all your’n | H. ABERNATHY.
ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ paring: haymitch ambernathy x fem!reader
summary: haymitchs first night back from the capitol.
warning: typical thg violence. crying, angst, but comfort
a/n: hi i’m so excited for thg movie next year. i’m also obsessed with writing angst so expect a lot!!!
not proofread
requests open
Copyright © 2025 bartxnhood. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.
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victor’s village, district 12
the house is wrong.
haymitch knows it the moment the peacekeeper opens the door and gestures him inside like he’s delivering a package instead of a boy who bled for their entertainment.
it’s too big, too clean, too untouched. the air smells like polish and new wood and something sweet he can’t place. capitol perfume lingering in the walls. nothing creaks when he steps inside. nothing groans. the floors don’t complain beneath his boots like the ones back home did.
this place doesn’t know him, he doesn’t know the place, like two strangers stuck together by force rather than choice.
the door closes behind him with a sound that feels permanent.
for a moment, he just stands there. still wearing the suit they made him put on. still sticky with the echo of applause that followed him onto the train, the hands that touched him without asking, the voices that called his name like it meant something good.
victor.
the word tastes bitter.
he thinks of the arena, sun beating down on blood soaked ground, the way the cannon fire echoed even after he stopped counting. he thinks of the look in her eyes when-
he stops himself.
he can’t do this.
haymitch shrugs out of the jacket and lets it hit the floor . it lands in a heap, expensive and ruined. he doesn’t bother hanging it up. doesn’t bother looking around anymore.
that’s when he sees you.
you’re sitting on the couch like you don’t belong here either, knees drawn up, hands knotted in the fabric of your dress. not capitol made. not polished, no bedazzled sequins, feathers, bold colors. it was something simple, something like home. your hair hangs loose around your shoulders like you didn’t know what else to do with it.
you look small in the massive room, quiet and still with nothing to do but wait.
for a beat, neither of you move.
then your eyes meet his.
they widen, not in surprise, but in relief so sharp it hurts to see. like you’ve been holding your breath for weeks and only just remembered how to breathe again.
“haymitch..” you whisper.
that’s all it takes.
he doesn’t remember crossing the room. he doesn’t remember dropping to his knees. one second he’s standing there, hollow and numb, and the next he’s in front of you, clutching at your dress like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing keeping him above water.
his body folds in on itself.
the sob tears out of him like it’s been waiting to be released for far too long.
“i didn’t..” his voice cracks, useless. “i didn’t know if..”
you’re already holding him. “shh” you soothe his broken sobs.
your arms wrap around his shoulders, fingers digging into his hair, pressing his head against your chest like you’ve done it a hundred times before. like it’s muscle memory. like you remember the boy he was before they turned him into what he is now.
he cries like it’s killing him.
ugly, wrecked sobs that shake his entire body. the kind he swallowed in the capitol, the kind he swallowed on the train, the kind he swallowed when they crowned him with a smile and called it mercy.
“i tried,” he gasps. “i really tried so hard, i swear i did. i kept thinking that if i..if i could just-“
“i know,” you murmur, voice breaking. “i know.”
his hands twist in your clothes. he presses his face harder into you, like he’s afraid if he lets go you’ll disappear too.
“they’re dead,” he says, raw. “they’re all dead and i’m here- and they keep telling me i won like that means something.”
you sniffle, cradling his face like he was made out of the most precious of gems. “haymitch..” you try to plea.
“you didn’t win,” you whisper fiercely. “you survived. you had to do what you had to do. it’s not same.”
you don’t leave his side. you never did.
not when the escort knocks and you tell them to go away. not when the house settles into an eerie nighttime silence that feels louder than the crowd ever was. not when he finally lets you guide him upstairs because his legs don’t seem to work right anymore.
the bedroom is just as wrong as the rest of the house. huge bed, silk sheets, and curtains thick enough to block out the world.
haymitch sits on the edge of the mattress like he’s afraid it’ll bite him.
you kneel in front of him, hands careful as you unbutton him out of the capitol suit. your fingers linger, not lingering for the sake of desire, but familiarity. care.
you’ve touched him like this before, close enough that the memory aches.
he flinches when you peel the shirt off his shoulders.
