[girls2gods]

hi! i love your writing so much. do you think you could make a oneshot with finnick x fem!reader during his games? maybe reader is injured or something and he helps her :)

thank you for the request <3 i haven’t had the chance to write a finnick fic in so long, so this was very fun to do. i centered his characterization on what i imagine him to have been like before his capitol persona was cemented, but i hope it doesn’t come off too ooc. let me know though!

Hold Me Without Hurting Me

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader

C/W’s: canon-typical violence, blood, death, vague foreshadowing of finnick’s post-games fate

The night gives way to a new morning, but Finnick keeps his back to the ocean. He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second, enough to offset his exhaustion and picture the kaleidoscopic sunrise across the water. It’s an imitation and nothing more, he tells himself. Still, he resists the urge to see for himself.

Mags stressed the importance of allies he could trust, and after Thetis died, Finnick knew One and Two could not be trusted. She wasn’t any better at hiding her envy over Finnick’s unending flow of sponsor gifts—it’s not like he wasn’t sharing—but she was from home. Merchant class, an eighteen-year-old volunteer, but home. Come hell or high water, she would’ve had to stick by him on principle alone.

Finnick can’t say the same of One and Two, whose only real principles are the honor and glory of the Games. Their alliance is as unpredictable as the waves lapping behind his back.

Is Mags disappointed that Finnick broke the alliance so soon? He hopes not. She must know—surely more than he does—that it was only a matter of time before he wound up on the receiving end of their mercilessness.

Fickle as their alliance may be, going at it alone is equally dangerous. Nearly a week into the Games, and twelve opponents remain. Twelve obstacles keeping Finnick further away from the chance to go home, and no one to watch his back. Not that Finnick is worried. He isn’t.

No one expected him to make it this far. He’s just a fourteen-year-old boy who lacks the accolades of his allies-turned-obstacles. Sure, the audience liked him during his interview. They laughed, and cheered, and latched onto the bait he dangled and everything. But did any of them really expect a young, pretty face like his to get his hands dirty? Slim as his chances seemed, they liked him—loved him—enough to make sure he never went without.

And Finnick hasn’t. He doesn’t go hungry, doesn’t grow thirsty, doesn’t even have to worry about a lack of weaponry. Lucky sponsor number thirteen ensured Finnick wouldn’t need to rely solely on boyish charm and battered fists. His trident, a beautiful sleek gold much brighter than any he’s used back in Four, is niftier than the sword he snatched back at the Cornucopia.

So, no, Finnick isn’t worried about the perceived danger of his solitude. He just wishes solitude weren’t so lonely.

Four is never this quiet or alone, even in the wee hours of the morning, when the only souls walking along the docks are those who work them. There is always noise, be it from the churning of machinery or the chatter of the community. There are always young ones running much too fast, skidding down concrete with the scolds of their elders following close behind. They’ll break a foot or a neck before they get where they’re going, is their universal argument. And what do they need to rush for? They have a lifetime.

The elders don’t understand what the young ones do: their lifetime only begins the day they turn nineteen. Or the day they win the Games. Whichever comes first for whomever among them is brave enough to see them through.

The elders have also never experienced the urgency of making it to Kai’s sweet stand before all the good taffy sells out. Especially on Sundays, which is when he sells them half-price for school-aged children. Finnick has to wake twice as early as he does on the days he sails with his father, living near the docks and miles away from Kai’s stand. Sundays are meant to be a day of rest, but he struggles to sleep in anyway, so it isn’t much of a sacrifice. And it’s always worth the smiles on his older cousins’ faces when he returns with the largest stash of taffy known to man.

Finnick brings his knees up to his chest, eyeing the sponsor gifts he has stored inside his hand-made basket. No taffy, but he imagines his cousins would be equally dazed by the quantity of pastries and fruit and cheeses gifted to him.

They are dazed. He keeps forgetting his cousins are likely watching him at this exact moment. As is the rest of Panem. The thought of all those eyes on him, spiritually with him, should ease the loneliness. It only makes Finnick squeamish.

Without taking his attention off of the treeline, he reaches for the container of juice in his basket. It’s high time he has breakfast, and he could use a break from staring at nothing but palm trees.

Solitude is as boring as it is lonely. He’ll probably die of it.

Finnick takes small bites of the sugared bread he was sent the other day, now a little hardened but not painfully stale. He lets each piece soften in his mouth before swallowing them down. The beach is still, too still, narrowed down to this moment like it’s taken up a fascination with his eating habits.

The palm trees rustle. Finnick drops his sugared bread in exchange for his trident. Under different circumstances, he’d easily blame the wind. Here, the slightest of sounds serve as a warning of mutts or fellow tributes or worse. No one’s intruded upon him in far too long. The Gamemakers must be bored themselves. He stands on instinct.

A body crosses into the shoreline on trembling legs. Hair frizzed like a puffer fish, head angled downwards, left hand clutched over what Finnick assumes to be a wound on the opposite shoulder. Not a mutt but an obstacle.

The body buckles and falls onto the sand, just a few feet away from him now. It should be a simple kill. It should be. But then the body looks up, and Finnick sees you.

His heart jolts against his ribcage.

You don’t reach for the knife looped through your belt. Either your injury restricts you from doing so, or you know you don’t stand a chance against him even when able-bodied. The longer Finnick remains frozen, only blinking languidly as he stares at you, the easier he makes it for you to take him out, injured and all. His body fails to care, even as his brain screams at him to do something.

You stare back with a blankness devoid of any expectations, which makes him finally loosen his grip on his trident. Finnick moves in slow motion, squatting to rest his trident at his feet. He only snaps back into urgency when your head falls forward, a sign you’re on the verge of passing out. You catch yourself when he kneels beside you, defenses coming back into clarity.

“What happened?” he asks with a wince, because the answer is self-evident.

“Girl from Seven,” you say, strained with the effort to stay alert and awake. “She snuck up on me.”

Finnick peers over you, catching sight of the wound on your shoulder, only half-covered by your hand. Blood spools out of the laceration, trickling past your fingers and down your arm. “I can see that.”

“It’s not so bad,” you dismiss through gritted teeth.

“Oh, sure,” he says dryly, motioning for you to move your hand so he can get a better look. To his surprise, you listen without much of a fight. The bleeding is deceptive; your wound isn’t nearly as deep as it seems. It’s still a pretty nasty cut, and a cesspool for infection too. If the blood loss doesn’t get to you, that surely will. “Not bad at all.”

He moves back to his basket on pure instinct now, searching for the ointment he was sent on the second day when a set of forest vines came to life and lashed against his abdomen. Five minutes after he and his allies narrowly escaped, the sponsor gift arrived with a chime. Sparing you a glance, Finnick tries to remember what Thetis murmured as she helped to mend his lacerations.

“I need to stop the bleeding first.”

There’s a napkin at the bottom of the basket. That’ll do. Finnick rushes back to your side and presses the napkin against your wound. He watches the silken white absorb blotches of your blood. Once he’s sure the bleeding has stopped, he soaks the napkin in ocean water, repurposing it to clean the cut.

“Sorry,” he says when your face bunches up with the sting of salt in your wound.

“S’okay,” you mumble. He can tell you’re trying your hardest not to move. You manage to stay still long enough for him to finish cleaning your cut and apply the ointment. The fallen leaves from a nearby palm tree come in handy for a makeshift sling.

You hold a stray leaf to your shoulder while he weaves the others together with some rope. “Why are you helping me?” you ask with the same blankness as your earlier expression.

“Why not?” retorts Finnick, keeping his focus on the task at hand. There are a thousand reasons, big and small, as to why he shouldn’t be helping you.

You say the most obvious one out loud: “You could kill me.”

“True.” He killed the boy from Twelve not long after the gong sounded. A quick, clean death that shouldn’t have come as easy as it did. Finnick doesn’t dwell on the ease of it now. What good would that do anyway? He’ll probably kill more.

He doesn’t want to kill you. The one tribute his age. The same girl who made him laugh when you cracked a stupid pun at the fire-building station, and the only one who laughed in turn when he made a weak joke about fire kindling.

“Or leave me to die,” you suggest, as if picking up on his thoughts. That might be easier. Every death brings him one step closer to home, and if he can’t kill you, he can at least let you fend for yourself. But no, Finnick doesn’t want to do that either.

“I need someone to watch my back,” he reasons. “Obviously so do you.”

You give a dismissive wave of your left hand. “I was doing fine on my own.”

“I can see that,” he repeats mockingly.

The sun reflects off your glare. You seem to register his sincerity past his mockery, because your squint becomes less hateful and your eyes flicker past him to where his bounty remains. “You have anything to eat?”

Finnick nods, and that settles it.

It’s nothing short of miraculous that you manage to walk yourself the few feet it takes to get to Finnick’s set-up. He helps you adjust your arm into the sling, careful not to agitate your injury any further. He can’t tell how much he really helped the healing process, but he takes the lack of bleeding and your consciousness as a good sign.

He fishes out a jug of water—he figures you’re as dehydrated as you are hungry—before reaching for actual food. He lets you have your pick. You reach for a handful of grapes, a container of cheeses, and the other unbitten piece of sugared bread. Your spread is laid out across your lap; your legs stretched out in the direction of the ocean. Finnick resumes his earlier position next to you, back to the water and eyes to the treeline, glancing at you every so often when you huff out of frustration. He can tell you’re uncomfortable without the use of both hands.

The two of you fall into quiet, but your presence offsets complete silence. Your huffing, your chewing, your shifting bring Finnick out of his boredom. Out of his loneliness. Weirdly enough. He lets his own legs stretch out in front of him, leaning back on his hands. His eyes fall shut, lulled by the strange symphony of your sound effects.

“I’ve never seen the ocean,” you say suddenly, both dazed and a little embarrassed. “Guess I still haven’t, technically.”

Finnick’s eyes blink open, taken aback by the shift. “It’s pretty close to the real thing.” With his back turned, Finnick can pretend it is.

“What’s it like back home? Really?” You must know, he figures, that even without having seen it for yourself, the Capitol’s stimulation will never hold a candle to Finnick’s real ocean.

“Smellier.”

You snicker, and Finnick smiles despite himself. “It is! The main docks smell like fish guts and seaweed, and they’re always crowded. But—I don’t know, I like it best that way.” He shrugs. “The noise feels safe. Like I’m not…” Alone.

The ocean hums behind him. Not quite the melody of his people.

“That sounds nice,” you say gently, like you know exactly what he means.

One hand buried in the sand below, he wiggles his fingers to feel the grains fill in the gaps between them. “Is there anywhere back home that makes you feel safe?”

“There’s a creek not far from my home,” you answer. Finnick can hear the smile in your voice, and he allows himself the indulgence of seeing it for himself. “It’s quiet there—nothing like your docks. I think that’s why it makes me feel safe.” Your smile grows sad. “My sister and I like skipping rocks there.”

A memory tugs at his chest: his cousins dragging him to the docks well after the fisheries are done for the day, with a collection of rocks piled up to their chins. The smell of fish washed away by the salt air. The churning of machinery replaced by giggles. Finnick is pulled back into his newfound reality—the Games, his solitude, your presence—when you turn to look at him.

“I’m not very good at that,” he blurts in admission. “Skipping rocks, I mean.

“Finnick Odair? Not good at something?” you say with mock astonishment.

Finnick grimaces at the reminder of the image he cultivated with the audiences during his interview, then snorts when he registers the lull of your tease. “Don’t let word spread.”

You laugh, and Finnick’s heart does the same silly lurch as when you first stumbled onto the shore. “If you teach me how to skip rocks, I can teach you how to make a net,” he offers.

“Okay,” you agree immediately, motioning to your injured shoulder. “But I owe you anyway for this.”

“No you don’t,” Finnick says faster than he means to. “We’re allies now, is all. You have my back, and I have yours. No…debts or anything.”

“Right. Allies.” Your lips tug upwards again, which elicits both a smile of his own and another heart lurch out of Finnick.

He looks away before he dies, not from boredom or your knife, but from heart malfunction.

“Will you tell me more about Four?” you ask, soft and tentative, leaning back on your free hand.

“Yeah.” Finnick beams. He sits up to properly face you. “What do you want to know?”

You shrug. “Anything.”

Finnick tells you everything. About the half-off taffy, and the nosey elders, and his older cousins. He tells you about the cliffs, where only those who live by the docks dare to go and try their hand at cliffjumping. You ask for details about his house, which is more like a cabin on stilts, and for the names of sea animals he’s seen firsthand, which is less varied than you believe.

“I did get stung by a jellyfish once,” Finnick sighs, squirming at the memory. “My oldest cousin had to—Wait, actually, nevermind.”

When he realizes he’s rambling too much, he backtracks and asks you questions instead. You ramble too; Finnick hangs onto every word.

By evening, after another round of sponsor gifts brings dinner, you chime, “My shoulder’s feeling better. I think I’m up for a lesson in net weaving if you’re up for rock skipping.”

“I’m up for it,” Finnick says, trying and failing to contain his excitement. It’s practically brimming over the edges of the walls he’s built around himself over the last week.

You beam. “Tomorrow then.”

That night, on your first watch, Finnick falls asleep facing the ocean, with your promise of tomorrow replacing the solitude.

[ravenclairee]

THE HUNGER GAMES: SUNRISE ON THE REAPING — 2026, dir. Francis Lawrence

[raekensiphon]

haymitch didn’t drink enough wtf

[patovpran]

You and me 'till the end. Right, Hay? - 'Till the end, sweetheart. (x)

[valarrsgirl]

YOUR HANDS , MY RELIGION

cw: mdni (18+), nsfw, sexual themes, aged up haymitch, fem!reader, hand kink my beloved, teasing, kissing, he touches your face once and it’s over for you, canon-typical trauma reference, headcanons, thoughts, scenarios

a/n: haymitch and his pretty hands are finally here, as promised!! thank you all for the love and support !!my hand kink was going crazy with this one i saw this clip in the first trailer and it got me thinking…. so here we are (it’s 4am)

.✦ ݁˖ .✦ ݁˖ .✦ ݁˖ .✦ ݁˖ .✦ ݁˖ .✦ ݁˖ .✦ ݁˖

.✦ ݁˖ you first notice haymitch’s hands when he cups your face, thumbs pressing into your cheeks as he squishes them together before kissing you. his palms are rough from years of gripping weapons and surviving the games, but the touch stays surprisingly gentle

✦ ݁˖ the first time he touches your face, it’s to shove you out of the way of a falling shelf in his cluttered kitchen. his palm is rough and warm against your cheek. “watch it, sweetheart,” he grumbles, his voice raspy. “only one of us is supposed to be a walking disaster.”

.✦ ݁˖“look at that face. all serious. thinkin’ big thoughts.” he kisses you, a loud, smacking sound. “there. distracted ya. my hands are good for that, too. distractin’ my girl”

.✦ ݁˖ you wake to his hand resting heavily on your bare stomach, his thumb making absent, sleepy circles on your skin. it’s the most peaceful you ever see him.if you stir, his hand stills. “go back to sleep,” he mumbles into the pillow, his voice a sleep-roughened rasp. but his hand doesn’t move away

.✦ ݁˖ when you’ve gotten under his skin enough to be a comfort, not a nuisance. he’ll reach out and squish your cheeks together with one hand, making your lips pucker. “look at that,” he’ll say, a real, unguarded grin cracking his usually sour face. his accent is thick. “all that fuss over nothin’. you can be real mean sometimes, you know that?” and then he’ll lean in and kiss your puckered lips, quick and hard, his thumb stroking your cheekbone before he lets go

.✦ ݁˖ he uses his hands to talk almost as much as his mouth. a dismissive flick when you’re worrying about something he deems stupid. a sharp, chopping motion to cut off a conversation about the capitol. a vague, swirling gesture when he’s trying to explain some half-drunk philosophy about survival

.✦ ݁˖ his touch surprisingly tender despite the teasing. “my hands are only good for two things: holdin’ a glass and holdin’ you.

.✦ ݁˖ his fingers trace your jawline slowly,scraping lightly against your skin in a way that makes you shiver

.✦ ݁˖ when he holds your hand, his grip is firm and warm, fingers interlacing with yours as if he’s afraid to let go

.✦ ݁˖ you watch his hands move during quiet moments, veins standing out along the backs as he flexes them unconsciously

.✦ ݁˖he has a habit of rubbing his thumb over the pad of his middle finger, back and forth, when he’s thinking or trying not to drink. you catch yourself staring at it during long silences on the porch.

.✦ ݁˖ haymitch catches you staring at his hands again while he pours another drink. he sets the bottle down slow, flexing his fingers so the veins stand out. "you got a thing for these, don't you?"

.✦ ݁˖ haymitch uses his thumb to wipe away a tear from your cheek, the pad rough but the motion tender

.✦ ݁˖ you feel haymitch’s rough palm cup your jaw again, his thumb dragging slow across your bottom lip as he tilts your head up. “look at you, already leaning into it,” he murmurs, voice low and amused

.✦ ݁˖ you feel his fingers tangle in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back for another kiss

.✦ ݁˖ his palm presses flat against your chest, feeling your heartbeat race as he smirks down at you.

.✦ ݁˖ his fingers press just a little harder against your cheeks, squishing them together until your lips purse. “pretty when you can’t talk back,” he says, leaning in to kiss the pout he created.

.✦ ݁˖ he grips your hips with both hands, fingers digging in as he pulls you closer during heated moments

.✦ ݁˖ he just holds your face in his hands, looking at you. no squishing, just holding. his thumbs stroke your cheeks. “you’re too good for this,” he says quietly, not teasing at all. then he shakes his head, the smirk returning. “and too good for me, obviously. but since you’re here…” he leans in and kisses you, softly. “i suppose I’ll have to keep you.”

.✦ ݁˖ you notice how his knuckles whiten when he clenches his fists, tension visible in every line of his hand

.✦ ݁˖ haymitch slides one finger along your lower lip, parting it slightly before replacing it with his mouth

.✦ ݁˖ his hands are large enough to span your waist, thumbs brushing over your ribs in slow circles.

.✦ ݁˖ haymitch slides two fingers down the column of your throat, feeling your pulse race. “heart’s beating like you’re scared…. or excited”

.✦ ݁˖ he taps his fingers against a table while thinking, the rhythmic sound drawing your eyes every time

.✦ ݁˖ his free hand traces the waistband of your pants, knuckles brushing skin. “bet you’d let me do anything with these hands, wouldn’t you?”

.✦ ݁˖ you feel his hand slip under your shirt, palm warm against your stomach as he explores

.✦ ݁˖ haymitch’s grip tightens on your thigh, holding you in place as his other hand works lower

.✦ ݁˖ his fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes your vision blur while he watches your face

.✦ ݁˖haymitch taps your lower lip with his thumb. “open.” when you do, he pushes the digit inside, watching your tongue curl around it.

.✦ ݁˖ haymitch drags his palm up your inner thigh, stopping just short. “ask nice and maybe I’ll keep going”

.✦ ݁˖ he brings his wet fingers to your mouth again after sliding them between your legs. “why don’t you clean them, hm, sweetheart ? taste what you do to me”

.✦ ݁˖ on the bad nights,he’ll wordlessly pull you against his chest. his hand will spread wide over your back, covering as much of you as possible, holding you to him. his fingertips press into your spine. he’s not trying to initiate anything; he’s using you, the feel of your breathing, to remind himself which world he’s in. the one with the warmth of a you, not the arena

.✦ ݁˖ he wipes a drop of liquor from his thumb across your lower lip,smearing it. "bet you'd rather i put this thumb somewhere else."

.✦ ݁˖ they’re surprisingly steady when they need to be. when he’s fixing the stubborn latch on your back gate, or skinning a rabbit with brutal.the tremor only shows when he’s reaching for a bottle

.✦ ݁˖ he brings his hand up to your face, spreading his fingers so you can see "these hands have killed people. you know that, right? and here you are, getting wet just thinking about them on you"

.✦ ݁˖ .✦ ݁˖ .✦ ݁˖ .✦ ݁˖ .✦ ݁˖ .✦ ݁˖ .✦ ݁˖ .✦ ݁˖

MASTERLIST

taglist: @pinkdoeweirdo @whimsywritez @whimsicalrose @ellefanningsbaby @frizzycurls @userhotd @littlekate @marlsvii @darylandbethfanforever9 ( let me know if you wanna be added or removed 🤍 )

[collapselist]

so hungry, i could eat … | oscar piastri

summary: one little conversation between Nicole Piastri and the McLaren social media admin brings you back into Oscar's life

fc: gala nikolic

warning: I am aware of all the spelling errors, but to change them I’d have to rewrite, screenshot and insert the slides all over again and I’m just too lazy to do that, so you’ll just have to life with it

a/n: I love them you guys!!! I’m totally open to writing a part two if you’re interested, but I also might just do it anyway. I hope you enjoy🍀

oscatpiastri

oscatpiastri LMAO admin just said ‘I’m so hungry, I could eat YN YLN’ and that was the face Oscar pulled😭😭 what kind of trauma did they unlock??

view all comments…

user I’M CRYING the man was flabbergasted

user I NEED TO KNOW WHO THAT IS IK YOU GUYS ARE GOOD AT STALKING

-> user I could only find a private acc with that name @.yourusername but there is no way to tell if it’s actually her

-> user wow you guys are quick

user oh to be able to read his mind rn

user admin chose violence today

-> user he looked so betrayed my poor boy💀

user how did admin even get such private information about Oscar?? like there is absolutely no history of a YN YLN anywhere in Oscar’s digital footprint

-> user I mean, that’s their entire job no? find things that get clicks and oscar’s past def does that

🔒 yourusername

yourusername university is slowly turning me into a hermit

view all comments…

yourfriend1 caption is so real dude

yourfriend1 one more class with professor brenner and I’ll actually break all of my good pencils

-> yourusername REAL

yourfriend2 movie binge night was so good we have to do it again

-> yourusername ‼️‼️

yourbestfriend girly you’re famous

-> yourusername fuck you mean by that?

