What are the Odds? (3/ )
Pairing: light Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!reader, implied!BIPOC!Reader, Haymitch Abernathy x Lenore Dove (hinted?), Burdock Everdeen x sister!reader <3, slight Wyatt Callow x Fem!reader
Word count: 3.4k
Warnings: SPOILERS FOR SUNRISE ON THE REAPING!, light violence, violence, hint at sexual innuendos, character death :((
What are the Odds series: Previous
A/N: ME? POSTING AGAIN? Crazy what happens with the trailer for the movie drops and suddenly all I want to write again is Haymitch <33
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
The woods were thick with summer heat, the air buzzing with insects and the smell of pine sap. Your arms trembled faintly as you pulled your bowstring back — the bow was still a little too big for you, but you refused to give it up. Your bare knees were dirty, your hair messy, but your stance was steady as always.
Across the clearing, Burdock balanced on a fallen log like it was a stage, chewing a piece of licorice root he’d dug up earlier. At ten, he somehow managed to look bored and entertained at the same time.
“Bet you can’t hit it again,” he challenged, pointing to the mark on the birch tree.
“I can,” you shot back instantly at your brother’s challenge. “You just watch.” You released. The arrow flew, landing just an inch low.
Your shoulders dropped with a huff, it was close. But not close enough.Burdock blew a raspberry.
“Almost! But almost doesn’t count.”
You frowned at him, grabbed another arrow just to prove him wrong, and—
A twig snapped behind you. Burdock looked up. “Did you hear—?”
Before either could finish the thought, a third voice piped up from behind the brush, way too close for comfort:
“Whatcha doing?”
You jolted so hard you almost dropped your bow. Your heart leapt into your throat and spun fast — too fast — your instincts firing off all at once.You let the arrow go. It shot past the trees, slicing through the air—
THWACK!
The arrow embedded itself in the trunk behind a boy their age — hay-blond hair sticking up in every direction, shirt too big, face smudged from who-knows-what.
Haymitch Abernathy.
He stared at the arrow above his head. His eyes were as big as dinner plates.
“HEY!” You yelled, fear and anger mixing into one. “Are you crazy?! You almost got shot!”
He blinked once. Twice. Then squeaked — actually squeaked — “Why’d you do that?!”
“WHY’D YOU SNEAK UP ON ME?!” You shot back, cheeks blazing, eyes widened.
Burdock immediately burst into laughter — doubling over, clutching his stomach, literally losing his balance and falling off the log. “Oh—oh my—Y/N almost killed him!”
“I DID NOT!” You immediately snapped, your hair whipping around as you shot a glare at your twin.Haymitch pointed up at the arrow still quivering over his head.
“YOU DID!”
“It was an accident! You scared me!”
“You’re not supposed to shoot people when you’re scared!”
“You’re not supposed to sneak up on people with a bow!”
Burdock wheezed from the ground, now rolling in pine needles. “I’m—never—gonna—stop—laughing—”
You stomped forward, face red, grabbed the arrow from the tree, and glared at Haymitch, who shrank back even though he was the same size as you, maybe just a hair taller.
“You could’ve been seriously hurt,” you said, her voice wobbling a little more than she wanted.
Haymitch kicked at the dirt. “Well… you didn’t have to aim at my head.”
“I wasn’t aiming at your head!”
“You hit above it! That’s the same thing!”
“It is NOT!”
Burdock groaned in between giggle fits. “You two sound married.”
“SHUT UP, BURDOCK!” both you and Haymitch shouted at the same time.
You both froze. Looked at each other.
And both turned bright red.Haymitch cleared his throat, scuffing the ground with his shoe. “…It was a good shot, though,” he muttered. “I mean… for almost murdering me.”
You let out an irritated huff and rolled your eyes. “I wasn’t trying to murder you.”
“But you could’ve,” he said, then added quickly, “which is kinda cool. In a terrifying way.”
Burdock finally stood up, brushing pine needles out of his hair. “Haymitch, you should know by now — you don’t sneak up on Y/N. She’s like a feral cat.”
“I’m NOT—!”
“She’ll bite.”
“I DON’T—!”
“Or shoot.”
You threw your hands up. “Oh my god.”
Haymitch peeked at your bow. “…Can you teach me?”
You couldn’t help but blink at him. “Teach you what?”
“How to shoot like that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not the part where you almost kill me. Just the… good part.”
Burdock grinned. “You? Shoot? I give it two minutes before Y/N quits. Stick with knives, Abernathy,”
Haymitch glared at him. “I can learn things!”