“sorry,” you mutter, studying his face. “i didn’t mean to..”
haymitch shakes his head, “no, no it..it’s fine.”
you see the scars before he can stop you.
fresh. angry. some still bandaged. some already starting to fade into something permanent. your breath catches, and he watches your face carefully, like he’s bracing for revulsion.
Instead, your hands shake. your touch ghosting over his skin. watching goosebumps rise.
“oh, haymitch…” your voice breaks.
he looks away. “they kept saying it’d heal” he mutters.
you press your forehead to his knee “d’you remember that summer?” you asked. “i used to watch you fall asleep on the porch”
he swallows.
“you’d pretend you weren’t tired. that you didn’t work so hard with hattie.” you continue. “just to see me before nightfall.”
“and you’d just lay there. the birds singing..”
his jaw tightens.
“that feels like someone else,” he says. “like a kid i watched die.”
you don’t argue, you look up at him with those eyes. god, he missed those eyes. almost a month away and he didn’t know if he’d ever see you again.
you help him lie down instead.
“rest, haymitch.” you press a kiss to his temple. “y’must be exhausted.”
the nightmares don’t wait long. they never do.
you wake to the sound of him choking on air, body jerking violently against the sheets. his hands claw at the mattress, fingers flexing like he’s gripping a weapon that isn’t there.
“no n-nono..don’t..please!”
his voice is hoarse, terrified, gone.
“haymitch,” you whisper urgently, sitting up. “haymitch, it’s me. you’re safe.”
he doesn’t hear you, his eyes are open but empty, staring at something only he can see. his breathing comes in sharp, broken gasps like his lungs forgot how to work properly.
you move like you’re on autopilot. gathering him into your arms, cradling his head against your chest, one hand firm between his shoulder blades, the other threading through his curls. you rock him slowly, grounding, steady.
“it’s over,” you murmur. “you’re here. you’re with me. i’ve got you.”
his body fights you for a moment. panic, memory, and instinct before it finally gives.
he collapses into you with a sound that is pitiful. “i didn’t mean to,” he whispers. “i didn’t mean to let them die.”
“i know..” your throat tightens. rocking him. trying to soothe him to the best of your ability.
his hands fist your clothes, trying to pull you impossibly close. he trembles, breath slowly evening out as he clings to the sound of your heartbeat. long enough for his body to finally understand that the danger has passed. long enough for exhaustion to drag him back under. not into sleep, but something close enough.
when his eyes flutter open again, they're wet and glassy, unfocused.
"i thought i lost you” he reaches up, running a few fingers through your hair. as if he’s trying to ground himself.
he searches your face, vulnerability bare and unguarded.
you shake your head, “nah. nothin’ll take me from you”
a pause.
he stares into your eyes. his own burning with salty tears, trying to find his purpose.
"they'll ruin me," he says quietly. "snow.”
“the capitol. They won't stop.. it’ll just be a constant..”
"i know" you don’t let him finish. “but you don't have to face it alone."
“don’t worry about that now, just focus on sleeping..kay?”
haymitch stares at you some more, his hand coming to caress the side of your face. the pad of his thumb outlining your features. you were there, you were real.
he says nothing, just studies you before nodding. “you’ll stay?” he asks. he needed the reassurance. a piece of his soul telling him this could all be a capitol illusion.
you smile sadly, pushing some curls from his eyes. “i’m staying, hay” you say softly. “promise.”
and for the first time since the reaping, haymitch abernathy lets himself close his eyes. not because he's exhausted, not because he's numb, but because someone is holding the pieces he can't carry alone.
promise.
he lays against the silk sheets, his hand still holding out for yours.
“promise” he repeated it himself before finally finding the peace of sleep.