-> yourbestfriend have you ever watched f1? does the name oscar piastri ring a bell?

-> yourusername YOURE FUCKING JOKING

yourfriend3 I’m so hungry I could eat oscar piastri🤔🤔

yourfriend4 what just happened

yourfriend5 the art faculty bathroom is actually so peak

yourfriend6 you’re so gorgeous one chance pls pls pls

TEXTS BETWEEN NICOLE AND OSCAR

TEXTS BETWEEN YOU AND YOUR BEST FRIEND

👤 OSCAR PIASTRI WANTS TO SEND YOU A MESSAGE

oscarpiastri: Hello YN, I’m not sure if you remember me, we went to kindergarten together. I just wanted to give you a heads up, incase you haven’t seen it yet. There is a video going around on the internet of the McLaren social media admin mentioning you in an interview and people are taking it all sorts of ways. I hope it doesn’t cause you any trouble, if it does, please don’t hesitate to reach out and I will take full responsibility for it. I hope you are doing well!

INSTAGRAM DIRECT MESSAGES BETWEEN YOU AND OSCAR

yourusername: Hello Oscar, it’s nice to hear from you! Thank you for the heads up, that’s really kind of you. I saw the video and the reactions, but don’t worry, it’s really no trouble. How are you? Maybe we could catch up? We haven’t seen each other for so long

oscarpiastri: Good to hear that it’s not troubling you. I’m sorry anyway. And I’d love to catch up. Are you still in AUS? I’m there from December until February, incase you are.

yourusername: Yep! Still an Australian resident:) I have a small semester break in Janurary, if that works for you?

oscarpiastri: Great! 👍

🔒 yourusername

yourusername touching grass because why am I doing all that over a MAN

view all comments…

yourfriend1 I just looked oscar piastri up and jeezus YN go get him or I will

yourbestfriend my girl is crushing on the f1 championship leader… i always knew you had big ambitions but I didn’t think they were that big

-> yourusername YOU REALLY ARE NOT HELPING IT

yourfriend2 we’ve lost her😞😞

-> yourfriend3 to a MAN of all things smh

-> yourusername YOU GUYS

yourfriend4 why do I have to be on an semester abroad right now of all moments I FEEL SO LEFT OUT

yourfriend5 she was crouching like that for a good 5 minutes btw

-> yourusername STOP EXPOSING ME

-> yourfriend4 why was she even crouching??

-> yourfriend5 he was texting her really dryly and she freaked out bc obviously that means he hates her and she wants to die and he should crash

-> yourfriend4 you are absolutely hopeless YN

-> yourusername I need to find friends that actually love me

yourfriend6 yk when you start dating you’ll have to open this insta to him and he’ll see how pathetic you are for him

-> yourusername WAIT THATS SO EMBARRASSING

🔒 yourusername

yourusername no idea what just happened I just know it wasn’t good at all I’M SO SORRY OSCAR WHEN I SAID I WANTED YOU TO CRASH I DIDNT MEAN IT

view all comments…

yourfriend1 you’re so unserious wearing a tshirt that says your tears don’t fall they crash around me after your CRUSH DNFED

-> yourusername gotta have some humour or I’ll cry

yourfriend2 I’m seeing this as a sign that he’s so obsessed with you that he does everything you say

-> yourusername THEN HE SHOULD LOCK IN AND WIN THE STUPID CHAMPIGNONCHIP OR WHATEVER

-> yourfriend2 CHAMPIGNONCHIP I‘M CHOKING

f1updates

f1updates oscar piastri when asked about the title fight and the support of family and friends for the race this weekend:

“I know a lot of things have to go right today, in order for me to win, but as long as it is a possibility, I will stay positive that I can do it.” Said the Australian. “I’ve got a lot of people here to cheer me on, my mum, dad and sisters, for one, but also an old friend, who I haven’t seen in a long time. They give me the strength to push one last time.”

view all comments…

user I KNOW HE CAN DO IT

user Norris needs to fuck off it’s Oscar’s turn

user I wonder who the “old friend” is🤔🤔

-> user YN YLN? I’m still not over that mystery

-> user that would be the plot twist of a century

user my entire body is vibrating like I just drank four gallons of coffee

user THIS IS STILL MY BOY

🔒 yourusername

yourusername ABU DHABI ARE YOU READY?

view all comments…

yourfriend1 HE WILL NOT KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH HIMSELF WHEN HE SEES YOU

yourfriend2 wow😳

yourbestfriend forget that wanna be athlete and come home to your wife (me)

yourfriend3 your nervous f1 rambling made me invested as well, I’m rooting for the blonde with an attitude problem

-> yourusername max verstappen?

-> yourfriend3 that one, yes

yourfriend4 HOW ARE YOU FEELING ABT TODAYS RACE?

-> yourusername I’m fucking shaking bro, Verstappen idk you like that but please find the closest barrier and take that Norris guy with you

oscarpiastri

oscarpiastri lots achieved. lots learnt. coming back stronger next year

view all comments…

mclarenf1 we are so proud of you oscar🧡

user no one is in doubt that you’ll win the title one day

user not even Norris bottled this hard

user I don’t get why people are so harsh on him all of the sudden, have we all forgotten that he lead the wdc for half a season in his 3rd year in f1??

user op the man you are

user AURA

user oh 2025 you were so promising

yourusername still not sure if I understood it all, but I know that I’m incredibly impressed:)

-> oscarpiastri I’m glad you could make it🙂

-> user OMG IT WAS YN YLN

-> user he’s so awkward with emojis💀💀

-> user GIRL PLEASE OPEN YOUR INSTA I NEED TO BE PARASOCIAL

🔒 yourusername

yourusername nothing to sayyyy🧚‍♀️

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yourfriend1 do we have to act normal now bc he can see the posts?

yourbestfriend you smart little finch, I recognise a thirst trap when I see one😛😛

-> yourusername BE QUIET

yourfriend2 RIP unhinged instagram posts, you will be missed😞

-> yourusername you guys are so dramatic

oscarpiastri I'm not sure if I want to look at the other posts

-> yourusername don't, just don't do it

yourfriend3 one man in your life and you have an entire rebrand smh 🤦‍♀️

yourfriend4 you? speechless? what have you done to my girl, oscar piastri🤨

yourfriend5 WHAT IS A MAN DOING HERE?

-> yourusername BE NICE

yourbestfriend my girl is gonna be a famous wag🥲

yourfriend6 he can take great pictures at least

f1gossip

f1gossip Oscar Piastri was sighted in Melbourne, Australia with a mysterious woman on his arm. Who do we think she is?

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user NO😫

user oscar piastri daring rumours in the first weeks of 2026 what is going on

-> user I started to doubt his abilities

user cant even see her properly but i already know shes so pretty

user wait I think I’ve seen her before?? At the Abu Dhabi GP

yourbestfriend OMG MY GIRL IS ON A GOSSIP PAGE @.yourusername LOOK MY GIRL GOT PAPARAZZIED

-> yourusername GIRL DON'T PUT ME ON BLAST LIKE THAT

user i’m not ready for everyone to become parasocial about him all of the sudden

user not him wearing the fugly ass burgundy shirt on a DATE

-> user we don’t even know if it’s a date, could just be a friend

user did anyone see that comment from @.yourbestfriend?? they tagged a user named YN YLN….. coincidence???

-> user did I miss something?? who is that?

-> user there is a video of the mcl admin saying I’m so hungry, I could eat YN YLN and everyone and their mother has been trying to find out who she is and what correlation oscar has to her since then

-> user yeah and her account is private, so there’s absolutely NO WAY for us to find out anything about her

81_updates

81_updates Oscar Piastri, Mark Webber and friends on Melbourne Beach. Some fans even stated that Oscar was with a girl and they seemed to be very close🤔

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user HOLD ME BACK

user I hate to say this, but I think oscar really does have a girlfriend now

user congratulations to whoever get’s to have that every night

user lmao the imprint on his chest looks like a 4

user god that girl is lucky

user I think it’s safe to say it’s YN

user oscar jack piastri I was unfamiliar with your game

🔒 yourusername

yourusername after being forced to participate in all of Oscar’s hobbies, I think it’s only fair if I force him to paint with me, right?

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yourfriend1 turn that frown upside down😛

yourfriend2 you guys make me sick

-> yourusername jealousy doesn’t suit you babe💋

yourfriend2 and yes, that’s absolutely fair

yourfriend3 be honest, who won the race?

-> yourusername I love how much faith you have in me, but be fr who is winning the race? A girl who has known about f1 for 3 months or an actual f1 driver??

-> yourfriend3 he didn’t let you win? break up with him

-> oscarpiastri she told me not to let her win🤷 said it would be satisfying for her ego if she beat me on raw talent

-> yourfriend3 oh my sweet angel😞 THAT MEANS LET HER WIN

yourbestfriend no photo credit for the picture smh🙁

-> yourusername sorry babe, credit to you for pic 6, and to osc for literally every other one

oscarpiastri I don’t think you want to see the monster I create when I touch a pencil

-> yourusername as if I was graceful playing paddle

-> oscarpiastri you’d look beautiful while digging in dirt

-> yourusername HKDBHAYPQA

-> oscarpiastri are you ok?

-> yourusername just fine:)) my cat walked over my keyboard:))))

-> yourfriend4 you don’t…..have a cat?

-> yourusername SHHH

oscarpiastri and I did not force you

oscarpiastri

oscarpiastri 🔋☀️

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user when hes good with words😍😍

user I’m so obsessed with his gf and I don’t know anything about her

-> user I think that’s part of the appeal

user KARTING OSCAR

user that looks suspiciously like a date🧐

user I can’t wait for them to feel more comfortable and reveal a little more about their relationship

-> user I’m so excited for her to attend more races next year

user I don’t think they will ever confirm anything you guys, this is all we’re gonna get THEY ARE JUST SO PRIVATE

user HES SO CUTE

user our boy has a girlfriend… he’s actually done it

[lov3notts]

hiii ik you haven’t posted in so long but can you write a theo fic where he finds out the new hufflepuff student speaks italian😛

tyyy for this request i’ve been having a slump

Navigation; masterlist;

Potions class was always the more interesting class out of Theo’s schedule.

Cauldrons bubbling in steady rhythm, knives tapping against wood, quiet instructions from Slughorn drifting through the room without much urgency. Theo is already bored halfway through the lesson.

Not because it’s difficult.

Because it isn’t.

Everything he’s doing is automatic. Familiar. The kind of work that doesn’t ask anything from him at all.

He’s barely paying attention, wand rolling lazily between his fingers, when he hears it.

A voice.

Not loud. Not aimed at anyone.

His hand stills slightly.

Then he hears it again.

And his eyes move before he decides they should.

Across the room.

One table down.

You’re there.

Focused on your ingredients, knife in hand, and then your body jolts slightly like you’ve cut too deep. He sees it immediately—the small flash of red, the way your fingers pull back instinctively.

And you curse.

Quiet.

Almost under your breath.

“Ma che cazzo…”

Theo doesn’t realize he’s stopped moving entirely until his wand stops turning between his fingers.

Because that shouldn’t be possible.

Not here. Not from anyone.

He’s staring now. He knows he is.

He just doesn’t stop.

Blaise notices first, glancing sideways at him with mild curiosity. “Why are you staring at her?”

Theo doesn’t answer.

Mattheo follows his gaze. “You alright there, mate? That doesn’t look like potion concentration.”

Draco laughs somewhere down the table. “Ouu, someone’s got a crush.”

Theo exhales once through his nose, still not looking away from you.

“Why doesn’t she look familiar?” he says, like he’s thinking out loud more than speaking.

Mattheo barely glances over. “Oh her? She’s new I think. Transferred in last week. Why?”

Theo doesn’t answer.

Because you’ve just done it again.

Another whisper under your breath.

Italian.

And he feels something shift in him that he doesn’t have a name for yet.

So he just keeps watching.

The rest of the lesson doesn’t matter anymore.

He moves through it out of habit. Steps, instructions, ingredients. All of it background noise. Every so often, his eyes drift back to you without permission.

You don’t notice.

That’s the part that keeps bothering him.

When class ends, everyone scrapes chairs back, gathers things, starts talking again like nothing happened.

Theo leaves with them.

Except he ends up behind you without planning it.

Not close enough to be obvious.

Just there.

Following the same movement of the crowd out of the dungeon.

You’re talking to your friends, completely unaware, your voice blending into everything else.

Theo almost speaks.

Doesn’t.

The hallway gets too crowded, too fast, and you’re gone into it before anything can happen.

And he tells himself that should be the end of it.

It isn’t.

After that, you’re everywhere.

Library.

Courtyard.

Hallways between classes.

Not obvious. Never obvious.

Just enough that he sees you before he means to, and then realizes he’s already looking for you the next time without meaning to.

You never notice.

That’s what drove him crazy.

The library is where it finally stops being accidental.

You’re sitting near the back, reading, completely unaware of anything around you.

Theo enters and doesn’t go straight to a table.

He moves through shelves instead, picking up a random book, then another, pretending it matters which one he chooses except it doesn’t.

Because he keeps drifting closer to your table without fully committing to it.

He’s halfway between shelves when your voice cuts through the quiet.

Still not looking up from your book.

“Why have you been following me?”

Theo stops so fast the book in his hand almost slips.

For a second, he doesn’t say anything at all.

Because he didn’t think you noticed.

That was the entire point of how he was doing it.

Slowly, he turns his head.

You still haven’t looked at him.

Still reading.

Like you’re not even surprised.

Like you already knew he’d be there.

He opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out cleanly.

So he tries again, shifting the book in his hand like it will help him reset himself.

“I wasn’t—”

He stops.

That sounds worse.

You finally look up at him.

And everything in him tightens slightly because now there’s no buffer anymore.

Just you and him and the fact that you just called him out without even looking away from your book.

Then you speak again.

In Italian.

“Perché mi stai seguendo?”

Theo’s brain short-circuits for half a second.

Because that isn’t supposed to be possible.

Not from you.

Not here.

Not in front of him.

His expression changes before he can stop it.

Something sharper. More awake.

He steps closer without realizing it.

“Parli italiano?”“You speak Italian?” he says immediately, in Italian without meaning to switch languages.

You tilt your head slightly.“Sì, e quindi? C'è qualche problema?” “Yeah and? Is there a problem?” you say in Italian, still calm, still reading him like this is nothing.

Theo shakes his head slightly, like he’s trying to get control back.

“No, no, I’m just surprised,” he says quickly. “It’s been a while since someone other than my father spoke Italian to me.”

That lands differently in the silence.

You pause.

Just slightly.

“Oh.”

Nothing else.

Just that.

And Theo realizes, standing there with a book he doesn’t remember picking up properly, that this is no longer about coincidence.

Because whatever this is—you didn’t just speak his language.

You interrupted something he thought was only his.

ᥫ᭡reblog's & comment's are appreciatedᥫ᭡

©lov3notts ,do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

[darling-flora]

angel on the walls of versailles

oscar piastri x yn!singer | request — here | masterlist |

"One night I was bored in bed, And stalked you on the internet" in which a popstar's crush on a f1 driver turns into a front page story...

note — (all manips made by me!!) i love this fic soooooo much, like it's very dear me.... hope you all enjoy it (not proofread ignore any mistakes) <3 !! likes, reblog's and comments are really appreciated ❤

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♬ Y/n L/n ‧ obsessed

Liked by yourinstagram, user1 and 772,256 others

oscarpiastri 💪

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user1 new song to add to the playlist

user2 thirst trap on main???

user3 y/n is holding her self back by not commenting

->user4 ik she's remembering her pr training right now ->user5 wait why???? ->user4 it's a known thing among fans that she has a crush on oscar... ->user5 HUH!??!?!? how haven’t i heard about this??!???

user6 You got this 🏎️

user7 okay can mclaren invite y/n to a race please

user8 listening to obsessed?? why does oscar know ball

user9 need to see all his playlists

user10 Future world champion💪🔥🧡

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tmz Y/nL/n seen arriving in Melbourne, Australia today.

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user1 love her <3

user2 wait..... the australian gp is this weekend

->user3 and mclaren recently followed her.... ->user4 are we thinking they invited her to oscar's home race!?!??! ->user3 YESSS

user5 this could be so major...

user6 winona hat is so cute

user7 she's going to find her a aussie man anyway she can

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YnLnNews Y/N IN AUSTRALIA!!!!! Y/n sat with Oscar Piastri prior to qualifying, Y/n cheered on Oscar as he qualified P2.

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user1 EVERYONE STAY CALM

user2 very important things happening right now

user3 who else was with them???? do we know how long they hung out..?

->user4 i saw a video of them talking and the poster said they were talking alone for about 15+ mins until someone on the team wanted to meet y/n ->user4 he sat with them for 5 mins and they kept talking for around 30 more minutes and hugged goodbye ->user3 omg ty sm user4 !!

user5 her SMILEEEE

user6 already loving them AIWLUHDFLUIAWG

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yourinstagram never finished that beer 🍻

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user1 summer maxing

user2 everywhere but that damn studio

oscarpiastri 🌹🍻

->user3 alright man... we get it ->user4 no im not jealous at all

user5 you r my inspo

user6 mclaren girllll

->user7 **oscar piastri girl ->user8 she's truly only there for the race and oscar

user9 gorgeous girl

user10 what dat mean???

->user11 idk maybe she never finished her beer???? ->user10 okay 😐

user12 does the piano mean we're getting music?!!?!

user13 the last slide and the koala.... taking notes

user14 can you get any more perfect

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yourinstagram story !

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oscarpiastri It was great to finally meet you in person!

yourinstagram a pleasure to meet you as well!!! yourinstagram ik you have a busy schedule so ty for sparing the time!

oscarpiastri SPARING?? I would've skipped qualifying just to keep talking to you oscarpiastri I wanted to meet you! So the schedule was cleared just for you! oscarpiastri It obviously wasn't the race I would've liked for you to have been present for....

yourinstagram at least you didn't finish last!!! yourinstagram hopefully the next race i go to will have a better outcome 🤞

oscarpiastri Speaking of you going to another race have you been to China? 👀

yourinstagram no…. but i’ve always wanted to go!!

oscarpiastri Well there is a race coming up in China if your up for that…?

yourinstagram mhmmmm that does sound like something i’d enjoy yourinstagram and if i were to go…

oscarpiastri Mhm hmm 🤔

yourinstagram id like to find a place for us to get dinner, since you picked last time 😁

oscarpiastri You drive a hard bargain.. but i think we have a deal

yourinstagram good doing business with you 🤝

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enews Brewing Romance? Y/n L/n and Formula One Driver Oscar Piastri have been causing a stir as of late.

While the pair have been linked to each other since late 2024, the two hadn't met in person till March 15th 2025. Piastri said after meeting L/n "We've talk prior to meeting, so it was nice to finally meet in person. She's lovely." With L/n's recent presence in China for the Chinese Grand Prix, people are starting to wonder if there's a couple in the making...

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user1 they're so cute! im here for it

user2 enews doesn't even know about their crushes on each other

->user3 i was fully expecting to see them mention that but was glad they didn't ->user4 truly don't know how i would react if there were articles written about my crush

user5 i've been rooting for them since she liked an edit of him on tiktok

user6 her with an athlete is scary but he seems chill

user7 not my favs being on the jumbotron wth

user8 i feel like ppl are going to say it's PR but i think they're dating honestly

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oscarpiastri First win of the year 🏆

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user1 wait is that y/n????

user2 LETS GOOOOOO

yourinstagram and to many more!!

->oscarpiastri 😉 ->user3 okay they're cute i guess...

user4 Y/N MADE THE POST!!!!!

user5 mini goat 🐐

user6 keep on pushing oscar we love you!

user7 he knew to add that y/n pic iktr

user8 power couple omg?!

