches at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. He doesn't smile anymore, not really. But close. "Dreams," he says shortly. "Comes with the territory. You'll understand, if you make it out."

When, he thinks, and the fierceness of it surprises him. When you make it out.

You're quiet for a moment. Then speak.

"Will you be there? When I come back?"

The question hits him somewhere soft, somewhere he thought the arena had burned out of him entirely. He looks at you, this small, weak, impossibly stubborn girl, and feels something shift in his chest.

"Yeah," he says roughly. "I'll be there."

➶𓅪➶

The morning of the Games, Marcus finds you in the launch room.

Your boy. The other tribute from Twelve. He's tall and broad-shouldered, with the kind of quiet strength that comes from years in the mines. You've loved him since you were fourteen, sneaking kisses behind the slag heaps, dreaming about a future you'll never have.

He pulls you into his arms, and Haymitch watches from the doorway, something ugly twisting in his gut.

"Stay hidden," Marcus murmurs against your hair. "Promise me. No matter what happens, you stay hidden."

"I promise," you whisper back.

"I will find you. When it's safe, I will find you, and we'll figure it out together."

Haymitch clears his throat. "It's time."

Marcus pulls back, cups your face in his hands, and kisses you. Soft and desperate and full of everything he can't say. Then he's gone, escorted to his own launch room, and you're left standing there with tears streaming down your face.

You don't see the way Haymitch's hands clench at his sides, and you don't see the calculation behind his eyes, the cold arithmetic of survival already spinning in his mind.

Two tributes. One mentor. Not enough sponsor money for both.

He's already made his choice.

➶𓅪➶

The arena that year is a flooded cityscape. Crumbling buildings rising from black water, bridges that collapse without warning, things moving beneath the surface that the Gamemakers have engineered to ensure the entertainment never stops.

Haymitch watches from the mentor's booth, hands white-knuckled on the edge of his console, as the countdown begins.

You run. Not toward the Cornucopia, where the Careers are already converging in a clash of steel and screams, but away. Into the maze of half-drowned streets, disappearing into the shadows like you've been doing it your whole life.

Marcus runs too, but toward the Cornucopia. Toward the weapons.

He snags a knife and a pack before the Careers notice him, then vanishes into the ruins on the opposite side of the arena.

Smart, Haymitch thinks. Both of you.

The bloodbath claims nine tributes in the first hour. Neither of you are among them.

He finds you on the screens, a small figure huddled in the upper floors of a tilting apartment building, shivering in your wet clothes, and something in his chest loosens just slightly.

➶𓅪➶

Day three.

A sponsor approaches Haymitch at the viewing party. One of the wealthy Capitol elite, dripping in jewels and synthetic skin, eager to play patron to a tribute who might actually survive.

"The boy from Twelve," she purrs. "He's quite impressive. That fight with the tribute from Nine was brutal. I would like to send him something. A weapon, perhaps. Good steel."

Haymitch's mind races. A weapon for Marcus would give him a real chance against the Careers. He's strong, capable, knows how to fight. With proper equipment, he could make it to the finale.

But the sponsor money is limited. Every gift is a choice. Every choice means someone else doesn't get one.

He thinks of you, shivering in your hiding spot, rationing your water, flinching at every sound. He thinks of the thermal blanket you need, the water purification tablets that could save your life when the Gamemakers inevitably poison the supply.

He thinks of the way you looked at him in the elevator. The way you asked if he would be there when you came back.

"The girl," Haymitch says. "Put your money on the girl."

The sponsor frowns. "The girl? She hasn't done anything. She just hides."

"Exactly." He leans in, letting his voice drop to a conspiratorial murmur. "The Careers aren't hunting her. They don't even remember she exists. And when they've finished killing each other, she'll still be there. Waiting."

It takes an hour of charm and manipulation. Skills he learned at Snow's parties, bought with pieces of his soul. But he walks away with enough sponsor money for three gifts.

All for you.

➶𓅪➶

Day four.

You're watching from your hiding spot when the Careers find Marcus.

Haymitch watches you watching, sees the moment your hand flies to your mouth, the moment your whole body goes rigid with horror.

