Haymitch Abernathy knows this with the same certainty he knows the sun will rise over the slag heaps back home, that the Capitol will keep taking children, that the nightmares will never stop.
He has known it since the moment you stumbled off the train, small, sickly, coughing from the coal dust that seems permanently lodged in your lungs. Seam through and through, with that underfed look that marks your people like a brand.
You are seventeen. Same age he was, two years ago, when he crawled out of that arena covered in other children's blood.
"Stop," he says flatly, watching you attempt to throw a knife at the training dummy for the fifteenth time. It clatters to the ground three feet short of the target.
You flinch at his voice. You always flinch. That's the problem. You flinch at everything. The loud noises, the Career tributes' laughter, the Avoxes who move too quietly.
You will flinch yourself right into an early grave the moment that gong sounds.
"I'm trying," you say, and your voice comes out thin, reedy. Pathetic.
"You're failing." Haymitch pushes off the wall where he's been leaning, crossing the training room floor with the kind of deliberate stride he learned to affect in the Capitol. Confidence. Predator, not prey.
"Pick it up."
You bend to retrieve the knife, and he watches you. Really watches you, the way he's been watching you for three days now, the way your hands tremble, the way you catalogue every exit, and the way you make yourself small, invisible, a nothing-girl that no one will remember.
There.
That's it. That's the thing he's been looking for.
"You're not going to win by fighting," he says.
You look up at him with those dark Seam eyes, and something flickers there. Not hope, you're not stupid enough for hope, but attention.
"Then how?"
Haymitch crouches down to your level, close enough that you can't look away. This near, he can see the shadows under your eyes, the way your collarbones jut too sharply beneath your training shirt.
You smell like the soap they give tributes, artificial flowers trying to cover the scent of fear.
"You're going to win by not being worth killing."
➶𓅪➶
The interview is a disaster.
You sit beside him in the elevator afterward, silent, your ridiculous Capitol dress pooling around your feet like spilled blood.
Caesar Flickerman had tried. He always tries. But you gave him nothing. Monosyllables. Downcast eyes. The audience has already forgotten you by the time you walked offstage.
"That was the point," Haymitch says, when the doors close.
You look at him. "What?"
"They don't remember you. Good." He jabs the button for the twelfth floor harder than necessary.
"The Careers are already making lists. Deciding who to hunt first, who's a threat, who'll make good entertainment for the sponsors. You know where you are on that list?"
"Nowhere," you whisper.
"Nowhere." He turns to face you fully. "You're nothing to them. A footnote. Someone who'll probably die in the bloodbath without anyone having to lift a finger. They're not going to waste time tracking you through the arena when there are bigger targets."
The elevator hums around you both, while you're quiet for a long moment.
"You think I can't win."
It isn't a question. Haymitch studies your face, searching for the crack in your composure, the moment you'll break.
But you just stand there, small and trembling and so goddamn fragile, looking at him like you're already dead and just waiting for your body to catch up.
"I think you can't win the way they expect," he says finally. "So we're not going to play their game."
➶𓅪➶
He spends every night of the remaining prep time in your quarters.
Not like that. He isn't that kind of monster, despite what the Capitol has tried to make him. But he sits in the chair by your window and talks. Strategy. Survival.
Every dirty trick he learned in his own Games, a sponsor manipulation tactic, and a way to find water and every plant that will kill instead of cure.
You absorb it all with a quiet intensity that surprises him. You don't complain, and don't cry, you just listen, those eyes fixed on his face like he's the only solid thing in a world gone liquid.
"You're not sleeping," you say, on the third night.
Haymitch pauses mid-sentence. "Neither are you."
"I asked first."
Something twitches at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. He doesn't smile anymore, not really. But close. "Dreams," he says shortly. "Comes with the territory. You'll understand, if you make it out."
When, he thinks, and the fierceness of it surprises him. When you make it out.
You're quiet for a moment. Then speak.
"Will you be there? When I come back?"
The question hits him somewhere soft, somewhere he thought the arena had burned out of him entirely. He looks at you, this small, weak, impossibly stubborn girl, and feels something shift in his chest.
"Yeah," he says roughly. "I'll be there."
➶𓅪➶
The morning of the Games, Marcus finds you in the launch room.
Your boy. The other tribute from Twelve. He's tall and broad-shouldered, with the kind of quiet strength that comes from years in the mines. You've loved him since you were fourteen, sneaking kisses behind the slag heaps, dreaming about a future you'll never have.
He pulls you into his arms, and Haymitch watches from the doorway, something ugly twisting in his gut.
"Stay hidden," Marcus murmurs against your hair. "Promise me. No matter what happens, you stay hidden."
"I promise," you whisper back.
"I will find you. When it's safe, I will find you, and we'll figure it out together."
Haymitch clears his throat. "It's time."
Marcus pulls back, cups your face in his hands, and kisses you. Soft and desperate and full of everything he can't say. Then he's gone, escorted to his own launch room, and you're left standing there with tears streaming down your face.
You don't see the way Haymitch's hands clench at his sides, and you don't see the calculation behind his eyes, the cold arithmetic of survival already spinning in his mind.
Two tributes. One mentor. Not enough sponsor money for both.
He's already made his choice.
➶𓅪➶
The arena that year is a flooded cityscape. Crumbling buildings rising from black water, bridges that collapse without warning, things moving beneath the surface that the Gamemakers have engineered to ensure the entertainment never stops.
Haymitch watches from the mentor's booth, hands white-knuckled on the edge of his console, as the countdown begins.
You run. Not toward the Cornucopia, where the Careers are already converging in a clash of steel and screams, but away. Into the maze of half-drowned streets, disappearing into the shadows like you've been doing it your whole life.
Marcus runs too, but toward the Cornucopia. Toward the weapons.
He snags a knife and a pack before the Careers notice him, then vanishes into the ruins on the opposite side of the arena.
Smart, Haymitch thinks. Both of you.
The bloodbath claims nine tributes in the first hour. Neither of you are among them.
He finds you on the screens, a small figure huddled in the upper floors of a tilting apartment building, shivering in your wet clothes, and something in his chest loosens just slightly.
➶𓅪➶
Day three.
A sponsor approaches Haymitch at the viewing party. One of the wealthy Capitol elite, dripping in jewels and synthetic skin, eager to play patron to a tribute who might actually survive.
"The boy from Twelve," she purrs. "He's quite impressive. That fight with the tribute from Nine was brutal. I would like to send him something. A weapon, perhaps. Good steel."
Haymitch's mind races. A weapon for Marcus would give him a real chance against the Careers. He's strong, capable, knows how to fight. With proper equipment, he could make it to the finale.
But the sponsor money is limited. Every gift is a choice. Every choice means someone else doesn't get one.
He thinks of you, shivering in your hiding spot, rationing your water, flinching at every sound. He thinks of the thermal blanket you need, the water purification tablets that could save your life when the Gamemakers inevitably poison the supply.
He thinks of the way you looked at him in the elevator. The way you asked if he would be there when you came back.
"The girl," Haymitch says. "Put your money on the girl."
The sponsor frowns. "The girl? She hasn't done anything. She just hides."
"Exactly." He leans in, letting his voice drop to a conspiratorial murmur. "The Careers aren't hunting her. They don't even remember she exists. And when they've finished killing each other, she'll still be there. Waiting."
It takes an hour of charm and manipulation. Skills he learned at Snow's parties, bought with pieces of his soul. But he walks away with enough sponsor money for three gifts.
All for you.
➶𓅪➶
Day four.
You're watching from your hiding spot when the Careers find Marcus.
Haymitch watches you watching, sees the moment your hand flies to your mouth, the moment your whole body goes rigid with horror.
On another screen, Marcus is fighting. Three against one, hopeless odds, but he doesn't give up. He takes one of them down before the girl from One opens his throat with her sword.
The cannon fires.
You just sit there, frozen, while the light fades from his eyes on the screen a hundred feet away.
Haymitch closes his eyes and tells himself it was necessary.
And the days blur together.
You don't fight, because you hide as you creep through the ruins like a ghost, drinking rainwater collected in broken gutters, surviving on the gifts Haymitch sends you. The thermal blanket. The water purification tablets. The burn cream when you barely escape a fire.
Each gift is a message: I'm watching. I'm here. Keep going.
You receive each one with hollow eyes, going through the motions of survival without any of the spark you'd had before. Marcus's death has gutted you.
Meanwhile you move like a sleepwalker, like someone who's already decided they're going to die and is just waiting for the formality.
As you mentor watches, and worries, and waits.
➶𓅪➶
On day nine, you kill someone.
The boy from Seven tracks you to your hiding spot. He's bigger than you. Stronger. You don't stand a chance.
But when his hands close around your throat, something shifts in your eyes. Some spark of desperate, animal survival that refuses to go quietly.
You drive the fish hook into his eye.
The cannon fires, and you collapse beside his body, sobbing. But you're alive.
Haymitch sits on the floor of the mentor's booth, shaking, and listens to you cry a hundred miles away. He tells himself it was worth it. That this is what survival costs.
He almost believes it.
➶𓅪➶
By day twelve, only four tributes remain.
You, the boy from Two, the girl from One, and the boy from Four. The Careers have fractured, turning on each other as the finale approaches, but they're all still deadlier than you could ever hope to be.
The Gamemakers drive everyone toward the center. The half-collapsed stadium rising from the water like a broken crown.
Haymitch watches you limp toward it, one hand pressed to your side where you took a knife wound two days before. The sponsors have gone silent. Everyone knows how this will end.
Everyone except Haymitch.
➶𓅪➶
The finale is a mess of blood and steel and screaming.
The Careers fight each other first. You hide in the shadows, and for one wild moment, Haymitch thinks you might make it.
Then the boy from Four sees you.
He's massive, wielding a trident like an extension of his arm. You have a knife and a fish hook and a body that's failing you.
You don't run.
For the first time in the entire Games, you don't run. You stand there, swaying, and wait.
The boy from Four lunges.
You drop.
Not a flinch. A deliberate, calculated fall. The trident passes through empty air. You drive the fish hook into his neck before he can recover.
The cannon fires.
Behind you, the boy from Two finishes off the girl from One and turns, ready to claim his victory.
You look at the camera. Directly at Haymitch. And smile.
The building collapses.
➶𓅪➶
They pull you out of the rubble three hours later, more dead than alive.
Haymitch is there when they bring you in, shoving past Peacekeepers and Capitol officials. You're so small on the stretcher, so pale.
"She's alive," a medic says.
Haymitch's knees buckle.
He sits beside your bed for six days while they put you back together. When you wake, the first thing you say is his name.
"Haymitch."
"I told you," he says roughly. "I would be there."
You reach for his hand. Your grip is weak, but certain.
"Don't leave."
"I'm not going anywhere.
Six months later.
The Victory Tour is over, and the cameras are gone. District Twelve has settled back into its gray routine, and two victors rattle around in houses that stood empty for so long.
You find him on his porch at three in the morning, a bottle in his hand. The first you've seen him touch in weeks.
"Haymitch."
He doesn't look up. "Go back to bed."
"No." You lower yourself onto the step beside him. "What happened?"
For a long moment, silence. Then he lifts the bottle, drinks, and laughs. Hollow, broken.
"Anniversary," he says. "Two years ago today."
You wait.
"My mother. My brother. My girl." The words come out flat, rehearsed. "Snow killed them. Two weeks after my Games. Because I used that forcefield trick. Made him look like a fool. So he took everyone I loved."
The cold seeps into your bones. You had heard rumors. But hearing him say it.
"Haymitch, I'm so sorry."
"Don't." He turns to look at you, eyes red-rimmed. "Don't be sorry. Be smart. Because that's what happens when you win. When you matter to someone."
You reach for his hand. He pulls away.
"I told myself I wouldn't do this. Wouldn't let anyone get close again." He stops, jaw working. "But I couldn't help it. Not with you."
"What are you saying?"
"I love you." He says it like a confession. Like a curse.
"I've loved you since you looked at that camera and smiled at me like you trusted me to understand. I know it's wrong that I was your mentor, I'm supposed to protect you. But I can't stop."
Your breath catches.
"And I know I shouldn't feel this way. Every day I tell myself to pull back, and every day you're the first thing I think about when I wake up."
"Stop."
The word comes out sharper than you intend. You see him flinch, see the hope in his eyes die.
"I can't," you say, and your voice breaks. "Haymitch, I can't."
"Because of what I am?"
"Because of Marcus."
The name hangs between you. Your boyfriend. Dead on day four while you hid and listened to him scream.
"I watched him die," you whisper. "I couldn't do anything. I just hid there and I didn't do anything."
"Stop." He uses the same word you used but with a tight voice.
"And I can't love anyone else when I'm the reason he's dead."
"You're not."
Something in his tone makes you pause. You look at him. Really look. And see something unfamiliar in his face. Something like guilt.
"What?"
"You're not the reason he's dead." Haymitch sets the bottle down carefully. His hands are shaking. "I am."
The world goes quiet.
"What are you talking about?"
"The sponsors. Day three." He won't meet your eyes. "Someone wanted to send him a weapon. Good steel. Enough to give him a fighting chance. I talked them out of it."
You can't breathe.
"I redirected the funds to you instead. The thermal blanket. The tablets." His voice is steady now, horribly steady. "Every gift you got, I bought with his life."
"No."
"I made a choice. Him or you." He finally looks at you. "I chose you."
"No!"
You're on your feet, backing away. Marcus. Your Marcus. Who had promised you would figure it out together, yet died screaming while you hid.
"You killed him."
"I let him die. There's a difference."
"There's no difference! He trusted you! I trusted you!"
"And that trust kept you alive!" He stands, and there's something terrible in his face.
"You think I wanted this? I made an impossible choice, and I chose the person I could save!"
"You don't get to decide that!"
"That's exactly what a mentor does!" His voice cracks. "We decide who gets the medicine and who bleeds out. Every gift is a choice, and every choice means someone else doesn't get one."
Tears stream down your face. "Why him? Why not me?"
Haymitch stops. The anger drains out of him.
"Because I saw you," he says quietly. "That first day. You flinched at everything, couldn't hold a knife, had no chance. And I thought she's going to die. Like all the others."
He takes a step closer. You don't move.
"But then I kept watching, I saw you practice with that fish hook until your fingers bled. Not because you thought you'd win, but because you refused to go down easy."
His hand hovers near your face, not quite touching.
"Marcus was strong. But he would've fought fair, and fair fighters die. You." His voice drops. "You were a survivor. And I couldn't let that go to waste."
"So you sacrificed him. For me."
"Yes."
"And you never told me. You let me blame myself."
"Because you needed to grieve. And because." He hesitates. "Because I knew you would never forgive me. And I couldn't lose you too."
You stare at him. This broken young man who murdered your first love to save your life. Who kept the secret while you drowned in guilt. Who stands before you now with his sins laid bare.
You should hate him. You want to hate him.
"You're a monster," you whisper.
"Yes."
"You killed the boy I loved."
"Yes."
"And you think I will just forgive you? Fall into your arms?"
Haymitch shakes his head. "No. I think you'll hate me forever, and I'll deserve it." He meets your eyes.
"But I would do it again. A thousand times. Because you're alive. That's the only equation that matters to me."
You hit him.
Your fist connects with his chest. You hit him again, and again, and he just stands there.
Then you're crying, great heaving sobs, and somehow his arms are around you and you're clinging to him like he's the only solid thing left.
Summary: For years, Haymitch has kept his biggest secret buried—his love for the one person he couldn’t afford to lose. But when the Quarter Quell announces that tributes will be reaped from the pool of Victors, his worst nightmare becomes reality.
A.N: Scene from Catching Fire. No, I haven't read Sunrise on the Reaping, so please, No Spoilers. It's a Female!Reader.
Age Gap: Haymitch is 41 and Reader is in her 20s (preferably 25)
Part 2: Here
Part 3: Here
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. As you know, in every Quarter Quell, we do things a little differently. To commemorate the 75th Hunger Games, the third Quarter Quell, we have decided to add a new twist to the tradition."
"The tributes will be reaped from the pool of existing victors."
The air was thick with the screams and desperate cries of your family, their voices echoing in your ears as your own face twisted in horror. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
After surviving the 66th Hunger Games, after securing your place in history and your district’s fleeting pride, you were supposed to live out your life in something resembling peace. You’d be called back each year to mentor, yes, but never again would you be dragged into the arena. Never again would you face the bloodbath.
But now? Now you were nothing more than a pawn again.
You had to leave. You had to run. Your little brother’s tiny fingers clung desperately to you, his sobs vibrating through your chest as your mother—your mother—threw things in fury, her heartbreak spilling over. Every instinct told you to stay, to comfort them, but you knew better. You had to leave or you’d lose your mind. Or worse, you’d drag them down into your nightmare.
You ran. The pounding of your feet against the dirt was deafening, a frantic rhythm of escape, but your body couldn’t outrun the reality clawing at your soul. You ran until your legs gave out and you collapsed, crumbling to your knees, gasping for air. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It had to be alright. It had to be. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t.
You wiped away your tears, your breath ragged and uneven, thoughts spinning wildly. Out of the eight victors from your district, only you and one of your mentors were women. And you weren’t about to let your mentor go through the Games again. There was no chance. You knew the nightmares she’d endured, the scars that marked her body. Like you, she had survived, but she wasn’t as capable as she once was when she won during the 47th Games. At least you still had a fighting chance.
Your mind turned to your family next. You just needed them to promise you one thing. They couldn’t watch. They couldn’t watch you die. It was the only mercy you could give them. You couldn’t let them see that.
Your death would rip them apart, you knew it. Your mother would be left without her daughter. Your brother would grow up without his older sister to protect him. Your father, already a shadow of the man he once was, would be broken, lost in the absence of his “princess.” And Haymitch—Haymitch.
The thought of him hit you like a physical blow, your heart constricting in your chest. He’s a victor too. A chilling realization gripped you like ice in your veins. He could be reaped. He could be sent to fight.
Tears spilled freely, hot and relentless, as you gasped, your breath stuttering. The weight of it crushed you. He could be reaped. And that terrifying thought shattered you more than the fear of your own reaping ever could.
You let out a scream—gut-wrenching, heart-shattering—your body shaking as it tore through you. It was a sound so full of anguish, so desperate, it seemed to rip apart the very fabric of the world around you. Haymitch. He could be reaped. And with that, all your nightmares, every awful memory, every twisted fear, came to life.
-----
“Get me that damn tablet,” Haymitch barked, shoving his way through the train car in search of the device. His mind was a tangled mess, his body still buzzing from the alcohol he’d consumed in an attempt to dull the gnawing pain.
The last few days had been a blur, but he could still feel the sharp sting of the announcement ringing in his ears. The tributes... the victors... and his own twisted fate. He should’ve been focusing on how he’d somehow managed to cheat death. Instead, his mind was consumed with one thing—and one person—from District 5. You.
When the announcement came about the victors being reaped, he hadn’t reacted with surprise. No, he’d gone into a frenzy. He’d torn apart his house, broken everything in sight, and drunk himself into oblivion. His fingers had clutched his most prized possession with a desperation he couldn't explain—a beautiful gold chain, wrapped tightly around his finger, holding the most precious ring.
The night before, Katniss had begged him—no, pleaded—for him to volunteer for Peeta during the reaping. He had agreed. Not because he wanted to, hell no. But because he had to be there if you were reaped. And now, as Peeta decided to take matters into his own hands, Haymitch found himself thrust into the role of mentor. It infuriated him. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want you in the arena again.
The other districts should’ve already been reaped by now, and his mind was frantic, itching to know if you had been chosen. Unfortunately, he’d been trapped in the mentor role, unable to watch the reaping unfold. Now, though, he was pushing everyone aside, his hands shaking as he aggressively swiped across the tablet screen, searching for answers.
“What's his deal?” Katniss scoffed, watching Haymitch swipe frantically at the tablet.
Effie, doing her best to keep the secret Haymitch had entrusted her with, attempted to downplay his urgency. “Oh, he’s just trying to see which victors got reaped. Don’t worry about it yet.”
“I can’t find it. Turn on the damn video on the TV,” he snapped, his patience gone. Effie scrambled, finally finding the footage and flicking it on.
As the video began, Haymitch subconsciously started playing with the gold band around his neck, his fingers caressing it absently as his heart hammered in his chest. The room fell silent as the broadcast began—District 5’s reaping.
"Welcome, welcome," the escort’s overly cheery voice rang out, her ridiculous outfit blinding in its absurdity. "As we celebrate the 75th anniversary and the 3rd Quarter Quell of the Hunger Games, as always, ladies first…”
Haymitch’s leg started bouncing in nervous anticipation, his pulse quickening. District 5 had eight victors, but only two were women—and you were one of them.
He couldn’t help it. His eyes locked onto the screen, unable to tear himself away. You stood there, dressed in black, your face a perfect mask of stoicism. Your eyes were red, your pain carefully hidden beneath a practiced, blank expression—the one you’d perfected from years of surviving. He’d taught you that. How to hide everything. How to show nothing. How to survive.
He watched you hold hands with your mentor, the two of you standing in quiet solidarity. A tiny part of him hoped that it would be you—the one they called forward, so your mentor could volunteer for you. He knew she would. You just had to let her.
The escort’s voice cut through his thoughts, though he barely heard it now. She gave both you and your mentor a small, sad smile before unfolding the slip of paper. “The female tribute of District 5…” she began, and the words hung in the air like a death sentence, “Abigail Winston.”
Effie’s sigh of relief was audible, probably thinking that you were home free, that everything was going to be okay. But Haymitch knew better. He knew you. And that’s why his entire body tensed in an instant. The anger surged through his veins like wildfire, hot and uncontrollable.
And then he saw your movement. The way you stepped forward. No.
Before your mentor could even make a move, your voice steady but fierce rang out, “I volunteer as tribute.”
Time seemed to slow. Haymitch’s heart stopped, the world around him blurring as he felt everything he’d been holding together shatter. His breath came in ragged, panicked gasps as the glass in his hand fell to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces. The tablet in his hands followed, crashing to the ground in a violent thud.
Katniss and Peeta exchanged confused glances, unsure of who you were or why Haymitch had reacted like that. Effie’s tears fell silently, a mix of sorrow and disbelief. But before anyone could speak, Haymitch turned away, his mind consumed by rage and heartbreak. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.
He stormed down the train, away from them all, his hands clawing at the air as if trying to rip the world apart. Every part of him, every inch of his being, was focused on one thought: You. You had volunteered. You had sealed your fate. And now, all of his nightmares were coming true.
-----
Haymitch wished he were drunk. He wished the alcohol could drown out the aching pain of having you step into that arena again. It wasn’t fair.
You barely had two years together. Two years of being an official couple, and yet it felt like it wasn’t enough. He’d first met you at the end of your Victor’s Tour, when you decided to escape the attention and hide at the bar. You outdrank him that night, which, frankly, was impressive.
At first, he never expected to care for you. You were just another survivor, bound to the same cruel fate as him. But then, over time, as you grew up and proved yourself in ways he never imagined, he couldn’t help but fall in love.
You were 15 years younger, and he had always kept his distance, hiding his feelings behind a wall of friendship. But as the years passed, and you all met yearly for the Games as mentors, one thing led to another. A night full of too much alcohol, too many unspoken feelings—and before he knew it, you had shared a night neither of you would ever forget.
The next morning, you confessed what had been lingering beneath the surface for so long. It took him months to work up the courage to ask you out, battling his own demons of self-doubt and guilt.
And then, for two beautiful years, you two had kept it secret. Notes passed in shadows, stolen kisses, quiet smiles, and letters filled with raw emotion. Two years of sneaking around, being completely, utterly in love.
And now, it was all coming to an end.
Effie found him passed out in the train’s aisle, and without hesitation, she put him to bed, understanding that he needed space.
The next morning, Haymitch tried to seek you out. He wanted to see you, to make sure you were okay, but his duties as a mentor took priority. Effie begged him to focus, to speak to Katniss and Peeta first, and then find you. He was torn between his heart and his responsibilities. And in the end, Effie dragged him to the kids.
He spent that day drinking and half-heartedly trying to teach them about the importance of allies.
“Finnick Odair, right?” Katniss asked, as they went through the list of reaped victors.
He nodded, pointing to the screen. “Yes, he won at fourteen—youngest victor ever. Extremely humble.”
“You're kidding, right?” Katniss scoffed.
“Yes, I’m kidding.” He flipped his hair dramatically. “He’s a... peacock. A total preener, but he’s the Capitol darling. They love him here. Charming, smart, and very skilled at combat—especially in water.”
Peeta leaned forward, glancing at the screen. “What about weaknesses?”
“One person, Mags.” A frail, wrinkled woman appeared on the screen. “She volunteered for Annie. Mags was his mentor, basically raised him. If Finnick’s trying to protect her, it exposes him.”
Katniss stared at the screen, watching the woman bravely volunteer for the young girl in tears. “A guy like that has to know she’s not going to make it. I bet when it really comes down to it, he won’t protect her.”
Sadness flickered in Haymitch’s eyes. “Well, Katniss, I just hope when she goes... she goes quickly. She’s a wonderful lady.”
He pressed a button on the tablet, knowing exactly who would appear next, but his body tensed involuntarily as the screen flickered to life.
"District Five: Mason Cover and Y/N L/N." Haymitch stared at the screen, his eyes locked on you, unable to look away.
"She's the girl we saw on the train," Katniss said, sensing the weight of Haymitch’s reaction. "What's her story?"
Haymitch glanced at Katniss before downing his drink. “She won the 66th Games at 16. The last hour of the Games, there were five tributes left. She killed each one of them single-handedly—arrows, spear, you name it. Extremely skillful, resourceful. And beloved by many of our victors.”
He pointed to Mason Cover, “Mason won the 55th Games at 18. Lethal in hand-to-hand combat. The last 30 minutes of those Games were a triple threat match. Those two are close friends. You want them as allies. And if you trust me... trust them. They're who you should be allies with.” He repeated, his gaze locked on Katniss. “Trust me.”
“Who is she to you?” Katniss asked bluntly, her voice cutting through the tension. “We all saw the reaping. We saw the way you reacted. Now you want to team up with her... why?”
Haymitch squinted at her, his fingers subconsciously playing with the chain around his neck. “She's just a friend. I've known her for years. I know both of them. Good people. Trustworthy people.”
“I don’t believe you,” Katniss retorted.
“Katniss,” Peeta interjected, sensing the simmering tension. "Let it go."
But before anyone could speak, Effie burst through the door, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she hurried toward Haymitch. "Haymitch, thank God you're here!" she said, voice strained with urgency. She then saw Katniss and Peeta standing in the room, and immediately faltered. "Oh... uh... Haymitch, you're needed outside of this room." She gestured quickly toward the door, trying to keep the situation under wraps, hoping the kids wouldn't notice.
Haymitch caught the hint, and without a word, he practically flew out of the room. Before the door even clicked shut behind him, he was pulled into an embrace. Your arms.
And for a moment, everything around him seemed to stop.
"Haymitch..." you whispered, your voice trembling as tears flooded your face. After days of terror, the weight of the world finally seemed to melt away in his arms. He was here. You needed him more than anything.
"Y/N..." He squeezed you tightly, his arms wrapping around you like a lifeline. His heart hammered in his chest, sobering instantly from the haze of alcohol. The warmth of your skin, the sweet scent of you, and the soft wetness of your tears soaking through his shirt — this was real. You were here, with him... for now.
He pulled back slightly, needing to see your face, his hands gently cupping your tear-streaked cheeks. He smiled at you, the corners of his mouth trembling with something he couldn't quite control. "Hi, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice breaking.
It hurt him to see you like this—eyes red and swollen, your hands shaking, a look of grim acceptance in your gaze. The kind of acceptance that made his heart shatter. What had you accepted? What were you preparing for? That thought alone gnawed at him.
"It's going to be okay. I’ve got you, pretty girl." His voice cracked with desperation, the words pouring out in a rush. "I’ll get you sponsors, and you'll be okay. Then when this is over, we can go back to my district, or yours, and live the rest of our lives together. I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever." He whispered it, desperate for you to believe him, for you to feel safe, for the horrible weight of your future to somehow lift.
But then, you shook your head, sobbing. "You can't... Katniss and Peeta are your responsibility. You need to help them. You need to save them." The words broke out in a cry, your eyes locking with his in raw, painful clarity. He shook his head, his heart sinking.
"No," he muttered firmly, "I’m not leaving you alone for this." His hands gripped your shoulders, holding you as if he could keep you safe, as if he could protect you from the arena, from everything.
"I’ll be alright," you tried to smile, wiping away the fresh tears that fell. "You don’t need to worry about me." You forced the smile, trying to push him, to focus on the kids, on them. You knew the truth, knew the game was rigged. Katniss needed to be victorious; you were just collateral damage, nothing more.
Your hand reached up to caress his face, your thumb tracing the rough outline of his jaw. "The kids need you, my love. You have to choose them over me. You have to choose Katniss over me. She... she is important."
"You're important." His voice cracked as he tried to hold on to some semblance of control, but it shattered as soon as he looked at you. "You're everything to me. You're my world. My wife... You don’t know what you’re asking me to do..." His voice broke, the words too raw, too heavy. "I can’t leave you in that arena. I won’t. I will save you."
You stared at him, tears running freely down both of your faces. He looked at you in disbelief, his eyes wide with an agony he couldn't hide. You had accepted your death, but he couldn’t. Not now. Not like this. He had already lost so much. He wouldn’t lose you too. Not like this. Not again.
"You don’t understand," he whispered, his voice raw, breaking with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. He shook his head, disbelief flickering in his eyes. "I can’t let them take you from me." His mind was already spinning, heart racing with frantic thoughts—how could he get more sponsors? Who could he talk to in the Capitol? There had to be a way. Anything to keep you alive. "Why the hell did you volunteer? Why—Jesus Christ, why you?" The words cracked through his chest, his heart shattering with the pain of it. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He was losing you, and he couldn’t stop it.
You reached up to cup his face, your thumb gently brushing over the rough, scarred lines of his cheek, your touch a silent plea. You saw the desperation in his eyes—the panic, the fear that he couldn’t hide. Your voice trembled as you whispered, "Haymitch... I promise you, I’ll be okay. I’ll be fine." The words tasted like ash on your tongue, but you said them anyway, because you needed him to believe it. You couldn’t bear the thought of him falling apart, not when you knew what was coming. You had to be strong for him, even if it broke you to lie like that.
And then, with everything breaking inside him, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that spoke of everything: grief, love, fear, and an unbearable desperation. It was rough and frantic, a mixture of tears and longing. The kiss was an apology, a plea, and a final, desperate act of love.
What neither of you knew was that Katniss, Peeta, and Effie were watching from the crack in the door, their eyes wide with shock.