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deuxmoi While we do enjoy seeing young love, we can't help but wonder is it real... or is it PR?

Comment your thoughts below ⬇

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user1 it's not like they're two young attractive people dating they HAVE to be doing pr??? y'all are so bored, let them live

user2 no shade to oscar but there are much more famous guys she could've gotten with to "up" her image

->user3 LITERALLY ->user4 an actor would've made waves... like it's not about the perception

user5 they had crushes on each other and then started dating it's not rocket science

user6 no one likes you guys, please don't speak on the queen

user7 this is family business.. why are you here??

user8 they're happy.... why does it matter ?

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♬ The Cure ‧ Just like Heaven

Liked by yourinstagram, alex_albon and 4,842,584 others

oscarpiastri 💙🏝🌞

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user1 My parents omg

yourinstagram 🐢🌊🐠 Liked by oscarpiastri !

user2 she is a real life princess

user3 1st slide is my roman empire

user4 you two are adorbs

user5 does he know this is his instagram...? bro only posted 1 pic of his face 😭

->user6 because he knows we're here for y/n ->user5 fairs

user7 he knew to post her on main

user8 that picture being first is so iconic

user9 okay we need about 50 more pics of you 2 cuties

user10 ugh he matches her energy so well <333

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enews Y/n L/n teases new music in Vogue Interview!

"Everything that I've been writing has been written in this notebook and I feel like my last two albums are very angsty and heartbroken and just as a creative endeavor and also because I'm experiencing so much joy in my life, I've wanted to figure out how to like inject that into the songs that I'm making. And I'm really proud of it so far!”

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user1 we are about to get such a lover girl song

user2 she could never make a bad song... im so ready

user3 not related but her face card is so insane in that picture wow

user4 i just know she has a hit song on the way

user5 "y/n to grace us with new music" i can't wait

user6 oooo i need it NOWWW

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Liked by oscarpiastri, rachelzegler and 4,563,642 others

yourinstagram <3 !!!

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user1 oh mama is in loveeee

user2 posting her man on main wow

oscarpiastri = ❤♾ Liked by yourinstagram !

->user3 EXACTLYYYY ->user4 need them to get married

user5 it so SERIOUSSSS

user6 "I'm experiencing so much joy in my life" MY SHAYLAS

user7 holy hard launch

user8 and when u + me = <3 is a song title THEN WHAT????

user9 a WHOLE post dedicated to being in love... that love song is going to change my life

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yourinstagram drop dead is out now!!!! I was lucky enough to film the music video at the palace of Versailles a few months ago and I’m so stoked with how it turned out. I hope you guys love it as much as I do xoxo

more soon to come <3

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user1 Can’t stop listening!!!❤️

user2 obsessed is an understatement... 

rachelzegler MY GIRLLLL Liked by yourinstagram !

user3 ALREADY LISTENED ATLEAST 100 times

user4 best song of all time

user5 might drop dead over this music video 😭

user6 literally changed my life

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Liked by yourinstagram, alex_albon and 3,842,584 others

oscarpiastri "drop dead (taken that eurostar to france)" music video filmed by me out now on y/n's youtube!

so proud of my girl ❤

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user1 HE FILMED IT????

yourinstagram thank you angel boy <3 Liked by oscarpiastri !

->user2 im so parasocial about them ->user3 OSCAR PLEASE TEACH ME YOUR WAYS ->user4 "angel boy" and "my girl" I LOVE THEMMMM

user5 this is so cute i can't

user6 OMGGGG THEY'RE SO ADORABLE

user7 she’s looking like an angel on the walls of versailles

user8 you can hear him say "perfect" at the VERY end of the video

->user9 I knew i heard something !! ->user10 very cute that she kept it in 🥺

user11 this is cooler than any race win lowkey

user12 the way the video is actually beautifully shot too, oscar you have a backup career in photography

user13 "my girl" someone hold me please i can’t take it

user14 PARENTSSS

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✎…… hope you all enjoyed as much i did!!! i adored making this fic <3

using the same profile picture for the tweets made finishing this go 99% faster... probably going to be doing that from now on 😭

[macherieeeeee]

ruin the friendship ꪆৎ percy j.

about ˚｡ being PERCY JACKSON's sweet sweet friend means knowing everything about him—but who he likes. surely the campers are just exaggerating how he treats you...! but are they really?

⌗ author's notes : please don't mind errors especially in the last part, i was editing this at 3 am yesterday. yes i'm gonna post more fics soon especially summer fics !!! REQUESTS R APPRECIATED.

❛❛ percyyyy ! ❜❜ a group of tween campers called squealing from the other side of the amphitheater, drawing a certain dark-haired demigod's attention from sparring with an Ares kid.

" your girlfriend [name]'s calling you !!!! "

percy glances up at the sound of your name, and it costs him.

riptide slips from his hand with a sharp clang against the stone, and the Ares camper in front of him lets out a loud laugh.

"wow, jackson. took one word to drop your sword."

"shut up," percy shoots back, already smirking as he steps back. "you wish it was that easy."

The match ends a second later, with percy forfeiting the match. he reaches out, daps the guy up.

"good fight. i was beating your ass out there."

"yeah, until she showed up," the guy says, nodding toward you.

percy doesn’t even argue. i mean he's not lying, though?

he just shakes his head, picks up Riptide, caps him and chuck him straight into his pocket, and heads straight for you.

like a good [boy]friend he is!

"you’re smiling," you point out the second he gets close.

"I just won," he says.

"you dropped your sword."

"there's this thing called 'strategy' if you know what that is."

"annabeth sent me," you say. "swimming lessons tomorrow with new campers?"

percy groans, dragging a hand through his hair. "I knew I was forgetting something."

"and cabin checks tonight."

he stops walking.

"…you’re actually enjoying this."

"i don't know what you're talking about." though your smile gave it away.

"that’s messed up."

you just smile and start walking again, and he falls into step beside you.

the noise of the amphitheater fades behind you, replaced by the steady hush of the shore. the path opens to the Long Island Sound, the water catching the late sunlight, everything dipped in that soft, golden glow that makes the camp feel quieter and calmer than it ever really is.

you head for the docks. sit at the edge, your feet dangling at the water.

percy doesn’t sit. no.

he wades in, shoes forgotten, water curling around his lower body, and somehow it feels rejuvenating for him. he leans forward, bracing his arms on the dock on either side of you, caging you. his sea-green eyes look into yours intensely. it's like he's looking at you like you're his god-given solace.

your breath catch a little.

"you're blocking my view," you say.

"my view's better," he replies easily. "i'm looking at you."

"…you're so annoying."

"yeah, but you're still here."

the water laps quietly against the wood beneath you. somewhere in the distance, someone shouts, someone laughs—but it feels far away. like right now, both of you are in your own world.

a second passes by.

"they're not gonna drop it, you know," Percy says after a while.

"drop what?"

he tilts his head, amused. "the whole 'your girlfriend' thing."

you shrug. "they'll get bored eventually."

"mm. i doubt it."

"why? you worried about your reputation?"

he huffs out a soft laugh. "please. I don't have one of those."

"true."

He watches you for a second.

"...you didn’t say anything," he adds.

"about?"

he lifts a brow. "you know. that."

"Oh." you glance out at the water. "didn’t feel like it mattered."

Percy studies your face, he’s trying to read something there.

“And if it did?” he asks.

You look back at him. “Would it?”

He shifts closer, water moving with him, quiet and obedient. now he's in between your legs, his arms still caging both your side.

“Depends,” he says.

“On what?”

His mouth curves, just slightly. “On whether you’d say yes.”

Your heart does something stupid.

“…to what?”

He lets out a breath, something softer slipping through the teasing.

“To them being right.”

It’s quieter now.

The space between you feels smaller.

Warmer.

You don’t look away.

“I would,” you say.

And for once—

Percy Jackson doesn’t have something ready to say back. No cocky comment. No teasing. Nada. Zip. None.

“…yeah?” he asks, softer.

You nod.

“Yeah.”

He exhales a short laugh, something almost disbelieving under it, then shakes his head a little.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

And then—

“I like you.”

It comes out easier than he expects.

You don’t even hesitate.

“I know.”

That gets him.

His head tilts, eyes narrowing just slightly, a smile creeping in. “Oh, you know?”

You lean forward a little, matching him. “You’re not subtle.”

“That’s offensive,” he says lightly. “I’m extremely subtle.”

“You dropped your sword.”

“Okay, that one time—”

You don’t let him finish.

You kiss him.

And he freezes—before he’s kissing you back, one hand coming up instinctively to steady against your arm, grounding himself, because gods forbid him being too greedy when it comes to you. you're his salvation. because in a world where everything's constantly getting taken away from him, he knows better than to reach for something he might lose.

It’s warm. Percy can taste the cherry lipbalm he always sees you put on.

A little uneven. A little breathless. Too greedy.

Until—

hands grab your ankles.

“WAIT—”

You’re yanked forward, Percy’s eyes going wide right before both of you go crashing into the water.

The cold hits all at once, laughter exploding above you, voices echoing—

the whole. freaking. camp.

You surface, soaked, pushing your hair out of your face, staring at the shoreline where half the camp is losing their minds.

“You’re all insane!”

Percy comes up beside you, laughing under his breath. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Someone yells, “DO IT AGAIN—”

Percy rolls his eyes, but there’s a grin tugging at his mouth. “They’re never letting this go.”

You huff, trying not to smile. “Your fault.”

“My fault?” he echoes. “You kissed me.”

“You literally—”

The water shifts.

You feel it before you see it— cool, smooth, rising around you.

Percy glances at you, something playful sparking in his eyes.

“Hold on,” he says.

The water lifts, curves, closes—forming a clear, shimmering bubble around the two of you beneath the surface. The noise above dulls instantly, reduced to distant muffled chaos.

It’s quiet.

Soft light filters through the water, catching in his hair, in his eyes, in the space between you.

You stare at him.

“…you’re so extra.”

He grins. “You’re welcome.”

Your hand finds his without thinking.

He notices.

His thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles, slower this time.

Less teasing.

"…now," he says, voice lower, softer, like he’s settling into something he doesn’t have to joke away—

"where were we?"

© macheriee. 𝗔𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱. 𝗣𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗼𝗿 𝗰𝗹𝗮𝗶𝗺 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸 𝗮𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗼𝘄𝗻. 𝗗𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆, 𝗿𝗲𝗱𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗯𝘂𝘁𝗲, 𝗼𝗿 𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗺𝘆 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻. 𝗣𝗹𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗺 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗼𝗹𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱.

[countdracc]

it's hot (literally and figuratively)

you and theo go on a picnic date and he just adores you!

warning: it's just fluffy, minor kissing? can you tell i like to write fluff? words: 0.9k

Theo x gf! reader

It was the perfect temperature in Scotland. Somehow. 

The slightest tinge of heat in the Scottish Highlands was rarer than getting struck by lightning twice, yet today, it was warm. So, Theo Nott lounged outside, with his homework in front of him, the sun in his eyes, and you, his girlfriend, sitting beside him; nothing could be better. 

He blinked the sunlight bleeding through the green leaves of the whomping willow away, choosing to stare at his honey, his dolcezza, instead of the harrowing essay he had to write for History of Magic. 

Blue eyes traced the soft slope of your nose and the heat licking at your cheeks, but stayed set on that coquettish tongue of hers peaking out from the side of your swollen lips, a telltale sign of concentration. 

He grinned lazily, abandoning his schoolwork and any remaining woes to nip at the apples of your plump cheeks. Theo treated kissing as a reverent action and one of the utmost importance. His dolcezza smiled, white teeth sucking on your bottom lip as he moved down her neck, hoping to suck a small purple mark of loyalty into your soft skin. 

“Theodore,” You laughed. He thought that sound could melt ice. 

“Hmm?” 

“People are around.” The faux sternness clouding your voice only egged him on. 

“So what?” He hummed.

“Maybe they do it differently in Italy, but here, at school, that’s inappropriate!”

The ensuing heart palpitations from his eye contact made you briefly think that you were going into cardiac arrest. 

“...your nose is doing that cute scrunch thing. You do it when you’re annoyed.” Theo remarked, his tone a dulcet coo. “Theo, goodness. Homework!” You pushed at his head, ruffling his perfect curls. He went back to lounging, only this time, he was more satisfied and less focused on the homework you wanted him to finish so badly. 

No homework was done. 

He lay on his side, one arm propping up his head, eyes that reminded you of the salty Mediterranean seas still fixated on you.

You tried ignoring him. Didn’t work.

You foolishly picked at your split ends, hoping he’d eventually get bored. It was silly to think he could ever get bored with you. 

You hid behind the pages of your book. He just laughed.

“Fine, dolcezza, I’ll stop.” You didn’t believe a word. “See, I’ll even hide my face.”

You looked up from the yellowed pages of your Herbology textbook, finding only a head of sandy blonde curls, and the face you had memorized like the back of your hand hidden in the crook of his elbow. 

Your smile was wide enough to show the two dimples you wore on either side of your mouth. “Concentrating is so hard that you’ve resorted to hiding away your pretty face?”

He paused for a moment before lifting his head and grinning. “You think I’m pretty?”

Would it be too cheesy to tell him that he was more than pretty? That, right in this moment, the sun was hitting his face just right, glazing him in a beam of yellowish light that made his skin resemble silk over glass rather than simple human imperfection? 

You resorted to, “Well- I- you are my boyfriend.”

“I think you’re beautiful, dolcezza. La prima volta che ti ho visto, ho pensato che gli dei avessero mandato un angelo dal cielo." He smirked, slow and enticing, like he knew something you didn't. "Solo per me.”

The jump in your chest might have been a buffer. Maybe glitches in the Matrix were indeed real, because this couldn’t be real life. Your life. 

“Liking and hating when you say things in Italian is a constant battle. I wrestle between liking it because it sounds nice and hating it because I don’t understand you.”

“I guess you’ll have to learn.” He cocked his head.

The blinding smile you adorned dimmed into one of soft adoration. “I’d do anything for you.”

He exhaled with a longing sigh. “I said you are a gift from God. An angel sent down just for me.”

This time, the heat staining your cheeks was not from the sun. "O- oh," you hid your face behind your hands, grinning, teeth and all. "That's very nice."

He pulled your hands down, his expression soft and kind—something that was only ever reserved for you. Your chest suddenly felt too tight and far too warm. "I love you."

"You're cheeky!" You giggled as he tugged you onto the blanket, rolling over you. His arms, corded with lean muscle, bracketed your head. You wanted to bite into his bicep, forearm, and anything that was his.

"Say it back," he leaned down, nose brushing yours.

"I love you, Theodore Nott."

"Again."

"I looove you," your voice had a sing-song lilt to it which warmed his body with a fuzzy tingle.

"…again."

"Theo, it's going to lose its meaning!" You slid a finger down the sharp line of his jaw.

He winked. "Not when you say it."

Your lips pursed, a small attempt to hide the upturn. Your voice was more sincere than the last two times, "I love you."

"Perfect," He whispered, kissing your cheek.

i should make more theo x oblivious! reader, right? right... you'd want to see that? even though this isn't my dear x oblivious, i still wanna know!

[girls2gods]

And I’m Head Over Heels

If The Sun Don’t Rise Series Masterlist

Based on this request <3

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Everdeen!reader, Implied BIPOC!reader

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

There are degrees to owing people. A borrowed pencil equals a seat at lunch. Covering for someone with a teacher means they’re indebted until the end of the school year. Now, if the stakes veer into life or death—say, a rescue from the Peacekeepers or a meal for one’s family—it’s a guarantee they’ll be paying that debt until they’re rested in their grave. 

It’s just the way of things. When someone does you a kindness, you return it. No one wants to live with another’s good deed hanging over their head. Every one of them is already working off their own dues. 

Haymitch reckons hanging out with a bunch of merchant brats falls somewhere between an alibi and saving a life. So, Burdock owes him big time. 

This was only meant to be a quick drop in, but Burdock and Asterid are still going on about the healing properties of honey. He roped Haymitch into following him to her lunch table. Apparently, what he had to give Asterid couldn’t wait until after school. Technically, you and Burdock are now allowed to trade without Sorrel’s supervision. But Burdock told Haymitch that your pa still sets parameters around where you can go until you’re a little older. Because haggling at the Hob requires a special skill set, the two of you are really only allowed to deal with the merchants. 

Burdock has a particular affinity for the apothecary, and more importantly, who helps to run it. He found a crop of chamomile when he and Haymitch were forging just yesterday. Perfect for Asterid, Burdock claimed. 

“Chamomile helps with nerves,” he told Haymitch, carefully pocketing the tiny flowers.  

Asterid doesn’t seem like the nervous type. Quiet and modest, sure, but not anxious. She has the same self-assurance most merchant kids do, which says they’ve never had to worry about where their next meal is coming from. But she’s careful with her words, kind with them, and that makes her a lot more likeable than her friends. 

Scratch that—more likeable than Maysilee. She and Merrilee are normally the only friends Haymitch sees Asterid hanging around. 

That’s not the case today. Merrilee isn’t bad at least, and Otho’s a very quiet person too, if not awkward for his stature. Though he sure looks uncomfortable with half his ass hanging off the bench. He kept stealing glances at Burdock, more cautious than irritated, after he squeezed himself between Otho and Asterid. Haymitch should count himself lucky his bench corner is plenty spacious, the only other occupant being Oliver Schmidt. 

They exchanged exactly three words when Burdock and Haymitch showed up to their table. Oliver doesn’t resemble Otho much, but the two of them have been thick as thieves for years, and they both have brown eyes in a sea of merchant blue. So, Haymitch naturally broke the ice by asking, “Y’all cousins?” 

Oliver smiled, shyer than Maysilee’s mocking grin from across him, reaching over to knock Otho’s arm with his fist. “Sure.”

Not related then but as good as family. 

Really, Oliver’s presence next to Haymitch is pretty easy to forget, and he takes it Oliver feels the same, being he’s also the only one actually paying attention to Asterid and Burdock’s chatter. It’s mostly Burdock talking and Asterid chiming in occasionally. On this side of the lunch table, with a perfect view of you reading under the old oak tree, why would Haymitch care to keep up with them?

You sit crisscrossed in your still too big overalls, looking like a piece of the sky brought down to brighten the earth. The book’s title is obscured by the distance and your knee. Haymitch isn’t interested in the book though, more taken with your reactions to it than anything else. Not even a blowhorn could rouse you out of your concentration, or dim the wonder that makes the corners of your eyes go soft and round. 

“Your sister likes those.” 

Haymitch’s head is on a swivel, turning away from you and to Oliver, who either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about the pair of eyes drilling into him. He continues with that typical merchant assurance, “Has a real penchant for finding them.” 

He glances at Burdock and waits for his nod of agreement to turn into some kind of scorn against Oliver for talking about you instead of minding his business. When it doesn’t, Haymitch slots into the conversation. “Finding what?”

“Limestone,” Oliver answers, and it’s the first time Haymitch realizes how calmly he speaks. “The natural kind, not what they turn into gravel. She brought us a whole bunch with a blue hue to them when they’re held in the sunlight. That’s rare to see.” He ducks his head, going cherry red and beaming like he just got told he can leave school early. “We made a door knob out of that batch.” 

Well, good for Oliver. So you brought in a whole bunch of rocks for him and his family to make use of—that’s no reason to brag. You gave Haymitch a rock for his tenth birthday as a gift, not a trade. 

Burdock snorts, his eyebrows pinching up with mild amusement. “I’m sure she’d like to hear about that.” 

And now Burdock owes Haymitch for the rest of the year! Why—just why—would he tease Oliver like he’s got a real foundation to stand on with you, let alone encourage him to actually talk to you? You aren’t friends with each other, and sure, Oliver seems harmless and friendly, but he’s got nothing in common with you. Besides the fact that you both ramble when prompted, or that he seems to care about things and people. Or that he knows about rocks, which Haymitch is beginning to notice you do too. 

Otherwise, what would you even talk about? 

Haymitch observes you again, then turns his attention to the doe-eyed glimmer in Oliver’s brown eyes as they focus on you. He feels spikes prodding inside his chest. “She doesn’t like when people stare.” 

Oliver quickly averts his gaze from you and blinks at Haymitch. “Then why are you staring?” 

“I wasn’t staring,” he defends, because Oliver has no room to throw around accusations. 

He shrugs, as calm as his voice. “If you say so.” 

“And if I was staring, which I wasn’t,” Haymitch sits up, “it ain’t any of your business.” 

“You told me to stop staring.” 

Haymitch could very easily tell him what Mamaw used to say about not bending to another’s mold, or something like that. Instead, he huffs. “You gonna keep track of everything I say then?” 

“Isn’t that what a conversation is?” Oliver doesn’t cover up the bluntness in his tone. Haymitch tries not to add that to the list of things you and Oliver have in common. 

“Good thing this one’s ended.” Haymitch gathers up his trash and slides out of the bench. 