But you just sighed dramatically despite a smile tugged at the corners. “Fine. I’ll teach you. But only if you promise not to creep around like some—some forest goblin.”
Haymitch’s face lit up. “Okay! Deal!”
“I mean it!”
“I said deal!”
Burdock slung an arm around both of their shoulders. “Well! Excellent. Now if she actually does kill you next time, at least you’ll know why.”
“BURDOCK.”
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Burdock.
Burdock. God, you wondered what he was doing now. The two of you had never been separated like this before. Where one was, the other was always around one way or another.
Was he out in the woods making sure your bow was safe? Was he making sure that Lenore Dove didn’t get into any more trouble with the peacekeepers while Haymitch couldn’t?
What was Ma doing? Was she holding onto hope that somehow, out of 48 children, hers may somehow get back home? Did your Pa think so? Working away in the mines, forced to work those endless hours in the dark, where would his mind go to but his only daughter sent into the Games to be what was almost promised certain death.
The Games had always promised a Victor one way or another. Someone would have to make it out of there alive. Would it be you? Or Haymitch? Wyatt? Or Louella? Would it be any of the runts from District 12?
Your chances were as good a dirt. Compared to the chances of the other districts at least. Especially ones like District 1 and 2. Well fed. Trained for this. Having at least a hundred pounds on all of you combined.
Your eyes lock out the window of the train as the breakfast was brought out to you all.
Though the smell wasn’t as inviting as you would’ve liked. As much as you should eat, the idea of putting anything into your stomach made your stomach tighten. You didn’t want to accept anything from these people.
The same people who were trying to fatten you up like pigs to a slaughter house. Prettying you all up to seem likable, wanted by sponsors later on in hopes that you may get some help in that god forsaken arena.
Out of the corner of your eye you can see Haymitch piling some bacon and toast and eggs onto his plate. Though you can see on his expression that he’s a fan of this as much as you are. But you don’t move. Don’t pull your gaze from the wandering landscape as you get closer and closer to your deaths.
“Hey,” you hear a voice call from beside you. Turning your gaze from the window, you turn to focus then on Haymitch beside you.
He looks exhausted — shadows under his eyes, hair unbrushed, posture slouched. But when he glances at you, you see it: the flicker of protectiveness, of familiarity that goes all the way back to childhood.
he mutters quietly so Louella and Wyatt don’t hear. “Try to eat something. Just a little. You haven’t eaten since yesterday morning. You need something,
“I can’t,” you whisper back. The idea of eating anything makes your stomach turn again. Besides, how can you eat the food here when you have friends and family who are struggling just to have anything on their plates? It was wrong, it all just felt wrong.
“That’s fine,” he says. No softness, just honesty. “Just have a few bites of some fruit, yeah? Just like home,” he tries. But he knows just as much as you do that this is nothing like home.
The too perfect cut up fruit of concerning brightness of pinks and greens were nothing compared to the dark red and blues and blacks of the berries in the meadow and forest. But you appreciate what he’s trying to do. So you try too.
Reaching forward you pile some fruit that seem to be a little familiar and have some. Small bites, one after another of a surprisingly delicious fruit—something between a strawberry and something else you couldn’t put your finger on.
Haymitch nods beside you, before his attention turns to Louella to make sure the younger girl is also getting something into her stomach. To his pleasure, she is.
None of you really have had this much food before you. Even the food they seem to deem worthy for the tributes are luxury items and meals that you know none of you would ever be able to afford on your own. You might’ve been able to make a Seam/Everdeen version of it, but nothing would come close to this.
Your eyes shift up, and you could feel Haymitch tense beside you as Plutarch comes in with Drusilla behind him. Her face showed enough. Her eyes dragged over the four of you like you all were runts she was being paid to just barely keep alive; which you supposed was exactly what she was doing.
Plutarch’s hands clapped as a smile grew on his face. “Well good morning!” He said, a happy chirp to his tone, like he was unable to read the atmosphere of the room. Or he did and he just chose to ignore it.
“I hope you’re all filling up, we have a big day ahead of you! Once we arrive to the Capitol soon you’ll be off being….cleaned up, and meeting your stylist for the parade and then afterwards you’ll be brought to your quarters and meeting your Mentors,” he said, the camera behind him zooming and shifting around as if to gather your reactions.
Your own eyebrows furrow as you meet Haymitch’s gaze. None of that sounded appealing. To you, it sounded much like when you and Burdock would be cleaning off a kill before showing it off to your parents.