THE CAPITOLS ANNOYINGLY bright city lights shine through the penthouses windows, preventing you from getting the much needed sleep you need before you’re sent off to your death, the hunger games tomorrow morning.
you can’t sleep and pretend like nothing terrible is coming, you’ve been pacing the room for what feels like hours, barefoot against the freezing floor, disheveled, tears brimming in your eyes, heart pounding as if you might as well already be in the arena.
and you find yourself where you least expect yourself to be—your hand shakes when you lift it to knock on haymitch abernathy’s door.
you stop yourself twice, you try to convince yourself you don’t need anyone. especially not him.
you and haymitch have spent your whole lives bantering childishly, arguing like your lives depended on it—all of district 12 probably knew about your rivalry. —READ MORE!
he would tease you, you would tease back angrily, he smirked in arrogance, you glared.
that was your banter.
now here you are, needing him more than you have ever needed anyone. you finally bring yourself to knock, softly, as if it’s hesistant and unsure.
the door opens almost immediately, as if he was standing right behind it. he looks startled at first. his golden hair damp from what looks to be a shower, the same curly hair you have recognized your whole short life.
his eyes are blue. they’re tired, exhausted, just like the others— just like maysilee, lou lou, and wyatt—fearful, they widen when he sees the grim expression you are failing to hide.
“hey,” he whispers quietly. no teasing tonight. no insufferable smirk. just concern. “you okay?”
for a second, you consider lying. you try to put on the mask you’ve been wearing since you’ve been reaped.
but your voice breaks, and you know there’s no going back. “can i please come in?” he steps back, making room instantly, holding the door open with no hesitation. “please— i mean yes—of course.”
his room is dark, lit by the small yet expensive lamp that probably goes for thousands near the bed, lightening the room barely, reflecting on the messy bedsheets.
he’s been sitting there, you realize, unable to rest just like you. maybe pacing too. maybe utterly terrified too.
you stand in the middle of his room, arms wrapped around yourself, doing anything you possibly can to keep the panic at bay.
haymitch watches you with a careful—almost fragile expression.
“what’s wrong?” he mumbles.
you almost laugh. what’s isn’t wrong? instead, you let out the smallest shaky breath.
“i… i don’t wanna die,” you whisper, the words clawing your throat raw for hours. “i’m trying so so hard to be brave and believe i can do this but i can’t. i’m not ready, i don’t want this.”
your chest tightens as the tears finally roll down your cheeks, glistening in the dim light.
you try to wipe them away, embarrassed, but your hands shake too much. haymitch is in front of you before you even finish trying to hide your face.
he cups your cheeks so gently it almost breaks you, his thumbs brush your tears away with carefully, softly, as if he’s afraid of hurting you.
“please,” he says, voice cracking. “don’t do that. don’t give up now.”
you choke on a breath. “everyone expects me to be strong.”
“i don’t,” he whispers.
that makes your eyes instantly snap up to his.
he swallows, thumb brushing the softness of your skin. “i don’t expect anything from you, okay?”
you blink, more tears breaking free from the restraint you’ve been holding onto the last couple days, he wipes those too.
“nothing is going to happen to you,” he says quietly, so surely, as if it’s a vow he’s carving into the world. “not while i’m still around. not while i’m breathing.”
“haymitch…” your voice breaks again, softer this time. “you can’t promise that.”
he steps even closer, foreheads touching. “i’m promising it anyway.”
something within you stirs—this aching, tender thing that’s been buried under the fake rivalry and childish arguments and years of pretending you didn’t notice the way he looked at you when he thinks you aren’t paying attention.
you look at him, really look at him, you notice the shaking breath he’s trying to hide, the way he holds your face as if he’s terrified you’ll disappear, the softness in his gaze that no one else ever gets to see, just reserved for you.
you lean in before you can second guess yourself.
your lips brush his softly—barely a kiss, more like a test.
haymitch inhales sharply, and then he melts into you, kissing you back with a gentleness you’ve never seen from him.
his hands move slowly, sliding to the back of your neck, then your waist—warm and promising, pulling you closer.
the kiss deepens, it’s not rushed, not desperate, it’s purely soft and tender, like you’re both trying to memorize the feeling.
you’re breathing each other in between the kisses, the sweetness of his breath mixing with your shaky breaths.
his forehead comes to rest against yours again, noses nudging against each others, lips close enough to brush again when he whispers,
“you have no idea how long i’ve wanted to do that.”
your breath hitches, and you want to cry again. “you… what?”
he lets out a soft yet heartbreaking laugh. “you really think i tease you because i hate you?”
you rest your forehead harder against his, heart racing in your chest. “i tease you back.”
“i noticed,” he whispers, his fingers curling gently in your hair. “i adore it.”
heat rushes to your cheeks, and he smiles, and it’s ridiculous. an actual, soft, happy smile. as if tomorrow doesn’t exist. as if you both aren’t being sent off to die.
you find yourself kissing him again, hands sliding to the nape of his neck, this kiss is slower, more desperate, harder.
you taste the fear on his tongue, the years of longing, the hope he’s holding onto for dear life.
his thumb strokes your cheeks as he kisses you, like he’s trying to comfort you even in the unfortunate circumstances.
when you finally pull back, your lips hover over his, breaths mixing.
“i wish we had more time,” you whisper, tears brimming in your already glassy eyes.
the words carry between you in the silence, its fragile, vulnerable, and unfair.
haymitch presses a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your temple, each kiss careful, filled with meaning, love, it’s tender, undeniable. “there will be,” he promises. “i’ll make sure of it.”
“you can’t—”
he cups your face again, guiding your gaze to his.
“i will find a way,” he whispers so surely, as if he already has a plan set in place. “for you, for us.”
the word us shatters something so warm and deep and aching inside you.
you press yourself to him again, kissing him with all the fear and hope mustered in your chest, and you believe him.
his arms wrap around you fully this time, shielding you, holding you so tightly, so protectively, as if he’s memorizing the shape of you. you sink into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your own.
for a while, the two of you sit on the edge of his the capitol bed, tangled together, soft, affectionate kisses, gentle touches, quiet breaths shared in heavy silence of the night.
you rest your forehead on his shoulder, his hand finds yours, a desperate attempt to stop your trembling.
“i love you,” he whispers, “that’s all that matters…”
you smile, genuinely. “i know..” you meet his eyes, “i love you to the moon and to saturn.”
the world may not exist tomorrow, you two may just be an old story someday, forgotten, like the rest of the tributes.
but in this night, he holds you like he won’t let it.
tonight, you will let him.
and you finally allow yourself—although it may just be false hope, you believe in the future he’s promising.
✧ 𝑓. SOTR TEASER WAS ABSOLUTELY LETHALLL. it bought me out of my slump aarghhh. the book is so devastating i know the movie is going to be so so painful 😭😭💔 and can we pls talk about joseph zada?? he is soooooooo good in we were liars like i am not ready for his performance in this damn movie. white boy of the month edits r gonna go to crazy next year </3
𓂃ㅤ 𝓉𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 ୨୧ @ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat @lcvealwayss @viennasolace ♡ thank you so much for joining !
contains: 18+, the hunger games, blood, violence, angst, death, grief, alcohol (it's Haymitch), bugs, weapons, adult themes, tragedy, love, no use of y/n, slowwwww slowburn, suggestive content, like one spicy moment, mentions of cosmetic surgery, SOTR spoilers, no Lenore Dove, may have cried writing this
A/N: sooo this is almost entirely based on the books, not as much the movies. first-person writing bc that's how the books are.
Prequel
word count: 25k (sorry)
Part I: The Reaping
On the morning of the reaping for the 52nd Hunger Games, I woke up with a chill in my bones that I couldn’t shake. In early July, it was uncommon to feel anything other than blistering heat in District 12. It wouldn’t have bothered me so much if I didn’t already have an awful feeling of dread surrounding this day.
Reaping day always sent a cloud of terror and depression across my district— even more than we already lived with daily. Nobody could stomach the idea of sending their loved ones, brothers, sisters, children, off to be killed in the games. I always counted myself lucky that my parents chose not to bring any more children into this world after me. Not that I wouldn’t love some company, but I could never watch my brother or sister be taken to die for the Capitol’s entertainment.
It was hard enough watching one of my only friends be practically driven mad after he won the games. I reminded myself to keep my eyes shut when he stumbles up on the stage this year. There’s nothing I can do to help him.
I dressed, continuously flattening my dress and trying to ignore the lasting chill in my bones. It was the last year that my name would be placed in the reaping ball. The last year that I would ever have to face the fear of myself being sent to the Hunger Games. I had just turned 18 last month, and couldn’t wait for this horrid day to just be over. My name was only in there 7 times, so the odds were certainly in my favor. A girl I went to school with had hers in at least 39 times.
My family ate a small breakfast of eggs and bread from the bakery. It was hard to eat much on a day like today.
By the time we got to the town square, it was almost completely full. I hugged my parents, agreeing to meet at home when this whole thing was over.
The section of 18 year olds was packed full and I imagined that on the screens in the capital we all appeared like cattle. I squeezed in between two girls who I knew from school and gave them a quiet greeting as we all settled into place.
It was only minutes until the mayor began speaking about the significance of the Dark Days, and how the Games help us remember. He introduced Haymitch, and I squeezed my eyes shut. I could hear clumsy footsteps walk across the stage and mumble out some sort of greeting.
For the rest of the introductory speech, I kept my eyes on the floor.
Haymitch used to be one of my closest friends in the world until he went into the Games just two years ago. I still remember it like it was yesterday. Burdock and I couldn’t believe he actually had done it— he had won a Quarter Quell where there were double the tributes! The odds were never in his favor, but he did it. Truly, I had never felt such relief and joy in my life.
A horrible accident happened just before he got home. His house caught fire and he lost his family. Myself and his closest friends tried to help him pick up the pieces, to be there in any way we could, but he refused our help. He pushed us away until he had no one left. My heart shattered, and I was still trying to put it back together. Haymitch always meant the world to me.
The next year, he practically face planted on stage and that was when we learned that his new best friend had become a bottle of white liquor. Burdock and Astrid cried with me that day.
Since then, I only see him occasionally in town, but he doesn’t come anywhere near me. Not even close.
My thoughts vanish quickly when I hear a new announcer speaking into our stage microphone. A ridiculous looking woman has taken the place of our old Capitol lady— Drusilla. This woman has very large, very purple hair. Her dress appears to be made of some sort of animal skin, and she has heels that click loudly as she walks.
She doesn’t say her name, but seems excited to get started with the drawing of the names.
“Ladies first,” she announces, crossing the stage with loud clicks in each step until she reaches the large glass reaping ball. She digs her hand around for a few seconds, before removing it and heading back to the microphone. She announces a name so clearly and I swear I black out for a second.
My name has been called.
I hear chatter around me, but I don’t understand a single word. I can’t think straight, I can’t think at all. My name has been called.
Slowly, I exit the cattle heard of the 18-year-olds and head toward the stage. There is nothing else I can do. I glance back to my group and see Burdock and Astrid looking at me desperately.
When I reach the stage, the mayor shakes my hand and the woman with the large purple hair heads to the other reaping ball and calls out a boys name.
“Ash Avett.”
The name doesn’t process, nor does Haymitch throwing up behind me. Nothing processes until we enter the Justice Building and have a few moments to say goodbye to our loved ones.
My parents come in, and it seems much more like a goodbye than a good luck. Tears are shed, hugs are exchanged, but I refuse to believe it will be the last time I will see them. Burdock and Astrid come in next. They tell me to listen to Haymitch, to which I laugh.
“He hasn’t had a coherent thought in two years,” I dismiss the idea as outlandish.
Burdock and Astrid exchange a nervous glance, but beg me to try to have him help me. I agree, but have no expectations.
Nobody else comes to say goodbye. I never had many friends in District 12, but it never seemed to bother me too much until now.
We rode in a small car from the Justice Building to the train station, and the only thing on my mind was that if Haymitch could win, then so could I. I had to. For my parents, for myself, for Burdock and Astrid— for Maysilee. I was not going to let Burdock and Astrid lose another friend to these Games. I was not going to let me lose myself to these Games.
The train was a weird sort of transportation. I had never seen so many bright colored plastic furniture pieces in one place. I wondered if they’d always been that way, or if they’d changed everything to plastic because Haymitch couldn’t stop vomiting on everything.
Ash and I have our own rooms in one car of the train. The rooms are decked out with unique art, bright colors, and weird technology unlike anything I’d ever seen in 12.
I sit on my bed for maybe an hour, maybe two, thinking of everything I know about the Games. In District 12 we don’t always watch. Usually our tributes get killed pretty quickly, and after that nobody wants to watch children killing each other. We all watched Haymitch’s year. If only he were sober enough now to be a reliable source.
There was one other Victor from my District, before I was even alive. People say they died a long time ago. We never learned anything about them. Not even how they won.
The lady with the purple hair— whom I now know to be Effie— interrupts my thoughts again with a knock on my door and an invite to dinner. I may as well join them. Maybe at least Effie knows something.
I enter the dining car and find Effie, Ash, and several Capitol servants in the room. Ash is a small boy, maybe 15, and based on the general malnourished look to him, I assume he’s from the Seam.
The moment I sit down several Capitol servants swarm the table, laying out many large plates with more food than I’ve ever seen in my life. Bowls with lamb soup, trays with brightly colored vegetables in unique arrangements, baskets of some type of bread that I’ve never seen before.
My first instinct is to be angry. I’m angry that the boy in front of me has starved his whole life, and now we’re getting served loads more than we could ever eat in one meal. I’m angry that I’ve never gotten to eat such a luxurious meal in my life, and now I am eating it on the way to this living nightmare. I am angry that Haymitch isn’t eating with us, and that he will likely be no help to me in the arena if he stays this drunk every day.
I force myself to push down these feelings of anger, and load up on food that will hopefully provide me strength in the arena. It doesn’t take long for me to receive some disapproving looks from Effie as I eat.
It is nearly the end of the meal when I hear a loud crash from the door behind me. I don’t have to turn my head to know what’s happened.
“Well, look who’s finally decided to join us!” Effie says in a tone thick with annoyance.
“I was freshening up,” Haymitch argues, and it is clear that some of this ‘freshening up’ included having more to drink.
He sits down clumsily in the spot directly across from me, tucks his napkin into his shirt, and begins eating messily. Effie scoffs and stomps out of the room.
Ash speaks up, quietly, “Can I go to bed?”
Haymitch shrugs, wiping sauce off of his face with his napkin. Ash just sits there, staring at him with evident disappointment.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” I speak up, “Effie said she will wake us in the morning when we need to get up.”
He nods, heading quickly out of the dining car and back to the one containing our bedrooms. I sit there for a few minutes, waiting for Haymitch to say, or do anything. He does nothing except continue to eat, only pausing to take sips from his wine glass.
“Haymitch,” I finally say. I am ignored. I sigh, watching him for another moment before repeating it with more insistence this time. “Haymitch!”
He ignores me again, only pausing for a second before taking a long sip of his wine.
“Listen Haymitch, I know you’ve decided you don’t want me in your life anymore, and that’s fine. But at the very least could you give me something to work with here. I want to— I need to make it back home.”
Instead of ignoring me again like I expected, he looks up at me and slowly says, “I can’t help you.”
“You can. You won the Games with twice as many tributes. You have to have some sort of advice for me. Anything.”
Before I can take another breath, Haymitch stands from the table, simultaneously spilling his wine and knocking his plate off the table, and shouts at me, “I can’t help you! Okay? I can’t!”
I take a slow breath, familiar with his bursts of rage from the long months I tried to help him after the accident.
“Haymitch, please.” I say quietly.
He looks around, everywhere in the room but not at me, almost like he’s talking to someone who isn’t there, “I knew it! I knew they’d do it. But why— WHY HER?”
Before I can process anything that just happened he is gone from the dining car and back out the door that he came through. I almost go to follow him, but the door locks behind him.
For the first time, I realized how much he truly had lost it. I am completely and utterly alone.
I don’t get much sleep that night. The next morning, Effie knocks on my door early and calls me for breakfast. When I get dressed and arrive in the dining car, it’s just Effie and Ash again. No sign of Haymitch. There’s another grand meal laid out for us. This time it’s eggs cooked in any way you could imagine. Slabs of breakfast meats, various breads, large bowls of fruit, you name it.
We make small chatter over the meal, and Effie assures us that it’s not our fault that Haymitch isn’t a good mentor.
“He just is that way.” She says shaking her head with disapproval.
It’s a travel day, so we’re not expected to do much. Ash and I spend the day reviewing footage from the old games. We take notes, and I discover that Ash is extremely perceptive. He picks up on the smallest details about the tributes, and can almost guess their moves before they make them.
We sit on the couch in the dining car staring at the television screen for hours. We discuss strategy, how tributes find food, how they outsmart their competitors, anything that can possibly give us a leg up in the games.
I knew from past games that Districts 1, 2, 3 and even sometimes 4 tend to form alliances and take out the weak tributes first. They call themselves the Careers. What I didn’t know, was how ruthless they are. In nearly every single one of the games— they win. They kill mercilessly, they show little fear, they stay strong until the end. I decide that the Careers are the ones I need to be most afraid of.
By the time the sun starts setting, Ash and I have barely moved for the entire day. We managed to watch the highlights to nearly every Hunger Games in history with the exception of two. We couldn’t find the 10th. There was no highlight reel, and apparently no recorded footage. We also decided not to watch Haymitch’s games because we were both too familiar with that one already.
When dinner rolled around we were both too tired of talking to make any conversation, so we ate quietly with Effie. Haymitch only made a brief appearance to raid the liquor stash before returning to his room.
“You should eat!” Effie calls out in a reprimanding voice but is ignored. She shakes her head and scoffs, “I swear, that boy has no manners.”
We arrive in the Capitol early the next morning. There is a large crowd waiting for us, but we have no time to take in all of the new scenery around us because we are quickly ushered to our next location.
I spend the next few hours getting every pore on my skin closely examined and messed with until perfection by my ‘prep team’ as Effie calls them. The team is a group of young adults who are the most ridiculous looking people I’ve ever seen. They all have the most ridiculous colored hair, eyes, and nails. One of them has teeth so white that I have to squint every time I look at her as to not be blinded. Another has such an abnormal face that it unsettles me. The lips are large, the skin is pulled tight across the face, almost like it’s swollen from an allergic reaction.
I guess eventually they believe that I look satisfactory, because they all nod and smile before leaving the room. Effie comes in shortly after, handing me a robe and bringing me to a different room.
The room is filled with bright colored plastic furniture, similar to the train. Ash is sitting in a similar robe across the room, and Haymitch is passed out on a couch. I can’t help but roll my eyes. When I’m sitting Effie begins to speak.
“Now, usually you would have a stylist, but, due to some issues with the prior stylist you will have to rewear some of the costumes from previous years…” she frowns, looking between us, “I know it’s not much to be working with but we will try our best to make you both look amazing. Right Haymitch?”
No response.
“Haymitch!” Effie raises her voice. He groans from the couch.
“What?”
“The tribute parade. Styling them,” she announces.
He sits up, rubbing his head and frowning, “The tribute parade is today?”
She sighs, shaking her head and going to the other side of the room where a large bag sits. I already know what’s in the bag before she brings it over. District 12 has only ever been dressed in coal miner outfits. I am going to be dressed as a coal miner in front of all of Panem. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Ash’s shoulders drop in disappointment.
We dress in the ridiculous overalls and hats before returning to the main room. I feel humiliated. Effie kisses her teeth and Haymitch sits up, looking more sober now, and shakes his head.
“Again?” Haymitch asks.
“We couldn’t do any better,” Effie replies.
Ash’s overalls hang a little bit too loose so Effie takes him into the other room to quickly try to pin it for him. Haymitch lays back down on the couch and I stand still across the room.
“You know you can come sit,” he says, gesturing to the spot next to him.
I huff, suddenly realizing just how angry I am at him. For shutting me out, for becoming a drunk, and most of all— for not even being able to get it together when I need him most.
I shake my head, keeping my voice even as I say, “I don’t want to sit next to you.”
He sighs, “Well at least sit somewhere. I want to talk to you.”
My anger doesn’t go away, but I sit anyways because if he has even one piece of good advice to give me, I’m not going to take it for granted.
He sighs, his hands running down his face and I notice how his fingers shake. I wonder how long that’s been going on. I can tell he’s still a little bit under the influence, but he looks me right in the eyes.
“When you get on the chariot…” he starts, pausing for a moment.
“Yes?” I ask, urging him to continue.
He shakes his head, “Hold on tight. I don’t want to have to meet your doppelgänger tomorrow.”
My immediate reaction is that he’s had too much to drink and is now spewing incoherent garbage, but the way that he looks at me with such a serious look in his eyes leads me to believe that his words do have meaning.
“What do you mean?” I ask, hoping he can explain.
He shakes his head, looking away now, “Just hold on tight, okay?”
I nod, still unsure what his words meant but agreeing to his request.
The evening goes by quickly. We go upstairs to a larger room where there is a line of horse drawn chariots waiting for us. The rest of the tributes are mostly mounted on theirs already, paying no attention to us. The tributes from District 1 only briefly size us up when Haymitch enters the room.
The parade is over before we know it. Haymitch was right, we did need to hold on tight. The crowd hardly reacted when they saw us, which lessened any nonexistent confidence that we already had.
After the parade, Effie escorted us to the building that they call the Tribute Center. It is a gigantic building with 12 floors, each floor for each district. We’re on the 12th floor, of course.
Our room is large and spacious. It’s larger than even the biggest house in District 12, and filled with fancy furniture and television screens. We all have our own rooms, with showers, huge beds, and voice controlled remotes that make food appear any time we’d like. It’s absurd.
Ash and I spend some time in the living room and he recounts all of his observations about the other tributes from tonight. Districts 1 and 2 are overly cocky, but not as strong as they think. District 3’s male tribute has a limp. District 6’s female tribute is skittish and jumps every time someone speaks to her. District 8’s tributes are strong. District 10’s male tribute has a large scar on his right arm, and District 11’s tributes are both small with little muscle.
It is a great advantage to be so close to someone who notices these things, but all I can think of is how dreadful it will be if one of us has to do the unthinkable in the arena.
Ash goes to bed shortly after we finish talking, but I stay in the living room. I need time to reflect on the past few days.
I don’t get that time however, because as soon as I start to think about how my parents, Burdock, and Astrid might be feeling, Haymitch hobbles into the living room.
“Well, well, look who’s still up!” He says louder than he should.
I say, “Drink some water, Haymitch.”
Surprisingly, he goes to the kitchen, fills up a glass of water— and a glass of some clear liquor of course— and comes to sit next to me on the living room couch. I just start to get up to leave when he lightly grabs my wrist to stop me.
“Hey, just wait a second,” he says, taking a sip of water then placing both glasses on the coffee table.
I sit back down, staring at him, waiting for him to say something. He takes a breath, opening his mouth to say something, but says nothing.
I consider leaving and going back to my room, but then I glance at his glasses on the table. It is hard to tell which is which, but the liquor has a slight yellow tint to it that is almost imperceptible unless you look closely.
I’d never tried alcohol before. There was really no need to drink for most people in District 12. I’d seen some of the coal miners grabbing some after work, or even the occasional peacekeeper, but the average person doesn’t drink. Feeling the after affects of liquor isn’t something most of us can afford, nor is the recklessness that the alcohol brings.
When Burdock and I first discovered the extent of Haymitch’s indulgence, we couldn’t figure out why. After some time, Burdock started saying it was to ‘numb the pain he’s been through’. I always disagreed, saying if he really wanted to numb the pain that he would let us help him.
Now, I wonder if Burdock was right. The glass stares back at me, and I’m tempted to see if it really will help me with all of the horrible feelings that I’ve had since my name was called at the Reaping.
In the heavy cloud of silence that sits over us, I decide to reach out and try it. What harm could come now? I might as well try it once in my life. Who knows if I’ll ever have another chance.
I reach out, taking the glass in my hand and bringing it to my lips. Before it reaches, it’s hastily grabbed out of my grip and taken away.
“What are you doing?!” Haymitch asks harshly, a distraught look covering his features.
I shrug, shaking my head, “It helps, doesn’t it? To numb the pain?”
His mouth falls open a bit before closing again. He stares at me for a moment, scanning my face. He closes his eyes in resignation and sets the glass back on the table.
“Don’t do that.” He says, shaking his head, “Don’t.”
I frown, “Why not? You do it all the time.”
He frowns back at me, “That’s different.”
I roll my eyes at him, getting ready to return to my room for the night. This might be the longest conversation I’ve had with him since he changed. I was beginning to realize that I will never again have my friend back. My Haymitch was really and truly gone.
“Wait,” he says, although from the look on his face he isn’t even sure why he said it.
“Why, Haymitch?” I ask, feeling all of my emotions starting to rise to the surface, “So you can continue pushing me away? So I can suffer a little more before I’m sent to die?”
Neither of us say anything so I stand up to leave and say, “No thanks, I’m going to bed.”
“Wait,” he says more surely this time, his eyes pleading in a way that doesn’t completely carry in his voice.
“You don’t get it,” he says, shaking his head and looking away from me.
“Then explain it to me,” I say, tears brimming my eyes now.
He looks around, frowning, before grabbing his glass of liquor and standing up with me.
“Come with me,” he says.
“What? No I’m—“
“Just come,” he says and grabs my wrist, pulling me behind him as he walks toward the elevator.
I follow him, but have no idea where he’s taking me. We get in the elevator and he pushes a button labeled “R”. When the elevator doors close, he lets go of my wrist and runs a hand across his face. I instantly shiver when he lets go, not realizing how comforting it was to have him close to me again.
Seconds later, the elevator doors open to what appears to be the roof. He walks out and around to the edge of the rooftop, and I stumble as a gust of wind hits me. Was this his plan? To let me get blown off of the roof before I even make it to the arena?
We stand at the very edge and I can’t hear anything other than the strong wind in our ears. He looks around, a few times, before he finally turns to me.
Words come out of his mouth, but I don’t hear them.
“What?” I ask.
He steps closer, speaking louder, “You’re not going to make it out of the arena.”
The words startle me. Immediately, my chest clenches and I feel defensive. Does he doubt me so much that he truly thinks I have no chance to survive this?
“What the f—“ I begin.
“They won’t let you,” he cuts me off, shaking his head.
My anger is replaced by confusion. Who is they? The Gamemakers? The other tributes?
“What are you talking about?” I ask, crossing my arms protectively over my chest.
He shakes his head, looking over the edge and down into the city. Even at this hour, there are cars and people scattered throughout the streets. Lights are on everywhere. It’s an odd sight to see. Back home, everyone would be in bed hours ago.
“You don’t know?” He asks, and I look up into his sad eyes, even more confused than before.
“Know what?” I ask, “Do you really think I have no chance at winning?”
He looks down again, shaking his head. “It’s not about winning.”
I sigh, feeling exasperated, “Then what is it about, Haymitch?”
He looks at me again, his frown cutting deep lines into his face in the dark of the night, “They won’t let anyone that I love survive.”
I step back, trying to understand what he’s just said. Who is he talking about? He steps toward me again, speaking before I get a chance to think any more.
“The fire. Remember? You think that was an accident?”
“Haymitch,” I whisper, knowing he won’t even be able to hear me over the wind.
He points somewhere in the distance of the city and his voice gets louder, “They did that. They want me to suffer. It was over for you the moment your name got picked.”
I shake my head, tears starting to run down my face but immediately drying with the wind blowing in my face, “Haymitch, I don’t understand.”
“If I help you, you’ll die. They’ll make sure of it,” he says, his voice cracking, “The best chance you have at surviving in there is staying away from me.”
I step back again, trying to put the pieces together in my head. By they does he mean the Capitol? Could they have been responsible for the death of his family? My heart sinks as I process.
“Is that why…” I trail off, sniffling before continuing, “Is that why you pushed us all away? Me? Burdock? Astrid?”
He turns away and takes a long gulp, and I know the answer. But how? How could the Capitol do all of that? All of us in District 12 know that the house fire was an accident. Wasn’t it? And how would the Capitol know who he loves at home? They’re so far away…
Then it hits me. He’s telling me all of this on the roof where I can barely hear him. He’s avoided us for two years. He’s barely even spoken to me since I was reaped.
They must be watching him.
The only way that he thinks I will be protected is staying away from me.
He finishes the contents in his glass, throwing it across the roof and it shatters.
“Haymitch,” I say, taking a step toward him. He shakes his head, taking a step away.
“Please,” he says desperately, and in the moonlight I can see that his eyes are red.
“Please, just stay away from me. That’s the only way.”
I shake my head, my throat hurting from the lump in it, “Haymitch.”
He takes on step closer, quickly saying, “When you get in the arena, find water. They won’t poison it like in my Games. It’s too soon. You can run fast, can’t you?”
I nod, taking in the information to the best of my ability with tears still running down my face.
“You can outrun them. I know you can. At least find somewhere to hide until most of the other tributes are dead. Got it?”
I nod again.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” He says desperately, hands twitching like he wants to reach out to be but won’t.
My chest aches with the nickname he’s used. He used to call me that when we were young. Back in early grade school it started, then continued through the time he left for the Games. He hadn’t used that name once since then.
“No,” I say, shaking my head, “I’m sorry, Haymitch. You deserve so much better.”
I don’t sleep that night.
The next morning was the first day of training. When I woke up, a black shirt and pants were hanging on my door with the number 12 on them. I quickly got dressed, assuming these were the training clothes provided.
When I arrived at breakfast, I was surprised to see both Effie and Haymitch already sitting there, discussing the plans for the next week. Haymitch looked rough, and I wondered if he’d gotten any sleep last night either.
“Where’s Ash?” I ask as I sit down.
Effie responds, “He’s still sleeping. I wasn’t going to wake either of you for another thirty minutes.”
I nod, filling my plate and beginning my meal.
“Since you’re here, Haymitch and I were talking about strategy,” Effie says, “Do you have any special skills, dear?”
“I can run,” I say, and my mind flashes to the conversation of last night.
Effie nods, lips pursed, “Anything else?”
I put my fork down, thinking for a minute. Do I have any special skills? I mean I’ve always helped my parents with their business, but they just fix people’s clothes, and that doesn’t feel like a skill that could help me in the arena. I’ve picked up some herbal medicine practices from watching Astrid overtime, but not enough that I’d call it a skill. I could climb pretty well. Since I was little I’ve always liked to climb the trees in District 12 so I could see the whole town square in action. Does that count for anything? It’s certainly not deadly.
“I can climb…” I say, hoping it doesn’t sound as pathetic as it feels.
Effie sighs, glancing quickly at Haymitch before returning to me, “Well, we’ve got a few days to work on that.”
Before she can say more, Ash exits his room, dressed in an identical outfit to mine, and takes his seat at the table.