His movement is enough to steal Burdock’s attention from Asterid. “Where’re you going?” 

It’s not on Burdock that Oliver’s gotten under Haymitch’s skin, but he’s irritated enough not to give him a straight answer, or to respond to Maysilee’s good riddance. “I’ll see you after lunch.”

He tosses the napkin that came with his stale school bread in the trash on the path to the old oak tree. You don’t acknowledge Haymitch until he slides down the bark beside you and stretches out his legs. He doesn’t say anything either, letting you glance briefly in question then return to reading. Once you get the hint he isn’t going anywhere, you close your book. “What are you doing?”

“Pretty obvious. I’m sitting down.” Haymitch leans his head against the tree, closing his eyes.

He hears the way your breath escapes in a sharp, irritated sigh. “I don’t want you to.”

“You know, it’s funny how you don’t own this tree, and I can sit here if I want.” Clearly, Haymitch hasn’t shaken off his own annoyance. He curls his fingers into the dirt and twigs beneath him. “Interesting book?”

You drum your nails along the spine, glaring at him like you’re trying to decide if you should address his snark with your own. Maybe you recognize his mood is in need of cheering, or maybe you don’t have anything to hurl back for once. Must be the mood thing. You haven’t been very cheerful yourself since Lenore Dove’s recent stint in jail. “It’s about plants.”

“I thought you already knew all there was to ’em.” Least the ones that can be found in the woods surrounding Twelve. Sorrel did well to teach you and Burdock, and Burdock’s done Haymitch a favor by telling him some about them.

You shake your head, biting back a grin. “This one’s about beliefs, not facts. Different meanings people gave to plants. Or still do.”

“What kind of meanings?”

A moment passes before you crack the book open, turning to a page with the title Larkspur and a large picture of a bunch of colorful stalks. Haymitch scoots closer to get a better view. There’s all kinds of information, but you tap the bold letters that read July Birth Flower.

“Larkspur blooms all throughout summer, but they’re brightest around July. I think that’s why they were given to it.” You smooth the crease on the corner of the left page. “Says here they symbolized positivity in cultures of old, and summer weather is a positive thing.” Lifting an eyebrow at Haymitch, you say, “That trait didn’t rub off on you obviously.”

“Think that up on the spot, did you?” He points to the one front and center of the photograph, a dark blue shade with purple shadows in the middle of the petals. “I like the color of this one.”

You don’t withhold your smile at his comment. “When my papaw was courting my mamaw, he’d take her larkspur every day ’cause that was her name.”

Haymitch snickers. “Courting?”

“It means—”

“I know what it means. Just sounds like something a merchie would say.” Your eyes narrow coldly, and Haymitch lifts his arms in surrender. “Sorry. Keep going, sunshine.”

A leaf breaks off the nearest branch and lands on top of the book. You pick it up along with your story again. “He’d take her purple ones. On the day he proposed, he brought every color larkspur he could find because she was his true love, not just his first.”

“The purple ones mean first love?”

“I’m sure it was just something he made up. She wore them in her hair for their wedding though. And they used the leftover petals to make ink.”

“That sounds real nice.” Haymitch drags a stick across the dirt, tracing a halfhearted copy of the larkspur.

“I think so, too.” Your face is downright bashful, and for longer than he should, he thinks about the kind of flowers you might wear on your wedding day, which is weird because you’re years away from marrying anyone.

Jasmine’s a likely option, considering you were wearing some yesterday, the smell still noticeable from how close he’s sitting to you. You could also follow in your mamaw’s footsteps. Haymitch imagines you both a little older, pictures that mix of blue-purple dappled in your hair, wonders if he’d even be invited to your wedding.

His pulse spikes up much like it did earlier, not at the worry over his invitation, but at the next natural question of who you’d marry. Someone kind and patient, hopefully, who could make you laugh, who’d notice the important things. And because his mind is having trouble catching up to his body, Haymitch finds Oliver still sitting at the lunch table, glancing at you again. Unabashed and doe-eyed.

Haymitch breathes in deep when his jaw gives a painful click. “Sunshine.” As you turn to him with remnants of that soft, round wonder in your eyes, Haymitch squashes all thoughts about Oliver Schmidt and his musings. “What does limestone look like?”

You explain in as much detail as you can, likely unaware of the glee emanating from you, until you’re all called back into class. On the way inside, once Burdock’s parted from Asterid’s friends and joined up with you, Haymitch doesn’t care when Oliver sends a quick wave your way. Doesn’t even notice when you wave back. And he most definitely does not trip over his own feet as a consequence of not looking at where he’s going. Got you laughing at him though, so maybe a win’s a win.

But Burdock absolutely still owes him.

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

[obsessedwithceleste]

Divination for Dummies

Theodore Nott x Ravenclaw! reader

Based on this request 🫶🏽

Summary: When the tarot cards tell you you’re going to fall in love, sometimes it’s best to just listen to them

word count: 6k

©️obsessedwithceleste. all works posted here belong to me and should not be reposted or copied in any way or form.

Divination was stupid. Theo knew it. Enzo knew it. But unfortunately for the two of them, Daphne Greengrass did not. She was quite the believer in fact—spending hours charting stars to gauge compatibility, gazing into her crystal ball, and practicing her palm reading. A load of bollocks and a complete waste of time in Theo's opinion, but, he wasn't a monster and so he humored his friend, content in blocking out Professor Trelawney's incessant babbling for an hour at the start of his mornings.

Theo was just admiring how particularly gray the walls of the castle were looking this fine afternoon when a sharp elbow to the ribs pulls his attention back to the old bat's class. Theo shoots a glare Enzo's way as he rubs his wounded ribcage pointedly. To only further his agitation, Theo notices that Trelawney is now stood directly in front of him extending a deck of tarot cards to him as she blinks her wide owlish eyes at him expectantly.

With a deep sigh and a rather dramatic eye roll, Theo plucks a card from the deck and hands it back to the witch without even bothering to glance at it. Trelawney doesn't seem to mind much though as she inhales sharply, a grin that seemed much too wide for her face forming as she flips the card back to Theo.

"Yes, yes. Just as I predicted dear boy. Just as I predicted. The Two of Cups!" She announces proudly, brandishing the card out towards the class.

Daphne squeals.

"Oh Teddy—"

"Don't call me that."

Daphne ignores him.

"How exciting. How romantic," she continues, clearly far more interested in the pull than Theo was.

She pulls out a script of parchment, finger tracing down the lines of notes until she finds what she's searching for. Then she shoves the parchment under Theo's nose.

"Look there. The Two of Cups—signifies mutual attraction and deep connections. A representation of kindred spirits in the early stages of falling in love. That's so romantic," she gushes, continuing on in her notes.

Enzo snorts doing a horrible job trying to stifle his laughter. Theo glowers, not even wanting to deign such a ridiculous concept with a response. This was ludicrous. The whole thing. Theo had been attending Hogwarts for well long enough to know that there was not a single present student in the school that he would even dignify having a romantic relationship with. He can't help but shake his head and scoff at the mere idea.

"Oh lighten up Teddy, heaven forbid you let Daphne have this," Enzo snickers, clearly enjoying the discomfort the whole thing brought Theo.

It was easy for him to say. It wasn't his love life being carefully dissected by their mystic enthused friend.

Being the new student at any new school was always going to be nerve wracking. But being the new student at a new school in a whole new country was significantly worse in every aspect. Whispers float down the corridors, your name echoing off the high ceilings of the castle, and eyes flicker towards the ground as you pass as if they hadn't just been staring shamelessly the moment prior. Normally the stares wouldn't bother you much, but the constant hushed voices were beginning to be unnerving. Your lips tighten as you move swiftly through the halls and you can't help but feel a bit self conscious as you smooth out your unfamiliar, deep blue robes.

You weren't exactly enthusiastic about your new school to begin with. It was different—of course it would be—but no matter how much you had prepared yourself for all the changes, it just hadn't been enough. Like really, they let a ratty, old—albeit sentient—hat determine house placements? You hadn't wanted that thing anywhere near your head, but it just couldn't be helped. Then, once you had been placed into your house, you come to find that yours is the only one in the entire school that requires you to solve a freaking riddle just to get into your damn room. Asinine. And to top it all off, the wretched school was literally impossible to navigate because the staircases, apparently, were also sentient and did whatever the hell they wanted.

All that to say, when you finally collapse into a seat in the back of, what you hoped was the History of Magic classroom, you were more than a little miffed. With an agitated huff, you try to stay invisible as more students begin to file into the classroom, taking their seats closer to the front. As seats fill, the extra buffer of breathing room melts a bit of the tension in your shoulders. When your professor—a ghost you notice dryly—begins to write on the chalk board, you finally feel yourself start to relax, pulling out a roll of parchment from your bag and carefully copying down each line.

Just as you're about to finish—The Gargoyle Strike of 1911—the classroom door swings open once more and a boy with brown hair and dark, calculating eyes saunters in. You're content with giving him a quick, uninterested glance before getting back to your notes, but unfortunately for you, the boy is rapidly approaching. His bag hits the floor next to you with a dull thread and you feel your lips turn downward into a frown as you look up at the boy once more in annoyance.

You watch as the boy's mouth opens as if to say something, but then his eyes meet yours and you watch him freeze, mouth agape for a moment then two. Just as it's becoming a bit uncomfortable, he seems to awaken from his trance looking shaken, brows furrowing as if he were wondering why on Earth he was just standing there like a fool. Still though, he tilts his head awkwardly—chin gesturing towards the rest of the class—and for the first time you notice that every other seat in the room seems to be occupied. With a sigh of defeat, you wordlessly turn back to the board, preparing to scramble to write down whatever you'd missed just now, content with simply ignoring this boy's existence for the the rest of class.

"A 'wildcat strike' refers to a stopping of work by unionized workers without authorization from the union. In 1911 the wildcats were winning, meaning things were moving in favor of the gargoyles—"

Good god this was horrible. You weren't even ten minutes into your first day of this new class and you already wanted to throw yourself off the top of Ravenclaw tower. It seemed as though many of the other students in class felt similarly as one of the boys sitting a few rows in front of you lets out a concernedly loud snore. You have to choke down a snicker as your eyes flicker up to the ghost at the front of the room, but he doesn't seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn't care.

"That's Finnigan. There's a running bet on how long it'll take him to fall asleep after Binns starts monologuing," the boy next to you murmurs, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You turn to look at the boy, surprised to hear him speak after all, and for the first time take a good look. Shit. He was hot. You don't really get the chance to dwell too much on it though because he speaks again.

"That one next to him is Thomas. Any second now he'll start piling things on top of 'em. See how high the stack gets before it falls over or Finnigan wakes up. Whichever comes first."

As if on queue, the boy next to the snoring kid carefully places a thick text book on his friend's back. Then another. It's like you can't look away as you watch on in morbid fascination.

"They friends of yours?" you find yourself asking as the boy, Thomas, adds an ink well to his tower.

Your desk partner snorts.

"Hardly. Lions and snakes don't exactly get along," he says smoothly.

You have no idea what that's supposed to mean, but you don't want to ask. Instead you continue to watch as a bag of Bertie Bott's jelly beans, three quills, a sweater, and someone's pet frog is added to the pile. A potted plant is about to be placed on top when a sneeze sends the whole thing crashing to the floor. Professor Binns doesn't even blink as he just continues on. Finnigan's head shoots up as he takes in his surroundings once more, shoulders slumping when he apparently realizes where he is. Understandable.

The rest of class is an absolute drag as you flit in and out of different thoughts and daydreams. Anywhere was better than here, listening to this ghost drown on. If he were any less interesting, you're sure the entire class would die of sheer boredom and be cursed to haunt this very classroom with the old professor. Doomed to be subjected to the very thing that killed you all in the first place for all eternity.

After what you're certain is the longest hour of your life, class finally ends, but to your dismay, you realize that halfway through class you'd simply given up on taking notes. Dammit. As though reading your mind, the boy next to you slides his parchment towards you. His notes are impeccable. Perfectly neat rows in dark ink with not a smudge in sight.

"I can get them back tomorrow," he says simply, before returning the rest of his materials into his bag.

You open your mouth to thank the boy, but before you even get the chance he's gone in a swoosh of emerald green and black.

The whole thing leaves you a bit stunned. It was the first real interaction you'd had with, really anyone at your new school and you couldn't tell if you'd completely blown it or not. He'd seemed decent enough, whoever he was. And that's when it occurs to you. You hadn't even bothered to ask the boy's name.

"Mmm. What was their name again?" Theo asks, trying to appear nonchalant as he inserts himself into Enzo and Daphne's conversation.

The three of them occupied their usual spots inside the Slytherin common room, the soft glow of green flames painting their faces as their voices mix in with the other echoes of the dungeon. Enzo eyes Theo suspiciously, noting that—despite the unbothered front he put on—Theo's fingers couldn't seem to stop tapping anxiously against his knee. See, usually when Enzo and Daphne were participating in their daily debrief, Theo was staring off into the abyss, pointedly ignoring them. So it didn't take an intuitive genius to pick up on the sudden spike of interest he was showing.

"Y/n. They're from America," Daphne says helpfully, seemingly oblivious to the way that Enzo was trying to dissect their friend's inner most thoughts.

"Why all the interest? They catch your eye? Are you two already falling into the early stages of love?" He taunts when he isn't able to get a proper read on his friend.

Theo's heart stops beating in his chest for half a moment before he juts out his chin defiantly.

"All anyone will talk about. Just curious to know who all the fuss is about," he retorts, forcing his voice to remain steady as he continues to stare ahead, avoiding the curious glances of his friends.

He can tell Enzo doesn't quite buy it, but that simply isn't his problem to worry about at the moment.

So they were from America. Huh.

Truthfully, Theo didn't know much about America. Hadn't ever really cared to find anything out. He was familiar with Ilvermorny of course. Which was presumably your former school, but that was pretty much the extent of it. Maybe he'd ask you about it tomorrow.

Assuming he didn't freeze up again at the mere sight of you. Salazar's ball sack that had been bloody embarrassing. Theo couldn't think of a single other time he'd ever frozen up like that, brief as it had been. Usually Theo liked to consider himself to be quite suave. Charming even, if he did say so himself. And he did. It was completely unlike him to be rendered speechless. Especially not by the mere presence of someone with a pretty face.

But it simply hadn't been his fault. How was he supposed to expect that some great, higher power was going to reach deep into his inner most thoughts and desires—pull together every single physical trait that Theo could possibly fantasize about—and combine them all into one single heavenly creature, and then plop them down right next to him in History of Magic of all classes.

Fate was cruel.

And speaking of fate, there was also all that nonsense from Divination that morning to think about. Theo leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. Surely the fact that batty, old Trelawney had predicted that he would fall in love was a complete coincidence in relation to him practically being prepared to propose to the new student in History of Magic a mere few hours later. How could it be anything else? Divination wasn't real. The whole class had been so close to being completely scrapped so many times that you either had to be a fool, or Daphne to believe in it.

Okay, so maybe Theodore was starting to believe it. A little. But what was he supposed to think as he watches you drag your feet through the door scowling? He feels his chest tighten as the two of you make eye contact and he watches as you make your way over to him.

"This seat taken?" you ask, already dropping your bag to the floor. "Didn't take you as one to be into this kinda stuff," you say conversationally as you pull parchment and a quill from your bag.

Theo scoffs, rolling his eyes.

"I'm not," he assures, "But Daph is," he adds, head tilting as he gestures to his friend.

He watches as your eyes dart over to the pretty brunette sitting happily between him and Enzo, assessing.

"Oh. Are you two?" The question lingers on your lips and Theo is quick to shake his head no.

Salazar he was being stupid. Of course you would assume—Why was he being like this?

"Nah. No. Daph's an old friend. Enz and I are just here for moral support. And an easy O." Theo hears himself drawl. "What about you? Training to become a seer?"

"Hardly. This was the only elective left that fit into my schedule apparently."

Salazar's balls you were perfect, Theo thinks to himself as Trelawney comes sweeping into the room. Her eyes are closed and her fingertips are pressed against her temples as she swooshes around the room, humming lowly.

"I feel new energy. An unfamiliar presence. You!" Trelawney screeches in her trembly voice, stopping in front of a poor, innocent Hufflepuff with an accusatory finger hovering dangerously close to their eyeball.

Theo can't help but let out a dry snicker and is delighted when he sees you out of the corner of his eye trying to hold back a laugh too. When it's clear to the old professor that the student in front of her had actually been present all year, her eyes scan the room, finally coming to a stop when they rest on you.

"Ah, there you are my dear! Your energy feels so concentrated on this side of the room, it simply drew me over," Trelawney babbles as she makes her way over. "Now let's see here. Palms up dear, palms up, let me have a look."

Theo watches amused, ignoring the weird kissing faces Enzo is making at him, as you sigh but still present your palms facing upwards to the professor. Her bony talons quickly engulf your hands, her eyes fluttering shut once more as her head tilts back, a low hum starting once more.

"Yes, yes. How interesting," the hums get louder as the professor's fingers dig into the lines of your palms. "I see. In the darkest hour, a dark shadow, it will over take you. Consume you."

Trelawney's eyes snap open and Theo watches her face melt back into a warm smile as she gives your hands one last squeeze.

"Welcome to class dear. We have much to learn, so much to see!"

Theo finds that he rather likes the way his heart swells when you turn to look at him, brow raised as you shake your head ever so slightly as if to say, 'what a nutter'.

"How many freaking goblin rebellions is it going to take before the British Ministry finally takes the hint and leaves those poor goblins alone?" you huff, slamming your books a little too loudly onto your table in the library.

You can feel Madam Pince attempting to burn a hole through your back as she glares at you, but you ignore her.

"Probably at least—" Theo checks his notes from the day's lesson, "six or seven. Unfortunately not every revolution to rid oneself of British rule is successful," he teases lightly.

You glare at the boy pointedly.

"I'm not even particularly, patriotic," you grumble, the word actually quite sour on your tongue, "but nothing brings Americans together quite like our mutual hatred of the British."

"Mmm. Do let it go on record now that my family is Italian," Theo replies dryly.

Theodore had very quickly become your closest friend at Hogwarts. From that first day in History of Magic the two of you just seemed to click. It also definitely helped that not only did he share your dry sense of humor, but he was also insanely smart, and very easy on the eyes. You'd been worried for a split second when he first introduced you to Daphne Greengrass, a familiar turning in your stomach that you'd quickly identified as jealousy flaring up, but it had been quickly squashed when Theo assured you that they were indeed just friends. But that was neither here nor there. You and Theo had become practically inseparable in the month that you'd been at your new school, much to the chagrin of his friends. You liked them too of course, and they'd been good sports about welcoming you into their little group, but with Theo it was just easy.

You slide your potions notes across the table just as Theo hands over his Charms essay for you to look over. No words exchanged, but you were both perfectly in sync. Easy.

It's far past dark when you finally push your chair back, the old wood scraping against the floor, and you force yourself to stifle a yawn.

"Alright. I'm calling it a night," you announce as you begin packing up your books. "I should head back in case it takes an hour to get that damn eagle to open up the common room door again."

You hear Theo let out a snort at your last comment. He'd heard well and good your complaints about that stupid hunk of metal.

"Guess I'll head out as well. Mattheo has been complaining that he never sees me anymore, but he's just mad he can't copy my notes anymore."

The two of you quickly gather the rest of your things, slinking out of the library right as Pince begins making her rounds to toss the last lingering students out before closing the doors for the night. The walk to Ravenclaw tower is made in comfortable silence as you walk side by side, both of you trying to ignore the way the back of your hands were brushing against each other as you went. When you finally arrive, a whole group of students in black and blue are outside the door when it swings open. Not wanting to miss your chance, you toss Theo a smile over your shoulder before disappearing with the crowd of students through the door.

As soon as you enter your room, you dump your bag on the ground at the foot of your bed, trade your stiff school uniform for a more comfortable track set, and turn right back out the door—a disillusionment spell on the tip of your tongue. You move silently against the walls, retracing the same steps you'd just taken, leading your right back to the library. It's dark now—you knew from experience that as soon as the clock hit ten, Pince was out the doors. You lift your wand, ready to cast the usual alohomora but tonight something stops you. Call it a gut feeling. You grip the handle of the heavy, wood door and without so much as a squeak, the door swings open. Huh. Maybe the cranky librarian had been in such a rush to leave she forgot to lock up.

Without giving it so much as a second thought, you slip through the doors, following the familiar path that lead you right to the heart of the restricted section of the library. Really, you often found yourself wondering, why on Earth did they have a so called restricted section, and then not even bother to put up a single ward to keep students from entering? Wasn't very restricted if they asked you. Your fingertips brush over the spines of different books as you pass through the shelves, pulling one from the shelf every so often if it catches your eye. The silence of the empty library was deafening, but you relished the way you could hear your footsteps echoing on the tile and the rustle of pages turning as you flipped through your nightly finds.