But the thing that got your attention was the mention of Mentors. District 12 didn’t have any. None that were alive at least. Your Ma had told you stories, hushed and rare as if even speaking about it would bring you to the Hanging Tree or the whipping posts. But regardless, you didn’t have mentors like the other districts.
“We don’t-“ before the rest of the words could slip out, Drusilla huffed in irritation. As if the very question was stupid, let alone the thought.
“Of course you don’t,” your escort almost spat, “
And as they pulled up into the Capitol station, your eyes budged at the sight. The shining beautiful colors towering above. The people behind the railings. All in different colors . And the buildings that you could see above? The colors of the gumdrops Lenore Dove loves. Reds, cotton candy pinks, azure blues, green like the grass in the meadow.
It was like they just painted everything with the prettiest colors they could imagine. It was difficult to process the fact while her family, her friends starved in homes and shacks, kids living in shacks and group homes, people starving—here the Capitol was.
From behind you, you could hear Plutarch’s grin. The cockiness of someone showing off something that know was grand. Something beautiful, clean, untouched by tough hands and struggle and turmoil. Something that was a privilege to live in by their strands. It was what separated them—Capitol and District.
But you knew the truth. The Capitol was built on the backs of the District. All these resources, they couldn’t have survived without them—they can’t. But you couldn’t help but wonder if these sleazy Capitol people knew that too. If they knew that if the Districts stopped, if the Districts cut off their supplies—the Capitol would fall within minutes.
“District 12, welcome to the Capitol.”
The welcome to the Capitol wasn’t entirely all that welcoming. It was a stunning view before you all were separated. You and Louella were moved to one side while Haymitch and Wyatt were moved to another.
Luckily, if you could call it that, they did this with all the tributes. 24 girls going one direction, and 24 boys going the other. Though where you were being brought? You had no idea.
With the chains on your wrists you all were bought into a large room with shower heads. You make sure to stay with Louella as you look at the other girls. Ranging from all ages—most of them afraid. But there’s a good handful who seem to be as ruthless as ever; heads up and high.
The next few hours blur together. And you can’t remember which event it was caused by. Maybe it was the way the peacekeepers slashed away at your clothes, sprayed you all down on cold water like animals before dousing you in some chemical spray.
Or maybe it was afterwards as you were poked, prodded, shaved, waxed, and hair cut to seem more ‘presentable’.
You hated every second of it. Each second their hand was on you. Luckily, they seemed to leave your hair alone. It was at least the one thing they weren’t able to take from you.
After they deemed you clean and presentable, they provided some undergarments and clothes to wear; all black to meet your stylist.
When you enter to the room, you’re reunited with Louella who seems to be relieved that you’re alright. The boys seemed to be good too. Cleaner, clean shaven, hair properly put together. But you can see on their faces that you all feel the same way: violated.
The room smells like sterilized stone and floral sanitizer when Magno Stift sweeps in. He carries himself with the kind of exaggerated elegance only the Capitol produces — every movement controlled, poised, and theatrical. His hair is sculpted into spirals of silver and black, and a single jewel glints from the center of his forehead.
He studies the four of you like exhibits in a museum:
you, Louella, Haymitch, and Wyatt — already stripped down, scrubbed raw, waxed, trimmed, and left feeling like strangers in your own skin.
“Well.” Magno smiles, revealing shining lilac-colored teeth. “District Twelve. My tributes for the Fiftieth Hunger Games. How… rugged.”
Haymitch mutters something under his breath. You elbow him, gently, but Magno is too busy gesturing to a rolling rack behind him to notice.
The rack is covered in fabric — a hopeful sight for three whole seconds — until Magno pulls the sheet off with a flourish.
And reveals…
Overalls.
Heavy, coal-stained, outdated miners’ uniforms. Old boots with worn soles. Faded helmets with fake headlamps glued on.
Not outfits. Not costumes. Just relics of poverty.
The two students, Proserpina and Vitus, if you remember correctly, seem absolutely furious. After sharing a look Proserpina huffs,
“Where are their new and amazing costumes?” She questions.
Magno beams. “These are them. I didn’t have time to start from scratch. But these will do. A classic District Twelve aesthetic, no? Very authentic. Very true to your roots.“ his words are slurring and you’re sure the reptile on him must be feeding him some sort of venom to feed into whatever delusion he thinks he’s doing.
Beside you, the two students seem to be cringing and almost frustrated
Wyatt snorts. “They love a freak show.”
Louella’s face goes pale. “We’re supposed to wear those?”