The rest of breakfast is filled with small chatter about basic instructions for training, and how we should avoid showing off any skills that might make us a target. Haymitch explained how it would be useful to make some allies, but to avoid the Careers.
An hour later, we are all heading to the training center together. The elevator moves too quickly, bringing us to a floor labeled “T”, that is deep below ground. When we step off the elevator, there is a short hallway that we walk through before Haymitch and Effie depart.
The training center is like a large gymnasium. There are racks of weights, ropes, and weapons of all shapes and sizes. Along the walls are small stations set up. Each one has one person working who is there to show us how to perform different useful skills that we will use in the arena. There’s a knot tying station, a wild plants station, a woodworking station, and many more lining the edges of the room.
Ash and I decide to stick together, making our way through the different stations. We thought about trying our hand at physical training today, but the Careers had already taken over most of the training stations and I could tell that Ash was pretty freaked out by that.
I learn just about every knot I could ever need, how to make a sharp weapon out of a tree branch, and what plants I should absolutely avoid in the arena. When lunch comes around we are taken to another room that looks similar to a school cafeteria. Ash and I sit together, and the tributes from District 6 and 8 join us. At first I think they might want to be allies, but I quickly learn that they’re more interested in learning about Haymitch. Since he defied the odds by becoming a District 12 Victor, it seems that he’s still pretty popular among the other Districts.
For the rest of the day, Ash and I practice our knife throwing skills. His throwing needs a lot of work, but I catch on quite quickly. I hit the target about eighty percent of the time— usually missing the correct points— but I manage to hit an arm here, a leg there, and one time I even hit it right in the neck.
We are eventually let go from training and told to return to our rooms. On the way to the elevator, I get shoved by the boy from District 3. He doesn’t even look at me, just keeps walking. Instead of fighting back, I take a deep breath and remember to store this knowledge about the District 3 boy’s carelessness in my mind for later. His cockiness is likely a weakness.
When we return to our floor, Haymitch is passed out on the couch with vomit staining his shirt. My heart aches. Effie is nowhere to be found. Probably got tired of dealing with him.
“How did this guy ever win the Games?” Ash said with underlying disgust in his tone.
I sigh, shaking my head. “He didn’t used to be this way.”
We both frown at the sight before us for a full minute before I sigh—remembering that I have to stay away from him— but I can’t just leave him there. He’ll be no help to Ash in his current condition. I felt a twist in my gut as I got a wave of Deja vu.
After he moved to the Victor’s Village, Burdock and I tried countless times to help him. We did everything we could. Eventually we realized he didn’t care what we did, he didn’t even want to have us around.
It was a year later the next time I was back there. I’d heard from my neighbor that Haymitch was wandering around town looking even more ridiculously drunk than normal. My parents came home that day with a sad look in their eyes, and I decided that even if he didn’t want me around, I wasn’t going to leave him to keep doing this to himself.
I headed into the square, finding him slumped next to the Bakery, covered in his own vomit. With a lot of coaxing, I finally got him to stand and walk back to his house in the Victor’s Village with me. No words were exchanged on the walk. No words were exchanged when I spent the next half hour washing his face and shirt. Not even when I made him go to bed and drink a large glass of water. I swore at one point I watched a tear roll down his cheek, but I pushed the memory away for my own sake.
Now, a year later, staring at him, I wonder if he will ever be the way he used to. My Haymitch. Unfortunately, there’s no time to think that way.
I sigh, and against my better judgment I say to Ash, “I’ll go clean him up. See you at dinner?”
Ash looked perplexed for a moment, but still nodded and headed to his room.
It wasn’t difficult to wake Haymitch, but it was difficult to get him to agree to go take a shower. With my help, he eventually stumbled to his room. I sat on his bed and laid out some clean clothes for him as he cleaned himself up. I should have left and gone back to my room, but I realized that if this truly is my last few days— as he says—I wanted to spend as much time as I possibly could with the boy who once meant the world to me. Even he isn’t that boy anymore. I couldn’t die in the arena knowing that I didn’t try to help, even just one last time.
I turn to face the door when he finally exits the bathroom and dresses. Eventually, he takes a seat a few feet away from me and takes a deep breath. I turn to face him.
“You sober yet?” I ask, scanning his face. His eyes are red, and I can tell just by his pupils that he still has some alcohol in his system.
He shakes his head.
“Haymitch,” I say, unsure of what else to say.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly.
I nod, “I know. But I couldn’t leave you there like that.”
The look in his eyes destroys me.
I take a deep breath, standing from my place on his bed, “I can’t die in a few days without being there for you. I just can’t.”
I don’t wait for his response. Instead, I make my way back to my room, shutting the door and letting myself cry for the last time. If I want to even have a chance at winning, I need to be strong. And I need to stay away from Haymitch from now on.
It doesn’t take long to regain my composure, and shortly after I wipe the last tear I am called to dinner. Haymitch never shows.
The next two days are tedious. Ash and I have gone through every single station in training. I have gotten better at knife throwing— hitting lethal points at least sixty percent of the time. I hit the target somewhere on the body almost every time. I’ve also learned that I can be quick enough to escape from most of the official Capitol trainers who I’ve been sparring with.
Ash has had decent luck too. He’s gotten quite good with a sword, and can anticipate the moves of his opponent easily. He is extremely perceptive.
After three full days of eating well, training, and learning new skills, I’m feeling significantly more confident that I can win this. The Careers are still a major threat, but if I can get away fast enough, I can just wait for them to take each other out.
We haven’t made any allies. Nobody has been interested in partnering with us unless they get a shot at getting advice from Haymitch, who of course hasn’t been around much at all. He’s been slightly more coherent the past few days— seemingly not drinking to the point of being incapacitated. And yet, every time I walk into a room he finds his way out of it.
Tomorrow we have a full day of preparing for our interviews, then the next day is the Games. The interviews are done on a stage outside of the Tribute Center by a man named Caesar Flickerman. Caesar is a ridiculous looking man with hair that changes colors for each Games. This year I think it’s a pale yellow. Ugly. But from what I’ve heard, he is very charismatic and helps the tributes out. Which I will need.
At dinner, Haymitch and Effie discuss with us the possible angles we can go with. Every tribute apparently has an angle to make them likeable. Some choose strength, some smarts, some beauty, some even choose humor.
Ash decides he wants to show his smarts, with a bit of humor. Effie and Haymitch nod, agreeing that they can work with that.
“And you?” Effie asks me while I’m halfway through munching on a chicken leg.
I shrug, setting the leg down on my plate, “I don’t really know.”
Effie says, “I’m sure we can put something together. You’re such a lovely girl.”
I almost blush, grateful to receive a compliment from someone who is so hesitant to give them out, until she adds: “For a girl from the Districts.”
Haymitch looks at me for a moment, as if doing a difficult calculation in his head. Eventually a small smile tugs on his face and he says, “Why don’t you just be the sweetheart from District 12? Show them how nice you are, they’ll love you.”
Effie rolls her eyes, and I’m sure he’s joking.
“Yeah, right,” I say, “I don’t think that’ll sway the people of the Capitol.”
“Well, have you got anything else?” Haymitch asks but doesn’t wait for me to respond, “We’ll work on it tomorrow.”
No more discussion happens that night. The next morning Effie wakes us up early to spend the first half of the day working on manners. Apparently my manners aren’t even half as good as I thought they were. Effie teaches me how to sit properly, how to laugh like a lady, and worst of all she teaches me how to walk in heels.
Ash nails it all right away, but he doesn’t have to walk in heels. He laughs at me as I stumble for the fifteenth time.
The early afternoon is spent with Haymitch as we figure out what angle we want to take. For two complete hours, Haymitch is entirely focused on Ash. He doesn’t even glance at me once. I know why he’s keeping his distance. Still, that doesn’t stop the annoyance from raising within me when I think about just how unprepared I am for tonight.
After Ash nails his intelligent-yet-witty routine, the attention is on me. Haymitch practices asking me questions like “How has training gone for you?” and “Anyone special waiting back at home?”
My responses must not impress him because he sighs and takes a drink out of a flask he has been keeping in his coat pocket. By the end of the session I am so exhausted from having to put on a show, and so on edge because in less than 24 hours I will be in the arena.
When our prep teams arrive, Haymitch takes a long drink and leaves the room. I am fussed over for nearly two hours before they deem my hair and makeup to be satisfactory for tonight. My makeup is simple, yet they have perfectly managed to accentuate every feature that should be accentuated.
“Thank you,” I tell them.
Effie steps into our room shortly after, with two large bags in hand. She hands me one, and hands one to Ash.
“Clothes for tonight,” she says, “I thought since neither of you have a stylist you would need something to make you stand out.”
“Thank you, Effie,” Ash says and goes to his room to change.
I open my bag, revealing a stunning orange dress unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It is a soft, shiny material that reflected light in every direction. The waist is cinched in a way that I imagine to be incredibly flattering, and the long skirt is draped in such a unique way that it almost looks like water falling. I quickly went to my room to change as well.
When I return to the living room, Ash is standing with Effie and Haymitch in a suit with the same beautiful orange color that I am wearing. They all look up and Effie is the first to speak.
“It’s stunning! I knew I had a good eye,” she says.
“You look great,” Ash says, smiling at me.
“You too,” I say.
Haymitch is silent and doesn’t look at me for longer than a few seconds. I let myself wonder if he thinks I look pretty.
We all head downstairs to where the stage is supposed to be set up. When we arrive, Effie departs for her seat but Haymitch escorts us until we are backstage. All of the other tributes are there looking absolutely amazing.
Haymitch nods at us, “Remember what we went over.”
We both nod before he departs and goes to find his seat as well. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves before we have to walk out on stage. I hear Caesar Flickerman’s voice introducing the 52nd Annual Hunger Games and the anthem starts to play.
Ash reaches out and squeezes my hand gently before we walk out on stage together. All of the tributes sit at different parts of the stage, and take turns being interviewed by Caesar. Each interview is about three minutes long, so I know by the time they get to me that the audience will be bored out of their minds.
Ash pays close attention as each tribute is interviewed. I find myself staring through the crowds of the audience. So many strange colors, some of the people don’t even look quite human. I know they are of course, it’s just so different. I don’t know why anyone would ever want to change their appearance so much. Things work so differently in the Capitol.
I get called up while I am staring straight at a woman who has leopard print skin, and I make my way across the stage to the seat across from Caesar.
“Welcome, welcome,” he says, “Are you ready for tomorrow?”
I shrug, “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Caesar smiles at the audience and exclaims, “Ahhh! I love that! Love the confidence in this one. And how has your mentor been?” He asks, looking at the audience knowingly.
Of course, Haymitch is known well by the Capitol now. They’re all well aware of his tendencies.
I smile nervously, “He’s been fine.”
Caesar pauses, waiting for me to continue. When I don’t, he says, “Just fine? Do tell.”
I sigh, feeling the need to defend him. If what he says is true, the Capitol has been horrible to him. I’m angry at them for him.
“He’s doing the best he can,” I say, forcing a smile.
Caesar laughs, “Ahhh, I’m sure he is. Did you two know each other before you were chosen for the Games this year? Back in District 12?”
I pause. If I answer honestly, they will have even more of a reason to kill me. If Haymitch were here, he would tell me to lie. So that is what I do. “No,” I say, “We didn’t know each other.”
Caesar nods, leaning toward me and getting more serious, “You didn’t know each other?” He pauses, leaning closer like he was going to tell me a secret, “And yet he threw up on stage when your name was called?”
I completely blanked for a moment. I had forgotten that that even happened. I shook my head, thinking of the right words to say.
“He’s always throwing up,” I say, forcing another smile as if it’s some sort of joke.
Caesar laughs toward the audience, “Classic Haymitch. Well it is a shame to see you go, but may the odds be in your favor.”
Before I know it, I’m sent back to my seat. I don’t even pay attention during Ash’s interview because I’m so caught up in his wording. A shame to see me go? Does he know something? If what Haymitch said was true, does that mean that the Capitol is already planning to kill me in the arena? Or does he just have such little faith in my ability to win?
When we return to our room for the night, Haymitch and Effie congratulate us on our successful interviews.
“I thought you two did know each other before,” Effie says to myself and Haymitch.
“Not really,” I say, not explaining myself further. Haymitch is still refusing to look at me.
Effie nods, and the look on her face seems that she doesn’t believe me. She must ignore it, because she looks between Ash and I, smiling gently, “I guess this is goodbye. I will be rooting for you both.”
We take turns giving her hugs and saying goodbye. When she reaches the elevator she says, “May the odds be ever in your favor.”
“Thank you, Effie,” Ash says, and she’s gone.
We both turn to Haymitch, “Will we see you in the morning?” I ask.
He shakes his head, “Your prep team will collect you in the morning and take you to whatever transportation they have arranged. Then you’ll be off to the arena.”
We both nodded, knowing this is it. My heart tugs, and I have so much that I want to say. This might be the last time I will ever see Haymitch, and I don’t know how to handle it. I don’t know if I should say anything at all.
Ash shakes Haymitch’s hand and thanks him for his help, and soon he is off to his room. I stand still for a moment, unsure of what to do. Before I can figure it out, he pulls me into his arms. His hands wrap tightly around me, one around my waist and one on the back of my head. I instantly reciprocate, wrapping my arms tightly around his back. We stand like that for nearly a minute— his face tucked into my neck, holding so tightly that I almost push him away for a breath. But I don’t.
He loosens his grip but doesn’t pull away. He gets close to my ear and says so quietly I can hardly hear, “Stay alive.”
I nod, still holding him tightly. I take a shaky breath in and out, willing myself not to cry.
“See you on the other side?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t respond. He pulls me tightly against him one last time and when he pulls away he is already headed for his room. I can feel the tears running down my face, but quickly wipe them and head to my room as well. I can’t get upset now. I have to stay alive.
Part II: The Games
After a sleepless night, my prep team wakes me up before the sun. They make last minute touch ups to my eyebrows and hair, before giving me clothes to change into. It’s a light, airy material that is completely black except for a small number 12 in silver on the sleeve. The pants are the same material, only slightly thicker.
Surprisingly, my prep team takes me up to the rooftop after I’m done. My mind flashes back to the last time I was up here. Soon, a jet comes near the roof and lets a ladder down. I am told to grab onto the ladder, but as soon as I do I am paralyzed. I can’t move a muscle until I’m completely inside of the jet. Once I’m inside, they place a tracker in my arm.
The ride is short, and when we arrive I am brought to a small room with a tube in it. I assume that the tube is what will take me into the Games.
I stand there for a few minutes, breathing deeply, before I realize that I am shaking. Every muscle in my body feels like it is contracting and un contracting over and over again. I can’t enter the games like this, but it won’t stop no matter how many deep breaths I take.
I think of home. I think of my parents who will be watching me, I think of Burdock and Astrid… I think of Haymitch. The shaking stops. I can do this, and I will. I have to win. For them. For Maysilee. For Haymitch.
A peacekeeper enters my room, making me jump. I am told to enter the tube, and I listen. Within a minute, the tube closes, and I am rising up like I’m in an elevator that takes me above ground.
Suddenly, I’m in the arena.
I look around me, trying to gain awareness of my surroundings as fast as I can. Below me is a raised metal plate, and I see that all of the tributes are on one. Ash is just a few plates away from me.
The ground in front of me is some sort of small rocks… gravel? There are small puddles and ponds in the gravel, but that water does not look drinkable. Directly in front of me is the large, golden horn that they call the Cornucopia. It holds the most dangerous weapons, and the best supplies. Haymitch told us to avoid going straight there.
To my left, there’s a field of dirt with large piles rising and falling as far as I can see. To my right, there’s is a corn field that seems to be endless as well. Behind me is a small patch of woods, but I can’t tell if they’re thick— or deep enough— to hide in. That might still be my best bet.
Before I’m ready, a clock begins counting down in front of me. 30, 29, 28…
I look around, deciding where will be the safest for me to go. I spot a small green backpack just 10 feet in front of me. Would it be too dangerous to grab? Have my opponents already spotted it?
15,14,13…
I take in my surroundings one last time before deciding. The best bet for my survival is to grab the green backpack and take off in the woods as quickly as I can. With my speed, I can surely outrun any attacks. Plus, most of the violence will be near the cornucopia.
5,4,3,2,1.
I take off as fast as I can, straight to the backpack. I don’t look to see if anyone is already fighting. I turn and I run to the woods as quickly as I can. I run and run until I can hardly breathe, and even then I don’t stop.
Only once I’ve finally gotten far enough away that I can’t hear, nor see any other tribute, I stop to assess my situation. The trees aren’t nearly as dense as I need them to be. Someone could see me from 200 yards away if they stood in the right spot. They’re also dry and thin with hardly any branches until the very top. Not trees to be climbed.
I find a big one and sit down against it, at least then my back will be covered while I examine the backpack I’ve taken. It’s a very small bag. Inside, I find a water bottle, luckily filled with water, a pack of crackers, a flashlight, a thin rope, and a knife. The knife isn’t as sharp as the ones we trained with, but it should at least provide me some defense.
I try to recall what Haymitch told us about basic survival. Find water, don’t let yourself starve, find shelter, and stay alive. He’d told me specifically to try to find somewhere to hide. Got the water, the crackers should at least last me today, but I’ll have to find some sort of shelter. I decide to continue walking through the woods to see if I stumble upon anything.
I lost count of how many cannons I’d heard over the next few hours, preoccupied with finding shelter. There had been at least five since I began searching, but any that went off right at the beginning were lost in the adrenaline rush.
As I got deeper into the woods, I’d found some large rocks that I considered hiding behind at least to keep my back covered. Ultimately, I continued walking in hopes of a real shelter.
Just when it started to get dark, I came across a water fall. I’d only taken sips from my water bottle all day, but I figured this would be a good place to stop and drink. Maybe there would be some fish in the pool at the bottom.
The waterfall was maybe 12 feet high, and the stream was strong. Water was rushing over the edge, crashing down below. There were large rocks around it, like the ones I’d seen earlier. They were dark with thick moss growing on them.
I finished the rest of my water bottle, trying to stay relatively hydrated before filling up again. I crossed some smaller rocks that were covered in moss. I walked carefully, knowing how slippery moss can be when it’s wet.
I reached out to press my hand on the rock behind the waterfall so I could support myself when I refilled my bottle, but found no purchase. Instead, I found myself falling directly into the waterfall and onto damp ground.
Mud was streaked across my face and I reached up to wipe it off when I realized how dark it was. I looked around and realized what had happened. Above me and all around me was solid rock. I hadn’t just fallen onto the ground, but I’d fallen through the waterfall into a small cave of sorts.
I’d done it! I’d found shelter.
I smiled to myself. The cave provided perfect shelter against the sun, and I had a continuous source of water. The water also was strong enough that it was difficult to see through. Maybe I would eventually have to relocate, but for now, I was safe.
I stayed in the cave, eating small bits of a couple crackers and sipping on water until I heard the anthem playing. I couldn’t see through the waterfall, so I’d have to peak my head out if I wanted to see how many tributes were left.
The faces of the dead tributes started flashing in the sky, one by one. Both from District 2, the girl from 3, both from 5, the boy from 7, both from 8 and 9, the boy from 10 and the girl from 11. The cocky boy from 3 was still alive. I let out a breath of relief that I didn’t know I was holding when I realized that Ash was still alive.
12 down, 11 to go.
I allowed myself to think optimistically and hope that they would all take themselves out without me having to kill anyone. I knew it was unlikely, but I needed some hope.
That night when I drifted off, I found myself mourning for the lost tributes. I didn’t even know most of them. I’d only spoken to some of them a few times, but they were all just kids. I wondered if they had families at home. Siblings who were crying themselves to sleep tonight. Friends who would never be the same after today.
I didn’t sleep for long. The cave floor was uncomfortable to sleep on, and at one point I heard footsteps just outside. I wasn’t sure if it was another tribute, or some sort of animal, but I wasn’t going to let myself sleep when any threat was around.
The next morning, I allowed myself to eat some more crackers. Hiding in the cave might protect me against the other tributes, but it would not protect me from starvation.
I decided to see if I could find any fish in the bottom of the waterfall. After waiting and listening for nearly thirty minutes to determine that I didn’t hear a single footstep, I headed out of the cave and walked around the edges of the pool. I saw some creatures, but I didn’t recognize them, and there were no fish.
It had just occurred to me that there might be some edible plants around when I saw a small lizard crawling near my feet. It was green with a blue head, and a striped tail. I knew from school that these were edible, and on occasion we would even find them wandering around in District 12. In order to eat it however, I would need to kill it first and then cook it.
I jumped through the waterfall quickly, grabbing my knife from my backpack before it could get away. I had just gotten back outside when I saw the lizard scampering away. I chased after it for a few steps before lunging at it.
Before my knife could impale the creature, it turned around quickly and spat some sort of yellow liquid at me. It missed most of me, but it did get on my right hand.
My first thought was that maybe I was chasing the wrong type of lizard, because that kind doesn’t spit. Then the yellow liquid began to burn. That was when I realized that the lizard was a mutt.
We call them mutts, but they’re actually Capitol engineered animals with genetic mutations that make them deadly.
My entire arm began to feel like it was on fire. I raced back to the waterfall and washed it away as quickly as I could, but the burning didn’t stop. I rushed back into the cave, out of site of any other predators.
The burning steadily spread up my arm and into my shoulder. It wasn’t a regular burning, but felt more like my skin was being lit on fire over and over again. The skin on my hand began to blister and turn purple.
Before I could think of what to do next, I fainted.
I wasn’t sure how long it had been, maybe a few hours, maybe a few days, but when I woke up it was nearly dark outside. My arm burned, but it felt more feverish than on fire. I looked at my hand and saw that there was a large blister surrounded by purple veins. I’d never seen anything like it, nor did I know how to treat it.
Until the sun set, I did nothing but sit in my cave and try to get my strength up a little bit. I snacked on some crackers and drank some water, washing off my blister again. As soon as water impacted it, it throbbed and felt like it was on fire again.
When the anthem eventually played, I stuck my head out— careful to keep my hand inside— to see how many more tributes died today. The boy from 6, the girl from 7, and the boy from 11.
8 left.
I wondered what was happening out there. Both tributes from District 1 were alive. Were they hunting people down? Was everyone still near the Cornucopia? Was anyone else attacked by a mutt?
Before I could stick my head back in my cave, a small silver box attached to a parachute floated straight down in front of me. Haymitch.
I grabbed it and snuck back into the cave as quickly as I could. Inside the box was a small bottle. It was some sort of liquid that I’d never seen before.
For the burn- H
Without thinking any more, I opened the bottle and drank it. It only occurred to me after that the liquid might have been to clean my throbbing blister, but it was too late now.
I laid down, and felt the pain slowly start to subside. The blister was still as large, and the purple veins weren’t seeming to go away.
As I got as comfortable as I could on some rocks with a giant blister on my hand, I began to wonder what Haymitch’s strategy was. He told me he wanted us to stay away from each other, then he gets me a sponsor gift as soon as I need it. What kind of message could that be sending to the Capitol?
The next day is uneventful. I don’t hear the cannon once. I spent the entire day in my cave, trying to figure out what my next move should be. The pain has mostly gone away from my hand, but there’s still a large area of raw skin, and the purple veins have now extended to my fingers. I finished off my crackers, and my stomach was starting to cry out for food. There were no fish, and I wasn’t taking my chances with an animal again. If I wanted food, I would have to make my way back to the Cornucopia or try to find some sort of edible plants.
When the anthem plays that night, no faces are shown in the sky. I guess the chaos has gone down from the first two days.
The next morning, I wake before the sun is up to the gnawing in my stomach. I have to find food, and I have to find it soon. If I can make my way back to the Cornucopia, even if anyone sees me, I should be fast enough to grab food and run away before they can catch me.
With that general plan in mind, I begin my trek back toward the center of the arena and away from my safety in my cave.
It has been at least two hours before I take a break. My legs are beginning to shake, my stomach gnawing more intensely as the day progresses. I haven’t had to deal with the sun since I’ve been in my cave, but now with the sun beating on me and such little food in my system, I’m starting to feel dizzy.
I try to continue in my general direction for a few minutes before I have to take a break. I sit down with my back against a tree, taking small sips of water. My vision starts to blur, and I can feel my limbs getting weak.
A cannon goes off and it startles me enough that I decide to continue walking, at least until I find some sort of plant to eat. Unfortunately, most of the ground in the woods is dry and bare. It’s another thirty minutes before I find a small green bush with red berries. I remember seeing these berries at the plants station during training, and I’m almost completely positive that they’re edible.
I collect as many as I can, eating a handful and putting the rest in my backpack for later. They’ll probably get crushed, but it’s better than having no food at all. The berries hardly satisfy my hunger. As soon as they hit my stomach, I can tell that I’ll need a lot more than that to keep going.
Another cannon has sounded by the time I finally reach the Cornucopia. I stay about fifty feet back, hiding behind a thicker tree and try to visually scout out the area before I make my move. I wait about an hour, continuously monitoring for any noise, but I don’t hear anything other than the leaves rustling in the trees. It’s certain that I’d hear at least some footsteps if anyone were around. Being from District 12, I’ve learned that gravel is never silent. There isn’t a tribute in sight.
Finally, I take off toward the Cornucopia at full speed. I’m a little bit dizzy and breathless when I reach the opening, but to my luck, there are still weapons and supplies waiting for me. I can’t believe that my fellow tributes would leave all of this here.
I take another backpack, not allowing myself the time to sort through it yet. I throw it over my shoulder and grab the last knife before taking off in the way I came. I make it about halfway through the gravel stretch when I feel a forceful pain in my calf. I look down, and a small knife has made its way through my pants and at least half an inch into my left calf. My sock inside my boot begins to feel wet.
It’s impossible to sprint now, but I hobble forward to the best of my ability and quickly look around for the cause of my injury. 20 feet away is the boy from District 3. The one who has always been too cocky for his own good. He stands casually, arms crossed over his chest, chin up like this is a normal day for him. I wonder how many deaths have been caused by him.
“What? Can’t run now?” He says with a smirk that makes my blood boil.
I take a deep breath, ignoring the pain in my calf that is making me feel like I’m going to faint.
I shrug, trying my best to act casual, like I’m not afraid of him. Truly, I’m terrified. He’s much bigger than I am, and if he chose to advance now I wouldn’t be able to outrun him. The knife in my hand feels heavy,
“Just taking in the view,” I say, looking around us at the arena.
He takes a step forward, smirking still, “Good, because it’s the last look you’re going to get.”
He takes another step toward me, and without thinking any more I throw my knife straight at him. With the dizziness and the blood dripping down my ankle, my aim is a little off, but the knife makes impact just below his hip.
The boy bends forward in pain, pulling the knife out. I don’t wait any longer before I limp out of the gravel clearing as quickly as I can. Blood is soaking through my shoe now. Just as I reach the sparse woods again, the knife skims past my head, hitting the tree directly to my right. My ear is bleeding. I yank the knife from the tree and don’t look back. I don’t hear footsteps behind me, so I assume the boy decided not to follow.
I only make it about a hundred yards when I collapse. My vision is going black, and I desperately need to clean my wound. I collapse against a tree and tear open my new backpack in hopes of something— anything— that will stop me from bleeding out right now.
Inside the backpack is a sheet of dried beef, a strange fruit that I’ve never seen before, some crackers, a bottle of water, and— to my luck— a small first aid kit! I use the bloodied knife that was just in the District 3 boy to cut the fabric around my calf. Then, slowly but carefully, I remove the knife. The feeling alone is nearly enough for me to black out, but I fight it. I won’t die in here. And if I do, it won’t be at the hands of the District 3 boy.
The first aid kit contains two small rolls of gauze, a pain reliever tablet (which I take immediately), a few spare bandages, and a few sheets of an antiseptic wipe wrapped in plastic. I do my best to clean the wound, losing my vision twice. I bite down on the edge of my shirt. It’s all I can do to keep from screaming.
After the wound is clean, I wrap it in a large bandage and lots of gauze until I think it’s satisfactory. I’ve never known much about caring for wounds, but I’ve watched Astrid do it a few times, and I think I got the basics down.
I don’t attempt to move for hours. I eat a few of my berries from earlier, some crackers, and part of the beef strip. It does help my energy some, but the blood loss really wore me down. I tuck my head between my knees and only look up every so often to make sure the District 3 boy didn’t come to finish me off. I know he’s still out there, the cannon never went off.
It occurs to me that the safest I could be now is if I return to my cave. It’s at least two hours of walking, but it’s better than being out in the open and waiting for another person to attack me.
I stand, but when I put weight on my calf I nearly black out again. It takes lots of deep breaths before I regain my balance. Once I do, I lean against my tree and look around for any low hanging branch to help me walk. There are none.
There’s nothing I can do but try to make it away from here, so I walk— very slowly. I don’t know if you could even call it a walk, it’s more of an awkward hop with lots of stopping.
I make it about a mile, and it starts to get dark. I begin to lose any hope that I had of returning to my cave for the night. I continue to move forwards anyway.
The events from earlier start to replay in my head. I threw that knife at the boy with the intention to kill. I always frowned on those who were so readily able to take the lives of others, but now that I’m the one in the arena I didn’t even think twice. I suppose it’s different when you’re defending your own life, but that doesn’t change the fact that the boy would’ve been dead if I aimed a bit better.
I was so caught up in my thoughts that I had become mildly unaware of my surroundings and hit my head on a tree branch. Great, a head injury is exactly what I need right now. I shake my head, trying to comb dry branches out of my hair— wait. A tree branch!
It’s thick enough that I need to use my knife to cut all the way through it, but it’s the perfect size for a walking stick. I could start moving significantly faster with a walking stick.
With much more exertion than my body could handle, I get the branch down. It’s not a comfortable walking stick, but it helps take a lot of the pressure off of my wounded calf.
The bleeding stopped about an hour ago, but it still hurt terribly and had bled enough that my body was still weak.
After another hour of trekking through the woods, the anthem begins to play in the sky. One dead today. The girl from District 6. I wonder how she went. I wonder if she tried to defend herself. I wonder if the boy from District 3 killed her.
I’m still about an hour from my cave, but I decide to keep moving. There’s no point in stopping now. Even though my body is screaming for rest, I am in no shape to defend myself if an attacker decides to pursue me. I still have my knife that I got back from the District 3 boy, and the knife that I pulled from my calf, but the odds of me being able to react and aim well enough are low.
I lean on my stick, taking a small break before returning to my limping, and a small silver parachute falls from the sky in front of me. Haymitch is still looking out for me. With the vulnerability of everything that’s been happening in the arena, I am able to admit to myself that I miss him terribly. All that I want in the world at this moment is to be next to him again. Even the messed up version of himself that he’s become would suffice. Maybe if I make it out of here we could…
I shake myself out of my thoughts and grab the parachute. I open the small metal box. This time, there’s a small sheet of paper on top with writing on it.