You're on your tiptoes, straining to reach a large tome from the top shelf when you catch sight of a dark shadow appearing out of the corner of your eye. God, you hoped it wasn't that old man Filch. He wasn't as bad as everyone made him seem, you'd been able to talk him out of snitching on you thus far, but it kind of ruined the mood. Your hand drops to rest on the handle of your wand as the shady figure draws closer and you prepare to throw one of your books its way just in case.

"What are you doing here?" the confused voice of Theodore rings out just as you're about to launch your copy of Moste Potente Potions at his head.

You feel your shoulders sag in relief. You hadn't been scared of course. Just vaguely alarmed. Then you let out a laugh.

"And what's funny?"

"Oh, nothing. Just Trelawney and her whole 'A dark shadow is going to overtake you' spiel," you snicker. "And what do you mean what am I doing here? What are you doing here?" you ask rather indignantly, turning back to focus on the book that was just out of your reach.

"I come down to the library at night all the time," Theo replies, crossing his arms defensively.

"Well it's obviously not all the time because I've been here every night this month and I've never seen you down here," you reply casually.

You can practically hear Theo rolling his eyes at you.

"Well of course not all the time, Filch would start getting—sorry did you say you've been here every night? How has Filch not caught you?"

You shrug your shoulders noncommittally, glaring up at the book that seemed to be just taunting you.

"He has a few times, but we usually just chat for a little and then he'll send me on my way."

You don't see the absolutely stunned look on Theo's face.

"You chat? With Filch. About what?" Theo asks incredulously.

You let out an exasperated sigh.

"The weather. Cat toy recommendations for Mrs. Norris. His mother's retirement in France. I don't know, we chat about a lot of things."

You still aren't facing Theo, but if you had been, you probably would have laughed at the completely gobsmacked look that was written across his face.

"Now will you be useful and get that book down for me?" you ask, foot stomping impatiently on the ground.

Still too shocked to respond, Theo reaches up over your head, placing one hand on your shoulder for balance as he easily plucks the book you'd been reaching for off the shelf. Just as he's about to hand it to you though, it seems he comes back to his senses and that smug grin that you'd become so familiar with recently finds its way back to his lips.

"Uh uh uh, where's my reward?" he teases, holding the book just out of reach once more as he smirks down at you.

"Reward?" you ask dryly, looking up to raise an eyebrow at your friend.

Had he always been standing so close?

"I'm a Slytherin. I don't do something for nothing now," he says, voice like honey in your ears.

"What do you want?" you ask, eyes narrowing.

Theo tilts his head as if pretending to think.

"A kiss."

You blink, shoulders shrugging as you turn to face the boy properly. Seemed fair enough to you. You were definitely getting the best end of the deal. So you tug on the collar of Theo's sweatshirt, before crashing your lips into his. His lips are warm and soft and that's all you take note of before pulling away quickly. Theo is clearly stunned once more so you take the opportunity to finally get your hands on the book you'd been eyeing this whole time.

"Thanks Theo!"

Theodore Nott was dangerously close to never brushing his teeth ever again. Because you had kissed him last night. In some sudden, stupid burst of confidence he had asked you to kiss him and you did. It had been a complete joke—Theo hadn't even remotely considered that you'd actually do it, but you'd grabbed the collar of his jumper and then your lips were on his and he knew he was well and truly done for.

"Theo. Theo! You need to get your act together mate," Lorenzo grunts, elbowing his friend to get his attention.

"What? Stop that," Theo mutters, batting his friend away from him.

"Seriously. You're acting like a love sick puppy."Brie

Theo glares.

"Would take one to know one," he snaps, falling back in his seat with a huff.

Now it's Enzo's turn to narrow his eyes.

"I'm going to choose to ignore that because you're just upset that you didn't kiss y/n back," he responds.

Theo's eyes bulge at the bold—albeit correct—observation.

"Can you keep your bloody voice down?" he hisses, eyes flickering about to make sure no one had heard.

Luckily, you had only just entered the divination classroom so at least Theo was safe for now. Or maybe not.

"Morning," you say brightly giving the group a small wave and taking your usual spot next to Theo.

Theo opens his mouth to respond but, Salazar you smelled good today, and your lips, god your lips looked soft and pink and, the words feel caught in Theo's throat. Somewhere in the distance he can hear Enzo snickering obnoxiously, but all Theo can do is stare at you dumbly. This was mortifying. As soon as he figured out how to move again Theo was launching himself straight off this bloody tower.

"Hey, do you want to sneak into the library again tonight?" you ask casually, laying your things out on your desk, seemingly oblivious to the fact that you were about to send Theo into cardiac arrest.

Of course I'll sneak back into the library with you. Especially if it means you'll kiss me again, Theo wants to say. But he has at least a little bit of dignity left, so he straightens himself in his chair, trying to maintain at least somewhat of an air of nonchalance as he finally strings a sentence together.

"Sure."

Okay, so a sentence might be giving himself a bit too much credit, but it was better than sitting there gaping like a daft idiot. You seem satisfied with his answer though as you turn to face the front just as Trelawney waltzes into the room with her usual dramatic flair. Theo drifts in and out of the lesson as Trelawney rambles on about tea leaves and the placement of tasseography symbols. He tried to focus. Really he needed to, because the alternative was his gaze finding its way to the curve of your lips and the way your tongue pressed against the inside of your cheek as you furiously scribbled down notes.

The gentle sound of metal clinking on china pulls Theo wholey back to class as a spoon taps impatiently on the teacup in front of him as if urging him to drink. Glancing around he sees most of his classmates were already bottoms up. Drinking down the rather bitter liquid, Theo carefully places his cup back down in front of him, peering disinterestedly at its contents. Just looked like soggy tea leaves to him.

Trelawney insists on moving about the room though, dissecting the meanings inside each little cup and leaving behind a trail of utterly befuddled students in her wake. When she finally reaches Theo, he can visibly see her begin to vibrate with excitement as she moves his cup around in her hands, swishing the tea leaves back and forth.

"Look there, dear. Do you see?" she asks giddily, shoving the teacup back in Theo's face.

"No." he replies flatly, not even bothering to examine the wet leaves.

"Look closer."

Theo's nose is practically inside the cup now and he can hear you and Enz snickering on either side of him. Traitors. When he still doesn't say anything, Trelawney lets out a huff, sticking her crooked finger into the cup and speaking slowly as if explaining something to a small child.

"Right there. Don't you see?" she asks, as if it should've been the most obvious thing in the world. "An axe—" she swirls the cup to the side. "And a butterfly."

Theo stares blankly at the old woman.

"Use their notes and figure it out," she finally huffs in exasperation before sweeping off to another table.

As soon as she's gone and Theo makes eye contact with you he can't help but chuckle as Daphne scowls at the two of you.

"Look," she sighs, shoving her notes across the table for Theo to read.

The Axe—problems overcome

The Butterfly—success and pleasure

Wonderful. More nonsense. That was the problem with divination—the definitions were so broad they were basically meaningless. Overcoming problems and success? That could be about anything. Theo pushes the parchment back to its owner with a shrug. He'd just do what he always did and make something up for the assignment.

Shadows loom against the dimly lit walls of the library as you and Theo wander through the shelves together. Theo had been quieter than usual tonight. To be fair, he wasn't usually the most talkative person ever, but you had had to push to get your usual banter out of him. He clearly had something on his mind. You don't push though. That was something you both appreciated about each other—just being there together was enough.

Once you both have a sizable stack of books pulled together you tuck yourselves away in one of the back corners of the restricted section. Far enough that not even Mrs. Norris would bother to wander all the way back. You find yourself curling up next to your friend, legs pressed together and shoulders brushing as you cast a soft lumos charm just bright enough to illuminate the pages of your books as you read. The quiet is nice after a long day of navigating the crowded halls and classrooms of the school. Hogwarts was definitely a lively place, and you hadn't realized just how much you missed having some peace and quiet until you'd snuck out of Ravenclaw tower that first night.

"Do you think divination might not be completely useless?" Theo asks a while later, breaking the silence.

You look up in surprise before glancing down at the book he's reading—Divination Through the Ages: A Skeptics Guide—your eyebrows furrowing in thought. If you were being honest, you'd always thought that divination was, to be polite, dumb. In fact, you'd been rather pissed when your head of house, Professor Flitwick, had told you that it was the only class that would fit in your schedule. But you didn't think that was what Theo wanted to hear at the moment.

"I mean, all forms of magic have their unique uses I suppose," you reply carefully, wondering where this was going.

Theo just hums in response, continuing to finger through the pages of the book as you watch with curiosity. Finally, with a deep breath, he snaps the book closed and turns to face you. It's clear he wants to say something as you search his eyes which seem to be getting ever so slightly closer by the second. You can't help the way your eyes drop down to his lips as his tongue glides across his bottom lip nervously. They're so close now you can practically feel the way they had pressed against your own last night. However brief that encounter had been. When you finally tilt your head back up to meet his eyes once more, your nose brushes his and you feel your breath hitch. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was about to kiss you right now.

And then his lips are on yours and you feel your body go limp as he pulls you into him, your eyes fluttering closed as he molds you to him. Your book slips from your fingers with a dull thud as it hits the ground, but you hardly notice. Theo's lips are just as warm, and soft, and utterly intoxicating as you remembered them to be. You can feel Theo smiling against your lips as he pulls you impossibly closer and you forget where you are, what you were doing, everything except what it feels like to be held in Theo's arms.

When you finally break apart, it's your turn to blink in stunned silence as Theo gazes down at you, his breath warm against your cheek.

"Ever since you arrived, everything that divination has told me has come true," Theo says gruffly, clearly not pleased to be having to admit it.

You couldn't blame him. The two of you had kind of bonded over how unseriously you both took the class. Still though, you tilt your head, inviting him to continue.

"The first day we met—that morning in divination, a deck of tarot cards told me I was going to fall in love."

A dry laugh escapes Theo's lips as he pulls back, eyes trained everywhere but at you now. Which is probably for the best as you feel tendrils of heat creeping up into your face.

"I didn't believe them of course. Thought it was pure rubbish."

Your heart stutters for a moment before your eyes land on the book Theo had been reading so intently up until now.

"Hm. And did something change?" you ask cautiously, not daring to get your hopes up.

"Well, the soggy leaves in my tea this morning kind of implied that I should get my act together if I wanted any sort of success, so—" Theo lets out another wry laugh, though there's no humor in his voice. Just a nervous undertone that you can tell he's trying to mask.

"Well did you? Fall in love that is?" you ask, suddenly feeling shy around Theo for the first time.

There's a beat of silence where you can practically feel your heart trying to tear its way out of your chest. You hadn't quite realized just how much you wanted this until it was staring you in the face. Or rather anywhere but. Then Theo meets your eyes once more.

"I think I could. If I'm not half way there already."

His words melt every bit of tension you had been feeling previously as you let out a breath that you didn't know you'd been holding.

"I think I'm half way there too."

Everyone say thank you to the beta readers @simplyastra and @nottendo 🫶🏽

[acotar-girly]

theo x reader, but it’s him discovering that she’s tattooed? i imagine flowers tattooed across her back and maybe he discovers it during a makeout or something and he’s obsessed

⋆·˚ ༘ * Thirteen lilies ⋆·˚ ༘ *

Masterlist

Author's note: your wish is my command :) also I just really love this ask. the flowers are lilies, just because I love lilies and I feel like the slight melancholic nature of them fits theodore nott (or the version I have of him in my mind, at least.)

warnings: it's just fluff, maybe a little on body issues + not proofread

hope this is what you imagined, anon!!

Pairing: theodore nott x fem!tattooed reader

You're in Theo's dormitory. Yesterday night was a rare, quiet evening when his roommates were gone- he'd been tense all week, something weighing on him he won't name, and you've been trying to coax him out of his own head while his friends scattered away to their own multitudes of activities, unsure of how their presence in the room with the two of you would be greeted.

You really had tried everything to cheer him up, and nothing seemed to be working. But he didn't push you away, and in your books that was always a win. It helped calm your nervousness, the anxiety pulsating through your blood at his closed- off expression, when his arms had wrapped around you and he had buried his face into your neck, silently burrowing. It was the first time he had seeked comfort like this, and you were more than willing to give it freely until he opened up.

He hadn't opened up. He'd instead collapsed on the bed, pulling you on top of him. Not a single word exchanged and yet you still knew exactly what it was he wanted. His face may not have revealed anything but his eyes- those dark eyes always revealed his thoughts. And right now those same hooded eyes were begging you to stay the night for the first time.

You'd fallen asleep on his chest eventually, the two of you tangled in his silky emerald sheets. You hadn't slept. Just held your breath, waiting for his body to slump, waiting for his breath to even out so you could stop worrying (you'd never stop worrying) He had stirred, shifting and had kissed your forehead sometime around 2 am, mumbled something you couldn't quite catch, pulling the blanket higher over your bare shoulders.

Bare, because theodore ran cold and the room was somehow hot- or was that just you?-and your t shirt soaked through with sweat sometime around midnight.

You were nervous. Beyond nervous, really. Sleeping over for the first time. The soft curve of your stomach pressed against his side, and you had caught yourself trying to angle away, trying to suck in, stay tense and awake, but he'd just hooked an arm around your waist and dragged you closer.

"Stop that," he murmured, barely awake and brow furrowed. "You're warm. Stay."

So you did.

(The insecurities didn't come from comments from others, nor from some horrible ex. It was a lot deeper and a lot less complicated than that. The thoughts were entirely your own. Perhaps that's why it seemed so strange to confess to Theodore that you hated the body he seemed to love so much, that you lived for the moments he said 'you're perfect, baby' because it soothed jagged pieces of yourself and temporarily buried the spiky thoughts.)

You woke up first.

The green light of the early morning light filtered through the lake in the gaps of his curtains slipped through, burning your tired eyes. Theodore's dead to the world, dark lashes against pale cheeks. Lips slightly parted, one arm thrown over his head like he had collapsed mid thought.

The other arm is outstretched to you on the bed, as though reaching for you in his sleep, distressed by the lack of touch. He looks peaceful, nothing like the darkness that had taken over him last night.

You slip out of bed carefully, bare feet on his cold floor. The Slytherin dorms always run cold, the Black Lake hiding them from the sun like a secret hidden in it's depths.

His t- shirt is probably somewhere on the floor, and it would help the gooseflesh erupting across your arms and stomach, with just the sweatpants and bra, but the dorm is mostly dark and you don't want him to wake to you rummaging around in his room while he was asleep.

So just the bra. Just the sweatpants. Your soft middle on display, and for once- just for him- you try to not hate it.

You pad to the bathroom, pressing your teeth together to stop the chattering as a full body shiver runs through you.

The bathroom is small, tiled in pale green like all the other dorms, smelling like his soap and something woodsy that you breathe in. It's gratefully warm in the bathroom. You don't turn on the light- just crack the door enough to see by the dim hallway glow. He needs the rest. His toothbrush sits in a cup, and right beside it is a new one, nestled perfectly. He's had it for ages, probably, waiting for the day you agree to finally sleep over. Patient, like Theodore has always been for you.

You grab it without thinking, squeeze toothpaste onto the bristles, and start brushing.

You're hunched over the sink a little, squinting at your reflection in the dim mirror. Your hair is a mess that you pull into a horrendous bun on the top of your head, tired eyes, and pudge soft above your waistband.

He saw all of this, you think to yourself. And he still pulled me closer.

The thought makes you smile around the toothbrush, when suddenly there's arms snaking around your waist lazily, feeling every inch of the bare skin.

Warm, bare arms sliding around your waist from behind. A chest pressing against your back. A nose buried in the curve of your neck.

You jump, nearly choking on toothpaste foam, cheeks immediately flushing and heart hammering like it wants to break free from your chest.

"Theodore-"

"Mm." His voice is gravel and sleep, rumbling against your skin. He's a draping weight over you, and you feel your resistance crumble as your body leans into his touch. His mouth is pressed to your collarbone, head bowed, soft curls against your cheek, and you close your eyes for a moment as his rough voice comes as a vibration against the delicate skin of your collarbone. "You left." He mumbles, like it's a crime in it's own right to leave a bed in the morning to brush your teeth.

You try to turn, but he holds you there- not tight. His arms like a loose band across your middle, his smell engulfing you until you want to disappear into him, crawl into his skin and live in it with him, inhale him until all that's in your lungs is the smell of him and all that you feel is his bare chest against your back.

His lips find the back of your neck, pressing slow, lazy kisses up to your hairline.

"I was brushing my teeth," you mumble softly around the brush, spitting as quiet as you can in the sink so you can speak clearly. "Go back to sleep."

"No." A soft open-mouthed kiss to the back of your neck that makes you gasp and jolt against him. You feel his lips curve upwards against your neck, and your knees nearly buckle. This is how you die. With Theodore Nott mumbling "want to see your face," against your neck at 6:46 am in the morning.

"Theo-"

"Want to see your pretty face," he corrects, amused, kisses trailing to your shoulder. "My pretty girl. Turn around."

You shake your head, cheeks flushing hot as your hands brace yourself against the counter. Breathe, you think. In, out. Come on. Remember how to breathe. "I look like shit." You say breathlessly, and you hear him let out a small laugh behind you and your knees actually buckle this time. His arms tighten and he holds you up, kissing the spot behind your ear until you let out a small whimper, trying to make it through your sentence. "This is the first time I've slept over and I look like-"

His hand finds your free arm that's trying- very pathetically- to push him away. His touch isn't rough. It's firm. He pins it gently to your side, his fingers lacing through yours.

And then his other hand reaches past you and flicks on the light.

You flinch.

The bathroom floods with harsh yellow brightness, and you see everything- your tangled hair scraped into a bun, the sleepy puff under your eyes that shows the fries you had late last night, the sodium causing the swelling, the soft curve of your belly above your sweats. You're about to duck away, hide against his chest, anything-

But Theodore's not looking at your flaws.

He's looking at your mouth, hunger barely hidden in those dark eyes that hide everything, hold the depths of all the oceans in the world and at the same time hide absolutely nothing from you.

He turns you in his arms before you can protest- your back pressing against the cold bathroom counter, body crowding into your space until you feel his chest against yours. His hands cup your jaw, tilting your face up toward his.

"There you are," he murmurs, thumb brushing over your lower lip. "My girl."

And then he kisses you.

His lips find yours and all your thoughts are scattered. You can't think of anything except his mouth against yours, his lips moving, the way he's still holding your hand, his fingers laced through yours, his other hand shifting from your waist to your head to properly tilt your face back and you can't breathe. You want to kiss him until your lips numb.

It's slow at first- soft, sleepy, his lips barely parted against yours. It's like he's not thinking, just wants to feel your lips against his, the way someone would want to feel a hand against theirs. You taste like toothpaste and morning breath and he does not care. One of his hands slides into your messy hair, undoing the bun before you can realsie what he's doing. The other settles on your hip, thumb stroking the bare skin above your sweatpants and you melt into him, fingers curling into his bare shoulders desperately.

He hums against your mouth, pleased, and the kiss deepens- his tongue sweeping lazily against your lower lip, his fingers tightening in your hair. He tilts his head, changes the angle, like he's trying to memorize the shape of you.

"Theo," you breathe between kisses, desperate for him to pull away, to pull you closer, to give you more, to give you less. You don't know anymore.

"Shh." Another kiss. "Let me."

His lips trail to your neck, then to your collarbone, eyes opening so he can look at you in the mirror behind you. And he just... stops. Freezes.

He's looking at your back.

You realize it a second too late. The bathroom mirror shows him everything, your whole back, every delicately inked flower that you never mentioned once in eight months. His gaze is fixed on the space between your shoulder blades- where the lilies curl up your spine in dark red ink.

Oh.

His fingers- the ones not holding yours- lift from your waist. Slowly. Reverently. He touches the topmost lily, just below your neck, with the barest brush of his thumb, and you feel your whole body shudder. You weren't planning on showing him these any time soon- weren't planning on doing it ever, really. You'd never let yourself think this far into the relationship to plan for this situation.

"What are these?"

His voice has changed, no longer the sleepy grumble. This is something lower. Thicker. Hoarse, as though all his self control is being used to hold off on pouncing on you.

You look away immediately. Your heart is pounding.

"They're- they're just tattoos. I got them two ye- a while ago. I didn't- I- I was going to tell you-"

"Lilies," he whispers, not a question. His finger slides from your waist to your back, tracing the topmost delicate petal. Theodore Nott may not know the name of every flower to exist but he sure as hell knows that his girl's favourite flowers- the one blooming across her back- are star lilies. His thumb traces down your spine, following the stem of the next one. "You have lilies blooming up your back."

You nod, suddenly inexplicably shy, mouth drying. "Do you… hate them?"

He doesn't answer, and your heart hammers harder against your chest- against his chest too.