“You’re supposed to show who you are. And who you are—are coal miners. It is what they expect. It’s fine,” Magno corrects, wagging one long finger.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds:
“And don’t mind the chains. They’ll stay on until after the parade. Symbolism or something,”
Haymitch’s jaw clenches. Yours does too but no one argues. There’s no point, you don’t have anything else to wear. And so while you know that the other tributes are dressing in pretty sparkly things, you get to wear your Pa’s work uniform.
You’re handed your outfit piece by piece. The overalls hang heavy on your frame, smelling like old canvas and manufactured dust. The boots pinch. The helmet feels ridiculous, too big, too fake.
Louella looks miserable in hers. Wyatt looks like he’s given up. Haymitch just looks like he’s ready to kill Magno right here for messing up their chances.
Peacekeepers escort you down the winding, gleaming hallway toward the loading bay where the parade will begin. Your wrists remain chained together — a humiliating clinking reminder with every step.
A lift carries the four of you downward, and the temperature rises as the sound grows louder: cheering, screaming, chanting. The roar of the Capitol crowds swells like a living thing.
Your heart pounds.
“Just breathe,” Haymitch says under his breath, though he doesn’t sound convinced.
When the lift doors open, the preparation chamber stretches out before you. Two dozen chariots. Two dozen teams. Every other district stunning despite the choices of coloring. Their horses stamping their hooves, snorting, decorated in colors of their districts.
Your own horses are thin, nervous things, dyed black with glittering fake soot brushed into their coats. The chariot is blackened wood with a rusted metal plaque that simply reads:
12
Haymitch helps Louella climb into the first chariot. She trembles so much he has to lift her by the arm. They move stiffly, chained, adjusting to the balance.
You and Wyatt are led to the very last chariot in the line. The final pair. The final district. The ones no one expects to survive. The ones no one expects to care about.
As you climb in, the chains tug awkwardly, pulling your balance off. Wyatt steadies you with his free hand.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “We don’t let them see us scared. Our odds for sponsors will go down.
You nod, though your stomach twists.
The giant metal doors begin to rise.
Light floods the tunnel — blinding gold, sparkling off the marble ramp.
The noise strikes next, a tidal wave.
Cheers. Screams. Shouted names. Boos. Laughter. And something else — the murmur of catcalls, crude remarks, mocking whistles. You can’t hear the specifics, but you can feel the intention in the way eyes rake over you like you’re merchandise.
Haymitch and Louella’s chariot starts first. Then you and Wyatt.
Each district rolls into the Avenue with its own grand presentation. Silks. Flames. Jewels. Painted armor. Genetic embellishments.
And then there’s you four — covered in fake coal dust, chained, in overalls two sizes too big.
Wyatt lifts his chin. You force your shoulders straight.
When your chariot pulls forward, the lights hit you like a spotlight on prey. The crowd’s reaction is immediate and deafening.
A rain of flowers hits the ground around you. Some blossoms land at your feet discarded like pity. Something hard — a coin, maybe — bounces off your shoulder. The air fills with glitter and perfume.
A man in the crowd shouts something you can’t make out, followed by drunken laughter. Another whistles sharply.
Instinctively, you inch closer to Wyatt. The chains pull taut between you.
“Don’t look at them,” he mutters.
And you don’t. You keep your gaze on the back of Haymitch’s chariot. His shoulders are squared, but you can see the tension in the way his hands grip the railing. Louella keeps glancing back, her eyes catching yours as if checking that you’re still okay.
The horses beneath your chariot prance nervously. The noise is constant. Too constant. Too loud. And you want nothing more than to cover your ears and crouch and hide. But nothing can hide the view of you and the other tributes on the screen. Your grip tightens on the chariot before—
BAM!
A firework explodes above the Avenue. Not the polite sparkle you expect at a parade — this one cracks like a cannon, a shockwave of sound that rattles your ribs.
The horses shriek.
Your chariot lurches violently to the right.
You stumble — the chain yanking you forward — and Wyatt’s arm jerks hard in the opposite direction as he tries not to fall and help you at the same time.
Ahead, Haymitch’s horses rear, hooves slamming against the marble as Peacekeepers rush forward. The chariot jerks and rushed forward. Screams and cries erupt as everything blurs together.
The crowd screams — some in delight, some in confusion, some in fear.
Another firework bursts — louder, closer, brighter.
One thing after another in a blur of motion. And you hear Haymitch yelling, your gut twisting as the smoke begins to clear. Your hand moves to grip Wyatt as you stare at little Louella McCoy, dead in Haymitch’s arms.