Aim better next time- H
I allow myself to let out a small laugh, knowing that he will be watching me on the live feed being shown in the Capitol. Underneath the paper is a bottle of pills. They’re unmarked, but I assume that they’re either pain killers or some sort of antibiotic to prevent my wound from getting infected. Infection can kill just as much as a knife can.
Before I begin walking again, I swallow one of the pills with a gulp of water. I don’t feel any immediate difference, but about thirty minutes later the pain in my calf has become a dull ache and I’m able to cover ground much quicker.
I don’t know what time it is when I finally reach my cave, but I’m relieved to have my shelter again. My bandages got wet when I entered, so I take time to clean and rewrap my wound before I fall asleep.
Sleep takes over me as soon as I lay down, the exhaustion from the day finally catching up.
Judging by the sun’s position in the sky, it’s probably about mid day when I wake. I check my wound, which bled a little bit overnight, and snack on some of my dried beef when I figure out my plan for the day. The pain has returned during the night, so I take another pill from the bottle that Haymitch sent me.
I begin debating the pros and cons of leaving the cave today. I need to find a consistent source of food, and it wouldn’t be a bad idea to learn a little bit more about my surroundings. Before I can make a decision, I notice a large footprint in the mud next to the cave entrance. One that I would’ve never made myself, the foot was much too large.
Someone has been here.
It was too dark to see when I arrived last night, but now with the sun shining through the water, it’s clear as day. I start considering if I should leave when I hear footsteps outside.
Okay, so whoever was here must be returning to the cave. If I stay here, I can defend myself with my knives to the best of my ability. If they get close enough, I won’t miss. I grab both quickly, squeezing them in my hands. I just have to hope that whoever it is doesn’t have a weapon that can kill me faster than I can throw.
It’s obviously a male, from the size of the footprint. Theres no way the boy from District 3 has been here. I would’ve known if he followed me. The boy from 1 wouldn’t be here without the girl from 1, and there are no smaller footprints other than my own. That leaves… Ash.
Could it be? I stay silent, not wanting to reveal myself either way. If these footsteps do belong to Ash, I still have no idea what he’s been through. For all I know, the games might’ve turned him into a brutal killer. I keep my grip on my knives as the footsteps get closer.
I raise my arm, ready to throw if I need to when the person breaks through the water and enters my cave. It is Ash. He startles at the sight of me, lifting an axe in his hand, ready to attack.
He looks rough. He was already a smaller boy, but now I can see the highlights of his cheek bones. There is dried blood in his hair, and on his shirt. Every time he moves he flinches like he’s in pain.
He falters for a moment, finally focusing on my face.
“Ash…” I say, still holding my knife tightly.
He fully lowers his axe, “I never thought I’d see you again,” he says.
Great, another person who thought I’d be dead by now.
He quickly follows with, “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I lower my knife, “Good, because I don’t want to hurt you either.”
It’s a little bit awkward at first. It’s almost as if the several days in the arena have stunted our ability to interact with other humans in a normal way. Eventually, he sits beside me and we recount everything we’ve been through.
When the Games started, Ash took off in the direction of the dirt piles. Apparently there aren’t just piles, but also underground tunnels. He was hiding out there for a while, but eventually needed to come out to get food and water. The Careers were chasing him and he just barely got away when the boy from 7 popped out of one of the holes and killed the girl from 2. The girl and boy from District 1 stayed to attack the boy from 7. I remembered seeing his face in the sky on the first night.
After that, the boy from 2 kept chasing Ash until they got to the Cornucopia, where he was barely able to fight him off with an axe. He didn’t go into detail, but the boy from 2 died and Ash got away with a giant gash in his side. He was lucky that he got some supplies to help control the bleeding. After that, he’s been roaming the woods, hoping to avoid running into the pair from District 1 again. Apparently they’ve been hunting people down and are responsible for most of the deaths so far. He came across the cave yesterday and decided to hide out for a while, but went to find food and couldn’t find his way back to the cave in the dark.
I recounted my experience with the mutt, and showed him the healing skin on the back of my hand. I hadn’t realized, but the purple veins were beginning to make their way up my arm. I also described what happened with the District 3 boy. He frowned deeply when I showed him my leg.
We sat in silence for a bit after that, sharing a few crackers and some chocolate that Ash had gotten in his backpack.
Eventually, Ash says, “So what now?”
I pause for a moment, not even having to think hard before I say, “Want to be allies?”
A grin covers his face. Probably the first time he’s smiled since we got in the arena. “I’m glad you asked.”
“But,” I stop him, “On one condition.”
He looks at me skeptically, waiting for me to continue.
“If it gets down to just a few of us left,” I say, “We go our separate ways. I won’t hurt you.”
He nods, extending his hand to shake on it.
We both know the pain that would come with killing someone from your own district. Even if you don’t know them very well, you know their family or friends. District 12 isn’t all that big. Going home after that would be worse than killing them in the first place. You’ll never be accepted again.
We stay in the cave most of the day. Ash leaves a few times to collect roots and explore the area. I’m grateful for him, especially now, because with his perceptiveness he’s able to practically memorize every strength and weakness of our surrounding territory. Plus, it’s nice that I don’t have to walk on my leg today.
I change the bandages again in the early afternoon. It hasn’t bled any more, but it feels hot and the outside is red. I decide to clean it one more time, trying to prevent infection to the best of my ability. I’m still hopeful that the pills that Haymitch sent might have some sort of antibiotic property.
In the late afternoon, we hear another cannon go off. For the rest of the evening, I make sure that Ash stays in the cave with me.
By the time the sun sets, Ash lays out a mixture of roots and plants for us to snack on. It’s not enough for dinner, but I pull out the remaining beef and berries that I have and we share them.
He sticks his head out when the anthem begins to play. The girl from 10 is gone. That leaves the boy from 3, us, and both from District 1. I know that means that we will have to go our separate ways soon, but I’m not quite ready to be alone again.
We lay on the rock floor of the cave, and I use my backpack to prop up my leg. It’s starting to swell now.
“We’re really defying the odds, aren’t we?” Ash says.
I nod, realizing I’ve been thinking this myself. “Yeah,” I say, “Who would’ve thought the two from District 12 would be the last ones left with the Careers?”
“Not Haymitch,” Ash shorts, shaking his head, “He had no hope for us.”
I laugh, but say, “I don’t know, I think he had a little bit of hope.”
Ash stares at me for a second, then says, “So… what was going on between the two of you?”
My heart jumps for a second, but I can’t tell if it’s because I don’t want the Capitol hearing about my relationship with Haymitch, or if the implication of anything going on between us was affecting me.
“Nothing was going on between us,” I say carefully, dismissing his question.
Ash snorts again. Of course he knows. How couldn’t he? He picks up on the smallest details about people. I was so busy thinking about how it could be used as an advantage that it never crossed my mind that he might be watching me as well.
“Please,” he says, “That night when you cleaned him up after he threw up on himself?”
“Ash,” I warn.
“Or all of those times I caught you staring at each other?”
That’s it. I’m dead. If what Haymitch said was right, President Snow will most certainly hear this and be on his way to plan my painful death immediately.
If I’m going to die anyway, what’s the point of lying now? Hell, maybe if I’m lucky I’ll earn sympathy from the viewers in the Capitol and they’ll send me something to make me death less miserable.
I sigh, formally giving up. “Yeah…” I nod.
“Yeah?” Ash repeats, obviously waiting for me to say more.
I purse my lips, wondering if I should say more. If I’m going to die, do I want Haymitch to know how much I’ve always cared about him? Or will that just make things worse for him? It’s not like they can kill me again if I’m already going to die in here.
I decided to tell the truth, “Yeah,” I pause, taking a deep breath, “He used to be one of my best friends… before… you know.”
Ash nods.
“We just kind of… grew apart,” I say carefully, unsure of what they know in the Capitol. Surely they wouldn’t have broadcasted the details about the fire and his family. The people of the Capitol are far too shallow to care about anything relating to the Victors beyond their annual entertainment.
Ash nods again, but I can see a slight flicker in his eye like he knows I’m lying. Ash picks up on everything, I wonder just how much he knows.
“He just always meant the world to me,” I say, feeling myself getting upset, “He always will.”
Ash frowns, reaching out a hand to place over mine in solidarity.
“So why did you lie?” He asks.
“What?” I ask, getting nervous. If he knows something, if says something—
“In our interviews,” he says, “You said you didn’t know each other before. Why?”
Shit. What now? Words tumble from my mouth before I can fully think it through.
“I…” I start, unsure where the sentence will end, “I just didn’t want everyone to know.” I fake my best vulnerable look, knowing the Capitol will be watching, “I didn’t want to explain it all to them because I didn’t fully understand it myself.”
I know that’s not a good enough response, but Ash nods anyway.
“So…” Ash says after a minute, “Were you, like, in love with him?”
I think for a minute. Was I in love with him? I certainly have always loved him. Even just being near him made me feel better, even when he was intoxicated. Even if I were in love with him, would I want to say it for all of Panem to hear? For him to hear?
If I die in here— which I know I probably will now that President Snow is aware of our affection for each other— do I want Haymitch to know I was in love with him? Would that make things worse for him?
I don’t know, so I say, “I’m not sure if I know what being in love feels like.”
Ash seems to understand how much conflict in this conversation is bringing me because he doesn’t ask more questions. He falls asleep shortly after, but I don’t fall asleep for a couple of hours. My mind is swimming with thoughts of Haymitch, my parents, Burdock, and the fact that the Gamemakers might be orchestrating a horrible death for me right now.
The next morning, Ash is up before I am. He goes to find some plants for us to eat, and I take another pain pill. The dark veins have made their way up my my upper arm now, and the cut on my leg still feels hot in a way that I know could become dangerous.
We eat in silence, only exchanging words when we decide to go our separate ways by the end of the day. If we stay together any longer than that, we risk the possibility of having it get down to just us. This is reaffirmed when a cannon goes off just as we’re finishing our food. I secretly hope that it’s the boy from 3. If he’s gone, at least I know there’s no one else out there with a personal vendetta against me.
There are 4 of us left.
Ash and I stay in the cave for the morning, not saying much at all. There’s not much to say when you know you both might be dead my tomorrow. Much less when only one of us might still be alive.
There are no more cannons for the rest of the day. In the late afternoon, Ash and I share the rest of my crackers and his chocolate. We both decided to leave the cave for good. If either one of us wants to make it home, we need more food and to kill the two from District 1. Assuming that they’re the two that are both still alive.
When it starts to get dark, we step out of the cave to go our separate ways. We embrace each other tightly.
“Thank you,” he says to me.
For what? I’m not sure, but his words carry a lot of weight.
“You too,” I say, “I’m sorry things had to be this way.”
“I’m sorry too,” he says, “If I don’t make it out if here… I hope you win.”
I nod, feeling emotions rise in my chest as I say farewell to my only ally. “Same here. Good luck, Ash.”
“You too,” and just like that he’s gone.
I have to stand there for a while, trying to keep it together, knowing that was the last time I’ll ever see Ash. We had a strange bond, but I’ve grown very fond of him since the Reaping. He doesn’t deserve this. None of these kids do.
I decide not to head straight to the Cornucopia. Ash had shown me a few edible plants, so as I walked I began collecting them. They should hold me over for now. I’d filled up my water bottles before leaving the waterfall, but once that’s gone I’m not sure what I’ll do.
I have to find another walking stick for now. My leg is much less painful since I’ve been taking the pills that Haymitch sent, but it’s still swollen and difficult to walk on for long periods of time.
I’m not even sure where I’m headed, I just keep walking. When the sun begins to go down, I reach the edge of the woods. They slowly begin thinning, and border the corn field. It’s intimidating. I don’t know who or what could be hiding in there, waiting for a victim.
I don’t seem to have any other choice though. I didn’t see anywhere that I could effectively hide in the woods since we left the cave, and now with nightfall coming quickly I can’t risk being exposed in the trees. The corn could provide at least some protection if it’s able to hide me overnight.
I eat some of the remaining roots that I picked up on the way here, and take a breath, bracing myself to enter this unknown territory. I step into the edge of the corn, making sure to walk in a straight line so I don’t get lost.
The second I step into the maze, I hear a cannon go off. In my heart, I’m praying it wasn’t for Ash. There are only four of us left. Could I make it out of here alive? Probably not, if the Gamemakers are planning my death, but I’m close enough that I allow myself some hope. Maybe I will see my parents again. Maybe I will get to see Haymitch again…
I’m maybe fifty yards deep into the corn when I realize that this might not have been the best idea. In all directions, all I can see is corn. It would be incredibly easy to get lost and die of starvation or dehydration in here. I wonder how many tributes fell into that trap.
I continue advancing straight for at least fifty more yards until I decide to settle for the night. I find a small patch of dirt that I can at least sit down on to rest until the morning. I take a sip of water, swallowing another pain pill, when I drop my bottle cap. It only goes about two feet to my right. I go to pick it up, and realize that the corn is a lot less dense just a few feet over.
My plan is to move over just a few feet and camp out there for the night, but when I move I find myself standing in some sort of pathway of dirt extending in both directions.
It was a corn maze. I’d read about these in a storybook when I was young, but we didn’t have anything like this in District 12. I wondered where the path would take me, but decided against exploring that tonight.
It occurred to me that if there’s a pathway, maybe there are other tributes in here. It might be best for me to return to the denser corn, at least until the morning.
I reach in front of me, getting ready to push some of the corn aside, but quickly retract my hand at the sharp pain I feel. My hand is bleeding. The corn is sharp as razor blades. It certainly was not that sharp just a few moments ago.
The Gamemakers have trapped me in here.
The only way out has to be from following the path, and I have no idea which way to go or how far I am from the rest of the arena. I also don’t have any food remaining, and it doesn’t seem that I’ll be snacking on razor sharp corn any time soon.
I could die in here.
Was this their plan all along? To let me get to the end just to starve me out in the maze? To let Haymitch watch me slowly die?
I refuse to let them get the best of me so easily. I follow my gut instinct, and begin walking to my left down the dirt path. I’ll walk until my calf starts screaming at me, then I’ll rest until I can walk again. I will not let them starve me for their entertainment.
It’s only about an hour before I have to stop. My calf feels like it’s on fire, and my arm is beginning to feel numb. I take my arm out of my sleeve to see that the deep purple veins have begun turning black, but they’ve stopped spreading when they reached my shoulder. That can’t be good.
Although I’ve walked for an hour, I feel as though I’ve made no progress at all. Corn is in every direction. Nothing but corn. I’m not entirely sure that I haven’t been walking in circles. My stomach is beginning to growl and I sit on the dirt ground, resigning for the night.
Just as I sit, the anthem begins to play. I brace myself, waiting to see Ash’s face in the sky. Instead, I see the boy from District 1. I audibly gasp. The girl from District 1 will be working alone now. It’s much less of a threat when it’s just one of them.
All that’s left is Ash, the girl from 1, and the boy from 3…
I’d forgotten about him. If the odds are in my favor, someone else will take him out. If I’m the one to fight him, I know he will try his best to make sure I die a painful death after I wounded him.
Before the end of the anthem, a silver parachute falls in front of me. I open it quickly, anxious to receive any help I can.
Within the box is a small compass to wear around my neck, a thermos container of meat and rice, and a thin net…? I’m not sure what to make of these, but I quickly dig into my meal, desperate to stop the gnawing in my stomach.
“Thank you, Haymitch,” I whisper, pressing my hand over my heart.
I don’t allow myself to eat all of it. It’ll be useful to have tomorrow, especially if I can’t find my way out of here. After packing the thermos into my backpack, I examine the compass and the net. The compass should be able to help me get out of here, or at least give me some sort of direction. The net however… I’m really not sure. I’ve never seen such a thin, delicate net like this before. I shrug, knowing that Haymitch wouldn’t have sent it for no reason. I put it into my backpack as well.
I decide to try to bury the parachute and box, hoping that if any other tributes came along that they wouldn’t know I’ve been here. The effort is in vain, because it’s ridiculously large and isn’t discrete no matter how much I try to cover it with dirt.
It occurs to me that I should try to get some rest tonight if I can. I need my energy if I’m going to be walking through this maze all day tomorrow, and I’ll certainly need it if I want to escape this maze. I have no clue what will be waiting for me when I exit.
I get as comfortable as I can on the dirt, when I notice a small slip of paper next to me. It must have fallen out when I hastily opened my package.
I believe in you- H
I read over it a few times, feeling warmth in my chest but also mild confusion. He believes in me? Does that mean he thinks I have a chance to make it out of here? Could I have somehow won over the Gamemakers and convinced them that I could be the Victor?
I tuck the note into my backpack, and feel a newfound hope rising in me. Haymitch will have been watching everything that’s happened in the games so far. If he believes I can win, then I have to really have a chance to win.
I eventually doze off, a soft smile on my face, and dream about what life would be like if I do make it home.
I wake when the sun is beginning to rise. I allow myself a few bites of chicken and rice, but not too much. I take one more pain pill and decide to get moving.
The compass immediately proves to be helpful. I choose my paths, deciding to continue moving North as much as I can. It’s just an assumption that North is the correct direction to be going, but either way it’s not like this maze could go on forever.
By midday, the sun is beating down on me and I’ve drank the entirety of my first water bottle. Even if I ration the second, I’m sweating far too much.
I still haven’t seen anything besides lots of corn. Everywhere. Only corn. I start to feel like I might be losing my mind. The only reason that I know I’m not walking in circles is my compass.
I break for lunch, sitting down on the dirt and eating a few spoonfuls out of my thermos. There is maybe a cup left, but after I eat that it’ll be gone. There have been no cannons today.
I’ve just finished packing up my meal back into my backpack when I hear a strange buzzing sound near my right ear. Instinctively, I swat away whatever is there. I assume that it’s just a small bee like the ones we have in 12, but when I pull my hand away, a large yellow beetle has latched itself to my hand. It’s about two inches wide, and three tall. I try pulling it off, and it comes off easily, but a large sore has now taken its place. It looks like a pimple. It’s raised, red, and has a white spot in the middle, but it’s raised at least half an inch off of my skin.
I quickly stand, preparing to get as far away from this monster bug as I can when I hear another one. But it’s not just one. An entire swarm of bright yellow beetles is coming at me from the right. I scramble to stand, and begin running as quickly as I can with my wounded leg.
I manage a good head start, but they’re fast. Soon, they’re less than a foot behind me and I start to panic. I don’t stop running when I feel another one attach to my cheek. For the next minute, I’m running as fast as I can with at least ten beetles attached to me. I’m constantly swatting them away, but as soon as they detach, another one takes it place. They’re everywhere, my neck, my face, my hands— just about every piece of exposed skin that I have.
Three more have just attached themselves to me when I remember the net. The net! This must be what Haymitch sent that for. If I can just get my net out of my bag, I can protect myself from any more latching onto me.
While still running, I swing my bag off of my shoulder, ripping it open and pulling out the net as quickly as I can without spilling anything else. I pull it over my head, tucking it into the waistband of my pants after I remove as many bugs from my skin as I can. It works. No more bugs are attaching themselves to me, except for one on my ankle.
I don’t stop running, but it’s only a moment before all of the bugs disappear back into the corn. I take a breath and look down, net still over me, examining my bites. I can’t see my face or neck, but I can feel them everywhere. I have five raised bumps on each of my hands, more on my wrists, and they’re all beginning to itch.
Before I know what’s going on, the bumps on my hands begin to pop. I feel like I’m in a nightmare. Each bump pops, revealing an orange goo that seeps out of them. My hands are covered in it. Is this coming from my body? Or did they inject me with some weird chemical when they bit me?
I sit down, refusing to remove the net from over my head when I try my best to clean myself up. There was another antiseptic sheet in my first aid kit, so I cleaned my hands, face and neck with it. Orange goo now stained my shirt and pants. Even after cleaning, my skin kept an orange tint. I look like one of the crazy people from the Capitol that dye their skin.
The bumps disappear, only leaving minuscule bite marks on the skin. It wouldn’t be that easy. If the bites weren’t deadly, then I was sure that the orange goo will have some sort of horrible affect setting in soon. Capitol mutts aren’t just made for a laugh. They always provide some sort of danger.
Minutes later, I realize exactly what that danger is. My vision begins to blur, and every sound seems to echo. My limbs are moving slowly. I try to stand, to continue walking, but it takes me ten minutes to get five feet. Has it been ten minutes? I can hardly see and every step I take sounds like five.
I collapse on the dirt ground, unable to move, and black out.
I wake up shivering. My vision is still a little blurry, but mostly back to normal. The echoing has stopped, and I think my movements have returned to normal speed, but my body feels feverish. My skin is hot and it feels like someone put all of my organs in the oven before sending me out into the cold.
All I can do is hope that I’m not feverish from an infection in my leg wound, but I know it’s not unlikely. I stand, my joints aching, and try to continue moving. I won’t let myself die in here.
It’s hard, but I successfully continue moving for about an hour before I hear a scream. It sounds like a girl’s scream, so it must be the girl from 1. If I can hear her scream, I must be close to the exit to the maze. Unless she’s in here with me…
No cannon goes off.
After ten more minutes of walking, I can see the opening. The Cornucopia is straight ahead of me. All I have to do is keep going and I’ll make it out of here. I do my best to run until I reach the opening, and when I do, it feels like I can finally take a deep breath. My fever instantly feels like it’s broken. I wondered what else the maze was doing to me that I wasn’t aware of.
My moment of relief didn’t last long, because a moment later I hear, “Hey, 12!”
I look to my left to see the boy from 3 limping toward me. His leg looks terrible. It seems to be dragging behind him with every step he takes, but even with that slowing him down, he’s not slow. He advances quickly toward me and I reach around to grab my knives out of my bag.
I’m too late. He runs toward me, not even tripping over his limp leg. I start to run away, but trip over a large rock that I swear was not there a moment ago.
In seconds, he’s over me, pressing a knife straight against my chest. He’s going to kill me.
“You see my leg?” He asks, snarling like a dog.
I nod, “Sorry about that.”
I grip my knives, but his entire weight is over me and I can hardly move my arms.
“You thought you could make it out of here?” He says, the horrible cocky smirk returning to his face. “You thought you could be like your friend Haymitch? An underdog winning from District 12?”
I don’t respond, quickly trying to think of how I can get out of this. If he moved his weight slightly to the right, I could get my hand out enough to stab him in the side.
“Not on my watch, 12.” He says harshly, and he slowly presses his knife harder against my chest. I can feel my skin break, and I’ve just begun to accept that this might be how I die, when the boy above me jolts. His face is stuck in shock, and he tries to move off of me. He rolls onto the ground, an axe in his back.
An axe. Ash’s axe.
Ash stands fifteen feet away, his face contorted in fear. The District 3 boy rips the axe from his back, but stumbles.
“No,” he whimpers, bending over on all fours, breathing heavily, “No… it was supposed to be me.”
Ash walks toward me and I remove the knife from my chest, clutching it tightly in my left hand.
The boy cries once before he collapses. The cannon goes off. Ash grabs his axe from the ground, nodding at me once.
“Thank you,” I say, tears brimming my eyes as I realize that Ash has just saved my life.
He takes a step back, seemingly ready to go our separate ways again when he falls to his knees. His jaw drops in shock, and I see that a large arrow has sunk itself right into his chest. He collapses, pulling the arrow out slowly.
“Ash,” I whisper, shaking my head and crawling over to him, “No, no!”
An arrow whizzes my by head, and I quickly turn to see the girl from District 1 standing ten yards away with a bow in her grip. She reaches behind her for another arrow, about to shoot. In that moment, all I felt was true anger. A knife releases from my hand and sinks directly in her throat. She collapses. A cannon sounds a minute later.
I turn back on my knees, clutching Ash in my arms as close as I can. “Ash!” I shout, he is unconscious.
A cannon sounds. I won.
“Ash!” I say again desperately, shaking him and patting his face. He doesn’t wake up.
I begin to cry. This isn’t fair. Ash saved my life, and now that was a debt I can never repay. He was such a sweet, smart boy and he didn’t deserve this fate. He was my friend.
I don’t let go of him, even when I hear the announcement.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the winner of the 52nd Hunger Games.”
“No!” I shout, “Ash…” I don’t stop crying.
A hovercraft is approaching in the distance. I can’t leave him like this.
In District 12, funerals are small. We never have enough money to do anything special, but there’s a song we sing to send our loved ones to the grave. The last time I remembered singing it was at the funeral of Haymitch’s family.
“You’re headed for heaven,” I sang quietly, tears choking me, “The sweet old hereafter.”
“And I’ve got one foot in the door
But before I can fly up
I have loose ends to tie up right here,
In the old therebefore.”
I do my best to get all of the words out, but I can’t stop choking on my tears. Several announcements come, instructing me to mount the ladder that has been sent down from the hovercraft, but I ignore them until I finish the song.
I press a soft kiss onto Ash’s forehead, staining him with tears, and finally step onto the ladder.
I’m glad that I’m stuck in position as soon as I’m on it, because I feel so weak that I don’t think I’d be able to hold on by myself. The ladder pulls me all the way up into the hovercraft, and as soon as I’m in it I am sedated.
Part III: The Victor
When I wake, I can’t tell what day it is, or what time. I’m in a room that looks identical to my room in the Tribute Center, but with no windows. I’m in a clean set of white linen clothes. My limbs feel stiff, the orange tint to my skin is gone, and so are the purple veins that had made their way up my arm. My right arm still does feel tingly, but not numb like it did in the arena. My hair feels clean, and my mouth tastes minty like someone brushed my teeth for me.
Then it hits me— I won. I won the 52nd Hunger Games. I get to go home. I get to see my family again, I’ll get to see Burdock and Astrid again, Haymitch…
I stand quickly, catching myself on my nightstand when I get dizzy. I wonder how long I’ve been laying in that bed. Once my dizziness clears, I step to my door, turning the handle to open it. The handle doesn’t turn. I knock on the door. Where am I?
No response comes. I step back, examining the room that I’ve been placed in. The walls are pure white, and so is the floor. All of the furniture is identical to my room in the Tribute Center, and so is the bathroom in the corner. I walk toward the bathroom. At least that door has to be unlocked.
It is, and I step into the bathroom, shocked by my reflection in the mirror. I look thin. My cheekbones and jaw are showing, my eyes look sunken in, and I have dark circles under my eyes. My skin however, is glowing like it hasn’t been through a single tragedy ever. My nose also looks straighter than it ever has before, and my lips look… fuller? I’ve never looked that symmetrical in my life.
I jump when my bedroom door opens, and Effie enters my room. I turn to her.
“Effie!” I say, relieved to see a familiar face.
“My girl,” she says, smiling sadly, “We are so proud of you.”
She takes me down some pure white hallways, and an elevator with no windows, before we eventually reach the 12th floor of the Tribute Center. How big is this place? Have I been here all along?
We enter the familiar room, and Effie raves about how much the citizens in the Capitol just adored me. How she told everyone that I was always so brave and she never doubted me. I know this to be a lie, but I don’t call her for it.
She sends me to my room to get dressed. Tonight I will be interviewed in front of all of Panem, and forced to watch the highlights of the Games. It’s sickening.
My room is still the same as it was when I left. I wonder how they got exact duplicate furniture in the room where I’d woken up.
A gown is laid on my bed and I dress in it. It’s long and yellow with diamonds laced into the neckline. It has long sleeves that drape over my hands, and the skirt is so long that it drags behind me. The yellow reminds me of the beetles in the arena, and I wonder if that was an intentional choice. For me to be seen in the color from a memorable moment of the Games. The people of the Capitol love that garbage.
I walk out of my room, but my prep team immediately arrives to pull me back in and fuss over me. They congratulate me, telling me about all of their favorite moments in the Games. Most of them don’t include me. However, they seem to be thrilled to get to be a part of the winning team.
Effie comes in a few times to bring me food and water. She and my prep team rave over how beautiful I look and how all of Panem is going to be simply obsessed with me.
At one point I interrupt them and ask, “Where’s Haymitch?”
Effie’s expression turns from excited to soft. My prep team seems to get emotional over my question, and for a moment I’m afraid the Capitol has killed him.
“Oh, dear,” Effie says, reaching to place a soft hand over my shoulder, “What you two have is so special. When you were in that cave telling Ash about him, we all cried,” she says, gesturing to my prep team who nod, one of them even wipes a tear away.
“Where is he?” I ask again.
Effie purses her lips, seemingly choosing her words before replying, “He had some trouble when you were in the arena… but he will be ready for the show tonight!”
I sit up straight, “Some trouble?” I ask, panicking, “What kind of trouble? Is he okay?”
Effie smiles warmly, and one of the women in my prep team gasps, whispering, “She doesn’t know.”
I swat their hands away, suddenly feeling suffocated by the makeup on my face and the intricate hairstyle on my head, “I don’t know what?”
Effie reaches out to me, stroking my face softly, “He hardly slept when you were in the arena, dear. And—“ she faces my prep team, smiling like she has the hottest gossip in Panem, “I only saw him have a drink once.”
They all gasp, one of them begins to cry again.
“What?” I ask, confused.
Effie places her hand on her chest affectionately, “He couldn’t look away. He did all that he could to keep you alive,” she says, “The only time he had a drink was when you had fainted after being bitten by those horrid bugs.”
The boy on my prep team gasps, “We didn’t think you were going to make it.”
They begin their meaningless chatter again about where they were when the biggest moments were happening. I try to process the information that I’ve just been given. Haymitch stopped drinking? He didn’t sleep? I never knew I meant so much to him.
I interrupt their conversation again when I realize I never got an answer, “So where is he?” I ask.
Effie frowns, pausing for a long moment before telling me, “He was going through withdrawals and with the lack of sleep… the doctors thought it would be best to monitor him for a while.”
I nod, blinking away the tears that were making their way into my eyes. “But, he’s okay now? And he’ll be there tonight?”
She nods.
An hour later, I am brought down the elevator and into a waiting room before the interviews begin. I hear endless chatter and excitement outside, and I wonder how these people truly can take this all so lightly. Children died. Twenty three of them. And the citizens of the Capitol are acting like they’re going to the most exciting event of the year.
I can hear from a built-in speaker in the waiting room that Caesar has begun the show. The anthem plays, and I have to blink hard to stop from seeing those faces in the sky again.
Effie retrieves me from the waiting room and brings me backstage. She squeezes my shoulders and reapplies lipstick on my lips before telling me when it’s my turn to go on stage.
First, Caesar will interact with the audience and recount some of the most important details of the Games this year. Next, Haymitch will go on stage and be congratulated for his success. He will thank the sponsors, and then I will go on stage.
I wait backstage and realize that last time I was here, there were 23 others waiting with me. Now I’m alone. It hits me like a knife to the chest, and now I know exactly what that feels like. I can’t believe that only a week ago we were all—
“Sweetheart?” A voice says from behind me. I turn and there he is. He looks clean. Healthy. Sober.