Instead, he twists you around to face him in the mirror and pulls you back against his chest not hard, but inevitable, like you were always meant to fit there. Like you're always going to fit there. His arms wrap around your middle, fingers splaying across your stomach. He rests his chin on your shoulder and looks at you in the mirror. Really looks, for what he thinks is the first time.

"I've been in love with you for eight months," he says quietly. "And I didn't notice such a big part of you?"

You swallow hard, unable to meet his eyes in the mirror, looking anywhere but him. "I-I was nervous. People don't- they don't like marks on a girl. I thought maybe you'd think they were—"

"Beautiful."

He says it like it's obvious. Like the sky is blue, the morning is grey, and you have lilies blooming up your spine. Like he's never seen anything more devastatingly gorgeous in his life.

His lips find your shoulder again. Then your neck. Then the space behind your ear. Like he can't help himself, pressing desperate, open-mouthed kisses across your skin until you're trembling, hands sliding up his bare chest to hold him closer, to push him away, to stay.

"I'm not letting you go until I know the shape of every one of these under my lips."

Bonus scene:

You're making coffee on his desk, because the tiny little kitchenette that one of his friends had magicked into the room is entirely covered in something sticky and red and you don't want to deal with that, wearing his t-shirt. You think maybe the moment has passed- that he's seen the tattoos, said his piece- or rather, kissed his piece- and moved on.

Then you reach for a mug on a high shelf on his desk and your shirt rides up just enough to show the stem of a lily curling above your waistband.

You hear him inhale sharply behind you and you stifle a laugh- he's been like this since he saw them. Tensing every time a sliver of skin is revealed to him, and you've never felt more confident and cheekier about your own body.

His hands are on your hips a second later, pulling you back against him, lips finding the back of your ear like some sort of homing beacon.

"You're doing that on purpose," he accuses, voice rough.

You laugh softly, leaning back into him. "I'm just making coffee."

"You're torturing me."

He presses hot kisses onto the back of your neck, tugging his t shirt off of you with the patience of a dog with a bone.

He spends the next ten minutes tracing every lily on your back with his mouth while the coffee goes cold.

[girls2gods]

Still Comes A-Crawling to You

If The Sun Don’t Rise Series Masterlist

Summary: A series of snapshots of Haymitch being exponentially down bad over the years. Based on this request <3

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Everdeen!reader, Implied BIPOC!reader

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

By the fifth round, your face is the color of the taffy Mamaw loves so much. You don’t get red, you insist, and that’s true enough. While the splotches on your skin aren’t red, it sure is fun telling you they are. 

You slam your cards down with a groan. Haymitch’s chest fizzles. It’s been doing that a lot lately. He was worried about it at first, convinced his insides were readying to burst free. He’s used to it now, and it really only happens when you’re near. But he kinda likes being around you, so there’s no point worrying about it anymore. 

Burdock sits to the side, criss-crossed by the front door of your house. He warned Haymitch about how competitive you get when he first pulled out his pa’s playing cards. Said he’d rather watch than deal with that firsthand. 

“I’m mixing them this time.” You huff and gather up the entire deck. 

“Shuffling,” corrects Haymitch, smiling when your nose flares. “And I don’t think that’s gonna help you win.” 

A few cards slip out of your grasp and onto the dust-covered wood as you shuffle. “Might help if you stopped tapping your fingers. You’re distracting me.” 

He leans back against the porch bannister. His way of playing was more complicated than how your ma taught you, so you said after the second round. He’s pretty sure you’re just bad at cards. “You could also practice more.” 

Your head snaps to your brother. “Why did you have to bring him?” 

“He’s my friend,” defends Burdock. “Why do I gotta keep telling you that?” 

“Best,” adds Haymitch, wanting to see you get twitchy. You don’t like their friendship, and you especially aren’t a fan of how close they are. 

It’s not Haymitch’s fault Burdock introduced him as such to you. And he’s not about to turn down any chance to remind you of that. 

The sun felt distant as they approached you that day in the meadow, almost a year ago. He stuck his hand out, like Mamaw always told him he should when meeting someone new. “I’m Haymitch.” 

You didn’t take his hand, instead looking over at Burdock with crossed arms and a scrunched up face. “Who’s he?” 

“Haymitch,” he repeated. 

Burdock sighed and rubbed his nose. “My best friend. I told you ’bout him.” 

You frowned. “I thought you made him up.” 

“Well I didn’t. This is Haymitch.” 

“I heard.” 

“You didn’t say anything,” Haymitch chimed in. Maybe you had selective hearing, like Pa said he had sometimes. “Thought you might be deaf.” 

When you finally looked at him, he suddenly remembered why Ma called it the warmest day of spring. “I’d rather be deaf than hear you.” 

Burdock hissed your name and said something about minding your manners. Haymitch didn’t catch it all. His selective hearing at work, just like yours, could only pick up on whatever came out of your mouth. Which wasn’t much. You did your best to pretend he wasn’t there the rest of the day.  

He’s pretty sure the only reason you’re talking to him right now is because he’s the one who brought the cards. 

“You shouldn’t be smiling.” You huff, dealing the way he showed you. “You’re about to lose.” 

“You said that the last five rounds,” Haymitch points out. 

You peek at him over the cards. “And you said you had a brain. But I haven’t seen it.” 

Burdock smacks a hand to his face. 

Haymitch laughs, because actually talking to you is even better than just being around you. Sparks the fizzling in his chest and everything. 

“Don’t you have to be home now?” asks Burdock, eyes going wide the way Ma’s get when she’s trying to tell Pa something without actually saying it. You and Burdock do that a lot, too—talk in secret. 

He shakes his head. Ma might want him back soon enough. It’s still light out, though, and she said he could stay out so long as the sun was in the sky and his pa was still in the mines. 

“You sure?” His eyes get wider, more panicked. He mouths, I’m saving you. 

From what? Haymitch glances over at you, but you’re already stacking the deck into a neat pile. “I guess so. My brother probably misses me.” 

“Sid?” you ask, to his surprise. 

He nods and collects the stack of cards. Sid’s probably waking up from a nap right now, soundly comforted in Mamaw’s arms or Ma’s. He’s fine without Haymitch, but according to Ma, he’s always asking for him when he’s not around. 

“He’s real cute.” Burdock stands along with Haymitch. He met Sid months ago when he came over after school for the first time. “He looks like a duck.” 

You scoot back on the porch. “Does he?” 

Even though you aren’t smiling, Haymitch can tell from the way your voice gets higher that you’re curious. “You can meet him, if you want.”

You’re on your feet in a second. “Okay.” 

“You’d have to come over though.” 

“Nevermind.” You try to slump back down. 

“Oh, c’mon.” Burdock catches your wrist and keeps you standing. “Meet Sid.” 

You like ducks. All kinds of birds, really, but Burdock told Haymitch that you saw a flock of ducklings just the other week and haven’t stopped talking about them. He isn’t sure where you would’ve seen them because there’s no pond big enough to hold an entire family here in Twelve. Haymitch only knows what they look like through Burdock’s descriptions and pictures he’s seen in a schoolbook. “His hair gets fuzzy. Sticks up all over, kinda like feathers.” 

“All right, I’m coming.” You rush down the steps, dragging Burdock behind you now. 

Haymitch tries not to gloat, though he desperately wants to, because it’ll only send you running in the opposite direction. He’s lucky his house isn’t too far a walk from yours. Getting you here was a miracle in itself, and he figures it’s better not to push his luck. “Stay here.” 

“Where else would we go?” He hears you mumble once he’s turned around, followed by an ow that’s probably Burdock’s doing. 

The front door slams shut behind him, loud enough to wake the deepest of sleepers. Haymitch winces, but there’s no cry to suggest he’s woken up Sid. Only his ma’s voice calling from the kitchen, “Haymitch, be careful.”

“Sorry, Ma.” Haymitch rushes across to the crib that was once his. Mamaw must be resting in their room. Sid, on the other hand, is already wide awake. “Hi, buddy.” 

“Hay,” Sid babbles as he reaches towards him. It’s weird how something this tiny can make Haymitch feel so many things at the same time. He remembers how excited he was to learn he’d be a big brother the first time around. How quickly all his hopes died with his sisters. He didn’t think it was possible to be that sad over something he never got to have. 

Sometimes, Haymitch gets scared the same will happen to Sid. He’ll wake up one day, and his baby brother won’t be there. 

“Where are you taking him?” Ma looks up from the laundry she’s folding. 

Haymitch tightens his arms around Sid. It’s easier to carry him now that he doesn't have to worry about holding his head up for him. “To meet another friend.” 

“Which friend—”

“We’ll be on the porch, Ma.” He scurries out the door before she can stop him. Haymitch lets Sid cross the threshold to the porch on his own, his hands hovering around him as he wobbles on wonky legs. 

Burdock crouches down. “You’re getting better!” 

“Bur-Bur.” Sid stumbles on his way to him. He plops right down on his bottom, mimicking Burdock’s clapping motions. 

Haymitch kneels right beside Sid and watches you shuffle side-to-side behind Burdock. You’re playing with the ends of your braid, which he’s noticed you tend to do when it’s a quiz day at school. If it’s not your braid, it’s your earrings or your clothes. Nothing about Sid is remotely as scary as a quiz, so you have no reason to be nervous. 

When you finally sit down, you wave at Sid cautiously, and Haymitch realizes you’re trying not to scare him away. “Nice to meet you.” 

Sid waves back in his own way, opening and closing his chubby hands. 

“He is cute.” You smile a little. “Can’t be related to you.” 

Haymitch doesn’t bring up the fact that you and Burdock aren’t identical but you are related—twins, at that. He also doesn’t mention the photo of him as a baby that shows Sid looks just the same. And almost everyone else who’s met him says so. “Must not be.” 

Sid giggles when you run a hand over the tuft of his hair. He leans against Haymitch and tilts his head back, blinking up at him. “Hay.”

“Like a bale,” you snort, eyes darting up to Haymitch. It’s the closest to a laugh he’s ever heard out of you. Burdock bunches up his eyebrows like he’s ready to scold you, but even he can’t help but snicker. 

Another smile, slightly wider than the first, blooms across your face. The fizzling grows stronger, spilling out of Haymitch and across his skin. It dawns on him, as you and Buddock find new ways to make Sid laugh, that fizzling isn’t actually the right word for what he feels.

Warmth is much better. And absolutely nothing to worry about.

Being warm is a gift, Mamaw once said, because not many get to be. Haymitch didn’t understand her at first, but he’s starting to. Not much is better than burying himself under blankets, cozying up by the fire, laying out on the grass under the sun. A sun which no longer seems so distant to him anymore. 

Unlike that day in the meadow, he sees it clearly and feels it warmly, sitting right in front of him. 

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

“Move.” You nudge his shoulder. Soft, unlike your demand or the jagged walls of the mines. 

Haymitch pretends not to hear you at first, waiting until your fist brushes his shoulder again to ask, “Am I in your way?” 

“The only way you’re heading is down that hole if you don’t move.” 

He looks back at you, barely making out the scowl on your face. Even with the lanterns lighting their way, it’s dark and dingy down here. He doesn’t know how Pa stands it. “Since you asked so nicely, sunshine.” 

“I’ve told you a thousand times to stop calling me that.” Your whisper picks up in pitch, nearly as loud as the foreman going on about the properties of coal. Whatever that means. Haymitch checked out halfway through his first sentence. 

Beside him, Burdock sighs. He’s no more bored than they all are, maybe with the exception of you. Mining might not be your favorite subject, but you’re set on paying attention right now. “Y’all can’t be getting into this now.” 

Blair murmurs to Burdock's left, "I don't think they care."

And Blair would be right. Haymitch much prefers getting into it with you than hearing the same lessons they teach in their actual classrooms. “A thousand? You been keeping track?” 

“I’m keeping track of all the reasons I should push you down that hole.” You try to worm your way into their row, proving you’re about to make good on that threat. 

“Well, sunshine, if you—”

“Will you both shut it?” In your own row, two people down, Maysilee glares at you. She reserves a special glower for Haymitch. “You should be paying special attention anyways, Itchy. This is your future.”

“And what’s yours, Maysilee?” You spin around to match her glare-for-glare. “A batter of taffy?” 

“Taffy’s a step up from turning to coal dust,” she sneers, and when you lunge for her, she only grins in that smug way of hers that says she won this round. 

Burdock and Haymitch catch each of your elbows, pulling you back while Maysilee’s held by Merrilee and Asterid. Around you, each of your classmates begins to shout encouragement or shriek about getting pushed. One by one, like dominoes falling in a scattered line, everyone gets roped into the crossfire of shoves and screams. And though it makes no sense, the tunnel feels even smaller than it did a few minutes ago. 

“Enough!” snaps Mrs. Wiley from her place in the back of the group. The hollering stops automatically—Mrs. Wiley isn’t one to raise her voice unless she means business. “Who started this riot?”

Riot’s a harsh jump from what was really just a friendly debate. Haymitch says as much after everyone points their fingers at him, Maysilee, and you. 

Mrs. Wiley isn’t in the mood to hear his defenses. She rounds the three of you, lecturing the entire way to the shaft that leads back to sunlight and colors. She asks questions she doesn’t care to know the real answer to. The kinds of questions adults ask to remind you they know better—kids don’t. At least in their minds they do, and there’s only one way they expect you to respond. 

Are you aware of how dangerous it is to be roughhousing here? Yes, ma’am. You’ve been listening in class, haven’t you? Of course, ma’am. And what of the manners you were meant to be born with? You still have those? We’ll mind them, ma’am. 

And at last, a question that comes with a very specific demand: “The three of you will stay here, in silence, for the remainder of this trip. Am I to be understood?” 

Nothing left for any of you to say besides a final: “Yes, ma’am.” 

Mrs. Wiley has the heart to leave a lantern for you three. Haymitch isn’t scared of the dark, but down here, without the ability to see, everything feels like a threat. The dripping along the walls says they’re a second away from crumbling in on themselves. The smell of chalk and acid means bad things for his lungs. And the pebbles digging into his thighs feel like spiders making their way under his clothes. 

That aside, sitting out isn’t so bad. He didn’t want to come on this trip to begin with. There wasn’t much of a choice, though. Haymitch goes to school to learn reading, writing, and most importantly of all, what’s in store for his future. Unless he finds another means of making money. Maysilee, mean as she was about it, wasn’t wrong about that. 

Settled in the middle of them, you keep to Mrs. Wiley’s instructions and don’t say a word. It comes easy to you, with Haymitch around and all. Going on two years now, and you’re as picky as the day you met with the words you do say to him. He’s figured out ways around your silence. Breaking through it is like a game of cards; the best strategy is riling you up. 

You reach into your pants pocket and pull out a small notebook. The smallest Haymitch has ever seen. He didn’t think they made any to fit in pockets. Out of your other comes a pencil. 

“What are you doing?” He might as well be a drip along the wall. Scooting closer, he waves a hand in front of your face. “Don’t tell me spiders crawled in your ears, sunshine.” 

You hug your notebook to your chest, snapping your head in his direction. “We gotta be quiet right now.” 

“You’re never quiet,” mumbles Maysilee, beating him to the punch. 

“And neither are you. So, we’re even.” 

She scoffs and sinks back against the wall, ignoring the glare Haymitch sends her. Can’t keep quiet, can’t keep her nose out of things. He doesn’t try getting you to talk again. With his efforts derailed by Maysilee butting-in, he’s better off waiting.  

You must be completely bored out of your mind, because he doesn’t have to wait long before you slide the notebook and pencil over. He squints at the three-by-three grid, perfect for a game of tic tac toe. Grinning so big his cheeks hurt, Haymitch draws a circle in the middle square. Within four exchanges, you’ve marked your three in a row. 

It doesn’t seem to matter how stingy the lantern is, your eyes light up this entire corner of the tunnel. They only grow brighter the more rounds you win against him.

Clearly deciding you need more of a challenge, you slide the notebook over to your right. 

Maysilee regards your freshly drawn grid with a frown. Haymitch expects her to turn down the offer, which is fine by him. When she doesn’t, he slouches in on himself until the game is over. 

You’re biting back a smile when you turn his way and raise the notebook so he can see your win under the glow of the lantern. On your other side, Maysilee rolls her eyes. He grabs the notebook and pencil from you, flipping through the pages now filled to the brim with circles and winning x’s. “You’re a lot a better at tic tac toe than slapjack.” 

Haymitch laughs gleefully when you knock his shoulder with yours, not caring when it earns him a scolding from way down the tunnel.

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

They don’t go to the apple trees where Haymitch met Lenore Dove not so long ago, even though he could go for an apple right now. But this is Burdock’s birthday gift, so he gets to choose the way. 

Technically, today’s not his and your birthday. That won’t be for another two days. You already called dibs on how you’d spend it, and your plan doesn’t involve Haymitch. You’ll have to factor him in for a few minutes though, because he has a gift to give you too. 

Well, he doesn’t have it yet. But he will. Coming out here with Burdock kills two birds with one stone. Literally. If he’s lucky, he’ll find a rock like the kind you got him. Maybe something even better.  Exchanging gifts has never been the norm between you, until his most recent birthday. You gave him a rock—a salt-and-pepper granite, you called it—and a bag of wild berries. Sure, you’ve been on better terms recently, but you still make it a point to tell Haymitch you are in no way friends. So, when you found him after the reaping and dropped the gift into his hands with a swift happy birthday, he wasn’t sure what to make of it.

He ultimately took it as a good sign. One that said you thought of him at least half as much as he thought of you. The only way to make sure you knew the same was to get you a birthday gift too. 

“Honestly, Hay,” says Burdock, skipping over the jutting root of a tree, “a leaf will do. She ain’t picky.” 

“A leaf will die.” Haymitch doesn’t want to get you something that will be gone within days. Maybe a leaf you can eat, so at least you’d get use out of it. Even then, it doesn’t feel right for you. 

Burdock stops in a clearing of firs, pulling out his pocket knife. Little brown birds perched on the branches begin to trill. “Rocks die, too. Everything does eventually. Doesn’t make them gone though.”  

Times like these remind Haymitch that Burdock’s your sibling as much as you are his. He’s honest, and prefers the same of others, but sometimes he says things that make Haymitch’s brain work overtime to get. Lenore Dove, in the little he’s known her so far, talks the same. “I don’t get it.”

“Look,” Burdock sighs, “she dries up flowers and uses them as bookmarks. If you get her a leaf, she’d be able to keep it forever that way.” 

He considers this, but he doesn’t know what the process of drying flowers is like. Probably just involves laying them out in the sun. Either way, you shouldn’t have to work for your present. “I still say a rock’s the best way to go.”

“Right, what do I know? ’S just my sister we’re talking about.” 

“Well, I’m older and wiser, Burdie. Think I know a thing or two more than you.”

Burdock punches his arm lightly. “Not for long.”

True enough. For the next few months until his next birthday, you and Burdock will be the same age as Haymitch. He’s got to get his digs in while he still can. 

And, of course, so do you. “You’re showing him all our good spots then.” 

Haymitch turns around, feeling his face sizzle for reasons that have nothing to do with sun burn. Leaning against one of the firs, you’re wearing the same purple skirt you had on at his mamaw’s funeral months ago. There’s nothing strange about you wearing a skirt out here, but it is abnormal to see you carrying around a bow and arrows. 

“Just your favorites.” Burdock’s unphased by your resulting scowl. “I didn’t think you were practicing today.”

Your skirt’s paired with a dark blue blouse instead of black this time. The colors compliment each other, and you. “I didn’t know you were planning on a game of mumblety-peg today.” 

“I told you I was going out with Haymitch,” he says, annoyed. 

You click your tongue. “‘Going out’ doesn’t mean knife throwing in the woods.” 

“Papa know you’re using your bow?” 

“Papa know you’re using knives?”

Haymitch notices your hair’s completely out of your face. Pinned up instead of loose or in a braid. He’s still looking at it as he asks, “Where’d you get that bow from?”

“I made it.” You hold out the bow, giving him a good look at the wooden etchings, which only leads to more questions. “Burdock made his own, too.” 

News to him. His wide eyes find Burdock, who mouths a sheepish tell you later before he turns back to you. “Thanks for that.” 

“You’re welcome.” You stand taller, and the sunlight catches the glint in your eyes, which are now completely on Haymitch. “Quit staring at me.” 

He blinks and tries to keep the panic inside while you and Burdock look at him with the expectation of a response. So much to say, so few good ways to put it. He could tell you purple and blue are nice on you, but so is every color. He could say he’s not used to seeing your hair in this style, and he likes it just as much as when it’s blowing all around you. Or maybe he should explain how he can’t find the perfect word to describe you right now, but the closest comparison he can make is to the rainbow rays of sunrise that only the lucky get to see. 

It’d be easy to say all of that and more, if you weren’t staring daggers at him, and if Haymitch weren’t at a loss for words for the first time in his life. Except for the ones he can manage to blurt out. “You look like a doll.” 