On another screen, Marcus is fighting. Three against one, hopeless odds, but he doesn't give up. He takes one of them down before the girl from One opens his throat with her sword.

The cannon fires.

You just sit there, frozen, while the light fades from his eyes on the screen a hundred feet away.

Haymitch closes his eyes and tells himself it was necessary.

And the days blur together.

You don't fight, because you hide as you creep through the ruins like a ghost, drinking rainwater collected in broken gutters, surviving on the gifts Haymitch sends you. The thermal blanket. The water purification tablets. The burn cream when you barely escape a fire.

Each gift is a message: I'm watching. I'm here. Keep going.

You receive each one with hollow eyes, going through the motions of survival without any of the spark you'd had before. Marcus's death has gutted you.

Meanwhile you move like a sleepwalker, like someone who's already decided they're going to die and is just waiting for the formality.

As you mentor watches, and worries, and waits.

➶𓅪➶

On day nine, you kill someone.

The boy from Seven tracks you to your hiding spot. He's bigger than you. Stronger. You don't stand a chance.

But when his hands close around your throat, something shifts in your eyes. Some spark of desperate, animal survival that refuses to go quietly.

You drive the fish hook into his eye.

The cannon fires, and you collapse beside his body, sobbing. But you're alive.

Haymitch sits on the floor of the mentor's booth, shaking, and listens to you cry a hundred miles away. He tells himself it was worth it. That this is what survival costs.

He almost believes it.

➶𓅪➶

By day twelve, only four tributes remain.

You, the boy from Two, the girl from One, and the boy from Four. The Careers have fractured, turning on each other as the finale approaches, but they're all still deadlier than you could ever hope to be.

The Gamemakers drive everyone toward the center. The half-collapsed stadium rising from the water like a broken crown.

Haymitch watches you limp toward it, one hand pressed to your side where you took a knife wound two days before. The sponsors have gone silent. Everyone knows how this will end.

Everyone except Haymitch.

➶𓅪➶

The finale is a mess of blood and steel and screaming.

The Careers fight each other first. You hide in the shadows, and for one wild moment, Haymitch thinks you might make it.

Then the boy from Four sees you.

He's massive, wielding a trident like an extension of his arm. You have a knife and a fish hook and a body that's failing you.

You don't run.

For the first time in the entire Games, you don't run. You stand there, swaying, and wait.

The boy from Four lunges.

You drop.

Not a flinch. A deliberate, calculated fall. The trident passes through empty air. You drive the fish hook into his neck before he can recover.

The cannon fires.

Behind you, the boy from Two finishes off the girl from One and turns, ready to claim his victory.

You look at the camera. Directly at Haymitch. And smile.

The building collapses.

➶𓅪➶

They pull you out of the rubble three hours later, more dead than alive.

Haymitch is there when they bring you in, shoving past Peacekeepers and Capitol officials. You're so small on the stretcher, so pale.

"She's alive," a medic says.

Haymitch's knees buckle.

He sits beside your bed for six days while they put you back together. When you wake, the first thing you say is his name.

"Haymitch."

"I told you," he says roughly. "I would be there."

You reach for his hand. Your grip is weak, but certain.

"Don't leave."

"I'm not going anywhere.

Six months later.

The Victory Tour is over, and the cameras are gone. District Twelve has settled back into its gray routine, and two victors rattle around in houses that stood empty for so long.

You find him on his porch at three in the morning, a bottle in his hand. The first you've seen him touch in weeks.

"Haymitch."

He doesn't look up. "Go back to bed."

"No." You lower yourself onto the step beside him. "What happened?"

For a long moment, silence. Then he lifts the bottle, drinks, and laughs. Hollow, broken.

"Anniversary," he says. "Two years ago today."

You wait.

"My mother. My brother. My girl." The words come out flat, rehearsed. "Snow killed them. Two weeks after my Games. Because I used that forcefield trick. Made him look like a fool. So he took everyone I loved."

The cold seeps into your bones. You had heard rumors. But hearing him say it.

"Haymitch, I'm so sorry."

"Don't." He turns to look at you, eyes red-rimmed. "Don't be sorry. Be smart. Because that's what happens when you win. When you matter to someone."

You reach for his hand. He pulls away.