I can’t stop myself from launching myself forward and flinging my arms around him. He’s here. I’m here. We did it.
We’re both shaking, and I don’t even care that I’m crying. My prep team will be angry that I’m letting my makeup run, but that’s the last thing on my mind right now. I can hear him sniffling in my ear too, and my heart twists.
“You did it,” he whispers, holding me tightly.
“Thanks to you,” I say.
Before we can say any more, Caesar is introducing Haymitch and he has to go on stage. He holds my hand tightly in his, kissing it gently until the last second when he steps onto the stage.
I watch from behind the curtains, my heart racing at the sight of him. He’s in a yellow suit, perfectly matching my dress. His hair is shiny, his face lively. I adore this boy.
Caesar congratulates him on his victory, but he declines, saying that it was all me. He mentions the sponsors, thanking them graciously. Normally, this would be where Haymitch takes a seat on the edge of the stage and I come out for my interview.
Instead, Caesar says he has more questions for him.
“Now Haymitch,” he starts, “What were you thinking before you got that last gift to her? You knew that the maze was full of lethal bugs, and you might have saved her life with that net.”
The audience cheers for a long time, and Haymitch seems to take this time to think before responding.
“I just couldn’t lose her,” he says.
Caesar looks touched, looking at the audience for a reaction. They cheer loudly, and from where I’m standing I can see some of them crying.
When they quiet down, Caesar continues, “And when she was in the cave and confessed her love for you, how did you feel then?”
Haymitch sits back, taking a deep breath. The audience goes silent, hanging onto his every word.
“I felt devestated,” he says, and I see more tears in the audience, “That I wasted my time with her. I was always drunk and never thought that things could work between us. I thought she was going to die in that arena before I ever got to be with her.”
“And now?” Caesar asked, literally sitting on the edge of his seat.
Haymitch paused, turning in his seat to briefly look at me. The look in his eyes was asking if we’re on the same page. I gave him a gentle smile, though I was still unsure how I felt about everything. What now? Will the Capitol let us return home? Or will they continue trying to kill me even now that I’m out of the arena? Will Haymitch stay sober? Or will the rest of my life mean trying to keep him from choking on his vomit?
He turns back to Caesar, saying, “Now I don’t ever want to let her go again.”
Lots of “awwww”s come from the audience. A moment later, I am being called onto the stage. Haymitch leaves his seat to sit on the mentor’s designated seat on the edge of the stage. I take the seat directly across from Caesar.
The cheering goes on for several minutes, and I am forced to endure it with a smile as if I am truly happy to be here.
When the cheering quiets, Caesar takes a moment to congratulate me for my victory.
“You were truly outstanding in the arena,” he says, “It was against all odds that we would have another Victor from District 12 of all places so soon, and you defied those odds.” He leans in closely, then turns to the crowd and shouts, “Isn’t she great folks?”
More applause erupts and I have to fake a smile again and act like he is truly complimenting me.
“Now tell me,” he says after the applause quiets down, “how do you feel now that you are out of the arena?”
I glance at Haymitch, and just from the look in his eyes I can tell that this is a question I should not answer honestly. Saying how terrified I still am, how frustrated I am that all of those children died, how I still haven’t processed Ash’s death seems like the wrong thing to say, so instead I say:
“Good.”
“Just good?” Caesar repeats, urging me to say more.
I nod, realizing that the Games didn’t end when I left the arena. Every move I make is being watched, and the wrong one might lead to terrible consequences.
I smile, bashfully, “Well, I’m not covered in beetle bites anymore, and my leg is functional again.”
I lift the hem of my dress to show the audience my calf, now completely healed like it was never wounded to begin with. They gasp and cheer. I glance to Haymitch and he gives me an approving nod.
“Ahhh, I love it!” Caesar exclaims, beaming at the audience, “The Capitol is so generous, aren’t they folks?”
The audience cheers again. When they stop, the highlights begin showing on the screen. I learn a lot about the Games that I hadn’t known before.
Four tributes died in the corn maze in the first two days. The mutt bugs, getting cut on the razor sharp cornstalks and not having any way to patch it up, one girl even got chased by the boy from 3 until he realized how dangerous the maze was. The two from District 1 were responsible for most of the other deaths, of course. They were ruthless.
I sat there, reacting live to all of the major moments. I cheered when Ash killed the boy from 2. The audience was loving it. I had to watch myself get sprayed by the lizard and then get the knife in my calf by the District 3 boy. The replay made it seem like we were rivals hunting each other down for most of the Games.
They showed the part when Ash and I discovered each other in the cave. My heart tugged and I had to force myself to not cry on stage. Ash. They highlighted the sweet moments in our alliance, like when he let me rest and he went to gather food, and when we shared our meals together.
The part that really got everyone worked up was on our last night as allies when Ash was asking me about Haymitch. The room went completely silent. They had already seen this, of course, but they were still hanging on to every word.
When I watched myself say, “He just always meant the world to me,” my face got hot. I could feel myself blushing and I hoped that it wasn’t overly noticeable, but by the sniffling in the audience I assumed that it was.
I glanced over to Haymitch, gauging his reaction, but he was staring at the screen like everybody else— hanging on to every word.
When it showed me entering the corn field, I could feel a wave of nausea hit me. I thought I was going to die in that corn field. I also knew that the finale was coming soon. I breathed deeply, forcing myself to relax.
I watched as I cut myself on the cornstalks, and realized that I was trapped. When Haymitch’s sponsor gift reached me, I didn’t realize how hopeful I looked. I looked over at Haymitch on the edge of the stage, and he was looking at his feet.
The bugs. I had to close my eyes at the bugs. The audience gasped, as if they were reliving the horrors with me. I looked to Haymitch, who’s eyes were locked on mine. We both stared at each other until the part came where I escaped the maze.
We see Ash waiting in the edge of the woods when I exited the maze. We see the boy from District 3, I now know that his name was Herman, taunting me before nearly killing me. Ash leaves the woods to save me, and Herman takes the axe to the back.
Ash is about to run when the girl from District 1 shows up. I look away. I can’t watch this any more. I look over to Haymitch for comfort, and he shakes his head, standing. What is he doing?
He starts to walk over to me on stage, and takes a seat next to me on my chair. He gives me a long hug and I am so absorbed in him that it takes a second to realize that the audience is going nuts. Cheers erupt everywhere, tears are falling, the applause is deafening. My head is tucked into his neck and mg own tears are falling, and I can’t stop them.
When Caesar says comically, “Are we interrupting something?” I am forced to laugh away my tears and pull back.
Haymitch stays next to me, holding tightly onto my hand until after I sing The Old Therebefore and am taken onto the hovercraft. He squeezes my hand, silently asking if it’s okay for him to return to his assigned seat for the rest of the interview. I nod, but am hesitant to let go of his hand.
Immediately after the interview I am whisked away to the crowning ceremony. Effie pulls me into a fancy car with tinted windows, and we drive through crowded streets of crazed Capitol civilians to the President’s Mansion. After the crowning ceremony, there is a party held at the mansion in my honor.
Haymitch meets us outside the mansion and refuses to leave my side until the last possible moment. He only lets go of my hand for the crowning ceremony. We stand on a balcony, me on one side and Haymitch and Effie opposite, and thousands of Capitol citizens are below, cheering. President Snow comes out and for a split second I think think that he gives Haymitch a look of disgust, but it is quickly replaced by a charming smile as he greets me, he shakes my hand, congratulating me on my victory.
“I would like to meet with you later,” he says quietly just before he places the crown on my head.
I am stricken with terror, but I know better than to let it show now.
After the ceremony, we are brought inside to a fancy room to wait. The walls are trimmed in with gold, the ceilings painted with imagery that seems familiar but I don’t quite recognize. There is more food than I could imagine spread across tables for us. I am far too nervous to eat. Effie, Haymitch and I sit in various velvet chairs around the room.
Effie announces the itinerary, and then we all fall silent. The silence is only broken when Haymitch says, “Effie, do you mind if we have a minute?”
She smiles excitedly, standing from her seat, “Of course! Where are my manners? I will be outside, but remember, we must go downstairs to the party in ten minutes!”
She exits the room quickly, shutting the door behind her. Now it’s just us. I don’t know what to say or do. Haymitch stands from his chair and walks over to me. I expect him to embrace me, or maybe hold my hand like he did earlier, but instead he grabs my shoulders tightly.
“Listen,” he says in a hushed voice, yet incredibly serious, “Before we go down, you have to know.”
“What?” I ask.
“You weren’t supposed to win,” he says hastily, “The Gamemakers were planning for you to get killed by the maze but you survived. Then by the girl from District 1. They didn’t think you’d be able to pull it off. Snow isn’t happy. He—“
“Haymitch, slow down,” I say, panic rising in my chest.
“No!” He says urgently, “You need to listen.”
I am silent, waiting for him to continue.
He waits for a moment, choosing his words carefully, “That moment in the cave— when you were talking about me— that changed everything.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“People talk in the Capitol. A lot. It had already gotten around that I’d stopped drinking when you went into the arena, and when they found out how much you cared about me…” he trailed off, taking a step back and running his hands down his face, “They started rooting for you. Everyone wanted to sponsor you.”
I shake my head, not understanding what he’s trying to say. “Snow wants to meet with me.”
Haymitch pauses, opening his mouth but no words come out.
“Haymitch?” I ask, but I’m afraid I already know what that means.
He kneels in front of me, taking my hands in his, “I’ll find a way out of this, okay? I won’t let him take you from me.”
I nod, solemnly, squeezing his hands in mine. I lean down, pressing my forehead to his. He’s broken out in a sweat.
“Let’s just wait and see what he has to say.” I say.
The party is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It takes place in the backyard on the President’s Mansion, and everyone is dressed in even more ridiculous clothing than they normally are. One woman has a shirt that is made out of beads that look like bugs. Glad my terror has made a new fashion trend.
There are people standing on high platforms doing tricks, people swimming in a gigantic pool with live fish swimming beside them, and even real caged birds as centerpieces. The entire thing is appalling. These people have no concern for anything other than themselves.
Haymitch and I stick closely together. He leads me to thank my sponsors, it’s customary, whom are mostly older men with a sickening look in their eyes. They look at me like I’m a piece of meat. Haymitch keeps his arm around my waist until we sit down to eat.
There are large tables lining the yard, with more than enough food to feed my district for at least a year. Everyone sits down and President Snow makes a toast. It’s some scripted nonsense about how the Capitol’s generosity has allowed me to break free from the suffering that happens in 12, and how only becoming a Victor can provide such a freedom. Everyone applauds like he just granted us national peace.
I’m seated next to Effie, and some wealthy business owner from the Capitol. Everyone chatters about what a lovely time of year it is, and how President Snow is so generous to throw such a grand party. Just as I finish a large plate of green vegetables and some sort of gourmet aquatic creature from District 4, a Capitol servant taps my shoulder.
I turn, and the servant holds out a card for me. I take it, and read it. It is a thick piece of card stock, with gold along the edges. Probably real gold. In cursive writing on the front, it reads:
See me in the study- President Coriolanus Snow
My food begins rising up my throat, and I search the table for Haymitch. He is nowhere in sight.
“Everything okay, dear?” Effie asks from beside me.
I nod, “I’ll be right back,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice steady.
I follow the servant out of the yard and into the mansion. We walk through extravagant rooms filled with artwork and servants. Eventually, we climb the stairs and reach a large room covered in a dark brown wood, and filled with books. All of the noise from the party below feels miles away from up here. The servant stops at the door, but gestures for me to enter. I do. What other choice do I have?
President Snow sits behind a large wooden desk, with nothing but a vase of white roses in front of him. I walk toward him, trying to keep my limbs from noticeably trembling. He gestures for me to take a seat at the wooden chair across from him, and I do.
I smile, trying to be as polite as I can. If I make the wrong move, he will certainly kill me.
“Enjoying the party?” He asks, raising his chin to show his pride in the extravagant party that he has thrown.
“It is lovely,” I say, nodding, “The food was incredible.”
“Ah, yes,” he says, “We have the best chefs in all of Panem here. It is truly a dining experience like no other.”
I nod again, “Certainly.”
He leans forward on the desk, folding his hands into each other. “You must be wondering why I wanted to meet with you.”
“Yes sir,” I say, “I am.”
He smiles, “I simply was curious, my dear. There has been so much talk of you in the Capitol, yet I know so little about you.”
I take a deep breath, feeling the need to steady myself, “What would you like to know?”
He starts speaking before I finish asking the question, “That charming song you sang for the boy in the arena. Where did you learn it?”
My mind flashes back to Ash’s death.
“We sing it in District 12,” I say, “For funerals. It’s our way of saying goodbye to our loved ones.”
He nods, smiling as if the subject is fascinating, “And do you know where that song comes from?”
I think for a moment, before shaking my head, “I don’t know sir. We’ve been singing it at funerals since I was a little girl.”
“Ah,” is all he says, readjusting in his seat so he is leaning back comfortably.
“Are you going to kill me?” I ask, before I can stop myself.
He looks surprised, but his face quickly shifts back to a smile and he says calmly, “Is there a reason that you think I should kill you?”
I shake my head, “No sir.”
“Then I will not,” he says, plucking a white rose from the vase on the table. “You really are a fascinating girl.”
“I am?” I ask, feeling equally repulsed and intrigued.
“Yes,” he says, pulling a petal from the rose as he turns it in his hands, “A girl from District 12, winning our Annual Hunger Games.”
I nod, waiting for him to continue.
“Did you know that you are the first female to ever become a Victor from District 12?” He asks, eyes scanning my face.
“I didn’t know that,” I say, trying to recall the previous District 12 Victors. I can’t. Just Haymitch. “What an accomplishment,” I say carefully.
“An accomplishment indeed,” he nods, pulling another petal from the rose.
“And your mentor,” he begins, setting the rose down and looking directly at me, “I heard a rumor that he stopped drinking alcohol… to protect you…” he pauses for a moment, smiling, “How… remarkable.”
I force a smile, trying to look surprised. “I know,” I say, “I couldn’t believe it.”
He nods, leaning forward again so that I could practically smell his breath, “Tell me, do you think the Capitol is beneficial for the Districts?”
No. Of course not. No one in the Districts thinks that.
“Of course,” I say, lying through my teeth, “We wouldn’t have order if it weren’t for the Capitol.”
He nods, staring at me for a moment before saying, “Some don’t believe that.”
“Really?” I ask, waiting for him to say more.
He nods, picking up the white rose again. “Some like Haymitch Abernathy.”
My chest gets tight and the blood drains from my face. “Haymitch?” I ask, and my voice shakes more than I’d like for it to.
“Hm.” He says, still twirling the rose in his hands, “Yes, your alleged lover. My dear, I want to make a deal with you.”
I say nothing, afraid that my voice will betray me again.
He continues, “I don’t want to kill you. I don’t want to kill the boy either. But people who are threats to the Capitol can not be trusted.”
I nod, heart racing in my chest.
“I will allow you both to live, get married, have children, whatever you may wish,” he says. “But, you have to promise me something.”
“Anything,” I say, but immediately regret it.
“You must control him,” he says, voice suddenly less charming, “If I hear about Haymitch Abernathy rebelling against the Capitol again, I will kill you. And anyone else that the two of you may love.”
I stay silent, even more terrified in this moment than I was in the entirety of the games.
“Haymitch Abernathy does not have the power to overthrow the Capitol, does he, my dearest?” Snow asks.
The name makes my stomach churn, but I shake my head. “No, he doesn’t.”
“Do we have an understanding?” He asks, holding the white rose out to me.
I take it, breathing deeply, unable to think it through before I say, “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” he says, sitting back in his chair again, “Go back and enjoy your party.”
“Thank you,” I say, rising from my seat.
“Ah,” he says just before I turn to walk out, “Be sure to thank your surgeon. He did a remarkable job, don’t you think?”
I nod, not trusting my voice. My suspicions were confirmed. They did straighten my nose and enhance my lips after the Games. The worst part is, that I don’t entirely hate it. I just hate that they didn’t give me a choice. They did what they wanted to make me more desirable and the picture of envy for people in the Capitol.
When I get outside of the door of the study, I take a deep breath, blinking tears away. I realize that as horrible as that was, I feel slightly relieved. I’m not going to die. Haymitch isn’t going to die. President Snow will allow us to live long lives as long as we follow Capitol orders. That shouldn’t be too hard.
Or will it? Will we be able to live our entire lives watching innocent children be sent to slaughter, or will we eventually feel the need to act? Even if we wanted to, we would end up dead.
I breathed again. I just needed to get through the night. Once I was back in 12, then I will have all the time in the world to think.
I walk back down the stairs, breathing deeply and plastering on a smile to rejoin the party. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, Haymitch is waiting for me. He smiles at me, but I can tell that he knows something has happened. He gives me a kiss on the cheek that makes several women around us squeal and applaud.
He takes my waist and we rejoin the festivities. We dance, we chat with strange looking people, we eat. It’s not until after my ‘surgeon’ approaches us and compliments his own good work that we sneak off to find somewhere more private.
Surrounding the yard is a large wall of bushes. We manage to find a gap in one of them and conceal ourselves behind some thick branches when no one is looking. As soon as we get into privacy, Haymitch lets go of my waist and stands across from me, eyes panicked.
“What did he say?” He asks, now grabbing my hands tightly.
I breath out, unsure of how he will react. “He wanted to make a deal.”
Haymitch’s face turns to one of fear.
“He said that you and I are free. To live long lives together,” I leave out the part about marriage and children, “As long as we never interfere with the Capitol again.”
His face relaxes slightly, but not all of the way.
“We will talk about it when we get back to 12, okay?” I ask, taking a step closer and squeezing his hands in mine.
He nods, hanging his head. “I’m so sorry,” he says.
“We’re going to be okay.” I say, leaning into him, my face pressed into his neck.
He wraps his arms around my waist, drawing me closer, “I can’t believe they operated on you.”
I wrapped my arms around his neck, nodding, “I know. I feel so violated. But at least it’s hardly noticeable. I could’ve come out all swollen like that girl on my prep team,” I say.
He laughs, and pulls me tight against him, silent for a moment before he speaks, “I can’t believe you’re back.”
I nod, running my hands through the back of his hair, “I can’t wait to get home.”
“Then what?” He asks, pulling away and looking at me in the eyes. He’s getting closer and my face is getting hot.
“What do you mean?” I ask, looking behind his face at the bush branches. Our faces are so close and I feel so hot and—
A flash goes off, breaking the moment. At the small break in the bushes is a photographer, beaming at us.
“Can we get one more like that? You two are gold,” he says eagerly.
“I don’t think so,” Haymitch says, grabbing my hand and tugging me back into the party. My face is hot for the rest of the night.
The train ride back to District 12 is quiet. Effie is there to go over what’s next. The Victory tour, my mentoring next year, and the occasional interview that I will have in the next few months. The press has become so enthralled in my life (particularly the part including Haymitch— I guess it’s a big deal that two Victor’s might be getting together) and they’ve requested follow up interviews from when I return home.
That night is the first conscious sleep I have since being in the arena. I wake up three times from nightmares. Ash dying, the beetles crawling all over me, the boy from District 3. Eventually, I decide to not try to go back to sleep.
I wander the train, and find myself at Haymitch’s door. I knock once, and he’s at the door with a knife in his hand. He says he can’t sleep without it since being in the Games. I realize that I want to learn absolutely everything about the new Haymitch.
We lay in his bed together and he holds me, telling me happy stories— some about his mother, some about when we were young together— until I fall asleep. I don’t have any more nightmares that night.
The next morning when we exit his room together, Effie has to wipe her eyes several times.
Adjusting to life back in District 12 is weird. My parents stay with me in my new house in Victor’s Village sometimes, but they have their business to run. I have enough money now to support us all forever, but they’d rather continue helping people in whatever way they can. I admire them.
Burdock and Astrid come over often, but Haymitch still is afraid to see them. I stay at his house frequently. We have found that sleeping in the same bed helps to fight off the nightmares.
One night when neither of us can sleep, he tells me all about his Games, and everything he lost afterwards. My heart breaks for him. He deserved so much better.
“It’s better now,” he tells me.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“Yeah. Now that I have you,” he says.
I lean in and kiss him for the first time that night. No Capitol party, no cameras, just us.
Neither of us have to work now, so we spend a lot of time in the meadow just beyond District 12, imagining what life could be like if things were different. We spend hours laying in the dandelions. They give us hope. That one day things will grow to be beautiful.
We’re laying in the meadow when the sun sets one night. The sky is the beautiful shade of orange that it turns right before the sun gets too low. I turn to Haymitch, admiring how the orange glow sets on his features.
Without thinking twice, I whisper, “I love you.”
He turns to me, smiling wide. He looks even more beautiful with a smile. He tackles me, pressing kisses all over my face.
“I love you like all-fire,” he says.
When the interviewers come, Haymitch is by my side. When the Victory Tour comes around, the nightmares come back. It’s normal for us to sleep in his room every night on the train now.
One night, we were laying awake and I asked him, “Do you ever think about if things were different?”
“What do you mean?” He asked, his thumb stroking my cheek affectionately.
“Like, if we were to just say screw it and try to rebel against the Capitol? Would things be better?” I ask, yawning.
He scoots closer to me, kissing me softly on the lips, “One day, sweetheart. Until then, I’m keeping you safe right here with me.”
It turns out we aren’t great at the mentor thing. I am there for him when he struggles to get through the Games sober. I get sponsors for our tributes when he is too distraught. We’re there for each other when the tributes don’t make it home.
For the rest of the year, there are some days we spend hours in each other’s homes. On the fifteenth consecutive day that we’ve spent in his house together, we’re sitting at the dining room table and reading when he says, “Why don’t you just move in?”
“Move in?” I ask, a blush raising to my face.
He shrugs, taking a sip of water, “You practically live here already.”
“Hmm,” I say, nodding, “I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know?” He says, laughing. He stands, coming around the table to kiss me. And kiss me. And kiss me.
I break away, shaking my head, “Nobody in 12 moves in together until they’re married.”
He kisses me again, smiling.
A month later he gets down on one knee.
The details of our wedding are broadcast throughout all of Panem, but we don’t care. This isn’t for their entertainment. The tradition in District 12 is that you’re not truly married until you toast with bread in your new home, so once all of the cameras leave, we toast with bread and pronounce our love to each other. That night, I find myself underneath him for the first time.
Effie writes us letters, congratulating us on our marriage and saying she is so thrilled that we’ve found happiness.
We talk about children, but both of us know that we can never bring a child into this world.
When the mine explosion happens, Haymitch is sent into a terrible spiral for months. He doesn’t attend Burdock’s funeral. I do. I tell his little girls that they are going to be okay. The oldest looks just like him.
Haymitch starts drinking again, and is afraid to even be around me for weeks. He believes that Snow orchestrated the explosion, and I don’t know if I disagree.
One day months later, I come home from buying bread in the square, and Haymitch is sitting at the dining room table. He cries, apologizing over and over again to me. For pushing me away again, for losing control of his drinking, for everything. He swears he won’t let it get that bad again. We spend the evening holding hands and crying together.
We spend more time in the meadow again after that. It helps take his mind off of the horrors that he’s experienced. He helps me take my mind off of my own.
It’s early one morning when we decide to escape for the day, having a picnic while the sun comes up. He kisses me, again and again, until I’m breathless beneath him.
“I love you like all-fire,” I whisper to him while he makes love to me.
He groans into my neck, pressing gentle kisses everywhere, “I love you like all-fire,” he repeats.
We lay there all day, gasping each others names and desperately announcing our love.
When Burdock’s daughter’s name gets drawn at the Reaping, I nearly faint on stage. Haymitch keeps me stable. The older daughter volunteers. For the next few days I am terrified that we’ve done something to upset Snow. That this is him showing us that he will always control us. But, she wins. And she’s defied the Capitol.
Three years later, the Capitol has fallen. We are finally free. We don’t move out of our home in District 12, but now we have neighbors. Watching Katniss and Peeta fall in love reminds us of ourselves years ago.
We have a son now. I found out that I was pregnant with him right after we moved into District 13. He was born shortly after we got back home to District 12 with the help of Astrid.
His name is Ash. He is the light of our lives.
Late at night, we look back and reflect on everything we’ve gone through to get here, and I couldn’t be more proud of how far we’ve come.
content warnings/contains: slight spoilers for sotr, angst, fluff, ptsd (from the games), Capitol pigs being disgusting, graphic talks of death, suicide and violence, swearing, classic hunger games stuff, mentions of forced prostitution, canon divergence, not everything i write makes sense, use of y/n, maybe ooc Haymitch (?) - i fear i'm not very good at portraying a character's personality accurately, reader is supposed to be 18 in this and Haymitch around 21, reader is the winner of the 55th games, let's pretend Haymitch's drinking problem wasn't as bad yet during that time
a/n: second story, whoo :) and i'm actually quite proud of this. I'm currently reading sunrise on the reaping and i'm just beginning to love haymitch even more than I already did before (and i got fully thrown back into my thg phase), so i just had to write for him. and i fell hopelessly in love with joseph zada, so here we go. hope you enjoy :)
playlist: burn alive - the last dinner party / bishops knife trick - fall out boy / we'll be young forever - denmark + winter / home - good neighbour / softcore - the neighbourhood
link to masterlist
God, how you abhorred Capitol parties.
On one side, it felt like you’d already attended a thousand or more of these gatherings. On the other hand, it sometimes felt like one big party without a break. Because honestly? Each and every single last one of these idiotic festivities was the same as the others. Stupidly large amounts of sizzling food and especially alcohol, consumed by the oh so great and elegant people of the Capitol. Mindless chatter about the newest fashion trends, everyone thinking their extraordinary dress was the most eye-catching. Absolutely unnecessary discussions, in your opinion. They were all hideous anyway. And of course, the gawking at the most recent victor of the Hunger Games.
You wanted to drive a spear through all of their obnoxiously decorated heads.
Obviously, at a classic Capitol party, a handful of victors couldn’t be missing. The Capitol favourites. The ones that those pigs in their bright suits and dresses loved to drool over, about how strong and intimidating they were, staring at them and touching them like they were caged animals in a petting zoo.
And this year, you had the honour of being the special guest at every party. You were the main event, the newest and most exciting addition to the zoo At least until a new victor would take your place in a year, only lessening your suffering in the slightest. The people you had met before your games – the one’s who had told you that winning the games was a curse rather than a blessing – they had been right. Oh, how right they had been. That exact thought ran through your head as you walked towards the double-doors that would lead you to yet another horrible evening of feeling like an exposed object, exhibited for everyone to observe and touch. Because in their minds, that’s exactly what you were. Through their eyes, they didn’t see a person – a human being – when they looked at you. No, they gazed upon you as if you were a precious diamond necklace or a golden ring, something they could possess. Something they could own.
Your arm was linked with your mentor’s, bare skin brushing against the soft fabric of his suit-jacket. The dark grey dress your stylist had forced you to wear was tight, scratchy and rubbing the skin beneath it raw. And they said everything in the Capitol was supposed to be comfortable and luxurious. As if. You would’ve scoffed at the thought, if you’d had the energy. The countless pins holding your hair together in a ridiculous updo stung and pulled at your scalp, making you want to rip your entire hair out in one go. And those damn shoes – the height of the heels bordering on stilts, if anyone were to ask you – it would prove to be a miracle if you’d able to walk in them without the support of the arm currently linked with yours. But the worst part had to be the corset, the fabric adorned with an incredible amount of cheesy embroidery that was supposed to represent your district. Your stylist had decided to bind the thing so tight, that after spending less than fifteen minutes in it, you already felt nauseous. It was putting entirely too much pressure on both your stomach and your lungs, making it difficult to breathe.
They way your breathing grew shallow, your lungs trying to preserve as much air as possible, did not go unnoticed by the taller figure next to you. Just before you both reached the double-doors, separating you from the misery looming behind them, he stopped. He untangled his arm from yours, turning you to face him with a gentle yet firm grip on your upper arms, just below your shoulders. You were so focused on trying to breathe normally and calm your racing heart that you barely noticed how his pale blue eyes roamed over your face and body, observing every inch as if it would grant him with all the answers to the reason of your distress.
When he felt your breathing become more erratic, your chest rising and falling in short and fast intervals, his eyes snapped back up to your face. He took in the distant look in your eyes, the way your stare seemed to go straight through him, as if your pupils were clouded over by a thick fog. When he realized you weren’t going to snap out of whatever prison your mind had locked you in anytime soon, he let one of his hands wander from your bicep to the side your neck, gently resting it there as his thumb softly ran over your jawline to try and ease you back to reality.
“Y/N…” he paused. “Hey, look at me.” You didn’t budge, so he tried again, his grip on you tightening, trying to ground you. “Sweetheart, look at me.” He tried again, voice soft, deep and laced with a slightly pleading tone.
Your eyes seemed to flicker as you registered his voice, lashes fluttering rapidly before your gaze finally settled on him, eyes meeting his. He let a small breath of relief leave his chest, one corner of his mouth twitching up the slightest bit. “There she is.” He whispered, more to himself than you. One of your hands – which was previously hanging limp by your side – came up, your fingers curling around the wrist of the hand that still rested on the side of your neck. “The corset.” You muttered, voice coming out raspy and quiet due to the lack of oxygen in your system.
“It’s too tight, Haymitch.”
His eyes dropped to your midsection, only now seeing how impossibly tight the corset wrapped around your upper body, cutting off your airflow. His hands detached themselves from your neck and arm, falling to your waist instead, slowly turning you around so your back faced him. He took a hold of the laces tying your corset together, beginning to untangle the bow. While his fingers worked on the strings, his voice met your ears once more. “I’ll loosen it up, okay? Just hold still for me, sweetheart.” He said in a low tone. You only gave him a nod as a response, a small shiver running down your spine from feelings his knuckles graze your lower back and his breath hitting the back of your neck.
After a few moments, he had untied the bow at the lower end of the corset. Haymitch then began to pull at the laces, loosening each of them as he worked his way up until he stopped at the top end of it, just between your shoulder blades. “Better?” he questioned as he leaned down so his face hovered slightly beside yours, searching for any sign of discomfort in your facial expressions. Your eyes flickered to the side, just able to see him in your peripheral vision. You nodded once.
Haymitch then proceeded to tie the loose laces of the corset back up, securing it in place, this time leaving enough space for you to breathe. He tapped the side of your hip once when he was finished and you turned around to face him again. “Thank you.”
The silence that followed lingered between the two of you. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Quite the opposite, actually. Just two broken souls finding a moment solace in each other before the inevitable downfall that was to come when they stepped through the grand double-doors to their side. You kept your eyes locked onto each other’s, taking each other in.