The whizz of your arrow is immediate, louder than the trills of the brown birds and quicker than he knows to react right now. It grazes the top of his curls and lodges in the bark behind him. 

Your hands curl into fists around your bow. “Don’t call me that. Ever.” 

When he doesn’t respond, you take a step forward and Burdock rushes to hold you back. “He didn’t mean it like them, and you know it.” 

Haymitch doesn’t know who Burdock means, and he doubts you’d tell him if he asked. He glances at the arrow, then at you in all your anger and brilliance. “You should work on your aim, sunshine.” 

You stomp a foot on the ground. “You should wipe that grin off your face before I shoot you for real.” 

“With aim like that, you’ll probably miss again.”

Burdock wrings the bow out of your grasp when you raise it again. “Stop shooting at people!” 

“I’ve only shot at him!” you defend, throwing your arms up. “I’d be doing him a favor. Might knock the sense he’s missing back into him.” 

Haymitch grins wider. He thinks you already did. 

Burdock pinches his nose. “I’m gonna tell Papa.” His warning sets off a chain of your own, and the two of you fall into a much larger bickering match on all the rules you’ve broken that your parents don’t know about

Shuffling back, Haymitch turns around to collect the wayward arrow. He picks up a bundle of fir needles, too. You may not be able to use them as a bookmark, but he has a feeling you’ll like them plenty. He can always find a rock on the way back into Twelve. 

While you and Burdock shift gears into arguing over who’s the better shot, Haymitch files away all other questions he has to ask as soon as he gets the chance. Right now, he just rubs the arrow between his fingers and watches how the tip of it reflects the daylight. Like your eyes. 

Pretty. That’s how you look. 

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

Burdock’s never missed school, so when you show up alone this morning, Haymitch only thinks to assume the worst. The white walls of the classroom, one of them currently lined with the results of the most recent quiz, feel even less lively than usual. 

“Pst.” He leans over his desk, hovering right beside you. “Sunshine.” 

You pretend not to hear him, no surprise there. Your notebook is more interesting to you than whatever Haymitch has to say. Ms. Larkin hasn’t started the lesson yet, and students are still trickling in, so he can get away with calling your name a little louder. 

“What?” you huff out. “I’m working.” 

Haymitch peers past your shoulder, down to your doodle of a goose. “I can see. Where’s Burdie?” 

“He’s sick.” You draw tiny flowers around the goose. 

“With what?” 

“A fever.” 

“How’d he catch it?” Haymitch props his elbows on the back of your seat. 

You set your pencil down and shift to face him. “If you asked Ms. Larkin as many questions as you asked me, maybe you would’ve done better on the last quiz.” 

In his defense, any answers you have to give are more important than Ms. Larkin’s. “We got the same grade, sunshine, so maybe you should spend less time doodling and more time listening.” 

He can see the argument whirring inside your mind, and the only thing that stops you from spitting it out is Lenore Dove sliding into the seat next to you. 

“Great timing,” Haymitch tells her, nodding your way. “Maybe you can stop her from clobbering me with her pencil.” 

“She’d stab you with a pencil, not clobber you.” Lenore Dove hangs her bag from her seat. 

“Right, that’s an important difference.” 

You snort, twiddling your pencil like you’re really thinking about it. Though you’re not above matching your bark with bite, Haymitch knows you’d never go through with anything that might actually hurt him.

“But don’t do it.” Lenore Dove wraps her hand around your wrist. Her smile drops after she notices the empty desk beside him. “Burdie’s still sick then.” 

“He’s better than he was last night.” You tear out the page with your doodle, passing it to her.

“You got Leslie’s beak just right.” Lenore Dove folds the paper delicately and places it between the pages of her book. 

Haymitch folds his arms on his desk. “Leslie would be…”

“Our goose,” you two answer at the same time. 

Okay. 

Ms. Larkin taps her ruler against the chalkboard, which sends dust all around her, beckoning every one of you to sit up straighter and keep your attention to the front of class. Except Haymitch couldn’t care less about this morning’s announcements. They’re always the same: a chorus of Panem’s anthem and an overview with the lesson plan for the day. Which is also always the same. Only difference now is there’s no one to turn to and absorb the boredom. 

He leans forward again to whisper, “Burdock’s fine?” 

You don’t turn around, but you slouch back enough for him to hear you answer. “You can come over to see for yourself after school.” 

Your offer eases the coils running up and down Haymitch’s guts. And the swing of the classroom door helps, too. 

Ms. Larkin pauses her lecture on—the Capitol, or coal fuel, or something. “Blair, how nice of you to join us.” 

“Sorry, Ms. Larkin.” Blair rushes down the rows and slinks down into the seat directly behind Lenore Dove. He glances at the desk to Haymitch’s left. “Where’s Burdock?” 

At the sound of your groan, Haymitch takes it upon himself to catch Blair up. 

The wait for the very last bell feels endless. Once you’re dismissed for the day hours later, Haymitch joins you and, to his surprise, Asterid, on the walk home. Then again, Asterid and Burdock have been talking a lot more lately. Sometimes, he even sits with her and her merchant friends during lunch. Haymitch doesn’t know how he stomachs being around Maysilee Donner and her opinions for that long. Asterid’s plenty kind, though. 

“You said his fever’s been going on since yesterday evening.” Asterid walks a pace behind you and Haymitch. 

“Yup. He’s been drinking elderberry tea, so that’s helped, I think.” You rub the pearl charm clipped to one of your sleeve cups. 

Haymitch adjusts the straps of his backpack when they begin to slide off his shoulder. “Sounds like a simple cold.” 

“It probably is,” agrees Asterid, “but I’d still like to check in on him, as a friend.” Her face turns pink, the same exact shade as the wildflowers in your meadow. 

“As a friend,” echoes Haymitch, meeting your own amused gaze. “I know Burdie will appreciate that.” 

“I meant as a healer,” she corrects herself, cheeks beating brighter. “And, well, yes, as a friend.” 

You pretend to be real serious, holding up a hand. “No need to explain, Asterid. I’m sure Burdock will be good as new once he sees you.” 

“’Cause you’re that good of a healer,” adds Haymitch, stifling his laugh and failing miserably to do so. Your elbow makes light contact with his ribs, but you aren’t very subtle with your teasing either.

Asterid breathes in, flustered, and takes to fixing her hair. Nothing to fix—not a strand is out of place. She seems to think otherwise, keeping at it all the way through your front door. 

You drop your backpack by the couch and rush to the kitchen, which is really just part of your living room. Anticipating you, Barb Azure turns away from the chopping board she was fixated on seconds earlier and opens her arms. You barrel into them. “I brought guests, Mama.” 

She kisses the top of your head. “I can see.” 

“We wanted to check on Burdock,” says Haymitch, shrugging off his backpack. Asterid does the same in a more delicate manner, resting it gently against the wall opposite your kitchen table. 

“Well,” she chimes, “I don’t want either of you getting sick, so check in on him from the doorway.” 

The creek of the door doesn’t rouse Burdock at all. His head’s propped up by a couple of pillows, and his face is drained of all color in exchange for sweat. But other than that, he seems fine. Haymitch was right—it’s a simple cold. “You don’t have a camera, do you?”

“Not on me, no.” Asterid wraps her arms around her torso. “Why?”

He points to Burdock’s gaping mouth, where a string of drool is trickling out. “Blackmail purposes.”

She wrinkles her nose. The doe-eyed look on her face says she’s not swayed away by Burdock’s sleeping habits on the slightest.

Haymitch is tempted to poke more fun at Asterid and Burdock and the crush brewing between them, but he opts for a better target. Asterid doesn’t even blink as he walks back down the hall.

You flash him a mocking smile from your spot atop the sink counter. “Leaving so soon, Abernathy?”

“If you want me to stay for dinner, sunshine, just ask.” His skin heats up when your eyes narrow. 

“I’d rather you fall into a ditch.” You muster an apology right away when Barb Azure sighs your name by the stove.  

She remedies your insult, which wasn’t much of one anyway, with a tap of her spatula against the pan. As it begins to sizzle, salt and herbs take over the kitchen’s usual scent of berries. “Stay for dinner, Haymitch.” 

He shoves his hands into his pockets, hoping she can’t hear the growl of his stomach. Whether your family has extra to give or not, he doesn’t like taking food from your table, especially on short notice. Hard enough as it is to keep a steady flow of meals. “I’d like to. But I didn’t let my ma know, so she’s probably expecting me back.” 

“Hm,” Barb Azure gives him a gentle nod, “I’m sure she is. Thank you for passing by,” When Asterid returns, she adds, “Both of you.” 

Asterid lifts her backpack. “I’ll come back tomorrow if that’s okay, Mrs. Everdeen.” 

“We’d appreciate it.” She leaves you to guard the stove for a moment, crossing the kitchen to squeeze Asterid’s shoulder and brush back some of Haymitch’s stray curls. “And it’s Barb Azure to you.” 

Those merchant customs must be even harder to shake than those they’re taught in the Seam, because Asterid still bids her formally as they walk to the porch. To be fair, it’s taken Haymitch seven years to learn to call your ma by her first name. 

“Are you coming by tomorrow, too?” Asterid asks him before they part their separate ways. 

Mid-afternoon’s one of the quietest times of day in the Seam, sandwiched between the end of school and the start of the miners’ trek home. Quiet enough for Haymitch to hear your voice through the wooden walls of your home. “Yeah, most likely.” 

Taking a page out of Asterid’s book is still his plan the next morning. Until his ma wakes him with a soft shake and a suggestion that he dress quickly. “Someone’s at the door for you.” 

Haymitch throws on the first clothes in his dresser. More of his ma’s patchwork creations.

There’s two people it’s likely to be, and only one who’d wake up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday to bug him. Like most victims of the common cold, a day of no school was all Burdock needed to heal. Though, Haymitch reckons that even if Burdock didn’t see Asterid with his own eyes, her presence alone helped speed up the process.

It must be your life’s mission to prove Haymitch wrong. You stand straighter when the door opens, wearing an oversized jacket that’s gotta be your pa’s and a pair of dark green pants. Your hair is in a braid, the ends of which you tug as you say, “Burdock’s fever broke, but he’s congested and has a bad headache now.” 

You came over just to save him the trip later? Joke’s on you—Haymitch is only gonna head over earlier than he planned. “Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

You nod and take a deep breath. He stares at you as you trudge back down the porch steps. Either you sense his eyes on you, or the lack of his footsteps, because you stop halfway and look over your shoulder. “You coming?” 

His mouth falls open, and when you don’t make a comment about him catching flies, he knows you aren’t messing with him. “Where?” 

You shrug and resume your path away from him. “You can stay or you can follow. Your choice.” 

“Ma, I’m heading out!” The words tumble out of his mouth, faster than his efforts to get his shoes on and catch up to you. Only time quieter than mid-noon is sunrise. As its rainbow rays scatter over battered roofs and layers of soot, Haymitch keeps watch on you. “You don’t have a pencil on you, right?”

“I wish.”

Your hollow threat and poorly hidden grin guide Haymitch all the way through your meadow and into the woods.

He doesn’t recognize where you’re taking him, but it’s likely to be a good place to take another shot at him if you’ve opted out of the pencil stabbing. Here and now, with the wet earth drifting into his lungs and the warmth of his chest spreading across his skin, Haymitch decides it doesn’t matter where you go or what you do today. He likes being around you, and being warm is a gift.

So wherever you wind up, he’s pretty helpless to follow.

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

[bambi-onice17]

Mack and best friend reader who have been close forever. Reader has known she wants more for a while but has accepted that Mack belongs to a different world, one with hockey and cameras everywhere. and that he couldn’t feel the same way about her; reader who’s accepted the best friend role at the cost of breaking her own heart. Maybe Mack doesn’t realize he feels the same until one of his teammates is saying “if you guys are just friends, can I ask her out?” And Mack has to do some reflecting on why it bugs him so much OR until reader goes on a date and comes back talking about what a good time she had. Anyways, jealous Mack who’s been so focused on hockey that he’s been missing what’s been right in front of him all along. Up to you if it’s set in BU or San Jose

The people wanted this first ☺️ I hope you all enjoyyy ♡ 6.4k words Set at BU and in San Jose, because why not include the best of both worlds?

The first time somebody mistakes you for Macklin Celebrini’s girlfriend, you’re sixteen. It happens casually, by the cashier at a coffee shop near the rink he practices at that you always tag along to. 

“You guys are cute together,” she said while handing back his card. 

Macklin barely reacts, in fact, it makes him laugh and he makes a joke out of it. “She wishes,” he says white grabbing his card and picking up your drinks. 

The cashier laughs, and so do you. You laugh because you feel like that’s what you’re supposed to do. As soon as you realized you had feelings for them you tried your best to shut them down. It didn’t work. So, you’ve resorted to ignoring them as best you can and accepting that you and Macklin will never happen, at least not like that. 

You laugh and roll your eyes. You shove his shoulder while your stomach quietly caves in on itself because you hate that he thinks that’s a joke, because to you it’s a very real feeling that just gets beaten down day after day.

That’s the first time you realize it will probably always be like this, and you convince yourself to live with it.

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Years later, you still think about that moment sometimes.

After his entire career took off you really really realized that this is how it will be forever. 

Boston University, by some miracle (if you believe in those) is where you both end up. You for a degree, and Macklin for collegiate hockey. 

He instantly becomes one of the best in the NCAA, not only because of his skill but because of his age. Being the youngest person ever to be named best player in the NCAA for ice hockey really puts his name on the map, and then immediately being drafted number one in the NHL definitely sets that in stone. 

On the flip side, to Macklin, you’ve always been there. You’ve been his constant. The easy person in his life he trusts with anything and everything. 

His person without the complications attached to it, and to you that’s the problem. This tie to him that you can’t get out of, and of course he means the world to you too, but your perspective comes with some extra, unwanted complications. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Boston so far this year feels colder. Not physically, but emotionally. 

You notice the distance much more now, because of how different things are without him here with you but also because it makes your feelings hurt more. 

San Jose feels impossibly far away on nights like this, when the campus is loud and your dorm is quiet and your phone sits face-up beside you with no new notifications lighting up the screen, even though you’re expecting them.

He’s busy, always busy, you know that, you think. Which is the truth, you can’t think of the last time in the past year that Macklin hasn’t been busy. 

You’re staring at your sociology reading, desk lamp illuminating the room, papers scattered over your desk. You’ve been staring at it for the past twenty minutes and have made zero progress. 

Just as you’re about to give up for the night and get ready for bed, your phone finally buzzes: 

Mack: You awake?

Another message follows immediately after: Stupid question actually you’re literally always awake

Despite yourself, you smile, grateful to hear from him after a long day. 

You: You just got out of the game?

Mack: Media took forever

Mack: Also Smitty almost broke the speaker in the locker room, had to fix that

You laugh softly under your breath, ridiculous stories, as always. 

Your phone rings before you can type out an answer.

FaceTime incoming...

You accept it, and suddenly there he is sprawled across what’s very obviously the floor of his hotel room, hair damp and messy from a shower, hoodie pulled over his head.

“You’re on the floor?” you say immediately.

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious that he for some reason should be on the floor. 

“Why?” you ask. 

He shrugs, “I’m tired.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It answers it…partially.”

You laugh. And it’s easy, like always. You poking fun at him for something stupid, him blindly defending himself for said stupid action. Normal. 

“How was the game?” you ask. You feel bad for not watching the whole thing, but you’ve been so busy this week you just couldn’t, just this once you skipped out on watching it. 

His face brightens immediately in the way it only does when he talks hockey, and you think about how much you love that look on him, you always have. There are very few things that make him light up like that, but hockey is number one on the list. 

“We won,” he says, “I got an assist.”

“Only one?” you tease. 

He narrows his eyes, “Okay relax, would’ve been more if you’d been watching but—”

You grin, “I know, I know, I’m sorry. Next time, I swear.” 

“Yeah yeah yeah, whatever you say,” he says, smiling. 

For the next hour, you talk about everything and nothing. Your classes, his current road trip, the weird guy in your econ class who always chews ice during the lecture, the rookie dinner horror stories he and his teammates have experienced. 

Talking with him is effortless, always has been, and that’s part of the problem.

You don’t think this is very normal for “just friends,” or maybe you’re overthinking it. You know Macklin doesn’t think twice about this, he thinks this is as normal as can be. 

The constant calls, falling asleep on FaceTime, the fact that you’re the first person he talks to after every game. 

For him, it’s just a habit, but for you it’s something else entirely, he just doesn’t realize that. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

The worst part about being in love with your best friend is that nobody warns you how embarrassing it is. Not outwardly, but internally. 

If he says he misses you, you think about it for days. He sends you pictures of random things and says “this reminded me of you,” or, “thinking about you,” and you let that run around in your mind for days. He calls you after losses, sounding completely exhausted, but you’re the only person who really understands how he needs to talk things out after a loss or a bad game. 

Meanwhile, you’re sitting in your tiny BU dorm for all of this, pretending your entire heart doesn’t belong to him already.

You feel like it’s pathetic, being so hung up on this. Truly. Because by now you know better, you do. Mack belongs to a completely different world now, headlines, interviews, fans waiting outside arenas, the insane world that is the NHL. 

Sometimes you’ll be walking across campus and hear someone mention him behind you.

“Did you see Celebrini’s goal?”

“Celebrini’s insane.”

“Celebrini’s literally the future of hockey.”

To everyone else, he’s this massive thing. But to you he’s still the boy who steals fries off your plate, the person who calls you to hear your voice when he can’t sleep, you know him too well to fully understand the version the world sees, and maybe that’s why it hurts so much. 

You’ve become comfortable in the position of “best friend back home” for him, because you think that the more his world grows, the smaller your place in it becomes. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

By November, you stop letting yourself imagine things and stop replaying little moments in your head that, at the end of the day, probably meant nothing.

You decide something quietly one evening while watching one of his games alone from your dorm bed, something you’ve tossed around in your head but now you really settle on it. 

You would rather keep him as your best friend forever than ruin everything wanting more.

Even if it breaks your own heart a little, because you can’t keep driving yourself crazy like this. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Winter break is the first time you see him in person again, and the second he spots you at the airport his entire face changes. A smile grows across his face and his eyes soften as he sees you at the arrival gate. 

“Mack!” You barely get the word out before he’s wrapping you in a hug so tight your feet nearly leave the ground.

“There you are,” he says into your hair immediately.

“You’ve become noticeably muscular,” you mumble against his hoodie.

He laughs loudly. “What does that even mean?”

“It means hockey doesn’t get any simpler, huh?”

He grins when he pulls back, “Nope.” 

And then you make the mistake of really looking at him. God, he’s changed. Not entirely, but enough for it to be noticeable. His features seem sharper now, like he’s grown into himself more. His shoulders are broader, he seems more confident, and only in the matter of a few months. 

But he’s still sporting those warm eyes and the soft smile you love so much. Still him, still Mack. 

The NHL looks good on him, you hate that realization a little because all you’ve wanted since you saw him last was for him to come back to Boston, but you know that clearly the NHL has been so, so good to him. Unbelievable support and unbelievable achievements. 

“You good?” he asks suddenly.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you say. 

He squints, not believing it. “Liar.”

You force a smile, “Shut up, I just missed you is all.”

⊰══════════════════════⊱

His teammates love you immediately, and you realize suddenly that maybe you fit into more than one box in Macklin’s life, even though you’ve convinced yourself you’re the hometown friend that eventually fades away. 

During a team dinner, Alex Wennberg gestures toward you and asks, “So how long have you two been together?”

You nearly choke on your drink, and Macklin answers before you can; “We’re not together.”

And that’s the right answer, that’s always the answer.

Wennberg looks genuinely confused, “Really?”

“Yes,” both of you say at the same time. The table erupts into teasing immediately.

You laugh along with everyone else because you’re good at this by now, good at all the pretending. 

But later that night, lying awake in the guest room of Macklin’s place, you stare at the ceiling and feel stupid for the tiny flicker of hope you’d had for half a second. You hoped he would at least hesitate, maybe go along with a joke, but the answer from him is always immediate. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

You’re in the kitchen making coffee a few days later when Will Smith wanders into the kitchen too.

“Morning,” he says.

You smile politely, not really in the mood for a morning conversation, “Morning.”

He leans casually against the counter, “Can I ask you something?”

“Depends on what it is, it's too early for complicated questions.”

He grins, “You and Mack seriously aren’t dating?”

“No,” you answer, almost quicker than Macklin the other night at dinner. 

“Huh,” Will says, his posture relaxing a little more. 

You raise an eyebrow at him, confused as to where this is coming from and where this is going, “What?”

He shrugs, “Was just wondering if that meant I could ask for your number…maybe?”

Your brain short-circuits for a second, “Oh.” You don’t think anyone has ever formally asked for your number. You consider it, Will’s nice, he’s funny from what you can tell, he seems like a good, genuine person. You open your mouth to say sure, but before you can, another voice cuts in sharply behind you, 

“No.”