"I told myself I wouldn't do this. Wouldn't let anyone get close again." He stops, jaw working. "But I couldn't help it. Not with you."

"What are you saying?"

"I love you." He says it like a confession. Like a curse.

"I've loved you since you looked at that camera and smiled at me like you trusted me to understand. I know it's wrong that I was your mentor, I'm supposed to protect you. But I can't stop."

Your breath catches.

"And I know I shouldn't feel this way. Every day I tell myself to pull back, and every day you're the first thing I think about when I wake up."

"Stop."

The word comes out sharper than you intend. You see him flinch, see the hope in his eyes die.

"I can't," you say, and your voice breaks. "Haymitch, I can't."

"Because of what I am?"

"Because of Marcus."

The name hangs between you. Your boyfriend. Dead on day four while you hid and listened to him scream.

"I watched him die," you whisper. "I couldn't do anything. I just hid there and I didn't do anything."

"Stop." He uses the same word you used but with a tight voice.

"And I can't love anyone else when I'm the reason he's dead."

"You're not."

Something in his tone makes you pause. You look at him. Really look. And see something unfamiliar in his face. Something like guilt.

"What?"

"You're not the reason he's dead." Haymitch sets the bottle down carefully. His hands are shaking. "I am."

The world goes quiet.

"What are you talking about?"

"The sponsors. Day three." He won't meet your eyes. "Someone wanted to send him a weapon. Good steel. Enough to give him a fighting chance. I talked them out of it."

You can't breathe.

"I redirected the funds to you instead. The thermal blanket. The tablets." His voice is steady now, horribly steady. "Every gift you got, I bought with his life."

"No."

"I made a choice. Him or you." He finally looks at you. "I chose you."

"No!"

You're on your feet, backing away. Marcus. Your Marcus. Who had promised you would figure it out together, yet died screaming while you hid.

"You killed him."

"I let him die. There's a difference."

"There's no difference! He trusted you! I trusted you!"

"And that trust kept you alive!" He stands, and there's something terrible in his face.

"You think I wanted this? I made an impossible choice, and I chose the person I could save!"

"You don't get to decide that!"

"That's exactly what a mentor does!" His voice cracks. "We decide who gets the medicine and who bleeds out. Every gift is a choice, and every choice means someone else doesn't get one."

Tears stream down your face. "Why him? Why not me?"

Haymitch stops. The anger drains out of him.

"Because I saw you," he says quietly. "That first day. You flinched at everything, couldn't hold a knife, had no chance. And I thought she's going to die. Like all the others."

He takes a step closer. You don't move.

"But then I kept watching, I saw you practice with that fish hook until your fingers bled. Not because you thought you'd win, but because you refused to go down easy."

His hand hovers near your face, not quite touching.

"Marcus was strong. But he would've fought fair, and fair fighters die. You." His voice drops. "You were a survivor. And I couldn't let that go to waste."

"So you sacrificed him. For me."

"Yes."

"And you never told me. You let me blame myself."

"Because you needed to grieve. And because." He hesitates. "Because I knew you would never forgive me. And I couldn't lose you too."

You stare at him. This broken young man who murdered your first love to save your life. Who kept the secret while you drowned in guilt. Who stands before you now with his sins laid bare.

You should hate him. You want to hate him.

"You're a monster," you whisper.

"Yes."

"You killed the boy I loved."

"Yes."

"And you think I will just forgive you? Fall into your arms?"

Haymitch shakes his head. "No. I think you'll hate me forever, and I'll deserve it." He meets your eyes.

"But I would do it again. A thousand times. Because you're alive. That's the only equation that matters to me."

You hit him.

Your fist connects with his chest. You hit him again, and again, and he just stands there.

Then you're crying, great heaving sobs, and somehow his arms are around you and you're clinging to him like he's the only solid thing left.

"I hate you," you gasp.

"I know."

"I'll never forgive you."

"I know."

"Don't ever leave me."

His arms tighten. "I won't."

[ssweeterthanfiction]

hi !! I wanted to request maybe something for young haymitch where reader is his gf and is reaped along with him & how he’d react to that/treat her in the arena? love ur work 😊

ahhh u ask and you shall receive!! (disclaimer: NO SOTR SPOILERS!!! DIFFERENT EVENTS FROM THE ORIGINAL STORY!!)