Ever since you had been reaped and he assigned as your mentor for the games, there was an unspoken and unaddressed connection between you and Haymitch. A tension that slowly grew stronger as time progressed. But it wasn’t the electrifying and wanting feeling that you had read about in a novel once or twice before. It felt calmer, deeper and stronger. More like a warm blanket that wrapped itself around you, sheltering you from the cold und the numbness that threatened to seep into your bones.
You had first met Haymitch on the train to the Capitol. You had reluctantly stepped into the wagon just behind Jason, your district partner – flanked by a handful of peacekeepers. It was then your eyes landed on his rather lanky but lean form, slumped one of the velvet cushioned seats, a half-empty glass of some alcoholic beverage dangling from his fingers. Effie Trinket – the escort for district 12 – had pointed to him with one of her hands, long nails painted a bright pink and sparkling.
Effie had let out a high-pitched yet sorrowful sigh as she gestured to Haymitch in the chair, the corners of her lipstick-stained lips downturned just the slightest. “This is Haymitch Abernathy. He will be your mentor for the games. He will give you advice on how to survive in the arena and how to get sponsors.” She had started explaining in her high voice as she waltzed over to him, her heels clicking on the floor of the moving train. When she reached him, she wrapped her long fingers around the glass that was still tightly clutched in his grip, taking it and setting it on the table before him. This seemed to rouse him as he lifted his head, blinking heavily.
“Your tributes, Haymitch. Don’t let them down.” Effie had murmured to him, squeezing his shoulder before straightening her back again and making her way to the exit of the wagon that led to the next. She turned back to face you and Jason, giving you a smile.
“May the odds ever be in your favour.”
Then she left, leaving you two alone with Haymitch.
Jason had been furious at first, already angrily muttering about how you both were going to die within the first hour if this was how Haymitch was going to act. All the while, the latter had been shaking his head back and forth, trying to gain back full consciousness, blond curls falling over his face. You had to admit, you were worried first as well. But somehow, you couldn’t bring yourself to be angry at him for hanging onto the bottle of whiskey like it was his lifeline. You had seen his games. Snippets of it, anyway. Had seen how Maysilee, Wyatt and Lou Lou had died. And others he had seemed to be close to. You also hadn’t been oblivious to the fire that had burned down his house, his family with it. No doubt a warning from president Snow himself.
He had helped you and Jason as much as he could. Told you all the ways you could woo the Capitol and the gamemakers to be in your favour. All things he didn’t do back then, earning him a total of one point in his individual assessment with the gamemakers. He never made any of you two any hopes. Said that the chances of your survival could be sky-high and lower than the earth all the same.
You had been lucky enough to earn an eight in your assessment, impressing them just enough with your skills with an axe. When they started to drift off, their attention wandering, you had smashed the axe right into one of the metal tables displaying various knives. The sound of the impact had echoed throughout the whole room and their eyes had snapped straight back to you. You had let the axe stuck in the table and bowed your head once before wordlessly leaving the room.
All of those memories that ran through your head all day long – paired with the horrors of the arena – seemed to wash away when Haymitch looked at you like he did now. With a soft and gentle understanding. With this intensity that suffocated you in the best way possible. At this point, he was the only one that treated you like a human being. And you ate it up like you were starved, which honestly, you were.
After what could’ve been mere seconds, minutes or even hours, Haymitch let out a small breath. “Let’s get this over with, shall we? The president wouldn’t appreciate us being too late.” His tone clearly expressed that he couldn’t care less about being late. Or about displeasing the president. But unfortunately, it would only lead to punishments neither of you would be pleased about. So wordlessly, you linked your arm back with his and with that, you made your way through the double-doors.
The sight you were met with wasn’t anything you weren’t used to by now, but it overwhelmed you each time nonetheless. The countless colours were entirely too bright the endless smells of various foods and drinks paired with too many strongly-scented perfumes making your nose itch and your head ache. And of course, the eyes that immediately landed on you as soon as the doors opened. The stares were something you were never going to get used to. You wished the carpeted floor beneath your feet would swallow you whole and never spit you out again. Almost anything was better than having their greedy and wanting eyes on you.
Haymitch led you over to one of the long tables that served drinks, knowing you could need one as well. The short journey to that table took way longer than necessary, having to stop every few steps to smile brightly at yet another Capitol inhabitant and tell them how honoured you were to be here. How grateful you were to have returned victorious from the games, as if you wouldn’t have rather died a gruesome death by some mutts than stand here and let them run their hands over your arms as they told you how absolutely marvellous you were.
When you finally stopped in front of the mahogany table, covered in a pristine white clothe, Haymitch grabbed one of the many glasses and took a big swig. In the process, he reached over and handed you one of the glasses as well. Just like him, you let the alcoholic – yet still way too sweet – beverage run down your throat, the burning sensation feeling oddly pleasant in this situation.
Before you knew it, you were being whisked away by various journalists, aspiring stylists and other political figures in the Capitol. They treated you like a sensation, a spectacle they could feed off of.
The journalists asked you about the most horrific happenings in the arena. The one’s still stuck in your head. The one’s you still saw each time you closed your eyes. Like seeing your district partner, Jason, get killed during the bloodbath after barely making it out yourself.
As soon as the gong sounded to announce the beginning of the games, everyone bolted. Straight for the Cornucopia. You remembered Haymitch telling both you and Jason it was basically suicide. That a lot of tributes never made it out of the bloodbath that occurred at each start of the games.
So, you didn’t. You sprinted forward with the intent on grabbing one of the backpacks strewn a bit farther around the Cornucopia before running to the forest on your left side. That plan was interrupted, however, when you barely managed to dodge the blade of a sword that was swung at you, sending you stumbling and landing on the damp and muddy ground with a thud.
You rolled to the side just in time as the same sword came down upon you once more, lodging itself in the ground where you had been mere seconds ago. You were breathing heavily, the adrenaline pumping through your veins like electricity through a wire. While the tribute that had attacked you – the girl from 5 – was occupied with pulling her sword out of the ground, you were trying to pull yourself to your feet again. That was when a hand appeared in front of your eyes, outstretched in a silent offer to help. You had looked up and sighed in relief when you saw Jason, a backpack slung over his shoulder and already covered in grime. You placed your hand in his, letting him pull you up into a standing position.
You were just about to thank him as you heard a wet sound that sounded scarily like something sharp lodging itself into flesh. You stared at Jason in shock, seeing how the life slipped from his body in seconds. He dropped to the ground in a heap, dead. Behind him stood the girl from 5, bloody sword clutched tightly in her hand. It seemed she had also just realized what she’d done, staring at the glistening red liquid on her blade in horror.
Her stunned form gave you enough time to escape. You ran away from them as fast as you could, ignoring the screams of the other tributes around you. When you caught sight of another backpack that hadn’t been claimed yet, you bent down just enough to lift it up mid-run, swinging it over one of your shoulders and taking off towards the forest.
The sight of the light leaving his eyes would forever haunt you. You saw it every night in your nightmares, the ones in which he reminded you that it was your fault. That you should’ve seen the girl approaching him before she could stab him.
They also loved to ask you about your first kill. The very same girl from 5 that had murdered Jason.
You had stumbled upon her by pure coincidence. You were crouching by the river bank that ran through the arena, letting the water run over your hands and dragging them over your face, trying to calm your racing thoughts and heart. It had been almost seven days in the arena. 7 fucking days in this hell.
16 tributes had already fallen, leaving 8 remaining. It would only be a matter of time now until that number would drop and drop until only the victor would be left. And you were still convinced it wouldn’t be you. You closed your eyes, taking in a deep yet shaky breath, willing to calm yourself down. Your thoughts strayed to Haymitch then. How he had tightly gripped your shoulders, staring deep into your eyes as he told you to fight. To fight and survive for your family, for yourself. And for him.
That’s when you heard the scrunch of boots meeting gravel, coming closer and closer. You had whipped around, on your feet in seconds and knife clutched tightly in your hands, prepared to strike if you had to. Though you didn’t know if you could bring yourself to. You hadn’t killed anyone yet – and you weren’t sure if you’d be able to.
Your eyes met those of the district 5 girl, Ronya, if you remembered her name correctly. Her eyes widened upon seeing you, remembering you from the bloodbath. Remembering that she had been the one to murder your district partner in cold blood. For what seemed like an eternity, you two simply stared at each other. Then, she bolted. But not to attack you like you’d expected. She ran away from you, as if you’d kill her if she didn’t – as revenge for Jason.
You could’ve let her run. You could have just continued on without getting blood on your hands. But this time, you didn't. Without thinking, you took off after her, sprinting as if your life depended on it. Or well, hers.
It didn’t take you long to catch up with her, grabbing the back of her jacket and pulling her back. It sent her tumbling to the ground immediately. You went right after her, setting your body atop hers, digging your knees into the forest-ground on each side of her body. You were just about to move your knife to her throat when you felt pain explode in your thigh, spreading through your whole body. You looked down and saw a small dagger buried deep into the side of your upper leg, Ronya’s hands still holding onto the handle.
She took advantage of your frozen state, rolling you both over so she was hovering above you now. She ripped the knife out of your leg, a pained cry leaving you. She knocked your blade out of your hands, going to plunge hers into your chest. Your hands flew up to stop her, gripping her wrists and strenuously holding the knife at a safe distance from your body. You were both trembling, scared and desperate to survive. Using all of the strength you had left, you managed to push her off, her body slumping to the floor next to you.
Your hands blindly scrambled for your knife as you kept your eyes on her quickly recovering body. As you fingertips touched it, you leaned a bit farther, taking a hold of the blade and turning back to Ronya. She was almost back on her feet now. Before you could think about what you were doing, you lunged over and stuck the blade into her calf.
She cried out, stumbling and tumbling down once more. This time you didn’t let her overpower you. You pulled the knife out of her leg and pinned her to the floor again, like you had done when you first caught up with her. She started crying then, tears streaming down her face and leaving traces in the dirt that covered her face. She cried and begged, pleading with you not to do it. That she was sorry for what she did to Jason. After all, she wanted to survive just as badly as everyone else in here did.
You stared down at her with wide eyes, hands trembling around the tight grip you had on your knife, raised just above her chest. But in that moment, you only saw Jason’s dead body dropping to the floor and the girl now beneath you standing behind him, her sword soaked in his blood. And so you ignored her begging, bringing the knife down. Over and over again.
By the end you were sobbing as well, flinching when the cannon echoed through the arena, sealing her fate.
It had taken everything in you not to break down in sobs and cries during your victory tour in district 5. Seeing the girl’s family standing on one of the pedestals, looking at you with nothing but hatred and grief.
And oh, how those journalists thrived off the last hour of the games. Their questions were endless. How you felt, what it was like – wanting you to repeat what happened, as if they couldn’t watch it on recording.
Only three tributes left after eleven days. You, the boy from 1 and the girl from 4. So it came down to you, a lowlife tribute from district 12, against two careers. You reluctantly approached the Cornucopia, blood dripping down your arm where the mutt that had chased you here left its mark. Your thigh was still throbbing from the stab wound you’d gotten four days ago from the district 5 girl – though the bandages you’d gotten that night as a sponsor gift had helped immensely. With the bandages, there had come a small note. It would’ve been a lie if you said that damned note wasn’t the reason you were here now, not having let the mutt take you.
“Survive for me, sweetheart. – H”
The small slip of paper was still in the inner pocket of your jacket. Maybe it was pathetic, but it had kept you going for the past four days. After killing Ronya, you’d been just about ready to let hunger and thirst take you, ending it once and for all. But that note. That fucking note. Silent sobs had started escaping you when you read it, clutching it tightly in your fingers.
And now here you were, trudging the rest of the distance between you and the Cornucopia. You knew what the Capitol wanted now. They wanted the final fight. The final battle of a district 12 tribute against two careers, one from district 1 and one from 4. The axe you had found laying next to the dead body of the boy from 3 dangling from one of your hands.
The two careers had apparently seen you approach as they left the Cornucopia, heads held high and staring straight at you. Cora, the girl from district 2, with her trident thrown over her shoulder, regarding you with a murderous glint in her eye. And Locke, the boy from district 1, his sword clutched in his hands, grinning at you like a predator flashing its teeth at his prey.
They came running at you – both at the same time. Weapons raised, they sprinted straight towards you. Thankfully, Cora was a bit faster than Locke, leaving you with enough time to dodge both attacks. You sidestepped just in time, causing Cora to bury the tips of her trident in the ground. Right after, you raised your axe, blocking Locke’s sword from finding its target – you.
You stepped around them, rushing for the Cornucopia. You knew you had to get some kind of leverage, some kind of higher ground. Otherwise you had no chance in surviving this. They had trained their whole life just for this. You were basically thrown in at the deep end without knowing how to swim.
You scrambled, pulling yourself on top of the Cornucopia. Climbing was thankfully one of your strengths, having had enough practice climbing trees back in 12. You raised your axe, ready to attack should one of them make it up. They reached the bottom of the Cornucopia just seconds after you made it to the top. Locke immediately crouched and locked his hands together, helping Cora by launching her up onto the surface.
A mistake. While she was trying to regain balance and stand up straight on her feet, you attacked. Your axe wedged itself deep in her shoulder. Cora had stared at you with wide eyes, not expecting your sudden attack. You pulled the axe out and without further delay, let it lodge itself in her neck, separating her head from the rest of her body seamlessly.
You didn’t even look at her dead body. The adrenaline running through your veins was too strong, the will to survive overtaking your senses. Jumping down from the Cornucopia, you barely registered the pain the impact of your feet meeting the ground sent through your legs. You swung at Locke without hesitation, the blade of your axe stuck in his side. He let out a pained grunt, but he didn’t give up yet. His sword cut a clean gash across your hip, leading you to stumble the slightest bit.
You pulled the axe from his side and before he could think, you struck again, this time sinking the sharp edge of the axe straight into his chest. Like you did with Jason, you watched as the life drained out of Locke’s body before it crumpled to the ground like a sack filled with stones. Two more cannons fired. One for Cora, one for Locke.
And with that, you’d won the 55th hunger games. Standing in the middle of the arena, axe still clutched in your hands, entire body covered in blood, grime and dirt.
They loved to hear the story of how you killed the two careers. It was a miracle to them. A tribute from district 12 killing two careers. It seemed almost impossible to them. And yet, here you were.
By now, you were used to all of these questions however, to their greedy and insensitive curiosity. Their desire for anything slightly exciting. You answered them just like you always did. With a smile playing at your lips, always putting emphasis on how glad you were that you were the victor. That you were honoured and thriving in this role when in reality, you wanted to curl up into a ball on the floor and cry until there were no more tears left in your body. But you handled it, swallowed it all down – just like you were told to do.
That changed when you got strung into a conversation with a middle-aged couple, Capitol people no doubt, the matching rings on their fingers implying that they were married. The woman, hanging onto her husband’s arm, grinned at you in a way that made an uncomfortable shiver run down your spine. Like bugs crawling their way all over your skin. Her husband, a man of average height and on the thicker side, let his eyes rake over your entire body, an almost hungry look in his eyes.
The woman leaned over, as if to whisper in her husband’s ear, but she purposely spoke loudly enough for you to hear her words as well. “Isn’t she even prettier up close, my love? Such a precious girl our victor is this year.” She almost purred, her tone sultry as she looked you up and down. Her husband answered immediately, a short but loud laugh escaping him.
“Indeed she is. But she’d look even prettier in my bed.” He muttered, eyes not leaving you – who was now frozen in place. With his next words, he directly addressed you, rather than his wife. “Wouldn’t you, dollface? I’d pay a good fortune to get you beneath my sheets for a night, looked so pretty every time you cried in the arena. I can practically imagine how much better you’d look with tears of pleasure running down your face.” He drawled, his lips spreading into a wide and disgusting smile as he reached out, running his thumb across your cheekbone in what was probably supposed to be a gentle manner.
It made you want to recoil and put as much distance between you and the man as you could. You had heard of it before. Whispers among fellow victors. That president Snow picked the prettiest and most desirable one’s to sell to the people of the Capitol, forcing them into prostitution. They couldn’t refuse, the lives of their loved one’s one the line.
Until now, the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind that Snow could possibly see this kind of potential in you. But now, as this repulsive couple gawked at you with nothing but burning thirst and need in their eyes, their words still echoing in your head, it dawned on you that it wasn’t impossible. It made you nauseous, terrified. You could handle anything. Their questions, their stares, being treated like a puppet at these events. But having to give them your body and let them live out their sickest fantasies? You’d rather jump off the nearest building.
You took a step back, the man’s hand falling from your face, his smirk faltering a small bit. “I… excuse me, just one moment” you sputtered out through the panic rising in your chest. You turned on your heels, speed-walking off and as far away as you could from the couple. Unbeknownst to you, Haymitch had seen almost the entire interaction. He had searched the whole ballroom when he lost sight of you. Ultimately, his eyes landed on you just as the man put his hand on your face. Haymitch didn’t hear what he had said to you, but even from the distance, he could see the wanting look in the man’s eyes.
He had begun rushing over, rage clouding his mind. He wouldn’t let this happen to you. He refused. Anything but this. He wouldn’t let those Capitol pigs put their filthy hands on your body, shattering you even further. When he was just seconds from reaching you, from ripping the man’s hands off of your body, even if it would cost him his life, you’d turned and darted off into the crowd. This time, Haymitch was hot on your heels, pushing past all the people to keep sight of you, occasionally uttering a quiet apology under his breath he didn’t mean.
He found you in one of the far corners of the gigantic room, back pressed flush to the wall and hand over your stomach, trying to slow your erratic breathing. The second you saw him, you felt tears welling up in your eyes – relief washing over you – knowing you were not alone. Not anymore.
Haymitch took a quick look around, seeing that right now, everyone was too occupied to keep their eyes on you. He took your hand into one of his, pulling you along with him. He waltzed over to the nearest door that lined the walls of the room, and opened it just enough for both of you to slip through. The room was rather small, lined with various bookshelves and a table on one far end of it, no windows. A bright red carpet decorated the floor, complimenting the colour of the wooden floor beneath it.
He closed the door behind you, his reflexes just fast enough to catch you as you crumpled to the floor. Your side was against his chest, both his arms wrapped around your upper body as he sank down to the ground with you. The sobs wracked your body, your smaller form shaking and trembling in his arms. Your face was buried into the fabric of his suit-jacket, your tears leaving wet spots he couldn’t care less about.
At first, he didn’t say anything. He simply held you, feeling his heart break in his chest as he listened to your pained and guttural sobs. You practically curled up in his arms, making yourself as small as you could. Eventually, your voice broke through your sobs, weak and stuttering:
“I- I wanna go home. Please, I just w-wanna go home. Please, Haymitch”
Your words, desperate and broken, shattered him even further. He tightened his hold on you, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your hairline. “I know, sweetheart, I know.” Haymitch muttered, lips still pressed to the top of your head. He closed his eyes, blinking away the tears that threatened to escape him as well. “Just breathe for me, alright?” he added in a whisper, one of his hands coming up to stroke the side of your face in a soothing manner, shielding you from the world around you.
He continued this motion for what seemed like hours, until your sobs had turned to smaller whimpers, the tears finally seizing. When you had calmed down for the most part, you rested the side of your temple on his shoulder, gazing up at Haymitch with a look in your eyes that filled his entire chest with warmth. You looked at him as if he was your entire world. And no matter how selfish, he wanted it to stay that way.
Your voice eventually cut through the comfortable silence that had settled itself over both of you, lost in each other’s eyes. “Haymitch?” you whispered softly. His response was a gentle and deep hum, letting you know he was listening as his blue eyes didn’t stray from yours.
“I need to tell you something.”
“What is it?”
“I.. I love you.” What?
It was as if his brain stopped working in that moment, his heartbeat stuttering in his chest. You loved him? It seemed that the shock and confusion was rather clear on his face, because you swallowed hard before breaking into a nervous ramble.
“I know we haven’t known each other that long. Only since – well – since after the reaping. B- but it was the thought of you that kept me going in the arena. I don’t think I would’ve made it without you. Knowing that if I made it out of there alive, I’d come back to you, it kept me from giving up. And I know love is a big word – and that you might not feel the same, but I just had to –“ You were cut off by the sensation of soft and slightly chapped lips meeting yours, a hand settling itself over your cheek, pulling you even closer. You closed your eyes and melted into the kiss straight away, wrapping your arms around Haymitch’s neck and pressing yourself flush against him. The kiss was passionate, filled with emotion. But it wasn’t needy or even remotely sexual. It was a simple and strong expression of love.
Haymitch was on cloud nine. No drunken rush he’d ever experienced could compare to the high he felt right now, his lips on yours and you in his arms. Knowing you loved him. The kiss said more than a thousand words could. But still, he reluctantly broke away from the addicting feel that was your lips, muttering a breathless “I love you too.” His mouth brushing against yours in the process. Hearing his words, you pulled him back in, planting a gentle kiss on his lips, losing yourself in him once more.
Snow had taken a lot from both of you – too much. But this was something he couldn’t take. This moment. The sensation of your joined lips, of your arms wrapped around each other. The passion and happiness that coursed through your bodies even for just these few minutes you had with each other.
This feeling of love that burned bright in your hearts – like all-fire.
If The Sun Don’t Rise | Haymitch Abernathy x Reader
Summary: Haymitch Abernathy was a goner the moment you shot an arrow at his head, narrowly missing and instead effectively striking his heart all the same. His sunshine. His songbird. But the sun never sets on the reaping, and songbirds seldom live to see freedom in Panem.
Or
In which you and Haymitch are one great, big tragedy.
Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Everdeen!reader
Warnings: set during SOTR so, uh, spoilers, reader has a nickname, canon typical violence and death, institutional abuse, alcohol abuse, mental illness, depression, suicidal ideation.
A/N: this is an incredibly impulsive fic so please bear with me. Reader will be written with the implication of being non-white. Largely due to the lack of inclusivity in THG fics, and to the fact that the Everdeen family and Covey are heavily coded as non-white in the books. (RIP movie Burdock and Katniss Everdeen.) However, I will not be specifying any one exact race so everyone is welcome to read!
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
Playlist | writing all over the wall
Table of Contents
Part One, House of the Rising Sun
Chapter One | Let Me Rise
Chapter Two | Lost to the Promise Land
Chapter Three | Lessons in Regret
Chapter Four | My Pulse is Clear
Chapter Five | All the Restless People
Chapter Six | No Stranger to the Wind
Part Two, Ain’t No Love in the Heat of the Sun
Chapter Seven | Meet Me at Your Worst
Chapter Eight | Nobody Sings on Empty
Chapter Nine | Leave Me Here on the Other Side
Chapter Ten | Blinded by the Sight
Chapter Eleven | Before the Dawn of Separation
Chapter Twelve | Never Meant to Cause You Any Pain
Part Three, My Race is Run Beneath the Sun
Chapter Thirteen | Plagued by Phantom Noises
Chapter Fourteen | The Icarus to Your Certainty
Chapter Fifteen | Wounded Wings Still Beating
Chapter Sixteen | We All Still Die
Chapter Seventeen | Last Time (I Seen the Sun)
Chapter Eighteen | Bird on a Spit in His Heart
Chapter Nineteen | To Love Me is To Suffer Me
Chapter Twenty | An Echo in Your Shadow
Chapter Twenty-One | Ready to Suffer, Ready to Hope
Summary : When two childhood friends who were almost in love are torn apart by the Capitol. He goes into the Games and comes back changed. Years later, it's her turn. Through the violence of the Hunger Games, they are forced back into each other's lives as mentor and tribute. What was left unfinished slowly resurfaces. A story about separation, survival, and love finding its way back after the Games. (Around 18k words)
Warnings : Violence (HG canon violence), Death / mention of death, Trauma & PTSD, Blood / injuries, Amputation & prosthetic limb, Alcoholism / addiction, Abuse references, implied sexual exploitation, Manipulation / power imbalance (Capitol), Dark themes, Political oppression, Emotional hurt / comfort, Slow burn romance, Past lovers to lovers again, Survivor’s guilt, War crimes mentions, Mature emotional content, No Lenore Dove
Part 00 : how it all started
I remember how it all began. I was eight, my first day at school. My mom had always taught me at home, so stepping into that classroom for the first time felt like entering a different world. The kids… they were cruel. “Freak.” “Weirdo.” That’s what they called me. I curled up in a corner, head buried in my knees, wishing I could disappear. Then a boy came to me, offering his hand. “Hey… I’m Haymitch. Wanna come with me and play with my friends?” he said. And just like that… it all started. Since then, Haymitch, Astrid, Burdock, and I were… friends? Maybe even best friends.
At twelve, I noticed the way Haymitch’s hair caught the sun, how his blue eyes seemed impossibly clear, almost like crystal. Handsome, in a quiet, unsettling way.
At fourteen, I blushed whenever he passed too close.
At fifteen, I cherished every stolen moment with him in the valley where the sun rose over the flower fields, where birds sang without fear… I cherishedy the memory of his lips on mine.
By sixteen, we had grown up. Love? That’s what the elders called it : the thing we shared but didn’t dare name.
The morning of the Reaping arrived. My parents ran a tailor shop; they were merchants. We were lucky enough to call ourselves comfortable: hot water, a roof over our heads, bread on the table. On my bed lay a pale yellow dress. I put on my shoes, braided my hair, and tried to steady my heart. The air was thick with prayers and quiet dread, heavy with the unspoken truth that death hovered close. The 50th Hunger Games. Twice the tributes. Twice the spectacle. Twice the blood.
When I reached my section in front of the Hall of Justice, Drusilla, our escort, ascended the stage. We were shown the same propaganda film about rebellion. Who even paid attention anymore? Then the names were called.
“Maysille Donner!” The girl was small, blonde, daughter of the sweets shop owner. People whispered that she was mean. I think she was just trying to survive.
“Louella Mckoy!” Even smaller, a sweetheart. My chest tightened as I watched her step forward.
“Wyatt Callow!” I didn’t know him, only that he had a kind heart.
« Woodbine Chance ». I don’t remember well what happened after that, only that the boy lay on the ground. Another boy must be reaped.
“Haymitch Abernathy!” My heart shattered. I almost vomited on the shoes of the girl beside me. I wanted to scream, to stop it, to do anything… but I could only watch him walk onto that stage. Not him.
I did not get the chance to see him before he leaves for the Capitol, only his family did… Oh how i wished to get the chance to feel his lips one last time… Weeks passed. Haymitch won. When I heard it, I collapsed, tears burning my cheeks, waiting for him to return. But when he did… fire had already claimed him. His home. His family. Everything. I remember Astrid, Burdock, and I holding him as he broke down, flames devouring everything he loved. His Ma and Sid… gone. Since that day, Haymitch was never the same. He wasn’t my Haymitch.
Now, the new Haymitch passed me without a glance, without acknowledgment. No warmth, no teasing smile. I didn’t blush anymore. Something inside me had broken that day, too…
Part 01 : the reaping of the 52th Hunger Games
At eighteen, I was grown. School was behind me. I helped my parents at the shop every day. For my final year as a potential tribute, my mother laid out another pale, washed-yellow dress. The same shoes. This time, I didn’t braid my hair. I let it fall loose.
Free. That was how I felt. When this whole masquerade ended, I would be free. No more fear of the Reaping. No more counting the years. One last time. As usual, I took my place in my section at the back now, with the other eighteen-year-old girls. I stood beside someone I vaguely remembered from school.
A new escort this year. Effie, I think. Her name barely mattered. Her pink hair was no better than Drusilla’s harsh orange. Different face, same function.
The same speech, The same film. Only this time, Haymitch stood on the stage, barely upright, hollow-eyed. A victor displayed like a warning.
“Ladies first,” they said. “Thalia Finch! Where is Thalia Finch?”
A girl stepped out from the sixteen-year-old section and then she ran. Not toward Effie. Away from her. Away from her fate.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The sound echoed before I even understood it. She made it almost to the back of the sections. She collapsed two meters from me. I could smell the blood before I saw it, warm and metallic. A Peacekeeper dragged her body away like discarded fabric. Effie didn’t pause. She never did. Another name was pulled.
This time… I wasn’t sure I heard it right.
All heads turned toward me. A circle opened, slow and deliberate. My name hung in the air. My heart sank. I stepped forward, carefully avoiding the small puddle of blood at my feet.
On the stage, I avoided Haymitch’s gaze. He looked like he might faint at any moment, another reminder of what survival really meant.
“Boys next. Fineas Samuelson.” A small boy climbed the steps. Fourteen. From the Seam. Thin, fragile. I knew his face even if I didn’t know him.
The world went silent. Everything around me blurred. I felt numb, hollowed out. We walked side by side into the Hall of Justice.
In the visiting room, my parents came first. Hugs. Tears. My mother clung to me like she could stitch me back into her arms. “Come back to us, please,” she whispered through her sobs.
Then Burdock and Astrid. “Please,” Astrid cried, gripping my hands. “Make Haymitch help you.”
“You can win,” Burdock said, desperate. “I believe it. Fight. Please, for us.” “I-I’ll do my best,” I answered, my voice shaking. “But Haymitch won’t stand by my side, I fear…”
They didn’t have time to reply. The Peacekeepers were already pulling them away.
“Win! Please!”
Win.
The word echoed in my head.
Win.
Part 02 : Before the games
The train hummed beneath us, smooth and indifferent, carrying us straight toward death. I sat at the table, hands folded too tightly in my lap. Across from me, Fineas stared at the polished surface as if it might crack open and swallow him whole. Effie stood beside us, stiff-backed, already performing. She talked about smiles. About posture. About pleasing the audience and courting sponsors, as if charm could outweigh blood.
“Remember,” she chirped sharply, “chin up, smiles on!”. The door to the mentors’ compartment slid open. Haymitch stood there, swaying slightly in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. His eyes were dull, unfocused. Without a word, he staggered past us toward the minibar, already reaching for a bottle.
“Haymitch!” Effie clapped her hands together. “You’re here! Why don’t you welcome our tributes?” “I’ll pass my turn,” he snapped, not even turning around.
Fineas’s face flushed instantly, red creeping up his neck. Rage, raw and unfiltered. He looked at Haymitch like a boy realizing, all at once, that the person meant to save him had already given up. And me…
I didn’t know what I felt. Anger, yes , watching him drown himself in alcohol when he had friends here for him, when he had me… and now while two children were handed knives and sent to die. Pity too, because I knew why the bottle was always closer than people. And something sharper, buried deeper: the ache of being unseen.
Did he even know I was here? Haymitch’s gaze swept over Fineas first, quick and assessing, lingering just long enough to register what the Capitol would see: small, thin, weak. Disposable. Then his eyes found me. They didn’t stay. It was as if he forced himself to look away, jaw tightening, shoulders stiffening like acknowledging me would make something inside him split open.