Both of you turn around to see Macklin standing in the doorway, staring daggers at Will. 

The room goes quiet.

Will blinks, caught off guard by Mack’s reaction, “Dude.”

“What?”

“You literally just said you weren’t together,” Will says. 

Macklin shrugs, “We’re not,” he says, like that somehow correlates to why he said no. 

“Then why do you care?”

Mack opens his mouth. Shuts it again. 

That’s when he realizes he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know why he said no. You and Will are some of his closest friends shouldn’t he be okay with the two of you going out a few times? 

Across the kitchen you’re still standing next to the coffee pot, completely confused. The look on Macklin’s face was almost angry, you’d never seen him react to that kind of question that way before. 

Against your better judgement and what all you promised yourself about stopping the overthinking; that look on his face sticks with you for weeks afterwards. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Macklin gets weird after that. It starts off tiny, like asking about more details when you tell him about your day than he used to. 

But now it’s become impossible to ignore. He starts asking who you’re texting when you’re on a call with him and get a little distracted, why certain people are commenting on your Instagram, what guys from class you’re studying with when it comes up in conversation. 

At first you think maybe you’re imagining it, but then it becomes obvious when you’re on FaceTime one night and he asks casually, “So are you, like… seeing anybody?”

You look up from your laptop slowly, “No?” you say, confused as to why he even asked. 

He nods once too quickly, “Okay.”

“Mack.”

“What?”

“Why are you asking?”

His expression changes to something more guarded, and he shrugs, “Just asking.”

You know that’s not true, and that he must be avoiding something, but you also know better than to push, so you don’t say a word. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

By February, you’re exhausted. From school and from him. From endless assignments and stress and exams and projects, and from trying to survive being emotionally tethered to someone who doesn’t realize what they’re doing to you.

So you decide to move on, actually move on. 

So when a guy from one of your classes asks you out, you say yes before you can overthink it. 

The date is good, like really good, it went much better than you thought it might. 

Ethan. He’s funny, and he’s kind, easy to talk to. For the first time in a long time you leave your date thinking, Maybe this is what normal is supposed to feel like. 

You like liking someone who likes you back, and you realize that maybe loving someone shouldn’t feel like grieving them in advance.

⊰══════════════════════⊱

You don’t plan on telling Mack, but after your third date he calls you halfway through your walk back to campus. 

“Hey,” he says immediately, “What’re you doing?”

You hesitate, not wanting to tell him right now but lying would be even worse. “I just got back from a date.”

Nothing but silence comes from his end of the call. Then, quietly, “Oh.” Like he’s trying to process what he’s just heard, almost like he doesn’t believe it. 

You keep walking, deciding to tell him a little about it, even if he hasn’t asked, “It was actually really nice.”

The second the words leave your mouth, something changes. Macklin goes quiet in a way he never does, it’s too quiet. 

“How nice?” he asks finally.

Your steps slow, “What?”

“The date.”

You laugh awkwardly, “Why are you interrogating me?” You hope the attempt at humor would make him joke back, but his tone remains serious, “I’m not interrogating you.”

“You kind of are,” you argue. 

“Did you like him?”

Your chest tightens strangely, “Yeah, I like him.” It’s an honest answer, you do like Ethan, but it’s different than how you’ve ever liked Macklin. 

Mack doesn’t say a word, and you really don’t know what to do with the silence. He always has something to say, something to ask, something to make a joke about, silence like this from him is very rare. 

A thought crosses your head and you think surely you’re insane for thinking it, but for a second, you think Macklin might be jealous. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Macklin doesn’t sleep that night, because for the first time in his life he imagines you with someone else. 

Not theoretically, but actually, fully with someone else. Someone else making you laugh, someone else going out with you to do simple things like get coffee or just go on drives around the city. He thinks about someone else learning things about you that he thought only belonged to him. 

The realization hits him slowly and then all at once, and he absolutely hates it. He also hates te fact that he was so cold to you on the phone and didn’t even consider that this guy you’re seeing makes you happy, that should be the most important thing. But then he realizes he likes being the person that makes you happy, and knowing someone else is filling in that slot…it hurts. 

Suddenly he’s thinking about every moment from the last few years, and they start to rearrange themselves in his head, into something new. Every FaceTime, every airport hug either goodbye or hello, every late night “I miss you” mumbled while you were falling asleep, every instinct in him always telling him to call you first, tell you first, tell you everything. 

Oh. Oh. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

The next few weeks are awful. For both of you. But from each perspective, the other person never finds that out. 

Something between you exists silently that didn’t before. Awareness. 

Once it’s there neither of you know how to act normal anymore. 

You answer texts much later now. Not intentionally, but you’re trying to create boundaries before you drown in him completely. 

You have new things you want to focus on. School is getting intense again, you’ve been seeing and talking to Ethan a lot and you think it’s going somewhere, and you’re taking a lot of time for yourself. You’re doing things for yourself you wouldn’t normally do, and it feels amazing, but something always feels like it’s missing now. 

Macklin notices all this immediately. You two stop falling asleep on FaceTime, hell, you hardly even call him anymore, and he’s lucky to get consistent texts from you. 

One night, after a couple of weeks of dry, almost non-existent communication between the two of you, he has a terrible game. Not because he got hurt, not because he didn’t have any points, but because the whole night was just off. The whole team felt off, it was one of those games that puts the entire team in a rut. 

His first instinct is to call you. At first, he hesitates because he’s very aware that things aren’t exactly how they used to be, but at the same time, he knows you’re the only person who really gets him when he’s like this. And he really, really needs that right now. 

He calls. Except this time, you don’t answer.

You’re out with your friends, phone stashed away in your purse, completely unimportant to you. 

By the time you get back to your dorm a couple hours later, you notice the missed call. You feel bad for missing the call, especially since he doesn’t really call you anymore, so you call him back once you’ve settled from the night out. 

“Sorry,” you say quietly, “I was out.”

“With him?” He sounds strange, he sounds sad. You know he had a rough game but he never sounds like that after games, at least not this long after they’re finished. 

Your stomach drops, “Mack.” Your voice is stern without you really meaning for it to be. 

“What?” he asks, he sounds pissed off but you don’t care, so you continue. 

“You don’t get to sound upset about that.”

“I’m not upset,” he protests. 

“You are.”

“No I’m not.”

You close your eyes, this is exactly why you tried to move on in the first place, because this thing between you has never had rules. No labels, no clarity, just years of being closer to him than anyone else and at least a hundred moments of “almost.” 

“You know what?” you say tiredly. “I can’t do this tonight.”

He lets out a humorous laugh, “Do what?”

“This.”

“What does that even mean?” he asks, his voice becoming harder. 

You laugh once, sharp and disbelieving, “Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously,” he says. 

The frustration that’s been building for months finally cracks open, and your thoughts start pouring out, “You don’t get to act weird every time another guy looks at me and then pretend it means nothing to you.”

“I’m not pretending anything, you can go out with or see whoever you want, that’s not my business.”

“Then what are you doing? Because you getting upset that I was with someone else and doing things with people I care about seems like you’re making it your business.”

“I don’t know!” he snaps.

He regrets it immediately, he’s never snapped at you, and he wants to take it back but it’s way too late to do that now. 

Silence crashes between you for a few seconds. Then, quieter, he manages, “I don’t know why this feels so bad.”

Your eyes sting immediately, because you know exactly why it feels bad. You’ve known for years, and now you think he’s known too. He's just been ignoring it better than you have. 

You feel like you got your feelings validated but hurt at the same time, and suddenly you’re too tired to keep protecting both of you from it.

“You wanna know what I think?” you say softly.

“What?”

“I think you didn’t notice me until you thought somebody else might.”

The second the words leave your mouth, you wish you hadn’t said anything. You almost wished you hadn’t even called him back. He doesn’t say anything, and you know those words hurt him the way his words hurt you. 

“That’s not fair,” he says in a voice so small it makes you feel worse. 

“Maybe not,” you reply, short. 

“Then why would you say it?”

Your breath catches, and you don’t know what to say. You’re angry and sad at the same time, you could be honest and make all this worse, or you could lie but that would also make this whole situation worse. 

Before you can stop yourself you give him the honest answer, “Because I’ve been trying to get over you for months.”

Silence. Complete and utter silence.

Then his voice again across the line, “…What?”

You feel sick instantly. Too far, all this went too far. But it’s out now and you have no way to take it back. You can’t tell him you’re not serious, because that would be a lie and that would make the hole deeper than it already is. 

You take a deep breath, and continue, “I can’t keep doing this,” you whisper. “Being your person when I’m not actually your person.”

“You—” he stops, like he’s still processing your words, “You liked me?”

You laugh wetly, “Jesus Christ.”

“No, I just—”

“For years, Mack.”

He goes silent again, and all you hear is a very shaky exhale. 

“You never said anything,” he says. 

“You never gave me a reason to.”

You saying that somehow gives him the whole picture. You loving him quietly while he leaned on you for everything, you trying to survive being apart for so long. You watching him become this international sensation while convincing yourself you’d never fit into a world like that. 

“Oh my god,” he says softly.

You wipe at your face angrily, “Forget it.” Your voice breaks and that’s when he realizes you’re crying. 

“No, Y/N wait a second.”

“Mack—”

“No, don’t do that.”

His voice cracks slightly. “I think…” He stops to breathe. “I think maybe I’ve been in love with you for a long time.”

Your heart stutters painfully.

“No.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re just saying that now because there’s distance between us now and I have new people in my life.”

“I thought that too,” he says immediately. “At first.”

The honesty in his voice makes your chest ache, and you’d wish he’d just stop talking. But he keeps going, “It’s not just that.”

“Macklin—”

He interrupts you again. “You’re the first person I call after everything.” His voice is shaking now, emotion breaking through obviously, “Good games, bad games, flights, interviews, all of it…it’s always you.”

You feel like you can’t breathe properly, and you want to hang up, but your body won’t let you do it.

“I don’t even think before I reach for my phone anymore,” he continues quietly. “I just want you.”

Your eyes close, and tears fall down your face silently.

“You’re my whole life outside hockey,” he says. “And I think somewhere along the way you became my whole life inside it too.”

Your tears come harder after that, because this is everything you wanted, but now you aren’t even sure it’s real. The timing of this all, you can’t bring yourself to think this is real, and you tell yourself he’s just doing this so he doesn’t lose you more, which makes you even more upset. 

“I don’t know when it happened,” he admits. “Maybe it was always there. Maybe I was too stupid to see it.”

You hear him inhale sharply on the other end of the line, like he’s finally saying something he should’ve figured out years ago.

“I don’t know when it happened,” he admits. “Maybe it was always there. Maybe I was too stupid to see it.”

Your chest aches so badly you almost can’t stand it, because you don’t believe him. 

You want to believe him, but another part of you, the louder part that’s spent years protecting you from exactly this, won’t let you believe him. 

You shake your head even though he can’t see it,“No.”

“Y/N—”

“No, Macklin.” Your voice cracks harder this time. “You don’t get to do this now.”

“What does that mean?” The hurt in his voice makes you feel terrible, but you can’t completely change your mind on this now. 

“It means,” you say shakily, “you don’t get to realize you love me the second I finally start trying to move on. It’s not fair to me that the second I start seeing other people you suddenly realize how you feel about me when I’ve been here for years, waiting on you to say something.”

He protests the idea immediately, “That’s not what this is.”

“How do you know?” you ask immediately. “How do you know it’s not just because you don’t like feeling replaced?”

Silence. The silence isn’t because he doesn’t care, but because the question really makes him think. Now he doesn’t know what to feel. 

You swallow hard. “You said it yourself. At first you thought it was jealousy.”

“Yeah, at first,” he says quickly. “But it’s not just—”

“So why is it not? Because I’m having a really hard time understanding the timing of all this. You had years to say something.”

You hear him exhale shakily.

“I know I did.”

“Now suddenly I’m supposed to believe this isn’t because somebody else likes me?” Your voice wavers, “That this isn’t just you panicking because things are changing?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither was treating me like I was something more than a friend and not doing anything about it. I made that mistake too.”

The second the sentence leaves your mouth, everything goes still. You cover your eyes with your hand, breathing unevenly. You just want this conversation to be over. On the other end, Macklin sounds devastated.

“Y/N…”

You can’t do this anymore, at least not tonight, not over the phone.

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Please don’t hang up.”

Your heart nearly breaks at how small he sounds, but you force yourself to say, “I need space.”

Then you end the call.

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Macklin stares at his screen for a long time after you’re gone. His hotel room is completely silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the sound of his own breathing.

He feels awful, like sick kind of awful. Not because you rejected him, but because you actually believed that he would only care about you, only love you, if somebody else wanted you too, and he thinks maybe he deserves that. 

Maybe he deserves every second of this for being too blind to see what had been right in front of him his entire life. He starts replaying every moment over and over again, from the past few years of the two of you. 

You at sixteen, shoving his shoulder in that coffee shop while he joked about you wishing the two of you were together. Every FaceTime call when he’s not with you, every airport hug, the happiest of hellos and the saddest see you soons.

Every single time you looked at him like he was your entire world and he was too stupid to ask himself why it always felt different with you.

That’s when he realizes you were right. He realized that he did treat you like you were already his, like you were together. He never realized what that meant until he thought he might lose you to someone else. And now you think that the fact that he’s realizing this because of someone else’s feelings for you, cheapens his own feelings. 

If anything, it finally made him understand the truth. He wants to tell you how he feels the right way, not some few minute conversation over the phone that ends in an argument, not a text message saying he really meant everything he said, but tell you in a way that would make you believe his words. 

Macklin sits there for maybe three more minutes before abruptly standing up, making a decision. He grabs his laptop, and starts looking for the soonest flight to Boston. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

You don’t sleep very much after you hang up on him. You spend most of the night curled up in bed staring at your wall while your phone sits face-down beside you.

Macklin doesn’t text again, and at that, part of you is relieved. The other part hurts because you wish everything had gone differently, and you wish you could find it in yourself to believe him. 

By morning your eyes feel swollen and they burn from your late-night tears, and your head is pounding from lack of sleep. 

You drag yourself through classes in a fog, and you barely concentrate throughout all of your classes. 

Your friends notice something’s wrong immediately, but you brush it off with exhaustion and stress and too much homework.

By late afternoon, snow has started falling outside. Boston looks gray and frozen in the mid-March air. 

You’re halfway up the stairs to your dorm when your phone buzzes.

Mack: Can we talk?

You stop walking immediately. You don’t know what to say, so you stand on the stairs staring at the message, not answering. You can’t do this again, now is really not the time, while your emotions still feel open and raw. 

You make it down the hallway toward your dorm room, exhausted and emotionally drained, digging through your bag for your keys, and then you see something that feels like a hallucination when you look up towards your door. 

Macklin is sitting on the floor outside your dorm room door. He’s wearing a black hoodie and sweatpants, one knee pulled up toward his chest while the other rests across the hallway. A baseball cap shoved backwards over his messy hair, and there’s a duffel bag next to him. Snow has melted into damp patches across the shoulders of his hoodie. 

To top it all off he looks absolutely exhausted. Not hockey exhausted, but exhausted in every way a person can be. His eyes look drained of emotion and there are dark circles underneath them, he’s sitting so still he almost looks frozen. 

“Macklin?”

His head lifts immediately, and the second he sees you standing there, something in his expression softens so much just by seeing you, probably not sporting a much better shape than he is. 

“Hi,” he breathes. 

You stare at him. “What are you doing here?”

He stands up, but doesn’t take a step towards you, he just stands right in front of your dorm door. “I took a flight.”

“I can see that,” you say weakly.

“I didn’t want to do this over the phone.”

“Mack—”

“No, just…” He exhales shakily, “Please let me say this in person. Because saying it in person might be a better way for you to get that I mean it.”

You don’t answer, because you don’t think you can. Your mind is still processing the fact that he flew across the country in less than 24 hours for you, just to talk to you. 

His eyes search your face carefully before he says quietly, “I know why you don’t believe me. And honestly?” he continues, “If I were you, I probably wouldn’t either.”

The honesty in his words catches you off guard. Macklin rubs nervously at the back of his neck before continuing. “You’re right that I didn’t fully understand what I was feeling until things changed, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

You look away, eyes fixed on a bulletin board down the hallway. He steps closer carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast.

He keeps talking, “I think I got so used to you being there that I stopped questioning why you were the most important person in my life.”

Your jaw starts to hurt while you try and keep tears from forming in your eyes. You still don’t look at him. 

“You were just…mine,” he says softly, then immediately shakes his head. “Not mine like that, I just mean…”

“I know what you mean,” you whisper, your voice cracking. 

“You were my first call. My favorite person. The person I wanted around after every good thing and every bad thing.” His voice shakes slightly now, “And I think I got so comfortable loving you that I stopped realizing that’s what I was doing.”

Tears sting your eyes immediately, “Macklin…”

“When Will asked for your number a while back,” he says quietly, “I thought I was gonna throw up.”

Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes you through your tears. His expression softens instantly at the sound.

“I’m serious,” he says. “Then you started pulling away and going on dates and suddenly every part of my life felt wrong because I thought you were supposed to be doing those things with me, even though we weren’t technically together.”

He takes another step closer, and you finally look up at him. 

“I know the timing sucks,” he says. 

“That’s not the only problem,” you whisper.

“I know.” He looks terrified to be this open with you. 

“I hurt you,” he says quietly. “Without even realizing I was doing it, and I hate that I did it.”

You don’t answer because that’s the worst part.

He really didn’t know.

“I can’t change that,” he continues. “I can’t undo years of you thinking you weren’t enough for me.”

A tear finally slips down your cheek, and his expression crumples slightly when he sees it.

“But you are,” he says immediately. “You always were the best person for me, Y/N. I don’t care about any of the other stuff when it comes to you.”

“The hockey stuff?” you ask quietly, knowing that it’s his priority, always has been. 

His voice is firm now, “All of it. You think I belong to some different world, but you’re the only thing that’s ever made any of it feel normal. I wouldn’t even be in the position I’m in if it wasn’t for you.”

All you can do is stare at him.

“I mean it,” he says. “You’re home to me.”

Your tears fall exponentially harder after that. Macklin notices instantly and moves without thinking, stopping just in front of you, unsure if breaking another boundary right now is okay. 

“Can I touch you?”

You nod once, and the second he wraps his arms around you, you break. Your face presses into his chest and his arms tighten around you immediately, holding you so carefully it makes you even more emotional.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your hair, “I’m so sorry everything made you feel like this.”

You shake your head against him. “No,” he says softly. “You were right to be angry.”

Your fingers tighten weakly into the back of his hoodie.

“I hated watching you move on,” he admits shakily. “Not because I didn’t want you happy.” His hand slides into your hair gently, pulling you back to look at him, “I hated it because I wanted it to be me making you happy like that.”

You cry harder at that, and Macklin pulls you back in just to hold you tighter, in the middle of your dorm hallway, while snow falls outside the windows and students pass by pretending not to stare.

Eventually you pull back again just enough to look at him. You notice his eyes are red too, but he’s not quite crying, but a few tear tracks shine on his cheeks. He doesn’t move to wipe them away when you notice them. 

“You really flew to Boston for this?” you ask quietly.

He gives you a watery little smile, “You hung up on me.”

You laugh through your tears again, “I was panicking. I didn’t want us to keep talking to each other like that, I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I noticed,” he says softly. 

A silence settles between you, then he says softer than anything else, “I love you.”

Your breath catches. Not because of panic, you aren’t panicking anymore. It’s not confusion, it’s not because of any distance that might exist between you two now. Just because of how honest he sounds, and how honest he looks when he says it. 

“I think I’ve loved you for a really long time.” And at that your eyes burn all over again. This time when you look at him, you finally believe him.

You reach up carefully, fingers brushing against his cheek, wiping away the tear tracks on his face.

“I love you too,” you whisper. The relief that floods his face is almost unbearable to witness. It looks like he was bracing for heartbreak and got handed something so precious to him instead. 

Then, very quietly, he says, “Can I kiss you? Is it too soon to ask that?”

You smile shakily, “I don’t think so, I think right now is a good time to ask.”

He laughs softly, forehead dropping against yours, “I’m trying to do this properly.”

Your heart feels like it might burst, because he’s being so sweet. He’s always so sweet and you love that about him. 

So without saying another word, you kiss him first, and Macklin immediately melts into it like he’s been waiting years for permission.

a/n: "I Knew It, I Know You" by Gracie Abrams came on while I was looking for pictures to add to the top of this, and I feel like it fits the vibe of this, minus the sad ending.

requests are: open

[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?

[sleepysidcros]

random texts with fwb fratbro mack (part 2)

Unwritten AU masterlist

A/N: I can never tell if I'm funny or stupid #let me know

warnings: suggestive, swearing !!