The Three Times

young!haymitch abernathy x fem!reader content warnings: angst, normal hunger games warnings, descriptions of death (NO SUNRISE ON THE REAPING SPOILERS!!!) summary: the three times haymitch tried to keep you safe. wc: 1.6k

masterlist.

The First Time.

Haymitch isn’t afraid of the reaping.

Not because he thinks he’s safe, he’s not that stupid. His name is in there too many times, and if past games have taught him anything, it’s that the odds don’t favor poor kids from District 12.

He doesn’t fear it because fear won’t change a damn thing.

He stands in the square, jaw tight, arms crossed as the escort steps up to the microphone with their sickly sweet Capitol drawl. The sun beats down, dust rising with every shuffled step of the crowd. Haymitch barely listens, staring at a crack in the stage instead.

Then they say his name.

He exhales through his nose. It was bound to happen. He keeps his shoulders squared as he steps forward, ignoring the murmurs from the crowd. His mother gasps somewhere behind him. His little brother starts crying. Haymitch doesn’t turn around.

He won’t give them that. Won’t let them see him panic.

He climbs the stage, feet heavy, and keeps his face blank as he looks out at the crowd. It doesn’t matter. It’s done.

Then the escort reaches into the second bowl. Their manicured fingers pluck out a slip.

They unfold it slowly.

They read the name.

Haymitch’s stomach drops.

He must’ve heard it wrong. Must’ve misunderstood. But then he sees you, the way your whole body stiffens, the way your hands curl into fists.

You don’t move at first. The silence stretches too long.

His heart slams against his ribs.

This can’t be happening.

Not you.

You finally take a shaky step forward. The crowd parts for you, all those wide, pitying eyes. Haymitch hates them for it.

His whole body feels locked in place, stiff and wrong. He wants to run, to shove you back into the crowd and take your place.

He wants to tear through the square and shake every single person until someone does something.

You step onto the stage. The sun casts a glow over your face, and for a second, you almost don’t look real. You look too soft, too good for this place. For what’s about to happen.

Haymitch’s throat is dry. He knows what happens to people in the arena. He’s imagined his own death a hundred times over. It never scared him much before, not until now. Not until you.

You stand beside him, your breath coming in quick, uneven pulls.

Haymitch twitches, fingers flexing at his side. He wants to reach for you. Wants to lace his fingers through yours and promise that he’ll fix this. That he won’t let them take you. That he’ll find a way for you to make it out.

Instead, he just looks at you.

And you look back.

And in that single moment, nothing else exists. The cameras, the escort, the whole world, they all fade into white noise. All that’s left is the two of you, standing side by side on a stage that might as well be a graveyard.

His fingers brush against yours. Not enough for anyone to see. Just enough for you to feel it.

He couldn't protect you from the reaping.

But he could protect you from the arena.

Haymitch swallows hard. Then, finally, he speaks. Low enough for only you to hear.

"I won’t let them take you."

It’s a promise.

He knows, only one of you is getting out.

And if it comes down to it, it won’t be him.

The Second Time.

Haymitch runs.

The second the gong sounds, he doesn’t think, he just bolts to you, grabs your wrist and runs.

He doesn’t go for the Cornucopia. Not yet. That’s where tributes die first. Instead, grabs two stray packs and pulls you toward the tree line, shoving past another tribute before they can react. You stumble, but his grip tightens, dragging you with him.

The air is hot, thick with something wrong. The trees around you are too perfect, branches too symmetrical, leaves too still, the flowers too beautiful.

The whole place feels like a puppet stage, something stitched together by hands that never touched real earth.

You don’t stop running until your legs give out.

You collapse against a tree, gasping for breath, hands clutching at your knees. Haymitch crouches beside you, every muscle in his body tight, his ears straining for sounds of movement. Screams echo from the Cornucopia, first one, then two, then more.

You’re shaking. He can see it in your hands. He hates it. Not you, never you, but the fact that the Capitol has already won. They’ve already made you afraid.

He exhales sharply, schooling his face into something steady. Strong. You need him to be that.

“Gotta keep moving,” he says, voice low.