“Haymitch,” Effie hissed, irritation breaking through her polish. “Don’t. Be. Rude. They are your tributes.” She turned back to us with a practiced sigh. “I’m so sorry, my dears. Haymitch can be… difficult. But I’m sure he’ll help you. Won’t you, Haymitch?” “Yeah. For sure,” he muttered, dropping into a chair beside Fineas.
Silence fell heavy between us.
Fineas broke it. « You won the Games. You survived. I just… tell us how to come out of that arena alive.”
Silence.
Haymitch stared at the table. “The only thing that matters,” he finally said, “is the audience. Make them care. Give them something to root for. That’s how you get sponsors.” “And in the arena?” Fineas asked softly. Haymitch didn’t answer right away. “You adapt,” he said at last. “Or you don’t.”
Fineas nodded slowly. He looked exhausted, understanting that Haymitch won’t be usefull. “I’m tired,” he murmured.
He stood, offering us a small, almost apologetic look, then walked out of the room. Effie exhaled. “Well. That was… unproductive.”
She adjusted her jacket, already disengaging. “You’ll be taken to the Capitol shortly. Try to make a good impression.” And then she left.
The door closed. It was just us now.
Haymitch paced once, dragging a hand down his face. When he stopped in front of me, his eyes were sharp with something close to panic. “What are you doing here?” he snapped. I opened my mouth, but he didn’t let me speak. “This wasn’t supposed to be you,” he said, voice breaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “I never thought it could be you. You were not meant for this- The Capitol” he laughed bitterly. “They’re playing games with me.”
I swallowed. “None of us is meant for this” I whispered. He flinched. “Don’t,” he said sharply. “Don’t make it sound fair.”
Silence stretched between us, heavy and fragile. And in that moment, I understood: Haymitch wasn’t refusing to help because he didn’t care. He was refusing because caring might kill him… or me first.
The bed on the train was too soft. That thought struck me the moment I lay down, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling. The sheets smelled clean, artificial, like something scrubbed of history. My body sank into the mattress, but my mind refused to follow. The train glided forward without a sound, smooth as a lie, carrying us closer to the Capitol. I tried to sleep. I really did. But every time I closed my eyes, my chest tightened. Images rose uninvited from my mind : a forest I didn’t know, weapons in unfamiliar hands, the sound of cannons. I saw blood, though I didn’t know whose. I saw myself falling, tripping, not fast enough. I was going to die.
The thought didn’t come with panic at first. Just a dull certainty, settling deep inside my bones. Then Haymitch’s face intruded, unasked. The way he’d stood on the train, how he had looked at me like I was something he wasn’t allowed to touch. How he’d snapped, how his voice had cracked when he told me I wasn’t supposed to be here. I didn’t understand him. I turned every memory over in my mind, searching for a clue I must have missed. Had I done something wrong? Had he stopped loving me long before this, and I’d been too blind to notice?
Or was this his way of loving me now? That question hurt the most. Sleep came in short, restless stretches. When I woke, my heart was racing, my hands clenched in the sheets like I was already fighting for my life.
The Tribute Center rose before us like a monument to excess. Glass and white stone, towering and pristine, as if death itself had been polished here. The elevator carried us upward, floor after floor, until the numbers stopped at twelve. District Twelve. The top floor. The irony didn’t escape me. We barely had time to step inside the apartment before they came for me. Hands guided me gently but firmly down bright corridors. Voices were soft, reassuring, practiced. I was undressed without ceremony, placed beneath warm water. At first, it was almost comforting—until it wasn’t.
They scrubbed me. Again. And again. Fingers rough against my skin, brushes digging too deep. They apologized when it hurt, murmured that it would be worth it. Hair was pulled, wax burned, skin reddened. I bit my lip to keep from flinching. This body wasn’t mine anymore. It was being prepared. I focused on the tiles beneath my feet, counting the cracks, counting my breaths. Dissociation came easily; I’d learned that trick years ago. By the time they were done, my skin felt raw, oversensitive, like I’d been flayed without a blade.
When they led me to the stylists, I felt hollow. They were kinder than I expected. Almost embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” one of them said, eyes flicking between Fineas and me. “District Twelve tradition. We… don’t really get creative freedom.” Miners. They dressed us in black and grey, rough fabrics cut cleanly, polished just enough to be palatable. Coal dust as identity. Survival reduced to aesthetic. The parade came too quickly.
We were placed on the last chariot, the metal cold beneath our fingers, the harnesses tight. Music thundered. Lights blinded. Crowds roared. Other districts cheered with practiced excitement. Careers shone, polished, confident. Fineas stayed close, rigid, eyes forward. Every muscle in his small body tense. I could almost hear him thinking: don’t fall, don’t breathe wrong, don’t die. The chariot moved. Fast. Solemn. Like a funeral carriage. Always last. Always District Twelve. Always expected to be nothing. The audience noticed. Eyes lingered. Curiosity, interest. A few smiles. And then, just a few, leaned forward, enchanted by our small defiance. I smiled because I had to. Jaw aching, lips raw, arms stiff.
When the chariot finally stopped, my cheeks hurt from forcing the smile. My stomach twisted in recognition of the cruel rules: survive by being seen, survive by being desired. Back at the apartment, Haymitch lay stretched across the couch, the bottle resting loosely against his chest, as if he had forgotten it was there. His eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling, unfocused.
He looked exhausted. Not drunk, just worn down. Like someone who had been fighting a war no one else could see. My chest tightened at the sight of him.
“I’m going to bed,” Fineas said softly, rubbing his eyes. “See you tomorrow.” “Good night, Finn,” I replied, forcing a small smile as he disappeared down the hallway.
The apartment fell into a heavy silence. I turned back to Haymitch. To the distance he had built between us brick by brick, year after year. I couldn’t carry it anymore.
“Haymitch,” I said, barely above a whisper. “We need to talk.” He didn’t answer. But his jaw tightened. He had heard me. “Why?” I asked after a moment. “Why did you shut me out? Why do you look at me like you’ve already lost me?” His breath hitched just slightly.
“You think I don’t see you?” he murmured. “You think this is indifference?” He finally turned his head toward me. His eyes were tired. Careful. Afraid. “I pulled away because I had to,” he said quietly. “Because the Capitol watches everything. And the moment they realize you matter to me… they’ll use you.”
My throat closed. “Use me how?” His gaze dropped to the floor. He swallowed hard. “Like they used everyone else I loved,” he said.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. “So you decided to hurt me instead,” I whispered.
He flinched. Actually flinched. “I decided to keep you alive,” he corrected, voice rough. “Even if it meant you hated me for it.” He stood slowly, unsteady, stopping a step away from me close enough to feel, not close enough to touch. “Every time I don’t look at you, every time I act like you don’t matter, it costs me,” he said. “But if I let myself care the way I want to… they’ll destroy you. And I won’t survive that. Not again.”
My eyes burned. “Then don’t leave me alone in this.” He closed his eyes, as if the words physically hurt. “I’m trying,” he whispered. “I swear I am. I’m fighting them in every way I know how. But I’m just one man, and they’ve already taken too much from me to threaten me with anything else.” His voice broke. Just once.
“I lost my family because I loved them openly,” he said. “I won’t make that mistake again.” He turned away before I could answer.
Before I could beg him to stay. He left the room quietly, like someone afraid of breaking something already shattered. I stood there long after he was gone, tears sliding down my face without a sound. Eventually, I retreated to my bedroom. I needed rest. Tomorrow, I would have to survive again.
The Tribute Center smelled of sweat, metal, and anticipation. I stepped onto the training floor, feeling small and uncertain. Swords had been my choice, almost by instinct, because they called to me more than any other weapon. I had no skill, no finesse. My hands shook as I gripped the hilt. The weight felt strange. My first swings were clumsy, unbalanced. I tripped over my own feet more than once, and I could feel the other tributes’ eyes, even Fineas’s, on me.
He choosing knives instead. I could tell from the way he held them, the way he scanned the room, that he was cataloging everything, the movements of every tribute, the faintest hesitation, the way trainers shifted. Nothing escaped him. For the first hour, I was a mess. Swords swinging too wide, too fast, missing every mark. Trainers corrected me, adjusted my stance, told me to breathe. I felt foolish, exhausted, frustrated. But I kept trying. By the second hour, something clicked. My footwork started to improve. The swings became less desperate, more purposeful. I landed my first hit on a trainer. The satisfaction was dizzying. I could almost hear my heart pounding in my throat. Four hours in, I had improved beyond what I expected. My arms ached, my hands blistered, but I was finally able to hold my own. I parried, struck, and even bested a few of the trainers who had initially corrected me. Each success made me a little braver, a little more confident. I wasn’t a pro, but I was competent enough to survive.
I couldn’t help but notice them too: the Career tributes. Standing apart, polished, confident, their eyes like sharp knives measuring everyone. I felt a chill. Their presence was overwhelming, the kind of focus that made you feel exposed and small. I watched them, tried to understand them, see their weaknesses, though I felt vulnerable just being noticed by them.
Fineas was quiet beside me, knives in hand, eyes sharp, observing every detail. He didn’t speak much, but I could feel his calculations. He noted who was strong, who was fast, who made mistakes. He learned the rhythm of the room, the patterns, the habits. He didn’t need to win fights yet; he was learning to survive by seeing everything, remembering everything.
By the end of the day, we were both exhausted but alive. Our evaluations the next day revealed the result: a seven. For District Twelve, that was exceptional. Both of us. A sign that we could hold our own, that we had potential. The knowledge was comforting, though it didn’t erase the fear of the arena that always lingered in the back of my mind.
I could feel it, too the subtle glances from Haymitch, lingering just long enough to remind me he was there, watching, caring in his own restrained, impossible way. Every interaction with him was a careful dance: too close might reveal too much, too far and I would feel abandoned. For now, though, I had my swords. Fineas had his knives. And I had begun to feel, faintly, that maybe we had a chance.
“Your dress,” the stylist said, holding it like a treasure. Golden butter, shimmering, delicate as sunlight on warm cream. I touched the fabric and it slipped through my fingers like water. The fit was perfect, tailored for me, soft and light. I had never felt anything so… beautiful. Fineas’s costume was also yellow, muted but elegant, with subtle gold trim that matched my dress. He looked uncomfortable in it, shifting nervously, but the effect was undeniable. I descended the stairs, heart thumping. My reflection in the polished bannister glimmered in the soft evening light. And then I saw him Haymitch.
He was slouched on the couch, bottle in hand, eyes slightly glassy. For a moment, I wondered if he noticed me like this, dressed up, not just as a tribute but… as me. Did he think I looked pretty? Did it matter to him? Idiotic. Absolutely idiotic. I shook my head, trying to banish the thought. This wasn’t the time for questions like that. Survival came first.
The stage was blinding, a cascade of lights and colors, music thundering from every direction. Caesar Flickerman moved with his usual, impossibly radiant energy, greeting the tributes with his booming, cheerful voice. One by one, district by district, the girls walked forward. District One’s polished career girl, confident and flashy, waved to the cameras. The applause was practiced, uniform. District One’s boy followed, similarly trained, already strategizing every move. District Two. District Three. District Four… Each pair, girl then boy, moving through the motions. Smiles, carefully chosen words, gestures that had been drilled, rehearsed for years. Some were fearless. Some faltered under the lights. I watched them, noting how each tried to win over the Capitol, how each carried their district on their shoulders.
Finally, it was District Twelve’s turn. I stepped forward, feeling the weight of every eye, every camera, every thought of the audience. My heart pounded. My hands were clammy. Fineas, a step behind me, looked composed, calm, but I could see his eyes scanning, learning, cataloging.
Caesar’s smile hit me first. “District Twelve! What a delight! And you, my dear what a vision!” I felt heat rise to my cheeks, gripping the folds of my butter-gold dress. “Thank you,” I whispered, trying to steady my voice. He leaned closer, gaze sparkling. “Now, tell me… representing your district, how does it feel to stand here, under these lights?”
“It’s… an honor,” I managed. “I hope to make District Twelve proud.” “And your family at home?” he prompted, eyes warm. “They must be waiting for you.” “Yes,” I said quietly. “I hope to return to them.”
“And love?” he teased lightly, as he did with every tribute, turning the cameras toward the audience. My chest tightened, and my mind immediately flicked to Haymitch. My lips forced the smile expected of me. “I’m focused on surviving first. And winning,” I said softly. The applause erupted, cameras flashing. I could feel Caesar guiding the audience, shaping the story, but I was aware only of the weight of District Twelve on my shoulders, of Fineas beside me, and of the promise of Haymitch watching, restrained, distant, protective.
As I stepped back, Fineas moved forward. He, too, would face Caesar, the questions, the cameras. I held my breath, hoping his calm would guide him through, just as I hoped I had survived this first test.
Back in the apartment, the night settled around us. The soft hum of lights, the faint city sounds outside. Haymitch sat near the window, unsteady but awake. “I don’t understand why,” I whispered, the tension from the day pressing against my ribs.
He looked at me, dark eyes heavy. “There’s nothing to understand,” he said. “I can’t tell you everything. I can’t protect you if I do. You have to survive. That’s all that matters.” I took a deep breath, frustration and fear twisting together. “For you?” His lips pressed into a thin line. “For you. For me. For anyone I can’t stop from getting hurt. Just… survive. Please.” I nodded, swallowing back the words I couldn’t say. Love, affection, everything was off-limits, dangerous. All that mattered was that he wanted me alive. That alone was enough to shatter and sustain me at the same time.
I lay down that night, the dress folded neatly in the corner, swords by my side. Tomorrow, the arena. Tomorrow, the rules of survival would change again. I stared at the ceiling, heart tight, knowing one thing for certain: I would do everything in my power to survive. For him.
Part 03 : the 52th Hunger Games begin !
DAY 1
The cold hits me before the platform has even finished rising. It doesn’t sting. It bites. It cuts. The air slips under my clothes, into my teeth, behind my eyes. My suit and the others’ bright fluo coats clash violently with the blinding white surrounding us. I breathe slowly. I count the seconds. I don’t shake. I don’t look at the others. I don’t think.
The platform locks into place. The silence is heavy, almost unbearable. In front of me, the Cornucopia rests on the ice of a frozen lake. Open crates, gleaming weapons, bags of food laid out like traps. The ice is veined with white cracks. Beyond it, the valley spreads out: dense forest to the left, steep mountains to the right, a distant chasm at the far end. The wind lifts the snow and lashes it against my face.
Ten seconds.
My heart pounds too hard in my chest. I already feel the burn in my lungs, the cold stiffening my fingers. I focus on one thing only: surviving the first three minutes.Three.
Two.
One.
The gong sounds.
I run. The ice is treacherous, but my legs hold. I head inward, not toward the edges. Around me, chaos erupts screams, dull impacts, metal clashing. Someone falls, slips, gets trampled. A body slams against the ice with a hollow sound. The cannons begin to fire. I reach a crate and drag it toward me. Inside: a short knife, an empty canteen. A thick coat hangs halfway out of a nearby bag. I grab it and pull it on as I move. A hand clamps around my arm. A girl from District 5. She’s smaller, her eyes wide with terror. She’s shouting—something—I can’t really hear it. She tries to rip the knife from my grip.
There is no choice. No thought. No morality. I drive the blade into her throat. Blood bursts out. It’s hot despite the cold. It splashes across the snow. She grabs at her neck, makes a wet, broken sound I don’t understand. Her eyes lock onto mine for half a second.
Then she falls. The cannon fires almost immediately. I freeze for a moment, the knife still clenched in my hand, my breath caught in my chest. Then another scream snaps me back. I run.
Behind me, the slaughter continues. The boy and girl from District 1 are terrifying Arceus slams a boy against the Cornucopia, Yael cuts with methodical precision. And the boy from District 2 Kai, I think catches someone on the ice and kills them without slowing down. The Capitol is getting what it wants. I plunge into the forest. The trees are packed tight, heavy clumps of snow crashing down from their branches. My lungs burn, my thighs scream. I don’t stop until the screams fade away. Until there is nothing left but my breathing and the wind.
When I crouch behind a tree trunk, my hands are shaking. Not from fear. Just the nervous backlash.
I look at the knife. It’s red. The blood is already darkening. I wipe the blade in the snow. Cannons are still firing, spaced out now. One. Then two. Then three. Each detonation punches straight through my chest. I count without meaning to.
The cold truly settles in now. My fingers grow stiff. I keep moving so I don’t freeze, pushing deeper into the forest, farther from the lake. Above me, an owl hoots. The sound is too deep, too drawn out. My heart tightens as I look up. It vanishes into the rising storm. When night falls, the valley turns dark blue. I hide in a hollow between two rocks—not a real cave, just enough to block the wind. No fire. Too dangerous.
I lick a little snow to wet my mouth. The water almost burns as it goes down. Lying against the frozen stone, I see the girl from District 5 again. Her face. The sound. The blood. I cry.
DAY 2
Morning is brutal. Snow has buried everything the night spared. Each breath burns my throat, my fingers are stiff, my muscles numb. The wind howls through the trees, and I pull my coat tighter around myself, moving slowly but never stopping. Every step crunches in the snow. Every sound makes me flinch. I see her before I truly recognize her a small figure crouched behind a tree. Luvilia, District 10. Fifteen years old. I spoke to her a little during the training sessions. She looks at me with wide eyes. I approach carefully, my knife secured at my waist.
“Hi…” I murmur. My voice almost vanishes in the wind. She stares at me for a moment before answering. “You… you survived yesterday?” “I guess I did.”
I don’t trust her. Not yet. But enough to decide that surviving together is better than surviving alone. We move side by side. The forest is thick, branches whipping against our faces. Every sound is suspicious. Every crack could be another tribute. We spot a rabbit, frozen in the snow. “Can I?” Luvilia asks, holding up a sharp stone.
I nod. She strikes. The rabbit collapses. We skin it quickly, cold on cold, the meat already half-frozen. I feel her eyes on me. A quick smile crosses her face the first hint of warmth in hours. We keep going in silence. Every step is measured. Every noise puts us on edge. I feel the cold gnawing at my muscles, but stopping isn’t an option.
Around midday, we find a shallow cave. Not deep enough for a real fire just enough to block the wind. I crouch, scanning the surroundings. Luvilia sits beside me. “Do you think they can see us?” she whispers. “The Careers?”
“Maybe. But moving would be worse.” My hand tightens around the knife.
We eat snow to wet our mouths. The water burns as it goes down, but it warms us just enough to keep us from freezing solid. Cannons still echo through the valley. One. Two. Three. Each blast punches straight through my chest. Fatigue weighs on me. Hunger begins to claw at my stomach. But the cold is worse. Every movement hurts. We can’t afford to stop.
“We should move tomorrow… find another shelter.” We lie down directly on the snow, wrapped in our coats. The snow melts slightly against our clothes, then freezes again. Every breath burns, every movement is painful. Luvilia drifts into a light sleep. I stay awake, ears strained for every crack, every shift of wind. Every shadow could be death.
Before I finally close my eyes, I see the girl from District 5 again. Her eyes. The blood. The sound of her fall. I shake my head. No time for regret. There is only survival. “Tomorrow… do you think we’ll make it?” Luvilia murmurs, half-asleep.
I answer quietly. “If we don’t make a mistake… maybe. As long as we stay together, it could work.” Silence settles again. The wind keeps howling. The forest feels like it’s watching us. The cold never sleeps. And neither do I.
DAY 3
Morning is glacial. The forest is quiet, but I know the Careers are out there somewhere. I haven’t slept more than a few hours. My muscles ache, my fingers still numb from the cold. I move along a snow-covered slope, searching for any food. And then I see him.
Kai. District 2. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Marked by exhaustion, but still dangerous. His gaze locks onto me — cold, calculating. No smile. No hesitation. Just the promise of violence.
I tighten my grip on my knife. He studies me for a few seconds, then attacks. He’s fast. Brutal. Every blow I block makes my arms shake. Every hit I take knocks the air from my lungs, sends me stumbling. My fingers cling to the blade, but the cold is already deep in my bones. “You really think you can beat me, Twelve?” he growls. “Not part of my plan.” He smiles, a cruel twist of the mouth and strikes again. The last blow hits my face.
Pain explodes. Sharp and violent, like my eye is about to burst. Then it happens something ruptures inside, a sudden flash of red flooding my vision. I stagger back, blinded by the pain. My left eye is burning, pulsing with every heartbeat, bright red and uncontrollable. I blink, but it doesn’t fade. The red stays. I’m shaking, the pain stealing my breath. But I don’t have a choice. I have to keep going.
He steps forward, convinced I’m disoriented. I let my body sag toward the snow. I play weak. He smiles and leans closer. That’s all I need. I strike. First the thigh, quick, precise. He stumbles, startled. Then I straighten and drive the knife into his throat.
Blood splashes onto the snow, dark in the cold. He falls. Silence crashes down, heavy and suffocating. The cannon fires, confirming what I’ve done. I stay still for a few seconds, gasping for air. The pain in my eye doesn’t fade. I touch my face. Blood seeps into my field of vision. The red is vivid. Horrifying.
I step back, watching the body. The wind sweeps across the snow, partially erasing the tracks. I have to move find shelter before someone else arrives. Every step hurts. Every movement pulls at my frozen muscles. The cold is everywhere. My fingers barely respond, but I clutch my knife like my life depends on it. Because it does.
I reach Luvilia, crouched behind a rock a short distance away. She looks at me, eyes wide.
“Your eye… it’s completely red,” she whispers. I shake my head, refusing to show the pain. “I’m fine. Just a hit. But we’re moving. Now.” She nods, silent. She understands. No useless words. We push deeper into the forest. The trees shield us slightly from the wind, but the cold still bites into my skin. The pain in my eye pulses with every movement. Each time I blink, a sharp burst of red flashes through my vision. I force myself to ignore it. To endure it.
We find a small hollow behind a cluster of rocks and rest for a moment. The snow beneath me is ice-cold, my fingers nearly senseless. Luvilia watches me, but I say nothing. I can’t. My focus is locked on the pain throbbing in my face, on the cold, on the oppressive silence.
DAY 4
Luvilia and I move forward with difficulty. Visibility is almost nonexistent. We stay only a few meters apart, hands outstretched, brushing each other’s fingertips to make sure the other is still there. The silence is heavy, broken only by the wind and the crunch of snow beneath our boots. “We need to find shelter… fast,” she breathes. Her voice is nearly torn away by the wind. “I know… just a few more meters,” I answer through clenched teeth. My body trembles despite me. My muscles scream. My fingers are nearly numb. But I keep going.
The forest has changed. The trees bend under the weight of the snow, their branches cracking, threatening to collapse. Snow blinds me. I blink, and everything is white — blurred, hostile. Fear starts to gnaw at me. Not the fear of dying, but the fear that the cold, the exhaustion, the isolation will make me lose control. Hours pass. Every movement is an inhuman effort. Luvilia slips on ice hidden beneath the snow and falls. I reach for her, pulling her up. She grimaces. “I… I can still walk,” she says weakly. I nod. “Don’t worry. I’m here.”
Then the blizzard worsens. The wind howls so loudly I can barely hear anything at all. I stumble, fall into the snow, barely manage to get back up. My thoughts begin to blur. I see shadows that aren’t there. I hear voices that don’t exist. Luvilia looks at me, fear in her eyes. “Are you okay?” she asks. “Yes… yes, I’m fine…” I lie. My body is still moving, but part of my mind has already been carried off by the wind. The cold, the exhaustion, the blood pounding in my veins are pushing me toward madness. I drag myself forward a few more meters, trying to suppress the panic rising in my chest.
Then I hear her scream.
Luvilia screams.
Luvilia screams.
She slips toward a hole hidden beneath the snow a crevasse disguised by white. I rush forward, but the wind and snow hit me like stones. Her hands claw at the ice. I lean down, reaching for her fingers and then there’s nothing. She’s gone.
I scream. I pound my fists into the snow. I drop to my knees. My heart races, my muscles refuse to respond. The cannon fires.
I stay there, kneeling in the snow, gasping for breath. The pain in my red eye is a constant sting, but it’s nothing compared to the emptiness hollowing out my chest. Luvilia is dead. The storm shows no mercy, and neither did the Games. I couldn’t do anything. The wind keeps howling. Snow erases the tracks, covers everything, wipes away life and every trace of our passage. I force myself to stand, my body numb, my hands red and blue with cold. Every step is a battle. Every breath is a silent scream I have to swallow.
DAY 5
I find Fineas curled up near the crevasse, his arms wrapped around his knees. He startles when he sees me, nearly falling backward. He’s thin, filthy, his lips blue with cold. “Fineas, !” I say. Just his name. He blinks, like he’s struggling to understand that I’m real. “You’re… you’re alive?” “Yes. So are you. Odds seems to be on our side for now.” He stands up awkwardly. He’s shaking so badly I wonder how he’s still upright. “I thought… I thought you were dead.” I shake my head. “Not yet. Come on. We can’t stay here.” He hesitates. Looks at the crevasse. Looks at the forest. Then back at me. “Okay… but I’m not very fast.” “That’s fine. Just don’t make noise.”
We walk together. He stays slightly behind me, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. At every sound, he flinches. I can feel him fighting not to panic. “I haven’t eaten since…” he starts, then stops. I stop too. I search through my things. And that’s when I see it. The silver parachute drifting slowly down between the trees. I freeze for a second. Then I catch it before it hits the ground. Fineas looks at me, eyes shining. “Is that… is that for you?” I open the package. Bread. Dense. Dry. A small flask of water. And a note. I read it. One sentence.
I believe in you. — H
I stay silent longer than I mean to. “Is that Haymitch?” Fineas asks softly. I nod. “Yes.” He makes a small, surprised face. “You seem really close. I shake my head. “Not really.”
I try to sound convincing. If the Capitol finds out, I’m dead. And so is Haymitch. Fineas doesn’t look convinced, but he understands that pushing won’t help. Besides, he wants that bread more than he wants answers. Without thinking, I break the bread in two and hand him the larger piece.
He hesitates. “Are you sure?” “Eat. That’s an order.” He bites into it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Crumbs fall into the snow. He drinks next, too fast, nearly choking. “Slow down,” I snap. “You don’t want to throw up.” He gives a weak smile. “I forgot what bread tasted like.”
We sit behind some rocks to eat. The wind is weaker here. “Do you think we can win?” he asks after a while. I look at him I could tell the truth. I don’t. “Yes. If we’re careful.”
He looks down. “I’m scared. All the time.” “So am I,” I answer. It’s true. “But you keep going anyway. That’s what matters.” After that, I show him how to set a simple trap. Like Luvilia taught me. His fingers tremble.
We walk on. Then I feel it. A presence. I stop dead. “Fineas. Behind me. Now.” He obeys without question.
The boy from District 7. Zayn, I think. He’s barely recognizable. Hollow cheeks. Eyes too bright. Too alive. He smiles not a real smile. Something broken.
« Sharing ? » he asks. I tighten my grip on my knife. “Get lost. Or I’ll skin you alive.” His gaze drifts to Fineas. Slowly. For far too long. “He’s small,” he murmurs. “Must be hungry.” “Step back,” I say. My voice shakes despite me.
Zayn attacks.
Everything happens too fast. Fineas screams. I scream too not fast enough. Zayn hits him, throws him to the ground. Fineas screams my name.
“LET HIM GO!” Zayn doesn’t listen.
I see his hands. I see his mouth. I understand before I want to. I step back. My body refuses to move forward. My mind is screaming, but my legs won’t obey. Fineas cries. Then he stops screaming.
Zayn eats.
I vomit into the snow. When I lift my head, Zayn is looking at me, lips red. He laughs. Then he disappears into the forest.
I stay there a long time.
Too long.
The cold eventually forces me to move. I leave alone the bread almost gone, the flask empty, Haymitch’s note clenched in my hand. I believe in you. I don’t know if I deserve it anymore.
DAY 6
Morning is silent. Too silent. The forest feels like it’s holding its breath. Snow smothers every sound. My muscles are stiff, my fingers still red and blue with cold, but I have to move. I can’t stay here and let death circle me. Zayn is somewhere in this valley. I can feel it. His presence is like the smell of metal and madness. His wild eyes, his laughter, the memory of Fineas it all burns inside my head. Rage rises. Fear too. Every step through the snow is torture. Every crack, a threat.
I move between the trees slowly, quietly. Each breath I exhale is visible in the frozen air. I think of Fineas. Of the way Zayn took him. Of his scream, still echoing in my ears. Anger and horror give me strength. I am no longer just surviving. A broken, deranged laugh. I tighten my grip on my knife and slip after the sound, moving step by step. Snow crunches faintly beneath my boots. Every movement is calculated. I have to be fast. Precise. Merciless.
Zayn disappears briefly behind a rock. I freeze. And then I see him. He’s devouring a small animal he’s just killed, his hands shaking, his eyes shining with madness. He hasn’t noticed me yet. This is my moment.
I launch myself at him. He turns, startled but not fast enough. The knife sinks into his shoulder. He screams, an inhuman, animal sound. He tries to bite, to claw, to tear at me, but I pull back and strike again. “You’re going to pay for Fineas!” I shout.
He laughs again.
Mad.
Broken.
A cannibal.
His movements are chaotic, brutal. He hits me, pain flares in my ribs but I keep going. Rage guides me. Every strike is deliberate. Every blow is an answer to what he’s done. We struggle in the snow, bodies slipping, stiff with cold. I feel his breath on my face as he lunges again. I feint, step back, strike.
Again.
Again.
And finally, I drive him backward into the crevasse hidden beneath the snow.
He screams, flails, fights but the cold and the void take him. His body vanishes into the darkness below. I stare down after him. Silence crashes back in. Snow drifts over the traces he left behind. The forest is still again. The wind keeps howling but Zayn is no longer laughing. I collapse to my knees, gasping, the knife still clenched in my hand. My red eye burns. The cold bites into my fingers. But I’m still here.
Still standing. Peace has returned but the pain remains. The memory of Fineas, his smile, his courage despite his age, burns deep inside me. I stay there for a while, unmoving. The wind threads through the trees. Every breath hurts. Every movement reminds me how fragile life is here.
But for now, Zayn is dead.
I killed him. I avenged Fineas.
I gather what little food remains Haymitch’s bread and take a sip of icy water. The words I believe in you echo in my mind. I still believe in myself. I have to go on. I have to survive.
DAY 7
Snow covers everything even the traces of Zayn and Fineas. I walk alone. My muscles are numb, my red eye still burning with every blink. The wind whistles through the trees, harsher than ever. Every breath slices into my chest. Every step through the snow is a superhuman effort. I stop behind a tree, gasping. The silence is crushing. The forest feels dead, but I know it’s an illusion. The Careers are out there somewhere. Traps can be triggered at any moment. Loneliness weighs heavier than the cold. The anger toward Zayn is still there, but Fineas… his loss eats at me even more.
I rummage through my pack. Haymitch’s bread is almost gone. So is the water. I close my eyes for a moment. I believe in you echoes in my head. I have nothing left to hold onto except my own will. The forest seems to close in around me. Every tree looks like a face. Every shadow moves. I shiver, and not from the cold. It’s the feeling of being watched unseen, waiting to strike.
I keep moving, slowly. Snow blows into my eyes. My red eye still burns, but I’m starting to get used to it. Then a sound behind me. A light crack, but unmistakable. I freeze, knife raised. My heart pounds. “Show yourself,” I shout, my voice cutting through the wind.
No answer. Only wind and snow. I advance carefully. And then a small fox bursts out of the snow, startled, vanishing into the trees. I exhale. Just an animal. But for a moment, I thought it was another tribute or worse… Zayn, coming back from somewhere. I move on.
I reach a frozen lake. Beneath the ice, the water is deep and black. The ice creaks under my boots, but I have to cross. Every step is a risk. One mistake could kill me. I grip my knife and move slowly, listening. Halfway across, a stronger gust slams into me. My muscles shake. I nearly lose my balance. I sit down on the ice, panting. I close my eyes for a moment. Fear gnaws at me, but I have to keep going. Survival means staying in control even when my body screams otherwise.
I finally reach the other shore. My feet are frozen, my fingers nearly useless. But I keep going. I need shelter for the night. The forest ahead looks denser, more dangerous but it’s all I have left. As I move forward, I spot a cave in the mountainside. The entrance is narrow, but it offers protection from the wind. I slip inside, breathing hard, muscles stiff. The cave is dark and damp. I sit against the rock wall, clutching my knife.
The silence is absolute. Too absolute. Loneliness presses in. I think of Fineas. Of Zayn. Of Luvilia. Every loss has carved a scar deeper than the cold. But I’m still alive. I’m still standing. And that has to be enough. I eat the last piece of dry bread. The water is almost gone. I close my eyes for a moment, listening to the wind scream outside. The world is cruel but I’m still here. My red eye burns with every blink. I touch it lightly, as if to remind myself I’m real. That pain is proof I’m alive.
I lie down in the dirty snow of the cave, knife pressed to my chest. Tomorrow will be worse. The Careers, the cold, the hunger they’re all still there. But so am I. I have to
DAY 8
The ice cracks on the very first step. Not a small sound. A real crack deep, echoing up my legs like a warning. The lake is vast, white, silent. The wind slices into my skin. My red eye burns, my vision blurs in and out. I’m exhausted. Yael is there, facing me. District 2. She’s breathing hard. She’s at the end of her strength too. We move slowly. Too slowly for it to be clean.
Every step is calculated. Every movement hurts. My muscles shake. The ice groans beneath our weight. “You look half-dead,” she spits, her voice rough. I answer, “Speak for yourself.” It seems to set her off. She attacks first. Not fast. Heavy. I block badly. The impact shoots up my arm into my shoulder. I stumble back, nearly slipping. The ice cracks again. My heart is racing.
We circle each other. The cold eats at me. My mouth is dry. My fingers are almost numb around the knife. She feints. I bite. Bad idea. I feel the impact in my leg before I understand it. Her knife sinks into my left thigh then she pulls.
Not a quick strike. No. She drags it. Slowly. From top to bottom. It tears. Really tears. Like the muscle is being split in two.
I scream. Not controlled. Not contained. An animal scream that rips my throat raw. My leg nearly gives out. I drop to my knees on the ice. Blood pours out, warm despite the cold. The pain is so intense my head spins. “Fuck… FUCK!” She smiles, breathless “It’s over.”
I slam my hand into the ice to keep from collapsing completely. The surface is slick, fractured. I see the lines beneath my fingers. The cracks. I understand. I strike the ice with the butt of my knife. Once. Twice. The pain in my leg is unbearable it feels like it’s no longer attached to me. Yael laughs. She thinks I’m panicking. I hit again. Harder. The ice cracks louder. A sharp, dangerous sound. She freezes. Her smile vanishes. “What are you doing?” I grit my teeth. “I hope you know how to swim.” I let myself fall backward on purpose, throwing my weight onto the fractured area. The ice gives way with a sharp snap.
Not under me. Under her. Yael screams as the ground disappears. She plunges into the water. The sound is muffled, swallowed by wind and snow. She thrashes for a second. Then nothing. The cannon fires, distant, almost muted. I stay there on my knees, gasping, my leg on fire. I cry without realizing it. Not from grief. From pure pain. Every heartbeat pulses through the wound. I try to stand. I can’t.
I crawl. Every movement is torture. The ice burns against my hands. I leave a red trail behind me. I stop. I breathe. I bind my leg with a strip of fabric, shaking so badly I can barely tie the knot. The wind howls. Then a voice. Amplified. Cold. Official.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Panem…”
I lie there on the ice, unable to move.
“…we have a winner.” I close my eyes. Fineas. Luvilia. Zayn. Blood. Cold.
“I present to you… the winner of the 52nd Hunger Games, from District 12.” The silence afterward is deafening.
The hovercraft descends over the lake. The light burns my eyes. Hands lift me up. I scream again when they touch my leg. I don’t care. I’m alive. Barely.
Part 04 : the Victor !
I wake up fast, as if I skipped the part where people open their eyes slowly. The room is warm and quiet. The sheets smell clean. The light is soft, almost orange, like late afternoon at home. For a second, I don’t know where I am, but I know I’m not in the arena anymore. There’s no cold air, no trees, no snow. Just silence. I try to sit up and get out of the bed. I move too quickly.
My balance goes wrong, and I fall onto the carpeted floor before I understand what happened. The landing isn’t painful, but something feels completely off in my body like a part of me didn’t follow the movement. I try again, slower this time. I look down.
My left leg is gone.
In its place, there is a golden prosthetic that starts mid-thigh and ends in a rounded foot. It’s smooth, clean, almost shiny in the warm light. I stare at it without breathing. I touch the metal. It’s cold at first, then warms under my hand. My chest tightens. My throat hurts. I don’t scream, but I want to. The shock is so strong it feels like everything inside me is shaking. I don’t know if I’m crying at first; it’s just wet, and my breathing is uneven. I sit there for a long moment, holding the edge of the bed with one hand and the metal leg with the other. Eventually the first clear thought comes: I’m alive.
They wouldn’t do this surgery otherwise.
They wouldn’t bother saving me if I wasn’t a victor.
My breathing slows. I wipe my face with my sleeve. I try to stand up again. This time I manage it. The prosthetic feels heavy and strange, but I stay upright. The apartment is quiet when I walk into the main room. It looks comfortable, soft couches, warm colors, a big window showing the city. Definitely not the arena. Definitely not the Justice Building in District 12 either. Somewhere in between. There’s no one here. No voices. No family waiting. Only a single white rose on the table, next to a small card.
Welcome home. - President Snow
I stare at the rose for a long time. I don’t touch it. I don’t need to. I know exactly what it means, and who sent it. My stomach turns. My hands shake again. I look around once more, as if someone I care about might walk in now my mother, Haymitch, anyone. But the room stays empty and quiet.
I stay frozen in the living room, staring at the white rose on the table. My heartbeat is loud in my ears. I don’t touch the card again. I don’t want to.
I try to breathe slowly, but my chest keeps tightening. I don’t know if it’s fear or confusion or both. I look around, hoping for any sign of my family, Haymitch, someone… anyone. The room is warm, clean, familiar in a strange way, but I still feel completely alone. Then I hear voices in the hallway. Fast footsteps.
Before I can move, the door opens. Effie rushes in first, bright and breathless, followed by the prep team. She doesn’t even give me time to speak before her arms are around me, squeezing tight. “Oh sweetheart!” she says, her voice high and shaky. “You did it! You actually did it! Oh, we are so proud of you!” Her perfume fills my nose. I blink hard, trying not to cry again. My leg aches with every small movement, like a reminder I can’t avoid.
The prep team crowds around, talking all at once touching my hair, checking my skin, asking questions I can’t answer. Their hands are gentle, but I still feel trapped. “Effie—” I start, my voice weak. She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are watery, her makeup slightly smudged. "Yes sweetie ?".
“Where’s Haymitch?” I ask. My voice breaks halfway through. Effie freezes. Just for a second. “I don’t know exactly, last time I saw him he was miserbale” she says quietly. “You know… during your Games, he stopped drinking.” Her voice softens. “He was terrified for you. I’ve never seen him like that. You two… you share something very special.”
I swallow hard. My throat hurts. I nod, but I don’t really understand anything right now. Effie claps her hands once, too loud, like she’s forcing herself back into her usual tone.
“Alright! We don’t have time to waste,” she says. “People are waiting. We have to get you ready for your winner’s interview with Caesar. Clothes, hair, make-up, everything. You’re the star tonight.” The prep team moves again, guiding me toward the elevator. I take one last glance at the rose on the table. The message still lies beside it. “Welcome home.”
My leg throbs when I walk, metal moving under skin I can’t feel. The prep team brings me straight into a large room filled with mirrors and bright lights. Everything smells like powder and warm air. They don’t ask if I’m ready. They just start working. Hands brush through my hair, smooth my skin, adjust my posture. Someone adds heat to my cheeks to make me look less pale. I keep my eyes on the floor for a moment, then lift them just enough to catch my reflection.
My hair is styled low and neat, gold threads woven through the braid.
My outfit is entirely gold too, soft fabric, layered, elegant but strong-looking.
I look like I match the prosthetic.
Like everything about me was planned.
I touch my face gently. Some scars are gone, especially the ones on my arms and cheek. But others remain: the thin mark on my collarbone from the fight with Zayn, the faint scratch on my jaw from the blizzard. It feels intentional, like they decided which parts of my story should stay visible. When I finally look down at my leg, the gold catches the light sharply. The metal shines.
It doesn’t feel like a part of me yet.
Maybe it never will.
But at least it looks strong.
The elevator takes me down to the stage. I can feel the weight of the prosthetic with every step, but I stay steady. My heartbeat is louder than the music. When the doors open, the lights hit me immediately—warm, bright, overwhelming.
Caesar Flickerman stands at center stage, smiling wide.
He opens his arms when he sees me, like I’m someone he’s waited for. “Ladies and gentlemen of Panem,” he calls, “please welcome the newest victor District Twelve’s own!” The crowd cheers. It’s so loud I almost step back, but Caesar reaches out a hand and guides me to the seat beside him. His grip is warm and surprisingly gentle. When the applause fades, he leans forward, voice softening just for me. “First of all,” he begins, “congratulations. You’ve survived what most of us can’t even imagine.”
I breathe in, trying to keep my hands still on my lap. He nods once, then goes right into it.
“Let’s talk about the storm on day four. The blizzard. Many of us at home thought you wouldn’t make it through.” I look down briefly before answering. “It felt endless. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t breathe. It was… just white everywhere.” My throat tightens. “And I lost someone there. Luvilia. She was… kind. I wish I could’ve done more.”
Caesar gives me a moment. the crowd lets out a sympathetic murmur. “And after that,” he continues, voice gentler now, “you found Fineas.” I exhale slowly through my nose. “Yeah. He was scared. But he still tried. I think… he just wanted to keep going.” My voice gets thinner at the end. “I miss him.” I hold the tears in my eyes.
The screen behind us flashes briefly with an image of Fineas smiling shyly during training. The crowd murmurs, softer this time more human. Caesar leans in. “His loss seemed to change you.”
I nod once. “It did. He was a friend, a brother to me.” He shifts the subject, but not the tone.
“That leads us to Zayn. You tracked him. You confronted him. Why?” My jaw tightens. “Because Fineas didn’t deserve what happened to him. And I couldn’t let it happen again. To anyone.” Caesar doesn’t press for details. He moves on before the silence gets too heavy.
“And then day eight. The lake. The final fight.” He glances at my leg, just once. “Was there a moment when you thought… it was over for you?”
I let out a quick laugh, breathy and without humor. “More than one. When she cut my leg—” I stop, swallow. “I didn’t think I’d stand again. But I didn’t want my story to end there.” Then I show them my prosthetic. The crowd claps for that short, supportive. I don’t look up. Caesar waits for the noise to settle, then tilts his head slightly, changing direction.
“Now,” he says, smiling again, “you’re going home. A victor. Have you thought about seeing your family again?” Something in my chest tightens unexpectedly. I blink a little too fast. “I… yes. I have. I want to see them. I want to make sure they’re okay.” I pause. “I hope they’re watching.” I don’t say I hope they still recognize me. Caesar nods thoughtfully, then lifts a card from his lap he always saves the personal questions for last.
“And speaking of support…” he says, voice lighter, “your mentor. Haymitch Abernathy. The crowd reacts some laughter, some cheering at the name. “He sent you a sponsor at a… very critical moment. A message too. Were you two close before the Games?” My stomach drops. I grip the arm of the chair lightly to keep my hands steady. “No,” I say quickly. “Not really.” I force a small smile. “He just… did his job. I guess. Caesar raises one eyebrow, amused. “Just his job? It looked like more than that to us.” I shake my head gently. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him yet. I don’t know where he is.” There’s a ripple through the audience, curiosity, maybe surprise. Caesar softens. “Well, maybe we’ll see a reunion soon,” he says. “People at home would like that.”
I don’t answear. Caesar leans back, giving me room for one final moment. “One last question,” he says. “After everything, the storm, the loss, the fight, and now this stage… what do you want, more than anything, as Panem’s newest victor?” I look at the crowd. The cameras. The lights. My leg aches, but it keeps me grounded. “I want to go home,” I say simply. “And I want to remember why I survived.” The audience rises to their feet. Caesar stands too, lifting my hand in the air as applause fills the stage. I stay steady, even though everything inside me still feels like it’s shaking.
Backstage, the noise from the studio fades behind the walls. I lean against the cool paneling, still catching my breath, my hands pressed to my knees. My chest is tight, my tears haven’t stopped. The Capitol’s applause and chatter feel miles away. And then I hear it. A voice low, familiar, impossible to mistake. “Hey…” I lift my head. Haymitch. His eyes find mine immediately. For a moment, the world shrinks until it’s just the two of us.
He walks toward me, slowly at first, then quicker. I step forward without thinking, and soon we’re running toward each other, closing the distance in a heartbeat. When we collide, it’s not just a hug. It’s everything unspoken for months, the fear, the longing, the relief. I bury my face in his chest, my hands clutching his jacket as if I could anchor myself there. “You… you made it,” he murmurs, his voice rough, holding back the tremor I know is there.
“I did,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I survived.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes searching, holding mine. “I… I was so damn scared. I didn’t want—” “You didn’t have to,” I cut in gently. “I’m here. I’m alive. And… you’re here too.” He lets out a shaky breath, resting his forehead against mine. “You don’t know how much I’ve missed this. You.”
I smile through my tears, leaning closer. “I missed you too.” For a moment, nothing else exists, no Capitol, no Games, no chaos. Just the two of us, finally together again, and the quiet knowledge that we survived it. Haymitch stands there, silent, his eyes on me. My heart beats a little faster.
Before I can say anything, Effie appears at the entrance, sparkling as always.“Sorry to interrupt, but the Capitol reception is waiting for us! Come on, come on, come on!” She waves her arms like she could drag us with her. Haymitch lets out a low growl, frowning. “Effie…” he mutters, his voice quiet, annoyed. I instantly feel a flush of embarrassment creeping over me.
“I’m so excited for you!” Effie adds, practically bouncing in place. “Oh my gosh, you and Haymitch, you’re just too cute, seriously! I Hope we will see him smile more now. » I blush, looking away. Haymitch rolls his eyes, crossing his arms, clearly exasperated.
“I… should we go?” I murmur timidly. Effie grabs my hand and pulls me along. Haymitch follows silently, keeping his distance but watchful, letting me breathe, though his brows stay furrowed.The reception hall of the Capitol was dazzling, overwhelming. Glittering lights, sharp suits, and the hum of conversation filled the space. I moved slowly through the crowd, guided by a handler, every step calculated. My prosthetic leg felt heavy, but the golden finish caught the light, drawing admiring eyes. Haymitch walked beside me at first, keeping a steady presence. But after a few minutes, I felt him pull back. He muttered something about needing a drink and drifted toward the bar. I didn’t argue. His silence was his way of staying close, even if he was physically elsewhere.
I focused on the people around me. Sponsors smiled, clinked glasses, asked polite questions. I answered, keeping my voice calm, neutral. Every word was measured. I smiled when necessary, nodded when expected, but my mind was alert, restless. And then I felt it, a cold weight at the edge of my awareness. I glanced toward the balcony at the far end of the hall. President Snow. His pale eyes scanned the room like a hawk. A small part of me froze. I’d survived the Games, yes, but I knew what the Capitol could demand of a victor… and what Snow could demand of me.
A sponsor approached, a familiar face. He had invested in me during the Games, and now he moved forward with a smile, extending a hand. My chest tightened. It wasn’t just politeness I felt, I knew the unspoken rules. A victor could be “gifted,” “protected,” but always at a cost. Always under the shadow of the Capitol’s reach. The thought of Snow watching, waiting, turned my stomach cold. “Congratulations,” the sponsor said warmly. “You’ve made us all proud.”I forced a smile, shaking his hand. “Thank you… for believing in me.”
The sponsor leaned closer again, his smile practiced, his hand brushing against mine just enough to make me flinch. My heart hammered. Across the room, Snow’s gaze never left me, sharp and calculating, a reminder that every move I made was under his scrutiny. I could feel my body tense, the same instinct that had kept me alive in the arena rising. I tried to keep my smile, to nod politely, but the air felt heavy, like it was pressing down on me. This was different from the Games, the stakes weren’t just my life anymore. It was subtle, insidious. The Capitol had a way of twisting everything.Just as the sponsor began to guide me toward a quieter corner, a shadow fell over the interaction.
“Hey. That’s far enough.” I looked up, and there was Haymitch, his jaw tight, eyes dark with worry. His hand rested lightly on my shoulder, a barrier, but his presence said more than that. He had been watching from the bar, keeping an eye on Snow, and now he wasn’t taking any chances. The sponsor’s smile faltered. Haymitch interrupted, voice low but sharp. “I think you’ve done enough talking for today. Let her breathe.” The sponsor blinked, unsure, caught off guard. Haymitch didn’t give him a chance to recover, his stare deadly. “Back off,” he said. I felt my chest loosen a little. Relief, sharp and sudden, surged through me. Haymitch stayed between us, a wall of quiet authority. The sponsor finally nodded, backing off just enough to leave space between us. “You okay?” Haymitch murmured, voice low, almost a growl. I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Yeah… thanks.”
His eyes flicked to Snow across the room, and I could feel the tension. He had seen what Snow could do to other victors. He wasn’t taking any risks, not with me. Not after everything. For the first time since entering the reception, I felt a tiny measure of safety. But the shadow of the Capitol and Snow still lingered. Survival had a new shape now. And for the first time, I knew that even outside the arena, Haymitch would fight to keep me alive.
« Do you trust me ? ». He asked. I nodded, my pulse racing, and Haymitch stepped closer. His eyes were steady, unreadable, but there was a determination in them that made my chest tighten. And then, without hesitation, his lips met mine. The first shock made me freeze for a heartbeat. Then instinct took over. My arms instinctively lifted slightly, my body leaning in, caught between confusion and the undeniable pull of the moment. Flash of camera everywhere. I couldn’t tell if this was just a strategic move, something he had to do, or if it was because he actually wanted this… wanted me. My mind spun, a chaotic mix of questions: Is this real? Does he… really want me? Or is it all for show? The flashbulbs exploded around us, white light and noise overwhelming my senses, but the kiss kept me anchored. It was intense, yet controlled. I could feel the warmth of his hands, the firm press of his body against mine. Every second stretched, making me lose myself in it, even as my brain screamed for answers I wasn’t ready to hear. “Hold hands! Another kiss! Move closer!” the paparazzi shouted, their voices distant in the haze of the moment. I barely noticed. I was caught in the collision of instinct and emotion, suspended between disbelief and the surprising comfort of his presence.
Finally, he broke the kiss, taking my hand and guiding me to a quieter corner, away from the cameras. My knees were weak, my thoughts scrambled, and I whispered, “What… what was that? Why… why did you do that?” Haymitch looked at me, calm but intense, eyes searching mine. “You don’t understand. If you don’t show up publicly with someone official, the Capitol will see you as… disposable. That sponsor didn’t have good intentions. And… I also really wanted to kiss you.” I blinked, still processing. My heart thudded painfully in my chest, a strange mix of relief, confusion, and… something I couldn’t name. Part of me wanted to argue, part of me wanted to melt into the warmth he offered. But I stayed quiet, letting the realization settle: for once, I felt like someone had my back. And that someone was him.
I took a shaky breath, still holding his hand as we leaned against the quiet corner. The chaos of the cameras felt miles away, replaced by the steady thrum of our own heartbeats. My voice was barely above a whisper. “I… I missed this,” I said. “Being… with you. Like this.”
He didn’t answer at first. He just looked at me, eyes narrowing slightly as if he were weighing my words. Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, he squeezed my hand. “Me too,” he said, his tone low, gruff, but there was something soft buried underneath, something I hadn’t heard in years. “More than you think.”
He let out a small, almost impatient sigh. “You know me,” he muttered. “I’m not good at… all this. Showing what I feel. Doesn’t mean I don’t care. Doesn’t mean I’m not… attached.” He took a deep breath, his eyes softening as he met mine. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… ignore you all those years. I just… I wanted to protect you. But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t attached. Not for a second.” My chest tightened. “Yes… I understand. Don’t worry, I get it now,” I whispered, relief washing over me.
He let out a small sigh, like he was finally letting go of something heavy. “Good. Because I won’t let you go now. Not ever. I care about you… more than I probably should. But that’s just how it is.” I pressed my forehead against his, breathing in the faint scent of him, feeling the warmth that had been missing for so long. “It’s… it’s been too long,” I murmured. “Yeah,” he said quietly, lips twitching into that rare, faint smile I remembered. “It’s been too long. And I won’t let it happen again.”
The moment stretched between us, quiet but full, a fragile bubble of safety in the midst of everything else. Cameras flashed, the Capitol’s chaos pressed on the edges, but for the first time since the Games, it felt like nothing else mattered. We stepped back into the center of the Capitol crowd, still holding hands, the flashbulbs firing around us. The air buzzed with excitement, almost electric, as people began to cheer and clap.
“Oh my, that was adorable! When’s the wedding?” someone shouted, laughter trailing behind. “Another kiss, another kiss!” cried another, waving their hands wildly.
I looked up at Haymitch. He rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath, clearly unimpressed, but I could see the faint twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Then, slowly, we noticed the figure at the edge of the crowd, stepping forward with that icy composure that made everyone fall silent just by his presence. President Snow.
He approached us, white-haired, sharp-eyed, the scent of his rose lingering faintly in the air. He gave a small, polite nod. “Congratulations on your victory, Miss,” he said smoothly, his voice calm, almost charming. “And congratulations to you, Mr. Abernathy, on your… reunion. Much happiness. Enjoy your return home.”
I felt the behind his words before I even registered it consciously a subtle but unmistakable pressure, like the quiet heat of a snake coiling nearby. Haymitch’s grip on my hand tightened slightly, and I could see his jaw set as he studied Snow. I squeezed his hand back, aware that beneath the smiles and congratulations, there was something dangerous simmering, something the Capitol always had waiting, just out of sight.
As Snow stepped away, the applause and chatter of the Capitol crowd swirled around us, but I barely heard it. My heart was still racing from that cold, heavy weight behind his words. Haymitch leaned closer, his voice low, just at my ear. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you Sweetheart. Everything’s going to be fine.” I blinked up at him, still shaken, and he gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. His gaze scanned the crowd, sharp and protective, and I felt a small warmth spread through me despite the lingering fear.
The threat of Snow’s presence, the faint pressure of danger that had been hiding behind his polite congratulations, still lingered in the back of my mind. But with Haymitch there, steady and close, I let myself breathe a little. Maybe for the first time since the Games, I could feel… safe.
Part 05 : The aftermath
The train back to District 12 felt almost unreal to me. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the tracks, which had once felt like an endless countdown to death, now carried me home. Every familiar landmark brought a wave of relief, guilt, and exhaustion crashing over me. The Games were over. I had survived. But surviving didn’t erase the memories, the losses, or the scars.
When I stepped onto the platform of District 12, the air smelled of coal, earth, and pine. My family was there, standing at a distance, cautious yet eager to embrace me. They hugged me, held me tight, whispered words I had longed to hear, and yet I could sense their fear. They had been through so much the Capitol had taken enough from them already. They didn’t want help from anyone, not even me. I respected that. It was their way of remaining strong, keeping their dignity alive. I smiled, nodded, and promised myself silently that I would honor their independence, even as I longed to hold them closer.
Soon after, I moved into the Victor Village. It wasn’t far from Haymitch, just a few meters away. In truth, I ended up living in his house with him. Our house was modest compared to the Capitol’s opulence, but it felt warm and safe, a quiet refuge after the storm. The walls carried our laughter, our arguments, our quiet moments of understanding. Every morning I woke up to the sight of him reading a newspaper or sipping coffee, and the ordinary became extraordinary simply because he was there.
We were close now, in a way we hadn’t been since childhood. The Games had separated us once, life had forced us apart, but now, finally, we were together. Our love was steady, built from trust, shared trauma, and mutual respect. There were no grand gestures or elaborate declarations, we didn’t need them. Instead, there were touches, quiet conversations at night, and a constant presence that neither of us had dared to hope for during the chaos of the Hunger Games.
Haymitch became my anchor. He accompanied me through the Victory Tour, every city, every district, every staged celebration. The cameras, the questions, it was exhausting, emotionally and physically but he never left my side. He watched me, guided me, and reminded me that it was okay to feel, to be scared, to be overwhelmed. He helped me confront nightmares that surfaced unexpectedly, fragments of past horrors, memories of friends lost and enemies killed.
And I became his anchor, too. I helped him through his own demons, the struggles with alcohol that sometimes still haunted him despite years of experience and victory. I didn’t judge; I simply stood beside him, offering strength, patience, and understanding. Slowly, together, we found balance. He learned to trust me not just as a companion but as a partner, someone who would challenge him, hold him accountable, and love him unconditionally.
Over time, we became inseparable. Our bond deepened with every shared meal, every quiet evening, every difficult day of the Victory Tour. I marveled at the strength it took for him to open up, at the gentleness hidden behind his gruff exterior. He always said he marveled at my resilience, my courage, and the way I had survived everything the world had thrown at me and yet had remained compassionate, strong, and unbroken.
The Victory Tour was grueling. Each district brought its own challenges, crowds, questions, emotional outbursts, and reminders of the Games’ violence. But through it all, Haymitch was there. When I faltered, when I saw memories I couldn’t bear, he held my hand. When old fears resurfaced, he whispered words of comfort and reminded me that I was safe. And I did the same for him, helping him manage the temptation of alcohol, guiding him through moments of guilt or despair, showing him that he wasn’t alone in carrying the weight of the past.
Eventually, we married. It wasn’t a Capitol-style ceremony. There were no cameras, no cheering crowds, no snow-white roses to signal status. Instead, it was quiet, intimate, and deeply personal. Just us, a few close friends, and the knowledge that we had earned this life together, after all the horrors we had endured. We promised to protect each other, to love each other, and to never let the Capitol or anyone else dictate our lives again.
The room was quiet except for the soft sound of our breathing. Moonlight spilled through the window, painting silver stripes across the bed where we lay tangled together. Our bodies were warm, hearts still racing from the tenderness and intimacy we had just shared, and for the first time, the world outside : its dangers, its chaos felt distant, almost impossible.
Haymitch traced lazy circles on my arm, his touch gentle, careful, as if I were made of glass. I rested my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and let myself melt into the quiet of the night.
“I can’t believe this,” I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath. “Us… here… finally.”
He smiled, a small, soft smile, his lips brushing against my hair. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured. “Not just tonight… everything. I’ve wanted you by my side.”
I tilted my head up to meet his gaze. Our eyes held the unspoken weight of everything we had survived together, the Games, the fear, the loss. And yet here we were, alive, together, unbroken.
“I love you,” I said finally, the words trembling but true.
“I love you like all fire,” he replied, his voice low, filled with warmth and certainty. “Every spark, every flame… it’s all for you.”
My fingers traced the line of his jaw, memorizing it, feeling the quiet strength behind the tenderness.
He shifted closer, taking my hand in his. “I never want to let you go… I want you here with me forever”
My heart skipped. I felt a flutter, a hope, a certainty I hadn’t dared to feel until now.
“Forever?” I whispered, my voice catching in my throat.
He nodded, his thumb stroking the back of my hand. “Yes. Forever. Marry me ?”
For a moment, the world held its breath. I could barely speak, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. “Yes… yes,” I said, a laugh of joy mingling with my tears. “Of course I will. I love you… I love you like all fire.”
He pressed his lips to mine, soft and slow, letting the moment stretch into eternity. “And I’ll love you like all fire, every day, every night. Always.”
We lay together, hands entwined, hearts beating as one, wrapped in a warmth that no Games, no Capitol, no darkness could ever touch. For the first time, we were not survivors. We were simply us together, unafraid, in love, finally home in each other’s arms.
Life in Victor Village settled into a rhythm. We lived side by side, sharing responsibilities, laughing at small things, and finding joy in simple moments. Sometimes, I would watch him from the kitchen while he read a book or poured a drink, careful, cautious, but always present, and feel a warmth spread through my chest. He was mine. I was his. And that was enough.
The threat of the Capitol never fully disappeared. Snow’s shadow lingered, a constant reminder that power could strike at any moment. Every interaction with sponsors, every public appearance, was carefully calculated. But with Haymitch at my side, I felt protected. We navigated the world cautiously, avoiding provocation, yet refusing to live in fear. Together, we reclaimed our lives, slowly and deliberately.
Through all of it, our relationship flourished. We learned to communicate, to forgive, to love openly. We found humor in small things, comfort in routine, and solace in each other’s presence. And slowly, the weight of the Games lessened, not gone, but manageable.
Years later, our life was quiet but full of meaning. We were deeply in love, living in the Victor Village in a home that was ours, near enough to our families to feel the connection but distant enough to maintain peace. I visited my family regularly, seeing them laugh and live independently, and each time I admired their courage and resilience. Haymitch and I continued to face the world together, side by side, never forgetting the lessons of the past, always aware that danger could be lurking, but confident in our ability to protect each other.
In the end, I realized that victory was not just surviving the Hunger Games, it was finding love, building a home, and reclaiming the life that had almost been taken from me. And with Haymitch, I had all of that. Together, we had survived. Together, we thrived. Together, we had won more than any trophy or Capitol accolade could ever represent. And I hoped that one day someone would be brave enough to defeat the Capitol.