You look up at him, eyes wide, but you nod.

"Okay"

Good. That’s good.

He keeps you alive. That’s his only priority

****

You’re no killer, he knew that before, and it only becomes clearer the longer you’re in here. Haymitch doesn’t hold it against you. It’s not a weakness, it’s what makes you you. And if you can’t kill for yourself, he’ll do it for you.

He takes down a tribute the second night. A girl from District 4. She didn’t see him coming. He doesn’t let himself think about it—just focuses on the supplies in her bag, the water canteen, the knife.

Things that will keep you alive.

You don’t look at him the same way after that. Not in a bad way. Just…different.

Like you understand what this means.

Like you know he won’t stop.

Like you’re starting to wonder if he’s going to make it out at all.

****

You don’t get sponsors.

Haymitch does.

It pisses him off. It’s not a coincidence. He plays the part, the tragic lover, the desperate protector, the boy who would do anything to keep you alive. He knows the cameras are watching every time he presses his forehead to yours, every time he cups your face like you’re the last real thing in this whole damn world.

And the gifts come to him.

Not you.

And that’s how he knows.

They don’t care about you. They care about him.

They’ve already picked their Victor.

It makes him sick.

But maybe he can still keep you safe.

The Third Time

It happens on the seventh day.

The arena has been quiet. Too quiet.

Haymitch doesn’t trust it.

He’s on edge as you both walk through the forest, your fingers brushing his arm every now and then, like you’re making sure he’s still there.

He doesn’t blame you.

You haven’t slept. Neither has he.

You’re starving, weak. The sponsors haven’t sent anything in days. Haymitch knows why. He’s seen the writing on the wall since the first night.

They want a show.

And they’re about to get one.

The trap triggers so fast he doesn’t even have time to react.

One second, you're walking beside him. The next, you’re screaming.

A spear, thin as a needle, fast as lightning, shoots out of the ground and impales you through the stomach.

You choke. Stumble. Collapse to your knees.

Haymitch hears his own breath leave his lungs.

“No. No, no, no-”

He’s on you in an instant, hands scrambling to hold you up, but you’re already fading.

The wound is bad. Fatal. He knows it the second he looks at it. The spear is barbed, meant to cause maximum damage.

He grabs it, tries to pull it out-

But your hand covers his, weak, trembling.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

His stomach drops.

Your breathing is shallow, your fingers curling into his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you here. He sees the blood staining your lips, the life slipping from your eyes.

And there’s nothing he can do.

His hands shake as he cradles your face, pressing his forehead against yours.

“You’re okay,” he says, his voice breaking. “You’re okay, dove. Just hold on.”

You let out a weak laugh, barely a sound at all.

“Liar.”

His vision blurs.

This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.

He should have seen the trap. Should have stopped this.

He should've protected you.

Your fingers brush over his cheek, soft, loving. The way you’ve always touched him.

“You’re gonna win,” you whisper.

He shakes his head. “Not without you.”

You smile at him, but there’s something in your eyes that destroys him. A quiet kind of acceptance.

“I love you...always and forever” you say.

It shatters him.

He can’t do this. He can’t.

“No- don’t say it like that-” His voice cracks, desperate.

You just look at him. Memorizing him. Saying goodbye.

His throat closes.

His heart stops.

Your hand goes slack in his.

Your eyes flutter closed.

And then...

The cannon fires.

Haymitch makes a sound he doesn’t recognize. Something raw, something that sounds like it was ripped out of him.

You’re gone.

You’re gone.

And the worst part?

The cameras are still rolling.

The Capitol wanted this.

And now they have it.

After.

He wins.

Not because he wants to. Because he has to. Because that’s what you wanted.

He uses the arena against itself. The force field, the Capitol’s own arrogance. He beats them at their own game.

He goes home.

Alone.

They try to clean him up, paint him into something pretty for the cameras. He doesn’t let them.

They tell him he should be grateful.

They don’t understand.

There was never a victory. There was just you and then there wasn’t.

So he drinks.

And drinks.

And drinks.

Because that’s the only way to make it stop.

So now not only were you gone.

But so was Haymitch.

Because Haymitch was the boy who loved you.

And now, without you, that boy is dead, too.